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Will always had a thing for darkness in his choice of partners. In his teenage years this correlated to being attracted to those with dark thoughts and anger management issues. In college, he made many trips to bail his lovers out of jail. Early adulthood for him was mostly a blur of explosive fights, and fantastic sex that balanced them. He could not say he had been happy, per se, but it had been satisfactory in that he could live out his own darker urges vicariously through the people in his life. 

It was only when he felt things could get out of hand very easily and that it could be him that needed to be bailed out if he did not put a stop to indulging in his dangerous love life that he stopped. He stopped acting on the attraction he felt towards individuals less stable than himself, and because he did not feel attraction for pretty much anyone else, it meant that he put a halt to his romantic life altogether. It was not pleasant, but he thought it was better than tempting himself into the things he wanted, the things he had a hard time admitting even to himself that he wanted, and ending up with a lifetime prison sentence and a bloody trail behind himself. 

So it was a tremendous relief to find that he was insanely attracted to Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal was everything his previous partners weren’t. He was calm, poised, rational, compassionate. He had a stable job, and had his life together so well that Will had trouble comprehending how he could exist in this day and age without any apparent problems. He dressed well, cooked gourmet meals, ate and drank the best, was respected, had similarly respectable friends and acquaintances, and on top of all that, he was single and one look at him had Will counting insect orders in his head to calm himself down before he did anything embarrassing. 

Yes, Hannibal Lecter had a profile that wildly differed from Will’s track record of problematic partners, and it gave him hope. He truly thought he’d matured, that he left behind that unhealthy inclination to descend towards madness, that he himself had his shit together at long last. If he could be attracted to someone like Hannibal, perhaps he was no longer in danger of giving into his darker urges. It was a relief as much as it was an encouragement. 

This was why, when Hannibal once again repeated his invitation for dinner at his house, he agreed.

This was why, on Tuesday evening, he put on his best clothes and his best cologne, combed his hair and ditched the glasses (they weren’t even prescribed and just helped him avoid direct eye contact anyway) and stopped by the most high-end store he knew to buy the wine the shop assistant swore up and down was perfectly acceptable. 

This was also why he had trouble smothering his smile as he rang the doorbell. He forgot all about it when the door opened to reveal Hannibal, clad in a burgundy shirt and an apron tied around his waist.

Coleoptera, Dictyoptera, Diptera, Will counted, taking in the sight and trying very hard not to show how much he approved it. 

“Will, you are just in time,” Hannibal said, his smile wide and body language welcoming. He stepped back, gesturing with his free arm for Will to come inside. 

Ephemeroptera, Lepidoptera, Will continued, Hymenoptera, Odonata, Orthoptera, Phasmida. When he felt calm enough, he nodded his thanks and went inside. 

And was promptly greeted with chatter coming from one of the rooms ahead. That was when Will realized that this was not, as he had thought, a private dinner. This was a dinner party.

“There’s only a few retouches left. Would you accompany me in the kitchen?” Hannibal asked.

“Sure,” Will replied after a pause. Instead of berating himself for thinking they’d be alone, he focused on providing a believable excuse to leave as soon as possible. “I mean, I can’t stay. I came to thank you for the invitation, but I guess I can stay until you are done in the kitchen.” He was babbling, it was not good, none of this was good, but the crushing sense of disappointment could wait until he was in his car and could, without making a spectacle of himself, bang his head against the steering wheel in relative privacy. 

“Oh,” Hannibal said simply, but then placed his hand on the small of Will’s back to guide him towards the kitchen. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” 

“Uh, I don’t think I would be good company,” Will said, eyeing the serving staff working on many different tasks at once, the entire kitchen space utilized by someone or the other. Hannibal swiftly claimed the only unoccupied space behind the island, and took a long look at Will before going back to decorating the plates in front of him.

“I disagree,” was the answer, voice low over the muted classical music in the background. “I think it would be delightful to have you for dinner.”

Will held in a sigh. Coleoptera families: Carabidae, Coccinellidae, Lampyridae, Gyrinidae, Scarabaeidae, Cerambycidae. “I have to go,” he said, hoping his long stretches of silence did not make him appear weirder than usual. “I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper,” he added. The Ripper had started a new sounder, and the crime scene and autopsy reports he had ignored before leaving his house now provided sufficient excuse. 

Hannibal looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes, head still bent over the plates. Will watched his eyes stray, once again, down to his clothes and back to his face. Hannibal licked his lips, and Will let out that sigh without conscious thought. 

“What would you say, Will,” Hannibal said, straightening up and leaning on the counter, ignoring the plates for the moment, “if I invited you for another dinner? This Thursday, perhaps? It would be just the two of us,” he added, “If you are amenable, of course.”

Will wished he could control his blush as he fiddled with the wine in his hands. He felt stupid for assuming they would have been alone now, and for being figured out so easily. But it was not enough for him to turn down the offer. “Thursday is fine,” he murmured. He placed the bottle on the counter, and against his better judgment, looked up at Hannibal and found him wearing a pleased expression, with the tiniest of smiles on the corners of his lips. Considering that this was Hannibal and they were surrounded by hired staff, he might as well have been beaming. 

“Then it’s a date,” he said. Hoping Hannibal could not hear his elevated heartbeats because the thing was sure doing its best to be heard, Will hastily took his leave, shaking his head against Hannibal’s attempts to see him off and fleeing the house without looking back once. 

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled his car over, wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and butted his head against his hands. Because as mortified as he was, it would not do to show up to the dinner two days later with a bruise on his forehead.

How Hannibal could make him want to strangle himself at the same time he made Will feel like he was on top of the world was beyond him. But good lord, it felt wonderful. 

Needless to say, Will’s date with the Chesapeake Ripper that night was often interrupted by daydreams of his upcoming date with Hannibal Lecter.

*

In the two days until their dinner appointment- date, Hannibal had said- and for some reason, Will kept remembering Hannibal hands, deep in the victim of Devon Silvestri’s botched attempt at organ trafficking. That occasion had pretty much eliminated any doubt he might have had about his attraction to Hannibal. 

But it had also brought up concerns about his attraction to blood and darkness that he had hoped he left behind, because the first thing he had thought when he saw Hannibal’s gloved hands covered in blood had been, it would look better on his skin.

Before he could shake the thought off, Hannibal had raised his dark eyes to his. Will had promptly forgotten to worry about anything and become enthralled by the competence with which Hannibal performed the impromptu medical intervention in the back of a stolen ambulance. The entire scene could have been from one of Will’s many dreams featuring the man, and it had taken memorable effort to convince himself that it was real.

Once the procedure was over and the victim was sent to the hospital, however, Will had to reconsider his perspective. Was Hannibal’s skill and resourcefulness in preserving a life that had made Will feel lightheaded, or was it the dark eyes and the detached manner with which he had handled the innards of a human being, as if uncaring whether he lived or not? 

For the sake of them both, Will hoped it was the nurturing interpretation that aligned most with the reality. He so desperately wanted this to be the one relationship in his life, hoping it came to that, that was not under the shadow of unrealized violent potential and the constant temptation to let go of the morality that held him back-

Will ignored the sense of deja vu at ringing the doorbell, similarly well dressed and holding a gift- it was the two trout he caught the day before in a cooler this time. Hannibal welcomed him just as warmly as the last time, this time wearing a very dark green shirt and flattering trousers, sans the apron.

“Will,” he said with a smile. “Right on time. Please, come in.”

“I, uh, I brought you fish. Trout. Fresh.” Drawing in a sharp breath to shut himself up, Will offered the cooler to him. “Caught them myself yesterday. Thought you’d like them.”

Hannibal shut the front door and reached for it, accepting it with a grateful nod of his head. He cracked the lid open to glance inside. “And I do, of course. Thank you for catching them for me.”

Will felt the urge to say that he did not go fishing so he could bring his catch to Hannibal, but that would be a lie and it was not how he wanted to set that precedence for the evening. Instead he nodded and let himself be led to the dining room with a hand on his back again.

“Please take a seat. I will put these in the freezer and arrive shortly with the appetizers,” Hannibal said, and left Will in the room. He took in the dimly lit space and wondered how well-adjusted one had to be to have an herb wall in his house, before the dinner table stole his attention. 

The servings were across each other instead of one at the head and one next to it. It was a strangely touching detail that Hannibal wanted to seat them outside of a hierarchical seating arrangement that emphasized his status as the host. Of course this could be because of etiquette and practicality instead of conscious thought on Hannibal’s part. Get a grip, Graham, Will thought to himself, and picked the far side so he could see it when Hannibal entered the room again. He made himself focus on the intricate designs on the silverware and the centerpiece with… raven skulls and claws arranged within begonias, rhododendrons and tarragon. A warning and another warning and... interest? Will grimaced at the side effect of working on serial killers with a love for flower symbolism, and dismissed the thought. The arrangement ought to be for aesthetic effect only, and Will felt like a fool for thinking Hannibal could be warning him through flowers, of all things. 

“I wanted to broaden both our horizons tonight,” Hannibal said, coming back with a tray consisting of the bottle of wine Will had dropped on his last visit, and small bowls, each of which revealed a different dish. “I have been amiss in foraging into new cuisines lately, and thought we could give the Turkish delicacies a try.”

“They look delicious,” Will said, impressed by the colourful display. Hannibal made sure that each bowl was placed neatly between their plates, before pouring them the wine and finally, taking his seat across Will. “I hope the wine goes well with this.”

“I have no doubt that it will, simply for the fact that you brought it for us to enjoy,” Hannibal said. Will wondered if he would be jumping to conclusions if he took the smile Hannibal offered him as flirtatious, but decided to say to hell with it and let himself enjoy the evening. 

“I have a feeling tonight will prove to be quite enjoyable,” he said, and shared a smile with Hannibal before he was given an explanation for the content of the bowls; yogurt with mint and beet, marinated bell pepper strips, carrot salad with mayonnaise and yogurt, and an olive mix, each meant to be taken to their plate and enjoyed with pitta bread.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Will asked, in between bites, “that you made even the bread yourself?”

“I am very particular, Will, about the things I put into my body,” Hannibal said coyly, and stole a glance at Will before using his knife to scoop up some of the yogurt onto a piece of pitta. “To a fault, some might say, but alas, it is what it is.”

Still fighting that damned blush, Will said, “At this point if you say you own a farm and grow your own crops of carrot and bell pepper, I just might believe you.”

“Even I can admit that that would be one step too far,” Hannibal said, eyes twinkling. 

Will nodded towards the herb wall behind himself. “Could have fooled me,” he murmured, and cherished the chuckle that managed to draw from Hannibal. “What’s next? Do you hunt down your own game?”

Hannibal’s smile grew as he regarded Will with eyes slightly narrowed with joy. “I subcontracted a trusted butcher instead,” he said, and it felt like he was sharing a secret. Will lifted one brow.

“I suppose this butcher must be really good, because all I heard of your meals is that they are delicious. Jack, for example, cannot stop talking about the meat you serve.”

“I do aim to please,” Hannibal said. “Let’s just see if what I serve manages to impress you just as much.”

Will bent his head down and stared at his plate. Dictyoptera families: Mantidae, Hymenopodidae-

“I apologize, Will, if I have been rather forward,” Hannibal interrupted his mental list with a sincere voice. “I’ve wanted to spend time with you apart from work for a while now, and if I am crossing a line here, please let me know. I value our friendship too much to ruin it with unwanted advances.”

“They are not- unwanted,” Will hastened to correct, but he kept his eyes down anyway. “The opposite, really. The- advances, are very much- wanted. Just… Unexpected, I guess.”

“Do you find me to be capable of resisting you, Will, or do you consider yourself undesirable?” Hannibal asked with a teasing lilt, causing Will to look up and smirk.

“I consider psychoanalysis during dinner undesirable,” he answered, and just like that, the awkwardness evaporated. Hannibal brought up his glass of wine in a toast.

“To psychoanalysis-free dinners, then,” he prompted, and they clinked the glasses before taking sips. Hannibal gave a pleased hum. “Well, what do you know? It does compliment the dishes.”

The main course smelled heavenly when Hannibal brought it, and consisted of more of the pitta bread under a layer of doner kebab, covered with tomato sauce and melted butter. “Iskender kebab,” Hannibal explained. “It was highly recommended by an acquaintance, but unlike her insinuation that it should be eaten at a restaurant, I took it upon myself to prepare it at home, so this will be the first time I try it as well.”

Will helped himself to a small cut from the platter, and savoured the rich flavours, gazing at Hannibal with amusement all the while. “I almost feel sorry for your acquaintance, ‘cause she’s missing out on a lot in those restaurants.”

“I am glad you think so,” was the reply before the topic changed abruptly. “How was your date with the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Same as always.” Will had been so caught up in the good dinner and the excitement of being in Hannibal’s company in a date, that the reminder of the outside world and his continued failure to find the Ripper for Jack jarred him for a second. “He remains elusive as ever, but what else can you expect? He will not suddenly become careless and start leaving us evidence. I don’t think he’ll ever be caught unless he wants to, honestly.”

Hannibal considered this. “If that’s what you really think, why are you on the case still?”

“I…” Will started, but shut up because if he said what he really thought, it would cast a damper on the night and he did not really want to do that. “It’s my job, and Jack is breathing down my neck about it,” he said instead.

For a few seconds, there was absolute silence except for the silverware on their plates. 

“Will,” Hannibal said at length, speaking softly. “I would much prefer if you were comfortable enough to be honest with me.” The words were hard to hear, because of course Hannibal deserved full disclosure if they were to make something out of whatever connection they shared. Will felt like an asshole for his weakness, but he really did not want to mess this up before it began.

“I find him… Interesting,” he said, putting down his fork and knife in favour of grasping his glass with both hands, playing with the stem in his agitation and avoiding Hannibal’s eyes once again. “He’s different,” he continued, figuring that if Hannibal would not like what he had to say, then it would be more polite to end this here instead of figuring their incompatibility further down the line with more heartbreak. “He defies categorization. Psychopath? Sociopath? Narcissist? Sadist? It’s like he is an amalgamation of all, and so much more besides; a category of his own. He doesn’t kill for sexual pleasure or revenge, he doesn’t abide by one type of victim, and I’m pretty sure he’s killed outside of the Ripper persona because you don’t just decide to be a murderer one day and do what he does the next.” 

Will could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, the last vestiges of light-heartedness leaving him under the weight of the gaze. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought.

“It’s like… Art, what he does. The victims are not people in his eyes, they are materials, and he uses them to express himself in a way that elicits emotion in the viewer. And by that I mean me. Before Jack had me on his case, all I could see was blurry photographs from his scenes, but now…” Will brought up a hand to his face as if it were a shield, unable either to look up or to imagine how Hannibal must be looking at him right now. “I want to get to know him,” he said, at last. This was his confession, and he shuddered to think that Hannibal would tell Jack. “I want to know how his mind works.”

“Do you fear rejection from me, Will, because of what you just said?” Hannibal asked, so gently that Will looked up at him, forgetting his reservations. Hannibal had his fingers entwined under his chin, his elbows on the table, and if that was not shocking enough, he was leaning forward and looking at Will as though he was seeing him for the very first time. It was not a sight indicative of an upcoming kind-but-firm dismissal. No, what Will saw was keen interest, more so than Hannibal had ever bestowed upon him before. 

“Yes,” Will replied anyway, unable to connect his own words and Hannibal’s reverence in this context. “How can you not say no to this?”

“How can I, would be my answer to you, Will. At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say that at the moment, I find myself incapable of resisting you.”

“Why?” Will asked, and because he knew from his own experiences, added, “Do you find morally dubious tendencies attractive too?”

Hannibal surprised him yet again with an abrupt chuckle. “That implies you do, as well. Tell me, Will, do you find me morally dubious?”

“No.” With a frown on his face, Will leaned in, mirroring Hannibal’s position. “No and that’s the thing. You are not my type at all.”

“Oh,” Hannibal took no offence at the statement. If anything, he looked well entertained. “And what would be your type?”

“Sick,” Will bit out, certain that the rejection Hannibal failed to give him until now could surely be drawn out if Will was brutally honest. “Twisted. Unhinged, really. The kind to either end up in prison or die on the way there.” It was amazing what Hannibal’s lack of horror at the words coming out of his mouth was doing to the filter in his brain: Eliminating it, that was what it was doing. “One of my exes is serving a life sentence for voluntary manslaughter. Another was released from custody on lack of evidence but I know he did kill someone. He told me in great detail.”

If Hannibal was surprised by the gender of Will’s previous partner, he did not show it. “And you did not inform the law enforcement?” he asked instead, both his eyebrows raised, higher than what Will was used to from the usually stoic man. 

“No,” he replied. This was it. If Hannibal pushed further, no matter how understanding he’d been so far, Will was going to be honest and it was going to ruin everything. 

“And why not?” 

Will took several deep breaths while Hannibal held his gaze and would not let him look away, calmly waiting for him to respond. 

“Because,” Will said, shaky and cursing himself for being about to deprive himself from the one good thing in his life for decades. “Because I liked it. And because I wanted- I wished that I could-” His voice broke as he said, “do, what they did.”

The cat that came out of the bag was a nasty, hideous, sickly little thing. Will felt flayed, disgusted with himself and so vulnerable at that moment that it wouldn’t take much to crush him. All he needed was a slight twitch to Hannibal’s eyes, a sullen twist to his lips, and Will was sure he could die. He waited with bated breath as they regarded each other, mirror images of the other on each side of the table, silent and still as though stuck in amber.

And then Hannibal smiled.

His lips tightened and lengthened before Will’s very eyes, revealing crooked teeth in all their glory. Absently Will found that this was an imperfection that did not fit into Hannibal’s overall impeccable, flawless conduct. But they suited him so fine that Will was more than a little bit smitten with them already. What he was unclear about was the reason Hannibal was showing them.

“One more thing, dear Will,” Hannibal said, tilting his head a bit to the side. “If I’m not your type, as you put it, why are we here tonight?”

Will took in a deep breath and held it for a beat too long. “I don’t know what it is about you,” he said, gaining courage with each moment Hannibal gazed at him with admiration. “On the surface, nothing about you should be so goddamn enticing. And you do not let on what’s below the surface, you do not show anything at all. It makes it so that there’s no reason to think you are hiding something underneath. But that’s suspicious too, no one is this perfect,” he gestured towards Hannibal with one hand, minding that he did not knock over his glass of wine. “You are not easy to read like others are. I feel like I only see what you want me to see, and exactly what about that intrigues me, I have no fucking clue,” he said. “But telling you I fantasize about murder is surprisingly easier than I thought it would be. I want this. I want you and that’s why I’m here. Why are you here with me, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal blinked slowly, looking for all the world like he was happy with the hand he’d been dealt. “I admire you, Will,” he said, bending his head forward and looking up at Will as if he was sharing a fun little secret about himself. “I respect your mind, and I find that we have potential to elevate each other in ways neither of us can fully comprehend at the moment.”

“Yeah, for the record, I do not like that you are so cryptic either,” Will responded. He looked down at his mostly empty plate, his stomach rebelling at the thought of eating the rest after all the things they said. He had to digest those first. 

“All in good time, dear Will. All in good time.” Hannibal said, and continued to eat like they have been talking about the weather all along. 

“I think I’d like to go now,” Will said, but then noticed how dense it sounded and added, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I- I’d like to do this again, of course I do. It’s just that it’s all too much right now.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Hannibal said. “You’ve trusted me with things I doubt you trusted with many people in your life, and it can be overwhelming. Please do not think I’d take offense if you left, Will. My vision for you is not that you sit still and look pretty,” he smirked at Will, getting up. “Although you are captivating to behold, I must add.”

“Flatterer,” Will murmured, but also got to his feet and let himself be led to the foyer. Hannibal stood tall and radiated calmness and confidence, and Will felt like a mess, but one that was drawn to Hannibal regardless. Diptera families: Tipulidae, Culicidae, Tabanidae, Tephritidae, Muscidae. He lifted up a hand to cup Hannibal’s cheek, and mentally commanded himself for not kissing the breath out of him and simply said, “Thank you for tonight, Hannibal. I’ll see you later.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Will,” Hannibal said, eyes bright and his smile digging into Will’s palm. “Goodnight, and drive safe.”

Will nodded and let himself out. He felt Hannibal’s eyes on his back all the way to his car, and even after he drove halfway home, he continued to feel like he still had those eyes on himself. It was as though he was bringing Hannibal along with him, his presence palpable as Will parked, let his dogs out, gave them treats and got ready for bed. Only once he was ready for the night and under his quilt did he allow himself to analyse the feeling, and the night in its entirety.

Hannibal had been correct when he said Will did not let people in on this side of himself often. Even his previous partners or lovers had known him to be only appreciative of their own violent sides, and probably viewed his interest as a kink or something. What he told Hannibal tonight was that he wanted to do those things himself: Will Graham, Special Agent to the FBI’s BAU and former police officer to NOPD, liked the thought letting himself enjoy his own violent urges to the point of having warm blood on his hands and torn flesh between his teeth. And the only person to come close to grasping the full extent of this desire was Hannibal. 

And so he had been nervous, expecting rejection and fearing it simultaneously. It did not help that he had been the more forthcoming between the two of them, and it created an unbalance between them where Will was more vulnerable for revealing his inner thoughts and wishes while Hannibal only alluded to things instead of outright telling Will of his own stance. Will thought that counting insect orders in his head to stop himself from kissing Hannibal was a smart (albeit creepy) thing to do, because if he had let himself kiss him, he did not think any intimacy they’d have had after that could have been on equal footing. He wanted it to be so, he wanted that desperately.

Overall, Will now knew that his interest in Hannibal was reciprocal, that Hannibal did not find Will disgusting or repulsive, and was way more accepting than anyone could have reasonably hoped for. 

He pinpointed the topic of the Chesapeake Ripper to be the point in their conversation when Hannibal began to show more interest in him and what he had to say. It was the first significant topic after their flirtatious back and forth. Will thought that his attraction to Hannibal could be not because of an innate darkness in the man, but because of his interest in and acceptance of the macabre. The topic could have easily soured anyone’s appetite, but not Hannibal’s; he listened as Will waxed poetic about a serial killer with unflinching attentiveness.

Maybe what Will craved not was not to live vicariously through Hannibal, but to be understood and accepted, flaws and creepiness notwithstanding. That was a narrative Will could comfortably accept, and so he did. It was better than to assume that Hannibal was a violent criminal and Will was attracted to him solely because he felt it, somewhere deep inside where light could not penetrate. 

The last thing he thought about before sleep claimed him was bird skeletons, brittle yet strong enough to fly, which followed him to dreams of flowers covered in red, thick blood and the sound of warning bells in the distance.

*

Their next weekly appointment of “conversations” had to be cancelled because of a fresh Ripper scene. When Will called Hannibal to postpone it, Jack bellowed to invite him as well, and that was how they ended up standing before the second victim of the current sounder, his body bent and broken to fit the Ripper’s artistic vision. Hannibal and Jack stood behind Will, who took in the scene with wide eyes as the crime scene teams scattered away. 

It was a man in his early forties, his curly dark hair littered by wayward white strands. His eyelids were cut off, revealing eyes that, had the opaqueness not set in, would be green and bright as they stared curiously behind the veil. One of his hands was inserted into the cavity of his chest as if in search, while the other was sewn to skin to cover the gap there. The body looked ghostly white, more so than the normal pallor mortis under the harsh lights of the CSI teams, which led Will to the fact that his blood was drained for the effect as he was positioned on his knees as if in worship, naked and ethereal.

It was beautiful.

He looked around at the small clearing they were in, halfway through a popular hiking path as he was informed, closed his eyes. First the people around them disappeared, then the pallor: He stood before the newly deceased man, positioned to his desire, and tilted his head.

You want to see, he thought, crouching low, eyes level with the chest where one hand was reaching for the heart and the other was guarding it. You want to give. He stood, but not before running a hand on the ground, the earth unyielding as he tried to flatten it to his liking. And yet you harbour fear. He walked around the body and adjusted the man’s chin a bit upwards; the angle was important. I drain you of fear. I want to take what you offer. I want you to see. He raised his eyes to the spot the man was made to look, and smiled. This is my design.

Will came to himself and found himself standing directly behind the body, thankfully far enough not to contaminate the scene and have Jack intervene. His breath clouded his sight for a moment before he said, in a clear voice, “Gloves.”

He did not look to see who gave him a pair, and put them on hastily, drawing a half-circle around the body and making his way towards the tree those lidless eyes were made to point. It was an ordinary pine tree, old by the girth of its trunk and the height. Evergreen. He used to climb those, trying to reach the top as a way to entertain himself while his nomadic father chased jobs from one nondescript town to the other. Will made use of his muscle memory, and with only a few grunts, managed to secure himself high enough to reach into the hollow in the trunk. Instead of emptiness or a nest, his fingers found petals. 

When he brought his hand out, a few of the red blooms fell to the ground, where Beverly rushed to inspect them. “Yarrow?” She asked, nonplussed. “That’s unusual.”

“Achillea,” Will corrected. There was no doubt that this was the Ripper, and the Ripper did not go around collecting common wild flowers for no reason. “It is famously used by Achilles on the battlefield, hence the name.”

“Yeah, for healing.” Price, the only one besides Will with an extensive knowledge of the flower language due both to his interest in the topic and the excessive use of flowers by serial murderers, chimed in, having already taken his place besides Beverly. “Achillea also means never-ending love, success, protection, emotional regeneration, both luck and misfortune, and even psychic abilities. It’s the Swiss army knife of flowers, it can mean anything.”

“The question, then, is what the Ripper wants it to mean,” Jack said. Will tore his eyes from the dark red petals to glance down at him; their little team of Beverly, Price, Zeller, Jack and Hannibal were all gathered around the tree looking up at Will for answers. “What does Ripper want it to mean, Will?”

Tightening his hold on the branch, Will put the petals back inside the hollow, careful not to crush them in the endeavour, and took the evidence bag Zeller handed him. It was a struggle to maintain his balance and put the flowers into the bag, but he managed. He used this time to think. 

“Bravery,” he finally said, allowing himself to fall once he climbed down a sufficient amount. He brushed his jacket off. “He is telling someone to be brave, to look and see him. The Ripper wants to be seen.”

“Not by us, by any chance?” Jack asked. Will shook his head. “Well then, who is he talking to?”

Me, Will wanted to say. He’s talking to me. However, he was not sure whether that was a fact or if he was projecting his own feelings and wishes. The conversation he had with Hannibal was still fresh in his mind, where he confessed to an interest in knowing and understanding the Ripper. He avoided Hannibal’s eyes when he said, “I don’t know.”

“Great,” Jack huffed and went to tell the rest of the team that they could wrap up the scene. Beverly and Price went to aid in that, while Zeller stood back with him and Hannibal to impart his words of wisdom.

“Sounds a lot like a proposition, doesn’t it?” he murmured, and followed his teammates. Will frowned at the rocks by his feet. Ripper, courting someone? If true, this would be a recipe for disaster. He thought about what kind of a person someone like the Ripper would find worthy of courting, and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. 

Someone who could see the Ripper, see beyond the mask to the beast, and beyond the beast to the man. Someone who could understand the reasons behind the methods chosen, the symbols woven through the design, the message it all conveyed. Someone who would not shy away in fear, but would appreciate it. Would come to embrace it, even. Participate.

“Are you alright, Will?” Hannibal asked, keeping a respectful distance of two steps between them, but somehow managing to sound as though he was speaking directly into Will’s ear. 

“He’s right,” Will said, meaning Zeller. “This feels intimate. The Ripper… He’s considering companionship.”

“Wouldn’t that be detrimental for his freedom?” Hannibal asked. Will, as he stared at the ground, saw him take the tiniest step closer. “One person can avoid capture, while two would complicate things.”

“No, not with him.” Will made a conscious effort to straighten his frown and raised his head to look at Hannibal. He looked so put together, not even a hair out of place, even with the cold making his cheeks and the tip of his nose red. “He would not court someone who he thinks would endanger him. Whoever it is, they would not hinder. They would elevate.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Hannibal asked. He was framed by the lights of the scene, agents bustling around behind him as he stood gazing at Will, still as a statue, a beacon of stability and cold, cold curiosity.

“Afraid,” Will answered. He was being completely honest, too. If what his gut was telling him was true, then he was noticed by the Ripper as a possible accomplice, a partner in crime, a partner, period. And going from the Ripper’s unerring instinct for his survival, it meant that Will was found to be a good candidate for murder and mayhem. He felt naked under that consideration, as if his eyelids were cut off for him to see himself as he was: A monster, kin of the Ripper. 

Hannibal surprised him by huffing out a laugh. “I thought tonight’s theme was bravery, Will,” he teased, and the jovial manner in which he spoke made the most peculiar kind of contrast with the severe nature of the crime their friends were handling at the moment, just a stone’s throw away from them. Warmth spread from Will’s core towards his limbs at how accepting Hannibal was of Will’s mind and thoughts, how welcoming of the macabre, so he took a deep breath to gather his courage. Lepidoptera families: Papilionidae, Pieridae, Danaidae, Lycaenidae...

“I know it’s last minute, but think you can whip out something for us to eat, Doctor Lecter? I’m starving.”

Hannibal smiled, and Will hoped to god that he would remember how beautiful he looked with a crown of crime scene lights and that smile until the day he died. “I know,” Hannibal said cryptically, and under Will’s narrowed gaze, gestured towards his car. 

*

Against his better judgment, Will did not stop Hannibal when, after an impromptu yet impressive dinner and the ensuing clean up, he was gently held by the arms and kissed against the fridge. However, true to his words, he was starving; for touch, for connection, for understanding and acceptance. So he gave in, readily too. Without disturbing Hannibal’s grip, his hands managed to find Hannibal’s waist, only his soft pink shirt in the way of skin meeting skin. Hannibal was warm, so warm and close, kissing him with considerate movements, a thumb caressing his arm in an affectionate gesture.

So when Hannibal suggested they take this to a more appropriate setting, Will said yes. 

He was stripped of his clothes one by one; Hannibal’s hands swiping over each patch of skin he revealed. Kisses remained tender even when Will tried to convey he was ready for something harder, more passionate. He was laid on the bed, with touches that felt restrained. Will pulled Hannibal to him by the nape, and tried with one hand to divest him of his clothing as well, while sucking on that upper lip that had taunted him so. However, with a parting peck, Hannibal rose on his knees to take off his clothes himself, leaving Will to look up at him from where he was laying.

Hannibal was being the perfect gentleman, going for something unhurried and considerate. There was absolutely nothing to complain about. And yet, Will thought. 

And yet, something felt off. 

“Are you okay?” Will asked. Hannibal, having put his tie on the nightstand and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt, paused. 

“Have I given you reason to doubt how ‘okay’ I am, Will?” His question was posed with the quirk of a teasing eyebrow. 

“No,” Will answered, already regretting bringing this up. “Not at all.”

Hannibal left the bed and took off his shirt and pants, standing naked if one did not count his boxers, and in a manner contrasting the way he let Will’s clothes fall to the floor, folded his own to put them on the armchair there. Will wanted so badly to be able to keep his eyes on the man, but instead, he took in the bedroom; the Samurai armour, the antlers on the wall, the muted blue colours; a perfect meeting of carnal and sedate, a display of muted desires. All so very cordial and inviting, as if chosen to illustrate that one could be relaxed there, safe as a house.

It was unnerving.

Hannibal got back on the bed and laid half on top of Will, softly kissing his neck and seemingly unconcerned that Will was more interested in the horns above the bed. 

“Stop,” Will said, and Hannibal stopped immediately. 

“Is something wrong, Will?” He asked, on his side and leaning on one arm above Will. His hair was mussed, and he looked mildly concerned. It was all so very appropriate and controlled. 

“This doesn’t feel like you,” Will said, mentally slapping himself silly for ruining this for the both of them, but simultaneously unable to make himself take it back. “You are holding back,” he added in a bit to explain. 

“What makes you think that?” Hannibal decided to sit on the bed, putting more distance between the two of them. 

“This room.” Will, too, sat up, with his back to the headboard. He knew he sounded insane. “It’s perfect. It is designed to be so.” From the comforter to the dark wooden trims, from the colour code to the exact placement of the furniture; individually, they were perfectly fine. In the composition Hannibal arranged them, they screamed inauthenticity. “And you, you are designed to be perfect too,” Will said, his attempt at covering himself with the bedspread feeling ineffective. Against his expectations, he didn’t feel the residual warmth of Hannibal’s moderate kisses on his neck, nor that of the gentle touches on his skin. Although he felt insanely attracted to the man, this did not feel genuine.

Hannibal listened without any indication of what he might be feeling. “I appreciate the artistry in the construction,” Will added, capable of raising his eyes only to Hannibal’s sharp cheekbones. “But I… Can’t. When you are not with me. Not really.”

The silence that followed was like ants under his skin, crawling and biting. Hymenoptera families, Will thought aptly, counting them so he could sit still and wait for Hannibal’s response. Formicidae, Vespidae, Apidae… But Hannibal was uncharacteristically silent, and Will had to be the one to say the words he never thought he would want to say to Hannibal under these conditions. 

“I should go,” he said, forcing his limbs to abide by his commands to move, to walk around the bed and pick his clothes from the floor, to dress himself as he stared at Hannibal’s folded shirt and pants sitting innocuously on the armchair. He only dared to glance at Hannibal, still and silent, when he was done. Hannibal’s face was a mask, indistinguishable to the ones hung on the walls to Will’s eyes, and it furthered his resolve. “I’ll see myself out,” he murmured, and left the room without any objections. 

He was downstairs and walking in the dark towards the foyer when he was seized by the waist and slammed, face-first, to the wall. Will was so startled that he had been sneaked upon without any sound, that his reaction was delayed. Which was all Hannibal apparently needed to have his arms up and against the wall in a tight grip. He pressed himself against Will, from shoulder to knees.

“You demand authenticity, and yet you deny it to the both of us.” Hannibal growled into Will’s ear and sent shivers down his spine. Will’s shudder was answered by Hannibal pushing him even harder against the wall. Will had to turn his head to the side to keep his face from being crushed. It was the wrong, or the really right thing to do, because it brought their lips close to each other. Will felt Hannibal’s every inhale and exhale on his face, and though he should have been scared, he truly wasn’t. Hannibal buried his nose in Will’s curls and continued. “What about your design of Will Graham? A grumpy teacher with flannel, dog hair, and subpar aftershave. So unassuming, so very harmless. Is this who you are, Will?”

“Isn’t that how you see me?” Will snarled and tried to get his arms out of Hannibal’s grip. He failed spectacularly as the hold tightened, cutting off blood to his hands. He felt Hannibal’s teeth on his cheekbone, a silent warning to behave. 

“No, darling boy. You delight in wickedness and then berate yourself for the delight,” Hannibal said, lips touching Will’s cheekbone as he spoke. He was so close that, had Will been an anatomical anomaly as well as a psychological one, he could have turned his head a bit more and kissed him. And he wanted to do that, so much, at the moment. “You have claws that you clip, teeth that you pull out. What a fine prison you’ve built for yourself, without even one step out of the line. But you want to break free. You hide your ravenous self from the world well enough, but not from me.”

Will released the breath he was holding, a shaky thing, and pushed back into Hannibal. It had the effect of him feeling Hannibal’s boxer-clad erection press firmly against his ass. Hannibal, clearly not content to be the only one exposed for his desires, snaked his free arm around Will and cupped him. Will gasped, both at the sensation of that large, strong hand holding him, and at the realization that he had gotten hard in the first place. He began to shake at the exertion of holding himself upright, his muscles straining in a fight-or-flight purgatory for long, agonizing seconds. 

“What about you?” Will asked, cursing at how breathy he sounded with his hips stuck between Hannibal and his firm hold. “You go on and on about me, but you never reciprocate. Who are you, beneath the-” Hannibal pressed his hand on Will, gathering him closer. It became that much harder to collect his thoughts, when Hannibal’s erection was pressing into him even more firmly, the heat of it through layers scorching his skin. “-the... veneer?”

“You tell me, Will.” Hannibal moved his hips, making Will gasp again and squeeze his eyes shut to manage the sensory input even though they were already in the dark. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hannibal’s bared body against his clothed one; how strong Hannibal was, how quiet he had been, and how he had never given an indication that he could be either of these in any of their previous conversations. These were not the actions of a well-off psychiatrist in his late forties, living comfortably off of a successful career. Behind Will’s eyelids, the hands holding his hands and groin turned red; the crimson of the blood that could not reach through the gloves to paint Hannibal’s skin when he was elbow deep in Silvestri’s unnamed victim. A pig, by all means, its life rescued for the sake of pretences instead of an innate desire to sustain, to strengthen the image of Hannibal Lecter as a man of healing and nurturing, a red herring to hide the fact that he was decidedly not that kind of a man. 

“You are dangerous,” Will said, his train of thought decimated when Hannibal thrust against him, his hand on Will’s cock both punishing and holding him still. He could not feel his hands, his body felt wrung out from the myriad of hormones tonight had him produce, and he had never, ever, been this aroused in his entire life.

“Go on.” It was a command; it would be unwise to pretend it was anything else. Will’s vision of them warped once more, and Hannibal sprouted antlers; like the ones in Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ antler room, like the ones on which Cassie Boyle had been impaled. He turned black in his entirety, leaving Will the only one visible in his vision, swallowed whole by the darkness and exactly where he wanted to be, at home in the belly of the monster. 

His mind was famous for the leaps it could make. Some, like Brian Zeller, thought him a phony. Some, like Jack Crawford, saw him as a tool. Some, like Alana Bloom, thought of him as one would think of a sickly orphan; misfortunate and in need of handling with care. And some, like Freddie Lounds, thought he was one of those he helped be caught.

Out of all of them, it was saddening that Freddie was the closest one to the truth. He could assume anyone’s mindset, piece together his perceptions to find a reasonable narrative with surprising ease. The easiest, among all of it, was the mind of the criminal, the deviant, the monstrous. The leap he made in this moment was so seamless that he did a double take at how he had never acknowledged it before. It felt like he knew, and repressed it without realizing that he knew. But he knew.

Will knew.

And the knowledge felt like aphrodisiac in his veins. 

With a groan that felt like it ripped itself from the very core of his being, Will relaxed his tense muscles, letting himself loose in Hannibal’s twisted interpretation of a loving embrace. He was instantly rewarded when Hannibal thrust again, and Will met him halfway, protruding his hips so Hannibal’s erection lined up, making the man purr. 

“Is it wise, darling Will, to give yourself to me like this?” No. No it was not wise. The light from wisdom wouldn’t reach him for a million years, that’s how far away from wisdom he was. He tugged on the hand holding his arms, and was released after only one second of hesitation. He turned and wrapped those unfeeling limbs around Hannibal, and drew him into a brutal kiss. When he bit, he was bitten. When he bled, he made Hannibal bleed. Without warning, he was hoisted up against the wall, his legs wrapping themselves automatically around Hannibal’s waist, their groins rubbing against each other with a fervency that was all-consuming. 

“Who am I, Will?” Hannibal murmured, the hands holding him up bruisingly tight on his hips. “Tell me. You have to tell me,” he continued like a mantra. With life returning to his hands, accompanied by the pain of his circulation reattaining its normal course, Will grabbed Hannibal by the hair and yanked his head back. Even though his eyes were now open and acclimated to the darkness of the hallway, he could swear Hannibal’s skin was pitch black, his antlers caging Will in and digging into the wall, soulless eyes waiting patiently for a response.

“You are exactly my type,” Will said, teeth bared, and let Hannibal crash into him like a wave against the cliff face. Then again, and then again, until he was out of breath, sweaty and right on the edge. 

He would think, later on, about how two grown men managed to come into their pants while frantically rubbing against one another like teenagers. How passionate, how immediate their desires were. How they sank teeth and nail alike into each other’s skin, how they rutted and moaned like animals in heat. 

In the moment, all Will could focus on was the need for more; harder, faster, more of pleasure, more of pain, more of Hannibal. As much as he could take and then more.

Hannibal was destructive. Together, they would be simply catastrophic. Nothing good would come out of this. Nothing good for the others, the voice Will had tried for decades to silence chimed in. 

Later on, Will would ponder upon the concepts of good and evil. 

Right then, he banged his head against the wall and had the most exquisite orgasm of his life; the kind that numbed the mind and turned the limbs to mush. It resonated not only in his body, but also in the halls of his mind; it destroyed all his building blocks, and instead of leaving them to ruins in its wake, it tried to build Will in the image Hannibal desired. In the image Will resisted becoming. 

It felt cathartic. 

In the majesty of the moment, Will missed Hannibal’s low growl as he fucked up into Will’s groin, and became fully aware only when teeth pierced the skin of his neck, making him feel each convulsion of Hannibal’s cock as he came. Will looked at the man as though he was seeing him for the first time. The skin was back to its usual shade, hair still mussed, but eyes and lips dark; one with lust and the other with both their blood. 

“Oh, no,” Will whispered. No. No no no no no. “You are exactly my type,” he repeated with a different emphasis. 

“Don't go inside, Will.” Hannibal said, his breaths hard and his hands gentling as he held Will against the wall. “You'll want to retreat, you'll want it as we want to jump from balconies,” he rubbed his nose along the length of Will’s throat, “as the glint of the rails tempts us when we hear the approaching train.”

He was wrong. Will had already fallen, already splattered on the cold concrete. The train had hit him already. “Stay with me,” Hannibal added, words uttered with reverence and a heart-wrenching undercurrent of hope.

When Will struggled against him and stumbled onto his feet, however, Hannibal let him. When Will staggered into the foyer and opened the door, Hannibal did not follow. When Will fled into his car and began to speed into the highway that would lead him home, he could not feel Hannibal’s eyes on him. 

When it became ‘later,’ after Will let his dogs out, filled their bowls of food and water, took a shower, cleaned and bandaged the bite wound on his neck, let the dogs back in and got into his bed on auto-pilot, when there was nothing else for him to do but to think, Will thought. In between bouts of fitful sleep, he thought. After the sunrise, when he did have other things to do, he kept thinking. 

Surprisingly, what upset him the most was not Hannibal’s secret. Secrets. Whatever, it was not that. It was that the revelation of those secrets made Will face the fact that he had not gotten over his fascination with darkness. His attraction to Hannibal was not the safe haven he had thought it was, had hoped that it would be. No, Will Graham was still a fool for his darker nature, still ridiculously open to the temptations of the violent and the grotesque. 

“You sure know how to pick them, Graham,” he said as he checked the wound in the morning. He pressed a nail into where Hannibal’s incisors had sunk, and watched the abused wound start to bleed sluggishly. If he did not leave it alone, it might leave a scar. 

Will did not leave it alone. 

He went through the motions as the day progressed; he gave his lecture, answered questions in the classroom, then went to the BAU and answered some more questions there, this time about the Ripper’s latest murder. Hannibal’s, his inner voice said, and it sounded like the man himself. Mine.

His phone remained silent. Hannibal himself did not appear out of nowhere, did not do anything at all to ensure that Will would not sing like a canary to Jack. 

Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal Lecter is the Copycat Killer.

And Hannibal Lecter would not court someone who he thinks would endanger him. Whoever it is, they would not hinder. They would elevate.

His own words, uttered to the man himself. It was slightly demeaning to know now that Hannibal enjoyed his blindness as much as he wanted it to end. 

Will toyed with the edge of the see-through evidence bag, and even though his eidetic memory provided him with all he needed to know, he looked up the many meanings behind the yarrow plant. Bad man’s plaything, people called it. Devil’s nettle. Death flower. Seven year's love. That what bothered Will was not the frankly ominous connotations of the name but the limited and quite honestly very short amount of time it attributed to love, said a lot about him. 

So did his reticence on the topic of the Ripper’s identity, and his sullen glances at his phone.

You could call me, the voice spoke with a siren’s melodious timbre. He could. He shouldn’t. He had not maintained his freedom all these years by making calls to the prison cells of Liam, Daniel, or Vivian. No, he had moved on and left them to do their much deserved time. You don’t want to move on, my darling boy. He should. He should pack his bags and go find a nice woman to marry; raise two and a half children in a house with white picket fences and as many dogs as he could get his hands on. He should try to be happy. Is that happiness? No, it sounded like hell. But it would be better than… Being our authentic selves? The voice was mocking him now. Even the inside of his own mind was compromised. 

Would it really be so bad? He thought on it as he left a frustrated Jack in his office and made his way back home. Would it? Definitely. It would lead to bloodshed. It would lead to frantic coupling on pools of blood and under the blind, opaque gazes of the many corpses that fell victim to them. It would stick between his teeth like the organs Hannibal harvested and fed him (because those were definitely not trophies), his eyes alight as Will savoured each expertly-cooked bite. It would burn bright before it quickly diminished. Which would come first; them being captured or them turning on each other until only one of them breathed? No hindrance, Will, only elevation. Yes, perhaps, but elevation to what? To the throne of hell? To the electric chair? To our becoming. To becoming one, becoming whole, becoming a force to be reckoned with. To gleeful, unmitigated violence, untraceable by the men of law, mocking in the face of God. Exactly, the voice purred, it would take divine intervention to bring us down.

Will shook his head. He was home now, watching through the cloud of his own breath as his dogs ran in the field. The wound on his neck was throbbing, more psychological than physical at this point. It would have been a constant reminder of Hannibal had Will not been already consumed by the thoughts of the man.

Do you regret it, Will? Yes and no. Yes, because his encounter with Hannibal led to all his hopes, for himself and for them, crumbling at his feet like a house of cards. No, because of the emotions it invoked within; he was fighting against his own whimsy and the desires of his own tortured mind; a battlefield. It is famously used by Achilles on the battlefield, hence the name, and the battle was between the self he had failed to smother to death, and the self he nurtured. He was a walking talking contradiction of that tale about the two wolves. He had left one of his wolves to starve, and yet it still persevered. Which wolf will win, dear boy? Whichever one is meant to win, Will replied. He was done cheering for either of them. It was obvious that he was failing to affect the outcome.

Odonata families, he held onto his trusted method of distraction and disengagement like a lifeline. Libellulidae, Aeshnidae, Coenagrionidae, Sick. Twisted. Unhinged, really. Sounds a lot like a proposition, doesn’t it? Stay with me. Where else would he go? Orthoptera families: Tettigoniidae, Gryllidae, Acrididae, You have everywhere to go. He didn’t want to go. No, you don’t want to go. He didn’t even find Hannibal that interesting. Neither of us are gullible enough to believe that, Will. How did Hannibal see him, Will wondered. The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by. No, that wasn’t right. Hannibal did not need a protector. Achilles wished all Greeks would die, so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. Whenever he’s mentioned in the Illiad, Patroclus is defined by his empathy. He became Achilles on the field of war. Did Hannibal want Will to become him? Was that it? Did he want a mirror-image? The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else. Hannibal could not reduce him to a set of influences. He refused to be defined as the product of anything. What was good and evil when behaviourism proved to be the most practical? Then you can't say that I'm evil.

No. No, Will couldn’t. 

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? He had asked for authenticity, a look behind the veil, and he was granted that wish. I gave you a rare gift. And what Will saw there tore through the boundaries of the sanity he had forced on himself like a Lovecraftian god of the old. The mere sight of Hannibal, tar-black and unguarded, had been enough to scatter Will’s righteous persona to the wind. Hannibal was a force of nature, and just as storms could not reasonably be called evil, neither could Hannibal. Neither could you. Neither could he. He could either be put back together, or let time do the brunt of the work. But here, now, there was an opportunity for Will to participate in his own rearrangement. He could spell out a warning and then another warning, and then a vast, never-ending interest. This is your design. 

“This is my design,” Will murmured. There was no one to hear him but Winston, who nuzzled against his leg and received the pat to the head he asked for gratefully. 

From a distance, what Hannibal had done seemed masterfully planned rather than spontaneous. He had tantalized Will with the promise of understanding and acceptance, teased him with implications of appreciation and reverence, and then withdrew that man to present Will with the placid, agreeable lover he had thought he wanted; had believed he should and did want. It’s like he had to show me a negative so I could see the positive. It had been so disappointing to have the hands of the man he wanted on him, the lips he had dreamt of on his, and to feel nothing but a constant stream of wrong wrong wrong so wrong- 

Will could make things right again. He wanted to. He needed to. Because deep down, he knew. Hannibal Lecter, the Ripper and the Copycat and god only knew what else, perhaps the most prolific serial killer of the century, would not pursue someone who would, who could reject him. In his infinite wisdom and top-notch instincts for self-preservation, he would choose someone who could see beyond the mask to the beast, and beyond the beast to the man, and find in himself the courage to let himself love them all.

In that moment, he felt the magnanimity of Hannibal’s trust in him like he felt the cold wind that burned his skin and lungs alike. Like he felt the throbbing wound he purposefully agitated so it would leave a scar. Like he felt the self-inflicted chains of cruelty around him falling off as though they had never been anything more sturdy than wet paper.

If this was what it felt like to embrace himself as he was, he thought he would soon be addicted to it, much the way he thought Hannibal was and wanted him to be. 

With hopes that leaving Will to himself was another aspect of Hannibal’s plan to court him instead of a sign the man was plotting his demise in silence, and with a much welcome spring to his steps, Will whistled for the dogs to get inside, and made himself a cup of salep to accompany him before his laptop while he did some digging. He had a long night ahead of him.

*

Will had just gotten into his car and placed his parcel onto the passenger seat when Jack called. 

“It’s the Ripper. This is the last of this sounder,” Jack said, sounding hyped up and tired at the same time. Will met his own eyes on the rear-view mirror and watched the pupils constrict almost imperceptably at the news. “I’m sending you the location.”

With that, Jack hung up on him. No “come here”s and no “hurry up”s were said because he knew Will was going to drop everything and do those anyways. He would have done those even before he figured that the displays he had shamefully admired in the secrecy of his mind were Hannibal’s. As he started his car and turned on the voice directions for the crime scene, he spared the seat next to him a wistful glance. He only wished that the last of this sounder was not a monument to tell Will to go fuck himself, and also that he would get a chance to confront the man tonight.

He needn’t have worried about former, as it turned out. 

The crime scene was inside a commercial floriculture greenhouse in the outskirts of Baltimore, which Will had not known existed until now. It was a vast structure with pots of raging blooms lining the moderately high glass ceilings. Upon entering, he was welcomed by a heavy fragrance emanating from lines of flowers on both sides. That it was late in the evening and the sun was beginning to set was adding an unrealistic, orange hue to the flowers of many colours around him. 

At the end of the long, central path between the rows, was a tree, cleaned from all branches and leaves. And positioned along the tree was a young man, hands tied to the trunk behind himself, arrows protruding from various places on his body, a bloodied, scanty piece of white cloth protecting his modesty from the agents around him.

Saint Sebastian. The martyr for his faith.

As Will got closer, he noticed the piece of polished wood peeking from behind the young man. He made use of the people parting to allow him passage, familiar enough with Will’s routine to know they are most appreciated when not under his feet, and found in the man’s tied hands a bow. And a single stem of an orange ambrosia bloom, that could not possibly be plucked from one of the pots there due to the very specific conditions required for its growth, and the fact that it was poisonous. 

Will completed his circle and came to stand before the body once again. He noticed Jack approach but did nothing to acknowledge his presence. 

“It’s all yours,” Jack said, and gestured with both arms for the agents to leave the scene to Will.

Will closed his eyes, but it was mostly for show. Still, even with his eyes closed, he could see each and every detail of the scene before him. He had recognized from the body’s particular positioning and gait that Hannibal had gone for the Botticelli depiction of Saint Sebastian. It was not quite like him to use religious references, but it made sense that when he did, he would make sure the materials would reflect all the bravado and confidence Hannibal held in his daily life. From the challenging tilt of the chin to the straight posture, this body was defiant in the face of persecution. Self-inflicted persecution, specifically, for he held the weapon in his bound hands; the inhuman and inhumane endeavour to inflict pain on oneself through many a hardships. Self-martyrdom. Self-cruelty. The message was clear. 

What was also clear was that this display was not meant to portray Will exclusively. It did tell Will that Hannibal thought his own restriction of his self was cruel and inhumane, that the fault for his suffering laid with nobody other than Will himself. But this was also a depiction of Hannibal, in that he was steadfast in the face of the rejection, strong against the pain that pierced his heart, against the arrows Will shot at him.

And tying the message together was that one bloom of ambrosia. Will recalled what he knew of the flower. Poisonous. Name means the sustenance of the gods. In floriography, it conveys the meaning of reciprocal love. Such a simple way, was it not, to say that Hannibal was sure of Will’s love, and in his love for him. A simple way to say they were dangerous and beautiful, and could be so for all eternity, if only-

I feel a daily stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you. This display said. But do you ache for me? It asked. 

“Yes.”

“What was that?” Jack’s voice sounded very close. Will opened his eyes to take one last look at the display, before he turned to face Jack. The hopeful countenance, the troubled way the man leaned towards him, the tired hunch of his back; none of them were enough to get Will to change his resolve. 

“He was rejected,” Will said, referring to the last conversation he had with Jack about how the previous display might have been a declaration of courtship, a hand extended with hope. “He is not taking it well,” he added. Liar. Well, yes, he supposed he was. It was all for a goal, though. “This is him, making a mockery of his beloved.” 

“You think this is the person who rejected him?”

“It doesn’t feel passionate enough to be him,” Will murmured, the insinuation not sitting well with him at all. However, he knew that it was far from the case, and that whoever this guy was, he could not be tied back to Hannibal in any reasonable way. “But then again, this is the Ripper. He’s never let emotions into his displays other than to make a statement. I guess we’ll have to look into it.”

“If this is not the guy, and if the Ripper’s not handling rejection well... Do you think there’ll be another, after this?”

If Will had anything to do with it, the Ripper would have no need to break his three-sounder pattern and express himself through the medium of flesh and blood again. Before his next sounder, that was. “I do not think he will let this disrupt his order. His interest was unworthy. He’ll move on.” After a few back and forth with the aid of Price on the meaning of the flower, Will emphasizing the poisonous nature to fit his narrative of an irritated Ripper, he turned to Beverly. “What did he take?”

“I’m suspecting kidneys,” she replied as she eyed the agents carefully dismantle the body from the tree. “The lacerations in the front are nowhere near wide enough to take out organs, and,” she nodded when the agents, in a bid to take the body carefully, lifted and turned it a bit. “Yep, must be the kidneys,” Beverly said with a smirk. “He had to have removed at least four ribs from the back to extract the organs from behind. Let me get back to you on that, once I’ve had him in the lab.”

“No need. We’ll talk when I drop by tomorrow,” Will said, and after he thanked her, left the teams to their bustle, and rushed to his car. 

He allowed himself only one moment to look at the passenger seat, and then started the car with renewed purpose.

*

When Hannibal opened the door, he came face to face with a giant bouquet. After a few calming breaths, Will lowered it, and watched Hannibal’s eyes follow the flowers with keen focus. 

Well, Will supposed that the flowers were doing a fine job of talking in his stead, just as he had intended.

Pink hydrangeas for thankfulness at being seen, blue hydrangeas for regret about causing turmoil, purple columbines for firm resolve and determination, red tulips for devoted passion and purple daffodils for maddening, all-consuming love; every single one ordered with specific intentions on Will’s part. It was a cacophony of colours and arranged clumsily by Will’s untrained hands, but he hoped it would be the thought that counted. He held his breath as he watched Hannibal take in all of this, and released it without much relief when the man, expressionless, stepped back to allow him inside. 

Once past the foyer and in the hallway where they had been very, very intimate with each other, Hannibal stopped and reached for the bouquet. “I shall take them, put them in a vase,” he said, and without meeting Will’s eyes, left an awkward Will to linger there without any direction for which way he should go. The distant manner, the economy of his speech, the avoidance of Will’s eyes; it would all be very disheartening if it weren’t for the fact that his gift had been accepted, and that Will had read the display left only for him just an hour ago. This act was meant to be disheartening, Will realized, meant to have him beg and grovel at Hannibal’s feet. Well, that was not in Will’s to-do list, and Hannibal was smart. He must have thought to manage his expectations accordingly.

After a brief moment to savour the heady anticipation, Will made his way towards the dining room, where Hannibal had disappeared. 

“I needed time to think,” he began when he spotted the man at the far end of the dining table, who was subtly placing the paper around the flowers over the crystal vase he had chosen, noticeably not correcting Will’s pathetic attempt at floral arrangement. 

“I know,” was the curt reply. 

“Good,” Will said, unable to read into Hannibal’s body language he was so shut off. However, seeing as the demand from him had been bravery, he cut to the chase. “I saw the display.”

“Did you?” Hannibal took the vase and, passing Will by, made for the study. He was not making any attempt to deny knowing exactly which display Will was talking about. That was either very good, or very bad. Hannibal could be planning to kill him, or he could be planning to be open with him. He could never know for sure, Will thought, at least until they reached a level of trust that was required for it. “What did you think about it?” Hannibal placed the vase on his desk in the study, turned it left and right until the thing was positioned exactly to his liking. 

Trust needed open communication, and Will, having been the one who fled before they could actually communicate, took the matters into his hands and proceeded to explain to the best of his abilities what exactly he thought of it. “The martyr was me, because I cause myself suffering by holding onto a semblance of beliefs about morality. He was also you, wounded by this, but devoted still. He could be the both of us; unashamed, unrepentant. In love,” he said, the last part as well as the following words diminished in volume to a breathy murmur. “It was beautiful.”

“You speak of devotion,” Hannibal said, eyes still on the flowers, “and resolution.” 

“Among other things, yes.” 

Hannibal finally lifted his guarded eyes and met Will’s. “Can you be trusted with your declarations, I wonder. It has only been two days since you fled from my arms without a backward glance, after all.”

That was… harsh, perhaps, and only a bit fair. “You trust me,” Will said, chin raised. His coat, and the fire in the fireplace were making him warmer by the second. “You let me go, knowing all the things that I would or would not do.”

“And pray tell, what did you do? And didn’t do?” Hannibal asked, the first outward sign he gave was a wry curl of his lips. 

“I talked to you.” Will recalled the conversations in his mind. “Here,” he said, tapping one finger against his temple. “My inner voice sounds like you now. I can’t get you out of my head.” Hannibal remained motionless, waiting for him to continue. “You… navigated me, through my doubts. My fears, and my desires. There were some Greek allegories, and some memorable mentions of wolves and insect orders.” He watched with great satisfaction when Hannibal tilted his head in confusion. A slight smile wormed its way to Will’s lips. “And what I didn’t do is tell Jack, or anyone else, about what you let me see. You gave me… A rare gift. It’s mine to cherish.”

Hannibal regarded him in a manner that felt strangely familiar. He was once again framed by light, this time not of the crime scene but of his own fireplace. He was looking at Will with that same curiosity, so still that he might as well have been preserved in amber. 

“You are rather forward, tonight,” he finally commented. 

Will nodded. “I have to be. You have chosen me, remember? ‘Not to hinder but to elevate.’ You don’t need further boosts to your ego, but I intend to prove you right.”

“I feel that this change of mind is rather-”

“Stop.” Will shook his head as finally had enough of the stifling heat and unzipped his coat. “You have to understand,” he began, throwing the coat over the back of the closest armchair and letting himself sink onto it with a heavy sigh, disregarding the fact that he had not been invited to take a seat. “I have been… Struggling. To hold myself in check, for most of my life. What you don’t know the full extent of, and I do, is everything I am capable of imagining, and everything I can be tempted to do.” He felt a shudder run through him even in the warmth of the room. “There’s a reason I went for law enforcement. I thought being under the watchful gazes of hundreds of agents on a daily basis would keep me in check. That I could somehow change.”

“The greatest act of cruelty is denying oneself one’s true self.” Hannibal said, taking his place behind the armchair facing Will’s, and leaning on his hands on the back of it. 

“And I have been doing it for so long that I do not know how to be otherwise, how to navigate a different frame of mind.” Will gestured towards the door of the study, at the direction of the kitchen. “Asking me to let go of all that and then doubting my words because I needed time to digest, would be like me asking you to stop eating people and being cross with you when you didn’t immediately agree.”

Hannibal’s fingers twitched on the upholstery. “You figured that out,” he said, a hint of awe in his voice. 

“I figured many things out.” He began counting with his fingers as he listed his realizations. “Like that you don’t want me to be a reflection of you, but an equal to you. That you knew before I did that ratting you out would not even cross my mind, and that you waited for me to come to you, exactly as I did. But also that you have, in your possession right now, a weapon in case you failed to predict me as well as you thought you had. That you are not as unaffected by me as you pretend you are right now, to get me to talk.” Will let his hands fall to his lap, eyes zeroing in on Hannibal’s lips as they thinned, not in displeasure but in the beginnings of a smile. “And that, right now, there’s a pair of kidneys in the kitchen that you cooked for us.”

“Am I really so predictable?” Hannibal asked. He was thawing. 

“Oh no,” Will chuckled. “‘Predictable’ would not be a word I’d use to describe you.”

“How would you describe me, Will?” Hannibal asked, as he had two nights ago. And because Will had come to appreciate parallelisms, he answered accordingly. 

“Dangerous, and exactly my type.” A pause. “And I am exactly your type, too.” At that, Hannibal finally gave him a wide smile, crooked teeth and all. “Also, you are a romantic at heart. I know you loved those flowers, stop pretending you didn’t.”

“Guilty as charged,” Hannibal admitted with a gracious tilt to his head. “If I saw you everyday, forever, Will, I would remember this time.”

The low timbre of his mirthful voice, the crow’s feet around his eyes as he smiled, the laughing lines around his mouth, those eyes that radiated warmth now; Will couldn’t help but feel that he had earned each and every one of these tells. The sight of Hannibal gazing down at him with affection sat somewhere low on his belly. Nourishment at the sight of you, indeed.

“Expect some bumps in the road,” he found himself saying, surprising himself as the subtly sombre words registered. However, they needed to be said, so he kept on going. “I know myself enough to know there will be setbacks. I will not always be this bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” he huffed. “Sometimes we will disagree. We’ll butt heads. I will hold my own against you.”

Hannibal didn’t wait a beat before saying, “I would neither expect nor accept anything less.” 

“And I expect honesty,” Will said. “Because contrary to common belief, I cannot read your mind. I need open, verbal communication if we are to make this work. It will be tricky, with you feeding ‘pigs’ to FBI agents dedicated to catching the butcher. Don’t go around dropping displays for me to figure out at every adversity, when you can talk to me.”

Hannibal gave these words due consideration. “Fair enough,” he said. He let go of the armchair to take out a fucking scalpel from his cuff, and put the thing on the coffee table between them. Will chuckled and accepted the invitation to stand up when Hannibal neared him. “On that note, dear Will, would you be amenable to join me for a dish of rognons à la moutarde? I do hope that you have not eaten.”

“Oh, Hannibal,” Will sighed, initiating their first touch since that night by cupping the man’s cheek, thumb caressing a sharp cheekbone, and then letting his hand slide down to his nape to pull him close enough for their lips to touch when he spoke. “I am starving.”

He then endeavoured to kiss the laughter right from Hannibal’s mouth. 

*

“Please do not use human ribs in a centerpiece,” Will said, leaning up a bit to take one of the offending pieces of bone that was digging into his back. 

“I had figured this would be the one occasion where I could.” Hannibal was laying on his side next to Will as he reached to take out a pomegranate flower from Will’s hair. 

“That it was,” Will ceded the point. They were on the floor of the dining room now, their skins a sticky mess from blood, sweat, unconventional lubricants, come, and the juice of the pomegranate seeds they crushed in their haste to get close. He picked one surviving seed from the patch of floor between them, and popped it into his mouth. “I guess you can have me for a month now,” he teased, and when Hannibal rose to his feet, he watched with an appreciation and interest that he had not thought himself capable of feeling so soon after their coupling. Hannibal brought one of the only plates that managed to stay on the table, one that had the pomegranates, and kneeled by Will’s side, playfully holding up one more seed. 

“Open up,” he ordered, and Will felt giddy to hear that same command twice in the past hour and a half. And for the second time, he did as he was told. 

“You make for a lousy Hades,” he said somewhere between the fourth and the fifth seed, feeling relaxed and fulfilled and so very playful. “And I make for a lousy Persephone, for that matter.”

Hannibal rubbed his thumb, pink from the juice of the fruit, across Will’s lower lip. “You came to me of your own free will, darling boy. I’d say we are a much improved version.”

Resisting the urge to suck that finger into his mouth, Will sat up to grab half a handful of seeds from the plate, certainly more than the number of months in a year, and chewed them slowly, enjoying Hannibal’s darkening gaze on his mouth. “If that’s the case, Hannibal,” he said once he was finished, sultry and challenging. “When do you think I can have a date with the Ripper? A real one this time, with him present,” he added, widening his legs and creating space for Hannibal to crawl into when the man abandoned the plate on the floor and approached. 

“What do you have in mind, Will? Something covert or overt?” Hannibal placed his hands on the floor and leaned in, forcing Will to lie back down, the pronounced muscles and veins on his arms enough to steal Will’s attention momentarily before he met the predatory gaze on himself with one of his own. 

“Covert,” he decided. He’d like to observe, learn, and participate in all that Hannibal was capable of doing and all that Will was finally accepting that he could do. “For now.”

The insinuation that Will would accompany and might even join him for a hunt, that Will would accompany and might even join him for a display, even, dilated the pupils in those dark maroon eyes. He descended on Will like a nightmare, kissing him like both their lives depended on it. Will let out a peaceful sigh when they parted, but it turned into a hiss halfway through when Hannibal pressed his thumb right in the middle of the bite he’d given Will, the bandage on it having been lost somewhere between tearing each other’s’ clothes in the middle of their dinner and rutting on the bare floors. 

“This looks agitated,” he said. Will knew that the bastard knew why. “Haven’t you been taking proper care of yourself, darling Will?”

“I wanted it to scar,” Will said. It was amazing, really, to find that his mere words could turn the Ripper, a vicious predator, into a man besotted. What a power Will held. Hannibal covered his body with his, uncaring of the mess they were covered in, and pressed a kiss at the spot he abused just a moment before. 

“I admit I had been somewhat careless about the placement,” Hannibal murmured against it, his weight a reassuring thing on Will, who stroked along the man’s back. “It can too easily be detected, especially in the summer.”

“Right, and you do not want anyone to see your mark on me, because you are not possessive, not at all.” Will smiled when Hannibal placed his teeth on the mark in warning, putting only enough pressure to make Will feel it.

“I am, once again, guilty as charged, I’ll admit. But let me tend to this,” Hannibal said, sliding down a bit to kiss across Will’s chest. “You did ask for caution, after all. Wouldn’t do well to have people gawking.”

“Do you have any Achillea left for healing purposes, by any chance?” Will teased. Hannibal hummed on his way down the trail that led to Will’s groin. 

“As a matter of fact, I do. Along with more modern salves, of course. In the basement.”

“Of course. The basement.” Will had wondered the place Hannibal utilized for his activities. It had to be somewhere unsuspecting and vastly equipped. Basement made sense, in that it was close at hand and its entry was not visible from anywhere Will had been inside the house. “Is that a roundabout way of telling me you’ll take me to the Underworld?”

“To the Underworld, where you shall rule by my side for all eternity,” Hannibal didn’t hesitate to say, his mouth tantalizingly hovering above Will’s navel. “To the battlefields, where we shall fight back to back for unerring victories,” he continued, so ardent as though it was a prayer he was reciting. “And to the feasts of Gods, where I shall feed you ambrosia from golden plates.” The conviction, the determination, the authenticity of this man, bare in every sense of the word for Will to see; they encouraged him to bravely approach his own desires, to appreciate and follow his own urges that he kept down for so long and to cultivate them as the inspirations they were. 

He was becoming someone other than himself. Adapting, evolving, transforming under Hannibal’s tender loving care, shifting much like tectonic plates that were destructive by nature and were by no means evil. Out of all that Hannibal offered, Will could have whichever he wanted and it would be readily given: Guidance, cultivation, protection, room to manoeuvre without fear for his freedom. 

The tatters of his chains of morality laid crumbled at his feet as he stretched and tried out his true skin for the first time. He had run once when he revealed himself to Hannibal, and once when Hannibal revealed himself to him. There was no reason to run anymore, but what was even more important was that he felt no urge to run, no inclination to hide himself away, and most importantly, no need to disengage or hold himself in check by making use of his entomological background. It was objectively creepy, after all.

He let himself rise on his elbows and marvel at the sight of the man in the midst of worshipping him with fervour, surrounded by broken plates and scattered silverware carrying human DNA that was not theirs, and rib bones and flowers and pomegranate seeds like a macabre renaissance painting. A composition of harmonious disorder and unashamed sensuality. Something Botticelli might find worthy of painting. 

No wonder Hannibal looked right at home.

“This is our design,” he breathed, the last piece of the puzzle sliding into its rightful place, and let his urges do the talking as he grabbed Hannibal by the hair and pushed him down, moaning at the tightness of Hannibal’s throat welcoming him, that full upper lip snug against his groin. 

Elevation was ultimately a two-way street, and Will was on his way up, up, up, up-