Chapter Text
The first thing Bedelia noticed was the smell—sharp antiseptic, beneath it the coppery ghost of her own blood. She wasn't sure how long she'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, but the passing hours had blurred together into one endless, pulsing ache. The last clear memory she had was the glint in Will Graham's eyes: colder than she ever imagined. Now, as the muted light of dawn crept through the gauze curtains, she realized she was still alive—and that was the most terrifying thing of all. If they'd left her breathing, it could only mean they weren't finished. The ropes dug into the delicate bones of her wrists as Bedelia stirred, a dull fire spreading through her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open fully now, adjusting to the pale light washing over the dining room she once curated with obsessive care. Every detail—her fine china, the crystal glasses, the monogrammed napkins—looked grotesquely theatrical under the circumstances.
She swallowed hard when she saw him. Will sat opposite her at the long table, elbows resting on the polished surface, hands folded neatly. His gaze was steady, unblinking; the dark circles beneath his eyes made him look even less like the man she had seen on the news. There was no sign of Hannibal, but his absence felt deliberate, a ghostly presence in every shadow.
"Welcome back," Will said softly, his voice carrying a deceptive warmth. He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he already knew the solution to. "You must be hungry. Shall we pick up where you left off?"
A shiver crawled down her spine. She didn't know what was worse—the agony of her wounds, or the realization that Will Graham, the man she once thought of as a victim, had become something else entirely. It was difficult not to think of the version of this man she had once had so many conversations with. After Hannibal was imprisoned, she took Will Graham in as a patient, not that she had too much of a choice. She had sat across from the man she told Hannibal to consume and tried to offer him some sort of comfort at first, only to quickly see that was not what he was there for. Will had not come seeking therapy from her; he had come to be, in any way possible, closer to Hannibal. Their running off to Spain was Will's first taste of separation from Hannibal, and he desperately wanted to fill in the blanks with the only other person (besides perhaps Mischa) to be that close to the man he longed for.
Bedelia forced her breath to steady, pressing her back against the chair. "Will," she began, her voice silky despite the pain, "I know you think you've chosen this path freely. But you must see—he's shaped you into something you're not. You don't have to do this." She let the words drip with false empathy, the same tone she'd used on patients who didn't realize they were already lost.
Will's lips curled into a humourless smile. "That's almost convincing, Bedelia. Almost." His eyes flicked down to the table, then back to her with a predator's calm. "You know, Hannibal told me everything. About what you whispered into his ear. About how you planted the seed that I was meant to be his last meal."
The blood drained from her face.
"You're right about one thing," he continued softly. "I didn't choose this alone. But you had a hand in making me, too. So don't pretend you're without credit." His voice grew colder with every word. "This may be our last chance to talk without a mask present, Hannibal's captive and his scapegoat may finally speak as simply Will and Badelia."
Silence fell, so thick it pressed on her chest. In that quiet, Bedelia realized there would be no escape—only the consequences she once thought herself clever enough to avoid, or at least postpone. Bedelia's eyes darted to the shadows beyond the dining room, her voice low and trembling now despite herself. "I should have known…" she whispered, the words almost to herself. "I should have known he'd come for me when I least expected it. Hannibal never could resist tying up loose ends."
A soft, cultured chuckle drifted from the kitchen doorway. Hannibal emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth as if he'd been plating a dish. His gaze flicked to Will with conspiratorial fondness before settling on Bedelia, eyes glittering like polished garnet.
"My dear Bedelia," Hannibal said, his tone smooth as silk, "you flatter me, but you misunderstand." He stepped behind Will's chair, resting a possessive hand on his shoulder. "This wasn't my idea."
Will's eyes met hers, cold and resolute. "It was mine," he said simply.
The words fell like a guillotine blade. Bedelia's composure cracked, horror spreading across her face as the true architect of her nightmare sat calmly before her—no longer Hannibal's pawn, but his equal.
For a long moment, Will watched her, his expression shifting from coldness to something almost pitying. "I understand, Bedelia," he said softly, his voice carrying a weary sincerity. "I understand wanting him to finish it. To be the one who ends your story, so you don't have to imagine him out there, somewhere, forever."
Her breath hitched, the truth of his words cutting deeper than any blade.
"You love him," Will continued, his tone neither mocking nor kind, just stating a terrible fact. "In your own way. And you wanted his teeth to be the last thing you felt, so you wouldn't have to live with what you helped make of him."
Hannibal's hand tightened briefly on Will's shoulder, but he said nothing, his eyes flicking between them with quiet delight.
"But he won't grant you that," Will finished, voice low, eyes steady on hers. "Because it was never really about you. And now… It's not his choice. It's mine."
Tears welled unbidden in Bedelia's eyes, the final shreds of her composure unravelling. The thought that Hannibal Lecter—her former lover, patient, and obsession—had denied her the twisted intimacy of death by his hand left her hollow.
And in that emptiness, she finally realized just how far beyond her reach they both were.
------
Till her last breath, Badelia had stayed quiet; this didn't bother Will, knowing it wasn't to spite them in any way. She stopped speaking because she had decided she had said enough words in her life. She didn't feel the need to fill any silence; no forced and practiced elegant phrases, no insightful tidbit to prove herself, and no terms of comfort to another. It was beautiful, as much as Will resented her, he could only wish such an acceptance for himself when he did finally burn out. He had felt that way only once, at the top of that cliff; he did not begrudge her that. He said no more taunts, slit her throat in a clean manner befitting her. Crimson blood staining over freshwater pearls coating her neck.
When he had pulled the knife to her chin, he was sure he saw disappointment in Hannibal's eyes at the quick death; he had probably fantasized regularly about tearing her from herself as she slipped away. Will would deny him that and cut her throat as Hannibal had Abigail. Will had shuddered at the thought that Hannibal did not see eating, and feeding her leg to her as sufficient suffering, especially as she was someone he rather liked.
But as Will pulled the blade forward and across, the glint in Hannibal's eyes was swiftly replaced. They locked eyes the whole time, both savouring the moment for not entirely different reasons. Will felt the power wash over him, and Hannibal revelled in seeing it happen. They had set the tableau to Will's vision with only minor adjustments from Hannibal from a medical standpoint. They were both shockingly silent, prioritizing efficacy, unsure if they were about to be caught off guard by the police. Only when they stood back did Will allow himself to speak. Will didn't mean to say it.
He'd meant to keep it buried beneath the guilt, the scars, the years they'd wasted chasing and bleeding for each other. But it slipped out like a wound tearing open mid-breath.
"You were the only thing I wanted," Will said quietly, his voice raw and steady like a match about to catch. "Even when I hated you. Especially when I hated you."
Across the room, Hannibal stilled. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. His eyes flicked down, just briefly, like he was looking at the space where Will's words had struck him, as though expecting to see blood.
"You say that," Hannibal murmured, "like it's a confession. Like it damns you."
"It does damn me." Will stepped forward. The air between them was heavy with the scent of burning wax and blood. "Because I knew who you were. I saw you—clearly, fully—and I stayed. I wanted you, not despite what you are, but because of it."
The silence that followed was sharp as a scalpel. Hannibal closed the distance slowly and deliberately, his expression unreadable, but his presence was unbearable.
"And yet you pushed me away," he said softly, hurt. "You tried to kill what you loved."
Will met his eyes, tired and unflinching. "Because I couldn't live with what that meant."
A beat passed. Then Hannibal said, "But you're still here," stinging Will in a way similar to when the blade slid between his ribs.
Will didn't look away. His posture was loose now, unguarded—but his eyes held something that made Hannibal feel seen, in a way that pierced deeper than he felt safe for them to do.
"You've always needed control," Will said, almost gently. "And I let you think you had it because it was easier that way. Safer."
The faint twitch at Hannibal's temple betrayed him.
"But you never did," Will continued. "You never controlled me. I let you in. I let you break me. And I stayed broken, Hannibal—just to keep you close."
Hannibal's breath caught. Something inside him began to crack—not loudly, not visibly, but in the subtle way a dam begins to betray its own weight.
"You misunderstand," he said, voice low and strained. "I only ever wanted—"
"Me," Will interrupted. "Not the idea of me. Not the possibility. You wanted me. And it terrified you."
Hannibal took a step back, hoping distance would dull the truth. But there was nowhere left to run in this space Will had drawn around them. It was no longer a battlefield. It was a confessional booth.
"I gave you everything," Hannibal whispered, and it sounded far too much like a plea. "I rewrote myself in your image."
"And I kept the parts that mattered," Will said.
Then he crossed the final space between them, slowly, deliberately. And Hannibal—always the predator, always in control—did nothing to stop him. It wasn't Will submitting. It was Hannibal yielding.
Will's hand came up without thought, not hesitant, shaking slightly, but drawn like a compass needle to magnetic north. He brushed his fingers against Hannibal's collar, then his throat. Just enough to feel the heartbeat there. Just enough to remind himself it was real. Hannibal's breath hitched, tension under his skin—like a creature waiting for the strike it knows it deserves.
Will stepped in closer. His hand flattened against Hannibal's chest, feeling the rise and fall, the unsteady and rapid thrum beneath bone. "You feel so solid," he murmured. "So calm. I used to think I wanted to unravel you. Now I think I want to… borrow you."
Hannibal's brows furrowed. "Borrow?"
Will's gaze lifted. He met Hannibal's eyes with a steadiness that defied everything in him—autonomic discomfort, emotional overload, all of it. He met his gaze deliberately, like someone stepping into flame.
"When I felt weak, especially when I was in prison," Will said, voice low, "I thought about how you carry yourself, how you move like nothing can touch you. And I want that. I want to wear it again. Just for a while, dawn the Chesapeake Ripper."
Hannibal's lips parted, but he couldn't speak. Will's hand had curled now into the lapel of his collar—a small, hungry grip.
"I don't want comfort," Will breathed. "I want possession. I want to be devoured. I want to stop feeling like I'm coming apart and finally just be part of something else."
A shiver travelled up Hannibal's spine, from desire, from recognition. Because he had many chances to consume Will's body, he had always wanted to consume his soul. And now it was Will, standing before him, offering it freely, pulling him in. Will's grip on Hannibal's tightened, his body just inches away now. He wasn't trembling anymore. He stood with his shoulders squared, gaze unwavering. Something had shifted—not just in the room, but in him.
His voice was steadier than it had any right to be, then it had ever been since their first introduction. "You see it, don't you?"
Hannibal studied him. He hadn't moved, hadn't touched, hadn't so much as tilted his head. But his gaze was ravenous.
"I see myself," he said, and it was barely a whisper. Reverent. Possessive.
Will's lips curled—no smile, just a shadow of something darker. He raised his hand again, not shaking now, and placed it on Hannibal's cheek. His thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, deliberate and claiming. Will's eyes searched Hannibal's face—not with hesitation, but with calculation. Reading him and becoming him. Hannibal was silent, but inside, something ancient and starved howled for the offering before him.
Will leaned in—not all the way, just close enough for breath to mingle. "I've spent so long trying to kill the parts of you that live in me," he murmured, "but they keep surviving. They thrive in the cracks. You planted them."
Hannibal's hand twitched at his side.
Will's tone turned knife-sharp. "Does it thrill you? Seeing yourself in me like this? Knowing I'm not running anymore?"
And that was it. That was the pin. Hannibal's hand rose slowly, almost reverently, and then he touched Will. An act he had performed more times than one could count, in fact, he made an effort to be nearly always touching him. Even in the smallest of ways was enough. As long as there was a graze of his soft skin to be felt, he would extend his arm. Even when separated, he found a way to experience Will, be it through the black pepper, cardamom, and clove-like scent of his hair or the equally supple sound of his voice, which brought images of sweet mandarin and cedarwood. He would be touching him, so be it if it was through memory. It was enough. His mind brought quiet, his heart brought still, if only it meant to touch him. He inhaled him and refused to let out. Fingers threading into Will's curls, cradling the back of his neck. His eyes—sharp, aching, hungry—searched Will's face for the final signal. Will didn't look away. He just leaned in that last inch. And Hannibal kissed him once again.
Not with restraint. Not with ceremony. But with the force of something he'd tried to bury under elegance for years. It was not a seduction. It was a claim Will didn't resist. He met the kiss like someone crashing into a tide, hands twisted in Hannibal's coat, pulling him impossibly closer.
And Hannibal—feeling himself reflected back in every movement, every breath, every touch—finally let go of control. Because he no longer needed to possess Will. He already had. The kiss broke slowly, like the final pull of a tide retreating into seafoam. Will's breath caught against Hannibal's lips, but he didn't step away. Neither of them did. Their foreheads pressed together, hands still knotted in each other's clothes like they couldn't quite believe the other was real. It may not have been their first kiss, but it was more pivotal.
Hannibal's eyes fluttered closed, just for a moment. His hand—still buried in Will's hair—slid down to cradle the nape of his neck, fingers warm and steady. Will waited for the cold to return. For a familiar self-loathing sharp recoil of shame that usually came when he let himself want something too much.
Instead, there was stillness. Not silence. Not numbness. But a quiet so deep, he was still being held underwater, but only now realizing he could breathe there.
"You don't regret it," Will said, more surprised than anything.
Hannibal opened his eyes. "Do you?"
Will shook his head slowly. "No. I just… I thought I would. I thought it would feel like giving up."
"And does it?" Hannibal's voice was soft, but laced with that unmistakable Hannibal edge—curiosity wrapped in precision.
Will's mouth curled faintly, almost bitter. "No. It feels like giving in."
Hannibal's thumb brushed over the curve of Will's jaw—absently, gently.
"You've fought so long to stay whole," he murmured. "But I never wanted to break you, Will. I only ever wanted to see what you'd become… if you stopped hiding."
Will's breath shuddered, eyelids fluttering shut. He didn't feel like he had to put on a show. Not empathy, not decency, not resistance, he could just be. Because Hannibal—twisted, brilliant, monstrous Hannibal—was the one person in the world who would never flinch at the darkness. Who would take Will's worst day, his ugliest impulse, his unspoken wants—and meet them with a nod and an open hand.
So Will let out a shaky breath… and smiled. He was far from happy, yet he was known entirely.
The house was quiet; they had been busy cleaning. The kind of quiet that felt like the world had finally stopped moving — or maybe just decided to let them slip through the cracks.
The candles had gone out hours ago, leaving only the faint scent of char and smoke clinging to the walls. Neither of them had spoken in a while. Words had grown heavy. Their silence was no longer tense — it was simply tired.
"I used to think I couldn't force us to work," Will said softly, breaking the stillness. "Maybe if I leaned in far enough, I'd stop wanting to pull away."
Hannibal didn't move. "And did you?"
"I leaned," Will said. He turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, bittersweet. "Far enough to fall."
A long pause.
"I know," Hannibal said at last. His voice was quieter than Will expected. "I watched you fall. And still… You never quite landed with me."
Will breathed in deeply through his nose. "Maybe because I knew the only place to land was the bottom. And I wasn't ready to break that far."
Hannibal's fingers curled slowly and deliberately. "You were never meant to stay in the light, Will."
"I think I was meant to hover in between," Will said. "Just close enough to warm my hands. Just far enough to remember the burn."
He tilted his head up to look at Hannibal. "Just before Abigail, I had loved you, you know."
Hannibal finally turned toward him. And there it was — a flicker of pain beneath the cultivated calm. Something vulnerable. Something human.
"I know," Hannibal said.
"And you loved me," Will said, almost like a question, but not quite.
"I have since I saw your lecture on one of my crime senses" Hannibal replied.
Another beat of silence. Then Will asked the only question left.
"Is it enough?"
Hannibal looked at him for a long time, as if trying to find a version of the truth that didn't hurt.
"No," he said. "Not if it means losing you to the part of yourself I tried to kill."
Will nodded slowly, eyes glassy.
"Then I guess we were never meant to survive each other."
"No," Hannibal said. "But we were meant to know each other."
The air smelled like ash and pine — and something more faint, something metallic that lived beneath their skin and wouldn't wash out.
Will sat on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him, back to the couch. Hannibal watched him from the other side of the room, eyes soft in the low light.
"I'm trying to picture a future with you," Will said quietly. "One that wasn't dripping with blood or regret."
"And?" Hannibal asked, his voice low, curious but not hopeful.
Will gave a breathy laugh, not bitter, just sad. "There isn't one. Not really."
Hannibal nodded once, like that answer had always lived at the edge of his knowledge. Taking a seat in the armchair.
"I've loved you in every way a man shouldn't," Will continued. "Through betrayal, through horror. Through understanding. And I still—" He stopped. Looked away. "I still want to stay."
Hannibal didn't move. But something in his face cracked, just for a second.
"Would you live with the inevitability of what we are?" he asked. Not skeptical. Just… reverent. "You would let it fester, knowing it may someday swallow us whole?"
Will turned to face him fully, his eyes hollow and luminous. "It already has. No version of me gets to walk away from you clean."
He rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, like every bone remembered drowning. Then he crossed the room and knelt in front of Hannibal's chair.
"I thought it would be better to leave," Will said. "That if I were strong, I'd go. But it's not strength that keeps me standing — it's you. You're the gravity. The burden. The home."
A silence bloomed between them. Heavy. Sacred.
Then Hannibal reached forward, fingers curling into Will's hair, the motion so tender it hurt.
"I tried to ruin you," he whispered.
"You already did," Will said. "And I still came back."
Hannibal leaned down, pressing his forehead to Will's, breath mingling, eyes closed.
"So be it," he murmured. "We'll rot together."
Will smiled. Just slightly.
"Better than rotting alone."
They stayed there as the sun began to rise, not golden but gray — a cold light, like the truth. It cast long shadows behind them, but none between them.
This wasn't peace. It wasn't salvation, but it was love, it was theirs. They didn't speak as the sun climbed. Words felt unnecessary now, a language they had outgrown. There was no need to plan what came next. The future wasn't a path anymore — it was a forest. Dense. Dark. Shared.
Outside, the trees stood frozen in their witness. Somewhere in the distance, a stag moved through the undergrowth — elegant, silent, bone-white against the morning mist. It paused, and for a breathless second, Will thought it saw him that it knew him.
Not as a hunter or prey, but as something else. The wolf that once stalked it through his dreams had stopped chasing. And in its place stood something with antlers of its own — something that had merged with the beast, until the line between devourer and devoured no longer mattered.
Will lowered his gaze, and beside him, Hannibal watched. Just with him.
And that, in the end, was the most terrifying thing — that together, they made sense. Not in the way people hoped to. But in the way monsters recognize each other in the dark.
Two wendigos in the deep woods of their own making — no longer circling, no longer fighting, just… feasting.
Not on flesh.
On each other's silence. On each other's surrender.
It would never be peaceful. But it would be permanent.
The world would eventually forget them.
But the forest never would.