Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will Graham knows he’s innocent the moment he throws up a whole, intact, undigested human ear into his kitchen sink. He also knows nobody will believe him. He needs as much evidence as possible gathered as soon as possible, because the absurdity of the situation has to work in his favor—he can’t be the only one who sees it. This is why, on that cold and surreal morning, the first person he calls is Beverly Katz.

“You’re going to have to place me under arrest,” he says as she approaches his front porch, “but first, I need you to tell me if you see what I see.”

“Is this gonna be like it was with Madchen?” Beverly asks, pausing on the steps beside him.

“No,” says Will. “And yes. I know this is real. Or, I’m pretty sure. But… how it got there ?” He shakes his head. “Go look. Kitchen sink. Then we’ll talk, if you want to talk. I’ll wait, I won’t move. You’ll have eyes on me the whole time. You can cuff me first, if you want.”

“I’m not placing you under arrest without a damn good reason,” says Katz.

“Just… go look. And tell me what you see. Like you don’t know who I am, like you just walked into a crime scene. Document the evidence.”

Beverly crosses the squeaky boards of his porch, pushes open the door, and keeps an eye on him through the windows while she heads over to the sink. She frowns, takes a handful of photos, and glances back at him. He’s still seated in view of the doorway, just where he said he’d stay.

“What the hell am I looking at, Graham?” she calls, and her voice doesn’t shake. That’s what Will likes about her; she’s damn professional.

“You tell me,” says Will.

Her lips press tightly together and she leans in closer. 

“Human ear, the left one, from a white female. There are two white tablets, partially dissolved. There’s stomach acid. No blood.”

She pulls on a pair of gloves and takes another photo, then uses a pen to gently lift the ear.

“Not seeing signs of digestion, could have been in the stomach as long as two hours but probably less.” She takes another photo, close up on the edge of the ear. “This was cut off. Straight-edge, no serration. Hard to tell when it was done, but, eyeballing it? More than twenty-four hours ago.” She sits back and stares at Will, frowning. “What am I looking at, Graham?”

Will gestures vaguely toward Beverly. “You just said. A human ear. Covered in stomach acid. Swallowed no more than two hours ago. Cut off more than a day ago. Would you do me a favor?”

She’s starting to get wary, but she asks, “What?”

“Well. First, you should arrest me.” He holds up his wrists. “I can’t prove I didn’t do it. I didn’t, but I can’t prove it. Which means I’m the prime suspect now. I know how this works.”

“Graham—”

“I need you to look inside my mouth,” says Will. “I have blood underneath my fingernails. But I need to know if I have blood or, or, flesh, or anything in my mouth.”

“Jesus, Will. What are you saying?”

“If I had to guess? I’d guess that ear belongs to Abigail Hobbs. And I’d also guess that somewhere else in my house or on my property, you’re going to find more evidence. Something… something she could live without. Blood, but not enough to actually kill her. A kidney, maybe. But that’s all you’re going to find, because my guess is that Abigail Hobbs is alive, only somebody really wants me to get arrested for her murder, and they’re doing everything possible to convince the FBI that she’s dead and that I… lost my mind, thought I was her father, and ate her.”

“Are you sure you didn’t?”

“Pretty sure.” He pauses. “I took her to Minnesota. To her father’s cabin. I… confronted her, about helping her father. Luring the Shrike victims. She was scared. I came back alone. It doesn’t look good.” He points to the kitchen sink. “But that ear was cut off a day ago. And I threw it up this morning. I didn’t have blood on me on the plane, I couldn’t have hurt her in Minnesota. Somebody wants you, Jack, the FBI, even me , to think that I killed her. But the evidence doesn’t add up.”

“Will… I have to call Jack.”

“Yeah. I know.”

She pulls out her phone and comes to sit on the porch beside him. “What else are we going to find, Will?”

“I don’t know. But it’ll be just enough to convince Jack.” After a beat, Will starts to laugh. Beverly winces, and he manages to say, “I’m sorry, it’s just… I realized that’s probably not going to be it. He won’t leave it at that. There will be more than just Abigail. I mean, he really wants me put away. He’s going to make sure it sticks. And who would be so threatened?” When Beverly doesn’t answer, Will smiles a crooked smile and pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Who has the type of meticulous planning it would take to do a frame job like this? Patient, creative, careful, brutal and precise. An artist, to his thinking, who for years and years has been considered totally uncatchable, until…?”

Beverly’s phone settles against her knee. “Until we brought in a consultant who could think like our killers. Closed more cases in the last eight months than most agents in our department do in eight years. Shit, Graham, you think the Ripper is behind this?”

Will shrugs and laughs again, a dark and self-deprecating sound. “That would be my guess. But there’s going to be enough evidence you’ll have to put me away. He doesn’t do half-measures. Now that you’re looking for it, you’ll see it.” With his shoulder, he indicates the inside of the house. “You might find evidence in the dog food, or maybe you’ll find it woven into the pillows like at the Hobbs house. But if you pay attention to what you’re looking at, there’ll be signs. The wrong mixture, maybe. Or the stitching will be too precise for my hand. Things Jack will be willing to overlook because he wants to put me away and keep this mess quiet. Whatever he did will be something obvious, I’m sure. But once you’ve found it? You won’t find anything else, because there is nothing else.” He glances at her. “You don’t have to believe me now. That’s okay. I won’t hold it against you, or Jimmy and Brian. I won’t even hold it against Jack.”

“I promise we’ll look at everything, Will,” says Beverly. “We’ll see it.”

She cuffs him, and then she calls Jack.

Will is cooperative with the FBI. The team processes him, and then Jack interrogates him. Jack is not kind, but Will didn’t expect him to be.

“We found your lures,” Jack says.

Ah, of course. Right by the front door, obvious placement. Easy to meddle with. But, of course, it should also be easy for Beverly to tell which ones are Will’s and which ones aren’t. There’s no way the Ripper is also a fly fisherman; even if he does have the dexterity needed to tie the flies, he’s not going to use the right knots, or style the flies the same way Will does.

Will is a little surprised the Ripper only added evidence to the lures. Granted, it was evidence of five murders—though, curiously, not Nicholas Boyle’s. It just seems a bit lazy, particularly when there’s still not enough evidence to indicate Abigail Hobbs is actually dead.

When Jack brings up the crime scene in Minnesota, Will interrupts him to ask,

“How much blood did you find there, Jack? Did Jimmy and Bev have an estimate? One liter? One point two?” Jack doesn’t answer, but Will didn’t expect that from him, either. “Left ear. A liter of blood. And, what was it, some hair? Right? On the lure?” He shakes his head. “She’s not dead, Jack. You were right about her helping her father. She’s helping somebody else now. And she’s not dead.”

Jack thinks he’s crazy. Of course he does. It sounds crazy. Will knows how crazy it sounds.

He’s transported to the BSHCI. He thinks about Abel Gideon, in a similar transport, months ago. It would be so easy to dislocate his thumb and subdue the guards, but to what end? He knows he’s not thinking straight. There’s something wrong with him; he knows there is, but he doesn’t know what it is. He’s no use to anybody like this, and any action he takes at this point will just make him look more insane or more guilty.

He arrives without much fanfare, all things considered; he’s shuffled in quietly through a side door and soon finds himself in a teal jumpsuit, cuffed to a table across from Frederick Chilton.

Not a place anybody wants to find themselves, but perhaps the one place Will might find a bit of help.

“Am I under your care now, then, Dr. Chilton?” Will asks, softly.

Frederick preens in his tacky suit, a color that washes out his face and sinks his eyes into his skull.

“I know you have been in Dr. Lecter’s care for some time, Mr. Graham, but while you are here, it would be most beneficial for your treatment to come from a singular source, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Dr. Lecter was never my psychiatrist,” says Will. “He was my friend. We had conversations. I wasn’t… receiving treatment. Maybe that was part of the problem.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I… don’t think I’d like to see any other psychiatrists while I’m in here, Dr. Chilton. Not Dr. Lecter, not Dr. Bloom, not… anyone else who might come in and try to study me. I don’t want to be studied.”

“Oh, of course, Will, of course, you will be exclusively under my care. Don’t you worry about that.”

“I didn’t do the things they’re saying I did, doctor,” Will says. He doesn’t make eye contact; he fidgets, and he can feel sweat beading along his forehead and neck. “I need help.”

Frederick is fully enraptured. “Of course, Mr. Graham. Of course I will help you through this most difficult time.”

And it is then that Will Graham begins to have what is certainly the most well-timed seizure of the last several months.

When he comes to, Frederick and a nurse are both arguing with Jack Crawford near the doorway. His tongue feels heavy, and both of his arms are cuffed to the hospital bed.

“—told he had a, a history of epilepsy!” Frederick hisses.

“He doesn’t,” Jack insists.

“So he had a seizure for no reason? And he is currently faking a fever of—”

“One oh three,” murmurs the nurse.

“—one hundred and three degrees?”

Jack snorts. “This happened before, after Gideon. He was sick, he got treatment, he got better. Probably the stress of getting caught made him sick again.”

“Need I remind you that Mr. Graham was not caught for anything. He called the FBI himself.”

“He’s staying here. We’re not transferring him, he’s too dangerous. This is a hospital. Figure it out.” After a beat, Crawford says, “Call me if you learn anything new.” Then, he’s gone.

Frederick huffs and turns; when he notices Will is awake, he bustles over and goes through a few cognitive tests with the nurse’s assistance.

“What’s next,” Will asks, “grounding techniques? Five things I can see, four I can feel? My name and location and the last thing I remember? Drawing a clock?”

Chilton pauses, and his thoughts visibly flicker behind his eyes like goldfish in a bowl. “Has someone had you draw a clock before, Mr. Graham?”

Will shrugs one shoulder. Chilton brings over a tray, a sheet of paper, and a crayon. One of Will’s hands is uncuffed, and he rapidly draws a clock.

“My name is Will Graham,” he says, “I am in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and it is 9:15pm.” He pushes the paper toward Chilton and offers his wrist back to the nurse to re-secure in the handcuff.

Chilton looks like the cat who ate the canary.

Days pass, then weeks, then months.

Will is treated for encephalitis, which Chilton takes full credit for catching. Will thanks him, genuinely so, for giving him back a clear head. It’s far easier, now, to see the design for what it was. He has sessions with Chilton three times per week, but beyond going over his theories for how he was framed, Will doesn’t want to talk. Frederick wants to study him, but Will makes it clear repeatedly that he’ll only talk about his case.

It’s a long five months before the trial begins. According to Chilton, both Alana Bloom and Hannibal Lecter attempt to visit him multiple times, but in accordance with Will’s wish not to see any other psychiatrists they are turned away. Will can admit he misses them, but he doesn’t want to see the judgment or the pity or whatever else.

The orderlies are… okay, generally. They aren’t kind, but they also don’t go out of their way to be cruel to him, after his diagnosis. He’s gruff but polite and doesn’t give them any trouble either, so beyond a bit of wariness they don’t have a problem. There are two exceptions: Barney and Matthew. Barney works the night shift the latter half of the week and he’s always willing to let Will pick something new off the library cart even when it isn’t his day. Matthew works weekday swing shift, mostly, but he picks up mornings here and there. He’s always kind to Will, but there’s something borderline obsessive about his attention. Will doesn’t mind, so much; Matthew slips him extra dessert sometimes and lingers to chat about forensics and psychology, and Will doesn’t point out when his affected lisp drops or his stance turns from unobtrusive to cocky. He’s surprisingly nice to talk to, and with so much time to spare Will is actually relieved to have somebody to get to know.

Beverly comes to visit once a month or so, to check up on him and ask for under-the-table assistance on a couple of cases. Will is happy to see her, and to help. She has no real pity for his situation; her sympathy is for the poor conditions. She tells him she can’t talk about his case, but based on everything she and the BAU science team looked at, she believes him.

“Jimmy does, too,” she says, “but Brian thinks you did it. He said if you get out, he’ll cover your tab any time you come drink with us. I said, ‘Brian, when he gets out, he’s not gonna want to come drink, but I’ll convince him just to make you eat each check.’”

Will cracks a half smile and hands her case file back. “Thanks, Bev.”

“Thank you. We might actually start catching these assholes again, with your help.”

They do. They catch a man who was filling his victims’ lungs with various fluids, a rather unimaginative strangler of male prostitutes who looked like himself, and they sort of catch a man who was using human bodies to create a mural of an eye—sort of, because he winds up sewn into the mural himself. Will has theories on who was responsible for that, and he doesn’t speak them aloud because he has no desire to push the limits of what Beverly will believe. She eventually comes to a similar conclusion on her own though, since the guy is missing a leg and a kidney.

It feels good to help; he’s sure Jack isn’t happy about it, but he’s also sure Jack will look the other way if it means getting to use his favorite tool without lowering himself to asking personally.

In any case, it’s something good to do as Will whiles away the days, quietly waiting for his trial. He has a lawyer, of course, but the lawyer wants to go all-in on the insanity defense and Will isn’t interested, so their meetings are few and frustrating on both sides.

And then, not long before his trial is set to start, Will has an illuminating session with Frederick Chilton. The doctor, maybe at the lawyer’s insistence, asks Will what exactly his explanation is for the evidence. Why is he so certain that he is innocent, when he was regularly losing time and could have done anything?

Will lays it all out the way he did for Beverly, point by point, based solely on the existing evidence, or lack thereof. He emphasizes Beverly’s findings around the ear: it could only have been in his stomach for two hours at most; it was cut off with a straight blade around one day prior; no blood or flesh was found in Will’s mouth, not even traces of Abigail Hobbs’ DNA; there was irritation to Will’s throat, bruising and contusions to the soft tissue, as one might see with intubation. To his surprise, Frederick seems… well, not wholly convinced, but swayed, at least.

“The Ripper is clever enough, particularly while the FBI’s brightest mind was melting out of its proverbial ears,” Chilton says, tapping his pen against his notepad. “The question then would be why bother? No one would have caught your disease, if it weren’t for my intervention. It seems irrevocable brain damage might have required less effort.”

“That implies the Ripper knew about my condition,” says Will. “And how could he? Nobody did, until you realized what was happening to me.”

“This is true,” Chilton says, brightly. “Without me, you would likely have continued deteriorating until your tragic death.”

Will ignores the bid for further praise and goes on: “The Ripper needed a way to get rid of me.”

“Why not just kill you, then? That is sort of his raison d’être, yes? Turning obstacles into… well, what I suppose he perceives to be art?”

“It is art,” says Will, but he does take a beat to think about the question. “He takes those who are unworthy and turns them into something beautiful. He takes the lowly, the vile, the detestable, the offensive in some way, and uplifts them into the elegant, the worthy, a privilege for others to perceive.” He mulls this over, and then jolts in his seat as if struck: “I’m not worth it. Not enough of a nuisance or a threat to be worthy of the effort of elevation. This wasn’t a punishment, or a part of his little game, this was…” He slumps back in his seat and presses a hand to his mouth. “This was a dismissal.”

Frederick leans forward, eyes glittering. “Why dismiss you now, Mr. Graham? Before you had a chance to test your wits against his? Why would he dismiss you so soon?”

“Because he already decided I wasn’t a match for him,” Will says, dully, his eyes unfocused. “Because none of this was about putting me in jail. He needed a way to get the attention off of Abigail Hobbs.” He looks up and hazily meets Chilton’s eyes. “This was about making sure nobody was looking for her. A fledgling killer, already used to working with an older male mentor, already—” He freezes, then murmurs, “Already a cannibal.”

“You believe the Chesapeake Ripper is eating his medical trophies?”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” says Will, and shuts down.

Frederick, predictably, hands the tape over to Will’s lawyer. It is played during the trial, and there are a lot of unhappy murmurs in the crowd. Will, of course, doesn’t have to look at anyone while they’re reacting to the tape. He does, however, have to look when he takes the stand for the first time, as a means of establishing his psychological state. The lawyer is trying to make him look insane, and it isn’t hard because he knows what he’s saying sounds crazy.

His answers are rote, terse, almost mechanical, until the lawyer asks,

“Mr. Graham, you made mention during your sessions with Dr. Chilton of a ‘game’ between yourself and the Chesapeake Ripper, is that correct?” Will agrees, and the lawyer says, “Would you please explain to us in more detail exactly what you believed this ‘game’ consisted of?”

Will tries to keep his eyes down, but he finds a few faces in the crowd, just flashes. Jack, looking drawn and stern and twitchy. Beverly, stoic and professional, next to Jimmy and Brian who both sort of look like they want to die, but for different reasons. Alana, who appears entirely distraught. Hannibal, stone-faced beside her, is the only one who makes eye contact with him. Will tears his eyes away and frowns.

“Game was a… poor choice of words from my end. That’s how he sees it, not how I see it. Or, that’s how I believed he saw it. I thought he believed what everybody else did: that I was the one who could catch him. That I was the one who would get far enough in his head. That I was an equal, capable of stopping him. If that were the case, it would explain him going to all the trouble to lock me up. But…” He gestures to the tape recorder. “I was wrong about what the Ripper wanted from me. He never believed I was a threat. I thought…” He rubs a hand down his face. “I thought the way my mind works, the way I connect with killers, I thought I might interest him. Hold his attention long enough for him to make a mistake. But he doesn’t make mistakes.” He lets out a long breath through his nose. “It doesn’t matter to him if I get life in prison or the death penalty; I served my purpose. Me being accused of the Copycat killings is an embarrassment to the FBI, which I’m sure he finds very amusing, and more importantly, it gives Abigail Hobbs a fresh start, because if the FBI thinks she’s dead based on one ear and a liter of blood, they’re not really looking for her anymore, are they?” He leans back in the seat, dejected. “So, yeah, there’s no game. There’s nothing coming after this. He doesn’t care what happens next. He’s done with me.”

The next day, the judge is found dead in the courtroom. His eyes and his heart have been removed, and placed on opposite sides of the scales in his hands. The scales are unbalanced, so the eyes appear heavier than the heart. His brain has been removed, and a cascade of beautiful flowers spills from his skull.

When Beverly quietly shows Will the photo, he says,

“He’s twisting the knife. Pushing the trial back further, dragging this whole thing out. There will be another one, an even bigger fuck you than this was, and then?” He clicks his teeth. “Then, maybe it’ll be me.”

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is not pleased, though by all accounts he ought to be. True, his plans have not gone exactly as he had expected, but that’s not the source of his displeasure.

Will should have called him when he discovered the ear in his kitchen. He had called Ms. Katz instead, but ultimately this was fine, as it still resulted in Will’s incarceration.

Frederick Chilton had discovered Will’s encephalitis and ensured he was provided with treatment. This was good; Hannibal had not intended for Will’s brilliant mind to be completely destroyed by the disease. Chilton taking credit for the discovery was distasteful, but it served Hannibal’s purposes.

Will was being charged with the Copycat murders as well as the death of Abigail Hobbs. This was all according to plan.

This was also where things began to fall apart.

Hannibal had expected Will to break in some way, but his realization that he was being framed had neither isolated nor, apparently, distressed him too badly. The science team at the BAU had somehow been convinced of his innocence, and Ms. Katz was still visiting Will in the BSHCI.

Hannibal, though, had not been permitted to visit.

The denial was… aggravating.

Even more irritating was that Alana Bloom had also been denied entry, and had been clinging to Hannibal like a lamprey these past months, as though their shared grief at Will’s imprisonment should draw them together. Under other circumstances, Hannibal might have played into this. He might have used Alana’s affections as a further smokescreen.

But, Will had never realized who was doing this to him.

Will had never put any scrutiny on Hannibal whatsoever.

The added smokescreen was both unneeded and unwanted, but he couldn’t simply peel Alana off of his arm and send her away without being rude, so he was left playing a delicate dance between friendly shoulder and mentor. By the end of every one of her visits in the last three weeks they waited for Will’s trial, Hannibal found himself idly running a finger along the handle of a kitchen knife or a scalpel.

None of these on its own would have been enough to boil his blood, but all of them combined—Will not needing him, Will not allowing his visits, Will not seeing the truth of him, and Alana trying to get in the way—were beginning to push him over the edge. Even worse, every Thursday when he sat across from Will’s empty chair, his chest grew tight and he ached.

Still, Hannibal didn’t falter. Things weren’t ideal, certainly, but they were going according to plan. Will would be committed. Hannibal could go see him whenever he wanted after the trial was over, and Will would be no threat whatsoever. He had failed to snap or break or succumb to the pressure; he had failed to become. Disappointing, but fine.

Then he heard the tape.

Will had seen. He knew what the Ripper did with his trophies. He called the tableaus art. He understood the uplifting of the pigs, first at the scene, then in the kitchen. It was beautiful.

Will had misunderstood. Deeply, horribly misunderstood. He believed the Ripper didn’t care about him. He believed Abigail had been the target of the Ripper’s intentions. He had assumed himself unworthy.

Of all the wrongs these last five months, this was most offensive.

Hannibal could not allow it to stand.

First, he needed to buy time. The judge was an easy choice; he had sentenced others to the death penalty and was not sympathetic to Will’s lawyer’s insanity defense. This kill, naturally, drummed up a great deal more media interest in Will’s case. Freddie Lounds wrote an article describing Will as a twisted damsel inciting her knight to kill in her name, which Hannibal found amusing, if tasteless. No denying the Ripper’s interest in Will now.

Surely, Will saw the truth.

But again, Hannibal feels that terrible ache as he stands in the morgue with the science team. He has been assisting with the profile, ‘playing Will Graham,’ and Ms. Katz is describing her most recent visit with Will as they examine the body of the dead judge.

“His brain is full of flowers, wishful thinking. He’s mocking Will for thinking he could be important even for a minute.” She scowls. “The scales, Will says it’s basically implying he should have looked harder, that his empathy is worthless. He thinks… He thinks maybe the Ripper is going to go after him. I mean, it’s like he hopes that happens. He looks worse and worse every time I go see him. I can’t imagine what a place like that is doing to him.”

It’s as though the room is fully devoid of air. How could Will misinterpret his gift so thoroughly? Has despair sunk its claws so deep? Has Will given up so utterly?

It’s unacceptable. It simply will not do. His next creation will be clearer, impossible for Will’s self-deprecating thoughts to twist into anything but what it will be: a declaration of admiration.

His next tableau is set up in a park a stone’s throw from the BSHCI. It’s a young man, wild brown curls, delicate features, draped tastefully in wrapped cloth, with a crown of flowers upon his head. He is arranged as though he is meant to be worshipped. He holds most of his organs in his hands, offering them down to the masses the way Will constantly gives so much of himself. Hannibal has taken the heart and lungs for himself. He also took the tongue, and sewed the mouth into a sweet, soft smile.

Surely this time, Will will see the design. Surely he will understand that Hannibal admires him, sees all that he does, all that he gives, all that he would keep giving if no one were to step in to stop him. Surely he will see that Hannibal wishes only to see him break free of those who pick and pluck at him so ruthlessly.

But Ms. Katz comes back from her visit looking grim and drops the folder of photos on one of the desks in the lab. Price and Zeller scoot closer in their chairs, and Hannibal quietly leans against the desk to listen as she tears his heart to shreds.

“Will says it’s definitely an escalation. A threat, getting that close to the hospital. But the display, he says it’s… ugh. The Ripper is making fun of Will, saying he thinks he’s some kind of martyr, like he wants attention and praise for everything he’s done. And he’s convinced the Ripper is going to come after him next.”

“I hope Chilton’s paying his staff ‘protect this guy from the Ripper’ money,” says Price. “Otherwise we’re never gonna find out how this trial ends.”

“They’re not gonna move forward until after this sounder ends, anyway,” says Zeller. “All their expert witnesses are too busy working the Ripper case now. Will’s just gonna have to wait to get locked up for good.”

Incomprehensible.

Deplorable.

Unacceptable.

What to do? What to do ? How to fix this? How to—

Hannibal sits in his study, his sketchbook open on the desk in front of him, Will’s forlorn gaze from the trial burning his eyes. He blinks the feeling away and stares into his roaring fireplace. It’s nearly summer now, but he keeps the fire going. The sound and the scent bring him comfort.

The thought of Will wasting away in a psychiatric ward surrounded by minds which probe and invade his own does not bring him comfort.

It was not supposed to take this long.

He was not supposed to find such discomfort in the separation.

He should not wish to fix anything.

His attention falls back to the sketchbook. It’s nearly full, and every page is some iteration of Will. His hands; his eyes; his crooked smile.

Hannibal has never denied himself anything. Why is he trying to deny himself this?

Should and should not have no bearing on the truth: Hannibal wants Will. Will is Hannibal's to toy with or comfort as he desires, and Hannibal will always take what belongs to him.

There is only one thing he can think of that will prove to Will once and for all that his assumptions about the Ripper are incorrect. The idea aches, but not as badly as the ache of being parted from Will.

He closes the sketchbook and stands, his jaw set. There is terrible, beautiful work to be done.

One hundred eighty four days since his arrest, Will is released from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He has lost a significant amount of weight, and his nightmares are saturated with the shrieks and terrors of his fellow inmates.

It’s Matthew Brown, his friendliest orderly, who opens his cell for the last time and offers him a stack of clothing from Will’s own house.

“Your friend Beverly brought ‘em,” Matthew says, keeping his eyes low. His voice is strong, casual—he’s  playing it cool.

Matthew has been an interesting person to get to know. Will can see the violence in him, and has not missed the fact that his interest has been a lot more overt since the judge was killed. Will supposes he’s more interested in the Ripper than anything else. It doesn’t matter now; Will is going home.

“Thank you for being kind to me,” he says, and he means it.

Matthew’s smile is odd, covetous of his own teeth, but it’s as genuine as Will’s gratitude. “Of course, Will. What are friends for?”

Will changes, and Matthew leads him out of the hospital. They speak once more before Will leaves, as they approach the door to the hospital’s main lobby.

Matthew stops him and gestures to the right of the door. “Takin’ you out the side. There’s a guy in front, waiting for you, but Beverly said you wouldn’t want to see him. Jack Crawford?”

Will grits out a laugh. “Of course. She’s right, I don’t want to see him.”

He’s not surprised to meet Beverly by the same side entrance he was smuggled through on his first day here. He is surprised to get a big, bone-crushing hug from her. She looks him over with a critical eye, and Will bats her hands away, almost playful. He offers Matthew a handshake, and some rare eye contact.

“See you around, Will,” says Matthew. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

Beverly ushers him to her car, parked (probably illegally) near the hospital’s loading doors.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just wanted to spare you the ambush from Jack. He’s a wreck, after the last body dropped.”

There’s a folder on the passenger seat. Will holds it in his lap while Beverly pulls the car out, around the crowd of milling reporters and cops out front. Her windows are tinted, but Will keeps his head down anyway.

When the hospital is beginning to disappear in the rearview, he clears his throat.

“The most recent one,” he says, tapping the folder against his knee. “They wouldn’t give me details. Just said… there was proof I was right. Is that what this is?”

Beverly is quiet, but the steering wheel creaks under her grip. She doesn’t look at him; she checks her mirrors and frowns. Finally, she says,

“Will. It’s Abigail Hobbs. I… there’s no way to sugar-coat it. I didn’t want you to look before you knew. It’s bad. Just… let me know if you need me to pull over, okay?”

He takes a shaky breath, nods, and then rips the band-aid off.

The moment he opens the folder, he wishes he were alone.

Abigail is draped atop what looks at first like a taxidermied deer. Her eyes are closed, her lashes sweeping delicately on her cheeks, and one hand is pressed lovingly against the deer’s neck, just below its jaw. Her hair is tucked behind her only remaining ear and falls like water down her shoulder and across the deer’s pelt. Her belly is pressed against the deer’s back, her leg bent at the knee as though she were squeezing its flanks to keep herself steady. She could be sleeping.

He flips to the next photo, and his stomach churns.

It’s the opposite side of the deer, and now he can see it isn’t a taxidermy piece at all; it’s an anatomical model, and this side is purely the skeleton. Abigail, too, has been halved. Her entire left side has been removed, and her bones have been cleanly placed to mirror the pose on the other side. The inner cavity of her body is clearly visible, but it’s impossible to tell what’s missing. The deer has been plasticized, but Abigail must have been frozen—she is thawing and dripping down the side of the model, and the bones have reddish pink lines sliding down toward puddles on the ground.

Closer photos show that her body was cut and molded to fit perfectly to the deer; this meant shaving away parts of her face, her chest, her stomach, and her legs, but of course none of that is obvious until she is separated from the model. When taken as it is, as a whole piece, she appears serene and intentional, as though she had always been a part of the display.

Woven into the combined ribs are flowers. He recognizes a few of them—baby’s breath, red carnations, daisies—but the majority are the same kind, and these are everywhere, soaking up the puddles of Abigail’s blood as it trickles from her thawing body. Sweet Williams, of course. As if he’d needed it to be so obvious.

Will is shaking a little as he closes the folder.

“What else did you find,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

Beverly’s gaze flicks to him for just a moment, then back to the road.

“Underneath the flowers there were hooks. Attached to the hooks were more lures. Made with different parts of all the Copycat victims, plus Nick Boyle, plus the Muralist, plus Miriam Lass. All the materials were taken from your house.” She hesitates, then says, “There was a lock of your hair, Will.”

“Of course there was,” he murmurs. “I’m still a target.”

“Don’t talk like that. I mean… That’s three, he’s done. Right?”

Will shrugs one shoulder. “He’s done with his sounder, but my guess is that he probably kills a lot more people than we see. Got to keep the pantry full. Keep up with his appetite.” His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “And he’s very publicly declared his interest in me. He knows where I live. He might make it look like I disappeared. Might make it look like an accident. Or, if he’s that interested, he might even make an exception on his rule of three.”

She hesitates, then says, “Are you sure you want to go home?”

His brow furrows. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. There’s nowhere I could go that he wouldn’t find me, and I’d just put other people in danger. At least I can be pretty confident he’s not going to hurt my dogs.” A beat. “Assuming I get them back.”

“They’ll all be home tomorrow,” Beverly says, and there’s iron in her voice. “Dr. Bloom kept them all for a couple of months but it got to be a lot for her to handle, so me and Jimmy took a couple. I’ve had Zoe and Buster. My sister loves them. Jimmy’s had Max and Jack, ‘cause he thought that was hilarious. Dr. Bloom kept Ellie, Duke, and Winston. They’re all with her right now, since Jimmy’s at the lab and I’m on Will Watch for the night.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Will Watch?”

“You didn’t think we were leaving you all by yourself right after you got out of the hospital, did you? Hell no, Graham. We’re picking up a pizza, some shitty beer, and a couple movies.”

“I don’t own a TV, Bev.”

“I got my laptop. Don’t you worry.”

“I don’t get a say in this plan at all, do I?”

“Nope.”

“I can’t have somebody staying at my house with me all the time.” He fidgets, his fingers tugging at the hem of his flannel. “Tonight is… fine. I appreciate it. But after that, I want to be alone. I haven’t been alone for six months.”

“That’s fine. But we’re going to check in on you. I’m going to text you, Graham, and you better text me back. Bloom’s beside herself, so I’ll stick around to help buffer that tomorrow. But Lecter’s been worse, honestly. Asking about you all the time, if I’ve seen you, how you’re looking. If I think they’re feeding you right.” She laughs a little. “Mother Hen, if I ever saw one.”

“Dr. Lecter? Really?”

“Oh, yeah. It was sweet, honestly. He believed you were innocent even before I brought him into the inner circle, y’know?” She pulls off the freeway heading, he supposes, for a pizza place. “He was pretty upset he couldn’t visit you. Bloom was, too. I got it, though.”

He cocks his head. “Oh?”

“Yeah, well, shit, if I had to deal with Chilton all the time, that’d be bad enough. But both of them were constantly asking me questions about your mental state, trying to evaluate you through me. Can’t imagine how much more exhausting that would have been for you.”

Will chuckles. “Yeah, that was… pretty much exactly my thinking. To be honest I didn’t think I’d be in there so long.” He hesitates, then says, “I missed them. I missed all of you.”

“Even Jack?”

“Even Jack.”

“Even Brian?”

He laughs again; he nods, spreading his hands wide. “Yeah, I even missed Brian.”

She grins and pulls into the parking lot of a place called Gallo’s Pies.

“Good,” she says. “Bloom will bring some of your stuff tomorrow. Wallet, keys. And phone. So you can keep in contact with us as much as possible. Just, y’know, don’t use anything we say in your lawsuit, and we’ll do our best to keep Jack away from you until you’re ready.”

“Y’know, you can always keep visiting for friendly advice,” Will says, and from Beverly’s conspiratorial grin he gathers this was exactly her intention.

It’s… odd, returning to his home. There’s some damage, but clearly somebody has been coming out here on a regular basis to keep it clean. A window was smashed out, but it’s been covered with plastic. Some of the paint looks fresh. His car is nowhere to be found, and Beverly explains that it was towed to Quantico to be searched, but somebody will return it in a couple of days along with the rest of his stuff.

She has keys, which she hands off to him. The inside of the house is cleaner than he would expect, and apparently somebody has filled his fridge and cupboards. He would assume, from the quality of the goods, that Hannibal had taken it upon himself. He’s a bit surprised to find some whiskey, too, and it’s even his preferred mid-shelf brand.

Beverly manages to make the house feel less quiet, but he can’t stop looking over at the empty dog beds. He hasn’t let himself really process any of what’s happened the last six months, but now that he’s home he just wants to curl up in a pile of dogs and scream. 

She swirls a glass of whiskey as the night starts to wind down and she says, “Will, I don’t want to ask, but Jack will want to know—”

“What I saw.”

“If you believe Jimmy’s flower language talk, it reads like a love letter . Pure love, passion, adoration, everlasting love. And all those ones in the middle, they’re—”

“Sweet Williams. Yeah. I know what it means.” Will sighs and drains his glass. Bev raises an eyebrow and he grits out, “I had a significant handicap before, brain melting, pieces missing, but he’s offering me a second chance to face off with him. But the lures and the hooks under the flowers are a warning. He’s telling me not to rush in blindly, or I’ll get hurt. It's mocking, like everything he does.” He pours more whiskey in both of their glasses. “He used materials from my house as a way to remind me I’m vulnerable. Remind me of my place. But once you hook a fish and it gets away, it’s a lot harder to catch a second time.”

“But… why kill Abigail Hobbs if she was supposed to be his protégée? I mean, if he didn’t do it to prove you wrong, why?”

Will snorted. “Why add Nick Boyle to the display? He wasn’t one of the people I was accused of killing.” He waits a beat, then says, “Because Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle. Probably hunted him down together, first kill with the Ripper. Only she got scared and impatient, and dug him up. Ripper didn’t like that. She was impulsive and didn’t do as she was told. That, and I publicly drew attention to her again. She was useful while she was invisible, but once people were looking, she was more trouble to hide. He shaped her into exactly what he wanted in death because he couldn’t make her follow his design when she was alive.”

Bev frowns into her glass. “You really think he’s screwing with you?”

Will’s laugh is scratchy with the drowsiness of drink. “I think he doesn’t know how to do anything else.”

Less than an hour later, Beverly falls asleep on his couch. Will lays in his bed, staring at the ceiling, until dawn breaks.

He makes coffee—actual beans he has to grind, in a grinder he did not own when he was arrested—and around seven o’clock he starts a fresh pot as well as a simple breakfast of eggs and toast. Beverly wakes and drags herself over to the kitchen counter, yawning and grateful.

She spends a little time typing out an email to Jack and the team about their talk, with only a few clarifying questions. Will repeats what he saw, but he also reminds Beverly that he’s not taking cases until his lawyer gives him the go ahead. Bev just grins at him and waves him away.

About nine o’clock, there is the crunch of gravel outside, followed by a car door slamming and then a chorus of yipping and barking. Will practically sprints down the porch steps and collides with his pack, unable to contain his joy at the sight and scent and sound of them. They know better than to jump, but they crowd close where he crouches in the yard and pepper him with ecstatic kisses.

Alana allows this for less than a minute before she tries to speak, but he holds up a hand and dives back in to hug each dog individually, checking their coats, their ears, their teeth. He needs to know they’re healthy and cared for before he deals with Alana.

Beverly sits on the porch steps.

“Morning, Dr. Bloom,” she says, raising her coffee cup.

“Good morning,” Alana says, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m… Thank you for staying with Will last night.”

Will finally stands, patting Winston one last time, and the dogs scatter to explore the yard as though it was entirely new to them.

“Thank you for taking care of them,” he says.

“Will, I—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I, uh… I know,” he says, his lips twisted in a wry smile. “You’re sorry for a lot of things I don’t really want you to apologize for.”

Her eyes are wet, and she stuffs her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I just… I didn’t want to believe—”

“But you did.” She winces, and he shrugs. “Who wouldn’t. I don’t hold it against you.”

“I tried to come see you.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to come see me. I didn’t want to see it in your eyes.” He shakes his head. “You were right about me before. I was unstable, it just turns out I had a pretty good reason. Now I’m just trying to pick up the pieces. I don’t need you to apologize. I just…” He takes a deep breath. “Thank you for taking care of the dogs. All I want is to be left alone for a while. I have a lot to process. But I promise I won’t disappear. Okay?”

She doesn’t cry, but she wants to. It’s a little irritating; he’s the one who was locked up for half a year, but it feels like she expects him to make her feel better. He doesn’t. He offers a half smile, whistles, and goes inside with his dogs. Beverly comes in a few minutes later with a box of his things and pointedly plugs his phone in on the kitchen counter.

Soon, she’s gone, too. Finally, he can curl up on the floor with his pack.

Finally, he can relax.

Finally, he can weep.

Chapter Text

Will has been trying, these last few weeks, to reacquaint himself with freedom. It’s odd having so much space, a bathroom with a door, food at any hour, the outdoors at his fingertips. His dogs so close, piled almost on top of him most nights, despite the summer heat. A car he can just hop in and drive as long as he wants at whatever hour the desire strikes him. 

It’s even strange to have the ability to reach out to whoever he wants whenever the desire strikes.

There are negatives, of course. He struggles to remember to eat and shower, as days begin to blur together, which is the most noticeable problem. No door guards also means he gets ambushed by Jack when his belongings are delivered from Quantico. Luckily he just has to remind Jack about the lawsuit to send him stalking back to his SUV, but he knows that won’t last forever. His lawyer assures him that the state and the FBI will settle quickly; he figures he has a few weeks after they do before Jack is knocking again.

But his dogs help to maintain a semblance of routine, and regular check-ins from Beverly and Alana are actually kind of nice. 

He’s also gotten text messages from Hannibal, starting on his second day home. 

Hello, Will. I hope the grocery selection was to your liking. Please do not hesitate to reach out if there is anything you need. 

Then, fifteen minutes later, 

I am very pleased you are home. 

He isn’t sure how to respond so he just says, 

Thanks. Me too.

Hannibal texts him about every three days, usually just to make sure he’s eating. In the last month, he has invited Will to dinner twice and to some cultural event or another three times. Will has declined every offer, but he doesn’t bother making excuses; he just says no thanks and stops responding for a couple of days. 

He hasn’t been able to decide yet how to handle Hannibal.

Will is mulling over the most recent offer of dinner—I am sure you have been spending time at your stream; I would be honored to prepare some of your catch—when Matthew Brown pulls up in a fairly nondescript white coupe, a case of half-decent beer in his passenger seat.

“Peace offering,” he explains, his eyes sparkling at Will’s suspicion. “Glass bottles, a lot harder to tamper with.”

“Why are you here, Matthew?”

“Do you want a beer or not?” Matthew tucks his free hand in his jeans pocket and pulls out a multitool, the kind with pliers and a three-inch knife, among other things. “Here. You can pop the caps if it makes you feel better. But I’m not lookin’ to hurt you, Will. I just want to be friends.”

Will easily catches the folding knife and tucks it into his back pocket, then jerks his head to invite Matthew up to the chairs on the porch. They sit and drink for a few minutes, the wood groaning and settling beneath them, and then Will says, 

“You know I’m not the Ripper.”

Matthew laughs. “‘Course I know. Couldn’t do his work from inside the hospital, could you? But you know him. Or he knows you, at least.”

“I can’t get you an interview with him,” Will drawls, and Matthew leans toward him. 

“I don’t need one. I stick with you, I’m all set. See, he doesn’t take interest in people the way he has with you. You’re somethin’ special, Will. He sees it, I saw it.”

“What makes you think I want to be friends with a murderer?”

“You’re not the shortsighted type. You can think of lots of reasons. I don’t have to convince you—you already talked the Ripper into killing three people for you.”

“He didn’t need me for that.”

“You can lie to the FBI, but you can’t lie to me.” He taps his own cheek just below one eye. “You don’t even have to say anything.”

“He didn’t need me for that,” Will insists.

“But he took his cues from you. He’s interested in you and you know it. You like it.” Matthew watches Will’s face for a moment and then nods, sipping at his beer. “Ah, don’t worry, gorgeous. Nobody’d believe me. And nobody would believe you about me, either, so don’t bother. None of what I do looks like it was done by the same guy.”

Will doesn’t mean to laugh, but it spills from his lips, unbidden. In the face of Matthew’s surprise, he says, 

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned the Ripper will come after you?”

Matthew’s lips quirk. “Nah. You’re too smart to draw attention to yourself or to him. And you’re real pretty but I know when I’m out of my league. I’m not here to try to touch what ain’t mine. I’m here ‘cause I can be.” He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it to Will. “My number. I’ll keep an eye on you. No catch, no expectations. You ever need anything, Will, I mean anything, you call me. And if the Ripper happens to notice how helpful I can be, that’s icing.”

Will studies the number for just a moment before tucking it in his own pocket. He taps the multitool against his palm rhythmically, watching Matthew Brown, recalculating a few things. He hands the multitool back.

“Thanks, Matthew. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, c’mon, Will,” says Matthew, his eyes alight with mischief, “what’re friends for?”

After he’s gone, Will sits on his porch with two fingers of whiskey and decides to text Hannibal back.

Sorry, my friend Matthew stopped by for some beers. It would be nice to have fish prepared with some actual skill. When were you thinking? 

The response is quick: 

No apology necessary. I hope your time with your companion was pleasant. Perhaps Thursday evening? 

Thursday is two days away. Will tilts his head from side to side. He doesn’t miss the tinge of jealousy, of course, but he’ll ignore it.

Works for me. What time?  

Your time slot is still open at 7:30pm, if that is not too late. 

I’m still unemployed, Dr. Lecter. No time is too late for me.  

 I am sure you would say otherwise if I were to suggest we meet at two in the morning. 

Will smirks. Cheeky.

I don’t know, a 2am fish fry can really hit the spot.  

Don’t tempt me, Will.

This is beyond cheeky and well into flirtatious; the associated smile feels strange, an unfamiliar vintage, but he likes it. 

We’ll try it sometime, you’ll see. Should I meet you at your place?

This response takes longer, and Will can see that Hannibal began to type at least three other answers before he says,

If you wouldn’t mind meeting me at my office, I would appreciate it. We can then stop by a grocer for supplies, as the meal will depend on the fish you provide. 

I could just tell you what I catch. It doesn’t have to be that complicated. 

I’m afraid I would prefer to see their size and quality myself before I determine an appropriate use for them.

Will rolls his eyes, because he’s alone in his house and Hannibal can’t see him do it. Alright, works for me, he types. I’ll see you Thursday.

I look forward to it. Until then.

There is a brief pause, and then another text:

Thank you, Will.

“Dramatic,” Will murmurs—not without affection—and turns his attention to the details of the plan which is just beginning to take real, actionable shape in his mind.

Wednesday is spent fixing one particularly difficult part of a motor he’s been tinkering away with, so he gets up early Thursday morning to catch the fish for dinner. 

For him, fishing itself is comfort food. He stands still and serene as the water rushes past his legs, its chill pressing against his waders even in the early days of summer, and he is mirrored perfectly in the stream flowing through his mind. Externally, he remains placid, waiting for something to bite. Internally, he is freer with his breaths and his movement, because the fish in these waters already belong to him. 

Hannibal is a particularly interesting specimen. He called to warn Garrett Jacob Hobbs that the FBI—that Will—was on to him, but he had also killed and displayed Cassie Boyle, ostensibly to help Will find Hobbs in the first place. He had clearly wanted to see what both Hobbs and Will would do. Will hoped (not without some bitterness) that he’d enjoyed the show from where he’d stood all of four feet back down the hallway like a creep. It was outright insulting that he believed Will would be too fucked up about shooting a guy ten times to notice Hannibal just standing there with a cocked head and an expression that would scream serial killer even to someone without an empathy disorder. It had taken a little longer to figure out that Hannibal had fed him Cassie Boyle sausage that very morning, but that was just the cherry on the ‘seriously, what the fuck, Hannibal? ’ sundae.

Then, there had been that nonsense with Budge. Hannibal had most likely been angling to send Crawford to the Chordophone String Shop, but he hadn’t been all that displeased that Will had faced off with Budge, and his relief at seeing that Will had survived the encounter appeared oddly genuine. Will had to do a lot of fast talking with the team when it came to the autopsy report; he had really laid it on thick about how much adrenaline must have flooded poor Hannibal’s body, and how that stag statue was both heavy and unwieldy, and how someone with no experience in a fight couldn’t know how little force it takes to cave in a person’s goddamn skull. Hannibal had gone back to work less than a week after his supposedly traumatic experience, but, thanks to Will, nobody has thought to question it too deeply. Hannibal probably thinks it’s because he played pathetic and shed a few tears, but he’s not that good an actor.

And his jokes? Internal Will snorts and his mind’s version of Hannibal, standing in front of him, frowns with only his eyes.

“The Chesapeake Ripper says to an FBI agent, I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts,” Will murmurs to Mind Hannibal. “You must have thought that was so funny.”

“An FBI agent says to the Chesapeake Ripper, I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper,” Mind Hannibal counters. “What did you think you were doing with that?”

Will doesn’t have an answer, so he says, “What was that look on your face when I told you I kissed Alana?”

Mind Hannibal doesn’t have an answer, so he says, “Why did you allow me to become your clutch for balance when you knew what I was?”

“You’re scaring off all the fish,” Will says, and dismisses him.

He has to assume there are others, other killers out there who have gravitated to Hannibal the way Tobias Budge and Abigail Hobbs did, because Hannibal is a hedonist and he can’t just enjoy things in moderation.

Hannibal likes to play whose survival instinct is stronger, and he assumes he will never be more than the judge in his ridiculous face-off bracket. He had better hope that’s the case, because the fact that he’s doing something so insane in the first place doesn’t bode well as far as his final ranking. And, really, Will would be fine leaving him smashing together killers and potential killers just to see what happens in his childish little dollhouse but for two things: firstly, Hannibal has made the mistake of deciding Will is his favorite toy, and—more to the (incredibly frustrating) point—secondly, if Hannibal keeps this stupid bullshit up he’s going to get himself caught no matter how much Will tries to obfuscate on his behalf.

Somebody else is going to notice that Hannibal has dinner parties that coincide with the Ripper’s sounders. Somebody else will notice he serves organ meat of the same varieties taken from the bodies, even if Hannibal sometimes manages to hide the meat as something unexpected. For God’s sake, somebody else will notice how many times he jokes about killing and eating people.

Will is going to be more careful with Hannibal’s identity than Hannibal is. Crucially, he’s not going to give Hannibal whatever it is he thinks he wants from Will, because he can’t trust Hannibal not to overindulge in some ridiculous fashion and, oh, just spitballing, dedicate a fucking Ripper sounder to Will in a way that is very difficult to explain as anything but obsession.

He has to be careful with Hannibal because he doesn’t fully understand what Hannibal wants. Clearly, he wants Will to kill and eat people with him, whether Will is aware of what he’s eating or not. Hannibal wants to be seen ; he’s like Stammets in that way, wanting a deeply rooted, possessive connection with the one person capable of understanding him. And Will can’t just give that to him.

Well. He could. But until Hannibal proves he can handle that kind of connection, Will fully intends to leave him wanting.

“Oh, Will,” says Mind Hannibal from just behind him. “Never forget what paves the path to hell.”

He opens his eyes and reels in his third gorgeous brown trout. This will not be his last catch of the day, but it will be his last fish.

Will is five or ten minutes early to Hannibal’s office. He’s got his cooler and he’s dressed to impress—his nicest slacks, a salmon-colored button-up, hair coiffed, no jacket, no tie, no glasses, close-cropped beard. He’s going for cavalier, confident, suave even, the virtual opposite of the surly dog-hair-coated professor he usually plays.

On his way up the sidewalk to the office steps, he passes a slim woman in a tailored peacoat, and she radiates a purposeful detachment Will finds almost achingly sad. Not his business, though; he heads for the door without even a nod of acknowledgment, but the woman doesn’t let him by. She stops and turns.

“You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Will pauses and tucks his free hand into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m the guy that didn’t kill all those people.”

“Ah. You one of Dr. Lecter’s patients?”

He huffs half a laugh. “Not exactly.”

The woman hums and offers her hand. “Margot Verger.”

“Will Graham.” They shake.

“Pleasure,” Margot says. “Dr. Lecter’s therapy is… unusual. I imagine the company he keeps is the same.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Probably a matter of perspective,” says Will. He slowly starts toward the door again. “It was nice to meet you, Margot.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Will. Good night.”

Her heels click on the pavement behind him as he climbs the steps, silently fuming at whatever the hell Hannibal thinks he’s doing.

He paces for a couple of minutes to get the worst of the frustration out, then slips effortlessly into his intended persona, studying one of the paintings on the wall of the waiting room. By the time Hannibal opens the office door, his coat slung over one arm, Will is the picture of poise.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” he says.

Hannibal freezes in the doorway for just a moment, his eyes flicking from Will’s perfectly shined shoes up to his beautiful oaken curls. Oh, he is in top form tonight, stunning creature. The desire to tear into him, to suck gouts of his hot, searing blood from his luscious neck, to crack open his ribs and rip out his heart just to press the last few beats to Hannibal’s greedy lips roars and boils within him. His control, of course, is impeccable; he allows the corners of his eyes to crinkle, and tilts his chin just so.

“Hello, Will. Thank you for coming. I hope you had a pleasant drive.”

Will tilts his head back and forth. “It wasn’t too bad.” He gestures to the cooler he’s set down on the arm of the chair beside him. “Want to make sure they’re not rotten?”

Hannibal’s smile widens. “I’m certain you wouldn’t subject either of us to rotten fish, Will. However, I would like to take a look, and then if you’re still amenable we can head to a nearby market for produce.”

“I’m amenable,” says Will, his eyes sparkling.

Hannibal’s stomach tightens. What those eyes do to him is frankly unfair. Like the rich waters of the Mediterranean, blues and greens in riotous shifts, glittering with flecks of gold and silver wherever it’s kissed by the sun or the moon.

The fish are, of course, perfectly fresh and more than acceptable as ingredients. Hannibal and Will walk a few blocks to a market, then from stall to stall as Hannibal selects everything else he’ll need to craft a wonderful dinner for the two of them. The silence is companionable, even comfortable. Will seems content to share Hannibal’s company, sidling along beside him, often close enough to share Hannibal’s warmth. It’s maddening, and delightful.

They return to the office and part just long enough to take their own cars to Hannibal’s home in Chandler Square. The silence persists when they arrive, apart from little pleasantries. Hannibal hangs up his coat, Will offers to carry the grocery bags, Hannibal graciously declines given that Will is carrying the cooler, and they make their way to the kitchen.

It isn’t until Hannibal, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, tying his apron around his waist, asks Will if he would care to sous chef and the conversation truly begins.

“One condition,” says Will.

“By all means.”

Will leans against the kitchen island, steepling his fingers. “It’s trout and vegetables with some kind of sauce. Can we leave it at that, just this once?”

It rankles, prickles at Hannibal’s pride, but he says,

“Of course, Will. My only aim with this evening is your comfort.” He lifts a hand in supplication. “I can limit my theatrics for one night.”

So low Hannibal almost doesn’t catch it, Will mutters, “Oh, can you?”

“For the right guest, of course.”

Again, there is mostly silence between them: the gentle rocking of the knives upon the cutting boards, the soft avalanche of components falling into a bowl or a saute pan, the hiss of butter and oil, the occasional  direction or correction of form.

“A few minutes more,” says Hannibal. “Would you select a wine for us, Will? Something white, I think.”

“Sure. But the rule applies to wine, too. I mean it, I’m grabbing the first white wine I see and I don’t want to know the name of the vintner or the type of grape he uses or the horse who carts the grapes around. It’s white wine, end of story.”

Again, the twinge of irritation, but there’s also exasperated affection. Will is a simple creature, and he has been denied simple pleasures for far longer than was ever intended. The least Hannibal can do is offer him this.

“Very well, Will. I am sure whatever you select will be appropriate.” He pauses as Will moves toward the pantry. “If I may make a suggestion?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Proceed.”

“On the third shelf from the top, on the left side, there is a row of various white wines which would pair very nicely with our meal. If you prefer sweeter, pull from further to the right.”

Will snorts, waves Hannibal’s suggestion away, and does as he pleases.

Hannibal plates and serves at the table in the kitchen. When Will returns—a sweet, crisp white from Hannibal’s suggested section in hand—he seems surprised. 

“Thought we’d be in that big pretentious dining room,” Will says; a drop or two of that familiar gruff scowl is swirling around, and Hannibal’s teeth ache to snap back.

“I thought perhaps something more casual, given your preferences for tonight.”

Will’s smile is crooked and a bit uneasy, as though he is unused to wearing it. “Yeah. Should probably start simple. Spent six months eating alone in a cell, my, ah… table manners might not be in great shape.”

The rage crests for just a moment. Incompetent judicial system, Frederick fumbling and pawing at Will’s mind, delay after delay after—

“So,” says Will, taking his seat.

“So,” Hannibal agrees. 

He opens the wine and sets it aside as he collects the wine glasses. He sits across from Will, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, and considers where best to begin.

Will decides for him. “Bev said you believed me the whole time. Said you asked about me a lot.”

“I only wish I had been permitted to visit you directly and offer my support in person. Frederick denied access on the grounds of exclusive treatment.”

Will frowns at his plate. “Chilton did what I asked. He turned away every psychiatrist who came.” The direct eye contact is deliciously gutting, paired with the twist of the knife: “I didn’t want to see you, Dr. Lecter.”

He keeps himself carefully neutral. “I see. Was there any particular reason?”

Will’s gaze falls again, and Hannibal feels as though he has regained permission to breathe.

“Same reason I didn’t want to see Alana. I thought you wouldn’t believe me, and I didn’t want to see it on your face. Anyway Bev said you were both bad enough, trying to psychoanalyze me through her. Feels like I dodged a bullet.”

“After withstanding a mortar,” Hannibal says, and Will snorts.

“Barely. It wasn’t pretty, Dr. Lecter. You didn’t need to see me like that.” Will pushes some fish around on his plate. “Bad enough seeing that look on your face at the trial.”

Hannibal blinks and tilts his head. “What look would that be?”

Will catches his eye again, eyes grey like a stormy sky. “Like you were watching the hangman fit me for a noose.”

Hannibal’s chuckle is low, but genuine. “I promise you, Will, I never thought it so dire.”

“Yeah, well, thanks to the Ripper’s change of heart, it wasn’t.”

Hannibal takes a moment to think. Will’s tone isn’t reproachful, or angry, or disgusted; it’s almost amused.

“You believe the Ripper intended to help you?”

Will laughs, short and sharp like a bark. “I believe he decided it’s more interesting to have me available.” Will sips at his wine and hums, his tongue sliding across his lips to catch a stray drop. “To be honest I’m surprised the Ripper hasn’t reached out already. It’s been quiet since…” His teeth creak against the strain of his clenched jaw. He looks down at his glass and sets it on the table with a heavy clink. “Well. Since I got out.” He leans back, his arms crossed over his chest, his gazed fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

Hannibal, in contrast, leans forward, his forearms resting against the edge of the table, his long fingers steepled. “I imagine it was terrible for you, being in that place. Your barriers, battered by the twisted minds of the mad.”

Will huffs. “Yeah. You could say that. Wasn’t a picnic, I can tell you that.”

“Transitioning back to society after such a long period of confinement must come with its difficulties. How have you been feeling?”

“Are we back in therapy, Dr. Lecter?”

He sounds like he’s teasing. For a moment, Hannibal vividly pictures the hot puff of Will’s breath against his ear, whispering that very thing, the graze of his teeth in a nip just shy of sharp enough to draw blood. But Will, dear Will, is just watching him with raised eyebrows and the barest hint of a smile.

“If you like,” Hannibal says.

“A little informal for a therapy session, isn’t it?”

“You and I have never been slaves to convention, Will.”

“Just another conversation?”

Hannibal’s eyes twinkle. “If you like.”

Will glides his finger along the rim of his wine glass. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it. I’m not sure there’s anything to talk about, really. Just… trying to get my life back.”

“I hope your lawyer advised you to seek compensation. If not, I have an attorney I trust to handle my affairs. I would be happy to pass along your information.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but I think my affairs are covered.”

“If that should change—”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll let you know.”

Hannibal clears the plates, brings out dessert, and leads Will to the study for a drink. He resists the urge, on this occasion, to drug the whiskey. After all, this is the time to build positive associations. Will must feel safe with Hannibal, if Hannibal is to become his closest confidant. Now that the encephalitis is gone, Will requires a far lighter touch, one which Hannibal is more than willing to indulge.

“Will you return to the FBI?” Hannibal asks.

He’s handing over three fingers of whiskey which Will is reasonably sure he didn’t have a chance to drug. All night, he’s been so delicate and careful. Will supposes he’s trying to seem trustworthy.

Will accepts the tumbler and takes a sip of fine, peaty whiskey as he considers his answer. Hannibal has been doing so well, and he’s got to stay interested or this is never going to work.

“Once they pay out for my pain and suffering, yeah. It’s what the Ripper expects. Wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

“And I’m sure Uncle Jack has nothing to do with it,” Hannibal says, and he’s playing up the moderate disapproval.

Will scowls. “Jack was doing his job, and getting me back on the team is more of the same. He’s not gonna let me go. Nor should he, given my closure rate. I can save lives working with the BAU.”

“So you intend to return to consulting, not just to your classroom.”

“About sums it up.”

“Will… I have concerns about your well-being, returning to an industry which has mistreated you so terribly.”

Will takes a deeper drink and shakes his head. “What, you want me to give up and go build boat motors back in New Orleans? Run off, leave all of you behind?”

Hannibal visibly stills, but his recovery is quick; he shakes his head and swaps his crossed legs from one to the other. “I’m sure I speak for many when I say that we would much prefer your company.” He pauses, tapping his finger against the side of his glass thoughtfully. “I would prefer to keep your company, Will. These last months have been… far less vibrant, in your absence.”

It’s such a blatant opening, but Will is ready to reward Hannibal’s behavior a bit.

Will rests an elbow on his knee and the edge of his lips curls just slightly. “Are you saying you missed me, Dr. Lecter?”

“I have many acquaintances, Will, but there are few I would consider friends.”

“You can’t ever just say yes, can you.”

Hannibal takes a slow drink. “Do you need to hear it in so many words, Will?”

“Need?” Will frowns and shrugs. “I wouldn’t say it’s a need. More of a nice to hear.”

“Very well.” Hannibal sets his drink down and meets Will’s eyes; his irises appear maroon in the firelight. “I missed you very much, Will. More than I care to admit,” he says, and the odd roar in Will’s ears certainly believes him.

Will allows a broad, crooked smile to spread across his face and he says, “Thank you. I missed you too, Dr. Lecter.”

“Please, Will. If I can say yes, you can call me Hannibal.”

Will finishes his drink, shrugs, and stands. “You’re more adaptable than I am. But, I’ll work on it.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can think of more to ask, doctor. But for tonight, it’s about time I headed home. I have the dogs to take care of, and I’m sure you have patients to see in the morning.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you out.”

Hannibal dares, only for a moment, to place a hand on Will’s lower back as they approach the foyer. They’re virtually identical in height, but Hannibal is always trying to make Will feel like there’s some kind of major difference. 

It’s odd—Hannibal’s frame is a bit broader, and carrying bodies around has probably made him a great deal stronger than he looks in those carefully-tailored suits, but the entirety of his physical intimidation seems psychological. He’s not pushing, he’s not the type to squeeze too hard in a handshake, he just looms sometimes, but it’s hard for one six-foot tall guy to loom over another six-foot tall guy. It was easier when Will was walking around all hunched and sweaty with illness, but right now it just feels silly.

Will decides it will be funny to throw Hannibal off his rhythm just a bit. He pauses in the doorway and turns; his hand settles on Hannibal’s arm, just above the elbow.

“Thank you,” Will says. “Really. It’s been a pretty bad year so far, and not a lot has made me feel normal, or stable. But, well… you’re a good friend, Dr. Lecter.” He squeezes the arm and holds eye contact for two long beats before tearing away. “Ah, anyway. Just. Thanks. See you around.”

“Goodnight, Will,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will smiles all the way to his car.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

Chapter Text

It’s another few weeks before the settlement is finalized. Will’s lawyer is beyond pleased with the amount; apparently the firm had received some expert advice from another attorney which had tipped the balance toward eight figures rather than seven. Will had feigned surprise and gratefulness, but he’d been pretty goddamn annoyed that Hannibal had intervened without his permission. It’s not like he needed the money, and even if he had, it’s not like Hannibal cared about the money, either—the aim had been to punish the FBI and the state of Maryland, to humiliate them for what “they” had done to Will, and the bigger the number, the greater the humiliation.

All this, of course, ignoring the fact that Hannibal had been behind the whole stupid thing, because as far as the dear sweet doctor is concerned that’s not just secondary, it’s irrelevant.

Bastard.

Will uses some of the money immediately, but most of it he chucks in accounts and promptly files their awareness to the back of his mind. He’s more interested in the other part of the settlement: an offer to return to his job teaching at the FBI academy, with an official provision for consultation that includes a very generous compensation package.

The folder with the terms is still sitting on his kitchen counter when his phone rings. He sighs. He hasn’t even accepted it yet, but he will, and Jack knows he will. He thought he’d at least have a few days before Crawford came calling, and all things considered that’s exactly what he got. He’d just sort of hoped that the counter would start after he signed the paperwork, not after the settlement was over.

“Graham.”

“Will. I’m sending someone to pick you up,” says Jack, brusque and business as ever.

“Hello, Jack. Nice of you to call. I’m doing alright, how about you? How’s Bella?”

Jack’s long-suffering sigh gives Will life. “We’ll have time for all that later, Will. I need you at a scene.”

“I haven’t signed the paperwork yet, Jack.”

“Then sign it!” Crawford roars. “We’ll have somebody run it to the office while you get your ass down here!”

“Y’know, part of the agreement is that I get to make my own hours as a consultant.” He checks the phone’s screen for the time. “Shame, it’s past 7. You’re outside my regular hours. That costs extra, Jack. Sure you need me that badly?”

“I’ve got a woman sewn up inside of a horse, Graham! Get. Down. Here. Now.”

“Well, I thought you were sending a car.”

“I knew Chilton was a hack, but his therapy turned you into an asshole. I liked you better when your brain was melting.”

“You and the Ripper both,” says Will, and for once Crawford is stunned into silence. “Look, I’ll come help, but only because I was supposed to get drinks with Beverly anyway.”

“Will.”

“What, Jack?”

“Good to have you back.”

Crawford hangs up, and Will lets out an incredulous huff.

It’s ten minutes or so before the car shows up, and soon enough Will’s walking across a hay-strewn barnyard toward a stable bustling with people. Bev meets him outside, half as annoyed as he is and twice as dressed up (which, to be fair, isn’t saying a lot since Will’s defaulted to his classic flannel).

“Had to be tonight,” gripes Beverly Katz, kicking at a loose stone. “The one time you agree to come out for drinks. Finally gonna see Brian pay up. But no.”

“Always somebody sewing somebody into a horse right when you’re trying to collect on a bet,” Will says. “Rule of law. What can you do?”

“I’ll tell you what you can do. Tell me you signed the papers, Will. Tell me they didn’t drive you all the way out here just so you could give Jack an aneurysm.”

Will lifts his hands and laughs. “I signed, I signed. Tippet is halfway to Quantico by now to file the hard copies, but she sent photos ahead. Look, see?” He pulls at a plastic card clipped to his belt loop. “She brought me my ID and everything. All above board. Even Prurnell can’t do anything about it.”

“Then you can stop screwing around and get started,” barks Jack from the barn. “Katz, go help Jimmy with his kit. Will, through here.”

Beverly mouths a curse and shoots a sympathetic eyeroll Will’s way, but trots off toward one of three identical SUVs with the rear doors open. From here, Will can just make out Price’s remarkably accurate hum of a Spice Girls song.

Will tucks his hands in his pockets and follows Jack at his own pace. He’s still deciding how much pushback to give; everyone expects him to be the same or similar to the way he was during their earlier cases together, before his brain was fully inflamed. He was antisocial and strange then, sure. He made uncomfortable leaps and said frankly unhinged shit out loud which he should have kept to himself (looking at you, ‘had to cut you open to get a decent sound out of you’), but there was also something in that shaky, sweaty performance which awed them. He needs to balance his stability with their trust of his abilities.

It’s counterintuitive, but people are fussy and stupid. If he seems too stable, they’ll start listening to that little voice in their heads that sounds an awful lot like Freddie Lounds, the one that tells them there’s something off about Will and maybe they should look a bit more closely. No; he still needs them to be uncomfortable with him. Too uncomfortable to look, but not uncomfortable enough to find him threatening.

Tricky, tricky.

This has always been his favorite part: piecing the role together. Delicate work, but when he does it well—and he always does—it pays off in spades.

Anyway, he’s still got to keep Hannibal blind, and look who came to see a man about a woman sewn up inside a horse.

“Dr. Lecter,” says Will, affecting a frown. He glances to Jack, then back at Hannibal. “Nobody told me you were coming.”

“Good evening, Will. Jack has asked me to continue consulting on the occasional case, for the time being.”

“Dr. Lecter has been very helpful, during your…” Jack clears his throat. “Well. The last few months, anyway. He’s not you, but he’s insightful, and his expertise has come in handy.”

“The victim is through here,” says Hannibal. “Shall we clear the room, Will?”

A split second to decide. “No, you can stay. Just, in the doorway.”

Hannibal can’t hide the flash of surprise and delight. Jack doesn’t see it, of course; he just gestures for Will to get on with it and leans against the barn wall.

The victim has been removed from the horse at this point, of course. Will only needs surface observations to piece together the basic thread, but he lets the pendulum swing anyway to see if he can gather anything else, anything his eyes might have taken in that his brain didn’t immediately process.

Jack wants to know if this was the Ripper, because Jack is so obsessed it’s making him stupid. He’s like Hannibal that way. Will isn’t going to tell either of them that, but he does point out that, no, this is not the Ripper. This ritual, this burial, this wasn’t even the same person who killed her.

Will tries to tell Jack that somebody already knows who the killer is and what he did; somebody knew the victim and wanted to give her peace. Find that person, find the killer. 

Jack does not care for this news and wants to know what Will saw, like that will help. Fine. Will can waste time, if that’s what Crawford wants.

This killer hates women. This isn’t his first time. He’s not sloppy, but he strangled her far longer than he had to, with far more force than he needed. White male, 30s, educated, attractive, single, likely no intimate relationships or friendships, some kind of authority over others like management or police or human resources, entirely unremarkable, no history of trouble with the law, but there will be something off about him.

It’s not much help. Lots of shitty people meet the brief, or just barely miss it by being female or working in sales.

Jack doesn’t like this profile because it’s not helpful.

Will doesn’t say I told you so, but he wants to.

The very fascinating piece comes later, during the autopsy: there was a live bird inside the dead woman’s chest. This brings the focus back to the victim, at which point Will does say,

“I told you. This wasn’t the killer. This was somebody who knew the victim and the killer. Cared about the victim. Find them, find the killer.”

“If they know who the killer is, why not come forward?” Jack demands.

“Because nobody will believe them,” Will says. 

He doesn’t look at Hannibal, but Hannibal is watching him, and it’s hard to ignore the thrill of his attention. Somehow, Will manages.

Peter Bernardone is a good man. A kind-hearted man. An animal lover. Peaceful.

For some fucking reason, Jack thinks he’s the killer. A bias against the disabled, perhaps? Treats the guy with the empathy disorder like an unbreakable performing monkey, suspects the guy with the blatant TBI of strangling 16 women despite his demonstrably impaired motor functions.

Peter is perhaps not fully capable of living on his own without support, but he’s neither stupid (as Jack assumes) nor helpless (as the killer assumes). He demonstrates a very clear understanding of his situation, displays no delusional or magical thinking, and he has a fascinating level of expertise in zoology.

Peter and Will have another thing in common: they both understand why nobody is going to believe a word Peter says.

All it takes is a note in a file. Difficult. Delusional. Paranoid. So easy for someone to rewrite the story, if they have the right access. Like child’s play to make a quiet man with a bit of a motor function issue and a speech impediment seem like he’s several levels of care higher, like he’s more unstable, like he can’t be trusted. Just a few words from the case manager and suddenly this vulnerable adult is that much easier to take advantage of. There are checks and balances for these sorts of things, but it’s difficult to follow up on every single case when the country is overwhelmed by how many people need help.

Sometimes people slip through the cracks.

Sometimes those cracks are manufactured by people who know what they’re doing and are in the exact right position to redirect attention.

Peter Bernardone tells Will about Clark Ingram, and Will knows how the system works, knows that the FBI won’t catch him, knows that they won’t protect Peter. And he knows how to manufacture cracks.

As soon as he gets home, he calls Matthew Brown.

“Hey,” he says, “I need a favor.”

“Anything for you, Will. Just say the word.”

“I need you to keep an eye on someone for me. Protect him.”

“And when you say protect, what are your expectations?”

Will pauses and considers for a moment. “I expect you to do whatever you have to do, and I expect you to be a professional about it. Prove you can handle it.”

Matthew’s chuckle is low and throaty. “Need me to prove I can be trusted, eh, gorgeous? Alright. I’ll play.”

Shortly after he gets home from Quantico that night, Will receives a surprise visitor: Margot Verger.

“Why are you here, Margot?” Will drawls from his doorway, and Margot, in her fine coat and perfectly painted mask, gives a delicate shrug.

“I came looking for a character reference. And I brought whiskey.”

He lets her in, of course.

“What can the heir to the Verger meat packing dynasty get from me that she can’t get from a dozen other sources?”

Margot’s smile is thin. “I’m not the heir. That would be Mason, my brother. Don’t have the right parts, or the right proclivity for parts.”

“I see.”

“I wanted to get an honest opinion on Dr. Lecter from someone who knows him. You’re not a patient, exactly, but you know him. I want to know what you think of him.”

Margot is smart enough to be dangerous to Hannibal, unless he’s useful to her. Will takes the offered whiskey bottle and cracks it open. As he’s pouring two fingers for Margot and three for himself, he says,

“I think Dr. Lecter has a very unorthodox style of therapy. It can be… illuminating, for the right people, and Dr. Lecter doesn’t waste time on the wrong people.”

“You’re as slippery as he is,” says Margot, and drains her entire glass like a shot. “I’m in therapy with Dr. Lecter because I tried to kill my brother. Do you know what Dr. Lecter’s advice was?” Will raises an eyebrow, so she continues: “Try, try again.”

Will maintains a straight face and, lacking much else to say, replies, “I saw Dr. Lecter after I killed someone in the field. He said that doing a terrible thing for a good reason can feel good.”

Margot considers this—considers Will—for a long moment.

“You’d recommend I keep seeing him, then,” she says, and it isn’t a question. Will nods, anyway. “You think he can help me.”

This time, Will doesn’t respond at all. Margot just inclines her head, sets her glass down, and wishes him goodnight.

Margot Verger is smart, and she could make a phenomenal ally, but now Will is pissed at Hannibal all over again for being an absolutely godawful therapist. He only hopes that the next scheme Hannibal gently nudges Margot toward doesn’t get her killed.

Less than six hours after Clark Ingram is released from FBI custody, Will gets another call from Matthew. He’s breathless, and there’s a lot of noise around him; animals calling, chirping, barking, yowling.

“Guy showed up ten minutes ago, eyes flat as a shark,” Matthew says. “Came along with an animal control truck, tried to take all the animals away. I told ‘em they were trespassing and they better come back with a court order, otherwise I was gonna get the cops involved. Shark-eyes didn’t seem to like that very much. Seemed pretty pissed off I was here, wasn’t expecting anybody. Your friend Peter—sweet guy by the way—he ought to be getting back from work soon, and then I’m going to pay a visit to good ol’ Shark-eyes. If that’s alright.”

“Are you going to call me at every step?” Will drawls, and Matthew laughs.

“Just wanted to keep you in the loop,” he says, teasing, and hangs up.

Clark Ingram disappears. By all appearances, he purchased a ticket to South America and left the country. Given he was a suspect, the FBI gets a warrant to search his apartment and finds a drawer full of women’s underwear hidden under his bed, with DNA matching the 16 victims.

His trail goes cold at the airport; it takes most of the day for the FBI to figure out he didn’t get on his plane to Argentina, and a man matching his description appears to have purchased a separate ticket in cash to New York City which landed hours before. He’s lost in the crowds, and could have gone anywhere from there.

Will has no idea who that man was, because Matthew worked a day shift at the BSHCI and came over afterward for a drink. Will has to admit he’s impressed. It’s about nine o’clock now, getting dark out, and Will has just gotten off the phone with Jack. Ingram’s been found out, Peter is safe, and a new social worker—hopefully a better one—will take over his case.

Will and Matthew sit in front of the fireplace and clink their whiskey glasses together. Ellie is fully asleep and flattened out in Matthew’s lap; he’s absentmindedly rubbing one of her ears between his fingers. Winston lays with his head on Will’s foot, and Buster is snoring on Will’s thighs. The others are scattered around, snuffling and yawning.

“Well, Jack’s convinced.”

“He oughtta be. Got the right guy this time, didn’t he?”

Will snorts. “Against all odds and his own bullheadedness, yes.”

Matthew grins and shrugs one shoulder so as not to disturb Ellie. “Your boys there don’t have the best track record lately. Caught that bee lady. Couple of other folks while you were locked up. But seems like more often they’re dead or gone by the time the bureau gets their shit together.”

“So which is Ingram?”

“Ol’ Sharkie?” Matthew’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure you wanna know? Don’t want plausible deniability?”

“If you’re going to screw up so badly I need it, you’re a liability.”

“Ooh, I like it when you’re saucy.” He finishes his drink and winks, cracking his neck. “Dead,” he says. “Didn’t want to play ball.”

Will scowls. “You tried to recruit him?”

“We’re hawks, Will. Hawks are usually solitary hunters. But I figure, get the hawks working together, nobody can stop us. Had to give him a chance.” He shrugs again. “He didn’t see the offer for what it was.”

“Of course he didn’t. Too…” Will waves his glass, his scowl deepening. “Too basic. A vanilla template of a serial killer. Boring, uninspired.”

“Not like him,” Matthew teases.

“Not like anybody actually worthy of the BAU’s attention,” Will snaps. “If it weren’t for Peter, he’d have gone on being unremarkable.”

“I like Peter,” says Matthew.

“Yeah.”

“Is he, uh… joining up? Do you think?”

“Joining up with what?”

“Your little collective here. Our aerie.”

“Peter deserves to be protected.”

“What did I say about lying, Will?” Matthew sets his glass down and picks Ellie up, rocking her gently. “You don’t have to tell me what you’re trying to do, but whatever it is, I don’t care. Whatever you need me to do, I’m with you. A hundred percent.”

Will watches him for a moment, then hums. “As long as Ingram doesn’t show back up again—”

“Don’t worry about that. I have my ways. And I don’t do trophies, either, so there’s nothing left to find.”

“Good.” A pause, then, “I have another project for you. Ongoing.”

“Anything, gorgeous. You just say the word.”

Will smiles.

Bev and Alana check in on him a little less frequently via text now that he’s back at the FBI Academy, but they’re still both making an effort. He’s even in a group chat with the science team.

Alana is still awkward around him, still treats him like he’s delicate, and he can practically taste the pity and the guilt rolling off of her, but it’s not the first time he’s pretended not to notice stuff like that for the sake of friendship.

What’s actually more annoying is listening to her talk about Hannibal. Dinners at his house at least once a week, museum outings, galleries. All the things Will is still saying no to. Of course, he’s not going to tell Alana that she’s Hannibal’s second choice. She gushes about how cultured he is, how she has to shop for a new outfit for some upcoming event or another, some charity gala, something Will couldn’t care less about.

One day about a week after Ingram’s disappearance, she sits down at a cafeteria table across from Will and pulls out some of Hannibal’s tupperware. Will is pretty sure they aren’t sleeping together, but it’s possible. She would make for a decent alibi, under the right circumstances. It wouldn’t be a bad move on Hannibal’s part, but it seems like a needless overcomplication of the relationship. It’s a bit more likely that she’s reading too far into Hannibal’s attention.

Alana has also noticed that Will is texting all day every day now. She’s tried to find out who Will is talking to, but he’s been tight-lipped. He did, however, tell Beverly: he’s been texting Matthew, from the hospital, because he was nice while Will was in there and they’ve become friends, it’s not that big of a deal, etcetera. Beverly will, purposely or accidentally, leak this information to Jimmy or Brian, and eventually it’ll make its way to Alana and Hannibal.

Beverly had asked him one very good, very hesitant question: “It’s not any of my business, so tell me to back off if you want. But, well, are you worried that your, um… your friend is going to be in danger?”

Will had scrunched up his face in confusion and replied, “No more than any of the rest of you. Why?”

Bev’s cheeks went pink and she laughed. “Right, of course! No reason, just, y’know, no stone unturned.”

One day, somebody is going to have the guts to come right out and ask if Will is straight, and it’ll probably be Jimmy. 

He is straight, of course.

But the thing about any scale, Kinsey or otherwise, is that it’s rare to find somebody who is fully seated on either of the extremes, which means there are always going to be exceptions. That isn’t to say that all or most people are bisexual by default—though Will is pretty sure if the measure was objective, most people would technically fall into that category—it’s just to say that identity is relative, and a gay man who falls for a woman is still a gay man if that’s what he feels most comfortable calling himself.

Will is straight, but a potential equal of any gender is… enticing.

Cafeteria food looked pretty bleak next to Alana’s lunch today, he texts.

Hannibal’s response is almost immediate; he must be between patients.

I would be more than happy to make something for you, Will. It pains me to think of you subsisting off of ‘cafeteria food’, if it can even be called that.

Unlike her, I can’t stop by your place all the time.

You are always welcome, Will. Even for a two a.m. fish fry.

Yeah, well, I also live an hour and a half in the wrong direction.

You could come for dinner and stay over.

Bold. Presumptuous. Will chews at his lip.

Is that how Alana does it? Smart. I’m taking notes.

She has a preferred guest room, Hannibal types. I would prepare a far more comfortable room for you, Will.

Oh yeah? What makes it more comfortable?

There’s gap of about five minutes this time, then,

I think it would be best for you to discover that for yourself, if you’re amenable.

He shakes his head and laughs.

I might be amenable. Depends on when.

When are you free?

Supposed to get drinks with Bev, Jimmy, and Brian on Friday. Friend is coming over on Saturday for dinner. Free after that.

Another pause, only two minutes this time.

Sunday, then. Come for dinner, stay the night, and I will prepare you a lunch to enjoy between your classes on Monday.

Okay. Six o’clock?

That would be perfect.

They exchange a few more pleasantries, and the conversation fades.

Will doesn’t get to have that dinner with Hannibal this week for two reasons.

The first is that he gets really annoyed with Hannibal again, because Mason goddamn Verger shows up at Will’s house.

Will loathes him immediately. He’s like the personification of the nasty gunk that gets caught in a grease trap. He oozes every word; Will can taste the disdain, the insanity leaking from between his teeth. 

Some creatures, you make a lot of noise, they’ll leave you alone; some creatures, you make yourself seem bigger, they’ll run off; still others, none of that works, and you have to play dead and hope they don’t start eating you alive. 

Mason Verger is a different kind of creature. He doesn’t care if you’re alive, dead, loud, quiet, big, small, fighting, surrendering—he’ll tear you open and fuck the most colorful, the most interesting, the most vulnerable part he finds, because he is a cackling, starving monster and his hunger is ruled by his madness.

He warns Will to stay away from Margot, not in so many words. Will understands, immediately and intimately, why she wants him dead. He hopes, desperately, that she finds success.

Will sits on his bed for a long time, surrounded by his dogs (who whine and lick his hands and nudge him with their noses, knowing something is wrong) and he recalculates.

But then the second interruption happens: Jack calls, because there’s been a horrible mutilation at a truck stop, and they think somebody is training a wolf or a bear or something to murder people. They’re going to be at this all weekend at this rate.

Worse, there’s another one pretty soon after, a couple on a nice picnic ripped apart by something with huge teeth and claws. Will doesn’t need the pendulum to tell him a person was behind this, but both scenes together help him to understand that this isn’t a person who trained animals to kill, this is a person who believes he is an animal.

While the team is analyzing the claw and teeth marks, Will is watching Hannibal out of the corner of his eye.

Jimmy and Brian get into a silly little back and forth about cave bears, and Beverly ignores them to point out that there are traces of oil on the bodies, and no fur.

“Whatever this was, it wasn’t an animal,” she says. “There would be dander, hair, saliva, something. But all I’m getting is this oil.”

“A cave bear wouldn’t have the bite force to make a wound like this,” says Jimmy. “Cave bears are herbivores.”

“And, y’know, dead. For thousands of years,” says Brian.

“Hydraulics could do it,” says Beverly. “It would explain the oil.”

Jack crosses his arms. “What does that mean for us?”

Will shrugs. “Means we’re looking for an animal who looks like a man.” At Jack’s glare, he adds, “Somebody built this, Jack. Put cave bear jaws on a hydraulic system. We’re looking for an engineer who has some kind of identity disorder. This person believes they’re an animal.”

Of course, Hannibal speaks up.

Will can see the beast behind Randall Tier’s eyes. It’s well-controlled, remarkably so, but it’s pacing back and forth, restless. It wants out.

Randall says everything right. He’s taking his medications, he has a job, he is a functioning member of society. He’s proof that therapy works, hallelujah. Will can see Hannibal written all over every word. He’s really starting to get annoyed.

It’s Sunday morning. Will texts,

Sorry, I’m drained from this case and I still have to prep my lecture for tomorrow. Rain check?

Hannibal doesn’t respond.

Jack has Tier checked out pretty thoroughly, and everything comes back squeaky clean. Some issues in his youth, biting, fighting, but after a few hospital stays and a lot of therapy, he’s been doing perfectly well for almost a decade. Not even a speeding ticket.

He sends Will home after hours of scouring files with potential matches, looking at cattle mutilations for patterns, trying to trace the purchases of fossils or fossil replicas. Will leaves at seven and gets home about eight thirty, exhausted.

He texts Matthew while he eats a quick dinner, and then settles in to have a drink and work on his lecture. But the dogs start getting agitated, whining, even barking once or twice, and Will takes a deep breath.

He’s not opening the door.

He douses all the lights and whistles for the dogs to be quiet. He’s got his rifle, and he’s standing with a decent view of the windows at the front of the house. He keeps his breathing even.

He waits.

The window to his left shatters inward as a hulking form bursts through, and Will goes straight for the soft parts of the body he knows is underneath. The gun clatters away, skidding toward his hysterical dogs, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need the gun.

This suit wasn’t made to defend, it was made to attack. Once he’s in close, and he’s slammed the skull against the floor enough times to daze his attacker, it’s over. He fumbles a bit as the beast weakly attempts to buck him off, but again, the hydraulics were built for biting down, for snapping, not for pushing up. He disconnects one of the tubes that controls the jaw, and then does the same to the arms.

Then, he rips the headpiece off and stares down at Randall Tier, snotty with frustrated tears, snapping his pitiful human teeth.

Will slaps him across the face, and he freezes.

“Are you done?” Will demands, and Randall responds with a jerky nod. “Good. I’m going to make a guess. I guess Dr. Lecter told you what to say to the FBI.”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Another guess. He told you to come after me.”

Randall blinks, and his face crumples. “H-he said—”

“I don’t care what he said. He sent you here to die, Randall. Do you understand?”

“No, he—”

“Randall. Look at me.” Will is still seated on Randall’s stomach, his arms painfully pinned beneath Will’s knees, his suit nonfunctional. “This took me under two minutes. You were a gift. He wanted me to kill you. As a present. Do you understand?”

Randall nods again, and fresh tears spill forth. “Let me fight. I can fight, I deserve to—”

“Shut up. I’m not going to kill you.” Will stands, and wearily drops into a chair. His dogs swarm him, even the little ones protectively between their master and the intruder. He pats Winston’s head. “Do you know what the difference between a wolf and a dog is, Randall?”

“Dogs are weak,” Randall snarls. “Slaves.”

Will whistles, and all seven of his dogs snarl as one, spreading out in a half-circle. Randall tries to pull back, but his suit is heavy and cumbersome without the hydraulics.

“Dogs are just wolves who were smart enough to make humans a part of the pack. See, humans can do a lot of things wolves can’t. Build a better shelter. Make a nice, warm fire. Think about the future.” He whistles again, and the dogs all return to him, tongues lolling, tails wagging. He gives them each a scratch, ignoring Randall for the moment. Finally, he says, “My pack is strong because they trust me. They’re smart. They’ve learned how we hunt together. You’re smart, Randall. You could learn. It would be a waste to put you down for snapping at me.” He looks up, meets Randall’s eyes, sees the beast listening intently. “But a rabid wolf is no use. And neither is a caged one.”

“The FBI is already looking at me.”

“So make them look somewhere else.”

They stare at each other for a long time, then Randall frowns.

“Will you help me?”

“No.” Will leans back in his chair. “You’ll either figure out a way of throwing them off the scent, or you’ll get caught. And they won’t take you alive, will they, Randall?”

“No.”

“A good hunter has a lot of ways of masking his scent. If you’re good, you’ll get out of this. And then, come back and see me. If you’re not good, well.” Will shrugs. “It was interesting to meet you.”

“Dr. Lecter—”

“Sent you here to die, remember. You don’t need him. Or me. But, if you want a pack, the offer is open.”

Randall nods.

No more words are spoken between them. Randall is able to fix his suit enough to get it operational, and then he disappears through the smashed window the way he came.

Will thinks about texting Hannibal, but decides against it.

Let him stew.

The last straw comes Thursday night of the following week. Will hasn’t spoken to Hannibal because they’re definitely both sulking, though Will is loath to admit it. He’s got his phone out, trying to think of something to text Hannibal, something stupid or witty or absurd that might prompt a conversation because despite what a dramatic bitch he is, Will does miss Hannibal’s company, when he hears the crunch of gravel on his driveway.

He goes to the door just in time to see Margot Verger stepping out of her car. She smiles at him, more whiskey in hand, and makes her way up the porch steps. Will’s brow furrows, but he lets her in.

“What do you want, Margot?”

“Just needed to get out of the house,” she says, airily. “Pour me a drink?”

“Your brother came here to threaten me.”

“He’s… protective.”

“Possessive, you mean.”

“That, too.” She eyes Will up and down. “He doesn’t want anyone to hurt me.”

“Anyone else.”

“That, too.” She touches his arm as she reaches for a whiskey glass. “You’re a sweet guy, Will. I haven’t known a lot of sweet guys in my life.”

Will’s brain short-circuits for a second, but then he puts it together. Goddamnit, Hannibal.

“Nope,” he says. “We’re not doing this.” He puts the whiskey down on the sideboard and gestures for the door. “Go home, Margot.”

She blinks and says, “What? Why? Did I do something—”

“You’re gay and I’m not a fucking sperm bank. And did you ever think about what actually happens if you get pregnant? You think your brother’s going to let any baby of yours survive, boy or girl? Jesus, Margot! Reproductive coercion is a crime!” He opens the door and gestures more forcefully to the outside. “Go. Now. Get some eggs harvested, have the embryos popped into a surrogate or something, maybe several surrogates. Hide them until you’ve got a son at least a year old. And do it fast, before Mason catches on. And for God’s sake, leave me the hell out of it.”

Her huge green eyes dart back and forth as she processes, and then she says, “I… Thank you, Will. That’s… I’ll do that.”

“You’re welcome. Now get out.”

Margot practically sprints to her car, already on her phone with someone. Will slams around in his kitchen for a short time, fills up the dogs’ water bowls, mixes up a fresh batch of food, laces his boots up tight enough to hurt a little, throws on his big green canvas jacket, and stomps to his car.

When he arrives on Hannibal’s doorstep, he’s still seething. It’s almost ten at night, but he doesn’t care. He pounds on the door like he’s back on the beat in New Orleans, and when Hannibal opens the door he shoves his way in without ceremony.

“Good evening, Will,” says Hannibal, in that infuriatingly calm tone of his. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you alone?” Will grits out, and Hannibal’s mask slips just enough for Will to register his surprise before he stitches himself back up.

“I was enjoying a nightcap. Alone, yes.”

“Good,” Will spits. “Whatever game you’re playing better be fully out of your control, because if this is intentional I’m going to burn your god damned house down.”

Hannibal is thrown off balance by the force of Will’s upset. His fury is beautiful, but it would be better directed elsewhere. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Will. Are you quite well?”

Will tears his jacket off and throws it on the ground; Hannibal can’t stop the start of a scowl from forming, but he doesn’t tear his eyes off of Will. Will stalks forward, leaning into Hannibal’s space, inches from Hannibal’s face, plush pink lips a breath away, and he hisses,

“Did you tell Margot Verger to try to get pregnant?”

This is not what Hannibal was expecting to be confronted about.

“You should know I can’t discuss—”

“She came to my house to fuck me.”

The rage is instantaneous and overwhelming. This was supposed to be about Randall. Will was supposed to receive his gift and come to Hannibal for comfort, to process what he had done in self-defense. But Hannibal had never heard anything further about Randall, or his case.

And good Margot, she was meant to find some poor fool to help her improve her situation. Not Will. Not his Will. And now—!

Warmth on his forearms, the squeeze of strong fingers. Hannibal blinks. He’s staring into Will’s vivid blue eyes. He’s gripping Will by the upper arms as though he were planning to shake him. Will has reached up to grab just below his wrists, and he’s frowning.

“Don’t freak out on me. I sent her away.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t loosen his grip.

Will speaks again, softly: “Tell me it wasn’t intentional. Tell me you didn’t know she was going to get me involved.”

Hannibal murmurs, “I was unaware the two of you were acquainted.”

“Yeah, well, luckily for her that’s all we are.” Hannibal forces himself to let go, and Will steps back with a strange, unreadable expression. “Pour me a drink.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, and almost mechanically follows Will into his own study.

They sit in front of the fireplace with a twenty year old scotch. Hannibal doesn’t know what to say. None of this is going the way it is meant to. Will should need Hannibal, should come to Hannibal for support and comfort. But he’s been spending time with the BAU science team, and one of the orderlies from the hospital, and Hannibal has been bringing Alana to social outings when he wants to be bringing Will.

Why have none of his plans been turning out the way he intends?

Will swirls the scotch in his glass and says, “I would be the worst possible choice, if Margot’s trying to have a baby. Bad enough that her brother would try to kill me, but imagine what would’ve happened to her if the Ripper found out.” He chuckles into his glass. “Seems like the type to shred anybody who plays with his belongings.”

Interesting. This might be the in Hannibal has been looking for.

“You believe the Ripper considers you his property?”

Will winces in a way that is almost a smile and shrugs. “It’s not that kind of belonging. Anyway, Mason Verger will be a bigger problem.” He takes a sip, holds the scotch in his mouth for a moment, and tilts his head from side to side. “You’re playing a dangerous game giving her ideas like that. He already knows she’s been talking to me. At this point if she’s successful, he’ll take it out on all three of us.”

“It was never my intention to draw Mason Verger’s ire.”

“Oh, I know. You just want to help Margot.” There’s a twist of irony to this, as though Will knows more about it than he’s letting on. Hannibal wonders briefly what else Margot told him. “Intentional or not, we might end up on his bad side, and I don’t like to imagine the consequences.”

Hannibal’s fingers tap against the side of his glass. “Do you suppose the Ripper would protect you?”

Will barks a laugh. “I don’t suppose he’ll do anything he doesn’t want to do. He got me locked up because he wanted to. He got me set free because he wanted to. If he wants anything else from me, I don’t know what it is.” He sits forward, holding his tumbler between his knees, staring into the fire. “I keep thinking he’ll do something. I’ve been available. He’s been to my house before. I didn’t think I’d still be waiting. I don’t know, maybe he expects me to come to him, throw myself at his feet.”

Hannibal’s stomach flutters briefly. “That would imply that you know who he is, and you have a rather personal relationship.”

“Oh, it’s personal, alright. Just maybe not as personal as either of us would like.” Will drains his drink and stands. “Just be careful, Dr. Lecter. You’re trying to play chess, but Mason’s running a casino, and the house always wins. He isn’t the type of man to let things go.”

Hannibal follows him toward the entryway, and he can feel the undignified beg of stay, please, stay crawling its way up his throat. Instead, while Will bends to pick up his discarded jacket, Hannibal says,

“If my game is chess, what is yours, Will?”

Will pauses in the doorway, the moonlight spilling across his cheek, lovely and wild, and he lets out a breathy laugh. “The same game I’m always playing, Dr. Lecter,” he says, stepping backwards into the dark. “Hide and seek. Goodnight.”

And then Will is gone, and Hannibal has the distinct and frustrating sensation of having missed something.

Chapter Text

Will has been off for his entire life. His mother must have seen it; she’d left when he was too young to remember her face, but he was old enough to remember her voice saying one thing:

“I don’t know what that thing is, but it’s not my son!”

Will had pretended for years that he hadn’t heard it. He tried to go on as though it wasn’t his fault that his father was sad all the time. His father was a good man who loved Will very much, there was certainly no hiding that (especially not from Will), but he was achingly lonely. 

Will tried not to make life harder for his father. He understood too early that their financial situation was dire, that they moved so often not for ‘fun adventures in new places’ but because his father had lost another job and they were being evicted.

Whatever schools he ended up in, whatever towns they found themselves occupying for three or six months at a time, Will would spend a lot of time in the library. He’d been reading at a college level since kindergarten, and his grasp of mathematics and science were equally abnormally advanced. 

He learned very early on that other children didn’t like him if he acted like himself, so he played a character they liked well enough. Unfortunately, he also learned that adults didn’t like him, either. His empathy told him enough, and his intellect told him the rest: adults were afraid of him because they saw him acting differently with different groups of kids and with teachers, and they thought there was something wrong with him.

He had been troubled when he realized this. He had come home, eight years old, loaded down with books from the local library all about entomology and herpetology, and he had set the books on the cracked, speckled old kitchen table with the rusted metal frame. His father had been making dinner; he’d straightened his back and slapped on a wide grin at the sight of his little son, masking the weariness that plagued him daily. Will had clambered up on the plastic cushion of one of the wobbly chairs and, very seriously, he had said,

“Daddy, I have to tell you something.”

His father had raised an eyebrow and settled the lid on their one heavy cast-iron pot so he could turn around and give Will his full attention. He was a big man, bigger than Will would be when he was full-grown, broad in the shoulders, neck muscles corded from his work, big hands that never lost the stain or scent of grease and wax even when he was working in a factory or a warehouse instead of on boats. He had kind eyes, soft blue, different to Will’s in hue and complexity. His hair was straight and close-cropped on the sides, the top swept to one side. His face was rounder than Will’s, his cheeks redder, his smile easier but just as crooked and awkward. Will loved him fiercely, more than anything on this planet. There was no man better than Beau Graham and never would be.

“Shoot, kid,” Beau said, and Will had frowned as tears pricked at his eyes.

“I think…” Will’s voice caught, cracked, and one of those tears spilled down his pink cheek. He was about to break his father’s heart and he knew a lot but he didn’t know how to fix that. “I think Mama was right,” he said. “There’s somethin’ wrong with me.”

In an instant, Beau was crouched in front of that rickety old chair, his big hands on Will’s hunched, shaking shoulders, and Will couldn’t remember ever seeing him so forceful, so determined and focused.

“Will. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with you. Where’d you get an idea like that?”

“I h-heard her,” he said, and he could see that dreaded heartbreak in Beau’s eyes. “When she left us, it was be-because of m-me.”

Beau pulled Will into his arms and hugged him tight, so tight Will’s ribs ached. “No, Willy. No, your mama had… She wasn’t right. She wasn’t thinkin’ right, she didn’t rightly know what was goin’ on. Your mama had to go for her own head, not because of you. Her head wouldn’t let her love you like she should.”

“What did she think was wrong with me?” Will insisted. “What was so bad she had to leave us?”

“Oh, Will, it wasn’t anything real. It was all in her head.”

“Was she schizophrenic? Is that what happened? Did she have postpartum depression?”

Beau had pulled back, just enough to look at Will’s face. Tears still ran unchecked down those soft pink cheeks, but Will didn’t hide the rest of himself. He knew his father could see the same thing the teachers had seen, the calculation, the processing, knowing things they thought ought to be beyond him.

For one horrible, teetering moment, Will was in free-fall. His father could decide he was scary, wrong, messed up. His father could leave, too. But wouldn’t it be better to know now? He clung to the desperate defiance bubbling in his chest.

If I scare you, run. If you don’t want me, run. This is who I am. If it’s too much, if you don’t want what I can give you, you don’t deserve it.

But please. Daddy, please. I love you so much. Please love me, too.

Beau had let a long breath out through his nose and drawn Will back into that tight, inescapable hug. Will had broken, then, like the child he was. Wailing, his arms wrapped around his father’s neck, sobbing and snotting all over daddy’s work shirt. And Beau had just held him, petting his hair, rocking him like he was an even littler boy.

“She was schizophrenic, but she got postpartum anxiety,” Beau finally said, when the sobs had turned to hiccups. “Turned into psychosis. You were in danger.”

“Wh-what ha-happened?” Will blubbered.

“Are you sure you want to know, Will?” Beau brushed the curls back from Will’s forehead. “You’re just like her, y’know. See too much. Know too much. But… more. I saw it before, but, you tried to hide it from me.”

“I’m s-sorry, Daddy, I was s-scared.” He had twisted the hem of his old t-shirt between his little fingers. “I didn’t want you to leave me.”

“Willy.” Beau kissed his forehead and held his gaze. Will could see everything behind those eyes, swirling off into eternity: Beau loved him, unreservedly, and while there was fear, it was not of Will, but rather for Will. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, kid. No matter what happens.”

“O-okay,” said Will. He swallowed, wiped his face with the back of his hand. “What happened?”

“She tried to hurt you, so she went to a hospital,” Beau said, softly. “Full of other people with problems goin’ on in their heads.” After a beat, he amended, “A psychiatric hospital.” Will nodded that he understood. “It was hard on her. I went to see her a coupla times. But, y’know how you get overwhelmed sometimes, when we go to church? Or when you’re in a big crowd, you can’t turn off all those feelings?” Will nodded again, a terrible squirming in his guts. Beau’s broad thumb swiped a tear away from Will’s cheek. “Your mama couldn’t stand it, being in a place like that. She didn’t have it as bad as you, but places like that are full of people with real dark feelings, and her head was already fightin’ against her. She soaked up all the terrible thoughts and she couldn’t get better, and she couldn’t get out. So she made her own way out. Do you understand, Will?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice so small and sad.

“She’s at peace now. You ever want to visit where she’s buried, I’ll take you. Okay?”

“Did she… was she able to love me? At all?”

“Oh, Will. She loved you. Even if her head was full of awful things.”

“Maybe… I’m one of those awful things,” he whispered.

Beau sighed and gave him another quick, fierce hug. “Don’t you ever start believin’ that. Not even for a minute. You hear me? You’re a blessing, Will. And I’ll be with you no matter what.”

And he had been.

Beau had taught Will everything he needed to survive, and more.

It had been lucky, in some ways, that Will had so many chances to try again at different schools. It was much easier, with so many clean slates to start from, to hone the persona that made people most comfortable with him, the slightly anti-social, sarcastic, smart-but-not-too-smart young man he took with him all the way to Quantico. He figured out how to let that young man relax into a warmer, grudgingly funny fellow when he was with certain people, in a way that didn’t seem like shedding a mask and just seemed like comfort.

At home, though, he could always be normal. He could let all the layers fall away, because his father was never uncomfortable around him. His father loved him, even when his wit was too sharp and his heart too keen, even when it was impossible to lie, even when Will’s emotions were too high or his anxieties were out of control or he couldn’t shut off the processing in his head. This was part of why they always had a dog; Will was very good at training dogs, both for home defense and to serve as support animals for meltdowns or panic attacks.

He needed that kind of external support a lot more in his youth, but Beau had always worried there would come a day when Will would need it and it wouldn’t be available to him. That was why it was so important for Will to learn how to build his own family, be it a pack of dogs or a pack of like-minded individuals, people he could trust, people he could love, who would help to protect him. And Will, he took that very seriously. The idea of a pack, the idea of loving others, was the most important idea his father ever taught him. He had to be willing and able to do whatever it took to protect his chosen family.

The first time Will had killed a man, it had been to protect a dog.

He had gotten quite good at fitting in by then, and he had also become a bit of an expert at identifying bad people. Will wasn’t sure good people existed, objectively, but bad people definitely did. Bad people were cruel, and mean, and took pleasure in hurting others. That was the crucial piece; sometimes people were mean to each other but they would feel bad about it afterwards. Bad people never felt bad about it. They felt good. They felt justified. They felt powerful.

He found it strange that they were just allowed to keep doing what they were doing, and nobody stopped them. The world would be an objectively better place if they were stopped. It was bizarre; sometimes these people ended up in positions of authority, like the principal or a police officer, and others who knew they were cruel and bad and hated them would listen to them, like they weren’t terrible people. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. He asked his father, and his father had told him that was how the world worked; some people were always going to be bad, and the rest of the world just had to keep living as best they can.

Will did not agree that this was an absolute, but he didn’t have a better solution to the Bad People problem yet.

And then the night of August 11th, 1989, Will had been in the swamp studying nocturnal insects. He was twelve years old, with just a heavy flashlight, a survival knife, and a bagged lunch. And he had seen a man, whose name he never learned, dragging a yipping, crying bag through the underbrush, cursing all the while.

There was a dog in that bag, maybe more than one. And this man, this angry, sweaty man, was mad about having to come all the way out here, but he was also excited. As an adult, if Will thought back on it, he might have identified that this man was getting off on this situation a bit, but at twelve he just sensed the intense desire to watch something else die in a horrible, inescapable fashion.

Obviously this was a Bad Person, and Will couldn’t just let this happen. This was more than the petty cruelties he saw day-to-day. This was murder. Will couldn’t let this Bad Person murder any dogs.

The man got to the water’s edge and paused, wiping sweat from his brow. The insects were buzzing loudly. It was humid and his breathing was heavy. He didn’t hear Will sneak up behind him.

Will had studied anatomy, but he wasn’t sure how much force it was going to take to break skin. He wasn’t very strong yet, and he wasn’t very tall yet, either. They were pretty far out in the swamps. It would probably be okay.

He got right up behind the man, his knife ready, and right about the time the man sensed someone standing behind him, Will dove forward and sliced as hard as he could at the man’s inner thigh, right where the femoral artery would be.

The man screamed and fell forward, twisting, scrambling backward toward the edge of the water, blood spraying in gouts from his leg. Will stood there, knife in hand, watching with interest as the man failed to do anything that might have saved his life. He was looking for a weapon, hands scrabbling through the brush and undergrowth, but the slice had been clean through. Probably more force than Will had needed, honestly. Maybe he had even done some nerve damage. It didn’t matter.

The man got hold of a branch, but his fingers were already weak with blood loss. He started to slur something, but it was so mushy in his mouth that Will couldn’t tell if it was French or heavily accented English.

The man collapsed, his breathing getting quicker as his body struggled to maintain oxygen supplies to his brain. Will watched his eyelids flutter and his body begin to shake. Will had been spattered with blood, and the ground was pooled with it.

The bag the man had been carrying was still crying, pitifully, and now that the threat was neutralized Will turned to offer shushes and comfort. He cut the tie and pulled out a tiny black puppy, its eyes big and brown, its body small and malnourished. He opened his shirt and held the dog close to his chest for warmth.

It was harder with one arm, but Will was able to roll the man’s body into the water. The gators and the bugs would get him. The rain would take care of the blood.

When Will got home, his father had been angry, but not real angry, scared angry. He had demanded to know what had happened, whose blood it was, if Will was hurt. Will had explained matter-of-factly what had happened, and showed the puppy, who had licked Beau’s face and wagged its tail so hard its whole bottom had shook.

“You can’t just do that, Will.”

“Why? He was bad.”

“It doesn’t matter! You can’t just kill people you think are bad!”

“Why not? He kills puppies and he likes it. That’s evil. Why shouldn’t somebody stop him from doing that? The world is better now. I don’t understand. I did a good thing. Why are you scared?” 

“It’s murder, Will, and it’s reckless!”

“But no one will find him,” Will insisted, stubbornly. “And if they do they’ll just think he got eaten by a gator out in the swamp at night, they’ll have no reason to think he was killed. And if they do, there’s nothing to connect him to me except my knife, which you can buy anywhere, and I threw it in a different part of the swamp on the way home. All the evidence is gone.”

“How could you be so irresponsible? You’re relying on a series of ifs to protect you,” Beau snapped. “It’s not good enough. We gotta do better.”

Beau had known how difficult incarceration would be on Will if he were ever caught; he never wanted Will to feel the way his mother had. That was another lesson he imparted on Will: he needed to have enough care and control that, if the worst happened and he was alone, he could protect himself.

Beau had known that Will wasn’t going to stop. Sure, he had eventually gotten Will to understand that society’s morals and justice were not the same as Will’s, and that he had to pretend to be on board with what everybody else was willing to look past, but Will’s sense of justice wasn’t just going to go away. That was why Will had gone into forensics.

“If you’re going to do what you do, Will,” Beau Graham had told him, “you better be sure they won’t catch you.”

By the time he was sixteen, he had done enough independent study courses to get a Master’s degree, but he and his father didn’t want to draw too much attention to him. He kept things simple. Will continued to learn more about human nature, the way regular people perceived things, and he kept his eyes open for others who he could bring into the family.

In a small lakeside town in Michigan, in 1993, he met Finn Borowski.

Finn was nineteen, black hair, dark almond eyes, wide nose, thick lips. Pretty, with a slim build. A drifter, moving from town to town for work. Finn had been abused by his family and fled across the country to get away from them, hitchhiking mostly, which meant there were always people trying to take advantage.

Will met Finn at the docks where his father worked. He was funny, and kind, and he liked Will’s dog. Will found out Finn was really good with motors and technical drawing but not so good with reading and writing in English (pretty good in Korean and passable in Polish, though) or finances, so they had sat together a lot that summer exchanging knowledge.

One day when Will was at the docks waiting for his father, a guy from another boat had made a comment about Finn’s body, and Will could see the sheer delight he felt at the discomfort he was causing. Will was about to speak up, but Finn snapped back,

“Fuck off. Stick your cock in a prop, if it’s long enough to reach.”

The man grumbled and moved on. Will had been impressed; he’d shared a laugh about it with Finn, but he’d seen the gears turning behind Finn’s eyes. Couple days later, that man went missing, and Will found Finn before he fled town.

“He deserved it,” was all Will said. He offered Finn a piece of paper with his phone number on it. “I have no idea how long we’ll be here, but you call when you settle someplace, tell me where I can reach you. We’ll stay in touch. I’ll always be a call away if you need me. Okay?”

There had been tears in Finn’s eyes when he accepted the number, and he had hugged Will tight enough to crush the air from his lungs before he’d left.

They had managed to stay in touch all these years, back and forth with new phone numbers each time one of them moved. It got easier in the mid-2000s when Will got his first cell phone, and eventually Finn got one, too. He had maintained his MO until he was almost thirty, and then he’d settled down somewhere near Pittsburgh. All this time, Finn has told Will the same thing: 

“Same as you, brother, just a call away.”

Finn was the first, but he wasn’t the only one Will had collected before Quantico. There had been two others; one of them he’d met in D.C. in 2004 during his post-doc, a film student named Vincent—he had died in a gang shooting in Chicago in 2011. But the other was still active; Will had met her in 1999 when he was a beat cop in New Orleans. They’d been investigating a series of killings of young men who had all been killed while tied up with the same kind of nylon rope.

Will had found her. It hadn’t been that difficult; she was one of the witnesses the police interviewed, one of the bartenders at an establishment where one of the men had last been seen. She had been killing harassers and abusers she saw out at bars. This had primarily been men, but Will had linked at least three killings of women to her as well.

It would have been more difficult to earn her trust if he hadn’t gotten lucky. He had been staking her out in his own time, since she wasn’t a suspect as far as the NOPD was concerned, and he had witnessed her take one of her victims. Unfortunately for her, the victim had had a scheme of his own, and his partner followed them. Will had entered to find the original victim tied up, while the partner was physically struggling with her. He had waited in the doorway for her to get a shelf between herself and her attacker, at which point she noticed him. At first she started to panic, and then he had said,

“Do you have this under control?”

She had laughed, bordering on hysterical. “Thanks for asking but feel free to step in any time,” she said.

He had. It was quick, between the two of them. The name she’d given the police was Lily Charleston, but she asked Will to call her Lilith. She considered herself a protector. Vice was one thing, but making others feel small wouldn’t stand. Will gave her his phone number and told her to call him if she ever needed a friend.

When he left to pursue his doctorate, he advised Lilith to move to a bigger city, where she would find it easier to hide. She had moved to New York, and business was booming.

Finn in Pittsburgh, Lilith in New York, his father in Florida, Vincent dead and gone.

Will wants to build up his family again. He desperately wants to have the comfort and safety of understanding. He doesn’t want to have to hide himself all the time. He wants to feel secure. 

Hannibal clearly wants to offer Will some version of that security, but at the moment he’s just making Will want to call Lilith and have her come down here to murder Hannibal on his behalf, or to get Matthew to stalk Hannibal to his stupid late-night swims and leave him to bleed out, or borrow a rat from Peter and rip open Hannibal’s belly and stick the rat in there to have a much-deserved smorgasbord like goddamn Templeton. Hell, he’s tempted to just ask Beverly to do him a solid and shoot Hannibal in the fucking face.

All of these options appeal to him as he stares up at the brand-new Ripper display in the botanical gardens, where a very alive Miriam Lass has just been taken down off of a cross made of wrought-iron fencing and woven with pages from articles written about empathy disorders.

Will doesn’t really care about the symbolism anymore. Is it thoughtful and beautiful and provocative? Sure, yeah, it probably is. Is it pretentious and obvious and about to give Will a massive headache? Absolutely.

He’s not even sure why they called him. He had a couple of minutes to look at the scene before they rushed in to get Miriam down, but it wasn’t long enough to analyze anything. He’s standing side-by-side now with Bev, waiting for the paramedics to clear the space.

“I can’t believe she’s alive,” Beverly says, hugging her elbows. “I can’t imagine how Jack must feel.”

“That’s probably the point,” Will grumbles. “That, and yet another fuck you about how he’s in control of all these lives. Look at this.” He gestures to the papers, carefully threaded together, some folded into elaborate bows or pinned together into something like ribbons or vines. “Empathy disorders. Case studies on people like me, most of whom killed themselves in their twenties.”

He feels more than hears Hannibal sidle up behind them as Beverly says, “What do you think he’s trying to say? Why relate Miriam to you at all?”

Will scowls. “Why does he do anything? It’s mocking. He played with her for years before letting her go. Seems like he’s going to try to do the same thing with me.”

Hannibal can’t fucking help himself. “The body appeared prostrated, praying. One might almost think it was a request for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness? He’s not sorry, Dr. Lecter, he’s gloating. This isn’t the work of a man who feels bad for keeping Miriam locked up. This is a man who is playacting.” Will gestures again to the scene, and to Miriam’s rapidly disappearing ambulance. “He could have killed her or let her go at any time. He used her to mock Jack once already. He probably had another plan for her and he’s giving that plan up. Why?”

Beverly frowns. “It… I mean, I hate to say it, Will, but, it kind of seems like if he’s doing any of that, it’s for—”

“It’s not for me, it’s for himself. Still mocking me, still trying to goad me into coming after him. All these studies, after all the people in my life who have wanted to do studies like this of me, after Chilton tried to do one of these while I was locked up. Empathize with Miriam Lass, he’s saying. I’m giving you a big blatant clue because you clearly need it.”

Hannibal stiffens, but his outrage doesn’t show on his face. He merely hums, and Beverly pats Will’s shoulder.

“We’ll get him, Will. He’s making a mistake, goading you and Jack like this. He’s gone and made it more than personal.”

He’s gone and tried to make it more personal. Bastard.

There’s another, two days later. This one is headless, his heart suspended above the stump of his neck. Again, he is posed on his knees. His hands have been flayed up to the wrist, clean and beautiful lines, the fingertips blackened. He is gripping the bars of a cage, trying to escape.

The floor of the cage is a field of flowers. The victim’s skull, picked clean and bleached, is beneath one of his knees. His tongue appears to be trying to dig its own way out beneath the bars. Large portions of his back muscles are missing, exposing his spine, which has been reinforced with thorny vines.

For what they have wrought, may I lose my hands the way I have lost my head. All thinking has been replaced with the beating of my heart. I lay myself bare for you, pouring forth wild roses and sweet williams, a declaration of pain and love painted within a bed of lilies and baby’s breath. Each foolish word I speak digs a deeper grave, the way you could have talked your way free but chose not to. Your determination cuts both of us. Only your touch can restore me to my full power. Only my love can bring you peace.

“What do you see, Will?” Jack demands.

Will doesn’t look at Hannibal. He crosses his arms and scoffs, the picture of offense.

“It’s Miriam Lass,” Will mutters. “She touched something she shouldn’t, and got burned. She was too smart for her own good, so she lost her head. He knows taking her wasn’t a tactical move, it was an emotional one, hence the heart. It was warfare.” He glances at Jack, whose frown is getting so deep somebody might call James Cameron. “He’s messing with both of us, and he’s loving every second of it. Giving her back was just another game. She was a valuable resource, strong, resilient, but he thinks so little of us that he can win without her.”

Beverly says, “You don’t think it’s more than that? The flowers, I mean… Maybe it was a peace offering, and he’s trying to get in good with… somebody.”

She and Jimmy exchange glances, and Will shrugs.

“Could be. He’s always been hard to read. I never put much stock in the flower language stuff. I think it’s just aesthetics.”

“He only started using sweet williams when you came along,” says Jimmy, scrolling on his phone. “Depending on the source, the rest of these ones can be about everlasting love, painful love, true love—”

“Sounds like the kind of sarcasm one might expect to enjoy from a guy who baited us to the observatory with Miriam Lass’ arm,” Will drawls.

“Alright, enough chatter,” says Jack. “Get this scene processed so we can get the body back to the lab. Graham, you can go home for now. Come to the office tomorrow after your classes. I want you to speak with Miriam.”

Will nods and heads for his car. Hannibal catches up, and they walk side-by-side for a few steps without speaking. When the parking lot is in sight, Hannibal says,

“This is a lot to process, Will. If you should need to talk to someone—”

“More therapy, doctor?”

“Please, Will. By now you should know better. I’m offering you the support of a friend, not a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not very good at either,” Will mutters.

“Pardon?”

“Just don’t worry about it. I’ve got other things on my mind right now and I’m in a bad mood.”

Hannibal shifts from foot to foot, an unusual gesture for him. “Very well. But, should you change your mind, please reach out to me.”

He pauses, channels Hannibal’s discomfort, lowers his voice. “Actually… are you busy tomorrow evening? Sounds like I’ll be at Quantico pretty late, and, well… you’re right. It would be nice to have the support of a friend.”

Hannibal brightens, but only around the eyes and the very corners of his mouth. “Of course, Will. I could prepare us a late dinner. Perhaps you could stay over, as we discussed some time ago? I would be happy to prepare a lunch for you.”

“Sure. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.” He hesitates, reaches out, squeezes Hannibal’s arm just above the elbow, then hurries to open his car door. “Um. Okay, goodnight, Dr. Lecter.”

“Goodnight, Will,” says Hannibal, and he manages not to sound breathless.

Miriam Lass can’t remember a goddamn thing, except that the Ripper was nice to her. She knows she was drugged, and Will suspects she was subject to a lot of the same manipulation and hypnosis that had been used on him when his encephalitis was at its worst. There’s nothing to learn from her, apart from the fact that she’s clever but not that clever, and she probably just got lucky when she found Hannibal. He’ll have closed whatever loophole it was that led to him back then, so Will doesn’t have to worry about it.

Still, Jack wants a report about his conversation, and Will types it up. He leaves the FBI headquarters at about 9 o’clock with a quick text to Hannibal.

On my way, be there in about an hour if that’s still okay?

The response, as he’s come to expect, is immediate:

Of course, Will. I look forward to seeing you. Dinner will be waiting.

He’s almost too distracted by the smile on his face to notice the figure leaning against his driver’s side door, even though she’s wearing a garish red pea coat that clashes with her wild red-orange hair.

“Good to see you roaming free again, Graham,” says Freddie Lounds.

“Surprised you haven’t been stalking me for the last four months,” he says, and Freddie clicks her tongue against her teeth.

“I was following you closely enough while you were locked up. What I saw convinced me to lay low for a while, focus on other projects.”

“Wow. Restraint. From you? I didn’t know you were capable.”

Freddie scowls. “I’m not here for banter, Graham. I’m here to warn you. The Ripper, he’s obsessed with you. I know you see it. What I can’t figure out is why you’re lying to the FBI about it.”

“I’m just saying what I see, Freddie.”

“Either I’m better at your job than you are, or you’re a goddamn liar.” She digs in her bag and pulls out some prints of shitty cell phone pictures of the last two crime scenes. “They’re for you. You know they are. Are you covering for the Ripper for some reason?”

Will runs a hand down his face and he steps just a little closer, dropping his voice. “Did it ever occur to you I’m trying not to give him what he wants? He’s escalating. He’s getting pissed off, Freddie. That means he might make a mistake, for the first time ever. Is it a fucked up tactic? Yeah. It is. And you already thought I was a fucked up guy so congrats, you were right. But he was going to keep killing anyway, and if he keeps his cool we won’t be any closer to catching him. So do me a favor this one fucking time and keep your mouth shut.”

“Not for nothing, Graham,” she hisses.

“Fine! When we catch him, I’ll do an exclusive with you. Satisfied? I’ll even admit on the record you figured out what I was doing before the FBI.”

She chews her lower lip. “What if I figure out who he is?”

Will barks a laugh. “You think you can figure him out when the top minds at the BAU have been trying for over a decade? Sure, Freddie. You figure out who he is, you bring it to me and I’ll make sure you get credit. On the record, in the official reports, all of it. But you’re not gonna get there before I do.”

She presses her lips together, that razor-sharp cupid’s bow highlighted by a lamp in the parking lot, and she sticks out her hand. “Fine. Full credit for the discovery of his identity, if I get it before you. Once he’s caught, an exclusive interview, where you break down what he was really focused on. I want it juicy, Graham.”

He shakes, infusing his movements with sarcasm and his voice with the eyeroll he’s holding back. “Sure thing, Freddie. You promise not to fuck this operation up for me, and you’ll get your exclusive.”

She holds his hand a little longer than she needs to and pulls him in a little closer. “I’ve got some idea already, Graham. Work fast. He’s closer than you think. Why do you think I’ve been leaving you alone?” He doesn’t answer, and she lets his hand go. “Just… be careful. And coming from me, that oughtta mean something.”

Her low heels click-clack as she half-jogs across the pavement.

He sits in his car, hands on the steering wheel, and says, “Fuck.”

Will can’t worry about Hannibal. He can’t. It’s not his responsibility if Hannibal fucked up so badly that Freddie Lounds has him figured out.

Hannibal sent him to a mental hospital for fun.

Hannibal let his brain melt inside his skull.

Hannibal shoved a tube down his throat and stuffed an ear into his stomach.

Hannibal held his head so gently while he did it.

Hannibal brushed his hair back off his sweaty forehead when he seized in Hannibal’s office, cupped his cheek, murmured sweet words of doing well and being strong.

Hannibal is a god damned psychopath.

Will parks outside his house and takes a deep breath.

Hannibal is a genius. An artist. So clever, so creative. His morality isn’t exactly like Will’s, but it’s closer than most people’s. He has no fear, only fascination.

But Will still doesn’t know what he wants. He looks at Will and he sees something, but whether that’s a toy or a potential partner, Will doesn’t know.

He snorts to himself. Partner. Like he needs one. Like he’s not just trying to build up his family, get another killer under his wing who will end up heralding his own destruction if Will doesn’t monitor him.

The Chesapeake Ripper is no different from every other killer.

Will gets out of his car.

Okay. He’s a little different. But not that much different. His tableaus are beautiful, heartbreakingly so, and he’s cunning, and he’s cheeky. He’s sophisticated, and his targets are deserving of their fate, and what he does with the trophies is just brilliant, even more artistic than the displays. But he’s arrogant, and bored, and he’s going to get caught, and that’s none of Will’s business if he can’t prove he deserves the support.

It is in this sort of a mood, foul and contemplative, that Will knocks on Hannibal’s door.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and his smile is wider than usual. “Please, come in. Dinner is in the kitchen.”

“Still not making me eat in the dining room, huh?”

“Your comfort is my greatest priority,” Hannibal says, and Will can’t stop the bitter laugh. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Will bites out. He takes a breath, then gentles his voice. “No, sorry. I just came from talking to Miriam Lass. And then Freddie Lounds cornered me in the parking lot.”

“Ms. Lounds has been quiet of late,” Hannibal muses, pulling out Will’s chair (what a gentleman, Will thinks). “What did she want this time?”

“She wanted to know why I’m lying to the FBI about the Ripper tableaus,” Will says. 

They both freeze. Hannibal is standing behind him, his hands on the back of the chair, calculating the likelihood that he will need to subdue Will in some way. Will sits, slowly, as though he has aged several decades.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Hannibal says, his tone carefully controlled.

Will shrugs, exhausted, and reaches for the wine. “I didn’t think anybody had noticed. Usually they just take my word as gospel and don’t question it. This time I thought I’d use that to my advantage.” He pours a glass for himself and turns, looking over his shoulder at Hannibal. He wiggles the wine bottle. “Some for you?” Hannibal nods, and slowly moves toward his own seat as Will pours for him. “They’re for me, obviously. The tableaus. They have been since the judge.”

“You… believe they were intended as gifts?” A spark flutters in Hannibal’s stomach.

“I don’t know about gifts. Messages, at least.” He sets the wine bottle down and then looks at his plate. “Does this have some fancy name?”

“It does,” says Hannibal, “but for you, it is flank steak with seasonal vegetables and a side salad.”

Will laughs, a beautiful, musical sound. “Thanks.”

He needs to keep Will talking; he has to know what Will knows. “I have to admit, I am shocked to learn about these alternate interpretations of the Ripper’s tableaux.”

“Yeah, well, I figure I pissed him off bad enough once that he got me out of the BSHCI. If I piss him off enough this time, maybe he’ll keep escalating.” He chews thoughtfully on a slice of steak made from the second victim of the most recent sounder. After he swallows, he murmurs, “Maybe if I piss him off enough, he’ll finally come to my house again.”

Hannibal’s head tilts to the side just slightly, an unconscious gesture that is the only indicator of his excitement. “It almost sounds like you want him to.”

Will holds Hannibal’s gaze while he puts his glass to his lips, and then tilts his head back to swallow, swallow, swallow, and drain the wine. Watching his throat bob is sensual, and captivating. He sets the glass back down, gently, and leans forward.

“Can I tell you something? Something… messed up, that I probably shouldn’t think, let alone say out loud?”

Hannibal nods, feeling the claws of the beast inside of him digging at the inside of his navel. “Of course, Will. You can trust me with anything.”

Will’s lips curl into a boyish smile and he chuckles. “Yeah. Okay.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out, long and rattling. “I do want him to show up. It’s driving me absolutely crazy that he hasn’t. He knows where I live. He’s already befriended my dogs. Now he’s putting up these tableaus, apologizing? But they’re shitty apologies, like he’s just saying look how bad all this has made me feel, don’t you forgive me, look how much I’m suffering, and I just—” Will drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t give a shit! He locked me in a mental hospital for six months on purpose and he can’t even say he’s sorry in person.”

It’s insulting to hear Hannibal’s machinations reduced in this way, but he understands why Will would look at it that way. He doesn’t understand the purpose, the becoming, the separation from the yoke of society that Hannibal has offered him.

“You would give him the opportunity to apologize in person? Why?” asks Hannibal, with a passable tinge of incredulity. Will’s answer makes everything else worth it.

“Just for that. Just for the chance. Because his tableaus are saying one thing, but I don’t know what he wants and I want to. It’s… His work, it’s so beautiful. I want to tell him.” Will unfocuses his eyes, staring somewhere into the middle distance, unaware of his surroundings. Hannibal hangs on every word, practically holding his breath. “I want him to show up to my house. Maybe it’s dark, maybe he doesn’t want me to see his face yet, I dunno. Maybe he brings treats for the dogs, whatever people sausage he’s been feeding them to make them love him.” 

His eyes are half-lidded like he’s dreaming, and Hannibal is enraptured. He would lay this beautiful creature out upon silk sheets and worship him until he spoke nothing but Hannibal’s name and that clouded look was made permanent by bliss. 

“Maybe he brings a nice bottle of whiskey, like we’re old friends, and I can look him in the eyes and tell him how fucking beautiful he is. His work. His art. His hands, what they create. His mind. God, I just want him to see me.” His voice grows faint, and his fingers tighten on the tablecloth for just a moment. “I want him to come for me.”

There’s an audible click from Hannibal’s throat.

He’s never been so close to losing control in his life. He is throbbing in time with the visible pulse in Will’s throat. He would love to be the source.

Will blinks a couple of times and shakes himself out of it. He smooths the tablecloth and laughs awkwardly. “Shit, sorry. That was… I’ve had a rough day and sometimes fantasies like that, they just—” He pauses, then stumbles over himself to say, “I mean, not that I have fantasies about the Ripper, that’s, that would be… Just, sorry, forget it, I don’t know why I said any of that, I—”

“Will.” Hannibal reaches for his wine glass, crossing one leg over the other, effortlessly and elegantly concealing his situation. “Never feel ashamed to discuss that which brings you peace. Remember, we are unconventional people. I have no concerns about your chosen outlet. You have a connection to your Ripper, one you can use to retain your own balance and, potentially, disrupt his. If your plan is successful, you may yet catch him. The FBI would have cause to celebrate.”

Will snorts and dives back into his dinner. “The FBI is never going to catch him,” he says, and then takes a mouthful of vegetables.

“No? And yet you suggested that you might.”

Will swallows. “I might.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. He’s still trying to get himself under control, and this isn’t helping. “I didn’t take you for a bounty hunter.”

Will shakes his head and puts his cutlery down again, frowning. “I want to catch him for myself. He’d probably kill me sooner than believe it, but, that’s the truth.”

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine, practically vibrating with interest and excitement. His Will, his dear, sweet Will, wants to catch him for his own devices. 

“To what end?”

“I think that depends on him,” Will murmurs, and turns back to his meal. “Can we talk about something else? I get a bit… melancholy, talking about unknowns like this.”

“Of course, Will.” Hannibal pauses for a moment. Is now the time, or is he just so smitten he can’t help himself? Either way, there is only one thing Hannibal can think to turn the conversation toward. “Will, may I ask you something… potentially presumptuous?”

Will lifts his eyebrows. “Sure.”

“You agreed to come to my home to enjoy dinner with me, and to stay the night. I must admit I was surprised. I have acquaintances who sometimes stay after having too much to drink, but I would not have guessed you would be among them, let alone that you would agree to a planned night over.”

“You bribed me with lunch,” Will says, and Hannibal chuckles.

“Yes. But, you have also shared quite… personal thoughts with me.”

“We have conversations,” Will drawls.

“I am not your psychiatrist, Will. These are personal and intimate conversations to share with a friend.”

Will sets his cutlery down again, wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin, pours himself a fresh glass of wine, and says, “What are you asking me, Hannibal?”

The use of his first name stuns him for a moment; it feels like a sign, in some ways, that he is on the right path. Their relationship is evolving. Hannibal just needs to push it a little further.

“I feel as though our friendship is… intimate.”

“Are you asking if you’re my best friend?” Will teases, and takes a sip of wine.

“I am asking if I might be impetuous for a moment, for the sake of clarity,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will sets his glass down and considers for a long, breathless moment, before he replies,

“Usually impetuousness precludes asking permission.”

It’s enough. It’s more than enough; it’s a blatant acquiescence.

Hannibal moves forward until he is kneeling on the floor in front of Will. His hands slide up to Will’s cheeks, and he watches Will at every stage, his tumultuous blue eyes glittering in the low light. When it becomes clear Will isn’t going to push him away, Hannibal leans in to kiss him. 

It’s soft, at first. Tender, almost. Hannibal tilts his head and nuzzles close, his lips gliding against Will’s, and they share puffs of warm breath in a gentle and intimate exchange.

But with every passing moment and renewed press of Hannibal’s mouth, the kiss grows more heated. One of them is making desperate little noises, or maybe they both are. Hannibal isn’t sure which of them opens first but soon their tongues are tangling too. He feels Will’s strong, sure hands gripping tight to his waist, and Hannibal slides one hand up into Will’s luscious hair, caressing his curls, while the other settles on Will’s collarbone. Hannibal’s thumb grazes his neck, putting a little thrill of pressure below Will’s Adam’s apple. Will groans, and Hannibal rumbles in response, and then Will’s chair scrapes against the tile as he pushes away.

Will’s breathing is rapid, his pupils blown, and his cheeks are a beautiful, dark blush. He licks his lips; his eyelids flutter as he savors the taste of the wine and of Hannibal. 

Dazed, breathy, he says, “W-what was your question?”

Hannibal’s heart is hammering in his chest and his lips feel plumped with kisses, but otherwise he feels unruffled. “I believe I have the answer I wanted,” he says, his accent thickened with desire.

“Hannibal,” Will breathes, and the lilt of it drags all the way down Hannibal’s spine. “You are a terrible therapist.”

He can’t help but laugh, genuinely. He sits back on his heels, watching as Will joins in with a chuckle of his own, though his brow is furrowed and his nostrils are flared the way they get when he is thinking very hard. Hannibal’s thoughtful beauty, always so concerned with what-ifs and every possible outcome.

Hannibal reaches forward to touch one of Will’s hands; this draws Will’s attention again, and he does not pull away.

“I understand there are… considerations,” Hannibal says. “I can be as patient as you need me to be, Will.”

Will huffs. “It might be a lot of patience, Hannibal. I’m straight. Other than… you, I guess.”

“When it comes to you, I find the depths of my patience near-infinite.”

“Near being the operative word.”

“Even God grows impatient, Will. Rest assured, you’ll know if I should ever begin to feel wrathful.”

Will laughs, and squeezes Hannibal’s hand, and Hannibal laughs with him.

Chapter Text

Will sleeps in a guest room on the third floor, just steps down the hall from Hannibal’s own bedroom. He is one hundred percent certain that Hannibal wants to offer his own bed, but Will makes it clear—stuttering, blushing, awkward, playing up the off-kilter gay panic that makes Hannibal look like he wants to drop to his knees right here in the hallway—that even without, um, well, y’know, any of that (Christ, he hasn’t played a character this sexually repressed since high school), he wouldn’t be comfortable sharing a bed just yet.

It’s a little weird to realize, after Hannibal’s teasing fingers fall away from his jaw and they bid each other a goodnight so charged it could kill a man (and likely will at some point), that Will actually does want to fall asleep in Hannibal’s bed. Not to have sex, at least not yet—that’s a step too far at this point, since he’s managed to get himself attracted to the polar opposite of every body he’s ever wanted, and the hard planes and sharp lines and the cock are going to take some psychological reconditioning to get used to. But, he wonders if Hannibal is warm, if his hair is soft, if he’s heavy, if he’s a cuddler.

They’re both pretty high-strung guys, highly controlled. Hannibal is a perfectionist in a lot of ways. Will is precise and rigid in his patterns. In the past, with sexual partners, Will has played a character; he’s sure Hannibal has done the same. He wonders what it will be like for both of them to let go. Violent, probably. Different each time, depending on their needs and frustrations on a given day. Passing control back and forth.

Will’s never wanted a man before, but his body responds to the idea.

He tries to ignore those thoughts and goes to bed. No sense getting ahead of himself. Anyway, he’s thirty-eight years old, not sixteen; he’s got too much self-control to jerk off in somebody else’s house.

He can’t control his dreams. He sees the tar-black, antlered version of Hannibal that he used to hallucinate. Just flashes of sharp teeth beneath those dark lips, the milk-white eyes peering up, a long tongue laving at the hair on Will’s bare stomach, the velvet feel of the antlers gripped tight in his hands, the rumble of the creature’s voice saying let not the sun go down upon your wrath…

In the morning, Hannibal does a decent job keeping a lid on his stupid smug smile. Will can almost ignore his arch tone as he hands over coffee, his touch lingering on Will’s wrist, and asks how Will slept.

Will scowls, but his cheeks turn pink. Hannibal presses his nose to Will’s hair and inhales. Obviously he feels comfortable taking more liberties with touch, which Will doesn’t really mind, but—

“Did you just smell me,” Will says, and this time it isn’t a question.

This motherfucker. That’s how he knew? That’s his secret?

“My apologies,” Hannibal says, not sounding sorry at all. “I rather like the soap selection in the guest bathroom. It suits you far better than that atrocious aftershave.” He wrinkles his apparently incredible nose. “It smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

“I keep getting it for Christmas,” Will says, faintly.

Hannibal makes him a lunch and sends him off to work. He’s a perfect gentleman, doesn’t even go for a kiss at the door. This is perhaps partially because Will has slipped into the isolative, contemplative quiet he rarely displays around others, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind it.

Will gets himself under control on the drive to the academy, and by the time his first class is underway he’s the same brusque, hardass professor his students have come to expect. They have some good questions today, and the topic of social media and violent crime inspires a heated discussion. Will makes a mental note to look into the topic further so that he can guide such discussions more effectively in the future.

When lunch rolls around, he opens up a frankly obscene sandwich and hand-cut veggie chips. He’s trying to determine the best angle of approach when Beverly plops down across from him.

“Hey Will,” she says. “You hear we got a break on the Beastman?”

Will shakes his head and pops open the container of chips. “What happened?” he asks.

“Some engineering student, way into the puppy play scene, got a little overzealous one too many times with his master, so he called the cops. Covered in bites.” She watches him dig through the container of crisps. “We just got done processing a whole workshop of tools and whips and skulls and puppy masks, and a suit made of bones. You should check out the pictures later. Can I—?” She points at the chips, and Will gestures as if to say help yourself. Bev steals a crisp sweet potato slice and groans as soon as it hits her tongue. She covers her mouth with her hand and says, “That’s amazing. Tell me Lecter made that for you.”

“Dr. Lecter made it for me,” Will says, flatly. Internally, he’s pleased; it sounds like Randall is good at covering his tracks after all.

“Oh my god, if the sex is half that good, you might be the luckiest man alive.”

“We’re not sleeping together,” Will grumbles.

“Why not? Ethics aside, if my psychiatrist cooked like this, looked like that, and looked at me the way Lecter looks at you, I’d jump on it before somebody else did.” Her eyes tick across the cafeteria to the salad bar, where Alana is putting her own lunch together.

Will picks up his sandwich and levels a reproachful eye at Beverly.

Jimmy drops into the seat beside Will, and Brian reluctantly takes the spot next to Bev.

“Hi, Will,” chirps Jimmy. “Ooh, is that one of Dr. Lecter’s? How is he? I mean, it. How is it? The sandwich, not his—”

“I don’t know how the sandwich is yet because you guys won’t let me enjoy my lunch,” Will says.

“Don’t listen to them,” Brian says, peeling the plastic wrap back from his own sandwich.

“Doing my best,” Will mutters.

Around a mouthful of egg salad, Zeller adds, “I told ‘em, it’s never gonna happen.”

“It will so,” Jimmy insists, stabbing at his salad with a plastic fork. “Will, you’re not completely straight, right?”

“You can’t just come right out and ask him!” Brian says.

“Why not?” asks Price, his brow furrowed.

“It’s not against the rules to ask,” Beverly says.

“Would you guys stop making bets about my love life?” Will gripes, and—without looking at him—all three say,

“Nope.”

“I hate it here,” says Will.

From behind him, by the cafeteria doors, comes Jack’s booming voice, for once welcome:

“Graham! With me, ASAP.”

“Sorry to cut the fun short,” Will says, hastily packing up his uneaten sandwich and most of the veggie chips. “Drinks this weekend? Maybe I’ll have something interesting to talk about for once.” He waggles his eyebrows and the other three gape at him so intently he snickers. “Christ, I’m kidding. Later.”

He jogs to catch up with Jack, his little lunch bag slapping against his thigh. Crawford stalks toward the interrogation rooms.

“I read your report on Lass. I wanted to have a psychiatrist talk to her, on the record.”

“Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, though he knows Hannibal is working.

“No, not on such short notice. And Bloom’s covering some classes. Plus they’ve talked off the record a little. I wanted to have her talk to someone fresh.” He pauses in the hallway, shuffling awkwardly for a moment, then says, “I asked Chilton to come in.”

Will’s face darkens. “Couldn’t you have asked someone… competent?”

“He caught your encephalitis. Saved your life. I know you have problems with him, after… Well, I know it was hard for you. But he’s still prominent in his field, and he deals with criminal psychology on a daily basis. He’s also got experience with hypnosis, so he might be able to help her.”

It suddenly strikes Will how convenient it is that the type of therapy Chilton was accused of using on Abel Gideon is exactly the type of therapy used on Will to induce seizures and memory loss, and probably the same type used on Miriam Lass. He wonders if and when Hannibal had the opportunity to convince Chilton to try it.

Slowly, because he doesn’t want to seem like he knows more, Will says, “Do you remember what I said about the Ripper handing Miriam back?”

Crawford frowns. “He was planning something with her, but he thinks he can win without her.”

“Yeah. I just… I have a feeling.”

“What kind of a feeling, Will?”

“The feeling that we’re about to spring a trap the Ripper will find very amusing.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. But if something does happen, just… ask questions.”

“I trust your gut, Will. Every time I haven’t trusted you, I’ve been wrong, and people have suffered. Including you.”

It’s the closest thing to an apology Will has ever heard from Jack Crawford. He offers a thin, crooked smile, something close to grateful, and Jack pats his shoulder.

They walk together to one of the interview rooms, more comfortable than interrogation. Chilton is already here, seated on a pea green chair with a notebook poised on his knee.

“Ah, Will, how good to see you,” purrs Chilton. “I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time before we get started. I have a proposition—”

“If you ever publish anything about me, Frederick, my lawyers will destroy you,” Will drawls. “You’ll never practice again.”

Chilton places a hand upon his breast in mock-offense. “My word. I would never. You’ve made yourself quite clear. I was actually hoping to have your opinion, as a published forensic academic yourself, on an article about the effects of long-term psychiatric incarceration. An attempt to prove that certain improvements to psychiatric facilities would be beneficial for increasing the number of patients eligible for stabilization and reintegration services.”

Will leans against the wall, his arms crossed, and studies Frederick. He seems as genuine as he’s capable of being, which is to say that his actual goal is money, but if he can get more money by angling for a bigger recreation budget or more fake plants or higher quality food in the hospital, he’ll do it. His focus, as ever, is on his reputation. He’ll never be the best at anything on his own merits, but he can run the best state hospital if he plays the game right.

“We’ll talk about it,” Will says, and Chilton beams.

He opens his mouth to say something else cocksure and sleazy, when there’s a knock on the door. Crawford opens it.

“Miriam,” he says, “thank you for coming. Please, come take a seat.”

Will can see the conditioning as it starts to unfold, just as soon as she rounds the short corner and sees around Crawford’s body. Chilton is leaning forward with interest, his smile wide and welcoming, his eyes bright. Miriam’s body stiffens.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lass,” Chilton says, and Miriam begins to shake. Her eyes are wide, her one remaining hand tense and taut and shaking. “I thought we could get started with a simple inventory to—”

Miriam reaches for the gun at Jack’s hip, but Will is already there. She’s scrabbling for it, but he puts his body between hers and Jack’s, shoving Jack away right at the same moment Miriam starts to scream.

“It’s him! It’s him! It’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him it’s—!”

Will wraps Miriam in a tight bear hug and lifts her off the ground. She’s kicking, screaming, trying to flail, but he’s not twelve years old anymore; he’s strong enough to lift a body with ease, and he’s able to get her back over to the door without trouble. He manages to kick the door twice and the guard outside opens it up to let him out. Crawford is back in the room, presumably putting Chilton in custody. Will has to put a stop to that, too. He sets Miriam down on a bench in the hallway; she’s in shock now, silent and trembling.

“Miriam,” Will says, and she doesn’t look at him. He takes her hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. She gently squeezes back, but she’s still trembling and rocking back and forth. “Listen to me. You’re safe. Do you understand? The Ripper messed with your head. That’s not him. He’s not here. You’re safe.”

Her nod is jerky, but it’s enough. Will commands one of the agents in the hallway to stay with her, and he bursts back into the interview room.

To his surprise, Chilton isn’t in handcuffs.

“How is she? Lord, that poor woman,” Chilton says, and he sounds just as shaken as Miriam.

“She’s traumatized,” Will says. “But she’ll be okay.” He glances at Jack. “You’re not arresting him?”

Jack frowns. “You had a feeling. So I asked questions. He’s got alibis for at least five of the murders I can have checked out in under an hour. Plus he was here, with me, when Abigail Hobbs was killed.”

“Oh, good. I thought I was going to have to come in and remind you what a godawful surgeon he was.”

“Thank you, Will,” says Chilton, and he strangely sounds like he means it. “It’s true, I was terrible, I couldn’t have—but, how did you—?”

“I think he was intending to frame you, like he framed me,” says Will. “And I think he would have done as good a job on you as he did on me. Maybe better. I think it would have been an out, if people started to get too close.”

Chilton tugs at his collar. “My word.”

“Yeah. Well, him giving up this backup plan isn’t really a good thing.”

“Why not?” asks Jack, crossing his arms, his jacket straining across his shoulders.

“If he’s giving us the pieces of a plan to turn Frederick into his patsy,” says Will, wearily, “it’s because he doesn’t think he needs it. He’s that sure we’re not gonna catch him.”

“Then he’s making a big mistake,” says Jack. “We’ve got the best minds in the country. He’ll screw up, and when he does, we’re gonna bring him down. He’s got no backup plan, and he’s all alone. We’ll get him.”

Will highly doubts Hannibal had only one backup plan, and he is far from alone. Still, Will grits his teeth and nods; he suggests putting Frederick into protective custody, and Jack—with Chilton’s enthusiastic agreement—makes the arrangements.

“There’s one more in this sounder. When that body turns up, it’s just more proof Frederick’s not the Ripper,” says Will some time later. He’s in the science lab with Bev, Jimmy, and Brian, who have thankfully set aside the discussion of ‘a Hannibal and Will sandwich’ for the time being. They have, helpfully, showed him the photos of the workshop full of puppy play gear Randall used to frame the engineering student. Will is absentmindedly shuffling through them. “Maybe in the meantime we can try to figure out how long the Ripper was preparing him as a fall guy.”

“At least as long as you were locked up,” says Bev. “I mean, we know he’s got a hard-on for you. Probably didn’t like that Chilton had full access to you. Maybe that was something he expected us to snag on, like Chilton’s weird thing about your empathy would override every other reason he couldn’t be the Ripper.”

“I’m sort of offended the Ripper thought we’d be that stupid,” says Jimmy. “I mean, Chilton? Who would believe that?”

“Maybe that’s just what he wants us to think,” Brian says, slowly. The others look sideways at him, and he leans in, voice low. “Well, think about it! It’s the perfect cover. We all think he’s incompetent, right, oh, no way it could be him, he’s an idiot. But actually, what if he’s just been planning this for years? What if he pretends to be stupid and bad at surgery, but he’s actually amazing, and now he knows we’ll never look his way again?”

“That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and that’s a hell of a competition if I ever saw one. It would mean he’s been planning this since college,” Jimmy says, exasperated. “Chilton doesn’t have that kind of patience.”

“Nobody has that kind of patience,” Beverly says, popping a handful of almonds in her mouth. “But remind me to call you if I ever need a plan that takes thirty years to pay off.”

Will has that kind of patience, but that plan sounds exhausting even to him.

“Choosing Chilton as a patsy is an insult to pretty much everybody, including the Ripper himself,” says Will, leaning against a desk. He’s got half of his sandwich in his hand, two huge bites finally taken from it. It’s delicious. “It would require him to need a quick out. Just distract the FBI long enough for him to get away. He would have just needed us to believe Chilton was capable of creating his art for a few weeks, or months at the outside. I don’t think the point was ever for anyone to really believe Chilton did it, unless he was just going to disappear and he expected the FBI to want to close his case that badly.”

“Yeah, well, thankfully you and I are here to keep the whole bureau from falling into chaos,” says Bev, raising her coffee cup. Will raises his back, and they cheers each other from across the room.

He wonders how difficult it would be to get Beverly on side. She’s brilliant, and kind, and she has made it her mission to stop the types of people Will despises; the issue, of course, is that she’s still operating within the law to do it. There’s respect in that. It’s a harder path, more pitfalls, more corruption. Killing people is faster, and easier, and for somebody whose doctorate is in forensic science it’s not even that hard to get away with. But, those pesky morals might get in the way. 

Worth a little testing, anyway.

The last Ripper display of the sounder comes the next day. It’s beautiful; a man and a woman posed as though dancing, nude bodies pressed tightly together. The woman is being dipped, and the man is sensually nuzzling her collarbone. The man’s chest has been flayed and the muscle is laid bare, peeled back to reveal a perfectly square hole in his chest, through which his heart has been removed and replaced with living ivy. The woman has been exsanguinated, and her lips painted with blood.

It’s a couple of days after the display when he hears from Randall Tier. Well, more accurately, he’s out having drinks with the science team when he gets a text from Matthew.

Stopped by your place to check on the pack like you asked, think they caught a bird, might be a hawk? How do you want it handled?

Will sips his drink, wishing the music was quieter, while Jimmy and Brian bicker across from him and Bev goes to order food at the bar. How to answer in a way that Matthew will understand? He drums his fingers on the table and then types,

Thanks for checking on them. Try to make it comfortable if you can, make sure it’s warm and has water. I’m not a bird rehabilitator by any means but I’ll do my best to help it when I get home.

Sure thing, gorgeous. I’ll make sure the pups don’t bother it. See you soon.

“Your friend Matthew calls you gorgeous?” Beverly says in his ear. “Does Lecter know?”

Will puts his phone back in his pocket and glowers at her. “He’s kidding around.”

“You sure? He was the one who brought you out, right? Cute, pretty eyes, kinda awkward?” At his nod, she makes a broad sweeping motion. “I rest my case.”

“What case is that?” asks Jimmy.

“Will’s got another admirer,” she says, sagely. “Poor guy probably has no idea his competition is Dr. Handsomeness Lovebird himself.”

“That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said,” Brian slurs.

“Dr. Handy-J Lecher,” suggests Jimmy.

“That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said,” Brian slurs again.

“Christ. I’m going home,” Will says, and finishes his drink.

“Your friend waiting for you at home? Or are you gonna go meet up with Dr. Hookup Longlegs?” asks Bev.

“I can’t believe Will has been getting some from Dr. Hard-on Licker and he hasn’t told us,” Jimmy cries, laying his head on Beverly’s shoulder.

“He’s goin’ home to dream about Dr. Hangin’ Balls Luster,” Brian adds, to which Jimmy and Bev raise their glasses with a delighted chorus of eyy!

“Look, you guys are really funny, but my dogs got a bird, and I have to take care of that. I’ll be sure to let Dr. Lecter know you’ve got some creative suggestions for his next set of business cards.”

They all whine good-naturedly at him and wave him off on his way out the door. He only had a couple of drinks since he lives so far out of the city, so he’s able to drive himself home.

Matthew is on the porch when he gets there, and Randall is sitting next to him. They’ve each got a beer, but Randall has just picked the label off of his. Matthew grins broadly, patting his lap like Will should sit there. Will rolls his eyes and instead leans against the porch railing. He can hear the dogs whining and beginning to grow agitated inside.

“I see you two are getting along,” he says.

“Oh, sure. Randall here was just telling me you’re a friend of his and that’s why he’s visiting at eleven at night. Perfectly normal time for a friend to drop by, right, gorgeous?”

“You’re here,” Randall mutters.

“I am. Because I’m a real good friend of Will’s.” He thumbs his nose. “And I think you and me are gonna be good friends, too.”

Randall looks a bit hesitant and a lot confused, so Will steps in.

“He’s part of the pack, Randall.”

“Him?” Randall’s nose wrinkles. “What good is he?”

“He caught you, didn’t he?” Will says, and Matthew smirks.

“I’m what you call a jack of all trades. I’m a good copycat. Attention to detail and all that. What good are you?”

Randall looks to Will, the same sort of look his dogs would give him when seeking permission to accept a treat from a stranger. Will inclines his head.

“This form, it’s not… right,” Randall says. “I have teeth. I hunt. I shred. I…” He looks at Will again, then down at his hands. “I’m here because Will is a good hunter, and he has a strong pack. A worthy pack.”

“Randall is a beast, stuck in a man’s body,” Will explains. “He’s a brilliant engineer. Few months ago, do you remember reading about that couple that got mutilated? Torn apart by something, they thought it was a wolf or a bear.”

Matthew nods and looks at Randall, impressed. “Your work?” Randall nods awkwardly, and Matthew claps his shoulder. “Beautiful. I’d love to see your real form.”

“I… had to give it up,” Randall admits, quietly. “Part of throwing them off my trail. I have some parts, some pieces, test copies, but it’ll take time to rebuild.”

“You’ll want it to be a bit different so they don’t reopen your case,” says Will. “We’ll talk about how to get you the body you need without undoing all your good work up to this point. For now, you’re clean and clear, right?” Randall nods again, and Will smiles. “Good. You’ve done really good work. Keep working at the museum. Stay under the radar. If you can’t control your urges, tell me. Matthew and I can help find somebody, and you can hunt them in these woods. Is that okay, for the time being?”

Randall looks dazed. “You would… do that?”

Matthew laughs and clinks their beer bottles together, though Randall still has yet to drink his and it must be warm by now. “Of course. We’re a team, right? Your pack, my aerie, Will’s…” He turns to Will with a cocked head. “Is it a pack for you, too, Will?”

“Family,” Will says. “We’re a family, and we take care of each other. Right?”

“Right,” Matthew agrees, finishing off his beer.

“R-right,” says Randall, and for the first time, he relaxes.

They get three fresh beers and clink them together.

He has to call upon his little family a lot sooner than he thought.

It’s only been about a month since Randall Tier joined the fold. He comes to Will’s property on the weekends to run with the dogs, to test out new pieces and work on the design of a new, different suit. He and Will wrestle sometimes, snapping teeth and tumbling in the dirt, all in good fun.

Randall has come along on two occasions to visit Peter Bernardone. The first time, Peter had immediately treated Randall with the same care and respect he treated his animals, as though he had recognized the beast behind Randall’s eyes. The second time, Randall had helped Peter by hunting down a big feral tomcat; at Peter’s request, he had left it alive.

Matthew, too, spends a good deal of time at Will’s house. It seems like any time he’s not at work or out on one of his own hunts, he’s at Will’s. He’s started building a few things. An outdoor brick oven, a kiln, a treehouse. He helped Peter build some new, bigger enclosures for his animals during visits to Peter’s barn. He’s also been sculpting with clay, and sometimes he and Randall sit together while Randall describes what his body is supposed to look like and Matthew sculpts different versions of what he thinks Randall’s body ought to look like, or he makes individual pieces, like Randall’s snout or his great claws.

Today, Matthew and Randall are on the property, but they’re in the back working on a metal frame for a sculpture. Will is inside, ironically updating his lesson plan about the Ripper, when the dogs start to go ballistic. There’s a car in his driveway. Matthew and Randall have taken to parking on one of the side access roads in the forest, behind the house, or in the barn, depending on what they’re bringing to the house. It’s not one of theirs; they already had all the materials they needed for their project.

Will knows this car, though. 

It’s Freddie Lounds.

He goes out to meet her, and he’s immediately wary because she’s got a thick manila envelope in her hand.

“Freddie,” he says. “Don’t tell me.”

“I have proof,” she says. As ever, she has a sort of barely controlled manic energy, vibrating in her shoes, her eyes wide, her teeth bright. “You won’t like it, Graham, but I have an inside source. I mean, this goes back decades.”

He takes a few steps forward, frowning, furrowing his brow. “But… the Ripper has only been active for twelve years. And what do you mean an inside source?”

She’s getting excited now, as if she weren’t excited enough before. She slams her car door shut and holds out the folder in both hands. 

“I mean there are people who have been looking deep , Graham. Do you know what’s more effective than the FBI? More effective than investigative journalism?” She leans forward over the top of the folder. “Obsessed fans . Amazing what you can find when you know where to look, and who to listen to. Lend an ear to the right crazy, and they’ll spill everything. But you have to be able to pick out the truth from the madness, and that’s where I come in. Everything in this folder, it’s double- or triple-checked, vetted, verified as much as possible. And, sure, a lot of it is conjecture, but when you put it all together like this it starts to look bad, I mean, it starts to look like a pattern everybody should have seen. I mean, how has anybody missed this? I just—!”

“Freddie.” Will is within a few feet of her now, his voice soft, low, surprised and scared. He reaches out with a shaking hand, about halfway between them, and gestures for the folder. “Freddie, what are you trying to say?”

She sets the file reverently in Will’s hands. “Full credit, right, Graham?”

“If it pans out,” he says. The folder is balanced on his left hand, and it’s heavy; he looks down at it and swallows. “If you’re right about this.”

Freddie Lounds reaches forward to open the folder for him and taps one teal-painted fingernail on the first photo. She leans in close and declares,

“Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!”

With his right hand, Will bashes Freddie Lounds’ skull against the side of her car once, twice, three times in quick, brutal succession.

“Obviously,” he drawls.

She’s not dead—not yet, at least—but he needs to move quickly.

He whistles, high and sharp, and moments later Matthew and Randall are at his side, panting, curious.

“She has evidence about the Ripper,” Will explains.

“Wait, the Ripper is in our pack?” Randall yelps, and Matthew pats his back with a laugh.

“The Ripper is crazy about our Will,” says Matthew. “He’s not with us officially, but Will’s crazy about him, too, aren’t ya, Will? So we’ll treat him like family.” He pauses, seeing the folder in Will’s hand. “Did she figure out who he is? I mean… Could she be right?”

Will sighs. “The problem is that she is right.”

“You knew the whole time, huh?” Matthew whistles and flashes his teeth. “Minx.”

“Yeah, well, now we have to get rid of her, and all her evidence. We can’t have anybody who investigates her death find anything that links back to the Ripper.”

“Oh, that’s easy ,” says Matthew. “Let me handle this one. I got this. I promise.”

“Walk me through it first,” says Will.

“Oh, baby, come on, you don’t trust me?” At Will’s blank frown, Matthew sighs. “Okay. So I take her home. I go to a payphone—a specific one, no surveillance—and call her tip line, leave a message about a murder site. It’s one of mine, just some warehouses near the docks, abandoned, no cameras or anything. I listen to the message on her phone while we’re at her apartment so it pings the cell tower. I get her laptop, any evidence I find, her camera, all that shit. I drive to the warehouse. I bash her head against the car some more, ‘til her brains are all over the fuckin’ place. I steal all her shit. I leave her there.” He spreads his hands. “Easy peasy.”

“What if she wakes up?” asks Randall.

“That could help make it look more realistic,” says Matthew. “More of a scuffle.”

“And if she tags you? Gets some DNA under her nails?”

Matthew clicks his tongue. “Baby. Come on. What do you think this is, amateur hour?” He reaches out, squeezes Will’s shoulder. “If I get caught, I’m a crazy asshole who happened to get obsessed with Will Graham, and I ain’t the first. It won’t link back to you, or to Rendy here.” He winks at Randall. “How d’you like that one? Rendy? Better or worse than Ran?”

“Better, I guess,” says Randall.

“Fine,” says Will. “Okay. Your way.”

There’s a beat, and then Matthew says, “Are you gonna tell us who he is? Or, at least tell me, so I know what to purge when I get to her place.”

Will glances at Randall, whose eyes are wide as saucers.

“It’s Dr. Lecter, isn’t it,” Randall says, not a question.

“Wh—the psychiatrist? Hannibal Lec—well, shit, now I’m saying it, it sounds fuckin’ obvious.” Matthew blinks, then cracks a strange, disbelieving grin. “Wait, wait, you said this guy eats his victims? Hannibal? Hannibal the fuckin’ cannibal?”

“Alright,” Will says, wearily. “Just take care of it, okay?” He raises the folder. “I’m going to go through this and see if I can find sources we can purge, and then I’m going to burn it. Nobody else can know about this.”

He doesn’t get the chance to go fully through the folder, let alone to burn it. Randall goes for a run, processing, and Will sits at his kitchen table with a glass of whiskey and the folder, unopened, in front of him. He’s also processing, in his own way.

What did Freddie mean about finding evidence from an obsessed fan? What did she mean about evidence from decades ago? It’s like every time he turns around there’s more he has to learn about who Hannibal is and what he does. The Chesapeake Ripper is fine, he’s had plenty of time to get used to that, but what else is Hannibal hiding?

There’s more gravel crunching, and Will doesn’t move because he doesn’t want to deal with one more fucking thing today.

Unfortunately, that choice isn’t being left up to him.

A heavy boot splinters the door, which was open by the way, and two men enter with purpose. Will is fully out of his chair with half a room still between them, and the possibilities unfold. He processes the most likely scenarios, the potential outcomes if he fights, long-term consequences if this is what he thinks it is, everything in a split second.

These are Mason Verger’s thugs, he’s pretty sure. It’s likely they targeted Hannibal as well. If they sent two men after a weak FBI consultant, they probably sent three or four after Hannibal. Will could kill both of these men, especially if he called for Randall or the dogs to help, but that would be messy and hard to explain, and Hannibal would probably not have the same luck. If they’re taking Hannibal somewhere, Will needs to be there to protect him, or disposing of Freddie Lounds doesn’t even matter. 

Realistically, it’s not smart to get caught by Mason, who probably thinks Will fucked Margot at the very least, but long-term, letting Mason murder Hannibal is a much worse idea.

For this reason, when the two men reach him, Will struggles only enough for believability for an academic. He gets a couple of good hits in, including smashing his glass on one of the thugs’ heads, but he’s quickly subdued. His wrists are zip-tied together and his head is stuffed into a black bag. He’s tossed over a shoulder and marched outside.

He kicks and shouts, and he hopes Randall hears him even though he’s muffled.

“I’m a goddamned FBI agent! They’ll hunt you down wherever you’re taking me! They’ll find you!”

He’s drugged, then, and loses consciousness.

He wakes to a gentle, insistent slapping of his cheeks.

“Will,” whispers Margot Verger. “Will, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” he manages. His hands are bound in front of him; that’s a stupid mistake, but he doesn’t point it out. “What happened?” he slurs.

“Mason,” Margot hisses. “He found out about… what I was trying to do.” She presses a hand to her stomach and her expression hardens. “I can’t have children anymore. But I don’t have to, thanks to you. He doesn’t know that. I don’t know how he knew, but, he thinks—”

“He thinks I was the father. Potentially,” Will says. He rolls his neck, which aches. “Yeah. I hate to say I told you so, because this situation is bad for both of us.”

“Not just us,” she says, urgently. “He’s got Dr. Lecter, too. I think he’s planning to kill you both.”

“Maybe I can convince him just to kill Hannibal,” he mutters. At Margot’s blank look, he adds, “It’s technically his fault, for suggesting the idea to begin with.”

“You don’t actually want Dr. Lecter dead, do you?”

“Not particularly. He’s a bad therapist, he doesn’t deserve to die for that. But I don’t deserve to die for sex I didn’t even have, either.”

Margot frowns, and then jolts and looks around, like a frightened rabbit. “Here,” she says, and tucks something into his pocket. “It’s not much, but, maybe—” Will can hear the sound of doors creaking in the distance, and Margot starts to back away. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Will.”

“It’s okay,” he says, and Margot is gone.

It’s awkward, but he manages to stand. He’s in a pen or a stable, hay on the floor, the scent of a recent animal occupant filling his nostrils. His hands are still bound, so it takes a bit of doing—especially while he’s keeping an ear out for Mason’s men—but he’s able to determine that Margot slipped him a knife.

Interesting.

Soon enough, the thugs come for him. He’s picked up rather unceremoniously by the biceps, one man on either side of him, and half carried, half dragged across a broad, forested swath of grassy land and into another building. It smells like an old slaughterhouse, and it’s filled with the harsh squeals and snuffling of large pigs.

There’s a platform with wooden steps, and Will is unsurprised to see Mason Verger leaning against the aluminum railing with a small, wild-eyed smile. He’s also not surprised to see Hannibal, but he is a bit surprised to find Hannibal swaddled in a straightjacket and suspended from a winch over a pit full of hogs. There are two other henchmen on the platform, and one of them is eyeing Hannibal with murderous intent.

“Mr. Graham,” crows Mason Verger, “how wonderful to see you again. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have my dear Margot’s baby daddy finally here, taking an interest in the family business.” He nudges Will with one elbow, leaning in close. His breath smells of gin and affluenza. God, Will hates him. “Tell ya the truth, I never thought Margot’d take any interest in breeding, poor thing was too caught up chasing kitty, but looking at you up close, I get it. You’re a pretty kitty yourself, aren’t you? Pretty enough for Margot to swallow her pride long enough to swallow yours, right? Although, I suppose that’s no good when it comes to breeding.”

He pats Will’s cheek and turns, pointing aggressively at Hannibal.

“Now, Dr. Lecter, there’s a naughty little nelly. Giving poor Margot all these dangerous ideas, what were you thinking? Do you know what would have happened, dottore? Eh? Margot can’t have a baby, Dr. Lecter, because people like her corrupt children. She’s a sinner, doctor, she hasn’t been saved. She’s not right with Jesus, not like me. I love the Risen Jesus. I’m a disciple, his favorite disciple.” He turns to look at Will over his shoulder and wiggles his eyebrows. “You know what they say. Nobody beats the Rizz.” He looks back at Hannibal, hanging like a pinata, and shoves him lightly. “Now what are we to do with you, eh, doctor? You owe Mateo your cojones. You owe me a lot more, trying to take my Margot away.”

Will quietly, carefully, retrieves the knife from his pocket and works to cut his bonds while Mason is ranting at Hannibal. There are three thugs, including the big one—Mateo, he guesses—on the platform. Two are close to Will, but they’re not looking at him too closely. All three of them have a gun on their hip. Only Mateo’s appears to have a guard on the holster, which means it should be easy to get one of the other two.

It’s just a matter of opportunity.

Luckily for him, that opportunity presents itself quite dramatically, all of a sudden, in the form of screaming and scattered gunfire outside.

Mason whips around, crosses the platform, white-knuckle grips the top of the railing as his electric blue eyes snap to the large slaughterhouse doors.

“Go see what that was,” he snaps at the two guards next to Will.

They jump into action; he forces one of them to push past him, to physically brush against him. It’s all the chance he needs.

The guards are at the bottom of the steps and sprinting for the door. Will rolls his shoulders, gets into the Weaver stance—Bev was right, it’s a lot more comfortable for him—and flicks the safety off.

“FBI,” he says, with steel in his voice. “Freeze.”

Mason slowly turns, incredulous. “Are you serious? Are you gonna arrest me, baby daddy? Huh? I will bury you.”

“On your knees. Hands behind your head,” Will orders. “Both of you. I’m placing you under arrest for the kidnap of a federal agent, and the attempted murder of Hannibal Lecter.”

Mason giggles and drops to his knees, his hands on his head.

Mateo starts to reach for his holster, like Will won’t notice.

“Freeze,” Will shouts, and Mateo does, for just a second.

Then his eyes flick to the winch control, and he dives, intending to drop Hannibal into the pit.

Will fires four times.

Mason screams and ducks away, looking back at Will with eyes as wide as saucers. Mateo’s body falls heavily, twitching once.

“Do you have any idea how expensive good Sards are?” Mason shrieks, and Will clubs him with the butt of the pistol.

He, too, falls blessedly silent, and Will tucks the gun into the back of his pants as he rushes toward the winch.

“Hannibal, Christ, are you okay?”

He swings the harness safely over the platform and lowers it until Hannibal finds his feet, then he hurries to help free Hannibal from the straightjacket. Hannibal has yet to say a word, but once the straightjacket has dropped to the ground he murmurs,

“Oh, Will.”

Then he collapses, and Will barely manages to catch him. Dramatic. Still, Will lowers them carefully to the ground, holding Hannibal against his chest, rather enjoying the way Hannibal’s long fingers are twisting into his shirt and Hannibal’s breath puffs hot against his neck.

“Are you hurt?” Will asks, softly.

“I… may be in shock,” Hannibal says.

“You can’t be that shocked. I keep telling you you’re a terrible therapist. This was bound to happen.”

“Jokes, Will? Now?”

Will laughs breathlessly and presses his cheek against the top of Hannibal’s head.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m coping.”

There’s more commotion outside, and then the sound of rapid steps up the platform stairs. A wide-eyed, terrified Margot Verger appears. She takes in the situation, steps forward to check that her brother is breathing, and then says,

“I’m so sorry. I’m glad you’re okay. But now we might have a bigger problem. Someone or some thing is out there killing the guards and I—”

“Call them off,” says Will.

“What? Why would I do that when there’s an active—”

“Call them off, get them to safety. I’ll investigate. That’s what I do. FBI, remember?” Hannibal clings tighter to him, and Will presses a soft kiss to the top of his head before extracting himself. “Can you make sure Hannibal gets home safely?”

“I… of course, Will.”

Will goes through Mateo’s pockets and finds some zip-ties. He ties Mason’s wrists and forearms. Margot chews at her lip, so Will says,

“He kidnapped an FBI agent, Margot. That’s a serious charge.”

She looks down at Hannibal, still playing the dazed little damsel, and gently takes Will’s arm to lead him toward the top of the stairs. When they’re far enough away that a man in shock shouldn’t be able to hear them, Margot says,

“We can’t have this getting out, Will. Tell me what we need to do to keep this between us.”

Will considers for a moment. Margot is tough, and smart. He’s always thought she’d be a good ally for Hannibal, and maybe she can be an ally for him, too.

“Okay,” he says. “I understand. You have to think about how best to protect what’s important to you.” He can see the gears whirring in her head as her eyes flick to Mason’s restrained form. “You don’t want the bad publicity. I don’t want to have to do another psych eval for shooting a suspect. Would you be able to make all of this go away, given the opportunity?”

“Please. We’ve covered up worse.”

“Fine.” He leans in, his gaze intense. “This goes away, we don’t speak of it again.”

“And I owe you one,” she says, but Will shakes his head.

“I’m not doing this for a one to one transaction. I’m doing this because I take care of my friends. You’re building yourself a family, Margot. You’ve made me a part of it, blood or not.”

She looks touched, but beneath there is a calculating current. “Thank you,” she says, quietly.

“Any time.” He gestures to the door. “Call them off, and I’ll do a sweep. Get Hannibal out of here.”

Margot nods, and Will dashes down the steps. Once he’s outside, he figures Randall (and Matthew, if he’s here, too) will see him and pull back. But he’ll do a sweep anyway, because he’s playing good FBI agent today, apart from the whole ‘sweeping the crime under the rug’ thing.

Once Will is gone, Hannibal rises to his full height. He rolls his neck and rubs at his wrists. That hadn’t gone the way he had predicted, but it had been very interesting. His gaze falls on Mason, vulnerable and unconscious, and for a moment he considers tearing the man’s throat out with his teeth. Odious creature.

“Dr. Lecter?” says Margot, and Hannibal flicks his attention up to her.

“Hello, Margot,” he says. “I see we have been presented with rather an interesting opportunity.”

“Mason can’t die yet,” Margot says.

“Of course. You are in need of your heir.” He cocks his head to the side, calculating. “Mason did a terrible thing to you, Margot. But there are other methods of conceiving an heir of Verger blood.”

“That’s not the problem,” Margot says, crossing her arms over her chest. “The problem is time. A child needs time to grow, and grow up. And having a child around Mason would be…” She shudders.

“So, then, you are in need of a solution in which Mason remains alive, but cannot interfere with your child’s gestation, birth, or rearing. Correct?”

“I guess.”

“Then we are left with a number of options. Firstly, Mason could be rendered incapacitated. Spinal fracture, causing paralysis. He would be fully dependent upon others for care and feeding, but would retain the ability to produce viable sperm.”

Margot winces and grits out, “No. He would be worse, somehow. Another form of control.”

“Very well. Are you able to stall the shareholders long enough for a child to be born?”

“Probably. It would be easier with occasional proof that Mason is alive. I could say he’s at some retreat somewhere, or he’s sick, or a dozen other things. Pay the right people, I could run things until I have a son.”

Hannibal adjusts his cuffs and nods. “Excellent. In which case, I propose a trade. A favor for a favor.”

Margot’s wariness is delicious, but unnecessary. “What kind of favor?”

“I would be pleased to take Mason off of your hands until such time as he is no longer needed, at which time I would return him to the world in a manner befitting a man of his caliber. In return, I would ask you to use your considerable influence to assist me with gaining access to a certain individual who has been made unavailable to me.”

“That’s alarmingly vague, Dr. Lecter.”

“It would be a trivial task for a woman of your means, Margot. Simply have a psychiatric patient transferred back to the Baltimore State Hospital.”

“And what will you do with this patient at Baltimore State that you couldn’t do wherever they are now?”

“Don’t worry about that,” says Hannibal. “It would be a fair trade, I should think. Your freedom for one prisoner transfer.”

Margot sighs. “Alright. What’s the name?”

Hannibal smiles. “Dr. Abel Gideon.”

Will is exhausted. Margot had a car take him home, and he was pretty immediately swarmed by his family—the dogs, Randall, Matthew, and even Peter. Turns out that Matthew was still hours away taking care of Freddie, so Randall had called Peter for help after he’d tracked Will to Muskrat Farms. Peter had helped stir chaos on the farm by locating the stables and letting all the horses out, and freeing a bunch of the pigs. Randall had used the ensuing chaos to start picking off guards. Peter had rescued a piglet, and he was naming the piglet Randy.

Matthew was livid about the whole thing, but Will’s tired reassurances eventually calmed him down. He was ready to storm back over there and strangle Mason Verger with his bare hands.

“I’m pretty sure we don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Will said, but when prompted he wouldn’t elaborate further.

Matthew insisted on fixing the door, at least to the point where it would shut properly. Randall made dinner, just a simple pan-fried chicken and rice dish. Peter, sweet and sensible man that he was, carefully set a glass of water in front of Will and reminded him that he needed to stay hydrated to keep his brain going.

They ate together, and it was the nicest meal Will could remember having in a long time. But, eventually, he asked everyone to go home so that he could decompress. Matthew left to take care of the final touches on Freddie. Randall took Peter home, and then went back to his own home in anticipation of work the following day.

Will was left with the dogs, which was fine by him. He hugged each of them in turn. Brushed them, checked their teeth. Gave Zoe and Duke their medicine. Played with them for a good long time, throwing a stick in the yard for all of them to chase together (though Buster always came back with his own stick, like he was king of the world).

It’s late, and he was almost at peace with what had happened. He was almost not pissed off at Hannibal anymore for the schemes Will had told him would get them in trouble. He was almost not pissed off anymore that Freddie Lounds had figured Hannibal out. He had almost gotten calm enough to look at the folder full of proof.

Then he hears gravel crunching again, and he’s mad all over.

He doesn’t get up. He stays seated in front of his fireplace, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his back to the door. It opens with a creak, since Matthew could only fix it partially, and for a long stretch there’s no sound other than the curious sniff of six dogs (Winston, of course, stays right next to Will). He hears, then, the crinkling of a paper bag and the tell-tale sound of dogs licking their chops.

All six traitors wander back to their beds when the treats are gone and most of them go straight to sleep. He wonders for a second if the treats were drugged, but, no—it’s late, they had played a lot, they’re just tired.

Footsteps, careful and quiet. They could have been silent, but there are deliberate taps and scuffs added. How considerate.

Hannibal lowers himself to the floor beside Will. He places a bottle of whiskey between them.

Will sips at his whiskey. He doesn’t speak. He isn’t going to make this that easy.

“Will,” says Hannibal.

“Hannibal,” says Will.

“I would like to… apologize,” says Hannibal, as though every word pains him. “That terrible situation, it was of my making.”

Wow. Really vague, perfectly tailored to apply to both the Verger mess and that whole six months in a mental hospital fiasco. Hannibal really is a bastard.

“It was fine,” says Will. He holds up his glass, and Hannibal opens the whiskey he brought. “I handled it. You seemed to be having a rough time, though.”

Hannibal pours the whiskey and then hesitates, his brows knitted together. “Yes,” he says, “it did seem that way.”

“What did you bring the dogs?” Will asks. He doesn’t drink; he watches Hannibal calculate, consider, and decide to follow through.

“Sausage,” he says.

“Hm,” says Will. He lifts the whiskey glass, eyeing the amber liquid. “Sausages to befriend my dogs. Whiskey, like we’re old friends. An apology, face to face.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth and looks at Hannibal, holding that red-brown gaze, waiting.

Hannibal lets out a breath through his nose. “Is this what you need, Will? A confession?”

“It would be nice,” Will says, and he can see the moment Hannibal’s brain reboots. He takes a drink, allowing Hannibal to process, and then he adds, “Sweet Williams were a little on the nose for the Ripper, don’t you think?”

Hannibal bristles. “After such blatant misinterpretations, perhaps it was necessary to ensure the meaning behind the displays was fully understood,” he says, and Will laughs.

“Come on, Hannibal. Like I needed it to be that blatant. Like I needed six tableaux to understand the Ripper felt the same connection I did.” He takes a drink and shakes his head. “It would have been a lot easier to just ask me on a date.”

“And would you have accepted? Knowing what is served at the Ripper’s table, would you have agreed?”

“Y’know, I could be mad about a lot of things,” Will says. “Leaving me to suffer from a curable illness. Actively making that illness worse. Inducing seizures. Framing me for your crimes. Forcing me to suffer in a mental hospital under the care of Frederick fucking Chilton for six whole months. And I’m sure it wasn’t supposed to take that long.” Hannibal doesn’t break their eye contact, but Will watches the emotion flicker in his eyes, almost controlled enough to hide. It’s regret. “And I am pissed off about all that. But here’s the thing.” He leans in, and Hannibal unconsciously leans in just as far. Will lowers his voice. “What really gets me is that you still don’t see it.”

Hannibal’s voice is a rumble between them. “What have I missed, Will?”

“Me,” Will growls. “Every plan that didn’t go the way you wanted, every manipulation that fell flat, every obvious clue that somehow slipped through the cracks, it was me. Did you honestly think that killing our daughter was your idea?”

Hannibal is visibly staggered, but only for a moment.

Will leans even further forward and barrels on, low and fast.

“If this had played out differently, you would have killed her to punish me rather than to free me. I knew what you were doing, trying to endear me to her, trying to make her an accessory to our relationship. She would never have survived us. She lived by our mercy, and died to prove a point. Strategic sacrifice.” 

Will’s voice drops again, but the intensity heightens. “You can’t build a family out of pawns, Hannibal. That’s why I didn’t kill Randall Tier. It’s why I helped Margot. It’s why I’ve been covering for you since the day we met, redirecting attention, adjusting the profile, downplaying parts of your work. For God's sake, Freddie Lounds figured you out, and I got rid of her because I had to protect you. And you didn’t see any of it. You didn’t see me. I see you so clearly, Hannibal. I just want you to see me.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and Will feels his throat tighten. This wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was supposed to be suave and controlled, and make Hannibal feel—rightfully—chagrined, like a school boy getting told off. It was supposed to be fun, and maybe a little flirty. But his eyes are hot and starting to swim, and he’s kneading the fabric of his jeans between his fingers, and Winston is starting to make concerned little whines.

Take me as I am, or run, or kill me if that's what you want to do, Will thinks. But please… Please stay. Please see me. Please love me.

“You’re quiet,” Will manages to rasp. “Is this it? Am I going to wind up a display? At least tell me it will be beautiful. Maybe something special, just for you. Will you describe it to me, first?”

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal breathes. 

He leans in, takes Will by the jaw in a strong, sure hand, and kisses him. His mouth is molten, his grip firm, and Will is utterly lost in it. 

When the kiss breaks, Hannibal murmurs, “I would make of you the most exquisite altar on this earth, and I would worship faithfully every day of my life.” 

Will surges forward to capture his lips again, his arms around Hannibal’s neck, hands buried in his silken hair. Each breath is passed between them, their foreheads pressed together, traces of Will’s tears smeared below their eyes as though they had been shared, too.

“You wouldn’t let any part of me go to waste, would you, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal groans, low and rumbling in the back of his throat, and he speaks the promise into Will’s mouth like a benediction:

“Not a single bite.”

Chapter Text

For a time, there is silence between them. Hannibal is reanalyzing every interaction he has had with Will up to today, and Will—dear, brilliant, singular creature—seems in this moment to need to hold, and be held. His arms are wrapped, still, around Hannibal’s neck, and his chin rests heavily upon Hannibal’s shoulder, his nose buried in the crook of his own elbow. 

Hannibal, of course, is happy to accommodate; he is hip to hip with Will, seated as they are on the floor, with his far knee raised to better angle his body toward Will’s, and his arms have found a home around Will’s waist. His face is pressed against the side of Will’s neck so that he may bask in the intoxicating scent that is uniquely his Will.

“When did you know?” he says, his lips grazing Will’s skin.

“It came in stages,” comes the answer, muffled by their combined bodies. He’s tense, almost wooden. “I clocked you as a killer as soon as I saw you. Knew you were the Ripper when you killed Cassie Boyle for me. Funny coincidence, an artist who takes organs popping up right when we were all in Minnesota looking for a less interesting killer.” Hannibal squeezes him around the middle, nuzzling closer; there is a soft, extended exhale, and then Will begins to relax. “I didn’t put the cannibalism together for a while. Should have clocked that right away since you took an interest in Hobbs, but my brain was starting to smolder.”

“My true interest was in you, Will.”

He snorts. “Your true interest was in breaking me, Hannibal. That’s not a point in your favor.”

“I was interested in seeing you rebuild yourself into your truest form,” Hannibal says, lips and teeth teasing the delicate skin below Will’s ear. “How was I to know you had attained it, when you blinded me so completely to your true magnificence?” He begins, ever so softly, to nibble at Will’s earlobe.

“Y-you want to know the rest?” Will manages to ask.

“Hm?” says Hannibal, sucking gently at a spot just behind Will’s jaw.

“I knew you were a cannibal because you told me,” Will says. Hannibal is too busy soothing the suck mark with his tongue to sit back and raise his eyebrows, but he makes a questioning noise and that seems to get the idea across. “Your… dinner party. You said you turned your passion for anatomy to the culinary arts. It clicked. I told you I had a date with the Ripper. You got jealous. Of yourself, Hannibal.”

He kisses Will’s jaw and says, “I seem to recall a number of occasions where you succeeded in making me jealous of myself, Will. And more than once I was jealous of others.” He glides a hand down Will’s far side, his long fingers tracing the worn denim stretched across Will’s thigh and then back up, up to the hem of the plain cotton t-shirt, until he touches warm, trembling skin. He pulls Will fractionally closer and whispers, “I look forward to showing those others that you’re mine. Publicly. And often.”

“Why do you have to be so dramatic?” Will mumbles, and wriggles until he has created a chasm between their bodies. “We’re in the middle of negotiations, Hannibal. You can’t just  distract me with innuendo.”

Hannibal grins, a rather uncharacteristic expression but one he simply can’t help. “So serious. You’d enjoy yourself more if you relaxed a little.”

“Christ, look, I want this as much as you do but I’m still not gay, alright? I-it’s, I like it, but I need… time. Baby steps.” He straightens his t-shirt and draws up his knees, resting his elbows on top. “Sorry.”

Hannibal sits beside him, mirroring his pose. “Never apologize for your needs, Will.” He waits a beat, then says, “Would you care to return to negotiations?”

“Yeah. I would.” Even in profile, his gaze is captivating, a moon-drenched grotto echoing a melody composed to lure sailors to their doom. “There’s a lot you should know. But I want you to tell me what you did with Mason Verger.”

Hannibal shrugs one shoulder. “He is currently a guest at my home.”

“Can we just be straight with each other?”

“I should hope not,” Hannibal says, but at Will’s glare he clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “It will take some time to get used to transparency.”

“Yeah, well, we both have things we’re working on. We’ll cope. So, Mason is, what, in your secret basement? You do have a secret basement, right?”

“Yes.” After a beat, “In large part, I purchased the house for its ideal location and access to the steam tunnels below the street. There is an entrance hidden inside the house, of course, but the tunnels provide secure access from outside.”

Will hums thoughtfully. “We should find somewhere else for you. It can still be attached to those tunnels. But we ought to purge your basement, turn it into storage. A bigger wine cellar. The risk is too high, keeping a murder basement in your house.”

“I have found it serviceable for the last fifteen years, Will.”

He isn’t irritated.

“The door is in the pantry, isn’t it.”

Perhaps slightly rankled.

“No one has ever stumbled across it. That would take a remarkable series of coincidences.”

“Sure. But we can eliminate the possibility of those coincidences occurring if we just…” He walks his fingers through the air. “Move your setup outside of the most incriminating location it could possibly be.” Hannibal has more protests, but Will says, “What are you planning to do with Mason?”

Hannibal sighs. “I will keep him alive until Margot has a child.”

“Alive and whole?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He wants to lick the venom from Will’s tongue. Instead he decides to ask a few questions of his own. 

“Tell me, Will, how long have you been hiding? How long have you withheld your true genius from the world?”

Will snorts. “You’re still missing so much of the bigger picture, Hannibal. I wasn’t hiding from everyone. I was hiding from you, because I wasn’t sure I could trust you. And I’m still not, but it’s a moot point because I—” He cuts himself off, scowls, wrings his hands. “You’re part of the family now whether we like it or not. And we are hiding from whoever would do us harm. But that certainly isn’t the whole world.”

Hannibal manages, for a moment, not to get too caught up on what Will didn’t say and asks for clarification on what he did: “Part of what family, Will?”

“My family. Built from loyal, like-minded souls who want to belong and need guidance to stay out of prison. Randall and Peter were the ones who came to help tonight, to make the distraction that let me get away. I’m the reason Margot can have a child that isn’t Mason’s. Matthew is the reason you don’t have to worry about Freddie Lounds anymore. I have others. A brother in Pittsburgh, Finn. One of the many Drifter killers. And a sister in New York, Lilith. They called her the Midnight Witch in New Orleans, I think she’s probably a lot of people now. And my father, down in Florida. He’s more like Peter than like us, but he’s always known. Even before my first kill. He told me to go into forensics, to make sure I never got caught. Told me to build a family, too, so. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“This is a great deal of sensitive information to be sharing with a man you aren’t certain you trust.”

“What are you gonna do, Hannibal? Turn me in? I have three alibis in the wings at any given moment, and the family would never forgive you.” His voice hardens. “It shouldn’t shock you to learn that Randall figured out who you were. And Matthew knows, too, since he purged all Freddie’s evidence.” A beat, then, “Well. Apart from the folder she gave me.”

“I can’t imagine what evidence she could have collected,” Hannibal says, rubbing at his jaw. “I have been quite careful.”

“I know. A lot of it is probably circumstantial. But, she said she had some kind of source, somebody obsessed with the Ripper, who had information going back decades.”

Hannibal freezes. Decades? That would imply a connection to his prior work. That shouldn’t be possible.

“I’d picked up a pattern I’m pretty sure was you, the ones you killed and harvested but didn’t display,” Will goes on. “They might have found something like that, but I only looked back about five years.”

Hannibal hears himself ask, “How many did you find?”

“Thirty or so. But adding in what I missed from the last few years and going back to ‘01 or so, I’d guess your actual number is around two hundred. Yeah?”

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that I didn’t keep count,” Hannibal says, his eyes focused on the table.

“It doesn’t. I’ve only done twenty two with my own hands, and I’m sure it won’t surprise you I remember all their faces.”

“It doesn’t,” says Hannibal. He licks his lips and lifts his chin in the direction of the table. “I am desperately curious to see what she found.”

“That shouldn’t surprise me, either, and yet,” Will says, softly.

Hannibal blinks and turns his attention back around. Will isn’t looking at him; his arms are wrapped around his knees and his stormy eyes are caught on the fire.

“It can wait, of course,” says Hannibal. He is going for casual, but he can see that it doesn’t land. No; it crashes and burns.

“I should know better,” Will says to himself. “I try to show you who I am, you pat me on the head and pretend you think I’m clever. I tell you I’ve murdered twenty-two people and you don’t have a single follow-up question. I tell you the version of me you always wanted has been right in front of you, your interest is gone.” His voice is slipping back to that crackling intensity from earlier. “Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet. Maybe you’re too cocky to accept it. Everything, Hannibal. Everything was my design, except what you did to Georgia.” 

Will’s agitation is upsetting his dogs, too; several of them begin to growl, low, no teeth yet. But Will, he bares his as though he’s about to snap, only he still won’t look in Hannibal’s direction as he continues in a hiss:

“She would have been happy in my family. I should have protected her. Honestly I should have just killed you after you rubber stamped me. It wouldn’t even have been hard. You go swimming every Friday night, by yourself. I could’ve just hit you with a tranq dart and left you to drown. I’m sitting here trying to show you the picture you’ve been missing for the last eighteen months, and all you can fucking think about is looking at evidence of shit you already know you did. Like, I’m trying to tell you that I’ve had a secret identity the entire time you’ve known me and you’re more interested in a copy of a book you wrote in college.” 

Just as quickly as it had peaked, the fury dissipates; Will buries his face in his hands and wearily asks, “Why am I trying so hard to prove that I’m still worth your time, even when you’re not pulling the strings? What more can I offer you than what I already am?”

Hannibal Lecter is still. It’s strange; he knows he wants Will, and he has wanted Will, and he has never felt such rapture as he has in Will Graham’s arms. But, he expected to wheedle and maneuver for months, if not years, to reach this point. He expected that his manipulations and persuasions would shape the world and his relationship with his Will. This remarkable revelation of Will’s nature, this discovery on the heels of a confession he thought might result in a delicious bit of worship following from trauma, has indeed thrown him off kilter in a most unexpected fashion. 

This version of Will, this true Will, is divine. This is beyond any expectation or even hope that Hannibal had for Will’s transformation. Will was able not only to hide his machinations from the FBI, from Ms. Lounds, from the greater public, but from Hannibal, who has been fooled so rarely in his life he can count the instances on one hand. More remarkably, Will has been playing at least one level higher than Hannibal, manipulating and twisting as he thought best, presumably in service of that greater game of hide and seek.

He can see it now, the pieces that had been moving beyond his knowledge. He revisits the rooms he has built for Will in his memory palace and begins the painstaking process of updating every assumption and interaction to reflect the truth. All the moments he thought chance had spoiled his games, all the black holes that had sucked in and neutralized his work, all the frustrating, gutting misinterpretations…

Hannibal is a proud man, used to solitude. His stomach is twisting. He can admit, confronted in this manner with his own behavior, that he has defaulted to his expected status quo, and that was a mistake. The uncomfortable truth, which he is struggling to acknowledge, is this: he doesn’t know any other way to be.

Hannibal always wanted Will. He was obsessed. He is obsessed. He wants Will so badly now that it aches. It’s more intense the more he absorbs and processes the truth. 

Hannibal has been unspeakably rude. He would do anything to make this right, to prove his loyalty. He would rip the hearts from ten thousand unworthy souls if that was what it took to apologize. But how can he say that?

His voice is thick and humid like a summer storm. “I am… accustomed to my loneliness, Will. A true equal, let alone a superior mind, has only ever been a dream. I have yet to fully accept this new worldview, but, never doubt that this is all I ever wanted for you. You are all I have wanted, wholly and selfishly, from the moment I saw you. Can you forgive me my ignorance?”

He can hear the bob of Will’s throat as he swallows. “You wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t,” he says.

Hannibal sighs and dares to lean his forehead against Will’s shoulder as he murmurs, “How I have coveted you, dievas. I would burn the world to be your sole adherent. Your word, my gospel.”

Will snorts. “You can never just say, sorry, I don’t know how not to be an asshole, but I promise I do think you’re really impressive and I still want you.”

“I am beyond impressed; I am in awe. I want you more than ever, mylimasis. If you find me worthy of your favor, of course.”

Will bestows a kiss atop Hannibal’s head and stays there, his breath warm, his lips brushing against Hannibal’s hair. 

“Who else could ever be worthy, Hannibal?”

“If ever I meet another, they will nourish you before they ever see the chance to gain your affection,” Hannibal says, reverently. 

“As long as you tell me,” Will says, softly. “In case you need to hear it. I’m happy to keep eating at your table, as long as you tell me. Can you promise me that?”

“For you, the stars,” whispers Hannibal, and then they are both quiet for a very, very long time.

It’s the ache of sitting on the floor that ultimately forces them to get up, right around sunrise. Will thinks, briefly, that he probably should have just invited Hannibal to his bed, but the serene look softening Hannibal’s face kind of makes the back pain worth it. 

Though Hannibal must be worse off—the man is in incredible shape but he’s still forty-six—he’s not complaining at all. He just stretches, rolls his shoulders and his neck, and then pads into the kitchen to start putting together breakfast. 

Will does not miss the way Hannibal deliberately ignores the folder on the table; apparently, the Ripper can be trained. But, Will knows the topic is only being set aside for the moment. No true equal of his would ever be that deferential.

They eat, and when they’re finished they sit outside on the porch with a thermos of coffee and they just… talk. No barriers, no games, no lies between them. 

Will tells Hannibal everything. His mother, his father, his experiments with socializing, his kills, his family, his unusual education.

And Hannibal? Hannibal reciprocates. It’s halting, and hesitant, and at times he seems to genuinely struggle to get the words out, but he tells what Will is certain is an abridged version of his own story, not because Hannibal doesn’t want to share with Will, but because Hannibal isn’t ready to talk about all of it with anyone. Will learns a little about Mischa, the cold winter, the starving soldiers. He infers enough to place a warm hand over Hannibal’s trembling fingers. Hannibal glosses over his time at the orphanage and his mutism, and further glosses over living with his uncle and aunt in France. He is clearly trying to be as open and honest as Will, but he doesn’t have the practice. Will doesn’t hold it against him. 

Hannibal does reveal that he hunted down the hungry soldiers, and he seems unusually tense. Will squeezes his hand and says,

“Good. I hope they suffered. I wish I could have been there to help you.” 

Hannibal visibly relaxes. His eyes flutter closed. He says something then that, from his expression, Will is sure he never meant to say out loud: 

“When she found out what I had done, Murasaki told me there was nothing left inside of me for anyone to love. She hasn’t said another word to me in almost thirty years. I was…” He swallows. “I denied for so many years that those words held power. That they felt like such a burden. But the fear has always existed. She was always so wise, so knowledgeable. She was right about so many things.”

Will sets down his coffee and covers Hannibal’s hand with both of his own. “If she was right about you, you wouldn’t care, Hannibal. It wouldn’t break your heart to talk about. Maybe there was nothing she could love, and that’s her loss, but she doesn’t get to decide that for anyone else.”

“Do you believe that we, and those like us, are capable of love the way others understand it?” Hannibal asks, watching the dogs play in the front yard. 

“The way others understand it? No.”

“I see.”

“People like us don’t think or feel the same way others do. Think of it as a couple of overlapping spectrums. Me?” He shrugs and returns to his coffee. “I’m off most of those charts. Pure empathy, perfect social chameleon, probably the smartest person in every room I’ve ever walked into. How does a guy like that actually relate to other people?”

“He doesn’t,” says Hannibal, still watching the dogs. “He is unique, and forced by his canny perception into inescapable awareness of this otherness.”

“Exactly. But I don’t have to relate to other people, not really. It just has to look that way in public. You share that experience of existing outside the norm and blending in. It’s the same socially as it is with feelings. And you do experience feelings. Just not the same way as everybody else. And so what if you feel less?” Will shrugs. “Your range might be smaller than mine, but your ten is my thousand. The most intense things you feel are still the most intense things you feel, regardless of how they compare to what anybody else feels. And yeah, you probably won’t experience or express love the way everybody else understands it, but you don’t have to as long as it looks that way in public. All the best parts of being the way we are happen behind closed doors, anyway.”

Hannibal laughs softly. “That is a beautiful sentiment for a murderer.”

“It’s a beautiful sentiment regardless. My being a murderer is incidental.”

“Will.”

“Yeah?”

“I would like to meet your family. I would like, someday, for you to meet mine.” He pauses, then cocks his head. “I may actually have a contribution to your family, if you deem it wise.”

“Oh?”

“Part of my agreement with good Margot. I intended to kill him, considering you brought him to my home—”

“Gideon?” Will scratches at his beard and grins, crookedly. “You’re offering to let me have an ingredient you went to so much trouble to secure?”

“In truth, I have yet to secure him. I still need to break him out of his transport. But when I do, yes, I would be willing to allow him to live. For you. For your family.”

“Our family, now, Ripper,” says Will. “I think he’d make a useful addition. But, only if Margot is willing to help get him some plastic surgery. And documents.”

“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

Will stands and whistles, calling all the dogs back. It’s been several hours. It’s probably almost eight, and he needs a shower.

“Thank you,” Will says, while the dogs trot dutifully up the steps. “If you ever want to tell me the rest, I’ll listen. But that’s enough for now. Your trust is enough.” He gestures to the house. “You’re welcome to stay. There’s another bathroom upstairs. We can look at the evidence together. The boys will probably come by this afternoon. They were really worried about me yesterday. I know you said you want to meet them, but you can always come back another time. They’re here most days.”

“I would like to stay,” Hannibal says, firmly.

It’s comforting, in a way. Hannibal is clearly attempting to engage with Will’s interests, in his own way, and though there might be an element of manipulation behind it, Will doesn’t mind it so much. He doubts that Hannibal can be more authentic just yet.

While he showers, Will thinks.

He thinks about Freddie Lounds, and how much time until her body is found. Matthew said the location was pretty out of the way, but that could mean anything in terms of discovery. It’s probable that the local police will handle it, but Jack might involve himself on a hunch. If he does, he’ll look into Freddie’s movements that day. It won’t be hard to find out she came to Wolf Trap, but Will is prepared to explain that, and Matthew makes for a perfect alibi.

He thinks about Abel Gideon, and how to bring him into the family. Abel has a… difficult personality, in many ways, but he’s a brilliant surgeon and he doesn’t have a lot of options. Abel only murdered his wife and in-laws after years of emotional abuse, and only killed again under intense psychological strain courtesy of Chilton and his Ripper theory. Like Finn, Abel probably would kill again, in the right circumstances, but—also like Finn—he should be considered retired unless he states otherwise. Once Will apologizes for shooting him, Dr. Gideon will see the wisdom in accepting the new life being offered to him.

He thinks about Margot Verger, and how best to protect her and her child or children. She will accept his help and Hannibal’s help separately, but when it becomes clear that they are working together, she’ll feel a lot more secure. She respects Hannibal’s strength and ferocity, but she will feel safer knowing that Will is tempering him. Margot is smart, and she knows how vulnerable she is in her current position. Will has an idea about how to help her feel more secure, but it’s going to involve some manipulations in Hannibal’s style.

He thinks, of course, about Hannibal.

Hannibal’s vulnerability as he shared about his childhood.

The heat of Hannibal’s breath against his ear.

That frustrating, infuriating focus on his own work, until he was forced to reconcile the truth of Will’s design.

His worshipful gaze, the reverence in his voice.

The feel of his hands, large and strong and confident, unusually attractive where Will has only ever wanted small and soft and delicate.

His distinctive lips, somehow so well-fitted to Will’s own; his teeth and tongue, teasing and tasting and—

Will’s fingers stop at the tender spot on his neck, the suck mark Hannibal had left. He presses, and he’s startled by the intensity of his reaction; his cock twitches, fully hard beneath the warm spray.

He considers. It’s not like he’s at somebody else’s house, and it’s important to explore any sexual thoughts toward Hannibal, to help him feel more consciously comfortable with wanting a man.

He circles the suck mark and thinks about Hannibal’s remarkable sense of smell.

Hannibal is on the living room sofa, showered and dressed in clean clothing retrieved from his car, idly browsing the stack of notes Will had been using to update his Ripper lecture. It takes a beat, after Will walks out of the downstairs bathroom and the steam dissipates, for him to look up.

His body stills, and Will watches his nostrils flare just slightly; his eyes move next, slow, sliding across the floor and up Will’s legs. His head moves as though on a delay, but only a fraction of a second behind. All this, in just a few heartbeats.

“Will,” Hannibal says, evenly; his restraint is admirable.

“I needed that,” Will says. He raises his eyebrows and gestures to the table. “Shall we?”

Hannibal appears to be wrestling with something. Will is about to (cheekily) ask him what it is when he says,

“Will… by any chance, were you able to determine how I knew about your encephalitis?”

His grin can only be described as wolfish. “By chance, yes, Hannibal, I was able to determine how you knew.”

“I see,” says Hannibal, setting the notes aside. 

Hannibal stands and, though he had been purposefully teasing, Will is still surprised by the rather visible effect he has had. Hannibal, though, shows no embarrassment or self-consciousness whatsoever; he manages a quick and unobtrusive adjustment, then moves to take a seat at the table.

As he passes in front of Will, he inhales almost meditatively and murmurs, “Such a scent could drive a man into a frenzy.” Then he ticks those red-brown eyes up to Will’s and smiles with only the corners. “Shall we?”

This is one game Will isn’t sure he’ll win, but he’s going to do his damnedest to get better before throwing in the towel.

He sits next to Hannibal at the kitchen table and pulls the thick manila folder between them. Their knees touch; Will feels thirteen again.

They open the folder and begin to flip through the contents.

It’s shockingly thorough, and damning. Good fucking riddance to Freddie Lounds regardless, but she could have done some real damage with this.

At first it looks like nothing, and realistically most of it is nothing, but in the hands of anyone at the BAU it establishes a pattern that would be almost impossible to deny, even for Hannibal.

There are articles from the society pages of every public appearance Hannibal has made in the last fifteen years, including his Baltimore debut. There are also clippings from every announcement of a dinner party or soiree hosted at Hannibal’s home. Tucked in between those are photocopies of handwritten invitations—no names included—to these parties, and clipped to many of those are menus, along with sources like interviews or social media posts from waitstaff or attendees who were gushing about the experience.

Included with every dinner party is a set of autopsy reports of the Ripper’s related victims and, highlighted, the ingredients harvested from each. Many of these have the menu items handwritten beside them.

There are photos of Hannibal, first in one of his fine suits, then a secretive shot in his swimwear. These are presented side-by-side, with notes pointing out the deceptive tailoring that makes him seem softer, weaker, less threatening.

There are blueprints of Hannibal’s home, as well as a grainy copy of the city’s steam tunnel network, with a badly blown-up portion showing where Hannibal’s house sits atop the tunnels; there are notes in that same handwriting—which Will knows isn’t Freddie’s—speculating about access.

There are accounts from nurses and hospital staff Hannibal has worked with, praising his surgical skill. His precision, his impossibly high success rate, his mastery of human anatomy.

There are, too, statements from the admissions board at Johns Hopkins detailing Hannibal’s selection for a scholarship based on his anatomical art. Copies of the submitted art pieces are clipped to those statements, with notes in the margins which appear mostly to be praise.

A series of articles is included which focuses on Hannibal’s appreciation for the fine arts community in Baltimore, particularly the master painters and sculptors of the Renaissance; he has funded several gallery exhibits and gone on record with the society page as having a deep and abiding love for the visual arts.

Next is a series of articles that seem unrelated; other crimes, mostly murder but some violent assaults, as well as a couple of suicides. There’s no obvious pattern as to why these would be included, but Will pieces it together immediately: these are all former patients. It is no surprise to Will that there are articles about himself, including articles Freddie wrote. What is odd is that all of the photos included have been cut out, or more accurately Will has been cut out of all of them, before they were photocopied.

While he’s puzzling over that, Hannibal is still flipping through the information. He grows more agitated the further back he goes, and Will has to set a hand on his wrist to slow him down enough that Will can get a good look at what’s bothering him.

These are older articles, in Italian.

Will skims them.

Il Mostro di Firenze, the Monster of Florence. A photo of Hannibal as a much younger man. Exonerated, at the time. An older man was convicted and died in prison, but one Questura detective remained convinced Hannibal was the true culprit, and had framed the other man somehow.

Clipped to this is an article about Will, once again cut from the photo, being framed and set free for the Copycat’s crimes.

Another copy of the photo of Hannibal as a young man, no older than twenty-five, dark-eyed and handsome, this time blown up to almost a full page. There are little hearts drawn around the edges of the photo.

Behind that, much older articles, mostly in French, about Hannibal’s youth. A photo of him in a group of medical students in Paris. A photo of him at a boy’s school, mid-sprint, during a rugby match. An article about Count Robertas Lecter and his beautiful young wife, the Lady Murasaki, adopting their poor nephew who was orphaned in the war. An article about Robertas Lecter’s passing, and the title of Count passing to his young nephew. An obituary for a butcher who had been beheaded; a copy of a police report which listed Hannibal Lecter VIII as primary suspect - exonerated.

Four other obituaries and a missing person’s report, all of which Hannibal tears past.

A series of photos of a massive and beautiful estate, which Hannibal shoves aside.

A birth certificate for Hannibal Lecter VIII.

A birth certificate for Mischa Lecter. Written in the margins: what happened to Mischa?

The last item is a photo of a photo in a cracked frame. Hannibal stares at it for a long time. Despite the broken glass and a bit of glare from the second camera, the details are clear enough. A woman, severe and beautiful, seated with a chubby blond baby on her knee dressed in a long white christening gown and bonnet. A man, tall and broad, eyes dark (maroon, Will would bet), hair ash blond, smiling, standing behind the woman. One hand rests on the back of the woman’s chair, the other on the shoulder of a small boy who will grow to look much like his father, but with his mother’s high cheekbones and pouting mouth.

“How,” Hannibal rasps.

“We’ll find out,” Will promises. “Whatever we have to do.”

Hannibal touches the photo of the baby. “She’s older in every memory of her I kept,” he says.

“Do you want to keep it?” asks Will, gently.

“No,” Hannibal says, and abruptly shuts the folder. “I would like to burn this, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course. All yours.” He gestures toward the back of the house. “If you’d rather, there’s a fire pit, an oven, and a kiln.” At Hannibal’s subtly lifted eyebrow, Will shrugs. “Matthew likes to make stuff. I’ve got the space. It keeps him out of trouble.”

“Unless trouble is what you need,” says Hannibal.

“Exactly.”

Hannibal hums, approving, and rises. Will decides to leave him to it. He’s had a lot of revelations in the last twelve hours, and he’ll probably benefit from a minute to himself before the family ambushes him.

He texts Matthew:

Thanks for dinner last night. Want to take the whole pack on a run today? We could go to the stream, catch something fresh, make a nice lunch?

The response takes a few minutes, long enough for Will to refill his dogs’ bowls, and he smirks when he reads it.

Thought you’d never ask, gorgeous. I’ll take every opportunity I can get to win over your pack. I’ll bring something nice for dessert. See you soon.

On a whim, he sends three more texts:

Hey, Finn—

Hey, Lilith—

Hey, papa—

—you doing anything for Thanksgiving?

Chapter Text

The responses are more or less exactly what he expected, but as ever there’s that twinge of grateful relief that comes with acceptance, even from people he knows love him.

Finn responds first, simple and to the point: Sounds like I’m coming down to see you, little brother. You just say when.

Lilith answers next, a bit more playful as is her style, but she’s also fishing to figure out what else is going on: Depends if you can beat my other offers. What’re you bringing to the table this year? 

Will texts back, All your old favorites, and some new ones. I’ve got help with the recipes this year. Need you to vet him for me.  

Her answer comes so fast he doesn’t have time to lock his phone. 

HIM?? 

Then: Booking right now.

Will isn’t actually sure how much Finn and Lilith know about his arrest. They usually only check in a couple of times a year, and he had last spoken to them just after he’d killed Hobbs, mostly so they heard it from him before it showed up on the news. He hadn’t done that with the trial, or his release. If they know, he supposes they’ll wait to talk about it face to face. 

He and his father, on the other hand, usually check in with a monthly text and a quarterly phone call. He did have his lawyer deliver a letter to his father which was more or less a restatement of his defense, but his father knew him well enough to know he was innocent of the Copycat killings, if only because he would never be so theatrical. 

They have only talked once since Will got out of the hospital, and Beau spent most of the call expressing very strong convictions about what he’d do to the Ripper if he ever got his hands on the dirty rotten bastard. That said, when Will got a word in edgewise, he reluctantly understood Will’s fascination with the Ripper, as well as the likelihood that Will would try to recruit him into the family. 

His father should, in theory, forgo straight up homicide in favor of good old-fashioned shovel talk. But, maybe Hannibal’s cosmic justice is winding up as Beau Graham’s first and only kill.

His answer takes a bit more time and is a bit more measured. He definitely knows that something is up; last time they had a family holiday, Will hadn’t even been teaching at the academy yet. It’s very fair to assume that there is some purpose to the gathering, other than the joy of a family dinner.

Was gonna be working Wednesday and Friday. Probably day of, too. Unless you’re looking to host. You get another doctorate or some such? 

No, I just miss you, says Will, and all else aside, that’s the truth. I want to get the whole family together. 

You get a new dog? 

Not since Winston. Why?  

Gotta be somebody you want us to meet. 

Will smiles and shakes his head. You got me. He considers for a moment how to explain. He’ll be helping me with the menu, he decides to type. He’s good at planning. And he doesn’t have anybody else to spend the holiday with.  

A few minutes pass. Will checks his phone anxiously, as though it might have buzzed without him noticing. Finally, his father texts back, 

Aw, rip my heart out, why don’t you. Fine, but this fella of yours better know what he’s getting into. It’s any parent’s right and responsibility to protect their kids. I ain’t gonna go easy on him, no matter how good he cooks. You just tell him.

His dad always makes it seem so effortless. He knows they’re talking about the Ripper. He knows there’s more to be said as far as ensuring a guy like that will even fit in with the family. He clearly knows Will’s fascination turned out to be a lot less platonic than Will intended. And, most importantly, he’s acknowledged what will probably be served at the table, though he is reluctant to partake.

I’m sure he knows, but I’ll tell him. You get time off, I’ll get your tickets squared away, okay?  

Don’t worry about the time. I’ll find however much you need. Been too long since I saw my boy. Just sort the flight up there, we’ll figure out the return when you start to get sick of me. 

Better pack everything then, papa. Just to be safe.

Cute. I’ll keep an eye on my e-mails. Love you kid.

Love you too, Will replies, and starts searching for flights.

It’s still October, not even Halloween yet, so there’s plenty of time. He just knows himself well enough to know he’ll get anxious about it if he doesn’t sort it all out early.

He’s still looking, debating his preferred dates with the most affordable ones, when Matthew and Randall arrive. They stroll straight in through the front door—which Will is okay with, provided he knows they’re coming—and excitedly greet the dogs, who of course know better by now than to jump or bark at either of them. 

“Tell me I understood you right, Will,” says Matthew, his eyes shining with glee. “Tell me he’s here. Tell me we get to meet him.”

“I already met him,” grumbles Randall, and Matthew waves him away.

“Yeah, as Dr. Lecter. Technically so did I. It’s not the same. Y’know, I had to be the guy who turned him away from seeing you most times he came to the hospital?” His gaze goes glassy. “How much you wanna bet I got on his list?”

“That’d be like screaming at a grocery clerk over store policy. The Ripper doesn’t just kill anybody who tells him no. He targets people he thinks are rude.” Will is curled up on his couch; he gestures for his boys to sit anywhere, and they both wisely choose spaces that are not directly beside him. He had worried a little that Matthew would push his luck, but it seems like his celebrity crush has won out. “And yes, he’s here. He should be back inside any minute. He was dealing with that folder we got from Freddie.”

“Anything good in there?” asks Randall. 

“Well. You and I weren’t the only patients he toyed with, but we already knew that.” He inclines his head toward Matthew. “Don’t suppose you saw anything in her files that might have given away her source?”

Matthew shrugs. “I wasn’t looking. I checked for trackers, pulled the hard drive, and scrubbed the rest. Same with the phone. Set up a deadman switch on her desktop. Kinda thing that a shitty paranoid ‘journalist’ might have had in case she got arrested. There’s time if you want me to break back into her place to look at the desktop before it triggers. But I also haven’t had the time yet to brick the other drives, so there’s plenty I can pull from there.”

“I’m not sending you back to her apartment. What you have should give us something. All we need is a thread to pull.”

“See, Rendy? I can hunt, too.”

“Yeah, ones and zeroes make for stimulating prey,” Randall drawls.

“Simulating prey,” Will says, and the Beast snickers.

“Take me on a real hunt, then. Show me how it’s done. I’m a good mimic. Bet I can rip ‘em apart just as well as you can.”

Will holds up a finger and points it at the kitchen. “Alright, enough,” he says to the looming figure in the doorway. “You’ve been there a full minute waiting for a dramatic moment to walk in but you’re just giving me anxiety. Come sit down.”

Hannibal doesn’t pout visibly, but Will can feel it in the proud lift of his chin and his long, elegant stride. He wants to look so put together, even though his drama has been foiled again.

Hannibal pauses for just a moment outside the semicircle of seating. Matthew stands up, but Randall stays curled in his chair, not quite growling, his hand resting on top of Duke’s head. 

The doctor offers his hand to Matthew. 

“Mr. Brown,” he says as they shake, “it is a pleasure to meet you under more honest circumstances.”

“Dr. Lecter, sir, pleasure’s all mine, really. We’ve been taking real good care of Will, and he’s been real good to us. Can’t tell you how exciting it is, having you with us,” Matthew says, and then rushes to sit back down, clinging to the edge of his seat like a kid on Christmas.

Hannibal’s attention falls on the Beast.

“Randall,” he says, pleasantly. “Hale and hearty, I see.”

“No thanks to you,” Randall snaps. Will makes a very low, soothing sound, and gestures just slightly with three fingers, a slow drag almost like he’s petting the air. Randall closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them again, he unfurls his body a little bit and says, “Actually, if you hadn’t sent me after Will, I would probably have gotten myself killed. So, thank you. I have a strong pack now, and it’ll be stronger with you in it.”

Hannibal accepts this with a classic crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the barest incline of his head, and then he takes the last few steps to the sofa to take his rightful place next to Will. He makes himself comfortable, crossing his ankle over his knee, his arm casually laid across the back of the couch, not touching Will’s shoulders but making a clear statement of ownership. Will manages, with monumental effort, not to roll his eyes.

Frankly the whole thing goes better than Will expected. Hannibal is on his best behavior, likely in part due to their proximity and the intense aura of shut the fuck up for once in your life radiating off of Will. Matthew is surprisingly good at playing it cool in the face of his serial killer idol; there’s no shop talk, just casual discussion about their work (and, of course, an undercurrent of the cover it provides). Hannibal does actually thank Matthew for providing Will with support during his incarceration, but otherwise it’s almost normal. Randall doesn’t say much, but he often doesn’t, and he’ll certainly need some time before he trusts Hannibal.

Eventually, though, Will’s exhaustion begins to catch up with him. He gets quieter; his responses grow shorter and further between. He begins to tap his thumb and bounce his knee, and every time he notices, he reins it in again. He sits straight, posture stiff, his focus drifting to various things around the room. 

Usually Matthew would catch that sort of thing pretty quickly, since he’s normally so locked in on Will, but with Hannibal at center stage it’s understandable for his focus to be drawn. Randall, too, tends to be able to read the minute changes in Will’s mood, but he’s also staring at Hannibal like the man intends to cut everybody to ribbons at a moment’s notice.

Winston pads over and places his head on Will’s traitorous knee to still it, right about the same time Hannibal’s hand on the back of the couch slides down to rest at the base of Will’s neck. While Winston whuffs, Hannibal’s fingers begin to gently knead and he leans over to say into Will’s ear,

“When was the last time you slept, Will?”

Suddenly the room is quieter. The boys glance at each other and sit straight.

“Technically,” Will murmurs, “I slept in the car on the way to Muskrat Farm.”

“I’m not sure that counts,” says Hannibal, though there’s a touch of amusement.

“When did you sleep?”

“I require much less sleep than most people. But I intend to sleep tonight.”

“That door’s not fixed yet,” says Matthew.

“I think I’ll be safe for one more night,” says Will. “Seven dogs, remember.”

“Seven dogs and the Chesapeake Ripper,” says Randall, and there’s no hostility in his voice. “Can’t think of better protection than that.”

Hannibal huffs a soft laugh. “I don’t think dear Will had intended on having anyone stay with him tonight. Or am I mistaken?”

“You’re not mistaken. I just need to be alone sometimes.”

“I don’t require an explanation, Will.”

“And you know we don’t,” says Matthew, and Randall nods emphatically. “You need what you need. You just let us know if you need the day tomorrow and it’s yours. Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch downward just slightly.

“Thanks,” says Will. “A lot has happened. Just… take it easy, quiet end to a weird weekend. You guys were out here, building, sculpting. You know the drill. Feel free to come back during the week.”

“Does that invitation extend to me, as well?” asks Hannibal, and Will snorts.

“Of course it does. You’re part of the family now, Hannibal. No getting out of it now. If you wanted out, you had a chance not to meet them.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth lifts into the tiniest of smiles. “If I desperately wish for a way out, I assure you I will find it. But, thankfully, I am fascinated by this project of yours and my curiosity demands that I see it through.”

“We’re not a project,” Randall snaps. “This is different than what you do to people, Dr. Lecter. Will’s not playing with us. He cares about us.”

“He’ll figure it out,” Matthew says, patting Randall’s shoulder. “Took us our own time to see it. Gonna take him longer, I bet. Unless Will resorts to special tactics.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Will scoffs. “C’mon. I’ll take you home, Rendy. See ya, doc. G’night, gorgeous.”

“Night, guys. And thank you, again.”

“You’d have done it for us,” says Randall, and—very quickly, clearly embarrassed by the gesture—before he heads for the door, he leans down to softly bonk his head against Will’s. “Um. Night,” he calls, fleeing the house just ahead of a grinning Matthew Brown.

Will is touched. It reminds him of the way the rest of his pack headbutts him, affectionate and trusting.

Hannibal looks like he’s trying to keep his face controlled, and the twitching of little muscles would be funny if Will wasn’t so tired.

“Your boys are… interesting,” Hannibal says.

“You don’t like that we’re close. You don’t want them to be more important to me than you are. You don’t like to share.” Will doesn’t let Hannibal start in with protestations: “You’re not sharing anything, Hannibal. They’re my siblings. We’d die for each other, we love each other, we support each other. But it’s different.” Hannibal looks like he’s struggling, so Will gentles his voice and asks, “When you look at me, do you feel anything close to how you feel about Mischa?”

Hannibal frowns, but he appears to take the question seriously. After a long stretch of silence, he finally says, “Mischa was the light of my life. I wished to shield that light from the horror of the world by taking it on myself, embracing my own darkness, gaining the capability to destroy any and all monsters who dared to crawl from under the bed. I wished to nurture her light by culling the shade when it grew too thick. I wanted her to grow and bring that light to the rest of the world. When I think of you, I think more of the way I wish to protect myself. It is…” He touches his chest. “It’s a dark and fearsome beast pacing within my breast, a terrible and patient creature with covetous claws. The thought of you being taken from me is as unthinkable as the thought of losing my own freedom. You are a piece of me. You have wound yourself throughout my memory palace inextricably. I would crack open my ribs and make a home for you there to keep you close.”

Will gives him a moment, to see if he has more poetry to spout, and then says, “So… no. You feel differently toward your sister than you do toward me.” He pauses, then says, “Not that, I mean… It’s just, I’m illustrating a point, that’s all. It just feels different, that’s all I mean.”

Hannibal is still frowning, looking at his hands.

“Homicidal obsession cannot be what it’s meant to feel like,” he murmurs.

“Well. It’s… layered, usually,” Will hedges. “Like, I feel affection for my family, and I feel warm when we’re together. I feel safe.”

“Do you feel safe with me, Will?”

“God, no. You framed me for murder. You’ve got a long way to go.” He shakes his head, affectionately. “But, it is so much easier being with you than with anyone else. I feel… seen. And wanted.”

“You think Matthew does not want you?”

“Sure. But he’s a guy, Hannibal. And he knows I’m not into guys. He just flirts with everyone he feels safe with, because he can be himself.”

“Need I continually remind you that I, too, am a man?”

“No, but, you’re you. It’s different.” He rubs at his temple. “Look, this is a conversation for another time. Suffice it to say, I feel very differently toward you than I do toward my family.”

“In that you love them,” Hannibal says.

Will sighs, his hand fully covering his eyes now. “Yeah, Hannibal. I love them in a familial kind of way.”

“And you do not love me in the same way.”

“No, you get your own unique category. Happy?”

There’s a very long silence, and Will thinks for a crazed minute that Hannibal got up and left somehow without him noticing. He lifts his face from his hand, eyes heavy and bloodshot, and sees Hannibal frozen beside him, staring.

He mentally revisits the last few minutes of the conversation, and then lets out a frustrated sigh.

“I haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. Don’t make it a big deal.”

“Will, I—”

“Don’t.” He puts his face back into his hand. “Just. Let it happen organically, not because of a goddamn fluke.”

Hannibal shifts beside him. “Very well,” he says, softly. “Would you like any assistance before I go? Something to eat, a glass of water?”

“No. I’ll sleep for a few hours and then I’ll eat something. Probably.”

“May I bring you a meal tomorrow evening?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be okay.”

Hannibal places a feather-light kiss on Will’s temple.

“As you wish,” he says, like it’s the goddamn Princess Bride.

Will wonders if Hannibal has ever seen it. 

He doubts it.

There isn’t enough time to settle into a permanent routine before the holidays, but they make an effort.

With Matthew, it’s easy to maintain what they had going. Since he works two to ten on weekdays, he mostly comes by on weekends, and checks on the dogs on his way into Baltimore for work. As it happens, he only lives about twenty minutes from Will, and he has frequent opportunities to switch shifts, so at least once during the week (usually Wednesdays) he’ll show up about the time Will gets back from work, with Randall in tow, and they’ll all have dinner together.

Randall is easier. His job at the museum is mostly a nine to five, but he has occasional duties which demand that he stay late to finish putting a display together. On dinner nights Matthew picks him up from work—although most of the time he prefers to run home—and on Tuesday evenings, usually, he comes by on his own to work on his suit or play with Will and the dogs.

They visit Peter together every other Saturday or so, so as not to overwhelm him, and Peter has begun to attend every alternating dinner night. He sticks with Randall, mostly, but he and Will always make time for a quiet chat while walking the dogs.

Will trusts Peter’s instincts. At first, when Peter meets Hannibal, he is intensely wary, but not in a way that indicates fear, necessarily. He seems aloof, almost avoidant, until Hannibal cautiously approaches him to ask—in his softest, most non-threatening tone—if he had enjoyed dinner.

Peter had bobbed his head and said a polite, “Very, it was v-very good, thanks. You got a good nose on you, find all the freshest things. I-I was impressed. Liked it very much, thank you, doctor.”

Hannibal had walked away flattered, and Will had asked Peter about it on their walk later.

“Like a c-cat,” Peter explained. “Me, a rat. Sm-smarter than I get credit for, people think I’m worse’n I am, got a b-bite on me but, rats are sweet, ‘cept the ones who learn they gotta fight. I could fight. I do better with chew-chewin’ on wires and goin’ places people rather not see me.” He gestures behind them, back at the house. “Matt, like a shark.”

“He called Clark that,” Will had said. “Shark-eyes.”

Peter had shaken his head, sharp, abrupt. “N-no. Hippopotamus. Look cute, people think so, think they’re harmless ‘cause they got them wide smiles. But angry. So angry, stomp folks to death they get in close. Matt, more like a shark. Shark, smells blood for miles. Hunts alone, together, depends on the shark. Perfect hunter, millions of years. But shark, he don’t hate what he hunts. He just doin’ what he know to do. And shark can connect with people. Get familiar, s-seek affection. Depends on the shark.”

“Okay. Rat, shark.”

“Ran, a wolf. Not a man. You know that. Young wolf, needed a pack. Teeth and claws and born to hunt, but social. Needs guidance, needs to learn. On his own, wolf go a little crazy, get mean, get killed by somethin’ he shouldn’a fought.”

“Okay. And Hannibal is like a cat.”

“Mountain lion, leopard. Tiger. Lion. Barn cat.”

“Barn cat is a bit different to the others.”

“Not so much. Barn cat decides to stay in the barn, only ‘cause there’s plenty to eat. But he’s a wild thing, like the others. You only see him when he wants you to see him. You see him, either you’re a-already dead or, he thinks, not a threat. Move like liquid in the dark, a cat. Play with their food. Rip it up, give the organs as a gift.” He had paused, shuffled his feet, knelt down to pat a panting Buster. “Important thing, let a cat approach you. Sniff you out. Decide you’re alright. That’s how to stay safe. ‘Cause, cats tame themselves, but any creature does that, it can go feral again any moment. Don’t wanna get shredded, Will.”

“I’ll remember.” Will had stopped to throw a stick and, as an afterthought, he’d asked, “What about me?”

“You?” Peter tilted his head from side to side. “Stoat.”

“Hannibal once called me a mongoose.”

“Same family. Stoats are beautiful. Blend in good. Ermine in the winter, barely see it on the snow. Vicious little things, fight animals four times their size and win. People want to tame them, think because they’re pretty they must make good pets, but they got wild hearts. Mongoose is good, too. Killers of killers.” Peter had nodded. “I like mongoose.”

Will sporadically goes for drinks with the BAU science team on Friday nights. This is part of an ongoing project, but he also just likes spending time with them because they’re morbid and funny and having friends separate from your family is important. He also texts Beverly pictures of his dogs and things sometimes. She appreciates the effort.

So far, just once, on a seemingly random Monday in the middle of November, Will gets coffee with Margot Verger before work. She looks much better; healthier, brighter, blossoming almost explosively like a fish brought up from crush depth. She’s been so stuck in the boundaries of her own flesh for so long, she doesn’t know how to be now that she has attained freedom. There’s no word about Mason, no indication anyone knows he’s missing yet, and she has two surrogates who have gone through the implantation process. She’ll find out soon if one or both of them were successful. 

It is during this coffee meeting that Will casually invites Margot for a dinner party at Dr. Lecter’s home in the first week of December, sort of a post-holiday Thanksgiving celebration, quiet, limited guest list, just some friends from the FBI and some of Hannibal’s socialite acquaintances. Margot warily accepts; she can tell Will is up to something, but he watches her shuffle through the possibilities and determine that his intentions aren’t bad. He would have invited her to the family Thanksgiving, but, well… she isn’t quite fully invested yet. It’s different for Margot, who is going to need incentive to give the family a chance considering what family has meant for her up to this point. Will’s working on that.

With Hannibal as busy as he is, and as possessive as he is, he tries to find little pockets of time he can schedule to spend with Will and gets very frustrated when these things don’t go as planned. He wants Will to come over for dinner on Thursdays at his old therapy time slot, and sometimes that works out but sometimes Will has to stay late and Thursdays are usually his cram days, where he catches up on everything he let lag during the week. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Hannibal, but he’s busy, too.

In direct response, Hannibal starts showing up two or three times a week to bring Will lunch.

This is wildly irresponsible, as it’s at least forty-five minutes both ways, and Hannibal is spending at least thirty minutes making sure that Will properly enjoys whatever it is he’s been presented that day. When Will presses about it, Hannibal simply shrugs and says,

“Certain patients have become significantly less interesting since I have been providing only traditional treatments, so I provided them with referrals in order to scale back my practice. It leaves a comfortable gap several days per week, barring emergency sessions.” After a beat, he adds, “It isn’t as though I need the money. My inheritance was significant, and my investments have been successful. I could live quite comfortably, even with my tastes, for the remainder of my life, even if I were to lose access to the Lecter accounts. It would simply bore me to do so.”

In honesty, Will likes Hannibal’s need to be close. He likes that Hannibal can’t go the whole thirty minutes without touching him, even if it’s just a light guiding hand on his lower back. He’s gotten bolder, and Will is getting more comfortable with Hannibal’s touch. The other day, Hannibal had casually brushed Will’s curls away from his forehead, and Will had leaned into it with a little sigh that had caused Hannibal’s pupils to dilate near-instantly. Will even likes that Hannibal gets agitated when Will can’t make their semi-regular Thursday dinners. He eagerly anticipates the night Hannibal will grow so frustrated that he will just show up to Will’s office with dinner.

These lunch meetings have had the secondary effect of creating more office gossip than Will wants to have to deal with, but that was inevitable. Though they meet privately, people still put it together pretty quickly that whenever Dr. Lecter shows up on campus with a soft cooler at lunchtime, Professor Graham also disappears. It’s inevitable that somebody will confront them about it. Expectedly, Beverly brings it up during a Friday night drinks session, and when Will reluctantly confirms that he and Dr. Lecter are ‘feeling things out,’ Zeller groans and drops his head into his hands, apparently now on the hook for the whole night’s tab. Will is, of course, not reluctant to share this information, but he’s still playing a character.

Bev and Jimmy are happy for him, which he anticipated, but Brian actually stops him for a minute on the way out of the bar to awkwardly say he, too, is glad Will and Hannibal are giving it a shot, and he hopes it works out. Will has mercy on him; he laughs and shrugs and says,

“Hey, thanks for supporting my sexuality crisis. Promise if things don’t work out I’ll vouch that I was clearly straight the whole time so Jimmy and Bev should give you your money back.”

Brian laughs, and for once things are actually pretty decent between them.

Naturally, things with Alana get… tense.

The first time Hannibal comes to campus with lunch, in fact, she runs into him on his way to Will’s office and assumes that he is there for her. Hannibal is too much of a gentleman to share the awkward details of that encounter, but Will assumes it was embarrassing for her. She’s not there all the time, but she covers classes a few times a week and there’s a remarkable level of overlap Will suspects is intentional, because it’s Hannibal and everything is intentional.

She doesn’t say anything for the first couple of weeks, but one Thursday afternoon—the one day Hannibal never brings lunch, since Will is meant to come over for dinner—she comes to his office with her reasonable and completely impersonal concerns.

“I’m worried, Will,” she says. “I’m worried because I’m hearing rumors that there’s something going on between you and Hannibal, and I don’t know what to think.”

“Rumors?” Will repeats, glancing up over the rim of his glasses.

“People talk. They see Hannibal bringing you lunch, coming all the way here from Baltimore to bring you lunch, and they talk.” She crosses her arms over her pretty, form-fitting azure dress. It makes her eyes look like ice chips. “Tell me there’s nothing going on between you.”

Will continues to watch her for a beat, then takes his glasses off and sighs. “I’m not going to lie to you. You didn’t even ask nicely.” The pink of outrage spreads high on her cheeks and her expression pinches; before she has to put too much effort into containing her righteous indignation, he says, “He’s just been there, y’know? After I got out, he was there. He was on my side the whole time, and that meant so much, even though I didn’t see him while I was locked up. We were friends before. And he kept being my friend after, like nothing changed. It was comforting, and safe, and easy with him, the way it hasn’t been with anyone else.”

There’s that twinge of guilt. He can’t pluck it too hard, or it’ll snap and the indignation will override it. He switches tacks. 

“And I’ve never—I mean, I thought I had myself figured out back in college, but he’s just… different. It’s been slow, getting to this point. It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t impulsive. This shook me to my foundations.”

There are cracks in the facade, her eyes softening, her hands clutched together, wringing like she wants to hug him. He drives it home.

“Don’t come in here acting like we’re being irresponsible. We’re both grown adults and we’re taking it slow because I am terrified, Alana.” He puts his hand over his mouth and swallows hard. “Oh my god, I’m terrified he’s going to realize how much work I am. Why would he waste his time waiting for me? That’s so much to ask.”

It’s enough. Alana breaks, and glides forward into the seat across the desk from him. She reaches out and places a comforting hand overtop his.

“I’m sorry, Will, I didn’t mean to—It’s, I was just… I never thought… and you’ve been struggling, of course you have. Have you been talking to anybody about this? Other than Hannibal, I mean?”

“No! I, I mean, I guess, Beverly, a little? But she’s mostly just excited about it, she doesn’t get the…” He waves his hand around, fluttering, vague. “It’s simple, to her. We have a spark, we pursue it. And I wish it was that easy. But he and I have been talking about it.”

Alana frowns, chewing the inside of her lip. “Hannibal shouldn’t be acting in any sort of psychiatric capacity for you, Will. It’s an ethics—”

He pulls his hand away from hers. “We had one official session, where he cleared me for duty after Hobbs, over a year ago now. He’s not my psychiatrist and he never has been. Talking about our relationship, talking through concerns and difficulties I have that directly affect him, that’s not acting in a psychiatric capacity, Alana, that’s being a romantic partner.”

She purses her lips, but says, “I… yes, you’re right. It’s just a fine line. And I’ve known you both a lot longer than you’ve known each other, so I’m worried about the potential pitfalls you might not be thinking about. Hannibal has certain social obligations that would be difficult for you, and he won’t be able to turn off his professional interest in your case. You’re a very… emotionally intense person due to your empathy disorder, and that can be like catnip to a psychiatric practitioner. He might not be able to help trying to treat you, and you would hate that.”

It’s funny how much it parallels the conversation Hannibal and Will had once had about Alana.

Will just shakes his head. “So he’s Dr. Pristine Socialite and I’m an anti-social freak covered in dog hair. Fundamentally incompatible lifestyles.”

“That isn’t what I’m saying.”

“No, you’re saying you think he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from pushing me outside my comfort zones and you also think I’d prefer not to leave them under any circumstances.”

Her frown deepens. “It’s a reasonable concern. I just want you two to both be happy, and I’m not sure I trust that you can be that for each other.”

Will slumps back in his chair. “By all rights, you’d be a better match.”

She looks a bit caught out. “Will, this isn’t about—”

“No, it is. Empathy disorder, remember.”

Now she’s embarrassed and stricken. “I promise, I wasn’t trying to—”

“You’re right, is the thing. It’s been on my mind since Hannibal first told me he felt something between us. Shouldn’t you be saying this to Alana? She’d suit you so much better, wouldn’t she? Don’t you want someone you can show off? Don’t you want someone who won’t embarrass you? Don’t you want someone who won’t take so much work? ” He picks at the arm of his chair anxiously. “I’ve been insecure about it, because you’re clearly the choice he should make, and what the hell is he thinking? But, I have to believe him when he says he wants this. Me. Because I want to believe him.”

She’s silent, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, for a few heartbeats. Then, she says, “Hannibal initiated things?”

Got her.

“Yeah,” says Will, tiredly.

“When?”

Of course she wants to know when. See if it lines up with all their little outings. The monster in him wants to dig its claws into her stomach and tear.

He runs a hand through his hair and says, “I dunno. Couple of months ago. Like I said, we’re taking things really slow. I guess it’s not even technically a defined relationship.” He glances at her, his brow furrowed. “You thought I was the one who went after him?”

“It just… seemed more likely.”

“Why? ”

She doesn’t have an answer, or at least not one that she’s willing to share, so she just sighs and says, “I’m sorry for the ambush, Will. I really do just want you both to be happy. Whatever that looks like.”

“Thank you. I know it’s been weird, and this is not going to help, but thank you for trying to be a good friend to both of us.”

He’s sure Hannibal will be similarly ambushed, but for Will’s part he’s made her feel bad enough that she’ll leave him alone. That’s all he wants, really.

It’s the middle of November now. His family will start arriving on the 22nd. Before they do, and in part thanks to that conversation he had with Alana, Will realizes that he wants to define things with Hannibal.

This is such a juvenile way of thinking about it, in some ways. Define things. As if they ever needed a conventional explanation for what they are to each other.

And yet, there’s appeal in having a shared foundation from which to approach the world. How is he supposed to introduce Hannibal to his family if he’s stumbling over the word choice?

This is the serial killer lightning rod who threw me into a sexuality crisis at 38 years old. 

This is my cannibalistic situationship. 

This is the murderer whose art haunts my sexiest nightmares and my most violent dreams. 

This is maybe an old god in human skin, but even gods have gods and I guess I’m his. 

This guy will probably eat my ass at some point, dealer’s choice on which way I mean that.

In any case, the Thursday before Thanksgiving, Will goes to Hannibal’s place, ostensibly to discuss final preparations for the holiday dinner as well as the dinner party the week after. Hannibal has just sent the invitations to the latter, though he had raised his eyebrows a bit at Will’s contribution to the guest list.

As ever, Hannibal greets him at the door, his person-suit immaculate, but Will knows as soon as the door closes it’s going to start coming apart at the seams. That’s what he wants, and he knows how to speed it up a bit.

He closes the door behind himself and, in a move that he hopes comes across as being smoother than it feels, grabs Hannibal by the collar and pulls him forward into an abrupt, crushing kiss.

He’s just slightly taller, since Hannibal’s shoes are off, so he presses the advantage; he turns them and pushes Hannibal’s back against the door, taking what he wants, breathing in Hannibal’s appreciative groan. He drags his hand up to muss Hannibal’s hair. He allows himself to enjoy a languid, playful tangle of tongues for just long enough to feel Hannibal’s arousal against his thigh, then he pulls back with a teasing nip to Hannibal’s lower lip. His laugh is breathy as he shucks off his jacket and toes off his shoes.

“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal says, thickly.

“Hi,” says Will. 

“I missed you today,” he says, as though that explains anything.

Impossible creature.

“You put me in the terrible position of choosing whether or not to encourage you to miss me in the future,” he says, and Will tilts his head toward the kitchen with a wink.

As he follows Hannibal, Will says, “I think the more time we spend together, the more I miss you in between. If that helps.”

“Immensely,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will’s affectionate mood spans the evening. It is delightful and torturous all at once. He is freer with touch than normal, even bold enough to press his body against Hannibal’s back and wrap his arms around Hannibal’s middle as he’s piping the filling into the evening’s dessert. He leaves a trail of hot little kisses along Hannibal’s shoulder.

The scent of him is overwhelming, and mingles with the residual scent of dinner and dessert and wine. He’s aroused, that much is certain, but it’s difficult to tell what his intentions are.

“Did you need something, Will?” Hannibal says, setting aside the piping bag.

“Yeah,” Will says. “Need to talk.”

“Is that what this is? Talking?”

The sound of Will’s chuckle is lost, but the vibration of it tickles pleasantly against Hannibal’s shoulder blade.

“This is easier, surprisingly.”

“Ah, a serious talk, then.”

“My family is coming to town and I don’t know what to tell them about you. I mean, us.” Will’s forehead rests against the back of Hannibal’s head, and his breath is warm against Hannibal’s neck. “Bev and them know we’re, ah… trying things out. It’ll make it back to Jack, eventually, but I don’t think there’s much he can do about it. Alana wasn’t happy.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, drily, “I had a rather unpleasant conversation with Alana earlier this week. She accused me of taking advantage of you during a vulnerable time in your life.”

Alana had, more specifically, approached the conversation from a position of moral outrage stemming from the fact that Hannibal had ‘made his move’ a mere two months after Will’s release from the BSHCI, and as the experience was clearly traumatizing for Will, Hannibal expressing interest was predatory and ethically objectionable. Hannibal had, naturally, pointed out that Will had been remarkably well-adjusted, and had been cleared to return to work with the FBI around the same time. With his encephalitis cured, Will was no longer vulnerable or unstable. He was well within his right mind, and if he did not feel a connection with Hannibal, Will could simply have reminded Hannibal of his heterosexuality.

“Yeah. She tried to say you’re too elegant and aristocratic for me, more or less. But only because she cares about my wellbeing obviously.”

The sudden and intense desire to tear out Alana Bloom’s insides would have been much more difficult to ignore, but for the fact that he would have to leave Will’s arms to get it done. Will seems to know what he’s thinking, because he flattens a hand against Hannibal’s stomach and glides it upward, toward his sternum.

“She just wanted you for herself,” Will says, his lips whispering against Hannibal’s skin. “But you’re mine. Aren’t you?”

“Entirely,” says Hannibal. He leans back, and Will tightens his embrace.

“What does that mean though? I hate to sound like a teenager,” Will says, softly, “but what are we, Hannibal?”

It’s a fair question. He has never been fond of terms like ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover’ given that they strike him as childish and needlessly suggestive, respectively, though when he has taken lovers in the past who served no more than that purpose, he did not shy away from referring to them as such. Will, though, is something altogether different.

“I feel that partner is an appropriate term,” Hannibal says, “if that is something you would be comfortable with.”

“A little on the nose,” Will replies, not without humor.

“Perhaps. But, you know how I enjoy double entendre.”

Will is quiet, his fingers absently rubbing against the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt, snagging on the seams and buttons.

“So… we’re definitely together, then,” he finally says.

Hannibal catches his hands and draws them up to his mouth, kissing his fingertips. “Nothing and no one will ever take you from me,” he says.

The sound Will makes is muffled, but the press of his body speaks clearly enough. He tightens his arms around Hannibal’s chest, his hands still caught in Hannibal’s, and he kisses the side of Hannibal’s neck. When he steps back, Hannibal feels utterly bereft. The loss of his warmth, of his touch, plucks and shreds at the edges of his person suit. He feels a snarl boiling up his throat, and his fingers itch to take hold of what is his, what should only be able to live in his arms.

By the time he has wrestled himself under enough control to turn around, Will is seated at the kitchen table with a notebook. He is reviewing the menu for next week’s gathering, and his eyebrows are drawn together in thought. Hannibal would like nothing more than to distract him, to kiss away the stress, to lay him across the table and lick and bite and taste and—

“Have you never had a normal Thanksgiving?” he asks, and Hannibal’s train of thought is thoroughly derailed.

He places the tray of filled pastries in the refrigerator to chill as he whips up the accompanying sauce.

“I am merely suggesting alternatives to some of the more repulsive options. You are dear to me, Will, but if I am expected to consume jellied cranberry sauce from a can, I will expect an equal favor, and I do not think you appreciate just how repugnant the idea is.”

“Y’know, I used to hate the stuff when I was a kid. We got it from the food bank at the holidays. Papa would just put it on the table sliced up into discs.” Hannibal can’t stop the curl of his lip, but Will’s laughter softens his disgust. “I learned when I got older that it’s a lot better if you mix it first. Like, with a fork or something. Serve it as an actual jelly, not as a… gelatinous cylinder. Pairs really nicely with the turkey.” He points at the list. “You want to home make cranberry sauce? Is it gonna have actual cranberries in it?”

“Yes. Orange peel, sugar, various spices.”

Will wrinkles his nose. It’s heart-melting.

“I’m not sure I’ll like the texture.”

“You are free to provide your own can of cranberry jelly, if you wish.”

“And the sweet potato casserole, it’s got to have tiny marshmallows.”

Hannibal winces. “The brown sugar should be sufficiently—”

“It’s not about balancing flavors, Hannibal, it’s about tooth-rotting sweetness.”

He sighs. The things he will do for this man.

“Very well. What else?”

Will skims the list. “Well. You don’t need to make apple pie. Papa and I will make ours. Don’t need you showing us up. And, this is maybe a weird ask, but do you know how to make pierogies?” Hannibal nods, cocking his head to one side, and Will says, “When Finn was a kid he only got to see his grandma at holidays and she’d make pierogies. It’s a nostalgia thing for him, like, the one good part of his childhood. For Lilith, it’s gonna hurt but you’re gonna have to just let me make her a green bean casserole because everything’s gonna come out of a can and you won’t be able to stomach it.”

Hannibal blanches. “Everything?”

“Yep. Green beans from a can. Canned cream of mushroom soup. Little box of pre-baked french onion bits. Salt and pepper. That's it.” 

“That sounds—” He makes a face he’s not sure he could replicate.

“It’s for her, not for you. You can make your fancy one with fresh green beans and fancy mushrooms and dates or whatever. Oh, some kind of tartare for Randall. Matthew just wanted something bacon-wrapped.” He pauses, then says, “I don’t think anybody will have much issue with the cannibalism, except Papa and Peter.”

“I had intended on using conventional ingredients for this meal,” Hannibal admits.

“Right,” says Will, turning back to his list, “it’s not fun for you if they know what they’re eating and don’t mind. Unless it’s me.”

Hannibal resists the urge to drop to his knees and crawl across the floor to worship at Will’s feet. His casual understanding and acceptance are just—

“You’ve been mixing that for an awful long time,” Will says, conversationally, still browsing the list.

He has. He sets the whisk aside and retrieves his pastries.

“Would you care for dessert, Will?”

“You know I would.”

“I’m afraid you will be forced to taste something other than sugar.”

“You know that’s a special occasion food for a reason. And you know I like your cooking. Don’t pout. We make concessions sometimes to give the kind and supportive people in our lives a little joy. It costs nothing.”

“Apart from the cost of ingredients,” Hannibal drawls, bringing over a plate, and Will laughs under his breath.

“Maybe it’s more accurate to say it’s no hardship.”

“I assure you, I will be in excruciating pain all evening.”

Will shoves the notebook aside and leans forward.

“Those look good. They have some fancy name?”

“You know very well that they do.”

“Look something like eclairs.”

“They are something like eclairs.”

“Don’t tell me,” says Will. “Just give me a taste.”

He parts his lips and leans further over the table.

Hannibal’s stomach tightens, and heat crawls up his spine. He lifts one of the pastries in remarkably stable fingers and holds it to Will’s perfect, plush mouth. Will isn’t particularly graceful with his bite, but the drag of his tongue chasing the cream from his lips is captivating.

Again, Will has Hannibal throbbing beneath the kitchen table. Worse, he knows exactly what he’s doing. The ache of Hannibal’s need is sparked with every breath as he takes in the unmistakable scent of Will’s arousal, and he lives for Will’s vicious teasing.

“Mm,” says Will. “Missing something.”

Hannibal blinks. Will slowly pushes the plate to the side and beckons; Hannibal leans forward, and Will rises in his chair slightly to meet him with a filthy kiss, his fingers twining in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal would return the favor, but one of his hands his sticky and the other is gripping the tabletop. He pushes back, his tongue teasing Will’s, tasting the perfect dessert—made that way, of course, by the taste of Will.

They break apart. Will’s eyes are bright and his pupils are wide; Hannibal is panting slightly.

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, belatedly, “it was missing something.”

“Mm. But we found it. Tasted much better that way.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, his accent softening the name into barely more than just a noise.

“I want to try something with you, just to see what happens,” Will murmurs, his tempting pink lips mere inches from Hannibal’s; Hannibal swallows and nods, shifting in his seat for the tiniest measure of relief. “Take me upstairs?”

The temptation exists to throw Will over his shoulder and carry him bodily up to his bedroom, but he can control himself. He takes Will by the hand instead, only peripherally aware of the fact that he is abandoning the dessert and its related dishes, and leads him at a speed that is just shy of running. He shoulders open his bedroom door and backs into the room, holding both of Will’s hands. He is giddy at the prospect of anything, whatever it is. Just to see Will in any state of undress, something he can commit to paper at a later time, something to feed the ravenous hunger inside of him.

Will begins to look nervous, but his arousal is heightened.

“Kiss me,” Will says, and Hannibal obliges instantly.

Their bodies are pressed together from forehead to hips, their legs shuffling to maintain a suddenly precarious balance. The pulse of Will’s erection thrums against Hannibal’s thigh, and he groans into Will’s hot, luscious mouth. His hand is still sticky but he no longer cares; both hands slide through Will’s godly curls, providing purchase for Hannibal’s aggressive, needy lips to map every angle and sweeping line of Will’s.

He pulls away only because he needs to breathe, and Will gasps for air that will soon belong to Hannibal as well. Will’s hands are curled like claws in the back of Hannibal’s shirt, either side of his spine. Will licks his lips and swallows, his hips grinding experimentally against Hannibal’s leg.

“God,” he growls.

“Dievas,” Hannibal says, reverently.

Will’s hands slide between them and he begins to pull the button-up out of Hannibal’s slacks. He leans in to kiss his way along Hannibal’s jaw, to suckle on his earlobe as Hannibal had once done to him, to lick and suck at the artery pulsing in the side of Hannibal’s neck. His deft fingers start unbuttoning, from the top town.

Hannibal’s clothing is fitted very well to his body, so he does not tend to wear an undershirt. As such, Will’s fingertips soon brush the fine greying hair on Hannibal’s chest, and his whole body shudders at the contact. He’s further shocked—and further lost in his lust—when Will dips his head down to kiss his collarbones and even noses his way into the thick hair to plant his lips against Hannibal’s pectorals and, after a moment of hesitation, two petal-soft kisses upon his stiffened nipples.

When Will leans back, Hannibal’s shirt is rucked down his shoulders, caught around his upper arms, and they both already look completely undone.

Will licks his lips again.

“Take off the rest,” he rasps. “Then, I want you to sit. On the bed, with your back against the headboard.”

He disappears into the ensuite.

Hannibal about shreds his clothes to get them off. He doesn’t care about the slacks or the silk boxers. He only cares, in this moment, about pleasing Will in whatever capacity Will requires. Perhaps Will intends to take photos for later use. The idea is decadent.

He places a pillow behind his back and leans against his headboard, as instructed, a good and obedient servant to his god. He keeps one knee raised, to hide his obscene, leaking erection, in case that is a step too far for Will. The last thing Hannibal wants is to, in some way, destroy this fragile and precious moment.

The lighting is dim, but his focus is razor-sharp. When the ensuite door opens and Will steps out into the low light, Hannibal can make out enough details to be captivated and breathless. Will is like a figure from a classical painting or sculpture, a Botticelli come to life. His body is corded with muscle so often hidden by his ill-fitting jeans and loose flannels. His shoulders are sculpted, the divots of his collarbones the home of lovely splashes of shadow.

He pads, cautiously, to the bed. His scent as he approaches is almost enough to drive Hannibal mad; he would bet his life that Will is as achingly hard as he is. He wishes he could see, but this is Will’s design.

“Close your eyes,” Will whispers, and Hannibal trembles as he obeys.

He feels the bed shift, and then Will’s callused hands trail up his knees and thighs, to the crease of his hips, then back down. Will spreads Hannibal’s legs, pressing his knees down so that his legs form a flat V across the bedspread. There is a moment of hesitation, presumably as Will takes in the sight of Hannibal at his mercy, and then further shuffling.

Finally, he feels Will’s hands on his thighs again, but facing the other direction. Will braces himself and slides until Hannibal’s chest is flush with his back. It’s rapture, that much skin-to-skin, Hannibal’s weeping erection squeezed between the two of them, Will’s head laid back against one of Hannibal’s shoulders, his chest heaving. Hannibal wants so badly to touch, to feel the rest of Will’s body, to pull him tighter, closer, beneath his own skin.

He lets out a soft groan and tries not to roll his hips. This isn’t about him; this is about Will, what Will needs. It’s the only conscious thought Hannibal has, with his god naked and perfect and laying so vulnerably against him. His hands twitch at his sides, and his knees shudder with the desire to draw in closer, to tangle with Will’s legs.

Will’s hands find Hannibal’s and slowly draw them in, first to Will’s thighs, then to his hips, then his chest and belly. He directs Hannibal at first, showing him where he is allowed to touch. Then he lets go, and Hannibal’s hands continue to rove across Will’s gorgeous body, walking along his ribs, scratching lightly through his chest hair, dragging down to about his navel and then sliding back up, brushing ever so lightly across his nipples, up to his throat. When Hannibal’s hand comes to rest there, just atop Will’s collarbone, Will murmurs into his ear, husky, needy:

“Kiss me.”

Hannibal descends upon him, a devouring kiss of teeth and tongue and desperate need. His hand tightens ever so slightly around the base of Will’s throat, and the other trails down to Will’s tense abdomen.

Will moans into Hannibal’s mouth, one of his arms reaching up to hold Hannibal’s head to his. Hannibal’s teeth catch on Will’s lower lip and it splits; the taste of Will’s blood is like ambrosia, mythically divine and addictive. He chases the flavor, his arms tight around Will’s body, sucking and kissing and rumbling, when—through his haze—he becomes aware of the motion of Will’s other hand.

His palm is wrapped around his cock, and he is slowly, teasingly, stroking himself. His thumb circles the beads of clear liquid on the head, and he leans backward, pressing closer as his speed increases.

“God, Hannibal,” he moans against Hannibal’s teeth. His breathing has grown heavy and his kisses more intense. “More,” he manages, breathlessly. “Touch me.”

Hannibal is very good at multitasking, but he’s trying to commit every single detail to memory so he needs a moment to process before he moves. The hand at Will’s throat glides higher, takes a firmer hold, and Will’s deep, guttural moan tears an answering whine from Hannibal. He turns his attention to teasing Will’s nipples, first with his thumb and then with gentle pressure between two fingers.

Will arches his back, pushing even further, squeezing Hannibal’s pulsing cock, rocking in place enough to tease but not enough to relieve the need.

He breaks their hot, desperate, coppery kiss and groans,

“Hannibal, touch me. God, I need you.”

Oh.

His hand tightens around Will’s throat, and the other slides down through the coarse hair beneath his navel and to the twitching, needy cock begging for his help. Will’s own hand drops to Hannibal’s thigh and his fingernails dig in, scraping; he pants, his hips jerking just slightly, as though he is about to lose control.

Hannibal takes him in hand and, though he wishes to make the experience last as long as Will is able to stay sane, there will be other nights for that. He gauges rather quickly the grip and pace Will needs, and turns his attention from Will’s mouth to his neck and shoulder so that he can properly listen to that sensual breathing, the tiny moans, the rumbling groans, every escaped gasp of pleasure he can wring from Will like the world’s most perfect, most exclusive instrument.

He can tell Will is getting close when he begins to grind his hips backward, into Hannibal’s cock, and upward, into Hannibal’s hand. His breathing is ragged now, his fingers tight in Hannibal’s hair and scrabbling at Hannibal’s thigh.

“Christ, yes, Hannibal—!” Will groans, and Hannibal sinks his teeth into the meat of Will’s shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to pull a sharp, shuddering cry.

Will comes in thick spurts up onto his own stomach and, naturally, all over Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal gently works him through it, then allows Will a moment to breathe.

He wants so badly to keep kissing and sucking at Will’s neck until he brings himself to orgasm as well, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm his sweet Will. He holds himself still, in check, until Will’s body starts to shake.

At first Hannibal is worried that something is wrong, but then the shaking is accompanied with the low sound of laughter.

Hannibal dares to nuzzle against Will’s neck and murmur, “Is that a good sign?”

Through his soft laughter, Will says, “Yeah, I, uh… I’d say so.” He glances down at himself; their eyes have adjusted enough now that it’s fairly easy to see the mess. Will sighs. “I should get cleaned up.”

Hannibal clears his throat. “Will. I don’t want to be too… forward.”

“You can be a little forward,” Will says, archly.

“Allow me,” Hannibal murmurs into Will’s ear. “Please.”

Will pauses for just a moment, then leans forward to give Hannibal room to wriggle out. Hannibal is still hard as stone, of course, but at the moment his priority is doing this service to his dievas.

He first licks clean his own hand, while Will settles himself back upon the recently-vacated pillows at the head of the bed. The taste of Will is… beyond exquisite. Bitter and sharp, with a tinge of that arousal scent he would bottle and wear if he were able.

He realizes too late that he spent a rapturous minute cleaning his fingers while Will lounged against the headboard and watched. When he looks up, those startling blue-green eyes are half-lidded and locked on him.

Hannibal crawls forward, hands and knees, until he is hovering over Will’s stomach. As he bends to set his tongue to a sticky trail, Will whispers,

“Wait.” Hannibal looks up to find Will’s eyes still intense and smoky. “What about you?”

“Tonight was about you, Will. I am more than pleased with what you have shared with me.”

Will shakes his head. “No.”

Hannibal cocks his head. “No?”

“No,” Will repeats. His cheeks are scarlet, but he drags a finger through his own release and sucks it clean. “Mm. No, see, something’s missing.”

Hannibal makes a low sound, something visceral, and he crawls forward until his knees are on either side of Will’s thighs. Will stays where he is, waiting and watching. Hannibal takes himself in hand, his eyes practically rolling back after the long, torturous wait, and tries not to lose sight of Will’s beautiful, sculptural face.

He’s dripping on Will’s stomach already, his own scent and flavor melding with Will’s. His mouth waters at the thought of tasting it, and then comes the realization that Will is likely intending to taste it.

That’s enough to send him over the edge into bliss. He shudders and moans Will’s name as he spills across Will’s perfect body. He comes so hard, he sees stars for a moment, and the arm holding his weight is visibly trembling.

Will’s hands trail up to Hannibal’s shoulders, soothing, and then with gentle pressure encourage him to slide down and clean up their combined mess. He doesn’t have to be reminded again; his tongue paints a ravenous abstract across the planes of Will’s abdomen, reveling in their shared taste. Without any further prompting, he crawls up and allows Will his own taste; Will hums into his mouth and pulls back with a pop.

“Mm,” he says, sleepily. “Yeah, I think that’s better.”

“As do I, mylimasis.”

Hannibal lays his head upon Will’s shoulder and their bodies—still a little sticky, admittedly, but at this moment Hannibal has never cared less—curl together, legs tangled, arms draped. Will holds Hannibal and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I thought it would feel different,” Will whispers into the dark.

“How so?”

“I dunno. I thought I wouldn’t want to see you so bad. Thought I wouldn’t want to see you touch yourself for me. Watch your face while you came for me. I guess I thought it would be weirder, with a guy. But it really didn’t matter. I was nervous at first, but as soon as your hands were on me, I just…” He shrugs the shoulder Hannibal isn’t laying on. “God, is that what that’s supposed to be like?”

“It’s possible you were feeding off of my desire,” Hannibal hedges. He doesn’t want it to be true, but he wants to provide Will a way out, if he feels he needs one.

To Hannibal’s relief, though, Will just shakes his head. “No, that’s why I had you behind me, and it was dark. I couldn’t see your face until my eyes adjusted. I was feeling my own feelings.” After a beat, he says, “That was part of what I was testing.”

“Are you satisfied with your results?” asks Hannibal, and he means it to sound more teasing but it sounds altogether scientific.

Will snorts. “Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty satisfied, Hannibal. Your fancy pastries weren't so bad either.”

Hannibal Lecter, in the most dignified fashion he can under the circumstances, rapidly excuses himself from bed in order to put away the pastries still sitting on the kitchen table.

On his way out of the room, he hears Will softly say, “Shouldn’t have mentioned the dessert, Graham.”

Chapter Text

Beau is the first to arrive. Will picks him up from the airport on Sunday and, despite the fact that Beau is sixty-three and Will is nearly the same size as he is, the big, bone-crushing hug his father gives him ends with Will lifted and spun around in the air like a little boy. It fills him with nostalgia and warmth and joy, though it’s only a half-circle and his father’s bones groan in protest.

They laugh about it on the way to the car, and by the time Will gets out of the bustle of airport traffic his father has happily told him all about the local gossip in Sugarloaf: which little old lady is trying to steal which little old man from which of her church friends, what damage some fool tourist had to pay to fix after running up on a sandbar in the same damn spot he’s always warning them about, how his local bar upped the liquor prices by a nickel an ounce, that damn crab that keeps terrorizing the dogs on the beach went and got himself a girlfriend and now there are a dozen little crablings he hopes the seagulls snap up.

It’s a lovely snapshot of his father’s life. Will is happy that they got to a place where Beau could attain ease like that, warmth like that, respite and stability after so many years fighting and scraping and struggling. Will helps as much as his father will let him, because he wants Beau to spend the next thirty years soaking up the easy peace he has long earned. Nobody should have to struggle to live. Hell, nobody should have to struggle for comfort. But especially not Beau Graham.

“So,” Papa says, with his arm laid out along the window, tapping his thumb just below the glass, “you tell me about this fella of yours.”

Will thought he was prepared, honestly. He had this whole speech in his head. His name is Count Dr. Hannibal Lecter, VIII. He’s a psychiatrist, former surgeon. He’s very well-mannered, as you’d expect from a guy who moves in high society circles. He’s a little prissy and a perfectionist but he’s good to my dogs. He worships the ground I walk on. Framing me was kind of his way of flirting, like pulling my pigtails at recess. He actually did apologize, more or less. And I forgive him. So please try to get along.  

Instead what he says, slowly, is, “I think he’s it for me, pops.”

Beau’s bushy eyebrows lift just slightly. “Y’think so, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Well. He can keep up, for one.”

“Can he, really? Did he figure you out, Will, or did you tell him?”

Will glances at his father, frowning. “I didn’t say he was perfect. He saw something under the surface most people don’t see, he just thought he had to work to bring it out. But he wanted it out, that thing he saw. And not for what it could do for him, but what it could do to the world.”

“Seems like he kinda wanted what it could do for him.”

Will sighs and glides carefully into the next lane. “He’s always been alone. He doesn’t want to stop doing what he does on his own, he just wanted somebody who could relate to him.”

“Might be a bit overwhelming for him, then, suddenly having such a big family.” Beau grins, that crooked, bright smile Will can only hope he does justice. “Y’know, I never thought I’d have so many kids. What am I up to now?”

“Currently, seven,” says Will. “Eight, still counting Vinny. Two more soon, makes ten. And I’ve got plans to bring in number eleven, it’s just gonna take some finagling.”

“Eleven damn kids.” He whistles. “Thank God there ain’t any grands.”

Will tilts his head from side to side. “One of the new ones, she’ll be having at least one. She’s somewhere between how I am and how you are.”

“Quite a range,” Beau says, amused. “But I take your meaning.” He drums his fingers in time with the beat of the classic rock song quietly playing on the radio. “You picked up a lot in a short time, Will. Is that wise?”

“Times, they are a-changin’,” Will says. “Opportunities presented themselves. Can’t help that it’s easier to find people now that I’m working for the FBI. Not to mention, almost all of my recent acquisitions are from Hannibal, directly or indirectly. If anything, it’s his fault. Killers are drawn to him like gnats.”

“Well, they would be. Bit of a showboat, ain’t he? High profile media circus. Dunno what you’re gonna do about that.”

“I won’t ask him to stop. I just need him to be as careful as he used to be. Stabilize. Make it about the art again, not about screwing with the FBI.”

“Somebody’s gonna figure him out, kid.”

Will’s grip on the wheel tightens, and he flexes his fingers. “Yeah. I know. Somebody already did. We’re going to take care of it.”

“You can’t let him drag you and the others down, too,” his father says, so gentle, so correct, so terrible. 

“That won’t happen. We’re not letting anybody take anybody. Especially him.” The wheel creaks. “I’d find a way out. I always find a way.”

Beau’s whistle is low and musical. “Boy, do you ever got it bad. Never seen your hackles so high. I don’t want your fella to get caught any more than I want that for you, Will.”

He’s telling the truth, of course. On every front.

When they get back to Will’s home in Wolf Trap, Hannibal is already there. He’s got dinner started, a quiet meal meant for just the three of them. Obviously the idea is for all of them to meet, but it seemed best for Beau and Hannibal to have the chance to hash things out before the wider family discussions get started this week.

Will helps his father bring in the suitcases. The dogs are piled almost on top of each other in front of the door, wriggling and hopping in attempts to keep themselves from doing Bad Things like jumping and barking. All of them, apart from Winston, have met Beau at least twice, and the four oldest—Buster, Zoe, Ellie, and Jack—have known him for almost a decade. Beau Graham is similar to his son in a lot of ways, and one of those is that he greets the dogs in precisely the same way: one at a time, with a thorough check to their ears and teeth and paws, and for the ones he knows well, a special scratch or pat to their favorite spot. Jack in particular adores Beau, and will likely not leave his side for the entirety of his stay.

The inside of the house is pleasantly warm, with the fire crackling away in the hearth and the scent of a home cooked Louisiana gumbo filling the space. Hannibal wanted to make a good impression, and Will suggested a comfort classic. There’s probably—hopefully—cornbread or corn muffins, too.

“Smells good, I’ll give him that,” says papa, shouldering his bag a bit higher. “You putting me upstairs?”

“I’ll take the bags up in a minute. I want to introduce you first.”

Beau shrugs, but follows Will over to the kitchen, where Hannibal has been bustling around, tidying up. He smiles as Will approaches and lays his apron on the counter.

“Will,” he says; it always sounds a little breathy, a little choked, a little disbelieving now when he says it. “Welcome home.”

“Hannibal,” Will says, and, hell, he’s probably got the same vocal wibble going on because his father snrks a little behind him. “I’d like you to meet my dad, Beau Graham. Papa, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Please get along, Will begs the universe. Please love each other. Please don’t fight.

Hannibal offers his hand first, inclining his head, all deference and easy politeness. “Mr. Graham, it’s my absolute pleasure. Will has told me a great deal about you.”

Will can see the added pressure of Beau’s squeeze when he shakes Hannibal’s hand; it’s not enough to be painful, but it’s enough to make a point.

“Oh, Will’s told me about you, too, Dr. Lecter. Got some things I’d like to discuss, if you’ve got a few minutes.”

“Of course. The pot will simmer for some time, and the rest can wait. Would you care to go for a short walk? I believe it’s almost time for the dogs to go out.”

Beau nods, and Hannibal wipes his hands on a dish towel.

“You okay getting my luggage, kid?” asks Beau. He’s watching Hannibal like a hawk, so Will answers out loud.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it, I’ll take ‘em up. You be careful. It’s icy.”

“I’ll be right as rain, kid. Now you be careful,” Beau says, “them bags are heavy.”

Will rolls his eyes and leaves them to it.

They aren’t gone long. Half an hour, or thereabouts. When they come back in, Hannibal holds the door for Beau and Beau quietly thanks him. It’s all very polite. There’s tension, certainly, but there don’t appear to be any new cuts or bruises, which is sort of surprising. Will had expected his father to at least pop Hannibal once in the jaw, but as he passes Will with a murmured word about rest before dinner, even his knuckles are pristine.

Will sidles into the kitchen, where Hannibal has already washed up and started prepping to bake the cornbread. He knows it annoys Hannibal to be interrupted in the kitchen, but he also knows there’s very little that he could do that would annoy Hannibal enough to matter, so he wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist from behind. He does, however, keep his hands inside the apron.

“So, how’d it go?” he murmurs into Hannibal’s ear.

Hannibal turns his head just enough to glance disapprovingly at Will from the corner of his warm red-brown eye, and Will plants a cheeky kiss on his jaw. Hannibal’s expression softens, and he clicks his tongue behind his teeth as he returns to his work.

“Your father is a practical man,” he says. “You’re wild, Will. You thrive amongst others of your kind. But like any good father, he wants to ensure that his child has every opportunity for happiness. He loves you dearly. His only wish is to see you live well.”

Will smirks and tightens his hold around Hannibal’s body. “Told you he’d blow your goddamned head off if you didn’t listen to me, huh?”

“Something like that,” says Hannibal, and Will can feel the slight tremor of his laughter in his chest. “It was a perfectly amicable conversation, I assure you. I found your father quite charming. I see much of the man you are in the man he is.”

“Good. He’s the most important person in the world to me, Hannibal. I need to know you’ll do everything you can to help me protect his peace.”

“What does your father’s peace entail, Will?”

“Well. Me not in jail, for starters. But, this family? It’s not just for me. It’s for him, too. He didn’t have anybody, until mama and me, and then he lost her in about every way possible. He’s never been able to be close with people, at least partially because of me and how I am. I know that, and I know it’s not really my fault. But he’s got so much love in heart and for a long time he had so few people to give it to. He just wants to know we’re all out here, kickin’ around, and he can be there for us. He’s a caretaker. Promise me you’re not going to jeopardize the safety of his family for something petty.”

Hannibal has fully frozen. “Are you asking me to stop?”

“What? No. Why would I ask you to stop? Just… stop pulling the tiger’s tail. Stop making it personal with the FBI. Make it personal for you. You have a family now who will see what you’re doing, see your art for what it is. You don’t need to play games with Jack and the BAU. You don’t need to chase the thrill of capture, Hannibal.” Will squeezes his middle and kisses his shoulder. “I caught you. Okay?”

Hannibal nods, but says nothing. His body is tense, and his throat clicks softly as he swallows.

Will goes on, quiet and soothing: “Whoever it was that gave Freddie all that info on the Ripper, we’ll find them. We’ll end them. We’ll protect our peace. Our peace, Hannibal. Our family.”

“Yes, Will,” Hannibal says, his voice low and thick with emotion.

“Thank you,” Will says, and leans around to kiss Hannibal’s temple. “Can I help with dinner?”

“I have the cooking well in hand,” Hannibal says. “But…” He touches the bulge in the apron’s fabric created by Will’s hands on his stomach. “Stay,” he says, “and keep me company.”

Will quietly hooks his chin over Hannibal’s shoulder and holds him a little tighter. 

The rest of the week is overwhelming, and Will is a big enough man to admit that in large part his frayed edges would be soothed if he just had time to spend with Hannibal, but the doctor is busy with patients. 

Lilith arrives on Monday evening. Will is outside with the dogs when her car pulls up, and her grin lights up the sky. She descends upon the dogs and absolutely covers them with kisses before bothering with Will. He appreciates her.

“Look at you!” she cries, and hugs Will so hard his ribs creak. When she lets him go, she holds his upper arms and studies him. “God, your hair got long. No barbers in jail?”

“It was technically a hospital,” Will says. “And I’ve been out for, like, five months.”

“And yet it took you until October to reach out, how weird is that?” she says, but she’s clearly teasing. She swipes the curls off of his forehead and her smile turns fond. “I missed you, little brother.”

“I missed you too,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Hey, you promised Papa and Finn would be here. And some new blood! Tell me you got me a sister, Will.”

“Working on it, I promise. Finn isn’t here yet, but papa’s inside. You’ll meet the others on Thanksgiving.”

“And your man?” She waggles her eyebrows. “I’m gonna need some details on how that happened. I feel like if you were bi I’d have clocked you forever ago.”

Will laughs. “Yeah, well, I’m not, so don’t feel too bad.”

“Just him, huh?”

“Yep. Just him.”

“Better be real special. Would have taken a real special woman, must be an extra special man.”

“I’ll say. You’ve probably heard of him. About the biggest name in the industry right now.”

Her chestnut eyes grow huge. “No.”

“Yep.”

“No fuckin’ way, Will, you bagged the Ripper?” Will nods, and Lilith holds a hand to her chest. “How am I supposed to act around somebody like that? Oh my god! What if I say something out of pocket and he hates me?”

“Honestly, I would be more worried about how you like your green bean casserole,” says Will, and Lilith grabs his shoulders again.

“What do you mean.”

“He’s a bit of a gourmet, is all. Fancy food. Y’know. Artist, in all things. Christ, you’ll get a kick out of his suits.”

“Will I am about to sink into the ground your fancy Michelin star murder husband is going to eat me because I have nostalgia.”

“You’ll be okay,” Will says, laughing. He hugs her again. “Just be polite and don’t try to get him to eat it. You’ll get along fine.”

She frowns skeptically but agrees to be on her best behavior.  They go inside, the dogs swarming around their legs, and Papa meets them in the living room.

“There’s my girl,” says Beau; Lilith tears up and throws her arms around him. He lifts her off the ground just like he did with Will. 

She only stays for about an hour; she’s got a hotel room in Wolf Trap. Since Will still has to work Tuesday, she insists on taking Papa along to various exhibits and events to make the most out of their vacations. Beau is happy to have something to do, and Will is grateful for Lilith’s planning, as ever. 

Work, at the moment, is consulting on a case. So far, six people of wildly different backgrounds have been stabbed exactly thirty times with different weapons which appear mostly opportunistic. Carved into each body somewhere obvious and otherwise unmarred is a crude heart.

Will does not like the feel of this one. It seems like different people, but the carving of the heart has the same feel as the ones scribbled into the margins of the photo of Hannibal, and that’s enough of a connection to put him on edge. The significance of thirty is unclear.

Jack doesn’t want to give anybody the holiday off. “You think killers are celebrating Thanksgiving? You think people stop dying because you have a turkey on the table?”

Will wishes, briefly, to say, actually, Jack, some killers do celebrate Thanksgiving, and it's really important to them and their families.

“I think,” says Will, “that the academy is closed for the holiday, and I get to set my own hours for consultations. Anything that happens between now and Monday is Monday’s problem.”

“That’s cold, Graham,” Jack growls.

“It’s a long weekend, not six months in a mental hospital. I think you can handle things.” He rubs at his eyes and softens his voice. “I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t let killers like this stop me from enjoying my life. If I do, I’ll burn out, and then I’m no use to anyone. I can promise this will have my full attention after the holiday. I’ll see you Monday. I hope you and Bella have a nice Thanksgiving.”

Jack sighs, nods, and dismisses him. 

All in all, that went better than expected. Anyway he’s sure he’ll catch more flak for it next week, both at work and at Hannibal’s post-holiday dinner party. The whole team will be there, after all.

Finn rolls up first thing Wednesday morning with a truck and a camper. 

Beau is the one who answers the door. Will, while feeding the dogs, hears them exchange delighted greetings and hugs, and then Finn says, 

“Where’s my favorite little brother?”

Will calls, “In the kitchen.”

Finn comes trotting in and a broad, infectious smile splits his face. He’s grown a short, sparse beard and mustache, and he looks like he’s put on quite a bit of muscle. 

“There he is!” he crows, and picks up a wriggling, yapping Buster. “There he is, there’s my favorite little man,” Finn coos. Buster’s tongue is lolling and he is wagging his entire behind. “Is Will feeding you enough, buddy? Does he give you enough tummy rubs? Huh?”

“Put him down before Duke eats his breakfast, please,” says Will. “He’s the same spoiled little prince, don’t you worry.”

Finn sets Buster down in front of his food bowl and pulls Will into a rough hug. “Aw, I’m teasin’, nobody could ever take better care of him than you.” He pulls back and says, “I brought Hyun, you think it’s okay to bring him in?”

Hyun is an enormous gray Maine Coon. The rest of the pack has been around cats before, but Will isn’t sure how Winston will react, so he puts him in the Introduction Crate. Hyun bounds out of the camper, lithe and graceful and chirrupping with excitement, and pitter-patters up the porch steps. He pauses outside the crate door, sniffing, and Winston sniffs back. They share a moment of whuffing and rumbling and a hesitant but playful bat, and Winston pants excitedly with his head down on top of his front feet. Hyun walks away, sits, gracefully curls his tail around his body, and begins to clean his face with one elegant paw.

Seems friendly enough.

It’s not long before Hyun and all the dogs are in a warm pile near the fireplace, rather reminiscent of the growing Graham family.

Finn and Will sit for a boozy eggnog and a chat while Beau gets started prepping the filling for his famous apple pie. 

“Lilith calls me the other night,” says Finn, conversationally. “Figured it was something incriminating, otherwise she would text. So I pick up. She says, hey, bro, you won’t believe it, you’re never gonna guess who Will’s boyfriend is. Bet you fifty bucks.” He sips his eggnog, frowns, and gestures for Will to hand over the spiced rum. “Know what I said? I said, I hope you brought cash, cause who the fuck else would it be but the same guy who put him in there and got him back out again?” He tastes his eggnog again and sighs, satisfied. “I just gotta ask, Will. You sure? You’ve killed for a hell of a lot less.”

“I mean, he’s got a lot to make up for, but, yeah. Pretty sure.”

Finn watches him for a long moment, then shrugs and says, “Alright, then. If you say so, so it is.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that. As long as he likes cats.”

“Something tells me they’ll get along.”

“How about the other ones?”

Will leans back, kicks his socked feet up on the coffee table, shrugs. “Pretty sure they like cats, too.” They both know that wasn’t what Finn was getting at, but Will takes a minute or two to think about how to describe them and Finn, as his oldest brother, waits in comfortable silence. Finally, Will says, “They still have a lot to learn about being part of a family. But they were as lost and lonely as us. And they’re all willing to learn.”

“Can’t imagine we got much to teach the Chesapeake Ripper,” Finn says, thoughtfully. “Hope he’s willing to teach a bit, instead.”

Will laughs. “Trust me, there’s plenty he could learn. They’re just lessons you and me take for granted.”

Finn is quiet again for long enough to get to the bottom of his glass.

“You should have told us about the trial,” he finally says.

“I knew it wasn’t going to be a problem,” Will says.

“But why didn’t you just tell us, Will?”

“All my communications were monitored. There was no reason to call attention to either of you when I had it under control. Anyway I told dad, I figured if you didn’t see it in the news, you’d hear it from him.”

Finn rearranges himself until he’s sitting criss-crossed on the couch, fully facing Will; his empty cup, with the dregs of eggnog and rum, is tucked into the hollow of his legs. He leans forward, one elbow on one knee, his mouth twisted to one side.

“You have to know we wouldn’t have let you rot in there. If your plan didn’t work, we would have gone after him ourselves.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you.” Will sighs. “He would have killed you, Finn. Or he would have ruined you. Either way, it would have been crazy to compromise you or Lilith, god forbid both, just for me.”

Finn tsks and snaps, “But you’re worth more, Will!”

He sputters. His head jerks from side to side. “No,” he says, then, even firmer: “No! Bullshit. You’re just as important—”

“To you, yeah, and to each other, sure. God love you for it. But you’re the fuckin’ boss, Will. You’re the guy who knows shit, who sees shit we don’t. Why do you think Vinny didn’t ask you for help when things got too hot?”

Will’s stomach clenches and freezes in a horrible, twisted amalgam. “He didn’t have time,” he says.

Finn shakes his head just once, with conviction. “I’m sorry, little brother, but he had time. He got in touch about a month before he died. He was under pretty close watch by then but he came to the shop I was working in at the time to see me in person. Made me swear up and down I wouldn’t tell you he’d been there.”

“Why?” Will whisper-shouts. “I could have helped him!”

“If he’d asked you for help a year earlier, maybe, but he was doin’ fuckin’ gang hits, Will. There’s no getting out at that point. If you’d tried, if you’d started sniffing around, if they’d found out he was talking to a goddamn federal agent? You’d both have been dead. But Vincent said, if Willy goes down, we all go down. If Willy’s safe, the family’s safe. He made a choice to protect you because he knew back then what I’m telling you now: you’re the priority, Will, and you always have been.”

“You’re not fucking disposable! What the hell is it with murderers and pawns? For Christ's sake, you’re my family.”

Finn smiles, but shakes his head again. “Of course we’re your family. And of course we’re not straight up disposable. But we’re also not fuckin’ stupid, Will.” He reaches over to pat Will’s shoulder. “We know we’re each a wall in the family home, and the rooms we make together are warm and safe and comfy, but we’d be crazy not to see that you’re the one that’s load-bearing. One of us goes, we’re upset, we remodel, things are different, but we keep living. If you go, the whole damn house goes. There’d be nothing left to salvage.” His pat turns into a light punch. “So you better not let yourself get caught again, y’hear me?”

Will scowls. He wants to protest but it’s not an argument worth having right now so he just shrugs and drinks his eggnog.

It needs a lot more rum.

Hannibal arrives late Wednesday night, near midnight, with everything he will need to prepare the Thanksgiving feast. He sees the camper van sitting off to one side, near the barn; a man sits on the steps with a beer bottle and a large gray cat with lamplike yellow eyes curled up beside him. He lifts the beer bottle in a quiet salute. Hannibal infers that this is Finn Borowski, Will’s ‘eldest brother’; he inclines his head politely and heads inside.

Beau is asleep upstairs, and Will is drunk.

He is no help with putting away the components of tomorrow’s meal. He is, however, delightfully grouchy, and he insists on clinging to Hannibal’s waist the entire night, grumbling about priorities and pawns. He must be coaxed to get ready for bed, and he scowls every time he needs help.

Hannibal has the most unpleasant experience of being forced to leave Will’s scorching, insistent embrace for the cold November air just shy of five in the morning in order to start cooking. It would be his preference to have done this at his own home, where he has a larger worktop and multiple ovens, but this is Will’s family Thanksgiving. Hannibal has worked under more dire conditions, in any case; he will make this work.

Beau Graham rises at six thirty or so. He supervises the dogs’ breakfast and then takes them outside, along with a thermos of coffee. He comes back inside around seven o’clock with the dogs, the huge gray cat, and a bedraggled-looking Finn, who promptly falls back to sleep on the couch. Beau picks up a book. Hannibal appreciates the quiet.

Given the origins of the holiday, he has never really understood the appeal—a celebration of the genocidal colonization of the country has always seemed tasteless. However, if modern Americans, either through a failure of education or deliberate ignorance, are choosing to celebrate instead a more general, ideological holiday centered upon an appreciation for the important things in life which they might otherwise take for granted, well, Hannibal is beginning to understand their reasoning.

In fact, Hannibal is finding himself increasingly grateful with every passing moment. 

If he had found a drunk and grumpy Will endearing, it is nothing in comparison to the almost shy sleepyhead he becomes when he rolls out of bed at seven thirty, his curls wild, his pyjamas soft and blue and slightly too long in the sleeves because they are Hannibal’s. It had been about the only way to get him to agree to wear something other than ratty boxers to bed, and Hannibal had been certain that Will would prefer to be fully dressed when his family started coming in.

He comes to the kitchen seeking coffee, which Hannibal has already prepared for him. He accepts a kiss on his temple, and drinks half his coffee before he says, in a soft and tired voice, 

“I like that sweater on you.”

Hannibal smiles. “I’m glad. It was chosen with you in mind.”

“Soft,” says Will. “Brings out your eyes. A little baggy, but in a way that’s very flattering.” He takes another sip. “The sweater of seduction.”

“Red is the color of passion,” Hannibal says, turning back to his task. “And hunger.”

“And were these chosen for me, too, or was I just being… difficult, last night?”

“Blue is calming, and often associated with wisdom,” Hannibal says. “But, no, those were for me. I would be happy to have a pair altered for you. It would be no trouble for my tailor. If he had your measurements, I could have a number of items made for you.”

“Don’t start dressing me up, Dr. Lecter. People will talk.”

“They would talk of nothing else, once they saw you in a custom suit, gilding the very air. They should be so lucky, to see true beauty unleashed upon them.”

Will snorts into his coffee. “Christ. Why are you like this?”

“You inspire me, dievas.”

Will rolls his eyes and lets out an over exaggerated huff, but he’s hiding a crooked half-smile behind his coffee cup. 

More guests trickle in and the house comes to life with sounds and smells and the warmth of the kitchen and the fire and the many visiting bodies.

Will helps Hannibal in the kitchen whenever an extra hand is needed, but otherwise is fully invested in the chaos of his growing family. 

Lilith arrives with much fanfare and several bottles of decent bourbon. Her reaction on seeing Hannibal is to freeze, watch him for two and a half heartbeats, then look at Will and say, 

“Yeah, I see it.”

The boys show up together with a variety of alcohol and nerves.

Will carefully introduces everyone, and then quietly directs Peter to sit with the dogs to stave off the anxiety that had been palpably building in the face of so many people. Peter rapidly finds himself mostly hidden beneath the fluff of the huge cat, Hyun. He seems much more at ease there. Lilith, curiously, moseys over after a short period. She talks more to the dogs and the cat than to Peter, as far as Hannibal can tell, but somehow Peter starts to open up and respond with little details and facts he has noticed about the pack. He grows warmer and more talkative; at one point, after a thorough basting of the turkey, Hannibal looks up to find Peter, Randall, and Lilith all on the floor with the dogs, Hyun stretched out on the hearth nearby, and they are having a rousing debate about which of the dogs is most capable in a number of categories. Will chimes in to this debate only to point out their underestimation of Buster’s capability for infiltration, given his remarkable speed relative to his stubby legs.

Matthew and Finn metaphorically circle each other over early afternoon beers, sizing one another up as though they may need to fight. Though it would certainly have been very amusing to see them going for one another’s eyes, Matthew happens to make a comment during their little staring contest that gets Finn laughing, sudden and sharp, and soon enough the two are thick as thieves, shoulder to shoulder with their feet tucked up on the couch, flipping through albums and old magazines together like schoolboys. Will gripes about them putting things out of order on the shelf, to which Matthew archly asks him why he no longer wears his hair ‘like that.’ From the floor, Lilith snickers; Beau, in his chair, with the book he has been largely ignoring in favor of casual observation, remarks that Will grew tired of comparisons to powdered wigs and the Revolutionary War. Will takes the album and locks it in a drawer (despite the loud booing of his entire family).

It’s all a beautifully intricate dance while the family integrates. Seeing the harmony in action is remarkable. The house is alive with laughter, and chatter, and understanding. When the snow begins to fall outside, everyone is drawn to the windows together to watch in comfortable, easy silence for a few minutes.

Will chooses to share that moment with Hannibal. He knows that Hannibal has no intention of leaving the meal before it’s finished, and there’s quite a large window for them to look out of right here. They don’t speak; they let the whisper of the wind outside and the crackle of the fireplace and the soft sound of life in the rest of the house speak for them. 

Hannibal sighs into Will’s curls, oddly content.

There is enough. There is heat. There is food.

This is a winter of plenty.

When the meal is served, right at three o’clock, all eight of them sit down at a table laden with a feast Hannibal can (mostly) be proud of. Will is seated at one end, with Hannibal to his right and Matthew to his left. Next to Hannibal is Finn; next to Matthew is Lilith. Beau is at the other head of the table, with Peter to his right, beside Lilith, and Randall to his left, beside Finn. It’s not, perhaps, the seating arrangement that Hannibal would have selected, but he supposes that Will’s aim was to blend the new family and the old, not to create the most interesting conversational pairings.

Also, he strongly suspects that Will wanted to keep Lilith’s ghastly casserole on the opposite corner of the table from him, without being too obvious. Hannibal appreciates him for that.

Beau looks around at the family and beams.

“Look at us,” he says. “A whole family, all together for the holiday. How lucky can one man be?” He turns his smile on Will, Finn, and Lilith as he says, “I get to see the three of you, the people you are, the people I’m proud to have watched grow. Every time I see you, any of you, I’m the happiest man on earth. And today, I get to see you together.”

Finn and Lilith both reach for him across the table, and while Hannibal normally finds such things rude, in this instance it’s perfectly forgivable.

Beau’s attention falls on Matthew, Randall, and Peter as he lets go of his older childrens’ hands, and he gently pats Randall’s shoulder. “And what’s more, what’s even better? Three entirely new young men I have the privilege of getting to know. I’m already so proud of you for keeping each other safe. I only hope that one day I’ll have earned the love and respect you so clearly hold for one another, and for Will. I hope that there comes a day you’ll allow me to call you my boys, too.”

Peter’s answering smile is shy and fidgety. Matthew seems incapable of eye contact, but he, too, smiles, a tightly controlled struggle to hide his teeth. Randall is far less reserved, and had he the fangs he ought, they would be on full display.

Beau looks straight at Will, then his gaze slides to Hannibal.

It’s oddly penetrating, that look. Hannibal feels somewhat exposed. Beau Graham had been very clear that the family’s focus was and always would be on keeping Will safe, no matter what Will might say otherwise. He had also said that Will was becoming dangerously blind when it came to Hannibal, and the family would destroy Hannibal before it allowed Will to destroy himself on Hannibal’s behalf.

They will never need to try, Hannibal had said. I would sooner destroy myself.

“Doctor,” says Beau, “thank you for this beautiful meal. Thank you for joining us tonight. I can only hope that you come to see this family as your own, one day, and you feel the same support, and warmth, and welcome that we try to offer each other.”

Hannibal lifts his wine glass in acknowledgment, but says nothing.

There is an otherness, even amongst Will’s family. The fact that he continues to think of them as Will’s family is likely part of it, but the other piece is that, as he looks around the table, most of them don’t meet his eyes for more than half a second, if at all. He knows why; there is always a bigger fish, as Will would say, but here and now at least, Hannibal is the biggest fish going. How it must feel, a school of minnows in the face of a great white shark. A flock of starlings and a condor. A colony of feral cats, perhaps, meeting a Siberian tiger.

It’s uncharitable to view them this way, and he knows it. They are killers in their own right, most of them, and some with rather impressive catalogues. But, well, it’s inherently unbalanced, and there is a sort of inescapable awareness of this fact that has seeped into the groundwater and thrums through the house like infrasound, undetectable by human ears apart from the sense of uneasy dread and anxiety it creates.

The truth of it is that this is without a doubt the deadliest room on the planet at this moment, and if everyone but Hannibal were to dissipate into the ether without warning, it would still be the deadliest room on the planet. Even when taking into account their deceased brother and their potential recruits in Abel Gideon and Margot Verger, the family’s total kills amount to perhaps half of Hannibal’s, and none have been as high-profile.

The gulf between them should feel justified and earned.

It shouldn’t sting the way it does.

Will clears his throat and raises his glass. “Thanks, Papa. I’d like to make a toast,” he says. “To you, for always being there for us. To my brothers and my sister, for being the craziest and most loving group of people alive. Wouldn’t have it any other way. And…” He hesitates, then takes Hannibal’s hand, his oceanic eyes a bit misty like the spray reaching for a perfectly sculpted figurehead. “To you,” he says, softly. “To a long life, free and clear, with you. To protecting our peace, whatever the cost.” He lifts the glass higher and smiles at the rest of the table; he squeezes Hannibal’s fingers. “To our family.”

Hannibal finds himself smiling back; he feels laid bare. It must be obvious how besotted he is, because the quiet, knowing chuckles begin to break down some of the walls between himself and the rest of the family. It’s as though his affection for Will is enough for them to treat him less as an apex predator and more like someone who belongs.

What an absurd notion.

How absurd that he wishes for it to be true.

“For the record,” Will adds, after everyone has toasted, “there’s nothing here you couldn’t buy at a bougie farmer’s market, except the stuff we had to buy at a regular grocery store.”

“Even the meat?” asks Matthew, sounding disappointed.

“Unfortunately I am saving my stock for an a different audience,” Hannibal finds himself saying.

“He thinks it’s funny when they don’t know. And he’s right, but, Christ, his jokes about it are bad,” Will says. He begins to dish potatoes, and gestures with the spoon. “Well, go on. It’s going to be the best food you’ve ever eaten so you better appreciate it. He’s been on it all day. And save some room for pie, Pop and I made apple and I think there’s some kind of crumble, and ice cream. Go on, eat up. And say thank you.”

There is a chorus of low thanks, until about five or ten minutes pass and everyone has had the opportunity to put at least one forkful of Hannibal’s food in their mouths. Then, the last tension melts off and he’s being bombarded with oh my god, and this is amazing, how did you—? and what did you even put in this, because I’m never eating anything else.

Finn is positively delighted by the discovery of the small dish of homemade pierogies and sour cream. He claims it tastes just like his grandmother’s, and his thanks is the most genuine Hannibal has yet heard.

The plates and silverware clink, the wine, cider, beer, and liquor all flow freely, and the laughter flows even easier. Even Hannibal finds himself drawn into an absurd discussion about individuals that were desired targets, but had to be left alone.

“My boss,” Will says. “Easy. Not because he’s my boss, but because he’s an inconsiderate asshole. Although he’s been better lately.” He gestures to Hannibal. “I’d guess he’s yours, too?”

“Jack is barely a nuisance to me,” Hannibal says, enjoying his wine. “Understandable that you should wish to see him gone, though.”

“Alright, so who is it then, big guy?” asks Finn, his chin resting in his hand. “Can’t imagine many folks you want to take out that you can’t.”

“It is less an inability and more that it would be unwise.”

“Uh huh. So who?” asks Matthew. “‘Cause one of us could help, if it’s a matter of you bein’ too close.”

“No,” says Hannibal, “it’s merely that the desire was… short-lived, and better thought through at a later date.”

“What’s that mean?” asks Matthew.

“It means the desire to take this person’s life was sudden and intense, but I have moved beyond it.”

“Are you ever just gonna say who?” asks Finn. “Man, you’re bad at this game.”

Hannibal sighs; his eyes flick to Will, then down at his plate. “Alana Bloom,” he says. His eyes dart back to his left, at Will’s raised eyebrows. Before he can open his mouth and ask, Hannibal grumbles, “You know very well why .”

Will smirks. “Because I kissed her. And then I came to tell you about it.”

“Yes.”

“Aww,” says Lilith. “That’s so sweet. And crazy. Crazy sweet.”

“Mm, you know what else is crazy sweet, is this pie. Pops,” says Finn, pointing at his plate with a sticky fork, “this is incredible. What’d you do, different kinda apples?”

Beau chuckles as he explains the difference is in the crust recipe, not the filling, and the conversation moves on. Will gently nudges Hannibal under the table with his foot, and Hannibal is grounded by the sensation. He allows himself a breath and then returns the silly, childish footsie. Will’s delight could sustain Hannibal for years.

The evening begins to wind down. Someone puts on a classic rock music station while the table is cleared; everyone insists that Hannibal and Will should relax while they pack away the leftovers, and Hannibal does try, but it isn’t his way to sit while the kitchen is full of bodies filling odd-sized tupperware with dishes that would simply make more sense separated in a different way.

He can’t help but take over after only a few minutes, and soon there are perfectly portioned bento-style containers of different mini-meals tucked away in the fridge and freezer beside what remains of the desserts. Hannibal rolls up his sleeves to start doing dishes, and to his surprise Beau Graham takes up the spot next to him to rinse, and Will stands near with a towel ready to dry, and Lilith and Matthew are tag-teaming putting things away. Finn, Randall, and Peter are making sure everyone has fresh drinks, and moving things into the living room.

It’s peaceful. There’s still chatter, but it’s quieter, the content voices of the well-fed.

Beau soon gets tired, and Will swaps out so that his father can go upstairs to rest. Matthew takes over drying, and Lilith—who knows very well where everything goes—does an excellent job keeping up.

When they finish, Matthew and Lilith head to the living room in the midst of a rousing discussion about some popular television show or another.

Hannibal lets out a long breath. Will pulls him into a hug, pressing him against the counter; he reaches up and encourages Hannibal to rest his head on Will’s shoulder. He smells of pine and burnt sugar and apple cider and motor oil. Hannibal breathes it in, as though he could coat his lungs with it.

“You’re doing great,” Will whispers.

“Kind of you to say,” Hannibal says, muffled by Will’s shoulder.

“They’re not used to you yet. But I see you trying to let them get there, and I appreciate it. I appreciate you.” Will kisses him just behind his ear. “Hannibal…”

“Mm?”

“Do you have patients tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he says, slowly. “Though, not until the evening.”

“So, I could… stay with you, tonight?”

He leans back, head tilted just so. “Don’t you wish to spend time with your family while they’re here, Will?”

“They’re all staying another week, at least. They know what I’m like. It’s not unusual for me to take some time to myself.”

“Time to yourself, with me.”

“Yeah.” His eyes sparkle. “If you like.”

“I’m never opposed to your company, Will.”

“Good. Few more hours here first, see everybody’s in a good spot. Then we can have our own celebration.”

Hannibal is a bit distracted by the idea.

This is why the next few hours simply fly by. Card and board games, little drinking games, bets and silly performances, stories about Will when he was younger, it all blurs together. Maybe that’s the wine, but more likely it’s the secret looks and touches he keeps getting from Will. He would be worried that they were less subtle than they believed if he were anyone else, but Will is a master of timing, and a perfect chameleon when he wants to be, as he has previously pointed out.

This time, Hannibal is likely the weak link. But how is he meant to keep his composure when Will is sending him such enticing signals?

It gets past sunset, and Will rises to take the dogs for their evening walk. Randall decides to accompany him, to stretch his limbs and test some of the new suit. Hannibal takes the time to help fill bags of pre-packed leftovers for all of the siblings to take with them, apart from Lilith who has no good place for leftovers in her hotel room. Rather, he helps her to place a claim and label them.

She is apologetically writing her name on the entire remaining container of her atrocious green bean casserole and joking about how Hannibal’s tasted better but hers tasted like being seven years old again. Hannibal is actually smiling, or at least the corners of his eyes are crinkling, because he has comfort foods like that himself, and he is about to tell her about a particular type of plain potato pancake he has always had a fondness for when he smells it.

The metallic tang on the air. The thick, cloying stink of fresh blood.

“Will,” he says, and sprints for the front door.

He makes it one wide step onto the front porch before somebody flicks on the light and he rapidly takes in the scene.

Will is covered in blood, but it doesn’t appear to be his. His face is stony and stormy all at once, a maelstrom filled with razor-sharp teeth. He snarls at Matthew to come get Randall’s legs.

Randall is half-slung over his shoulder, one hand pressed tightly to his abdomen. He’s white as a sheet, apart from his mouth. His teeth and chin are stained with blood. The arm around Will is soaked, too, and the claw attached to his hand appears to have tatters of human skin caught in the hinges.

The dogs are nowhere to be seen, but Will tells Peter and Finn that they’re in the forest; apparently Hyun got startled and took off, and the dogs went with him.

“Hannibal,” Will pants. “He needs you.”

He nods and trots to his car to retrieve his surgical kit.

He gets back inside to see Randall laid out on the kitchen table, and Will telling Lilith and Matthew,

“The body is still in the forest. Follow the blood trail.”

“Who the fuck did this, Will?” demands Matthew, gripping tightly to Randall’s hand.

“I don’t know, but he was after me. Randall was brave as hell, and stupid, to get in the way.”

“Couldn’t let him… hurt you, big brother,” Randall pants. “You’re the leader of the p-pack.”

He’s bleeding all over the table. Hannibal presses a wad of gauze to the wound and orders Will to put pressure on, then moves to scrub and disinfect his hands.

“We don’t even know he was trying to kill me, or even hurt me all that bad. He had some kind of message, he said. He might have had something physical. I need you two to go look. We’ll worry about the body later.”

“What about the blood?”

“It’s not that bad on the way here. The snow will cover it in an hour or two. If you’re that worried, obscure it on your way out to the body. Just go, I’ll meet you out there once Finn and Peter are back. Unless you see them first, in which case send Peter back here with the dogs and have Finn help with the body. We have to find out if they had a car, a phone, if anybody knew they were out here.”

“Yeah,” says Lilith, “we know the drill. Come on, little brother.” She takes Matthew by the forearm and drags him outside.

“You better stay alive, Rendy,” Matthew calls behind him.

“He will be fine,” Hannibal assures the room, pulling his gloves on. “Will, please wash your hands and we can begin.”

The surgery is quite painful for Randall, given the limited anaesthetics, but overall it is successful. He has no permanent internal damage, just a massive gash which drags along his ribs and into his abdomen. It’s easily twelve inches long, but at its deepest it is only about half an inch.

“This was no practiced killer,” Hannibal says. “They were unsure where to strike, and how much pressure to apply.”

“Yeah, he hesitated,” says Will. Randall is asleep now, sweaty and pale, but breathing evenly. His blood has dripped into two small, sticky pools. “It saved Randall’s life.”

Matthew comes careening back into the room. “Will,” he gasps, his hands on his knees. He’s gripping a gray envelope tight in one hand, tied with black ribbon. “You… you need to see this.”

Will takes the message, his eyes ticking just for a moment to Hannibal. The top has been slit open by a knife, likely by one of the family. The name William Graham is penned on the front in block letters.

What falls into Will’s hand is two glossy photographs and one sheet of fine cardstock.

The first photo is Will’s FBI faculty photo. The eyes have been scratched out so violently the photo paper has torn across the bridge of Will’s nose. In bright red paint, the words COMMON WHORE have been violently slashed across the page.

The second photo is of Hannibal’s most recent tableau, with the couple in the middle of their dance, posed such that the man’s nose is intimately pressed into the column of the woman’s throat. A photo of Will from shortly before his arrest has been crudely photoshopped in, as though he were sweaty and disheveled and looking upon the display, almost as if he were a direct contrast to it. Again, his eyes have been viciously scratched through, and, once again in bright red, this time ILL-FITTING has been slashed across the photo.

The cardstock is a note, typewritten. It reads:

Agent Professor William Graham, Foolish Bumbling Ingrate,

You Fail to See and Appreciate what is Offered to you. You are UNWORTHY of his Glorious Attention. You do not even Know who you Seek. You are but a Distraction and a Detriment to his Art. You are a Common WHORE who can never Understand or See. You will LEAVE so that he can Continue his Work unimpeded by you or the Foolish Distraction you represent. 

Take Your Botticelli Smile And Leave Before You Ruin Everything.

Others will come. I Am Warning You.

His Secret Admirer ❤

There is a jumbled mass of slash marks Hannibal can’t make sense of, particularly through the fog of rage so deep his well-trimmed fingernails slice open his palms.

“Thirty,” Will murmurs. “Why thirty? What does that mean?”

Hannibal doesn’t care. This lowly worm has dared to threaten his Will.

Damn the warnings. It’s time for the Ripper to do what he does best.

Chapter Text

Why does everyone have to make such a big deal out of a perfectly manageable situation? 

Lilith and Finn and Matthew were all foaming at the mouth, trying to hunt down the stranger’s car, his phone, any other people who might have come with him. It’s ridiculous; he clearly didn’t want to be spotted, and would have parked pretty far away from Will’s property before traveling through the woods to watch the house. Somebody else definitely knows he came out here because he was only a messenger, but that person isn’t going to bring attention to this disappearance because it raises too many questions. Body disposal in this case should be as easy as taking the guy a mile or two into the woods where he could conceivably have gotten lost and mauled by an animal (which is exactly what happened), so their job should really only take one person about an hour.

Peter was distressed and fussing over Randall, who is completely fine and will recover in a matter of days with nothing but a thin scar he can be proud of. He had some painkillers and went to sleep. He doesn’t even need to be monitored. There was no internal damage, and he didn’t even lose that much blood in the end. Most of the blood came from the guy Randall eviscerated.

At least Papa slept through the whole thing. Small mercies.

But Hannibal?

Hannibal is more pissed off and tense than Will has ever seen him. He was completely silent the entire drive from Wolf Trap back into Baltimore. His grip on the steering wheel was so tight, it creaked.

When they arrive at Hannibal’s home, Will manages to gently coax him into the study so they can talk, but the man won’t sit down and his hands shake when he pours their drinks. His eyes are sharp, red, furious, and utterly gorgeous.

“Hannibal,” Will says, his voice soft and hard all at once. A difficult thing to balance, but given that Hannibal actually looks at him, he figures he’s done a decent job of it. “I need you to promise me you aren’t going to do anything on your own.”

“They came for you, Will,” Hannibal hisses. He sets the half-poured whiskey glass down too hard on the bar top and flexes his beautiful hands. Will captures them in his own and squeezes, trying to get Hannibal to relax his long, delicate fingers. “If you had been alone—”

“I don’t even think he was trying to hurt me. He had a message to deliver, that’s all.” He glides his palm up Hannibal’s arm all the way up to his face, and cups his cheek. “If I’d been alone, and he did try to hurt me, I’d have gotten something out of him before I killed him. But I would have been fine.”

Hannibal growls in frustration and presses into Will’s hand. “The message itself is more insulting than the intruder,” he snarls. “How dare they call you unworthy? Ill-fitting? A whore? A distraction? ”

Will shrugs and pulls Hannibal closer, forehead to forehead, his thumb tracing Hannibal’s cheekbone. “Are you really so surprised? People look at me and they see unstable, antisocial, poorly dressed. Whereas you? Brilliant, beautiful Dr. Lecter, with his perfect suits and his social graces, all that poise? And this Admirer, they see the other side, too. The Ripper. The artist. Pristine, elegant, breathtaking.” Hannibal frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Will grins and says, “They’re just missing the most important piece: what an absolute mess you are. So full of rage and disdain, so petty, so bitchy . Lonely and lovesick. A maelstrom of melodrama and goddamn puns. They think they understand you because they see both of your public personas, but they don’t see the real monster under the surface. If they did, they’d be too afraid to get between you and what you want.”

Hannibal huffs and closes his eyes. After a beat, he says, “Do you recall what I said about the creature inside of me? Its greed, its gluttony? How I did not know how it might react if you were ever taken from me?”

“Kind of hard to forget.”

“I feel it behind my teeth,” Hannibal says. “I feel its claws in my own hands, threatening to tear through my fingertips. It wishes to force itself through my skin, to tear its way out and inflict itself upon the world. I am beginning to understand just what it would drive me to do, if anything were to happen to you.”

Will sighs and steps in closer, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s waist, tucking his nose in against Hannibal’s neck. “You don’t have to be afraid. I can defend myself just fine.”

“You don’t understand, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “This Admirer, their desire is to drive you away from me. To convince you to leave. If they were to succeed in turning you against me somehow… I would kill you before I allowed you to go. And killing you would be the greatest agony I would ever know.”

Will laughs, low and warm, against Hannibal’s skin. “You’re always so goddamn dramatic.”

He thinks, or maybe hopes, that Hannibal will relax and laugh along with him, but Hannibal just holds him, his arms tightening fractionally, and stays silent. He’s brooding now. Will doesn’t want Hannibal getting lost in his own head.

“Hey,” he says, and leans back until he can look into Hannibal’s troubled face. “What do you need?”

Hannibal doesn’t look at him directly; his eyes tick between the floor and Will’s chest. “I… am concerned.”

“Okay. Concerned about what?”

“That you may come to believe—” He cuts himself off and his teeth click. He exhales through his nose and tries again. “This Admirer is not the first to make such arguments. I’d like for you to know, beyond doubt, no matter how many fools may share their ignorant conclusions, that I am yours in all ways. That you are the only worthy object of my affection and devotion.”

Will’s turn to frown, now. “You know I’m not actually that insecure, right?”

“I’m not sure this is a rational need, Will.”

“Okay. So… what do you need to feel like you’ve convinced me?”

Hannibal tightens his arms again, pulling Will closer. He finally makes eye contact again, and his gaze is as smoky as his voice when he says,

“Allow me to worship you.”

Will’s brain goes blank for a moment. “Um.”

“I would ask your permission at every stage. Your word, my law.”

Will’s face heats. “Um. What would this entail, exactly?”

“Exactly?” Hannibal shrugs one shoulder and his hands begin to rove up and down the planes of Will’s back. “That will depend wholly upon your comfort. I would like to start with a massage. It would, of course, be up to you how thorough you would allow me to be.”

“Of course,” Will says, and swallows.

When did just the thought of Hannibal’s hands on his bare skin start making him hard?

“Please, Will. Allow me to show you my devotion. It would reassure me, knowing you could look back on this night and my unwavering focus on you if you’re ever subjected to more of these… blasphemies.”

Will kisses him, hard enough to knock his own teeth into the inside of his lower lip and taste a little blood. Hannibal kisses back, hungry, his fingers digging into Will’s body, his chest rumbling with a satisfied sigh.

“Yes,” Will breathes, his lips still close enough to brush Hannibal’s.

He is a bit startled when Hannibal quite literally sweeps him off his feet and lifts him, bodily, in a bridal-style carry. Christ, his upper body strength. Will knew, of course, that a man who hauls all those bodies and puts up all those displays had to be strong, and he has seen Hannibal’s arms and chest before, but it’s a different experience being lifted so easily and carried up all those stairs with barely any effort.

Different, and intensely arousing, in a confusing sort of way.

It is with immense self-control that Hannibal keeps his touch gentle. He is still so very angry, but not at Will. Never at Will. He needs to remind himself as much as his god that, no matter what others may think or do or say, he and Will belong to one another. There is no escape for either of them. The thought comforts him, but still the fear—or at least the anxiety—exists that Will, somehow, feels differently.

Hannibal does not care for fear or anxiety.

The monster inside of him shreds its way toward surface control, long tattered strips of flesh falling around it like discarded ribbon, and Hannibal must swallow them all down.

He is slow with his exploration of Will’s body. He begins by working out the tension in Will’s back, kneading the soft, sensitive skin from one side. Every little sigh or appreciative groan forms a piece of the lifeline anchoring Hannibal to himself, to his control, to the reassurance that Will would allow no other to touch him this way.

He narrates what he is doing, which muscle groups he targets, which bones he can press against. He can smell Will’s growing arousal, more grounding than even the appreciative snippets of half-whispered phrases falling from his lips. His fingers trail across Will’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Will shivers, or perhaps shudders, as Hannibal’s thumbs make wide circles on his inner thighs.

His arousal is heavy on Hannibal’s tongue, a heady reminder of the blended flavor he had been permitted to taste. He cannot control the slight hitch in his voice when he asks Will to turn onto his back.

Hannibal can’t look away from the steam of Will’s gaze, a tropical storm caught in the iris of the most beautiful man Hannibal has ever seen. Will’s scent is overwhelming now; he stretches languidly, fully on display.

Though he doesn’t mean to, Hannibal finds himself whispering, “Oh, my dievas. I would taste every inch of you, if you allowed me the privilege.”

Will hums, his face pink, his hair—wet from a luxurious bath—sticking to his cheeks and forehead and splayed out behind him. Hannibal can’t tell if he is shy or confident, coy or hesitant. But Will sits up, his fingers twining into the front of Hannibal’s sweater, his thighs tightening around Hannibal’s knees, and pulls them both close together.

He’s trembling; perhaps they both are. Will is halfway in Hannibal’s lap, in nothing but a pair of soft cotton boxer-briefs, and he has the audacity to draw Hannibal into a long, slow, filthy kiss, all tongues and nipping teeth and the intimate slide of saliva-slick lips. He breathes his commandments into Hannibal’s lungs, filling him with ecstatic divinity.

“Do it,” his god whispers. “Taste me. Mark me. Never let me forget the truth of you.”

In another lifetime, or maybe later in this one, Hannibal would ravage his god. He would leave such exquisite markings, such intricate bruises and cuts, such scars for his dievas to carry forever. They would serve to enhance his beauty, to display his fury, to commemorate his genius.

But such glorious pain is not for today; on this night, Hannibal simply wishes to give thanks to his god, to show his utter devotion, to bring pleasure beyond any Will has experienced before.

With his mouth, with his hands, with his body, Hannibal gives praise.

He absorbs and catalogues every whimper, every moan, every arch of Will’s back, every squirm and wriggle when Hannibal finds another overly sensitive spot to treat as an altar. He wrings a surprise climax from Will with nothing but his mouth on that spot below Will’s ear, his fingers teasing at pert pink nipples, and the gentle roll of his hips against Will’s.

He doesn’t stop, because Will doesn’t ask him to. He kisses his way down Will’s neck and chest, down his sensitive belly, to the waistband of his shorts. He lowers his lips to the wet spot on the front of the shorts and suckles, salivating as the taste of Will bursts across his tongue. He looks up and finds his god’s head thrown back, eyes closed, hands fisted in the sheets at his sides, his hips tilting up toward Hannibal’s mouth. 

“May I?” Hannibal purrs, and Will’s nod is sharp and jerky.

The taste of him is more exquisite than ever. Hannibal could live this way for an eternity, Will’s cock heavy on his tongue, prodding at the back of his throat, still soft from his release but already growing harder. Will is panting, one of his hands threading through Hannibal’s hair, and he begins to rock his hips.

His god wants him. Wants this, from him. Wants to use his mouth, his throat, wants to take the offering of pleasure Hannibal has brought.

Hannibal relaxes his throat and groans, the vibration rolling up through Will’s body and making its way out of his mouth as a soft, muffled cry.

Dievas, he thinks, if only you knew what you do to me.

It takes time, long enough for Hannibal’s jaw to begin to protest, but he succeeds in bringing Will to another, stronger climax; Will’s cock hits the back of Hannibal’s throat and his release spills straight down, pulse after pulse. The shame of it all is that Hannibal doesn’t get to taste much of it this time, but he can set aside such a minor disappointment in the face of Will’s boneless, heavy-lidded panting.

He crawls up Will’s body again, leaving little nips and bites on his chest, and they kiss, slow and soft; Will is too wrung out for anything more intense, and Hannibal’s lips are swollen with the effort of pleasuring his god. Hannibal’s fingers continue to trail up and down the planes of Will’s body, the dips of his hips, the hair on his chest and stomach, the little bruises on his neck.

He is so focused, it takes him a moment to register Will’s hand sliding under his waistband; he has been ignoring his own hardness, the throbbing, the ache, because he was deriving such pleasure from Will’s enjoyment that his own climax wasn’t even a consideration.

But Will, merciful, benevolent god that he is, rolls to his side and pulls Hannibal close as he pushes down Hannibal’s pants just far enough for ease of movement and then wraps his strong fingers around Hannibal’s weeping cock. It is sticky with pre-come, leaking almost endlessly, and Will seems not to mind. He draws Hannibal into another soft kiss as he tightens his grip and begins an easy rhythm, swiping his thumb across the wet slit.

He sets his mouth beside Hannibal’s ear and begins to speak, low and smoky. “You’re all mine. All mine. And I take care of what’s mine, don’t I, sugar? Nobody’s ever gonna get between us unless it’s our design. I’m never gonna let you forget who you belong to. And I’m never gonna forget that I’m yours, Hannibal. I’m all yours, and I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’d have to tear me to pieces to get rid of me.” Hannibal groans and drops his head against Will’s shoulder, his hips bucking involuntarily. Hannibal’s fingers dig deep into Will’s hip, and Will hisses through his teeth as his slick hand slides even faster. “There he is. There’s my beautiful monster. Gorgeous, devoted thing.” He nips at Hannibal’s earlobe and murmurs, “Come for me, Ripper.”

Helpless to do anything else in the face of his god, Hannibal does.

After Thanksgiving night, things get more intense with Hannibal.

Will supposes he should have expected it, but it seems like Hannibal can’t spend a single evening alone with Will without dropping to his knees to give Will a quick and powerful orgasm before returning to whatever it was he had been focusing on, as though nothing happened. He never expects reciprocation, and in fact often doesn’t allow Will to even try, citing how busy they are with preparations for the post-Thanksgiving party.

Will struggles a little with this; it feels like it’s because he has yet to offer anything but a handjob, which is a bit messier as far as cleanup and takes longer. He knows Hannibal is patient, but he is a little afraid that patience will run out. He tries not to think about it—after all, Hannibal can’t keep his damn hands off him, so he can’t be that upset.

Will does have to go home most days, both because his family is still visiting and because he has work, but he and Hannibal find a few hours each evening to spend together.

A few days after Thanksgiving, Matthew gives them an update on Freddie’s laptop and phone. He was able to pull some screenshots of forum posts on some obscure independent true crime site, which included references to more exclusive forums for users who were ‘true connoisseurs of the depraved’. He promises to look deeper into it and update again as soon as he has something more concrete.

Honestly, Will is less worried about that than everybody else. Lilith and Finn have extended their stay indefinitely. Lilith is mostly acting as a supervisor and planner, with Finn in his camper acting as her eyes on the house. 

Randall, even though he’s still healing, is insisting on staying on Will’s property to patrol. He’s got his new suit mostly put together now, though it’s missing a few details, and it should protect him from any further harm—there’s a body suit underneath the exoskeleton made almost entirely of Kevlar, military grade stuff that’ll do well to turn aside a knife and keep a range of bullet calibers from penetrating.

Peter is keeping his head down, staying away for now, since he doesn’t feel like there’s much he can do. He’s worried about Will, and unlike everybody else he’s also expressed worry for Hannibal.

Papa is pretty pissed that nobody woke him up that night, and he’s been fussing over both Will and Randall since he found out what happened. He seems to blame Hannibal a little bit, though Will doubts anyone else has noticed, and Papa might not even realize it himself.

Will has bigger things to worry about, like the fact that news of Freddie Lounds’ death has finally made it to the FBI, and that the Thirty Cuts Killer(s) dropped another body.

There had been rumors about Freddie, of course. She hadn’t been posting anything or responding to comments, which was out of character, but as Will had suspected, local cops had handled her case on their own. Baltimore PD had not asked for the FBI because this was a clear-cut case of a tabloid journalist getting into a dangerous situation and getting robbed. Based on the teeny tiny little article Zeller is showing everyone, it doesn’t even look like the cops found Matthew’s other kill in the nearby warehouse, or checked to see why she was out there to begin with. A classic case of whelp, this seems cut and dried, less paperwork for us!

Of course Jack, when he hears about it, wants the case reopened. To Will’s delight, however, Freddie’s next of kin (parents, as it turns out, who haven’t had much contact with her for the last decade) refuse to consent to an exhumation of the body, and the photos the Baltimore PD provided are about as basic as they come. There’s nothing to find.

Jack is still going to try, and that’s a bit concerning, but Will dismisses it for now.

The Thirty Cuts case, that’s more of an issue. The most recent body is a little different. This is clearly a message, only for Will. They picked a white brunette male, approximately six feet tall, a bit slimmer and ganglier than Will, but they didn’t go so obvious as to choose someone with curly hair. No—the reason Will knows this message is intended for him is two-fold. First, the heart carved into the body is in the pelvic area, which has been shaved or waxed bare. This hearkens back to the Admirer’s claim that Will is some kind of harlot. Second, and more concerning, is that this victim’s eyes have been gouged out, scratched out, the face shredded, the eyeballs popped and dangling against the pale, waxy cheeks, the bridge of the nose damaged violently enough to resemble what was done to Will’s faculty photo in the warning message.

He tells Jack this is an escalation, that the killer or killers are reveling in the violence more and more, that their taste for mutilation is growing. This might be true. It’s still hard to read, because he is certain now that each of these kills were done by a different person, but the heart shape is some kind of stencil.

The show must go on, of course, and so the secondary Thanksgiving meal the following Friday night continues as planned.

It will be Hannibal and Will’s first public appearance as a couple, though most attendees will know already. The guest list includes the BAU science team, Jack and Bella Crawford, Alana Bloom, Frederick Chilton, Margot Verger, and a half-dozen or so of Hannibal’s high-society acquaintances.

Will has a hidden agenda here which is shockingly easy to put into motion.

As the guests arrive, they are invited to mill around in the sitting room, where Hannibal’s harpsichord sits in one corner and waitstaff are constantly supplying new trays of wine and champagne. Hannibal is occupied with overseeing the preparation of dinner, so Will is the one playing host. This puts him in the perfect position to manufacture an introduction that, to his mind, is critical for his plans.

Margot Verger arrives, looking stunning in a long-sleeved emerald dress and chunky jewelry at her throat and ears. Her lips are painted bright red, and her brilliant green eyes have been carefully emphasized with shadow and liner. Margot knows that Hannibal has her brother stored away somewhere. She may even have a suspicion that Mason is below their very feet. She looks more relaxed than Will has ever seen her, and her smile is genuine enough to sort of reach her eyes.

“Will,” she says, “I’m so happy to see you.” She kisses both of his cheeks. “I'll admit I was a bit hesitant to come, but for you, I thought, what the hell?”

“I'm glad you came,” Will replies, offering his arm. “I feel like we’re almost family.”

Margot’s eyes sparkle a little as he leads her toward the rest of the party. Quietly, Margot says, “You were so right, Will. I’m going to be a mom. Two successful implantations. A boy and a girl. And if it weren’t for you, those would be Mason’s kids. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“I just want you to be happy, Margot.” He pats her hand. “And, if you’re open to the idea of a bigger family, just know one exists that would love to have you. No strings, no expectations. Just… support.”

“Apart from Dr. Lecter,” Margot drawls, peering down the hall toward the kitchen.

“He’s got his own agenda, sure. But trust me when I say I’m turning his agenda into mine, and you can trust that mine has your best interests at heart.” They’ve been standing at the edge of the sitting room for a minute already. Will glances around until he sees the person he’s looking for, sipping a glass of wine by the harpsichord. “Ah, there’s somebody I want you to meet.”

He brings Margot over and calls out, “Don’t tell me you play.”

Beverly looks up, startled, and pulls her fingers away from the keys. “Uh, no, not really. I mean, the violin, but not the piano.”

“Where’d Jimmy and Brian get off to?”

“We’re not attached at the hip, Graham,” Beverly says, rolling her eyes. She smiles at Margot and lifts her chin. “Are you gonna introduce me to your friend?”

“Right, yes, Beverly Katz, Margot Verger.”

“Verger? Like, the meat company?”

“The very same,” says Margot, extending a hand. She smiles, eyeing Beverly up and down. “I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

Beverly grins and shakes her hand. “If it nets you outfits like that, hell, how could I?” She gestures over to the bar. “Can I get you a drink, Margot?”

“Scotch, neat,” says Margot, and Beverly’s smile widens.

“Coming right up,” she says, and saunters off.

Margot glances at Will and raises an eyebrow. Will shrugs.

“Thought you might hit it off.”

“We might,” says Margot, her attention already returning to Bev; she’s wearing a little black dress and her leather jacket, an aesthetic that seems to appeal to Margot. “You’re a strange man, Will. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were angling for something.”

“Just want my friends and family to be happy,” says Will. “A happy family is a strong family.” The doorbell rings, and Will squeezes Margot’s hand briefly. “Let me know how it goes, huh? With the kiddos and with Bev.”

Margot smiles, just slightly, a Mona Lisa smile, and Will goes to greet more guests.

Hannibal has arranged the dining table so that Margot and Beverly are side-by-side, which is excellent. There was a rather amusing moment—for Will and Hannibal, at least—wherein Alana Bloom attempted to join their conversation, and was politely entertained for a few minutes, but soon was left behind in the wake of Margot and Beverly’s sharp, sardonic chemistry.

Will witnesses them exchange numbers at the end of the night, each with a bit of blush high on their cheeks. He even gets a text from Bev:

Oh my god, Graham, wingman of the century. Are you kidding??

I’m glad you two hit it off, he replies. Let me know how it goes.

Only if you promise me some details about Dr. Sex Appeal.

Fine, he says. But don’t get your hopes up, we’re private people.

Oh my hopes are way up, Will. See you on Monday.

Margot is actually the last to leave the house. Alana tries to linger, too, but Will politely escorts her to the door while Hannibal and Margot have a private conversation. She seems disappointed. Will tries not to feel smug but it’s very difficult considering the multiple times she was shocked this evening; first by Will’s appearance, carefully curated by Hannibal, then by Hannibal’s public displays of affection toward Will, and finally by the shy charm Will employed to win over all of Hannibal’s hangers-on.

When Will makes his way back to Hannibal and Margot, he catches just the end of the conversation.

“I hope it’s enough time,” Margot is saying, and Hannibal nods reassuringly.

“I have been preparing for some time. Thank you for your efforts, Margot. They will not be wasted.”

“What are you going to do with him?” she asks.

“With Mason, or with Dr. Gideon?”

“Both. Either.”

“Mason will remain where he is, until such time as you are ready to produce your own heir. Abel will be provided with an opportunity for a fresh start.” Hannibal glances at Will. “It’s… something of a gift.”

Margot raises her eyebrows. “Is this how you build your family, Will? People who don’t have a choice?”

Will shrugs one shoulder. “They’ve always got a choice. I meant what I said, Margot. I offer a family that will love and support people, no matter what. People who understand why we do the things we do. There’s no obligation to be part of the family, but the alternative is to face the world alone, and life is so much easier when you have a support network, right?”

“And you gain absolutely nothing from this.”

“I didn’t say that. There are lots of benefits to having a happy family. I benefit just as much as everybody else. Anything I would ask the family to do, I’d expect the family to be willing to ask for themselves.” He gestures to Margot. “You’re welcome, too. You and any children you have. Consider it an open invitation.”

Margot frowns, but inclines her head. “I’ll think about it. I don’t have the best experience with family. But… so far, I’ll admit, I’ve had pretty decent luck with you.” She looks back to Hannibal. “The tenth, six o’clock. The route I gave you should be relatively quiet.” After a beat, she adds, “Be careful, Dr. Lecter.”

“Thank you, Margot. I always am.”

On December 10th, 2015, the transport bearing Dr. Abel Gideon back to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane goes missing. The transport vehicle is found that evening, empty, with blood from the driver, the guard, and Dr. Gideon himself splattered throughout the interior.

On December 11th, a new Ripper display shocks the people of Baltimore. It is set up in the graveyard where Dr. Gideon’s wife was buried, right on top of her headstone. The creation has been burnt to a crisp, and in fact was still on fire when it was found. The teeth were ripped from the skull, with pliers or something equally crude. The tongue was removed before the body was burned. The internals were also all removed, from guts to lungs to heart to brain. The eyeballs burst from the heat of the fire. The fingertips were severed, and not just one set; two more sets of arms were stitched on, creating a garish mockery of something like Shiva, and the fingertips of those arms were removed as well. The empty husk is plastered on the inside with singed photographs of previous Ripper murders and articles written by Frederick Chilton. A metronome is nestled in the pelvis. A light blinks from within the cavity of the skull. The headstone has been soaked with blood, liters and liters of it; testing will reveal that there are three different individuals’ DNA present: the driver, the guard, and Dr. Abel Gideon. Given how blended the blood is, however, it is impossible to tell how much blood was gathered from each victim. It is also nearly impossible to identify the bodies. A tattoo on one of the arms belongs to the guard; a scar on the bicep of another may be enough to confirm that it belongs to the driver, after an accident when he was young. But the main body, apart from being the correct height and the correct build, is completely unidentifiable. Even the place Will shot him is too burned to verify.

At the scene, pale and grim and through gritted teeth, Will says, “It’s Gideon, Jack. Look at what the Ripper is saying. Gideon claimed to be the Ripper, tried to take his identity. So everything that could possibly identify him has been removed, except the one thing Gideon hated above all else: this connection to his wife, the woman who abused him, the woman he murdered. The one association he could never escape no matter how badly he wanted to. He took everything. Hollowed Gideon out, the way Chilton did. Filled his head and his body with the tools of psychic driving. He turned Gideon into a representation of destroyer and creator, how the Ripper views himself, but it’s perverted and empty and burnt, like an offering.” He pauses and frowns. “Is Frederick’s home still under FBI surveillance?” When Jack shakes his head, Will says, “Get a car out there. I doubt he’ll actually go after him, even with a display this… venomous, but better safe than sorry.”

Jack wants the report on his desk by the end of the day. Easy; Will already has it half-written in his head. He wasn’t entirely sure what Hannibal would do, but he had made a few suggestions. Overall it’s beautiful, and Jack is going to be willing enough to declare Gideon another Ripper victim, even without total confirmation of his identity.

On his way to his car from the graveyard, he sends a text to Hannibal:

Might not make dinner tonight, report for a new case. Probably won’t even get home until almost 10. Sorry, sugar.

He’s almost to his car when his phone dings, but he doesn’t get the chance to check it. There’s an envelope tucked beneath one of his wiper blades. Gray, with black ribbon. His name in block letters on the front.

He makes sure no one is around before he opens it.

William Graham. Frankly Boring Idiot Agent.

You do not See what is Right in Front of you. His Greatness Peaks when He is Focused on His own designs and Needs. The Beauty of the SHIVA. The Ugliness of YOU. Pitiful thing, grasping at straws. Clawing at the Edges of Perfection. You are HIDEOUS and DULL.

Leave Him to his Rapturous Work or PERISH in the Fires of his Judgment.

His Eyes should not be upon you. He does not send you GIFTS. He will recognize the Greatness and the Gifts of others. You have nothing.

You Are Nothing. You have been warned.

His Secret Admirer ❤

Hannibal’s text reads, I will bring dinner to you. It is no trouble at all. I will see you soon, dear Will.

And, as promised, when Will returns home he finds Hannibal’s sleek black car parked in his driveway. Finn greets him from the door of his camper and informs him that all’s well, and Will waves to him before heading inside.

He doesn’t tell Hannibal about the note immediately, because they have something else to worry about first.

Sitting at the dining room table, playing a card game with Beau Graham and looking remarkably comfortable under the circumstances, is Dr. Abel Gideon.

“Will Graham, as I live and breathe,” says Gideon, setting his cards down. “No thanks to you, that is. Although, perhaps I should say it’s no thanks to the both of you.” He tilts his head toward Hannibal, who is bringing Will a plate of something that smells incredible. “Are you two on the same side, now?”

“We are,” says Will.

“Funny. If a guy gaslit me so bad I started seizing I think I might have a teensy problem with him.”

“We worked it out,” Will says. “Sorry for shooting you.”

“Are you? You did save the good Dr. Bloom’s life, after all, didn’t you? Was she properly thankful for your heroics?”

Will shrugs out of his jacket and sits down; Hannibal kisses the top of his head. “I’m less interested in what Alana thinks these days.”

“Oh, I can see that,” says Abel, waggling his eyebrows. “Did the brain damage impact your dad, too, or are you both just secretly as crazy as I am?”

“You’re not crazy, Abel. And neither are we.” He frowns. “And don’t be rude to my father, he’s been nothing but kind to you.”

“That’s the crazy part,” says Abel, sagely. “And I’m beginning to think there’s a lot more to you than encephalitis and dogs, Agent Graham.”

“There is. And there’s more to you than a family annihilator or a guinea pig for Frederick Chilton.”

“Ah, yes, how is good old Dr. Chilton doing these days?”

“Still insufferable. Still on a renal diet.”

“Excellent.” He picks his cards back up. “Now, this is all good fun, a nice little family game night—and might I say, your father here is quite the pinochle player—but I get the impression I’m here to be more than a fourth guy for UNO.”

“You said it yourself. It’s family game night,” says Will. “I know your experience with family has been pretty unpleasant up to this point, but what if you had the chance to suddenly gain a whole host of siblings, instead of shitty in-laws?”

“Siblings? You mean, you and the good Dr. Lecter?”

“Among others.”

Abel hums and draws a card. “Interesting offer. But I don’t see what’s in it for me.”

“I think you do. You’re not stupid, Abel. Far from it.” Will pulls up an article on his phone and pushes it across the table so that Gideon can browse it, his eyes ticking back and forth across the screen. “Thanks to us, you’re dead. You’re welcome.”

“You’ve put me in your debt with no way out. Sounds familial to me.”

Will shakes his head. “We’ll give you new papers. New identity. Some plastic surgery, if you want. Just little things, to change your face just enough. Nobody will be looking for you. And you’ll have an account, in your name, to get you started. Wherever you want to go, you can go.”

“And the catch is…?”

“No catch.”

Gideon sets the cards down again, carefully, and stares first at Will, then at Hannibal, and then at Beau, who lifts his hands as if to say don’t look at me, I don’t have anything to do with this.

“Y’know, when things seem too good to be true…”

“They usually are,” Will agrees. “But in this case, they’re just the way they look. The thing is, I don’t want anyone in my family who doesn’t want to be there. I don’t want you to join the family because you feel like you have no choice. I want you to join because you’re smart enough to see the benefits. The protection we offer each other. Support. Understanding. Hell, if you want to get more practical, alibis and help with getting out of shitty situations, like the one we just got you out of. The first one’s free, but join the family and you get anything you need, anything we can give you, with no expectation but that you’re willing to do the same for your family.”

Abel sighs. “I’ll be honest with you, Agent Graham. This sounds an awful lot like a cult, and I can’t overstate how little I want to be part of a cult.”

Will laughs. “A cult has an agenda. The only mantra we follow is support each other, and don’t bring each other down. We’re not trying to accomplish anything except to create a space where we don’t have to hide who we are.” Hannibal sets a hand on his shoulder, and Will reaches up to touch it without looking. “We protect each other’s peace, whatever that looks like. That’s what family does.”

Abel looks between Will and Hannibal. He blinks. He glances at Beau again. He narrows his eyes at Will.

“How many killers have you recruited, Graham? How many of us do you have waiting in the wings to do your bidding?”

“Five, not counting you or myself. Three allies, who understand but don’t participate, including my father. One more, yet to be determined.” He doesn’t break eye contact. He and Gideon stare each other down. “It’s a big family, Abel. But it’s tight-knit. Not my bidding; ours. We would do anything for each other.”

“And you even tamed the Chesapeake Ripper,” Abel says, softly.

Hannibal chuckles and says, “Hardly.”

Will cocks his head to the side. “Why would I want to tame him?”

“You’re an FBI agent. Isn’t that your job?”

“Technically my job is to catch him. And I’ve done that. Just not in the way the FBI intended.”

Abel grins, and snickers, and then full-on belly laughs. “Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me. What a strange and remarkable thing you are, Will Graham. What a strange and remarkable family you’ve put together. I’d never have guessed it, watching you sweat and seize in Lecter’s dining room a year ago, but you’re actually very interesting.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to get to know me,” says Will. “We’re going to have to move you to a secure site until we get your new identity sorted. That means the new face, too.”

“Sure,” says Abel. He looks at Beau. “Say, does that make you my father, now, too?”

Beau beams. “If you like. The others call me papa, or pops. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Abel’s grin widens. “Well, pops, how about another hand?”

Hannibal and Will step outside for a breather, and let the dogs get one last run before bed. Will sighs and reaches into his pocket for the Admirer’s note.

“Hannibal,” he says. “I got another one.”

Hannibal stiffens, and slowly takes the note from Will’s hand. He reads it quickly, probably a few times, and then crumples it in his fist.

“When?”

“At the cemetery, earlier today. It was on my car. I was at the crime scene for a while. Found it about seven o’clock, but they could have placed it any time after I got there.”

“You should have told me about this immediately.”

“I had other things on my mind.”

“Will. This is serious. They approached you in public.”

“They approached my car, not me.”

“This is a clear escalation. What if Jack had seen this note? He cannot become entangled in this. It draws too much suspicion.”

“Obviously. But there’s nothing we can do. We can’t control what these people are doing. We don’t know enough about them.”

“Why won’t you take this seriously? Why are you being so… passive about this? They are threatening you.”

“And I’m not threatened. Their intimidation tactics aren’t working, I don’t care what they say or who they send to my goddamn house. Why are you so concerned about their focus on me when you should be concerned about their obsession with you?”

Hannibal snarls and begins to pace in the snow. “Because they are making no attempt to contact me or interfere with my life, apart from their attempts to take you from me. Next they will begin to target our public relationship, Will, have you considered that?”

“Of course I have. It’s the next logical step. They’ll start doing things to drive a wedge between us. But from what I’ve seen they’re not going to be very good at it. Obviously they aren’t going to try to convince you that I’m unfaithful or whatever, because they’re aware that you’re obsessed with me as both the Ripper and Hannibal Lecter. But they want to get me away from you, so they’ll probably try to make me think that you are unfaithful or something. But we both already know this is going to happen, so there’s no risk of either of us falling for it. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine!” Hannibal snaps. “Why do you keep saying that it’s fine? None of this is fine! They are trying to take you away from me!”

“Christ, Hannibal, nobody can take me away from you! What aren’t you getting? This is exactly the kind of stupid fucking fight that they want us to get into, and I won’t do it.” Will takes a deep breath and grabs Hannibal’s shoulders, forcing him to look into Will’s eyes. He softens his voice. “I love you.”

Hannibal short-circuits. His anger melts from him like so much liquid gold, puddling on the ground beneath his feet, and he steps free of it to take Will in his arms. He buries his nose in Will’s hair, his hands clutching desperately at the fabric of Will’s shirt.

“Again,” he whispers, his voice muffled by Will’s curls.

Will sighs and hugs him tighter. “I love you, Hannibal.”

“Mylimasis,” he breathes. “Dievas, my wrathful god.” He presses his forehead to Will’s and says, “And I love you, my dear Will. In the terrible and wretched way my heart allows, I love you.”

“Yeah,” says Will. “I know what mylimasis means.”

Hannibal nips at the tip of his nose. “Terrible and wretched.”

“Break open your ribs and let me burrow inside,” he says, softly, and kisses Hannibal Lecter in the radiant starlight.

Chapter Text

The Monday following the discovery of the Shiva display, the 14th of December, Jack Crawford holds a press conference at Quantico. Will stands dutifully behind and to the left of him, fidgeting, his glasses sliding down his nose from sweat. The lights are bright, there’s too much movement in this room, and Will is getting nervous.

“Thank you all for coming. We’re going to make this quick,” says Crawford, and the room settles down. A few flashbulbs go off; Will finds this a little funny, because he already knows none of the pictures they take of Jack are going to make it into the articles. Jack stands straight, his expression hard, and he says, “I’ll get right to it. We have preliminary confirmation that the remains found on December 11th belonged to Marcus Holt, Harvey Stanford, and Dr. Abel Gideon. We have also determined based on the properties of the crime scene that it does appear to be the work of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

An uproar. Questions, left and right. Jack takes in a breath that whistles slightly through his clenched teeth and raises a hand, asking for silence.

“Yes, we are aware this would be the Ripper’s third sounder in the last six months. We believe he is escalating. We believe that he is growing impatient and unstable. This particular display appears retaliatory, to remove an obstacle which may have been able to identify him. We do not know, yet, how the Ripper knew when Dr. Gideon was being transported. We have theories, and we are following up on them.” He gestures to Will. “You all know Will Graham, a victim of the Ripper in his own right. Will?”

Will straightens his collar and steps forward, nodding to Jack to indicate that he’s okay. He takes the podium, his hands shaking just a little bit. He clears his throat; the microphone whines.

“The Chesapeake Ripper is unraveling,” he says, after a pause to gather his thoughts. “This escalation is an attempt to gain the attention he feels he has not been given. He is growing more unstable, but more predictable. His displays have gone from artistic representations of the supposed sins of his victims to self-serving, over-designed, bloated images made to draw as much attention as possible.”

“From you,” calls one of the journalists. “Pardon my saying so, Dr. Graham, but this started with you being framed for his crimes.”

Will inclines his head and adjusts his glasses. “Unfortunately, yes, there does seem to be a correlation. Our working theory is that the Ripper wanted to be chased, wanted to get into a battle of wits, per se. In his sick, demented mind, the Ripper believes that he should have the full attention of the one person who might understand him. He wants it to be earned. I want to put it on the record, right now, today, that every work the Ripper creates is a disgusting perversion of art and of life. He is a sick man, and he needs to be stopped. His rage and frenzy are just the same as any other killer; he’s gotten impatient, and he’s lashing out more and more. He’s going to make a mistake, and when he does we will be right there to stop him. What he did to those orderlies, and to Dr. Gideon, was a horrific perversion of the symbolism he was attempting to display.” Will takes his glasses off and frowns at the podium. “If I can speak directly to the Ripper for a moment, I’d just like to say this: I will find you. I will catch you. And you will be locked away in the deepest, darkest corner of the hospital you forced me into for six months. I won’t look for you. I won’t come talk to you. I won’t play your game any longer than I have to in order to get you behind bars. You’ll be forgotten, just another depraved lunatic in the long line of monsters the BAU has taken down.”

He doesn’t wait for questions, or for Jack’s permission to leave; he just hurries off the stage and out the side door, into the hallway, where he can catch his breath. To his surprise, it’s Brian Zeller who comes to find him.

They lean against the wall, side-by-side, silently listening to the murmur of voices further down.

“I was gonna say, ‘hey, Will, you doin’ okay?’ But, probably not, huh.”

“Yeah,” says Will. “Probably not. Thanks, though.”

“You seem pretty riled up about this one.” Zeller picks at his fingernails and slumps a bit further against the wall. “What’s getting to you?”

Will leans his head backward, jarring it against the yellowed paint. “Gideon,” he says. “He denied up and down, left, right, and center, up until he got his transfer, that he knew who the Ripper was. Said they never actually crossed paths. And we bought it. I bought it. But clearly it was bullshit, or the Ripper wouldn’t have gone after him. There was no reason to target him if he didn’t know who the Ripper was.”

Brian whistles. “Yeah, that’s pretty fuckin’ abysmal work on our end, missing that. But what were we supposed to do, torture it out of him? The guy was impossible to talk to. This isn’t on you, Will. There was no way to know.”

“I know. I know, but, we could have saved so many if he’d just fucking talked. If we’d tried harder, if we’d looked deeper, if, if, if.” He slams his head back a little more aggressively. “We have to stop him. He’s speeding up. Used to be years between sounders. Three in a year? Not just in a year but three in six months? At this rate it’ll be a sounder every month.”

“But he’s gonna get sloppier, right? I mean, this much less time to plan out his displays, he’ll screw up, yeah? He’s got to.”

Will sighs and his lips quirk up in one corner. “Honestly, kind of what I’m banking on. I’m hoping he sees the press conference and gets pissed off. Goes feral, frenzied, whatever. Leaves him open for mistakes.”

Brian pauses, then says, “The displays before. They were for you, right? I mean, we all thought so, but you kept saying—”

“Yeah. I was trying to piss him off then, too. Seems like it’s working, not giving him what he wants. But it’s also costing people their lives. That’s why I’m so pissed off about this. Not just Gideon, but the driver, and the guard. They didn’t deserve this. Nobody does. But I figured the only way we have a shot is to piss him off enough that he makes a mistake.”

Brian nods. “That was Jimmy’s theory. And Bev’s. I’ll admit, I was half convinced you were covering for him. But…” He gestures to Will, disheveled and raccoon-eyed, and smirks. “You seem about as pissed off as the rest of us.”

“Trust me,” says Will, tucking his clenched fists into his pockets, “I am.”

“Well, in that case, I guess I don’t mind paying for drinks on Friday. Assuming you’re coming? Bev said she had an update for you, so…”

Will lets himself relax and laughs. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

They get an update about the Secret Admirer at their weekly dinner two days later.

“It’s kind of a lot,” says Matthew, handing over a page of handwritten notes. “And it’s kinda also nothing. I know how that sounds but hear me out for a minute.”

Matthew sits cross-legged on the floor of Will’s house, a laptop and a notebook full of indecipherable scribbles on the coffee table in front of him. The rest of the family surrounds him, barring Peter and Beau who are outside with Hyun and the dogs. 

They’d given Abel the quick and dirty summary of the situation and he was intrigued enough to be on board with finding and ending yet another Ripper devotee, on the condition that he get to move out of Will’s house as soon as possible. This was in the works—Will had spoken briefly over the phone with Margot, and there would be an in-person meeting soon to discuss details. She had been in quite a good mood because she and Beverly had gone on a brunch date which had gone remarkably well, and she was feeling both grateful and generous. Will didn’t take too much advantage.

Abel and Matthew had been pleased to see one another again, which was a relief considering the alternative, but Will wasn’t surprised; anybody in the BSHCI who had a remote connection to the Ripper would have been a favorite of Matthew’s. Hell, he’d probably snuck Abel extra desserts, too.

With everybody gathered around, Matthew starts to lay out what he’s found so far.

“So, there’s a lot to sort through. Her filing system didn’t make any goddamn sense, but when I found the folder with all the Chesapeake Ripper stuff I started digging in there. She had all these screenshots, recent screenshots, of comments on articles from, like, over a year ago.” He pauses and licks his lips, inclining his head to Will. “The ones about Hobbs. Well, Cassie Boyle.”

Will frowns. “Okay. I’m assuming since they were in the Ripper folder, somebody else noticed the similarities between Cassie Boyle’s murder and the Ripper’s work.”

Hannibal shifts, a little indignant, ruffled. “The FBI’s second-best minds failed to make such a connection.”

“That’s a very distant second,” says Will, absentmindedly. “Anyway, remember, this person is obsessed enough to find work of yours I didn’t even know existed.”

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, so Matthew pushes on.

“So this person, EchoPhilia, starts commenting way back on Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schurr, Sutcliffe, saying the same thing. That’s the Ripper, that’s him, can’t you see it? Look at the art, the artistry, look at the grace of the hand behind the blade.” He tosses some printed screenshots with similar comments. “Way before anybody connected them, way before Will got arrested. And back then, they got so heated in the comments that Freddie wound up banning them.” He opens his notebook and starts flipping through. “I couldn’t find the exact date of the ban but Freddie had some notes from way later, stuff she could remember. Something about this person trying to appeal and her telling them the only person who’d be posting insane clickbait on her site would be her.”

“Sounds like Freddie,” Will drawls.

“So, anyway, these notes start. Freddie starting to realize maybe there was something to this. Like, right around when you got arrested, Will. She started making notes. ‘Cause she thought you were crazy and dangerous, and she thought you maybe killed Abigail Hobbs, but she didn’t actually think you killed the others. The evidence wasn’t there. And eventually she realized it wasn’t there for Abigail, either.”

He flips through a few more pages of handwritten notes and then sets the book on the table. “So she remembered this person who connected all the cases before everybody else and she wanted to find them. So she starts sleuthing. And she finds this Chesapeake Ripper fan forum, a Reddit page for people who follow the murders. Most of her articles get reposted there, people take pictures from a distance and post them, they write theories…” He rubs the back of his neck and glances at Hannibal, his face a bit pink. “I used to hang out there, too, sometimes. I never posted anything but, y’know, it’s more specific than the regular true crime stuff. And it’s kind of interesting to see what other fans think.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. “I should probably not be surprised to learn that I have fans, and yet—”

“Okay, you can check it out and stroke your ego later. Matthew, what else?” says Will.

“Right, yeah, sorry. Um. So, I found screenshots of parts of a private conversation between EchoPhilia and who I guess must be Freddie, her username was random I think. The dates on these are wildly different, the first few are from around when you got arrested and the most recent are from about a week before we killed her. So she took a good six to eight months earning this person’s trust.” He pauses, then holds up a finger. “I can do it faster. I’m working on it. But I’ll come back to that.” He points to his notebook. “So in the most recent of these communications, it’s not on the Reddit forum anymore, it’s on a separate, private site, just some free forum hosting site, but it’s really obscure, the kind of place you need an invite to enter. Sanguinari Galleria.”

“A little on the nose,” murmurs Will. Hannibal nudges him.

“Anyway, so, I’m working on getting access to the Galleria. But it’s going to take time. I’m active in the Reddit forum. Sharing a little here, a little there. Don’t worry, it would be real hard to trace me, I’m being careful. But I’ve already gotten the attention of EchoPhilia. They’re one of the mods, they maybe even created the subreddit.” He flips another page and drums his fingers on the table. “That wasn’t enough, though. So I tried to see if I could find more about this person.”

“And?” asks Finn, tapping his foot. 

“When you said it’s a lot and it’s nothing—” mutters Lilith.

“Alright, says Will. “Shut it, let him talk.”

“We’re just teasin’, little brother,” says Finn. “Don’t mind us.”

“Itching to get our teeth into something,” says Randall, and Lilith pats his shoulder.

“Exactly, you get it. Go on, Matty.”

Matthew grins. “Anything for you, Lily.” She scowls at him, but he turns back to his notebook. “Okay, so, I just looked for the username, broad search, and I found… so much shit on the internet archives, Wayback Machine, I mean, we’re talking Usenet, GeoCities pages, fuckin’ BBS boards. I had to look up a bunch of the terminology they were using. This person has had an online presence since, like, 1996? At least? Particularly in true crime forums. Not all of them had the same username, but I found them through references to old boards they used to hang out in under the alias InTwaining, and then when I looked for that username I found even more old shit. I even found some ancestry websites where they were super active, and foreign boards like, French and Italian forums I couldn’t read but I found a translator that said they were exchanging like, newspaper articles, and photos they only left up for a few hours because they weren’t supposed to have them. This was…” He skims his notes. “About 2007, they were doing all this stuff.”

Will glances at Hannibal, whose jaw is tight. “That would be when they linked you to the Ripper, then.”

“So it would seem,” Hannibal grits out.

“Okay. What else, Matthew?”

“That’s all I could really get. And it was a bitch compiling this much, most of these boards have been defunct for, like, almost a decade or more. The earliest one I found was basically just screenshots and people waxing nostalgic about it on a different board that is also defunct and I found it on the internet archive.” He turns his notebook around. “There’s a basic timeline here. But, the EchoPhilia name starts popping up within days of the first Ripper kill, I mean, before they even called you that. People laughed at them at first, but, when you kept going, they stopped laughing pretty quick.”

2002. Maureen Lochlear. Her chest ripped open, her cell phone placed inside. She was 34 years old. No children. No spouse. Her parents were dead now, according to her file. She had two siblings who had last spoken to her over a decade prior to her death, both sisters, one older, one younger, both living in Texas.

“Interesting,” murmurs Will. “The investigators missed something with her, then. There’s some connection there, some reason you became their obsession after killing her. Don’t suppose you remember anything about her?”

“She allowed her cell phone to ring continuously for nearly ten minutes during a production of Carmen,” Hannibal says, his lip curled in disgust.

“I meant something helpful,” Will says.

Hannibal shrugs. “I remember the ease of the process, not the details of her life. She lived alone. It made her an easy target.”

“Merde,” says Will under his breath. “Okay. That’s fine. We work with what we’ve got. Matthew, you keep working at the forum angle.” He rubs at his temples. “This person is… irritating. EchoPhilia. Somebody reads too many Greek tragedies.”

Hannibal blinks. “Does this make me Narcissus?”

“Yes,” comes a chorus of voices, and the resulting frown could easily be called a pout.

“Abel,” says Will.

“Yes, brother dear,” says Abel, his chin resting in his hand.

Will resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Demonstrating my worth to the family, working side by side under the tutelage of the Chesapeake Ripper, and getting a bit of well-earned blood on my hands again? Oh, but Will, how you spoil me.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Will says, and Abel winks at him.

“Um, Will, are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Randall. He’s still a bit pale, but he’s recovered well and his wound is scarring nicely. “Isn’t it risky to draw this much attention back to the Ripper?”

Will shrugs. “Not really. I’ll be right there, with the ability to redirect the investigation as I see fit. I know how to plant ideas in Jack’s head. I know how to turn things the way I want. I’ve been doing it for years, otherwise they’d have caught Hannibal a long time ago.” He ignores Hannibal’s indignant scowl and adds, “Our priority right now is making it look like the Secret Admirer is getting what they want: me and the Ripper on the outs. We need them to start making moves, otherwise how are we supposed to hunt them?”

Randall thinks about this for a moment, then nods, slow and sure. “Drive them out of their burrows, then attack.”

“Renden Tear slices again,” says Matthew, and Randall’s grin is an odd combination of shy and wolfish. “Don’t worry about it. Will is gonna take good care of us.”

“And we’ll take even better care of him,” says Finn.

“Always,” says Lilith.

Will starts to grumble, but Hannibal’s arms slide around his shoulders and he says,

“Always.”

Friday night, Will goes drinking with the science team. He arrives late, so they’ve already had a few, and Brian loudly greets him and pats the seat beside him. Will sits, looking amused, and Brian goes to get him a drink.

“That’s kinda weird,” Will remarks.

“Oh, he’s finally decided to like you,” says Jimmy, sagely. “Figures he’s been enough of a dick, and you’ve been nothing but nice and professional, and very not a murderer. So he’s playing buddy-buddy. Just wait until you show him up again, he’ll get back to normal.”

“Will,” says Beverly, waving Jimmy away, “you are the best wingman who ever lived. Margot, she’s a dreamboat. She can tear a person apart with just a look, it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. We had this waiter at brunch? Took her order, she wanted like, the waffles and a parfait, and some fruit and stuff, for the table, right?” Beverly leans on the table on one arm, drops her voice, injects pure venom. “Guy has the god damn audacity to say, ‘Are you sure about that, miss?’ And he looks her up and down like—” She demonstrates, elevator eyes from toe to crown, then fixes her face into something properly condescending. “—and he says, ‘That’s a lot of food.’”

“Horrible service, zero stars,” says Jimmy.

“Yeah, what an asshole,” says Will.

“Right? What an asshole! But Margot, oh, god, cool as a cucumber, coolest cat this side of Paris, she just looks at him for a second and blinks real slow, like she’s giving him an opportunity to backpedal, and then she goes, ‘And anything my date wants, too.’” Beverly sighs, starry-eyed. “I was just gonna leave it at the waffles and stuff but I got this, like, chocolate croissant thing that was awesome.”

“Going out again, then?” asks Will, and Beverly smacks her hand on the table.

“Damn right. Tomorrow! Real dinner date, my treat. I told her, hey, on an FBI salary, I can’t take you anywhere all that fancy, but I know this Japanese steakhouse where the atmosphere is great and the bartender’s heavy-handed. And she goes—Will, this woman—she goes, oh yeah? Well, honey, I’ll still drink you under the table.”

Brian gets back about this time and the topic changes, but it’s excellent progress as far as Will is concerned. He enjoys his night out. They drink, they laugh, they share stories. Will even shares a few silly things about Hannibal. But, because he’s always got several plates spinning, he decides quite spur of the moment to add a questionable detail to his story.

“—so the guy brings out the bill for this suit, and I’m thinking, it’s a goddamn tux, what’s it going to be, like, eight hundred bucks?”

Everybody else at the table groans and covers their eyes, and Will throws up his hands.

“Yeah, fuckin’ apparently I’m the only guy in a three hundred mile radius who didn’t know Hannibal’s stupid suits are like seven grand each. And the extra fancy opera versions are like twelve grand because they’re so much fancier and all bespoke and usually involve multiple fittings or whatever.” He drinks his whiskey and scowls. “Honestly starting to wonder if Alana was right.”

Beverly’s brows knit together. “Right about what?”

“I mean, I’m… me, right?” He gestures to himself, to his clothes, to his hair. He laughs. “And Hannibal, he’s… well. He’s Hannibal. I dunno. It’s just hard to feel like I should be the one standing next to him when I see how easy it is for some people. I mean, shit, you saw some of those high society folks at dinner the other day.”

“Yeah, we saw you charm the pants off of them,” says Jimmy. He jabs his finger into the tabletop, his expression strangely serious. “Let me tell you something about people like that, Will. They’ll try to make anybody feel like an outsider, but all it takes to be part of the in-crowd is to lie like a dog until they believe it just as much as you. That’s how the aristocrats became the aristocracy—they just lied about how important they were until everybody believed them. And you, you little charmer, you can fit in anywhere if you want to.” He pauses, tilts his head, considers. “Though, I could understand you not wanting to fit in with that crowd. Buncha holier-than-thou pricks, the rich.”

“Eat the rich,” says Brian, lifting his glass.

“You know Margot and Hannibal are both rich, right?” says Beverly.

“Eat the rich, but, like, not the ones we like,” says Brian, and Jimmy clinks glasses with him.

Will finds the idea of eat the rich applied to these two in particular to be extremely funny; he clinks glasses with Brian and Jimmy, too. Bev caves with a massive sigh and joins their cheers.

The merriment continues. 

A seed is sown.

In the days leading up to Christmas, Will’s house bustles with activity. Abel has moved to a small cabin at Muskrat Farm, and he’s had a few minor cosmetic procedures to alter his face—collagen injections in the cheeks, a bit of a facelift, some alterations to his hairline—as well as the easy changes, like a haircut and color and some contacts. He looks different enough that he can make the drive between Margot’s place and Will’s, as long as he drives safely. He’s got a temporary new ID with his new face, with the name Gideon Cain because he couldn’t be convinced to take anything else before his permanent identity is ready.

Randall has returned to work during the week, but each evening he’s at Will’s patrolling, and tweaking his new suit. It’s completed now, and it’s an impressive creation of metal and ballistic weave. The exoskeleton allows him to drop into an all-fours sprint for short distances, but with an adjustment to the frame he can move fluidly as a four-legged Beast. The bodysuit is all Kevlar, breathable and black. The claws he tested on the Messenger are retractable, so he can run without dulling or damaging them. The headpiece is reminiscent of a jackal, long and thin, with wicked, terrible teeth. The whole thing makes him look long and skeletal, lanky, like something starved. It’s covered in sleek black fur and all the metal is painted matte, so it disappears in the shadows between the trees. He moves fast, partially due to his flexibility but partially due to the way the hindlegs are almost spring-loaded. There’s also a tail, a heavy thing meant to keep him balanced when he’s putting pressure on his arms. 

Will doesn’t really get all the engineering that went into it, but he’s proud of Randall and genuinely very impressed with the Beast 2.0. It does make him feel safer, but he can’t keep allowing Randall to spend his nights watching the property. The man has a life, and his work will start to suffer.

Finn is still parked on the lawn with his trailer and his big cat. He claims to have quit his job, so he can stay as long as he needs to in order to see this thing through. Will doesn’t mind so much; it’s been a long time since he could just go outside and sit with his big brother and talk about the stars.

Lilith is still staying at a motel nearby, and she claims she can do most of her work remotely. She’s not leaving either, and if Will thinks he can get rid of her, then he doesn’t know her very well, does he?

Papa is staying, too, though this is pretty much directly on Will. He could buy a ticket home for Beau at any time and send him away, but he knows better. Papa doesn’t want to go anywhere; all his kids are here, he hasn’t even met all of them yet, and there’s trouble brewing he could help out with, even if it’s just playing alibi. No; the family is staying.

Peter is actually coming by more often than before, which is a shock even to Will. He spends a lot of time with the dogs, of course, who are being spoiled completely rotten, but he also spends a lot of time with Randall, Lilith, and Beau. Will has watched his father patiently walk Peter through cooking very simple meals, accommodating Peter’s visual-motor disconnect with a system of little hand-carved tags stuck to things to make them easier to identify through touch. It’s sweet, and really nice to see Peter making progress; Peter made them a tater tot casserole and he was very proud to have only needed help keeping the dish steady and using the oven.

Matthew is the only one who hasn’t been around, but he was clear when he agreed to investigate EchoPhilia more thoroughly that it was probably going to involve a deep dive in order to gain their trust and get that invite into the Galleria, so Will isn’t worried about that yet.

Hannibal has been extremely busy.

Between planning a Ripper kill he will not have a hand in completing and fielding a surge of strange text messages from Alana, he’s got a lot going on. He still finds time to see Will over the weekend, of course, but going into Christmas week he’s got patients and public appearances and details to finalize.

Will is going with him to one of these public events on the 20th of December, if only to continue watering that seed he had planted with the science team. Mostly, though, it’s because he misses Hannibal and he wants some attention. Is that so much to ask? Everybody else wants him to stay home, have a family dinner, celebrate with them, but, well, he’s thirty-nine years old. He can celebrate with his partner if he wants.

When he goes to pick up his suit—the same suit he had been complaining about—the tailor gushes about the way it makes him look and then says,

“I think you looked so handsome, somebody could not resist leaving you a special gift.”

“Oh?” says Will, fastening the cuffs.

“Oh yes. They left this for you.” The tailor holds out a gray envelope with black ribbon, with William Graham written in block letters. “There are flowers as well, up front. A beautiful arrangement. Somewhat strange choices, I suppose, but, beautiful nonetheless. A wonderful birthday gift.”

Will makes an interested noise and asks, “A tailor and a flower language expert? Now I’m impressed. I can see why Hannibal likes you. What makes the choices strange?”

The tailor shrugs. “It’s a lovely arrangement in pinks and yellows, colors of passion and joy. But, the selected flowers—begonias, yellow carnations, geraniums, marigolds—would indicate a warning of your foolishness, as well as the sender’s grief and jealousy. But, I’m sure it was selected simply for the lively blooms and the vibrant colors.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Most people aren’t versed in the meaning of flowers these days,” says Will.

“A true shame,” laments the tailor. “Ah well. In any case, I will return shortly. Please let me know if there are any last-minute adjustments.”

There aren’t. Will takes the time to read the letter, instead.

Graham.

Nice Stunt with the Federal Bureau of Insipid Bastards. I have watched your Press Conference several times. We can only Hope that He has seen your WRETCHED WORDS and taken them to Heart.

You should Know that He so rarely gives up on His Possessions. Your Responsibility is to Remove the TEMPTATION. You can go Anywhere. Start over. With your Father, and all your Beautiful dogs.

You know what you Must Do.

Do not endanger those you Love.

Enjoy the Opera.

His Secret Admirer ❤

Interesting. A veiled threat toward his father, his dogs, and his Hannibal. No mention of the others, though surely if his home is being surveilled they would have seen the others. It would seem his assumption is correct: this person does not know that Freddie shared her findings, perhaps didn’t even know they were speaking with Freddie, and certainly doesn’t know that Will figured out what Hannibal was when they met almost two years ago.

They will be attempting to split him and Hannibal apart separately to splitting Will and the Ripper apart. It’s a delicate balance on their end, assuming they don’t want to betray the Ripper and give away his identity.

It’s also extremely funny, because Will can already see how childish their attempts will be.

Hannibal is pacing when Will arrives at his house.

“Will,” he says, relieved, “I must ask for your help in composing a response to Alana. She has been incessant in her messages.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the gifts you’re sending her,” Will guesses, sliding off his shoes.

Hannibal sputters. “I have done no such thing.”

“No, but I’d guess somebody has, and they’re probably just using a typewritten note to sell it and she wants to believe it so bad she takes it at face value.” He hangs his garment bag by the door. “I got another note, and some vaguely threatening flowers that you’d find absolutely tasteless.” He hands over the note, and Hannibal skims it with a stormy expression. “Are we having dinner first, or after the performance?”

“Will—”

“Hannibal. Deep breaths, darlin’. They can’t tear you away from me, remember. Stay neutral with Alana. I doubt they’ve escalated further than sending little things that ‘made you think of her’ or something like that. What I’m learning about this person is that they don’t really understand relationships outside of what they’ve seen on TV or in movies. But we’re going to play into it.”

“Will—”

“I know, you don’t like it. Remember, we don’t actually have to be fighting. It’ll just look that way in public. We have to make their wedge look like it’s working.”

Hannibal takes him by the shoulders, frowning. “Will. I do not want these people to think they are winning.”

“And they won’t,” Will soothes, his thumb dragging across Hannibal’s jawline. “Not for long, anyway. I already have a plan in motion. You just have to play along and trust me.”

“Of course I trust you, dievas.”

“Good.” He raises his eyebrows at Hannibal. “Now, you’ve gone and let yourself get distracted, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal pauses, Will in his arms, his eyes ticking back and forth for a moment as he scans through his memory palace for information about the day. Finally, there’s a sharp intake of breath and he thoroughly kisses Will, his mouth molten and searching, his hands wandering up into Will’s hair and down to the base of his spine. Will, for his part, grins into the kiss, hands firmly on either side of Hannibal’s face, allowing himself to be dipped. When Hannibal pulls back, he smiles; his eyes sparkle as, breathlessly, he says,

“Happy birthday, mylimasis.”

Will laughs.

The opera is lovely, but it isn’t what either of them are focused on. During intermission, Will ‘has a little too much to drink’ and he and Hannibal have a small, private disagreement off to one side of the bar. They argue about little things—dog hair on the seats of Hannibal’s car, Hannibal refusing to allow Will to have the whiskey he likes in Hannibal’s house, how Will feels dressed up like a doll, how Hannibal doesn’t like having to drive to the middle of nowhere to see him. It’s all just gripes, with extra acid from the alcohol, by all appearances. Only a few people overhear, but their manners are too good to say anything. They leave together at the end of the evening, all polite smiles and gracious good evenings, not a hair out of place, no indication of anything wrong except that Will doesn’t take Hannibal’s arm as they walk down the steps.

It’s enough. The rumor mill is up and running. 

Margot was there that night. Will thinks Alana might have been, too, but she is understandably avoiding him. They’ll hear about what happened, and then it’ll spread to the FBI.

The seeds of doubt will grow, and when they’re reaped, they’ll be ground into the flour of suspicion and then baked into the bread of speculation. It’ll be just like the Admirer wants, but it was always going to be Will’s design and fully under his control, as all things should be.

Christmas dinner this year is at Margot’s house, which is a surprise to Hannibal. He was preparing to host, but Will gently reminded him that his house is under surveillance (in fact, both of their houses are, to a degree—Will thinks that the Messengers are probably keeping their distance from the Wolf Trap house after what happened to the first one, though). Margot had graciously offered to have them over, the whole family, because—according to Will—she has finally acquiesced to the offer of family.

Her surrogates are reaching the second trimester, and she is beginning to feel anxious. She wants protection. She wants support. She doesn’t know how to care for babies. She is getting questions from the shareholders about Mason, which Hannibal can help solve with videos of a very drugged Mason in a clinical-looking environment saying the date and agreeing that he is doing well and therapy is helping him. He is currently missing both legs below the knee, but there’s no need for the video to show that. Will hasn’t shared much about his communications with Margot, except that his gambit to introduce her to Beverly Katz is bearing fruit.

Ms. Katz will not be attending Christmas, as the relationship has been deemed too new. Apparently this is fine, as Ms. Katz has a sister and parents she intends to spend the holiday with. Hannibal is not certain, yet, what Will’s plan is for her, but he has made vague allusions to the manufacture of a situation down the line, perhaps after the birth of Margot’s children, with which he would greatly appreciate Hannibal’s help. Naturally, whatever it is, Hannibal is willing. Anything at all, for his Will.

Hannibal does still have the pleasure of cooking large parts of the Christmas dinner, and the kitchen of Margot’s mansion is an absolute dream to work in. Multiple stovetops, multiple sets of stacked ovens, industrial dishwasher, high-quality knives and cookware, delightful natural light spilling in, almost as many fresh herbs growing as he has in his own home. He makes quick work of the meal.

On his way into the living area to call the others, he overhears several conversations.

The first is Margot, who has apparently gotten comfortable in a short period of time with the new siblings. She seems to have already decided that she likes Dr. Gideon, and he has been operating as a sort of buffer while she has gotten to know Beau Graham, Finn Borowski, Lilith Charleston, Randall Tier, and Peter Bernardone (and, of course, his pet pig, Randy, who he decided to bring to “show him what his old home was like”).

Margot and Lilith have a rather fascinating conversation about the design choices in the house and what Margot intends to change.

Beau provides advice relating specifically to what would be helpful for the children, items and protections that would be necessary to ensure their safety without compromising their interest in exploring the environment. Margot seems charmed by Beau, an opinion Hannibal has come to share.

The other conversation Hannibal overhears is a phone call between Will and Matthew Brown, who is not able to attend.

“We’ll miss you,” Will is saying, “but I understand. If you can’t make it, we’ll find a way to drop your presents to you. Maybe just leave them in your place, if that’s okay.” He pauses, listening to Matthew’s response, and then chuckles. “I’ll figure out a way, don’t you worry. No little brother of mine is missing out on his Christmas presents, even if he is in deep cover.” Another pause, much longer, and when Will speaks his voice is a bit tight. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just do what you have to do. It’s all part of the plan, we’re all together in this. And, Matt?” A pause. “Just—be careful, okay? And if you feel like you’re getting in too deep, promise me, I mean you better fucking promise me you’ll tell me so I can get you out. I don’t care if it shows our hand. We’ll still win, you understand me? So don’t go throwing your life away. Okay?” A short pause, then a huff. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll do my best if you do yours.” A beat. “Will do. Love you, little brother. Merry Christmas.” A pause, a sigh, and then a long silence before Will says, “Are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna come in?”

Hannibal leans around the doorway. Will isn’t facing him, exactly; he’s looking out one of the windows in this little sitting room, his hands in his pockets, but his peripheral vision would have included the door Hannibal had stopped beside.

He smiles. “My apologies. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I was curious.”

“It’s okay. No secrets between us. Matt’s made a bit of a reputation for himself on true crime forums the last couple weeks. Not catching the attention of the Admirer yet, but, after he gets the photos of the next scene and shares them? That’ll do it. You all ready?”

“Yes. All preparations are in place. I have had Abel practice on two other bodies, both since disposed of. Lilith will be assisting with the abduction, they will use the steam tunnels to reach my workroom, and the work should take a matter of hours. It is a rather simple display, particularly with practice. Between the abduction and the placement of the tableau it should be a matter of perhaps eight hours.”

“We can make that work. Public appearances, the party… All that. As long as it’ll be convincingly one of yours.”

“Abel’s hand is remarkably precise. I was aware he was a talented surgeon, but I was impressed with his focus and the confidence of his blade.”

“You should tell him that. As a Christmas present.”

Hannibal smiles. “Perhaps.”

Will glances at him. He looks tired, and soft, and Hannibal wants to gather him up and hold him close for the remainder of his life.

“How’s dinner coming?” asks Will, and Hannibal is reminded of his original mission.

He gathers the family together for a Christmas meal. It is, as with the Thanksgiving meal, delightfully domestic. There are Christmas crackers, which is typically not an American tradition but Margot appears to have decided to include them, to the delight of everyone. Hannibal is coerced by Will’s brilliant, beautiful blue eyes into wearing an atrocious red crown made of tissue paper. Will wears one, too, in blue.

Beau sings a rather lovely rendition of The Christmas Song, which sounds just like the crooners of the 40s and 50s were in the room. Finn, Lilith, and Will sing Jingle Bells in a round, which is as atrocious as it sounds despite their voices all being quite nice. Margot surprises them all with a halting Winter Wonderland which grows more confident as the others begin to clap and sway to the beat. Peter recites a great deal of The Night Before Christmas from memory, which is a lovely way to lead into the present-opening portion of the evening.

The gifts are, largely, handmade. Hannibal and Margot look at each other, a bit at a loss, when it becomes clear that everyone else’s gifts were far more personal. Hannibal once again experiences a terrible sense of anxiety, as though he had done something wrong and the family will dislike him and his relationship with Will is going to be damaged.

However, when Beau Graham opens his gift—a fine set of woodcarving tools in a leather case—he grins and claps Hannibal on the shoulder and declares, “What a thoughtful gift, doctor! Thank you, it’ll see a lotta use, my word on it.”

The others are similar. A pair of vintage cookbooks for Finn, one Polish and one Korean, both from the 60s, bring a tear to his eye; Hannibal has helpfully bookmarked the page with the pierogi recipe he used at Thanksgiving. For Lilith, a Cintiq, for the ease of her work. He also included a can of cream of mushroom soup, which does not seem to make her laugh as she is too busy trying not to shriek and cry.

He appreciates her attempt at restraint.

For Peter, Hannibal was not sure what to do, so he purchased a horse that was being retired from racing due to an injury and would need rehabilitation. Peter hugs his pet pig tightly and murmurs his thanks. He seems overwhelmed, but not unhappy.

For Randall, Hannibal has obtained fossilized megalodon teeth, still partially embedded in a jaw bone. This is a sample that should likely have ended up in a museum, but given Randall’s fascination with teeth, it felt right. Randall actually smiles at him, wide and appropriately toothy, which is perhaps the first time Hannibal has felt forgiven since he sent Randall to his presumed death.

For Abel, without knowing him very well, it was a difficult choice. However, Hannibal ultimately decided that the best gift was the gift of freedom, even if it was only freedom of choice; he gave Abel a generous gift card that could be used at a number of clothing stores, so that he could rebuild whatever appearance he so chose. He had also included a few catalogues, which Abel immediately began to peruse.

For Margot, he gifted her the video of Mason on a USB drive, as well as a signed document in his hand—with his thumbprint—giving her a monthly allowance in Mason’s absence, and an imported perfume which she had favored at one time, but perhaps had not been able to obtain with her assets in a state of limbo. Margot’s smile was small, but her eyes shone with gratitude.

For Will… For his Will, he had struggled to choose a gift. He felt absurd about the gift he had settled upon, especially after opening the gift Will had gotten for him: a hand-bound sketchbook, with hand-made charcoal pencils. The pages of the book were textured, clearly made from pulp, flattened and stitched together a few pages at a time, bound with wood panels and fabric. It must have taken a great deal of work. On the inside cover Will’s handwriting scrawls across the wood: 

My Hannibal, 

You and I both know better than anybody that what starts out rough and messy can be breathtaking in the hands of somebody in love. 

Your Will

Hannibal swallows. 

Will opens his gift and stares for a moment, blinks, and then bursts out laughing.

Will is still chuckling to himself as Hannibal drives them back to Chandler Square for the night.

“A house,” Will repeats, for probably the sixth time. “You gave me a house for Christmas.”

“You are difficult to shop for,” Hannibal complains, pulling into his driveway. “I would have purchased you a new aftershave but I didn’t want to insult your father and his… tradition.”

“Why are you like this,” Will says, but he’s laughing again. He helps to carry the various boxes and gifts into Hannibal’s home. “Are you going to take me to see the house, someday?”

“Of course. I was hardly intending to just gift you a house and then never allow you to see it.” He pauses, setting the box of leftovers and chocolates on the side table. “I should tell you, this house is—”

“It’s the house you kept Abigail in,” Will says, removing his scarf. “And Miriam Lass, probably. For a while, at least. Right?” He starts on the buttons of his coat.

Hannibal blinks. His mouth is dry, so he just nods. Will nods back and shrugs out of his coat.

“I figured it had to be something symbolic, y’know. Somewhere that potentially there could be evidence, just more of you giving pieces of yourself to me. And no matter how many times I say I don’t need you to do that, you’re just gonna keep doing it, huh?”

Hannibal swallows and nods again. Will steps in close and starts to unbutton Hannibal’s coat, his head tilted, his eyes like the last rim of blue before the darkness of the night settles in, stars twinkling in their depths.

“Y’know, you’re starting to make me feel like I ought to be giving pieces of myself to you, too. Otherwise you’re gonna stop believing this is mutual. Unless you already don’t think it is.”

“Will—”

“Don’t say my name like that unless you’re gonna do something about it,” Will says, softly, almost purring. He slides Hannibal’s coat off his shoulders and hangs it beside the door. He looks over his shoulder and lifts his chin in the direction of the box of food items. “You’d better put all that away, huh?”

Hannibal slides his shoes off and obeys. There are many thoughts and feelings swirling through his head right now, but he doesn’t care to identify them; instead, he’s attempting to identify the look Will gave him, that purr in his voice, what he could mean by giving pieces of himself to Hannibal.

When he returns to the foyer, it’s empty, but a trail of Will’s scent leads upstairs. Hannibal follows, slow, wary, until he reaches his bedroom. The shower is going, the door cracked open, and Hannibal is struck by that intoxicating scent he’s come to know as well as his own: Will’s arousal.

He doesn’t know what Will wants him to do. He stands in the doorway, flexing his hands, watching the ensuite door and the bar of white light shining through.

He hears it then—a soft, desperate groan: “Hannibal—!”

A low hum, as though through bitten lips, and then the scent of arousal hits him again, thick and cloying, and his slacks are uncomfortably tight now. He opens his mouth and scents the air, tasting Will, wanting him, wanting to go to him, but…

He hesitates.

About a minute later, the water shuts off, and he hears Will moving around, the puff of scent from a clean towel, then suddenly the door is wrenched open and Will, with the towel wrapped around his hips, leans against the doorframe, his eyebrows raised.

“Have you just been standing there listening to me?” Hannibal nods. Will clicks his tongue. “You can smell me, can’t you?” Hannibal nods again, and Will runs a hand down the front of his body, to the tented front of his towel. “See, this is a problem. You’re hesitating because you don’t know if I want you. I know it’s taken some time. And I expected it would take longer. But I need you to know the truth. To understand. To feel the truth.” 

Hannibal’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Which truth, Will?”

He lets the towel fall to the floor and gestures to his body; his cock is stiff and twitching, a smear of precome smeared against his stomach. 

“I want you, Hannibal.”

The sound Hannibal makes in the back of his throat is fully involuntary, something strangled and needy, and it makes Will smirk as he glides over to the bed. Hannibal has never undressed so fast in his life, and he has no idea where his clothing wound up.

All he can focus on is his Will, laying on his back, stretched out on the azure sheets, angelic like a statue carved by a master. Hannibal wants him, wants to taste him, wants him inside of his mouth, his belly, inside his ribcage, everywhere should be absolutely drenched in Will.

They kiss, scrabbling hands digging into hips, wrenching each other’s hair, teeth scraping and snapping against plush lips, tongues mapping tongues, dragging down fresh clean skin, sucking, biting, groaning against collarbones and strong shoulders. Their hips grind together, slick and volcanic, the beautiful torment of deliciously intimate touch without enough friction to find release.

Hannibal straddles Will, staring down into the boiling, stormy eyes of his god, his lips red and spit-shiny, his grin cheeky and impish, and he loves him so fiercely there is a moment he wishes to dig his fingers into Will’s sternum and crack his way to the man’s heart, to see if his name is written there the way he knows Will’s is carved into his.

But Will, clever, incredible, astounding Will, flips them, pinning Hannibal beneath his strong arms and well-trained legs. He leans down and playfully nips at Hannibal’s lips.

“I’m giving you a piece of myself,” Will whispers against Hannibal’s mouth. “Will you be gentle with me, Hannibal? Or will you ravage me, my Ripper?” 

He kisses Hannibal, deep and slow, his hips moving in a slow circle that draws a low groan from Hannibal’s chest, and he’s far too distracted by both of these things to realize that one of Will’s hands has let go until he hears the click of a cap opening.

For a bizarre moment, he is terrified that Will is about to stick him with a needle.

But, no—Will leans back, holding a tube of lubricant, and slicks up three of his fingers. Hannibal is frozen, in awe, so hard he could cut glass.

Will doesn’t take his eyes off of Hannibal as he opens himself up. He shouldn’t be able to take so many fingers at once, unless—oh. In the shower. Hannibal’s cock throbs and leaks a little more. Will drags a finger through the fluid and licks it clean, beginning to pant as he rocks on his fingers.

“Will,” Hannibal manages. He still hasn’t moved his arms; he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do. He makes another involuntary sound, this one more of a whine, and Will chuckles through a moan.

“Touch me,” Will says, his voice breathy and hitched. “I’m ready.”

Hannibal reaches forward and grips Will by the hips, drawing him closer. Will re-opens the lubricant and slicks his hand again, warming the cold gel between his fingers before taking Hannibal in his grip. The lubricant blends with the copious amount of precome sliding down Hannibal’s shaft, and Hannibal is already panting; he can’t wait.

Will can see his desperation as clearly as Hannibal can smell the combination of anticipation, arousal, and anxiety rolling off Will in waves.

“You’ve never done this,” Hannibal manages.

Will positions himself over Hannibal’s cock. “I told you. This is a piece of me, for you and only for you.”

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal groans, and he begins to slide inside the hot, tight divinity.

He’s well-prepared; he’s probably been planning this for a while.

He’s never done this with anyone else. No one else has ever touched him like this. It’s critical that this is a pleasurable experience.

He looks like Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy, head thrown back as he slides down, hips rolling, taking more with each passing moment.

All of these things occur to Hannibal, and he wants so badly to be gentle with Will, to ensure this experience is sensual and pleasurable and intimate. But when Will exhales and drops the last inch, his body flush with Hannibal’s, his insides rippling and squeezing as he acclimates to the feeling of Hannibal’s cock as deep inside him as it will go from this angle, all he can focus on is that he could be deeper . He could plunge further into the heat and tightness inside of his god, and he could empty himself, fill his beloved to the brim until there is room for nothing else but Hannibal, and that…

Well. Hannibal can’t resist.

He surges up, wrapping Will in his arms, and maneuvers them back into their original position; Will on his back, eyes a bit glassy, and Hannibal between his thighs. He lifts Will and tucks one of the pillows beneath his hips, driving himself even further inside as soon as the angle shifts. Will gasps, shudders, and reaches for the headboard.

“Good boy,” Hannibal murmurs, without even hearing himself.

He doesn’t miss Will’s smirk and derisive snort, though.

Will is a vision beneath him. The place where their bodies join, where his shaft disappears into Will’s body, slick with lubricant and Hannibal’s aggressive production of precome, fascinates him for a moment. He holds Will’s legs up and watches himself slide out until just the head of his cock remains inside, and Will’s body flutters greedily; he gives Will what he clearly desires and slides back in, angling his hips to drag against Will’s neglected prostate.

Will’s groan rumbles through his chest, constricts his insides, drives Hannibal absolutely mad. He tries to keep his thrusts long and slow, but Will is beginning to whine and squeeze his eyes shut, his fists tightening on the headboard, his cock twitching and pulsing with little spurts of fluid.

He leans forward, one of Will’s legs pushed almost up as far as his chest, panting, his breath catching in his chest, his thrusts quick and shallow and growing erratic, Will’s hardness pressed tight against his belly, sticky and warm, the scent driving him into a frenzy.

He drops his head to Will’s chest and bites, right above his heart. He tastes blood.

Will howls and his hips buck; his body tenses, tightens, and he spills hot and sudden between their stomachs. His hands fly to Hannibal’s shoulders and back; he digs his nails in and drags.

The pain, the scent of their mingled blood, the rippling around his cock, the panting, whining, needy scrabble of Will’s hands—

Hannibal’s head drops against Will’s sternum as he shudders and empties himself inside of his god. It feels endless, pulse after pulse, and his vision goes white as though he were seeing heaven.

When he comes back to full awareness, Will is trembling beneath him.

Laughing.

Hannibal slowly extracts himself, carefully pulling out, and watches with a twinge in his navel as some of his come leaks out of Will’s body. Part of him wants to clean his god’s body with his tongue. Part of him wants to draw his god a bath and care for him, to check and ensure there is no lasting soreness. Part of him just wants to collapse beside Will, his beloved Will, hold him close, and worry about the sheets tomorrow.

“Whatever your first instinct is,” Will says with a sleepy chuckle. “No secrets. I belong to you as much as you do to me.”

Hannibal pauses for just a moment.

Then, he begins to worship once again.

Chapter Text

Will gets a call first thing in the morning on the 26th from Jack Crawford.

Sort of the last thing he’d ever want, honestly. 

His body is pleasantly achy. He was woken up from just about the best sleep of his life. And Hannibal, his Hannibal, is wrapped around him, legs and arms like the coils of a goddamn snake, but so warm it’s impossible to muster any kind of willpower to escape. He's a furnace with silvering hair and the blood red eyes of an apex predator. 

It takes a significant amount of effort—and three calls—before Will gets out of Hannibal’s bed and answers.

“Graham,” he says, softly, tugging on a pair of shorts as he sneaks for the bedroom door.

Hannibal makes an indignant noise behind him and starts to get up, despite his efforts. Ah, well. At least there will be coffee. 

“Will. I didn’t want to bother you yesterday—Merry Christmas by the way—but we had another Thirty Cuts body drop on Christmas Eve. I want you on this today. Already got some time approved so, whenever you can, I’d like you to come look at the photos, read the witness reports, see the body, whatever you need in order to give me something on this guy.”

Will presses his phone between his shoulder and his ear and accepts a small pile of clothes from Hannibal, who is looking mussed but still somehow dignified in a thick robe and slippers. 

“Yeah, okay,” says Will. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Dr. Lecter is welcome, too,” says Jack, with a gruff sort of Papa Bear twang. “Let me know when you're here.”

Jack hangs up.

Will gets dressed in lounge pants and Hannibal’s soft red sweater, because that's what he was given, and trots the rest of the way downstairs to the kitchen. Hannibal has got his crazy coffee contraption brewing away,  and he's making something that looks an awful lot like French toast. When Will walks in, Hannibal looks up at him with such raw adoration it is staggering. It twists itself around Will’s heart and latches on, a small, symbiotic monster of his own.

In this moment of pure domesticity, the two of them in this kitchen, still waking and bone weary in every sense, the last wisp of one another’s warmth fading from their skin, those long-fingered hands settled delicately on the countertop, maroon eyes damp with affection, sunlight lancing through the space between them, Will knows with the utter, crystalline clarity reserved for Miskatonic madmen and those who have just lost their footing over a great height that this is more hazardous to his personal health and safety than anything or anyone in existence, and it is also far, far too late for him to do anything but embrace the inevitable.

With this inescapable truth making a home for itself in the bone arena of his skull, Will wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist and kisses him, soft and delicate, the scent of cinnamon and cardamom and coffee folding themselves into a memory he’ll carry the rest of his life. 

He thinks he knows what his father’s warning to Hannibal was, now. Loving Hannibal is dangerous; he’s acting reckless, drawing attention, putting himself at risk. He can give the same warning to himself but it’s not going to change anything. His mind has rewritten itself with a new set of priorities, with Hannibal right at the top.

“I love you,” he says.

“And I love you, dievas,” Hannibal says, catching his lips again. 

Hell. Achilles and Patroclus, wishing all the Greeks would die so they could conquer Troy together. Helplessly, hopelessly entwined, the rooms of their mind palaces nested and shared. 

Will knows with dizzying conviction that he will risk whatever he must to keep Hannibal safe. Whatever means of influence he can use, whatever it takes to ensure his monster never sees the inside of a cage. 

“Your thoughts are loud and troublesome this morning,” Hannibal says, sleepiness softening the words. “Is Uncle Jack to blame?”

“No,” says Will, reluctantly retreating to allow Hannibal room to finish breakfast. “He wants us to come look at the Thirty Cuts case. Another body dropped on Christmas Eve.”

“Us?” Hannibal expertly flips the toast and moves to the fridge to start making some kind of fruit compote.

“Yeah. Well, mostly me, but, you’re invited. And if you’re not busy, I’d… like it if you came along. Took a look. The Thirty Cuts, I think they work for your Admirer.”

“I see. The Echo to my Narcissus, to their mind.” He cocks his head to one side. “A poor comparison, if they sought to flatter me.”

“I think it’s more about their own role. Knowing you'll never see them, but they’ll love you from afar, even as it causes them to fade and lose themself. Clearly they feel some ownership, a, ah… protectiveness over you.”

As Hannibal cooks and then plates the breakfast (and pours the coffee), he is quiet, pondering. Will is a few bites into the best French toast he’s ever eaten when Hannibal speaks again. 

“I had considered… possibilities. Reviewed interactions with certain acquaintances or chance encounters. But the more we learn about this Admirer, the more certain I become that I would have recognized something of this in them.”

Will swallows and nods, gesturing with his fork as he works his way through the profile he’s been building of the Admirer. “This isn’t somebody who would have had the guts to talk to you. This is somebody with a connection to the first Ripper victim, based on Matt's findings, who the FBI missed the first time around. Somebody who felt… vindicated. No, that’s the wrong word.” He struggles for a moment. “Salvation. They became obsessed with you because they felt like you were some kind of savior. It’s why they talk about you like you have some kinda divine vision, like the temptation of the flesh can corrupt you. Why it bothers them so much you want me at all, let alone both versions of you.” He digs back into his plate and shakes his head. “If it was someone you knew, you’d have figured them out. This is a person who has watched you from afar for a long time. That’s why it’s going to be so easy to trick them.”

“I still don’t share your… cavalier attitude,” says Hannibal, “but I can appreciate the elegance in your plan.” A beat, then, “We will need to do something to disavow Alana of this absurd notion that I am pursuing her.”

“Don’t worry,” says Will, “I’ve got a plan for that, too.”

The Thirty Cuts victims, eight in total now, still don’t have anything in common, except that their bodies showed up in remarkably public places late at night, and nobody saw anything. They’re random, grabbed from very different areas at very different times, missing for a variable number of days, and stabbed with seemingly random, opportunistic weapons. That heart stencil is the only thing tying them together, apart from the exact number of stab wounds.

Will still doesn’t know the significance of the number thirty, and he hates not knowing. 

The new body provides two new pieces of information: this victim was strangled before being stabbed, and the stab wounds are hesitant, shallow, unpracticed. 

Will can’t hold off any longer. 

“This confirms it, Jack,” he says. “This isn’t one or two people, this is a group.”

Hannibal, examining the photos of the other bodies, agrees. “Yes, there is a clear difference in capability between these killers, Jack. It is difficult to estimate the number of killers, given that some appear to have… practiced.” He frowns and turns away from the photos, glancing at Will.

“Five, I think,” says Will. “So far, anyway.” He separates the eight photos into five piles and points to two of them. “These three have the same sort of… viciousness. Different weapons, but they all go deep, with indications that the handles of their weapons hit the body more often than not, which means they struck hard , and kept up that force for most of the thirty strikes. These two, they’re more controlled, precise, favor the chest over the abdomen, back, or face. The other three are different people. You’re looking for some kind of… cult, at a guess. Hell, the number thirty might even be how many members.”

Jack is quiet for a while, studying the images, absorbing what he’s been told, and then, under his breath, he mutters,

“God damn it.”

It’s hard to fake being angry with somebody when you have grown so addicted to the shape and flavor of their bliss. But, Will is going to manage it, for the sake of the grand plan. Remarkably, the Admirer and their little Messengers are playing right into it, perfectly setting the stage.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and Will is at Quantico because another Thirty Cuts body dropped earlier in the evening. 

There’s a gala in Baltimore tonight for the Cultural Society. Obviously the intent was for Hannibal and Will to go, make a public appearance, have an absolutely undeniable alibi. Margot is taking Beverly as her plus one, which is delightful—the original plan was for the two of them to leave about the same time, Will in his own car and Beverly being picked up by Margot to go get ready, at about five thirty.

However, when they went outside, they’d found Will’s car vandalized, with two tires slashed and a homophobic slur painted across his windshield.

Oh, it was too perfect.

Threads began to braid together in his mind. How could he resist?

While Beverly spoke with security, demanding the tapes from the lot, and Margot graciously called for a tow, Will called Hannibal.

Beverly got back—and Margot got off the phone—at just the right moment to hear Will say,

“No, this is exactly what I was afraid of. I didn’t want rumors or, or bullshit about—no, I’m not—for Christ’s sake, Hannibal, I was raised in the South! You think this is easy for me? I get it, your progressive and cultured European worldview makes it so simple for you to accept the fucking fluidity of human sexuality, but I grew up in places where shit like this was a precursor to—no, I’m not ashamed! Can you get off your fucking high horse for one second and try to see this from my point of view?”

On Hannibal’s end, he murmurs, “You’re laying it on quite thick, aren’t you, Will?”

“Yeah,” bites out Will, “you know what? You’re right. No, no, no, I get it, you’re right Hannibal. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear? In fact, you’re so right, why don’t you just invite Alana to this little party of yours, that way you don’t have to spend time around somebody trapped by such backward thinking. I hope you two have a wonderful night.”

“What are you up to?” Hannibal says, and Will hangs up as aggressively as he can.

“Ugh,” he snarls, and turns to see Margot and Beverly, watching him with concern. Margot’s, at least, is tinged with curiosity, but Beverly’s is entirely genuine. He stuffs his phone in his pocket and ruffles his hair. “Fuck. Sorry. It’s nothing, he just… it’s a long day, and I didn’t really even want to go to this stupid thing, and…” He gestures at the car; his face twists with regret. “I shouldn’t have talked to him that way. But sometimes it’s like he doesn’t even try to see things from my perspective.”

“You’d think a psychiatrist would be good at that,” says Margot, arching an eyebrow.

“You’d think,” Will echoes, and grimaces.

“Is everything okay with you two? You’ve been… snippy,” says Beverly.

“It’s fine, I just…” He sighs and leans against the rough facade of the building. “I’m not an easy guy to get along with, y’know? And he’s… particular. We’re still figuring out how to… make it work.” He tilts his head back, eyes up to the sky—already pitch dark, this time of year—and lets out a puff of cloudy, condensated tension wrapped in a breath. “But we want to. Make it work, I mean.”

Beverly lays a gentle hand upon his shoulder and squeezes, just for a second. “I think you will. I mean, I hope you will. Otherwise I owe Brian a shitload of money.”

He snickers. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Yeah, you know what they say, vote with your wallet and all that.” She pauses, glances at Margot, turns back to Will. “You gonna be okay, Will?”

“Yeah. I’m just… I’m gonna go back in. Work on the profile until the tow truck gets here. Thanks, by the way.”

“Of course, Will. If there’s anything else I can do—”

“No, Margot, you two have done enough. Just, go enjoy your night, have a couple drinks for me. And if you see Hannibal tonight, tell him…” He drags a hand down his face and chuckles. “Tell him he’s an asshole. But, I’ll… call him when I’m calmer.”

“You’re really not going?” asks Beverly, and Will shakes his head.

“No, I’m just gonna go home. There’s nothing out there for me tonight. I’ll start the new year right tomorrow.”

They each give him a hug before they leave. Margot quietly says,

“You’re up to something.”

Will winks at her before she heads to her car, and she smiles.

Hannibal finds Will’s impromptu performance interesting enough that he decides to go along with it. He phones Alana, ensuring that his voice is a bit tight and a bit annoyed, and asks her if she would like to accompany him tonight. He apologizes for the last minute request, of course, but Alana is too delighted to care.

“I was actually going already,” she says, “but these events are always a lot more tolerable with good company. You can pick me up at seven-thirty.” She even tells him exactly which dress she’s wearing—a dark blue off-shoulder with a peplum skirt—in case he should decide to coordinate.

Hannibal confirms he will collect her at seven-thirty. He will be wearing a classic three-piece tuxedo in slate gray with sapphire accents; it was originally intended to match Will’s tuxedo in the reverse colors, but he supposes its coincidental similarities to Alana’s chosen outfit will add to whatever plan Will has got cooking. It’s a little concerning, having something else thrown into the pot when it’s already so close to boiling, but Hannibal trusts Will implicitly.

This is why, when he and Alana are on the way to the ballroom where the gala is being hosted, he continues to play the jilted lover, just a little too cavalier, just a little too open to temptation. Alana is wearing a perfume which Hannibal rather likes, but doesn’t suit her natural scent.

“Was Will not able to make it tonight?” Alana asks, drumming her perfect nails along her thigh.

“Will has unfortunately found himself otherwise occupied,” Hannibal says, stiffly.

Alana hums. “I can’t believe he would miss a night like this. He knows how important this is to you, doesn’t he?”

Hannibal sighs. “He can hardly control what these killers do. A few missed events are to be expected.”

“It’s your birthday.”

Hannibal chuckles. “Alana, forty-seven is not a milestone. If it were fifty, perhaps I would be upset.”

“But you are upset,” she says, relentlessly.

His jaw tightens and he shrugs one shoulder. “Not about that.”

“You can talk to me, Hannibal.” She sets a hand on his arm, and her eyes soften. “You’re always so thoughtful to me. Especially lately. I want you to know I appreciate that you’ve made such an effort, even though I was…” She looks down, pink dusting her cheeks. “I can admit I didn’t take the news about you and Will very well. And I still have reservations. I just don’t want you to think that because of those reservations, you can’t talk to me.”

Hannibal considers. He buys time by pretending to focus on the flow of traffic. Will’s plan has never been for him to actually seduce Alana, just to play into her affections enough that she might misinterpret him. It’s a fine line to walk, but Hannibal has walked finer lines in the past.

He lets out a short, sharp sigh, almost a huff, something he has picked up from Will. “Will is… struggling with certain aspects of our relationship. Some difficulty was anticipated, of course. I knew, even when I proposed that there was something clearly building between us, that Will was not…” He hesitates, and Alana fills in,

“Will has only ever been interested in women.”

“Yes. And there is a… stigma, deeply-rooted in Will, which he is battling. He seems to be under the impression that I have lived my entire life with no awareness of homophobia. That bigotry was born in the Southern United States, and I couldn’t possibly understand how he feels.” He scoffs. “As though I never encountered bigots in Europe. As though I never felt shame or self-hatred when I first began exploring relationships with men. And, of course, I am aware it is different for a man who has lived almost forty years to discover an attraction to a man than it was for a pubescent boy in France, but there was a wholly different stigma then that Will never had to live through. I wish he believed that I understand his fears and hesitation. I wish he trusted me, but his stubbornness is…” He is in line now for the valet parking, so he takes a breath and smiles at Alana. “Well. You know quite well.”

Alana squeezes his arm and then lets go as they reach the front of the line. “Will is a difficult man to be close to,” she says. “For a man who analyzes the feelings of others for a living, his understanding of his own feelings is… limited, at best. Everything feels like an emergency for him. Every feeling is huge. Sometimes he can get… confused.”

Hannibal stops the car. “Do you think Will is confused about me?”

Alana doesn’t get a chance to answer, because the valet approaches the car and Hannibal steps out to hand over the keys and collect his valet ticket. He opens Alana’s door and offers his arm, a charming smile in place of the troubled frown he’d worn only moments before, and she glides alongside him up the stairs, the picture of elegance and grace.

He feels as though he has appropriately baited the trap, though he still isn’t clear on the purpose; in some ways, though, that makes this a lot more exciting.

Will stands in front of the main doors about eight o’clock, sharing a cigarette with Jimmy Price while a pissed off tow truck driver gets his car up on a flatbed.

“Did security see who did it?” asks Jimmy, taking the cigarette back.

“Nope. Parking lot cameras have been touchy lately, apparently. Might be the cold and the wiring, they’re not sure. Anyway, since like, midnight last night, it’s nothin’.” Will tucks his hands into his jacket.

Jimmy inhales and shakes his head. “Awful. People can be such pricks. Y’know, my twin brother’s gay. Owns a bar up in Toronto. Anything like this happened to him, woof. Hate to see what would happen when his regulars found ‘em.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Jimmy—”

“You thought I was gay?”

“Well. Or something.”

“Or something,” Jimmy says, taking another drag. He hands the cigarette over to Will. “Lotta people think me and Brian are together, but he’s not exactly my type. I mean, we’ve slept together, but we’d be a bad couple.” Will’s eyebrows shoot up as he smokes; Jimmy shrugs and watches the tow truck driver test the straps on Will’s tires. “People see us bickering and think it’s because we’re like a little old married couple, when really it’s because we’ve seen each other naked a dozen times and we still think the other is annoying. Decent sex, but he’s kind of exhausting, y’know?”

Will snorts and coughs out a lungful of smoke, gesturing for Jimmy to take back his cigarette. “Yeah,” he manages, “I know what you  mean.”

“I bet it’s different with Dr. Lecter,” Jimmy says. “He really seems like a good match for you.”

Will nods and stares at his feet. “Yeah. He is. Even with me being… y’know. How I am.”

“You’re not really gonna leave him hanging tonight, right, Will?” Jimmy nudges him with his shoulder. “C’mon. Tell me you’re gonna go to that stupid fancy party.”

Will sighs; the tow truck driver is heading over. “Yeah. Yeah, I really should. I can still make it before midnight.”

Jimmy puts his cigarette out against the wall and drops it into the ashtray on top of the garbage can. “You need a ride? I’m heading into Baltimore for a party, too.”

“Going anywhere near Chandler Square? My suit is at Hannibal’s place.”

“I’ll make a detour. Gimme a minute to lock up the lab and grab my stuff, okay?”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Hey, anything for an idiot in love,” Jimmy says, and heads inside.

Will gives the tow truck driver the address of his house in Wolf Trap and an extra three hundred bucks. The driver, in a significantly better mood, heads off. Will gives Finn a quick call so he knows to be on the lookout (and to tell Randall not to rip the poor driver to pieces), then he jogs inside to lock up his own office and check in with Jack before he and Jimmy leave.

It’s critical that Jack sees him here.

“Hey,” Will calls, knocking on Jack’s door. “Getting late. Jimmy’s giving me a ride into the city. You going home soon?”

Jack looks up from his files, blinks, and checks his watch. He curses under his breath and starts to gather some things together.

“Thanks, Will. One of those nights. Can’t believe we’ve got the Ripper and these Thirty Cuts wackos active. And we still don’t know who got Freddie Lounds.”

He’s not dropping that yet, huh? Well. Will can’t say he’s surprised.

“I know. A lot to juggle at once. But don’t let it get in the way of time with Bella. You’ll still make it home with plenty of time to spare.”

“Yeah, but she’ll already be awake,” Jack snaps. “Can’t believe I got so caught up I lost track of time.” He pauses. “What the hell are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the Cultural Society thing with Dr. Lecter?”

“My, uh… car. Sort of got vandalized. Remember?” Jack squints, then nods, so Will goes on. “And then, well,” he scratches the back of his neck. “Hannibal and I had a… bit of a fight. I kinda was being an asshole because I was stressed out. So.”

“Oh, Graham, take it from me. When you know you’re kind of an ass, you better be ready to grovel like it’s your damn job.”

“Yeah. I’m, uh… planning on it.”

Jack checks his watch, curses again, and slams his briefcase shut. “Okay, I’m leaving. You and Jimmy are—”

“On the way out!” calls Jimmy from the hallway. “Will, ready?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and the three of them leave, about eight thirty.

Jimmy drops him off at Hannibal’s house right around ten. They both wish each other a happy new year and good luck making it to their respective parties on time, and then Will goes in to get ready.

He decides, on a whim, to call Beverly.

“Will? Is everything okay?”

He can hear the sounds of laughter and music and general merriment, but it’s quiet, so Bev must have stepped into a side hall.

“Yeah,” he says. “I just… kind of realized that I was being a petty dick about things, and I’m gonna go to the stupid party. Jimmy just dropped me off at Hannibal’s place so I’m getting ready but I, uh… wanted to make sure he’s not having an amazing time without me that I’ll ruin by showing up.”

“Oh, Will. Honey. No, he’s miserable. I mean, partially because I laid into him earlier, but, Alana’s talking his ear off, hanging off him, and he’s brooding somethin’ awful. If I didn’t know him I doubt I’d see it, but, your man wants you here. And I think it’s big of you to put in the effort. I know this kind of thing isn’t your style.”

“Yeah, well. When you love somebody.”

Beverly squeals into the phone and then apologizes to somebody—probably Margot—before her voice grows more hushed. “Oh my god, you’re at the L word stage? Have you told him?”

Constantly, Will thinks, smirking, but what he says is,

“I mean, he knows.”

“Will! Get your ass over here and tell Dr. Hot Stuff how you feel!”

“I’m going to. I’m getting ready. I think I’ll be there before midnight. Just, don’t let him have too much fun without me, okay?” He pauses. “Don’t let Alana… Nevermind.”

“Don’t you worry. It’s under control. I got you.”

“Thanks, Bev. See you in a bit.”

He hangs up, and starts to get himself all dolled up for the gala.

It takes Will a shocking amount of time to get a taxi at this hour, and then traffic through downtown is an absolute nightmare. The taxi insists on dropping him a block away from the gala, because he’ll actually get there faster by walking. It’s annoying, but it ends up serving Will’s purpose quite nicely.

He gets to the ballroom at about five minutes past midnight, which is a bit of a shame. What makes it more interesting is that as he is walking up the steps he receives a text message from an unknown number with a photo of Alana kissing Hannibal, presumably at midnight.

How deliciously contrived! Will is delighted; this is far better than what he was planning, which was to stage a dramatic public apology. But this? Oh, it’s a gift. It’s a good photo, angled such that Hannibal’s face is recognizable but his expression is hardly visible due to the lighting. Alana’s hands are on his chest, it’s rather intimate.

But Will can see the tension in Hannibal’s shoulders, the discomfort, the disgust even. He has no doubt that Hannibal politely pushed Alana away, but that doesn’t matter. This is the perfect fodder for an all-out lover’s quarrel, something everyone will remember, and it feeds even more perfectly into the Admirer’s desire to tear Will and Hannibal apart the same way they wish to tear Will and the Ripper apart. It’s juvenile, and very Hallmark in a lot of ways, and Will sort of loves it.

He hurries inside and immediately clocks Hannibal and Alana having a private conversation off to one side of the ballroom, but he’s waved over to the bar by a frantic Beverly and a very amused Margot (though she is playing concerned quite convincingly).

“Will,” says Bev, “I’m sorry, I hate to have to tell you this, but—”

Oh, even better! Now he doesn’t have to explain the photo!

“It was midnight, and he stepped back pretty much right away, but, I thought you’d want to know,” she’s still saying. “And now they’re talking and I was gonna run over and give ‘em a piece of my mind but I’m kinda drunk and I felt weird about it since I knew you were comin’ and maybe you wanted to be the one to—”

“Bev, it’s fine,” Will says, his face stormy. “Thank you for keeping an eye out. I’ll take care of it.” He looks at Margot. “Get her home safe, okay?”

“Please, Will,” says Margot. “I’m an excellent date. I’ll get her some electrolytes and aspirin and hand her off to her sister.”

“You’re so good to me,” Bev says, laying her head on Margot’s shoulder. “Will, kick his ass. Unless he doesn’t deserve it, then kick Alana’s ass instead.”

Will rolls his shoulders and heads around the dancefloor. He comes up behind Hannibal and Alana sees him first; her eyes get very wide and she starts to stammer.

“Will, I—”

“What the fuck is this?” he growls, showing his phone screen.

Hannibal turns just slightly, looking melancholy and beaten down, but there’s a glimmer in his eye of playfulness. He stands, reaching for Will, but Will takes a step back and shoves the phone accusingly into his face.

“Will—” Hannibal starts to say, but Will shoves his phone in his pocket and snarls,

“Y’know, I actually came here to apologize? How stupid is that? I came here to say I was an idiot and an asshole and you’ve never actually done anything to make me feel like you think I’m less than, or not good enough to stand next to you. But now? Now, fuck you, Hannibal.”

Alana springs to action, her need to fix everything warring with the thrill she’s clearly feeling over being a source of tension.

“Will, please, it wasn’t Hannibal, it was me. I-it was all me, I had too much to drink, I was swept up in the moment, I… I’m sorry. Hannibal was very clear with me that it wasn’t appropriate and I apologized to him, and now I’m apologizing to you. It was wrong of me to do anything that might undermine your relationship.”

“Oh, but isn’t that exactly what you wanted to do?” Will hisses. “Isn’t that what you’ve wanted to do since the goddamn start? You think I didn’t see it, Alana? You think I haven’t noticed the flirty texts and the way you look at him, you think I didn’t know even before I was arrested how badly you wanted him? I fucking told you I was scared he was going to choose you.”

She wrings her hands, distressed, but still excited, thrilled, the flush creeping up her neck, her cheeks pink with it.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, emphatically. “I know, I know you were worried there was something between me and Hannibal, but our relationship never went beyond friendship.”

“No matter how badly you wanted it to,” Will growls, and his eyes snap to Hannibal. “And what do you have to say for yourself, huh? Is this true, was it all Alana?” He glances up and down at all three of them and scowls. “Was this on purpose? Did you know she and I would be in practically the same color, did you plan it this way so you’d be dressed to match? Was I always your second choice?”

“Wasn’t I yours?” Hannibal snarls, stepping in close. “You come here, already furious, already having decided that I’m the villain, that I have purposefully snubbed you, when you, Will, are the one who told me you wouldn’t be coming tonight. When you rejected me in favor of work, again. You come in here wielding your insecurities like a weapon, as though if you’re angry enough when you make a scene it means you’re correct. You’re being completely childish!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I compromising your reputation, Count Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal growls and grabs Will’s arm, not hard, but firm, aiming to ground and soothe. “Again, you are failing to see the obvious truth right in front of you, because you have chosen to be angry. I wanted to come to this event tonight with you, my partner, to celebrate the new year and my birthday. My reputation was the last thing on my mind, until you started to make a scene at a very public event!”

Will allows tears to sting the corners of his eyes. “What am I supposed to think, Hannibal? I’m trying so hard to be someone worth your time, and I have no idea what I’m doing. What am I supposed to think when I screw up and you go right to kissing Alana?”

“Will…” Alana says, but they both ignore her.

Hannibal forces all the air in his lungs out through his nose and steps in close, holding Will’s chin in one hand.

“You are a frustrating, beautiful creature,” he murmurs, and his eyes are warm with affection. In a louder tone—still soft, but loud enough that Alana should be able to hear—he says, “Will, do you honestly think one absurd spat would be enough to drive me into the arms of another?”

“I don’t know,” Will says, blinking back tears. “You know I don’t know how this works. Christ, Hannibal, I haven’t dated since high school. I don’t know the rules. And I especially don’t know the rules for… for prissy, perfectionist aristocrats in, in stupid suits.”

Hannibal laughs and presses his forehead against Will’s. “You’re rude when you’re frightened, Will. But you have nothing to be afraid of.” He holds both sides of Will’s face between his strong, delicate hands and makes direct eye contact. “There is no one on this Earth I would rather be with. Come Hell and the seven-headed beast, William Graham, I will stand beside you. Foolish man.”

Will presses his own hands against Hannibal’s and draws in a shuddering breath, then he blurts,

“Hannibal, I love you.” He freezes. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I mean, I did, but, it wasn’t—”

Luckily, Hannibal picks up on what he’s going for and kisses him.

“Oh, Will,” he says. “My darling Will. What a gift you’ve given me. What beauty sprouts from such an unexpected place. What ever were we arguing for? It is the new year, and my birthday, and I love you.”

Will allows a couple of tears to roll, then sniffs and pulls back, laughing, wiping at his cheeks. “I’ll tell you what we were arguing for. Because I’m stressed as hell, my car got vandalized, parties are overwhelming, and I’m insecure and stupid.”

“Insecure, most certainly,” says Hannibal, drawing Will into his arms, “but never stupid. Foolish, and emotionally raw. Never stupid, Will.”

With his head pressed against Hannibal’s chest, Will can see Alana standing awkwardly nearby. He can also see the half-dozen other people who were pretending not to listen in, but he doesn’t care about them; they’ve already served their purpose. Instead he sniffles, pushes away from Hannibal’s (now slightly damp) chest, and looks at Alana.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m… sorry. I overreacted.”

“No, no, I’m, Will, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… done that. You’re my friend. You’re both my friends. And it’s so clear, so… so obvious, looking at you, that you’re—” She struggles for words and then sighs. The thrill is gone; the excitement is over. “You’re happy together, you’re good for each other. That’s all I ever wanted. Just… to make sure you two are happy and healthy.”

Will smiles crookedly and offers Alana his hand. When she takes it, he pulls her into a hug instead.

“Thank you,” he says. He gently kisses her cheek, just for a moment, and murmurs, “You’re a good friend, Alana. I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good friend to you, lately.” He leans back, still smiling. “I hope you’ll give me the chance to fix things. And maybe I can convince Hannibal to make more of your special beer, and you can come to dinner more often.”

She’s beaming now. “Of course, Will.”

Of course.

The rest of the night is quite nice. The party goes until about two in the morning. Will and Hannibal dance, and kiss, and do the rounds socially. At the end of the night, they drive Alana home. Will walks her up to her door and wishes her goodnight, with plans to get lunch the following week.

“I’m sorry again, Will. And I’m so glad things are okay between all of us,” she says.

Will gives her another hug and heads back to the car. When he closes the door and they pull back onto the street, it is nearing three o’clock in the morning.

Hannibal sets his hand on Will’s knee and his thumb traces the seam on the outside of Will’s thigh.

“Quite the performance tonight,” Hannibal says, softly. “Did you achieve your aim?”

“I’d say so. We have perfect alibis for the entire night. We were very memorable at every stage. And the Admirer thinks they have a wedge to hammer at. All-in-all, an excellent evening.” He pauses and trails his fingers along the back of Hannibal’s hand. “You were incredible.”

“Was I?” says Hannibal, archly. “Next to you, impossible to tell. I almost believed you.”

“Well, the best lies are wrapped in a bit of truth,” Will says.

“You really believe there is even a remote chance I would choose anyone over you?”

“I worry you’ll mold somebody more perfectly suited to you.”

“My interest in molding others has taken somewhat of a nosedive after discovering that the man I wanted to mold most in all the world was toying with me so utterly I didn’t even see it.” He lifts Will’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “There can be no others, Will. If I were to mold anyone at this point, it would be for the purpose of adding to your family. Our family.”

Will feels warm and fuzzy inside, and then his phone starts to ring.

It’s Jack.

“Will,” he says, sounding strained and out of breath, “where are you?”

“In the car with Hannibal,” he says, with a twinge of concern. “We just dropped Alana off at home after the party. Why, what’s going on?”

“I just got a call from Baltimore PD. Frederick Chilton is dead, Will, and they think it was the Ripper.”

It’s a beautiful tableau. Flawless, actually. Hannibal is quite pleased; his practice with Abel paid off in spades, and Lilith’s remarkable attention to detail tied everything together.

Frederick has been turned into an expression of heartbreak more profound than anything he was ever able to produce in life. His legs have been draped with blue cloth, similar in color to Will’s eyes. His head and right arm are laid upon the rim of a white marble fountain, his face tucked against the inner elbow, and his expression has been carefully twisted into one of abject despair. 

His ribcage has been sawn open in a perfect circle, and the skin around it has been peeled away in variable layers to give the impression, from a distance, of an open sleeve. His heart has been removed, of course, and placed upon the lip of the fountain near his arm. Blood has been allowed to seep from the heart and drip down the side of the marble, staining the stone. 

He is modeled after La Madeleine by Cézanne, the picture of sorrow, with adjustments to ensure that not even Jack Crawford could miss the message. Additionally, there’s a pad full of handwritten notes tucked beneath his hand which are all about Will and his empathy disorder.

Frederick’s entire left arm and his remaining kidney have been taken, because even when he is grieving the loss of his special connection to a very special investigator, the Ripper still needs to eat.

Will and Hannibal in their tuxedos and Jack in his housecoat make for an interesting contrast. Still, Uncle Jack doesn’t seem disturbed.

“What do you see, Will?” he asks.

Will stands in silence for several minutes, his lips forming words, his eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids, then he gasps softly as he comes back to the present.

“He’s… devastated, Jack. What I said at the press conference, I… I mean, we knew, we, we thought it would get to him. Draw him out. Make him reckless. But this? This is… he’s mourning. He believed I was different. That I saw him differently. That I understood. Now he feels lost, like everything he’s been doing this last year was for nothing. I ripped his heart out of his chest and didn’t have the decency to do anything with it.”

“Do you think you’re in danger?” Jack asks, and his voice is hard.

“No,” Will replies, slowly. “No, I… I think he’s still figuring it out. There’s a sense of… disbelief, almost. And, well… Jack, I hate to say it, but, taking out Chilton? A guy who pretty publicly treated me like a science project? That’s a last-ditch olive branch. A gift. He wants me to reconsider.”

“Reconsider, or else…?” Hannibal says, and Will sighs.

“Or else I’m really going to piss him off,” he says.

Jack nods. “That’s what we want. We want him pissed off. He gets pissed off, he’ll make a mistake.”

“Jack, he might not target me, but…” Will glances at Hannibal, just for a moment. “I don’t know if people close to me are safe.”

“We’ll see what we can do to protect your loved ones, Will. Don’t worry. All we have to do is catch this guy, and the nightmare is over.” He claps Will on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest. Tomorrow, you can take another look. I’ll want a report on my desk by the end of the day.”

“Sure, Jack,” Will murmurs.

Hannibal takes him home.

The moment they’re alone—truly, properly alone—Will pulls Hannibal into his arms and starts to laugh.

Chapter Text

“Yeah,” Matthew says, chuckling, “I’d say they liked the pictures. Deleted from the subreddit within five minutes, private invite to the Galleria within six. Got asked how exactly I got those photos. Told ‘em, well, the guy was my boss, and the body was put up not too far from work. That shit kinda gets around.”

“Might have to send Barney a fruit basket,” murmurs Will. 

He’s leaning against his counter, one ankle crossed over the other, in the dark. It’s about three in the morning, and while he’s not worried about waking Beau, he’s still speaking softly so he doesn’t get the dogs excited.

Abel and Lilith had sent photos via a burner phone and an anonymous email to the BSHCI; the person to open that email had been the on-duty night orderly, Barney Matthews, and as expected, Barney—gossip that he was—had quietly spread those pictures to a few other people before reporting anything. One of those people had been Matthew, but even if it hadn’t been, Matthew had been sent a much nicer selection of photos directly.

Max yawns and stretches, weaving his way from his dog bed over to Will’s feet. Will reaches down to scratch behind his soft golden ears.

“I’m assuming that our Admirer reached out, then,” Will says.

“Oh, yeah. Got the invite directly from them. And when I posted in the Galleria, they started askin’ a hell of a lotta questions. Since they knew I worked at the hospital they asked about ol’ Fred at first—hey, you’ll tell ‘em I said nice work on him, won’t ya?”

“Of course.”

“Appreciate it. So, Chilton, they asked what he was like, and there was all this speculation on why the Ripper might’ve gone after him. So I pointed out that bit about the notes, the ones about you, and they went off the fuckin’ deep end.” Matthew snorts. “I got linked to a thread from, like, a year ago? All about you. About the Ripper’s obsession with you, you getting framed—I mean, they clocked that, or, I mean, Echo clocked it, dead certain from the start that it was the Ripper behind it. They already asked me if I worked with you. That’s why I called—I think these pictures, and what I can give ‘em on you, is gonna get me into the inner circle pretty quick. Especially if I tell ‘em I can get close to you.”

“You’re not gonna switch sides on me, are you?”

Matthew’s laugh is low and warm. “Never. I told you, whatever you need, whatever the plan is, I’m in it a hundred percent. Whatever that takes. Even if it means playing double agent to get what you need.” There’s a shuffling sound on the other end of the line. “Honestly, you got nothin’ to worry about. These guys are amateurs. I just, uh…” He sighs. “I’m gonna have to play along with them. And, y’know, I’m gonna have to tell them things about you.”

Will sighs. “Matt. I trust you to keep it all on the right level.”

“Yeah. Of course. Level one mostly. A sprinkle of level two tidbits, kinda thing you might let slip over a beer. I’m a professional, Will.”

“I know. I know you are. I’m not the one that’s worried.”

“I’m not worried. I’m—listen. This is a fuckin’ gamble, playing with these guys. Playing their game, giving them information on you, giving them insecurities to target, even if they’re fake? Getting the Ripper involved? I mean, Christ, Will, what if they figure our game out? There’s like, at least a dozen minds working together here. And what if the FBI pieces shit together? What if—?”

Will drags a hand down his face. “None of that is gonna happen. Okay? It just won’t. You see things clearly because you have enough pieces to see. The Galleria, they’ve got nothing. Your new buddy Echo doesn’t even realize I know the Ripper’s identity. They’re not gonna figure out we’re playing them. You said yourself they’re amateurs. And the FBI only knows as much as the evidence and I tell them, which at the moment is fuckin’ nothing.”

“Giving them more to work with might make them escalate,” Matthew says, quietly.

Will forces air through his nose and drops his voice. “Listen, Matt, this Admirer, Echo, is a threat to the Ripper. To Hannibal. To our family. And we protect our family. Right?”

“Right, of course, I know, I just—”

“Right. And right now, the only way we get closer to finding out the Admirer’s identity is by drawing them out. That means luring them, giving them what they want. And what do they want most?” Will gestures to himself, though obviously Matthew can’t see it. “Me, out of the Ripper’s good graces, and out of Hannibal’s life. Separately, because God forbid they betray the Ripper’s confidence. We’re giving them that. And it’s working. Just… trust the process. And trust me.”

“I do trust you, Will. You know I do. I just… I worry about you, too.”

“Well, I have you watching out for me, don’t I?”

He can hear the grin in Matthew’s voice: “Always.”

“Then I’ll be fine.”

“Love the confidence, but, promise you’re gonna do somethin’ else, Will. Tell me you’ve got a backup plan.”

Will laughs. “I’ve always got a backup plan. I just don’t think it’ll give us much without alerting Echo that we’re getting close so it’s kind of a last resort. I’ll get what I can on my end, but we won’t act on it unless you’re in danger. You’re Plan A.” 

“Shit. Okay. Alright, fine. But things might get rough for you for a minute.”

“I can handle it. You just keep it together. Take as much time as you need. And, Matt? Stay safe, yeah?”

“Not a chance, gorgeous,” says Matthew, and the line goes dead.

Crawford is frantic now. He’s hiding it well—for him, anyway—but he’s about to lose his mind. His wife is losing her battle with cancer, chemo is wasting her away, and he’s having to spend time he should probably be on compassionate leave caring for her instead dealing with almost weekly drops of new Thirty Cuts bodies and a Ripper sounder that has yet to actually end. This means he’s prepared to do anything if there’s even a chance of finding some kind of missed connection.

Well. Almost anything. Some poor fool had (hesitantly) suggested bringing Miriam Lass back in to look at the files she’d been reviewing before her disappearance, and Jack had laid into the poor kid so hard he hadn’t shown up the following day.

It had, however, been the perfect opening for Will to ask for a favor that was granted.

“Jack,” Will had said, soothingly, “it was a bad ask—”

“Bad? Inappropriate, Graham. Try cruel, try completely tone-deaf, and coming from me that’s—”

“Yeah, but the core of the idea is solid, Jack. Wrong train, right direction.” Will had pushed his glasses up his nose and made brief eye contact with Jack, just enough to show he was serious, and then dropped his eyes back to Jack’s tense shoulder. “Let me look. Give me access to Miriam’s files. Hell, give me access to the old Baltimore PD files, the ones from the early oughts. Let me start at the beginning with all the information and see what I can see.”

“What’s the difference when you’ve seen the photos already?” Jack had griped, and Will had shaken his head forcefully enough that his curls bounced and swayed.

“I don’t just look at crime scenes. That’s not what my trick is. You know what my trick is, Jack. I’ve told you how it works. It’s not really a trick at all.”

Jack’s jaw had twitched, and he’d rubbed at it absently. “No. You don’t make jumps. The evidence is there to back up everything you see.”

“Exactly. And I can do a lot with a crime scene because most criminals are saying a lot without realizing what they’re saying. But the Ripper? He’s different, he’s always been different. But he’s not the only one I can look at to learn something.”

Jack had been fully nodding along by then, his eyes distant as the gears turned and he followed Will’s line of thought. “Right, he knows exactly what he’s saying, he tailors every damn scene to say something specific. There can’t be any message about him because he cleans it up and turns it into whatever message he wanted us to see. But he can’t take away what he used, the materials, the victims.” He had looked, suddenly, sharply, at Will, and there was the bizarre sensation of being seen right through—but, of course, it was only the surface and subsurface Wills Jack could see, not the many layers beneath, and certainly not the true Will encompassing it all. Jack had leaned forward just slightly and said, “If you think you can get something from those files, I’ll pull them. All of them. I’ll get you a conference room and some boards.”

“Thanks, Jack. Am I allowed to pull in help? The science team, one at a time, just to help sort through it all?”

“As long as their duties are done, I don’t care. You’ll have those files tomorrow.”

And he’d followed through, of course, because it was a chance to learn something new about the Ripper.

That was how Will had wound up elbow deep in file boxes, shuffling through old police reports, witness statements, and all kinds of very interesting attestations about the victims. He knew, of course, that Hannibal’s selections were those he found distasteful and rude, but he knew that because he had come to understand that detail about Hannibal, not because he had ever seen any evidence in the Ripper displays that explained that particular leap. 

In honesty, it was a lie to say that Will’s ‘trick’ only worked when there was clear evidence to back it up; it was a bit more complicated than that. He had always tried to limit his insights to things that could immediately be explained by the existing evidence, or by evidence that was very likely to be discovered with some direction. Realistically, though, a lot of his insights were circumstantial, hard to quantify. How is he meant to explain that this singular droplet of blood by the door was hesitation, the killer stopping to look back out of a sense of regret? How can he explain that a hesitant, sorry-for-what-you-did drip looks different than a cocky turn-back-and-admire-your-work drip, and that they’re both distinct from a catching-your-breath-before-heading-out drip?

He had seen the disdain in the atmosphere of the Ripper kills, before meeting Hannibal. The superiority. The sense that the victims were lesser, being punished for a slight. But there was never proof of any of that. He could point to how detached the Ripper was from the kills. He could point out how the victims were alive when they were being taken apart. He could talk about how likely it was that the Ripper listened to his victims scream and beg for their lives while he was killing them. 

Most people had taken these things to mean that the Ripper was a sadist. 

Will’s leaps had told him that it wasn’t about the pain. 

It was much simpler than that. 

It was because the meat needed to stay fresh as long as possible, and the squeals of a pig have rarely, if ever, changed its fate.

He’s never going to tell them the Ripper’s not a sadist, of course.

And now that he has information available about the victims, he could find enough to show them the truth of the Ripper. He’s petty, but he’s also so patient. These people barely did anything to him. Tried to upsell him on something, tried to spread a rumor about him, said the wrong thing, stained one of his stupid suits without apologizing profusely and at least offering to pay for dry-cleaning. And whatever their sin, it was years ago. The Ripper waits until he hasn’t had any contact with his victims for at least four years before going back for them.

Well. He used to.

But now he’s got something to prove to someone who loves him.

And that’s exactly why Will has no intention of putting any of that together for them. It’s not like they’ll see it—it’s far too esoteric, too nebulous. He’ll find something else to give them that’ll lead in the wrong direction. That’ll make Jack feel better.

He’s made it a project to build a clear, comprehensive timeline of Ripper kills, up on the walls and boards in the conference room, with all the information around them. Considering the Ripper is now on victim twenty, by Will’s count—eleven before he got out of the hospital, nine since—and will soon be taking victim twenty-one, it’s a lot of space, and these boxes are very poorly organized.

He’s grateful for the help he gets from the science team, particularly Beverly. She shows up on the second day of the project, silently at first, with two cups of decent coffee and a determined look. She absorbs the details of Will’s system so far—piles, more or less—and sets to work. They each burn through two more boxes before she says,

“These guys sucked at organizing. I just found a witness statement for victim seven in a box full of mostly stuff about victim three, except the photos in here are victim two.”

“Yep,” says Will, tossing his empty box (helpfully labeled ‘Ripper Files #14’) into the growing pile in the corner. “Don’t worry. When we’re done, we’ll put it all away clean. Then somebody’ll come along and ruin it, and it’ll be the idiot after that’s problem.”

“What’s the over under on that third idiot being us again?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

Beverly leans against the conference table, her legs splayed out on the floor, and shakes her head. “Please tell me we’re gonna get something from this, at least.”

Will shrugs. “I dunno, Bev. I hope so.”

“Yeah. That’s about what I thought.”

He pauses, calculates, and lets his forehead touch his knee as he takes in a deep breath. “The scenes, they’re just… they’re beautiful, but they don’t give us a goddamn thing to work with, it’s—”

“You really think they’re beautiful?” She’s watching him, but she’s not judging. At least, not yet. “I know you said he’s an artist, but I kinda figured you were just… I dunno.”

Will ruffles his hair and rubs at the back of his neck. “I mean. They are. Objectively, I mean, take away everything horrible about it. Right? Take away… it’s a human life, y’know. We’re forensic scientists, Bev. Bones and blood, we can take a step back from them and really see, right?” She nods, albeit reluctantly, and Will shrugs. “If I ignore what he is, what he’s making, I’ll never be able to see him. And I have to be able to see him.”

Beverly sighs. “Well. If anybody can, it’ll be you. But you better not get lost in this, Graham. I owe you, like, a dozen drinks.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Why, I win you another bet?”

“No, asshole, because you got me the coolest girlfriend on the planet.”

“Girlfriend, official?” They grin at each other and Will says, “Congrats, I’m happy for you. Don’t screw it up, you’ll make me look bad.”

“Are you kidding? There’s not a damn thing in this world that could screw this up. I think she’s it, Will. I mean it.” She pauses, shifts, picks at her jeans with her fingernails. “She’s, uh… got kids? I mean, not yet, but—”

“I know, she’s uh… really excited to be a mom. I figured that wouldn’t be a dealbreaker for you?”

“You figured right. I always wanted a big family, y’know? I have a lot of siblings so, uh, quiet homes are uncomfortable.”

“So…?”

She scoffs and her head falls back against the table support. “I just uh… Margot, she said I don’t have to be involved with the kids. She said, uh, she’s not trying to make me feel baby-trapped.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, but, like, I don’t. I mean, I want to… I’d like to support her. Them. Shit, I dunno. I don’t want to overstep, so early in the relationship, I don’t want to make any crazy declarations. I mean, you understand, your man is rich as hell, and you’re a bumpkin like me.”

“Ouch,” Will says, flatly.

Beverly snickers. “I say it with love.”

“Yeah. Well it’s a bit of a sore spot.”

“Exactly! That’s my point! If I say, hey Margot, I am sure as anything I want to stay with you and be with you and help raise your kids as, like, your partner, maybe a second parent? That’s a lot, this early on. But the kids are still, y’know, four or five months from being born.”

“Right,” says Will. “Early summer babies.”

“Yeah. So, what if things don’t work out, or, hell, what if she realizes I’m… Y’know.” She gestures between the two of them.

Will scowls. “Don’t bring me into this. I don’t need more insecurity about my standing with Hannibal.”

Beverly sighs. “Sorry. I know. At least I don’t have to deal with gay panic. But I’ve got other shit to worry about. Y’know, some lesbians hate bi girls? You don’t know any of the bullshit that goes on in the queer community.”

He does, but only because he’s done a lot of research. He doesn’t say this, because it will sound pathetic. Instead he just rolls his eyes at her.

“I’m serious!” she says. “I dunno what Lecter’s deal is, but he’s lucky he’s so… y’know. Rich, and attractive, and charismatic. Because queer folks and straight folks hate folks who swing both ways. Not all of ‘em, of course. But it’s a real thing I have to worry about, what if Margot decides that because I’ve been in straight-passing relationships she doesn’t want to be with me?”

“I think Margot is a bit more reasonable than that. And if that was how she felt, you’d know by now.”

“Yeah. Probably.” She chews her lip. “I just… really like her, y’know?”

Will smiles, crooked and tired. “Oh yeah. I know.”

Beverly smiles back. “Of course you do. I hope things are okay with Dr. Lecter now?”

Will tilts his head from side to side.

He thinks about Hannibal.

Warm, long-fingered hands pinned above an ash-blonde head. Simmering cinnamon eyes rolling back. Hot, pouting lips whispering in half a dozen languages, desperately begging for the same thing. Skin slick with sweat, tasting of salt and trembling.

And later, that furnace wrapped around him, tangled in satin sheets, nuzzling and pressing sleepy kisses against his neck and collarbone, murmuring affectionately in the one language Will doesn’t speak because even blissed out he’s impossible—!

“Yeah,” says Will, “things are good.”

He tells Alana a slightly different story when they get their first of several lunches together. She seems delighted by his follow-through, though a bit surprised, so he decides to play it like he’s a bit selfish and needs a friend to talk to who knows both of them. He needs her expertise. He needs her to mediate. He needs her to fix things, and more than anything the possibility of a window into his relationship with Hannibal entices her.

He knows if he talks about their sex life, too, she’ll probably find herself even more invested because—though she’d never admit it, even to herself—she’ll get off on it a little bit.

He’ll hold off on that for the first few meetings, though. Can’t seem too eager to discuss such private details.

They meet in public, of course. Little cafes, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, places with nice atmospheres and usually lots of plants. Comforting for both of them, in other words. Also not very difficult for someone to listen in on, just in case.

He tells her that things with Hannibal have been good, but he says it with a bit of a lilt which invites her to ask for more information on what he means. This, of course, results in a flood of poor darling Will’s insecurities spilling out.

Of course things are fine, Hannibal is perfect. But Will, oh, poor Will, he’s far from perfect, isn’t he? He’s a mess! He’s messy and he’s a mess, he’s a messy mess, and Hannibal is so kind about it, but what ever is Will to do when that patience runs out? Because of course it will run out, no man is a bottomless well of patience, not even Hannibal Lecter.

And, oh, but when they go out for dinner, isn’t it embarrassing how Hannibal knows all these languages and orders for them both in Italian, isn’t it emasculating, should it feel that way when it’s just practical? Hannibal knows so much about wine and fancy dishes and Will knows about pizza and cases of beer for twelve bucks.

The outfits, oh, the tailoring, Will has to have Hannibal dress him like a child, well, not really, but that’s how it feels when he specifies to the tailor this cut of trouser and these buttons and this length of sleeve on the jacket and this style of lining, and did Alana know these suits are five figures? She did, in fact, and this makes Will feel oh so much worse.

Has Alana ever ridden in Hannibal’s car? She has, yes. Then she gets it when he says he doesn’t know what to do with his feet or his hands when he’s in that car. He feels like he’s going to damage something just by looking at it. And Hannibal has offered to let him drive that car!

This had gotten Alana to perk up a bit, interested, because nobody drives Hannibal’s car but Hannibal, not the entire time she’s known him. Will, of course, points out that valets drive it all the goddamn time, but Alana dismisses this and emphasizes that this is proof that Hannibal must really… care about Will.

It’s funny how she refuses to say that Hannibal loves him. It’s probably not conscious.

On their fourth lunch, in early February, some mention of Valentine’s Day puts a little insanity into Alana’s eyes and she decides it would be appropriate to make a statement about how Will should feel no pressure to make the holiday special, and that he doesn’t have to do anything with Hannibal he isn’t comfortable doing.

Will goes for the throat.

Does she mean sex? He shouldn’t feel pressured to have sex with Hannibal on Valentine’s Day? Well, he doesn’t. Which is to say, he hasn’t. Felt pressured, that is. And he lets his face get good and pink before he admits that that has been less of a barrier than he thought it would be.

He can see the gears turning in her head. He sees the questions rise to her lips only to be strangled and forcibly discarded as inappropriate. He can appreciate her restraint, if nothing else.

All of her careful questions from this point avoid any direct implication that Will is, obviously, being regularly fucked within an inch of his life by Hannibal, though it doesn’t take a Will Graham empathetic leap to figure out that’s what Alana—and probably most people—assume. 

As with most things, it’s more complicated than that. He’s not going to tell her they switch depending on who needs what, and he’s certainly not going to tell her sometimes they flip in the moment. He does quite enjoy saying things that are slightly suggestive of their dynamic and watching her eyes flicker as she processes that information and applies it to her assumptions about Will.

He keeps things vague. Sex with a man does feel different, after all. It has taken some… getting used to. Hannibal is good to him, patient, careful. There are aspects he would never really have thought about. And, well, there are non-sexual aspects that he’s never really had to think about. The intimacy of it, how close they are, how close they feel, Hannibal’s emotions reflecting his, like a feedback loop of affection. It’s so much.

How is he supposed to take it when Hannibal gives him so much?

Alana doesn’t know how to answer, except with platitudes. This is fine, it’s not the point. He just wants her to feel like they’re close friends again, and that’s working. She feels like a confidant. And he supposes she is, for a surface version of Will Graham. She’s almost good to him, almost understanding, almost treats him like a friend and not a project.

It’s almost a shame.

“Will,” says Crawford from the doorway.

Will looks up from his desk. He’s been writing up a more detailed profile of the eighth distinct Thirty Cuts Killer. They’ve been terrorizing the eastern seaboard for weeks now, but every time another body pops up with that stencil heart cut-out and thirty stab wounds, the case comes to Quantico. His Ripper project still occupies the conference room down the hall, but it’s on hold with the new body fresh in the morgue. It’s the eleventh of February.

“Jack,” says Will, sitting up straighter. Jack’s face is drawn, eyes hard. “What—what’s wrong?”

“Will,” Jack repeats, with a remarkable effort toward gentling his voice, “Dr. Bloom has gone missing.”

Will’s chair clatters to the ground behind him. “Wha—when did—?”

“I don’t know. She was supposed to cover some classes this morning. She didn’t show up. She had appointments yesterday. Eight, nine, noon, one. She was there for the morning ones, didn’t show up at noon. We’ve got her at her office about ten o’clock, and after that…”

Will swallows and rubs his mouth with a shaking hand. His voice trembles just slightly as he says, “You think it’s him, don’t you.”

Jack nods, and winces when Will swipes the papers off his desk with a cry—anguish, just a touch of rage. He turns on Jack, his eyes red-rimmed already.

“This is my fault,” he says, a broken snap. “He’s still trying to—”

“Will,” says Jack, softly, “I think you and Hannibal should go into protective custody.” At Will’s scowl, Jack adds, “We know he’s after people close to you. Nobody’s closer than Hannibal. He’s done displays with more than one person before. We can’t assume he’s done. We can’t assume anything right now. But I can tell you one thing for damn sure, and it’s that you’re not to blame for this.”

“I provoked him,” Will groans, dropping his face into his hands. “I fucking—”

“On my order, Graham. If you’re gonna blame yourself, you better be prepared to share the burden.” Jack takes a breath. “It’s possible this is something else. We just don’t know.”

Will looks up, a perfectly-timed tear sliding down his cheek. “Don’t. We know, Jack.”

Jack tightens his jaw and nods. “So go into custody, Will. Just… until we… find her. You and Lecter can go together. Think of it like a… weekend getaway.”

Will snorts. “Like we’re going to be able to think of anything except what he’s probably doing—”

“Stop it,” Jack snaps. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t fall apart now. If this is what we think, it’s more important than ever you’ve got your head in the game. Understood? This is one of ours, Will.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re pissed off and you have every right to be pissed off, but don’t forget that you’re an FBI agent first and a friend second, Graham. You do right by her when the time comes. You promise me you’re gonna do right by her, or I’ll take you off this case.”

Will pauses. He breathes through his nose. He blinks away the tears. He flexes his hands, his nails leaving half-moons in his palms.

He nods, jerky and rigid.

“Yeah. I’ll… get my head on straight.”

“Good. I’ll have an agent take you to the safehouse. I’ll collect Dr. Lecter myself. When we find her, I’ll… come get you.”

“Okay,” says Will.

Jack pats his shoulder, squeezes for just a moment. His remorse, and his almost fatherly support, are very genuine. He’s not so hateable, when he’s broken down to this raw form. He’s almost kind.

Well, hell. It’s almost a shame.

Hannibal, of course, has as impeccable an alibi for the previous day as Will. He had appointments until noon, and then he had a nice long lunch at a small restaurant with a rather spectacular selection of white wines, after which he returned to his office for further appointments until six o’clock.

This really is much easier with help. 

Finn handled the abduction, Lilith will assist with the design, and Abel, after much practice, will shape the body.

Abel has been remarkable, really. His hand is steady and sure, and while he has a certain obnoxious air, he really is a consummate professional when it comes to surgery. Hannibal doubts he could come up with artistic designs independently, but given instruction, well, he’s impeccable.

Their practice has been fruitful. Hannibal has no doubt Abel will do a technically perfect job, and Lilith will add the artistic flair in the final touches that will make this another pristine Ripper piece. It is rather strange not to have gotten to have a hand in the last two, and, well, he did so want to see the look in Alana’s eyes.

It’s almost a shame.

But, worth it, in the end. Will’s plan, coming together beautifully. It will afford them a great deal more freedom in the future. And, even better than the original plan, a weekend away at the FBI’s expense. All they must do until Sunday morning is enjoy each other’s company.

Delightful.

And with Matthew’s assistance with twisting the narrative within that distasteful little online cult, it will become clear that if the Ripper can’t have Will Graham, he’ll do whatever it takes to drive Will deeper into Hannibal Lecter’s arms.

“My one concern,” Will says, his head in Hannibal’s lap, a book laying facedown, ignored, upon his chest, “is that since we’re here, the Messengers might start to question how you were able to do the display. Matt said they didn’t question Chilton, but this one…?”

“Do you think they’re likely to think it through all that much?” Hannibal asks, running his fingers through Will’s hair. The scent of the shampoo Hannibal had selected for him fills the space, and Hannibal relaxes minutely. “And, if they do, what do you assume will change?”

Will shrugs and closes his eyes, his lips curled up at the corners, content. “I don’t think they’ll realize. I mean, I don’t think Echo has told them that you’re the Ripper. I think they… covet you too much to share that tidbit. So I kinda doubt anybody is watching you directly. Echo might assume you and I are locked up in your house, fucking like rabbits all weekend, which probably drives them crazy. But they’ll likely also assume you… drug me, and get out through the steam tunnels to do your dark work.” He snickers and stretches his neck, pressing harder into Hannibal’s touch, so Hannibal begins to drag his fingernails along Will’s scalp. “Mm. That’s nice. And, if they did realize, they might assume you were at my place instead, and according to Matt they’re still kinda scared to send people out there since the last one mysteriously vanished. They don’t know what happened, but they don’t want to risk discovery by throwing more guys that way right now.”

“They will do so eventually.”

“Yeah. Well. Eventually we’ll have enough information to find them. If the Thirty Cuts Killers show up at my house, well. I’ve got explanations queued up for why that might make sense for them. Everything is going according to plan. Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I’m still like, eight steps ahead, and three levels higher. And you’re right here with me. You just gotta trust the process.”

Hannibal chuckles and digs his nails in harder. “You know better than anyone how little I enjoy feeling even slightly out of control, Will.”

One brilliant, beautiful blue eye cracks open. “I dunno. You seem to take a loss of control quite well, in my experience.”

“Under certain circumstances,” Hannibal says. His other hand settles at the base of Will’s throat, his fingers tightening just so. “Something must truly captivate me, if I am to give myself over so completely.”

“Oh, don’t tease,” Will purrs, “the FBI is outside. You can’t follow through without them busting in here to save me, and that’s no fun.”

He twists and drops off the sofa, onto the floor, into a crouch and up on his feet. Hannibal follows as Will pads, playfully, to the bedroom at the back of the safehouse.

He’s a minx. He’s come alive, these past weeks. The game seems to have lit quite the fire in him, and Hannibal is more than happy to bask in the heat. They wrestle, lacking only grease to properly mimic Grecian Olympians of old, and they both delight in the contest.

Every time Hannibal manages to pin him, Will kisses him breathless and escapes. How could he ever begrudge his god such a devious tactic? How could he begrudge his god’s impatience, or his need? Will settles between his thighs, gliding his hands up Hannibal’s body, his hips rolling, his breath heavy.

He kisses Hannibal’s chest, his neck, his jaw, and murmurs into his ear, “I can’t wait until to watch you work. When this is over, when you’re making your own art again, I want to see what you can do. I want to see you from start to finish. And I want you to watch me, Hannibal. I want to show you every side of me I hide from everyone else.”

Hannibal would give him the world, the stars, the collapsing heart of this universe. But in this moment, he simply wants, and he is blessed that his god is willing to give.

The weekend is quite pleasant. They read, they make love, they watch films neither of them have seen and point out absurdities, they talk, they enjoy late breakfasts and long evenings with music and wine. They dance. Will laughs, heartily and often, and so does Hannibal, surprisingly enough.

When the FBI agents come in each morning to check on them, they are appropriately melancholy, of course, but apart from that it’s as though they’ve been on a wonderful extended vacation.

All good things, as they say, must come to an end, and this lovely diversion ends with Jack Crawford arriving just after ten o’clock in the morning on Valentine’s Day, looking for all the world like he is between funerals. In some ways, Hannibal supposes that’s appropriate.

“Will. Dr. Lecter.” Jack clears his throat and gestures to the door. “Please. Gather your personal items and meet me in the car as soon as you’re ready. We, uh… we have a scene. You… might want to prepare yourselves for this one.”

There will be no need for that. They both know very well what they’ll be walking into. But, of course, they will play along. What fun would it be otherwise?

They arrive, soon enough, at a historic library with an interior that is in many ways reminiscent of a cathedral. The purpose, of course, is to highlight the concept of shared knowledge, and the pursuit of knowledge in general.

A circle of mirrors has been carefully placed here, plenty of space between them for observers to walk. At the center, balanced perfectly on a trio of swords, is what remains of Alana Bloom.

Dr. Bloom has been transformed into something transcendent. An anatomical heart made of bone and sinew, a skinned torso, limbs cracked and twisted, splintered until they obeyed the hand that molded them. The blades are thrust deep, but not a single drop of blood pools below. The muscle fibers have been plastered with thin red origami paper, peeling away in some places. There are books stacked artfully nearby, books on tactics and art and history and subterfuge.

Atop the heart, a crown. Quite literally, the crown of Alana Bloom’s head, locks of silken hair flowing down the back, and a little golden tiara balanced among the waves. Pinned in place by the weight of her skullcap are both of Alana’s shockingly blue eyes.

Draped on the frames of the mirrors are white chrysanthemums, symbolizing truth, woven with ivy, for fidelity.

One single, striped carnation rests between the points of the three swords: refusal.

Will stands before the Ripper’s heart, the light falling perfectly from above like a spotlight, and he takes a sharp breath inward before he whispers,

“No.”

Uncle Jack steps forward, hesitant. “Will? Are you… Can you—?”

Will turns, his eyes raw and wet. “He’s saying no, Jack. He… didn’t fall for it, he… he doesn’t believe me. He’s… saying…” He looks at Alana again, and his voice cracks. “See you in the next one.” 

Absolutely beautiful.

Hannibal gathers Will into his arms and pulls him away from the scene, struggling to maintain his own composure (at least, to all appearances). Jack tries to stop them, but Hannibal raises a hand to silence him.

“Please, Jack,” he says, “this was a dear friend, and, worse, a promise of more to come. We are going home.”

“Fine, just… be careful. He hasn’t exactly been keeping up a consistent gap between sounders.”

“He’ll give me time to grieve,” Will mutters. “He wants to let it hurt.”

“We will reach out when we’re ready,” Hannibal says firmly, and ushers Will away.

A taxi ride later, they are back at Hannibal’s home. They make their way into the library. Will stretches, rolls his shoulders and neck, and moves to pour them both a drink. Hannibal gets a fire going.

“That was beautiful,” Will says. He sets their drinks on the coffee table, but comes to lean against the hearth.

“Thank you. Due credit to the others, the eyes were Abel’s idea. And the crown, Lilith’s.”

“Well it was nice and cohesive.”

“Of course. I simply folded their suggestions into my design.”

Will laughs. “Bet you can’t wait to get back out there yourself, huh?”

The corners of Hannibal’s eyes crinkle. He stands, dusts off his trousers, and shrugs minutely, just one shoulder a fraction of an inch. “I’m certain I have some restocking to do. Something less theatrical, more practical.”

“Well. Don’t let me stop you. As long as the Ripper stays quiet for a while. The FBI will keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, jumping at shadows. And your Admirer, oh, they’re gonna be pissed at this one.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. “Was that the intention?”

Will grins and pushes Hannibal against the bookcase closest to the fireplace. “Oh, yes. I want them to see that no matter what they do, they won’t be able to get me to leave you, because you, both as the Ripper and as Hannibal Lecter, aren’t gonna let me leave.”

Hannibal’s hands close around Will’s shoulders and he forces them to swap positions, Will’s back slammed against the bookcase, Hannibal pressed tight against him. Will’s eyes sparkle with amusement in the glow of the fire, and Hannibal growls as he steals a kiss.

“Never, dievas,” he says.

“Good,” Will replies, nipping at Hannibal’s lips. “So they’re gonna try to find a way to convince you to leave me instead.”

Hannibal freezes, and Will has the audacity to laugh.

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s never gonna happen. I don’t believe for a second there’s anything I could do short of…” He leans his head back against the books. “I dunno, I guess… trying to force you to go back to Lithuania?”

“Even that, I would forgive, eventually,” Hannibal says. “There is nothing you could do, Will, that would tear me from you. Nothing will ever free you from me. You are mine.”

Will cups his cheeks and presses their foreheads together. “Yeah, I know. And you are mine, darlin’. And that’s the fuckin’ point. Okay? But they had more avenues, going after me. More resources, more people they could throw at it. ‘Cause they didn’t tell anybody else, remember? They covet you. So, what do they do now, to try to get you to leave me? They can’t get the Ripper to leave me, they have to get Hannibal Lecter to leave me. So what are they gonna do? What dumb romcom bullshit are they gonna do to convince you I’m not the one for you, after you went to so much obvious trouble to keep me close?”

“They will try to pull you further away,” says Hannibal. He can see it so clearly, now. “At the gala, I said you chose work over me. They will give you more work, to keep us apart.”

“Yes. Definitely. And, they’ve seen what happens when I get stressed out. I get mean. I lash out. And now, the Ripper has handily removed the person who was working as my buffer. They might see that as divine providence or something.”

“In a way…”

“Yeah, except they’ve been answered by the wrong fucking god, and they’re not gonna like the rest of my blessings.”

Hannibal kisses him, tastes absolution on his tongue.

“What then, Will?” he asks, when they have caught their breaths.

“By then, I’ll have found something, and so will Matthew,” says Will, with a confidence Hannibal absorbs. “We’ll keep the family safe and strong, find Echo, and catch as many of the idiots in this Thirty Cuts club as possible. Then, you show me how the Ripper rips.”

“And when will you show me what you can do?”

“Oh, you’re gonna watch me kill Echo. But I don’t want them to see you right until the last second. I want them to understand. You’re mine.”

“Unreservedly,” says Hannibal, and falls to his knees.

Chapter Text

“I know she can protect herself and everything, but…” Beverly shakes her head, scowling into her drink. “I could kill him.”

“And probably get away with it,” Will muses. “What did he do?”

“He called during our date on Thursday. It was, I mean, Will, it was out the gate some of the worst things I have ever heard, and Margot just sat there, her face was completely blank.”

“Sounds like Mason,” Will says, and drinks. 

It had, in fact, been a recording of Mason. But it served its purpose admirably.

“You know about this? About how he treats her?”

“Not much I can do about it either, Bev. Did you forget how much money he has?”

“I just, I didn’t realize how much… control he has over her. And she said—” Bev glances around, leans in closer, drops her voice. “She said he’s at this wellness retreat because of some kind of drug overdose, some kind of hallucinogen that made him go nuts and cut half his own face off! And this was after beating a maid half to death. I saw photos from the clinic. It’s… I mean, it would have been kinder to just let him die.”

“Yep,” says Will, popping the plosive like bubblegum. “But, Mason is too stubborn to die. And it’s another way to torture Margot.”

Beverly is quiet for a long time, then she says, “I’m worried about when he comes home. She said… she implied some really horrible things might happen when—”

Will sets his glass down a little too hard and his teeth grind together. “Yeah. I know.”

“And he, he’s always got people watching her, what is she supposed to do? What am I supposed to do? How do I support her in a situation like this? I mean…!”

“Bev. You just be there for her and her kids, when they’re born. You make her feel safe.”

“Because I’m with the FBI?”

“No. Well, yeah, but, no, it’s because you’re willing to ask those questions at all. You’re not scared of Mason. You’re scared for Margot, and you’ll fight like hell to stand up for her. She knows that.”

Beverly frowns, but tilts her glass in acknowledgement. 

Hannibal doesn’t love Will’s plan, but it’s too damn good not to follow through on now, and Margot is a fan of anything that ends so far in her favor. The pieces are all on the board. Now, it’s just a matter of maneuvering, building that righteous fury and resentment, stoking that protective fire, and good timing.

This is a fun scenario to walk through, but it is just a background concern for the moment. Will’s focus is on other things. 

It’s nearing the middle of March now. Alana’s funeral was at the end of February, and there had been some press coverage given that she was such a high-profile Ripper victim; Will and Hannibal had appeared, grief-stricken, holding tight to one another. There was a rather spectacular candid photo of a moment Hannibal had pulled Will aside to provide comfort and encouragement before they took their turns speaking, and Will was considering having it framed. Hannibal had one hand on Will’s cheek, their foreheads were pressed together, Will was clinging to the front of Hannibal’s jacket, and they had matching tears like Prince Rupert’s drops glimmering just below their eyes, as though they’d fallen from the lashes at the same time.

‘Candid’ was perhaps a disingenuous word, considering they hadn’t been all that discreet when they left the room, and they had conveniently failed to close the vestibule door all the way, but that, too, served its purpose beautifully. The Thirty Cuts had slowed down considerably. Only one body since the funeral, instead of the expected three. Will figured their leader was pretty pissed off to see the Ripper sacrificing his own pieces in order to keep Will close.

According to the one, brief conversation he’d had with Matthew, Echo had thrown a bit of a fit. At first the inner circle, the Galleria, had been excited about the pictures of the scene (helpfully acquired from a police officer who used to sell photos to Freddie Lounds), but then they’d figured out the meaning of the scene, and all hell had broken loose. Echo had gone on a rant about Will Graham’s corruption of the Ripper’s art, turning it from beautiful and subversive to pure shock-value for the purpose of getting one man’s attention, one man who, by the way, did not in any way deserve it.

Matthew did have a very promising update, though. He had, in a private conversation with Echo, suggested that if somebody wanted to punish Will Graham, they should go after Hannibal Lecter. Echo had very cryptically responded that Dr. Lecter was off-limits, and if Matthew continued to prove himself, he may one day learn why.

Now, this was intriguing. Will had to reconsider his thoughts on Echo. He had assumed that none of the Messengers would know Hannibal was the Ripper, because Echo was too possessive. But, then, Echo had eventually shared enough information with Freddie that she was able to follow the same threads Matthew had pulled, to find all the same connections. Will had supposed this was a fluke, Freddie’s irritating manipulation and charisma playing on Echo’s need to be understood, but perhaps there was more to it.

Perhaps there was a deeper level, even above the Thirty Cuts. If the public boards were the first ring, and the Messengers in the Galleria were the second, then there must be an even deeper level which Freddie had reached but purged. Will supposes it makes sense not to organize murders on a standard forum, even a private one, so it’s likely that the third ring is somewhere on the dark web. It’s also likely that, even when it comes to the Thirty Cuts, only the most loyal would be trusted with knowledge of the Ripper’s identity. So, a fourth ring, perhaps, with Echo right at the center.

A dark web forum complicates things a bit, because it means that the server could be anywhere, and it’s going to have to be neutralized or destroyed. That’s a problem for another day, but it is a problem Will is going to have to solve so he sets the thought to percolate in the back of his mind.

At the moment, his concerns are twofold. First, he needs to keep using the old Ripper files to track down connections to Maureen Lochlear. One of the people the police missed, didn’t track down, didn’t interview, or just glossed over is the real Echo.

Second, and more immediately, the Beast is getting restless.

Randall comes to him one evening, pacing, agitated, and the dogs are swirling around his legs, whining.

“Its clawing its way up my throat,” he says. “I can feel it… pushing through my skin. My fingertips splitting. My jaw cracking. I can’t hold it in anymore, Will.”

“And you don’t have to,” Will says, soothingly, a hand upon his steel-tense shoulder. “Remember what I promised.”

“You’d… find someone for me to hunt.”

“And I will. I will, if you can hold out a little longer, long enough for me to get someone for you. Can you do that?”

Randall’s red-rimmed eyes flood with panic. “I… I don’t know. I’ve waited so long already. I don’t know if I can—”

“You ever been deer hunting?” asks Finn from the couch. He’s got Hyun in his lap, that big fluffy tail swishing, the same agitation the dogs are feeling processed another way. “Not like killing a man, by any means. But, might buy you a few days.”

“I’ve… hunted deer,” Randall says, slowly. “Cows, too. But that was for practice. I don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

“Think of this as practice for the new suit,” says Beau, from the other side of the counter. He’s making some kind of casserole for their Wednesday dinner, and the onions and garlic are searing in a pan. “You got to test out the gloves, yeah? But not the rest?”

“Why are you okay with this?” Randall snaps, and the dogs scatter as his stride grows wider and more erratic. “Why do you want me to hunt and kill when you’re so—!”

“Because you’re family,” says Will. “Pop doesn’t do what we do, sure. But he understands. Me and Finn and Lilith, we all have a nose for bad people. You work with us, we can make sure you get what you need without hurting anybody who doesn’t deserve it.”

“Matt was supposed to help,” Randall says. “He was supposed to be here.”

“I’m sorry,” says Will.

“I just… I get lost. Thinking, it’s… animals don’t worry about getting caught. Approval. Evidence.”

“You don’t worry about any of that either,” says Lilith, firmly. “We’ll take care of all that. You deserve to let go and be who you really are, even if it can’t be for very long.”

“Exactly. We’ll find you somebody, we’ll take care of cleanup.” Will pauses, then says, “I could hunt with you, if you’d like. If you’d let me. Keep things on track, make sure nothing gets left behind. Get to know the real you. I’d love to see you for real, Randall.”

Randall relaxes, his shoulders dropping, and his pacing slows until the dogs are flocked around his calves again. 

“I… I guess I didn’t believe you, when you said… when you promised you would help me find somebody to hunt. When you said you would help me. I guess I thought I was helping you, and you didn’t actually want to help me. Why would you care, as long as I do what I’m supposed to do. But… you really mean it.” He smiles, a bit awkward, a bit watery. “It really feels like being part of a pack.”

Will pulls Randall into a rough hug. “Give me a few days. You and Pop and Finn, go tomorrow. Hunt a deer. Take Winston and Duke. I will find you somebody for this weekend. And you and I will go together, if you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Randall, quietly. 

“Okay. Trust me. Next time, tell me when you start to feel the urge. You don’t have to wait until it gets this bad. I want to help. I want you to be safe.”

“Okay.”

“Hey.” He butts his forehead against Randall’s, a sign of affection. “Thank you for coming to me. Thank you for talking to us. We’ve got you, little brother.”

He’s outside a little later, sharing a smoke with Finn, and Lilith is tossing a stick for the dogs. Randall is inside with Beau, talking quietly, while the casserole bakes in the oven.

“How’re you gonna find somebody so quick?” asks Finn, passing the cigarette over.

“I could get him somebody easy,” says Lilith. “Give me a couple nights out and I’m guaranteed to have a good candidate.”

“Or you gonna ask your boyfriend to give you somebody off his list?” asks Finn, smirking.

Will lets out a puff of smoke and laughs. “I’d never ask Hannibal to give up any of his carefully-selected ingredients. No, I’ve already got someone in mind off my own list. Already know her routines. She’ll be easy to grab tomorrow night on her evening hike. It’ll be good to hunt her down, or at least to see her hunted. She’s been on my radar for a long time.”

The victim in question is the type to get a lot of pets when they are small and cute, like puppies or kittens or ‘teacup’ pigs, and then when they keep growing and get too big to be adorable anymore, she has a vet put them down. The vets willing to go through with the needless murders would be on Will’s list, too, but his observation and research has indicated she usually chooses to go to small offices which are barely staying afloat and since her father is a rich landowner with connections in pretty much every county and state government office, including the ones that would oversee licensing and certification for businesses like theirs, she can put real pressure on them to do what she wants.

At least two of the veterinarians in question (and one vet tech) illegally reported that the animal had been destroyed but secretly smuggled them away. Those people, as far as Will was concerned, were untouchable. 

The one vet who puts down every animal she brings in without threat or question is on Will’s list, but he’s also using his practice as a way to smuggle prescription drugs and exotic pets so that’s a complicated one for later.

He makes plans to collect his victim after work the next day. She can stay in the little cellar Matthew had dug at the edge of the property which he intended to turn into some kind of bunker. Will can drug her until it’s time for the hunt. It won’t be all that complicated.

However, he does get a bit distracted from Randall’s imminent hunt by a break in his Echo case, or something that feels like a break.

He’s got the victim profiles pinned up on boards in his Ripper conference room, with the most recent ones all being more thorough because, obviously, his team were the ones putting the information together. But he’s shuffling through boxes of yellowed pages and handwritten notes by the cops who took the statements of anyone who knew the first victim, and at first he’s disappointed. There are only three statements: the two sisters who hadn’t spoken to her in years, and her boss who said she was a model employee, despite certain difficulties she had faced in her youth. However, buried beneath all of that was a statement that never made it into the official documents, handwritten on a sheet of notebook paper, some beat cop talking to a coworker about her. That was where it got interesting. 

The sisters and the boss said Maureen kept to herself, had no partner, no close friends, lived a relatively solitary life outside of work. 

But the coworker said Maureen had a ‘sort-of boyfriend, online or something’ he thought, which is why she had never dated anyone from the hospital where she worked. The cop had circled the words ‘sort-of’ and ‘online’ and helpfully written in the margins: no means no.

This was somewhere to start. While obviously Maureen’s possessions had been returned to her next of kin more than a decade ago, there were notes in her file about her online accounts. Not all of them, by far, but her AOL and MSN usernames were included, and that was somewhere to start.

He pinned those pages up along with everything else, as though he were still just building an idea of who each of these individuals were, but on his break he called Lilith and asked her to look into those two usernames, using the methods Matthew had used to get more information about Echo.

There’s every possibility that in the very early chats, there might be some interaction between one of Maureen’s usernames and one of Echo’s earlier personas. That may be how they met, and if that’s the case, they can narrow things further using the printed copies of Maureen’s phone records the police got. The cell phone company she used doesn’t exist anymore, of course, because that would be too easy, but they do have a list of the last fifty numbers she called. No text messaging records, unfortunately, because nobody thought to get them at the time, but phone numbers are easy enough to look into once there’s a jumping-off point.

He’s wrapping up his day and heading to his car when he gets a text from Hannibal.

Good evening, Will. I apologize for missing our lunch hour. Might I correct myself with an offer of dinner?

I was so busy I didn’t even notice, Will responds, honestly. Sorry. Dinner would be great but I have some errands, any chance you can do a late meal at my place?

It takes a while for Hannibal to answer, which is never a great sign.

I would be amenable, he says.

Is 9 okay, or too late?

Nine o’clock is acceptable.

Will sighs and texts, Thank you. It’s been a lot lately and I know you’re dealing with a lot too. I’m just trying to find who did this.

Are you?

Will frowns.

Am I trying, or am I finding them?

Yes.

He scoffs at his phone and texts back, Are you acting like this for a reason?

Again, a long gap, then Hannibal answers, If you could see what I have seen today, you would be in a poor mood, too, Will.

Ah. Hannibal isn’t as good at sending messages via text as Matthew, but that’s because Will and Matthew talked extensively about their codes ahead of time. Will is pretty sure he gets the message anyway.

He scowls at his phone and tosses it in the passenger seat a little harder than necessary before he gets his car roaring to life. He peels out of the parking lot like he’s pissed off and speeding home. On the way, he uses his burner phone to call Hannibal’s burner phone.

“How do you know somebody is watching me?” he asks, as soon as Hannibal answers.

“I did stop by with a lunch and was turned away. The given reason was that Professor Graham is absorbed in his work and did not wish to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason. I, naturally, requested that you be paged, as you were not answering your phone, but the desk clerk refused outright. I can’t be certain that they are one of the Messengers, but they seemed pleased by my upset. I asked that they pass a message to you, which I assume you did not receive.”

“I didn’t, no.”

“I intend on finding out more from this front desk clerk,” Hannibal says.

“Be careful. They’re on high alert after Alana. Any direct strike at the FBI is going to throw everything into chaos. Even if it’s just the front desk.”

“I hadn’t intended to kill them. Light stalking, really.”

“Well, that’s alright, then.” After a beat, Will says, “Are you coming for dinner, then, or is that a cover story?”

“Will. I would hardly miss the opportunity to share a meal with you.”

“Good. I’m picking up a little something for a weekend trip with Randall tonight. That’ll be a whole other story.”

“If only I could join you. I have my own outing planned for this weekend. A conference in Boston has provided the opportunity to visit a certain tailor who destroyed a perfectly salvageable dinner jacket with a slight tear in the silk lining. I have been looking forward to collecting for six years.”

“You’re the pettiest person alive,” Will says, snickering.

“And you adore me,” purrs Hannibal.

“I sure do. No idea why you put up with me, honestly.”

“Because I adore you.”

“For some reason.”

Hannibal’s laugh is soft. “I will see you at dinner, mylimasis.”

“I love you,” says Will.

Hannibal’s voice catches a bit, as it always does before he says, “Oh, Will. I love you.”

“See you at nine, darlin’,” Will says, and hangs up. 

Abducting the woman is barely a blip in Will’s commute. Frankly, he’s had her schedule memorized for so long he could have just swung by to pick her up like a pack of smokes at any moment in the last two years, no matter where he was starting from. He just had a lot going on and since the vets who steal her perfectly healthy pets instead of killing them are cheaper, he hasn’t worried about her too much.

He tosses her into Matt’s bunker, pumped full of drugs stolen from the prick vet who’ll kill any animal if the owner asks, just in case there’s enough left of her after the hunt and somebody bothers with a tox screen. He locks the bunker with a heavy chain and padlock, plus a steel bar, then he promptly files her existence into the back of his brain.

He takes Ellie, Zoe, Buster, Max, and Jack for a long walk around the property while he plans out his trip with Randall this weekend. 

It should be pretty simple; there are miles of forest around this area, completely uninhabited, and this time of year, if they go out late at night especially, they’re not going to run into anyone else. Will’s got at least five acres of forest here, and it backs into a huge national park full of wildlife. As long as they strip the body and clean up anything obviously man-made, they should be fine.

He could even set up a campsite somewhere nearby and a little ways away from that, leave her clothes. It might look like she got caught during a cold snap, started suffering from hypothermia, stripped, and wandered into the woods to die. That’s a possibility.

He files those ideas away and returns to the present moment.

Lilith is at her room in Wolf Trap, researching those names. Beau and Finn have taken Randall out hunting until tomorrow afternoon. Peter isn’t due to visit this week. Matthew is still neck-deep in his own infiltration. Margot and Beverly are on a date tonight, he’s pretty sure. Abel is currently recovering from another cosmetic surgery, rhinoplasty Will thinks, and will have his feet up in his little cottage at Muskrat Farm with some snack he shouldn’t be eating and a marathon of corny B-horror flicks. Will is glad Margot and Abel are getting on so well, because Beverly is probably going to love him.

All that to say, for the first time since what feels like forever, Will’s house is actually empty, other than the five dogs who didn’t go on the hunting trip. Even Hyun is holed up in Finn’s camper with his favorite wet food, his silly little water fountain, and a glorified hamster wheel in case he gets restless.

Will takes a deep breath and checks the fridge. His father has been making the dogs’ food, and there’s still plenty. There’s also a lot of fresh produce and meat, since they’re feeding anywhere between five and eight people on a pretty regular basis, and Hannibal’s influence regarding high-quality ingredients has infected the family. It’s not always the most expensive, but it is fresh, and more often than not it’s locally grown, even if it’s somebody’s personal greenhouse. Everyone’s been spoiled by quality.

He pulls a chilled glass from the freezer and pours himself two fingers of whiskey to sip while the dogs sprint around in the remaining snowbanks and tumble through the dead grass.

He catches, just for a moment, a glint in the trees. He’s not sure what caught on it; the light from the house, a passing airplane, the moon—whatever it is, he recognizes immediately that somebody’s got a camera trained on the house. He is one hundred percent certain it wasn’t there when he got home, because he took the dogs right past that area during their walk and they didn’t alert to anything.

Well. Perfect. He was looking forward to having sex in his own bed anyway. Always nice when pleasure meets practicality.

Hannibal is right on time. Will debates telling him about the watcher, but only for a moment. As with most things, this will be more fun together.

“There you are,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting. 

He pulls Hannibal into the doorway by his expensive paisley tie and kisses him, melding their bodies. Hannibal drops whatever it is he’s carrying and draws Will close, his arms crushing, his hands scrabbling at Will’s hair and lower back, as though he could dig through the flesh and muscle to free the skull and spine beneath. 

Will sucks in a quick breath when the kiss breaks and nips at Hannibal’s earlobe just long enough to murmur, “Camera, northeast treeline.”

“I have missed you, dievas,” Hannibal says, softly. He detaches himself with more than a little reluctance and straightens his tie, his jacket, and his trousers. He gestures to what he dropped; a cooler, and a small overnight bag. “Shall we?”

“By all means,” Will says. He leans against the doorframe, his body long and lean, one arm high above his head, his shirt taut and tugged up over his hip. Hannibal can’t take his eyes away. Will slowly licks his lips and tilts his head into his raised bicep, exaggerating the cant of his hips. “Well?” he says. “I’m starving, Hannibal.”

Hannibal swallows. “As am I, Will.”

Will takes Hannibal’s jacket and tie to hang by the door in an achingly domestic contrast to his show a moment ago. If he wants to show off, he will hear no complaints, but he had better be able to keep this energy consistent, or it will become obvious it’s an act. 

Hannibal rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and heads for the kitchen, but whenever possible he’s watching Will move. Will is barefoot in fitted slacks and a tight tee-shirt, gliding through his home like some kind of fae creature, liquid and grace in the shape of a man. He puts on music at a low volume, crackling through the speakers, a mix of love songs from the forties and fifties, and lights candles to complement the fire in the hearth. He dims the lights in the living room and dining area as he sets the table.

Occasionally, Hannibal catches Will staring back at him, those storm-blue eyes playful and teasing, and it brings heat to Hannibal’s cheeks. He needs to pay closer attention to the meal he’s preparing, but Will is intensely distracting.

Will, perhaps sensing Hannibal’s dilemma, sidles into the kitchen and takes his favorite spot behind Hannibal, his arms tucked inside of the apron, his body flush with Hannibal’s.

“Better?” he asks, and his lips press petal-soft against Hannibal’s neck.

“In some ways,” Hannibal answers, and he can hear the strain in his own voice. “For the moment.”

They somehow make it through dinner prep without Hannibal shutting everything down and throwing Will on the table himself. The insufferable man has been using the soaps and shampoo Hannibal prefers, but today he’s gone the extra step and dabbed Hannibal’s own cologne on his body. Hannibal would love to find out exactly where the scent is coming from, because it most certainly is not dear Will’s neck or his wrists.

“I thought it best to keep the meal light, given the hour,” Hannibal announces, and at the amused quirk of an eyebrow from Will he sighs. “Yes, Will?”

He leans forward, his curls falling artfully across his forehead and he simpers. “You weren’t planning to let me dig in without telling me what it is, were you?”

“Of course not, my dear.” He doesn’t look to the window, but he does move around the table until his back is to the large living room window and both his and Will’s mouths would not be visible from the treeline. “Are we concerned at all about how much of our conversation may be deciphered by a talented reader of lips?”

“No,” says Will. “Even with a telephoto lens, they’ll have trouble getting very clear shots from there. The angle is all wrong, and the lights in the house will make it harder, especially if they’re using infrared or night vision. But,” he adds, leaning in even closer, his breath hot against Hannibal’s mouth, “they will have a very clear view of my bed once all the lights are out.” He nips at Hannibal’s lower lip and grins. “So. Who do we have?”

“Alana,” Hannibal manages. “Abel retrieved a few prime cuts, per my instructions, and I thought it would be an appropriate choice.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, Hannibal Lecter,” says Will, fondly.

He supposes it’s true, though he would certainly never have categorized himself that way before Will. He presses a kiss into Will’s hair and pours them both a glass of rose, to pair with the meal. After precisely two delicious bites, Hannibal reaches over to take Will’s hand. To his delight, Will’s cheeks turn pink. He can’t maintain eye contact, opting instead to look up through his lovely, dark lashes between forkfuls, but he doesn’t let go. They hold hands like giddy schoolboys until their plates are clear, and then Will—seemingly a bit flustered by this turn of events—rises to take the dishes to the sink and settle the dogs in the mud room for the evening.

Hannibal lets him go and turns his own attention to setting the evening’s mood. He frowns at the candles and the fireplace. There’s no rhyme or reason to the placement of the candles. First he removes any with scents that simply do not compliment the bouquet, then he spends a few minutes moving them around until they frame the bed appropriately and they’ve been best arranged for aesthetic harmony based on differing color, height, and width. He discards the unused candles on the sideboard as he selects a light and fruity white wine and a pair of glasses.

Will is already stretched out on the bed when he turns back around. His eyes glitter like opals in the firelight.

“I think a light dinner was the right choice,” Will says, arching his back just a little as he gets comfortable. “I’ve still got plenty of room left for that wine.”

Barely halfway through one glass, and the wine is forgotten on the bedside table. Every point of contact between Hannibal and Will’s bodies is like two live wires raked across one another. They kiss like they’re moments from death in the desert and their only salvation lies behind one another’s teeth. The heat of Will’s mouth on Hannibal’s chest and stomach and his deft fingers at Hannibal’s belt are still intoxicating.

He shucks Will’s slacks and boxers, and can tell by scent that the wake of air from tossing the bundle put out at least one of the candles. With any other partner, he would pause to relight it, but the thought doesn’t even cross his mind with Will.

Hannibal’s tongue maps every muscle in Will’s abdomen, the delectable trail of dark hair trailing downward from his navel, the iliac curves, the creases of his hips. He can smell nothing but sweat, hot skin, and the bitter droplets of precome leaking from Will’s cock; Hannibal’s mouth waters as he pushes Will’s thighs further back so that he can taste everything. He groans, spreads Will’s body open, and his tongue teases at his god’s tight, tempting hole.

“Christ—” Will manages, one hand gripping the sheets, the other in Hannibal’s hair.

Hannibal redoubles his efforts, but Will tugs at his hair and he leans back, his chin wet, his eyes glassy.

“Yes, my love?” Hannibal rumbles, his voice thick and syrupy.

“I want to see you,” Will says. He smooths Hannibal’s hair, pets his cheek, while his other hand reaches under the pillow to retrieve a bottle of lubricant. “You’re so good for me, Hannibal. I want to see how good you can be.”

There’s a thrum inside Hannibal’s body, like the string of a double bass being plucked, and he crawls eagerly up the bed to take his god into himself. He settles into Will’s lap; they are facing each other, Will propped up by pillows, and after a quick rinse with the mouthwash beside the bed they are kissing lazily. Will strokes up and down Hannibal’s back with his left hand and works Hannibal open with his right.

“More,” Hannibal groans, his hips rolling against Will’s fingers.

“Don’t be greedy, darlin’,” Will drawls. “Take what I give you.”

Hannibal’s head falls forward, his breath growing heavy, and Will kisses him again as he adds another finger. Hannibal moans into Will’s mouth and reaches for his own neglected cock, but Will catches his wrist. Hannibal makes a frustrated little sound, and Will answers with a low chuckle.

“Be good,” his god whispers, kissing his neck. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes, dievas,” Hannibal says, and Will sucks at the skin below his ear as he removes his fingers.

The head of Will’s cock presses inside of him and Hannibal tries not to be greedy. He tries to be good. He tries to take only what Will gives him.

But he wants, and Will is going so slow.

He forces himself down the rest of the way, until Will is fully seated inside of him and he can feel the pulse of Will’s femoral artery against his own body. He sighs, tightening himself around Will’s cock, feeling the answering throb, needing more .

“Greedy little thing,” Will murmurs, rolling his hips. 

The drag against Hannibal’s prostate sends sparks up and down his spine, and he tries to force the issue further but Will seems to have reached the limit of his patience. He sinks his teeth into Hannibal’s shoulder and digs his fingers into Hannibal’s hips to keep him steady.

“Will—”

“I said be good,” Will says, softly. “Be good, and I’ll take care of you. Be bad, and you’ll take care of yourself. Understood?”

Hannibal nods, and Will licks over the spot he’d bitten. There’s no smell of blood, so he didn’t break the skin, but his tongue is soothing. His fingers gentle on Hannibal’s sides, and his hips begin to move. He sets the pace, slow and gentle, making love. Hannibal’s arms settle around Will’s neck and they kiss, sometimes lip to lip, sometimes exploring one another’s features. He kisses Will’s eyelids, his cheekbones, his jaw, brushes aside his curls to kiss his hairline and temples. He leans down to kiss Will’s scarred shoulder, where he had been stabbed so many years ago.

He tilts his hips, seeking more friction against his prostate, but Will tightens his grip and avoids paying the spot too much attention. Hannibal can tell Will is getting close because his breathing is beginning to stutter, his thrusts are growing shallower, and his kisses are growing more frantic. He can’t deny he loves the feeling of bringing his god such pleasure, and he trusts Will’s design; he knows what his reward will be.

“Hannibal,” Will breathes, and fills Hannibal’s body with pulse after pulse of heat.

Hannibal keeps gently pressing his lips against Will’s neck and jaw until Will has caught his breath, and then Will catches him in an absolutely filthy kiss as he pulls out. 

The next thing Hannibal knows, Will is on all fours, casting a coquettish look over one sculpted shoulder, the flickering candles pooling shadows that lap against the outline of every muscle, those eyes shining like the Mediterranean Sea, those hips swaying, enticing, as though Hannibal needs the invitation.

He drapes himself overtop of Will and draws them both up onto their knees, his chest tight to Will’s shoulderblades, his cock throbbing against Will’s backside, one hand pressing flat and hard against Will’s stomach, the other wrapped around Will’s throat. He growls into Will’s ear and bites at the join of his shoulder and his neck, beside his own tense fingers.

He’s slick already, dripping in fact, almost embarrassingly wet—enough so that he doesn’t really need much lubricant when he starts the slow stretch into Will’s body. Will likes being taken this way, rough and hard and controlled, and he relaxes obediently into Hannibal’s care. Hannibal puts pressure on his collarbone and, in short bursts, squeezes both arteries at the sides of Will’s neck. Will’s breath stutters, and Hannibal pushes further inside of him.

“Harder,” Will moans, and Hannibal would never deny his god anything.

He squeezes harder and slams his hips into Will’s buttocks with a sharp thrust. The hand on Will’s stomach allows for a measure of control; he gets into a quick, rough rhythm that rocks the mattress. Will’s got one hand up, holding Hannibal’s hair, and the other working his rapidly hardening cock.

It probably makes for quite the artistic photo for their little voyeur.

Hannibal would normally be able to hold out much longer, but Will is really putting on a show today. He’s squirming and moaning and groaning Hannibal’s name and baring his already-vulnerable throat and begging please, god, Hannibal, I need to feel you, harder, deeper, fuck—! and what’s a man to do? He forces Will down, shoulders flat to the mattress, and pounds into him once, twice—Will’s eyes roll back and he sighs Hannibal’s name low and sultry—thrice, and then he’s coming with a litany of curses in languages he doesn’t even register.

They collapse in a sweaty, sticky slump, and Will laughs.

“What amuses you so, my love?” Hannibal manages, twirling a curl around his finger as he tucks it away from Will’s gorgeous face.

“You,” Will says, leaning into the touch. “Do you even know what you said?” Hannibal shakes his head, and Will laughs again, softer. “I didn’t catch all of it but there was definitely mention of a ‘beautiful little slut boy’ driving you to ‘fuck madness’.”

Hannibal rumbles a laugh. “You begged me to choke you and split you in half, Will. I think I’m entitled to a little profanity.”

“You never cuss in English.”

“English swear words aren’t very pleasant.”

“You don’t seem to mind them when I’m begging. Or ordering.”

Hannibal sits up on his elbow and leans down for a hot, wet kiss.

“Well,” he murmurs, “as with all things, context is key.”

Will grins.

Hannibal spends his weekend researching and following the desk clerk from the FBI, a young man named David Hyneman. It is immediately apparent that David is, indeed, involved with the Messengers, and what makes it apparent is that he meets with none other than Matthew Brown in order to exchange what looks like privileged client information about Will Graham, stolen from the BSHCI during its transitional management.

Hannibal waits for David to leave, then sends a short text from his burner phone to Matthew’s, indicating he would like to meet.

The meeting, by necessity, is brief.

Matthew slips in through the patient exit at Hannibal’s office, which seemed the easiest location to speak privately, and smiles broadly at Hannibal when he comes in. 

“So, you saw that, huh? Looked good, right? How’s my acting?”

“Convincing,” says Hannibal, adjusting his cuffs. “Did you hand that man copies of Will’s medical file?”

“Don’t worry, there’s only a couple things in there that weren’t public record ‘cause of the trial.” His thin lips press together in a tight line and he tilts his head, birdlike. “You don’t trust me, huh?”

Hannibal levels the young man with a hard stare. “I am protective of Will.”

“Hey, you love Will. So do I. I’m on his side, always. So are you. You’re protective, hell, so am I. I’m only giving them what he’s okay with me giving.”

“And you are certain of this because…?”

“Because Will and I have talked about this a lot. Look, you don’t have to trust me. Will does. I’m a professional. We talked about levels, playing on different levels with different types of information. Will’s always playing like, five levels above the rest of us. Except maybe you, he’s maybe only two levels over you.” Matthew drags a hand down his face and paces a little, just a few steps and a turnaround, while he talks. “I’m only giving out publicly available information, plus one or two things they couldn’t get without me, but never anything above level two. They can find out how many dogs Will’s got, but not their names. They can find out he wasn’t a real FBI agent, but not the official diagnosis that disqualified him. But you and I both know neither of those things are gonna help them. The dogs are still gonna bite them, and Will’s not really autistic or whatever.” He shrugs one shoulder. “We didn’t talk about every detail, but we talked enough that I know what’s okay to say and what’s not okay. And that guy, Dave, he’s fact checking me, too, so I can’t lie. He doesn’t have a lot of access, since he’s not really an agent either, but he knows enough people that he can check up on anything I say. I’m handling it. Don’t trust me, trust Will.”

Hannibal inclines his head, and Matthew Brown smiles.

“Hopefully this is all over soon and I can come back to family dinners. I miss everybody. And I want to get to know you better, doc. I’ve always really admired your work, and, well, I see how crazy Will is about you. You make him happy, and he’s about my favorite person in the world. I want you to be able to rely on me as much as he does. Two favorite people would be a big deal for me. Never had so many people worth getting to know, to be honest with you.” He glances around the office and then back at Hannibal. “And, man, you’ve got great taste.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, and he’s certain Mr. Brown is referring to more than the decor. “I look forward to seeing the fruit of your efforts. When the Messengers have been dealt with, Will is likely to encourage family bonding. We’ll see what that entails.”

Matthew laughs and offers a brief wave. “Lookin’ forward to it, doc. Stay safe out there, huh?”

“You as well, Matthew.”

Hannibal calls to update Will, but it is not Will who answers; it is Beau Graham.

“Dr. Lecter?” says Beau. “You need somethin’? Everythin’ okay?”

“Everything is fine, Mr. Graham,” says Hannibal. “Is Will… on his trip already?”

“He’s, ah… wranglin’ some things,” Beau says, vaguely.

“I see. Would you be willing to pass on a message, when he has a moment?”

“Of course. What’s the message?”

“Please let him know that I was correct on my assumption, and I was able to speak with his brother to clarify the matter further.”

“You were right, and you talked to his brother about it. Gotcha.”

“If you would, please tell him I am returning to my original plans for the weekend and will not be available until Monday, but I wish him the best on his trip.”

Beau speaks for a moment to someone else, with his hand over the receiver, and then says, “You’re back on your weekend plans, unavailable ‘til Monday, you wish him luck. Anything else, Dr. Lecter?”

“No, thank you, that’s all.”

“Alrighty. I’ll tell him. He said if you called, tell you good luck on your hunt, n’ he loves ya.”

Hannibal blinks. “Thank you. I love him, too.”

“I know ya do,” says Beau, with a clear grin in his voice. “I’ll tell him. Be safe, y’hear?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

“Anything else comes up, you just call. Have a good night, son.”

Hannibal stares at his phone for a minute.

Son.

Hm.

They piped some gas into the bunker to make sure the woman was unconscious before they pulled her out. Will was able to carry her to the truck he kept for outings like this, but then he couldn’t figure out a good way of keeping her strapped down while also leaving room for Randall’s suit.

The problem was, the suit would take up most of the truck bed, but Will didn’t really want the woman in the cab for a variety of reasons. Finn argued that it was safer to have her in the cab, because she couldn’t try to jump out. Will pointed out that they’d just cable-tie her and she wouldn’t be going anywhere, and if they put her in the cab it’d be harder to get all the DNA without ripping all the upholstery out. The truck bed could just be hosed down and chemically sanitized, no problem.

Finn conceded that point, but then said she’d be able to scream if she were in the bed. Will countered again by explaining the concept of a gag, as though Finn weren’t intimately familiar with those. This led to a wrestling match in the dirt, overseen by Beau who sat on the porch, talking on the phone.

Will won by getting both of Finn’s arms locked up behind his back and a knee in his spine.

“She’ll wake up, you keep arguin’ like that,” said Beau, then went back to his call.

Will stood and offered his brother a hand to get up. They were too old to be fighting in the dirt, but it was a lot of fun.

Randall came back from a run with the dogs in time to see the suit, in several duffel bags and one hard case, all packed up and tied down closer to the cab, and the prey, wrapped up in canvas and tarp, gagged and hog-tied, just getting closed up behind the tailgate.

“That oughtta hold,” says Finn. “You only need to go a couple miles.”

Will injects a bit more tranquilizer into the prey’s arm and nods. “We’ll go out, set up camp, do some stretches.” He grins at Randall. “You get all suited up, get comfortable. Our rabbit’ll wake up a little after dark.”

“You might have more luck keeping up than I did,” says Finn, patting Randall’s shoulder. “This guy’s fast, Will. I mean, I shoulda just stayed at camp with Pops. By the time I caught up, hoo boy. Beautiful, messy work. Not much left to cook.” He pauses, then tilts his head from side to side. “Guess that’d be more of a concern for your boyfriend though, huh?”

Will shrugs. “I’ll try to keep up, but that’s not the point. Today’s about making sure our little brother gets the hunt he needs. That’s all that matters.” He looks to Randall with an encouraging smile. “Ready?”

Randall nods, stiffly, and climbs into the truck.

Will has a brief conversation with his father and laughs when he finds out it was Hannibal on the phone, but assures Beau there’s nothing to be done right now but relax. Finn takes him up on it and heads to his camper to sprawl out with his cat, and the dogs do the same but inside, around the fire. Beau hands Will a beautiful bone-handled knife and wishes them well on their hunt. It’s a nice gesture, but Will is probably not going to get the chance to use it.

The drive isn’t far. It’s silent, for the most part. Will picks up pretty rapidly on the fact that Randall isn’t going nonverbal out of anxiety or fear, but rather he’s allowing himself to fully embrace the Beast, who would naturally not speak with a man’s teeth.

Will gives him simple instructions when they reach the campsite, and Randall is able to help with unloading their items where Will wants them, but after that he gets too agitated at the sight of his own hands. Will opens up the bags and boxes with his true flesh inside and leaves him to don his skin and bones.

He sets up a metal stake, a braided wire, and a tarp, as well as a cooler with water and emergency supplies. They won’t be staying out here tonight, but even if they are, Will knows where there are tree-blinds and natural shelters they can use instead. The Beast would not love a tent.

He carries the prey to the tarp and attaches the wire to a cuff on one of her legs. He cuts the bonds around her forearms, calves, and ankles, but leaves the ones on her wrists for now.

He takes a deep breath, enjoying the tranquility of the woods. There are birds, and little animals in the underbrush, and a brook not too far off, and it smells like spring is right around the corner. Will is at peace.

The Beast perches on the log beside him, sleek and black and staring intently at their prey. It’s like a jackal and a panther and a creature born of nightmares, and Will’s heart swells with pride at the sight of it. The Beast moves easily, comfortably, totally unselfconscious. There is no Randall Tier within that body; this creature has taken off the limitations of that identity and set them aside for a glorious evening of pure, animal joy.

Will dares to set a hand on the Beast’s hunched shoulder, just for a moment, just a squeeze to let it know that it is in good company, with a member of its pack, and all is well.

They sit in companionable silence for two hours as the prey begins to stir and then fully returns to consciousness. She starts crying and screaming pretty much immediately, but they don’t respond. She cries until her throat is hoarse, which isn’t long since she likely did the same thing the previous night in the bunker.

Will stands and moves toward her; she tries to scramble away, but the wire is only so long. He doesn’t approach to within striking distance, because he isn’t stupid. Instead, he holds up a common, used, slightly dull hunting knife, and tosses it at her feet.

She dives for it and immediately starts on the wire, instead of the wrist restraints. She also doesn’t seem to register that the cuff wouldn’t be that hard to unbuckle if she had both hands available.

Will doesn’t help her, of course, but it is annoying to have to wait longer for her to get free and sprint off into the woods.

They give her a head start of about two and a half minutes.

Will decides that if he catches her first, he’ll try the hypothermia setup, but if the Beast gets her first, well. A piece here, a piece there, and nobody will ever find her as anything but animal food.

The Beast disappears into the trees, so quiet, so quick, and Will heads for the sound of water.

He picks up her trail immediately. She’s stupid, but she’s got an idea that is, at its core, not stupid: she is following the water, by walking in the water. In some situations this would do very well to keep hunters or pursuers off the trail, and following water is a decent tactic if you’re lost and can’t stay exactly where you are because you’re being hunted by murderers. What is stupid is that this is a fairly shallow brook with a muddy bottom, and even with a head start she’s leaving a trail of silt, disturbed rocks, and muddy footprints.

What’s more stupid is that she lost the knife, which Will finds in the brook about a half-mile along.

What’s even more, almost tragically stupid is that she never got the wrist restraints off, which meant that when she tripped and fell, she raised her arms to protect herself and ended up shattering one of those wrists.

Will finds her, sobbing, dragging herself awkwardly with one elbow along the bank, sputtering, teeth chattering, praying loudly to God or anyone to save her. The Beast looms above her in the treeline, watching, waiting. She doesn’t see the Beast, but she does see Will, and her panic turns to hysteria again.

“Please,” she shrieks, “please don’t, don’t do this, you don’t have to do this, please, please , I’ll do anything, I’ll give you anything, I have money, my family has money, please let me go, please, I want my mom, please, God, please, daddy, please—!”

Will glances up at the Beast, who seems disappointed.

He reaches down, grabs the prey by her arm, and lifts her. He slices the wrist restraints, which makes her scream again, and then he gives her back the knife. She tries to cling to him but he forces the knife into her good hand and then shoves her toward the trees.

“Please, please, please,” she’s babbling, so Will takes one menacing step forward and she shrinks back.

“Run,” he snarls, and she does.

Another hour of cat-and-mouse through the trees. They herd her, yipping and snapping at her heels, until she’s cornered by a large rock wall and she’s exhausted.

They’ve caught her twice more and set her loose to keep the chase going, but the fun is over now. The Beast seems satisfied enough. The two of them emerge from the trees on opposite sides, the prey pinned between them and the rocks. She’s shaking, sobbing, the knife gripped tight in her white-knuckled hand, the other swollen horrifically, purple and red and blotchy, and she has nothing left in her.

This is where things get the most interesting.

Cornered prey will fight to the death, because it has no other option.

He sees it as they approach, the last burst of adrenaline, the final spark of defiant panic in her eyes, and she tries to swipe with the knife to keep them away. They don’t even react, so she tries to throw the knife.

Stupid, stupid girl. She’s not trained, so the blade sails between them, wide either way, and now she’s unarmed.

She’s still got her fingernails and her teeth. Her legs are wobbly beneath her, like a newborn deer or perhaps she would think to kick at them. The Beast begins to circle around her left and Will reaches for her right, for the injured arm, and she tries to scratch at him.

She’s slow and uncoordinated; she misses.

But it gives her one last available option: they’re on either side of her now, which means she has one last shot at running away, back into the woods.

This is her biggest mistake yet, because it’s exactly what the Beast wanted.

She sprints, the last of her adrenaline pumping, leaves and gravel spraying behind her feet with the force of each stride, and for a moment, one breathtaking, hopeful moment, Will can feel that she thinks she’s going to make it.

But then the Beast is upon her. He is a maelstrom of teeth and claws, one great snap! from the jaws and her screams rip through the night. She screams and screams and he shreds with great sweeping arcs, blood in gouts every which-way, rising like mist, her insides steaming when they hit the cool air, blood in her throat, gagging, gurgling behind her tongue, her body convulsing with the last pulses of life, and the Beast tears and tears and tears until there is nothing left but pieces. And peace.

The Beast sits back on his carefully-designed digitigrade legs, tilts his head back so that he can see the scar of starry sky through the trees around them, and raises a clawed hand, dripping blood—black, like ink in the moonlight—to his brother.

Will, feeling only pride, sets his palm against the Beast’s, and their hands squelch as pooled blood wells between Will’s fingers.

“How do you feel?” asks Will, softly.

“Powerful,” says the Beast, and together they howl into the yawning sky.

Will takes care of everything, just as promised. The suit is packed up for the drive home, and then Will is going to clean the surface grime as best he can. Randall will probably have to take it apart to get the detail work done, but Will isn’t going to mess with another man’s engineering project so, surface will have to do.

The body is far too messy for the hypothermia story. He collects what he can, dresses it up a little more for the local wildlife, and brings Randall home. Little brother is tuckered out after his adventure, after all. 

It takes a lot of energy to unmask that completely.

It’s almost dawn when they get back to the house. He didn’t think they’d been out so long, but, after they’d taken care of the body they had play-fought for awhile, and then cutting the body into smaller pieces had also taken some time. They’d bathed in a cold stream, then Will had walked Randall through how to scrub blood off without leaving a trace.

They’d had to take another dunk to get the chemicals off, but at least they wouldn’t have to shower right away when they got back.

He tucks Randall into bed on the couch, preparing to head out to his workshop to hose down the suit, but Randall catches his wrist.

“Will?” he says. “Just… thanks.”

Will ruffles his hair. “Anything for family.”

“I mean it,” says Randall. “I… I never felt so… seen? You really make it feel like it’s okay to be… whatever I am.”

“Because it is. Because you’re amazing, and I’m lucky to be part of your pack.” He leans down and bonks his head gently against Randall’s. “Rest up, okay? Lot left to do before you go back to work.”

“Okay,” says Randall, quietly. “Goodnight… brother.”

Will’s smile sticks with him until the water dripping off the suit runs clear, and he falls asleep feeling like he just can’t lose.

Chapter Text

Time starts to feel funny. There’s a drag to it, but it’s the drag of a parachute deployed on the back of one of those bullet cars built to break the sound barrier. The months pass at a glacial, breakneck pace, which is confusing across the board but it’s just the way things go sometimes.

Life moves on. Sure, the family is staying close, but shortly after Randall’s hunt it occurs to Finn he’s been camped out in Will’s front yard for going on five months, which is both a bad look and honestly not fun, either for Finn or for his cat. Lilith, too, has long realized that she doesn’t love living out of a hotel room, so she and Finn have gone in on a quaint little townhouse in Wolf Trap, about ten minutes from Matthew’s place and half an hour from Will’s. She likes having Hyun to curl up with at night (Finn refers to him as a traitor, but Will suspects it has more to do with the fact that she always seems to have a heated blanket), and Finn rather likes having somebody in the house who can help him with his budget. 

Lilith was reasonably successful with her search into Maureen Lochlear’s history, and found a number of forum posts and usernames that interacted with her. One was Echo’s original ID, InTwaining. Will took over the search from there, and has assured everyone that he and Matthew are on the case. 

Randall has resigned his position at the museum and taken a job at the animal rescue where Peter works. It allows him to be closer to the family, and he’s always felt more at peace around animals. He and Peter are good company for each other; Peter always treats Randall with the same care he does the animals, and Randall protects Peter fiercely from anyone who tries to push or bully him. It also means they’re both less than an hour away from Wolf Trap.

Margot and Beverly are well and truly committed as a couple. Beverly just attended Margot’s birthday gala as her official date, and Bev is no longer being listed as ‘plus one’ in the societies pages; she’s graduated to ‘main squeeze’, which according to Beverly is simultaneously super offensive and also embarrassingly delightful. Margot’s children are due around the first week of August, and Beverly has gotten up the courage to tell Margot she wants to be involved. Margot apparently took things well, if Beverly’s glazed, dopey smile was anything to judge things by. On Margot’s end, she is pleasantly surprised by Beverly’s boisterous affection, and is still coming to terms with the idea that there are people she can really trust.

Beau decided, after Easter, to return to Florida. This was hard for everyone, even Hannibal in some ways, but it was too dangerous for Beau to stay. With the Messengers escalating and starting to send people back out to Will’s property again, everyone agreed it was safer to send Papa home. Also, honestly, Will’s a bit sick of having people in his house all the time. He can’t always be going to Hannibal’s to get away. He loves his father dearly, and he also likes his privacy. Will plans on flying down to Sugarloaf Key for Christmas, and he’ll extend the invite to everyone else when they get a bit closer.

Abel, of course, has by now had all his planned cosmetic surgeries, plus some last-minute add-ons, and now he looks like an entirely new man. He’s also gotten a new identity, complete with an MD and all the appropriate licenses. If he wanted to go back to practicing surgery, he could. However, he’s now employed as the Verger estate’s private doctor, and he’s extremely happy with his little cottage, his ‘company’ car, and the generous compensation package. He’s also pretty happy with the amount of time he gets to spend with Margot; they have grown quite close these past months, and Abel has been working on helping Margot ‘shut off her brain.’ He is also eager to pull the trigger on the plan to bring Beverly into the fold, because after meeting her twice he is desperate for ‘a cool sister’. Lilith is only moderately offended.

It’s all good news, as far as Will is concerned.

Wednesdays are still family dinner nights, but they’re twice a month instead of every week now and they’re hosted alternately at Will’s, Hannibal’s, Margot’s, or Finn and Lilith’s. Since Randall is with Peter most days, they don’t visit the animal sanctuary all together anymore, but at least once a month Will, Lilith, and Finn go help out with anything Peter needs. They also use it as a chance to gauge Randall’s comfort in his skin, and when it starts to seem tight they arrange a hunt for him.

There’s only one more hunt in between March and August. It’s just as messy as the last one, and just as exultant. Randall’s loyalty is unwavering now, which is good because Will may have to ask him to do some questionable things soon.

Will and Hannibal get to spend most of their time together now that the house is empty. During the week, Hannibal typically comes to Will’s house so the dogs don’t constantly have a sitter, but on Thursdays Will stays over at Hannibal’s.

It is during one of their rare days apart—Hannibal is attending a meeting for some cultural society he chairs and Will was blessedly spared the indignity of attending—that Will meets up with Matthew to discuss the ongoing plan.

It’s the end of May, dragging into the start of June, and they meet in the forests of Virginia well away from civilization. Will pulls Matthew into a tight hug.

“How’re you holding up?” he asks, looking Matthew over. “Okay?”

“Yeah, ‘course. How’s Ren and Pete? And everybody else?”

“They’re good. Miss you, of course.”

“Well, we’ll be done soon, yeah?”

Will waggles his head from side to side and shrugs. “Might be a bit longer than you like. Plan’s a bit, uh… modified. Kinda why I wanted to talk in person.”

Will pulls out a notebook, flips to one of the pages in the back, and turns it toward Matthew, whose eyes light up.

“No shit. You’re sure?”

Will nods, and Matthew whistles. He takes the notebook and studies the page for a moment, then looks back up at Will.

“Okay. What’s the play?”

“Are you sure? You might not like it.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, you know I’m with you. How many times do I gotta tell you? A hundred percent.”

Will chuckles and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Alright. But it’s gonna get a little weird.”

In June, the Thirty Cuts Killers ramp back up. Two bodies drop each week. There are at least fourteen distinct killers now, though only five have killed more than two. Crawford is frantic, so Will finally throws him a bone during a late-night team meeting over Thai food and burnt coffee.

Will’s digging unenthusiastically at his crispy basil duck as the team goes over the case again.

“This is a crisis ,” Crawford snarls, pacing back and forth. “No leads, no witnesses, no murder weapons, no evidence. Fifty three bodies in the last seven months. I need something.”

“We’ve got plenty of evidence,” says Jimmy, “but none of it is helpful.”

“Yeah. I got fibers, I got hair, I got skin flakes,” says Beverly. “Just, it’s all from the people who responded. The EMTs, the people who found the bodies.”

“I don’t get how they found the bodies but didn’t see the murders,” says Brian, around a mouthful of curry and rice.

Will frowns and then stands, leaning over the table. He starts to shuffle the pictures around.

“Maybe Brian’s right,” he says, his brow furrowed as he pulls witness lists closer. “Maybe we’re operating under a faulty assumption to begin with.”

“What assumption would that be?” Crawford barks.

“Twofold,” murmurs Will. “First, we’re assuming all the individual killers are all the members of the group. That is, we’re not taking into account the possibility they have access to a lot more resources, a lot more members, who aren’t participating in the kills. And, second, we’ve been dismissing the evidence because we’re eliminating the witnesses who touched the body when they tried to help, and the EMTs who responded, but… maybe they didn’t find the bodies without seeing the murders.”

He sets witness lists from the second and thirtieth victims side by side, then the seventh and twenty-ninth, then lays the list from the fourteenth between them. The team leans over to look; Jimmy sees it first, then Beverly almost immediately after, and Brian third. The three of them explode into squabbling and start going through the witness lists again, until Jack has to shout to get them to explain what Will was able to see.

“Overlap,” Beverly explains, tapping one sheet and then another. “We’ve got people who happened to show up on the same street where these bodies were dropping, and then showing up at another one months later.”

“How did we not catch this earlier?” Jack roars, and Will winces.

“Well, none of the overlap was from people whose DNA we found,” Jimmy says. “Just… folks the police interviewed.”

“Yeah, and, I guess since the bodies dropped in similar areas, months apart, we didn’t see it as a pattern.” Brian is shuffling through pages, searching for repeat names. He glances up. “That’s a hell of a catch, Graham.”

“As much yours as mine. I just wish we’d thought of it earlier,” Will grumbles.

“I want a list of every person who shows up on more than one of these witness lists,” Jack says with a thunderous expression. “This has been under our noses long enough. Get it done.”

Jack goes home to be with his wife. She is very near to the end of her life now, and he spends as much time as possible at home. The Thirty Cuts aren’t allowing him to breathe, though, and it’s putting him on edge in every possible way. He’s close to cracking straight down the middle. Will suspects strongly that after Bella passes, Jack is going to break entirely.

By the end of June, though, he’s getting some of his enthusiasm and strength back. They’ve picked up a few of the suspected Thirty Cuts Killers for questioning, and at least one of them broke immediately. They haven’t, unfortunately, revealed how they all met or what their overarching plan is, but Jack is invigorated by the very real progress toward stopping the cult.

The frustrating part is that there isn’t any evidence. They can point to the overlap, witnesses appearing at multiple crime scenes, but there’s nothing tying any of these people to the crimes themselves. There are no defensive wounds with DNA, there are no murder weapons, there are no eyewitnesses. The confessions they get are enough to convict for conspiracy, perhaps, but not murder.

The science team is going over the evidence again with a fine-toothed comb, trying to find more connections, more overlap.

Will suspects that they’ll find it, now that they’re looking in the right direction. The Thirty Cuts Killers are a lot of things, after all, but intelligent isn’t really one of them. They’ve been lucky, and they’ve had enough help to cover their tracks up to this point, but that help isn’t going to get them much further.

The person who broke gave the FBI enough of a foothold to start really digging into what’s going on. He told them that the group finds people with morbid interests and asks them to do things. Sometimes these are simple things, like delivering a letter, but they got more complicated over time. Eventually the tasks included things like standing on a particular street at a particular time, and lying to the police about a body being dropped there. When they proved themselves, they graduated again to witnessing the murders as they happened and lying to say that they tried to help, to stop the bleeding, that’s why they’re covered in blood. 

The FBI thinks their star witness was threatened or blackmailed into helping, as he’s refusing to clarify why he would do such a thing and he seems so nervous to even be talking about it. Will has clocked that this is one of the fourteen killers, likely even one of the five more prolific. He just really thought it was a game, and he’d never get caught. He’d rather roll on everybody else in his little club to avoid the death penalty than own his depravity and show a bit of spine. He’s going to give them everything, once they ramp up and put more pressure on him. 

Pathetic. Disloyal. 

Weak link.

But that’s why Will nudged the FBI in his direction specifically.

Will is a profiler and a professor. He teaches classes, he consults on cases as they come up. He consults on the Thirty Cuts cases as they arise to determine if there are new killers contributing, but otherwise he’s fairly removed from the case once the big break comes and his focus turns, primarily, back to his classroom.

This isn’t to say that he stops consulting; there are other cases, after all. One killer in the D.C. area was targeting veterans who spoke out against the military, for example—that one had been easy: it was a guy in far right circles who never even tried to serve, jealous of the praise these veterans were apparently ungrateful for. Another was going after women who dated men who fit a certain profile (white, green eyes, similar in height and weight, blond or light brown hair between jaw- and shoulder-length) because, as it turned out, the killer’s mother had left their father for a man who looked similar. That had been at least a bit more interesting, since the profile had nothing to do with the actual victims.

And, of course, Will’s still got a room in the BAU full of Ripper notes.

He spends much of his time there in between classes. By the beginning of June, Will and the team were able to lay out the most comprehensive breakdown of Ripper killings to date. It took up every wall of the room and the two large boards Jack had brought in. Will was working, on and off, on an extremely detailed collection of profiles of all the victims. As he completed each one, he took down the photos, the police reports, the witness statements, the character references, and he packed them all neatly into boxes labeled clearly with the chronological number and initials of each victim. Each box also had an inventory list, and when Will closed the boxes up he had another member of the team present to sign off that all materials were present and initial on top of the tape used to seal the boxes.

Why not? It’s not like he needed any of it anymore. He may as well inject a little accountability while he can.

He can also just… disappear anything he thinks might point in a direction he doesn’t like, because everyone who helps sign off on the custody chain just trusts him.

He actually creates a lecture based on the victim profiles he’s built. He knows Echo will appreciate it.

He shows slides with all of the Ripper’s victims, before their deaths. He asks the audience a simple question:

“Can anyone see the pattern?”

He likes asking his class trick questions. Some of them have caught on, but this isn’t the same group he taught about the Minnesota Shrike. About half of the class raises their hands, some with remarkable confidence. Will waits, watching, his eyes ticking from section to section without making eye contact, his glasses down just far enough to block him from having to look at any of them.

He’s still playing a character, after all.

Just like with the Shrike, he shakes his head and says, “There isn’t one.”

The hands fall—well, most of them. A few stay up, stubborn, resolute, but the one that interests him is the new hand that goes up, a young woman in the front row, thick lips pulled into a frown, dark braids falling over one resolute shoulder. He gestures to her, cocking his head to one side.

“What do you see?” he says.

“Doesn’t the lack of a pattern tell us something in itself, Dr. Graham?” she asks. “Isn’t that its own pattern, in a way?”

Will forces out a chuckle; his voice is a bit fried, and it crackles when he replies, “You’re not wrong. Ripper kills are elaborate and methodical. He stages them down to individual flower petals. This is not a man who leaves things to chance. His selections appear random by design. The nature of the kills tells us that they can’t actually be random.” 

He turns to look up at the slides and clicks to a collage of all known victims. Frederick Chilton and Alana Bloom smile down at him among more than twenty others. 

“We may be able to understand more about the Ripper by first understanding the materials he chose.” He clicks again, and Maureen Lochlear’s profile appears, large and imposing. “Why a nurse who, by all accounts, was gregarious and personable? Loved by her coworkers, her patients, her superiors.” 

He clicks again, to the crime scene photos showing her cracked ribs and the brick of a cell phone stuffed into her chest where her lungs ought to be. The room is silent.

“Why the disdain?” he says. “What crime could she have committed for the Ripper to punish her this way?”

He clicks to a slide with screenshots of some very old posts he’d uncovered on a blog, with Maureen’s grainy, smiling photo beside them. The posts are positively visceral takedowns of people she worked with and patients at the hospital she’d interacted with. Some photos, clearly taken on an old cell phone camera, are included. Will sets his clicker down and watches the faces in the room grow uncomfortable the more they read.

It’s not just Maureen, either. He clicks through the slides for the next five victims, the entirety of the Ripper’s first and second sounders, and each of them has some dirty secret attached, something twisted or dark that didn’t show up in most of the interviews with family or friends. He carefully goes through each of them, detailing first their public persona and then the hidden aspects that were uncovered during his examination.

He’s already shared all of this with Crawford and the team, of course. It doesn’t really help them, but anything that seems like it might be establishing a pattern gives Jack more hope. Hope is what he needs right now. It’ll hurt so much worse to take it away from him.

At the end of the lecture, Will says, “The Chesapeake Ripper is a killer who takes special care with every single detail of his displays. It’s possible he sees himself as doing a public service. He enjoys toying with law enforcement and people with strong morals; what better way to toy with us than to play the role of knight protector, crusading for justice?”

He kills the projector and turns the lights back on, shaking his head.

“I don’t think the Ripper sees himself as a vigilante. I think he sees himself as a divine judge. He thinks he has the right to punish people for being hypocritical or false in some capacity. This may be part of the reason his selection appears random: nobody is innocent. No one is a perfect moral pillar. We’re all hypocrites in some way or another. We just need to find his line.” He looks up, sweeping his gaze across the crowd, making just the slightest bit of eye contact. It startles a few of the students. “Where would you draw the line?”

By July, the Thirty Cuts killings have stopped, because they’ve caught enough of the actual violent members. The forum they were using to organize has been found and fully catalogued. No one seems too fussed over the fact that this forum is barely three months old.

Will goes out for celebratory drinks with the science team, who spent weeks processing all the evidence these amateurs were too stupid to get rid of before search warrants were issued for their homes, cars, and workplaces.

It’s like a fresh breeze has rolled through the halls of the BAU for the first time in a year. They’re relieved to have put a stop to a murder cult. They won’t let themselves care that none of the killers had an explanation for the significance of the number thirty, or even where the heart stencil they were using came from. That doesn’t matter now, because the killers have been caught, and they’ve either confessed or there’s enough evidence stacked against them that it doesn’t matter.

Will doesn’t plan to push it.

There are other things to be concerned about, apparently.

Jimmy, Brian, and Bev are with him at their usual bar, and they’ve been drinking for about an hour. They’re relaxed, joking, playful. The conversation is flowing easily. Everything is fine. Will’s laughing, having a nice time, fitting in, and then the world starts to smear.

His head starts to pound. It’s too loud, he’s too hot, he feels nauseous.

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

He’s been drugged?

Interesting.

He slurs something about the bathroom and staggers when he stands. The others are immediately alarmed, because Will never gets drunk on these outings, and he’s only had two glasses of well whiskey on ice. He makes it a couple of steps before he feels hands on both of his biceps, and then Jimmy and Brian are escorting him to the bathroom. Jimmy helps him splash water on his face while Brian glares at anyone who seems overly interested in Will’s condition.

Time gets weird again. He’s blacking in and out. Very interesting. When did anyone have the chance to drug his drink? He can’t think straight. Who bought the first round? He did. Okay. The second? Jimmy, he thinks. Possible that while he was waiting for one of the other drinks, Jimmy wasn’t paying enough attention to Will’s.

Was it meant for Beverly?

No—she was having a dirty martini. Jimmy and Brian drank a lemon drop and some local-label IPA, respectively. Anybody paying attention wouldn’t drug the whiskey glass, they’d go for the martini glass, unless they were after Will.

Somebody is gently patting his cheek. He realizes he closed his eyes at some point. He’s outside, sitting in the passenger seat of Beverly’s car. Jimmy Price is crouched beside him, looking intensely concerned, and both Beverly and Brian are arguing with a police officer.

Jimmy is saying something, but Will can’t make it out, or maybe he can but it’s erased from his head almost as soon as it’s said.

He blinks, slow, bleary, and then Hannibal is there.

He sighs and lets his body relax; his head falls forward against Hannibal’s shoulder. He blacks out.

The rage simmers and crackles beneath Hannibal’s skin, but he’s keeping it tightly controlled. Dr. Price has been taking good care of Will. He is very thorough in his description of the symptoms, including the number of times he was able to encourage Will to vomit. He seems to feel responsible for the incident.

“I don’t remember taking my eyes off the drinks,” Price says, wringing his hands. “I mean, number one rule, never take your eyes off the drinks. But I must have. Will was fine until he got about halfway through the drink I brought him. I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter.”

“You recognized the symptoms and protected him,” Hannibal says, tightly. “For that, I am grateful.”

Beverly touches Hannibal’s tense shoulder. “He’s okay,” she says, softly.

“Yes. Thank you. Will is lucky to have the three of you.”

“We can, um… get his car home, if you want,” says Brian Zeller.

“Yeah, the three of us all rode together,” says Dr. Price, patting Zeller’s arm excitedly. “The least we can do, y’know?”

Beverly sighs. “Yeah, I mean, the night’s kinda over at this point. I’m not gonna be able to rest until I hear that Will’s awake.”

Hannibal retrieves Will’s keys and hesitates. “I… hate to impose further,” he says, “but, Will’s dogs—”

“Oh, shit,” says Beverly, “of course. We’ll let them out before we leave.”

“They’re… friendly, right?” asks Zeller.

“We can pet them, right?” asks Price.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, allowing himself an exhausted smile. “They are quite friendly, and very well trained. And I’m sure they would appreciate the affection, Dr. Price. Thank you, again.”

He takes Will to the hospital. He is fully zipped up, controlled, perfectly composed per usual. He is polite with the police officers and charming with the hospital staff, and he knows he has them all wrapped around his little finger.

But the feeling that he is being watched—no, seen through—persists.

When Will slowly comes to, his blinking sluggish, he doesn’t seem surprised to see the hospital room.

“Rohypnol?” he says, and his voice sounds odd. Strained, forced, and mushy all at once.

Hannibal pours him a glass of water. “Most likely, yes. I have not been given access to your results.”

Will nods and struggles for a moment to sit up straighter. “Gonna… have to get you power of attorney or somethin’.”

“I’m sure that’s something we can discuss later,” Hannibal says, stiffly. He hands over the cup, then presses the call button to alert the nurse’s station that Will is awake. “There is quite a bit we need to discuss, but later.”

Will drinks his water and waves Hannibal away. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s expected.”

“This was expected?” Hannibal hisses, before he can stop himself. He buttons right back up, running a hand down the front of his jacket, smoothing it down the way he’s smoothing his rankled feathers. “As I said. There will be time to discuss it.”

The nurses come in and fuss for a little while. They take a vial of Will’s blood. They ask him if he feels safe. He tells them he feels very safe. The police come in to speak with him, and he recounts what he remembers from the bar.

The police ask him if he feels safe.

When all the tests are done and he has assured everyone that, yes, in fact, he does feel safe, thank you, he checks himself out. Hannibal takes him to the parking garage in a wheelchair, because he’s feeling petty. Will is visibly annoyed but doesn’t argue.

“I assume you had somebody check on the dogs?” he says, clambering into the passenger seat.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Hannibal doesn’t start the car. “Will. This is escalating beyond my level of comfort.”

Will huffs a laugh and closes his eyes. “I need you to trust the process.”

“What does that mean?” He doesn’t intend to sound so distressed, but his voice is thick with frustration and worry.

How can Will be so blasé? Will is the only person on this planet that Hannibal truly cares for. The only person worthy of his attention and affection. The only one worthy of his worship. How can he be so careless with his life?

Will laughs softly. “I knew they were going to escalate. I didn’t expect to get roofied, but I think the point was just to show me that they could get to me if they wanted to. They’re still trying to scare me because they want me to get embarrassed and angry again. They want me to lash out. At you. It’s going to escalate again, now. A public threat of some kind.” He cracks one eye open for just a moment and has the gall to sound cheeky as he says, “I’ll admit, I expected them to release the photos.”

“To what end?” Hannibal asks, icily. “To cause you another public meltdown about your sexuality?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Make me seem unstable and ashamed. Like, oh, I’ll be your good boy in private, in bed, but if people find out the things I let you do to me, I have a fucking meltdown.”

Hannibal is silent for a long time, until he’s gotten them on the highway.

“Will. I have concerns about this game of yours.”

Will sighs, but his eyes stay closed. “What, you’re the only one who’s allowed to manipulate people?”

“You have too many threads,” Hannibal says. “You can’t possibly maintain control of them. You need to slow down. Consolidate.”

His god’s eyes snap open now, roiling blue and furious as though the Kraken is about to emerge and drag a ship into the depths.

“Is that what you think?” Will says, and his tone is dangerously even. “You think I’m not in control of everything that’s happening right now?”

“You were not in control of this,” Hannibal says. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel. “It could have been any number of poisons, Will. You cannot risk your life this way.”

“Hannibal. They don’t want to kill me, they want you to leave me. You and your reaction are as much a part of this as them paying off the bartender. Do you understand? You can’t see the design from where you’re standing, because you’re in it.”

“By that logic, you aren’t capable of seeing the design either.”

Will takes a deep breath. “You’re thinking about this the wrong way. You kept Miriam Lass alive because you thought you might want to screw with Jack down the line. You decided to frame Chilton when you could have picked a stronger candidate, just because you found him distasteful. You knew my brain was melting and you let it because you were curious and you could use it to your advantage. It’s all about your feelings in the moment. Amusement. Annoyance. Curiosity. Disdain. Pettiness.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows draw together. He’s not offended, exactly, but he isn’t sure how to respond. Will continues:

“I’m not saying my manipulations aren’t emotionally driven. Everything I’m doing to get Echo and the Messengers is because I’m pissed off that they exist. Because they’re a threat to you. But I don’t make any decisions on a whim. I’m part of the design, but I’m also controlling the narrative.” He settles a hand on Hannibal’s knee. “I need you to trust me.”

“To what end, Will?” he asks, quietly. “How far does this game go?”

“It goes until everyone outside the family who knows your identity is dealt with. I’m doing this to protect you, Hannibal, and I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever the risk.”

“I do not want you risking your life for something so…” He clicks his tongue against his teeth and a short, frustrated growl escapes his lips. “Trivial. If my identity is compromised, I can simply leave the country under an assumed name.”

Will’s thumb stops its gentle swiping, and his fingers tense just enough to press into Hannibal’s skin. The pressure is oddly comforting.

“And then what?” Will asks. “Then you’re just a fugitive forever? Then you’re running from the FBI from country to country, identity to identity, with no hope of ever really putting down roots again?” His fingers tighten fractionally, and he hisses, “Fuck that. You can have as many alternative identities as you want, but Hannibal Lecter belongs to me, and I’ll decide what happens to him. Understood?”

Though he is still troubled, and though he still feels the tight throb of worry squeezing his heart, Hannibal cannot deny the sense of relief at being claimed. He exhales, breathes in the scent of Will’s righteous fury, and then murmurs,

“Yes, dievas. Of course.”

He does not remind his angry, exhausted god that the claim goes both ways and that he, too, is willing to do whatever it takes to protect what is his.

Chapter Text

Hannibal Lecter waits outside of an abandoned car park west of Baltimore. There are no lights, no cameras, and no people for at least a few blocks in any direction. A vehicle pulls up, pauses briefly, and then pulls inside. Hannibal follows on foot. The driver exits the vehicle, checks her phone, and glances up; he can see the moment of confusion as she registers the small table and two chairs placed in the space marked 30.

He’s nearly silent in his approach, and she’s not very aware of her surroundings.

“Good evening,” he says, and the woman nearly drops her phone. “Please, have a seat.”

Her recovery is admirable. She straightens her jacket, clears her throat, and sets her expression to something he supposes is meant to be cool, calculating, and professional.

“I’ll stand,” she says. She looks him up and down. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

Hannibal tilts his head to the side. “I asked to meet with Echo.”

“Yeah? Hi. What do you want?”  

His smile is predatory. “You are not Echo.”

The woman blinks. “What?”

His voice drops to a smoky purr. “If you were, you would know me.”

She takes half a step back. “Listen, man, I’m just here to take a message, okay? That’s all.”

“And so you shall,” he says, and pounces.

She’s not prepared. He gets a hand around her throat before she can scream, and they tumble to the concrete. She bucks and struggles, her eyes wild, spittle flying from her lips. Her boots thump erratically against the ground as she kicks uselessly under his weight. With her hands pinned against her chest and the oxygen supply to her brain dwindling, her heartbeat pounding against his vise-like grip, tears of fear and frustration blur her vision and pour down her cheeks. She makes gasping, wretched noises, her fingers tensed into desperate claws, her struggles weakening with every passing second.

And Hannibal simply watches her, little other than curiosity coloring his features. He had known, when he sent the message, that this was a likely possibility. It was why he had chosen to dress in disposable clothing and gloves. He watches consciousness leave his guest with a detached sort of disappointment.

He wanted to toy with Echo directly, and ultimately deliver his prize to be sacrificed upon the altar of his god. He had sent a direct message to one of Echo’s online accounts with a set of coordinates and an invitation to meet the artist. At the coordinates he had left a secondary message with this time, date, and location.

Hannibal relaxes his grip and retrieves his guest’s phone. It’s still unlocked, as she was apparently recording. That’s convenient—he won’t have to go through the monotony of rousing and asphyxiating her repeatedly until she gives him the password. He deletes the recording and navigates rapidly through text messages, emails, and apps until he finds what he’s looking for. A deleted message from an unsaved number provided the details for the meetup and instructions to send the video to a secondary number.

Hannibal snaps a couple of photos of his guest and sends them to the second number. He follows up with a text:

My disappointment is immeasurable, but I am willing to erase your mistake and offer a second chance to meet. You will hear from me when I feel you have demonstrated the appropriate level of remorse.

His guest begins to wake up. He allows her a moment of consciousness to re-orient, to understand her situation, and then his hand is wrapped around her neck again and she is screaming, garbled by the pressure against her windpipe, her limbs heavy but attempting to flail. Her eyes are bulging more, reddened by broken blood vessels and tears. She blacks out once more, and Hannibal thoroughly destroys both the contents and the components of her cell phone.

Then, because he has not been permitted to treat himself for quite some time, Hannibal pulls the scalpel from his sleeve and gets to work. She wakes when he punctures her trachea and severs her vocal chords, but she’s far too weak and disoriented to do much about it. She tries to fight, but he wrestles her arms to her sides and pins them to her body with his knees. She tries to kick, but she doesn’t have the traction to get anywhere.

His cuts are methodical. He flays open her throat like he’s making an anatomical model out of a cadaver back in medical school. Blood bubbles from between her lips and spatters her cheeks. He hums Bach while he peels the skin away from her neck and slowly works his blade along her jaw. Her gurgling is frantic now, and he is filled with the gentle peace which comes hand in hand with the creation of beautiful things.

Will Graham is torn between several emotions. One is amusement, of course. One is appreciation, the way he might feel looking at an example of technical mastery. One is annoyance that he has to deal with this today.

One, though, is arousal. What else is he supposed to feel, looking at an exaggeration, a caricature really, of the intimate moments captured by the voyeur all those weeks ago?

The scene was discovered in a hotel room. It’s masterfully arranged, with clear Ripper influences that even Will can’t obfuscate. The two victims are posed on the bed, on their knees. Their bodies have been stitched together with coarse thread. They are pressed together intimately, back to front. 

The front partner is arched severely in apparent ecstasy, one arm crooked up over his shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh of the rear partner’s head and face, tearing the skin away. His other hand is digging into his own chest, wrapped around his heart. Something has been injected into his penis to keep it impossibly swollen and erect; there appears to be a cock ring at the base, but with the bloating and swelling it’s hard to tell.

The rear partner’s right hand fingers are inside the throat of the other, wrapped around his trachea. His left hand is burrowing into the guts of the front partner, shoved so far inside Will suspects he’s been made to grip the spine. The guts, of course, have spilled onto the bed in front of them. According to the techs on scene, based on the positioning of the hips, the rear partner’s penis was most likely inserted into the anus of the front partner, but until the bodies are separated it’s impossible to tell for sure.

Both of their faces, even as they are being torn apart, appear rapturous, but the front partner has some kind of resin on his face to mimic tears. Carved across the sternum of the front partner, below the gaping hole in his chest, is the word WHORE.

Will takes off his glasses and waits for the techs and police to shuffle out. Before Jack and the science team can leave, Will clears his throat.

“Um,” he says, hesitantly, his cheeks burning.

Jack holds up a hand to stop Jimmy, Brian, and Bev. He turns a hard, serious glare upon Will and waits.

“I… I don’t think… this is him,” Will says.

“You don’t think, or you know?” asks Jack.

“I…” He presses his fingers against his eyelids. “It could be, but it doesn’t… It feels like… somebody else, trying to…” The heels of his hands press against his eyes now. “Fuck.”

“Will,” says Bev, softly. “What is it?”

“It’s us,” he breathes, nearly inaudible.

“Come again?” says Jack. He takes two heavy steps forward. “It’s who, Will?”

He turns away from them and starts to pace, one hand over his mouth, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. “It’s… it’s me and Hannibal.”

Absolute, mortifying silence. Will groans and pushes his hair back over his forehead. He gestures to the bodies, trying to be professional despite the flush of his cheeks and the pit in his stomach. His eyes dart around the room, uncomfortable and wild.

He’s rather proud of this performance.

“They… chose a slim brunette with curly hair for the… the front victim. And a larger, older man for the, uh… the other. With a, a darker complexion, olive toned. It’s caricature, it’s not meant to be one to one. But it’s meant to…” His breath shudders. “Somebody thinks I belong to the Ripper and I need to be reminded.”

Jack looks very uncomfortable, and his response is gruff: “Why do you think he wouldn’t do this himself?”

Will shakes his head and scowls. “No, this is going to piss him off. This is too blatant. Too invasive. Too…” His blush deepens, and he mutters, “Too vulgar. He would never make something this… explicit.”

“So who are we looking for, then, Graham?”

Will sighs and rubs at his temple. “We’re looking for somebody who is a fan of the Ripper’s work, who thinks they’re helping the Ripper get what he wants.” He nervously licks his lips and wipes his sweaty palms against his slacks. “This… whoever this is, they’ve been watching my house. There’s so much resentment here, so much disdain.” He gestures to the bodies again, without looking. “They think I’m unworthy of the Ripper’s attention, and they want to prove it. They want to show him what I am, what I’m… doing. Show him that I’m… unfaithful, to their mind. This is as much a threat to me as it is a warning to the Ripper.”

“Do you think you and Dr. Lecter are in danger?” asks Jack.

“I don’t think they’d go after us directly. They’re bold enough to create a public message for the Ripper, to try to show him the truth, but they’re not crazy enough to interfere directly. They would never want to disappoint him by… messing with his toys.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Not without permission.”

From the other side of the room, quietly, he hears Brian and Jimmy start in with their bickering. He would normally tune it out, but then Brian says something that catches his interest:

“The Ripper’s almost as obsessed with Will as Dr. Lecter is.”

Jimmy whispers back, “I dunno, I think they’d give each other a run for their money.”

“And now this new killer? I just don’t get what the fuss is about.”

With a lifted eyebrow, Jimmy says, “I think you do get it. And trust me, that is one spotlight you do not wanna share.”

“Okay, fuck you. But like, I never got the vibe the Ripper wanted Will in, like… this way.”

“Maybe he never knew it was an option.”

“Could you two stop?” hisses Beverly. “We’ve got a job to do. And our friend needs us right now. Keep it professional for once in your lives.”

“Right,” they both say, and snap back to processing the scene.

Will goes outside to get some air. Twenty minutes later, Beverly comes to find him and bring him back, and by the look on her face he can tell he’s not supposed to like what they found.

“They cut the bodies apart for transport,” Beverly says, holding up the crime scene tape for him. “And… well. They found—”

“Will. You don’t have to look at these,” says Jimmy, holding up both hands. “We just wanted you to know.”

“Just show me what you found,” Will says, managing to sound both exhausted and resigned.

Brian is standing beside the bodies with a pale-faced Jack and two other techs who are staring down at their feet. The bodies have been peeled apart. Will knows what he’s going to see, pasted with blood to their sticky back and chest, respectively, but he looks anyway.

Pictures, of course.

He’s trying not to look as delighted as he feels about how the photos came out. The photographer had skill, that was for sure. The photos were beautifully framed, some in color, some in black and white. Hannibal in Will’s lap, Hannibal’s face buried between Will’s thighs, the graceful curve of Will’s neck tilted back over Hannibal’s shoulder, the blend of pleasure and pain on both of their faces.

They are sensual and erotic and quite tame, to Will’s mind, considering some of the other things he and Hannibal get up to, but he allows himself to sink into the persona of sexually-repressed, ashamed, embarrassed Will Graham whose coworkers are all going to judge him for his sinful ways.

He begins to hyperventilate, and he’s escorted out of the room by both Beverly and Jack.

“You’re off this case for now, Will,” says Jack, gruffly. “Until we can prove you’re not at risk, until we know exactly what this guy has on you, you’re sitting out. We’ll find other things for you to do and we’ll handle this. Otherwise IA is gonna be breathing down my neck.”

“Those p-pictures—”

“They have to go into evidence.”

“We’ll be as respectful as we can,” Beverly assures him, shooting a glare at Jack. “Don’t worry.”

“They were at my house, they… they took those…” He dry heaves a little bit and leans against a police cruiser. “Fuck. I need to… call Hannibal.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” says Jack. “He’s as much a part of this as you are.” He pauses, frowns, and shifts from foot to foot. “Will, I just… I want to make sure—”

“Fuck’s sake, Jack, you’re really going to check in about consent right now? Yes, okay? Everything in those pictures was consensual. Christ. I can’t believe I have to say that.”

“I just have to be sure. Choking—”

“I know what choking is a precursor to and I can promise you that’s not what was going on in those pictures.” He scrubs his hands rather violently up and down his face. “This can’t be fucking happening.”

Jack’s phone rings, and he is visibly relieved to turn away and answer it. While he’s talking, Beverly says,

“I’m really sorry this is happening, Will. I mean, shit, I wanted details, but not like this.”

It makes him laugh, and she cracks a smile too.

Jack comes back with a stormy expression a moment later. “We’ve got another Thirty Cuts body.”

Will blinks, momentarily and genuinely startled. “But… we caught them,” he says.

“Yeah. I’m forwarding you two the address. Go, get the scene locked down. I’ll send another team behind you.” He hesitates. “This one sounds different. Eyes open.”

Will and Beverly obediently hop in one of the SUVs and head to the secondary scene, a park about thirty minutes away. Beverly continues to try to make him feel better during the drive, and he allows it to work because pretending to be on edge isn’t much different to actually being on edge.

Maybe he actually is on edge a little. The Thirty Cuts were dealt with, which means somebody is introducing a new variable.

The scene is full of Baltimore police and curious passers-by. Will and Beverly hurry up to the tape, flash their IDs, and approach the merry-go-round, where the body has been artfully draped.

She looks like she’s wearing a half-veil made of muscle and sinew. Her nose has been removed, as has all of the skin on her face below her cheekbones. The flaying extends down her neck, exposing all the tendons and arteries in her throat. There’s a heavy, broad slice nearly severing her neck, so her destroyed trachea and vocal chords are visible. She’s nude, and there are thirty precise, even strips of flesh removed from her abdomen as though putting the accompanying stab wounds on greater display. On her thigh is a heart, larger than the usual stencil, and with intricate scrollwork like a tattoo.

Son of a bitch.

Will enters the house near ten o’clock, far later than Hannibal had expected. He must have had a busy day, poor thing.

He hears Will moving through the house over the sound of the new composition he’s creating. It’s an ode to Will, of course, to his beauty and his design. He can smell the lab, smell the disinfectant and the science team and the sweat and the exhaustion. His poor Will.

He stands behind Hannibal for a long time, and Hannibal can tell he’s flexing his hands by the crackle of his knuckles. Hannibal stops playing, scratches out a couple of notes on the sheet music, writes in new ones, and lays down his pen. He turns, lifts one eyebrow, and smiles.

“Hello, Will,” he says. He stands, smooths the front of his crisp white button-down, and asks, “Would you care for a late dinner?”

Will grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against a bookcase, snarling. Hannibal catches his wrist and wrenches it back to near-breaking, smoothly takes hold of the back of Will’s jacket and shoves him face-first into the books instead. Will is wild and frenzied; he forces Hannibal’s hand so that he either has to follow through with breaking Will’s wrist or let go. Of course, Hannibal releases him, and Will forces his body backward with a sharp jolt, sliding out of the jacket as he goes.

Hannibal stumbles back two steps, and then they are facing each other, both panting, both calculating the next move.

“Will,” says Hannibal, softly, “is there something on your mind?”

Will bares his teeth. “Congratulations, Hannibal. You were right. I was stupid to think I could control every variable. I hope you’re so fucking proud of yourself.”

Hannibal tosses Will’s jacket onto the couch and straightens, indignantly. “I don’t know what you mean, Will.”

Will’s expression darkens and it’s as though the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

Hannibal’s eyes flatten, and he encases himself in indifference. “I thought you had no desire to control me, Will.”

His god’s laugh is a horrible, tar-black thing, sticky and crackling and eerie. “Deflection, Dr. Lecter? From you?” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Disappointing.” His voice sharpens like a whip-crack. “Focus on the topic. You killed a Messenger in the Copycat’s version of the Thirty Cuts style on the same day a new killer created a display for the Ripper involving our fucking sex tape. Now, I’m trying to play it off that both cases are connected, since they both mimic the Ripper’s style, but it’s not sitting right with Jack. Now I have to push up another plan to get Jack out of the fucking office because you couldn’t keep your goddamn scalpel in your pants.” His tone is positively venomous. “You just couldn’t leave it alone.”

“Have you forgotten the purpose of this mad plan to begin with?” Hannibal asks, all the chill of the terrible and hungry winter seeping into his bones. “We could have found Echo by now if—”

“For God’s sake, Hannibal, he’s not the fucking problem!” Will begins to pace, one hand in his hair, gripping tight. “The problem is that there are at least nine other people in his inner circle who know who you are and one of them is hosting a server full of information that I need to find and destroy before I can be certain you’re safe. Why the fuck would you interfere like this? You knew what you were getting into with me. Didn’t you?” The hand in his hair tightens, and his skin pulls taut. “Are you trying to get out? You said… one time you said if you needed a way out you’d make one. Is that what this is? You don’t trust me, you think I’m out of control, you think I can’t protect you? You want out?”

He can smell it now; Will’s sweat has the acrid tang of fear, beneath the bite of his rage. He moves slowly. Will seems lost in his own head, anxious thoughts choking him, his movements jerky, his eyes distant. He doesn’t appear to register Hannibal’s approach until he runs into Hannibal’s chest. Instantly, he’s defensive; he tries to stumble back, to push Hannibal away, but he’s too panicked to be coordinated.

Hannibal folds Will into a tight, crushing embrace. Will’s arms are trapped at his sides, and his face is pressed into the crook of Hannibal’s neck. His breathing is rapid and uneven; Hannibal begins to count his own breaths, slow and even, in through his nose and out through his mouth, until Will starts to mimic him and his body starts to relax. Hannibal rests his cheek on the top of Will’s head.

“You are a vicious creature,” Hannibal murmurs.

“So are you.”

After a beat, Hannibal says, “I have been feeling restless. It is not in my nature to stand by and allow others to act on my behalf. You know I don’t care for such a lack of control.”

“I know.”

“I would beg you to tell me what you are up to, dievas, if I thought you would tell me.”

Will huffs against Hannibal’s neck. “I’m up to a lot of things.”

“I know.”

Will shifts, and his voice gets quieter. “Would it help to be involved? Not in… everything. But in something else.”

“Yes. I believe it would.”

“Okay. The Beverly plan, it’s still on. But, you can help me and Abel with this… Jack thing.”

“What will this entail?”

Will sighs, and Hannibal can feel the brush of his eyelashes as he closes his eyes. “We’re going to break him.”

Hannibal chuckles. “Well. I would be delighted to help with that.”

They stand together in silence for perhaps ten minutes, until Will’s breathing is even and his trembling has stopped.

“I’m sorry,” Will says. “That was… not a healthy reaction.”

Hannibal shrugs one shoulder and strokes Will’s hair. “We are not in a conventionally healthy relationship.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks, and there is a tremulous quality to his voice, hopeful almost.

Hannibal tightens his arms. “Oh, I am furious. You have been quite discourteous, Will.”

Will wriggles slightly in his embrace. “You should be used to that by now.”

“I am not referring to your attacking me in my home. I am referring to the fact that you were aware the victim was a Messenger.” Will stiffens, and Hannibal’s voice is like silk when he adds, “And you also used male pronouns to refer to our elusive Echo, almost as though you know who it is.” He lowers his mouth to Will’s ear and says, “You have been very busy, and very secretive. What has Matthew been up to lately?”

Will swallows. “I know you’re sick of hearing me ask you to trust me—”

Hannibal’s arms tighten again, and Will’s bones creak. “I am. Because I am no longer hearing the words ‘trust me.’ I am now hearing the words, ‘I don’t trust you.’ And you can imagine my distress, can’t you? How terrible it is, to feel that my devotion is being rewarded with lies.”

“Not lies. Omission.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Your preference.” He squeezes a bit tighter, and Will grunts as his ribs start to protest. “It is, rather unfortunately, not enough for me. You see, Will, I was under the impression we had agreed to be transparent with one another, particularly when it comes to topics of a… sensitive nature.” Tighter, and he can feel the sweat beginning to slide across Will’s forehead. He’s not fighting, though.

He struggles to say, “I know. But… there’s a—” He pants for breath. “A method, Hannibal. To the… the madness.”

Tighter, tighter, and Will can no longer breathe easily. Hannibal’s cheek is laid against his clammy, damp temple; Will’s breath is fast and shallow against Hannibal’s neck.

“I do not appreciate being kept on the outside, Will. We are meant to be in this together.”

“We… are. Togeth—together. Hannibal. I—”

Tighter; Will squeaks. His ribs could give at any moment.

“Yes, Will?”

“I… love you.” He kisses the spot just below Hannibal’s ear, straining. “And… I’m… not sorry.” He groans as Hannibal’s arms tighten further, and he manages to grit out, “Whatever… it takes.”

Hannibal relaxes his grip, and Will slumps against him, panting, his hands flat against Hannibal’s chest. He tilts his head back, peering up into Hannibal’s eyes, and he lets out a shaky laugh. He straightens and tugs Hannibal’s hips against his own; they are both hard as steel, and in moments they are tearing at each other’s clothing.

Buttons scatter across the floor. They bite and snap and claw and wrestle. The coffee table gets kicked to the side, and something on top of it shatters. Hannibal doesn’t care—his teeth are locked in the meat of Will’s thigh, and Will has a vicious grip on Hannibal’s hair. Will digs a finger into the hinge of Hannibal’s jaw to force him to open up and when he sits back, gasping, blood spilling down his lips, Will manages to use the momentum to throw Hannibal off-balance and onto his back. 

Will straddles his head and uses his thumbs to pry open Hannibal’s teeth. He slides his cock down Hannibal’s throat, meeting very little resistance until Hannibal’s airway is blocked. He gags, but Will doesn’t let up. He holds himself there, watching tears spring from Hannibal’s eyes and saliva run down his chin, and then he pulls out just long enough for Hannibal to gasp a breath before slamming himself home.

Hannibal swallows around him, his throat tight, his jaw aching, and frees his arms from beneath Will’s knees. He shoves Will once, hard, and then they’re wrestling again. Limbs wrap around limbs, the rug abrades their skin, they roll into the overturned coffee table and Hannibal gets a shard of something in one hand.

He presses the shard against Will’s throat, and they both freeze. Will’s eyes are black; they stare at each other. Hannibal drags the shard down Will’s chest, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to leave a little pressure line. Will licks his lips, and when the shard is gliding down his ribcage he shifts his body abruptly, slicing his own skin.

Hannibal hisses and drops the shard.

“Will—!”

“I keep telling you not to tease me if you’re not gonna follow through,” Will says.

Hannibal clicks his tongue against his teeth. “It may require stitches.”

“Later. We’re not done here.”

“Will, I can see—”

“Hannibal. You crushed the breath out of me. You know what that does to me.” He swipes up some of the alarming quantity of blood on his fingers and presses it to Hannibal’s lips. “Come on, darlin’. Let us have what we both need, and then you can fuss.”

Hannibal sighs, but takes Will’s fingers into his mouth. The taste of him is incredible, as always. Hannibal’s sigh turns into a groan, and Will chuckles beneath him.

When they are spent, frustrations out, covered in one another’s bruises, suck marks, and bites, they lay side by side on the rug in front of the fireplace for a while. Hannibal takes the opportunity to disinfect and stitch up the rather jagged cut on Will’s ribs.

“It was beautiful,” Will says, his head resting on Hannibal’s thigh, his body stretched out across Hannibal’s lap. “The, uh, Messenger, I mean. It’s what got me thinking about being cut. By you, I mean.”

“You could have simply asked. I would have preferred to use a sterilized blade, and a thoughtful design.” He finishes a stitch and examines his work before continuing. “I do wish to be included in your plans. More than I am already. I am your partner, Will. I should be your most trusted asset.”

“I know,” Will says, softly. “I’m sorry. You are the most important person in my life. Above and beyond everyone else. I mean that. And that terrifies me.” After a beat, he whispers, “I would lose them all, if it meant keeping you. And that’s why I can’t bring you in on all of it. Because if anything happens to you, Hannibal, I’m… done. Y’know?”

Hannibal is unsure how to respond. He feels a sense of warmth unlike anything he has ever felt before, but he thinks saying so would be inappropriate. He shouldn’t be happy to learn that Will would sacrifice the family he loves so dearly if it meant protecting Hannibal. It’s probable that Will has very unpleasant feelings about that realization.

But, it just makes Hannibal feel loved.

“I understand, Will. The creature within me lives within you, as well. If only the world knew the danger lurking within us.”

Will sighs. “Yeah. A car accident, a heart attack, a robbery. Then,” he makes a sound like fire igniting, “the entire eastern seaboard, before whichever of us was left got stopped.” He’s quiet while Hannibal finishes the stitches and bandages his ribs. Hannibal continues to gently trail his fingers up and down Will’s side for a minute, and then Will says, “Just promise you trust me, Hannibal. Promise you love me, and you’re not going anywhere by choice.”

Hannibal helps him sit up, pulls him into his lap, takes hold of his jaw in both hands, and kisses him.

“I promise you, my love.”

“Okay.” Will covers Hannibal’s hands with his own. “Then tomorrow, let’s go see Abel. We need to get Jack out of the BAU.”

Abel is delighted to help, primarily because of Will’s pitch.

“Absolutely diabolical, brother mine,” Abel says, kicking his feet up on his couch. “Hitting the man right where it hurts. I can get behind that.”

“I believe this killer of ours need only function for a matter of weeks,” says Hannibal. “Bella is, unfortunately, not long for this world, if my last visit with her is any indication.”

“That works for us,” says Will. “Her suffering ends, and with the right pressure it’ll be enough to break Jack.” He’s tapping his foot incessantly, not because he’s nervous but because his ribs itch and Hannibal will give him a look if he scratches at the stitches. “This killer’s motivation needs to relate to grief, betrayal, a sense of loss or being abandoned by their spouse when the killer needed them.” He raises an eyebrow at Abel. “Think you’ve got a little spousal rage left in you?”

Abel scowls and flaps a hand. “Please. I got over that years ago. I am, however, a very good actor, as I’m sure you well know.” He rubs at his chin—a slightly different shape, now—and asks, “You don’t want it to be that on the nose, do you? I had thought you were the subtler type.”

“I usually am, but most killers aren’t. It’s more realistic this way.”

“If you say so. You’re the boss, I’m just the handsome knife under your watchful eye.”

“You will need a victim profile,” Hannibal says. “I would be happy to assist with selection.”

“That part’s easy,” says Abel. “My victim pool is men who divorce their wives after a cancer diagnosis. It’s hellishly common, y’know. Far more so than the reverse. Aren’t statistics terribly depressing?”

“Okay, sure,” says Will. “That’s actually perfect.” He sets a messenger bag on the table. “I’ve got a selection of handguns in here, and ammunition. All of it’s gonna be really hard to trace, bought under the table half a dozen times, random gun shows. Your choice what you want to use. When we’re done, we can either let it fade out, or we can find a fall guy who matches the profile and plant the gun on his body.”

“A fake suicide, ooh, you are a terrible FBI agent.”

“I’m actually a really good FBI agent. That’s why it’s so easy to run circles around them.”

Abel pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “My dear, darling criminal mastermind of a baby brother.”

“Dr. Gideon,” says Hannibal, “I would be happy to help with the planning and execution of each kill, if you would be willing to work together.”

“Of course, Dr. Lecter. It would be ever so foolish of me to turn my nose up at your expertise. Plus, between us girls, I quite enjoyed our time working together on the Ripper displays. You make for far more interesting company than the Real Housewives.”

“Aim for three or four total,” says Will, ignoring Abel’s cheeky grin. “Try to leave between two and eight days between each of them. Keep us on our toes. Start whenever you’re ready, don’t warn me, either of you. Okay?”

“You can count on us,” says Abel.

“We will not disappoint you, Will,” says Hannibal.

They don’t; about a week later, the first body drops. A man, gunned down in his apartment. He had just bought a new car with the money he got forcing the sale of his marital home in a contentious divorce from his wife, who was drowning in medical bills from chemotherapy now that she was no longer on her husband’s insurance.

Four days later, another man, this time killed in his house with the same caliber of weapon. His wife was staying with her elderly mother while receiving treatment for lung cancer, and he had just initiated a divorce. They had children, who he had been keeping away from their mother. He had just moved in his new girlfriend into the house, and the kids had been posting on social media about it.

Jack is fracturing. Will can see it during every meeting about these killings. The more information that comes out about these men and their wives, the worse it gets. His eyes are constantly bloodshot. He’s got a hair-trigger temper, worse than ever. He threw a coffee mug at a wall and shattered it because someone made a quiet comment about understanding where the killer was coming from.

He’s in his office late every day, and has to be reminded to go home. This is just making things worse, and compounding his guilt.

The third killing is eight days after the second. This must have been Hannibal’s doing: the selected victim was in the middle of the divorce process when his wife lost her battle with cancer and passed away. Her family, who had been supporting her, was immediately thrown out of the house that the late wife had purchased before the marriage, because the divorce had not been completed and the house now technically belonged to the husband. Her family had taken to the news and social media to plead for legal aid.

No longer necessary, with the husband’s brains splattered all over the wall of the living room.

Will thinks, for a very brief moment, that Jack will get through it. That he will persevere. That he will patch himself back together and get back on the Thirty Cuts mystery, Freddie Lounds’ death, the Ripper, the Ripper’s admirers, everything. That they will need the fourth kill.

But, then they talk to the wife of the second victim again, and she expresses that she understands why her husband left and why he took the children; it’s so hard, she explains, to know she’s deteriorating in front of them and have no reassurances to give. There’s no fixing her, she tells them. She doesn’t begrudge his desire not to watch her get worse, not to have their kids watch her get worse, until she fades to nothing.

At the end of July, Bella Crawford passes away peacefully in her sleep at home. Jack Crawford goes on compassionate leave without a fight.

Hannibal is convinced that Jack put Bella out of her misery, and Will is inclined to agree.

They go see him, a few times. They bring casserole. It has human sausage in it. Jack is too broken to be grateful, but he eats it, and perhaps it brings him some ironic comfort in his grief. The whole team pulls together to help with planning the funeral. Beverly helps select the outfit Bella will be buried in. Hannibal arranges the flowers and catering. Jimmy, Brian, and Will send out invitations.

It’s a massive affair. Military, police, NATO. Local arts groups, youth programs, members of the historical society. Bella was loved by her country and her community. The outpouring does nothing to bring the light back to Jack’s eyes.

After the funeral has ended and his home has emptied of well-wishers, he tells them he is retiring from the BAU. He is going to Italy, where he and Bella met. He will scatter her ashes there. He will stay for a while. Maybe when he comes back, things will be different.

Maybe things will be better.

Maybe, Will thinks.

But for now, Jack Crawford gives them each a firm handshake, a squeeze on the shoulder, and a dull, lifeless smile, and removes himself from the board.

Chapter Text

Prurnell appoints some boot-licking sycophant to the position of Interim Director of Behavioral Analysis. There’s a meeting with everyone in the department and everybody who works closely with the BAU, and Will stands in the back next to Bev and Brian. Jimmy’s sitting closer to the front as the official representative of the lab team, considering he’s the only one of the three of them with a doctorate.

Will supposes, as his own one-man consulting team and a PhD himself, he should probably be sitting up there asking clarifying questions, pretending he’s engaged, but it’s a lot more fun listening to Bev make comments under her breath and Zeller somehow pass off every snort as a cough.

It’s a long-time career agent by the name of Eric Decker. Honestly, it doesn’t really matter who Kade put in charge, because she was always going to choose a replacement who aligns with her interests. The guy is visibly nervous in front of the crowd, his eyes ticking awkwardly from forehead to forehead. If he were less stable, Will might find himself drowning in Decker’s nauseating need to please.

He’s a pencil-pusher whose entire focus will be on optics. Unlike Jack, Decker won’t pursue things the FBI considers closed, like Freddie Lounds’ death. He won’t sink his teeth into anything as hard as Jack sank his teeth into the Ripper. And there’s no world where Decker pushes the team too hard or tests boundaries to see what he can get away with. He’s going to be the strict by-the-book type, and it’s going to get people killed. In fact, Will expects to be consulted far less frequently, if only because it’ll save the FBI from having to pay his fees.

At least the higher-ups will be happy.

Decker’s speech is excruciatingly generic. He looks forward to working with all of them. Every team is critical to the success of the Bureau’s operations. His office is always open.

If he’d ended with let’s get out there and catch those killers! then Will might have had to take a leaf out of Zeller’s book and leave the room due to a sudden, severe fit of can’t listen to another minute of this. The very thought is almost enough to set him off, but he keeps his composure long enough to walk on down the receiving line and shake Decker’s hand like everyone else.

“Dr. Graham, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I know you work closely with my team, and I’d like to assure you that you’ll still have a place here despite the changes in leadership.” Decker’s smile is disingenuous; he isn’t lying, he just doesn’t want to be here.

Will adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Yeah. I, uh… wasn’t too worried about it. You don’t exactly have anyone else who can… do what I do.”

“I hear Dr. Lecter comes close, eh?” says Decker, and there’s some attempt at camaraderie which doesn’t land. 

“Closer than most,” Will concedes, shifting uncomfortably.

“Well, I look forward to meeting him, too. Word is he’s quite a cook.”

“Yeah,” says Will, with a smile bordering on a grimace. “His cooking is to die for.”

The first week of August, Margot’s children are born. The surrogates have a scheduled induction on the sixth, and both babies are born healthy and screaming in the early hours of the seventh.

The boy, Maxwell, is delivered two hours earlier than his sister, Morgan. Both babies are delivered by Margot, under the supervision of Dr. Gideon (or, rather, Dr. Elias Caine, because while he agreed that keeping the name Gideon in any capacity would be a bridge too far, he could not be talked out of some kind of joke).

Beverly got to be there, too. She told Will all about it later over the phone, gushing about how tiny their little baby fingers and toes were and how Margot had let her hold Max while Morgan was born. 

She’s so in love with Margot and the babies, she’s not even bothered when the next Ripper-inspired murder pops up barely a week later.

Will is a little surprised to be called in. Jack would have kept him off this case, considering these killers were clearly attempting to target him, but he supposes that Decker isn’t assuming the cases are related. Either that, or Decker (correctly) thinks that they’ll make more progress if they have Will take a look than if they were to leave it in the hands of their other profilers.

They’re called to a small art gallery, privately owned and operated, in downtown Baltimore. It’s only three rooms and primarily displays collections from local artists who fit a certain theme which changes seasonally. This season’s collection was, appropriately, ‘A Study in Nightmares’, and focused on art which was dark, morbid, or unsettling.

The gallery is full of sculptures, paintings, sketches, and prints which would probably be disturbing to the average person, but the CSI team and the BAU’s lab team aren’t even looking at them. Will stops to admire a couple of pieces in particular. There’s one which he’s drawn to: a sculpture of a stag, mid-decomp, flesh hanging off its ribs in tatters, skull exposed and dripping tar-black resin, teeth sharp like a wolf’s, antlers decorated with white flowers, black-stained hooves lifting out of a pile of flesh too large to be entirely its own. The piece is for sale. He makes a note of it and continues into the back room.

Eric Decker is near the doorway, a bit pale. Probably a rough one to start with, honestly.

This is an ambitious display. Five bodies. Four of them are posed around the outside of a massive canvas, probably a six foot square. Their arms and legs have been twisted into unnatural but beautiful positions to turn them into a fairly symmetrical frame. The bodies that make up the frame have been painted gold; even their hair has been styled and gelled tight to their heads and sprayed gold. They are draped with stiff gold fabric, but only their lower halves.

The fifth body is painted white and posed as though sleeping on the canvas. It’s a young man, slim, curly hair. He’s on his back, one hand resting on his belly, the other delicately resting beside his face, his fingers curled slightly. There’s a white cloth draped like a toga across his chest, pelvis, and one leg; the other leg is bare and almost coquettishly pointed, like a ballerina’s.

Laid out on a table beside the framed canvas, in a case lined with crushed red velvet, is a set of pristine but antique surgical tools, prepared with care, begging for the artist’s hand to put them to good use.

Decker clears his throat. “Dr. Graham. What are your thoughts?”

Will takes off his glasses and circles the display. “This one is… blatant. I don’t really even have to try to get in their heads.”

“Their heads?”

“It’s too much to have been done by one person.”

Decker blanches. “You don’t think it’s the Ripper?”

“No. I told Crawford this, it’s in my reports. The first two, the Thirty Cuts Copycat one, the, uh…” He blushes and bares his teeth. “The, uh… intimate hotel room display. Well, the Ripper would have found those… vulgar, or distasteful. They weren’t his style. And this one, well. He’s done displays with two bodies, but five?” He shakes his head. “No. I might have believed this was one person before, but this would have taken at least two. Probably three, since the first two displays dropped so close together.”

Decker frowns and rubs at his jaw. “So you’re… you’re sure, then, that these are connected? Can you get a feel for, um… why?”

Will plays with his glasses, oozing discomfort. “The hotel room, they were showing him he should move on from his, uh… fixation on me. The Thirty Cuts Copycat, they were reminding him what he could create, even if he weren’t acting as the Ripper. Trying to entice him. This?” He crouches, his expression grim, and gestures to the framed canvas with one arm of his glasses. “This is an invitation to make his art again. This is their attempt to inspire him.” He snorts. “They want to be his new muses.”

The name sticks. Decker puts together a task force whose purpose is to catch the Muses before the Ripper takes them up on their offer. He also reads through the entire thesis Will wrote about the Ripper, including all the available victim profiles. It’s more than Will expected him to do, but it’s also about the limit of Decker’s ability to help. 

Unlike Jack, Eric Decker isn’t going to get himself involved in the actual investigation. He’s just directing. Delegating. Liaising with other agencies, if necessary. Doing press conferences. He’s putting in all the budget reports and going to meetings with leadership. He chairs a weekly meeting where the various task forces report on progress. 

Decker doesn’t bench Will, but he does limit Will’s participation to profiling and crime scene analysis. No more field work. No more interviews with suspects. After all, Will Graham is a consultant, not an agent. As soon as the Muses drop another body (or three), he’ll be pulled back in. Until then, his focus is meant to be on continuing his Ripper victim analysis and teaching his classes.

It works just fine for Will. He gets plenty of information during Friday night drinks with Jimmy and Brian, and Bev when she can make it. Fact is, the Muses leave about as much evidence behind as the Ripper. There isn’t much to tell other than cause of death: the two female victims in the frame were strangled repeatedly, much the same way as the Thirty Cuts Copycat drop; the males in the frame had both bled to death after their femoral arteries were nearly severed; and the male victim in the center of the canvas died from carbon monoxide poisoning, likely to preserve his appearance as much as possible.

Hannibal is, of course, seething.

“The central figure’s resemblance to you is no coincidence, Will.”

“Obviously.” Will’s head hangs over the back of the sofa, and his voice is strained only by the stretch of his neck. “Your Muses want exactly two things: to get rid of me, and to get you back to making art the way you used to. Ideally, you turn me into a display and they get both wishes granted in one tableau.”

Hannibal drawls, “I suppose you expect me to continue trusting the process?”

“Yep,” says Will, popping the p.

Hannibal sighs and sits beside him. “Very well.”

Will groans as he rolls his torso forward and braces his elbows on his knees. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to chase away some of the bone-deep exhaustion.

“I know you’re frustrated. I’m sorry. Would it help if I told you it’s almost time to tie up the Verger-Katz thread?”

Hannibal’s fingers trace the length of Will’s spine, probing the tense muscle as he hums in the back of his throat. “It would. I have rather grown tired of keeping our guest, and it will please Margot and Abel a great deal to have Ms. Katz fully on side.”

“But what to do with the body afterward?”

“You know my preference.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” says Will, arching up into Hannibal’s touch. “Anyway, you already got his legs. And most of his face.”

“Technically speaking, he got most of his face. But, I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t do for him to reappear as a Ripper victim.”

“I thought maybe the pigs. Y’know, he checks himself out of his ‘rehabilitation spa’ and goes home, falls in the pig pen.”

He can’t see it, but he hears the change in Hannibal’s voice as he tilts his head from side to side. “That would pass if the company’s investors chose not to look too deeply into Mason’s death. But I suspect they will question the bullet holes.”

“Damn. You’re right. Always comes down to the details.”

Hannibal’s fingers still at the base of Will’s neck, and Will turns to look at him. They’re both smiling, though Will’s is cheeky and Hannibal’s is long-suffering.

“You already knew it wouldn’t work,” says Hannibal.

“Caught me.”

“I rather think it was the other way around, don’t you?”

“How about a cartel?” Will teases. “They do a lot of limb-chopping.”

“And when would Mason have gotten involved with a cartel?” Hannibal counters, shoving Will back by his shoulders. He swings a knee across Will’s thighs and straddles his hips, pinning Will’s wrists loosely against the sofa cushions to either side of his head. “You already have a solution in mind. You’re trying to make me feel more involved.”

Will’s smile is lazy now, his blinking slow. “Is it working?”

Hannibal leans down to kiss the side of Will’s neck and nip at his jaw. He grinds their hips together and laughs softly against Will’s curls.

“What do you think?” he purrs.

“I think you haven’t figured it out yet,” Will whispers back, and Hannibal’s fingers tighten around his wrists.

“I do enjoy the occasional surprise, Will. It’s simply a rare occurrence for me.”

“I don’t want this to be a surprise. I want you to know the full plan.”

“Please,” says Hannibal, nearly nose-to-nose with him, “illuminate me.”

“I want you to guess.” He licks his lips. “You’ve already eliminated two possibilities. There aren’t many more that would account for the gunshots and the legs. I know you can figure it out. You’re so smart, Hannibal. My clever, beautiful Ripper.”

Hannibal growls and presses his forehead to Will’s, his grip so tight now the bones in Will’s wrists feel like they’re grinding together. Will groans and rolls his hips, but Hannibal seats himself further back, on top of Will’s thighs, to deny him the friction.

“Awful creature,” Hannibal says, but his eyes are sparkling and his accent is thick with desire. “And if I win your game, what then?”

“If you win, whatever you want. If I win, whatever I want,” says Will, with a playful snap of his teeth. “The downside is you have to take my word on if you were right or not.”

“You will forgive me, dievas, if I fail to see any downside at all.”

Beverly calls at nearly three in the morning on the twenty-first of September. She is whispering, but she is completely hysterical.

“Will. Will, I—I fucking… I-I need… I can’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” says Will, rapidly clearing the sleep from his voice. “Hey, breathe, Bev. Deep breath. With me.”

She breathes with him for ten seconds, and he can hear the phone creak in her grip as every breath rattles its way from her lungs.

“Good,” he says, soothingly. “Really good. Okay. Now talk to me, Bev. What happened?”

Her breath hitches again, the beginnings of further panic, and she just says, “Will, I… I need you to—Margot’s. Now. Please. I don’t… I don’t know who else to—”

“Hey. Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’ll be there soon. I can stay on the phone with you the whole way.”

“N-no, I… Margot, the kids… Just, get here, okay? And… come alone. ”

“Okay. Okay, I’m on my way.” He hangs up and stares for a moment at his phone. Hannibal is in bed next to him, hair mussed, tempting and gorgeous, one eyebrow quirked. “Alright,” says Will. He holds up his hands as though he were capturing a picture and closes one eye. “Lights, camera, action.”

It’s a lot like that day back in January of 2015 when Beverly showed up at Will’s home in Wolf Trap to find him sitting on the front steps, wrapped in a blanket. Beverly is seated on the front steps of the Verger mansion, a fancy shawl draped over her shoulders, her eyes distant and haunted.

The first thing she says is,

“Will. I swear, it was self-defense. But, nobody will ever… I mean, Mason fucking Verger, I…”

Will crouches in front of her and lays a hand on her trembling shoulder. “It’s freezing, Bev. Let’s go inside, and you can just show me what happened. Okay?”

“You… you’re gonna have to arrest me, Will.”

“Let me see the scene first, and then we’ll talk. Are Margot and the kids okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they’re… they’re safe.” Beverly stands, with some help from Will, and holds the shawl tight at her throat with one hand. The other, she holds loosely at her side. It’ll be covered in gunshot residue, and she’s preserving evidence. “It’s… upstairs. In our—I mean, in Margot’s room.”

She leads him upstairs. There are no staff or security in the main house right now; Margot’s doing. This had been a long time in the making. Margot had stopped keeping overnight staff at the beginning of the year, and while there was a large private security force on the property, Margot had been keeping them primarily outside the house, particularly at night, since her children were born. By design, it wasn’t unusual for the house to be empty. Beverly certainly wasn’t questioning it.

On the third floor, in the east wing, Margot is standing outside a pair of tall doors with brass handles. She’s in a nightie and a robe and Will can see handprints on her forearm and scratches on her neck. She rushes over when she sees Will and pulls him into a tight hug; she takes the opportunity to whisper in his ear,

“It’s perfect.”

“Margot,” he says aloud, “where are Max and Morgan?”

“I got them back to sleep,” she says, wiping at her eyes. She steps back and turns her attention to Beverly. Her hands settle lightly on Beverly’s shoulders and she rubs up and down, her thumbs massaging. “We’re okay, baby. You kept us safe, and Will is gonna help you, too.” She glances at Will. “Right?”

He tightens his jaw and nods at both of them. “Let me look. And then I’ll ask you to walk me through what happened.”

Beverly nods, and Margot lets go of her to walk Will one door down, to their bedroom. She pushes the door open, and he can see so clearly the second he steps through.

Mason Verger had stumbled in hours before, half-crazed on the drugs Hannibal had been injecting into his system and the hallucinogens he’d been forced to inhale, off-kilter on prosthetic legs he’d barely learned to use. He’d gone straight for Margot and grabbed her, first by the hair, then by the arm, and they’d struggled. He’d let her go when he’d seen the bassinets by the bed and staggered toward them.

Beverly had, by this point, gotten the gun Margot kept in the bedside table and fired twice, aiming high and away from the bassinets. She was a good shot and had hit her mark both times; there were two entry-wounds in the back of Mason’s head, and he was laying facedown on the carpet, dead, with brain matter and skull fragments splattered around him. Some of it had gotten on the fabric draped over the bassinets—Will had advised Margot that she should select the children’s sleeping arrangements with this possibility in mind, so it was unlikely either Maxwell or Morgan had gotten any blood or bone splinters on them directly, but he would ask.

He crouched next to Mason as though he were checking for vitals, but it was more to kill time than anything; after all, the only one watching was Margot, and she’d been in on all of this from the beginning. She knew very well what happened next.

Will rose, took a deep breath, and tucked his hands in his pockets.

“Well. That’s one less bastard in the world.”

Margot knew her cue. She kept her voice soft and low, but Beverly would probably be able to make out a few stage-whispered words.

“If the board finds out about this, they’ll take everything. They won’t care that Mason was going after my children, or what he was going to do to me. They’ll say we conspired to murder Mason, and the company’s lawyers will drown us if we try to fight it.” He crosses to her as a few beautifully timed tears spill down her cheeks. She’s shaking a little bit. “They’ll have me declared unfit. They’ll take my babies, Will. Maxwell will get everything, and Morgan will be treated just like I was.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen,” Will says, and pulls her into a tight hug. He murmurs in her ear, “Describe her expression.”

“Devastated. Panicked,” Margot murmurs back. She sniffs and leans away to wipe at her eyes. “What do we do, Will?”

He takes Margot’s arm and leads her back down the hallway to Beverly, who is still standing across from the nursery where the babies are sleeping in their actual cribs. They both sit on a bench near the door. Beverly wraps her left arm around Margot, and Margot buries her face in the crook of Beverly’s neck. Will crouches in front of them, his expression grim.

“What are we going to do?” Beverly whispers. “Jesus, Will, I… I fucked everything up, didn’t I? I’ll go to prison. Margot—I’m so sorry, Margot.” Her breath shudders, and Margot holds her tighter. “I… I could turn myself in. I could… tell them you tried to stop me, to… to save him.”

Margot shakes her head. “No. No, Bev, they’d never believe you. I hated Mason. Everyone knew I hated him. And you don’t deserve to be punished for protecting us.” Her pleading eyes fall upon Will. “There has to be another way.”

Will’s nostrils flare as he lets his breath out in a huff. He scrubs a hand across his mouth and then starts to nod, jerkily.

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah. But, uh… listen. It’s… It’s not gonna be easy. For any of us. You’re gonna have to trust me.” He takes Margot’s left hand in his right, then slowly reaches for Beverly’s hanging right hand with his left. When he holds both, he squeezes and looks between them. “You two and Max and Morgan, you’re family. So I’ll help you, if you ask me to. But you have to be willing to do exactly what I tell you.”

“What are you going to do, Will?” whispers Beverly.

“I’m going to fix this,” he says. “I’ll make it go away.” He squeezes Margot’s hand and his brow furrows with concern. “I’ll need your help. To clean everything up. Make it like nothing happened in here. Can you do that? Do you have… people you can trust?”

“Yes,” says Margot, softly.

“And…” He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, lets his breath out. “I might need to call Hannibal.”

“No,” says Beverly, her fingers tightening so hard on his that he feels like they might break. “No, you can’t get Dr. Lecter involved in this. I can’t… I barely know him, Will. I can’t ask him to help you cover up—” She chokes on the last few words.

“Bev. Listen to me.” He gentles his voice and leans in, his curls falling over his forehead. He flicks them out of his eyes and says, “I need help to move the body. I can’t do it on my own. Hannibal… I could explain it to him. He would understand. I trust him. Margot trusts him.”

Beverly makes a distressed sound, and Margot shakes her head.

“Okay,” says Margot, “what about Dr. Caine?”

“You trust him?” asks Will, frowning.

Beverly’s nodding is unnecessarily aggressive. “Yeah, yes, Elias is a good man. He loves Morgan and Max. We’re friends.”

Margot pets Beverly’s hair, trying to soothe her. “I trust him. He’s been a godsend, honestly. He never knew Mason, has no loyalty to the company. His only loyalty is to us, and to my children. And he’s on the property, less than ten minutes away.”

“Okay,” says Will. “Okay. That’s… probably better, anyway. The sooner we get this taken care of, the better.” He squeezes their hands again and lets go. “Call him. Do you have… delivery trucks? Box trucks, refrigerated trucks, anything on the property?”

“Yeah,” says Margot.

Will stands. “Okay. Ask Dr. Caine to bring one to the delivery door by the kitchen. Then call your cleaning crew. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Beverly catches his arm, her eyes red-rimmed and wild. “Will. This is… this is a massive fucking problem.”

“Yeah. It’s about a half dozen crimes.” He grips her shoulder and makes sharp, strong eye contact. “But you didn’t do anything wrong, and this family doesn’t deserve to suffer one second longer for Mason fucking Verger. You hear me?” His grip tightens. “You protected them. I’m not letting you, or Margot, or those kids lose everything for a dead monster who deserved worse than he got. The FBI is supposed to stop people like Mason. And you did. And you should be proud of that. Now let me help you tell the story that needs to be told.”

“What are you going to do?” she begs, nails digging into his arm.

“I’m going to put my doctorate to good use,” is all Will says, and then Margot gently separates the two of them.

“Come on, baby,” says Margot, gently. “I got a couple calls to make. Let’s get you in the shower, and then we can try to get some sleep. We’ll stay in the nursery. You can help me with the night feeds, okay? They’ll be hungry soon. They need us.”

“Okay,” whispers Beverly, and allows herself to be led away.

Abel is already downstairs with an untraceable truck, of course. Hannibal, too. Will texts Hannibal’s burner phone to let him know that he wasn’t technically invited, so he should stay with the truck, then he waits fifteen minutes for Abel to show up with a tarp.

They have a quiet conversation in the hallway—Beverly might still be in the shower, but while they’re not sure if they can be overheard or not, they’re going to play the roles they’re meant to be playing just in case.

“Did Margot tell you why you’re here?” Will asks, and Abel sticks his tongue out.

“Ms. Verger suggested there was some kind of incident and you required another pair of trustworthy hands,” Abel says, wriggling his fingers. “Just what went on here tonight?”

“First, I need you to understand that Margot and Beverly chose to bring you in because they trust you. If you betray that trust, Dr. Caine, you should understand that what you’re going to see in the next room is far less than what I’ll do to you. Are we clear?”

Abel bites his lip and wrinkles his nose, rolling his eyes for just a moment. “Of course, Dr. Graham. I love those girls like they were my own sisters. I would never do anything to betray their confidence.”

“Good. Then come with me.”

When they’re in Margot’s room, Abel lets out a short, low whistle.

“Katz is one hell of a shot, I’ll give her that,” he says, crouching beside the body. “Pop, pop goes this little shitweasel.”

“Hilarious. Let’s get him on the tarp. Watch the legs, they might come off.”

“I was under the impression they already had.”

Will levels a flat gaze at him as if to say, really?

Abel holds up his hands and grins. “Sorry, can’t help myself. This is the most fun I’ve had in months.”

They lug Mason down to the kitchen, then out the service door to the truck. Hannibal jumps out to open the rolling door, and they slide Mason’s corpse into the refrigerated back. He and Abel catch their breaths. Hannibal peels back the tarp to get a look and makes a low, appreciative sound.

“Ms. Katz’ aim is impressive,” he says.

“That’s what I said!”

“Okay,” says Will, rolling his shoulders, “no time for screwing around. I’ll meet you at the workshop. You can get started without me.”

“You gonna spin some clever explanation?” asks Abel.

“No. I’m not going to tell them anything,” says Will, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll give them a few instructions to follow. And then when the body turns up, Bev and I will have our little come to Jesus talk.”

“You realize she’s gonna think you’re blackmailing her,” says Abel, his arms crossed over his chest. “This could just as easily break all that trust you worked so hard to build.”

“It won’t,” says Will. “Family means everything to Bev. She’ll focus on what a massive risk I took for the sake of keeping her family together, and the fact that I’m not asking for a damn thing in return. Sure, she can choose not to trust me, but Margot trusts me, so she can’t hold out forever.”

He heads inside.

Margot is coming down the stairs to the kitchen, cautious, peering around the doorway to check if the truck is still there. She sees it pulling away and comes all the way through. She’s wearing a different set of pyjamas and a different robe, and her hair is wet. She’s carrying a plastic bag.

“Here,” she says, setting the bag on the island. “Our clothes, and the onesies Max and Morgan were wearing when it happened. My people will get rid of the linens, the curtains, and the carpet in the bedroom, too.”

“The gun?” asks Will, and Margot nods.

“It’s in there, too. In a separate bag.”

“How’s Bev?”

“She’s rocking Morgan. I think it’s helping, showing her I still trust her with the kids.” Her mouth twists to one side in something like a smile. “Actually, if anything, I trust her more now. I wasn’t sure this was going to work, to tell you the truth. I thought she might just… go for the leg or something. But, there was no hesitation. She really loves us.”

“Don’t break her heart, Margot. She’s better than we are. You and the kids deserve somebody like her, and she deserves the world.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Margot frowns and crosses her arms, rubbing unconsciously. “This is the first time in my life I’ve ever done anything but survive. I’m not used to having people I can rely on. I’m really not used to it being safe to… just feel things.” She glances at Will, then back at the plastic bag on the kitchen island. “I wasn’t sure about your plan, Will. But you came through. You’ve been right every step of the way. You’ve given me things I can never possibly repay you for. And you don’t have to say you don’t expect me to repay you because I know that. I believe that. Isn’t that crazy? After everything, that there are people in my life who just… care about me, and want to help make sure I can be happy.”

Will huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Margot. You just needed to find your real family. And pick the right one to have kids with, ‘cause that sure as hell wasn’t me.”

She snorts. “What can I say? I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Kinda thinking a little too straight—”

“Oh, Christ,” she says, “you’re as bad as Gideon.”

He snickers and shakes his head. “Alright, look, in all seriousness? Bev is gonna need you in the coming days. She’s gonna struggle a lot with the morality of what she’s done. And then, well, when Mason’s body turns up? She’s gonna have to process a lot. Her whole view of me is gonna change. She might wonder if you had anything to do with it. Up to you what you say, if she asks, but she’ll need a solid foundation.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

He sighs. “It’s gonna depend a lot on how she approaches the conversation. I just wanted you to have a heads up that it’s coming, along with probably a lot of emotional instability. Guilt, some lashing out, uncontrollable crying, isolation and clinginess back and forth.”

“I know what trauma looks like, Will.”

“I know. Just… covering my bases.” He pauses, clicks his tongue behind his teeth, and says, “I’m going to need you two to help me with something here soon. Nothing too serious. Nothing that’ll be outside of her comfort zone.”

“What?” asks Margot, warily.

Will scratches at his stubble and sighs. “There is going to come a day… very soon,” he starts, hesitantly, “where someone is going to need to… stay with Hannibal.”

Margot blinks. “What do you mean?”

He works his jaw, uncomfortable. “I can’t tell you why. But, he’ll need you. Just, he’ll need… stability.”

“Will… what are you planning?”

He picks up the plastic bag. “Just… promise you’ll be there. Keep him grounded. Keep him where he needs to be. Don’t let him…” The plastic crinkles in his hands and he laughs humorlessly. “Well. You’ll know it when it happens.”

“Will Graham, with the vaguest shit I’ve ever heard,” drawls Margot. “You’re lucky you’re a good brother.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “In the meantime, tell Bev I took care of it. I’m not sure when the body will turn up, but, when it does, remind her what would have happened if there was any evidence linking him back to you.”

“I can handle it. Go on, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.” 

She shoos him out so she can start prepping bottles for the kids, and Will jogs out to his car. He passes a nondescript white van on his way out. The driver tugs her hat lower over her face and nods at Will; he nods back once, and leaves Muskrat Farm as the sun begins to touch the second-floor windows.

There is another scene from the Muses that very afternoon.

Will is extremely tired, but he still goes.

Beverly has called in sick, but Jimmy and Brian are both there, snapping photos and collecting samples. Decker is not there, which Will takes as a bit of a blessing.

“Hey, Will,” says Brian. He points to the bodies. “You want us to clear the room?”

“Could you give me a minute? There’s a clean footprint over here I want to get,” says Jimmy.

“It’ll belong to one of the victims,” says Will, taking off his glasses. “There will be a few of them leading to the altar. The point will be to show that they… came willingly.”

Jimmy and Brian glance at each other, but don’t question him.

There are three bodies this time, in an abandoned warehouse. An altar of marble slabs has been created from undelivered countertops. What Will suspects are actual linens and candelabras from a Catholic church have been placed on top, along with golden bowls and dishes. There are two figures, impaled upon rebar, draped in white robes, to either side of the altar. Their hands are raised as though in worship, their heads thrown back in something like ecstasy. One of them has a sacrificial knife secured to their hand with carpenter’s nails. Resin dyed to look like blood forms an eternal stain and a drip almost suggestively beading at the knife’s tip.

Draped over the altar is another curly-haired young man, this time with his eyes glued wide open and full-cover contact lenses in rich blue tucked beneath his frozen lids. He’s been wounded in every place Will has ever been scarred—or, every place that would have been visible in the pictures taken of him and Hannibal. His chest has been pried open, and the rib spreader is still there, ensuring the investigators can see inside.

The lungs have been removed and placed on the plates to either side of the body, as though the two celebrants were going to eat them raw. The heart has been cut free and laid on a bed of narcissuses and sweet Williams. The man’s palms are open, facing upward to the sky. In one, he is holding a pristine scalpel. In the other, he is holding a golden fork.

“I don’t need you to clear the room,” Will says, softly. “This one is just as blatant as the last one.”

“What’s the word, Will?” asks Jimmy, placing a marker beside another bare footprint.

“It’s a threat,” he says. “Well, it’s an invitation, more than a threat. It’s somebody who wants the Ripper to think I’m… better as a sacrifice than a rival.”

“Why are so many killers obsessed with you, man?” asks Brian, his lip curled with disgust (not at Will, but at the weirdos of Baltimore).

“It’s not really about me,” says Will. “It’s about him. And he’s obsessed for the same reason Eldon Stammets was obsessed. The only difference is that Stammets got caught, and the Ripper is still out there.”

“I’m gonna say it, Will,” says Jimmy, setting a hand on Will’s shoulder. “That thing you do? It sucks.”

“Yeah,” says Will. A wry smile twists his mouth to one side. “It sure does.”

“Well, can you get anything? I mean, anything that could help us catch these guys?” Brian presses, shifting from foot to foot.

Will gestures to the altar. “They’d have stolen this stuff from a parish somewhere nearby. That could be a lead. Most of the rest of these materials would have been laying around in here, but the, uh… the bowls, the forks, they’d have gotten those from somewhere else. And, uh, the… rib spreader. That’s not a common piece of equipment to have just laying around. Might be able to get a serial number, or a… at least an idea of the brand, manufacturer, date.” He rubs the back of his neck. “The problem here is, a lot like the Ripper scenes, most of their feelings have been erased by the message they were trying to send. They’re really careful.”

“Most,” repeats Brian, and his eyebrows rise expectantly.

“Yeah. Well. The only thing I’m getting clearly is that whoever these people are, they all really hate me, specifically. They want me off the board. They’d prefer the Ripper take me himself, but…”

The room falls silent, until Jimmy gently suggests,

“Maybe we should put you in protection, Will.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t think it would help. We already know they’ve got people watching me.” Both Jimmy and Brian turn a little pink and avert their gaze. “I don’t think the Ripper is going to come after me, and I don’t think they’d come for me themselves. Unless…” He pauses, furrowing his brow.

“Unless what?” asks Brian. He’s nervously adjusting the strap on his camera, and he still can’t make eye contact.

“Unless they thought I was a real threat to the Ripper. I mean, if they thought I knew who he was. Or…” He pauses, shakes his head. “No, that’s the only reason that would make sense.”

“Well. Thank God nobody’s got any reason to think that,” says Jimmy. “That guy’s a ghost.” A beat, then, “But uh… what about reasons that maybe don’t make so much sense?”

Will tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. “Well. I mean. If this isn’t working to draw him out, if they can’t convince him to kill me, then… it would be insane if their goal is to stay in his good graces, but, I guess they could come after me. Y’know. To… draw him out.” Jimmy and Brian’s eyes both get wide and they open their mouths to yammer over each other about the possibility, but Will just laughs. “It’s stupid, though. He wouldn’t intervene in a situation like that. He only intervenes in his own games. He would expect me to get out of that on my own. If they understand him half as well as these displays would suggest, they’d never risk pissing him off for something that wouldn’t work in the first place.”

“Will, these people are nuts,” says Brian. “You can’t assume they’re thinking things through that far.”

“I’m not going to disrupt my life, my dogs’ lives, Hannibal’s life, for a hypothetical that improbable,” Will says.

“Just… be careful,” says Jimmy. “And, for our sake, and Bev’s, as improbable as it is, would you just… include that in your report to Decker, at least?”

Will frowns, nods, and leaves the scene.

Mason Verger’s body is found washed up under a dock at the harbor a few days later. He’s wrapped in an expensive carpet stained with blood and other fluids. His legs have been roughly hewn off above the knee. One of his arms has been removed—chopped off, with a hatchet—above the elbow. The other is missing several fingers. All his valuables are missing. There is unidentified DNA trace evidence all over his body belonging to at least fifteen different people.

In his stomach and throat, there are traces of high-end liquor and expensive wine. Deep in his nasal passages, there are traces of crushed designer drugs and glitter. Blood tests determine he had high levels of ketamine in his system, among about a half-dozen other things.

The blood soaking the carpet does not belong entirely to him.

There are two gunshots in the back of his head, and all the evidence inside has been eaten away by fish and crabs.

Really, there was very little evidence left after Hannibal and Abel debrided those wounds, but tossing him in the bay helped obscure that a lot of the damage was post-mortem. Most of the drugs were already in his system.

Mason’s lawyers descend, screeching about foul play, pointing fingers at Margot, but the board of trustees reluctantly admits that they had last received an update from Mason mere days before stating he was checking himself out of his “wellness retreat,” and there had been a series of large cash withdrawals from Mason’s bank account shortly thereafter.

That had been a little difficult to arrange, but the results spoke for themselves.

The board, the lawyers, and the FBI—who got involved due to the high profile nature of Mason Verger’s death—were forced to conclude that Mason had gone back to his depraved ways the moment he was free to do so. He must have attended some kind of underground snuff party, as Eric Decker helpfully described it, and gotten so high he became one of the participants. The other guests must have come down enough to realize how bad the situation looked, double-tapped Mason in the back of the head, wrapped him up in a rug, and dumped him in the bay.

They do attempt to track down his watch and his rings, but they don’t find anything. They’ll keep an open alert for several years, of course, but they assume that the other partygoers kept the rings for themselves, perhaps as mementos of the time they experienced the ultimate thrill.

In actuality the watch and the rings had been destroyed months ago. Margot hadn’t wanted them, so Hannibal had melted them down to scrap. It had been a shame, he said, to ruin such a lovely watch, but given the wrist it had been attached to it was irreparably tainted already.

Now, Will was expecting a visit from Beverly.

She had been using the flu as an excuse for not coming to work, then a family emergency, but of course she’d heard the moment Margot was notified of Mason’s discovery, and the circumstances supposedly surrounding his death.

Will had gotten a text after a week or so that simply said,

I’m coming over.

He sat on his porch with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. The dogs were playing, rolling in the grass, chasing each other. Beverly’s car pulled up and Will was once again reminded of that day almost two years ago now. He didn’t move; he waited for her to climb the steps—not creaky anymore, since his boys had fixed it—and stand in front of him, her fingers drumming against her thighs.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, lifting the whiskey bottle.

“Will… what did you do?”

“I helped you,” Will says, pouring her a glass. He hands it up to her, and though she hesitates for a moment she does take it.

“You… mutilated him.”

“I had to sell it.”

She sits, slowly, turning the glass around in her hands, and she asks a question he honestly wasn’t expecting at this stage:

“How many times have you done this before?”

It startles a laugh out of him. “I mean, I’m not a professional fixer, if that’s what you’re asking. I just know how to stage a scene. I know what needed to be there to make sure that nobody ever looked at you or Margot, and I made sure it was there.” He takes a sip of his drink and then adds, “I’d do it again, Bev. If you needed me to.”

“I’m not trying to make a habit of this shit, Graham.” She still doesn’t drink. She’s still shaking. “Just… tell me one thing. And don’t lie. Not that I’m sure I’d be able to tell anymore.”

“Okay,” says Will, warily.

“Have we ever… Have we ever worked a scene before that was yours?”

He wants to ask for clarification on if she means a scene he’s responsible for the creation of, or a scene where he actually killed the victim, but he knows very well that that will both answer her question and drive her away instantly and irrevocably. He really underestimated her on this one.

“No,” he answers, after just a beat. Long enough that she’ll know he thought about denying the premise, but short enough that she’ll believe it’s the truth.

She nods, still looking only at her hands. “The whole way over here, I was thinking… there’s no way he gets inside killers’ heads for years without bringing something back. But I hope that’s all it is. I hope he just… borrowed from them.” She glances at him. “That’s not it, though, is it?”

He takes another sip of his whiskey. “You said one question.”

“Alright, fine, a lot of fucking questions. Are you a goddamn serial killer, Will? You chopped off Mason’s legs, for Christ’s sake, what am I supposed to think?”

“Technically, Dr. Caine chopped off his legs,” Will says, setting his glass down.

Beverly looks like she’s been slapped. “He—”

“I didn’t really want to do this this way,” Will says, thoughtfully. He turns his glass this way and that. “I had assumed we’d be able to sort of ease you into all of this. But I should’ve known even in shock you’d see that scene and realize it wasn’t exactly spontaneous.” He leans back in his seat, relaxed, nonthreatening. “You’re too brilliant to miss it. I just sort of assumed you’d be too emotionally compromised to see it right away. I’ll admit I prefer this. Being more direct.”

“Will… what the fuck are you talking about?” She slams her glass on the table beside his, and some of the whiskey slops out over the rim and onto her fingers and the weathered wood.

“Walk through it, Bev. Like you don’t know me, or Mason. What does the evidence tell you?”

Her dark eyes tick between his, and widen when she realizes he’s not dropping his gaze. He raises his eyebrows and laces his fingers together over his stomach, waiting.

“Mason… already had drugs in his system. Days’ worth. He’d contacted his trustees four days before his death to say he was… coming home. He took out a bunch of cash from three ATMs in downtown Baltimore.” She pauses and asks, “Was there… CCTV on any of those?”

“There was not,” says Will.

“Fuck.” She rubs her eyes with her dry hand and rubs the wet whiskey fingers on her jeans. “He came straight to Margot’s room and went for her and the babies. I shot him. You couldn’t have faked that.” She pauses again. “How did you know I would call you?”

“Why did you call me?”

“Because I… trusted you. And… Margot… Margot trusted you.” She swallows. “Because when you were in trouble, you called me.”

Will inclines his head. “You made a choice. Based on prior evidence.”

“You’ve been manipulating—”

“I’ve been your friend,” he says, sharply. “I’ve been family to Margot, and to you. You trusted me because I showed you over and over that you could trust me, and that I trust you.”

Beverly nods, once, and goes on. “You took Mason’s body. Our clothes. The gun.” She’s staring at him, waiting for a response.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Destroyed, Bev. All of it. I’m not trying to blackmail you.”

“Okay. Say I believe you. How did you do the rest?”

“You tell me.”

She bares her teeth at him and snaps, “I don’t fucking know! You already had this shit set up, you knew somehow he was coming back, you knew he had the drugs in his system, you had an untraceable Persian rug and a bunch of DNA ready to go, you and Dr. Caine had some surgical suite ready where you could hack off Mason’s limbs and force evidence into his stomach, you dumped him in the bay to cover up as much surface evidence as possible.”

Will waits to see if she has anything else to add, then inhales, picks up his glass, and says, “Pretty much.”

Beverly makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat that she manages to turn into a croaked, “Why?”

Will shrugs. “Margot needed to be free. Maxwell and Morgan needed to be safe.” He pauses, debates, and decides to say it because she’ll piece it together eventually anyway: “I wanted you to be fully with us.”

“Who the fuck is us? I, Will… are you and Margot—?”

“What? No. Christ. You know she’s gay. And I’m with Hannibal.” He tosses back the rest of his glass and winces as he sets it back in the little puddle on the table. “No, I just… I met Margot during a dark time in her life. I wanted to give her hope. I wanted to show her that there are good people out there who will take care of her no matter what. I… wanted to give her a family. That’s all I ever want for the people I meet, the ones who struggle to find others who understand them.”

Beverly is pale. “Dr. Lecter.”

“Yeah. Him too. There are others.”

“Dr. Caine.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else I know?”

He pauses, head cocked to one side. “Yeah. Well, sort of. Do you remember the girl in the horse thing?”

“...yeah.”

“You know the guy who Jack thought was the killer, but obviously fucking wasn’t?”

“...yeah. Peter something.”

“Yeah. Him.”

“Did he—”

“No. Christ. It was the social worker, obviously. The point is Peter was misunderstood and lonely and I saw myself in him. He deserved better. Just like Margot. He deserved a family. So I gave him one.”

“Will. I have a family.”

“I know. And you’ve always wanted a bigger one.” He sits forward, holding her startled eyes, feeling her guilt and embarrassment and the ache inside of her. “You want to drown yourself in other people you can care about, because you hope if you put all your energy into taking care of them, they’ll do the same. If there are just enough of them, if they just give you enough of themselves, enough of their attention, enough of their love, you won’t have to turn any of your own energy toward yourself. You can fall into bed every night exhausted from putting so much good into the world, knowing you’re cared for and that everything is okay.”

She tears her eyes away and murmurs, “Will… what the fuck.”

“We can give you that, Bev. Margot, she wants you to help raise her kids. I’m a better brother than Mason ever was, and so is Hannibal. And Dr. Caine. And Peter. And the others.” He laughs. “I know how it sounds. Culty, and weird. Scary. But it’s really just a mess of messy people who don’t have anybody in the world and don’t want to be alone. We made our own family because the ones we come from were absent, or taken, or weren’t enough. Because most people don’t understand us.”

“Because you’re murderers.”

As gently as possible, Will says, “So are you.”

She still stands so abruptly her chair clatters over on its side. “No. It was self-defense.”

“Beverly,” Will says, in that same soft voice, “he was unarmed. You didn’t shoot to disable. You shot him twice, in the back of the head, without warning. You and I can go in circles all day about how we know you did it to protect Margot and the kids, but that wasn’t self-defense.”

She sways, shaking, and stumbles forward to the railing. She grips it tightly and vomits over the side, into the bushes. At least two dogs sprint toward it.

“I… I didn’t—”

“Listen to me. You did the right thing. He was a fucking monster and he would have kept hurting people for the rest of his miserable life. He would have hurt those babies. He would have kept hurting Margot. He would have hurt you, if he even let you and Margot stay together. He deserved what happened to him. And Margot knows now that you’ll do anything, anything to protect your family.”

She laughs, bitter and shaky. “And so will you, huh?”

“Yes. Exactly. The rest of the family, they’ll understand too. They’ve all been in situations like yours. Choose to let somebody go who will do untold damage to others, or stop them. We’ve all got different reasoning, and different lines we won’t cross.”

“And you’re the mastermind, huh? You been… secretly running this little death cult the whole time? You been a completely different person than the one I thought I knew this whole time?”

“No. No, not… not a completely different person.” He runs a hand down his face. “I am that guy. I’m just… more than that. I learned a long time ago that people don’t like the guy that I am when I don’t… hide. I have to… compress myself down into something digestible. It’s exhausting. I have to keep people at arm’s length because if I don’t I get overwhelmed by my empathy. So I… act more antisocial than I want to be.” He sits forward, on the edge of his seat, though Bev is still hunched over the railing. “Do you have any idea how fucking horrible it is to have so much understanding of other people, to feel what they feel and want so desperately to be close to them, but to be constantly rejected? Treated like an outsider? A freak? Other? To have those feelings of disgust and humiliation and disdain cycle through your head and echo through the eyes of the people around you, when all you want is to be close to them?” He shakes his head, violently. “I have been so alone for so much of my life, Beverly. And I am so tired. Most people with my condition check out in their twenties because they can’t handle it. Can you blame me for trying to find a different solution?”

She snorts. “I guess… Dr. Lecter must have picked up on it, huh. Expert in social exclusion, right?”

Will huffs a laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

She turns around, slowly. “You’re not a psychopath. Or, y’know. A sociopath, or whatever.”

“Nope.”

“So, you really do care about this family of yours. Margot, Max, Morgan. Hannibal.”

“You,” says Will.

Beverly closes her eyes and braces herself against the railing with the heels of her hands. “I don’t know if I can… be part of it.”

“You don’t have to. It’s not a prison, Bev. It’s a family.”

“I just want to know how deep this goes, Will.”

He sighs. “Deeper than you’re ready to deal with, especially if you’re not fully in it.”

“I feel like I don’t have a choice. I… killed him, and you covered it up. It feels like we’re standing in a pool of gasoline and with a box of matches.”

“This isn’t going to make you feel better, but there’s nothing to tie either of us to Mason’s death except Margot’s word.” He chews thoughtfully at his lip. “I guess there’s also Dr. Caine’s word, but, uh… since both of them are part of the family—”

“I need something, Will. Some kind of insurance.”

He lifts his arms in a broad shrug. “There isn’t any. It’s all just your word, her word, his word. And none of them are going to say anything.” He drops his hands into his lap. “Look, Bev. I want you to be part of this because you’re my friend and I care about you, and because Margot loves you and she’s… y’know. My sister. But you can walk away if you want.”

“I can walk away from my girlfriend and our kids—her kids, who I love, if I don’t join your murder family.”

“You can keep your head down and stay blind to what else is going on, and spend your holidays with your blood relatives, if you don’t want to be part of our murder family. Nobody is trying to force you to leave. Margot certainly doesn’t want you to leave. But you need to understand if you stay and you aren’t involved, there’re going to be things you’ll have to actively choose not to look at, to protect your peace.”

She growls, frustrated, and stalks back to the whiskey bottle. The bottle clinks and clatters against Will’s glass as she pours him a dollop, then tops her own off. She slams the bottle back down, picks up her glass, and takes a deep swallow.

“Fine,” she says.

“Fine…?”

“Fine, I’m in.” She drinks again and sets the empty glass back down. She reaches for the bottle. “It would have taken more than just you and Elias to pull off that scene. You got Hannibal involved already, didn’t you.”

“Yeah,” he says, though it wasn’t a question.

“I guess there’s a lot I’m going to have to learn. But… I’m not ready to know everything.”

“I know.”

“I’ll… ask questions, when I think I’ve figured things out.”

“Okay.”

She pauses with her fresh glass just below her chin and asks,

“Will. Did you kill Freddie Lounds?”

He tilts his head from side to side, and waggles a hand in a so-so gesture. Beverly scowls.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I mean… technically no? But, uh… by proxy. And, well, if the proxy hadn’t gotten involved—”

“Jesus Christ.” She drains her drink. “I’m not sure how I feel about total honesty.”

“Don’t worry,” says Will, picking up his own glass. “We’ll go at your pace. You just let me know when you think you’ve figured something out.”

“For now, I just… I just need another drink.”

Will smiles and scoots the bottle closer to her.

Hannibal is uneasy. It is a feeling he does not enjoy, and one he cannot entirely source. There is a general and vague sense that things are not going to turn out well. He isn’t sure why; at the moment, everything is, ostensibly, fine.

Their work on Mason Verger was impeccable.

Beverly Katz has joined the family, though her knowledge of their operations is limited by what she’s capable of handling psychologically at the moment.

This most recent family dinner was a wonderful success, though neither Matthew nor Randall were able to attend, and Beau Graham is still in Florida. Hannibal feels as though he has been well and truly accepted by Will’s older siblings, and he has been getting along splendidly with Abel Gideon after their now numerous collaborations. They have been practicing referring to him exclusively by his new identity of Elias Caine, though there were a couple of slip-ups during dinner which thankfully appear to have gone unnoticed by Ms. Katz. Beverly herself was, at first, uneasy, but warmed up to Lilith, Finn, and Peter as the evening wore on.

All this to say, inching into October, their lives are fairly stable. There is no reason for this sense of looming dread. Everything is fine.

He’s in the kitchen of his home on the evening of October first, in a crisp white button-up and a chef’s apron tied around his waist, prepping for an intimate dinner with Will. Classical music fills the space from a small speaker on the end of the counter. The anxiety still sits like a stone inside of him, but he is ignoring it because there is nothing that can spoil his evening with his beloved dievas.

Nothing.

The back door bursts open.

Hannibal turns, chef’s knife in hand, and catches Will’s scent before he launches himself at the intruder.

Will slams the door shut and locks it, his breathing heavy and ragged, his eyes wild. He’s sweating, and there’s blood pouring down one side of his forehead. He whips around, sees Hannibal, stumbles forward.

Hannibal sets his knife on the butcher block and opens his arms to pull Will in close. He notes the smell of gunpowder, more blood—not Will’s, this time—and exhaust. Will is dressed as though they were already having dinner, apart from leather gloves which squeak as they hold tightly to Hannibal’s forearms, grip the front of his shirt, hold the back of his neck.

“Will—!”

“Do you trust me?” Will demands in a harsh whisper, and one of his hands falls to his side.

“Of course, dievas. But—”

“Then don’t let me cut too deep,” Will breathes, and the searing burn of a blade rips into Hannibal’s abdomen.

He grunts and gets a tight grip on Will’s wrist, fighting even as Will squeezes the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together. He’s pushing the blade deeper and tearing it across, parting skin and fat and muscle, and it’s all Hannibal can do to keep him from pushing the blade too far inside. He’s shuddering, gasping, his shirt and apron wicking away great gouts of dark red blood. It spatters on the floor, on their shoes, and as soon as Will pulls the blade out Hannibal drops, gasping to his knees and then slides to the ground. His hands are pressed as tight as he can manage against the gushing wound, and every breath burns. He can feel his guts threatening to pour out onto the floor.

When he meets Will’s eyes, he has to blink away tears. He can’t read Will’s expression; it’s closed.

Will tucks the blade into his pocket, takes off the gloves, and then rushes to Hannibal’s side with a kitchen towel in one hand and his phone in the other. There is a loud slam from the front of the house as someone kicks the door down.

Will puts pressure on the wound, on top of Hannibal’s hands, whispering nonsense. Will hits call and moments later the emergency responder begins to speak, and it sounds like nonsense, too.

Hannibal realizes he’s going into shock, and he can no longer process English.

“Hannibal,” says Will, cupping his cheek, surrounded by a string of other nonsense words.

Booted feet sprint into the room, and there is shouting. Will rises, grabs the chef’s knife from the island, and three masked figures attempt to subdue him. He manages to cut one of them quite deeply, but he’s not using any of his training and he’s not handling the knife with the expertise Hannibal knows he possesses.

There is a loud scuffle, but he can’t see most of it because it’s on the other side of the kitchen island. He hears his kitchen table, where he and Will had shared their first beautiful kiss, splinter and crack under the weight of a thrown or slammed body. He sees one of his chairs fly across the room and strike the back door, shattering some of the window panes.

A spray of blood arcs across the kitchen as someone is struck in the carotid. There is some incoherent babbling and furious roared orders, then finally the sound of two heavy bodies colliding. He sees, for an instant, Will’s face bounce against the tile floor, bruised and bloody and snarling, and then he is up, scrambling for the back door, trying for the lock.

A large figure in black stalks up behind him, takes hold of his curls, and bashes him face-first into the doorframe. His lip splits wide open, but he still manages to wrench the door open. He takes one step, twists, and slams the door on the arm of his attacker. The man bellows and lets go, practically ripping the door off its hinges to pursue.

A second figure crouches beside Hannibal and says something, softly, touching his shoulder. This person speaks near the phone, and Hannibal is able to recognize his own address. Then the second person stands, crushes the phone beneath their heel, and drops another kitchen towel next to him on their way out the back door.

Hannibal lays in a sluggishly spreading pool of his own blood, tears staining his cheeks, calling after Will until the EMTs stumble into the scene less than eight minutes later.

Chapter Text

Beverly Katz ducks beneath the crime scene tape outside of Hannibal Lecter’s home, her heavy black forensic case in one hand. For a moment, she pauses on the front steps, where CSI has already marked and catalogued the shattered lock and cracked door.

Big fucker, big boots, Beverly thinks.

The red and blue lights flicker and swirl across the front of the house. There’s a crowd of well-to-do onlookers and press already mobbing the uniforms at the edge of the lawn.

She can see two parallel lines running from inside the house, down the steps, and toward the street. Bev feels as though she might be sick as she follows them with her eyes. She swallows, and it’s like trying to swig kinetic sand. Just her own dry, sticky tongue fighting every instinct to scream. Those are gurney-tracks, sticky and stuttering and coated in blood.

Her pulse is pounding in her temples. Zeller and Price are already inside. She was coming from further away—from Margot. From their kids.

Their kids. Beverly had earned the right to call them that. Margot said so, and so it was.

She forces herself not to think about that right now, but the familiar grip of anxiety and guilt has wrapped itself tight around the top of her stomach like an iron shackle. She wonders if Will and Dr. Lecter ever stopped feeling this way about their own activities.

Hell, she wonders if they ever felt this way to begin with.

She passes through a crowd of techs, photographers, and the first uniforms on-scene giving their testimony to the agents Decker assigned to the case. Bev doesn’t recognize them; they must be transfers, or rookies. Wouldn’t that be just perfect?

She starts to piece things together as she moves from the front door toward the kitchen, following the gurney tracks. The door was kicked down by whatever big fucker with big boots was able to shatter the lock with just three solid strikes beside the handle, and then three assailants had torn through the hallway. The rug was askew, and they’d knocked over a lot of Dr. Lecter’s fancy little glass doodads in their wake. The techs were cataloguing their dirty bootprints but Beverly doubted they’d get much of anything other than three different sizes.

They have to mark every sticky, bloody shoeprint going the other direction, rushing back out of the house.

The dining room. The table is set for an intimate dinner for two, with tall tapered candles and a vase of fresh, artful flowers. A bottle of red wine is uncorked and breathing on the sideboard, in a bowl of mostly-melted ice. Beside it, of course, is a crystal decanter of something amber that Will probably wouldn’t have appreciated the cost of.

Or… maybe he would. Maybe he actually knows a lot more about whiskey than he lets on.

Again, Bev shakes her head and keeps moving, to where the gurney tracks start.

The kitchen. 

There’s no other way to say it. It’s a fucking bloodbath.

There’s arterial spray all over the walls, as though the dead guy in the corner had stumbled around half the room in the five seconds he was up before he lost consciousness and collapsed next to the busted up kitchen table. He’s facedown, but that’s about all Bev can tell with the sheet over him. 

There’s a massive pool of blood beneath the body, easily eight feet across. It’s been long enough since the attack that the middle is starting to coagulate, but the plasma is separating out at the edges. There are a few smeared tracks in one side of the pool—as controlled as it can be, given the scene—from whoever had to verify this guy was dead (like it was even a question with literally all of his blood visible) and cover him with the sheet.

The gurney lines don’t start from him, of course. The EMTs would have judged instantly that there was no saving him. He was dead within probably ninety seconds of what Beverly suspects is a deep carotid wound, based on the spray around the walls even after he collapsed.

No—the gurney lines start from the other side of the kitchen island.

She can imagine what it was like. Rushing in on this scene, seeing the blood, tasting it because how can you not at this volume? She can see bloody handprints just peeking around the edge of the island, fingertips desperately digging, trying to drag an eviscerated Hannibal Lecter toward his back door. She can see places the EMTs slipped in the blood, slid, set down their bags in the spreading pools.

Dr. Lecter would have fought, though he would have been too far in shock to realize that’s what he was doing. The first responders had had to sedate him, kneeling in a three-foot-wide pool of his blood trapped behind the kitchen island. It had soaked all of his clothing, and theirs. It had soaked their trauma kits. It had probably soaked the pads on the gurney.

She can see the sticky spots where they had knelt beside him. Handprints, already catalogued as belonging to first responders, dark red with abdominal blood.

She could picture it, pooling, lapping at the base of the counters, rapidly filling the space between the island and the sink. They had scooped him onto a backboard just to get him out of it and then lifted him up onto a pop-up gurney, racing him out of the house, heedless of the absolute fucking nightmare this created for the forensics team.

But… they had saved his life.

Beverly takes a deep breath.

Decker had called approximately thirty minutes after the attack. It had gotten to the FBI pretty quickly because one of the EMTs had known who Dr. Lecter was from his time at Johns Hopkins and also had been an avid reader of Tattlecrime, when Lounds was still alive.

The thought of her gave Beverly more of that cold iron stomach clenching sensation, but she let it pass.

Decker had called the team in immediately, considering Dr. Lecter was still an FBI consultant (although Decker had yet to use his services). But, because Baltimore PD was involved, and there was a lot of jurisdictional dick-measuring, CSI and forensics had only started really scouring the scene an hour ago.

She was staring at the pool of Dr. Lecter’s blood, coagulating into a horrific dark blob with pink edges and thick smears dragging through it.

She heard Price and Zeller coming up from the basement, inside the wine cellar, bickering.

“You wouldn’t be able to drink them even if they did have to go into evidence. But like I told you, there’s nothing forensically significant on any of his special reserve, so we stick to just the door and the few little drops that fell through.”

“I don’t want to drink them, I don’t even like wine, I just don’t know what Lecter needs with that many bottles of, like, eight hundred dollar wine!”

“He’s gonna need all the nice wine in the world once he recovers from this,” says Jimmy. “Hey, Bev. They tell you anything yet?”

“No,” she says, faintly. She’s still staring at the blood pool. “Just that… Lecter made it to the hospital, and, um… he’s in surgery.”

“He’ll be okay. He’s strong as an ox, even down a liter and a half of blood.”

“Closer to two,” says Brian. “And he was still fighting the EMTs.”

“Yeah, well, he had no idea what was going on. My buddy Mark, he’s one of the Baltimore PD guys who showed up on scene, said he could hear Lecter babbling in like, five different languages before they sedated him.”

“What five languages do you think a guy like Dr. Lecter speaks?”

“He speaks more than five, right Bev?”

“Yeah,” says Beverly, absently. She pulls on her gloves and squints at a bubble in Dr. Lecter’s blood puddle. “Do you guys see that?”

They cut their bullshit for a second and really look. Beverly inches forward, avoiding as much of the blood spatter, smears, and pool as she can, and points to what looks like a clot. Jimmy rapidly takes a series of photos from his corner of the kitchen island and passes the camera over to Bev, who gets a few closer shots. She hands the camera off to Jimmy and says,

“I’m gonna grab it.”

Jimmy takes a series of photos as Beverly reaches, gingerly, with two fingers, and lifts something hard out of the pool. It’s sticky, dripping strands of deep red, but once it’s free of the pool it’s clearly recognizable.

“Shit,” says Zeller. “Is that Lecter’s phone? They said his phone and stuff was missing.”

Beverly shakes her head, cold and pale. “No. Dr. Lecter’s is newer. This is Will’s phone.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” says Price, grimacing. “Have you gotten a look at the rest of the room yet?”

“Signs of a struggle, back door was open when EMTs got here, that other body,” Zeller lists, equally as grim.

“Now, I’d have believed three guys came in to rob Dr. Lecter and he fought them off.” Jimmy pats his bicep emphatically. “Strong guy. Chef, surgeon, not a guy I’d cross with a knife in his hand. But,” he gestures to the blood at their feet. “This isn’t much older, but it is a little older than our dead guy’s blood. See the drying right at the edges? And you could argue, hey, Jimmy, arterial force would mean it was flowing longer. Sure. But the separation is further along, too. More plasma, less pink than over there.”

“So… evidence tells us these guys came in, the struggle started, they took Lecter down,” Brian makes a sound like ripping flesh and drags his thumb across his abdomen, “and then somebody who wasn’t bleeding their guts out managed to get a knife into the neck of our John Doe.” He makes a squirting sound and drags his thumb across his carotid. “Severed the artery, kept fighting. There’s more blood spatter than we know what to do with. We haven’t typed it all yet so it’s possible one of the other two assailants got hurt.”

“Yeah, we know from the 911 operator that there was a struggle going on in the background while she was trying to get the address. We’re getting a copy of that call. But we can tell from the damage to the back door, and the blood, that the struggle continued over there and into the yard.”

“Anybody looked in the yard yet to check for footprints?”

Zeller shakes his head. “The first quarter is paving stones, then it’s lawn. By the time we got here the grass had all sprung back up. We’re gonna have a team look closer for damage, see if they can pull anything, but… it’s too soon to know right now.”

“Fuck!” Bev’s clean hand covers her face, and the other, still in bloody blue nitrile gloves, still holding the evidence bag, clenches.

“We’re out of options, Bev,” says Price, almost gently. “We gotta tell Decker, he can’t treat this as a robbery. This was them. Will said they wouldn’t be stupid enough to come after him, but—”

Beverly’s head snaps up. “What?”

Jimmy blinks. “The Muses. Will said, at the warehouse scene—oh, shoot, you weren’t there. Well, anyway he said if they wanted to piss off the Ripper and they were crazy they might try to come after him directly, take him, try to get the Ripper to take back what’s his.”

“Yeah but he said they seemed like they knew the Ripper well enough to know it wasn’t gonna work,” says Zeller.

“No, I got that, I read his report, I mean what the fuck do you mean Decker is treating this like a robbery?”

Zeller scowls. “He said because Lecter’s wallet and his phone were taken and we don’t have another motive for an attack like this right now—”

“What, like, he didn’t even consider it could be, like, a disgruntled patient, or a jealous ex, or—?”

“I didn’t like it either, Bev,” says Zeller, impatiently, “but now we’ve got proof Will was here. And based on preliminary evidence, we can be pretty sure—”

“He probably didn’t get very far before the other two grabbed him, otherwise he’d be with Dr. Lecter right now,” says Price. He springs to his feet. “We need a wider perimeter. This is a missing person’s case now, there’s probably a secondary scene. I’ll be right back.” He sprints into the other room, and his raised voice lifts above the murmur of others as he begins demanding a search for the scene of the abduction.

“Bev,” says Brian, crouching beside her. “Will’s smart. He’ll have made sure something was left behind. And we’ll use it to find him.”

It sparks something in Beverly’s mind. Will would leave something.

True. He would have known instantly who would be called to look at this scene. He would trust them. He would trust her.

She looks up, eyes dry, and nods.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s get to work.”

Decker is a goddamn bastard. Jack would have started a statewide manhunt the second one of his agents went missing, but Decker has to be convinced. It’s almost four hours after the abduction that the scene is discovered, just three blocks from Hannibal’s home. 

It was like pulling teeth to get permission to cordon off the search area, so eventually Price stopped asking and just started looking. 

He had called Beverly and Brian, frantic, from behind a row of tiny stores where he’d found an alleyway with a smear of blood, a torn bit of scalp with curly brown hair still attached caught on one of the grungy brick walls, and a torn strip of bloody flannel caught on a rough burr of metal on the edge of a dumpster. There was DNA trace from at least three people, some of it probably from Will. There were dozens of tire tracks by this point, as it operated as a service and delivery access road for about twenty small businesses, so that was going to be a bust.

It was, however, enough to convince Decker that this had been an abduction, and that one of his own agents—a consultant and a professor at the FBI academy, who had been grievously wronged by the FBI before, no less—was taken.

Six hours after the abduction, they finally have the resources they need. Decker will be making a public announcement tomorrow.

Something nags at Beverly.

She took a lot of samples at the crime scene. Blood they’re sure is Hannibal’s, blood they know is the John Doe assailant’s. Spatter they’re not sure about. She frowns thinking about the blood in the alleyway. They know it’s Will’s. It’s Will’s hair, it’s Will’s shirt. They find dog hair on it, from Will’s dogs. DNA trace from two others, on that little scrap, but only one matches DNA from the kitchen scene?

She lets it pass.

She steps out of the lab for a break. She doesn’t know why, but she finds herself in Will’s cramped, windowless office. She sits at his desk. There’s a photo of Will, an older man who looks a hell of a lot like him, and a big-ass fish. Beverly laughs, holding the frame in both hands. It looks like a dating profile photo, where you’re not sure if you’re getting the young, beautiful guy, or the older, ruggedly handsome guy. Or the fish.

She laughs a little harder.

It’s so stupid.

Tears plink against the glass covering the photo. Her hands shake.

She pulls out her phone and, blindly, calls Margot.

“Bev, baby, what’s going on?”

It’s after midnight.

Beverly sniffs. “I… I’m sorry, Margot. I hope I didn’t… wake the kids.”

“They’re fine. You’re not. Talk to me.”

“It’s… um. The call, earlier. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell you,” Beverly sniffles again and sets the photo down on the desk. “I’m not supposed to, um… talk about cases. But… Will said, um… you’re like, his sister. So, I’m justifying it to myself.”

Margot is eerily silent. Not even breathing.

“Um. Dr. Lecter is, um… He was the one I got the call about. He’s uh, critical condition, at Hopkins. And, uh… Will. He’s, um.” Hysterical laughter bubbles past her lips and Beverly shrugs wildly. “We just, uh, we can’t fuckin’ find him, Margot.”

“Beverly. What happened?”

“We think the Muses. Came to Dr. Lecter’s house and…” She takes a deep breath. “Attacked them. Took Will. We think… they’re trying to rile up the Ripper.”

“Yeah, no shit,” murmurs Margot. “Has anybody called his father?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. They’re each other’s emergency contact, I think that’s about as far as anybody’s looked so far.”

“Okay. Listen, baby, I know you want to help, and you can’t do that if you’re exhausted and you haven’t eaten. Come home. You can pick up in the morning. I can send a car, if you don’t think you’re okay to drive.”

“Yeah,” says Bev, rubbing at her eyes. “Okay.”

“Good, you’re doing so good. Do you want me to make you something, or I can have the driver pick something up for you?”

“I… don’t know if I can eat.”

“I know. Just something easy. Can you do that for me? Greasy burger, fries, strawberry shake?”

Beverly finds herself relaxing and nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay, that’s good. I’ll have somebody there for you in half an hour.” Margot pauses, waiting for a protest, but Beverly is staring dully at the photo again. “Okay, baby. Be outside in thirty. Promise me you’ll try a few bites of that burger.”

“I’ll probably eat the whole thing,” says Bev, softly. “I love a good shitty burger.”

Margot’s laugh is like music and bells and life. “I know you do. I love you, Bee. And so do Max and Morgan. Say ‘I love you, Bee!’” There’s the sound of sleepy babbling, and Beverly’s heart aches. “We’ll see you at home soon, baby.”

The call ends, and Beverly sits for another ten minutes, staring at the photo of Will and his father, before she rises and heads to collect her things. She encourages Zeller and Price to go home, too. After all, some of these tests just need to run. Some of their data just needs time to cook. They’re not going to catch the fuckers who took Will if they’re half-asleep and starving.

“Go home,” she says. “Maybe go home together.” They both scowl at her, but she doesn’t have the energy to smile; she just shrugs. “Will is our friend, and we all need a little comforting right now. I’m going home to my family. I’m just saying… maybe none of us ought to be alone.”

They shift foot to foot, glance sideways at each other, and then Zeller nods. They all hug, promise to be back at seven AM sharp, and Beverly leaves them to catch the towncar Margot has sent.

The driver’s got a greasy bag of food and a strawberry milkshake waiting for her, just like Margot promised. He doesn’t say anything, other than to confirm her name, and she appreciates it. She tells him he can play whatever he wants on the radio, she really doesn’t care, and she starts to stuff her face with fries. He puts on a classic rock station, the kind Will sometimes listens to.

She cares a little, but she’s too tired to make a fuss.

Beverly lets herself inside of the Verger mansion and drags herself upstairs to the guest room which has become theirs during the ‘remodeling’ of ‘a few of the bedrooms’. Eventually, they would move to the opposite wing, to a large, spacious room with a lot of natural light, which had once been Margot’s parents’. That room was being remodeled as well. For now, though, the guest room was wonderful, and larger than some apartments Bev had lived in during college.

Margot was awake, talking softly on her phone, rocking Morgan’s bassinet. Maxwell was sleeping soundly in his own bassinet, little hands curled into pink fists to either side of his head, little feet twitching occasionally. Morgan was a little fussier, particularly after a feed, but even as Bev approached, Margot was lessening the strength of her rocking.

The babies were asleep, peaceful and beautiful, round little noses snuffling, tiny tongues poking past their cherubic lips, cheeks plump, arms and legs fat with healthy rolls of fat to encourage the massive amount of growth they would be doing in the coming months.

Margot was still talking quietly. She turned to open one arm to Beverly, to pull her close and press Beverly’s nose to the side of her neck. It was immensely comforting just to relax into Margot’s embrace.

“I wish I knew,” Margot was saying. “Listen, Bev just got home. I need to make sure she’s okay. Can you make sure everyone else knows what’s going on?” A pause, then Margot’s voice gets a little sharper. “I won’t push. I know you’re scared, and so am I, but Will would say exactly the same thing and you know it.” Another pause, and Margot heaves a sigh. “I know. It’s okay. Just… We’re on the same side, all of us.” Another pause, and Margot pets Beverly’s hair, her fingernails light against Bev’s scalp. “Yeah. Thank you. Try to get some rest. Goodnight, Finn.”

She hangs up, and her arms encircle Beverly completely. She kisses Bev’s temple.

“Will’s family?” asks Beverly, standing straight with a soft groan.

“Yeah. I called Papa first. Beau Graham, I mean, Will’s father. He’s a real sweetheart. You’ll like him. He’ll love you.”

“Not if I can’t find his kid.” Beverly shrugs out of her jacket and goes to hang it on the rack by the door.

Margot chuckles, leaning against one of the bedposts. “You’ll get it when you meet him. Christmas, maybe. If you want to do Christmas with us.”

Beverly pauses, half-undressed. “You guys will stick together, even if…?”

“Yes,” says Margot, simply. “No matter what happens. They’re our family, too.”

Bev hums an acknowledgement and pulls on a pair of sweatpants that cost more than the nicest pair of jeans in her closet at home. “Well. If you can promise Dr. Lecter won’t blame me for life if something happens to Will, then I’d love to come to Christmas.”

Margot pauses. “Yes, well… I doubt Hannibal would stay.” She frowns. “I doubt we’ll have to worry about that, though.”

Beverly nods, though she doesn’t really understand. She staggers over to the bed and falls in. Margot wriggles under the blankets beside her and pats her chest. Bev obediently turns herself into sort of a human shrimp, her head between Margot’s breasts, one arm tucked into the curl of her own torso, the other draped across Margot’s stomach.

Those long, sharp nails drag through her hair again, and Beverly begins to relax.

“Do you have any idea when Hannibal might wake up?” asks Margot, softly. 

Her nails trail down Beverly’s neck and spine, and she can’t help her delighted sigh, even as she says,

“It depends.”

Margot hums and begins to knead at a tense spot at the base of Beverly’s neck.

“On what?” she asks.

Bev arches her neck a little. “Well. He’s tough, we know that. But…” She pauses, and her shoulders drop. She curls her legs a little tighter. Her voice gets smaller. “There was… a lot of blood, Mar. I mean, I’ve seen scenes like this before, but it was different, seeing it there. I mean, that’s where we met. Not that kitchen, but… that house. And that much blood, that much…” She takes a deep breath. “He’s probably out of surgery now, but they’ll keep him sedated. Even if he’s technically awake, he probably won’t be lucid. He’ll be so high he might not even know Will’s—”

“He’ll know,” says Margot. “He’ll feel it. How I’d feel it, if you or Max or Morgan were taken away from me. Like a missing limb.”

“Yeah,” says Bev, softly.

Margot says, “I’m going to go see him as soon as I can.”

“Get in line,” murmurs Beverly. “The FBI will want to interview him.”

“Yes,” says Margot. “And he might need help telling the right story.”

They both fall silent, and hold each other close. It’s all they can do for tonight; there’s so very much more to say, and yet every word in existence is tangled impossibly within the silence between.

A body drops three days later.

By this point the scene in Dr. Lecter’s kitchen has been so well-categorized by spatter analysis and forensic investigation that they are confident in their interpretation of the events.

It plays out like this in the FBI’s recreation:

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are in the kitchen of Dr. Lecter’s home. They are preparing a meal together. Will’s phone, restored, had proved that he had been at Hannibal’s home for less than ten minutes when the front door was kicked in by an unidentified male approximately six-foot-four wearing size 16 steel-toed construction boots of common make and manufacture. Given that Assailant A was able to breach a solid oak door in approximately three kicks, it is likely that he is approximately two hundred and ninety pounds, and may have some kind of training. 

Assailant A enters the home first and heads straight for the kitchen, followed closely by Assailant B, an unidentified male wearing size 10 tactical boots with no unique or traceable tread pattern, and Assailant C, the as-yet-unidentified John Doe. Will Graham is able to dial 911, but all three assailants attack before the call connects. The phone is dropped on the floor.

Assailant A, with his superior strength, lifts Will Graham off of his feet and slams him on the kitchen table, breaking it in half.

Dr. Lecter attempts to intervene, but Assailant B sticks him with something like a linoleum cutter.

Will Graham manages to use a kitchen knife to cut Assailant A, likely on the forearm. He tries to reach Dr. Lecter, but is attacked by Assailant C, at which point Dr. Graham, in fear for his life and the life of his partner, swings his weapon into the neck of Assailant C, severing his carotid artery. Dr. Graham removes the knife and continues toward Dr. Lecter, at which point he is tackled to the ground by Assailant A.

Dr. Graham’s head is bashed into the tile, as is the hand holding the knife. Dr. Graham is disarmed at this time.

Assailant B, for reasons unknown, gives the 911 operator the address of Dr. Lecter’s home, then crushes the phone beneath his boot. He passes around the outside of the kitchen island and kicks the knife away from Will Graham’s hand.

Assailant A rises, attempting to maintain a hold on Will Graham, but Will escapes the hold and runs for the back door. As he fumbles with the lock, a kitchen chair is flung at him and misses, but shatters some of the glass, resulting in several small lacerations.

Will escapes through the door, pursued closely by Assailant A. Will slams the door on the arm of Assailant A, most likely, and most likely breaks or sprains Assailant A’s arm, based on the force applied and the damage to the back door.

Dr. Graham runs for several blocks, weaving behind homes and behind businesses. He is caught on several cameras in passing, covered in blood and sprinting away from two pursuers in all black, wearing dark masks.

He is eventually caught in an alley and his head is bashed against the brick wall. He falls against the dumpster, tearing his flannel. He is picked up by both assailants and loaded into a vehicle, likely driven by a fourth unidentified accomplice.

The John Doe, Assailant C, is white, five foot nine, two hundred twenty pounds, stocky. He was dressed in dark, utilitarian coveralls overtop dark jeans, a black hoodie, and a plain black Henley. The collar of the coveralls was zipped all the way up, but the hood of the sweatshirt was out. He wore a red theatrical mask, like one might see in a Greek play, and had a pair of black leather gloves covering his hands. When he was stripped for the autopsy, a number of scars and tattoos were documented which the team hoped would help identify him as his prints and DNA are a bust.

The team is getting discouraged when the call comes in about the new scene.

Decker does, at least, have the grace to say, “It’s definitely not him.”

It’s a young man, about six feet tall, hundred and eighty pounds, slim but athletic build. Dark, curly hair, yes, but at a glance it’s definitely not Will because this young man is black.

Beverly walks around the scene, frowning. The Muses are gloating.

This man, similarly beautiful and with curls that are artfully gelled into place, has been placed like the sacrificial Graham upon the altar. He is laid out on a long, blood red runner at the center of a table absolutely groaning with food. It’s all fresh vegetables, fruits, pastries, meats, candies, and wine, with seventeen different, seemingly random glasses filled with, again, apparently random amounts of wine.

He looks like he could be sleeping, like he’s at peace with what’s been done to him. His whole abdominal cavity has been torn open, and the innards are twined throughout the offerings on the table. His intestines have been roped and twisted like sausages. Nothing remains within him; he’s been scraped raw, like the inside of a Halloween pumpkin, and his spine is visible inside. His thighs and pelvis have also been flayed, his genitals removed, replaced with a golden leaf as though to protect his modesty.

“I feel like I know what Will meant,” says Zeller, frowning at the display on his camera.

“About what?” asks Beverly.

“When he said that he doesn’t need to get into their heads to know what these scenes mean. They’re that blatant.” He gestures to the young man on the table. “This is pretty fuckin’ straightforward, right?”

Price nods from his place beside the young man’s left hand, delicately resting on a pile of grapes. “Oh yeah. A nice big feast, ready and waiting for the artiste himself, if he’s man enough to come and get it.”

Beverly doesn’t ask Decker if she can go talk to Dr. Lecter.

She knows he’s awake, and fairly lucid, because on the day of the feast display Decker send a couple of agents to try to talk to him and he outright refused to speak to them. No comment, no statement, nothing.

Margot hadn’t been able to get in yet, since he was still in the ICU, but the day after the Muses’ feast, Beverly gives it a shot. She flashes a badge at the nurses, carries a manila folder, and says she’s there to interview a witness in a time-sensitive federal case, which isn’t really a lie.

The nurses definitely don’t want to let her in. They warn her she’s not the first fed to come by, and that the patient sent the other ones away.

“He won’t send me away,” she says, firmly.

He looks… awful. Pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He’s in a hospital gown, with a rack of IV bags steadily dripping into his veins. He looks exhausted, and she’s never seen Dr. Lecter less than composed so it’s absolutely startling to find him looking… well, half-dead.

She knocks politely on the doorframe as the nurse bustles in ahead of her, fussing. He dismisses the nurse with nothing but a polite smile and a nod, even as she casts a mistrustful glance Beverly’s direction. Once she’s gone, Beverly gently closes the door.

“Good morning, Dr. Lecter,” she says.

“Is it?” he drawls.

“Not really. More like a… shitty early afternoon.” She gestures at the chair by his bedside. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No,” he says.

She’s never really noticed until this moment how red Dr. Lecter’s eyes are. They always look just warm brown, almost like bourbon. Right now they look a lot more like Fireball. The thought makes her feel a bit ill.

“I’m officially here to… try to get your statement,” she says. His expression is blank, passive, but in an undeniably unsettling and dangerous fashion. She’s careful. “Unofficially, I…” She takes a breath. “Will is—”

“Gone,” he says, and it’s soft but again there’s an edge to it.

“Yeah,” she agrees, after only a beat of hesitation. “Dr. Lecter, the FBI believes—the family believes, too—that Will was taken by the Muses. That they attacked you both in your home and abducted him.”

“So they did,” Dr. Lecter says.

“The FBI thinks it was to piss off the Ripper. Get him acting again.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. He leans back against his pillows and watches her, as though waiting for something, and when it doesn’t happen he says,

“And what does the family think?”

She frowns. “I don’t know. Margot said, uh… there wouldn’t be any further discussion about what’s going on, or what to do, until you woke up.”

He watches her for another long moment. “I see.” He closes his eyes. “I am to be transferred to a private recovery suite tomorrow or the following day, depending on my body’s response to the myriad medications I have been forced to take. I will recover there for two more weeks, ideally, and then they will attempt to convince me to discharge to a rehabilitation center. With Margot’s permission I will instead opt to discharge into Dr. Caine’s care.”

“She said she’ll come see you, once you have your own room. So you can talk about, um. Family matters.”

He lifts one eyelid and glances at her. “Are we not discussing family matters?”

“I mean. I’m kinda… peripheral. Right? A lot I’m not privy to just yet. A lot of context I don’t get. Things I can’t… help with.”

He hums and closes his eye again. “For the moment, there is nothing to be done.”

She blinks. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I just… Will was taken by the Muses , and you’re—?”

His eyes snap open and he snarls, “Bedridden? Incapable? Useless?”

She shrinks, though he hasn’t lurched forward or even sat up. He might not even be able to, with his abdominal muscles so damaged.

His eyes burn and he speaks through his teeth.

“I am perfectly cognizant of my situation, Ms. Katz. Do not mistake inability for inattention. It is torment of the highest order to be trapped in this hellish prison while those zealots have their unworthy hands on my Will.”

The shift in his voice is subtle, but chilling. It’s a marriage of sheer, unbridled possessiveness and a violence that surpasses murderous and ascends to acts of God. He’s like a tsunami in a hurricane suit and wildfire top hat, all sickeningly stuffed into the skin of a man she used to think of as stable. Something clicks for her that probably would have taken a lot longer to see under different circumstances.

“Oh, shit,” she whispers, “you’re him.”

He doesn’t answer. His vitals are elevated, but not by her accusation. The machines start to beep. The nurse comes in, and it’s like watching a snake un-shed its skin. He sighs and smiles and waves the nurse away.

“It’s quite alright, my apologies. I… simply became upset, recounting what happened. Thank you for checking on me.”

“You know you need to watch that blood pressure, Dr. Lecter,” the nurse says, wagging a finger at him. “If this happens again, I’ll have to throw out your guest until another day.”

“Of course. Thank you, Dana.”

The nurse leaves, and there is a long silence.

“Will knew,” Beverly finally says.

“Yes.”

“Margot? Dr. Caine? Everyone in the family?”

Dr. Lecter’s gaze is even and unwavering. “Are there not larger concerns than this at the moment?”

Beverly opens her mouth, closes it. Shrugs helplessly. She knows there will be no proof.

“I just… it’s a lot, y’know? And I just want to know we’re safe.”

“I will reassure you only once, Ms. Katz: Will’s family, our family, you included, will never have anything to fear from me. If the worst came to pass, I would see every other person on this wretched planet burn with none to stop me, and it is my solemn promise that this family alone would remain to witness the oceans run red and the skies fall silent.”

“That’s your idea of reassurance?”

“I am what I am,” is all he says. He rests his head back against his pillows again and closes his eyes. “If you would like to take an official statement, I am prepared to give one that will match whatever the official assumption is about the events of that night.”

“Why?”

He gestures to the room, then to his stomach. “This was Will’s design. All of this. He wanted me here. I will tell the story he intended.”

“Will cut you?” Beverly’s mind whirs. “But… why?”

“To prevent me from following, or from retaliating. And, of course, to protect me from scrutiny.”

She furrows her brow. “There has to be more to it than that.”

His laugh is short and sharp. “Yes. He provoked them. Deliberately. Hubris is often the pitfall of the savvy.”

“No, this… doesn’t feel right. We’re missing something. We have to be,” Beverly murmurs. “We need more information.”

He lifts a hand and gestures morosely at the door. “Go, then. I will remain here to rot until the voice of god instructs me otherwise.”

“We’re going to find Will,” she says. Comforting the Ripper was not on her Bingo card for this year, but neither was Will runs a murder family, so…

“It is the state in which you may find him that concerns me,” Hannibal says, and Beverly leaves him to his miasma of melancholy rage.

Hannibal is moved to a very nice private recovery room the next afternoon, and Margot goes to see him. Beverly is far too tired to ask what they talked about, but Margot is on the phone for a long time with one of Will’s other siblings that evening.

Beverly doesn’t really know how to bring up the whole Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper and you knew the whole time and made him one of the godfathers of our kids conversation, because it goes hand in hand with the Will Graham is some kind of murder mastermind with a whole family of murderers who report to him and you made him one of the godfathers of our kids conversation that they haven’t had, either.

It does beg a few questions, one of which is how did Will know Dr. Caine in the first place to make him part of this little family?

Beverly thinks on that for a while while she lays in bed that night, with the new context of Hannibal Lecter as the Ripper. Pieces start to slot together. Height, weight, build. Colored contact lenses. The roots of his hair. His attitude.

A crispy corpse with absolutely no remaining identifying features.

A couple of displays created by a talented surgeon while Hannibal Lecter was having a public tiff with his boyfriend, or straight up under protection by the FBI.

Who identified that body with confidence? Who told the FBI, beyond a doubt, that those displays were definitely the work of the Ripper?

“Shit,” she whispers into the dark, and a sleepy Margot snuggles closer.

When they find the next Muses display, twelve days from the initial attack, Decker is sure it’s going to be Will Graham.

There’s been no sign of him. No viable tips on the number the FBI has been running on every news station nationwide. No bodies dumped. No hits in the database from other violent crimes. It’s like he’s a ghost.

The body they find is a large man, easily six foot four, and he’s been hanged from a second-floor balcony outside of an abandoned storefront. He’s been eviscerated, and his bowels have splattered down and out around his feet and onto the pavement below. He’s got a sign hung around his neck marking him as a traitor. He’s wearing a red Tragedy mask.

There is a skeleton posed beneath, with enormous wings made of gold-painted feathers and a crown of red columbines and purple hyacinths woven with sprigs of pine. It appears to be lifting its arms in supplication or praise, perhaps begging for forgiveness.

“This is one of our kidnappers,” says Zeller. “No doubt. Guy that big, and look at the damage to the left arm. Consistent with what we found at the scene.”

“So, they killed their own guy?” says Price, cocking his head.

“Maybe they’re not all on the same page,” Zeller suggests. “Will said they’d have to be nuts to think this was a good idea. Maybe they didn’t all agree, and this guy and the other two went off and did their own thing.”

Beverly nods, but a different possibility occurs to her.

Back at the lab, when they’re processing all the samples, she slips one into the batch that’s labeled as a re-test of two unidentified DNA traces retrieved from the scene of Will’s abduction. That’s not what the test is actually for, of course.

It takes a couple of days for the batch to come back, but she finds what she was looking for. She slips the results into her pocket.

She was really testing the DNA found at the scene of the abduction on the tatter of flannel Will had engineered to be left at the scene against the blood of the victim laid out on the table at the Muses’ feast display.

It’s a match, of course.

With the excuse of a family emergency, Beverly flies out of the lab and heads straight for the hospital. She’s out of breath when she gets to Hannibal’s private room. He’s alone, seated in a wheelchair beside the window, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“Ms. Katz,” he manages to say. “I was just finishing my exercises for the day. Sitting, as exercise. Of all the indignities.”

“It’s Will,” she says, slapping the DNA results on the table beside him. “All of it. It’s all Will and it always has been.”

Hannibal huffs. “You’ll forgive me for my subdued reaction, I’m sure. I see a match between two samples. You will have to provide context.”

Beverly sighs and opens her mouth to speak, but two nurses enter in order to help Hannibal back into bed. She stuffs the page in her pocket and moves out of their way. They fuss and coo over him, and he is the picture of grace, but when they’ve gone, he is sweaty and annoyed and perhaps mildly embarrassed that she witnessed such a thing. She doesn’t give him time to stew about it.

She pulls the paper back out of her pocket and points to the first sample.

“This was taken from the scene of Will’s abduction. From a scrap of flannel that got caught on a dumpster.” She points to the second sample. “This was the first Muse kill that popped up after the abduction. The day before I came to see you.” She taps the sample again, more forcefully. “This was the victim in that display. None of this DNA showed up at your house so he could either be the second guy, the one they think gutted you, or the driver. We didn’t find any trace of the second guy other than footprints at your house.” She stuffs the paper back in her pocket. “Today, a scene drops. Huge guy, wounds on his arm consistent with the evidence we found at your house. Hanged like a traitor.”

“Bowels in, or bowels out?” Hannibal says, softly.

“Out,” says Beverly, and shudders. “And there was this… skeleton angel, begging for forgiveness. Crown of flowers.”

“Which flowers?”

She checks her phone’s search history. “Red columbines, purple hyacinths, and pine needles. So, like, I’m so sorry, I hope you forgive me, poor me, I’m so nervous. Right?”

“More or less,” he says. He’s quiet, contemplative.

“This is the guy, the guy who kicked in your door. So now, three of the four guys who were involved in the attack are dead, if we assume there was a separate driver. Will killed one at the scene. Three days later, another one is laid out like a Muse display, insides scooped out, feast ready for the devouring—” It occurs to her then that the Ripper is a cannibal, but she lets that slide right past her awareness and barrels onward. “—and then nine days after that, the third one is strung up in a display designed to say sorry, our bad, only some of us stole your guy from you, please don’t be mad at all of us. But it’s one of the same guys. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, so she begins to pace as she walks through the whole thing.

“You said he provoked them. What if he did more than that? What if he told them to attack the house? Maybe they didn’t know the order was coming from him, maybe he’s got a, an alias or something, I don’t know all the details. So he tells them, go after Will Graham! And they do, but he’s… ready for that, somehow? He knows it’s coming, he guts you to get you off the board, to piss them off more, to accomplish whatever, hell, maybe genuinely to sow discord with these Muses. But he… he had to have help, somebody to convince the big guy the operation was fine and to overpower the last guy. And to set up those displays, he doesn’t do that stuff on his own, like with… with Mason, he had help from you and Dr. Ca—ugh. Tell me, Dr. Caine, he’s Abel Gideon, right?”

Hannibal nods once, and Beverly goes on.

“Okay. This is fine. Okay, so, one of the other family members at least is in on this. So they trick the big guy, kill the second guy, and then later, discord sown, they kill the big guy, or get the other Muses to do it. But that means, that means Will kidnapped himself, and he’s out there right now, hunting these fuckers down, killing them, scaring them into killing each other, and he’s not doing it alone but he’s behind it, y’know? He’s… He’s probably been behind it for a long time, right? I mean… right?”

When she finally stops pacing and really looks at Hannibal, she sees a nuclear bomb behind the eyes of the most prolific serial killer she’s ever heard of. He doesn’t say a word to Beverly; he simply reaches for his phone, dials a number, and patiently waits for an answer.

His voice is low, even, and pleasant.

“Good evening, Lilith, my dear,” he says. “Would you be so kind as to do me a favor?” A beat, and a smile that barely reaches the corners of his mouth. “Thank you. You are deeply appreciated. Please, if you would, call everyone together for me at Muskrat Farm, tomorrow evening, around seven. Yes. I think it’s time we had a bit of a family meeting.”