Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all the outcomes Hannibal had considered, being forgotten wasn’t one of them.

Pupils black and wild, drew everything into a dark, devouring center. Around them, brilliant shades of blue shimmered like sapphire, intelligence burning bright and sharp in the depths of Will Graham’s eyes.

Who are you?

His question lingered on the air, rusting into strained silence as Hannibal considered his options. 

Two nurses entered the room, drawn by the alerting monitors. Reluctantly Hannibal drew back. His fingers grazed Will’s cheek.  

“It’s good to see you awake,” chirped the young nurse that replaced Hannibal by the bedside. Her colleague drew a stethoscope in a purposeful pattern across Will’s chest, listening to his lungs.

“My name is Colleen, and this is Rosa. Can you tell us how you’re feeling?” She asked, scribbling on a clipboard.

Will’s attention was riveted to Hannibal. It was thrilling. Like staring down the bright eyes of an owl in the dead of night. He felt exposed. Flayed. 

“I’m… confused,” Will said, his voice soft from disuse.

“That’s only natural. Do you know where you are?” The nurse asked.

“In the hospital.”

“That’s right, you’ve been in a coma for two weeks.”

The spell between them broke as Will rounded on the nurse.

“What?”

“You were out for quite a while. I’m going to ask you some questions to assess your mental state, okay?”

“What?” Will repeated, shifting in the bed, wincing when the movement pulled on his injuries. “No, I don’t want— Tell me what happened.”

Rosa placed a firm hand against Will’s shoulder, pressing him back into the bed. “Please, Mr. Graham, try to remain calm. You are safe.”

“Can you tell me what your first name is?” Colleen asked.

“It’s Will— I don’t want a psych test, I want a phone.” A snarl curled his lip.

“Can you tell me the date, or the last date you can remember?”

“Jesus— it’s— I think it's September— maybe the 9th?”

The nurses shared a look that made Will frown.

“Can you tell us the year? Rosa asked.

“Two thousand-thirteen.”

Colleen held her clipboard to her chest.

“Mr. Graham, it’s February… two thousand and fourteen.”

Will tried to get out of bed, but both nurses urged him to lay back down

“You said two weeks! How the hell is that possible?”

“Sir, please try to stay calm. You aren’t fully healed—”

Turning his wrath on Hannibal he snapped, “Who are you? Why are you here?” Panic crackled, electric and fierce through his features. He struggled against the nurses, but they had the advantage of position and numbers.  “I need to talk to Alana Bloom— Let go of me!”

Rosa pressed the button for the nurses station to summon the calvary. She turned to Hannibal. “Sir, could you please wait outside?”

He dipped his head, regarding Will one last time before stepping out into the rush of incoming nurses.

September 2013.  

Exactly six months of Will’s memories had been wiped from his conscious mind— the entire duration of their relationship. All of it was gone. Even the things that Will claimed to know before they met. He truly had no idea who Hannibal was.

This was more than an opportunity, this was a blank slate. This was a chance to know who Will was before. To know the elusive creature that Alana referred to fondly. Excitement tangled with the bitterness of patience, sitting like a monolith at the back of his mind. His next move would take planning. He had to execute it perfectly to bring Will back in a way that didn’t return his fevered need for mutual destruction. 

Hannibal pulled out his cell phone and dialed. It rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello, Alana.”

The coffee machine hummed with energy as it spat out a perfectly portioned deluge of brown sludge into a white paper cup. Hannibal stared into the depths of the liquid with distaste. If nothing else the cup would keep his fingers warm. It was cold in the halls of the hospital, the large floor-to-ceiling windows failing to keep out the evening chill.

The elevator at the end of the hall chimed and Jack stepped out. He trudged forward dutifully, a permanent grimace etched into his face. He moved like the mountain he was, indelible and heavy, coming to a stop a few feet away. The collar of his undershirt was poorly folded, something his wife Bella missed on his way out the door. She must be feeling the effects of her illness keenly.

“Jack.” Hannibal dipped his head in greeting.

“He’s awake.” There was no time for propriety when Jack was on a mission. The disregard for social niceties didn’t land quite the same when it came from Jack as it did with those that Hannibal regarded as pigs. Hannibal almost enjoyed it— the predictability. 

“Did Alana call you?” Hannibal turned the coffee cup in his hands, intending it to be an absent gesture. Something mundane and disarming. 

“No, the hospital did. They usually do in cases like this.”

Hannibal tilted his head, inviting an explanation. “I wasn’t aware you still considered this an FBI matter,” he said. “I haven’t pressed charges.”

“I’m not going to keep pushing you on it, but I will ask one more time— what happened that night? Now that he’s awake, it’s even more important that you tell me.”

Hannibal gave a small stilted smile. “I’ve already given you my statement.”

“This isn’t on the record. We don’t need to pretend. I just need to know.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Jack closed the distance and set a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring but Hannibal found it presumptuous. “I’m calling you a man in love,” Jack said.

It was an inroad. Something to bind them further together— a chance to make Jack see himself in Hannibal and further obfuscate their differences. The detective often made it too easy to blind him to the truth. 

Hannibal allowed his features to soften as he said, “If you were in my position, and it was Bella, what would you do?”

“I’m not going to pretend I’d be above it, but I need to know exactly what’s going on with Will.”

“So you can keep using him.”

Jack let his hand drop, the verbal barb landing sharply. “I guess we both have things we don’t want to admit out loud.”

“Perhaps we can agree to keep the silent parts just that— silent.”

Jack studied him, keen eyes searching for any little tell of information. Whatever he was looking for he didn’t seem to find.

“Jack, before you go in to see him, there’s something you should know.” Hannibal needed to play his part well. He was a worried lover after all. He turned his gaze to the floor, letting his shoulders take on weight. Wetness brimmed at his eyes. Jack stepped closer, concerned. When Hannibal met his gaze he knew he’d succeeded in his display.

“There appears to be more damage to his brain than they initially thought. He…” Hannibal paused and continued in a hollowed out voice, “he doesn't remember.”

“Doesn’t remember what?”

“He’s lost six months— everything in his short term memory. It’s gone.”

Jack seemed troubled at the news.

“It’s still early,” Hannibal continued, “It could be a temporary loss. Only time will tell.”

The click of heels on tile drew their attention as Alana approached. She’d been stored away in Will’s room for over an hour. Her eyes were gratingly bright with something close to relief. 

“Jack,” she said his name with a warm smile. 

“Dr. Bloom.”

“Has his condition improved?” Hannibal asked. He hadn’t been in the room since the nurses asked him to leave.

“He’s much more alert.” Her expression softened as she stroked a hand down Hannibal’s arm. “I’m afraid his memory is still an issue.”

“He really doesn’t remember anything?” Jack asked.

“He knows who you are, but doesn’t remember working for you. It’s like he’s been completely reset to last September.” She smiled sheepishly, her cheeks rosy as she said, “It is a small comfort, but it’s nice to see him acting more like his old self again.”

Hannibal wondered what ‘ his old self’ entailed. Could he really be so different? Alana’s subtle arrogance was irksome. She must be pleased with Will’s new obfuscated outlook on life. One without Hannibal in it. Her holier-than-thou attitude needed to be taken down a notch. 

“You have a remarkable knack for seeing the good in every situation, Alana. Youthful idealism is such a gift.”

The backhanded comment caught her by surprise but she covered the cut of it well, her smile turning tight-lipped. It was amusing to see how easily she let his cruelty slide. Perhaps she explained it away as unintentional. One of his foreign peculiarities.

“Do you think his unique… insight has been affected?” Jack asked.

Good old Jack, always concerned about his assets first.  

Alana had the good sense to scold him with a frown. “Why don’t you find out for yourself. Talk to him like a friend. It would do him good to fill in some of the blanks from the last few months.”

Hannibal quickly cut in, “Perhaps it would be best to ease him into some of the finer details of his lost time.”

“Such as?”

“Will struggled with what he did to Eldon Stammets. I would prefer that he not have to wrestle with his conscience while in recovery. It’s far too soon.”

“Are you his partner or his psychiatrist?” Jack asked.

“Hannibal is right,” Alana cut in. “Any sane psychiatrist would agree.”

Jack nodded, accepting the terms. “How likely is his memory to come back?”

Alana glanced between the two of them, uncertainty straining her fine features. “If it’s purely impact trauma related, then it should all return with time. If any of it is dissociative…” she trailed off.

“Then he won’t recover until the stressor is appropriately addressed,” Hannibal finished.

“Talking Will into therapy wasn’t exactly easy the first time,” Jack grumbled.

“I’m sure between the three of us we can coax him into it,” Hannibal assured him.

“Lucky guy to have you two there to catch him.”

Alana beamed at the praise, apparently pleased as punch to be back in Will’s good graces.

Jack gave them a parting nod as he made his way to Will’s room, hands buried deep in the pockets of his trench coat.

Hannibal was left alone with Alana’s sympathetic stare. Her pity rubbed like sandpaper against his patience. 

“How are you holding up?” She asked.

Hannibal summoned up a pained expression. Performance after performance. He was growing tired of the tedium.

“I think I will go home. Try to steal a few hours of rest.”

“You won’t see him?”

“Not yet,” he sighed. “I’m not sure I can stomach his empty gaze. Not right now.” It wasn’t a complete lie. It was painful to be overlooked when only a few weeks ago he’d been the center of Will’s entire world.

“He asked about you,” Alana chewed her lip, “In his own way. He asked who you were. Why you were by his bedside when he woke up.” She wrapped her arms around herself. A self-comforting gesture. “I wasn’t sure what to tell him.” 

“You may tell him whatever you are comfortable with. He’s much more likely to believe it, if it comes from someone he trusts.”

In truth, Alana’s distaste for their relationship would color her commentary no matter how impartial she tried to be. Hannibal was relying heavily on the fact that Will was still himself on a fundamental level. If he was, then Alana’s disapproval would do more to spark his interest than her raving approval. Will had a tendency to be contrarian for the sole purpose of being difficult. A trait that was both endearing and frustrating in equal measure. 

Everyone had a role to play in the coming days. Jack would enter first, asking Will leading questions that would put the nose of his intuition onto something irresistible in the blank spaces of his mind. Then Alana would follow it up with surface level glowing details and just enough suggestion to prime Will for Hannibal’s return. The flowers on his bedside would be there as a monument to something Will would want to understand that was just out of reach. He would be rabid for information by the time they met again.

Hannibal would reemerge into Will’s life cloaked in mystery. It would be all too easy to sweep him up and blind him with seduction and romance. No more wild card surprises this time around. Will would be the one at the mercy of his influence. 

Hannibal said his goodbyes to Alana and watched as she made her way back to Will’s room. He tossed the cheap cup of coffee in the trash on his way out of the hospital. There was work to be done and he had a meal to plan.

The clatter of chains rings in my skull. Metal cuffs press mercilessly against my wrists. I see the faces of missing people in white framed photographs laid out on a metal table. Beverly’s hair shines with a fluorescent halo as she leans over my work. The killer takes shape little by little, showing me what he sees. All of his victims are different in every way, but there is something singular they all possess. I arrange their images by skin tone. They make a palette that is rich with life. I’m close to God when I look at them. 

I can see the killer and his final victim. A young man dashed against the rocks in his desperate attempt to escape. I know Hannibal will find the artist first. He will mock Jack by convincing the killer to join his own masterpiece. He will be placed right in the center, looking up at God as a glimmer in an eye that sees only death. There’s nothing I can do from my cell, but I will see the pictures of his creation later. They are beautiful.

Hannibal drew in the warm, earthy fragrance of his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. It was a better vintage than the red blend he’d tried the night before. Something worth savoring along with his beloved’s words. Even if some of their charm was lost to the stark mechanical black print on bright white printer paper. He longed to see them penned out in Will’s uneven script.    

Consuming Will’s ravings had become a nightly ritual. Taking them in once wasn’t enough, Hannibal had poured over the words again and again, taken with their poetry and insight. It was a way to keep Will with him while he waited for this new version to fully awaken. 

Nothing in Will’s words had proved prophetic so far. Nothing that hadn’t already been set firmly in the past or in an unconfirmed future. Still, he had startling insight into Hannibal’s mind in those early days of their courtship. There were things he shouldn’t know— that he couldn’t possibly know— and yet there they were on the page, made manifest directly from Will’s troubled mind. All his divine words. They were all about him. Hannibal basked in the intoxicating glow of his beloved’s obsession. Reveling in Will’s worship every night was inflating him to new levels of narcissism that even Hannibal was beginning to consider gauche.

He slid the papers into a folder and filed them away in his desk drawer. While he found the writings fascinating, they were of little use to him beyond an ego stroke and a peek into that marvelous mind. There were no dates or points of timely reference to help ground Hannibal in the prophecies— if they were indeed prophecies. He had no idea when they might come to pass. For now he had little but to memorize every word, storing them in a heavy, leather-bound book at the center of the great library in his palace. 

Hannibal drained his glass of wine and took it to the kitchen to clean and put away. It was nearly midnight and far past time for him to retire for the evening. He’d been having trouble putting his mind to rest in recent weeks, thoughts buzzing through him with an urgency that he hadn’t felt in decades. He’d felt the energizing kick of anticipation thumping through him all evening and it showed no signs of slowing down.

Hannibal worked perfunctorily through his nighttime routine, showering, brushing his teeth, and pulling on his sleepwear. He settled into bed and stared at the dark shadows on the ceiling. Tomorrow a new beginning awaited him. Tomorrow Hannibal would bring lunch to the hospital and meet Will for the first time in this new version of their story. Drawing in a deep breath Hannibal closed his eyes and let the crisp notes of the Goldberg Variations drift through his mind, dropping his heart rate.

Eventually he faded into sleep.

Chapter Text

Sunlight bled with the artificial glow of hospital fluorescence. The golden afternoon warmed the third floor, breathing the life of spring into every hall. Hannibal approached room three fifty-seven and gave four quick raps against the door.

“Come in.”

Hannibal flattened his hands down his simple red sweater before stepping inside.

Will was seated upright in bed. He wore a forest green pull-over with his blue pinstripe hospital gown. His hair was recently washed and left to dry in a mess atop his head. A pair of brown rimmed spectacles hid his beautiful eyes. They were a rare sight. His former self never wore them— except once to tell a lie. In the aftermath of Tobias Budge, the glasses materialized and Will spun gold on Hannibal’s behalf to Jack Crawford. What could he be lying about now that he felt the need to wear them again? Hannibal schooled his expression, aiming to appear non-threatening and uncertain.

“Hello, Will.”

Will sat up straighter and set aside a book, a collection of short stories by Flannery O’Connor. A curiously morbid selection for such a bright day. “Hello, Doctor Lecter.”

The distance of formality stung. Memory clambered forth from the halls of Hannibal’s mind palace, flooding him with thoughts of their first night together in his bed— Will calling him by his title and begging for release. Hannibal, demanding to hear his name, drawing it out of rose colored lips like an exaltation. Warm skin beneath his finger tips. He banished the memory immediately, locking it away.

“Please,” he said, “call me Hannibal.”

Will curled his hands against the white blanket at his lap, lost. Timidity was misplaced on him, confidence was a much better color. They would have to do something to fix that.

“I brought lunch. I was hoping we might spend some time together.” He held up a navy blue tote bag.

Will nodded and waved toward a set-up near the window. A small round Formica table with simple blue, plastic chairs. Hannibal unloaded their pre-prepared meal, arranging the glassware carefully alongside the cloth napkins. Will swung his legs over the edge of the bed, maneuvering his IV tubing and the stand with practiced efficiency. His steps were slow and unsteady. The damage to Will’s spine had been minimal, but localized swelling affected his gait and range of motion. He settled heavily into one of the chairs, pulling a container close to peer inside.

“A grilled watermelon salad,” Hannibal explained, handing him a fork. “Something light to start.”

Will took it and moved the greenery around absently, deep in thought. Wave after wave of curious blue eyes splashed above the rim of his glasses only to disappear again. A clandestine game of voyeurism. Will was sizing him up. How charming.

“Thank you for lunch.” The words were soft, almost sweet. This version of Will was rather coy. Hannibal would enjoy peeling apart his newly constructed walls. He knew they wouldn’t be as soft as they appeared. They just needed the right pressure to unleash the thorns. 

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Alana says you like to cook,” he said.

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

Will frowned. “Woolf? Really?”

“Not a fan of her work?”

He shrugged. “A bit elitist.”

“I agree. Though, she had lovely insight into the ephemerality of life and the way we shape our realities. Too bad she had to go and ruin it with nihilism,” Hannibal sighed.

“She was a woman in the eighteen hundreds. Nihilism makes sense. I don’t imagine she felt much power to change her reality,” Will argued.

“Perhaps. Maybe she just needed a little more ingenuity. There’s power in generating chaos in our circumstances.” Evidence of that power and chaos sat right in front of him, an embodiment of a pure distilled natural disaster held at bay by the thin wrappings of societal expectation. 

Will snorted and ate his food. Hannibal watched him affectionately. He studied the movement of his jaw and the flex of his throat as he swallowed. It was always a pleasure to watch others enjoy his cooking. 

“Alana says you’re my…” Will paused, as if searching for the right word, “to be honest I’m not really sure what to call you.”

“Lover would be appropriate.”

Will nearly choked. Heat flooded his face. He was so lovely in shades of red, at least that hadn’t changed.

“This feels more complicated than that.”

“As you wish.”

Will pushed a wayward pecan around his plate and said, “I’m having trouble filling in some blanks from the last six months.”

“That’s understandable, you’ve suffered a traumatic event. It will take time to recover.”

“Jack said that I attacked you.” Will’s voice wavered, dancing around the real questions he wanted to ask. 

“It’s true. You were recovering from a bout of encephalitis, a disease which can cause behavior and mood changes, as well as hallucinations.” Hannibal attempted to reach out and touch, but stopped short and let his hand fall next to his plate. He knew Will would track the aborted motion, that he would feel the intention like physical contact. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. I certainly don’t.”

Will stared at the healing cut on Hannibal’s throat as though it were seconds away from tearing open. “Do you make a habit of dating people you treat clinically?”

“No. You were never my patient. You were very clear on that point.” 

“Just making sure.” Will gave a bashful smile. “I’m not a fan of psychiatrists.”

“And yet you’ve managed to accrue a small collection of them at your beck and call,” he teased.

Hannibal unpacked the main course, a honey roasted “duck” with pomegranate jelly. Country cut fingerling potatoes made a fine accent for the carefully sliced and prepared museum curator. Hannibal described the meal, enjoying Will’s quiet appreciation as he took his first taste. He ate with vigor, nourishing himself on the bare essence of life— a gift borne of death.   

“To be honest I’m having a hard time picturing… us,” Will admitted around a bite of potato. 

Hannibal raised an eyebrow and waited patiently for him to explain. 

“You’re very…” He trailed off and then motioned to himself, “And I’m just… Well, me.” 

Insecurity didn’t sit well with Hannibal, it soured his mood. He leaned forward, allowing the intensity of his affection to color his words as he said, “Do you think so little of yourself? In the time that I’ve known you I’ve found you to be a man of exquisite contrasts. You can look at the world and see a vibrant beauty even within its darkest corners. You wield righteousness like a tool pointed on both ends, as sharply demanding with yourself as you are with others. 

“There is an elegant delicacy in the way you walk a knife's edge of retribution in the work that you do. Anyone would be a fool not to aspire to those things which you live and breathe daily, darling Will. You are not just anything.”

“Christ,” he chuckled breathily. “Okay.” 

“I do not make a habit of wasting my time. I can assure you that you are worth every second. I hope that I can convince you of the same regard you once had toward me.”

Will sat back, the meek façade temporarily forgotten.

“I’m not the same person you fell in love with. Or at least, I don’t know if I am. I’m not going to take your words at face value. I can’t.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Hannibal cut into his meal and delighted in a bite of savory meat with sweet honey glaze. “I have no doubt I will win your affection again.”

“You’re a cocky bastard,” Will groused. “What if I don’t find you that interesting?”

Hannibal smiled. 

“You will.”

The smell of death filled the air, climbing the steep, jagged rocks of the ravine. It spilled in clouds from the water and stronger still from the bridge, where several bloated bodies laid, covered in tarps. Beneath the stench Hannibal could pick out notes of algae, mud, and freshwater fish. The striking melody of aromas made him think of Will— a bouquet plucked from within the deep, dark well of that beautiful soul.

Jack had to shout to be heard over the rush of the river. “They broke the surface there.”

“Were they weighted down?” Hannibal asked.

“Yes— looks like we found something we weren’t supposed to.”

“The water turned the tissue soft,” he commented. 

Hannibal was reminded of Will’s childhood, with the bloated man in the swamp and the tainted fish. He was walking in Will’s shoes, consulting for the FBI while Will was still in the hospital. Stepping into someone else’s skin was a thrilling new experience, it suited him well.

“This way, Doctor.” 

The bodies were lined up in a neat row. Their skin was too mottled with decay to make out the original color. It was possible that they’d all been subtly varied in tone. Could this be the beginning of Will’s premonition? A killer constructing the eye of God with a human palette?

James Grey, that was the name in the document. The next person to go missing would be Roland Umber. How curious it would be if it all came to fruition. Then Hannibal might have to consider if his darling might not be a vessel for some higher power. Perhaps an incarnation of the god Apollo or one of his oracles. How he’d love to have an intimate look at the curves and lines of his grey matter that gave his love a connection to the divine.

“This is the fourth body we’ve recovered so far. There’s at least one more down there.”

Hannibal leaned in for a closer look. He had to admit a level of admiration for this killer’s vision. How ambitious to take the bodies and turn them into models. It wasn’t dissimilar to what Hannibal did with his own victims, though he believed some artwork thrived on its impermanence. He’d never felt the drive to make his tableaus last longer than it took the police to tear them down.

“How long have they been here?” He asked.

“Hard to say, but someone went through a lot of trouble to make sure they were well preserved. They’ve been coated in some kind of resin.”

“The big one was partially sealed,” A woman with sleek dark hair chimed in. “Rotting from the inside out. The other three look like they were embalmed.”

She held out a gloved hand in greeting but quickly withdrew it when they both spotted a chunk of rotted skin stuck to the latex. Hannibal appreciated her attempt to be cordial nonetheless.

“Hiya,” she smiled, “I’m Beverly Katz. You’re the one that sends all the roses, huh?”

“Indeed. It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Ms. Katz.” 

“I’m sure Will has told you as much about me as he’s told me about you.”

“He can be quite prickly about his personal life,” Hannibal agreed. He immediately took a liking to Ms. Katz and her easy camaraderie. He could see what drew Will to her as a friend. It would be premature to speculate on how he might display her if he ever killed her, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what she would look like surrounded by resin. According to Will’s journal, Hannibal had her frozen then sliced into slabs that were displayed between acrylic panes. Not a bad plan, but he’d hate to copy another artist’s work, even if that artist was himself. Whatever he decided, it would need to be respectful— out of deference to Will.

Jack cleared his throat. “Whatever our killer’s doing, he’s still figuring out how to do it.”

Hannibal observed the form and structure of the bodies, the curious attempt at preservation with resin. He’d seen methods like this before, just not on people.

“Were they injected with silicone?” He asked.

“They were injected with something,” Beverly said, kneeling to get a closer look.

“Silicone?” Jack asked.

“A technique for making resin coated models out of fish. Helps the body retain shape in death.”

“He’s making human models,” Jack concluded. “You make models out of things you want to keep. These were tossed in the river.”

Hannibal considered the dead carefully. “Maybe they were imperfect.” The color wasn’t quite right. Perhaps Grey needed to adjust the brush stroke in his masterpiece.

“These are his discards.” Jack appeared troubled at the revelation and its subsequent implication— there could be a great deal more where these came from.

Hannibal wondered if Will were here, what he would divine from the bodies. What would prophecy look like to his recovering mind? Did the fall steal his link to the gods, or would visions still burn him alive from within? There was still so much to learn. Perhaps this version of Will wouldn’t be averse to hypnotherapy. Hannibal could see great potential for them both, if he wasn’t. 

“This really wasn’t necessary. Alana said she could take me home,” Will said as he situated himself carefully into the passenger side of Hannibal’s car. He was still in pain from his injuries but his movement had smoothed out considerably over the past week. He was healing well. A healthy flush of color in his complexion lent him fresh life, un-dulled by the hospital’s antiseptic atmosphere. 

“Nonsense, this is very nearly tradition for us,” Hannibal said, turning on the seat warmer and adjusting the AC for Will’s comfort.

“Take me home from the hospital often?”

“Only once. You were receiving treatment for your Encephalitis,” he lied. To tell the truth would require more explanation than Hannibal was willing to give in regards to the situation with Stammets— though he was sure the scar on Will’s stomach would invite its own questions.  “It was a pleasant experience. We had a lovely lunch and shared our first kiss.”

Will glanced at the cooler in the backseat. “Trying to recreate the moment?”

“Not entirely. Though I do hope to evoke familiarity. Perhaps it will aid in your recovery.”

“Did you bring more of that curry you made yesterday?” He asked.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Ah, no kiss for you this time then,” he teased.

Hannibal chuckled, pleased with Will’s good mood. He was in much better spirits now that he was no longer trapped in a hospital room. He wondered what thoughts must have been swimming through his head the first time they’d done this, when he brought him home after being stabbed. He’d seemed distraught over his kill— torn asunder over his staggering act of violence and his enjoyment of it. Oh how beautiful he was trussed in conflict. 

Will had greedily devoured the protein scramble that he brought over that day. Did he know? Even then, did he know what he was eating? A thrill shot down his spine and he glanced at the stunning creature next to him. He was watching the road pass in contemplative silence, a finger lightly tapping one knee. Will must have known. 

“I’d love to have you for dinner.”

“I’m afraid I’ll be too gamey, Dr. Lecter. Better to stick to chicken or pork.” 

He knew from the beginning. Cheeky boy. Hannibal never had anyone knowingly eat at his table. Not willingly. Will had done it. Multiple times. Was it only to seduce him? Or did part of him secretly enjoy it?

“You’re staring,” Will said.

Hannibal tightened his grip on the steering wheel, annoyed at the slip of his control. “Forgive me. This must all be very strange for you.”

Will sighed, “No, I’m sorry— this must be painful for you.”

At times the ache for what they’d been before outweighed Hannibal’s excitement for what could be, but never to a point he regretted this course of events. He’d been down that road before, and refused to let himself fall victim to his own regret ever again. Emotions made him impulsive, and impulse made him stupid. Unchecked pain made him into a wild snapping beast. It was one thing to break Will mentally, and another thing entirely to break him physically. He was capable of so much worse than pushing him out of a window, if things were to spiral out of his control.

“You could tell me about it,” Will suggested. “How we met, what it was like.”

Hannibal took his time sifting through what he wanted to say, or if he wanted to say anything at all. He wasn’t sure what to think about the lump that formed in his throat. It was easy enough to swallow away, but the uncertainty that came with it wasn’t. There was a reason Hannibal didn’t like to dwell on the past. 

“I heard your name bandied about long before we met,” he said.

Will sneered, “I’m a popular topic among shrinks.”

“Quite.” He smiled fondly. “You had them positively riled at the gala. Your presence caused a stir.”

“The… gala?”

“The Mid-Atlantic Psychiatric Board annual recognition event. You were invited as one of a number of published authors.”

“Published authors? Why the hell would I write for a psychiatric journal? I’m a teacher with a degree in criminology— I wouldn’t be caught dead at a gala.” He chuckled as he said, “I must have been lost to Encephalitis already.”

“You wrote a paper in response to one of my publications as your break-out piece. I believe you were so incensed when you read it, it inspired you to try your hand at social psychiatric opinion.”

“That’s… arrogant.” Will grimaced.  

“Yes, but you were also correct,” Hannibal humbly bowed his head, “I was appropriately scolded when I read your rebuttal.”

“No, I bet you were pissed.”

It was true. He’d sharpened his dinner knives immediately after he’d read it. He even went so far as to pick out a recipe card he thought would suit the crime of social wounding— seared lamb with rosemary and garlic. If he’d gone through with the meal, it would have been a tremendous waste. Will would be much better slow roasted and served with a fig and pomegranate reduction— a taste of forbidden fruit.

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, then said, “Imagine my surprise when I confronted you only to discover the most enchanting and delightful creature.”

“Ha,” Will snorted. “Shut the hell up, that’s bull and you know it.”

“As you like,” Hannibal shrugged, “I can only tell you my experience. At the very least, I was certainly struck by your beauty.”

He had every nuance of that evening committed to memory. Will’s delicate dance of seduction was executed flawlessly. He had Hannibal snared right from the beginning. His dark tux hugged every Grecian line about his figure, and his trim beard and wavy dark curls were striking against his blue eyes. Then he’d opened that wicked mouth and cast sonorous spells that left Hannibal completely enthralled. He never stood a chance. Even now, seeing the farce for what it was, Hannibal was completely smitten. His beloved was such a clever, fiendish thing. It was a delight to see how easily he’d been played.

“Jesus, you’re a ham, you know that?”

“Perhaps a flatterer, but only for you.”

Will scoffed. “I think you do it because you know it makes me uncomfortable.”

It certainly was an added benefit to watch him squirm. “Whatever you say, darling,” he teased.

Will sank down in his seat, thoroughly embarrassed. There was something so delightfully innocent about him this way. Hannibal was reminded of an analogy that Bedelia once presented him. One about a wounded bird. His darling was wounded and defenseless, completely unaware of the danger in the room. Hannibal searched for his urge to crush and found none. The desire to root out weakness was Bedelia’s burden. Hannibal only ever saw opportunity. He saw ways to exploit his wounded bird.

Gravel popped and cracked under the tires as they pulled up in the driveway. Soft blue sky was reflected in the upstairs windows, and songbirds flitted back and forth in the trees. A breeze danced about leaves and grass— a chorus of whispering chimes. Will’s presence injected new life into the lonely home. It was good to see him back in his element.

Will insisted on hobbling up the porch steps on his own. His strength was returning, but his efforts this afternoon would wear him out quickly. He opened the door, a smile ready for his rowdy pack. It quickly dropped when Max and Ellie completely bypassed him and ran to Hannibal, circling and sniffing his hands for sausage. They would find none, only the oily evidence of them that Hannibal had purposefully rubbed against his palm before leaving the house. Will patted Buster, looking troubled.

“I’m guilty of spoiling them, I’m afraid,” Hannibal said.

“I see how it is. Traitors,” Will smiled weakly, failing to hide his bruised feelings.

A soft bark alerted them to the wild, unkempt mutt standing at the edge of the drive. Will’s newest and most elusive member of the pack, Winston, had decided to join them.

“Hello, who are you?” Will cooed, approaching carefully.

Winston observed him intently, his tail gradually picking up speed as it swished from side to side. 

“Winston is a shy boy—” Hannibal said, expecting him to bolt. To his surprise the mutt trotted right up to Will, tongue lolling out. For once, it was happy as a clam to be handled and petted. 

“Good boy.” Will knelt down and scratched behind his ears. “Winston…You’re really dirty. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He picked brambles and twigs from his matted fur, then turned to Hannibal. “How long has he been around?” Will asked.

“A few months.”

“Months? And I left him like this?” He asked, horrified.

“Only on his terms. He’s refused to let you close.”

“Oh…” Will frowned. “Well he’s not so shy now, is he? And he really needs a bath.”

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” Hannibal warned.

Will opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it when his back suddenly spasmed in pain. Hannibal gripped him by the elbow to help him to his feet.

“I can’t just leave him like that. He must be uncomfortable.”

Hannibal looked down at the pitiful thing, still panting and wagging its tail at them. A broad stripe of black mud was slicked from the side of his face and neck, down to his flank. He smelled like carrion and the excrement of some herbivorous beast. Hannibal frowned in distaste. Offering to bathe the disgusting animal would endear Will to him. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done. He’d certainly suffered through worse in residency.  

“Let’s get you settled inside, I’ll get the tub ready,” Hannibal said.

“You don’t need to do that, I can—”

“Nonsense, you need the rest. It’s no trouble.”

Will snorted, “That sweater looks like it’s worth more than anything I own. You’re not washing a dog in it.”

“It’s cashmere, and no, I will not wash a dog in it.” Hannibal put on a show of hesitating before he said, “I have a change of clothes inside.”

Will blanched at the implication. Shared closets, drawers, and clothes. Two lives intimately intertwined. He said, “Oh.”

Hannibal planned for the revelation to shock Will, but that didn’t make his harrowed expression any less hurtful. He left Will hobbling in his wake as he stalked up the porch. He unlocked the front door with his stolen copy of the house key. Inside, he pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser, which he’d filled with his own clothes the day before. It would serve him well for Will to think they were much further along in their relationship. He needed him to believe they’d been on the verge of living together. Suggestions of a relationship with no physical evidence was one thing, but an established drawer would suggest commitment. 

He could feel eyes on him, burning with confusion and curiosity. Hannibal was an unknown growth found winding his way through every facet of Will’s life, and he had yet to decide if this intruder was malignant. Hannibal needed to show him the ease with which they moved around each other, how comfortable they had become. He slipped out of his sweater, allowing Will a full view of his bare back. He unveiled his unexpected musculature, which he hid with trim suits and soft, warm sweaters. He knew it would inflame Will’s growing fascination. As would the scars. Hannibal pulled out a worn t-shirt, something he’d slipped out of Will’s stash and into his ‘drawer’ to add to the illusion of how far they had blurred. It was pale maroon with the logo of some diner on the front. 

He unhooked his belt, and turned to find Will staring at him, mouth agape. Hannibal feigned a startle response. 

“Forgive me— I wasn’t thinking.” 

Will blinked, coming back to himself and clearing his throat. “I’ll, uh, put the food in the fridge,” he croaked, hurrying past him to pick up the cooler.

Hannibal finished changing into a pair of jeans. He was amused when Will returned from the kitchen rubbing his arm absently. His eyes darted everywhere else in the room, anxious. 

“The tub is in the—”

“Barn, yes, I know,” Hannibal responded.

“Right.” Will shoved his glasses further up his nose. He was scoping out the house like a stranger, finally noticing all the little things that Hannibal had planted in the weeks that he’d been in the hospital. There were new books on the shelf, a gold watch on the nightstand, and a signed and framed drawing of Will’s home on the wall. Little knick-knacks that told their story— or at least a version of it.

Hannibal slowly closed the distance between them, stopping only when Will took a step back. Something simmering and warm rolled off of him in waves. His cheeks were pink. Touching him would be pushing things too far, but Hannibal ached to run his fingertips over the petal soft curve of his cheek. He wondered if it might connect him somehow to the teeming thoughts in his tumultuous mind.

“You’re really intense, you know that?” Will grumbled.

“No more than you,” Hannibal responded softly.

Blue eyes found him from under the rim of his brown glasses. There was fire burning there, a flash of that passionate spirit that Hannibal fell in love with. The discomfort of unfamiliarity was stripping away the softer walls of Will’s forts and uncovering his sharper side. He was hiding under so many layers of protection, it was a wonder he’d ever made it out in the first place.

“The dog shampoo is in the laundry room,” Will said, backing away.

Hannibal nodded. They brushed shoulders as he passed. 

Will’s first steps in this delicate dance were wobbly and uncertain, but soon Hannibal was sure he’d find his footing and match him beat for beat. It was amusing to see Will off kilter for once, rather than conniving and victorious at every turn. Now they were much more evenly matched. Hannibal looked forward to the twists and turns this new game would take.

Chapter Text

— 2013 —

“Congratulations on your nomination for the APA awards, Dr. Lecter.” Doctor Mario Sartori, the head of the New England Psychiatric Board, cupped Hannibal’s hand in a meaty handshake. “Your articles are such a joy to read, and so insightful. I always look for your byline.”

“You flatter me, doctor.” He smiled congenially, privately lamenting the clammy sweat coating the pig’s palm. “We all stand on the shoulders of giants, I am merely another contributor to a vast wealth of knowledge.”

An older woman on Sartori’s arm tittered. “Intelligent, handsome, and mysteriously foreign— how has nobody scooped you up yet?” She wore a powder blue satin gown that draped attractively over her soft curves. A blinding five karat diamond glittered on her slim finger. She was a jewel draped over a boisterous, sweat-glistened baboon. 

Hannibal affected a shrug. “Many have tried, though I’m afraid I enjoy my solitude and freedom a little too much.”

“We should commend his dedication to his practice.” Frederick Chilton waltzed up with a glass of champagne in hand. “So few are truly committed to the pursuit of truth and knowledge. It’s a mark of true genius to be so devoted to one's field.” 

Hannibal wasn’t the type to roll his eyes, but Fredrick often brought him the closest to acting on the urge. Last year the obnoxious doctor went through a nasty divorce and had largely withdrawn from society. He became the topic of endless gossip. His wife was a darling of polite society and he’d been shunned for allowing her to wither in his pursuit of ambition. His comment was little more than a thinly veiled excuse for his failed marriage. 

“And miss out on all the fun of dating?” Mrs. Sartori asked.

Hannibal saw a chance to prod at a tender vulnerability and took it. “Frederick, as always your insights are very astute. It’s heartening to know there are still champions of intellect willing to celebrate the sacrifices made in the name of discovery.”

Chilton preened under the hollow praise. Just another performing monkey dressed up in a suit.

Hannibal continued, “Though, true genius is often distinguished not by the expense of personal relationships, but by the discernment to cultivate only the most meaningful of them— I’m sure you of all people are keenly aware of such a pitfall. How is Elaine? Is it still Chilton or is she going by Lagerfeld again?”

Chilton glared. 

Mrs. Sartori hid a smug grin behind her hand. The small circle of socialites drew in closer, pulled in by Hannibal’s verbal spur. They were so easy to entertain with drama and cruel intentions.

“Oh— would you look at that,” a woman on Hannibal's left cooed.

Across the ballroom the group spotted Doctor Alana Bloom. She was resplendent, as always. Her dark hair was done up in large neat curls, framing her elegant features. She was speaking with friends, a bright smile painted on her glossy pink lips.

“Now, that would be a pretty match,” Mrs. Sartori said. “Surely someone like that could catch your eye, Dr. Lecter.”

It was a relationship Hannibal had considered, but ultimately rejected. While having a spouse would provide an additional layer of shielding for the truth that lay within, ultimately it would be more of an inconvenience than a boon. Alana was far too sharp to be a long term solution. He could work hard to blind her, but eventually she would be able to see him for what he was. It was best he kept his distance, even if he was fond of his former mentee.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean her,” the other woman said, “Look at that pitiful thing practically hanging off her sleeve.”

That’s when Hannibal spotted him— camouflaged in Alana’s shadow as though he desperately wished not to be observed— a man with Grecian curls in a cheap black suit. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin. There was a classic yet tragic beauty about him.

“Oh, what a pity,” Mrs. Sartori pouted. “Do you think they came together?” 

Chilton scoffed, “Definitely not, do you know who that is?”

They turned their hungry gazes on him, and Chilton puffed up with reinflated self-importance. “That’s Will Graham, he’s a criminology instructor at Quantico.”

“Isn’t he the one that authored that dreadful opinion piece— that attack on your paper, Doctor Lecter?” Mario asked.

Hannibal locked in on the frumpy man, sizing him up from across the room. This was the infamous Will Graham? The mystical figure chatted about in his professional circles— the one that could think like a killer?

“Clearly he was just trying to use your name for notoriety. I mean look at him. He’s probably never even met a tailor,” the woman said. She and Mrs. Sartori giggled privately between themselves. 

“He’s a rather unpleasant person,” Chilton added, desperate to be part of the fun.

This was good news. A rude and pretentious pig. He certainly fit Hannibal’s criteria for a satisfying hunt. He wondered if Mr. Graham carried any business cards. 

“I thought his paper had some interesting insights.”

The others turned on Dr. Caruso, a wiry man with slicked-back blonde hair. He recoiled at their sudden, vicious attention. Hannibal paid him no mind as the man mumbled through a quick apology. He was entirely focused on his prey across the room. 

Would it be too reckless to take him tonight? Hannibal was always prepared to kill at a moment's notice. There were contingency plans in place. He could probably get away with it, if he really wanted to take such a large risk. Then again, it’d been some time since he displayed a body, and he so desperately wanted to display Mr. Graham. He’d lacked inspiration in recent years, but looking at him now, those fine features on such a horrid beast— he was teeming with new ideas.

— Present—

A moment of revelation could be stunningly clarifying. Like a star breaking through the black of night—sudden, luminous, and forever altering. Hannibal stared reverently down at a reflection of divinity and experienced a transcendent moment of pure understanding.

True magic existed in the world and it breathed through Will Graham. 

The Eye of God, James Gray’s masterpiece, would live in his memory palace alongside other great works of art from his days in Italy. This killer had a wonderful eye for color— a vision that was elevated beyond that of the usual short-sighted paintings of blood and viscera. Hannibal’s addition only enhanced its meaning. James was a brilliant final stroke, a glimmer of humanity in the view of an uncaring deity. Hannibal rarely, if ever, lowered himself to co-conspiracy, but his relationship with Will had served as an inspiration in many facets of his life. Perhaps one day Will would construct a tableau like this alongside him.

Hannibal climbed down from the top of the grain silo, content to leave the work behind now that he had committed it to memory. The sun beat directly down, baking him in the confines of his plastic suit. He would need to shower before seeing his afternoon appointments. Perhaps later he would call Jack and tip him off to the location of the silo. Perhaps he would wait and see if the detective could figure it out on his own. It was amusing to watch the rats run the maze after all. 

The drive back home was tedious and long. It was difficult not to let his mind race in a million directions with a host of possibilities. The discovery of James Gray and his Eye of God confirmed Will’s gift of prophecy. As unbelievable as it was, it seemed Will told him the truth that fateful night. It’d been so much easier to believe that it’d been a trick, even as the romantic in him ached for it to be true. He burned with the need of truth when Will lay dying in the street, speaking of teacups and time. There were things that he couldn’t know stumbling out of him in gasping breaths. It was enough to make Hannibal doubt. Enough to stay his hand and save Will’s life. 

Will knew about the equations. It was an impossibility, and yet somehow he knew.

Relief circled with awe in the well of Hannibal’s chest. Will’s true motives may have been hidden until the end, but he’d been completely honest about his affections. He loved Hannibal in his entirety, he simply couldn’t reconcile what they were with what he knew of the world. Now that Hannibal had identified the problem, it would be much easier to root out. 

With the truth of the visions confirmed, the journal that Hannibal kept of Will’s ramblings became that much more vital. He reflected on the words, and considered what might be coming next. 

A lobotomizing beekeeper. A lonely little hawk circling an insane asylum. An inspired dinner party, themed around the roots of a despicable councilman. Perhaps a social worker sewed up inside a horse. It was difficult to parse the hallucinations from reality, but seeing the template in Will’s telling of James Gray’s story gave him a guiding key. 

It was time for Hannibal to advance one of his valuable pieces on the board. Will needed to learn what he’d done in his missing months— or more specifically who he killed, and Hannibal knew just the person to break the silence. 

An anonymous tip about a prisoner transfer was enough to tease a particularly daring little fox to come creeping around Quantico.

Hannibal posted up in the parking lot in his Bentley with the windows rolled down. The afternoon was pleasantly refreshing, birdsong trilling through the wind. He was only a quarter of the way through an article on diet and cognitive outcomes when he heard a car door close quietly— someone trying not to draw unnecessary attention. He set the publication aside and watched as a slight figure with flame red hair snaked her way through the parking lot. Predictable as she was sleazy.

She was easy enough to follow— too focused on the security cameras on the building to check for tails. Hannibal walked at a leisurely pace with his hands tucked warmly into the pockets of his light duster. The way Freddie scurried from shadow to shadow reminded him of a mouse winding through a maze, looking for a piece of cheese.

Eventually she settled near the back exit, where agents usually left for lunch. It was also conveniently where prisoner transfer took place when perpetrators were brought in for questioning. It was the perfect spot for an ambush on unsuspecting victims.

Freddie was bent over her camera, completely oblivious to the monster sidling up behind her on silent feet. She looked gaudy in a bright purple jacket with a faux fur trim. Her sense of fashion left much to be desired, though Hannibal appreciated her boldness if nothing else.

“If you’re looking for the front entrance, I believe it’s that way,” he said.

Freddie whipped around, reflexively pressing herself against the wall. Her surprise lasted only a moment before her guile caught up and she smiled bright and wide.

“Right, sorry. I’m a temp, and I lost my name badge—” Her eyes dipped to the badge pinned to Hannibal’s pocket. A temptation he left purposefully in plain sight. “Oh look at that. You might just be my knight in shining armor.” She leaned in close, assaulting Hannibal with her dollar store perfume. 

He said, “I’m sure this can easily be remedied— The front desk can print temporaries. Should I walk you?”

“No, no! Look, I’m already on warning. This has just been the worst week—” She sighed, playing up her mock exasperation. She’d fit in well at the local theater with her dramatic and over-the-top acting skills. He could almost admire her, if she weren’t so tactless. Her sharp editorials on the Ripper’s kills were the only thing keeping her alive. “I’ll be fired if I have to order another badge. Please, I have a family and this job…” She trailed off, biting her lip and looking up through her fluttering eyelashes like a poor wretched thing.  

“Well we wouldn’t want that,” Hannibal intoned. He offered a fake smile to match her act. “Come along, there is a door on the other side that’s usually propped open.” He leaned in conspiratorially, “Agent Collins keeps insisting he’s on his last pack of cigarettes.”

She beamed, her smile stretching toward the arrogant end of sharp. She truly took Hannibal for a fool. “Oh! Thank you…. Mr. Lecter.”

“Doctor,” he corrected, leading the way toward the other side of the building.

“Oh… oh! Doctor Lecter, I’ve heard of you. You consulted with Crawford on that nasty business with The Muralist— James Gray.”

He nodded gravely. “A tragic case indeed.”

“The whole department was buzzing about those bloated bodies for days. Say,” She walked closer to him, “You wouldn’t happen to have access to any of those files would you?”

He raised an eyebrow at her, “I think that would be a breach of confidentiality, don’t you Ms…?” 

“Ms. Harper. I’m sorry— I know I’m only a temp, but… true crime is just so interesting! I would give anything to look at a real case file.”

He chuckled. “Well, there are much more interesting files to see than those on Mr. Gray.”

“Oh?”

He slowed to a stop, looking up and down the sidewalk before he lowered his voice and said, “There’s talk about a serial killer in the halls of the BAU.”

Freddie’s eyes widened into saucers, greed spilling out in noxious waves. Hannibal wondered what she would look like posed in a tableau of Tantalus’ punishment, a pool at her delicate feet and a fruit tree out of reach above her luscious red locks. Fulfillment constantly out of reach, locked in eternal torment. 

“A killer of killers,” Hannibal clarified. “Jack Crawford is being cautious, but I’ve seen the collection of files in his office. It’s all quite damning.”

“That sends chills right down my spine. To know that someone so dangerous could be walking free in the halls where we work,” she said.

Hannibal nodded sagely. “If only Jack had left Will Graham alone in his classroom.” He sighed for effect, leaving Will’s name dangling in the air like a worm on a hook. He knew Ms. Lounds would latch onto it with a primal hunger, especially after the popularity of her previous article on him.

“Well, here we are.” He motioned toward the door. It was propped open with a small chunk of broken concrete. “Fortunately for you, you shouldn’t have much trouble today. I have it on good authority that it’s a notable agent’s birthday, and much of the staff is currently out at lunch celebrating.”

Freddie appeared to be vibrating from within, salivating with the scent of a good story. 

“I might like to have a word with Agent Crawford about this— do you know if he’s in his office?” She asked, batting her long eyelashes innocently.

“He’s not in today, I’m afraid. He’s out in the field.” Hannibal glanced down at his watch. “It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Harper, but I’m afraid I have to run.”

“Oh, no, thank you Doctor Lecter. You don’t know how much this means.”

“Don’t mention it— especially if you get caught without your badge.” He winked and left her with a wry smile. 

It was an easy enough set-up. Now Ms. Lounds just needed to follow through on her end. Based on her previous track record, he was confident in her abilities. Especially after being tantalized with such a delicious morsel. Not many had the good fortune to sink their teeth into Will Graham. Hannibal hoped Freddie savored the experience— someday, when she was no longer useful, he would rip the teeth from her skull for daring to take a bite. 

— 2013 — 

Obsession.

Such an ugly word, especially when it sprang so sharply from Bedelia’s red lips in their session that morning. An accusation. An insult. Unfortunate and woefully, woefully… true. There was no denying it, Hannibal was obsessed. He couldn’t lie to himself, not with his tongue sliding along the smooth leather of a belt he pulled out of Will Graham’s dresser. It was difficult not to leave his mark in some form or fashion everywhere inside the house.

Hannibal could still taste an echo of Will’s blood in his mouth. It’d been nearly a week since their first sexual encounter, and he was still reeling from the rush of sinking his teeth into the warm flesh of his shoulder. He almost bit down on the leather belt, but put it away gleaming with saliva. He didn’t like to lose control. He usually didn’t, and never during sex. Not like that. The act itself had always been more of a performance on his part, a way to learn the levers and mechanisms of his lovers. Somehow his encounter with Will devolved into something else entirely.

Will’s underwear mostly smelled of chemical detergent, but a faint trace of masculine odor lingered in the fibers. Hannibal stuffed them back in the drawer with the rest of the clothes. 

Beneath him, two small dogs circled, their noses pressed to his black Italian loafers. The white one looked up, a snaggle tooth hanging out over its upper lip. The pack of dogs had swarmed him at the door after he picked the lock, but after a perfunctory sniff most of them lost interest. Next time he might bring sausage to bribe them and win over their affections. He had a feeling that their favor would be important to Will. They needed to approve of him. 

A light coating of dust had settled on everything upstairs. Not even the dogs followed him, as if the stairs were a portal to another world they couldn’t cross. For such a large home, Will only utilized three main rooms, the living room which doubled as a bedroom, the kitchen, and a bathroom. The furniture in the two spare bedrooms was sparse. A few boxes were tucked away for storage, mostly old tools and books. Nothing in the attic except an ancient, unused Christmas tree and some decrepit fishing gear. Looking at his home, one might be convinced that Will Graham had nothing in his life, but Hannibal knew that wasn’t true. What he did have was hidden within forts and protective walls. Will was so secretive that Hannibal suspected he hid things away, even from himself. 

The way he spoke about the Chesapeake Ripper, about his tableaus… the darkness in Will rivaled Hannibal’s shadows. He wondered what it would take to draw out the beast hidden deep within. 

Headlights bounced through the upstairs window accompanied by the roaring of a truck pulling into the drive. Hannibal listened to the sounds of Will’s life as they played out the symphony of his evening. Footsteps climbing the creaking wood porch steps. A key in the lock on the front door. The sound of claws on hardwood as the dogs scrambled to greet him. Hannibal wasn’t worried about discovery. He’d parked in a ditch on the opposite side of the road, hidden away. He was in dark clothes and had washed away his scent in a shower before he came. He was nothing more than a specter tonight.

Will played with his pack in the front yard. The sunset cast everything in red and orange hues, highlighting the tops of trees in wreaths of yellow light. There was something so free about the way Will played, throwing sticks and watching the dogs pile over themselves to fetch and chase. The tense muscles of his face were relaxed and open. A smile clung to the soft curves of his mouth.

The dogs waddled like ducklings on Will’s heel as they came inside. The sound of labored panting filled the halls and Hannibal stopped halfway down the stairs to watch from the shadows. The dogs paid him no mind, almost as though they’d forgotten he was even there.

Will prepared dinner, getting the dog’s ready first— a round of fresh raw foods that he’d cut and portioned himself. He cooed softly at them to settle their excited circling and prancing as he laid out the bowls. His meal was a microwaved dinner from the freezer. It made the entire house smell like plastic and burnt cheese. Where Hannibal made every meal a ritual, Will ate like it was a chore. He shoveled food in quickly and perfunctorily over the kitchen sink. Even if that was all the attention a frozen dinner deserved, Hannibal wished that he would at least take the time to sit down. He would cook every single meal for Will if it meant he would treat his body like a temple and savor the pleasures of this life. He should be feasting on ambrosia. There should be plates filled with fresh fruit, exotic cheeses, and cured meats readily within his reach. His fingers should be sticky with honey so that Hannibal could suck them clean.

Will tossed the empty plastic tray, and peeled off his shirt as he made his way out of the kitchen. Hannibal kept his distance, ducking behind the turn in the hall to stay hidden. Will continued to strip, hopping out of his pants, underwear, and socks so he could toss everything into the washer in the laundry room. 

Hannibal caught glimpses of curved, taught flesh around corners and angled down the hall. He disappeared altogether on the other side of the bathroom door, which didn’t close all the way, leaving a sliver of spilling light. The shower kicked on. He waited a few moments before closing the distance and peaking inside.

The angle wasn’t perfect, but the bathroom was too small to try to widen the gap. Will was likely to notice any movement. He could only see half of the room. The dated swamp green tile that made up the floor and half the walls, leading up to the stand alone porcelain sink and half of the glass-walled shower. 

Will tested the water with his palm before stepping into the spray. Steam curled up around his feet, then rose up the edges of the glass. It stuck to the corners, creating a frosted frame dotted with flecks of water. Errant drops streaked across the glass like shooting stars. Will tipped his face up into the flow and Hannibal pressed the door a little wider. He could see all of him now. He was a striking profile with his face upturned and his feet settled in a contrapposto with one hand against the wall. 

Water sluiced through dark curls, sticking them to Will’s skin and laying them in ringlets over his forehead and temple. Two of them twined together at the nape of his neck. Streams of warm water hugged every curve of his body, leaving his skin pink and glistening. On his shoulder was a patch of white gauze, where Hannibal’s bite mark was healing. Water splashed and sputtered against his lips on a long, heavy exhale as though Will were expelling all the stress he’d carried with him throughout the day. It was serene, the way he gave himself over to the relaxing grip of the shower, letting the water wash everything away and release the tension in his muscles. 

Warmth wafted through the opening in the door, steam from the shower reaching outside the bounds of glass and touching everything it could reach. Hannibal inhaled deeply, savoring the deepening of Will’s scent when carried on the damp air. The natural musk made his mouth water. Something earthy that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

Will rolled his head on his shoulders, stretching the tendons. He rubbed a hand over his neck, fingers digging into muscle and drawing lines down the angles of bone and soft tissue. His second sigh was softer, pushing something heady into the air. His scent bloomed like an unfolding flower, growing in depth and heat. A flush rose to his cheeks, and his hands began to caress his body in earnest. Touching. Feeling. Savoring. 

He brushed his fingers against the gauze on his shoulder, then peeled it back exposing the pink marks over the roll in his muscle. They were puckered and fresh, knotted with a neat row of stitches.

Hannibal licked his lips, remembering the way his flesh split around his teeth when he bit down.

Arousal grew between Will’s legs, thickening in length and girth. He took himself in hand, pleasuring himself in slow, even strokes. Heat curled in Hannibal’s blood. His clothes felt too tight, perspiration and damp air sticking them against his skin.

Short, punched breaths echoed in a staccato rhythm, bouncing off the glass walls of the shower as Will increased his pace. His head was tipped back, the water from the showerhead spilling down over his exposed throat and chest. His rhythm faltered as he went faster. Quiet little moans joined the chorus, all of it so achingly sweet. 

The sounds reached a fever-pitch and Will groped for the wound on his shoulder as his breath grew labored. He scratched and pulled at the stitches, his fingers tearing the healing skin apart. A dribble of bright red rolled in two separate streams down his chest and coloring his finger tips.

The intoxicating aroma of arousal mixed with the coppery scent of blood. Hannibal leaned against the doorframe for support, his breathing short and elevated.

Will cried out as he came, spilling over his pumping fist. He sounded broken. Undone. In the wake of a ravished exhale came a sweetly whispered exaltation, “Hannibal.” The name burned with something beyond raw desire.

It burned too much— more than Hannibal was equipped to understand. He staggered back into the shadow of the darkened hall. The peal of obsession rang deeper into the halls of his mind palace, echoing into places Hannibal dared not to tread. Who was this man? How was he already so deeply carved in a place he’d never been?

Something dangerous was building, a crescendo racing toward a devastating end.  A voice at the back of his mind, one built purely of logic and reason, suggested that it might be better to kill Will now— but obsession was a nasty root and it was already buried so deep. 

Hannibal was too curious about what would happen to take such drastic action. With one last parting glance, he disappeared through the back door and vanished into the night like a shadow. 

Chapter Text

“Hannibal, I’m only going to ask you this once— you’re my friend and I don’t want to do you the disservice of insinuating anything, so I’m going to be straight with you,” Jack said. His voice was distorted over the car speaker, dim under the sound of the running AC. “Did you talk to Freddie Lounds?”

Hannibal smiled, enjoying the scenery as it whipped past him in a blur. The side of the highway was an impressionist painting, sporadic strokes of yellows, greens, blues, and splashes of purple wildflowers. Everything was regaining its color in the blooming warmth of spring.

“Of course not, Jack,” he lied. “This is a terrible development, and I’m concerned about how Will might take the news. I’m on my way to his place now.” 

“Good, good.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t know how this happened.”

The FBI had no leads as to who acquired the confidential files on Will. Ms. Lounds was slippery enough to avoid the sporadic cameras in the halls as well as the staff— a perfect little rat.

“I’ve been trying to call him all morning, but he won’t answer,” Jack said.

“He’s understandably angry."

“Keeping the truth from him was the right call.”

Hannibal hummed, feigning thoughtfulness as he said, “We weren’t going to be able to keep this from him forever.”

“No. Do you think this will break him?” Jack asked, his voice low with uncertainty.

“Will is much stronger than you give him credit for. He is healing well and he has dealt with much worse in the past. I’m sure with our help, he will be fine," Hannibal assured him.  

“Call me later and fill me in.”

“Certainly, I will keep you updated,” he promised.

“Good.”

The call ended as Hannibal pulled up into Will’s driveway. The front door was closed, but the dogs were out. The pack swarmed the Bentley and herded it up the drive. Warm, furry bodies circled Hannibal’s legs as he stepped out. Even Winston was there, firmly entrenched in the group as though he’d never been anything other than part of the pack. He shined like a new penny, his beautiful brindle coat fluffed and freshly washed. 

The front door swung inward before Hannibal had the chance to knock. 

Cold fury greeted him in the form of a scowl and piercing blue eyes.

“Now’s not a good time,” Will snapped.

“No, it’s not— but I’m here, for as long as you need,” Hannibal replied gently. “If you’d like me to wait in the car until you are ready to talk, I will.”

Will faltered, even as a storm of fear and anger raged within him. His panic smelled sharp and acidic. It had a metallic tang like ozone clinging to the air after a flash of lightning. 

“You’re not alone in this,” Hannibal soothed, moving closer.

Whatever objections Will prepared crumpled and he shuffled back inside, leaving the door open behind him.

“Did you know about this?” He asked, waving at an open laptop on the edge of his bed.

“Alana called me this morning. She may have mentioned the article,” Hannibal answered.

“No, not that— I mean the murders.” Will paled. He whispered, “Did you know about the people I killed?”

Hannibal made a show of considering his answer.

“Don’t lie to me,” Will growled. “Everyone else already has— they’ve been feeding me half-truths like I’m a ticking time bomb. Like I’m fragile.”

“You are many things, but you are not fragile,” he said.

“Then tell me everything.” He cast a desperate look at the laptop. “Did I really… kill those people?” 

Ms. Lounds didn’t pull any punches with the images she chose to showcase. Will’s brutality was front and center. He wondered what Will thought of Stammets. Of his blank, pale face painted in red, laying in a pile of his own blood and brain matter.

Will rejected Hannibal’s comforting hand, wrapping himself up in his own arms as though fighting a chill.

“You did what you had to do. They were monsters,” Hannibal said. “They would have hurt others, if you didn’t stop them.”

“Christ, they were brutalized. How am I any better than… How am I not in prison?” His pulse fluttered at his neck, wild and light. The smell of his fear sharpened, filling the air like a warning.

Hannibal gripped his shoulders, holding on so Will couldn’t twist away. “You saved my life. That man came at us with a gun and you defended me. What you did was necessary, even if your methods were severe.”

“How could you… how could you watch me do something like that? How could you see me do that and still…” He scowled, disgusted with himself.

Hannibal stroked his arms, savoring the warmth. It was vital to establish himself as a source of comfort. “You are more than those moments of fear, Will. Even if you cannot remember them, I do. You have been, and continue to be, capable of great compassion. That hasn’t changed."

“How am I supposed to trust you? You lied to me. All of you.”

“We only wanted to protect you.” Hannibal offered a trite expression. “I see now we were wrong to make that decision for you.”

Will’s eyes swam with grief, drowning the blue beneath a wash of gray. Hannibal was immediately lost in the storm, completely taken by his devastatingly poignant sorrow. If only he could bottle this moment. He would give anything to drink of it daily, to be the one to kiss the tears from Will’s cheeks and taste his torment.

“I don’t know who I am,” he whispered. “I saw the pictures and I… I walked through my own mind. It was…” His breathing kicked up. It was too fast. His lips were pale. He was spinning into a panic attack.

“Sit down.” Hannibal directed him to the edge of the bed then knelt before him. “Look at me. Follow my breath.” 

Will pitched forward, bracing himself against Hannibal’s shoulders. His grip cinched down hard. Hannibal kept his voice low and soft as he coaxed Will through the worst of the attack. His lungs filled slowly, and emptied with a wave of leaking anxiety. The shadows of exhaustion seeped into the cracks of his distress, settling in the deep lines of his lidded eyes. These revelations were heavily taxing his recovering mind, leaving him ripe for influence. Will slumped, his hands dropping away as he was left open and raw. 

“When you stepped into your own design, what did you see?” Hannibal asked.

Will rubbed his hands against his jeans, jaw working. “I don’t think they were the first,” he said quietly.

“You were on the force in New Orleans. You told me that things happen in the line of duty,” Hannibal said.

Will’s gaze snapped up. “No. I’ve never killed anyone as a cop.” 

Interesting. Hannibal wondered why Will lied to him— unless he was lying now? Perhaps he wasn’t lying. Maybe there was someone after he left the police force but before Stammets. Will’s journal began the day they met at the gala. There was no reference to any events before that time. Was there something that Will had been afraid to put on record, even in the privacy of his own journal?

“You’re making a face,” Will grumbled. “If you’ve got something you want to say, just say it.”

Hannibal tilted his head. Perhaps this was the perfect opening to take something that he desperately wanted. “I have a suggestion, but the last time I asked, you seemed… reticent.”

“Well? Spit it out.”

“I am well versed in hypnosis. I think it would be beneficial in recovering some of your memories. I understand if you’re—”

“Do it.”

Hannibal was careful to keep his expression grim despite a heady rush of delight. He’d expected more of a fight. Whatever fear Will had of hypnosis, it vanished along with his memories. Perhaps the premonitions had warned Will away from allowing Hannibal such intimate access to his mind. Regardless, he was glad this barrier between them was gone. It would be so much easier to open Will’s mind to his influence this way— to fill him with the parts of Hannibal’s darkness that would repair what was broken and leave him stronger and with a much deeper understanding of himself.

“Very well,” he said, rising to his feet. “I need to gather my notes, and my equipment. We can begin tomorrow evening. I only have one request.”

“What?” 

Hannibal offered a doting smile. “I’d like to make you dinner beforehand.”

Will frowned as though it were a strange request. “Fine.”

A bell chimed at the front of the diner as Jack pushed his way inside. He was casual in a navy blue sweater over a collared shirt. Hannibal waved him over to the table. It was their usual spot for lunch. Marino’s was a block away from Quantico and made up the majority of Jack’s diet for the last twenty years. While there wasn’t anything particularly special about the food they served, they did have a perfectly serviceable Eggs Benedict on the menu.  

“Good man,” Jack praised, sliding into the booth and grabbing the steaming ceramic mug of coffee that Hannibal had ordered for him. He took a large gulp. The smell of hospital and chemicals clung to him like a heavy shroud.

“Difficult morning?” Hannibal asked.

“Treatment day always is,” he said with a sigh. 

“How is Bella?”

Jack smiled grimly, “Cursing me every day, I’m sure.”

The waitress stopped by their table to take their order. She was an older woman with straw-blonde hair and a slight lisp. Her name was Valerie Mills and she was a veteran of the diner. She knew Jack’s order by heart and asked them both to call her Val. Hannibal stuck with his black coffee. Valerie scurried away with the menus.  

“Chemo was Bella’s decision,” Hannibal said.

“One that I made her make.”

“I doubt anyone could make her do anything she didn’t want to,” Hannibal argued.

That gave Jack a hearty chuckle. “You’re right, as always, doctor.”

The ailing wife was almost too easy of a string to pluck. Jack would normally be a much more difficult man to direct, but with Bella, his weakness was completely exposed. Though, Jack could hardly be blamed. Phyllis Crawford was one of the few people that genuinely made the world a better place. She was a rose among brambles. Any genuine regard Hannibal had for Jack bloomed only from the respect he had for his wife. 

She deserved the right to choose her death, and Hannibal resented Jack for taking that away from her. On the other hand, her illness kept Jack distracted from his hunt for the Ripper. Having her as a patient also provided an additional layer of protection. He could play as Jack’s ally, as his spy on the inside, and keep himself safe from the FBI.

Jack cleared his throat. “How is Will? He still hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

“He handled the article poorly,” Hannibal said, looking down at his folded hands on the green laminate table. The surface was lightly tacky, and had a small chip in the finish that bothered him.

“Was any of it familiar to him?”

Hannibal shook his head.

“Once he gets over being angry, he’ll be curious,” Jack said. “What should I do if he asks to see the files?”

“Show him. He’ll only resent you more if you try to keep them from him.” 

Jack’s naturally overbearing nature would serve Hannibal well. The detective wouldn’t be able to resist questioning Will about his crimes. He’d throw other files in front of him too, to gauge his reaction— to see if he could glean anything more about Budge’s death, or Langely’s. The barrage of questions would drive a wedge further between them, pushing Will closer to Hannibal.

The waitress returned with Jack’s lunch. A middling club sandwich with paper thin bacon and fries that glistened with grease. He didn’t touch it, but looked down at the food as if he’d been put off it. 

“Do you think he can handle it?”

Hannibal made a show of considering. “I believe so.” 

Jack nodded. “Doctor Bloom thinks that Will is more mentally stable now than he was before the accident.”

“He suffered a brain injury,” Hannibal replied, incredulous.

“You disagree?”

“Will is a complicated subject. He had acute autoimmune encephalitis which can have resurgences even after treatment. He is also recovering from trauma, and has a history of instability. He is strong from a lifetime of dealing with the issues his own mind has presented, but he is also unceasingly vulnerable.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, wariness lining his features. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“Anyone can be dangerous with the right pressure.”

“What kind of pressure would break Will Graham?”

Hannibal sank back against the booth. “One of the things that makes Will such a fascinating subject is his unique cocktail of un-diagnosable pathologies. He is unlike anyone else we’ve ever studied, which makes him unpredictable. As far as what his breaking point might be… I’m afraid only time will tell. We should be cautious in how we proceed.”

Jack was willing to overlook a great many things, as long as Will was useful to him. This new version of him would be an unpredictable element if placed on the Ripper’s trail. He may very well betray Hannibal if he got too close and realized the truth before he was ready. It was best to have the BAU keep its distance for now. At least until Hannibal could make preparations.

“In that spirit, I was hoping you might be able to do me a favor,” Hannibal said, thumbs lightly stroking the sides of his coffee mug.

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“I’d like to see files, for the cases Will worked on. All of them, even if he wasn’t heavily involved.”

That earned him a frown. “I’ll have to get you clearance… What are you hoping to find?”

“I hope to find nothing,” Hannibal said. “Perhaps this is just for my own peace of mind.”

Jack considered the request and eventually nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. I can get you copies of them this afternoon.”

“Wonderful.” 

The ocean air was thick with salt and moisture. Low clouds hung on the grey horizon, blanketing the deep blue waves as they rolled into shore. Hannibal walked along a bluff, high above the crashing water. He noted the slow erosion of stone and earth. Little by little the wild will of nature encroached on his seaside home.

The front door was unlocked, so he let himself inside. No lights were on, but there was plenty of natural light from the large glass windows installed throughout the house. The heater was running on low. Hannibal could smell the warmth of butter and cheese, recently cooked. 

In the den he found Miriam Lass seated in a reading nook by a large bay window. She held a copy of The Turn of the Screw. Her brow was scrunched in concentration, a line of worry etched across her forehead. 

“Have you exhausted your new collection already?” Hannibal asked.

Miriam promptly closed the book and stood at attention. Her FBI training etched into every fiber of her being. 

“I feel a particular kinship with the governess.” She offered a slight smile. “I’ve finished the book but… it’s difficult to leave the pages.”

“That’s understandable. It’s difficult to exist in isolation. Even more so when you’re haunted by ghosts,” he agreed. 

“There are many ghosts here,” she said quietly.

“Yes, there are.” He rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I will be sure to bring you another collection soon. Let me know if you have any particular requests.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Are you ready to try again today?”

She swallowed thickly and nodded.

“Very well, you may ask.”

Miriam shifted on her feet. Her single arm wrapped around her middle, clinging to her side in the empty space where her other limb used to be. She averted her gaze as she asked, “I’d like to go outside today. May I?”

Hannibal stepped aside and motioned toward the front door.

“You are not a prisoner here Ms. Lass. You may leave whenever you wish.”

The fingers at her side twitched. With careful concentration she moved across the room. Each step was faltering and uncertain, as though the ground might crumble away at any moment. She stopped before the door, the hand at her side flexing. Hannibal closed his eyes and listened to her breathing. It grew short and uneven. 

The doorknob rattled in her unsteady grip.

“I— I don’t…” She gasped. Her knuckles turned white, but she did not turn the knob. “I don’t think I can…”

“Your freedom is just beyond that door,” he told her. “There is a gas station at the bottom of the hill. A pay phone. Are you sure you don’t want to leave?”

“Please, Doctor Lecter, don’t make me leave.” Her words were choked with a sob.

Hannibal gently removed her hand from the door and led her back to the den. The slate grey couch dipped with their combined weight as they sat down. He clasped her hand between his, satisfied that the conditioned hold he had on her mind was as unbreakable as ever.

“It was a valiant effort,” he praised, “but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Ms. Lass.”

She trembled like a leaf. A tear trailed down her face. “Th— thank you.” 

He smiled and left her to grab the small black medical bag he’d brought with him. She watched him through a haze of muted understanding as he unpacked supplies that she was intimately familiar with. A metronome, syringes, a single black notebook. 

Miriam clutched herself tighter. “I— I thought I did well— I don’t need to be reminded again, do I?”  

“No, not at all. You did very well,” he assured her. “I’m afraid I need to ask a small favor.” He knelt before her, an uncapped syringe in hand. A bubble danced near the end of the clear liquid inside. 

Fresh tears spilled down her face.

“You’d like to help, wouldn’t you?” He asked.

She nodded. It reminded him of Will, the jerky unsteady movement so like him. Her voice was ethereally soft as she said, “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”

“That’s right.” He cleaned a spot on her arm with an alcohol swab. “I have someone very dear to me that has asked for my help. He wants me to help him recover some lost memories.” Hannibal didn’t want to use untested treatments on Will. Not without having some idea of what he may get in return. Miriam’s mind was heavily fractured, but it would have to do as a litmus test for his chosen methods. It was all he had on hand that was immediately available. 

“It’s for a good reason,” she said.

“A very good reason,” he assured her.

“A— and we can try to go outside again? After?” She asked as she offered her arm.

He was gentle as he pierced her skin with the needle. “You have my word, Ms. Lass. I’m sure next time, you’ll be able to open the door.”

Chapter Text

Will tugged at the stiff collar of his Persian-red shirt as he paced the length of Hannibal’s kitchen. He’d made an effort on his appearance, even going so far as to bother with a belt and slacks— but the clothes were new and stiff, wearing him rather than the other way around. They were fetching, but clearly intended to be a distraction. Another barrier for him to hide behind.

“Feeling nervous?” Hannibal asked, pouring white wine into two long stemmed glasses.

“I don’t like psychiatrists,” Will said. “No offence.”

“None taken. Your reticence is perfectly understandable, though I assure you that tonight is only about recovering your memories.” Hannibal cut off Will’s umpteenth lap around the room to offer him a drink.

“Thanks.” He downed half of the wine in one go. A luxurious and expensive 1994, Domaine Leflaive Montrachet Grand Cru, gone in an inelegant gulp. Will licked his lips, and noting the pained expression on Hannibal’s face said, “That’s really good— Tastes expensive.”

“Yes, it is.” Hannibal returned to the stove where his stock was boiling. 

“Is this a special occasion?” Will asked, falling in next to him as he added pre-prepared vegetables to the pot. Bright multicolor slices of carrot, half moons of celery, onions, and verdant green leeks. They disappeared into the inky reduction of beef broth. A cut of bone belonging to one Leonard Crutter— a foul mouthed plumber— bubbled to the surface. The marrow had absorbed the broth beautifully, turning black with flavor. 

Hannibal turned down the heat. “Not particularly. However, you’ve had a long stay at the hospital and I am happy to be cooking for you again. I see cause for celebration in seeing you happy and hale.”

Will scoffed, “Am I happy?”

Hannibal smiled wryly. “Perhaps just hale then.”

“It’s easy to be happy when someone is making you food, especially the way you cook.” Will leaned his hip against the counter. He was intimately close, his body heat radiating into Hannibal’s side. He nursed his wine with more care this time, savoring the taste. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. You’re a former surgeon, a renowned psychiatrist, a cook, and a polyglot. What else is up your sleeve?”

“If you want me to show you, you only have to ask,” Hannibal teased, unbuttoning the cuffs of his burgundy shirt to roll up the sleeves as he continued his work. He’d had many romantic partners comment on his forearms. He was perfectly aware of how they looked while he cooked. It was appealing on many levels psychologically— certainly a display of prowess. Judging by the way Will flushed, the effect was not lost on him.

Will’s apparent shyness made it all the more thrilling when venturing fingertips found their way to the exposed skin of Hannibal’s arm. He drew burning lines of touch up and down, mapping out the muscle and prominent veins where they rose to the surface. Unpredictability was an alluring quality on him. His ephemeral nature was endlessly fascinating, keeping Hannibal hungry for more. 

“Tell me,” The softness of Will’s voice was nearly lost in the pulsing heat that rose through Hannibal’s body, “About us.”

Dryness clicked in his throat as he swallowed. “What would you like to know?”

Will stroked a thumb in dizzying patterns against his skin. “How did we spend our time? What did we do together?”

Lost in the spell of touch, Hannibal struggled to come up with any activities that didn’t involve vast amounts of bare skin and exploring lips. Was Will purposefully trying to drive him to distraction? It would be a skilled manipulation, if it was one.

“Many things. We spent evenings in the den. We would read, or you would grade papers while I kept up with my patient’s notes. At times I would play music, or even read aloud to you. More often, we would chase away the hours until midnight simply talking.”

“I feel like I should ask you questions like this is a date— but I have no idea where to start. These days I feel like I don’t even know anything about myself.” Will grimaced, his gaze finally rising beyond shoulder level. Looking into the depths of him was like seeing stars through a break in a storm. “Is this a date?” He asked.

“It can be whatever you like it to be,” Hannibal said, mesmerized. 

“There’s this whole life I know nothing about happening around me. I– I open drawers and find…” he trailed off, heat inflaming his neck and face. “Christ, I don’t—” Will looked away, embarrassed. Hannibal smiled inwardly. Will must’ve discovered the drawer of special drawings that he’d secreted away in the nightstand in his home. Some were completed in situ, while others were pulled from his imagination. Will must be aware that their relationship was sexual, but the drawings would confront him with it. It would be an undeniable fact sitting at the back of his mind, calling to him. 

“I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that we were… intimate. That you know me, and I don’t remember any of it.” 

“Do you think of it as a violation?”

“No.” Will was quick to dismiss the idea. “No, I don’t like not knowing. It makes me feel…”

“Crazy?”

He winced.

Hannibal leaned in. “You are not crazy. It’s still possible that your memories will return. Perhaps they are in there now, just under the surface, more instinctual than they are tangible.”

Will huffed. “I don’t know if I can trust my instincts.”

Hannibal let silence build between them, waiting for Will to find the words to explain what was on his mind. When the quiet grew too loud, Will said, “I’m drawn to you, but I don’t know if it’s my feelings or just my… empathy picking up on what you feel. Is it instinctual, or is it pathological?” 

“The comfort we found in one another was genuine.”

Will smiled, soft and sorrowful. His hand dropped away. Hannibal lamented the loss of his warmth. 

“Thank you for doing this for me. For dinner and the…” He trailed off as though he were afraid to say the word out loud. Hypnosis. The thought of it must be weighing on his mind. He was offering up a significant amount of trust, allowing rare access that he wouldn’t grant anyone else. 

“Of course,” Hannibal said, scrambling to regain his bearings. It was disconcerting to think that Will could ask him anything in this state and he might agree. That he so easily fell to putty in those tender hands.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He asked.

Hannibal shook his head. “You may have a seat in that chair and ‘look pretty’, as they say.”

Will snorted, but obliged. Once settled he turned the wine in his hands anxiously until words tumbled from his beautiful petaled lips, “You’re nice to look at too, you know. The way you move is… graceful.”

It was hard not to preen under such charming and innocent praise. 

“Then feel free to relax and drink your fill,” Hannibal said with a coy smile, laying out a length of thigh meat to prepare. He was making Pot-au-Feu, a French stew. He couldn’t wait to see the sheen of sauce on Will’s lips. What a shame not to be able to kiss it away. Perhaps another time. After all, good things were promised to those who waited. 

Will paled at the small pharmacy laid out on a mirrored serving platter by the minibar. He came to an abrupt stop, muscles taught and ready to bolt. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary for a session like this, I assure you,” Hannibal soothed. He waved toward a pair of deep green armchairs that were arranged to face a glass coffee table. A notebook and a metronome sat innocently atop the table, waiting for an audience of two.  

Will reluctantly unstuck himself from the entryway and sat on the edge of one of the chairs. Hannibal offered him a kind smile and set about preparing the pharmaceuticals. He opened a few bottles and poured out a collection of pills. Using the convex side of a spoon, he crushed the pills into a fine white powder. He scooped the powder onto a small square paper, and poured it into a crystal tumbler filled with amber Whiskey.

“Midazolam is a benzodiazepine, and Ketamine is a dissociative anesthetic,” Hannibal explained.

“Whiskey to lower my inhibitions?” Will asked.

“While it will certainly help settle your nerves, in this case the whiskey is simply for your enjoyment.” Hannibal stirred the mixture with a small decorative stick until it dissolved. He dropped in two perfectly square ice cubes.

Will cupped it between two hands and made no move to drink it. “I take it this means our date is over now.” Nerves made the attempt at humor fall flat.
“Yes. For now you are my patient— as unorthodox as that may be, you are now privileged to my confidentiality.”

Hannibal unwrapped a sterile syringe and popped the plastic cap off the needle. Will’s gaze slid along the implement, sticking on the sharp point at the end. 

“Scopolamine,” He explained as he upturned a small bottle and stuck the needle into the soft rubber topper. He drew out the appropriate dosage, then flushed the tip. A drop of clear liquid dripped onto a napkin. 

“Truth serum,” Will whispered. 

“It will lower your resistance to suggestion,” Hannibal explained. “It will allow you to ‘get out of your own way’.” 

“I’m not a fan of needles.”

“I could mix it in your drink, but it has a rather nasty taste. I thought I’d save you the displeasure.”

“How thoughtful,” Will grumbled, settling deeper in his chair.

“I will wait until the other drugs begin to take effect.” Hannibal glanced pointedly down at Will’s untouched whiskey.

“Right,” he said, uncertain.

“We do not have to do this,” Hannibal said, hoping that Will wouldn’t disappoint him. “There are other, less invasive methods, but—”

“No, I want to.” Will exhaled long and slow. He rolled his shoulders and they settled into a determined line. The Whiskey was gone in three gulps. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, and a stray drop trailed from the corner of his mouth, down his chin. It was wiped away gracelessly with the back of a sleeve. In the low light of the den his eyes appeared darker, like a shade of the sky after midnight. The fire cast long, flickering shadows across the delicately carved features of his face. His lips glistened with moisture, soft and round. Will cleared his throat, and blushed under the intensity of Hannibal’s stare.  

“Good Whiskey,” Will said. “Could I have another?”

“I understand that this takes a great amount of trust. I do not take that lightly,” Hannibal said, refilling his glass. Will’s trust was a rarity. To own it was a thrilling experience. It warmed his blood like an illicit drug, heady and intoxicating.  

Will chuckled, “I think you get off on it.”

Hannibal tilted his head, curious. Was Will walking in his mind now? How easily did that empathy of his pass through his fortified barriers? Would it be easier in the realm of waking dreams? Looking into his beloved’s mind might be a two way street, offering Will a glimpse right back into Hannibal’s own thoughts. He had to be careful not to reveal too much. 

Will blinked slowly and settled deeper into his seat as he sipped on his drink. 

“It’s not necessarily sexual…” he continued, lost in his recreation of Hannibal’s mind. “But it is physical… you like the control. The power. It makes you feel… high.”

“I am not alone in that. Everyone craves control.”

“Control of themselves and their situation, not necessarily over others,” he argued.

“Nietzsche would disagree with you, as would a great many other philosophers.”

Will frowned, his thoughts turning slower behind his fluttering eyelids. Hannibal knelt down and pulled his left arm forward. He unbuttoned the cuff and rolled up the sleeve, exposing the pale, soft skin of the inside of Will’s forearm. His thumb rolled over the collection of faint blue veins, looking for a likely target. 

This close he could smell the familiar warmth of Will’s skin. The atrocious aftershave, his natural musky oils, and faint hint of dogs. If only he could press his tongue there and savor the light salty flavor of him. He missed their small intimacies, the absence of them had left him with an intolerable, persistent ache.

 Hannibal tore open an antiseptic packet. He wiped the wet cloth over the junction of the elbow. Setting the needle flush against Will’s skin, he pressed forward, sliding easily inside his vein. A rush of heat assaulted him at the sight of Will’s arm cradled in the cup of his hand, the needle buried deep inside. Hannibal pulled back on the plunger, watching a curl of red dance up through the syringe, then forward, gushing the contents directly into Will’s body. When he removed the needle, he soothed the puncture wound with his thumb, smearing a small spot of blood against the skin. 

Will gasped, his pupils dilating. He watched Hannibal with intense focus, even as his conscious mind began to drift.

“Oh.” Will swallowed, struggling to keep hold of himself. His eyes rolled back into his head. Hannibal caught the glass of whiskey before it could fall out of his grasp. 

Will slipped into a semi-conscious state, his body no longer fully under his control, every muscle too lax to do anything more than twitch. Awareness bubbled just beneath the surface, blinking back and forth beneath heavy eyelids. He was crossing into a realm that bordered on dreams. The Scopolamine was powerful, if short-lived, though he would remember nothing else for the next hour. The clock on the mantel marked the time, plucking steadily forward. 

Hannibal turned the whiskey tumbler over, admiring the dance of firelight on its surface. His tongue flattened over the place where Will’s lips had been, tasting the remnants of saliva and whiskey. He closed his eyes and savored the flavor. When he opened them again, Will was watching him through a dull-blue daze.

“Can you tell me your name?” Hannibal asked.

Will blinked, slow and mechanical. His lips moved as though he weren’t sure if they were really there.
“Will.” His voice was soft, barely a whisper.

“Where are you?”

His fingers flexed, breath shallow. “Not… sure.” 

“How do you feel?”

He wet his lips, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Dry.”

“Very good. We will begin with a physical assessment,” Hannibal said, setting the glass aside.

He pulled a stethoscope from his medical kit, and unbuttoned the first three buttons of Will’s shirt. He pressed the diaphragm firmly against Will’s chest. His heart rate was steady, thumping in a pleasant rhythm against his eardrums. Hannibal checked each valve, sliding the drum across his sternum and ribs. The sound was strong. Healthy.     

He checked his breathing next. His lungs were clear, breathing even. Hannibal unhooked the stethoscope and rebuttoned the shirt. He picked up his notepad and detailed his findings in a smooth, looping script.

Hannibal palpated Will’s lymph nodes, rolling his thumbs in the curve of his armpits, then up the column of his neck, under his jaw bone. He stuck his fingers up under Will’s lips, feeling along his gums. He found a rough spot on a back tooth— a cavity fixed by filling. He then flattened two fingers against Will’s tongue, pressing as he shined a light down the back of his throat. There were no tonsils, only scar tissue where they had once been. Likely removed at an early age. 

He checked his pupil dilation and inside his ears— they needed to be cleaned. He checked his range of mobility. Motion was limited in the left shoulder, near the old stab wound. Hannibal’s fingers lingered on the small white, crescent-shaped scars on his other shoulder, where his teeth had left their mark, so many months ago. 

“Tickles…” Will said, his head lolling to one side.

Filled to the brim with longing, Hannibal helped Will settle comfortably back into the deep green armchair. He gently stroked soft, chocolate curls, staring down into empty, fathomless eyes, pupils blown into solid black disks. 

Taking a seat, Hannibal switched on the metronome. It clicked steadily from side to side, a bright fluorescent light pulsing on each beat.

“Focus on your breathing,” Hannibal instructed. “I want you to breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth.”    

Will struggled on the first few draws, the manual expansion and contraction requiring every ounce of scrambled focus he could muster. Eventually he settled into a calm, even rhythm, one that mirrored the beat of the metronome. 

“Very good,” Hannibal praised.

A corner of Will’s mouth lifted in a small smile. It was infectious, spreading to Hannibal. 

“I’d like you to step back into your mind. Find somewhere you feel safe. Where peace pervades, sinking like warm sunlight through to the ends of your limbs. Allow yourself to feel heavy with relief. Let the chambers of your thoughts develop around you in dimensional space. Allow your senses to drift from the physical, and turn them inward. Steep yourself in the thick umbra of the spaces in your mind.”

Will’s features flickered in even bursts as the metronome swayed back and forth. His muscles fell lax, mirroring his consciousness as it sank deeper, drawn inward by Hannibal’s verbal spell.

“Where are you?”

The response bubbled up, taking time to rise, as though he were shouting from the bottom of a well. 

“In a stream,” he whispered.

“Tell me about your stream.”

“It’s beautiful… The trees are all different colors. So bright.”

“It’s fall?” Hannibal asked.

“Yes. The water looks like fire.”

“Do you feel safe in your stream?”

Will gave a slow, uneven nod. “I come here to fish. Do you like to fish?”

Hannibal tilted his head, curious over Will’s question. Usually subjects under his control were unaware of him as a separate entity. They certainly never addressed him. Perhaps Will’s empathy formed the bedrock of his personality. Even his raw subconscious would mirror others and internalize their behaviors.

“I want you to focus on yourself, Will.” He jotted down a few notes in his journal. “Now, in your mind you will find a door. Look around for it, and let me know when you find it.”

“Okay.”

“What does it look like?”

Will frowned, then said, “It’s a white screen door. The mosquito netting is torn. It’s dirty.”

“Where do you think this door will lead?”

Will’s voice took on a Louisiana drawl as he said, “Home. I don’t wanna go in there.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

He nodded, expression solemn. 

Hannibal considered asking him to open the door. It would be interesting to see Will’s reaction to his childhood. To catch a glimpse of a backwoods wild child that led a pack of feral mutts. A child that swam with alligators, and fed on tainted fish. It was easy to imagine him as a hard-eyed creature with sharp claws and fangs much closer to the surface than his repressed adult counterpart. He swallowed his curiosity. It would have to wait for another time.

“I want you to find a different door,” Hannibal instructed. “Go deeper into your stream.”

They traversed various points of Will’s memory, doors that lead down roads that shaped him into the man he was. There was a grey door that led to his first apartment when he was freshly eighteen. Two large, brown double doors of a New Orleans' university. A green, overpainted hotel door behind which Will lost his virginity. The stream at the center of his mind went on and on, drawing him back and forth in a winding path. It curved and looped around the people he met. Where Hannibal built others into the décor of his mind palace, Will’s consciousness built around them, changing shape to accommodate their orbits like a river would around dirt and stone.

“I’m home. My dogs are inside. I can see them through the screen door—” Will stopped. His brow wrinkled with concern. “There’s…. Something’s wrong.”

“What do you see?”

“The river… it’s red.”

“There’s been a change in the safe space of your mind.”

Will’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I— I don’t… Something is wrong.”

“Stay with me, Will. You are safe as long as you can hear my voice,” Hannibal assured. “Why is the water red?”

“It’s filled with blood.”

Hannibal sat forward. He noted an uptick in the rate of Will’s breathing. “Yours?”

“No… It’s… I don’t know.”

Something had invaded the sanctity of Will’s mind. Could it be the visions? Was it the root of all his terror— or perhaps it was his guilt, corrupting the flow of his thoughts. Hannibal’s nostrils flared around the acidic tang of fear in the air. 

“What else do you see?”

Will’s hands tightened into fists. Knuckles white. His stress level was impressively high considering the weight of narcotics he was under. “There’s something in the river, it’s white…”

“What is it?”

“It’s her. It’s her body.” 

“Who?”

“She…” Abruptly Will stilled. Sweat glistened on his brow. His absent, dilated gaze tore away from the metronome and settled on Hannibal. The action was surprisingly conscious. Undilute. It gave Hannibal a rare moment of pause as the hair on his nape stood on end. 

Something sinister stirred in the air.

Will clicked his tongue, the sound dry. “Didn’t I tell you not to hypnotize me, Hannibal?”

Recognition flared into unadulterated delight, seizing him with awe. He cataloged every minute change of Will’s physical presence, the straightening of his shoulders, the slide of a marble mask across his face— wicked orchestrations flickering to life within. A wondrous mix of darkness blending with the blinding light of truth. He had the urge to fall to his knees in reverence.

“Will,” the name left his lips like prayer.

This was his Will. The version free from the chains of repression. The one forged in his image. The one that changed the flow of time to reshape the future.   

So many questions sprang to his tongue that it coiled and tied itself in place. 

“You’re meddling in things you shouldn’t,” Will scolded. “But then again, you can’t help yourself, can you?”

The confidence. The hubris. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected the best version of both of them. Hannibal ignored the shiver that wanted to creep up his spine. Instead he said, “Why are you hiding away, so deep inside your own mind?”

Pain, sharp and pointed etched itself into Will’s fine features. He wore as many emotions on his sleeve as he kept tucked away. A kaleidoscope of mysteries. It made him impossible to read. He was captivating in his multitudes.

Will was distant as he said, “I fell away. You let me fall. Alone.”

“You wanted to drag us both under the veil of death. Was I meant to let you?”

A sad smile drew Hannibal’s eye down to the curve of his lips. He tried to memorize the shape and store it away. Something to treasure. 

“I am the only one worthy to hold your life in my hands,” Will whispered.

Fondness belied the irritation Hannibal felt at his arrogance. It may be true, but Hannibal wasn’t keen on encouraging Will’s mission of mutual destruction. “Perhaps once, but not anymore. You no longer see me.”

“Then make me see,” Will challenged. “Form me. Change me. Change me the way I changed you.”

Change. It was such an arduous act. The hammering of molten steel demanded force and sweat. It was a process that needed to be finished once it was started. To change shape from one thing to another would be pure alchemy. 

“It will be painful and bloody,” He warned.

“There are means of influence other than violence,” Will whispered.

Hannibal cocked his head to the side. “Sometimes you open your mouth and the voices of my past speak. It feels as though you are carved from me, mylimasis.”

He could see Chiyoh, his mother’s ward, in the words and feel her stalwart will threaded through both of them. She was as uncompromising as she was admirable and he missed her dearly.

“I exist in opposition to you,” Will said. “We foil one another, contrasting all the ways in which we are wrong and right. We cannot exist without one another in the same way light cannot exist without the dark. You just need to make me see it again.”

“You will hate me for it.”

“Of course I will,” he agreed. “But I will love you for it too.”

“Love.” Hannibal hummed thoughtfully. “Is it love that drives you to destruction? Is that the only reason you sought me out?”

“I was drawn to you like a moth to flame. Once I was caught in the web of your light, there was nothing left but to burn.”

Hannibal was unconvinced. He said, “When I look at you, I see bronze armor painted in blood, shining amid the ashes of a ruined city. I see untapped potential— the coiled power of a god— and you say there is nothing left but to burn.”

Will’s head lolled to the side. He smiled fondly at Hannibal as he responded, “Achilles wished all Greeks would die, so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone.”

Emotion welled deep and full in the hollow cavern of Hannibal’s chest. To have Will’s eyes on him, to be known down to the very core of his being, was beyond any experience he’d ever had the pleasure of tasting. How bitter sweet to be so deeply loved and hated in equal measure. 

“Why not capture me? Take away my freedom? Jack Crawford would sing your praises until kingdom come,” Hannibal sneered.

“I considered it,” Will answered. “To lock you away so I’d always know where to find you.”

“Some birds will stop singing when in captivity. They lose their brilliance,” He said. “You would see my wings clipped? See my light diminished?”

“Even if I did, you’d still sing for me. Wouldn’t you, Hannibal?” Will asked. “Such beautiful songs, just for me.” 

Stinging moisture gathered in Hannibal’s eyes. Perhaps there was a great arbiter of justice at work in the world after all. There must be, for the fates to visit such judgement on him in the form of a creature as cruel as Will Graham. 

“Bring us to the clifftop and let us fall together, Hannibal.”

Self destruction was an anathema to his very being. It was the enemy, and yet Will had a way of making it sound beautiful. He was the embodiment of a siren’s song, leading Hannibal to dash himself against the cliffs.  

His voice was hoarse as he said, “Must I take it on trust that you will follow me down?”

“I will always follow you,” Will promised. “Just as you will always follow me.”

Hannibal hoped that was true. It would take a bond stronger than adamant to bind Will to him throughout this transformation, and something stronger still to set him free. If he could cut the chains of morality from Will’s wings, perhaps he would be willing to follow Hannibal into ascension instead.

The damning sound of a clock chimed, striking the hour. If he let the hypnotism hold, it might be enough to return Will’s former consciousness and merge them— but it was too early for him to remember everything, to give away the upper-hand.

Hannibal swallowed thickly, and said, “I want you to find your river.”

Will settled into his seat, open fondness softening every feature. A knot tightened in Hannibal’s throat. He wanted to linger in this space with his beloved, but sand continued to pour through the hourglass of time. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Allow yourself to drift. Put your head back. Close your eyes.”

Dark, dilated pupils disappeared beneath the flutter of long lashes. 

“Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

Will’s breath caught. A wrinkle formed in his brow then smoothed away. 

The steady beat of the metronome filled the growing silence. It provided an even measure by which to steady his own elevated heart rate. He took a deep, calming breath.

“On the count of three, you will wake up and remember nothing.”

Tick.

“One.”

Tock.

“Two.”

Tick.

“Three.” He switched off the metronome, the bright blue light burned in the negative of its absence. 

Will blinked awake. His eyelids were heavy, as were his limbs. Every movement was slow and sedate. The lines of his shoulders had softened, his expression turned shy. 

“Did we already start?” Will mumbled.

Hannibal nodded, feeling strangely untethered from his stoic center. He rose to his feet, folding away his notes. Will slumped against his side as he helped him to his feet. The walk to the stairs was slow and uncoordinated. Hot breath spilled across Hannibal’s throat, where Will’s head rested against his shoulder. He pulled him closer, noting every point of warmth where their bodies connected. There was something sweet about an agreeable Will. He was malleable and open in ways that neither version of him had demonstrated before.

Upstairs, Hannibal deposited him on the bed. He slumped over to one side, laying heavily across the dark blue duvet. His shoes slid off with ease, as did his socks. Hannibal tucked them away near the foot of the bed. Getting the idea, Will wriggled ungracefully out of his shirt and pants. Hannibal lifted the covers for him to slide inside, then tucked them back down.

“You look sad,” Will said, eyes heavy and half-lidded.

Was he sad? He searched within for something that might describe what it was that had him so staggered. He didn’t think it was sadness. Or, it wasn’t the only thing. Anticipation, annoyance, hurt, devotion… the list went on. Perhaps it would be easier to say he was sick with the effects of love. A warm hand slid into his. Will blinked slowly, sleep working hard to drag him under.

“I wish I could remember you,” Will whispered. “I can see how… it would be easy to love you.”

Pain sharp and sweet delivered like a hidden blade. Wicked thing. His darling had a unique way of carving him up from the inside without even trying. He lifted Will’s hand to his lips and placed a kiss against his knuckles.

“Get some rest,” he said, knowing rest for himself would be far away. Hannibal had a lot to consider. The central theme of Will’s visions seemed to be a desire to stop the cycle of violence between them. Will found a solution in mutual destruction, but Hannibal was determined to find another way forward. 

Chiyoh would be proud of him. It seemed there were means of influence other than violence after all.

Chapter Text

— 2013 —

“That’s sixteen dollars.” 

Ice clinked in amber liquid as a bartender presented Will Graham with a glass of bottom-shelf whiskey.

Will dug in his pockets for a wallet muttering a curse under his breath. Lines of machine stitching stood out along the edges of his blue suit— a mark of mass production. Hannibal’s nose wrinkled over the smell of cheap aftershave and dogs.

Smug with superiority, Hannibal slid a twenty across the table. “Please, allow me.”

Tension flared through Will’s shoulders. Curious. “I can pay for myself,” he growled.

What a contemptible creature. Not even a polite show of gratitude over Hannibal’s generosity. He’d come to give Mr. Graham a chance to prove his first impression wrong. So far he’d only managed to dig his grave deeper.

“Of course you can. Consider it a favor to me.”

After a petulant sip of whiskey, he was offered a reluctant, “Thanks.”

He had some manners after all. Hannibal’s lips tilted with a genteel smile, one he used to capture the interest of aristocrats and bluebloods. Will didn’t bother with meeting his gaze.

“It’s the least I could do, Mr. Graham. Your article on Reality Agreement was thoroughly compelling.”

Will had the gall to smirk. Hannibal glanced down at the ice pick on the table, violent urges rippling through him. It would be foolish to kill this insufferable pig on nothing more than an impulse. He soothed himself with a visualization of the act and shook his hand instead. Will’s palms were rough. Workers hands, calloused with use. Surprising for a man in academia. 

“Not used to others disagreeing with you, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal spun some half-baked anecdote. Something he cooked up on the passive power of his brain as he scanned the room, looking for a distraction. He itched with violence. It’d been some time since he’d killed anyone and Will was a very tempting victim. Across the room Frederick Chilton stole jealous glances in their direction. It was hard to believe that this was the coveted mind of the Baltimore psychiatric community. They truly had no taste. 

“... What is the blood of your practice then, Doctor?”

Inciting word choice and a warm, smokey timbre snagged Hannibal’s attention. What a curious turn of phrase. Mr. Graham was doing a serviceable job of keeping up an interesting conversion. Humane and ethical lobotomies. What a humorous wit. Perhaps Hannibal would give Will a lobotomy to round out the joke. The thought made him smile as he said, “Solipsism.”

A warm laugh barked its way out of Will, the sound rich and hearty. It sent an odd curl of pride through Hannibal’s chest. Strange that he should be so pleased to draw a laugh out of someone he disliked. He noted a light blush dusting Will’s cheeks beneath the secretive veil of his dark lashes. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of blue beneath the veil, only for it to vanish again just as quickly. They had yet to make direct eye contact. Was Mr. Graham on the spectrum?

“Perhaps your previous conversation partners were not adequately primed and therefore not receptive to your beguiling influence,” Hannibal said, wondering after his own loose tongue and flirty tone. His words were escaping him faster than his disdain could catch them. He shouldn’t want to sleep with Mr. Graham— he should think of new ways to prepare his liver. As a general rule found mixing his kills and his romantic whims messy and tried to avoid it where he could. 

“To loosen the tongue,” Will said, pink tongue darting out to taste his whiskey wet lips. “It’s socially acceptable to speak your mind when inhibitions have been lowered.”

“Do you often find that others do not accept your sober mind, Will?”

“Sober or not, my thoughts are often not very tasty,” He said.

Hannibal had to disagree, he found them to be pleasantly satisfying. He imagined they would taste even better coated in butter.  

“You are shocked by the associations you make,” He offered, unable to resist the temptation to pick him apart. Psychoanalysis spilled from him in an insightful wave. One that struck home in Will’s sensitive center, earning him a proper sneer.

“If you’d like to get into my head, Doctor, you’ll need a bone saw,” Will lifted a hand to his head as if he expected to find something there. A small wrinkle of confusion marred his brow. Hannibal imagined a thin red line circling his skull. A cap he could lift to reveal the curious thoughts circling inside that increasingly delightful brain. Will really needed to stop giving him ideas. 

“I’m afraid I left my tools at home, perhaps you’ll entertain a less-invasive alternative in the meantime?” He teased.

Will tipped his drink so the ice clinked musically against the glass. “I’m not altered enough for your suggestions to work, Doctor.”

Sharp mind, wicked tongue…. Hannibal wanted to grab Will’s face and look into the depths of his soul. There must be something potent about looking— about seeing— for him to avoid it so intently.

“I imagine my influence is diluted when it lives in your periphery. Not a fan of eye contact?” Hannibal asked.

Will’s lip curled. This was clearly a sore spot. It would be a challenge not to continue to press him on it. 

“Eyes are distracting,” he said.

Hannibal heard rumors of Will’s pathologies. About his ability to see into the criminal mind, not as a profiler, but as a mirror of the killer. How much would he mirror Hannibal if he allowed his true self to be refracted within? Would he be able to see him? To truly understand him?

Hannibal couldn’t help himself as he said, “They let you see too much and too little at the same time, narrowing your focus inward until you only reflect the person before you. It overwhelms you to become them, doesn’t it?”

“Am I one of your patient’s, doctor?” Will snapped, “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“Forgive me, I’m merely curious about your gift. I wonder how quickly you might assume my perspective?”

“I’m not a performing monkey, Dr. Lecter. I’m not going to serve at the whim of your curiosity,” Will snorted. “Especially not here.”

Not here. Said like an opening. Will wanted Hannibal to ask, so he did, “But somewhere?”

There was a quiet confidence about the way he said, “Perhaps a private demonstration.” A stunning flush illuminated Will’s face as took a long swig of whiskey. It was clear to see that he wasn’t a man that was typically so forward. Was it the whiskey talking, or was he genuinely interested? 

Anticipation sparked up Hannibal’s spine. Will was turning out to be far more interesting than the usual pigs he interacted with. Killing him was becoming less and less appealing by the minute. 

The silence between them begged to be asked out onto the dance floor and swished away. It would have been a natural progression, if they hadn’t been interrupted.

Annoyance percolated at the periphery of Hannibal’s tightly held control. Dr. Lampell was little more than a buzzing gnat deserving of a good swat. It was rude of him to interrupt such a refreshing conversation, especially with something as grating as pomp and flattery. Will Graham seemed like such a flighty thing, and this Doctor’s abrupt self-insertion was sure to scare him away.

Hannibal believed the interaction was doomed when Lampell trampled all over social etiquette and finished his tirade with his scuffed, black oxfords firmly lodged in his mouth– insulting Will right to his face without knowing who he was.

“What do I know? I’m just a teacher,” Will sneered, emerging from his protective shell in a surprising turn.

Lampell sputtered with embarrassment, squirming like the insect he was. How entertaining. Will pressed his social advantage, asserting himself in Doctor Lampell’s space. It was impressive to see power and self assurance rippling through the lines of his figure, like a butterfly unfurling from its cocoon. 

“I’d love to hear about the new therapies you’re considering. Do you have a business card?” 

Do you have a business card? The tone and cadence echoed through his ears and down into the vast cavern of his thoughts. Hannibal’s pulse raced, unleashed by the familiar words. The beast in him surged to the surface, merging with his carefully constructed mask just as Mr. Graham made eye contact with him for the first time.

Arrogance. Competence. Savagery. 

Recognition spilled through Hannibal’s blood, warming him from the inside out. Pools of liquid blue reflected himself, distorted through the ripples of this stunning man.

Hello there.

Hannibal had approached Mr. Graham with sneering intent, determined to take the measure of the pig that dared to challenge him so publicly. It was rare for anyone to surmount such odds and flip Hannibal’s favor once it was lost. 

Will’s resolve crumpled under Hannibal’s intensity and his gaze dropped back down to the level of his chin. His cheeks burned beneath the secretive lace of his dark lashes. With the turn of his head he was once again swallowed by protective forts and barriers. Excuses to flee were bubbling just under Will’s tongue, ready to burst at any moment.

The sonorous drag of a bow on strings pulled Hannibal from his singular focus, back into the grand ballroom of the masonic temple. An orchestral rendition of La Vie en Rose. A perfect opportunity. A detour through his mind palace. For a brief moment he and Will stood alone under the canopy of interlocking trees in the Boboli Gardens in Florence. Sunlight filtered through and dappled them both with gold and green. It’d been a long time since Hannibal found someone interesting enough to drown out the noise of his surroundings and draw them into his private sanctum. Will would never know he’d been granted such a rare privilege. 

“Would you care to dance?”

Will opened his mouth rejection at the ready. Instead, he polished off his whiskey and took Hannibal’s hand.  

Warmth seeped through every point of contact as they made easy circles around their corner of the room. Near the high-top tables Hannibal caught the scandalized expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Sartori and their gaggle of gossiping hens. Amusement bubbled through him, and he spun Will deeper onto the dance floor.

Fascination unfolded in spades with every glimpse at Will’s lenticular mind. He’d done well to elevate himself from a menu item to an intriguing curio. It certainly helped his chances for survival. As they took their bows and said their farewells, Hannibal privately bid his new toy good luck. His attention was a dangerous commodity, but Will had fought admirably for it. 

Hannibal would be remiss if he didn’t reward his efforts. 

— Present — 

Reviewing and rereading Will’s journal, it was clear that he’d been busy in the fall leading up to and during his courtship with Hannibal. Before September, he’d been a modest teacher living the life of a recluse in the middle of the woods. Then, seemingly from the ether, he was everywhere. Taking cases for the FBI, writing papers for psychiatric journals, attending galas… saturating Hannibal’s mind, body, and soul. Staring down at the timeline of their story, hidden in the details of mad writings and official investigative reports, it was startling to see how quickly their love had caught fire. How fast it spread and erupted. 

Hannibal laid his hand over a large glossy print of a crime scene. His fingers traced details, hugging the jagged curve of Eldon Stammets’ broken skull. The photographer had done their best to capture the violence, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. He closed his eyes, merging his palace with the image and stepping into a darkened alleyway on a cold October night. The air in this chamber of his mind tasted like wine, tequila, and warm honeyed meat— the flavor of Will’s breath as he leaned in for a kiss that never blossomed. 

The memory had taken on a fanciful quality, morphed in the face of Hannibal’s adoration. Will stood proud and strong, faint moonlight casting silver lines over his face and hair. The blood on his hands was black and gleaming, blending into the shadows of the alley as though he were materializing from the darkness itself. His face was vivid with righteous wrath, his eyes pitiless stones. The wet sound of breaking bone and cracking flesh against stone echoed beautifully with the soft, ambient notes of Pärt’s, Spiegel im Spiegel playing in the background. 

Hannibal stood before the still life, reverent. Will was glorious, towering triumphant over the broken body of a man that dared to threaten what was his. He’d been magnificent the entire night— his brilliant mind absorbing and deconstructing every work of art, that sinful mouth curving around delightful conversation. Every inch of him was so achingly tragic and wickedly divine. 

Hannibal had fallen in love with Will in that alleyway— but it took him much longer to admit that truth to himself. 

The dim light of his study returned in flashes and blinks as his mind palace slid away. Hannibal flipped over the photograph and examined the next. He cataloged every detail, searching for anything he missed the first time. Beyond the crime scene photos were the statements. Will’s mirrored Hannibal’s, their stories perfectly aligned. 

The killer, Stammets, was an interesting fellow. He had an obsessive fascination with the idea of connection and microorganisms. He celebrated the way they had mastered what humans had not— symbiotic harmony. People were messy, cruel, distant creatures. Fungi had an elegance in the way they connected and communicated. Each mycelium was a smaller part of a larger whole. It was a romantic idea— and a brilliant culinary one. Using the photographs of the bodies in the woods, Hannibal could easily reconstruct the soil boxes. Damp earth and acrid fertilizer would be a pungent combination in the poor ventilation of his basement, but may be worth the trade off. Hannibal dragged his sketchbook over to make a quick blueprint of the box. He would revisit it later to make any necessary updates, such as doing away with the sugar drips. His victim would not need to remain alive for this experiment. 

Folding away the file on Stammets, Hannibal picked up the next one in the stack. He’d been through three already. Records on Beth LeBeau, Tobias Budge, and Eva Milton. He was working his way back in time, opening Will’s experience like the careful unspooling of a thread. He had a hard copy of Will’s journal open on his desk as he cross referenced the events. Some were more difficult than others to connect. 

According to Will, killing Stammets had been like the smashing of a carefully kept container, dashing it against the stone until it burst and the contents flooded out. Eva Milton was a storm made of loud cracking thunder and the warm splash of rain. A slow release rather than expulsion. Tobias wasn’t Will’s kill, but his descriptions of Hannibal’s violence made him ache to hear them read aloud in his darling’s dark and rumbling voice. 

Beth LeBeau’s case stood out starkly from the rest. Will described visions of killing her, and not killing her. His recollections were coated with the derangement of cerebral infection. 

Snow flurries drift against a black sky, melting before they can touch my skin. The heat is extraordinary. It pulses out of me in waves, vibrating sickness into the atoms and molecules. I’m out of place and time. I upset the natural order of things in this state. A stag upturns the earth with massive cloven hooves and snorts in clouds of mist. I know he is hidden in the tangles of bare, white trees somewhere in the dark.

There is a sleeve of rotten skin dangling from my hand. It’s not mine. 

“You’re alive!” My voice vanishes like smoke into the wilderness, but I know she hears me.

Time loses me.

When it returns I’m on my knees in the upstairs bedroom. There’s a linoleum knife in my hands. Blood everywhere. Beth LeBeau is beneath me, choking on what I’ve done to her. A Glasgow smile.   

The fever is taking me. Did take me. Made me a puppet to an inner beast. 

I killed her.

I killed her.

I stumble into the hall and everyone is there, waiting. Jack, Beverly, Jimmy, and Zeller. Do they know? Do they see? I’m blinded by the fear.

I’m convinced I killed Beth, but the evidence says I didn’t. It was only a waking dream. In this reality I’ve already been treated for encephalitis. The fever is long gone, but in the visions I can feel it creeping in. It burns me when I get too close to the memories. I ache with the heat of it.

Will wasn’t officially hired as a consultant for the LeBeau case, despite the fact that he was penciled in as one in the final report. He went rogue and found the killer, Georgia Madchen, on his own accord. Curiously, he didn’t kill this murderer like he did the others. He saved her instead.

Georgia Madchen’s medical record revealed a history fraught with misdiagnoses and fumbled treatment. She was the walking dead, drifting through life as a specter, alone and afraid. Will likely saw himself in her. Always afraid of what was in his head and isolated by his condition. Always told he was wrong, but never why. It was a failing of modern society that he’d been so spurned and alienated. The common man didn’t deserve Will’s gift. It was lost on them, like pearls before swine.  

Hannibal lied to me. He played with my mind, my sickness. In this world and in others. It’s like he can’t help himself. Bastard. He’s in love with me, but that doesn’t stop him from seeing how far I can bend before I break. I don’t know if it’s the bending he likes more, or the breaking. Maybe it’s both. 

He convinced Sutcliff to lie to me about the illness. What a unique opportunity to study the advancement of a rare disease! How could he resist? Hannibal always knows the right strings to pull, where to apply pressure and where to ply rewards to get what he wants. He played into Sutcliff’s ambition and his curiosity, then once he had what he wanted, he used Georgia to cover his tracks.

She couldn’t see faces. She looked right at the Ripper and saw nothing. He gave Sutcliff a Glasgow smile, then handed her the scissors. All the while I was sleeping. I was burning.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

The MRI thunders through me, taking pictures, and taking my breath. The walls are too close. The sound is too loud. I lose time and I wake up alone.

There’s blood on the door handle. I can feel monstrosity bubbling in the antiseptic hospital air. Is it mine or his?

Hannibal wasn’t sure if he should feel robbed or proud. His darling had stolen souls from his ledger— pawns from his side of the board. If fate saw fit to give them to Hannibal once, surely they were his by right. It would be a cosmic balancing to see that the world was set right. Then again, Will had fought well for those pieces. It would hardly serve any purpose beyond petty retaliation, especially while Will’s memory was compromised. Their deaths would mean little to him without context. He would be better served by staying focused on the prize.

It didn’t matter that the thought of taking out Sutcliff was rather tempting. Their medical school days had been amusing— blackmailing fellow students, stealing from the morgue, and mutilating the donated bodies before running them through the incinerator. Donald had more than earned the truth about Ripper’s identity. He might even appreciate the gesture up to the point that Hannibal cut his throat.

The last file in the stack covered Will’s first case with the FBI. Three missing girls from Minnesota, later found in pieces. Garrett Jacob Hobbs honored these girls by using every part of them, stuffing pillows with their hair, carving knife handles from their bones. He was a resourceful hunter and a rare specimen— he wasn’t a psychopath like most serial killers. He overflowed with love. So much that he felt driven to consume the object of that love. 

Hannibal could identify with the feeling, and he suspected that Will could too. 

Will’s participation in the Hobbs' case was sparse. It wasn’t long after Jack recruited him, that Hobbs was found murdered in his cabin, hung like his victims on a rack of antlers. There was speculation that Hobbs had been killed by a partner in crime. 

Something about the theory didn’t sit well with Hannibal. One murderer with a pathology of love was rare, two of them working together would be unlikely. Two of them working together, and both in love with the same object of obsession was next to impossible. Will was well known for his unorthodox intuition. As skeptical as Jack was in his notes on the case, he placed a lot of weight in Will’s opinion. Whoever this other assailant was, he was still at large and laying low. There hadn’t been any more reported cases of missing girls in the last several months. 

Hannibal idly turned the stem of his wine glass before lifting it to polish off the last sip. He savored the robust burst of plum and sweet florals. It was tempting to pour another glass, but the vintage was strong and he needed a clear head. 

Will’s journal held nothing about the Hobbs case. His visions began before he stumbled into Jack’s investigation, yet there was nothing. Not even a reference later in his writing. The lack of mention was so stark it was suspect. Was there something he’d been afraid to put on the record? What was he trying to hide? Was he trying to hide it from himself or from someone else?

Hannibal’s finger traced the lip of his empty glass as he stared down at the images of the murdered girls. Dolly Woodward, April Anderson, and Samantha Olsen. Three girls. It would have gone on, if Hobbs hadn’t been killed.

Will joined the case after the first two.

The visions come to me fragmented. Like the punchline to an old joke, forgotten until it randomly creeps back in un-funny pieces. Then it wiggles in like a worm, threaded into the fabric of what I am. 

If Will worked this case in another world, he would know the missing girls’ faces by heart. They would stick with him like an afterimage burned into his retinas. He had a habit of carrying around ghosts like a stray picking up ticks. 

“Did you recognize them, darling?” Hannibal mused to himself.

I know things without knowing them. It’s enough to drive someone mad. 

“You thought you were going crazy.”

But it's all true, how is that possible? Is this a gift or a curse? 

When his visions came true, he would have been presented with a harrowing decision. Should he thrust his hand into the grinding wheels of fate? Or leave the world and its steady tide to the push and pull of the natural order?

“What did it feel like to seize the hand of God and bend his will?” Hannibal wondered.

I feel powerful. I can save them. I can save them all. Stop the suffering. Stop him.

What makes a god? Knowledge, power, agency, and worship. Will had all four, gifted indirectly by himself and by Hannibal in some fantastical way. What a fascinating idea, to create one’s own god through sheer force of love and will. Where had the cycle begun? Who loved who first, and who catalyzed who? Perhaps it was a simultaneous reaction happening all at once, only flattened and warped by the dimension of time.

“Will you— write equations for me, like you did— for her?” 

Hannibal had a fascination with the science of time travel and relativity ever since the death of his beloved Mischa. Grief had a strange looping and wavering path, never straight forward. At his lowest moments, Hannibal would fill pages with mathematical equations, trying to solve the great mystery of time. Was there a way to pierce the fabric of time and press it back to a specific moment? Great minds like Hawking, Friedman, and Einstein all postulated that the expansion of the universe could collapse, falling back in on itself and reforming a singularity and exploding outward again— There seemed to be a suggestion of an endless loop. A chance for rebirth and renewal. A chance for life to begin again in another world, where time could reverse and a shattered teacup could come back together again.

That night on the sidewalk, beneath a shattered window where Will lay bleeding, Hannibal found himself once again stunned by his precious oracle. 

No one knew about the equations. Grief always brought shame, and Hannibal detested the idea of regret. The equations were unsolvable and ultimately meaningless. They were penned out longing. A physical manifestation of weakness. After a dark spell of remembering, Hannibal would fill pages with a madman’s scratchings and then burn them all in fire along with his self loathing.

No one knew about them. Not even Bedelia. The fact that Will knew about them… It was the only thing that managed to stay the rage burning through Hannibal that night and save Will’s life. Both of their lives. If Hannibal let Will slip away, he would have found himself in a deeper hole of despair. Having tasted true understanding only to lose it, would have been devastating. Even with a stain of betrayal, his love for Will was one of the greatest experiences of his life.

Hannibal flipped through the pages, his mind whirring with several trains of thought all at once.

“What are you hiding?” He wondered.

Hannibal took everything from me. He wanted nothing in my life that wasn’t him. As much as he gives he can take away, and he loves his cruelties big and small. 

Could it be something he was afraid to lose again? It was clear Will had somehow managed to kill Garrett Jacob Hobbs. The mystery assailant in the FBI’s reports was too incorporeal. No evidence existed of another partner— at least not an unknown man.

Hobbs did have a partner. Removing the hypothesis of a second man with the same psychosis as Hobbs, another theory rose to the surface. An inherited pathology would be much more likely. A soft, wide-eyed face would lure more victims. Could it have been the daughter? If so, did Will know? The girl wouldn’t have been able to lift Hobbs into the air or shove him down onto the antlers with enough force to kill him. Did Will do it for her, then fabricate a man out of whole cloth to protect them both?

Will hadn’t been lying when he admitted to killing someone before Eldon Stammets. He only lied about it being in the line of duty as an officer of the law.

“What did you do, beloved?” Hannibal mused.

I killed a man today. I balked at the horror I didn’t feel.

Will wasn’t necessarily trying to hide his involvement in Hobbs’ death by not including him in the journal. He hadn’t hidden other accounts of his murders. Stammets or Eva. That wasn’t a good enough reason to erase that period of time from his records, not when he so freely wrote about the others. That’s not what he was protecting. It must be something else.

Hannibal stared at a picture of the daughter. A high school photo. Her hair was long and dark. It framed her fair face and accented her large blue eyes. Her cheeks were dusted with freckles. She was the inspiration for her father’s obsession. He loved her to the point of insanity. He loved how gods loved— all consuming and devastating. 

Will was due for another hypnosis session. Hannibal needed to know more, and now he had the questions to ask. His finger lightly tapped the printed name below the picture. Abigail Hobbs.

“Who are you, I wonder?”

Chapter Text

“Nothing has come back to me yet,” Will complained. 

He looked like a prince, laid out across Hannibal’s sofa. He was a study in relaxation, his body draped in an attractive repose. Fabric bunched and pulled around the elegant lines of his frame. One knee was bent up, the other hanging off and swinging a socked foot. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, baring the line of his neck where it met with his strong chest. The pose was effortlessly alluring. Again Hannibal wondered if Will knew what he was doing. He’d proved to be an adept seduction artist, it was difficult not to question every move and motivation. Hannibal had already underestimated him once. 

“I started having these strange, fragmented dreams, but I can’t make sense of them,” he said, absently drawing fingers through his hair.

Drawn by the force of an invisible string, Hannibal wandered over. He wanted to be close. Closer than the proper distance of two separate pieces of furniture. To his surprise Will didn’t shift away to make space but lifted his legs and laid them back down, right across Hannibal’s lap. It was a pleasant development, to have earned such a casual level of intimacy. Perhaps there was a piece of subconscious comfortability that lived in Will’s mind. Something he could recall without remembering why.

“I—” Will’s brow drew up in surprise, as if the invitation to be close and to touch had been second nature before his conscious mind caught up. “Sorry—” he tried to drop his legs, but Hannibal placed a firm hand on his ankle. 

“It’s more than alright,” He assured.

Will nodded and sank back against the sofa, muscles drawn up tight like a spring. Tension radiated from all the places he’d been so lax before. A pity.

“Tell me about the imagery in your dreams,” Hannibal said. He moved his thumb in small circles, starting at the ankle and then massaging down toward the arch of his foot. Will tensed further, a protest hanging on a sharply held breath before he let it go with a soft exhale. 

“There’s… a beast. A stag, I think. He has black feathers, like a raven. I’ve never seen him directly, but I know he’s there. Sometimes I catch him out of the corner of my eye, or I feel his breath against the back of my neck.”

“Interesting. A manifestation laden with symbolism. Many cultures see stags as earthly connections to the divine. As guides. Sometimes omens.”

Will nodded, his eyes closed tightly. He was torn between uncertainty and enjoyment. A fascinating dichotomy. Did he think he shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy himself? Hannibal should insist on a full body massage. He could press the shame right out of those rigid muscles.

“Ravens too,” Will said. “They represent death.”

“Prophecy,” he offered.

Will cracked an eye open. “If only,” he scoffed.

Hannibal merely hummed in amusement. Yes, if only.

Slowly but surely Will’s resistance dissolved beneath sure hands. Hannibal kneaded the ball of his foot and he let out a low groan. 

The picture he made was stunning. Hannibal intended to hold a rendition of this moment and display it prominently in his mind palace, always. The glory of Will reduced to a whimpering mess under his hands was simply too beautiful not to capture. His eyes were scrunched closed. Brown curls haloed his fine features, and a deep blush was working its way down his neck. His nostrils flared with each breath. Hannibal could smell simmering arousal as it seeped into his veins.

“Did you hold me down and massage my feet when we first met? Is that how you seduced me?” Will asked, his voice betraying a light tremor. 

Hannibal laughed. “You were the one that seduced me. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so thoroughly taken by someone as I was with you, when we first met.”

“Now I know you’re full of shit,” Will snorted.

“Quite the contrary, you were absolutely enthralling,” Hannibal assured.

“Morbidly maybe.”

Hannibal smiled devilishly, “Entirely.”

“Okay, that I believe.” He gasped as Hannibal drew a line down his arch and back up. 

“What else do you see in your dreams?” 

A long exhale left Will lax and languid, sinking into the contours of the couch. Little by little, touch freed him, melting away the cold rigidity. He draped an arm over his eyes. “Most of it… it’s just impressions. Feelings. Anger, pain…. Fear. Sometimes I fall. I hear the sound of the ocean so loud it crashes over me like thunder.”

“When you fall, are you alone?”

Will peaked out from under his arm, something like curiosity or suspicion glinted in his eyes. “There’s someone with me… Sometimes I think maybe it’s you.”

He still has visions of the fall. Or at the very least, he remembers fragments of the visions he used to have. 

“Does it feel good to fall?”

Will drooped further into the couch, weighed down with something heavy. He stared into the dying fire, orange light dancing across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “It feels… inevitable.” Silence stretched and lingered, softening his words as he said, “I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like… my heart is breaking.”

Hannibal’s hand drifted under the cuff of Will’s slacks. His fingers mapped out the rise and valleys of bone and muscle in his lower leg. Perhaps convincing Will to embrace a life together would be easier than he thought. Will didn’t want to die, he simply saw no other way. Hannibal needed to make a place for them together. To show him another way.

“Perhaps you are anticipating a great change,” Hannibal suggested. “Change can be painful.”

Will smiled ruefully. “I fell asleep and woke up in a new reality. I think I’ve already faced a great change.”

“And are you in pain?”

Will shook his head, his gaze soft as he watched Hannibal smooth down his pant leg and fix his socks. “But I am… afraid. Afraid of what I did. Of the things I don’t remember. I’m afraid that this is real— you and me. I’m afraid that it’s not.”

Hannibal understood the sentiment all too well. Those same worries lived with him ever since Will walked into his life. “If it’s real, then you stand to lose something you don’t yet understand. If it’s not, then you suffer under the illusion of something you desire but cannot have.”

Will graced him with a rare moment of eye contact. A vulnerable exchange of warmth and understanding.  

“Do not let fear take you, Will. It is a beast that can be fed to the point of affliction, but also a tool of great doing when wielded. Fear is the oldest instinct. It sharpens the senses. Lets you know when danger is near.”  

“Is danger near, Doctor Lecter?” Will whispered.

Something ancient and predatory desired to slink up from the depths of Hannibal’s soul. If not for the heavy mask of pretense, he might allow himself to indulge the instinct. To drag Will to the floor and pin him there. To lavish his skin with tongue and teeth. To rip away his clothes and fuck him in the dying light of the fire. To consume his very essence through breath and sweat. 

Instead Hannibal smiled wryly and said, “Not tonight.” He patted his leg. “Are you ready to try again?”

Will nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Do you have more of that whiskey?”

“Of course.”

The supplies to begin the ritual of hypnosis were laid out in a spread of white pills, implements, and an empty glass tumbler. The steps of preparation gave Hannibal a sense of bubbling anticipation— as though he were working a spell to summon forth a mystical entity. He wondered if he would be able to dig deep enough to unearth Will’s prophetic consciousness again. He ached to face down that mighty intellect while it was held captive in the chains of hypnotic control.

Will wasted no time in gulping down the concoction. He reclined back on the couch, taking the measure of his heartbeat with a palm over his chest. Trust unfurled in the easy way with which he slowly relaxed. So much more open than the first time.

“Last time I woke up in your guest room and you were making breakfast in the kitchen,” Will said, his eyes on the ceiling. “Am I allowed to make requests?” 

“Ask away.”

“Beignets. I haven’t had any in years. They used to be my favorite. And grits.”

Hannibal wasn’t practiced in making either of those. Still the request warmed him. It was demanding in the way a comfortable partner should be. He knelt by the couch, drawing out the scopolamine into a small syringe.

“I would be delighted,” Hannibal said, as Will folded back his sleeve and freely offered his arm. He cleaned the junction of his elbow, and slid the needle under his skin. A drop of blood bloomed in the clear fluid, then it flushed inside with the push of his thumb. Will exhaled, his breath warm and sweet with wine and whiskey. The drug took effect quickly, presenting itself through loose muscles and dilated pupils. With shredded tendrils of conscious thought, Will reached up and touched Hannibal’s face. His fingertips read the slope of his cheek, as though there were secrets to uncover there. It was as exposing as it was charming.

“I think… you want to have sex with me like this,” Will said.

Hannibal nuzzled against the palm on his cheek. It was pointless to deny the accusation, so he didn’t. 

Wetting his lips, Will confessed, “I would let you.”

Merde. What manner of being was this man to be so devilishly desirable? He was a temptation greater than the fruit of Eden. What Hannibal wouldn’t give to take a bite and let the juices run down his chin.

“Someday, perhaps.” He kissed Will’s palm. “But not today, Širdelė.” He gathered up his pen and notebook and marked the time.

The physical assessment was short and perfunctory. A single pass with the stethoscope, and a palpation of lymph nodes. Hannibal pressed his nose against Will’s hair and breathed deep, searching for any sign of illness or a resurgence of Encephalitis. It wouldn’t do for the disease to return. Not yet, at least. As useful as the cascading effects were on his psyche, it was hard to control. Especially with Will’s hidden memories in the balance. There was no telling what sort of trigger might bring them surging forward. 

Once Hannibal was satisfied that Will had a clean bill of health, he sat back and started the metronome. It flashed in steady, even pulses turning the shadows in the room a deep blue. Will watched, transfixed as Hannibal led him carefully into the shallows of his stream. His eyes closed as he began to drift away on the current.

“I want you to follow your river to the point that it runs red,” Hannibal instructed.

The march of the metronome provided a haunting beat to his measured words and cadence. 

“Find a paved road up on the bank. It’s late in the evening, the moon is full but the light of the city drowns it out. We are together. The restaurant was warm and intimate, and we carried that atmosphere with us into the street as we walked arm in arm. The air was cool, biting at the flush of alcohol on your cheeks. There’s—”

“The street lights are the only stars,” Will cut in, once again displaying an unusual reaction to the hypnosis. Even in a liminal space, his empathy was overpowering. He saw exactly what Hannibal wanted him to. “We’re in an alleyway, but we stop. We’re so close I can taste the wine on your breath. I think about kissing you… or maybe you were thinking of kissing me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what I want against what you want. We blur together at the seams.”

Hannibal smiled fondly and asked, “Do you remember what happened that night?”

“I killed a man.”

“Tell me what it was like.”

Will’s hands flexed, attempting to tighten into fists. “It was the ugliest thing in the world.”

Interesting. A lie buried so deep, even his subconscious believed it. That wouldn’t do at all. 

“Will, I would appreciate the courtesy of your honesty. Do not lie to me,” he instructed. “Tell me how it felt to hold someone’s life, fluttering in your hands.”

“I—” Another flex, rolling his fingers into the shape of claws. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Closer, but still a lie. You brutalized him, Will. Look at what you made of him and tell me what you see.”

Tension radiated through his body, causing him to twitch and spasm against the muscle relaxants. “Please don’t— I don’t want look— I—”

“You enacted vicious revenge on a man you’d never met. Your anger was beyond that of a stranger. When you looked at Stammets, what did you see? Was it me that you pictured?”

After the night Will fell, Hannibal often wondered. Looking back on that scene and seeing the tragic rage. It was mirrored in him that fateful night. He was angry with Hannibal about something. Angry enough that Will preferred them both dead to alive. Was there some wrong that couldn’t be set right? 

“I didn’t see…” Will shook his head, the movement strangely loose and jerky all at once. He bared his teeth. “I didn’t see you,” he hissed.

“Then it’s not my ghost that’s haunting you, is it? It’s the inevitability that there could be a man so bad that killing him felt good.”

“Killing him felt… just.”

“It’s because you understood him. It’s beautiful in its own way, giving voice to the unmentionable. Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”

“I—” Will’s body tensed then released, sweat beading on his brow from fighting against himself and the drugs. With a forfeiting gasp he confessed in a heated whisper, “I liked killing Hobbs.”

Hannibal sat forward on his seat, attention razor sharp. “Hobbs?”

Will froze. His head rolled to the side and his eyes slid open. That uncanny awareness trickled into the lines of his face. Fury seethed beneath the surface, the thin rim of blue around his blown pupils frigid with ice.

“Hello, darling,” Hannibal sneered. “You’re hiding something from me.”

Will said nothing. He knew how much Hannibal hated his cold indifference. He wielded his silence masterfully. 

“Did you kill Garrett Jacob Hobbs?” 

The clock on the mantle ticked forward faster than the metronome, weaving in and out of sync. Firelight and blue fluorescence cast colorful shadows over the cut shapes of his face. It added animation to his eyes that wasn’t there, making them look like they were on fire.

“Did killing him feel just?” Hannibal asked. He cocked his head, thoughts unspooling faster than he could follow each individual strand. “Or did you kill him to prevent a greater evil?”

“Leave it alone, Hannibal,” Will hissed. Good, he was on the right track.

“Forgive me, but I’ve hit a snag in my understanding of your need for retribution. What I know of our history does not warrant the rage you’ve displayed.” Unless Will’s sole complaint was Hannibal’s extracurricular lifestyle. He doubted that was the case, considering the size of the darkness in Will’s own soul. 

“You let my mind burn!” He growled.

“And that is enough to condemn me to death? What of the night you came to collect your pound of flesh? Is your forgiveness so easily dropped?”

“I said I might never forgive you.”

“And yet you did. This is something else.”

More silence.

“You fundamentally altered the future. I know you’ve stolen souls from me before I had a chance to claim them. Sutcliff, Madchen. I’m sure there are others. I’ll let you keep them for now. You won them— but I want to know the rest.”

Will’s face twisted in frustration. “What’s done is done. Leave it alone.” A note of desperation hung in his voice. It plucked the strings of Hannibal’s sadism. His darling should know better than to dangle something so tantalizing in front of him. 

“Did you kill Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

A heaviness gathered in Will’s features, weighing him down with grief. He refused to answer.

“You wrote a very specific profile for the second killer. Perhaps it was personal for you. Did you help Hobbs lure those girls?” Hannibal shook his head. It didn’t make sense that Will would be involved to that extent. That didn’t mean the profile was a complete lie. “Did you care for the daughter, Abigail?” 

Will’s expression gave nothing away. In fact, he looked far away, as though his consciousness was trying to hide in the corners of his mind. Hannibal had seen the phenomenon in abuse victims when they began to dissociate during a traumatic event. Some deep hurt shone through from the depths of his soul. Hannibal was so close to it, but he was stabbing blindly in the dark. Something about the Hobbs case had severely hurt Will either in this world or in the place where his visions originated. 

Was it one of the other girls? Perhaps one Hobbs didn’t get a chance to kill? If that were true, then Hannibal might never be able to find the source of Will’s pain. He would have to start with what he did know, and eliminate those options first. Abigail was the best target.

A glittering tear spilled from the corner of Will’s eye. 

“Please,” he pleaded.

Begging had never been pointed enough to reach Hannibal’s compassion. His victims could scream in raw terror and he would be no more moved than a statue made of stone. Of course, if anyone were to bend him in ways he’d never bent before, it would be Will. Always the exception. He liked it when Will said please. It touched something in him that was unnamable, something that softened him to the point of uselessness. It was an unfortunate weakness. Another to join the growing list caused by Will.

Time was running short, and there was something else he still wanted to do tonight.

“Find your stream,” Hannibal said gently. As interesting as it was to poke at the bruised underbelly of vulnerability, it didn’t help to push things too far. Not if Hannibal’s goal was to endear Will to him and rebuild the ruined bridge between them. He would need to keep his curiosity in check, rather than allow himself to return to the riddle and pick at it like a healing wound. It wouldn’t do for it to get infected.

Will settled into the flow of his stream with relief, wetness glistening in the net of his eyelashes.

“I want you to find a door, it is made of fine wood but plainly carved. A bedroom door. There is a low fire burning in the fireplace. We’ve just had dinner, Coquilles Saint-Jacques with Pommes Dauphinoise. We were–”

“I was stressed after work,” Will picked up the thread. “My students were driving me crazy and Jack wouldn’t leave me alone. You were going on and on about some play–”

“Euripides’ Bacchae,” Hannibal supplied.

“That’s the one— I couldn’t take it anymore, so I kissed you.”

Hannibal cocked his head, amused. That wasn’t exactly how he had remembered it— that Will had been so overcome with passion at his immense knowledge of Greek tragedies that they fell into bed together, but this other version had a certain domestic charm.  

“In a moment, when I lead you out of the stream, you won’t remember anything upon waking. But tonight, when you sleep, I want you to dream of that evening we spent together. Remember the way I touched you. Remember what it felt like to have me inside of you.”

Will’s lips parted on a soft exhale.

“That is all you will carry with you out of the stream.”

Hannibal led him out, counting down the seconds before he shut off the metronome. Will woke slowly. He rubbed a hand down his face, pausing when he felt the moisture in his eyes.

“What happened?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. We touched on some difficult memories. Try to rest your mind.” Hannibal lifted a glass of water to his lips which Will greedily drank. 

“Hell, those drugs…” he sighed, slumping back down. “Hmm… I’ll sleep like the dead.”

“Come, let's get you to bed.”

“Sure,” Will’s eyes drifted closed. He made no move to get up. Hannibal smiled and gently stroked his curls back away from his face.

“It won’t be long now, darling,” he whispered.

 Powdered sugar made a delicate blanket over golden brown beignets, pristine like a morning frost. Hannibal drizzled honey in even lines, turning the plate ninety degrees for precise placement. Satisfied, he ladled steaming grits into a blue ceramic bowl. A splatter on the lip was promptly removed with a kitchen towel. 

The creak of floorboards announced Will as he descended the stairs. He shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing his neck and face like he might be able to scrub away the heavy weight of sleep. He looked soft in his rumpled state, hair tousled and clothes wrinkled. 

Hannibal moved around the island and arranged the plates in front of an open stool. Will wandered over and plopped into the seat, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead. Looking up through a messy fringe of hair he said, “You actually made it.”

It was difficult not to reach out and brush the mess of tangled hair out of his face, but Hannibal controlled himself. “Of course.”

“Just because I asked?”

Hannibal tilted his head, curious. Should he not have indulged the simple request? It did tip his hand regarding the extent of his affections. That could hold a certain amount of power in the right hands. In this case, Hannibal felt it was worth the risk. As much as he lost, he gained in trust and endearment. 

Will crossed his arms. “What if I said I didn’t want it anymore?”

Rude. They stared at each other. Hannibal knew Will was testing the boundaries of their relationship. Was Hannibal a push over? Did he have a short temper?

Swallowing down a swirl of irritation, Hannibal offered a hint of a friendly smile, and reached for the plates. Will stopped him short, his grip firm on Hannibal’s wrist.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I want it,” he clarified.

“Anything you want, Will, you need only ask,” Hannibal said softly. He was sure there were limits to that offer, but at that moment he couldn’t think of any.

“That’s…” his throat bobbed, “you shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

No answer came. A muscle in Will’s jaw worked, he appeared pained. Dark circles under his eyes from unnatural sleep. The grip on Hannibal’s wrist softened.

“How are you feeling this morning? Has anything come back to you?”

Will’s hand dropped away. “I— uh… I had a dream.”

“Of a memory?”

“Yeah… I think so. It felt real.”

Hannibal moved back to the opposite side of the island, giving him space. The faucet hissed, water warm against his hands as he grabbed a sponge to scrub a pan.

“What happened in this dream?” He asked.

“Uhm…” Will shoveled food into his mouth to delay the inevitable answer. The tension in his shoulders released with a satisfied groan. “Jesus, this is good,” he praised.

Warmth bloomed in Hannibal’s chest. To nourish was to give part of himself, and he adored the way Will devoured every offering. Like Milton’s Eve, Greedily she engorged without restraint, and knew not eating death. Each taste that passed over his tongue was a form of worship, even if he was no longer aware of it. 

Will polished off the grits then moved on to the beignets. Powdered sugar dusted his facial hair and lips. He was halfway through sucking the honey on his fingers when Hannibal offered him a damp cloth. He smiled shyly, expression apologetic over his lack of manners. He cleaned the rest of them primly.

Hannibal leaned on the counter across from him. “Your dream?”

“Right…” a light flush colored his face, “It was about us.”

“Oh?” It would be fascinating to see how Will brought memories out of the shadow realm of his missing time. Would it be completely fragmented and colored by emotion? 

“We, uh, we were intimate.”

Hannibal shut off the water, offering his full attention. Will rose from the stool and paced. It was clear he didn’t want to discuss this further, but Hannibal’s silence pressed him. 

“The edges are fuzzy. I have these moments of clarity that feel so real, and then it fades into nothing. I feel more than I see or remember. Why did I recall that particular memory, is it because you wanted me to remember it?”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, feigning consideration. “It may have been one of many memories that we traversed. I tried a number of methods to unearth your missing time. I thought perhaps intense emotion might bleed through more easily.”

He stopped in his tracks. “If it’s true…” He shivered. “What I feel for you— felt for you— was so intense. I dreamed that I was burning alive from the inside.” His jaw worked, wariness hardening his features with suspicion. “I gave you a gift when I agreed to your hypnosis sessions. I opened my mind in ways that don’t just allow things to flow out. How can I be sure that you aren’t taking advantage of that access?”

“Are you suggesting that I’m implanting false memories?” Hannibal asked, amused.

Will shrugged, sheepish about his accusation now that it was out in the open.

“You would be foolish not to consider it,” Hannibal admitted, rounding the counter and approaching carefully. It would be easier to assure Will of his earnestness if they were close. Proximity facilitated a sense of intimacy. He stopped within a hair’s breadth of him. Will responded beautifully, inhaling sharply as his pupils dilated. Emboldened by the bodily tells, Hannibal dared to cup his cheek. “With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar and I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.”

A tremulous breath ghosted over Hannibal’s lips. He inhaled, savoring the sweetness of honey and powdered sugar. “What I saw in my dream… was it really like that between us?” Will whispered.

Hannibal traced the curve of his lower lip. A mere shadow of that evening would be staggering. He could only imagine what the full experience would be like without the context of everything that came before. The purest devotion of mind and body.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he said, a feline smile curling his lips. 

Will swallowed thickly. “It started with a massage.”

“Hmm, yes, I know the evening you are referring to. It wasn’t always like that per se… but we’ve never done anything halfway. Every sexual encounter we’ve shared has been memorable in one way or another.”

Will tugged down the collar of his shirt, exposing the faint pink lines of Hannibal’s bite on his shoulder. It had healed beautifully, subtle yet undeniably marked. 

“You did this?” Will asked.

Hannibal pulled back his own sweater to reveal Will’s mark. A matching set.

“You did this,” he said.

“Oh.” His eyes widened. With tentative fingers he reached out, lighting carefully on the lower half-moon of scar tissue and following it up to the base of Hannibal’s neck. He pressed his palm, flat against his skin, circling the column of his throat. The touch was exploring, curious— then all at once firm, just on the edge of threatening. 

Will’s expression was soft, lit from within and glowing with awe. “I get these… fragments. I think… I remember the sight of your lips covered in blood.”

Hannibal froze. There was no telling what memory Will might be drawing on. One that actually happened, or one that he saw of an untold future. If he allowed him to pull on that thread, would everything unravel all at once?

A small wrinkled formed on Will’s brow. “You looked… I don’t think frightened is the right word, but you were afraid. You were worried what I would think, when you bit me.” 

Will’s memories might be closer to breaking through than they appeared. Hannibal considered the danger of poking around too much inside his fractured mind. 

Hannibal licked his lips, remembering the rich taste of blood on his tongue. It wasn’t difficult to summon the memory of their first time together to mind. He had replayed it many times over in the aftermath, at first wondering where he went wrong— then later simply because he wanted to savor the perfection of it. Will had played him masterfully, seducing not only him, but the beast behind the mask too. 

I wondered if I would have to kill you, he thought. His true self had slipped through the cracks of his self control. He showed too much of himself all at once. It was hard to believe the assurances that what he’d done had been accepted. That it had been wanted.        

“Why did you want me to remember us having sex, Hannibal?”

Intelligent blue eyes held him captive. The same eyes that had soothed him so easily after he’d tipped his hand and revealed his darkness in the heat of passion. Hannibal brushed a strand of errant hair behind Will’s ear. “Because I missed being able to touch you.”

Will’s expression immediately softened. He drew Hannibal into a slow, searing kiss. His lips were soft, a contrast to the rough scratch of stubble. The hand at his neck drifted upward, sliding into his hair and pulling him closer. Hannibal was immediately lost, plummeting through his mind palace, drawn by the lovely scent of asphodels. 

“.... and love.”

“You believe he feels love?” A painfully vulnerable question, ripped from the tender parts of Hannibal’s soul. Pride growled from somewhere deep within.

The walls of his study built around them, books slotting onto the shelves, a fire springing to life in the hearth. Their  hands were layered, one over the other on top of an open book. 

“When you look at his work, do you feel his obsession, Will?”

A darker part of Hannibal wanted to lift his hand and let Will turn the page. He wanted him to see the wound man. Just like Miriam Lass had seen it only a few years ago. He wanted to see the revelation, the moment of understanding so pure that it could pierce through the cold interior of his being. 

He imagined the reverberating crack of bone beneath his hands— what it would feel like to snap Will’s neck. He wouldn’t be able to keep him if he saw the truth. Will was too dangerous, too smart. It would be better to kill him immediately, before that mouth could magic its way out of his fate.

The thought pained him as much as it brought him pleasure. 

“I dream about it.”

Will dreamed about the Ripper– about the beauty he saw in God's violence. Hannibal wondered if Will secretly collected his kills, the same way Hannibal collected church collapses. Typhoid and swans. They came from the same place. Hannibal could create as much beauty as he could death and destruction. If Will turned the page, if he saw the truth— would he be able to grasp the magnitude of what stood before him? Would he revel in it?

“Tell me what it feels like,” Hannibal asked. The words painted against Will’s lips.

“Devouring. Suffocating.” He trembled in his arms, perfect in every way. “Exhilarating.” 

Hannibal’s tongue plunged into Will’s open mouth, unable to stop himself from drinking deeply— taking more than was offered. The hand in his hair tightened. This was too much too soon. Hannibal was ravenous and he so rarely denied himself what he wanted. With great effort he managed to pull away, tugging gently against the soft swell of Will’s lower lip as let go.

“You were right, there is danger nearby,” Will whispered, out of breath. “I think it’s you.”

Hannibal nuzzled close, pressing along his stubbled cheek. “How so?”

“You’re manipulative.”

“Am I?”

“Says the manipulator,” Will scoffed.

“Does that frighten you?”

“I think it should.” He pulled back, giving them both space as he considered. “You told me not to let fear take me, that it’s a beast that can be fed to the point of affliction.” 

“I also said that it is the oldest instinct. Should you ignore the sound of an oncoming train, even as you are tempted by the glint of the rail?”

Will snorted, incredulous. “Are you trying to convince me to run away from you?”

Hannibal instinctively pulled him closer, trapping him flush against his body. Taking a small peek from behind the mask, he whispered, “Do you think I would let you?”

The gamble paid off beautifully in a black swell of desire that eclipsed Will’s gaze. His breathing kicked up as lust and fear tussled for dominance within his hindbrain.

Hannibal kissed his forehead and stepped away, allowing a rush of cool air to sweep away the heat of the moment. There was a time to press the advantage, and a time to let his opponent stagger. As desirable as a morning dalliance sounded, Will needed to be left wanting. He needed a taste of the dangerous beast that he adored so much, even if he didn’t remember it. He needed just enough to entice him into a chase. 

Will did what he could to reassemble himself, carding a hand through his unruly curls and straightening his shirt. 

“I should get back to the dogs,” he said, voice rough.

“Of course.”

“Thanks for… um, breakfast.”

So endearingly timid. How long before his repressed beast couldn’t take it anymore and he snapped? Hannibal could play the long game. He was patient. 

“My pleasure,” he responded, openly drinking his fill of Will’s figure, his gaze hugging every curve. 

Will awkwardly drummed his fingers on the counter. “How about… lunch on Wednesday?”

Sweet boy. Nerves had him rattled.

“That sounds lovely, we can meet at my office.”

“Good, okay,” Will nodded. 

With a brief moment of eye contact and a shy smile, Will headed for the door.

“Be sure to call if you remember anything else,” Hannibal said.

“Yeah, I will.”

With that he was gone. Hannibal returned to the dishes, contentment settling deep in his bones. He was pleased with the progression of his plan. The interrogation the previous night hadn’t been as fruitful as he hoped, but it did confirm one thing. Will was hiding something big, and Hannibal was digging in the right place for answers. 

Perhaps it would be worth taking a visit to Minnesota to see Hobbs' cabin for himself. Maybe the air there would be drenched in all those wretched secrets Will so dearly wanted to keep. 

Chapter Text

Jack Crawford’s office was drab and simple in its use of the mid-century modern style. A long rectangular brown desk dominated, clashing with the burnt orange wall-paper and frosted glass window panes. The only decorations were understated diplomas and awards. They were overshadowed by larger, pinned case notes, a map covered in marker, and missing persons posters. A black and white headshot of Miriam Lass rested in the center. A small golden frame on the desk held a photo of Bella Crawford. She was lost in the shuffle of paperwork, all but hidden behind a stack of reports.

“Thank you for stopping by, I know you’re a busy man,” Jack said, putting the finishing touches on an email.

“It would seem you are far busier than I,” he replied, irritated that he’d been made to wait for the better part of thirty minutes outside the office door. Even then, Jack wasn’t ready when he was let in and took his seat. 

Jack offered a roguish grin in place of an apology. He was used to pushing people around. Others might find his brash behavior charming, but Hannibal was not so naïve. 

“Yeah, well, I can rest when I’m dead, right?” He chuckled. “Listen, I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve had a few high profile cases recently, and I feel like I’m driving this whole thing with a flat tire. I need Will back. I need you to tell me that Will is ready for something like that.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “I believe Will would likely be the best judge of that, not me. I am not his therapist, Jack.”

Jack scoffed, wading impatiently through the chaff of formalities. “Yes, Of course— but you also have the best insight into his state of mind. How fragile is he right now?”

Anger surged anew beneath Hannibal’s placid surface. Everything must look frail to the hammer of Jack’s judgement. He didn’t know anything else other than use and function. 

“He has made considerable progress over the past few weeks. I worried that the reveal of his past… indiscretions would cripple him, but he has taken it all in stride.”

“That’s not really an answer,” Jack groused.

“Will’s state of mind has always been unpredictable— however, he is likely at the most stable he’s ever been. At least in the time that I have known him. I’m afraid that is as much of an endorsement as you will get from me. To know if Will feels stable enough to crawl into the mind of a murderer… you would need to ask him.”

“I take it I wouldn’t be able to get you to put that in writing?” He asked.

Hannibal gave him a plastic smile. “That would be crossing all kinds of ethical boundaries— with someone who is most certainly not my patient. However, I doubt the lack of written permission will prevent you from seeking Will out. You are nothing if not persistent, my friend.”

Jack chuckled. “Fine. Fine. I can’t wait anyway— I just got a call about a fresh scene. The crazies are out in force this week.” He stood up from the desk, checking his watch. “Thank you for coming in, Hannibal. Sorry I have to rush out. I’ll buy you lunch next week to make it up to you.”

Hannibal rose with him, contemplating the idea of Jack dragging Will back into folds of the BAU. Before he lost his memories, Will had been rather cautious of his time with Jack. There was no telling how this version of Will would react. It wouldn’t do for him to become too entangled with the investigative team— Jack and Beverly had the potential to become anchors to a psyche that Will so desperately needed to shed. Then again, if a close attachment did develop, that would provide a strong point of leverage to pry Will further from the warm embrace of his chrysalis. According to the prophetic journal, Beverly Katz had made a wonderful sacrifice to fuel the radiance of his becoming. 

For now he would let things unfold naturally, and leave the decision up to Will. 

The golden afternoon sun streamed through the drawn curtains of Hannibal’s office. A long day of appointments had left him strung along in the wake of slowly ticking time as he waited for lunch with Will. His boredom fled quickly as his final appointment of the morning unfolded. His new client had proved to be more than the usual mess of psychosis draped in haute couture that so commonly defined his wealthy patients. 

Margot Verger was fascinating. Made to resemble a living doll, stitched up around a wriggling mass of rage and raw nerve endings. She slowly paced the length of Hannibal’s office, arm in a sling, doe-eyes hard and focused. 

“You are no more at fault for what happened to you than if you’d been bitten by a mad dog,” Hannibal commented.

Her voice was dull and even as she said, “Mad dogs are put down.”

“Is that what you hoped to accomplish when you attacked your brother?”

She turned from the window, a thick silver plated necklace flashing from under her shirt. It resembled a collar. Hannibal wondered if Mason Verger picked it out for her, or if Margot’s victimhood ran so deeply it’s translated into every facet of her life, including her wardrobe.

Mason had done a wonderful job warping his sister into the shape of a monster, even if it was done with brute force rather than with a subtle delicacy. She wasn’t born to violence, not like a true beast, but she had a ferocity that reminded him of Will. A forge of rage hidden beneath her scars.

Margot made a failed attempt to kill her brother. Hannibal was confident in her ability to succeed, she just needed some gentle guidance. 

“Are you going to try again?” He asked.

Margot scoffed, amused. “This is where therapy gets tricky.”

“It doesn’t have to be tricky.”

“I could confess to a murder, you can’t say a word. I could have murdered someone this morning and you can’t say a word. But if I’m planning to commit a murder...”

“I’m ethically obliged to take action to prevent that murder. Be that as it may, if there is no one else to protect you Margot, you have to protect yourself. It would actually have been more therapeutic if you had killed him.”

She fixed him with a sharp stare, a wild fox looking for a hidden snare. For her, danger lurked around every corner. She would be keenly aware of the heavy stick on the other end of a dangling carrot. Forever taunted with freedom she couldn’t have. It would take time to convince her that Hannibal was on her side— at least as far as helping her enact bloody agency in the world. He considered himself an altruist in that regard.

Margot presented Hannibal with an opportunity for entertainment and a chance to grasp at the wheel of fate. He’d been thrilled when he received the call from the Verger’s PA, requesting an appointment. He’d had an open slot ever since he killed Franklyn Froideveaux, and he was happy to fill it with a prophesied guest. 

There wasn’t much in Will’s journal about the Vergers, but they were present— particularly Mason and references to his despicable manner. 

Hannibal is playing a game with all of us. He’s throwing starving rats in a box with a piece of meat and shaking the container to piss us all off. He wants to drive me to kill again, but I won’t do it. Mason Verger is a pig that deserves to die, but Hannibal needs to be the one to take his life. 

I’m playing him.

He’s playing me.

This can only end badly, in blood and death. For Mason, it will end in self-mutilation. A cocktail of drugs coursing through his system and rewiring his brain. Under the influence of a devil, he turns his cruelty on himself, carving away his face and feeding strips of flesh to my dogs. 

I can hear the wet smack of meat and the echoing clack of ivory teeth.

Fucking asshole. Hannibal has to corrupt everything he touches, even as something as pure and good as a family pet.

The sight was as righteous as it was disturbing. Poetic in its savage design. The sound of Hannibal breaking his spine rose the hair on my neck and the back of my arms. I flexed my fingers to make sure I still could, knowing Mason would never again have the pleasure of doing the same. 

Divine retribution. A sprig of zest.

Perhaps I am only playing myself.

Hannibal wondered if knowing the future in bits and pieces would color the present and change the outcome. Had this conversation with Margot been the same in the other world, or had it changed based on his knowledge? As with other visions in Will’s journal, there were missing gaps in the story. Hannibal knew he would manipulate the Vergers, but not exactly how he would do it. 

The siblings had a host of issues to choose from, and any one of them may be sufficient to pit them against one another in a deadly game. He was curious how Will might be looped into participating. As far as Hannibal was aware there wasn’t any connection between him and the Vergers– nothing to entice him to kill one of them. This Will hadn’t gotten a taste for putting down monsters yet. He would need an appetizer to warm him to the idea before throwing a whale like Mason in his path.

“My last therapist told me not to think of myself as a victim,” Margot said, settling into the chair across from Hannibal. 

“Do you?” 

Her posture was stiff, yet refined— honed through years of strict practice. She watched the rays of light that streamed through the gaps in the curtains, lost in the maze of her mind. 

“I think about riding. The trees this time of year are bright green with new leaves. The stable hands treat all the saddles and bridles to get them ready for summer. The barn smells warm, like leather and grain.” She leveled her gaze at him, one eyebrow arched high. “My other therapist tried to assault me in his office. Mason told me afterwards that part cost extra.”

Tried meaning he did not succeed. Hannibal wondered what state Margot left him in, if he was still breathing. 

“Yet you agreed to see another therapist?” Hannibal asked. 

“Agreed? That’s not the word I would use.”

“You have nothing to worry about. I have no need for Mason's money.”

The small smile she gave was haunting. “Need has nothing to do with it. What Mason wants, Mason gets. I have everything to worry about.”

“We can leave the door to the patient exit open, if that would make you comfortable,” he suggested. Not that it would make a difference if Hannibal truly wished to hurt her. Margot would recognize the futility of such a gesture.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” She knew better than to try and run from a predator. Fight was the only thing left in her. Fortunately, she still had it in spades.

The end of the hour was rudely announced by a car horn blaring in three short bursts from the parking lot. Hannibal burned with indignation even as he gave Margot a small, placid smile. “I suppose your driver is here to pick you up.”

“Connor has always been very prompt,” she said dryly. 

Hannibal helped Margot with her fur-lined coat, and then through the patient exit to send her on her way. Grasping his hands behind his back he wandered over to the large windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the imprudent driver. Unfortunately, the windshield was tinted on the black SUV that was idling across three of the available parking spots in front of the building.

The horn sounded again just as Will’s truck pulled into the lot. An old rusty contraption with large wheel wells and chipped maroon paint. Well worn and well loved. It would take an act of God to stop him from driving it. Maybe Hannibal would find a way to sabotage the engine. A sleek four-door sedan would suit him much better. 

Will emerged from the truck, sending a pleasant flutter through Hannibal’s chest. He was wearing a long navy coat, his dark hair swept back and styled. He’d made an effort to look clean cut for their lunch. It reminded him of their time before the fall and the lost memories, when Will wielded seduction like a blade. He knew just how to dress to appeal to Hannibal’s tastes.

He stopped halfway across the lot, held up by Margot as she emerged from the building. They circled and sized one another up before she broke through Will’s defensive bubble and stepped in close. 

Hannibal could only imagine their exchange. He wondered how like the alternative timeline this meeting was. Will had been involved with the Vergers somehow, perhaps this was his first introduction. 

The talk was brief, once again interrupted by that insufferable driver. Hannibal decided he would find out the man’s full name and place it in his rolodex. The blatant disregard for the entire commercial block was abominable. Perhaps Hannibal would puncture the driver’s eardrums with an orbitoclast and a mallet.

   Hannibal stepped away from the window to re-center himself. Will’s sensitivity to his moods was too acute to let his murderous intent linger. He summoned the careful and crisp notes of a piece by Shostakovich, letting the notes sooth his rising blood. 

A timid knock brought a sly smile to his lips. He straightened the lapels of his suit jacket and opened the door. Will was a vision as always, no cut or style could hide his trim figure. His current ensemble served to highlight the slope of his shoulders, and the slim sweep of his waist. Nothing but the faint shadow of exhaustion marred his appearance. Visions of death danced in the depth of his gaze, but he was making a valiant effort to cover it with a pleasant smile. 

“Good afternoon, Will.”

“Hey.” He slipped into the room as though he owned the space. Such a delicious dichotomy of entitlement and taciturn silence. Will took in the room with a quiet awe, eyes hungrily tracing the rows upon rows of books on the ground floor and all the way up to the mezzanine. His fingers trailed over the backs of the chairs in the center of the room before he circled out to the desk and a metal sculpture of a stag against the wall— the one Hannibal used to murder Tobias Budge. Will smoothed his hand down the back, leaving his mark in the invisible traces of his touch all over the room. He had a winsome way of dominating a space without saying a word. Within the span of a few minutes his presence had been indelibly marked on yet another facet of Hannibal’s life. It was the first time he’d been back since he lost his memories, but he hadn’t lost a beat in his control of the room.

“Quite the office,” Will said, his soft voice nearly lost in the heavy press of silence.

“It serves its purpose well.”

“It does more than that.” Will looked at him, gaze sharp with insight. “It swallows you whole.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Yet, you look quiet at home in its jaws.”

“A reflection of its designer.”

He raised an eyebrow, “In that I swallow others whole, or that you are at home in my jaws?”

Will looked away, his cheeks tinged pink. “Ah… both, probably.” He ran a hand through his hair, knocking loose a few curls. “I met one of your patients outside… but I suppose you can’t talk about that.”

“There’s nothing to stop you from discussing it. What did you think of her?”

“Margot Verger,” Will said, taking another tour about the room, this one much slower. “She looks like old money.” He stopped to slide out of his jacket and lay it over the back of the chaise on his way to the window. He parted the tall red and tan curtains, filling the room with natural light. Sunlight painted gleaming highlights over the curve of Will’s face and the ends of his hair. “She lives with a lot of fear.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, she wanted to know if I was a patient of yours.”

“What did you say?” Hannibal asked, walking over to join him.

He frowned. “I said that you were my, uh, lover. I don’t know why I said that. She seemed surprised. So was I.”

Hannibal smiled fondly and carefully swept Will’s hair back behind his ear. “Shall we?” He asked, motioning toward the door. 

They had reservations at an Italian place just up the street. It was quaint with a small green, white, and red awning. A basket of warm garlic bread awaited them along with leather bound menus and a single flickering tealight candle. Hannibal pulled out Will’s chair for him– an insignificant gesture that would have gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for Will’s hesitation before he sat down. 

“Not used to chivalry?” Hannibal asked, as he slipped the front button of his jacket open so he could sit down. 

The question caught him off guard and Will frowned, “No. Not really.”

Hannibal smirked and unfolded his menu as he teased, “As my lover you are privileged to a certain kind of treatment.”

“Ah.” Will scrubbed a hand down his face and his rueful chuckle turned into a long sigh. His shoulders slumped inward as exhaustion darkened around him. Something heavy weighed on his mind. Perhaps it was an image of death. 

“I take it Jack has decided you are fit to return to the folds of the BAU?” 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked.

“Not as such. I was consulted as to whether or not I thought you were ready to take on casework again,” Hannibal said, enjoying the scowl that curled Will’s lip. 

“Are you serious? That’s—”

“Inappropriate, yes,” Hannibal agreed. “I thought it was vulgar of Jack to approach me about it.”

Will slumped back in his seat, miffed. “Well? What did you tell him?”

Hannibal folded his menu away. “That it was not my place. That it should be your decision to return.”

Will met his gaze. A blessed rare moment of pure eye contact. He was looking for something. Perhaps sincerity. Whatever he found there, softened him. 

“Thank you for that.” 

Hannibal covered Will’s hand with his. “Of course— now the question remains. Are you ready?”

“Does it matter? I’ve already told Jack yes.”

“It always matters, Will.”

The waiter appeared and he was left to contemplate the comment as Hannibal ordered their meal. Something warm and simple for the dreary day. Once the table was cleared of menus and their glasses had been refilled, Hannibal asked, “Where did Jack send your mind today?”

Will’s jaw worked as he picked apart the paper of a pink sugar packet. Small beads of white sugar dusted the black table cloth.  

“Someone stitched a woman into the belly of a horse.” His eyes seemed to glow, the light of curiosity temporarily overriding his horror. “Zeller and Price found a live bird sewed into her chest.”

Incredible. Hannibal kept his face carefully blank at the revelation. Yet another piece of damning evidence demonstrating the truth of Will’s premonitions and his tremendous power.

Wings fluttered like a heartbeat inside her chest. In his own way, Peter Bernardone tried to save Sarah Graber. He honored her by giving her spirit wings. It was all he knew to do when faced with the ugly, horrible truth of life and death— that those we trust most are capable of the worst horrors. 

Peter knows her killer, but he’s been made to play a part. Nothing more than a puppet on strings. I feel his pain like hooks in my skin where my own strings tug.

Clark Ingram. Hannibal had all the pieces, and now he had the board. How fortuitous. It wouldn’t take much to arrange an opportunity for Will to truly shine. To carve deeper into the rough stone of his becoming.  

“Someone wanted to undo what had been done to her,” Hannibal said.

Will looked up at him, surprised. “Yes. I don’t think the man that killed her is the same one that placed her inside the horse.”

“No, that would be a highly unusual manifestation of psychosis.”

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs was like that,” Will said, then clarified, “I’ve been looking through Jack’s old files.”

“And yet not so long ago you claimed Hobbs' partner suffered the same affliction of love. Mothers have been known to kill their children out of love. Perhaps it’s not so rare a pathology after all.”

Will sneered, “Some version of me made that claim… I’m not so sure I was right.”

Hannibal straightened. “Oh? Have you found something different after looking through the case photos?”

Would Will recognize his own hand in the death of Garrett Jacob Hobbs? It would be difficult for his mind to wrap around the facts, even if he understood them in the abstract. His motive would be impossible to discern without more context. For now the association would likely stop at the wall of uncanny familiarity.  

The waiter interrupted them to serve the meal, two half orders of tagliatelle with oysters and Bolognese sauce. The timing of the waiter’s arrival was unfortunate, but as he’d done nothing to intentionally ruin their meal, Hannibal couldn’t reasonably hold that against him. That didn’t mean that his poor timing didn’t irk him. Especially when Will used it to withdraw, hiding away whatever it was that he’d been about to reveal. 

“Forget I said anything,” Will said, after the waiter left. “I don’t want to drag the mood down, this is a nice lunch.”

Hannibal couldn’t help the tightness in his smile as he said, “I will always meet you where you are, Will. You don’t need to censor yourself on my account.”

His assurances were waved away as little more than polite fodder. “Sure. Maybe later.”

They ate in companionable silence. The meal was acceptable, if a little heavy on the sauce. Will was contemplative, twirling his pasta around his fork. Hannibal could feel a small fissure split between them, one not easily bridged by polite conversation. That didn’t stop him from trying, though most of Hannibal’s attempts terminated in short responses and grunts from Will. He was painfully distracted, growing more distant as the weather outside grew darker.

It was softly raining when they finished their meal and stepped out onto the street. Clear pearls of moisture darkened Will’s curls. He was a sight, shrouded in mist, a surveyor of a mighty roiling ocean of grey clouds. Hannibal wondered if his mind was as lost at sea, carefully navigating the tides of a new killer’s mind.

“Perhaps what you need is a way out of dark spaces when Jack sends you there,” Hannibal said, carefully avoiding the puddles on the sidewalk. 

Will jumped as though he’d been grabbed, yanked out of whatever mind he’d been mapping.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disappear like that.” He shrugged helplessly. A heavy raindrop landed on his shoulder, another darkened the sidewalk. “I’m worried that if I go too deep, I might bring something back.”

“You carry this killer like a shroud.”

“Yes and no— I carry them all. Stammets, Milton, Budge. Hobbs.”

That caught his attention. “You were hardly responsible for Hobbs.” It seemed his guilt still bled through the images, further confirming his involvement in Hobbs' death. 

“And Budge?” Will’s words were laced with meaning, accusation and desperation.

Hannibal injected a meaningful pause into his response, a delicate push to guide the building narrative in Will’s mind as he said, “Budge is on both of us.”

His lip curled and he pushed past Hannibal to continue down the street. His fear was drawing out his weapons, pushing them to the surface. It wouldn’t take much to summon his delicious wrath. 

“You need a lighthouse to guide you to shore— a paddle when the water is too turbulent. I can help guide you.” Hannibal grabbed his shoulder to slow him. It was shrugged off.

“Are you my lover or my doctor?” He hissed, turning on him. 

Even with the hypnosis sessions, he still despised the thought of someone fumbling around in his head.

“Will—“ Hannibal was cut off as the sky opened up. Sheets of rain fell from the sky, the heavy drops turning into a deluge. He grabbed Will’s arm and hurried him down a side street, his leather shoes splashing through grey water. They were all but soaked through when they stopped under a stone archway cut into the side of a building. There wasn't much space in the alcove, but it was dry.

Will shook his head and smoothed back his hair. The half dry waves curled up in wild directions. Hannibal reached up to help settle the most unruly flyaways.

“I care about you, Will. I only want to offer my help, if you desire to take it.” 

No immediate dismissal came. Hannibal watched as water dripped down the curve of his cheek and nested in the growing stubble on his jaw. He reached up to wipe it away, his fingers lingering against warm skin. He took Will’s silence as a begrudging acceptance.

“Earlier, in my office, you said that Margo Verger lives with a large amount of fear. How did you recognize that sickness in her?” He asked.

The lines of Will’s sadness deepened, plagued with memory. “It looked like mine.”

“And what does yours look like?”

“Like one of those pitiful things that are born in hospitals from time to time. They feed it, and keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines and it dies.”

“Is that truly how you see yourself?” Hannibal’s fingertips dipped lower, skirting along the line of Will’s hair to his nape. The action raised goosebumps in its wake. He cupped the back of his neck and stepped in close. 

Rain beat the earth in a roar of crashing water. It was pouring hard and fast, making a veil that separated them from the outside world. 

“I am loath to repeat myself, but nothing about you is so fragile, Will.”

“And how do you see me?” He asked. 

In the beginning it was easy to see Will as the beast beneath his grip. A tool to be wielded. It was as Will said early on in their relationship— Hannibal saw him as nothing more than a curiosity. A fascinating diversion. It was impossible to deny the change that had come over him in the gauntlet of their relationship. For the first time in his life, Hannibal recognized that he’d discovered a true equal. Not a mongoose beneath the house, but the one thing he could not consume without destroying himself in the process. 

“As the pulse beneath my skin,” he confessed.

Will gripped Hannibal’s lapel. For a moment it seemed as though he might lean in— steal the breath from his lungs and devour his lips— but at the last second he tore himself away. Something horribly cold spilled into his expression. Will stepped back.

“What is this, Hannibal?” He asked. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“None of this makes any sense. I don’t know who I was before, but I know who I am right now, and I can’t reconcile… this.” He motioned between them. “We don’t make sense.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Emotion rarely equates to sense.”

“I know how I am in relationships.” Anger made a striking color of his vivid eyes. “The other day you said you wouldn’t let me leave, even if I tried. You were serious.”

“Yes.”

He huffed a sardonic laugh, “Most people would run if they heard that, you know? That’s scary shit— If I really wanted to end things, would you let me?”

Ice crept up through the cracks of Hannibal’s self control. He straightened his shoulders, suppressing the growing urge to eat up the space between them. Will had tried to leave him once before.

“Where is this coming from?”

“Jesus Christ, Hannibal. I attacked you! How was that not the end of our… association? Any sane person wouldn’t want anything to do with someone after an attempted murder!”

“Fortunately, I don’t think sane is an apt descriptor for either of us.”

“Don’t do that,” Will snapped. “Look, I don’t date, okay? I avoid it for good reason, because I can’t…” He trailed off, his face pinched in distress. “You don’t know me… you can’t know me.”

Hannibal softened, recognizing the soft underbelly of Will’s greatest fear. That someone would see him, truly see him, and run away in horror. He knew the darkest corners of that beautiful wilderness in his soul. He knew the beast that lived within, starved for every hunger it ever birthed, strangled behind righteous indignation and shame. He had no way of knowing that Hannibal would find the darkness lurking in his depths entirely singular and ethereally beautiful. 

Hannibal approached him slowly so he wouldn’t feel caged in. He stopped only a breath away, hands itching to reach out. 

“Do you know what an imago is, Will?”

He blinked, the change in subject throwing him. “It's a flying insect.”

“It's the last stage of a transformation. It's also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

Thought settled heavily in the form of a wrinkle on Will’s brow. “An ideal.”

“The concept of an ideal. I have a concept of you, just as you have a concept of me.”

A far off look came over Will’s eyes as he said, “Neither of us ideal.”

Hannibal huffed a small, fond chuckle.

“I know you, Will Graham, and not simply as an imago. You live and breathe in the halls of my mind palace, treading in places where even I dare not go. We emerged from the bubbling black mud of creation in much the same way— hunger whittling us down to the bone.” 

Will was transfixed, his nervous twitching stilled under a soft, verbal spell.

“You cut your teeth on human flesh, the same as I,” Hannibal whispered.

Blood drained from Will’s face as realization revealed the whites of his eyes. 

“How? I… I never… I never told anyone…”

He never told, but Hannibal knew. He knew about the body in the swamp. The tainted fish, and his terrible shame that tasted too good to stop. 

He stroked his thumb over the curve of his cheekbone. “I see all of you, Will, and there is no part of you that is not beautiful.”

It was only when shock faded into disgust, that Hannibal considered that he may have overplayed his hand. He pushed too far too fast. Will slipped from his grasp.

“What are you trying to do?” He growled.

“I only wish to show you how alike we are.”

“No. What I had to do back then… There was nothing beautiful about that. We are nothing alike. You’re manipulative… probably narcissistic. What exactly are you capable of, Hannibal? I feel drawn to you in a way that feels… wrong. Like a drunk reaching for a bottle.” 

Will’s words cut, but Hannibal hid the pain behind a blank mask. He wasn’t sure what approach would be best to minimize the damage he’d caused to his veil. He settled on hurt and confusion, allowing his brow to crumple. “It’s easy to buck against joy when all you know is misery. Everything I’ve done has been to show you another way.”

“Are you trying to foster codependence?” Will asked, cutting directly to the heart of it. “I don’t think this… whatever this is, is healthy. I think I should go.”

Sorrow wrapped in anger curled Hannibal’s fist before he could squash the impulse. He had severely underestimated Will’s denial— how deeply his self loathing ran before he’d been changed by his visions. This was his beloved unchanged. So easily frightened by reflections of his violence and willing to lash out to protect his false perceptions.

The subtle threat of his fist didn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you going to stop me from leaving?” Will asked. The subtle scent of his fear enriched the humid air, like sweetly rotten leaves in a damp wood.

Hannibal said nothing, torn by his desire to consume Will before he could escape, and to preserve what little he could of the tattered pieces of his person-suit. When he left him last time, Will locked himself away in a hospital, a shadow of his former self. Even then, they were far too intertwined to survive a separation. It was for mercy that Hannibal descended on Will’s home one evening after he left. For mercy that he carried a knife with him, and a cooler in his car.

He’d found Will passed out in his armchair, reeking of alcohol and desperation. It would have been a mercy to slit his throat in the dark, but Hannibal had been weak. 

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. If Will broke them— if his convictions about mutual destruction couldn’t be assuaged, then Hannibal would find the strength to give him mercy. 

Hannibal took a steading breath and managed to soften himself. There were still too many moves in this game left to play. It was far from lost, even if this turn of events was unexpected.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Širdelė,” he said quietly. It was as close to the truth as he could manage.

Some of the tension left Will’s shoulders, but it did nothing to the worry etched in his expression. He may not see the full picture of Hannibal yet, but it wouldn’t take him long to piece it all together. This version of Will was not fully acquainted with the Ripper. As soon as Jack put him back on the case, Hannibal was sure it wouldn’t take him long to figure it out. He needed to make a contingency plan.

Will stared at him, his intuition raking against nerves like frayed wires. Without another word, he shoved past Hannibal and took off into the rain. He vanished into shadow and light as the veil of water swallowed him whole. Hannibal made no move to follow, frozen with the shock of his sudden isolation. The swift rejection left him reeling, and he was left fumbling with nothing but empty air. He was unsettled in a way that demanded him to find some means to exert his crumbling control.