Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I don't even know what I feel. How could I, when I don't know why I did it?"

Will's steps echo through the house, accompanied by the howl of the wind passing through the shattered glass. Hannibal looks at him, with that forsaken, unreadable blank slate of a stare that Will understands less than if he had tried to read ancient runes. He walks back and forth, back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock. The heels of his shoes click against the wooden floor with every step he takes. 

"When we paint, we start with the lightest colors, for making light dark is far easier than making dark light. The darkness that resides in us has a tendency to pour out and drown all sources of light" Hannibal answers. It is one of those answers that Will thinks he understands, but there always seems to be a deeper meaning that Will would have to figure out for months to come in everything Dr. Lecter said.

He thinks about the darkness in himself. The one that sought for the beauty he had felt when his knife drew the life out of The Dragon. But when he thinks about that he thinks about killing Garret Jacob Hobbs. That hadn't felt beautiful. He thinks about Hannibal's words and wonders if that was because there was still more light than dark at that point. He contemplates how ugly he had felt when he thought he'd killed Abigail. Was she his light? Sometimes he hated Hannibal for putting that light out. For having it drown in its own blood while Will watched.

Will hates himself too, even more than he does Hannibal. He hates Hannibal for opening his eyes to the world beyond the veil, but he hates himself more for being unable to resist it. He thinks that maybe the beauty he had felt when killing The Dragon would follow him into death if he took his own life. Maybe the fleeting moment could be made permanent in the afterlife, if there existed such a thing.

Maybe it would’ve been best if Hannibal hadn’t dragged him into the house once they were sure the Dragon had stopped breathing. It would’ve been better if he had let him bleed out rather than suture his wounds with a first aid kit they retrieved under the sink. 

The needle had stung when it repeatedly penetrated his skin to drag the thread into shutting all his wounds, but it had stung more when he realized he’d have to live with what he’d done and how he felt about it.

He had looked at Hannibal’s face then. The blood, his own, Will’s and Dollarhyde’s, painting in splashes and streaks across his face. He was still bleeding from his wounds but refused to treat them until he had stitched together Will’s. He had looked focused and calm, a staggering opposite of the turmoil Will felt within him. It worsened the twist in his stomach.

 A part of him- the part that had wanted him to do good with the FBI and save lives- was terrified of Hannibal's contentment with murder. It repulsed him and made his muscles tense in preparation to run away. Another part- and it felt like it had been growing stronger for every second he’d spent with Hannibal the last couple of years- envied him and relished in it. He wished that the regret and anxiety he felt would subside so he could let the exciting, potent feeling of sweet power wash through him. He felt it in his chest when he saw the glint of life in Dollarhyde’s eyes go out. He felt it when he looked at Hannibal right afterward, seeing him bent over and catching his breath, while his eyes stayed on Will. The feeling grew when Hannibal’s eyes sparkled with joy and pride, and it faltered when he felt himself smile. 

Hannibal has brought an overwhelming amount of despair into his life. His shoulder has never recovered from being shot by Chiyoh. The deep scar still stretches over his abdomen and the gaping hole in his heart that Abigail used to fill throbs with emptiness every day. But he can’t bring himself to hate him. Most days he feels like Hannibal is the only one he can ever be himself with. The only one he ever wants to be himself with. When he looked at his eyes, following the movements of the needle he was threading in and out of his skin, he never wanted to look away again. He wanted Hannibal to look at him forever. He wanted him to see every part of him that he felt was wrong, and turn it into something beautiful.

“Will?”

 The call of his name drags him out of his memories. He has stopped wandering back and forth and now instead stands in front of the shattered window. His eyes are glued to the splayed out corpse of Francis Dollarhyde, laying in a pool of his own blood. They feel dry as if he hasn’t blinked in a while. He drops his head and stares at his feet, at the puddle of wine he is standing in. They hadn’t cleaned up. They hadn’t rested. They were still covered in blood, in a cold house, with life threatening injuries.  Maybe it would’ve been better to rest, but the racing of Will’s thoughts was unmerciful. Hannibal had called his name from the seat he had taken after he’d licked his own wounds. Where he had watched him fight within himself. 

Will hadn’t said it, and he hoped the doctor couldn’t tell how conflicted he was about him. He had been conflicted before but this was entirely new and more powerful. Every moment that passed he contemplated pouncing on Hannibal and wrapping his hands around his throat. Squeezing the life out of him until he was as still as the Dragon. Squeezing until he was sure that Hannibal Lecter could never hurt another person again. Squeezing until he was sure that the cannibal could never again persuade him into doing this. 

He couldn’t bring himself to do that. In the same moment those thoughts passed through his mind, they fought with thoughts of getting down on his knees and thanking the doctor for opening this door for him. Thanking him for accepting him. Thanking Hannibal for showing him a part of life and himself that was so deeply tucked away he wasn’t even sure it existed before he’d entered Hannibal's mind.

“What,” Will answers. He wanted to snap it. Spit it. Show Hannibal how angry he is. But his question came in a pained whisper, as if his body couldn’t muster much more. He surprised himself by still standing up at all. 

“How do you feel,” The doctor asks, as he had done earlier. 

“I already told you I don't know how I feel,” This time his answer sounds adequately snappy. 

“I think you do,” Lecter says with the same calm that Will despises. He turns around and looks at him, gnawing at the open wound in his cheek while trying to figure out what the psychiatrist is getting at. “I think you know exactly what you feel but you are ashamed to admit it,” his statement is objective and analysing. Will considers this. Hannibal continues: “I think that no matter what you decide you are feeling, you are betraying someone. Either me, or every other part of your life. The question is what is more important to you. Do you want to tuck yourself away again and live a normal life, or do you want to accept who you are and live with me?”. Will can see uncertainty in Hannibal's eyes. He is scared of what Will answers. 

Will thinks about his life. His wife and son, whom he loves dearly. His dogs. All of which would never be safe if he returned. He would never be able to release Hannibal from his mind. He knew he couldn’t kill him, even if it often was his greatest wish. Hannibal had buried himself in the depths of Will’s soul, in a way that assured that he would never experience the peaceful life he longed for. 

He thinks about Jack Crawford, who had used him for his own gain. His own gain, or for the gain of the FBI, but always without consideration for what Will needed. Jack Crawford, who pushed Will into the minds of the damned. Maybe Jack was at fault for Will’s becoming, just as much as Hannibal was. He thinks of Beverly Katz, who was dead because Hannibal killed her. He thinks about Abigail Hobbs, who was dead because Hannibal killed her. He thinks about Alana Bloom, who he had loved but who had turned against him because of Hannibal. 

He thinks about himself and who he used to be, and realizes he doesn’t miss it at all. He realizes that despite everything, the only part of his soul he wants was the one that belongs to Hannibal. 

“I feel like,” he starts and slowly turns around to look out the window again. He looks at the black sea of blood that reflects the moonlight and continues “like I want to eat him.” 

Somewhere behind him, he feels Hannibal’s smile. But Will doesn’t turn around. His stomach turns at his own statement and he thinks he might puke. But he knew what he had said and he stands by it. He wants the life of Francis Dragonhyde to be honored. He wants to honor it like Garret Jacob Hobbs had done with all the girls he had sacrificed for the sake of keeping his daughter alive. For he loved her too much to kill her and consume her, even if it was something he would never stop wanting. 

Will looks at Hannibal, who is standing up and walking towards him, and thinks that he understands the feeling.

He had thought that he had understood the feeling when he entered the mind of Hobbs, and realized the suffocating love he felt for Abigail. When he had consumed that love and felt it for himself, but now he realizes that he has never known anything. Will realizes that he will never get away from the suffocating obsession he feels for Hannibal. He will never be able to stop this. He knows that this is all just a first step down the staircase that will descend him into whatever world Hannibal rules. 

The man is standing in front of him now. Despite not being much taller than Will he towers over him in his groundedness and complete control of the situation.

“Do you want to honor every part of him?” Hannibal asks. His tone gives way of nothing but a genuine question, but Will feels like he is mocking Hobbs. He shakes his head quickly, his eyes falling to the point of Hannibal's chest where he often lays them to avoid the piercing eye contact. He feels ashamed of his request. Ashamed to give in.

“No,” he answers and wills his eyes up to stare confidently into Hannibals. “He wasn’t innocent. He doesn’t deserve that,” The words feel like sod in Will's mouth as he utters them. “But I don’t want his death to have been for nothing.”

“His death wasn’t for nothing. It saved his future victims,” Hannibal argues. Will furrows his eyebrows. He had thought that Hannibal would delight in this. Hannibal understands. “I just want to make sure you are confident in your choice, Will.” He says and Will thinks that his name sounds sweet like honey when Lecter says it. 

“I’m sure,” Will says and Hannibal walks to the kitchen and grabs a knife. Will suspects that this isn’t the doctors preferred way of harvesting his products, but they don’t have a sea of options available. 

“Which piece would you prefer?” Lecter asks, as if he was a butcher in a shop.

“Please don’t ask me that…” Will thinks his voice sounds pathetic, but Hannibal looks at him almost sympathetically. Will wonders if Hannibal too was apprehensive his first time. 

He turns his back and sits down by the piano. He isn’t a skilled player but any flow of disarrayed tunes will feel better for him than the sound of the knife penetrating what is left of the Dragons torso. He hears Hannibal walk past him and outside before he starts playing and he quickly lets his hands start dancing over the keys. He plays Vivaldi’s Four seasons and he plays as many wrong notes as he does right ones, but he doesn't stop. He doesn’t stagger to correct himself and he continues even when his shoulder starts aching. 

He thinks back to when he first met Hannibal. Before he had taken a life. How many lives had Hannibal taken then? He realized that the disgust he feels is not with Hannibal, but with himself. He remembers himself as weak and vulnerable. Everything after Hannibal had toughened him up. The frequent thought of wishing he and Hannibal had never met enters his mind and he swatted it away. Hannibal had changed him, profoundly, and he was sure that he had changed Hannibal as well. He wishes not to live a life without him. Has that not been his entire dilemma? He can’t bear to think of himself as someone without Hannibal. He feels codependent.

The sound of Hannibal’s shoes against the broken glass causes Will to stop playing. He looks out the window first and sees that the only thing left is a puddle of blood. His curious eyes turn up, his body twisting so he can see Hannibal where he is standing behind him. 

“I figured you would not be against me disposing of the body?” He suggests. Will smiles, just a little. 

“No funeral?”

“He is probably bobbing in the water if you wish to take farewell,” a wretched smile plays on Hannibal's lips, and Will thinks that he doesn’t mind murder as long as he gets to continue staring at that for the rest of his life. 

The doctor walks into the kitchen and lays the chosen organ on a plate which he covers in plastic wrap and places in the fridge. He turns to Will, who has followed him closely. 

“I am below much, but I am far above cooking in dirty clothes, and so are you.” He decides and Will couldn’t care less. They were about to eat the inner parts of someone they had just murdered. Nothing on them hadn’t already been in him. But he doesn’t argue. 

He follows Hannibal further into the house. This being the first time he had seen these rooms feels weird. Hannibal enters a room, which must be the master bedroom, and walks confidently towards the dresser. Will wonders what his plan had been, seeing it was already stocked. If they had run away when they intended they wouldn’t have been able to stay here for long anyways. He wonders how long they’ll be able to stay here now. The FBI knows they are gone. They probably know they have killed the dragon as well. It is not an if  but a when they are going to show up. 

He feels something in his hands and realizes that while he was thinking Hannibal has handed him a change of clothes and a towel.

 “There is a shower down the hall, I will use the en-suite” He instructs and Will feels grateful that he doesn’t have to think for himself. Dr Lecter is a smart man, just like Will. They both understand he is in shock.

His legs carry him towards the bathroom and in the shower he feels like death. His body aches, having been tossed like a ragdoll. He might have broken something, at the very least he is bruised. His stitches sting under the warm water and he isn’t sure if this is the proper way to treat them, but he doesn’t care. He fears that this feeling of uncertain distance from himself, the uncaring of whatever happens to him, was to persist. He didn’t choose Hannibal for a life without passion. If that was what he wanted he would’ve stayed home. He would’ve longed and kept Hannibal in the furthest room in his house of memories. The door would stay as closed as he could keep it until the day he finally died. But that wasn’t what he had chosen. 

The water is scalding hot and it hurts. He hopes it will wash away every single drop of blood from him. Rid him of the taste in his mouth and smell in his nose. The coating of his lungs and the memories of his knife entering through the layers of skin and fat of the Dragons stomach. He wonders how Hannibal had felt when he did that to him. He didn’t think he felt powerful. He hadn’t looked like he had wanted to do it. But Will didn’t understand Hannibal Lecter. He understood how he felt and he was as much in Lecters head as his own. But when it came to Will, he was unclear on Hannibal's thoughts and actions regarding him. Feeling things about himself through the lens of someone else was uncomfortable and frightening and in the calm before the storm he had neglected to do so. Now it was far too complicated. 

The soap the shower was stocked with is unscented, which disappoints Will. He had hoped for a clean smell to erase the copper that he tastes. Instead, he smells nothing, and the memory burns brighter than his senses. 

He steps out of the shower and pats himself dry half-heartedly. He pulls on the clothes he has been given and looks at himself in the mirror. He has expected to not recognize himself, to be met with the face of a monster. But for the first time he sees himself with undoubtable clarity. No one else's psyche piggy-backing his. No criminal to enter the mind of. Just himself. Will Graham. Murderer, and soon to be cannibal. His eyes stay locked on his own for a long while before he leaves the room and walks towards the kitchen. 

The brown sweater he has been given was soft and light, and he shivers at the cold air that got in through the window. The hole is large, a whole window pane missing and Will considers what to do about it. He should probably clean up if they are to stay there, but Will doesn’t know if they are. 

When he enters the kitchen he looks at Hannibal, who is clean from blood, which shows all the cuts and scratches he now wears. He is clothed in a simple, yellow dress shirt. A soft shade of the color of the sun. Warm but pale. He has tucked it into a pair of black dress pants and Will wonders if he isn’t cold. Unlike when he usually cooks, Dr. Lecter isn’t wearing an apron. He has probably neglected to stock the house with one. Uncharacteristic. 

Will’s eyes glaze over the wet strands of hair that stick to Hannibal’s forehead. He walks forward slowly. Stopping, he rests his hip against the kitchen island in a casual lean that doesn’t resonate with his internal feelings, and looks at what Hannibal is doing. 

“Regrettably, I had not had the foresight to obtain fresh ingredients ahead of this,” Hannibal says, and Will laughs. “It will be a spartan meal.” 

“Fine with me,” Will says and looks towards the window which continues to bug him so much. “What do we do about that?” He asks. 

“Hm,” Hannibal says and takes a break from the cubing of the meat he was working on. Will can’t tell what organ he had picked out. Maybe because he doesn’t want to look. “Well, I suppose we could temporarily tape a blanket over it.” Will sees that he is displeased with such a raggedy solution. But they are both aware that phoning a handyman would be far from wise. 

“How long are we staying here for,” Will asks and starts looking around for tape, which he finds in a supply closet. He takes the decorative blanket from the couch and starts trying to tape the blanket over the glass. 

“Not long. It would not be wise. We have the misfortune of working with highly intelligent people. I do not believe they will be in a hurry to find us, for I think they have some sympathy for you. But they are professionals” Hannibal says. “I will settle a new residence somewhere else as soon as possible. Any requests?” He asks and returns to chopping the meat into three centimetre cubes. 

“Not Lithuania” Will says and feels a stitch of regret that Hannibal never got to see his firefly. It would feel disgusting to tell him about it.

Hannibal chuckles lowly and nods in agreement. Will continues patching up the window and then brushes the glass shards into a big pile with his shoe. Cleaning this up feels worthless.

He returns to the kitchen, only a couple of steps from where he was working a minute ago, and leans against the island again. Hannibal takes his focus from his cooking and looks to Will, and his eyes are filled with happiness. Finally, he got what he wanted. Finally Will did what Hannibal always knew he was supposed to. In his eyes, Will could see that the older man hoped that he relishes in it just as much as Lecter does. He hopes he can in the future. 

They stare at each other for what feels like eternity, the air between them thick but comfortable. They don’t have to say what they feel for the other. Will knows that Hannibal loves him. Maybe he’d known for as long as Hannibal had. Hannibal knows that Will has chosen him above all else, even if neither of them know what Will truly feels.  

The silence which hangs heavy between them is broken when Hannibal takes a step forward. He places one hand on Will’s neck and the other on the side of his face, fingers threading into his hair. And suddenly Will was caged in by Hannibal’s hands and his sharp stare. 

“I thought you were your most beautiful in Italy,” Hannibal states, his tone calm and soft. He runs his thumb over the jagged cut in Will’s cheek, the one only a decimetre below the one in his forehead. It hurts and Will grimaces and tries to pull away, but Hannibal’s grip is firm. “But you’ve never been more beautiful than you are now.” Will doesn’t think he means physically. 

The food smells good and is plated delicately. Hannibal has cut the meat into cubes which he has seared to have a nice, firm outside. Will assumes the inside is tender. It’s displayed on sauce, lumpy with seeds in it, spread out in a thin, consistent layer over the bottom of the plate. The meat makes a small island in the middle of the sea of sauce. Around it lay a handful of blackberries spread out. 

“What are we eating,” Will asks. He has sat down by the table which he set while Hannibal was cooking. Hannibal sits across from him. Will has lit candles between them. He wants it to feel like their old dinners in Hannibal's residence. Hannibal smiles fondly. 

“Heart,” he states and Will’s own speeds up with an anxious stir. “On a bed of blackberry sauce, once again, I didn’t have a lot of options. I seasoned the meat lightly. I thought you might prefer to taste it as it truly is.” Will nods. He thought right. 

Will picks up his fork and tenderly pierces one of the cubes. It’s perfectly bite sized and a soft, minuscule crunch is heard from the outer layer when it is penetrated. He brings it up to his nose, smells it. Slowly and with great uncertainty, he opens his mouth and places the meat on his tongue. He is painstakingly aware that Hannibal is watching his every move, and so he slowly bites down. The meat is akin to a steak, but firmer. A hard working muscle. It has a faint but not unpleasant taste of iron. The saltiness of whatever spice it's been seasoned with mixed with the sweet tanginess of the blackberry sauce is delicious. He thinks about it while he chews, forcing himself to picture Francis Dollarhyde. It tastes better. 

“It’s delicious,” Will compliments, but it sounds weak and hesitant. Hannibal smiles nevertheless and takes a bite for himself. 

“The most common day to suffer from a heart attack is Christmas day,” Hannibal trivias in response and peers at Will, his smile staying on his lips. Will considers. 

“Tense family relations?” Will suggests half-heartedly.

“Or the opposite,” Hannibal suggests and breaks to chew another piece of heart. “One might feel great stress over deciding the perfect gifts for their loved ones.” His eyes glimmer and Will looks down at his plate. 

“Is this your gift to me?” Will asks and slowly pierces another cube. 

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.” Hannibal answers tenderly. Will tears his eyes away from the fork and looks at him. He’s filled with the same sensation he experienced when Francis Dollarhyde bled out around the shaft of Will’s knife. It feels serene and beautiful, and just as scary and wrong. 

“It’s beautiful,” Will agrees, his voice a shake away from breaking. His eyes are locked on Hannibal, who has the same look as he had when Will’s face was in his hands. Beautiful is too weak a word for Hannibal to describe the feeling that resides in him when he watches Will ascend to his world. 

Will takes a considerate second bite and chews for a long while before swallowing to allow his mouth to ask:

“Were you going to eat me?” The look on Hannibal’s face compels him to add, “Would you still?”

“If I had eaten you it would’ve been the greatest meal of my life.” Hannibal answers with great consideration. “It would quench my hunger, and I would never have to feed again. For nothing would ever taste as good.” Will’s stare does not relent. “But I would not eat you now,” he continues. “I’d rather stay hungry forever than lose your company.” 

Will thinks about that and thinks about all the times he almost died at the hands of Hannibal Lecter. He thinks of the times he could’ve killed him, or at least could’ve let him die, but didn’t. He wonders what masochistic, sacrificial part of him thought it would be a good idea to leave the world behind to be with someone who had no qualms about inducing seizures in him and letting his encephalitis go untreated, all for the sake of his own morbid curiosity. Will has always considered himself smart. But when he’s with Hannibal he feels like his brains have melted out of his head and he’s completely left to the other man's devices. He knows Hannibal doesn’t see it like that. He knows that the doctor truly admires his intelligence. It draws him in. 

“Will you ever forgive me,” He sounds thoughtful and slightly worried. Will looks up at him with his eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“I have forgiven you, Hannibal.” He remembers the tunnels in Italy. He knew Hannibal was there. Lecter may have a keen sense of smell but that's not the only way to sense a presence. Sometimes Will thinks that he’ll always know where Hannibal is. Instinctively. Once he loathed that. Now he relishes in the thought. 

“Do you really think you have,” Hannibal asks. It should sound demeaning, but he sounds earnest. Will reflects. There is only one thing he can never forgive, but he often thinks that he was just as guilty for it. 

“I have,” He nods. “Otherwise I would’ve killed you by now.” A shrug of his shoulder and Hannibal Lecter’s laugh follows. They finish their meal with a conversation about dream locations for their future. Hannibal wants somewhere with culture. Somewhere with great operas and large churches with carefully crafted art. Will wants to live up north in a secluded forest. He suggests Canada, but they both know that's too close. They finally decide that Russia might be adequate. But that future is far ahead. They can’t afford to have their minds wander there. They need to live in the now, get away from the FBI and only when they’re too far away to trace they can start trying to leave the country. 

The night has fallen a long time ago. The moon was already bright in the sky when the Dragon fell, and hours have passed since then. The morning is fast approaching, but they decide they need to sleep anyway. Hannibal insists that it will quicken the healing of their wounds. Will doesn’t care about that. 

The bed in the room that Hannibal assigns him is large and modern. He doesn’t like it. He misses his own bed. The one he shared with Molly and the one in Wolf Trap. He misses the smell and heat of his dogs and the steps of Walter getting up to drink water at the ungodly hours of the night. Now it's quiet. He can hear his heart beating and it feels like it hasn’t slowed down since they arrived here. Will thinks that he has handled this very well. His life has completely changed over the last handful of hours, and he hasn’t had a single episode over it. But it wasn’t over the last couple of hours, was it? His life permanently changed when he laid eyes on Hannibal. It was gradual and when he decided to rejoin the FBI to assist with finding the tooth fairy, he knew it peaked. He knew that that was the moment he made his decision. 

His eyelids flutter closed. He feels like this is the first time he’s ever truly relaxed. But the sound of his door creaking open startles him and he opens his eyes. 

Her brown hair is the first thing he sees. The low auburn undertones and the side part that frames her face. Then it’s the scarred gash in her throat. How many times hasn’t she been cut up?

“Abigail,” He breathes and he hears the echo of his own voice in Hannibal’s kitchen. She smiles at him and steps into the room. He climbs out of bed, his legs betraying him and he stumbles towards her. She looks like she wants to laugh, but places her finger on her lips to tell him to be quiet. He stares at her. He wants to reach out and touch her, pet through her hair and hug her and convince himself she is real. But he’s too afraid that she isn't. “What are you doing here?” He whispers.

“He wanted to surprise you, just like last time.” She whispers back and adjusts the scarf that covers none of her scar. “But he’s asleep now, we can leave.” Will nods. Not because he’s sure he wants to leave Hannibal, but because if he’s alone with Abigail he can keep her safe. If he returns now they might not even imprison him. He can say that Hannibal kidnapped him and brought him here, forcing his hand to do what he had done. Returning a girl from the dead must absolve his sins, right?

Together they leave the room and walk down the hall with quiet footsteps. Will isn’t even wearing socks, but that doesn’t matter. If he could find the keys to the car he wouldn't even need shoes. Maybe they’re still in the ignition. He doesn’t know. 

Abigail looks at him, her eyes bright and youthful and alive. He feels a great sorrow in his chest. She looks just like she did when he lost her. 

With careful steps he walks towards the door. He slowly turns the lock and then, as if on instinct, the hairs on his neck raise and he’s aware of a change of the atmosphere. 

He turns around quickly. His eyes are suddenly on Hannibal’s, who is holding onto Abigail's throat with one hand and her mouth with the other. His eyes are cold and emotionless. Panic rises in Will’s chest, and he freezes. He dares not breathe. He knows the strength of Hannibal’s arms. He saw him snap Verger into paralyzation. His eyes travel to Abigail’s, and the raw fear in them makes his stomach turn. 

“Hannibal,” he croaks out and the doctor's lips quirk into a mean smile. “Please,” he can already feel the tears threatening his eyes. He can’t stand losing her again. He knows that something doesn’t make sense. Has she stayed here for three years? The house is completely uninhabited. No food in the fridge and no signs of life. Hannibal would’ve had no way to communicate with her. But what does that all matter? He will reflect on that later when she is safe, and he will make sure she is. 

He darts to the pile of glass he scraped together and grabs a suitable piece of glass. The sharp edges cut into his palm as he grips it, and before his body can throw itself at Dr Lecter, he hears the distinguishable sound of a neck cracking. It’s not more complicated than that. Two hands and a tensing of the arms. He sees that Abigail is still alive. She’s breathing but unable to move. Her eyes follow his movements, wide and vulnerable. 

White rage bubbles up within him and he doesn’t let himself lose the momentum. Hannibal dusts his hands off and when his eyes leave Abigail's limp body to look at Will, the furious man is already over him. He tackles him to the ground and his knees find the older man's shoulders to press them into the wooden floor. Blood drips from his palm and down onto Hannibal’ face when he raises the shard. He knows not what to do. He doesn’t want to draw it out, because despite everything he does not wish to see Hannibal suffer. But the rage is relentless and the more blood drips over Lecter’s features, the more he wonders how his face would look without skin. 

He doesn’t get to wonder for long, because Hannibal snaps his body to the side, sending Will tumbling to the floor. The shard is taken from his hand and suddenly it’s Hannibal that is on top of him. The weight of his entire body hurts against Will’s torso. It’s hard to breathe and the fear that floods him isn’t helping. It’s worse that Hannibal is not saying anything. He must feel betrayed, but he hasn’t said a word. Hannibal does not like being betrayed. Will got to learn that the hard way.

He opens his mouth to speak, which is a fatal mistake because Hannibal shoves his hand in there and grabs hold of Will’s tongue. It feels gruesome and morbid and Will bites down. The taste of blood fills his mouth but Hannibal doesn’t relent. His finger pinch the muscle and the glass shard is brought to Will’s mouth. He wishes it would be quick, but it isn’t. Lecter makes slow, deliberate cuts. Deeper and deeper into the flesh of Will’s tongue. The pain is absurd and he can’t breathe when the flowing of blood pools in the back of his throat. With every breath he tries to take the blood follows the flow of air down into his lungs. It’s indescribable. His eyes search for Hannibal’s, and he finds them already staring into his own. He keeps watching them as he drowns in his own blood.

The bed is damp with sweat when he shoots up out of it. He struggles to catch his breath and his lungs remember the sensation of being filled with ichor. He stumbles out to the kitchen, as if to convince himself that it truly was a dream, and that Abigail’s body isn’t lying there. He feels a concoction of grief and relief. She truly is dead.

Still panting he stumbles further and goes to the sink, where he ducks his head and drinks and drinks and drinks, until he can't breathe. He continues until his instincts take over and force his head up. He chips for air and turns off the water before slowly sliding down to the floor with his back against the kitchen cabinets. He feels more tired than he did before he went to sleep. His mind still feels the presence of Abigail's life on the other side of the kitchen island, and he wants to leave. Will wants to step out into the night and run and run and run until he finds salvation from all of this. He wishes he could forget the guilt that floods him every time he thinks about Abigail’s death. They could’ve lived together. The three of them. In the end, he ended up with Hannibal anyway. It would’ve been better if he had never tried to play the double game. Then Abigail would still be here. 

He doesn’t realize he has company until he speaks. 

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice is full of concern and he squats down next to him. He is wearing silk pyjamas that Will thinks look stupid, but fits the doctor perfectly. He always made the dumbest articles of clothing look intentional and stylish. Meanwhile Will was running around in tattered plaid shirts and vests. He looked like something Hannibal had picked up off the street. 

Will takes a deep, slow breath before he responds. 

“Had a nightmare,” he assures. He always has nightmares. This one was just particularly gruesome. He looks up at Hannibal. He smells his familiar, ambiguous musk. He doesn’t smell overly masculine, nor feminine. He doesn’t smell fruity or clean or earthy. He just smells like Hannibal. Will can’t describe it. The other’s brown eyes are so firmly fixed on him that he feels pinned to the ground where he’s sitting. 

“What did you dream,” he asks and reaches out a hand to comb away the sweat slick hair from Will’s forehead. Will leans away. 

“You don’t want to know,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the wooden cabinet with a soft thunk. It’s a beautiful kitchen, but now it feels terrifying. 

“I do,” Hannibal assures and sits down next to Will with his knees pulled up and back aligned with the cabinet door. Will looks at him, and feels guilty. “It was about me,” the doctor states, matter of factly.

“I thought Abigail was here. I tried to run away with her.” Will admits and he feels ashamed, as if his disloyal actions in the dream would offend Hannibal. He fears they will. “But you…” He changes his mind, and leaves out the part where Hannibal snapped the neck of their proclaimed surrogate daughter. Sometimes he believes Hannibal feels guilty over it. “...cut out my tongue and I drowned in my own blood.” He settles for instead. He can see that Hannibal knows he’s leaving out information.

“You’re far too good of a conversationalist to commit such an act.” Hannibal assures with a soft but playful smile. It feels surprisingly reassuring. Will doesn’t add that he’s only a good conversationalist with Hannibal, and an utter mess in all other social scenarios. He nods and Hannibal gets up with a grunt that reveals that, despite everything, he is a middle aged man. He smiles down at Will and offers his hand. Will takes it and Hannibal pulls him up. He can see the strain in the other facial muscles. He’s hurt, and the exercise tears on the damages done to him. Neither of them are in a state to fight each other. Are they ever?

Hannibal places his hand on Will’s upper back and guides him back towards his bedroom where he assists the other with getting into bed. Will could’ve done it himself, but he doesn’t. Once he’s laid down, they look at each other in silence. The light is peering through the curtains, and it would probably have been fine to get up, but Will doesn’t want to. He’s not ready to face the new day. 

“You do not have to fear that I will kill you, dear Will.” Hannibal says slowly. “If I had such plans, you would know of them.” He successfully brushes Will’s hair out of his face this time before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, Will is immediately aware that he is in a moving car. The instinctual panic is blown away as soon as his eyes travel to the front. To the driver's seat. He sees the profile of Hannibal and feels assured he isn’t being kidnapped. Still, it's uneasy that he hasn’t woken up until now. He wouldn’t have put it past Hannibal to have drugged him if needed. He can’t imagine that's the case though. 

“You’re a very heavy sleeper, Will.” Hannibal states before Will has even sat up in the backseat. That surprises him since he can throw himself out of a deep sleep with the mere contents of his mind. Although, he did walk hours away from home in his sleep once. 

He rubs his eyes and his head feels heavy. He wonders how long he’s been asleep. The world outside the window travels by quickly and he sees nothing but a green streak of trees. Somehow, his glasses are in the pocket of the car door by his head. He reaches for them and shoves them onto his face

“Where are we going?” He asks and looks around in the car. Accompanying him in the backseat is a singular suitcase. He thinks that that is all he has left of his life. A singular suitcase, filled with clothes that aren’t his own. Was this such a smart decision? What would happen to him now? He had no concept of, or any way to grasp, what a future with Hannibal Lecter looked like. He had seen it in Italy, with Hannibal and Bedelia. Would they pretend to be lovers in a grandiose apartment while Hannibal secretly killed people for them to serve to their guests? Would they have to pretend?

It wasn’t a good time to start considering his relationship with Dr Lecter. It was a matter that tended to make him want to run away, and in this car he was utterly confined. He wasn’t sure if what he felt for Hannibal was romantic. The feelings may as well be totally limited to Will’s own selfish need to be understood. He knew they both shared that. They needed each other for they were the only ones who could understand the other's mind. He couldn’t imagine their life would be of the same normalcy and calm as his life with Molly and Walter had been. Their days won’t consist of going to work, or going fishing for something to serve for dinner.

Maybe it won’t be so different. After all, the difference between hunting and fishing isn’t as extreme as it might seem. Will might work as a lure while Hannibal hunts. Excitement. That’s what he thinks the feeling in his innards is. 

“Montana.” Hannibal answers. This will be a long ride then. Lecter’s eyes find Will’s in the rearview mirror and Will holds back the urge to ask him to keep his eyes on the road. Instead he clambers over the center console with the agility and grace of a grizzly bear. Hannibal glares at him but Will plops down self assuredly in the passenger seat and buckles in. 

“You slept for 11 hours,” Hannibal says and the raise of Will’s eyebrows conveys how surprised he is. “You must have been tired.” 

“Evidently,” Will answers cooly and looks out the window again. His stomach growls, but he imagines Hannibal isn’t the kind of guy to pull into a McDonalds drive-thru on the way. He looks over at the driver. His sharply angled facial features are alluring and eye-catching. He has always thought as much. His eyes are focused on the road, but he looks relaxed and neutral. He realizes this isn’t the car they stole from the police, which is smart. But he wonders where they got this one.

The air in the car is warm and clammy and he reaches for the AC to turn it down into a cool breeze. Hannibal looks at him with an expression he can’t read. 

“What’s in Montana,” Will asks to avoid the tension that grows inside him every time Hannibal looks for too long. He worries it might be fear, but even more that it might be something else. 

“Our new home,” Hannibal answers. He could’ve figured as much. “Temporarily at least.” The doctor smiles and tears his eyes from Will to look at the road again. It makes him uneasy how casually the other seems to treat the speeds at which they’re going. He could at the very least look at the road. “Are you still interested in residing in Russia?”

“Russia is filled with secluded land. You know that's what I want,” Will answers. He also knows that Hannibal would’ve preferred France, or if possible: Italy again. Will doesn’t want france. He yearns not for urban life, even if Hannibal does. He misses his farm. He regrets selling it so many years back. He sort of regrets leaving his dogs at home as well. But what other choice did he have? His decisions over the last months have started to catch up with him and he worries that they have been impulsive. But his entire life is turned upside down. It’s only natural that he’s having second thoughts and worries. 

It’s not a sudden decision though. He said it before, without prompting. He and Hannibal can’t live without each other. He wishes they could. 

He wishes the logical part of him could take the over hand. The one that knows that the man next to him, the chesapeake ripper, is a monster and not to be trusted. He’s a man capable of unspeakable acts and should be treated as such. Will should flee at the mere sight of him (he has the scars to prove as much). He wishes that part would steer him in the right direction. He wishes he could align with society. But his heart, soul and mind all ache for the Ripper. He can’t deny it. He tried to, and it worked for a while. That’s what he convinced himself at least. He managed to go months upon months without thinking of Hannibal. But how quick wasn’t he to jump on the opportunity to meet him again. Was he really himself those three years or is this the first time in his life that all parts of him are truly aligned?

“What is weighing on you, Will?” Hannibal asks cautiously. 

“I miss my dogs,” Will doesn’t lie but does not tell the truth either. Hannibal laughs. 

“Of course you do,” and it would’ve sounded mocking if his tone wasn’t so tender. “I miss how you used to smell of them. Dog hair and your heinous aftershave.” His expression is fond and nostalgic. “A foul combination.” He peers at Will with a sparkle in his eye that tells him that he adored the smell. 

“How do I smell now?” He asks curiously. 

“Grown up,” Hannibal responds certainly, which is weird because Will was already past thirty-five when they first met. “Your mind is the clearest it has ever been. You have grown into what you are supposed to be. You smell mature and confident. I will of course have to secure you an acceptable cologne, but you are well on your way.” 

“You’re going to get me my old aftershave,” Will predicts with a smile. 

“I might possibly.” Hannibal agrees. 

They laugh. 

After their conversation dies, Will reaches over and turns on the radio. He turns the knob until he reaches a rock station he neither likes nor dislikes. That’s usually his sentiment about music. He has better things to do. But when he does not, it’s an acceptable distraction. The screeching sound of a guitar solo blasts from the speakers in the car. Hannibal’s head snaps towards him and he looks personally offended.

“You don't like rock,” Will remarks and reaches to turn down the volume. Hannibal actually scoffs. 

“Why would I?” His face contorts into a displeased grimace while he looks back towards the road. “It’s distasteful.”

Will looks at him with raised eyebrows. 

“Rock music is distasteful?” He asks, slightly baffled at the irony. “You eat people!”

“And it is very tasty,” Hannibal retorts and Will can’t help but laugh at hearing the doctor say the word ‘tasty’. His stomach grumbles again and Hannibal eyes him. “Do you want to stop for food, dear Will?” He asks. 

Will looks at him with his eyes squinted. Hannibal never seems to show regular human needs. Will has never seen him eat something below his own standard, which is very high, and despite the day they had yesterday and being awoken in the middle of the night, he shows no signs of being tired. He is vividly aware that Hannibal Lecter isn’t what he seems at first glance. He’s ruthless and cold and deceitful. He does nothing if not for his own gain. He plays god, strategically, with every single person in his life, whether they know it or not. But now he’s starting to consider that it’s more than just his personality that is inhuman. Perhaps his entire body works differently. 

He is relentlessly powerful. No one has been in as many near death situations as Hannibal, except for maybe Will, but most of the time he walks away without a scratch. Either he has a guardian angel who wishes to see the world burn, or he is truly surpassing the average human. Will wonders how far one can come with nothing but determination and strength of character. 

“Where?” He asks. Hannibal looks at the road sign they pass by. 

“Ah, I know a place.” Hannibal says and Will rolls his eyes. “It will be a side track, but it should be fine.” He nods to himself. “To my standards it is subpar, but it will do for lack of better dining in this god awful state”.

Will wonders briefly what Hannibal has against West virginia. Maybe it's another quell with a music genre. 

“Are you sure it’s…like…safe?” Will critiques lightly “You are the most wanted criminal in this part of the USA, after all.” He tries to sound aloof, but the weight of his trepidation is evident. 

“We are in all likelihood out of that area.” Hannibal assures and for a moment Will wonders if they are or if the psychiatrist is just trying to calm him down. He does believe that Hannibal has their situation under control, but his job for years has been to sniff out criminals just like this. He can’t help but put himself in the mind of his FBI colleagues and wonder if they’re smart enough to find them here. If their faces have been broadcast on the news (which they certainly have) there's a great risk the staff will recognize them as well. 

His chest feels tight and he rolls down the window. The air is biting and fresh and he gets the urge to stick his whole head out. But the pressing wind would shove itself into his lungs and he’s recently not too fond of things crowding into his organs. He slowly rolls up the window again. 

“How did you get this car?” He asks, partly because the question has been bugging him, but mostly because his mind is currently filled with the FBI discovering his dead body after they’ve stalked them out. He imagines the forensics team as they stand around his lifeless body in the morgue. They look concerned and their usual batter and chatter is dulled. 

‘He appears to have had his tongue amputated and asphyxiated on his own blood,’ They would say. 

‘What is the motive?’ Someone would ask. The others wouldn’t be certain. But Will would’ve been, if he was with them and not on the table, all pale and drained of blood that was still in him. 

The motive would’ve been silencing him before he had the chance to betray the perpetrator. 

But he doesn’t want to think about that. Because he doesn’t think Hannibal would do it. He wouldn’t have a reason to. Will wouldn’t rat them out. 

He looks at Hannibal, who has been silent, which defeats the entire purpose of him asking the question. His eyes are glued to Will and for a moment he worries that he has somehow read his mind. But there’s something else in the stare. He doesn’t like that Will is questioning him. His eyes say, just as clearly as his words could’ve: you don't need to know. Defyingly, Will slowly raises his eyebrows, as if he’s still waiting for an answer. Their challenge is unsettling, because behind Hannibal, Will can see the trees still whooshing past, but Hannibal isn’t looking away. He’s not even blinking. Despite everything they are still challenging each other, just like before. The urge to give up and break is so strong it almost takes over, but he’s tired of feeling like Hannibal is bigger than him. It was only natural when they were “doctor-patient” (within quotation marks, because were they ever really?) but he felt like he had broken free from that. If they were going to have their future together, he couldn’t give in. 

After what feels like an eternity Hannibal gives in and smiles. 

“An acquaintance acquired it for me,” he says and tears his eyes away, and Will feels a slight surge of victory. He wants to ask ‘who’ but he gets the feeling that he is testing Hannibal’s patience, and considering that anyone else who did that would be eaten, he doesn’t want to push his luck. But Hannibal glances at him fondly, perhaps proud that he didn't give up. He likes that Hannibal feels pride when Will does something that anyone else would consider abominable. Defiance isn’t the best example. Murdering someone and eating their heart is a better one. 

“It’s a nice car,” Will states calmly and looks around the interior. The seats are in white leather and the accents, such as the wheel and the knob on the gear shift, are in a polished-until-shiny warm brown wood. It smells fresh but not like a car dealership. It looks like an older version, but Will doesn’t know anything about cars. It could’ve been someone’s dream car. “Are we going to keep it?” He asks, and it doesn’t sound wise but he kind of hopes they will. 

“I suppose not, it would not be wise,” Hannibal echoes Will’s internal thoughts. “But I hope we can, it is a lovely vehicle, quite exclusive, actually.” 

“And probably attention grabbing,” Will murmurs and Hannibal glares at him through the corner of his eye. “Should’ve gotten a white van or something.” Hannibal looks offended once again. 

“Then the FBI would truly think I had kidnapped you.”

“That would work in my favor wouldn’t it, if I changed my mind?” 

“You won’t.” Hannibal sounds so self assured. Not a waiver of doubt in his voice. Will gnaws at the fleshy wound in his cheek and the copper that fills his mouth reminds him of his dream. 

“I won’t,” He agrees. 

The restaurant is a cozy kind of fancy. They are met by a hostess when they enter, which worries Will, but Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised. He assumes that the other has eaten here before. The floor is a dark oak, polished like the details of the car, and the dining room is filled with tables in the same wood (which Will thinks looks tacky) and chairs in white fabric. They’re led to a table for two next to a window, and while Hannibal scans the menu, Will stares out the window. The restaurant is in the middle of a small city. It most certainly is the “fancy restaurant” for people to go to when they need to celebrate something. Everything in this part of West Virginia seems pretty mundane. Will considers living here, in another life, where a small city doesn’t mean risk of being recognized, and he thinks he might like it. 

“Hm,” Hannibal says thoughtfully and Will’s eyes abandon the window to regard the older man's concerned facial features. “They have removed their tenderloin from the menu. What a shame,” he mulls for himself and Will rolls his eyes but smiles. Sometimes he sounds really old, which amuses Will because they’re not that far apart in age. A fleeting thought reminds him that it might be an intentional persona that Hannibal is wearing. He reminds himself that he just established that everything Hannibal does is intentional and deliberate. 

Will opens the menu and takes a quick glance, immediately deciding on the rainbow trout they serve. The waitress comes with a bowl of steaming hot bread and a second, smaller bowl, of salted herb butter. 

“Are you ready to order?” She asks, her voice sweet and soft like the beginning of a rainfall. Will likes her. She radiates a polite, humble and confident energy. He hopes Hannibal likes her as well. Said man looks at him, expecting him to go first. Will flashes a smile at the woman. 

“I’d like the rainbow trout, thank you.” 

She nods and Will notices that she lacks a notepad to write it down on. Must be an image thing. 

“I’ll have your wild mushroom Risotto, please.” Hannibal says and Will once again raises his eyebrows at him. The waitress smiles.

“Okay! I’ll be back shortly! Don’t hesitate to ask me if you need anything,” she recites and her eyes linger on Will as she passes him. A startling, paralyzing fear that she knows who he is pins him frozen in his chair. He swallows harshly and reaches for a piece of the bread, slapping a lump of butter on it before nibbling on the crisp crust to occupy his mouth. He’s afraid he’s going to start biting his nails. 

“I didn’t know you liked vegetarian food,” Will comments. 

“Each meal has its own time and place. I do not discriminate,” Hannibal smiles. “Although, Will, I will have to ask you to move past this fascination with my diet.” Will rolls his eyes. “You are very lucky I like you, you are a very rude young man,” Hannibal muses and it should feel terrifying, but it doesn’t.

Will just laughs. 

“I’m far from a young man, Hannibal.” 

“You are younger than me.”

“That could say more about you than it does about me,” Will smiles and Hannibal looks at him with that glimmer in his eyes again. Will thinks that it is that glimmer that reminds him that there is actually something behind the well-constructed facade that never drops. 

It doesn’t take long for the waitress to return, which reminds Will of his crippling fear of being found out, but he once again distracts himself with the food. The fish is flaky but not dry, falling apart from itself in tender pieces. The melted butter on top has a sweet hint of tomato and the bed of sweet potatoes it is served on is soft and colorful. He urgently stabs his fork in it and it tastes just as good as it looks. Hannibal gives him a condescending stare, but Will decides that he is not his father and he doesn’t have to listen to his rules about table manners. 

“I need to get a newspaper,” he declares when he finally takes a break to drink some water. Hannibal stirs the mushrooms around in the cloud like risotto thoughtfully. 

“Why?”

“I want to see if we’re in it,” Will’s voice is not more than a whisper, but it feels like he’s yelling. 

“It is guaranteed that we are,” Hannibal says and Will has to struggle to swallow the water instead of gasping it down into his lungs. 

“Then why are we here,” he hisses and Hannibal, unsurprisingly, looks amused. 

“For someone so emotionally and empathically intelligent you know surprisingly little of human behavior.” It sounds sweet in his calm, concise tone, but it hits like an insult. “Most people are very keen to doubt their own senses and pretend that they haven’t seen a thing. Unless they are actively questioned, most will not report a criminal. Some would call it abominable. I suggest it is merely a survival instinct.”

“Is that based on statistics or just personal experience,” Will bites. “Because I think people instinctively know better than to oppose you.”

“You do not,” Hannibal states firmly, and proudly. 

“And how many times have that almost cost me my life?” Will retorts and continues to pick on his food with less vigor than before. 

“One to many,” Hannibal says but sounds not convinced. “Or one too few.” He looks at Will as one might look at a stallion which is to be tamed. 

Hannibal returns to his food, casually, and Will spends a moment eyeing him. Even when fleeing across the country from the police, he looks pristine. He’s not as well groomed as usual, not having had the time to shave or fix his hair. But he has scrambled together a suit to wear, which makes Will look ridiculous in his sleepwear. He’s lucky it’s still early afternoon and very few guests are dining in the restaurant, otherwise they might have barred him for violating the dress code. He thinks that he likes that he’s more disheveled than Hannibal. It makes him feel human.

Suddenly, he considers that the waitress might not recognize him at all. He is very eye-catching anyways, without having his face plastered in the news. The way he is sitting in plaid sweatpants and a white shirt underneath his dark jacket. His hair, uncombed and probably all kinds of messed up from sleeping in the car. He is covered with scars, and has a fresh one developing on his cheek, still occasionally dripping blood into his mouth. It would’ve been weirder of her not to stare. 

“Are you suggesting we pass a gas station?” Hannibal suddenly asks. Will assumes that he means in relation to the newspaper. 

“Do you know how many criminals I have caught because they stopped at a gas station?” Will hisses. Hannibal laughs. 

“In that I suppose that you are right. There is a grocery store around the corner. They ought to have newspapers.”

The grocery store is cool, almost as cold as the outside. Will instinctively wants to dart through it, grab his newspaper and be gone, but Hannibal seems keen to look around. Will stalks after him, so close that he more than once steps on the heels of his shoes. Hannibal doesn’t say anything at first but when it happens a third time he abruptly turns around. Will almost bumps into him. 

“If you are scared of being caught, you are doing a god awful job of appearing inconspicuous.” Hannibal grabs onto Will’s shoulders, and he feels how tense they are. He’s so curled into himself that his ears are practically touching his shoulders. 

“Sorry,” Graham coughs and takes a step back. Hannibal smiles. 

“Do you want some snacks for the road,” Hannibal asks and it sounds too casual and unsettling. 

“Do you?” Will retorts. 

“No.”

Will could’ve assumed as much. He thinks that he’ll meet god and personally kiss his feet before he sees Hannibal consume a Snickers bar. 

He follows Hannibal still, but tries to seem more unobtrusive as he does so. Sometimes he stops and picks up an item and scratches his chin, hoping that he looks relaxed and like a perfectly normal shopper. The amused glance that Hannibal throws him tells him that he does not. In frustration he tears off his glasses and rubs them with the fabric of his shirt. 

A glimpse of light in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He slowly turns his head, up towards the ceiling, and his eyes land on a security camera. He should’ve suspected as much. He tells himself that as long as he doesn’t do anything bad and draw attention to himself, no one will bother to check the footage. Despite this, he can already imagine the article Freddie Lounds will publish on TattleCrime if she got her hands on the footage. 

‘Murder husbands out shopping. Buying ingredients for their next meal?’

 He imagines Molly reading it, even if she would have no reason to browse TattleCrime, and he feels a stitch of guilt. She didn’t do anything to deserve this. Except maybe not seeing that she was falling for a deranged man until it was too late. They were similar in that, he thought. 

He looks to Hannibal, who is holding a branch of tomatoes in his hand and turning it over thoughtfully. Inspecting it. He promptly puts it in a plastic bag. 

“I do usually buy my produce at local farmers markets, but these were of exquisite quality,” he says, of course aware that Will was watching him. Will slowly stalks over to him. 

“Can we go now,” he hisses and now it’s Hannibal’s turn to raise his eyebrows. He gives him a look that, if anyone else had done it would’ve said ‘Geez, chill out’. But in Hannibal’s speech it would probably sound more like ‘Do calm yourself, Mr Graham, there is no need for such blatant agitation’. Thankfully, he doesn’t say that, and instead obediently turns on his heel and walks towards the cashier. 

Will suddenly realizes he’s in a dilemma. If the clerk has read the newspaper, Will buying it might remind him and cause him to recognize them. If Will tries to steal it instead, the risks of the security footage being reviewed are far higher. His demand for a newspaper suddenly feels silly. He decides that the best thing to do would be to follow Hannibal's lead, and act unfalteringly confident. He grabs the newspaper and puts it down next to Hannibal’s bag of tomatoes. The combination in itself feels unnatural and ridiculous. He forces himself to not look away, but instantly worries that his defiant stare will make him look like a maniac. He thought he used to struggle with social interactions but now they’re starting to feel like a game of life and death. 

Hannibal is making small talk with the clerk, and Will realizes that he’s aligned himself with a British accent. He yaps about how fascinating it is to visit such an unknown part of the states and declares his despise for regular tourist attractions, like New York and LA. The clerk looks politely disinterested and quickly rings up their items which Hannibal pays for. Will reflects over what angle Hannibal is going for and feels a bit impressed with how thought-out all of his actions must be. He feels impressed with himself for consistently having figured Hannibal out the past couple of years. They gather their things and head back for the car. 

It’s cold and Will hurries to turn the heat on and immediately flips open the newspaper. He adjusts his glasses and is very quickly met with his own face staring at him. It’s his old mugshot from four years ago. His hair is unruly and long, and he’s slick with sweat with deep bags under his eyes. A bad choice of picture, he thinks. He hasn’t looked like that in a long time. The last time he was seen in Baltimore he was neatly combed, well shaven and completely in control of his own mind. The polar opposite of the deranged man his eyes are laid on. Hannibal looks striking as always. He scrunches his nose. 

The striking man joins him in the car and turns on the engine. He glances over at the newspaper and scoffs. 

“Such a generous depiction of you,” his voice is laced with gleeful sarcasm. 

“Outdated,” Will states and his eyes scan over the accompanying text. 

Authorities are still searching for renowned psychiatrist and convicted serial killer, Hannibal Lecter , also known to the public as the Chesapeake Ripper , who remains at large following a daring escape from custody. Lecter, believed to be responsible for a series of brutal murders, was last seen accompanied by Will Graham , a former FBI profiler previously thought to have been connected to the crimes of the Chesapeake Ripper.

Graham, who is suspected of aiding Lecter's escape, was last seen with the killer during a transportation of the prisoner. The two men are considered extremely dangerous and are presumed to be armed.

The latest victim in their suspected spree is Francis Dragonhyde , whose body was discovered earlier today in a remote area. The circumstances of Dragonhyde’s death remain under investigation, though law enforcement officials have stated the method of murder bears similarities to previous crimes attributed to Lecter.

The authorities are urging anyone with information to immediately contact local law enforcement. They warn the public to avoid any confrontation with the fugitives and report any sightings directly to the police.

Lecter is described as a well-spoken, charismatic individual, with a refined appearance that belies his violent tendencies. Graham , once considered a colleague, is an experienced profiler with an intimate understanding of criminal behavior, making him a dangerous accomplice in this case.

Authorities are urging the public to remain vigilant as the search continues.

“They aren’t afraid to flatter you,” Will grumbles and Hannibal peers over at the paper again. He has started driving out of the city while Will was reading and they will soon be out on the vast road again. 

“What do they say,” Hannibal says. He sounds more interested in the compliments than anything else. So vain. 

“That you’re a well spoken, charismatic individual,” Will rubs the paper between his thumb and index finger. His own eyes glaring at him make him uneasy. How couldn’t people see how sick he was? He feels a sudden surge of injustice and closes the paper, tossing it onto the floor. 

“I can not deny that to be true,” Hannibal muses with a proud smile. Will rolls his eyes and rests his head against the window. The vibrations of the asphalt below the wheel and the purring of the engine makes his eardrums rattle. He closes his eyes. His mind retreats to the imagined alternate universe, where he and Hannibal are just two normal men. No murderous tendencies, no violent wants, no consumption of people. He imagines that Hannibal will be disappointed if he finds out Will is fantasizing about this. He isn’t ashamed of the dark within him. Will tries not to be, but his superego is fighting against him.

 Allowing himself to disregard Hannibal’s disappointment, he pictures an apartment overlooking the New York skyline. It’s decorated in the same manner as Hannibal’s office. They have two black leather chairs lounging in front of an open fire. Hannibal is cooking dinner. He imagines that they will leave over the weekend, to a cabin. There they will fish and take their dogs, which Hannibal reluctantly agrees to get and refuses to admit that he likes, for long walks in the woods. He takes a deep breath and tries to imagine the fresh air. He cannot. 

He falls asleep again, and when he wakes up he starts to worry that he’s falling sick. He isn’t sure if emotional turmoil can cause this much exhaustion. He realizes he has woken up because the car has stopped. They’re in front of a motel. It is evidently below Hannibal’s standards, and he assumes that there is literally no other choice available in the entire state. Hannibal looks as infuriated as Will imagined he would. 

“I will go retrieve us a room key,” Hannibal says and the wording sounds weird, like he’s going to do it in an unconventional way. But Will decides he doesn’t care. “You stay here, I will be back soon.” 

The car is very quiet when Hannibal leaves. It feels suffocating. Will hears his own breathing. Every move he makes against the leather seats. There is something in the air that is making him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t know what. He peers out the window, feeling like an abandoned child- or possibly a dog. His facial muscles twitch anxiously and he softly curses his own separation anxiety regarding Hannibal. He is totally out of his depths. Fleeing from the police is Hannibal’s expertise. He frets over the fact that he’s so dependent on the Chesapeake Ripper. 

He sees Hannibal in the rearview mirror as he approaches the car. His steps slow and his chin tilts upwards, like a dog sniffing the air for a scent no one else can catch. Will’s eyebrows knit together curiously. Hannibal looks uncharacteristically concerned and equally intrigued. Will steps out of the car. 

Lecter strides up to him, almost crowding into his space. 

“Something’s wrong,” Will states, beating Hannibal to it. He just nods. Will gives the air around them an experimental sniff, but he feels none of what Hannibal does. The other gives him a demeaning smile. 

“It smells like blood,” he explains and Will stiffens slightly. Hannibal glances around, presumably trying to locate the source of the smell. The parking lot outside of the motel is barren, only a handful of cars. It must be mostly vacant. 

Without a warning, Hannibal steps away. He walks with long strides towards the door marked with number five. He looks through the window, but it’s blocked by curtains. Will rushes after him and reaches just in time to see him to pull out a handkerchief and experimentally twist the door knob. It opens. 

Will immediately realizes this is unwise as his eyes land on the scene inside the room. It is truly a shabby hotel. A single, quite large bed, in the middle of a room which is painted yellow. A raggedy ceiling fan is spinning around, wafting the smell of death into Will’s face. There is a couch in an ugly green material against a wall and a very small TV on a dresser close to the door. 

On the bed lies a couple. A man and a woman. It’s not as brutal of a scene as Will is used to. They have been stabbed. The man in the throat and the woman in the heart. He clenches his hands into fists. This is bad. 

Being in here poses the risk of contaminating the crime scene, which is awful in normal circumstances and outright catastrophic for them. As soon as someone else discovers this the police will be called. They can’t remain here then. 

He is about to stagger out the door, but Hannibal takes a step forward to inspect the bodies. His morbid curiosity is always causing issues for Will. He follows in his steps, once again stepping on the heels of his dress shoes. Desperately, he thinks that if he can figure out what happened and tell Hannibal, they can get out of here quicker. He rests his eyes on the corpses. They’re naked, unflatteringly enough. The woman's eyes are wide open in fear but the man looks almost calm. He must have been killed first. There’s an unmistakable handprint covering the Woman’s mouth. Someone with blood all over their hands has tried to keep her quiet. She must have survived the initial stab to the heart.

Will leans closer and asserts that the stab wound is jagged and messy. She has been stabbed multiple times. Upon leaning closer, he notices an essential detail. The man has a band around his left ring finger. It’s paler than the rest of his skin. He had been wearing a wedding ring. Will walks around the room with slow, careful steps. The ring is nowhere to be found. He feels Hannibal staring at him but he still closes his eyes. 

He sees a car. He’s sitting in it, crying. The motel is in front of him. In his hand there is a cell phone with an unsaved number. Texts. Erotic, morbidly sexual texts. A date planned. He sees his hand. On his left hand rests a wedding ring with a grand diamond. He throws it down to the floor of the car. 

His body carries him out of the car. His hand is gripped around a kitchen knife. It’s just been sharpened. Maybe he was preparing to hold a dinner and needed a freshly sharpened knife. Or maybe it was just a mundane task that had needed to be done. His sobs shake his body as he stumbles towards the room. He hears loud, vigorous moans on the other side of the door. The door creaks open, but the people inside drown the sound. He sees a man, his husband, mounting a woman who he has never seen before. Rage, sorrow, grief fills him and before he has time to change his mind he throws himself forward and buries the knife in his husband's neck. He lets out a startled gargle. He pulls out the knife and blood flows onto the bed as he falls to the side. He tries to scramble, but his elated heartbeat forces the blood out of his throat at dangerous speeds. 

Will looks at the woman. She had her eyes closed. Now they are open. He staggers towards her, climbs on top of her as his husband had. He buries the knife in her heart and she screams. He covers her mouth, smearing his husband's blood all over her pretty face. He buries the knife again and again until she no longer screams. 

Before he leaves, he tears the wedding ring off his husband's finger. 

He gasps for air, eyes shooting open. Hannibal is still watching him. Amazed. He loves to see how his mind works. 

“Crime of passion,” he stutters out, reflexively. He feels just like when he’s at work. “Wife finds out her husband is cheating. She follows him and-” gesturing towards the bodies. “She’ll regret it.” Will states. 

“How ordinary,” Hannibal critiques. He’s bored now. “Your abilities will never cease to fascinate me, dear Will.”

Will feels a smile tug at his lips and that's when he hears it. Somewhere far away, but rapidly approaching…the unmistakable sound of sirens. Hannibal hears it at the same time as Will does. 

“She called them on herself,” he whispers. 

“But she is not here,” Hannibal states, and he wonders how he can sound so sure. 

“I don't think so,” Will stammers. “We need to go.”

“No time.”

Hannibal grabs onto Will’s arm with a steady envelopment of fingers around bicep. He pulls him along, outside of the room and quickly into the room they got the key to. They have just shut the door behind themselves when the sound of car wheels against the asphalt of the parking lot screeches. Hannibal shuts the curtains and quickly grabs Will again. His hand snakes around his head, covering his mouth. He’s holding Will in front of him, his chest against Will’s back. His grip on his face is firm, as if he thinks Will is going to make a sound. He doesn’t even breathe. 

He can feel Hannibal’s heartbeat against his shoulder blade. It’s slow and steady, the complete opposite to Will’s own, which is hammering as if it wants to escape the confinement of his ribcage. 

The sound of car doors shutting, followed by urgent steps and a door being slammed open. He knew they left it ajar, so that sort of violence is completely unnecessary. They stand like that. Listening, waiting, until there is an inevitable knock on the door. 

“WVSP, we need to ask you some questions. Please open the door.”

Chapter Text

Since the day they first met, Will has fascinated and surprised Hannibal Lecter. He had his entire life figured out. He was assured in who he was, a stable life with the perfect persona built for himself. He lavished in the world he had built for himself, utterly independent of anyone else. Then in waltzed Will Graham and wreaked havoc on everything Hannibal knew. Since that day he has never ceased to surprise him. 

He continues to do so now, because despite his evident anxiety, he proceeds to handle the situation splendidly. 

“You shall handle this,” Hannibal had said. He had brushed his thumb lightly over Will’s jagged wound and then gone into the bathroom. He heard Will behind him trying to protest, but he did not relent. He wanted Will to be sure in himself. All day he had been following Hannibal like a scared, lost puppy. That was not the man that he had seen slay Francis Dollarhyde. Will had a great confidence and strength in him that he was too scared to recognize, so he left Hannibal no choice but to give him a friendly push in the right direction. 

He stands with his ear pressed to the door, wanting to catch every word that Will exchanges with the officer. He is sure he will be fine, but in the case that he is not, Hannibal is prepared. 

“Good afternoon, officer, what’s going on?” Will sounds cheerfully oblivious as he opens the door. He zizzed his s’s and his t’s popped. It was a subtle give away that told Hannibal he was agitated. 

“What time did you arrive here?” He is short and impolite as he speaks to Will. Either he is stressed or simply not suited for the job. For all he knows Will is an innocent citizen and should be treated as such. Hannibal presumes that if he would have recognized his partner in crime this would not have gone as smoothly as it currently was. 

“Just now, sir.” Will answers obediently. 

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you arrived?”

“Hm…No, nothing that comes to mind. What’s going on?” Will’s patient facade is running thinner, Hannibal can hear it through the ridiculously thin piece of wood the door consists of. Poor design for a bathroom. The officer draws a breath, and opens his mouth to presumably inform Will of the double homicide, but he stops. 

“What happened to your cheek?” An uneasy silence hangs for just a moment and Hannibal gets uncharacteristically worried that Will cannot come up with a good reason that does not involve the knife that caused the wound. 

“It’s stupid,” Will insists and Hannibal hears the strain of the laugh that follows. “I was visiting my friend and his dog…” he clears his throat and makes a pretty convincing impression of not wanting to talk about it. “Anyways, it’s not the dogs fault. I startled it.” A sigh is heard from the officer. 

“There has been a double homicide-” Will gasps and sounds adequately horrified but detached. “-in room five.” Hannibal imagines the officer gesturing to the door a couple of meters away. “This is just a safety measure. We have secured the assailant, so you don’t have to worry, sir.” The officer sounds more polite now. He’s probably happy to have gotten this over with. 

“What a relief,” Will says. “I’m sorry but I don't know anything about it. I just got here.” 

He sounds so polite and well mannered and right through edible. Hannibal wishes he could drink the nectar of his soul while still keeping him alive. Every moment he spends with Will is a blissful but painful walk through limbo. He isn’t sure yet where it will take them. He sees Will as a beauty to be reckoned with. When he first met him he was a weak man who was easy to break despite his fast mouth. No friends, just his dogs. Now he was sure of himself in a way that swelled Hannibal’s heart. He knew his place on the earth and was starting to come to terms with the fact that it was right beside Hannibal, which Lecter himself had known the whole time. Ever since the first time he laid eyes on him. He knew that he could never let him go, and that Will had something in him that would tether them together for as long as they lived. 

The door shuts after polite goodbyes and Hannibal slowly opens the bathroom door. Before he has time to realize it, Will’s open palms have collided with his chest and being caught by surprise, he stumbles back. Will looks furious. It’s a shade of emotion that suits him well. His light eyes glisten with anger and his mouth is crooked downward. He is staggering into the bathroom and looks as if all his plans to murder Hannibal are finally going to come true. 

“I can’t believe you did that,” Will spits and he sounds just as angry as he sounds betrayed. 

“It was fine, though, was it not?” Hannibal states with a smile that he knows will amplify the rage inside the other man. This time, when Will steps forward, he holds his ground. 

“And what if it hadn’t been,” Will hisses. “What if I hadn’t been able to pull it off? What would you have done then? What if he had recognized me?” 

“I knew you would execute it splendidly,” Hannibal assures. “If he had recognized you, there would have been no difference made by me joining you. This way I had the element of surprise to my advantage. But as I said. People are very keen to turn the other eye to the news of the world. I imagine that man has not so much as glanced at a newspaper since the last election, let alone engaged with its contents.” 

The heat in Will’s eyes seems to falter and even though his lips are still curled into a displeased snare, he leaves the bathroom. Hannibal follows him closely. 

“What are we going to do now, we can’t stay here, right?” Will frets and Hannibal realizes that his successful altercation with the cop had not been as improving of Will’s confidence as he had hoped. He wondered where the confident being that had been Will Graham when he retrieved him from the prison had gone. Did Hannibal need to be confined to a straitjacket for Will to feel sure of himself. If that was the case then Hannibal would gladly stand with his arms wrapped around himself for eternity. Although he would prefer a solution where they both kept their full range of motion and mobility. 

“Hiding in plain sight proves far more effective than one might anticipate,” Hannibal states and unbuttons his jacket with slow deliberate movements. He folds it twice and hangs it over the armrest of the couch. He ought to go fetch their luggage, but it would be wise to wait for the police to leave or the dark of night to fall. 

Will looks at him as if he is the dumbest person to ever draw a breath. Hannibal sits down on the edge of the bed and Will’s eyes do not leave him for a second. 

“You cannot be serious,” Will sounds genuinely baffled. His eyebrows are turned downwards, furrowed so hard that they are almost connected in the middle. Hannibal wants to reach up towards his face and press the pad of his thumb against the wrinkled skin there and smoothen it out. 

“It has proven effective for me on numerous occasions.” While assuring him, Hannibal grabs onto Will’s wrist and pulls him down onto the bed next to him to sit. His muscles are tense, as they have been since he woke up in the car on their way into West Virginia. Hannibal gracefully removes Will’s glasses from the bridge of his nose. “You are exceedingly tense, Will. You will start to cramp up- or worse- if you do not try to relax soon.” 

“How am I supposed to relax with a dozen cops standing around outside? Half of them aren’t even doing anything,” Will complains but doesn’t stop Hannibal from folding his glasses and putting them on the nightstand. His hands go up to his face and Hannibal does not dare blink as he rubs them over his eyes. He has seen this version of Will a million times, but as with every other version, he will never grow tired of it. He looks burnt out and stressed. The wrinkles around his eyes are prominent, just like the bags under them. His emotional turmoil is so evident on his face it is almost humorous. 

“What can I do to help you,” Hannibal asks softly. Will glances at him. The doctor knows that his former patient is hesitant to ask or accept help from him. He is scared of depending on him because he wishes to keep a bit of control for himself. Hannibal wishes he could tell him that Will has more control than he could ever imagine. 

Will surprises the both of them by resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal falls into it immediately, as to prevent Will from regretting it and moving away. He wraps his arm around the other's back side and brushes his thumb softly over his ribs. He was concerned that Francis had broken some of them, but they just appear to be badly bruised. A heavy sigh rattles Will’s body. 

“I didn’t think this would be so…hard,” he complains softly. He sounds vulnerable, but not in a way that makes him weak. Hannibal thinks he’s exceptionally strong for admitting his doubts and quarrels.

“Even a walk on roses is accompanied by the thorns of the stem,” Hannibal soothes. He can almost hear Will roll his eyes. 

“Sure,” Will mulls unhappily “but this feels more like a walk on thorns, accompanied possibly by the smell of roses.” Hannibal chuckles at his melodrama.

“It is only just the beginning, my dear Will.” Hannibal takes the liberty of stroking Will’s hair down by the nape of his neck. Will shudders harshly. “It has only been a day. The trail will lose its scent and the world will become preoccupied by something else. It will all be fine, you shall see. Dare to give it time.”

“I guess you’re right,” Will still sounds displeased, and Hannibal guesses it has something to do with the admittance of him being right. 

“I most often am,” Hannibal gloats. 

Will insists on ordering dinner, and Hannibal is disappointed that the room is not fitted with a kitchen. His tomatoes will be on the wrong side of ripe tomorrow, and even more so when they reach their final destination. They order Chinese food. Will gets orange chicken and Hannibal gets shrimp-fried-rice. He only eats a couple of bites before putting it away and reposing in bed instead of on the couch where they were having their meal. 

“Was it too trivial for you, Doctor Lecter.” Will muses sarcastically and Hannibal opts not to answer- they both know that it was. Will does not seem to care that the food is, to put it kindly, dissatisfactory. He wolfs it down like there was no tomorrow. Hannibal considers that the amount of stress he keeps subjecting himself to is burning a lot of the man’s energy. He wishes he would let himself relax. Curiously, he ponders how he could make him feel safe in his presence. It is not an easy question to answer, for Hannibal is not sure if it is his presence or absence which bothers Will the most. 

Will finishes his food and throws the boxes in the trash. He ties together the trashback with three knots in the plastic. Paranoid that someone will scavenge their trash and trace their DNA, evidently. Hannibal cannot resist a subtle roll of his eyes, something that clearly grates at Will’s composure. Despite this, the brunette clambers into bed next to him. He lays flat on his back with his hands intertwined atop his stomach. The TV is on, at Will’s request it is playing a nature documentary, but his eyes are glued to the ceiling instead of the screen. Hannibal follows his line of sight. The ceiling is clean and uninteresting. It is not the white surface which interests him, but rather the flowing of his inner thoughts. 

“What are you thinking,” Hannibal asks. He usually is quite adept at reading people, but Will’s mind works in ways that take him far longer than usual to figure out. He truly believes that Will Graham is the only man who could out-smart him if push came to shove, as it had many times before. He wishes that it never will again. 

Will looks at him, as if he has now started thinking harder about what lie to tell rather than about what he was thinking in the first place. It is mildly offensive that he does not think he can trust Hannibal with the unfiltered truth of his thoughts. He wants to ask what he is scared of, but dares not in case he lies more. 

“Abigail,” he answers and it sounds like a short but surprisingly earnest answer. Hannibal knows that he misses Abigail. It is abundantly clear. He wishes he could do something about it, but if he had the opportunity to go back and undo what he did, he would not. He mostly wishes Will would stop grieving. Hannibal is the first to admit, most usually when it benefits him but even when not, that he misses Abigail as well. He misses her innocent youthfulness and trust. But it is not healthy, the way it weighs Will down. He had not realized it would have such a disastrous effect for so long when he committed the act. 

Hannibal says none of this. He puts on a warm, sad smile and softens his eyes. 

“I miss her,” the doctor admits. There is a suspicion in Will’s eyes when they meet his own, but it falls away and Hannibal decides he has done a good job. Will covers his face with his hand, not out of sadness, just exasperation. 

“You could have done something else to get back at me, you know,” Will complains and his eyes glare into Hannibal’s, but there is an undeniable softness beneath the daggers. 

“I could have,” Hannibal agrees thoughtfully. “What would you suggest?” 

A snort escapes from Will. The question is absurd to him. 

“I don’t know. You stabbed me at the same time so I guess you couldn’t have done a lot worse without killing me or disfiguring me. Both of which are alternatives we both know you’re happy to resort to,” he grumbles unhappily. He stares up at the ceiling again. “You could have killed Alana instead.”

“That is still on the table,” Hannibal reminds him softly. Will looks at him and he sees in his eyes that he is considering her son when he rapidly shakes his head. 

“Too late, you already took Abigail, it's unfair of you to take Alana too,” Will argues. It is ironic, because the odds of Will and Alana meeting ever again are perpetually none existent. Yet he cares for her to be alive. 

“I made the promise to Alana, not to you.” 

Will glares at him again. The soft consideration that hides behind the hostility has been replaced by an unfiltered worry. 

“I have no intention of seeing Alana in the foreseeable future,” Hannibal assures softly. The worrisome look disappears. 

“Good,” Will decides and stretches his back out until the air between his vertebrae pops. 

“Are you going to sleep?” Hannibal asks and Will nods. 

“I feel like I've been doing nothing else today, but…” His words disappear into the air. 

“Sleep is important, especially for the health of the brain. You have been under tremendous stress. There is no shame in taking time to recover from it.” 

“Yeah, yada yada, thanks doctor,” Will sarcastically protests, but he descends under the scabby blankets of the bed. Hannibal grimaces, just slightly, in disapproval. 

It does not take long for Will to fall asleep, and he leaves Hannibal alone to listen to the scripted commentary, which is unfittingly gleeful, of the documentary. He turns the TV off, and instead listens to the scrambled voices of the police officers outside. The process is taking far longer than it should. Incompetent, Hannibal thinks. This could end up being bad, if they are not gone by the morning. Logically, they should be (at least the majority of them). Hannibal can handle a handful of armed men, he is sure. 

To the sound of quiet arguing on the outside, he falls asleep in his day clothes atop the covers. This must be what rock bottom feels like. 

The comfortable haze of sleep that Hannibal surrenders himself to is suddenly seized by the feeling of his strained throat being unable to draw a breath. There is a tight, unrelenting grip around his neck. The feeling is reminiscent of Jack strangling him in his own kitchen during their altercation, but this feels more desperate.

When he forces his eyes open his field of vision is already blurred around the edges due to the lack of oxygen reaching his brain. The cold moonlight from outside the window passes through the curtains and falls on Will’s face. He is straddling Hannibal’s torso and his hands are furiously gripped around his neck. His eyes are crazed and distant. He looks like he used to when he was sleepwalking due to Hannibal’s induced episodes. 

“Will,” Hannibal rasps, his voice strained and weak from the constriction around his neck. He uses the last of the air reserved in his lungs to wheeze out: “stop”.

The words aren’t reaching him. His composure doesn’t change. Will’s breathing is rigid and choppy, like he is flooded with panic and adrenaline. He is mumbling something, but Hannibal’s ears have started ringing and he fears he might pass out if he does not put an end to this immediately. 

He brings his arms up with great effort and grips onto Will’s wrist. He feels inferior and if he were to die like this he would be happy to have seen Will in such a state. 

His firm grip around his assailant's wrist seems to finally do the job of dragging him out of his delirium. His eyes get the light of consciousness returned to them and for a moment he looks confused before he urgently loosens his grip, as if he had just touched an open flame. 

“Hannibal.” His panting voice sounds frightened and confused. “What are you doing?”.

The question is humorous, and Hannibal would have laughed if he was not too busy regaining his ability to breathe. He hungrily swallows air and sits up, but without the urgency the situation calls for. He slowly, trustingly, releases Will’s wrists. 

“I ought to ask you the same question,” he pants. Will looks down at his hands. He looks remorseful, but Hannibal can see the same poise he had in his eyes when they attacked Francis Dollarhyde. He is realizing the power he has, which Hannibal has tried to show him since the beginning. He is finally starting to allow himself to be in control. A calm conversation with an officer isn’t what Will needed. He needs something more. Something violent and dominant. 

The struggle Will feels is as evident as ever. His eyes keep flickering from his own hands to Hannibal’s face and his quickly reddening neck. 

“I don’t know,” he sounds hollow. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Hannibal smiles. 

“Is that what you dream of, Will?” Will looks concerned at his casual tone. He throws himself off the bed. His movements are jerky and apprehensive. His muscles tense and for a moment Hannibal worries he will run away. Despite the ache in his body and head, he gets out of bed and grabs onto Will. He looks like a wild animal, and fights against Hannibal’s grip like it. His fingers dig into the fabric of Will’s shirt, holding him in place firmly while the younger man struggles. 

“Calm down,” Hannibal tries to soothe, and he sees the quiver of Will’s lips and for a moment he is scared that Will is going to break down in tears. He suspects that Will Graham’s biggest fear, which has come true more times than it should, is not being in control of himself. “You do not need to fear this.” His voice is soft and quiet and Will’s rapid breathing is starting to slow. “You do not need to fight it.” Hannibal feels like they have had this conversation many times, in multiple different forms, but it is difficult to get Will to surrender to his own wants.

“It’s not the same…” Will looks down at their feet. “I…I wasn’t even aware I was doing it,” his eyes keep flickering around, landing everywhere but on Hannibal. “If…” He is clearly struggling to find the words. “If I relent to this I’d want to be conscious while doing it.” Will sounds spiteful of his own mind depriving him of the opportunity to experience what he did. Hannibal smiles again. 

“Next time you will be.” It has the desired effect of making Will meet his eyes with an ashamed but slightly hopeful expression. Will seems to collect himself after that. His breathing has returned to a steady pace and he straightens his back and suddenly he is starting to look as relaxed as Hannibal had wished he had been the entire day. It’s wonderful what a bit of confidence in one self can do. 

“Sorry,” he says but he does not sound as regretful as Hannibal had expected. 

“You were unconscious, I can hardly blame you,” Hannibal smiles. 

“Will you blame me when I eventually kill you in my sleep.” Will looks startled when Hannibal laughs.

“I would not.” He smooths his thumb over the white fabric of the shirt, which is damp with sweat. “But you would not do such a thing.” 

“I just tried to.”

“And failed miserably.” Will looks surprisingly offended at this, and Hannibal hopes he is going to try to prove him wrong. He would delight in Will’s hands wrapping around his throat and trying to squeeze the life of him. His eyes would be determined instead of distant, and Hannibal would let him believe he was succeeding. Only for him to regain the upper hand and wrestle Will down onto the floor. To prove that he needed not fret over the risk of apprehending Hannibal. But of course he does not. One step at a time, Hannibal reminds himself.

Instead of attempting to commit murder for the second time that night, Will just peers up at him with wide eyes which reflect the light from the window. Hunger surges within Hannibal and he feels his grip tighten around Will without him having given it permission to. Will brings his hands up to hold onto Hannibal’s arms, and he thinks that he is going to push him away, but he does not. Instead, he clambers onto his flesh and muscles as if it is the only thing anchoring him to the face of the earth. 

“I chose this,” Will whispers, as if to remind himself. His hand, slowly and experimentally lifts from Hannibal’s elbow to trace over the bruises flaring around his throat. Hannibal holds his breath. The air between them feels static and heavy and Hannibal is afraid he will blow it away if he releases the air captured in his lungs. Will, so secluded in his own mind and scared of vulnerability. This is a rarity to be cherished. “I am glad I chose you.” 

Hannibal expects the hunger within him to be satiated, but suddenly he feels famished. Treacherously, Will releases himself from the grip and tugs on his shirt. It’s sticking to the skin around his upper torso. He looks uncomfortable. The thickness of the air thins out and Hannibal releases his breath.

“I believe you would benefit from a shower,” Hannibal says and Will nods. “I will retrieve our luggage.” He volunteers and Will retreats to the bathroom while Hannibal wanders into the cold night and over to the car. 

The door to room five has been barred by police tape and a tired officer is standing outside. He looks disinterested and cold. Hannibal goes to his car, which is parked close enough that it would be rude not to greet the officer. 

“Good evening, officer.” He aligns himself with his English accent again and opens the door to retrieve the suitcase from the backseat. The officer looks as if he has been awoken from a waking sleep. He looks at Hannibal and does not reward his greeting with more than a nod. Hannibal considers prying further but at the risk of seeming desperate, which would be utterly horrifying, he simply retreats to the room and comforts himself by imagining the officer's head as a mantlepiece decoration. 

When he returns the water is still running and he opens the suitcase to retrieve a new shirt for Will. He assumes the other would want something he would deem comfortable, so he produces a black knitted sweater. It will have to do since he did not have the foresight to pack more t-shirts for Will. When they settle, he must force the other on a so-called shopping-spree. 

Will exits from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is still dripping wet and the cool streaks of light from the window makes the water droplets on his chest glimmer. Hannibal feels entrapped by the view and only has the courtesy to look up at Will’s face when he is standing right in front of him. 

“Eyes up here, Doctor Lecter.” He muses and holds out his hands, in which Hannibal reluctantly places the sweater. Will makes a spinning motion with his finger and Hannibal obediently turns his back to allow Will to change privately. He looks at him again when he hears the creaking of the bed as Will descends into it. 

“Do you intend to go back to sleep?” Hannibal asks, joining him on the bed with what he hopes is a gracefully casual exterior. 

“Not at all,” Will says. “What time is it?”

“It is nearing four A.M.” Hannibal answers and Will sighs. 

“Where are we going after this?” 

“The plan is to continue to Montana, if we continue driving as we did yesterday, we should be arriving there in three days.”

Will groans miserably and crosses his arms over his chest which the black fabric hugs in a flatteringly tight way. 

“I despise being on the road.” Will mutters and Hannibal remembers the time he drove for over an hour just to complain about kissing Alana. He smiles and places his hand on Will’s head, petting over his wet hair. He himself finds it comforting but Will is still scowling. “But I suppose I prefer it to being close to Baltimore.” 

“Once we are there we will not have to do this again for quite a while.” Hannibal assures and Will shrugs as if he does not care. A silence settles between them and Hannibal is reluctant to let their conversation die. He enjoys listening to the tired, quiet rasp of Will’s voice. So despite the soreness in his throat, which makes him sound raw and grated, he says:

“The officer currently standing guard was awfully rude.” Will laughs at this and his eyes trail up to Hannibal’s face with what looks like adoration. Hannibal is worried that he is just imagining it. 

“Are you going to kill him for it?” His eyebrows are raised. Maybe Hannibal is feeling extra sentimental because of his almost brush with death, but he is reminded of how much he enjoys seeing Will’s expressional eyebrows. He is so easy to read. At least when he isn’t trying to deceive Hannibal. 

“No,” Hannibal says simply. Will’s eyebrows stay raised curiously, so he continues. “It would be a fruitless death, since we would have no way of harvesting and preserving the organs until we reach Montana.” 

“So resourceful.” 

“A farmer does not kill his cattle just to waste their product.”

Will chuckles and Hannibal wishes he could breathe in the sound and coat his very soul with it. 

“You would do well to embrace relaxation more often, Will. It is quite becoming of you.” 

“Easy for you to say. You don’t possess enough emotions to feel worried.” Hannibal furrows his eyebrows at this and retracts his hand from Will’s brown curls to look him in the eyes with a serious stare. 

“The emotions I feel when in your presence are far more profound than anyone else could hope to experience in their lifetime.” Will stares at him with an expression that even Hannibal cannot decode. Maybe Will himself is not even sure of what he feels. 

“What do you feel when in my presence then, Doctor Lecter.” He challenges, sounding like he does not believe a word that Hannibal has said. 

“I feel like the ocean, inexorably drawn to the moon, utterly powerless to resist its pull.” His voice lowers to a whisper, coated with sincerity. “To be at your mercy, Will, is the only joy I find worth seeking in this world.” 

He truly believes this to be true. Everything else that brings him elation pales in comparison to Will. He would never again have to eat, sleep or drink if he got to spend the rest of his days in Will’s presence. He would do anything to keep him, but he knows it is not that simple. He has no control over Will’s choices, and barely any power to convince him to stay, if he chose to leave. 

Will’s body tenses and his face contorts with uncertainty. They are quiet for a very long time. The only sound in the room is their slow, even breathing and the buzzing of electricity from the AC. Every so often, a car speeds by outside. It’s so quiet that Hannibal thinks he can hear Will’s heart beating. 

“I’m not…some kind of force of nature,” Will finally protests, but it sounds weak and lacking in conviction. The protest feels hollow, as if he is simply not ready to confront the fact that Hannibal feels this way. 

“Not to anyone but me,” Hannibal answers honestly. Will smiles a little at that. Hannibal considers trying to wrap his compliments in insults to get around Will’s humble nature in the future. The silence returns and this time they don’t break it until Will turns on the TV again to resume the watching of horrible nature documentaries. 

Chapter Text

They leave a couple of hours later, after Will decides he is bored of watching the animals of the savannah. 

The days following are quite monotone, but if anything it helps to calm Will’s nerves. The further they get from Baltimore, the more relaxed he becomes and the more sure of the choice he made he feels. He didn’t sail across the Atlantic to change his mind now. Sometimes, on the long stretches of roads with no curves and with flat fields surrounding them, Will watches Hannibal’s face and tries to be completely honest with himself. He digs around in his own mind and tries to assemble any crumbs of doubt, but the longer they drive the less of it he feels. He follows the marks his fingers have left around the older man’s neck. Hannibal has started wearing a scarf when they stop to eat or to get gas, but in the car he takes it off and gives Will a free view of the bruises. He knows that Hannibal knows he’s staring, and he also knows that the other doesn’t mind that he enjoys looking at them. Hannibal is probably more positive to Will giving into his violent urges than Will is. 

Will offers to drive a couple of times and Hannibal lets him once, but never again after as Will nervously asked for directions miles before any turn had to be made. Hannibal, who had attempted to sleep, had finally asked him to pull over and change seats with him, because he couldn’t “breathe in the anxiety Will was spewing.” It wasn’t that Will was a bad driver. He just desperately didn’t want to make this trip any longer than it had to be. At night he dreamt about a forest or a field passing by quickly, and sometimes, along the side of the road he would see himself on top of Hannibal with his hands gripped around his neck. They sleep in Motels. Once they get separate beds and once more they share a double again. Hannibal never seems worried that Will might do it again. Maybe he wouldn’t care if he did. 

On the third day of driving, Will is positive he is going to claw his way out of his own head and ascend to a higher plane of existence, for he has experienced the boredom of a lifetime. Hannibal brought a singular book with him and it's about renaissance art, which interests Will about as much as the bottom of a shoe. The only art that has ever kept his interest is the one related to Hannibal. He flipped through it, trying to find something he could later reference to throw in the face of Hannibal, but found nothing. 

His leg is bouncing and he is sure he is going to get sick if his eyes stay on the swindling road any longer. Will and Hannibal have talked a lot. About trivial things, mostly, because after the first night in the motel Will fears what Hannibal might say if he asks him anything past surface-level trivia. Once they even played I spy, which Hannibal was terrible at because he refuses to use common-tongue adjectives. 

He isn’t stupid or suffering from amnesia, he knows that Hannibal loves him. Hungers for him, as Bedelia so poetically put it. But there’s a difference between deducting it (and hearing it from someone else) and having it told to him through poetic lines in a dark room, with nowhere else to go. Especially when this happens right after an involuntary murder attempt. They haven’t spoken about that either. Hannibal has already drawn his conclusion and is no longer curious enough to ask about it, and Will promptly refuses to even speak about it. 

His recent days have been filled with nothing but confusion, but that night truly takes the cake. Waking up with his hands wrapped around Hannibal's throat, and after the initial shock, seeing nothing but serenity on his face. The kindness and patience and outright encouragement he was met with was so absurd that it was impossible to swallow. His own thoughts had to be chewed a couple of extra times as well. He was of course mortified, but not because he could see the life slipping out of Hannibal. Not because he realized what he was capable of. He was just scared that his sleepwalking was coming back. The other things he had started to come to terms with. When he chose a life with Hannibal he had chosen to turn to the darkness within him, and he is working on not letting it scare him. It’s still an uphill battle.

Although, the silence is murdering him. Recently, towards the end of the day before, they bickered so badly about which radio channel to tune into that Hannibal shut it off completely and now every time Will has tried to turn it on, even to something as mundane as the news, Hannibal has slapped his hand away. With every breath he takes he feels his will for life slipping out of him and he needs to say something. He needs to talk about something else than personalized ice cream flavours or preferred prefixes. 

“I’m afraid that if I don’t understand what I’m capable of doing or why I want to do it, I won't be able to stop doing it once I start.” He spits out. Hannibal turns to him and regards him for a second while Will obsessively scratches at the various scars littering his hands. 

“You are speaking of your violent tendencies?” Hannibal asks, or assumes, Will can’t always tell. 

“Yes.” He swallows. 

“You are not a wild beast, Will. You will be able to control yourself if it is necessary.” He sounds so confident, but Will isn’t sure. Hannibal has intense moments of impulsivity, but most of the time he is in complete control of himself. He always does the things he does deliberately. He isn’t sure that he will ever be able to relate to the uncertainty Will feels. 

“This isn’t like anything else in my life, I can’t just assume I will act a certain way because that’s the way I usually am. This- this isn’t natural.” Hannibal looks at him again, with a still and unreadable mask. 

“It is natural, Will. It’s an impulse or sometimes a want that people actively have to disregard to function in a society. It is far from unnatural,” he says and Will can't protest before he continues. “Besides, you underestimate yourself. You are not one to be ruled by impulse, even if you feel as if you are. You are too intelligent for that. You will find out in time what it is that you want from this life and when you do, you will be entirely in control of yourself. But before that you must stop fearing who you are.” Hannibal looks at him. “Tell me, truthfully, why are you afraid of your capabilities?” 

Will sighs. That question is far too complicated to answer immediately. He considers it for a long time. He is afraid to lose control by giving into something he has repressed for so long. Before he met Hannibal he wasn’t even sure if that part of him existed, and then he proceeded to spend years fighting it. He can’t imagine what will happen if (when) he gives into it. Then there is the undeniable guilt. If he committed to it, he would have to admit that he truly is a monster with little regard for the value of human life. He isn’t sure that’s him. It would be selfish for him to take someone's life just to gain satisfaction from the power it fills him with. He wonders if that’s why Hannibal chooses his victims by their place on the rudeness scale. But he soon remembers that Hannibal, in fact, has little to no regard for the value of human life. He values timelessness and metaphors and art. He will kill someone for the sole reason of making a point. But he never kills without a reason. 

“I guess it just-” he feels so stupid saying it that he shuts his mouth. Hannibal looks at him, urging him to continue. “It’s just so selfish.” He sighs. 

He realizes that Hannibal is never going to understand how he feels, although he may sympathize. But Hannibal is a selfish, narcissistic creature. He doesn’t care about anything but himself. 

“You are a highly empathetic man, Will.” He can’t help but laugh. Tell him something he doesn’t know. Hannibal ignores him and continues. “You immerse yourself in the minds of everyone around you. You understand them just as you deeply understand yourself. It's only natural for you to consider the worth of another human's life before taking it. The question is not if they deserve to die, for that is up to interpretation. The true question is whether you value yourself higher than them. You have taken lives before—in self-defense, in protection of others. In those moments, you placed something of greater importance above the worth of their lives. The question now is: could you place your own pleasure, your own fulfillment, above the life of another?”

His words resonate with Will in a way that not much has done before. Maybe he should consider being honest with Hannibal more often. He is a psychiatrist after all. 

A psychiatrist that kept your brain on fire for his own amusement and pretended to comfort you. He reminds himself. But he pushes that thought away. He doesn’t want to be reminded of that. 

“That would depend on who it is,” he mumbles and his eyes are glued to the road, but he can still sense Hannibal looking at him intensely. 

“Then we shall find someone for you to practice on,” Hannibal decides smoothly and Will rolls his eyes. That will be easier said than done. 

A silence falls between them again and Will realizes that, despite having come to a slightly better understanding of himself, he still feels worried. He looks at Hannibal, whose expression is calm and unmoving. He looks at peace and composed, which feels like (as per usual) the total opposite of what Will is feeling. 

“I’m worried-” he starts and stops to swallow. Being vulnerable is incredibly far down on the list of things he enjoys doing. Eating bugs is probably higher. “I’m worried that if I can’t succumb to it or…if I don't truly enjoy doing it then you will no longer have any interest in me.” And then he would have nothing left in his life. No wife, no friends, no home. He is completely in the hands of The Chesapeake ripper.

Hannibal looks at him and he seems almost shocked. Will doesn’t think Hannibal is capable of experiencing shock so mild surprise is probably the closest he will see.

“My interest in you, Will, is as immutable as the pull of the earth beneath your feet. You do not have to worry. Whether you revel in it or resist it you are no less extraordinary to me. You would have to try harder than that to lose my interest.” It’s comforting and sincere and it would’ve slowed Will’s racing heart, but instead it has the opposite effect. For completely different reasons than before, his heart races in his chest and he urgently looks away and out the window. Right below vulnerability is receiving compliments. 

“What do I say to that,” Will asks honestly and Hannibal turns his attention back towards the road. 

“A simple thank you would suffice.” He smiles while speaking and it sounds like a joke, but Will thanks him anyway. In a moment that catches Will off guard, Hannibal reaches out his hand and places it on top of Will’s, which is fidgeting obsessively with his sleeve.

“Try not to worry about the future so much. Focus on the now.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Will’s hand for just a moment before his hand retreats to the wheel. “Now, where would you like to stop for food.”

Will feels far away enough to stop at a gas station for something other than gas. Hannibal looks truly horrified and Will can’t help but delight in it. There is something highly amusing about subjecting Hannibal to the mundanities of life and seeing it tear down his composure so greatly. 

The gas station is practically empty. There’s a family in the magazine-aisle with a pair of young, loud kids. Hannibal glares at them in an uncharacteristically discomposed way and Will is happy to remember that even Hannibal is above killing children. He grabs him by the arm and leads them to an aisle a bit away to look for “snacks for the road” which Will initially had rejected but after three days he is tired of waiting for their strange restaurant visits to eat. He buys a bag of chips and a bag of hard-candies. Hannibal stands behind him, looking like an out of place talk-show host with his suit and his hands patiently clasped in front of him. At least he’s not wearing a three piece. 

“Oh, look!” Will exclaims excitedly when his eyes land on a green bottle a bit away. The wine shelf is small and pathetic, but it’s not the quality which is attracting him. He heads up to it and grabs a bottle at random, presenting it to Hannibal. 

“I will be dead before that passes my lips,” Hannibal says. His tone is neutral but his face is pulled into a displeased grimace. Will rolls his eyes.

“Sure, we’ll see.” And suddenly his mission for the night is to get Hannibal wine drunk on cheap wine. He grabs two bottles and heads to the register, where he also purchases a hot dog. He realizes he is already pushing his limits with Hannibal and does not try to offer him one. 

When they head back to the car a man, who looks to be about 25 and on the brink of death, approaches them. He is wearing a red beanie and an ill fitting jacket and even when he’s standing a bit away, Will can smell the caked on body odor. He looks completely worn out and it’s slightly concerning considering that they are pretty much in the middle of nowhere and he looks (to put it nicely) raggedy as hell. Hannibal is about to continue walking but Will stops them. 

“You have a lighter?” His voice is croaky and unpleasant. Will presses his lips together and shakes his head. 

“Sorry,” he simply responds and is about to head back to the car when he realizes that Hannibal is not following.

“I trust you are aware that smoking at a gas-station is ill-advised and possibly dangerous.” Convincing words from a serial killer. 

“What?” The man looks genuinely confused. 

“You are surrounded by gas tanks, a mere spark could convert this entire place to ash.”

“Whatever, you old fuck. I’ll just ask someone else.” Will has to bite the inside of his cheek (which would be healing quicker if he wasn’t nibbling on it all the time) to not smile at the way Hannibal’s face drops. For a second he is genuinely worried that Hannibal is going to stop the guy from walking away and snap his neck right there, but he is far too well composed for such acts. He blinks a couple of times, and Will can see the very well disguised strain on his face as he returns to the car. Once seated, Will laughs. 

“How terribly rude,” Hannibal grumbles and Will’s laugh grows. 

“Poor Hannibal. You must have lost your flare. Not even the junkies respect you.” 

Hannibal glares at him and it would probably have been smarter to stay silent. 

“I strive for the respect of cultured people, thank you. But I fear you are right. I might need to reinstate my reputation.” 

“You weren’t rewarded with respect for killing people.” 

“I did not say that was what I was going to do.”

“It was insinuated.” 

“Was it, now?”

Now it's Will’s turn to glare at Hannibal, who in turn looks a little pleased. 

“We should lay low, anyways. No fancy dinner parties or exclusive jobs.” 

“Initially, yes I agree. But a life without exploring your passions is not a life worth living.” It sounds incredibly dramatic, but Will suspects that he’s not talking about his passions for throwing parties. 

The rest of the ride feels better than it did in the morning. Will annoys Hannibal by getting crumbs on the seats, but despite that they get along very well the entire rest of the ride. It proves to only take a couple of more hours and when they arrive at their new home, the sun is only just starting to brush with the horizon. 

Will is, to put it delicately, delighted. The last fifteen minutes of the ride was through a barely-road in a thick forest where moss hugged the trees and the entire world looked green. Finally at the house, it’s large (because Hannibal could obviously not have it any other way) but still manages to look homey, and it’s located right next to a softly rippling river. Will gets the childish urge to jump up and down, but he contains himself, because he’s a thirty-eight year old man, and that would be ridiculous. 

He settles for saying “wow” in a tone that does not at all convey his inner happiness. Hannibal smiles at him knowingly and they enter the house. 

“Shall I carry you over the threshold?” Hannibal asks and glances at Will over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised. Will ‘tsks’ unamusedly. 

“Yeah, right…” He scoffs but when Hannibal stops and continues looking at him he has to furrow his eyebrows and exclaim: “No!”

Hannibal carries the suitcase and Will carries the wine into the house. The exterior is in dark wood with black roof tiles. They have to ascend a flight of stairs to reach the front door. Hannibal tells him that the door below the deck is a food cellar, which can also be reached from the kitchen. Will sours at the image of the food they will store down there.

 The interior reminds him of Hannibal’s old home. He clearly has a taste. It’s dark but not afraid to be colorful, with fancy paintings Will doesn’t recognize. To their left there’s an open fire in a dark, gray stone and a furry rug that is large enough to envelop the entirety of what is the living room. It’s not massive by any means, but big enough to fit a large couch and multiple bookshelves. Close to the fireplace resides a piano. 

To their right is a kitchen. It’s smaller and homier than Hannibal’s, which seemed far more professional. This one still has ample counter space and a large refrigerator so it should be sufficient. The dining room is connected to the kitchen and the table is spacious but not large enough to host a famous Hannibal Dinner Party. 

Hannibal leads him upstairs after they have placed the wine on the counter and shows him their respective bedrooms. Hannibal places the luggage in his own room. There is a single bathroom on the second floor. A door at the edge of the corridor leads into a study with an easel and even more bookshelves. Will wonders how long it would take to read all the books in this house. He supposes he won’t have a whole lot of other things to do. 

“There are clothes in the dresser, but they might not be to your taste. We will buy new ones if you desire them,” Hannibal says as they descend the stairs again. “You should make yourself at home, Will. I must head to the store-” and you’re too much of a nuisance in public to come with . He doesn’t say it but he can imagine him doing so clear as day. Will shrugs. 

“Sure, okay.” 

“Do you need me to buy anything for you?” 

Will shakes his head and Hannibal nods, giving his shoulder a friendly pat before he leaves the house. Will amuses himself by lighting a fire which he warms himself by for a while, before he inevitably gets bored and heads to the couch where he grabs a random book, which disappoints him by also being about art (and also in italian). He scours the bookshelves for something to read and slowly comes to the realization that Hannibal is truly the most boring and pretentious person alive. 

Instead of the living room, he goes to the study, where he finally finds a book about world war two, which is far more interesting than the integrities of modernism paintings. The study reminds him quite a bit of Hannibal’s office. There are two recliners, but they don't face each other. Instead they are placed next to each other, hugging a small brown side-table. There’s a desk placed awkwardly in the middle of the room and a lavish rug. Will heads down to the living room again and lays on the couch. 

The book is good, undoubtedly, but the silence of the house bothers him. He hasn’t lived in a silent house for many years. He’s always had his dogs or his family. Now he’s entirely alone. He stands up after what feels like eternity, but is probably more like an hour. The deck wraps around the outside of the house and he walks out to the back where he watches the flowing river. It feels far more serene than the suffocating quiet of the house. The last warm rays of the sun dance on the surface of the water through an opening in the treeline, and the cold air bites his cheeks. 

He feels like he stands there forever, and it eventually gets dark. The light of the sun being drowned by the dark of the night. He is about to start thinking about heading inside when the hairs on the back of his neck inexplicably stand up. He flinches harshly and spins around, only to be met by Hannibal standing there, looking at him. 

“Did I frighten you, Will?” He asks and the semblance of a smirk is starting to form on his lips. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than to sneak up on people in the dark?” Will grumples with a breath of exasperation as he walks back through the sliding glass door and into the kitchen. Hannibal follows him and is still smiling when he answers.

“It was not my intention to scare you.” Will looks at him with a raised eyebrow and Hannibal relents and adds: “...initially.” 

“Not winning any points for your civility today, are you, Hannibal.” 

“I am sorry, Will.” But that stupid smile is still on his face and Will is utterly convinced that he isn’t the least bit sorry and secretly relishes in being able to scare Will. If only he knew. Will goes to the counter and checks inside the multiple grocery bags. Boring things like vegetables and flour and other staple ingredients. He would have expected nothing less, although perhaps something more. He glances at Hannibal, who is once again smiling at him, as if he has read his thoughts. “I thought you would want to join me when the time came for that.” Will doesn’t know how to respond. 

“What are you going to cook then,” he mumbles distractedly and sits down on one of the rustic bar stools by the kitchen island. 

“You are assuming I will cook,” Hannibal states mischievously.

“Would you prefer me to try?” Will thinks back to his usual meals. He is good at preparing fish, although he doesn’t have the extensive palette of Hannibal Lecter. His fish is mostly served with lemon, butter and potatoes and is not much more complicated than that. Most other days he used to scavenge the fridge for whatever was quickest to shove into his mouth, if he had the appetite to eat at all. Being a specialist in investigating morbid crime scenes is a pretty effective appetite suppressant. 

“No,” Hannibal answers hastily and starts unloading the groceries. Will considers helping him but is still a bit grumpy from the ambush on the balcony. Instead, he rummages through the cabinets until he finds two wine glasses. He opens the wine, which smells okay. He pours them each a glass and hands one to Hannibal, who doesn’t even have the courtesy to accept it, forcing Will to place it on the wooden counter instead. Once again, very rude. 

“You owe me for scaring me earlier,” he says while taking a sip of the wine. It coats his mouth and is slightly tangy but not at all as awful as Hannibal is making it out to be.

“Persuading a person into consuming alcohol for the sake of someone else is commonly referred to as “peer-pressure.” But despite this, Hannibal seems weak to Will’s requests and grabs the glass. He gives it a sniff, grimaces, but tastes anyway. “Truly a degrading experience.”

“Eh whatever, lighten up. We need to consummate our new home.” 

“In that matter, I could agree- although this resembles a bad omen.” Hannibal takes a sip of the wine again and Will forgives him for startling him. He is clearly going out on a limb for Will’s sake.

“Can I help?” Will asks and Hannibal beams at him. 

“You are always welcome to, Will.” He grabs a knife which he places in Will’s hand. “Would you be so kind as to dice those tomatoes?” He gestures to the ones he has carried with him for the past couple of days. They are a bit softer than one would prefer but Will isn’t the picky kind. He immediately gets to it. 

“You still haven’t told me what we’re making.” He watches as Hannibal produces a meat grinder, which is completely ridiculous for a simple dinner, but he would have expected nothing less. He seems to be making sausage. 

“I will be serving a chorizo in a seasonal tomato sauce served with a side of charred bell peppers.” Will hums and nods and takes a sip of his wine before presenting the finished tomatoes to Hannibal. He is elbow deep in shoving a piece of meat into the grinder which produces the ground substance into a white intestine. Hannibal nods and smiles. “There is a pot over there, drizzle some olive oil in it and start heating up the tomatoes.” 

Will obliges and does just that, cautiously stirring the entire time. Sometimes he glances at Hannibal, and in between the twisting of the links of the chorizo, his eyes are almost exclusively glued to Will with a look that makes his insides churn. The soft gleam of the ceiling light bounces on his cheekbones and Will suddenly realizes that he has shaved and his hair is wet. He must have showered after returning from the store. How long had Will stood outside? Now in comparison, Will feels grimey and dirty and unkempt. Surprisingly, Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, because he looks like he’s trying to savor this version of Will with every breath he takes. 

Hannibal works quickly and soon places the finished link on a sheet pan, which he places in the oven to cook. He transitions into chopping bell peppers up and once he is done, which is way quicker than when Will was chopping tomatoes, Hannibal scoots him away from the stove by bumping his hip against Will’s. 

“I would kindly request you to go shower, Will. The aroma you are carrying is not agreeing with my senses.” In other words ‘Will, you stink like a horse go wash up before you ruin my appetite.’ Will wants to say something rude back, but huffs and heads up the stairs to shower. 

The bathroom is luxuriously decorated with gold and navy blue and Will considers it over the top, because it’s a bathroom. But he also doesn’t care (because it’s a bathroom.)

He steps into the shower and the warm water washes down on him like a heavy rainfall. He already feels himself settling comfortably here. Downstairs he hears Hannibal put on some classical music, which he rolls his eyes at. But it eliminates the suffocating silence he disliked so much so who is he to complain. He washes his hair and the shampoo smells of lavender and the body wash of citrus. It’s a massive step in the right direction in comparison to the cheap motel soaps he has been utilizing the last couple of days.

Once he feels adequately clean, which is barred higher than his standards were before since Hannibal has the nose of a dog, he steps out of the shower. Promptly, he grabs a towel and more so assaults his hair than dries it in an attempt to hurry up. He wraps the towel around his waist and goes to his assigned bedroom. It’s better than the one in the cliff-house. Once again, Will isn’t picky about his decor. He lived in a jail cell for quite a while. He heads to the dresser and styles himself in a pair of black slacks and a red flannel shirt. He feels like a lumberjack, or perhaps like his old self. He heads downstairs and Hannibal immediately smiles at him. It makes him a bit uncomfortable how delighted the doctor always seems to see him. 

“I am almost finished with dinner.” He announces happily and Will forces a small smile and joins him again. He grabs his glass of wine and sees that Hannibal has drunk none the entire time he was gone. Such an eye-pleaser. 

He takes a sip from the glass and then another and soon he has downed the entire thing which causes him to receive a slightly concerned look from Hannibal, but he quickly pours himself another one and sits down again. 

The wine grows more and more bearable the more his taste buds get used to it, and he retreats to placing his arms on the counter and resting his forehead against them. He once again starts feeling conflicted, because he can feel that he’s afraid of Hannibal. He knows that the man standing across the kitchen island from him, currently armed with a very sharp knife, is the greatest threat to his life currently. He knows what he is capable of and sometimes he thinks that his instincts can sense something even more. Something more dangerous than what he is already aware of. At the same time, he can’t get enough of it. When Hannibal was in the shower at the motels or at the store, he immediately longed for his presence again. Perhaps he was an adrenaline junkie. That would somehow be more comforting than the idea that he was simply utterly obsessed with a monster. But the monster is smiling and has now taken the Chorizo out and started frying it in a sea of butter and garlic. He looks like any other normal man. 

He has his white shirt sleeves rolled up and an apron tied around his waist. His face is relaxed and captivating and he looks like cooking is as easy as breathing for him. Hannibal looks genuinely happy. Not with the sadistic or mischievous or curious undertone he sometimes has. Just plain, normal, happy. Will wants to convince himself that this is what he wants. He can disregard the murder and sadism and sociopathy, if he gets this for the rest of his life. But deep down inside he knows that all that is just as appealing to him as this mundanity. 

He doesn’t want a normal life, maybe because he knows he will never be able to achieve it. Ever since he was little he has been odd and weird, and people have noticed and treated him differently. They treat him like a wounded animal. Outwardly, they’re considerate and compassionate, but always thread carefully as to not frighten him or trigger him into defending himself. Maybe everyone can sense that he is a loose canon. Someone who fears losing control because it has been taken from him so many times before, and because he never knows if he really has it. He wonders if he has ever made a decision for himself or if everything he has ever done has been guided by his insistent want to please others. He knew he should have left the FBI when he started hallucinating (even if that was mostly unrelated to the brutal cases he investigated). But he stayed for the sake of saving lives and because he didn’t want to disappoint Jack. 

Maybe, the only thing he has ever done for himself was travel across the world to find Hannibal, and that was utterly self destructive. Maybe he is simply unable to grant himself peace and joy, because he doesn’t believe he deserves it. 

But he did have it. He got incredibly close to it, at least, with Molly. But there was always something. A hole that couldn’t be filled. Was that his fault or Hannibals? If Hannibal had left instead of turning himself in, would Will have been able to forget about him, or would he just have uprooted his life and gone to the corners of the world to find him again. 

For a moment, he thought of Victor Frankenstein, who pursued his monster to the ends of the earth. Frankenstein had known he couldn’t apprehend his creation, yet the guilt of bringing such a thing into existence—and abandoning it to the unforgiving world—had consumed him. Was Will with Hannibal for similar reasons? Did he feel compelled to control the life of the murderer he had unleashed? Had he joined Hannibal out of guilt for breaking him free and setting him loose upon the world? Was his conscience heavy with remorse for allowing Hannibal to reshape his mind, to coax him into accepting his own dark desires? He didn’t think so. Not really.

He looks at his ring. It’s not much more than a simple silver band. It feels like his only remaining tie to the real world, free of Hannibal. He takes it off and puts it in his pocket. 

He realizes that Hannibal has been eyeing him, and looks up. He swallows down the unsettling whirlwind of thoughts with a sip of wine. 

“Lost in thought, again, dear Will?” 

“I suppose so,” he sighs and twirls the red liquid in the glass. He thinks back to the last time they shared a bottle of wine together. Right before Francis attacked them. He remembers looking down at Hannibal, bleeding on the floor. He should have looked weak then, but he didn’t. He remained just as composed as he always was. It fascinated Will. How was he so incredibly in control of himself regardless of the situation? He had studied him to see what he would do, if he would break. He wondered how far he would have to push the cannibal to see real humanity in him. The second glass of wine was also downed quickly. 

Hannibal abandons the food, but not before he lowers the heat. He walks around the counter and reaches Will quickly. He places his hands on either side of his face, and when Will is sitting and Hannibal is standing, he towers over him unsettlingly. His thumbs brush over his cheekbones and the rest of his fingers tangle into his wet hair in a soft binding of them. 

“Everything is okay now, Will. You have all the time in the world to figure yourself out here.” He looks into his eyes with an intensity that is unusual. “I want you to be your happiest, most fulfilled self, no matter what that entails. Do not hesitate to ask me for anything.” 

It’s totally not what Will was worried about, but it’s somewhat comforting anyways. Will relents and leans his head to the side, into the warm palm of Hannibal’s hand. He smells of cooking and it’s not very good, but it’s Hannibal, and it calms him adequately.

Even if he wouldn’t delve into his murderous impulses, what does it say about him that he is so comfortable around a man like Hannibal? Isn’t that equally bad, just in a different way? And if he knows one thing for sure, it’s that his feelings for Hannibal is something he cannot control. 

“Will you aid me in setting the table?” Will presumes that it’s less about the table’s need to be set, and more about Hannibal wanting to keep him busy, but he does it anyway. The silverware is as decorative as the rest of the house with swirly patterns in silver. Hannibal takes the food to the table and plates it. The tomato sauce is spread across the plate and two chorizos are placed on a bed of bell peppers with a darkly charred skin. Will has to admit that he has missed Hannibal’s cooking. Again, he isn’t picky, but this does surpass gas station hotdogs. 

They sit down, and Hannibal, almost demonstratively, pleases Will by drinking the wine. Will uproots his entire life and turns his soul inside out to fit into Hannibal's world. In return, Hannibal reluctantly drinks cheap wine. A fair exchange.

The food is unsurprisingly exquisite. It’s rich in garlic and herbs and the tomato sauce is sweet and pairs well with the smoky bell pepper and the salty chorizo. Will catches himself humming appreciatively around the metal of the fork. 

“It’s good,” he compliments. 

“My meals most usually are.”

“Most people tend to say ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you, Will. I am thoroughly delighted that you are enjoying it.” Will rolls his eyes. They finish their meal in almost complete silence, which is comfortable. Their easy conversation topics ran out during their roadtrip. Once they are done and have washed their dishes darkness has fallen over the house entirely. Tonight, there is no moon, and the darkness of the night feels uneasy. Will heads back to the cabin and feeds it some more wood, which causes the fire to cast a warm light on the living room. 

Hannibal lays down on the couch, in a manner that looks exceptionally casual. Will gets an urge to recline next to him, but instead he settles on the rug in front of the fire. It smells sour of smoke and he inhales it hungrily. It feels like winter and camping after a long hike. He sips his wine. Will is pretty sure he has made his way through the entire bottle alone, and he feels like it. His permanent state of anxiety feels dulled. He pulls his knees up to his chest and stares into the flames that dance over the wood. Slowly consuming it to keep themselves alive.

“The fire cannot exist without the wood, but the wood cannot survive the fire,” he says, because it sounds like something that would resonate with Hannibal. Something that he would enjoy. 

“The fire does not eradicate the wood. It simply transforms it into something else.” 

“Charcoal.”

“Yes, and who is to say that charcoal is worth less than wood?”

“How poetic,” will glooms. Hannibal smiles at him. 

“You initiated it.”

Will thinks for a moment.

“Who initiated this?”

“What do you mean by that, Will?”

“Us…”

“I reckon I did,” Hannibal says and he sounds proud. 

“I don’t.”

“Do you believe you did?” Will looks at Hannibal, who was sat up to look straight at Will, eyes boring into him.

“No… I don’t think either of us had a say in the matter.” Hannibal smiles at this. 

“Since our first meeting I have strived to keep you in my life.”

“But how much of that was really about me and not just you finding my brain intriguing?”

“What are you if not your brain, Will?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Hannibal sighs a bit and adjusts, reclining against the back cushions. The distance between them feels vast. 

“My initial interest was in your special capabilities, yes. But from the moment I got to know you for who you truly were, your unique mind was irrelevant. I enjoy the entirety of you.” Will doesn’t answer. “How do you feel, Will?”

“About you?” He adjusts uncomfortably. 

“Yes.”

“I feel like…I still don’t have a choice in the matter, like I never have.” His voice sounds quiet and he finishes the very last drops in his glass and puts it down on the floor next to him. 

“Do you believe you are trapped by me?” Hannibal sounds almost worried. 

“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean…I think I was drawn to you from the very beginning. I fear that my soul needs you to bear itself.” The silence between them hangs heavy after this, as if Hannibal is regarding it carefully. For a long time, it’s only the crackling of the fire which is heard. Then, so suddenly that Will jumps, Hannibal speaks again. 

“Are you happy, Will.” Will laughs a little, because it feels like such a commonly recurring question. Then his laugh dies. 

“I’m afraid that I’ll never allow myself to be happy, no matter what I do.” When he meets Hannibal’s eyes, they look dark and saddened. 

“Can you settle for contentment?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I believe your capacity for joy is far greater than you dare to believe. Allowing oneself to embrace pleasure is rarely uncomplicated.”  Hannibal’s voice is calm and fond and Will gives up his own pride and goes to join him on the couch. There’s still an appropriate amount of space between them, but they look at each other and lock eyes. Hannibal smiles reassuringly and Will allows himself to nod, and hopes that he is right. Hannibal offers his hand and Will slowly and hesitantly places his own in it. Hannibal hugs his fingers and gives a firm, warm squeeze. 

“It will be okay,” Will steals the words out of Hannibal’s mouth before he gets the chance to say them, and with a proud approval, Hannibal nods. 

“Indeed they will.”

Chapter Text

That night when Hannibal retires to his room the image of Will’s piercing eyes is still fresh in his mind. Tormenting him. The wall that divides their spaces mocks him cruelly, making the distance between them feel unbearable. In the dark of his room he indulged in reminiscing about the day that had passed, and all their conversations. He wishes to savor the way that Will sounded when worrying about Hannibal’s devotion. He enjoyed watching the inner struggle Will experienced when balancing on the thin line between their worlds. He could see the tightrope tipping towards himself. 

Hannibal felt a decadent warmth in the space behind his ribs. It nuzzled against his lungs and every breath he expelled felt warmer than the one before. If he closes his eyes he can pretend that the sound of Will’s breathing reaches him through the walls. The struggle between them, the one consisting of Will doubting and Hannibal assuring him, felt not like a fight- but instead the making of a delectable art work. If he could put it onto a canvas in oil and pigment and hang it in his office he would never again tear his eyes away. 

The air around him presses him down into the softness of the mattress and every time he closes his eyes he is met with a vivid image of Will staring up at him. The imagination is vivid, much like all his other daydreams about Will. He has spent many hours of his life fantasizing about Will, unashamedly. 

He sees Will staring at him just as if he was there in flesh and blood. The silence between them hangs heavy, as it most usually does. The blues of Will’s irises are bright like the sky and cold as ice. Hannibal swallows the view hungrily. He brings his hands up to the chiseled sides of his face and brushes his thumb over the dark strands of beard decorating his jaw. Will leans into his hands and his eyes close to cover the intense blue. Hannibal leans down and tenderly catches Will’s lips with his own. Will responds by wrapping his arms around Hannibal and aggressively grasping to the fabric of his shirt. The heat of Will’s breath licks at Hannibal’s face between kisses and he wraps his hands into the soft curls of his hair. Will’s familiar smell envelops Hannibal and fills his chest with sticky adoration. 

He lets his hands wander down from Will’s face and explore his shoulders. He brushes his fingers over the skin on his collarbones which the collar of his shirt reveals. Will shudders and his lips tug into a small smile. Hannibal wishes he could swallow it and keep it in him forever. He pulls back and looks at Will, who’s kissed-red-lips smile up at him happily.

He opens his eyes again and stares up at the ceiling. His patience with Will is not something that he is planning on abandoning, but he would be dishonest if he said it did not tear on him. He is so close and yet so far. Just on the other side of the wall, sometimes right in front of him, sometimes between the palms of Hannibal’s hands. But yet he is further from allowing Hannibal to act on his aspirations than ever before. His fear of himself and the future is driving a stubborn wedge between them. Hannibal has never let anyone know him like this before, and he does not know how to handle someone knowing his true self and fearing him for it. At least not someone he cares for. 

The hours of the night tick by without Hannibal ever managing to reach a truly deep sleep. He shifts in and out of consciousness but in the morning he is up as usual. He showers, shaves and combs his hair which is starting to grow a little longer than he tended to keep it while in prison. He regards himself in the mirror. Will the man he sees there ever truly gain the love and trust of Will Graham, beyond mutual obsession and conjoinment? Does he even need that when he is so acutely aware that Will has decided he cannot live without him?

The question follows him as he trails down to the kitchen where he prepares breakfast in anticipation of Will’s awakening. Every time he imagines the scruffy man walking down the stairs in his sleep wear (he probably has not even brushed his teeth by then, much less groomed himself to the standards Hannibal keeps himself to) a flutter of excitement rises in his throat. He believes that he could live a mundane life if he gets to experience that every day. The dream of a domestic life with Will has followed him for a long time, but Hannibal can not ignore that he is destined for more than mundanity. He is meant to live lavishly and have many acquaintances and admirers. He cheers himself up by reminding himself that this is merely the beginning. 

 Breakfast is a thick slice of sourdough bread with chevre crumbled over it and melted in the oven. Upon that he drizzles honey and balsamic vinegar. He garnishes it with quartered figs. Just as he has finished their plates Will walks down the stairs and into the kitchen. He is rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes and has neglected to wear his glasses. He looks adequately ill-groomed and Hannibal gloats. 

“Good morning,” his voice is raspy and ridden with sleep. He heads over and stands next to Hannibal, his scent crowding into Hannibal's nostrils. He knows that Will can hear him inhale, but he must be used to it (or perhaps embarrassed) because he neglects to say anything. He looks at the food and points at a plate. “Mine?” he asks. Will is a man of few words in the morning.

“Correctly guessed.” Hannibal smiles and Will brings the plate with him to sit at a bar stool. He takes a bite and nods. He does not say anything but his continuous eating is enough. Hannibal joins him and they eat in silence. Will eyes him a lot, never in bursts longer than a few seconds, but enough to make Hannibal curious. He does not get to ask before Will unhappily sneers. 

“You look awfully kept together.”

“What do you mean?” Hannibal looks down at his red shirt tucked into his khaki slacks. If anything this is one of his more casual looks. 

“I mean that it’s eight in the morning and you look like you’ve been up for hours.” Will looks down and regards himself while speaking. He’s wearing flannel pyjama pants and a white t-shirt which is still a bit damp with sweat. He must have had nightmares. 

“I did not get much sleep, I have been up for quite some time.” Hannibal justifies, neglecting to add that he usually gets up around five AM, and Will groans. 

“That’s even worse, did that sound comforting to you? Because it wasn’t.” His eyebrows are furrowing together and then being drastically raised and his head is tilting to the side as he speaks. He looks mildly erratic. Hannibal chuckles. 

“No need to be jealous Will, you look perfectly in order.” He stands up and takes their dirty plates to the sink where he washes them. Will does not add anything else. After drying the plates and his hands Hannibal turns around. “I am just about to head to the market, is there anything you need?”

“Why can’t I come with?” He looks grumpy again and crosses his arms. He is hunched in on himself as if he is cold, or perhaps just not minding his posture. 

“I am afraid that your skills of inconspicuousness need some polishing,” Hannibal explains kindly. 

“How will I polish them if I can't practice, Doctor?” 

“Next time,” Hannibal promises “I wish to scope out the area just a tad further.”

“Whatever, when will you be back?” Hannibal smiles fondly, because despite his angrily furrowed eyebrows, Will bears just a hint of worry. 

“It should not take more than a few hours, I intend to return in time for lunch.” 

Will nods and Hannibal leaves the kitchen to grab his coat. He feels awfully underdressed, but it will be easier to blend in this way. His proper attire can make its debut in this city at some point in the future. Once they have built a life and reputation, Hannibal can transition into his own comfortable self. Besides, he has lived in a terribly unflattering jumpsuit for the past three years so this is wonderful in comparison. He retrieves his wallet and keys and bids Will, who is moping on the couch, farewell. 

The drive into town is scenic and calming, which delights him for he knows it is something that Will surely will enjoy. His love for nature and its serenity is something that Hannibal, while being somewhat unable to relate to, adores. The car rattles down the dirt road before reaching asphalt a couple of minutes later. A handful of more small stretches follow before he reaches the main road which takes him into town. It’s not the smallest of towns but it is still large enough to have multiple new arrivals per year. They will not be raising any eyebrows. There is even a shopping mall. 

He heads to the farmers market, which he deemed to be quite outstanding when he visited it yesterday. The stands are bright and colorful and run by polite people who are happy to make small talk and are proud of their work, which is always a sign of good quality. His reason for revisiting it so soon is his need for parsnips for their dinner. He plans to make a parsnip triangoli in a white truffle cream sauce. 

“Good morning, sir! You sure got here early,” The chipper old woman who runs the stand says as he approaches. Hannibal smiles at her. 

“One must be early to secure the best produce, right?” She laughs and nods. 

“Sure can’t argue with that! What are you lookin’ for?” She looks down at her array of root vegetables. He points to the parsnips.

“Some of those, a handful should be more than enough.” 

“The recent harvest has been great! I’m sure they will do perfectly in whatever you are going to cook with them!” She grabs five and puts them in a bag which she hands to him. He takes out his wallet. “That should be,” she humorously weighs the bag in her hand before giving it over. “three dollars.” She smiles. Hannibal hands her a five dollar bill. 

“Five if you add in the price of your lovely customer service,” he jokes and it is truly one of his worst, but she laughs gleefully. 

He heads away from the stand and browses further, because it would be a shame to drive here and return with nothing more than a handful of parsnips. There are many great products to be purchased. The air is fresh and cold and has a smell of nature, even this close to the heart of town. There are not more than a dozen people at the market but there is still a happy and friendly chatter passing by his ears as he ventures through it. 

An hour and more chit-chat later he stands with a head of cauliflower and some beets to accompany his parsnips on the ride home. He returns to the car and heads closer to town where he visits the delicatessen. 

It smells rich and aromatic. There are dried lavender stems hanging on a hook next to the door, which has a copper bell above it which happily jingles as he enters. It is truly a text-book-definition of rustic, but very well kept. Behind the bar stands an Italian man who greets him with a “Buongiorno!” and looks extremely pleased when Hannibal returns the greeting in the same language and excited tone. There is only one other woman in the store and she is browsing their vast selection of infused oils, so he heads straight to the counter. 

“May I please have a white truffle and-” he is interrupted by the display of cheeses next to the counter. “-and perhaps a wedge of that cardamom cheese”.

“Sí, of course, signore!” The man goes to grab the wheel of cheese and Hannibal shows with his index-finger and thumb how wide of a wedge he wants. The man takes the wheel to a board behind the counter to split the piece and put it in a cloth. Hannibal entertains himself by absentmindedly glancing around the store at the various exclusive products. 

Instead of being allowed to enjoy that simple pleasure his eyes land on his fellow customer. The woman, who’s black hair is neatly pulled up into a ponytail, is looking at him. Her body is rigidly frozen and her brown eyes are widened. It is undeniable that she has recognized him. Maybe she is not from around here, or she has just heard the news from the east-coast, but in any case it is truly disastrous. They widen even further when they lock eyes, and he can see the breath catch in her throat. He wants to roll his eyes in annoyance, but instead he smiles politely and nods towards her. She does not return the gesture. 

The man, who he presumes to be the owner, quickly returns to him with a bag and Hannibal swiftly pays and leaves the store. He sits in his car for an eternity before the woman dares exit. The refreshing start to the day feels soured. He had intended to debut his career in this town with Will by his side and he is extremely disappointed that that will not be the case. He will have no way to retreat to the home and gather Will without losing track of the woman, and he cannot risk allowing her to tell anyone else. He wants to keep the amount of blood spilled in this minimal. At least until further notice. 

The woman gets into a robust, blue car and quickly drives away. She has not spotted him behind the tinted window of his vehicle. He counts to ten before starting the car and following her. 

They drive for a while, which is assuring. The further from civilization the better. However, the roads are quite empty and the risk of her noticing she is being followed increases with every turn they take. The forest starts to hug the roads menacingly and he wonders where they are going. She must live on the outskirts of town, almost as far away as he and Will, although in the opposite direction. He will have to drive for more than an hour to get home after this. Internally, he celebrates wearing such simple clothes, because without his plastic coverage he will most certainly have to dispose of them when he gets home. On the bright side, he will finally be allowed to serve a dinner that suffices to please him. 

After another while of swindling roads they reach a house. By then he has slowed down and fallen back ahead of another turn, to delude her into feeling safe. Her car is out of sight but the road signs have indicated a dead end. He parks his car close to the side of the road, about a ten minute walk away and trudges through the forest in a truly demeaning manner until he reaches the house. He leaves his jacket, because that is one item he would prefer not to throw away, and the cold is highly unpleasant against his skin. The blue car stands outside, as if it is waiting for him. The house is humble and small, only enough room for a family of two or three. Most of the lights are off except for the ones in the kitchen and living room. 

She has a family. But they are, very fortunately, not home. He stalks around the house and delightfully finds a backdoor which, when he peeks through the window, he realizes leads into a dimly lit corridor. Ahead of him there are descending stairs and two doors on one side of the hallway and a single door on the other. He tries the door, and today might just be his lucky day, for it slides open silently. He reminds himself to thank his dedicated guardian angel for making this easier than it necessarily would have had to be. He has gone through far greater hardships for much less. 

He takes off his shoes to reduce the sound he makes as he walks through the house. It is eerily quiet. The sort of quiet that is only emitted in a house which is used to sound but has none at the moment. He looks at the family pictures which litter the wall in a messy, unorganized fashion. She has a husband and a blonde, doe eyed son. There are countless pictures of them together. He is not older than seven. He thinks that Will would disapprove of this if he knew how young the child was, but he would also understand that she has left Hannibal no choice. She starts whistling, the sound coming from the kitchen which is still emitting a warm light. The woman must whistle a lot, because it sounds more absentminded than anything. Along with that she must also be nervous because the high tones are wavering through the air of the house. Shaky and unsteady. 

A sound of clattering and then running water. He wonders if she is cooking something or perhaps making herself a cup of tea. He stalks slowly and hears the gas of the stove being turned on and the woosh of a fire. A metal against metal sound clangs. He stops and listens, trying to paint a picture in his mind of the kitchen, which is seemingly small. He listens for so long to the sound of her rummaging through cabinets and clinking stuff together that he startles slightly at a sudden loud screeching. He was right about her making tea. He resumes his approach to the kitchen.

Hannibal gets all the way to the doorway before she notices him. Her head whips around so fast that he almost hopes it would break her own neck and do the job for him. But then again, where is the fun in that? Her eyes are filled with utter horror and he has to applaud her quick reaction and processing time, because he is surprised that she even had the time to see him before she got scared. 

A scream rips from her lungs and echoes and bounces against the yellow walls of the kitchen. Her hand does not manage to release itself from the kettle she had grabbed before she turns her body, and Hannibal calmly watches as she spills the boiling water all over herself. 

Another scream drags itself out of her, impossibly louder than the last one. She grasps for the kitchen counters as her knees give out and her body falls to the ground and hits the linoleum floor. Despite the cold weather, she was wearing a knee length dress. The skin on her legs is already passing the stage of bubbling blisters and it starts to shift from angrily red to a sickly, doughy white as it begins to slough off in thick, moist sheets. It reveals the raw, swollen flesh below. Even Hannibal considers it to be far from a pretty sight.  

Adrenaline is coursing through her body and she’s flailing and crying and screaming. She does not have the presence of mind to stay still, even though every kick and scrape of her legs causes more and more skin to slide off and onto the wet floor. Finally, she corners herself against the counters and she starts to beg.

“I am sorry,” he says. He is not. “You must understand that this is not personal. I do wish that you had not seen me.” He moves closer and her desperate pleas somehow rise even further in volume. She’s screeching. Too bad that her house is so far from the nearest neighbor. 

He grabs a knife from the knife block. Quite an uncreative method, but she has done most of the work herself. The shock from the pain is getting to her, and she is losing breath and her pleas become less concise and slowly start lowering in volume. When he approaches her she is almost entirely still. She looks at him with slowly blinking eyes and tears flooding down her cheeks, leaving long wet trails behind them. 

"Please," she whispers, but cannot say more before the knife sinks into her jugular. He had underestimated the sharpness of the blade, and his calculated cut goes deeper than expected. As her head falls back, he is rewarded with a clear view of the gaping wound, tearing through flesh and muscle, exposing the dark pulse of blood beneath. She is dead, or sufficiently close to it, in a matter of seconds. 

There is a wheezing coming from the wound when the last air of her lungs is released into the world. 

Hannibal is a skilled slaughterer and the extraction of her liver is swift, if possibly a little less surgical than what could be hoped due to his limited equipment. This is a good thing. It will make the profiling less similar to the one of the Chesapeake Ripper. Unceremoniously he grabs a plastic ziplock bag from the cabinet, using his sleeve to open it and extract one, and places the organ in it. 

A glance at the wall clock reveals that the time is creeping closer to three PM. Much later than he had told Will. He hopes that the other has taken initiative to make himself lunch. He wishes him not to go hungry. Hannibal looks down at himself and is pleased to find that most of the bodily gore is contained to the room and very little has gotten on his clothes. They are still a lost cause but he is not someone who will draw the attention of meeting traffic. 

He leaves and meets no other cars on the drive onto the main road. His groceries rest in the seat next to him and he keeps the car colder than he would have usually preferred. 

As it usually does in the winter months, the sun is setting before the night is welcome. The sky is warm with orange and red and he treats himself to turning on the radio. The music, although the current piece is performed by a talented orchestra, is not his favorite. He considers heading into town with Will to purchase some CDs and expand upon Will’s limited closet. 

Will, Will, Will. It has been a long day and Hannibal is ecstatic to be heading home. He hopes that Will might join him for cooking. He is little to no help since Hannibal is far more efficient on his own than Will is. But the company is worth years upon years of wasted time. 

The house is surprisingly dark when Hannibal pulls up in front of it. There seems to be no lights turned on and the faint light from the living room must originate from the fire. Worrisome, Hannibal thinks. Has Will gone out? Will Graham is not one to deny a hike, but it is already dark and Hannibal naively wishes he would keep such activities within the window of daylight that provides the most safety. Ironic, perhaps. That lovely woman was out during the brightest hours of the day. But Hannibal is no nocturnal animal. 

Hannibal grabs his items from the passenger seat and heads up the stairs to the deck. The house is silent. He wonders if Will has yet to locate their vinyl player, or if he is simply unhappy with the library of music. 

He opens the door and steps inside. The door has barely closed behind him before a pair of strong hands have grabbed onto the front of his shirt. His back is forcefully slammed against the hard wood of the door and he drops his bags and jacket to free his hands. Eyes find the assailant, and he immediately stops trying to tear himself away when he sees Will, utterly furious. His knuckles are pressed into his chest so hard that it aches and he feels it press against his ribs. The red fabric is wrapped in a death grip around Will’s fingers, bundled up to secure him in place. 

“Where the hell have you been,” he yells. The sheer volume and anger in his voice causes Hannibal’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. Will’s face is terribly adjacent to his own and his warm breath coats Hannibal’s skin. He has to resist the urge of closing his eyes, because he can imagine Will would take offense if he found out Hannibal was enjoying this. 

Enjoyment was a weak word to describe what Hannibal was feeling. Will’s eyes are crazed and filled with rage. They pierce Hannibal's unwaveringly, almost unblinkingly. The feeling that fills him is close to a burning fire. Pride and passion. The rawness of Will’s emotions excites him, and if he did not care for him so deeply he would provoke him more often. His fury paints him beautifully, every single one of his features. Although, this time he is not entirely sure why Will is so upset. He realizes that he has neglected to answer the question when Will uses his leverage on his shirt to pull his back away from the door and then slam him back into it. This time the back of Hannibal’s head collides with the wall. 

“I apologize, Will,” Hannibal says and places his hand on Will’s shoulder. He shrugs it off. “I ran into some unexpected hindrances. It was never my intention to return this late,” he purrs. 

“What hindrances?” Will sounds disbelieving and unimpressed. Hannibal thinks that he must not have noticed the blood on his clothes. He wonders if he has noticed how close they are. If Will took a half step closer they would be pressed against each other. If Hannibal could, he would take one step forward. 

“I was recognized.” 

Will immediately pales and his grip on Hannibal falters for just a second before he regains it. His pupils dilate and minimize the sliver of blue. The room is dark and he is filled with fear. 

“What…?” He breathes in a whisper.

“A woman in town recognized me,” Hannibal repeats. “I had to take care of her.” He nods towards the ziploc bag. A sequence of emotions passes over Will’s features and he gulps. Hannibal thinks he sees a hint of disappointment, but that might be wishful thinking. 

“I thought you were dead,” Will’s voice has lost some of its immense power and his grip loosens just slightly. He is still mercilessly pinning Hannibal in place. Hannibal is calm as ever when he answers. 

“Of course I’m not. what made you think that?”

“Oh maybe that we’re hunted by the entirety of the FBI, genius. You know, for being such a renowned doctor you are quite the moron sometimes.” Will spits.

“I was more so alluding to the fact that I am not someone they have ever managed to catch. Why would they start now?” Hannibal clarifies. Will’s face is pulled up into a grimace again. His patience with Hannibal’s confidence is seemingly wearing thin. 

“Whatever.” He sneers but Hannibal can see that it far exceeds ‘whatever’ and is clearly bothering Will immensely. “Maybe next time I should just kill you myself to save me the worry.” His words are harsh and terrible and he is smiling while whispering them, but Hannibal has never felt quite so enamored with Will. His anger, stemming from worry that Hannibal had gotten hurt. It fills him with what some might refer to as ‘butterflies’. 

“Perhaps you should,” Hannibal answers and he intended to sound unaffected and neutral but his voice sounds breathy. He has gotten sloppy with his judgement of his own strengths today. 

Suddenly, as if a switch has flipped deep within Will, his grip loosens and he hangs his head and rests his forehead against Hannibal’s chest. He sighs and it sounds like it is a breath he has been holding the entire day. Hannibal wraps his arms cautiously around his shoulders and Will does nothing to return the embrace. 

“I thought you were dead,” Will says again but this time he sounds drained and his anger is entirely washed away. Hannibal closes his eyes and allows himself the indulgence of burying his nose in Will’s hair. Will almost unnoticeably rubs his cheek against Hannibal’s chest. Concerningly, Will’s body is trembling, and despite wishing he could live in his hug forever Hannibal pushes him away enough to grab his shoulders and regard his face. 

“Why are you so upset, Will?” He understands that Will was worried, but at this point he seems to have been almost afraid. An anger blossoms in Will’s face again. It is nowhere near the one he just ridded himself of, only a small ember in comparison to the fire. 

“You know why, I just told you.”

“You are shaking, Will. This exceeds worry.” Will groans at him. He looks away and tries to take a step back but Hannibal stops him. He takes a deep breath.

“Because if you die I am stranded in this fucking house in this fucking state forever and I would be all alone and I have no idea how to do this. Evading the police is your expertise, not mine.” Will foul mouths rapidly and Hannibal furrows his eyebrows. 

“No need for that,” he says and Will snaps his hands up and grasps Hannibal’s shirt again. For the second time since he got home less than five minutes ago, his back is pushed against the door. He sighs. Perhaps he misjudged the moment. “You do not have to worry about that, Will. I would never leave you here. I will get us phones in case anything like this happens again. Alright? But now you are no longer alone and I will not be leaving for the remainder of the week.” He assures and it does not calm Will in the slightest. 

He lets go of Hannibal and takes a step back. He nods, still looking unconvinced but he does not argue further. Hannibal wants to reach out and cradle him in an embrace again, but he decides that he should not push his limits. 

He leans down and swiftly picks up the items he dropped and heads to the kitchen. Will trails after him at a distance with quiet steps, as if he does not wish to be noticed. 

The entire time he is cooking, Will is standing so close that he has to restrict his movements to not elbow him. He makes pasta, makes the filling consisting of parsnips and mushrooms in a white wine reduction. He forgot to buy wine and had to resort to stock, which is incredibly out of character. He is starting to wonder if the effects that Will experiences during their separation extend to Hannibal as well. His mind is so preoccupied with Will that he loses every other aspect of life. He cooks the triangoli in salted water and then transfers it to a pan with a click of butter, garlic, rosemary, truffle, cream and parmesan. He prepares the liver with a dry rub of salt and pepper. He wants to keep it simple. It is then coated in flour and fried in a pan filled with butter until the outside is crispy. During this entire process Will is breathing down his neck, and it is so terribly distracting that he has to force himself to not do anything about the matter. When dinner is finally served, garnished with flakes of truffle, Will does not seem to possess an appetite. 

“Will?” Hannibal asks after his companion has picked at his food for five minutes and not said a word. 

“It’s nothing,” he immediately protests. “I’m just…still mad. It’s so quiet here when you are gone.” His voice falters off into a whisper towards the end and Hannibal feels an unfamiliar stitch of guilt. 

“Silence can leave room for unpleasant thoughts,” he says, a guess in his voice. Will’s guilty look tells him he is right. 

“I will not leave you again,” Hannibal reminds him. 

“Next time I’ll come with you.” He sounds almost desperate and once again Hannibal feels alerted and concerned. 

“Indeed you will.” 

Will’s shoulders slouch a bit with relaxation and he starts eating. That simple reassurance seemed to be enough to lift his mood and return his appetite. He finishes the meal ahead of Hannibal. 

“Did you not eat lunch, Will?” Hannibal fears that he sounds like an overbearing mother. 

“God, who are you, my dad?” Will confirms. “I didn’t feel like cooking and I wasn’t hungry. Besides, someone promised to be home by lunch so I was sort of holding my horses”

“You are a grown man Will, you should be aware of your own needs.” 

“If there is anything I’m not aware of, it's my own needs.” Will chuckles and Hannibal fails to find the humor in it. He opens his mouth to protest but Will cuts him off. “Oh, please, Hannibal. You just said it yourself, I’m a grown ass man. It’s not the end of the world if I miss a single meal. I am fully capable of taking care of myself.” 

Hannibal neither believes him or agrees, but he keeps that to himself. 

“Of course you are,” he says instead and stands up to clear the table. Today, Will helps him wash the dishes. 

Hannibal finally looks down at his clothes when they are done. He was famished when arriving home and forgot to change out of these dirtied rags before he started cooking. Will is standing in his space again and looking at him carefully. 

“I will go shower, you-”

“What, no.” Will immediately furrows his eyebrows and sounds genuinely baffled at the statement. 

“I am filthy, Will, and unfortunately covered in human ichor, so I would prefer to wash off.” Hannibal insists and starts heading up the stairs. Will follows him and stammers as if he is trying to put together an argument, but repeatedly fails to do so. 

Hannibal does keep his shower shorter than usual, but when he comes out, Will is sitting with his knees pulled up, leaning against the wall, on the floor. 

“Will,” Hannibal says and he hears that his own tone sounds condescending, but perhaps it is righteous this time. 

“It’s so quiet down there,” Will explains with his gaze lowered and stands up. Hannibal sighs and starts trying to come up with solutions. The obvious one, for emergencies where Hannibal would have to leave without him (at least until he feels stable and settled in enough to handle the vastness of the house by huímself) would be to get him a companion. Will loves dogs, and Hannibal can appreciate the idea of having an unwaveringly loyal and devoted thing following you all the time. But they are dirty and leave fur everywhere, and he is generally not the largest fan of having one in his home. But this is Will’s home as well. Perhaps that is one more thing to be acquired when they visit the town again. 

They head down to the living room where they sit on the couch and Hannibal considers that he perhaps should have gotten a TV for them. It is awfully unmodern not to own one and he can imagine that Will has been bored today. He knows that Will has a fragile mind and being exposed to his own uninterrupted, unfiltered thoughts all day could easily have sent him into this spiral. 

“We will get a TV when we head in to purchase some new clothes for you.” Hannibal decides. Will scoffs. 

“I’m not your child.”

“I did not say you are.” 

“You are going to take me shopping for clothes and something to keep me entertained. If I’m not your child then I’m your dog.”

“What solution would you prefer.”

Will goes quiet and that familiar furrow of his brows returns. He adjusts his glasses and then angrily pushes them onto his head to rub at his eyes. 

“Forget it. Just don’t…infantilize me.” He sounds exasperated and leans back into the softness of the couch. 

“That is never my intention. I am very well aware that you are a capable man, and not someone who needs my care. All I choose to do, I do because I wish to, not because I believe you to be dependent on it.” Hannibal hopes he sounds assuring and Will reluctantly nods. Finally he has resonated with him. Victory. 

“What did you do…when you were all alone in your house?” Will asks and Hannibal remembers his old house where he was seldom alone but comfortable when he was, and he reminds himself that Will has not lived alone for many years. His collection of strays always trailed behind him. 

“I read and I painted and I cooked. I was often preoccupied with matters outside of the house, so in the rare moments I was rewarded with solitude I relished in it.” Will nods thoughtfully at this. He glances at Hannibal. Will seems to be keeping a constant fire going, and the light dances over their faces. 

Hannibal, as so many times before, imagines that he leans in and grasps Will’s chin with his hand. He uses his leverage to part Will’s lips, only slightly, to invite himself in. Will lets out a surprised, addicting gasp and responds hungrily when their lips meet. The couch cushions buckle beneath the weight of Hannibal as he slides closer to Will. Their legs are touching and their arms are wrapped around each other, hands feverishly exploring the areas of each other they never have an excuse to touch. Will’s hands trail down his side, pressing into his ribs and then further down to his waist and hips. Hannibal uses his teeth to lightly nip at Will’s lower lip, and he chuckles against Hannibal’s mouth-

“Hannibal?” The sound of Will’s voice pulls him back to the dull reality where his lips have not felt the warmth of Will’s. 

“Hm?”

“I asked what you’re thinking about.” Will’s eyebrows are furrowed with concern. He is leaning his head into his own palm and props it up with an elbow against the back of the couch. His body is invitingly turned towards Hannibal. He is dressed in a white button up and black slacks, and has the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. Hannibal looks at his face and sees the light dance over his unhealed wounds and countless scars. Addicting. 

“I must admit that I am fretting over dinner,” Hannibal lies smoothly. “I made the mistake of forgetting to buy wine, and it lacked richness because of it. Terrible waste of good ingredients. Although I suppose that if I had drawn out my trip by stopping for wine, you might have actually executed me upon my arrival.” He smiles and Will shrugs, casually. 

“I probably would have,” he agrees and they share a laugh.

Chapter Text

The night feels ten times longer than it should. Will keeps waking up, flailing and sweating and sometimes gasping for air as if he has been drowning. 

His nightmares, which there are plenty of tonight, all consist of him wandering around the house. He will enter a door, and see the office, and then on the other wall he finds another door, which leads him to the kitchen. He walks around and around and around and a stench of blood and rot follows him no matter how fast he flees. Finally, he reaches Hannibal’s bedroom. He enters it and is met with the corpse of his friend. He is ripped up, a deep cut running from his abdomen and all the way up to his throat, not stopping until his jaw. It looks as if something has crawled out of him and a trail of human gore and intestine leads to Will’s feet. He looks down at his hands and sees heaps of blood and viscera, sticky and warm against his skin. It trails up his arms and he realizes that his entire body is covered in the innards of Hannibal Lecter. 

After he realizes this, he finds himself gasping for air in his bed. Even though the nightmare is recurring, it has scared him just as much each time he’s woken up. He is met with the silence of the house and fears that it once again is empty, so just as he has the past times he has woken up that night, he creeps out of bed and slowly out of his room. The hallway of the upstairs is suffocatingly dark and he fears what might hide in the shadows. He misses his gun. 

He creeps over the cold floor boards and avoids the ones he knows creaks. The door to Hannibal’s room pushes open without a sound, and then Will stands sheepishly in the doorway and regards his figure under the blankets. His chest is rising and falling at a steady rhythm. He’s alive and Will is not alone in the house. He allows himself to release the anxious breath he has been holding and turns on his heel to leave the room when he hears:

“Will, this is your third visit tonight. Is there something bothering you?” Hannibal is looking at him when he turns around. He is splayed out comfortably and confidently on the bed. Will blushes, feeling caught. Hannibal must think he’s a massive creep by now. 

“I thought you were asleep…” he tries to excuse himself but Hannibal’s gaze is unrelenting, expecting an answer. Will sighs. “I’ve just been having nightmares. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“I am flattered, Will. You may stay here. It should save you the trouble of getting up so frequently.” He sounds completely unaffected and as if he couldn’t care less about what Will does. Possibly, there’s a hint of annoyance that Will has been repeatedly waking him up. The idea of sleeping here is calming and comforting and would save them both the struggle of having their sleep massively disturbed, but Will doesn’t feel entirely sure until Hannibal lifts his blanket invitingly. Begrudgingly, Will heads towards the bed and slides in next to him. 

Hannibal’s eyes follow his every move until he has gotten comfortable next to him, his head sinking into Hannibal’s ridiculously soft, silk pillows. It’s only after that that Hannibal turns his back and presumably closes his eyes to re-enter sleep. 

“Good night, Will.” He hums calmly. 

“Good night.” Will responds and hopes that Hannibal won’t be able to discern the uncertainty in his voice. 

He closes his eyes, adjusting under the warm covers. He tries to stay still and not toss and turn, to avoid disturbing Hannibal, but every time he closes his eyes he’s harassed by the image of Hannibal’s brutalized body laying next to him, his life bleeding out onto the sheets. His eyes keep shooting open to check, and only when he’s sure that they aren’t laying in a pool of blood, his anxiety soothes enough for him to close his eyes again, only to rinse and repeat. He wonders if he could get away with asking Hannibal to stay awake with him for a while, but he’s probably already going out on a limb by letting him sleep here and he doesn’t want to push his limits. 

Instead, he reaches out his hand and places it on Hannibal’s back. He sleeps shirtless and his skin is radiating warmth. His blood, which is flowing through his veins and not outside of his body, is keeping him soft and warm. He closes his eyes again, and this time, with his hand feeling the life within Hannibal, his compulsive thoughts stay on the down low. 

However, he doesn’t get the opportunity to fall asleep before Hannibal turns around. His eyes are still closed, so he can’t know for sure if he has woken up or not, but just to be safe he retreats his hand away from the others body. The room is silent and outside he hears the rippling of the river. The water splashes against the rocks in soft qualms. A bird is perched in a tree somewhere, calling in hopes of someone hearing it. A hand is suddenly wrapped around his wrist. It’s larger than his own and familiar in all its crevices and shapes. His arm is pulled away from him, back to Hannibal, and pressed against the soft skin of his chest. 

His fingers uncertainly brush over the soft hair decorating his upper torso and the hand around his wrist guides his hand to be placed right over Hannibal’s heart. It’s beating steadily and powerfully. Will’s shoulders relax. He wasn’t even aware that he had been so tense. He presses his palm firmly against Hannibal’s chest and counts the heartbeats. His hand rises and falls very slowly. Hannibal’s breathing is just as calm and steady as his heartbeat. Hannibal lets go of his wrist, but only to allow his hand to slowly, with a touch light as a feather, brush up the length of his forearm. 

For some reason he doesn’t dare to open his eyes. Hannibal is obviously awake and is evidently aware that Will is conscious as well. His eyes feel glued shut and he’s vaguely aware that his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. The sensation of Hannibal’s feather light touch continues up his bicep and stays there for a while. Long fingers embrace his upper arm, and he doesn’t squeeze but his grip is confidently firm. Will, embarrassingly enough, feels his own pulse pick up and his breathing feels unpleasantly labored. 

Hannibal releases his grip and, once again embarrassingly, Will is afraid that he’s going to stop touching him and go back to sleep. But he doesn’t. Instead his fingers trail up the back of his arm and down onto his back. He feels the mass of Hannibal’s arm hover over him and occasionally brush against him. The fabric of his shirt is pressed into his back as Hannibal touches over it. He travels up to his shoulder, which he rubs his thumb over before his hand goes to his neck. Will is barely breathing at all now. 

He remembers the last time his own hands touched Hannibal’s neck, and for just a moment he is afraid that Hannibal is going to get revenge. But his hand snakes around to the nape of his neck and goes up into his hair. The touch is firmer now, his fingers combing into the sweat-licked curls on the back of his head. He feels embarrassed but Hannibal’s touch does not waver with the disgust he is expecting. His thumb presses against the area behind his ear. It’s a strangely comforting feeling. 

Hannibal’s hand moves further and finally finds its resting place over the side of Will’s face. He’s familiar with the feeling, for no one cradles his face quite as often as Hannibal does. His hand engulfs him, covering the healing wound on his cheek and his palm starts at his jaw and his fingers end in his hair. He feels his fingers brush softly over his ear. The familiar feeling is much heavier than usual in the quiet room. He hears his own pulse drumming anxiously inside his head. It’s not the same as the hand Hannibal places on him to comfort him or calm him. This is something else and Will can’t place it. It’s heavily intimate and suffocating. 

Will is by no means a novice at intimacy. Believe it or not, he was quite the sought after bachelor in college, before everyone realized how weird and reclusive he was. Over the past couple of years he has gotten more uncertain and clumsy with romance and intimacy. He fumbled it massively with Alana. What he had with Molly was comfortable, but their level of intimacy never reached any peaks of passion. It was, as aforementioned, comfortable and safe. He never needed it to be exciting. He had what he needed with her: stability. 

All this to say, he is not unfamiliar with intimacy. But this strange version of it pushes him into the mattress and threatens to swallow him whole. Then, of course, no part of this was normal or typical. He feels he needs to relearn everything he knows.

The soft touches in a dark room would have been perfectly normal in any other circumstance, but now they engulf Will’s mind and swirl all his emotions into a lump which gets stuck in his throat. He slowly spreads his fingers over Hannibal’s chest and reluctantly moves his hand downwards. He touches his ribs, following the outline of the bones and the spaces in between. Hannibal possesses a statuesque stillness under his touch. Will wonders if he’s uncomfortable, but as long as he doesn’t stop him he continues. His hand finds Hannibal’s waist and stops at the edge of his pants before continuing up again, over his back. 

His breath sits heavy in his throat and he is almost scared to exhale. He wishes he could replicate Hannibal’s marble stillness, but he’s trembling slightly. The muscles in Hannibal’s back flex under his touch and he traces his shoulder blade delicately. A surprising hum, which causes Will’s movements to halt, escapes Hannibal. Will's eyes shoot open and he finds Hannibal staring at him with an unfaltering intensity. 

Will feels mortified when Hannibal’s thumb brushes, almost unnoticeably, over his lips. In a moment, which fleetingly passes but feels like eternity, he thinks he’s going to kiss him. But he doesn’t. Involuntarily, Will releases a gasp which collides with Hannibal's thumb, and Hannibal smiles. 

“How intriguing,” Hannibal purrs with a smile and his voice fills the air of the previously quiet room. “One might think you were anticipating something.” The raise of his eyebrows and the humor in his tone makes it undeniable that he’s teasing. Will furrows his eyebrows and goes to retreat, trying to make some space between them. Hannibal moves his hand down and grasps at his middle, not allowing him to move. 

Will’s hand has been moved to the other’s bicep instead and he finds himself gripping it securely. He feels out of his depth here. 

“Shut up,” Will complains and wiggles himself out of Hannibal’s grasp to turn his back. His cheeks are hot with embarrassment and he feels like he’s been watching himself on a screen for the last couple of minutes. His breathing is shallow and his entire body feels uncomfortably warm. He does not wish to acknowledge any of this now that Hannibal is present to make fun of him. He considers getting up and returning to his own bed but suddenly the mattress buckles behind him and he feels Hannibal scooting closer. 

His arm wraps around Will’s torso and pulls him back and the only thing Will could have done would be to scratch at the silken sheets to try and get a grip on them and hold himself down. But he doesn’t. Instead he freezes and allows Hannibal to drag him closer. He holds his breath and feels Hannibal’s own, pressing in warm, slow puffs against his shoulder. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Will.” He whispers and Will stares at the night sky through the window. 

“Yes you did,” Will disagrees and Hannibal laughs. Will’s body moves with the rapid rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest and once again it feels hard to swallow. He bites his tongue and Hannibal sighs. 

“It was impossible to resist,” Hannibal excuses himself but Will shakes his head, but smiles just a little. The silence returns and all Will has to focus on are the branches of the trees outside swaying in the wind and the stable sound of Hannibal’s breathing. It fills him up and slowly but surely lulls him into a comfortable sleep. 

He sleeps undisturbed for the rest of the night and is only awoken from the coldness of an empty bed. He rolls over and touches the spot where Hannibal had been laying. It’s cool, which means Hannibal must have gotten up a while ago. Without having time to think about it, Will shoots up out of bed and out of the room. He runs down the stairs before he is even sure that he’s fully awake and finds himself standing in the kitchen. Hannibal looks at him with curiously raised eyebrows and Will clears his throat. He combs a hand through his bed head and in an effort to come off as casual, he leans against the wall. 

“Good morning.” 

Hannibal smiles at him but humors his attempts to undo his embarrassing behavior. 

“Good morning, Will. Are you hungry?” He sounds hopeful and Will nods. They have only exchanged polite greetings and the weight of not speaking about the night before is already weighing on him. But he sits down by the island and looks at Hannibal’s hands, quick and well-practiced movements throughout the kitchen. He cracks an egg into a bowl and stirs it with what Will assumes to be cream. He gets bored somewhere in the midst of that and looks away. Perhaps, though, it's not boredom, and instead the merciless memory of those hands climbing over his body which causes him to avert his eyes. 

He wishes it weren’t 8 AM, so he could excuse dousing his throat with whiskey to numb the confusion and swelling emotions within him. But it’s too early for that, unless he wants Hannibal to think he is an alcoholic, which will assuredly lead to a very long and boring lecture on the dangers of excessive alcohol consumption. Another pretty massive hindrance is the fact that the house has a thrilling lack of alcoholic beverages. That much he discovered when endlessly prowling it yesterday. He is pretty sure that he knows every corner of this house already, because for about four hours yesterday he was unable to sit still without a panic attack threatening to make an aggressive appearance. 

Hannibal is whistling while moving about the kitchen and Will occupies himself with making coffee. He watches with excessive attention as the drizzle of brown liquid fills the can. It’s boring and safe. He pours himself a glass and maintains focus on it while sitting back down by the counter. He really should say something instead of just sitting here, obviously hot and bothered by the events of the night. He should act completely natural. 

“You seem energized,” Will comments softly and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“I had a very pleasant night,” Hannibal comments casually and every chance of seeming casual is thrown out the window when Will chokes on his coffee. This is utterly ridiculous and juvenile. They are two grown men who should be able to confidently handle this level of affection. Well, Hannibal seems to have that down pretty well. Will is the only one in the pair who seems to be struggling with it. 

He tries to comfort himself with the fact that it’s less about him being a massive virgin, which he assuredly isn’t, and more about the fact that all his feelings surrounding Hannibal frighten him. It really doesn’t matter if he hates or loves Hannibal, he will be scared anyway. And that sort of feels worse than the idea that his nerves stem from inexperience. That he could get rid off with practice and experience. How will he possibly change his feelings regarding Hannibal. What does he have to do to finally feel comfortable around him? 

He reminds himself that he was comfortable enough to fall asleep in his arms last night, and the mere thought causes him to blush again. He does realize that he looks like a sputtering, blushing fool and that Hannibal is looking at him, highly amused. 

“What are you cooking?” He asks to change the subject and Hannibal looks down at the pan in which he is scrambling eggs. He looks at Will again and smiles. 

“Scrambled eggs,” Hannibal clarifies and the same teasing tone is back from the night before. Will scowls. 

“No fancy twist on it?”

“None at all, unfortunately. Would you have preferred one?”

Will shakes his head. Hannibal transfers the eggs to a plate. It really is uncharacteristically simple, but Will really is not one to complain. Hannibal takes the plate and walks over to Will. When he reaches to place the plate in front of him, Will can feel the warm heat radiating off of his body and grazing against his own. He looks up and Hannibal’s eyes are, of course, already on him. He looks intrigued and curious, which probably means that this entire thing is just one of his stupid tests to figure something out about Will that he doesn’t know himself. Or perhaps something he doesn't want to be made aware of.

Was it not enough that Hannibal had already made him confront his own nature as a bloodthirsty monster ? Now he had to push him toward acknowledging these complicated feelings which he would much rather avoid and repress. Will was already teetering on the edge, unsure of the kind of person he would become if he embraced Hannibal fully and allowed himself to enjoy a life with him. Wouldn’t it be even worse to take the step of actually falling in love with him? It was a small comfort that Hannibal had already accepted that he harbored some kind of feelings for Will. Maybe they weren’t necessarily romantic, but something akin to it. Will was suddenly a teeny tiny bit grateful that the other was so transparent about that. 

Why was he so unsure, anyways? Whatever they had was so far past love that it was ridiculous to even care. They had very explicitly admitted to each other that they couldn’t stand a life where they were separated, and Will was worried that Hannibal might reject him if he possessed romantic feelings for him? It felt ridiculous on paper but the feelings of uncertainty felt just as intense as before. 

“Thank you,” Will whispers and Hannibal smiles and rubs his shoulder in a friendly manner. Will thinks it’s a friendly manner. His perception of Hannibal has changed pretty drastically. He had always just assumed that he was obsessively possessive of him. Because Will interested him and understood him, and because he couldn’t stand anyone else being close to him. But now he was starting to suspect that his declarations of affection were more romantic than he had wanted to admit earlier. If it were anyone else on earth, Will would interpret his actions as romantic without a second thought, but nothing Hannibal does has ever been regular. What would happen if he accepted the romance?

Don’t knock it till you try it he weakly tries to tell himself to disperse the heavy, doubtful thoughts that cloud his head. But part of him thinks that if he tries it, he will never ever be able to knock it. He will become addicted to it just like he is to every other part of Hannibal. His good and his evil and his devotion and passivity. His kindness and ruthlessness. How many times hasn’t he shown Will tenderness and affection only to turn around and hurt him. He fingers at the scar on his forehead. 

Will considers how it would feel to do that to someone else. How would it feel to bundle Hannibal into his hands and look him in the eyes, expression soft and welcoming, only to then drive a sharp knife into his abdomen. He can’t even imagine it. Perhaps it would have been easier if he had a reason to want to stab Hannibal. Hannibal had a reason, in his own way. Will had betrayed his thrust, he was vengeful. What did Will have to be vengeful of? Everything about being here was his own choice. Hannibal had persuaded him but in the end, Will chose this life. 

Perhaps he could be angry about being left alone, but he had already acted upon that and the flames of that fire had long since been put out. 

Maybe he could be angry about Hannibal making him so confused…But that would just bring him back to where he’s at now. If there’s one thing he’s sure of it is that the solution to finding out what he wants in this does not lie within stabbing Hannibal. 

A flash of his nightmare appears on his retinas and causes him to flinch. Hannibal, who has been staring at him during the entire time he was captured in thought, caught by his gaze, tilts his head. Will looks at him and swallows the view of him alive and well. He bears only a few scratches. The bullet that penetrated his abdomen barely left a scratch. It missed all the vitality and Hannibal sewed it up quickly. He has not complained of it once. If anything, he left the altercation fairly unscathed. Hannibal is as healthy as a horse. 

“Did I startle you?” Hannibal asks and sounds genuinely baffled. He was standing completely still after all. Will shakes his head. 

“No, no…just- nightmare.” Will stutters and looks at his eggs and before he has time to say something else that makes him sound like a dunce, he shoves a forkful into his mouth. Hannibal tenderly, and annoyingly, pets his hand over Will’s head, and fortunately the glare he receives is enough to cause him to turn his attention to his own food, which he eats standing and leaning against the counter. 

Will doesn’t let the silence between them grow, in fear of his own intrusive thoughts. 

“What do you want to do today?” He asks quickly and scrapes the last of the eggs into his mouth. 

“I wish to paint you,” Hannibal answers easily. 

“What, no way”.” It catches Will completely off guard and the protest seems more like a reflex than anything else. 

“That is what I want to do.” Hannibal says. Will wants to argue further, deny more, but he feels guilty about what he did yesterday and blaming Hannibal for leaving the house. 

“Why?” He asks instead. 

“I have seen you in many ways, Will. But never as an object of my own creation. I wish to explore that.” What is he if not Hannibal’s creation? Is that not why he is here? Perhaps that will only be true after he delves into pure, genuine murder. So he nods, because if it’s either murder or being painted, Will prefers to start with the latter. 

Hannibal directs him to sit in one of the recliners in the office and he drags the easel to the middle of the room, where he stands in front of Will. It’s indescribably uncomfortable and Will cannot meet his gaze. He is fully clothed but he feels utterly exposed while Hannibal is preparing his supplies. The canvas is quite large, which mortifies Will even further. If Hannibal hangs that in the hallway and Will has to stare at himself depicted through Hannibal's eyes every day he might just kill himself. 

“What do you want me to do?” Will asks uncertainty and looks out the window, miserable. 

“You should find a position you are comfortable in, this will require quite a lot of time.” 

Will can’t remember why he agreed to this. Under the weight of Hannibal’s stare, he adjusts in the seat until he feels comfortable. He hopes it’s comfortable enough. Having never modeled for a painting before and has no perception for how long it takes. Before they entered the office he changed into the black knitted sweater that Hannibal had given him in the motel, and the only pair of slacks that he thinks look good and not ridiculous. He doesn’t really understand Hannibal's evident fascination with colorful patterns. Hannibal can’t possibly think that Will would want to wear pants with purple stripes running down them. 

“Good?” He asks self-consciously and Hannibal nods but already looks focused. He has started jotting long lines down on the canvas.

“Extraordinary,” Hannibal responds and Will imagines he is exaggerating.

Will thinks that about an hour of sitting still and listening to Hannibal putting paint on cloth passes before he loses his patience. Boredom feels less overwhelming when he’s not alone, and perhaps it isn’t the lack of stimuli but more so the racing of his thoughts. 

“You’re very quiet,” he says and keeps his eyes fixed on Hannibal’s focused face. 

“So are you,” he retorts and doesn’t reward him with a glance away from the canvas. 

“Yeah well…I’m not allowed to move so…” 

“Your lips may move as much as you wish them to,” Hannibal answers and Will blushes furiously again, which is a million times more humiliating when Hannibal looks up and analyzes him. He smiles and Will is sure that the blush will make it into the painting. He actually immediately starts mixing a red hue into what Will sees on the palette as his skin tone. 

“Don’t do that…” Will pleads softly. 

“Do what?” Hannibal’s focus is once again returned to the painting. 

“Paint me blushing. It’s ridiculous. I don’t see what purpose it would serve in the painting,” he grumbles unhappily and glances away towards the bookshelf, continuing to analyze the backs of the books as he has done for the past hour. 

“It serves the purpose of authenticity. I wish to depict you exactly how I see you.”

“Great, so suddenly I'm just unintentionally an open-book for you to interpret and depict however you want.” Will scowls and Hannibal gives him a stern look which causes him to smooth out his facial features again. 

“Hardly unintentional, Will. You know that I always see you, even when you try to hide.” It sounds eerie and unsettling and it nuzzles into Will’s soul and causes him to shift uncomfortably and nervously. The feeling of exposure returns with full force. 

“I’m not hiding anything,” he responds and prides himself in how confident he sounds. 

“No? Then why the blush?” That question quiets Will and he goes a long while without responding. He honestly doesn’t know. His shyness about the insinuation of kissing and Hannibal perceiving him in that light makes him nervous, despite all the mulling he has done over the course of the morning. 

“You know why…”

“I do not.” Hannibal says even though he very clearly does based on the smile that curves on his lips. 

“Of course you do, you never do anything without intention. You are fully aware of what you said and why I reacted to it.” Will sneers and his sudden annoyance causes him to spill words he isn’t sure he wants Hannibal to hear. He’s dangerously close to stepping into a territory he isn’t comfortable in. 

“Do you understand your own reaction?” Hannibal asks and maybe he truly is an open book. Hannibal sure reads him like one. He stirs in his seat again and the compromising situation of being locked in place by nothing but Hannibal's perception of him is smothering. 

“No,” he answers truthfully. “Do you?”

“I have my guesses,” Hannibal responds and starts painting short, rapid streaks which Will assumes is his beard. 

“Tell me,” Will insists and he keeps his eyes stay intensely locked on Hannibal. 

“I believe you are caught between conflicting desires. A part of you longs to be…” He considers his choice of words carefully for a while. “Touched. But another part of you refuses.” Will looks down at his lap.

“Although, I am unsure why you choose to resist. That part is yet unclear to me.” 

“I already told you,” Will murmurs powerlessly. “Who am I if I surrender to this…to you?”

“Yourself…” He responds and when Will looks up Hannibal has stopped painting and is instead just looking at him. “And mine.”

Chapter Text

“What did you dream about last night, Will?”

“I dreamt that…You were dead, and I think it was my fault.” 

“But it was just a dream, yet you felt compelled to check on me, repeatedly. Why is that?”

“I…It felt real. I know it wasn’t but I couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just like yesterday when I was alone and I convinced myself you had been killed. I believed that was the case until you returned.”

“You might be struggling with compulsive anxiety, Will. Or perhaps unresolved-” 

“I didn’t ask you to diagnose me, Doctor Lecter.” Will sneers unhappily. Sitting in this god forsaken chair in this damn room has made him snappy. More time has passed and now the darkness has settled outside the window and he has only gotten more confused and tired and annoyed since they started. He even finds himself longing for one of Hannibal’s boring books. Although if he’s honest with himself he would prefer to head back to bed and resume whatever they were doing last night. 

They took a break to eat lunch a couple of hours ago. Enchiladas with hot peppers and sweet corn. The food of today seems surprisingly mundane to Hannibal’s standards. 

“Are you not concerned over what might be wrong with you?” Hannibal asks gracelessly. 

“There’s always something wrong with me, Hannibal. It’s easier to say what's not wrong with me than what is.” He scowls and all this is making him feel even worse about himself. 

He knows that he overreacted yesterday when he attacked Hannibal. But the fear he felt was so real and asphyxiating that he felt like he couldn’t breathe until he was sure it wouldn’t happen again. The last time he felt such fear was when he realized he was actually insane and hallucinating. Not being able to discern what’s real or not might be as bad as not knowing for sure who he is or what he wants. Although, hallucinating a dead man is instant and paralyzing fear. Mulling over who oneself is and if you can live with the answer is a creeping, unrelenting fear that does not disappear as quickly as a hallucination. 

“Are you even physically capable of having a conversation about me that isn’t regarding every single issue I have? Or is that truly the only reason you keep me around? To analyze and dissect me and force me to discern the worst parts of myself for your own amusement.” Will’s voice raises into a shout and he hadn’t realized he was so upset about it until he was already yelling. He feels vulnerable and mistreated and he doesn’t like that Hannibal refuses to leave him to reflect on his own. Perhaps he would have been more at ease if he wasn’t always so desperately aware of how well Hannibal sees him. He doesn’t feel like he is allowed any privacy in the sanctuary of his own mind. Or more accurately: the carnage of his own mind. 

A voice he had almost forgotten raises in his mind. 

It’s hard to be with another person when you can’t get out of your own head. 

Abel Gideon. Back then he was referring to Alana, and Will was so sick that he thought he was talking to Garret Jacob Hobbs. Is that what he’s scared of? That Hannibal will become aware of how snared up in his own mind Will is, and on the off chance that Will acts on his feelings, reject him?

He realizes that he would not survive being rejected by Hannibal. He got mildly delusional from being without him for a couple of hours. He no longer knows who he is outside of Hannibal’s overwhelming grasp and presence. No longer does he want to be anything but an extension of Hannibal. 

Hannibal has regarded him in silence since his little outburst. Will knows he is giving him space to speak his mind if he needs to without saying something to further upset him. 

“I used to be a good man, Hannibal.” Will croaks and he is baffled to find that tears are stinging his eyes. The sudden wave of emotions is so intense that it threatens to knock the air out of him. “I used to know who I was, even if it wasn’t always who I wanted to be. Now all I know about myself is that I’m afraid of who I might become”

And then Hannibal is there, in front of him. 

“You have not yet committed any act that rids you of the title of a good man,” he whispers “except for being with me.”

“That is the one thing I can’t control,” Will immediately swipes his hand over his cheek to wipe the tear that manages to escape his waterline. 

“An action one does not have control over does not determine their morality,” Hannibal tries to comfort and he is squatting between Will’s legs and rubbing his hands over his knees and up his thighs and then back again. 

“I’m afraid of what I want,” Will whispers. “Even if I’d never act upon it, the thoughts of wanting it will have still been there. I don’t know what that says about me.”

“The human is a powerful creature with an even more powerful mind. You cannot control what you imagine or want. You are only able to control the paths of action which you choose to take.” Hannibal adopts the job of brushing away Will’s tears. He feels utterly pathetic and he is afraid that his few tears will turn into a full on outburst of sobs. “And no matter what you choose I will stay by you. I cannot deny that I have a preference, but there is not a single decision you could make that would cause me to leave you. I am entirely as dependent on you as you are on me.” 

Perhaps he could not delve deeper into evil than he had. He had single-handedly set Hannibal Lecter free to roam the world, entirely for his own gain. Any further crimes he commits, Will is equally as to guilty as Hannibal is. If hell exists, he already has a spot reserved to him there, right next to Hannibal. 

He reaches out and grasps Hannibal’s face with his hands, too harshly. His fingers bruise into the pronounced ridges of his cheekbones. Hannibal’s eyes, glued to his face, fill with adoration and expectation. They are wide and puppylike, so unlike the dominant and powerful exterior the man usually possesses. A moment of hesitation follows and it’s filled to the brim with tension. A cup that has been receiving drop upon drop for many years and finally, after the surface tension breaks, overflows. 

Will surges forward and presses his mouth against Hannibals. It’s once again a clumsy affair and their lips collide painfully. However, it feels more right and fulfilling than anything else he has ever experienced. His body is rushed with a warm sensation that causes his fingertips to vibrate. For a moment, Hannibal sways and Will thinks he’s going to lose his balance and fall backwards, but he doesn’t. Their lips stay pressed together as he straightens himself and leans forward. Hannibal’s hands press against Will's thighs and he uses the leverage of this to push himself up. Suddenly, he is towering over the chair and Will has to stretch his neck upwards to keep their lips interlocked. Hannibal assists him by placing his hands on the back of the chair and leaning down. The heat escaping from Hannbal’s mouth in small breaths coat Will’s mouth and the taste of him is mildly intoxicating. 

It’s awkward and rushed and unexpected and the position they are in is nowhere near comfortable, but there is no other way Will would want it. With no other person, at no other time, in no other place. It feels like a consummation of Will’s acceptance that he’s damned and he might as well indulge in the life he has chosen with Hannibal. 

For the moment that their lips are intertwined, all his worries falter and he is left with no other feeling than intense satisfaction. Hannibal grabs onto Will’s elbows and pulls him up to stand. Then he securely wraps his arms around his waist, his hands grasping at his shirt to pull him impossibly closer. 

Will brings his arms up and trails them around Hannibal’s shoulders. Along the way he softly grazes his chest and collar bones and throat. His teeth nip at Will’s lower lip and he can’t contain a delightfully surprised gasp against Hannibal’s mouth. It seems to egg the other on because one of his hands goes up and tangles into the curls on the back of Will’s head. He presses them together so hard that it hurts and Will digs his fingers into the skin around his shoulder blades. If they wanted to get any closer now they would have to melt together into a single creature of passion, and Will thinks he might like that. 

Hannibal’s grip on his waist is firm and desperate and rough and Will responds with the same enthusiasm by clawing at his shoulders. The warmth between their mouths rapidly increases when Will feels the brush of Hannibal’s tongue over his lips, and who is he to deny himself that? He parts his own lips and Hannibal is quick to map out his mouth, licking over his teeth and lips and tongue. His taste, again, overwhelms Will and he is sure that if Hannibal wasn’t wearing a shirt he’d be littered with small scratches by now. The room is quiet, which leaves nothing to cover the sound of their mouths, breathing and Will’s heart drumming in his ears. 

Hannibal’s mouth leaves his and he lets out a sound of protest which Hannibal silences with a kiss to his jaw which he trails up to his ear and then down his neck. He feels the mix of both of their saliva leave wet marks over his skin and without Hannibal’s mouth on his own, he chips some full-lunged-breaths of fresh air and reason starts to return to his mind. He slowly separates himself, delicately, from their intertwined position. Hannibal pulls his mouth away from his skin and looks down at him. He’s panting and his cheeks and lips are red and Will is about to attack him again but thinks better and swallows down the urge. The last thing he wants is to rush into something like this. 

“Sorry,” he forces out, and he knows he has nothing to apologize for because Hannibal evidently enjoyed it, but it was very sudden. No build up and no warning, he still has the remnants of his tears sticking to his face. Hannibal just smiles and kisses him again. There’s no urgency now. Hannibal kisses him tenderly and easily as if they have all the time in the world. 

“The only thing you should be sorry for is not allowing me to finish my painting,” Hannibal leans their foreheads together and holds Will in place with two hands on his head. One in his hair and the other on the nape of his neck. Will smiles at him. 

“Sorry, do you want to continue?” He was joking but Hannibal treacherously releases him. 

“I would, actually.” Will must look as bewildered as he seems, because Hannibal strokes his thumb over his cheek. 

“It’s just the details, dear Will. Ten minutes and then you are free.” 

Will does not want to return to his seat and be painted. He wants to go somewhere out of this office and kiss again or head into Hannibal’s bedroom and stare at each other until their eyes fall out of their sockets. Or alternatively he wants to sit down in a corner and contemplate everything he has ever done wrong for him to end up here. But he obediently resigns himself to the chair and Hannibal hurriedly picks up the brush again. He does, to his defence, really seem to be hurrying and about half an hour later Will is allowed to look at the work. Hannibal says that he will continue working on it for the days to come, but that Will is no longer needed for reference. Will, of course, realizes that if Hannibal is in here working, then so will Will be. But he doesn’t say that. 

He stares at himself, casually reclined in the chair with his arms on the armrests. He has never realized how much space he occupies but his casual position is spread out and he looks confident. His face is an expression of mild annoyance or concentration. His eyebrows are furrowed, causing a creasing wrinkle between them. His head is turned slightly to the side as if he’s regarding something next to the painter instead of the painter himself. His cheeks bear a hint of pink and there’s a sparkle of tears forming in his eyes. 

“You asshole.” He complains. He can’t believe that Hannibal chose to depict him as if he was about to cry. 

“People have paid fortunes for works such as this to be done of them, and continue to do so. I would not call the act anything other than flattering.” 

“I don't think they’d be flattered to be portrayed as crying and blushing, either.”

“The rawness of your emotions is what adds atmosphere to the piece.” Will wants to tell him to shut up, but Hannibal interrupts him by asking a question. “What finally inspired you to take that final step, Will?”

Will notices the ‘finally’. As if Hannibal has been waiting for this. Will chuckles awkwardly, turning his face away. 

"I realized that the mere act of helping you escape from prison had already damned me to hell anyway. I stand no chance of redemption or reprieve. I have done the worst I could by setting you free, allowing you to endanger the lives of innocents. Every crime you commit from this point forward will weigh on me, whether I surrender myself to you or not. I realized that resisting would cause me nothing but despair."

Hannibal smiles proudly despite Will’s evident declaration that he believes they are both going to hell. 

“You granting me freedom was not a curse to the world, but a gift to me.” Hannibal says, but Will disregards it. Of course he would think that. He’s not famous for the value he puts on human life. 

They spend the rest of the week, three days, in a mundane calmness. Hannibal cooks for them, and it tastes incredible, but his passion seems to be dwindling and Will can’t fool himself into thinking that he doesn’t know the reason why. They go for walks in the woods and one time they run into a wild stag, standing camouflaged between the trees. Will points it out and Hannibal doesn’t get the chance to find it between the leaves before it runs away. Will gloats in his superior eyesight for the rest of the day and Hannibal takes his glasses and hides them. 

Will still always goes to bed in his own room, but whether he remembers going there or not, he always wakes up in Hannibal’s. Despite this, he is haunted by harrowing nightmares. He’s used to them of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that each night before bed he breaks out in a cold, nervous sweat in anticipation of what he will face during the night. He is visited by everyone he has known and everyone he has hurt. After the day Hannibal painted him, he is harassed by Molly and Walter at least once every night. They usually sit in their old living room, and Will sees them through the window. Every time he tries to open the front door and join them, it’s locked. Molly has her face in her hands and Walter is desperately stroking her back, trying to comfort his mother. There’s no gore or death, just the sound of Molly’s broken cries through the glass of the window. But it’s the only nightmare that doesn’t allow for Hannibal’s presence to calm him when he wakes up. 

It’s after one of those dreams that he wakes up to see Hannibal standing by the foot of the bed, staring at him. He flinches and presses his back against the headboard. 

“What are you doing?” He breathes and rubs his eyes. 

“I’ve been trying to wake you for a while,” Hannibal says with a neutral expression. Will is usually only able to be awoken by a couple of rough shakes and loud calls for his name (and his own nightmares of course). 

“Sorry,” Will yawns and hugs himself. It’s cold in the room, especially when he’s alone in the large bed. He realizes that Hannibal is already dressed in a dark gray suit (and a tie). “Where are you going?” He asks and immediately feels the nervous panic rising in his chest again. 

“We-” Hannibal corrects and holds up a finger, “-are going into town.” 

Will is out of bed immediately, his feet against the cold floor almost before Hannibal has finished his sentence. His whole world has started to feel like it’s contained between the walls of this cabin and he longs to see something else. It’s been almost a week and he’s only gone as far as the forest surrounding them. Will leaves the room and heads to his own wardrobe where he picks out many layers of clothing, because the air has gotten rigidly cold the past couple of days. A blue flannel, a grey knitted sweater and his black pants. Hannibal has had to wash them two times since they got here, because he is adamant to wash them between every other wear. It feels excessive and Will starts to wonder if his greatest crimes are against nature. 

Perhaps it was optimistically naive to think that just because he got the courage to share a kiss with Hannibal, all his doubts would dissipate. He still feels anxious about taking this step further. Now he will be seen in public with him presumably presenting as a couple. If anyone finds out about who they are, he will have to stand behind his choices. He can’t pretend Hannibal has him locked up here to defend himself. Although, he truly wishes it never comes to that. Hannibal would have to die or be apprehended for him to even start considering that path. Perhaps he would prefer to go to prison and have a chance to see Hannibal in the showers or out in the yard rather than never getting to see him again. Who is he kidding? If they get arrested, there’s no way they’ll end up anywhere but a maximum-security prison.

He exits his room, brushes his teeth and actually shaves for once. He has let himself get really scruffy over the past week. He tugs on the growing curls at the back of his neck and considers that perhaps a proper haircut is due. Maybe they’ll have time while in town today. 

This is not entirely how he had imagined his life with Hannibal. Domestic. Going shopping together. All that. Whenever he had imagined it he had seen himself covered in blood at a dinner table in Rome, indulging in a fatty cut of thigh meat. He prefers this though.

Hannibal is waiting for him downstairs and grips onto his waist and pulls him into a surprising, hasty kiss. Will hasn’t initiated any other kisses over the past couple of days. It still feels new and nervous. But he hasn’t rejected Hannibal either. The surge of passion has not repeated but there have been plenty of quick kisses in passing. Will can’t properly dissect what Hannibal’s wants are, but it probably has something to do with him once again letting Will set the pace, as he is seemingly the only one who is unsure about anything in this house. 

“Ugh,” Hannibal lets go of Will and scrunches his nose while putting a foot of distance between them. Will furrows his eyebrows. 

“You just shaved,” Hannibal accuses and Will smiles. 

His aftershave had stood in the bathroom when they arrived. Hannibal could have purchased any other one he wanted, but Will suspected that he secretly liked the cheap muskiness of it. Or he was actually a masochist, which Will wouldn’t have a hard time believing either. 

“Don’t you want me to look presentable?” Will asks while eagerly pulling on his shoes and jacket and scarf. He suspects that Hannibal has made them breakfast, but his appetite is greatly dampened by his eagerness to experience something other than the dim light of the cabin. 

“That is why I am bringing you along to pick out a new wardrobe,” Hannibal says and walks past Will to grab his long, dark brown coat and open the front door. 

Will looks down at his outfit which he had considered to be one of his better ones. He might be willing to change a lot, but he draws the line at walking around in three-piece suits like Hannibal. The suit he wore in Italy was a rare exception. He’s not posh or polished. He doesn’t intend to look like it either. He wishes not to be a person that looks approachable, because that would invite unwelcome social interactions. He imagines that he will have to endure a grand lot of those if he shares company with Hannibal. 

They head out to the car together and Will once again suggests he drive. Hannibal laughs as if it was a joke so Will sits down in the passenger seat with his arms crossed. 

The road is snaky and bumpy and a jeep would have probably been a preferable means of transportation. Horribly boring classical music is playing from the radio, but he leaves it be because he doesn’t want to argue again. Who knew that the thing he and Hannibal would argue about the most was the car radio?

“Hannibal?” Will initiates, because over the past three days a curious question has been weighing on him, after his new considerations of their life together. 

“Yes, Will?” Hannibal answers patiently and softly, confidently, placing his hand firmly on Will’s knee. Will looks at it, surprisingly bewildered. 

“Did you love Bedelia?” He asks not because it bothers him, simply because he’s curious. He won over Bedelia long before he ran away with Hannibal, although maybe it was never a competition. But the psychiatrist got the life with Hannibal, although brief, that Will had wistfully imagined. Hannibal laughs fondly, and his thumb rubs a circle over Will’s knee.

“I did not. She is a wonderfully intelligent woman and I did enjoy our conversations. I respected her greatly. But I did not feel love, no.” 

Will nods slowly and then asks another question, one that has actually been bothering him for years. 

“Did you love Abigail?”

Hannibal is silent. The screeching of the flutes and drums and violins seems overbearing in the heavy quiet. Will feels a nervous twist gouge around in his stomach. 

"Not in the way you did," Hannibal replies, his voice quieter than usual, almost contemplative. "But in my own way, yes." Will’s gaze stays fixed on him, unwaveringly curious. "Abigail was a wonderful girl. She was brave and smart, and was deeply interesting, just on the brink of indulging in her true nature. I admired her, and I felt a deep sense of responsibility for her. What I did…" He pauses, his eyes glued to the road. "It was necessary, but it hurt me more than I expected."

Will wants to say that it was absolutely not necessary. It was a vengeful, selfish act. Will had hurt Hannibal’s pride and had to pay a great price for it. Perhaps it was the most evil and vile thing Hannibal had done to Will. It was curious how he was so adamantly sure of his own actions. His way or the highway, some might say. 

“But I have accepted it as reality. It is a shame that you are unable to do the same.” Hannibal retreats his hand to change gears as he pulls out onto the main road. Will looks at him. 

“Was that not your intention? To punish me with something I could never recover from.” Hannibal smiles a little.

“I suppose you are unfortunately correct.” 

“Do you regret it?”

“I believe that I have already told you I do not.”

“I thought you might have changed your mind…” Will admits, almost shamefully. He should have known that the surrender that Will showed when kissing Hannibal would not change anything about Hannibal’s life philosophy. 

“I have not.”

The rest of the ride is regretfully silent and Will regrets bringing it up. But it would have been just as terrible of a thought whether he had chosen to bring it up or not. Their past can’t be ignored or forgotten, only adapted to and forgiven. If there is a single thing he can neither forgive nor forget, it's Abigail.  

“I’m afraid that I’ll never allow myself to be happy, no matter what I do.” 

“Can you settle for contentment?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Will believes he has found the answer to his own question. He has no choice, and perhaps he never truly had a chance at happiness. From the moment Hannibal entered his life, he stole that from him. Happiness is impossible without him, for Hannibal has engraved himself into Will’s soul, leaving a permanent mark. In his absence, Will’s soul aches with longing. Yet, a life with Hannibal deprives him of joy just as much, for he cannot fully indulge in the true evil that is Hannibal Lecter. His hope for contentment lies solely in his own capacity for evil and he has yet to reach an understanding of said capacity. 

The few glimpses of happiness he has seen over the past couple of years have been clouded with an inky dark shadow. One that constantly reminds him that all joy is fleeting and the world as he knows it is not made for him. He belongs nowhere. Hannibal is the only one who understands his soul, but he has his own motives and aspirations for Will. No one truly has Will’s best interest in mind. Not even himself. 

Perhaps he doesn’t deserve true happiness. Maybe his own damned mind has cursed him to a life without it. Maybe all he deserves is the stinging pain of confused contentment that Hannibal bestows upon his life.  

The thought, or perhaps the realization, follows him as they park and get out of the car.

They start at a store which seems to specialize in suits, and Will immediately protests, but Hannibal promises that he only needs to get one “for special occasions”. His thoughts dissipate when he starts being measured for his suit. It’s a terribly awkward affair of a middle aged woman wrapping a tape measurer around every inch of him and humming and ah-ing while Hannibal watches and makes small talk. Will stands with his arms raised, trying to suppress the urge to glare at Hannibal as the woman's hand comes dangerously close to his crotch. Hannibal hides his amusement well, but it's clear that Will's begrudging discomfort entertains him.

A couple of miserable hours pass, the only reckoning being that he is more entertained than he’s been in weeks. Unfortunately, the entirety of the entertainment consists of Will choosing an clothing item he likes and trying it on and Hannibal harshly critiquing it. He does not understand the humor in Will calling him Miranda Priestly. 

They finally finish up their ‘shopping-spree’ as Hannibal so delightfully refers to it about three hours after arriving. Will carries two bags, filled to the brim with shirts, vests, jackets, sweaters and pants. He feels overindulgent and imagines he won't use half of this, but Hannibal is barely satisfied with it. They will additionally be picking up his suit in a couple of days. He wonders how much money Hannibal really has, because he doesn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about their excessive spending. 

They head over to the grocery store after leaving the bags in the car. Will has surprised himself by being quite casually social. The local residents are happy to greet them and welcome them to the community, and even if Hannibal does the majority of the talking, he has been polite and is probably not going to be immediately branded as a weirdo recluse. The locals additionally have the tactfulness to not question the label of their relationship, which Will is grateful for because they haven’t discussed what their answer should be. Neither is he ready to decide that. 

The grocery store is appropriately sized for a small town, but lacks nothing they need. Will pushes the cart and Hannibal spends an agonizing amount of time comparing produce while narrating his thoughts out loud, because he wants Will to suffer. 

At the deli counter, they are greeted by a young man who offers them samples of everything they consider purchasing. Will wants to buy about ten pounds of the mortadella he tries but settles for a quarter pound. 

Will enjoys grocery shopping a lot more than everything else they’ve done that day. He doesn’t have to parade around like a show-dog, and instead gets to pick out ingredients for future meals and divulge in wonderful deli meats. 

He buys orange juice, which Hannibal argues is better if you make it yourself. Will says he likes it more with added sugar and Hannibal furrows his eyebrows. 

“Such an incredible shame to destroy the natural flavor with added sweetness.”  

Will ignores him and buys two cartons instead of the one he intended. 

They are standing around by the dairy section. Will wants to buy table butter and Hannibal, as per usual, looks offended at the simplicity. He opens his mouth, probably to say something about the benefits of the traditional way of churning butter in a bucket, but Will’s eyes catch on something behind him and he immediately realizes and goes quiet. He turns around and both stare at the subject of Will’s attention. 

A man with a patchy, scraggly beard, a beer belly, and a stained t-shirt crouches down, speaking to a little blonde girl in pigtails and a pink dress. Her mother, standing a bit further down the aisle, is chatting with a store worker and seems unaware of the interaction.

“Do you like lollipops?” the man asks. The girl grimaces and leans back, clearly uncomfortable—either sensing something off about him or recoiling from his smell. Hannibal’s gaze fixes on them, his expression unreadable but intense.

Will steps forward without hesitation. He grabs the girl gently by the arm, pulling her behind him. She yelps in surprise but doesn’t resist, instinctively recognizing that Will’s interference is meant to protect her. The man hurriedly stands up. Will expects him to pose a challenge, to puff out his chest like an angry bird. But instead he folds in on himself and takes a step back.

Before Will can speak, or before his rising anger tempts him to lash out, the girl’s mother notices the quiet commotion. She strides over, her movements brisk and defensive, and scoops her daughter into her arms. The man, caught off guard by how quickly the situation has escalated, stumbles back a step, muttering something under his breath.

“Your nerve to even show your face around here,” The mother spits and holds her daughter pressed against her chest. Her cheeks are blooming with red anger. “A man with your history should truly know better than to repeat it.” By the time her sentence is finished the man has left, darting into a nearby aisle to escape her berating. 

Her attention is instead turned to Will who is watching the interaction with furrowed eyebrows. 

“Thank you,” her eyebrows are upturned in remorse. “I had no idea he was here. I’m- thank you for stepping in.” She reaches out and pets his arm gratefully.

“Of course,” Will answers quickly and quietly. The worker she was speaking to joins them.

 “I can’t believe someone like him is allowed to roam the streets,” he says and Will sends a worried look to Hannibal. Hannibal walks up and stands by his side. 

“Who is that man?” Hannibal asks and the strangers share a look. The woman uses her free hand to cover her daughter's ear and press the other against her shoulder. 

“He’s a… you know, an offender .” She whispers and grimaces at the mere utterance of the word. “We’ve tried to get him to move, or evict him or something, but there's nothing we can do. He’s truly a horrid person, the things he did…” she shakes her head and looks down. “I would have never let Rose out of my sight if I knew he was here. He makes the entire town feel unsafe. The children of course know that they aren’t allowed to speak to him, but what do they have against a man of that size…” 

“It’s incredible!” The worker exclaims. “Every single person in town knows about it and everyone knows that he will inevitably re-offend, but the sheriff refuses to do anything about it.” Both of them are rightfully incredibly angry. 

“The levels of corruption within the very people who are supposed to protect us is truly astounding.” Hannibal answers. Will finds him saying this incredibly comical, considering their true history, but he thankfully manages to keep a straight face. 

The woman sighs. 

“Ain’t that the terrible truth.” She reaches out her hand towards Hannibal. “I’m Delilah, please- if you ever need anything or want to come over for coffee, you’re always welcome. I’m forever grateful for this.” 

Will considers this to be slightly absurd. He can’t imagine any other option than stepping between the interaction and it feels more like common courtesy than something that they should be thanked for. But when she reaches her hand out to him he accepts the handshake and smiles.

“No need to thank me.” She smiles a bit wider. 

“It’s a joy to have some decent people like yourselves moving here.” She praises and then, after once again petting Will’s arm, walks away to continue shopping with her daughter. 

They stand there for a while until Will finally turns to Hannibal and whispers. 

“Seems we’ve found my guinea pig.”

Chapter Text

The man was almost comically easy to find. Hannibal once again overindulged and purchased a laptop for them and got them both phones as he had promised to keep Will from letting all hell loose the moment he started worrying about Hannibal during their brief periods of separation.

They had sat down together on the couch, and as the man was a registered sex offender, his full name and address was no more than a few clicks away. Raymond Denner. He unfortunately lived quite centrally in the town, which would of course cause a certain level of complication, but that wasn’t enough to scare them off. 

Will was pleased to find that there was no one else registered in their new town. If, no when, they did this, it would not be an act of evil. They would rid this town of unspeakable, senseless violence against innocents. It felt completely right and he doubted it not for a single second. He grabs a paper and jots down the address. 

He takes a sip of the tea Hannibal has made them. Lemon mint. It’s warm and refreshing. Despite their long and tumultuous day, their evening has been pleasant. As per usual, Hannibal made dinner while Will helped and he felt surprisingly at ease, despite what they had experienced. He looked forward to doing this town a favor and ridding the world of evil. Perhaps, if he could keep their killings to the worst people of society, he might annul their sins. This reassuring thought made his night comfortable, but buzzing with excitement. It was too soon to act on it tonight. Both Will and Hannibal agreed that they’d have to scope it out ahead of time. 

Will soothed his excited nerves by imagining watching the life-blood run out of Raymond Denner. 

“How are we going to do it?” Will looks at Hannibal, who’s eyes reflect the dancing light of the fire. The mundanity of their new life has introduced him to a previously unexplored part of Hannibal. The Hannibal who changes out of his suits and into more comfortable clothes and lounges on the couch. He carries an air of comfortability and relaxation that has a tendency to rub off onto Will, whose own anxious thoughts often keep his muscles tied into tight knots. It lacks formality and poshness, which was all he had known of Hannibal before. But he somewhat suspects that it is more for Will’s sake than because Hannibal truly enjoyed it. He believes that the doctor's preferred way of relaxation is sitting by his desk, sketching or reading, while looking and feeling done up. Will surely prefers their normalcy of lounging on the couch, sides pressed together. They sit about as close together as they physically can without placing themselves in a compromising position. 

Hannibal shuts the laptop and places it on the coffee table. He turns his full attention to Will. 

“Do you mean the entirety of the process or strictly the act of murdering him?”

“I mean…both. However I was referring more to the killing part.”

“Are you not inclined to be the one choosing that?”

“I’m not sure…if I want to plan it at all.” Will says unsurely. It was a weird conversation topic. It felt wrong to speak of, even if Will was undoubtedly sure he wanted to do it and was going to go through with it. He had been the one to bring it up. Maybe he hadn’t expected to have the planning turned onto him. 

“Making the decision in the moment can be just as beneficial as planning it step by step,” Hannibal assures and strokes his hand slowly over Will’s hair. He didn’t get around to cutting it. They had gone home right after the incident in the grocery store. Will had been boiling with rage and could barely wait until they had sat down in the car to start raving and ranting about how vile the man was. 

“If I’d still had my gun I would’ve killed him right there,” he sputtered. 

“I am sure that the townsfolk would’ve thanked you.”

“Townsfolk,” Will scoffed. “I wasn’t aware that we had moved to a medieval village.”

Hannibal, as per usual, ignored Will’s sarcastic comment. 

“We are more inclined than we’d like to believe to assign worth to a human life based on how someone treats others. If they are perceived as a threat to vulnerable people, we are far more positive to see them die than most people would like to admit.” 

“Are you insinuating that he doesn’t deserve to die?” 

“Of course not. I will be delighted to rid the earth of him.”

Will leans his head back into the palm of Hannibal’s hand and closes his eyes. The up-and-down movement of his hand stills and Hannibal reverts to scratching his fingers over Will’s scalp in a manner that is truly calming. He breathes out a quiet sound of satisfaction and feels as if he’s about to physically melt into the couch. 

“I believe you may have found your calling, Will.” Hannibal states. His voice isn’t loud, but the house is still so chronically quiet that every word they share seems to echo. 

“And what would that be, Hannibal?” Will responds and opts to keep his eyes closed, because Hannibal is still scratching at his scalp and he might just fall asleep right then and there, with the feeling a kid has the day before a field trip, Unfiltered excitement. He considers going upstairs and picking out an outfit ahead of time. 

“Vigilantism,” he answers and Will chuckles. He opens his eyes and looks at Hannibal, who is already smiling at him. 

“Wouldn’t that serve us both?” Will asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“It would, yes.” Hannibal agrees and slowly, tenderly leans down. He presses a soft, tentative kiss to the side of Will’s throat. Hannibal cannot help but, or chooses not to, laugh when Will tilts his head back again to expose his neck more. Hannibal explores further, pressing his lips against the spot where Will’s pulse beats quickly. He’s tender and careful and slow, like he always is. He’s allowing Will to have control, even if he’s staying completely still under Hannibal’s touch. His lips gracefully travel up and pepper small pecks over his jawline. Will takes a deep breath before adjusting the position of his head and catching Hannibal’s lips with his own. 

The smile that immediately presses into their kiss is unmistakable and Will considers it quite flattering. Hannibal seems genuinely delighted every time they kiss. His long hand wanders down from Will’s head and rests, splayed out on his upper back. He pushes his torso forward, causing Will to lean in further, his chest pressing against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal adjusts, turning his upper body to face Will’s almost entirely. 

Will’s own hands travel up and grab onto Hannibal’s shoulders, as if he’s scared he’ll run away. Perhaps he is because in the jittering excitement that litters his body, a newfound flood of confidence engulfs him, and he doesn’t want the moment to slip between his fingers. He wraps one of his arms around Hannibal’s neck, the crook of his arm capturing the back of Hannibal’s neck securely, pushing them even closer together. He sits up and leans in further and their chests are pressed flush against each other. It once again feels like Will is in control of the entire thing, leading it and steering it in whichever direction he wishes. Hannibal responds but does not dictate. Will wishes that he would, and alleviate some of the daunting, nervous pressure he feels. 

He suddenly worries that he’s gotten the entire situation wrong. Maybe Hannibal doesn’t even want to kiss him and merely tolerates it. Maybe that’s why he never escalates, always does exactly the same thing as Will does. What if he feels none of the passion that Will does? That would be humiliating and, unfortunately for Will, totally soul crushing. He took such a leap by kissing him and he had thought that Hannibal seemed just as excited and invested, but he had always been complete garbage at reading social cues. 

Will pulls back so suddenly that he manages to surprise Hannibal, who never seems to be surprised by pretty much anything. He opens his eyes and looks, only to find Will dauntingly staring at him with large, worried blue eyes. 

“What’s wrong,” Hannibal asks and smooths his hand down Will’s back, rubbing it softly. Will opens his mouth, pants out a breath, and closes it again. He can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to. If he’s right, it will be entirely mortifying, because he suspects that Hannibal wouldn’t lie about something like that, which means that he’d outright tell him that he wasn’t attracted to him at all, and didn’t really want to kiss him whatsoever, and that Will had made a complete fool out of himself. On the other hand, if he’s wrong and admits to Hannibal what he fears, it will be utterly humiliating to let Hannibal find out how insecure and confused he really is. 

The silence must speak louder than any words he could have said, because Hannibal sits up a bit straighter and cups Will’s face carefully. 

“Will, please, share your worries with me.” Never initiate an intimate relationship with a psychologist. If he ever writes a book, that's what it would be called. Hannibal's insistent need to figure out everything that is wrong with him, and inability to not notice when something is. It always puts Will on the spot and forces him into honesty or into lying. He sighs. 

“Do- god,” he pulls his face away from Hannibal’s hand and rubs his own over his eyes impatiently. “Do you even want to do this?” He finally forces out and keeps his hand over his eyes to save himself the embarrassment of having to see Hannibal’s reaction. 

“What?” Hannibal sounds genuinely taken aback and Will carefully peaks through his fingers. He rarely sees Hannibal so overwhelmed and baffled. He hadn’t expected this at all. “You must not be serious.” He shakes his head, blinking rapidly, confused. 

“I am.” Will responds quietly and slowly removes his hand. Hannibal immediately cups his face again and pulls Will towards him with a surprising display of urgent strength. He stares down into his face with an incredibly intense stare. 

“I have never in my life wanted anything more than I want this.” Hannibal whispers, his breath, smelling of lemon and mint, hitting Will’s face like the stroke of a feather. “I have dreamed and fantasized about this for years, Will. Since the day I laid my eyes on you I’ve wanted, perhaps needed, this.” Will stares into Hannibal’s eyes, looking for a sign of disearnesty. But they’re as pure as can be and Will almost feels it himself. He feels what he sees in Hannibal’s eyes. Unfiltered, unwavering love. It fills Will up, covers the inside of his veins and changes the composition of his cells. 

He looks at Hannibal, and regards him in the same manner as Hannibal regards Will. He would do anything for him. Kill for him. Die for him. The only person in the world who would ever get the opportunity to fundamentally change Hannibal Lecters life and way of thinking. How can he doubt such a thing? Will has to remind himself that his capacity for empathy extends past seeing through the eyes of serial killers. Perhaps he should interrogate Hannibal’s mind more often. It would definitely ease some of his worries. Or cause more.

He has seen through Hannibal’s eyes before. Before he knew it was Hannibal. When he only knew the mind he entered as the Chesapeake Ripper. In the moments when Hannibal reverts to cold blooded murder, Will does not wish to be a resident of his mind. 

But now he has been and his doubts, although they will inevitably come back because Will’s anxiety is prone to get the best of him, dissipate. He sweeps forward again and their lips interlock with a more feverish desperation than ever before. The feeling of mutual understanding and…something more which Will doesn’t feel ready to acknowledge. 

Instead of reflecting over that, he courageously drags himself into Hannibal's lap and wraps his arms around his neck. Hannibal, for the second time of the night, seems overwhelmed and surprised. But he’s a man of adaptation, and responds without hesitation by engulfing Will’s waist with his hands. He snakes them around, wrapping his arms securely around Will and pulling him closer until their bodies are painfully pressed together. Every breath Will takes pushes against Hannibal’s chest and if he was this constricted in any other scenario he would feel claustrophobic. 

Hannibal moves one of his hands up and grabs onto Will’s jaw. He practically pries his mouth open and invites himself in. The warm, soft licks of Hannibal’s tongue over his lips and teeth and own tongue is bewildering. Maybe it’s just because of Hannibal’s infamous taste for humans, but Will feels more like he’s being taste tested than anything else. Like a popsicle. He, of course, doesn’t stop him. He melts into it, tangling his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and pressing their mouths so close together that their teeth clack against each other.

Hannibal brings his hands up under the fabric of Will’s shirt. They explore his back, touching the muscles and tracing his ribs. He envelops him in his warm touch and for a moment, Will forgets the rest of the world. He’s all consumed by the sounds of their breathing and the occasional and embarrassing little sounds that make their way out of Will’s throat without his permission. Every time they do, Hannibal grazes his teeth over Will’s lip, as if he’s about to bite, and Will rewards him with yet another involuntary sound. 

Hannibal’s fingers trace the outline of Will’s spine, pressing against the protrusion of the vertebrae. It strangely tickles and Will has to interrupt the feverish kissing to laugh, at which point Hannibal disconnects their lips and runs kisses down the side of Will’s face and down his throat before landing at the crook of his neck. 

Will has never been bitten before, not that he can remember anyway. During his adventurous years chasing Hannibal with the FBI and across the word he suffered many injuries and got in many strange fights with all sorts of deranged people, so the possibility that he actually has been bitten before is existent and probably guaranteed. But he knows for sure that he has never been bitten like this. Again, he was an attractive man during his college years. He is used to getting hickeys and love bites. But Hannibal bites down hard, so hard in-fact that Will is entirely sure that he will break the skin. The pain sends shooting streaks of lightning all the way from his collarbones and to the very tips of his fingers. He winces and goes to pull away, but Hannibal does so before him. There’s a very faint hint of blood on his teeth and Will brings his hand up to the spot Hannibal bit down on. When he views his hand, he sees the fresh blood in a thin layer over his fingertips. 

“Oh my god,” Will furrows his eyebrows and Hannibal just smiles. Like he’s proud of himself. “You really bit me.” 

Hannibal licks his lips with a catlike expression of complacency on his face. If he was normal, he would’ve probably said something like “And you liked it,” and made a suggestive and utterly embarrassing yet accurate gesture to the evidence, which would’ve mortified Will and caused him to run away and die. But instead he says:

“I am not one to refuse myself the indulgence of a delicacy.” 

Will has to remind himself that Hannibal actually does regularly indulge in the delicacy of human flesh, and him getting a taste for Will’s might cause the action to turn into something other than a simply wistful, erotic gesture.

Hannibal leans down and grazes his lips over the bite mark and Will feels the pressure of his tongue pressing against it. A shiver runs down his spine and he imagines the taste of his own blood coating Hannibal’s tongue. He grimaces but Hannibal hums delightfully against his neck, and his hands grasp at his back. 

“Even the finest honey pales in comparison to your flavor,” he looks up at Will, his eyes glistening in the light of the fire and his cheeks rosy red. He’s panting softly, lips parted to exhale lemony puffs of air onto the skin of Will’s throat. Will shudders and cannot discern if it’s fear or arousal. In any case he has surpassed his own level of comfort in self discovery today and slowly slides out of Hannibal’s iron grip. He stands up. And then he promptly feels guilty because Hannibal’s poetic and frightening words were probably intended to be kind and complementary. So he leans down and presses a soft, tender, slow kiss to his lips. Will tastes the familiar essence of his own blood, and Hannibal responds with the same softness, which soothes him. 

“We should go to bed,” Will says and glances at the clock. It’s creeping dangerously close to midnight. “We have a long day ahead of us.” 

Hannibal stands up in a wordless agreement and takes Will’s hand. They head upstairs, fingers intertwined and palms pressed together. They stand like that, in a ridiculously juvenile, puppy-love kind of way, and brush their teeth together. 

Hannibal’s pre-bed routine is tedious and long, so Will heads to bed before him. He reluctantly heads to his own room and changes into his pajamas, which is another outfit which Hannibal insists on constantly washing. If there is anything Will doesn’t wash it’s his damn pajamas. No one is supposed to smell those except for himself, and he is the last one to care. 

He has settled under his blankets, which are cool from unuse, and almost lulled himself into a surprisingly quick sleep. But then he’s suddenly aware of a presence in the room. He opens his eyes and finds Hannibal (obviously in his stupid silk pajama pants) staring at him, once again by the foot of his bed. He has the ability to be incredibly creepy and unsettling, and Will wonders if he’s even aware of it. 

“May I join you?” Hannibal asks, softly and casually in the quiet room, as if he’s completely unaware that he just scared the living daylights out of Will. 

But Will, despite the fright, smiles and lifts the blankets. Hannibal slides in under the sheets, and instead of what has been their usual nightly dance he immediately pulls him close and presses his face into his chest. Usually, Will joins him in the unheavenly hours of the morning. He tries to be quiet but Hannibal always wakes up. They look at each other in the darkness, the only light being the one emitted from outside the window, and then initiate their game of who can touch the other the most until the tension is so heavy that only sleep can dissipate it . Hannibal always wins. After that Will usually settles against Hannibal’s chest or presses his back against him, and Hannibal always responds by wrapping his arms protectively around Will. 

Will inhales the familiar scent of Hannibal and his body feels utterly relaxed. Sleep is already beckoning him and the last thing he hears before being enveloped in darkness is Hannibal whispering something he cannot seem to understand. 

“Mano pasaulis”

Raymond Denner lives in a yellow house in the south end of town. His facade is littered with graffiti. Black, painted letters spelling “Pedo” and “perv” and “burn in hell”. Will applauds the teenagers of the town for their initiative. 

Denner was arrested fifteen years ago for his sexual assaults against his neighbor's son. He was sentenced to eighteen years but got out early on good behavior. It’s astounding how much information there is to find on the internet. 

He had been shunned by the town he previously lived in, only a couple of hours away, and had not lived here for more than a year. Clearly, he had a hard time remembering the lesson he was supposed to have learnt in prison, considering the fiasco in the grocery store. A blind worm could see that he is a single wrong step away from reoffending, and he doesn’t seem to bother checking where he places his feet. 

Hannibal and Will had gone to his house around three PM, only about an hour before the sun set. They had hovered by the treeline, looking in through the windows. Will’s fingers itched for the opportunity of making this town just a bit safer. If anything, the town's children would be safer. Hannibal would never hurt them, that was the single thing Will knew for sure about his life-partner (roommate? ). 

Raymond Denner evidently spent most of his time lounging in front of the TV, because he hadn’t moved an inch since Hannibal and Will arrived. Well, once- but that was only to venture into the kitchen and grab a beer. He was a horribly foul caricature of the sort of man he was. 

They had worked out a plan, while squatting on the forest floor. Hannibal was going to enter through the back door, which led into the kitchen. This would be guaranteed to catch Raymonds attention. When he went to check it out, Will would enter through the front door, which Hannibal would have picked preliminarily. He would be armed with a knife and would apprehend Denner from behind. 

Their planning hadn’t gotten much further than that, because Will wanted to see what he would do in the moment. He didn’t want this to be premeditated. He wanted to unleash the entirety of his rage on Raymond, without the confinements of a plan. Hannibal had looked at Will like he was willing to worship him when he had explained that. 

After the last rays of the sun licked the horrid yellow facade of the house Hannibal walked up and pressed a long, metal stick into the lock. The TV blared so loudly that Will heard it even while standing pressed against the wall next to the door. Hannibal worked quickly, with an uninterrupted focus. As soon as the lock clicked, which was drowned by the sound of an adult-cartoon’s laugh track, he gave Will a swift kiss on the mouth and walked around to the backdoor. Will heard the door open at the same time as Raymond did. He glanced in through the window above his head and saw the sleazy man rise from his seat with a scowl and head toward the kitchen. 

Will hurried. He pushed open the door, which squealed softly in protest. He shut it slowly behind him. 

“It’s you,” Raymond sounded surprisingly calm. He was of course bewildered, but Will had expected him to be angrier. “From the grocery store.” 

Hannibal answers with something Will doesn’t hear over the blaring TV. But he doesn’t care either. He leans down and picks up a shirt that has been carelessly discarded on the floor. When he enters the kitchen, having successfully snuck up without being noticed, he is met with Raymonds back. He sees Hannibal’s eyes find him, and they smile at each other. 

Will captures Denners throat with the shirt, tugging him backwards and sending him tumbling onto the floor. His head hits the ground with a sickening thud. He doesn’t get the chance to react before Will has pounced on him like some sort of rabid animal. He immediately has both knees pressed into the man’s shoulders, and he lets out a painful groan. Will stares down at him. He can feel how wide and manic his eyes are. His pulse is drumming almost painfully up through his throat and into his ears. His breathing is rigid and shallow. It feels like right before the drop on a rollercoaster.

“Raymond Denners,” he says and he surprises himself with a steady voice laced with a smile. “You should’ve never done me the favor of showing me your face.”

The man, who was previously frozen (presumably in shock) starts kicking and tossing when the kitchen light reflects on the knife Will is holding. It has a sharp, silver blade that ends in a mean hook. Will worries that he will be thrown off balance, but immediately Hannibal is by his side, assisting in holding Raymond down. He grabs onto his shoulders and Will slides down to pin his legs instead. Raymond’s eyes follow his descent down his body, wide with fear. He’s panting and his face is red. He’s smart enough to know what’s coming. 

“When I’m done here you’re going to be wishing that prisons didn’t have special wards for people like you.” Will hisses and when he looks at Hannibal, he is smiling. 

“Please,” Raymond croaks and Will gets so unreasonably angry that he isn’t sure what he’s going to do. What he does know is that if Raymond starts screaming, the neighbors will hear. He takes the shirt, which reeks of sweat, and stuffs it into Raymonds mouth. He gags and struggles and his breathing stutters. Will can see Hannibal’s muscles play as he forces the man to lay still on the floor. Will looks at him, regards him. Then he smiles. 

“Let’s start by making sure you are disarmed, shall we?”

It takes Raymond, who is unarmed, a while to understand the true meaning of what Will is saying. Will gets up to get another knife, a large, square cleaving knife which is hanging on a metal rack over the stove. It’s not until he aligns it with Raymonds wrist that the man understands, and he starts desperately screaming against the fabric stuffed into his mouth. Hannibal eyes him carefully as Will raises the knife over his head, and with a single chop cuts the hand clean off the arm. Blood spews out and when Denner lifts his arm to regard the fountain of blood escaping from the wound, he effectively covers Will in it. Hannibal is wearing a stupid plastic overall, but Will couldn’t stand the thought of wearing something like that. He will just burn the clothes. Blood covers his face and he’s filled with anger and annoyance again. 

“Hannibal,” he grits out and Hannibal obediently maneuvers to the other side of Raymond to give Will access to his right hand as well. Tears stream down his round, red cheeks and drool wets the shirt. Will doesn’t hesitate before he dismembers his other hand. 

He stands up, panting and sweating, and tosses the knife down onto the floor. He rubs his blood slick hands together and regards Raymond, who isn’t fortunate enough to have passed out yet. He feels, and thinks, and he imagines Raymonds fear and pain and he thinks it will overwhelm him and make him regret what he is doing, but he feels nothing but a qualming sense of justice. 

He grabs his own knife, smaller and sharper and guaranteed to make a cleaner incision. 

Will sits down again, placing his weight on Denner’s thighs. 

“Do you wish you were dead yet, hm Raymond?” He asks and the second the man pathetically nods he says “that’s too bad. I haven’t even gotten to the best part.” 

He feels like he’s someone else. Like he’s being shaped into something entirely new, a man who rejoices in violence and the smell of gore and blood. Someone who plays god, thinks he’s rightful to decide who gets to live and who doesn’t. He feels like Hannibal. He stares into his counterpart's eyes as he buries the knife deep into Raymonds abdomen. The eye contact stays unbroken as the incision travels up, all the way from his bellybutton to his chin. 

By the time he is done, Raymond is sputtering out his last breaths. Will is drenched in blood, the knife slick in his hands. Hannibal looks at him with adoration. He sees what he always intended for Will to become. He looks maniacal and blood thirsty but completely aware and in control. Proud. He wants to throw himself forward, kiss him, taste him, bite him and savor the nectar of his blood again. Hannibal wants to ravish him and give him anything he’s ever wanted or needed. He wants to grant him this opportunity again, see him change and grow and drink from this experience until it fills him up and he truly understands who he is and what he’s capable of. He is so completely and utterly enamored with Will that he has no idea where to put it all. 

He lets go of the corpse he’s been pinning down and leaps forward, engaging Will in a deep, uncontrolled kiss. His usual self restraint and aspiration to allow Will to take the lead is blown away. His hands, covered in plastic, seize Will’s damp shirt, pulling him closer. Will releases a surprised, protesting sound against his lips, but to Hannibal’s satisfaction, he kisses back, desperate and indulgent. Will is careful not to touch him with his bloodied hands, but Hannibal wishes he hadn’t been. He wants Will to disregard the caution, to claim him fully, to surrender to the hunger between them. To take Hannibal as his own. 

Hannibal doesn’t know if anything would have been able to stop him from ravishing Will right on the kitchen floor, but Will gently pushes him off and places the knife in his hands. Hannibal nods faithfully and turns his attention to the cadaver of Raymond Denner. With the hands of a renowned surgeon he cuts out the organs from inside of the body. He places them in a plastic bag and turns to Will. The body is emptied of anything of value. Lungs, intestine, kidney, spleen, heart. Will said that was what he wanted. To remove everything that made Raymond a person and turn it into something else, something less horrible. 

Will seems to be coming down from the high he was riding. He’s panting and sweating and looks tired, eyelids drooping softly. 

They get up and gather everything. Hannibal takes the bag of organs and Will takes both of the knives they used. They bring the hands as well, but Will is adamant he doesn’t want to make anything with those. It’s just to discard evidence. They walk to the car, which is parked right by the edge of the forest, and in the cover of the winter’s darkness, they drive home.

Chapter Text

Hannibal had never, ever in his life, been as utterly fascinated with someone as he had been with Will Graham  in Raymond Denner’s kitchen. He thought about it for the entirety of the time that he processed the fruits of their hunt. Will went to shower, not before tossing his clothes into the hungry fire in the fireplace. Hannibal took the bag down to the basement and strategically, with the routine of someone who had done it countless of times, vacuum sealed it and stored it in the freezer. He saved the kidney, which he took with him upstairs and started carefully crafting into Will’s first self-caught meal. 

He ran a sharp knife through the middle of the organ, splitting it in half. Then, using a meat hammer, he flattened it into a delectably thin sheet. He then sprinkled it with salt, pepper and paprika and dipped it into a pan of bubbling hot butter, almost to the point of being browned. The kidney did not get to touch the surface for more than about ten seconds, at risk of it becoming rubbery. He kept the residual butter and deglazed the greasy pan with a dry, white wine. A squeeze of lemon juice, for acidity to compliment the wine, and a spoonful of honey for a rich sweetness. Right before it was done he added pomegranate seeds for a sweet crunch. 

Hannibal placed the thin piece of kidney on a bed of spinach leaves and coated it with the buttery sauce. Another handful of pomegranate seeds and a leaf of parsley for decoration. He placed both of their plates on the table and poured them each a glass of the remaining riesling that had been used in the sauce. He placed a basket of bread on the table, for he had seen how much Will enjoyed it during their brief restaurant visit. 

Will came downstairs right on time. He was still holding a towel, drying at his hair and rubbing at his ears. He smelled clean and fresh. A normal nose would not have been able to pick up the residual smell of human blood, but Hannibal could. Will’s nose appreciatively invited the warm oozes of the kitchen, and he hummed softly as he raised his chin and smelled the room. 

“It smells great,” he praised and walked right over to the table. He hung his towel over the back of a chair and sat down eagerly. His enthusiasm was just a tad too elated, and Hannibal figured that he was experiencing some inner turmoil.

It was, of course, entirely natural. Although the worth of a human life is entirely subjective, the weight of it can bring down anyone who is not prepared to bear it. Will was prepared, but is stumbling under it. His determination and conviction that it was deserved keeps him upright, but it buckles further under the thought of happily indulging in a meal of it. It would not be the first time, but it is the first time Will has actively initiated it and requested it. Once he accepts this, it means he has taken yet another step further in the direction that he fears. 

Will is a creature of routine, this uprooting of his life must be hard on him. Every change is like a blow to his sternum. But he is taking it like a champ. 

Hannibal leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head as he passes, Will glances up at him, grimacing a bit at the domesticity. Hannibal knows that he enjoys it deep down. Otherwise, he would not be so keen to huddle up on the couch next to Hannibal to simply read books together in silence, and he would not stumble into his room every night just for the sake of sleeping together. He imagines that Will might have found it less…anxiety inducing had their relationship been strictly sexual (or sexual at all for that matter, but Hannibal is not bitter about that). Arousal, lust and need is easy. Longing, wanting and feeling is hard. They dove into the deep end of that the moment they met each other and had yet to swim to the shallow part.

A shuddering breath leaves Will and he drags his knife over the plate to cut a bite of the meat. He shoves it in his mouth, as if he is afraid that if he does not do it now, he never will. He chews, and chews, and Hannibal starts worrying that he cooked the meat for too long and made it rubbery, but then Will swallows. 

“It’s divine,” he says and takes another bite, and Hannbial thinks that's the kindest thing Will has ever said about his cooking. 

He has come to learn that, while Will likes good food, that does not extend much further than acknowledging when something tastes good, bad, or better than usual. His unrefined palette has no space for finding subtlety in complementary flavors or appreciating the perfect tenderness of a skillfully cooked steak. He eats, he enjoys it, he sometimes compliments it. Will’s mind is far too occupied to analyze the balance between sweet and savor hidden in the sauce of a dish. 

Hannibal’s is not. 

He takes a bite of the food, enjoying the meat, which, of course, is cooked to perfection. The spinach leaves are fresh and crisp and the tang of the pomegranate and lemon pair wonderfully with the sweet richness of the honey. Hannibal is brought to remember his reference to Will’s blood as honey. He wonders if the man would allow him to use his blood in cooking. It would be no more hassle than donating blood. He elects to ask him another time, when he has more positively accepted himself. 

The bite mark on his collarbone glares red and fresh, a delightful purple bruise around it. He knows that, if they leave the house while it is still so prominent, Will will want to wear a scarf. He wishes that he would not. 

They actually do not leave the house for a couple of days, because that same night, a snow storm hits with full force. The walls shake with every gust of wind and Will’s undying fire struggles to keep the house warm. They bundle up in sweaters and double socks and sit closely pressed together on the couch while Will delights in having access to streaming services. Hannibal never took him for a movie fanatic, which he probably would not have become unless he was so bored all the time. Hannibal was rarely bored. He had everything he needed. Pens, paper, books, Will. He was entirely pleased and satisfied. 

The next day, while the storm is still working on blowing itself tired, Will convinces Hannibal to make them hot chocolate. Will does not ask for much, if he wants something he tries to make it himself or if that does not work, ignores it. He mostly asks for Hannibal’s attention and presence, and apparently hot chocolate. 

“I tried to make it once,” Will says while he is assisting Hannibal by chopping the chocolate, which is pretty much the only preparation that needs to be done so Hannibal for once feels pretty unnecessary in the kitchen. “I added cornstarch to thicken it and then I had to eat lumps of hot chocolate for dessert. I haven’t tried since.” 

Hannibal frowns and scrunches his nose. 

“It is truly a wonder that you are the most intelligent man in the FBI.”

“Was,” Will is quick to correct, “I haven’t officially worked with the FBI for more than three years. They’ve probably found some new genius, who by now has probably found his very own cannibal to get attached to.” 

Hannibal smiles at him and he hopes that Will can see the adoration in his eyes. The insinuation that he is Will’s very own cannibal, whom he is attached to. He feels special.

Will presents the chocolate he has finished chopping and Hannibal takes the chopping board with him to the stove. He warms milk until it is just past finger warm, humming melodically while he slowly stirs in sugar, cocoa powder and the chocolate, piece by piece, making sure it is all melted before he adds the next. Most people would not be so meticulous, but he wants to give Will the best, even if it takes ten times longer than it has to. 

The wind dances outside of the window, snow pelting against the glass, creating a wall of white that makes it feel like their little house is floating in a void. 

Hannibal feels Will’s arms wrap around his waist, hugging onto him closely while he stirs the pot. He leans his cheek against his shoulder, and a soft sigh leaves his mouth to graze the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. 

“Have you got something on your mind, Mano pasaulis” Hannibal hums. His world. His entire world and life and soul, wrapped around his waist. 

“Am I not allowed to just hug you, now? Must I be struggling with yet another internal conflict to seek physical intimacy?”

“Of course not.” Hannibal puts the last piece of chocolate in the milk and lets it melt before taking it off the heat. “I am yours to touch whenever you wish,” he hums and Will’s cheek tenses against his shoulder in what must be a smile. His position adjusts, and he rests his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder, looking at what his hands are working with. “You say physical intimacy, do you mean as opposed to emotional or perhaps psychological intimacy?” 

Will snorts a softly amused laugh, right next to Hannibal’s ear. 

“Psychological intimacy becomes almost inevitable when living in close proximity with a psychiatrist,” he says and turns his face to press his nose against the point where Hannibal’s jaw meets his ear. His strong arms engulf Hannibal’s waist with warmth, and he holds him as if he is never going to release him. 

“I suppose you would be an expert in that field.” Hannibal loosens Will’s grip only slightly, just enough to turn around. He leans his back against the counter behind him. 

“I am,” Will answers, sounding proud. He gazes up at Hannibal, his eyebrows neutral, his lips only slightly upturned. “I would also consider myself an expert within physical intimacy with cannibals.” 

Hannibal laughs, mockingly, and it surprises Will enough to sour his neutral, peaceful expression and cause his eyebrows to dive inward. 

“Hardly,” Hannibal places his hands on Will’s hips, his thumb rubbing circles over the bone protruding under the fabric of his pants. “Alana Bloom has far more experience in that field than you do.” 

Something dark and mean flashes over his brilliant blue eyes. Jealousy. It is unmistakable and entirely flattering in its patency. Will’s eyes dart around, undoubtedly searching for something to say that would make Hannibal equally jealous. His thumb absentmindedly rubs against Hannibal’s spine, sending shivers up to his neck. He doesn’t find anything and soon gives up, starting to release himself from Hannibal. Hannibal secures his grip further, digging his fingers into Will’s sides so hard that it earns him a gasp. 

“I am simply teasing you, my dear.” Hannibal coos and leans down, pressing a kiss to Will’s forehead, even though the man is dramatically protesting by leaning away. 

“It wasn’t funny,” Will grumbles. “It wasn’t nice to her either…”. That was true. By standard measures of kindness, it had been mean, considering that Hannibal had harbored no true feelings for Alana and simply used her as a device in his plan to acquire Will. It had almost worked. It was so close to being perfect, all until he figured out that Will was playing a double game. 

If he had not found out, it would not have mattered, because Will would have ran with him anyways, despite his association with the FBI. Otherwise he would not have called to warn him. He would have come with, if Hannibal had allowed it, he was sure. 

“My priorities lay not in being nice to Doctor Bloom,” he answers and finally lets Will go to pour their hot chocolate into mugs. He gives one to Will and he accepts it with a forgiving smile and heads back to the living room. 

They recline in the couch, Hannibal laying with his head against the armrest while Will finds his place tucked into Hannibal’s side. Will insists that they watch Love Actually. Christmas had come and gone while they were on the road, neither of them paying it much mind, but a Christmas movie was apparently obligatory at least once during December, at least to Will. 

However, it did not take long before Hannibal fell asleep, nose pressed into Will’s hair and mouth coated in rich chocolate while sound blared from the laptop balancing on his stomach. 

When he woke up, he was alone. It was light outside which hinted that he had slept the entire night on the couch. A blanket laid over him and a fire raged in the fireplace, but Will was nowhere to be seen. The snow had finally tired of harassing their windows and had retreated to a serenely slow falling. It did not take long for Hannibal to discover that Will’s shoes and coat were missing. He must have gone for a walk. 

Hannibal had been adamant that he was not a terribly huge fan of walks in the woods. It tended to be dirty and cold, and he much preferred more polished activities. He, of course, joined Will anytime he asked, but rarely volunteered. It seemed to be the only time Will was okay with being separated and it could take hours for him to come back. 

Hannibal walked into the kitchen, seeing the mess Will had left behind. He had made himself sandwiches, presumably to take with him, and coffee. Will was not keen on cleaning as he went, instead he preferred to torture Hannibal by leaving it messy and cleaning it all at once in the evening. The butter and ham laid on the counter and the bread was residing sadly on the cutting board. Hannibal sighed, but could, as per usual, not bring himself to be more than slightly annoyed. He put everything back in its place, made himself a cup of coffee, and returned to the living room to sit down by the piano. 

He dabbled in piano-playing, although he did prefer the harpsichord. The coffee was rich and warm and his back ached from the night spent on the couch. The house was cold and aside from the piano, very quiet. The wind that had howled for days had calmed itself, and the feeling of the house residing in an abyss grew. He felt at peace, unlike Will who found the house to be daunting in its silence. Though, one must admit that Hannibal was more comfortable in his own mind than Will was. 

He would be fine, residing in his memory palace for the rest of his life, with no other outside stimuli. It was of course an added bonus which enhanced his quality of life, but his brilliant mind was enough to occupy him in a way that Will’s own was not. 

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and Will (trekking muddy snow) stumbled into the house. He was bundled up in a scarf and hat and coat, but his nose and ears were still an angry red from the cold. He was panting as if he had gone through excessive physical exercise. In his arms, to Hannibal’s dismay, he carried a dog. 

It was a horribly rugged, scruffy thing. Clearly an ill bred mutt, with disproportionately long legs and snout. One ear stood up and the other laid down, both were comically large. Its fur was patchy, both in its color and texture. It seemed to be asleep, some version of unconscious at least and it’s muscles were twitching constantly, tensed from the cold. 

Hannibal looked at Will, still and blinking, awaiting an explanation. 

“Don’t give me that,” Will spat defensively although Hannibal had not said a word. “I couldn’t just leave her there, it’s- it’s so far below freezing. I mean I can't feel my toes and I'm wearing double socks!”

“Where did you find it?” Hannibal asked and stood up, locking his hands in front of his hips. 

“I found her close to the road, she couldn’t move, I’m worried she has been run over.” Will sounded so genuinely stressed and worried that the doubt Hannibal was harboring dissipates without his consent. He could never deny Will this, at least not if he wishes to remain happy with himself. Hannibal sighs and Will immediately takes it as permission. He stomps upstairs, snow and dirt and leaves leaving a trail behind him on the floor. Hannibal has to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten before he follows. 

By the time he reaches him, Will has placed the dog in their very nice bathtub that was never intended to be shared with a canine. He is gently, slowly using the porcelain cup that holds their toothbrushes to fill with water and then slowly pour it over the dog. He runs his hands over its fur, washing away the grime slowly and methodically, with hands soft and feathery. 

After a while of silence Will says “I don’t think she’s hurt. Just cold. I’m lucky I found her before she got hypothermia, or worse.” His hand strokes over its head and ears and the warm water seems to be doing the job of slowly bringing the dog back to consciousness. It is panting unhappily and weakly, and it will probably need some proper nursing to return to its previous standard of health, but Will’s eyes glow with joy as soon as it opens its eyes. 

“Hi,” he coos in a voice so sweet it could attract ants. “Hi, pretty girl.” He shushes and coos and hums, and despite the smell of dirty, wet dog filling the bathroom, Hannibal is happy to see Will so delighted. The dog seems nervous, but not aggressive, it lets Will wash it clean without more than a few whimpers of displeasement. Once Will is done, he grabs a towel from the warming rack and wraps it around the dog, drying its fur vigorously. 

“Hannibal,” he says with a hint of strain in his voice from the movement of rubbing the towel over the large dog. “Can you go get her something to eat,” Hannibal does not move at first, and only when Will turns his worried eyes towards him and adds “please” does he scowl and walk downstairs. 

He should really have had the foresight of kitting the house with dog bowls. He should have known that Will would not be able to keep from dragging home yet another stray. 

Hannibal grabs a bowl, which he will later either be burning if they do not keep the dog, or will be the designated dog bowl, and places it on the counter. He heads down to the basement and decides that he will be cooking lungs tonight. He can prep them now and leave the scraps to the dog. That must be satisfactory to Will. 

It does not take long for skilled hands to disconnect all tissue which would have been usually thrown in the trash and toss it into the bowl. After a moment of thought, seeing that the amount of food in the bowl is probably not enough to feed a hungry dog, he goes and retrieves one of the hands they harvested yesterday. He places it in the middle of the bowl and hopes that Will will not mind. He was adamant he did not want to eat those. Argued that they were dirty. 

Once he is done he grabs the bowl and heads to the living room. Will is sitting in front of the fire, rubbing the towel between the dog's ears tenderly. The dog is laying down on the carpet, the fire spreading the smell of it around the room. Hannibal sighs and wishes he loved Will a little less while he heads over and places down the bowl. The dog perks up and sniffs the air, locating the bowl quickly. It staggers to stand on weak legs and Will’s eyes fill with intense pity. He grabs the bowl and picks the scraps up with his hands, hand feeding the dog so it can eat while laying down. 

“She’s so weak,” Will says miserably, picking up piece after piece of lung scraps to feed the dog. “She must have been out there for so long, I can’t…ugh…I can’t even imagine what kind of person would leave a poor dog out in a blizzard.” He does not mention the hand, but neither does he feed it to the dog. 

“It might have run away,” Hannibal suggests and sits down on the couch, a bit further away from Will than he would have wished. He had missed him this morning and now this dog was stealing all his attention.

“Yeah, well then you go looking. She can’t exactly read a weather report,” Will answers angrily and feeds her the last of the scraps. He places the bowl away, urging the dog to lay back down whenever it tries to stand. “They’re lucky I don’t know who they are.” He grumbles and the dog licks the air, trying to reach Will’s face. He smiles and strokes her fur slowly. He looks so content, and the dog has only been here for about twenty minutes. A light of joy that Hannibal has not seen in a very long time flickers in Will’s eyes. 

“If you did you would have to return her,” Hannibal says and Will’s eyes snap towards him with an icy cold glare, the statement having eradicated his joy. 

“And have them abandon her in the snow again? No way, she’s mine.” 

“I am pretty sure some would refer to that as dognapping.”

“It’s rescuing her from a bad situation,” Will argues, eyes still piercing Hannibal’s. Hannibal sighs and softens his posture, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The dog looks at him, resting its head on its paws. It has big, brown eyes, revealing white as it looks up at Hannibal. It could be considered cute. Perhaps he could get it a dog house. 

Hannibal smiles at Will and stands up, going to run his hands through Will’s mess of curls. It has grown from the neat cut he possessed when they ran away and started sticking out in various directions in an endearingly rugged manner. He does not have to say anything for Will to relent his guard and lean into his touch. 

“What should we call her?” Will asks and Hannibal chuckles. 

“I am not experienced in naming animals, Will, that is your field.”

Will looks up at him, patiently waiting. He wants Hannibal to do it, probably in an attempt to make him and the dog form a bond or something adjacent. 

“I do not know who this dog is, how am I supposed to choose a name that reflects its personality?” Hannibal asks, trying to slither out of the situation. Will’s unrelenting glare fills with amusement, but also slight irritation. Hannibal sighs, “ her personality.”

Will nods. 

“Go off of her looks.” 

Rabid trash pile is the first name which comes to Hannibal’s mind. He can understand the appeal of an unwaveringly loyal companion, and he supposes that some dogs are cute. But this one is mostly not. It has patchy fur, clearly having been outside for a while. It needs to gain some weight and its disproportionate features highlight this. And besides, who knows what kind of diseases a stray like this might carry. If it has a family, it hasn’t seen them for a long time. But he realizes that Will will be extremely upset if he says this. 

“Perdita,” he finally answers. The dog does not react, but Will looks up at him with a pleased smile and he continues to rake his hand through his warm hair.

“Clever,” Will says and gives the dog a last couple of pets before standing up. He runs his thumb over the collar of Hannibal’s shirt, and the smell of the dog overwhelms him further. He makes an active effort to not lean away. “I’m not going to ask if we can keep her, because I won’t take no for an answer,” he says, his smile bearing a hint of something along the lines of mischief.

“It is your home as well as mine,” Hannibal says. 

Will simply smiles and presses a soft, evidently grateful kiss to his lips. The dog barks.

Chapter Text

Will couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he found himself in Raymond Denners kitchen. The thought that one might think was scaring him, the memory of Raymond’s mutilated corpse, wasn’t. Every time he closed his eyes he saw himself. He saw himself through the eyes of Raymond, raising the cleaver. He looked insane, different, not himself. He thought that this was a step to discovering his real self, but it felt wrong. He was starting to worry that he didn’t have a real self. That he was destined to be stuck in a limbo of self discovery for the rest of his life. 

He hadn’t slept for days. It started the night during the blizzard, when Hannibal fell asleep on the couch. Will had tossed and turned on the small sliver of space he was laying on for hours. He had watched love actually three times back to back, and then just stared at the ceiling until the snow calmed down and he headed outside. 

Since then he had only slept once. He managed to take a nap in their office while Hannibal was reading. He had only slept for a couple of hours until Hannibal had woken him up for dinner. 

Will had managed to keep his insomnia to himself. He was pretty sure that Hannibal had no idea. He might suspect it, due to Will’s increased caffeine consumption and the dark bags weighing under his eyes, but they had not talked about it, and Hannibal had the need to compulsively bring up every worry he had about Will, so he didn’t think he knew. 

It was the third night when Will got up to get a glass of water. Hannibal had been asleep for hours and Will had spent his time in his new version of sleep. He didn’t get to turn off his mind, he was entirely aware, but his eyes were closed and his imagination flew rampant without his involvement. Time passed quicker in this new plane of his reality. He could listen to his own voice, whispering things he did not understand, and the next time he opened his eyes, an hour would have passed. But he didn’t sleep. 

The floor was cold under his feet and in his tired, sluggish walk, he almost stepped on Perdita, who slept on the floor by the end of their bed. Hannibal’s bed, their bed, how long did he have to sleep in it to get squatters rights?

“Sorry, pretty girl.” He whispers and she exhales heavily through her nose and places her head on her paws again. He wishes Hannibal would allow her to sleep with them. His old dogs hadn’t, but this house was so cold. She slept on a blanket, and Will covered her with one every night, but he still worried. 

The kitchen was just as cold as the rest of the house, and the water caused his teeth to ache as he drank it. He places the empty glass down on the counter and presses his hands against the wooden surface for a while, fingertips tracing the pattern. He wonders if the pattern of the wood, when it was still a tree, had followed from the stem down to the roots. Had it gone out into the earth and into the surrounding plants? Had it flowed into a stream of water and carried out into an ocean or a lake? Where did the pattern stop? 

“Dad?”

Will jumps, startled. His feet physically leave the ground. The voice had come, light and youthful and entirely unexpected, from behind. His blood runs cold, he freezes, his muscles tensing. He knows that voice, because he had loved it. He still loves it. Their circumstances have changed but a father’s love was not easy to shake, no matter what divided them. 

Will does not dare turn around. He has no idea what he is going to do. Wally could not have gotten to Montana by himself, which means that they had been found. Either it was only Molly, which was bad, or it was the entire FBI, which was worse. Why would they send in Walter first? To apprehend Will? To distract him while the rest of the force went up to arrest Hannibal. That’s foolish. They would not be so stupid as to arrest Hannibal. They would kill him. Right there in the bed. His blood would drown the silk sheets. 

“What are you doing here,” his voice is barely a whisper, it wavers weakly and his fear is so apparent that even Walter would hear it. 

“Why did you leave us?” Wally’s voice is thick and dry with tears. 

Will’s body tenses even further, his heart squeezing and twisting painfully. He leans further over the sink, because he is entirely sure that he is going to throw up. Will’s son is standing right there, behind him in the kitchen, and tonight he will lose Hannibal for good. He wonders how long he has until the FBI stormed the house. Had they already done it? Had they snuck in without him hearing it. 

He imagines Jack Crawford's booming voice, screaming orders, and figures he could not control a scene without raising his voice. 

Slowly, with great apprehension and even greater curiosity, Will turns around. 

A small part of him had expected this entire thing to be a terrible hallucination. He was scared that he would see Wally as some sort of victim to his violence, brutalized like Raymond, or his nightmares of Hannibal. But he isn’t. He is standing in a blue shirt and gray sweater, his freckles are prominent but faded, as they always are during the peak of winter. His hair lays across his forehead, uncombed. 

“Walter,” Will breathes. His son stands still in the doorway of the kitchen, unmoving, waiting for an explanation. Will looks behind him, expecting to find an adult. There isn’t one. His limbs still feel frozen, as if he is having sleep paralysis. He hopes that is the case. “I’m sorry.” Tears sting his eyes and he presses them shut, hanging his head and taking a deep breath. The last thing he wants is to cry in front of Walter.

“I’m sorry, I…I had no choice,” he sniffles and opens his eyes again. He looks through the bleary blur of tears. Wally’s figure distorted, turning fuzzy and streaky through the salty water. 

“Did he force you?” His voice sounds distant, and Will realizes that his heartbeat is pulsating loudly in his ears. He blinks, desperately trying to get rid of the tears. 

“What?”

“Did Hannibal force you to leave us?” His voice doesn’t waver in tone. He sounds almost apathetically curious. Has Molly told him about Hannibal? Will knows that he isn’t exactly a runner up for parent of the year, but that seemed like a strange thing to share with an eleven-year-old.

“How-” he stops himself, because in the grand scheme of this conversation, it seems unimportant to worry about how Walter had acquired the knowledge of the details. But then he realizes he doesn’t know how to respond. No, Hannibal hadn’t forced him, but neither had he left him with another choice. But that wasn’t Hannibal’s fault. It was entirely Will’s own fault and issues that led him to be so entirely conjoined with Hannibal that he had no choice but to leave everything and go with him. Yes, Hannibal had forced him, but not actively. He could’ve stopped it just as little as Will could. But neither does he want to tell Wally ‘ oh no, I wasn’t forced. I left you totally on my own accord.’. After a while, he finally half lies and says “I had to leave to keep you safe.” 

“I don’t want to be safe if you’re not there.” Wally’s words are sad but his tone remains dry and apathetic. He still sounds like he had a lump of tears in his throat, but everything else lacks emotion. 

“Where’s your mom, Wally?” Will exhales nervously. 

“She’s outside.” Walter says and turns around. “I’ll show you.” 

Will swallows down his nerves and finally manages to force his legs to follow. He moves slowly, dragging his feet behind him. Wally disappears behind the wall and Will hears the front door open. 

When he finally gets outside, he is gone. The snow reaches Will’s hips and only a path he had earlier plowed with his body to get out is visible. Wally is nowhere to be seen. The only car in the driveway is their own. 

The air is colder and his feet in the snow immediately start aching, but that doesn’t stop him. He stumbles out, shoulder crashing into the wall of snow and causing a drive of it to fall down over him. His body tenses instinctively to the cold, and he gasps but pushes past it and runs down the stairs of their deck. The gravel below the snow grates against his sore feet as he jogs down onto the path he had walked. It had been okay when he was bundled in so many layers that he could barely move, but now he is only wearing sweatpants and a shirt. The cold gnaws at his flesh and still, he sees no sign of either Wally or Molly. 

“Wally!” He yells into the night air, and is only met with the echo of his own voice. “Wally! Where are you?” He yells and yells and yells until the cold air coats his throat and lungs and every breath he takes aches. His fingers are numb and his feet a step past that. “Where are you?!”

A firm hand suddenly grips his shoulder, and he is expecting to turn around and find Jack Crawford’s strong hand holding onto him. Instead he sees Hannibal. 

“Will,” his voice is coated with worry and his eyebrows firmly knitted together. His free hand goes to Will’s cheek. It is burning hot against his cold skin. He looks behind Hannibal and sees their car. He has walked at least fifty meters from the house in his feverish search for Wally. “What are you doing, who are you yelling for?”

A sickening fear of what Hannibal would do if he found out Wally and Molly had been here strikes him. His heart wrenches again, this time along with his stomach. He swallows harshly, looking into Hannibal’s eyes to find any hint of him knowing what was going on. The only thing he sees is genuine worry. But Hannibal has always been good at hiding his true emotions. 

“Perdita,” he finally exhales weakly, barely a whisper. Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow impossibly further. 

“Perdita is inside.”

Will looks towards the house again and sees her standing in the doorway, looking out at them. 

“Oh…” Will forces a chuckle which sounds more like a pained animal's final cry. “She must have gone inside again without me noticing.” 

Hannibal does not believe that in the slightest, not for a single second. But to Will’s relief, he says nothing. Instead he holds onto Will’s arms and walks behind him, leading him inside the house. When his adrenaline rush starts wearing thin, Will discovers the aching pain in his feet and hands. How long had he been out there? He must have cut himself on something while walking, because he was bleeding quite heavily on the floor. 

“Sorry,” he chokes. Both because of the blood on the floor and because he realizes how much this must worry Hannibal. He expects Hannibal to say something soft and calming, but he stays eerily quiet as he leads Will upstairs. 

He actually stays quiet during the entire time he guides Will to sit on the toilet. The entire time he fills the bath and the entire time he patches up Will’s cuts. He even gets Will to undress and submerge in the bath before he starts talking. His hand brushes softly over Will’s forehead, and although he has warmed up, Hannibal’s hand is still significantly warmer, and Will is still shivering. 

“Were you sleep walking again, Will?” Hannibal is quiet and soft, and continues petting Will softly. Will closes his eyes, considers it, and then shakes his head. He is sure about what he saw. It’s unlikely, but it can’t be sleepwalking. Every time he sleep walked, he knew it after he woke up. 

“No…I- She got out, I didn’t want her to get lost in the snow again.” 

Hannibal presses his palm flat against Will’s forehead, and it takes a moment before he realizes he’s feeling for a fever. Will shifts uncomfortably in the bath, sending waves of water splashing against the sides. 

“I’m not sick, Hannibal.” He pushes Hannibal’s hand away. “It’s normal for dogs to escape before they’ve gotten used to their new home. It was stupid to run out without shoes, sure, whatever. But I’m not sick!”

“You must understand my worry,” Hannibal says and rubs his fingers in a light circle around the bruise on Will’s collarbone. “We would not want history to repeat.” 

"Encephalitis has a very low chance of recurring, you should know that.” 

“Low does not equal zero.” 

“I’m not sick, Hannibal. I wasn’t sleep walking!” He wants Hannibal to leave. Stop worrying. Let him warm up and then head back to bed to not-sleep for a couple of more hours, but of course he doesn’t, and Will doesn’t have the heart to ask him to. 

“Okay,” he relents, to be nice, not because he believes. He takes Will’s hands, rubs them under the water, cleans and warms him. Any other time it would be nice and comforting, but Will cannot for the life of him focus on the firm touches of Hannibal cleaning his rigid body. His mind is entirely engulfed with Walter. Nothing good can come out of this. 

Either, he is out there in the cold, alone. Or Molly is with him and they’ve found them, which can not possibly end well. If they have, then there’s no way for everyone to end up alive and well. Or he was hallucinating. But it didn’t feel like a hallucination. It felt real. That leaves only the two other options, and they both terrify him beyond belief. 

“Do you love me?” His voice is raspy and hoarse, and he once again wonders how long he was out there screaming. 

“I would hold the sky on my shoulders for you, Mano pasaulis.” He answers in the blink of an eye, not a moment’s hesitation. Entirely sure. Will waits, looks, asks with his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“Would you refrain from killing for me?”

Hannibal scoffs a little. 

“I already have, Will.” 

“Yes, I know, but I mean…if someone saw us…and there was a risk they would report us…would you refrain from killing them if I asked?”

Hannibal looks at him, searching in his eyes for the underlying question. Will averts his gaze and focuses on the ripples in the water around Hannibal’s hands. 

“I would rather displease you by going against your wishes than subject you to the danger of letting a witness run free.” 

If Will had had an ounce of hope before, it deflated out of him and ran into the bathwater. He swallowed, nodded, and looked away. 

“Does that make you unhappy?”

“No,” the answer comes too quickly, both of them hear it, but neither of them mention it. 

A while later, they left the bathroom, and Hannibal kindly tucked Will down in bed. His shivering had subsided, but he accepted the warmth of the blankets and the fact that the possibility of sleep was far gone. His anxiety is still raving inside of his mind, his breathing is shallow, and lying still causes his muscles to twitch impatiently. He wants to go out again, continue looking, but there is no way he can manage to do that without Hannibal noticing, and he can’t risk him coming with him. Besides, Perdita had snuck up into their bed and curled up behind Will’s knees. He can not use that excuse again. 

Hannibal lays down behind him and pulls Will’s back against his chest. His hand sneaks up under his shirt and rests over his abdomen, his thumb drawing calming circles around his belly button. Will allows himself to close his eyes and tries to accept the current state of reality. He can do nothing about it. Nothing but wait for the morning to see what he will be met with at the dawn of a new day. Perhaps, this will be their last peaceful night together. Peaceful was a stretch . Their last free night together. 

Will turns around, his knees bumping into Perdita who huffs and moves a bit further down on the bed. His eyes search upward and find Hannibal’s face. He is wearing his unreadable mask of neutrality. Will wishes he could tear it off and see Hannibal for who he truly is. Deprive him of the ability to hide his true emotions. He wants to know exactly what he is thinking. 

To know if all of this is true, or just another move in their endless game. 

Although he has to admit that it terrifies him. A sliver of his soul is always aware that his life, his truth, could be entirely manufactured by Hannibal. He is the most skillful manipulator that Will knows. There is always the possibility that he is lying, deceiving. 

His empathy does not reach Hannibal, for he is so far detached from human emotions that no one can ever be sure if he truly has any. 

Will itches to ask him. 

What are you feeling? Are you being honest with me? Would you ever lie to me?

But he knows that it would serve nothing. The entire dilemma laid in Hannibal being able to answer in a lie without the blink of an eye. Their entire dynamic could be built on Hannibal wearing a false mask. This could all be serving some greater purpose in a scheme that Will had yet to figure out. Asking him would bring far less clarity than not. 

If Will doubts him, and wants to know the truth. The real truth. He has to figure it out on his own, without entrusting it to Hannibal. 

But when he looks into the illegible brown eyes that peer down on him, he betrays himself by feeling entirely safe and trusting. He fights an inner war between his thoughts and his emotions. His emotions always seem to win. 

He leans forward and presses his nose into Hannibal’s chest, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be filled with the familiar, safe scent of Hannibal. Hannibal responds immediately by engulfing Will in a warm, tight embrace. A sigh rattles in his chest, a deep inhale, perhaps of relief. 

“You worry me greatly sometimes, Mano pasaulis”

Will smiles into the soft hair against his face. 

“You don’t have to,” he insists softly, sighing a breath against the warm skin in front of him. 

“If I had not, you would still be out there.” 

Will shrugs. 

“I was about to head in.” 

Hannibal doesn’t answer. He just runs his hand over Will’s hair in slow, repetitive motions. He continues to do so until he soothes himself to sleep, and leaves Will alone again in the darkness of the room. 

Will tries to close his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the safety and warmth.  But everytime he does he is met with his own eyes, wide and manic. He feels the knife enter his abdomen, split him open. He opens his eyes again and relents to the waking world. 

Will’s insomnia persists. 

Days pass and nights pass and he is made aware of how much of our lives we spend under the veil of sleep. He spends hours and hours laying in bed, staring into Hannibal’s chest or at the ceiling with no other entertainment than his own thoughts. He is entirely aware that he is spiraling. Every sleepless night pushes him further into his anxiety and makes it even harder to sleep.  

During the days he takes Perdita out into the woods. He walks and walks and walks until the muscles in his legs burn and his extremities are numb from the cold, and then he walks a bit further. 

His reality melts together into a monotonous blur. He walks, he eats, he doesn’t sleep, he assures Hannibal that he’s okay. 

Every night Hannibal makes him a cup of tea, and combs through his hair or pets his back until Will has pretended to fall asleep. After Hannibal goes to sleep he stares at the ceiling, finding shapes where there are none. Sometimes he heads down to the kitchen and drinks water and looks out the window until Hannibal comes down looking for him. He doesn’t see Wally again.

Once he hears Hannibal calling for him from their bedroom, and when he trudges upstairs again, the other has already fallen back asleep. He is jealous. The boredom he felt during his first days in the cabin are nothing against his current days. He is too tired to read or do much anything other than sit in front of the fire and stare.

He knows that his behavior is worrying Hannibal, and he feels guilty, but he is too tired to do anything about that either. 

A couple of days after the night he saw Wally, Hannibal turns to Will after they’ve cleaned up after breakfast. 

“I reckon we ought to go to the store today, we are running low on some staples.” 

It’s not like it’s urgent. Their fridge and pantry are still adequately stocked, but Will won’t reject leaving the house. 

As most things have recently, the entire trip to the store feels like a blur. He has a pounding headache, and he frequently spaces out. It feels like their journey to town takes no more than 10 minutes and suddenly he finds himself in the cold outside of the car. Hannibal has taken him by the hand and is leading him inside. No one bats an eye, which confirms Will’s suspicion that everyone sees them as an established couple. What else could they be?

The store is quite crowded, and Will wonders if it's Saturday or if the people in this place just like shopping all at the same time in the middle of the week. 

He is usually not fond of crowds, but today it feels hellish. The murmur of voices blur into a mush in Will’s head and worsens his headache. His forehead is slick with sweat within 10 minutes, the many bodies in the store radiating a heat that penetrates his thick winter coat. He tugs off his scarf and tosses it into their cart.

 He tries not to venture away from Hannibal, because the experience is much more bearable when he can trust that Hannibal is by his side to keep him and everyone else under control. People, by nature, are very social, even if he radiates a don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-antisocial kind of vibe. He wonders if people take pity on him. If they try to engage with him out of worry. But despite his efforts to stay close to Hannibal, he finds himself alone in the aisles multiple times, often being talked at by some overly friendly local. One moment he is reading the nutritional label of a juice, telling Hannibal about the low amounts of sugar, and the next he is standing alone, talking to the air. 

Will cannot understand why Hannibal actively chooses to walk away from him in the middle of their conversations, but then again, he is aware that his own senses aren’t as alert recently as he wishes they would be.

He sighs and trudges along the aisles, scanning every passing person carefully to try to find Hannibal. 

It’s truly astounding how many people can fit in a grocery store. He slips between an old couple, walks around a young woman browsing soaps, and has to say ‘excuse me’ about a trillion times until his eyes catch on a head of blond hair. 

But it isn’t Hannibal. The soothing recognition that fills him at the splash of blonde is washed away within a single beat of his heart. His stomach churns, and he desperately looks around, suddenly nervous that Hannibal will find him. Because the blonde strands of hair do not belong to Hannibal. They belong to Molly. 

She is standing, holding Walter’s hand, with her back turned. 

Is she stupid? If she has decided to apprehend him and steal him from his life with Hannibal, then she should not be so comfortable browsing public stores. If Hannibal saw her…

He imagines walking down the stairs to their basement, the cold air gradually increasing the further down he ventures. He smells copper and gore. Death. 

The first thing he sees is Hannibal’s broad shoulders. He is leaning over the table in the middle of the room. He is wearing a white shirt, covered in blood. His hair is messy. Will slowly walks closer, the packed dirt under his feet keeping his steps quiet. 

Molly was once beautiful. When he met her, her face, framed by blonde bangs, had been the first thing to catch his eyes. Then immediately after was her smile and then her laugh. She was a beautiful woman. She was funny. She was loving and kind. He loved her more than he loved himself, and every moment he spent with her he wished he loved her more than he loved what he became when he was with Hannibal. He wished that he could devote himself entirely to her. Become the man who loved her in a way she deserved. She knew none the better, to her he was a wonderful husband, to her child he was a great dad, but he knew that he could be better. He could feel more. Feel for her the way she deserved to be felt for.

Molly was once beautiful, but not anymore. The first thing Hannibal had done had been to scalp her, disconnecting her beautiful hair from her head. Her scalp lays in a fleshy heap on the floor, hair splayed out around it. The skinning hadn’t stopped there. All over the floor are slivers of fair skin which had once been connected to the face he had loved to watch. He had watched her when they walked, when they talked, when she slept and when she laughed. Now he was met with flesh and bulging eyes. Hannibal had not even spared her eyelids. 

Her entire being was a monster of flesh, depraved of skin. Her eyes stared dead, but still miserable, up at the ceiling. Will glues his eyes to her as he approaches, because despite the horror that was his wife, the body strung up on the wall ahead of them would be far worse to see. 

Will blinks, shakes his head, dismisses the horrible thought. Hannibal wouldn’t do that. 

He would

His own voice, the one connected to the crazed eyes he sees every night, whispers to him. 

He is running, without having given himself the permission to. 

“Molly,” he wanted it to be a scream, but what comes out is a broken whisper, laced with fear. He grabs onto her shoulder harshly, shaking her at the same time as he turns her around. “You need to run, you can’t be here, he’s going to kill you.” He’s still whispering, eyes darting around, crazed, trying to find Hannibal. He doesn’t know what to do. Molly pulls away harshly from his grasp, stumbles back. He looks at her. 

“What the fuck are you doing,” She holds onto her son, who isn’t Wally. Because the woman isn’t Molly. He has never seen this woman before. She picks up the brunette boy by her side and steps back, eyes wide with fear. “ Who the fuck are you ?”

She is much louder than Will had been, but everyone in the aisle had already been staring at them. They step back, forming a circle around them, leaving Will in the spotlight. 

“W-what,” he stutters, stumbling back in a similar manner to the woman. 

“I’m asking the same thing, you fucking psycho, what are you doing?”

A hand grabs onto him, leads him away. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries to call but once again his voice does not bear his message. The person leading him away is also a stranger, a woman who must be past sixty. Her grip is firm but not mean. He allows himself to be led away. 

“Will?” Both Will and the woman stop at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. Maybe he stopped first and the woman followed. He can’t tell. He turns around, seeing Hannibal walking towards him, eyebrows furrowed with worry. “What’s going on?”

He takes Will from the woman's grip, and Will looks between the two of them in rapid succession.

“I don’t know,” he answers and rubs his eyes. “I…thought I…I don’t know what I thought.” He doesn’t want Hannibal to know that Will suspects Molly to be in town. 

Not even her eyelids

He sends the woman a frightened look, and she seems to get the hint, at least enough of it to not tell Hannibal the entire truth. 

“He seems to have gotten a bit confused, he might be sick.” She says and it sounds uncertain, but what else was she supposed to say. He’s crazy . That would be more accurate, he thinks. 

Hannibal smiles at her, smooths his hand over Will’s cheek and feels his forehead. 

“You are quite warm. Thank you for your help, Ma’am. I will bring him home immediately.” 

The woman nods and reaches out, placing an unwelcome squeeze on Will’s arm. 

“Take care of yourself honey,” she says, which is an exceptionally kind sentiment to give someone who just publicly freaked out on an innocent woman.

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

A blur of the store, then the cold, then the car. Then they’re home. He flees from the car and goes straight to bed, pretends to fall asleep. He cannot face having to come up with a lie to tell Hannibal. He can barely face trying to dissect what just happened. 

For the first time in possibly a week, sweet sleep envelops him. It’s riddled with nightmares, but at least he gets to be unconscious for a couple of hours. 

When he wakes up he feels no more rested than he did before he went to sleep, but Hannibal is standing in front of him with a tray of food on it. His stomach turns, displeased. He hasn’t had anything even remotely close to an appetite for days. He still accepts the food and sits up a bit, poking at it and taking small bites. 

“What happened in the store, Will?” Hannibal sounds surprisingly harsh, maybe stern. As if Will is about to be scolded. He immediately gets defensive and glares at Hannibal. 

“Nothing, I just got a bit confused, I thought I recognized her…” he clears his throat and continues. “And if I recognized her then she would recognize me so I just wanted to see, but I didn’t so…”

Hannibal blinks at him once, and then slowly sits down next to him. The tray tilts, threatening to spill over before Hannibal grabs it and adjusts its placement. 

“I will choose to believe that you are okay, even though we are both aware that you are not,” Hannibal says and Will takes a bite of his food. It’s a warm stew with tender meat, carrots and potatoes and fluffy rice. 

“Will,” Hannibal says and brushes his thumb over Will’s cheekbone. “I have invited some guests for dinner tomorrow, will you be able to handle that or must I cancel?”

Will has to remind himself to chew and swallow calmly. 

“Who?” He tries to sound unaffected but his voice wavers just slightly. He knows he knows he knows.

“The Seymours.”

“The who?” Will pushes the tray away and Hannibal places it on the bedside table, looking displeased with the small amount of food that Will managed to eat.

“Delilah and Rose, and her husband Mitchell.”

“Who?”

This time Hannibal gives him yet another concerned look. Will cannot remember a time in the recent week when he hasn’t looked at him like that. 

“The woman whose child you defended…in the grocery s-”

“Right, right, yes.” Will rubs at his eyes and glances at Hannibal, a bit apprehensively, before placing his head on his shoulder. Hannibal wraps his arm around Will. “I don’t mind, I’ll behave. No screaming, I promise.” He chuckles. Hannibal does not.

Chapter Text

The house felt foreign when the voices of strangers echoed through it. The night before had been as sleepless as the rest, and Will felt about as dead as he could with his heart still beating. 

Hannibal was kind and tactical enough to carry the conversation for both of them. He had introduced them as Adam and Nigel Kudrayavka, and explained that they had moved here from Russia when they were both very young. Will nodded politely, shook their guest’s hands, adopted the name Adam and greeted their daughter who shook his hand with the help of a lanky stuffed monkey she carried on her arm. 

Hannibal had prepped for dinner the entire day. He had gone to the kitchen from the moment he woke up and began boiling something he called Coq au vin. Will had never before heard of it, and while he wasn’t entirely interested, he watched the process throughout its entirety. Hannibal seemed displeased to use the actual meat meant for the dish, a whole chicken. He diced Denner’s heart and stirred it in along with the chicken. It felt like a good use for the organ. The right way for it to be consumed. 

Somewhere around the time the clock struck six PM, Will had found a glass of whiskey in his hand and had been nursing it dutifully until now. 

The Seymours were nice people. They seemed to quickly pick up on the fact that Will was somewhat checked out mentally, and even if they didn’t exclude him, they didn’t force him into their conversations either. 

He learned that Delilah, the mother, was married to Mitchell, the father, and they both worked at the local bank. That’s where they had met. Apparently, Nigel and Adam had met at a museum where Nigel had worked as a guide many years ago, while Adam was but a college student and Nigel was newly graduated. Will truly feels that this is stupid. That would mean that they have been together for close to 20 years. 

Although, few people in relationships far longer than that will have reached the level of closeness they have. So perhaps it’s not so stupid. He doesn’t know, or care. He is too busy eyeing the figure of Raymond Denner that has been standing in the doorway to the kitchen for the past hour. 

He is a hundred percent sure that this is a hallucination, and it’s not the potential presence of the pedophile which scares him. He killed him once, he can do it again. It’s simply the fact that he has reached the level of sleep deprivation where he has started hallucinating. 

The figure is out of focus and every time he turns his head to look at it, it follows the movement, stubbornly remaining just at the edge of his field of vision. It taunts him. His own mind. He feels betrayed. The only thing he used to be able to trust had promptly turned against him without him even having done anything to deserve it. Now he was completely lost in the dark. 

“Adam…”

“Adam?”

“Huh?” He snaps his head towards the voice, eyebrows shooting up, a sharp inhale entering his lungs. Hannibal is looking at him, characteristically worried. 

“Oh, sorry!” Delilah says and is kind enough to try to laugh it off. “I was just asking what you do for work, I didn’t realize you were distracted.” She doesn’t sound mean or judgemental, but Will still feels entirely embarrassed. He clears his throat. 

“I…I’m a fisherman,” he answers and fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt. “Well…I was, I haven't found a job here yet.”

“Well there is no shame in taking a break! You know, I was a stay at home mom for the first three years of Rose's life. I don’t trust these daycares, you know, so many horror stories of what they do to kids…or don’t do! I mean I understand that a single child is a handful and a dozen must be unbearable! But I mean gosh, how am I supposed to trust you with my child if you…” She starts rambling and Will is just about to space out again, trying to get a good look at the blurry figure, but she picks up his attention again. “I mean, especially since that Raymond Denner fella moved here. God awful. I mean just imagine if they went to a park and one of the workers forgot to pay attention. I hope I don’t sound awful for saying this but I do feel some relief now that he’s gone, although of course he has just been replaced with another horror…” 

“You do not sound awful at all, Delilah,” Hannibal assures ever so confidently, taking a demure sip of his wine. “I cannot imagine the fear of having a child that lives in the same town as such a vile creature. Violence against children is truly unforgivable.” 

Will looks towards the figure. He’s coming a bit further into focus. He’s disemboweled and covered in blood, but Will can still see his eyes locked onto Rose. He does not regret taking his life. 

“I have to thank you again, Adam, I am so grateful that you were there to protect my precious girl…I will truly never be able to repay you,” Delilah reaches over the table and grabs onto his hand, giving it a squeeze. He resists the urge to pull his hand away. 

“You don’t need to thank me at all,” he sounds much more monotone than intended and internally cringes. He glances towards Hannibal, but he looks calm and confident. “I’m just as happy that I was there to see and prevent it.” 

Delilah has the presence of mind to let go off his hand after a layer of sweat starts quickly building between them. 

“Mr Adam?” Rose, who disembarked to go sit by the piano and press down on random keys a while ago, reemerges in the kitchen. She is hugging her stuffed monkey close to her chest. 

He blinks for a moment, as if he’s suddenly unsure of how to socialize properly. 

“Yep?” He once again cringes at himself. 

“Can I pet your dog?” 

Behind her stands Perdita, ears pressed shyly against her head. Will sees the opportunity and stands up. 

“Of course,” he says and places a soft pat on Hannibal’s shoulder as he passes him. Raymond Denner follows his movements closely. He can feel it, the hairs on his neck standing up to warn him. He follows Rose into the living room. 

They both sit down on the floor while he calls Perdita over. She is a shy dog, but she greeted their guests, although a bit cautiously, with friendliness. 

She walks over obediently, tail wagging just slightly while she sits down. Will offers his hand to Rose, who places her own in his palm, and he carefully guides her to pet over Perditas back. Once he is sure that his lovely dog isn’t going to lash out, he releases Rose and watches calmly as her hands move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He is almost lulled into sleep, his eyelids start feeling heavy and he gets the urge to lay down. But he is suddenly pulled out of the state when Rose speaks. 

“Is he going to kill you?”

He is entirely taken aback, his eyes snapping open and his head quickly turning towards Rose. Her eyes are still locked on the dog, happy and adoring, and her free hand is clutching her monkey. 

“What?” He hears how scared he sounds immediately. He can barely understand what he just heard.

“Is he going to kill you?”

“...Who?” He knows the answer, but it’s so illogical that he cannot wrap his head around it. Even if she somehow was aware of who Hannibal was, that is not the kind of question that a girl her age should ask. 

Hannibal. That’s who. That’s who she thinks is going to kill you. 

Will wants himself to be quiet. Since when did he lose control of his own thoughts? He thinks about the figure standing in the doorway, watching them from afar.

“What?” Rose looks at him now, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Who is going…to kill me?” He dares not state the last part louder than a whisper. Rose furrows her eyebrows. 

“What?”

“What?”

“What’chu talking about, Mr Adam?”

“What did you say?” He hears the shake in his own voice and tries to swallow it. He would like another whiskey, preferably an hour ago before he lost control of the situation so badly. 

“Does she give kisses?”

He refrains from the urge of squinting suspiciously at her. He might be tired and mildly delusional, but until today he has seemingly been entirely in control of his own senses. There is no way his mind would twist those two sentences together. What is this trick? Is Hannibal doing it to mess with him? Test him ? It would not be the first time he does something that twisted. Inducing seizures…getting a child to ask him vile questions, the line is thin enough to be broken by a breeze. 

“I don’t know.” He finally manages to answer. “She’s pretty new here, you can try, if you want.” He rubs at his wrists, pulls at the sleeve of his shirt, and tries to catch Raymond Denner in focus. The feeling of being watched is suffocating him and suddenly he starts to worry that Hannibal is watching him as well. Trying to gauge his reaction to the question. 

Rose puckers her lips and makes kissing sounds and Perdita looks at her curiously but does not move to do anything. 

“She dunno how to do that,” Rose says, unbothered. She looks down at her monkey and holds that out towards Perdita, who nips at it curiously. Rose pulls her arm back. “Not Mr. Banana!” But she’s giggling. 

Will pushes himself up off the floor and rubs at his eyes. He feels totally detached from his own brain. 

“I think I need to go back and be an adult…” He says, tiredly, and Rose smiles. 

“Okay!”

Sweet, childish joy. He wishes he could borrow just an ounce of it, a gram, a nanogram. Anything to bring him out of this suffocation void he has found himself in. 

He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep. He really needs to sleep. 

Will is nothing if not knowledgeable of the human mind. A person can go about half a week without sleep before experiencing delusions. Will, whose mind has gone through more than most and is probably scarred beyond recognition, could probably go a bit further. But it’s been a lot more than half a week. It’s probably been more than a week.

It’s a horrible, debilitating thought. He hates not being in control of his own mind, having his thoughts and brain wirings turned against him. Last time it almost killed him multiple times. It changed him permanently. 

Was it your brain or Hannibal?

He has to resist the urge to hit himself in the head. He might be aware of his own derailing mental state but he doesn’t need to start acting like a lunatic just yet. 

He returns to the kitchen and sits down again. 

“Everything okay?” Mitchell asks. Will forces a polite smile.

“Yep…Perdita likes her.” 

“And with you?” Hannibal is the one who asks this and Will immediately snaps his head towards him. 

“What?” The question escapes him in an angry sneer, and he catches himself, blinking in surprise. Hannibal mimics his expression. 

“Is everything okay with you I mean, Adam?” His accent is more prominent, as if he’s forcing it. “You have barely touched your food and you look a bit flushed.”

“Oh…” Will is suddenly made aware of the heat on his own face and the picking he has done on his stew. He has barely eaten anything. “Yeah, no…I’m good, just tired. It was delicious.”

“Oh yes it was!” Mitchell says, graciously saving Will. “I truly have never tasted any…”

He just embarrassed you. He made you look unstable in front of your guests. He’s planting seeds…

The voice who has been harassing him for days, who he disregards most of the time, is actually making a surprising amount of sense. 

Why would Hannibal call him out like that in front of these two strangers. He should know better than that. He is a social prodigy. He is sure to have known how weird he would make Will look by saying that.

Maybe it is true. Maybe Hannibal is alienating him from these people to be able to frame him solely for the crimes they have committed. 

Will stands up, runs, and just barely makes it to the sink before he throws up the little food he managed to eat. 

Chaos, of course, breaks out. Because this is a disaster. Well…Maybe now he seems unstable because he was sick. He wasn’t sick. They don’t know that. 

He spits, wipes at his mouth desperately, and a firm hand is placed on his shoulder. 

Hannibal looks at him. Initially he seems concerned, but his eyebrows are tilted downward a bit further than usual. He’s mad. He hides it well but Will can see it. 

“Adam…” Adam, Adam, Adam. He hates that stupid name. He hates this night. He hates this house and this town and his own mind. He throws up again. 

Behind him, a cackle of “oh god” and “he’s okay” and “can we do something” raises and he wants them to shut up, because his head is so rapidly filling with their voices that it drowns out their actual words. His head spins and his stomach churns and the edges of his world blur with darkness. 

The only thing he sees in the muck in the sink is himself. His own eyes, murderous. 

He hears Hannibal through the mull of voices echoing in his head, politely helping their guests out. 

To the assurance that he’s distracted, Will walks with sluggish steps, up the stairs, and locks himself in his own room.

Chapter Text

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. For the entire night, Will has been the pendulum of a clock. Every hour the clock struck with a reminder that Hannibal was waiting outside his door. He knocks, waits, calls Will’s name with a voice riddled with desperation. 

Back and forth, back and forth. His feet ached and his breaths never quite reached the bottoms of his lungs. He grumbles and grumbles and doesn't come to any further clarity on the situation. He knows that he is losing it, but has a hard time discerning where his losing it ends and reality begins. The image of Raymond Denner in their kitchen had been a hallucination, that was for sure. Rose asking if Hannibal had intended to kill him was probably a delusion but he was still a bit on the fence about that one. Hannibal sitting outside his door, trying to claw his way inside to…to do what, exactly? That was reality. It had been reality for multiple hours. The alarm clock on the bed side table told him that it was already 5 am. 

Will knows that Hannibal’s presence is real, the thing he can’t figure out is his motive. His gut tells him that something bad is about to happen, that he has missed the planting of seeds and only now has been made aware of it. Another part, more logical, tells him that what he and Hannibal have can not be manufactured, not even by someone as skilled in lying as Hannibal. 

His feet hurt from their persistent steps to the floor and the unhealed cuts from his venture into the night a couple of days ago. He has taken to wondering if that was a hallucination as well, but he hadn’t been sleep deprived for as long then, and it really had felt more real than anything else. More real than any hallucination or nightmare he had ever had. 

The creak of a floorboard scares him so hard that he jumps and loses his breath. Hannibal’s steps are leaving. Stairs creak, warning the house of movement. Claws against the floor. Perdita must have been sitting with Hannibal, and has now followed him downstairs. 

Will gets the urge to open the door, follow, see what’s happening. He feels like both sides of a magnet, repelling from and pulling himself towards Hannibal, both at the same time. 

Will’s breath has just managed to reach him again when he gets another scare, causing him to lose it again. A phone vibrates somewhere. He hears it, but cannot see it or locate it. It’s persistent and the first noise in this room all night aside from Hannibal’s pleading and Will’s quiet pacing. It hurts his head with its insistent blare. 

He scrambles, searching desperately, and finds it in the drawer of one of the nightstands. He holds it in his hand and it feels foreign. He hasn’t used it yet, has not made a call or recieved one. Not until now. It was intended for him to be able to reach Hannibal when they were separated. They had not been since he got it. 

Unknown caller ID

It doesn’t matter. The phone has no numbers stored anyway. 

Is this also a hallucination?

Will presses the green button a moment before the call would end. He hesitates, holding his breath, feeling as if he is going to pass out, and then presses the phone against his ear. He can’t open his mouth, cannot inhale a breath to aid in forming a word. He waits, and only dares to breathe when his lungs start aching. The person on the other end seems to be hesitating as well. Then he hears a soft, kind, feminine voice. 

“Will?”

Brown hair, light blue eyes, soft kind lips. A hand stroking his cheek. A betrayal. Tears on pale cheeks. Flowers.

The voice invites all the air back into his lungs. He gasps and it’s almost as if he can see her in front of him. She’s strong and kind and worried and overbearing. She’s clean and stable and too good for him. 

“Alana?”

“Oh…Will.” Alana Bloom sounds relieved, which is so unexpected that his pacing finally stops when he has to sit down, gather himself. He looks down at his hands, pinches his thigh, feels real and awake. “Will,” she says and he wonders if he has missed something. 

“Alana,” he answers, because the shock tensing his muscles is too potent to say anything else. “What…what’s happening.” His voice is rough and feels like sandpaper as he whispers the words. 

“You need to listen to me, Will.” She says and Will shakes his head. It pounds and swirls and he is scared he might throw up again. His brain feels like some kind of putty that every word that enters it forms into something new. He feels malformed. 

“No,” he protests, placing his palm against his forehead. “No, I can’t- Alana.” He should hang up. This is bad. How does she have this number? His thoughts race and stumble over each other and Alana is saying something he can’t hear and everything feels like it’s going too fast. He feels out of breath. 

“Alana, how did you get this number?”

“It’s a long story, honey, but you need to listen to me. Are you alone?”

“Alana,” he whispers and he thinks she sighs. “Are you real?”

“Are you okay, Will?”

“Please…”

“I’m real, I promise…You need to listen to me, are you alone?”

“I…in this room…” He looks around. Raymond found himself in his field of vision about three hours ago. He must have gotten tired of lurking around the edges. His intestines are dirtying the floor and he’s staring into Will’s eyes intensely. Will has become aware of someone else too. They’ve taken Raymond's place in the corner of his eye and he has yet to figure out who it is. He isn’t sure he wants to. They seem mad. “I’m alone.” He answers.

“They know, Will. They know where you are.”

Heart drops into the pit of a stomach. Acid travels up from the splash, floods out of a gaping mouth and onto the floor to accompany Raymond Denner’s intestine. 

Fear. Blinding white fear. Where did Hannibal go? What will he do?

“What…”

“I mean, seriously, Will? Two murders in less than two weeks, both fitting the profile of the Chesapeake ripper. It’s like you wanted to be caught-” she must hear the hollow, pained breathing that follows the splash of vomit onto the wooden floor. She changes her tactic. “Will…Listen…You need to leave.”

“What?” He stands up and starts pacing again, even if he feels like he’s just ran a marathon. His body wants to run away and his brain can’t keep up. 

“They are on their way-”

“Who?”

“Everyone, the FBI, the SWAT, everyone…They are under orders to incapacitate rather than arrest. Will, do you understand?”

“No…”

But he does. If Alana is right (if she’s even real) a SWAT force, led by directions of the FBI, will be here within hours, maybe less. They will kick down their door and fire blindly. They’re as valuable dead as they are alive. They’ve already been deemed guilty. They’re dangerous. 

“They will kill you Will. If they have to. They will kill him,” she hesitates as if she doesn’t dare say Hannibal’s name. Is she scared that it will affect Will? He can’t tell. “They will do what they have to do to get to him.” 

“Why?” He bites at his wound, opens it, drinks his own blood. 

“You know why, Will. He’s the most wanted man in the United States. He’s dangerous.”

“Why will they kill me?”

She’s quiet for a while. 

“They will do what they have to do to get to him,” she repeats. “And if you’re in the way…”

“He wouldn’t let them.” He hears how weak he sounds and Alana is quiet for another moment.

“Will…You cannot seriously believe that he truly cares about you, right? He sees you as…as something he owns. He cares for you-”

“Shut up.” He drums his palm against the side of his head, because now he’s sure that Alana isn’t real. She’s being too cruel. It’s too surreal. But she does not stop.

“-like one cares for a dog! He won’t protect you when it truly comes down to it. He’ll sacrifice you to save himself before he even has time to think about it. Will…He’s a serial killer. A notorious cannibal. He fooled us all once, has he really fooled you again?”

“It’s not the same, Alana. He’s…It’s not like that with us…” His argument sounds weak, which he hates because if he could put his and Hannibal’s relationship into words for her to understand, it would knock her prone. What they have is not weak. They need each other more than they need oxygen. Hannibal would not sacrifice him. 

“He has manipulated you, Will…Which is exactly why you need to leave now! Everyone is on the same page about you being innocent. If you leave now you can plead the truth, which is that he has taken you and manipulated you into believing this…wicked reality you’re living in. He’s using you, Will…You need to leave before it’s too late, please…”

She’s genuinely pleading now. Crying. He can hear it. 

“Please, Will. See him for what he is. Leave before it’s too late. If you don’t leave now, I promise you’ll be dead before noon.”

“Are you threatening me?” It’s moving too quickly once again. He’s getting whiplash. 

Hannibal…manipulating him…sacrificing him. He allows himself, for just one moment, to imagine he and Alana to have switched positions. 

He imagines that he is sitting on a fancy couch, funded by the Verger wealth, with a phone in hand. He has information about Hannibal and Alana. They ran away together and have killed, multiple times, a couple of states away. He imagines Alana, wrapped around Hannibal’s finger, stating their love as fact. He imagines seeing them together, and Hannibal peers down at Alana, as if she’s a loyal dog.

But Will is not Alana. It’s impossible to imagine her and Hannibal having what Will and Hannibal have. They’re bonded. Conjoined. Maybe soulmates. He cannot live without Hannibal and Hannibal cannot live without him.

But then again…he has already doubted whether what Hannibal tells him is the truth or not. Maybe Hannibal truly is skilled enough to make even Will believe that he is telling the truth. There’s no way for him to know. 

If he leaves, he is guaranteed to be safe, but he will lose Hannibal. But if he stays, and Alana is right, Hannibal will make sure that he dies. If Alana is right, then Hannibal isn’t who Will imagined him to be, and then he doesn’t want to stay with him. 

His thoughts mud together and stop making sense, and the only feeling that is left within him is panic. He is a dog. Wounded and scared. He doesn’t know why, but something is wrong. His instincts are telling him to run with his tail tucked between his legs. 

“Of course I’m not threatening you, Will, I’m trying to help you. Please…leave…” 

Quiet resides between them, for a long while.

“Leave and come back here to your wife. Don’t let yourself be killed over some delusion.”

Delusion, delusion, delusion. 

He has imagined many of his experiences lately to have been delusions, but his perception of his and Hannibal’s love has not been one of them. 

But he’d be lying if he said there hadn’t been doubts. Fear. 

Maybe, and he hates to admit it, and it crushes him and kills the part of him which he holds dearest, his instincts have known what he was too afraid to admit. Maybe Hannibal is dangerous, even to him. Maybe he lured himself into his net and now the opening is finally closing. 

The idea of his and Hannibal’s bond having been nothing but a sick game twists and tears at his soul and heart and mind, until it finally breaks. He shatters into a million, unmendable pieces. He will never again be able to be put together. 

Abigail sneaks into his mind, into the edge of his vision. She is the starkest reminder of Hannibal’s truth. An innocent sacrifice, for no better reason than Hannibal’s impulsive vengeance. What would he do if he thought Will had gotten them found. How far would he go to survive? Would he use Will as a human shield if the FBI got to them?

Will would not put it past him. 

He does not try to pick his broken pieces up. He leaves them on the bedroom floor, where they will live after he leaves. He will never truly escape from this house. His thoughts will forever echo against the wooden walls. Hannibal put him here, and he will never ever leave. 

Perhaps death would be better. 

Will thinks it’s one of his broken pieces telling him this. But he is no longer thinking enough. Instincts are driving him to unlock the door, run down the halls and downstairs. 

He is met by silence, and he wonders if perhaps this escape will come easier than he had dared to hope. If he leaves now, then maybe Hannibal can find a way to escape, he always does. Maybe he will find him again. They can find a new place together. If he loves him, he will find him again. Will will make sure of it. 

He steps into his shoes, a bit haphazardly, and shoves the front door open. 

Hannibal.

Outside, on the snow covered deck, he stands. Behind him is Perdita. 

A walk. A morning walk for the dogs sake. That must be why he left his spot outside of Will’s door.

Will stumbles back, managing to just barely balance himself before he falls. 

He looks up at Hannibal, who has his eyebrows downturned in concern. Anger, concern, hate, love . He looks unfortunately gorgeous. His cheeks are pink, as well as the tip of his nose, from the cold. The cold gray of his coat matches him well. He is strong and sure and seemingly concerned. Will wants to step forward, be enveloped in his arms, warn him and run. 

Is he going to kill you?

Had his subconscious figured it out before him? He takes a further step back. Hannibal follows his movement and steps into the house and closes the door behind him. Perdita is left outside. 

“Will, Mano pasaulis-” he almost purrs the last part. The nickname Will still does not know the meaning behind, “-what’s wrong.” 

Hannibal reaches out his hands, and as their eyes lock, Will is entirely sure that he sees a flicker of menacing hate in the others gaze.

“Stop.” He breathes and his phone drops to the ground. Hannibal looks at it and then slowly between the two of them. The phone and then Will. Will and then the phone. 

“Who were you talking to, Will?” Now he’s sure of the anger in his voice. 

Run, run, run, run.

He would, if Hannibal wasn’t blocking the door while still creeping closer to him. 

“No one, please-” he chokes on his own spit, sputters, cries. Tears fill his eyes, because he thought that they had something good. Something dark, and evil and unforgivable, but between them…good. He thought Hannibal loved him. Sometimes worshipped him. 

“Tell me the truth, please Will.” Monotony. 

“Leave me alone,” he croaks and takes a further step back, towards the living room. 

Hannibal does not stop. His steps speed up, forcing Will further into the house at an increasing speed. His arms stay stretched out, as if he’s trying to catch Will. Soon, Will’s back collides with the wall of the living room, next to the fireplace. Hannibal approaches and blinding panic fills Will.

Will has considered many times what he would do if Hannibal decided to kill him. Sometimes, he thought he would fight back, other times, he thought he would be okay with it. The thought of Hannibal murdering him and consuming him was sometimes more comforting than the thought of being alive in the turmoil of his own mind. 

Sometimes, he would’ve preferred to live inside Hannibal. His parts being turned into particles that mended into Hannibal’s very cells, conjoining them forever. He would never again have to worry about anything, for his only purpose would be to fuel Hannibal and merge with him.

Maybe that would still be a comfort. But the thing about humans is that, when pushed to the very brink of safety, reason gives way to instinct. What he wants no longer matters—his body reacts on its own.

The moment before Hannibal reaches him, Will leans down and grabs the fire poker he’s used every day since they arrived in this house. It’s an antique thing, in brass. The metal is artistically twisted and ends in a loop on one side and three, sharp prongs on the other.

Brass prongs plunging into the side of a throat creates a squelching, wet sound. 

It’s followed by the cracking of knee caps against a hard, wooden floor, and a wet, gargling gasp. 

Hannibal sinks to the ground, the fire poker having gone straight through his throat, entering through one side and exiting through the other. 

For a moment, Will is overcome by confusion. His very marrow knows before he does. Hannibal has never met a threat he cannot fight in one way or another. 

Threat, threat, threat.

Will realizes a second later what he has done. 

Hannibal’s brown, glossy eyes find him. His breathing is laboured and wheezy and his blood is pooling out onto the floor. A look that Will has never before seen appears in his eyes.

Scared confusion. 

If Hannibal had seen Will as a threat, if he had intended to attack him, this would never have happened. He would have disarmed Will before he had the chance to react. 

Outstretched arms, for a hug. 

“No…”

Will’s knees give out under him and he hits the floor with a shocking force. His palms find Hannibal’s chest. His heart is still beating, fast and strong. It’s losing its momentum quickly, every beat of it pushes out a gush of blood around both sides of the metal. Three prongs, leaking warm, coppery blood. The stench fills Will. It coats his insides. He feels more filled with Hannibal’s blood than his own. 

“Hannibal…” 

His hands find the other's face. It’s warm, alive, but not for much longer. 

Will looks at the spiky ends of the prongs. No doctor in the world could save him now. Below his fingers, Hannibal’s lips part, and then smile. His eyes, glossy, admiring, weak, look at Will. 

Hannibal’s fear is washed away. His breathing calms and he lifts a hand to rest against the back of Will’s neck. Gently, he guides Will closer and leans their foreheads together.  

Tears stream down Will’s face, falling onto Hannibal’s lips, nose, and cheeks. The salty drops quickly wet his skin.

Their foreheads lean together, warmth from Will radiating out and covering Hannibal, who is quickly losing it. But his grip on Will’s neck is still strong, and Will places his hand down to hold himself up. It sinks into the pool of Hannibal’s warm blood. 

“Hannibal,” he croaks out again, sniffles, cries, screams. Will is no longer aware of himself. Not aware of anything. He is suffocated by regret and fear. He cannot live without Hannibal. He realized it once. How could he forget?

Hannibal’s thumb rubs over the nape of Will’s neck, slowly. 

“I didn’t-” Will can’t even force the words out. But he knows that Hannibal knows. He always knows. 

A slick layer of sweat builds between their foreheads and Will presses himself down closer. His fingers grip against anything he can reach. Hannibal’s coat and his hair and his cheeks and ears. The other continues smiling softly as the life drains out of him. 

“I need you, Hannibal. I can’t- I can’t live without you. You’re the entirety of my world- my life- please.” He begs “You’ve shaped me in ways I could never undo, and would not even if I could…”. Hannibal’s smile widens and his grip falters slightly. A choking sob shakes Will’s body. “No part of me exists without you.”

Hannibal’s voice is strangled and unrecognizable as he pushes strained words past the brass in his throat. 

“Mano pasaulis, valgyk mane”. 

The language of Hannibal’s last words, spoken softly through his last breaths, are foreign. But Will, despite everything, knows Hannibal like the back of his hand. He understands.

Chapter Text

Jack Crawford ascends the snowy steps up to the front door of the cabin barely a minute after the SWAT team kicks the door in. 

The men, who are trained for the worst, stumble out of the house and look toward Jack. One leans over the railing of the deck and throws up. A scrawny dog sits in the snow, whining quietly.

“Jesus christ, what the hell are you doing?” Jack yells, gun raised in front of him as he steps into the house that has scared everyone else away.

He has faced Hannibal before. He almost won. Now he has backup. 

But he is not met by Hannibal Lecter.

Initially, the house seems empty. An eerie silence meets him, along with the echo of his own voice. But then he hears it. A sound, coming from the left. Wet, moist, warm.

Jack turns his head and looks right into the wild eyes of Will Graham.

The floor of the living room is slick with red, fresh blood. A common occurance at a crime scene. Nothing that should scare away a seasoned SWAT team. But that’s not the cause for their fear. 

Will, who is covered just as the living room floor, in Hannibal Lecter’s blood, is what scared them.

Hannibal is split down the middle. Cut open, as if he had a zipper running from his jaw to his abdomen. His insides, intestine, organs, blood and gore, are all spread out around his body. What’s left of it, at least. 

Will sits next to him, his hands holding a mound of flesh or maybe an organ. His jaws work up and down, up and down, up and down. Chewing. His eyes are distant, somewhere else, maybe even unaware of what he’s doing. Jack hopes that he is. 

He hopes that Will Graham will not have to remember himself sitting on the floor, eating the guts of Hannibal Lecter. 

“Oh Christ…"

He lowers his gun, taking a slow step forward. Will does not move more than to take another bite of the flesh in his hand. Blood seeps from his mouth.

Will Graham is taken back to Baltimore, where they have no choice but to put him in the BSHCI. Initially, they had intended to arrest Hannibal and at least attempt to free Will of any charges, assuming that the other was willing to plead manipulation or something akin. But now Hannibal Lecter is dead, and Will is the one who is criminally insane. 

No one has been able to reach him, not truly, since they apprehended him. He has barely reacted to anything since then. When they removed him from the body he was devouring, he fought and screamed and clawed. He tore one guard's eye out and knocked another unconscious before he was apprehended and sedated. Since then he has only spoken to himself.

“He’s not talking to himself, Jack.” 

Alana and Jack are standing, watching Will through the glass of his cell. They tried to put him in a regular cell at first, but he tore at the bricks until his fingers were bloody, and he only stopped when he was placed in Hannibal’s old cell. Now, instead of trying to claw through stone, he strolls around ambiently. He looks at the books and the old drawings. He rarely reads or draws himself. Most days he just stands and stares at the desk. 

Today, as most days, Will has spent the early hours of the morning walking back and forth. He talks and he laughs, but does not acknowledge anyone who visits him. Now he has sat down on his bed, with a smile on his lips as he watches the desk. 

Jack looks at Alana, with raised eyebrows. Will does not talk to them, but his mouth is rarely still. Alana sighs, clearly frustrated, her red lips turn downwards disapprovingly.

“He’s talking to Hannibal.”

Jack looks towards the cell again, where Will chuckles and nods, as if someone has said something agreeable. As if Hannibal has said something agreeable. Jack imagines the Chesapeake Ripper sitting in the chair by the desk, presumably drawing while conversing with Will.

Alana is right. Which means that Will has totally, and most assuredly irrevocably, lost his mind.

One. That’s how many “breakthroughs” Jack has with Will. 

He brings Molly and Walter. He brings his dogs, including the one they found by the cabin. They wheel in the mangled atrocity that is Dr Chilton. Margot Verger. Alana. Jack. No one reaches him. He won’t even spare them a glance. 

He’ll walk around, laughing and talking. Sometimes he stands by a wall and mimes washing dishes. Other times he envelops himself in a tight hug, closes his eyes, and cries. 

He barely eats. The only time they get him to eat is by placing the food on the desk, with another chair on the other side. Then he will sometimes pretend to share a dinner with Hannibal. But even that is rare. 

They try putting him in an interrogation room, but then he goes quiet and just stares unblinkingly in front of him for hours on end. 

Will speaks only once. A short sentence. He stares down the table and says:

“It is entirely unjust to keep him here. He is, in this matter, nothing but an innocent victim.” In a familiar Lithuanian accent. 

They don’t put him in the interrogation room for a couple of months after that.

But one day, Will stills. He stops in the middle of a cell and stares out through the glass wall. His eyes are distant and glassed over, but the change in behavior is immediately noted and Jack is alerted. By the time Jack arrives at the BSHCI, Will is already sitting with his hands chained to the table in the interrogation room. 

Jack sits down, sighs, and expects nothing. 

He startles in his seat when Will speaks, unprovoked. They lock eyes and for the first time in a long, long time, Jack sees a semblance of the man he used to know. A flash of clarity. 

“I see it now, Jack.” He whispers, smiles, and leans back in his seat. He glances to the side, undoubtedly at Hannibal. Jack, professionally, gathers himself and answers. 

“What do you see, Will?”

“To truly honor someone you love, you must consume every part of them.”