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Chapter Text

The river bank is muddy and slippery, smells of water and natural rot, and living foliage, but it doesn't suck his feet in like a bog when he runs along it. So long as he's standing, he's on the run. He can clearly hear the three men in chase after him and knows they can hear him, splashing his way through mud and wet grasses. The only thing that's his cover at this point is the height of bulrush and reedmace swaths surrounding him, hiding him in the darkness of the night. There is also the light mist rising further to his left, above the water's surface. The moon isn't bright enough to give him much to lean on as far as visibility ahead of him goes. It won't be hard at all to make the wrong step and slip off the low bank into the water. This is not a familiar area to him and he has no way of knowing how exactly the river is shaped.

Hannibal doesn't particularly enjoy the thought of drowning, neither in water nor mud, but he also isn't planning on letting the men behind him best him. He knows there's no win for him here but he also won't lose by getting shot or getting caught alive. Nearly tripping over a large root, he stumbles suddenly and his right knee protests with sharp pain. Still, he remains upright and can keep going.

It is his fault he's in this situation right now. He'd overestimated his luck and his own cleverness this one time and had ended up with hired killers breathing down his neck for the past two days. They're too good, got too close. His car, hit twice by the others' truck is abandoned somewhere on the side of the road, and Hannibal doesn't even know where exactly. He doesn't know where he is now.

He has nothing but his knife on him and his body itself is the only reason he's even still alive and free to run. His knuckles are no longer bloody because the mud and wet, crushed leaves replaced the blood on his skin. They still sting, though. He welcomes the feeling because it means he's still alive. Pain keeps him alert and aware.

'Hide, outrun, kill', his base instinct calls without pause at him, but the longer he's by this river, the more aware he becomes of the fourth, unexpected option. He doesn't notice it at first when he reaches the river but eventually, he does. He can sense it, can even scent it over the natural smells of moist ground and flora.

Something is living here. More than one reason makes him believe this; he can smell it in the wet air. It is something else than local birds and fish and plants. Something that's definitely alive. Then there's also the feeling of not being alone, the lightest dread hanging over him against his will, a dread that somehow makes him feel better.

He's not very familiar with Virginia but he knows enough about the state to be somewhat aware there are 'monster enclosures' in multiple places along the way of his escape route of the past few hours. It only makes sense he'd literally run into one by a large river. He doesn't even know the river's name but he's guessing he's crossed the reserve's unmarked border somewhere around the old, falling-apart cabin he'd ran past about half an hour earlier. Maybe it's closer to a full hour by now. He has no time to look at his watch in the dark if he wants to keep moving without tripping on the uneven ground.

Hannibal is not above admitting that he's startled when he hears the first shouts, then a random shot from a gun, then a pure scream.

'Good', he thinks with a dark pleasure. That's all he can ask for at this point.

He doesn't know what being calls these waters home and frankly, he doesn't really care. What he cares about are the sounds spreading now around him, carrying over the river, muffled by the reeds, echoing in his mind. The screams, the attempts of his chase to fight off the creature, whatever it is, the splashes and sounds of plants being bent and trampled over in panic. This is not his hunt and yet he can drink the satisfaction from the sounds of carnage, from the knowledge he's going to be the last one of the prey standing. There's no way out for him but he knows how to take pride in not being easy to catch.

There's more distance now between himself and the remaining enemy, as he can hear where the last shots and cries are sounding. That means that after the creature tears apart the last man, it will have to follow in his tracks before getting him.

Hannibal doesn't have any illusions about his survival. He's going to die here tonight and won't ever be found, just as the other three men won't be. Such a strange feeling, he thinks, accepting this. The excitement that's slowly filling his lungs is a new one, considering that he's never been destined to die before. Knowing that there will be no other ending, knowing what is going to kill him almost gives him a sense of power even in this setting. Falling to a human would have been underneath him. Insulting, even.

He doesn't shout when he's tackled down into the grasses, into the mud and onto the small stones on the river's bank. The weight on him is considerable, the creature's grip firm and sharp where the claws bite into his arms. Prepared for the attack, Hannibal pushes himself and his attacker up on his knees braced on the ground and swings his right arm back, holding the knife that's his last weapon that he has. It's not a very good stab but it is something, it catches the creature in its side and makes it hiss in anger.

This isn't about fighting for his life. Hannibal knows he's going to die but what he wants to do is give the monster a fair fight. Had their roles been reversed, he'd have appreciated a difficult prey much more than a terrified and frozen one. He's going to taste better if the creature has to put effort into killing him and he's all about showing respect to a superior predator.

Rolling to the left skillfully, out of the clawed grip, he manages to surprise the creature enough that he actually gets away from its reach for a moment. It's only a very short moment, however. Just enough for him to catch a blurry sight of a dark, long tail, human-like arms with long claws that have cut into his skin just seconds ago, the shape of a human-like head with crown of curly hair, the facial features hidden in the shadows under inadequate light of the now cloud-covered moon.

'Lamia', Hannibal thinks. He'd thought they were female as a rule, but clearly, he didn't know enough about them. Well, it doesn't matter to him either way, especially not where they are right now.

Managing to just barely twist away from a swipe of a clawed hand, Hannibal rolls again and pushes himself up on his arms. He still has a hold on his knife and uses it to block another swipe from the lamia. It roars, clearly less from pain in its stabbed hand than from pure anger.

Hannibal never manages to fully stand up after that. He struggles against the hold the monster has on him again, this time he's being wrapped in the tail, not just held down by hands. He's pressed down on his back into the wetness again, claws digging holes in his body under his ribs, not giving him any chance to get free again. Then, sharp teeth find his collarbone, carving through soft flesh and catching on the bone. It hurts and burns deeply while the bite lasts. Faintly, Hannibal thinks the creature must be enjoying his blood pouring freely out of the wound straight into its mouth because this isn't a fatal bite yet.

All of the injuries on him are by now making him slightly weak and dizzy and there's nothing he can do to escape anymore. The tail is a firm, tight trap, and it might not exactly be suffocating him but it certainly drains the last of the strength from his body second by second.

It's fine. While Hannibal doesn't wish to die, he's at peace with it. It may have come for him faster than he'd ever expected it to, but he always knew his end wasn't going to be a happy one. Becoming a monster's dinner is not the worst outcome of them all. Hannibal closes his eyes and falls into darkness a few seconds after he's pulled by the lamia into the river, dragged underwater.

*

Waking up is a surprise. A welcome, if a very painful surprise. He's not even sure at first if it's reality or a hallucination when he opens his eyes to see a ceiling, a ceiling lamp, and then the top of a window on the wall in front of him. It all is coming to him slowly, gently. He didn't wake up with a gasp or shock, just became aware of being alive and present. The ceiling and walls are painted in a neutral, boring cream color, and the room is bright with daylight. Hannibal is on a bed, covered with a blanket up to his chest, lying flat on his back with his arms straight along his body. Almost every part of him is in pain or at least annoyingly sore; especially his sides, arms and throat above his left clavicle.

When he moves a little for the first time since waking, raising his right arm, he becomes aware of the bandages wrapped tightly around various parts of him. They're around his belly, his arms, and there's a wide one around his throat and left shoulder, wound under his armpit so it's covering his whole collarbone. There's thick gauze under the bandage. He sits up slowly, first to avoid sharper pain and second to keep the bandages in place before he has a chance to inspect their quality.

He doesn't know what has happened to bring him here. He also doesn't know what time it is and how many hours have passed since the night when he'd lost consciousness in the monster's hold. He has no idea where the lamia is and what it's doing. Whose house is this?

It is very quiet. Hannibal can only hear his own breathing and some wild birds singing outside, audible through the locked windows. There is no fresh scent of the creature, of any people or anything else alive present.

Pushing himself up to properly sit on the bed, Hannibal notes that he's been stripped down to his underwear and left with the bandages and one thick, plaid blanket to keep him warm. Uncovered, he next takes note of multiple bruises and shallow scratches that are cleaned but not covered because they don't really need to be to heal. Bandages aren't skillfully applied but they're adequate for the purpose so he doesn't touch them for now. There's a faint stain of red growing in one spot on his side but it doesn't require changing yet in his opinion.

He sets his bare feet on the wooden floor and just sits like this for a few seconds, taking in slow breaths. He's not feeling great. He's weak and tired, but at least he doesn't think he's going to be faint if he stands up, so he does.

The wood under his feet is warm while Hannibal turns around taking in the room he's in. It seems to be a bedroom, with not much in it besides the bed he's just vacated, a wide wardrobe, and an empty desk with a chair near it. There's a standing mirror in which he can see his whole body with its bruises, scratches and bandages on full display. His eyes reflect how he's feeling physically, what with the dark shadows around them and the dull color. When he thinks about it, this was the first time in three days that he'd slept without interruptions and the tension hanging over him.

In the same room, he finds a set of clothes that are not his, hanging over a chair's backrest where they're easiest to notice. It's so close to the bed, that it all seems to be placed specifically for him to see. There are socks laid on a pair of shoes (that are also not his) on the floor beside the chair.

Curious. To be fair, Hannibal doubts his shirt and sweater from that night would be salvageable after being run through with claws multiple times. Not to mention being soaked with river water and surely smelling of dirt and rot.

Walking up to the window next, Hannibal finds out the room is on the first floor, not the ground level. Outside, he can see an overgrown yard with some space for parking, and he can see the right side of a large, gray shed to the right. A bit farther are some trees, from which the birds' singing is coming. There is no one present outside, just as there is no one in the house.

He's not sure how he feels about putting on someone else's clothes but there's not much choice he has here, is there now. He's not about to walk around in nothing but bandages and boxer briefs. What was picked for him mostly fits because of the type of outfit it is; comfortable and rather loose, so it's easy to put on without aggravating his injuries much. The clothes are clean and not used, but the scent of their owner is very clear on every piece. It's not an unpleasant scent, though an odd one. There's something… more than human in it.

Before making his way downstairs, Hannibal locates the small bathroom on the same floor and makes use of it to relieve himself, and then takes another long look at himself in the mirror while he leans his weight forward on the sink. His face is bruised from the fight he'd first had with the men sent after him and then from being brought down and pushed to the ground by the creature. It's not too bad, though. Worse are the dark rings around his eyes that he's already observed in the bedroom, marking his exhaustion of the past few days and especially the blood loss he suffered last night. He's in no shape to fight, run or even to just show himself in public spaces.

Sighing to himself, Hannibal washes his hands and then his face with cold water. It brings his thoughts to the fact that he must have been washed by whoever has brought him here. His hair's clean but mussed up by sleep and because it must have been drying while he was unconscious, pressed against the pillow. He pushes his fringe away from his eyes and tries to bring at least a bit of order to it with his fingers.

Walking around the lower floor, he confirms what he already knew; there's no one in the house with him. What he finds are multiple dog beds and water bowls, and he can clearly smell dog fur all around. He finds a bed in the main room, which is actually more like a… nest. It's a wide, thick mattress laid straight on the floor, on a thick, green carpet, and on it, there is a bunch of blankets and one comforter, all of those right now gathered in a messy pile with some pillows taking up the rest of the space. Hannibal has to conclude that this is the creature's home and its bed. It truly resembles a nest too much to be a human's spot. Besides that, the odd, off scent is more noticeable than it was upstairs. It's not human, not dog, nothing Hannibal had ever scented before. He can only connect it with the scent of the monster that had brought him down last night.

In the kitchen, on the table, Hannibal finds a plate full of baked fish, some spiced rice and vegetables from a can, plus a full glass of water and a full water bottle next to it. There's cutlery ready by the plate. Huh.

The fish is very fresh and recently prepared, though no longer warm, so Hannibal can roughly guess the time when he's been left alone in the house.

He hesitates at first, but he is very hungry, he needs food and water to recover, and besides that, it smells good. Even cool, the fish is a satisfying meal, the meat soft and adequately spiced. Hannibal isn't sure he remembers when exactly someone else has cooked for him.

He eats slowly, enjoying it. He drinks all of the water because he needs it, and after he's done with everything, he cleans up the table and washes the plate and utensils.

Then, he sits down in an armchair in the main room to rest a bit more. He knows better than to expect the return of the house's owner any time soon. If he – it – wanted to see Hannibal, he'd have stayed inside in the first place. No, clearly Hannibal was to rest, eat, and then get the hell out and leave the area altogether.

He has to think about it first, since it's not as easy as walking out and going home. Gathering his thoughts, Hannibal decides to walk around the house a little more once he feels he's rested enough. He's still very curious about the owner. Is it in fact the monster which had almost killed him, or is there someone else living with it? That peculiar scent is here so it must be present regularly, so is there a human living with it, possibly managing it? Protecting it?

On his tour around the ground floor rooms, Hannibal finds his wallet (wet but it makes no difference to his ID and cards) and also his phone (ruined by the river, screen dark and unresponsive). Next to the phone, there is a business card for a local taxi company that certainly doesn't belong to Hannibal. Picking it up and holding onto it, he looks around some more, finally spotting a landline phone on a narrow side table. That's polite, he thinks. And so very curious. Not only has his life been spared, he's received first aid, food, and means to get on his way. The last item on the side table with all those items is an unfolded map with one place circled with a blue marker. It must be where he is right now. Makes sense to let him know where he even is if he's to call himself a cab.

He knows he has to push down the desire to meet his benefactor because that would be testing his luck. He's not welcome here and obviously, there's no wish on the other side to see him.

Vaguely, he wonders if the lamia is out there by the river at that moment, feasting on the bodies it'd created last night. It's a shame, he thinks, that he can't participate. The fish was good and very appreciated, but he would have liked to see the creature eating his enemies and he would have liked to eat with it, too.

It's a thought he can put aside for now, to pick up again in the future.

Hannibal allows himself to sate his curiosity just a little bit by looking into the fridge, which he considers to be something of a 'public space' in the house. He isn't going to look anywhere else. Not in the cupboards, not in the closed room which he thinks is probably a study. He isn't going to go to peek into the shed that he can see through the window, some distance from the house. That would be rude. The fridge is of great interest to him, however. It might have meaning in the future, in his for now very vague thoughts that are starting to swirl in his mind.

There are normal, human items in there, such as butter, milk, and eggs. Some store-bought, bottled sauces. There are even some vegetables. There are large bones packed in a bag, which he's pretty certain are meant for the dogs, occupants of the pet beds in the main room.

Besides all that, he finds a closed glass baking dish with raw but marinated fish waiting to be baked and then a second pot with… huh, that's a snake. It's a full, complete, adult snake, now dead and placed in water that smells of various spices. Hannibal stares at it for a moment, allowing himself to be surprised while no one can see him.

Then he breathes it in, memorizing what's been used to prepare the snake and the fish in the fridge. He also compares it with what he's tasted in the meal that was left for him. This is very educational and should be useful in the future. He closes the fridge and moves on in his little exploration.

What's easy to notice in the house at first glance is the amount of books on shelves and other surfaces in the house. On the coffee table, there are a few books with visible bookmarks sticking out of them and there are notebooks with pens lying next to them. Hannibal doesn't touch those.

While he waits for his cab, he does touch the piano, playing a few notes. It's well-tuned, which is another curious detail.

When he finally walks outside, in not his own shoes, not his own clothes, and only his wallet and his broken phone as his own belongings, he breathes in the clean air deeply. This is a good place for a non-human creature to live in. The only noises are from nature, and the only smells are natural as well. Hannibal wouldn't have minded staying a whole day here to rest, but he knows better than to push his luck and overstay his temporary welcome.

On the ground in front of the porch, there are tracks of male shoes, multiple pairs of dog paws and deep tire marks going away from the house.

Hannibal feels like he's missing out on something, not being able to meet the inhabitants of the house in person when he wants to. He has to accept it for the time being.

*

Hannibal could have the cab bring him to one of his safe houses but at the last minute, he decides to change his plans. They stop at the first motel with a diner next to it, Hannibal pays with his card and thanks the driver. There are two reasons for his decision: first, he wants to rest some more after the night spent in his good host's house, because he's still sore and tired. Second, he might have a chance to get some information around here. Diners like this should be full of stories, gossip, and urban legends if not factual information, and he knows well enough how to dig the truth out of stories. He's hungry for information about the creatures living in the area of the river.

For now, his life isn't in danger. The hired men after him would be missing to be never found, so their employer would be thinking the chase was still on for at least a few more days. As far as Hannibal knows, there wasn't anyone else as a competition to them. And so, he isn't nervous about staying in such a public place, right by one of the local main routes. He has time.

He pays for a small room, eats a mediocre but acceptable dinner and then retires back to the room to sleep.

He feels significantly better in the evening. His sleep was dreamless and restful, and although he is sore and will be still for some time longer, he knows he's on the mend, not in danger of catching an infection. He takes some time to replace the bandages with new ones, acquired at a gas station during his cab ride to the motel. The wounds are of interest to him and he spends more time than is needed to look at every single one of them before he makes use of the bought disinfectant. He's never had claws or fangs break his skin before. In fact, he's hoping the marks right above his collarbone will scar, so he can keep them permanently.

It's very inconvenient to not have the use of a phone and internet but he's going to manage. He's had to deal with worse conditions before. He'll ask for the use of a phone at the diner, which will go well with the story he's already created to tell about the reasons for the state of his face and his careful movements. There wasn't much interaction between him and the staff when he had his first meal there, so he could avoid lying before he was ready to do so convincingly. He was quite certain at the time that he was going to find a sympathetic spirit in the woman who was running the place and now he's prepared to use his story to get some information about the area.

Feeling hungry for supper, he's almost completely comfortable sitting down by the window table and striking up a conversation with the woman when she approaches him. It's not hard work to slip into a different… suit than his usual one. It's always a role to play, something to show to the others. Color of the suit does not matter, it only needs to fit him. Today he's a reporter changing jobs, his car has broken down, no one was driving by at that hour and his phone had no signal. So he had walked, and having lived in a large city all his life, he'd been unprepared and clumsy enough to get lost, misstep and slip, losing his phone in the water and getting scratches on his face from the bushes.

And there's the reaction he's been looking for: the woman frowns with plain concern.

"Well, if you've been driving from the north as you said, you had more luck than brains," she says plainly. "

"Why is that?" he feigns confusion perfectly.

"Virginia is known for its wild creature reserves."

"Monster reserves?" Hannibal keeps playing his role successfully, making the woman huff impatiently.

"There are no monsters," she says firmly. "They're local wild beings, keeping to themselves if people keep to themselves first."

How curious. She sounds as if she's defending something like a wolf or an alligator, not a sentient killer capable of planning their kills, incredibly strong and skilled.

This pleases him. Defense of the creature that had spared him, cared for him at their home and even fed him is something to like in the woman. It makes Hannibal wonder if she knows what they look like, maybe even where they live.

He asks some more safe questions about Virginia and its creatures, careful to be vague and not focusing on this specific river and the road he was on before finding it. It does give him some information useful to create a picture of what exactly he met. Once he gets access to the internet, he'll do a different research. He ends his questions at an appropriate time, apologizing to the woman (who by now he knows by name, Jenna) for taking up her time, and she leaves him at the table, waving his hand at him because 'it wasn't a bother at all'.

It's maybe ten minutes later when there's some new movement and sounds.

"Thank you again, Will," a man's voice comes from behind the bar, through the opening doors to the kitchen. The voice belongs to the man in a light gray, dirtied apron, who's following another man in a dark green waterproof jacket, cargo pants and a brown cap.

"Visit us sooner next time," the cook continues. "Your fish are still our bestseller for their freshness."

Hannibal isn't really interested in the exchange but there's nothing else happening around and it's amusing to observe the man's awkward reaction to the compliment. His left hand is twitching just slightly and he's pointedly not looking at the cook even though they both stopped in front of the bar, now facing each other.

"It's just fish. Cooking it is the secret to happy clients."

The cook chuckles. "Yeah, yeah. Jenna," he calls out to the woman Hannibal had been talking to before. "Pay Will for five trout. The usual."

In the right hand, the man in the jacket – Will – is holding a large cooler in a casual manner that indicates the cooler is now indeed emptied of fish and is lightweight. Hannibal loses interest and doesn't watch the man getting paid, although he allows himself the thought that it wouldn't be unpleasant at all to observe the man a little longer. He's very pleasing to look at and the curls sticking out from under the cap are rather charming.

Hannibal does look up again a minute later when the sound of steps going by his table stops and he scents a man's aftershave nearby. The blue eyes meeting his gaze are… odd, but he can't immediately explain why. The eye contact is lost very soon anyway because Will looks lower at his plate, then at his glass of water, and then his gaze skips over to the diner's salt and pepper containers in the middle of the table.

"May I help you?" Hannibal asks casually. He should normally be frustrated by the way he cannot read quickly what emotions are currently warring in the man, but he's more interested in finding out than uncomfortable at being bothered at his table.

"How's the collarbone?" comes the unexpected question. The man's voice is pleasant. "How's everything, really."

Ahh… Hannibal's multiple questions are answered all at once. Many more remain and more arise.

"Healing, thank you. Then it is you I owe my gratitude to."

"I want and need nothing from you. I'm only asking out of curiosity if I've done a good enough job on your injuries to keep you alive."

He's cold in his tone and his disinterest doesn't seem feigned, but it only makes Hannibal more inclined to keep him talking.

"Well, first I will admit I have medical education and practice, so I applied the fresh bandages differently, but yours were just fine. I'm more interested in praising your cooking, to be honest. You didn't have to do anything for me. You could have left me outside and let me pick myself up on my own, but you didn't."

"Are you interested why I even let you live?" Will asks, ignoring everything that Hannibal just said. Another surprising thing is that he invites himself to the free chair opposite of Hannibal and sits down, still not looking at Hannibal. He begins playing with the salt shaker instead.

"Of course I am. Very much." Hannibal does not take his eyes off of the man – the creature – while his mind is coming up with a hundred questions he wants to ask and knows he won't be able to because they won't be answered. Not today.

"Your familiar asked for your life. It felt wrong to kill you because it would have perished with you."

Of all the possible answers Hannibal could assume and predict, this one was… something he never would have come up with.

"A… familiar." He repeats, neutrally, controlling his voice with some effort.

Will tilts his head and his odd eyes meet Hannibal's at last.

"You don't know you have one?"

"No," he says, his voice coming out softer than he meant it to.

"Well, you do know now. You have it. I can see familiars of every person that happens to have one and I can read their emotions."

"Oh. Do they… speak?"

"Sometimes. Rarely. Yours does not." Will looks away, out through the diner's window. For a short while, he's silent and Hannibal doesn't speak either, first because he doesn't want to push the man to tell him more and second because his mind is full of swirling thoughts and he rushes to try and sort them out.

"It felt wrong to kill you," Will repeats his earlier words, "while it was looking at me."

"What does it look like?"

"A stag. A great, black stag. It was beautiful." Will ends with softer, quieter words. He's still looking out the window, making Hannibal wonder if he's replaying the memory in his head.

Meanwhile, Hannibal isn't sure what to do with himself. He's surprised, he's touched, he feels raw. He doesn't know what questions would be the right ones to ask next. So he goes with something safe that first comes to his mind.

"Do you regret letting your prey go?"

Will goes back to fiddling with the salt shaker, keeping his gaze on the table.

"Nah. I am content with what I got."

At that, Hannibal finally smiles. "I'm glad."

Will doesn't exactly return the emotion but he does seem to be a little more comfortable around Hannibal now than he was at the beginning of their conversation.

"May I ask, Will," Hannibal begins another topic he's curious about. "Why did you allow me to stay in your house? To call a third-party service to said house? You could have dumped me at the side of the main road and called it a day."

Will fiddles with the salt shaker some more, predictably avoiding looking at Hannibal directly.

"It doesn't matter what you saw and where you were. You're obviously on the run, so you'll be gone soon, into hiding and forget about all this in a few weeks, or else you'll just be dead. And you can't harm me."

"I can't?" From anyone else, Hannibal would have taken this as a challenge to immediately prove it wrong. From the man – the being – in front of him, it gives him amusement and it's something to be stored in his mind for later, to be explored further.

"You're no match to me, no matter how highly you think of yourself." Will leans back in his chair, meeting Hannibal's gaze. A small smirk changes his whole face.

Confidence looks good on him. It's attractive. Hannibal would have liked having an opportunity to face him again in better conditions, when he wasn't exhausted and literally in the dark and trying not to fall into a river. He would have liked to fight again, him with just a knife against Will's fangs and his claws. But that's not his plan, just a fantasy to return to once he's alone.

"Anyway," Will continues, standing up and looking away from the table, towards the entrance door. "Good talk. See you again never."

"You're leaving already?" Hannibal asks, at the last second hiding honest disappointment under a practiced neutral tone. He almost stands up with Will but also stops himself from doing that.

"I saw you're alive, you got to thank me and heard more than I should ever have told any human. Everyone's happy. Now goodbye."

"Will, wait a moment. I have not thanked you yet. And I wish to. Thank you for letting me live and caring enough to see me through the night. I also greatly appreciate your dinner, it was very good."

Still standing by the table, hearing Hannibal out until he's done, Will is looking sheepish. His hand that isn't holding onto the blue cooler goes to the back of his head, mussing up his hair below the cap in a nervous manner. It's charming how human the gesture is.

"Yeah, well, you were my good deed for the year. Congratulations." He goes for sarcastic tone but Hannibal is too good at reading people not to notice the hidden pleasure the other man feels at the praise.

Hannibal smiles at him again. "I am honored. Well, I won't push past your patience today, dear Will. Have a good rest of the day," he finishes, giving Will a polite, honest nod.

The man opens his mouth, closes it, and then pretty much escapes the diner before the flush fills his cheeks.

Hannibal finishes his meal with much greater pleasure than it deserves, while his mind fills with plans and ideas for the next few weeks.

*

Chapter Text

Hannibal chooses to move into a house that he hasn't visited in the past two years. It's not that he doesn't like it, but rather that he's been busy in other places for the last few years. He'll be less likely to be connected by anyone to this city and this particular address. He only showed up in this house before to check on it, get rid of the dust and pay for the discreet service of detecting wiretapping, just in case.

For a week, Hannibal does little besides recovering physically completely. He sleeps, eats what he likes best, drinks a lot of water, and when it's appropriate health-wise, he gets back on exercise. He dusts all the furniture and cleans the windows himself. It's calming, it's safe, and it gives him something to do with his hands while his mind is busy thinking. He's definitely not bored, even stuck at home without his job and his regular activities.

He registers at the nearest university library, which is still a long drive, but he doesn't mind. There are quite a few books useful to him, scientific enough to give him information he considers believable on modern cryptozoology and more or less studied monsters.

It's not much, but he knew nothing before, so he drinks up all the knowledge like he's been dying of thirst without knowing it.

It's not that he wasn't aware of or didn't believe in familiars or monsters. They were real; they were taught about a little bit in schools, both in Europe and in the States. Being extremely rare, they were simply something he never expected to see at all, so he gave them almost no thought throughout his life. There was no point. He never considered himself a person who could have a familiar. They are protectors, symbols of luck, and gifts, even though they're not seen. Hannibal isn't feeling lucky, grateful or protected at all. Never did.

As for Will, there's more on his kind than Hannibal expected to find in writing, but lamiae are hard to encounter because they're too intelligent and their form-shifting only serves to hide them better, and will always remain something of a mystery.

The research serves to occupy his mind and gives him satisfaction from learning something new, but besides that, it's not a good week for Hannibal. He's still excited about having met Will, and he still has a lot he wants to do about it, but that part eventually gets buried under other thoughts that he cannot fight off. The thoughts have to do with his past and what he's learned about the familiars' role.

Why did he have to have one and not Mischa? What was the protection worth then, if he'd lost everything? Was it not like being kept on life support just for the sake of living?

He hates himself a little for falling into this darkness. It's not what he does. Not knowing his own emotions is just not what he does, ever, but not knowing his own emotions is exactly what's happening.

He wants to go back to Virginia to see Will and ask him the questions he's written down based on what he's read in the books and internet. He wants to go there to ask nothing and instead tear Will apart for what he's (unknowingly) done to him, and then eat him. He wants to go to Will and have him point out his familiar first so he can kill it and then Will.

He's having nightmares again. Not every night but often enough to leave him frustrated and… empty.

For a month, he lies low, knowing there's a high chance he'll be considered dead along with the men sent after him. Hannibal isn't a man who takes chances, no matter how high. He's not yet a hundred percent certain who is after him, putting out hits. Without being certain, he can't take appropriate steps to free himself of the nuisance.

Eventually, at the month's end, being careful, watchful and seeking information discreetly pays off. He gets his hands (and his knife) on one man who is quick to spill the information Hannibal wants, which gets him closer to solving the problem of being hunted by something else than the FBI.

This first hunt after the lazy month passes brings him to a decision. He prepares a meal suitable for transporting in a container, packs a small travel bag and his fake IDs, puts everything into his new car and drives straight to Wolf Trap.

*

"Hello, Will," he says, simply and then adds, "Good morning."

The man he addresses stands still on his porch, his face blank, his eyes unblinking. Multiple dogs stay near his feet, some looking warily at Hannibal and some completely uninterested in anything besides their owner. He came out of the house before Hannibal even turned off the engine and waited like a statue, watching Hannibal's every movement as he stepped out of the car. He's dressed in casual, comfortable clothes, which suggests he's not planning to leave the house any time soon today. Without a cap on his head, his hair curls freely, naturally, creating a halo of brown locks around his aesthetically pleasing face.

"May I?" Hannibal asks a few seconds later when the silence lasts. He lifts his hand with the bag to indicate he has something to offer, that it is the reason for his being here.

Will tilts his head slightly, in that manner that Hannibal is now becoming familiar with, his gaze moves from Hannibal's face to his bag, to his shoes, then to his car and back to the bag. Finally, without speaking, Will steps to the side and holds his door widely open in a clear invitation, even if he's not looking very happy about it.

Pleased about being accepted, Hannibal walks up the steps of the porch and towards the doors, offering his free hand for the curious dogs to sniff. It wouldn't do to not be friendly with the pets his object of interest cares about. This is what Will is now, because the second Hannibal saw him in person, all thoughts suggesting killing and cutting him up vacated Hannibal's mind immediately. Doing that would not have pleased him at all.

Once inside, Hannibal goes to the table, which is exactly where he remembered it would be. After placing the bag on it, he glances briefly at Will before opening it.

"I can't ever repay you for saving my life," he says honestly. "But I can certainly do my best to show my gratitude."

Then, taking out the neat containers one by one, he continues, "This is something minor, I didn't have sufficient time to prepare something better to be as good as take-out compared to what I could offer you in my home... but I enjoyed making this for you and I hope it will be to your tastes."

He uncovers the containers without hurry, showing the separately packed elements of the full meal to Will, who has stepped closer to the table in the meantime.

"You cooked for me," Will says neutrally, and the barely hidden confusion in his expression is charming. He tries his best to appear uninterested, but he peeks into the boxes, giving each a good few seconds of attention before looking up at Hannibal.

"Yes. Cooking is something I truly enjoy and take pride in. Especially when it's for guests. I knew I couldn't invite you for dinner at my house, so the dinner came to you."

Hannibal can see that Will is curious and that he's smelling the air over the table while pretending that he's not.

"I… um," Will begins, pauses. "I'm still full after the… three-course meal you delivered to me last time. I won't be hungry for at least another week."

Hannibal hums thoughtfully. This is interesting. The books had very little to say about a lamia's exact eating habits, only that they ate pretty much any meat they could catch.

"Nothing lost, dear Will," he says lightly. "I will ask you to try it just to give me your opinion. I will eat what I brought for myself, for a company at the table, and the rest can be refrigerated for whenever you're in the mood to have it."

Will nods, as if more to himself than Hannibal, then moves away to one of the cupboards to retrieve two plates and then gets utensils from a drawer. It pleases Hannibal incredibly to see the acceptance of his presence in this house and of his offering, even if there's still a lot of work ahead of him to be accepted himself as someone Will would want to be close to.

"Does this need to be heated up?" Will asks, watching Hannibal while he carefully transfers the food from the containers to the two plates.

"No. It could be, yes, but I'd planned this to be convenient to you, as the host. I assure you, it will be satisfying as is."

Besides, he doesn't particularly care for the image of his food being heated in something as plain as a microwave. The thought makes him shudder.

"Drinks, then? What should I take out?" Will asks next, fiddling with the napkin holder that he found somewhere in another cupboard.

The awkwardness of what Hannibal knows is a deadly creature is intoxicating in how charming it is. The unusual stormy eyes avoid looking at his face still, the elegant fingers hold onto one napkin, rumpling it up in a nervous, twitchy manner. Hannibal goes back into his mind to the memory of claws digging into his body without mercy. By now, it's become a good memory, one that sends a shiver down his spine whenever he focuses on it. There is no fear or uncertainty in the nervousness; it's something else entirely, to be explored and learned about without a hurry.

"Water, please," Hannibal replies neutrally. "Normally, at my table, I would serve a fitting wine, picked by me for every dish. This time, however, I decided against bringing a bottle. I didn't want alcohol to be a… distraction."

Will looks up from the glasses he was preparing and meets Hannibal's gaze.

"It would have been wasted on me, anyway," he says. "I don't like the taste, and I can't be drunk, so there's no point."

"You can't?" Hannibal asks, happy to be shown another detail of Will's nature. The room he's created specifically for Will in his memory palace is slowly filling with more and more information.

"Alcohol is poison," Will says matter-of-factly as if he's talking to a child. "I am immune to about every natural poison there is."

"I'm glad to hear it." And he is, truly. Everything he's learning about Will's superiority as a predator only excites him more.

Will offers nothing more in words and instead turns away to take the two glasses and a water pitcher with a filter from the counter to place them on the table between the plates that Hannibal has prepared. They sit down, Will once again focusing his gaze away from Hannibal. He begins eating with something like hesitation, or rather suspicion, while Hannibal watches him, ignoring his own plate for the time being.

He wants to see the moment Will realizes just what exactly Hannibal had cooked for them. Just as Hannibal assumed, Will knows immediately when he tastes it. Blue eyes snap up to stare at him, unblinking, while the man slowly chews and swallows. For a second or two, it seems like he might say something, his lips are slightly parted, but he stays silent and cuts himself another bite to take.

The pleasure Hannibal feels at that is a warm feeling in his belly. Not holding a smile back, he looks away from Will to start on his food.

The dinner is a success. Despite his claim that he was full, Will has cleared his whole plate and afterwards leans back in his chair, groaning theatrically with his eyes closed.

"Now I won't be able to move for weeks," he announces.

"I certainly can't see it on you," Hannibal points out, hoping for another tidbit of information from Will about himself. And he does get it.

"You wouldn't in this body. Most of it stays in as energy for me to use."

"Strength?"

"Yes, but not only." Will doesn't offer any more details than that, and Hannibal doesn't push at this time.

Will opens his eyes and looks at him, then smirks. "I can still grow, you know? My tail, that is, not the human part."

Hannibal itches to ask to be allowed to see Will's true form, but he just knows he'd be denied if he tried it today. Even without it, this beautiful man has single-handedly erased Hannibal's boredom, melancholy and general displeasure with the life of the past six months, or longer, that had weighed on him, and Hannibal is now craving anything and everything Will would like to give him.

"That means if you were provided with sufficient food, you'd become even more formidable?"

A roll of eyes is the reaction.

"Yeah. Of course, it's not actually possible or realistic. My river and I are protected under the law, but that doesn't mean people can just start disappearing in groups around this area without consequences falling on my head."

"Of course," Hannibal agrees. It is the same for him and his hunting, just in very different conditions. It is a shame. Someone like Will deserves to have everything he could possibly desire or need. He doesn't voice those thoughts, knowing it would only make the beautiful creature scoff and roll his eyes. What Hannibal can do is make plans.

The rest of the evening is pleasant. It's especially enjoyable to Hannibal himself, but he's fairly confident that he made the day a good one for Will, too. There's no impatience or annoyance that he can sense in the man, and the conversation goes smoothly, even if sometimes it turns awkward or stilted for a minute or two. Ironically, it's all while Will isn't shy to make it clear he's unimpressed and not interested in Hannibal. Being barely tolerated instead of fawned over and begged for attention by boring people is incredibly refreshing. And amusing. And grounding. Every frowny expression and exasperated press of his lips that Will shows is something to be enjoyed and memorized.

When Will thanks him and praises his cooking, Hannibal preens. This is nothing he hasn't heard before a thousand times, but coming from this man, everything feels fresh and true. It's natural. A breath of invigorating, clean air.

"You don't have to wash this, I'll put them in my dishwasher at home," Hannibal says when he sees Will gathering his containers with the empty plates into the sink.

"Mhm, I will. You cooked, I clean."

The finality sounding in his voice makes Hannibal chuckle. "Very well, then."

Taking place next to Will on his left side, Hannibal grabs the nearest clean kitchen cloth and takes over wiping dry everything that Will washes. He's not called out on the way he makes sure their fingers touch, but Will carefully avoids contact with each passing of dishes after that.

Afterwards, they go out to sit on the porch while the sun's going down. Dogs run out to scatter around the property, and only one returns quickly to lie at Will's feet.

"How did you come to have such a following?" Hannibal asks, genuinely interested in the story of Will's house and dogs.

"They're all literally strays," comes the answer. "Picked up one one day, more kept showing up over the next few years." Reaching his hand down, Will pets the one next to him.

"Winston here is the latest pack member. I spotted him from my car in the middle of the night while I was returning home. It took me a few tries to convince him to come with me, and now, well, man's best friend and all that."

Hannibal thinks he's going to end at that and not offer anything more, but Will does continue, his eyes lingering on his four-legged friend, full of fondness.

"I suppose there is something familiar I see in them. Separation from everything, no place in the towns, no one but myself to be with."

"You do, though. Have a place in towns," Hannibal points out carefully, hoping he's not pressing on exactly the wrong spot to press.

"You mean the diner. Yes, I guess I do. I like the people in there, they're kind. I think they're suspecting or are already certain I'm not exactly human, but they never ask and don't seem to mind. We've known each other for years." After saying that, Will sighs. "Fine, I'll bite. I'll tell you something more. I know how to exist with humans. I do, in fact, exist in society, legally."

He makes eye contact again, challenging Hannibal to go on with his questions.

"May I ask your full name?" Hannibal is very pleased with this development.

"Will Graham. No 'full' first name, it's just Will."

"It is a good name, it fits you."

Predictably, the man looks away immediately for a few long minutes while they continue the conversation.

"You're supposed to offer me yours in return, you know."

"Of course. Hannibal Lecter. Doctor." Hannibal gives Will an abbreviated story of his medical career. Will makes a face when he speaks about psychiatry, and it greatly amuses Hannibal that a creature of his kind would share the very human-like displeasure.

From there, they go over topics Hannibal would have considered mundane and trivial with anyone else. 'Anyone else' means his patients, colleagues and his acquaintances from artistic circles. With Will, he might as well be discovering a new land, with how much curiosity it ignites in him and how much satisfaction every freely offered detail gives him.

Will has a smartphone besides the old landline, and he owns a laptop. He knows engines and motors. He does in fact play the piano that stands in the house, but only basic melodies and does it rarely. He reads a lot, on different topics, and has an excellent memory. He trains every dog himself and has them fulfil commands that could be considered complex without a peep of disagreement.

Will has no family. The house and the farmland around it belong fully to him, and he's been living here since reaching majority, both as a lamia and as a pretended human.

When there comes a lull in the conversation, Hannibal knows he needs to let it end there. Being with Will resembles playing a difficult instrument. He needs to know it first, then it requires a good sense, familiarity and delicate practice so it doesn't break or produce a discordant sound. Control and patience are not what Hannibal ever lacked, so this is something to work on naturally, as it happens on Will's terms.

So what Hannibal says a few moments later, instead of poking for more details, is this: "As for the dogs, the way I see it, you seem to bring luck to those who need it." He doesn't need to state the obvious that he's talking about himself, too.

Will glances at him, odd blue eyes meeting his straight-on.

"Do you intend to push yours, Doctor Lecter?"

"No, dear Will. I intend to savor it."

*

Chapter Text

'A toast to a new era', Hannibal thinks while raising a glass of Lillet to his lips. He's having a quiet evening, one of many during the week after his visit to Will's home. In that period of time, his nightmares have ceased, his overall mood has risen noticeably even while he still had a price on his head, and every day his thought patterns are becoming more directed towards something new instead of being repetitive and, frankly, dull. He accepts calling his own thoughts dull only because he feels the difference greatly now. Before, he couldn't have noticed it genuinely, even if he subconsciously knew something had been… lacking for a long while.

After that period of rest, enjoying his unplanned vacation from Baltimore in general (patients, social obligations, colleagues, hunting and hiding his tracks from the FBI), Hannibal is almost happy to return to the full focus and having every hour of his days following a spotless plan. 
He's only 'almost happy' because going back to Baltimore from his temporary hideout house takes him farther away from Will's home and hunting grounds. A shame, but it has to be that way. Hannibal certainly isn't a person without patience, knowing that life does not automatically follow people's wishes and wants, not even his. He'll have the time to see Will eventually. 

For now, he does what needs to be done to deal with his most vexing issues, and if he indulges in his old vices to make his time in the city more pleasant, that's his right. 

The Chesapeake Ripper isn't in the mood and doesn't experience the need to draft and set up perfect tableaus. For now. He's content with the hunt itself and the following kill, he's satisfied with the simple pleasure of being back at home, re-filling his fridge from the shadows of the city, leaving nothing for the spotlight. The practical reasons for that are also the genuine lack of time his art demands and the wish to avoid having the FBI woken up. Dropping them some bait would be as entertaining as always, but at this time would also be so unnecessarily risky that it would border on recklessness. 

For the sake of keeping some variety in his schedule between following leads on his enemy, Hannibal contacts a select few of his most interesting, promising or at least amusing patients to set the new visit times during the week. What he also does is schedule his visit to his psychiatrist. There isn't anything he needs from Bedelia specifically, because there's nothing she can tell him that would be of any use to him at this point. He goes because she's always been his reliable sounding board for his thoughts and his own conclusions, and he thinks it's useful to hear himself talk out loud to another person instead of staying in his own mind. 

Dr du Maurier has some insight to share, as always, but as predicted, it's nothing he hasn't already thought of. Still, that's all he expected to receive during the session, so there's no disappointment at all. In the future, she might have something more to offer that he will use. He only mentions Will vaguely, as someone new he's met, choosing the image he wants Bedelia to create of him in her mind. 

*

The closer Hannibal gets to figuring out who's after him, the busier his weeks become. He no longer actively searches for suitable targets to put on his table because he simply makes use of the men he first uses for information in his basement. He collects information and bodies, sends out misinformation, constructs lures and traps, and stays vigilant. 

He continues accepting patients several times a week, he sees Bedelia not often but on a regular schedule, he follows what Tattlecrime.com presents on the main page, even if it costs him the loss of precious brain cells at times to read the headers. Especially now that the Ripper is resting, the content of the site is barely even amusing. Seems that the whole season they're in is generally lazy for the more interesting criminals. Still, it wouldn't do to miss something by ignoring that source, so the least he does is skim the titles.

Hannibal also continues his research regarding Will, though now it's only casual as a hobby, because he's much more interested in hearing the details from the man himself, as he'll see fit to share them with Hannibal in person. Instead of searching for answers to what interests him right away, Hannibal writes his questions and his guesses down in a notebook he started specifically and only for this purpose.

And one more detail that changes in his home is in his pantry. Some of the most recently sealed bags in his fridge and freezer gain a new hand-written label: 'Will'. 

⁂

Hannibal's leaving the office at the end of his working day, Tuesday, only to be met with a sight he was definitely not expecting in his waiting room. Not today, probably not ever. Every thought in his head regarding the two therapy sessions of the day, everything that has to do with his plans for the evening at home is gone as if blown away by a sudden wind.

"Will," he breathes, unable to quickly guess what this surprise means.

"Doctor Lecter, good evening," Will says officially, but his lips are curling into a beginning of a smile.  It seems he was admiring one of the paintings to his right, so when Hannibal opens the door, he turns around to face him. A dark navy dress jacket is folded over his right arm and the clothes he's wearing are semi-formal, something much different from what he had on the last time Hannibal saw him.

"It seems I was informed about your office hours correctly," he continues while Hannibal is struggling to decide what exactly he's feeling at that moment. 

"I admit I didn't think that you might have a secretary-assistant, whoever the helpful lady on the phone was, and I had hoped to talk with you directly."

"Why were you calling my number?" Hannibal asks, all curiosity and no suspicion in his voice.

"I was in the neighborhood," Will says lightly, and then elaborates: "Imagine my pleasant surprise when - still back at home - Google informed me that a dr Lecter is practicing in exactly the city I needed to be in this week, and that he has an official web page with all proper contact information. I called yesterday and was told you had no free space in your schedule to take new patients, but I was encouraged to ask again at a later time, as it might change."

Will raises his arm to glance at his watch, even though he surely knows exactly what time it is. 

"The lady with the nice voice was kind to inform me all about the doctor's working hours during the week. I didn't imply," he goes on in that purposefully acted official tone, "that I believed Doctor Lecter would make time for me in his schedule, as that would make me sound conceited and possibly rude, wouldn't it?"

"We wouldn't want that," Hannibal agrees, amusement pleasantly spreading through his body.

He absolutely should have invited his guest inside by now, offered him one of the comfortable seats and a (non-alcoholic) drink. He doesn't do that, because for reasons he doesn't understand yet, he's almost afraid to suggest moving at all, afraid the man will say he should be going back now or he'll literally disappear like a specter.

Will doesn't disappear so his pleasant voice is still filling the space between them, where they're 'stuck' at the door.

"Anyway, as I said, I didn't come here only to see you, so don't let it get to your head. I've had the trip to Baltimore planned because of a commitment, even before we knew each other's full names."

Hannibal manages to shake off the spell at last and tilts his head slightly as if he could possibly give Will any more attention than he's already dedicating to him. 

"Well, now you have me curious," he says while at the same time stepping back and to the left, a nonverbal but clear invitation inside. "I would have liked to host you in my home, dear Will, where I would have more to offer. Here, I only have a liquor cabinet, and a limited one at that."

The little tea library of personal favorites he keeps in the office is something he's usually proud to offer, but Will is not someone to be interested in tea.

Hannibal holds Will's gaze when the man walks into the office, too briefly for his liking, before the blue eyes turn away from him to take in the interior layout instead. 

"I was a guest lecturer at UMD, following the publication of my last paper on wintering habits of damselflies in Virginia," Will skips right to addressing the curiosity and ignoring everything else Hannibal said. "I'll spare you citing the actual full title they printed in the journal, it's only interesting to entomology students and geeks."

Hannibal is temporarily stunned silent, standing still where he was after closing the door behind him, his eyes on Will's back. He catches himself a second later, schooling his features to something that is not dumbfounded. Before he can say anything or ask a question, Will speaks again, looking back over his shoulder to meet Hannibal's eyes again.

"You didn't search for my name," He grins. He must be pleased indeed, having the upper hand on Hannibal once again. 

"It… didn't occur to me that I should try. I assumed you wouldn't exist anywhere and I'd only find other men accidentally having the same legal name, therefore it would have only been wasted time."

"To assume makes-"

"… an ass out of 'u' and me." Hannibal interrupts by finishing the saying. Will smiles wider, with a hint of fangs. Hannibal cannot look away and at the moment he doesn't care much for the reason; is it his own infatuation or possibly Will's talent of being literally mesmerizing to humans… it doesn't matter. The being in front of him is radiant with mirth, amused at Hannibal's expense, which forces him to make yet another exception where Will is concerned.  

"I had told you I existed in the human world."

"Yes, I do remember that," Hannibal allows himself a subtle but still exasperated shake of his head. "And I had put myself in an unfortunate position, all the more uncomfortable because it usually - well, never until now - happens. I will say in my defense that I never repeat errors and I diligently learn from mistakes."

They're both moving then, Will towards the nearest low bookshelf to inspect the sculpture standing on it, while Hannibal goes to his armchair to sit down comfortably, crossing his legs.

"Would you like to enlighten me, then, on your work, Will?"

"Sure." He's not pausing in his unhurried exploration of the contents of Hannibal's bookshelves. "The topic is far from your specific profession but I understand you're a man of science. I don't think I'll be wasting my time talking about it a little."

All while he talks, Hannibal is following Will's progress around his place. From the nearest books to the main desk, where he touches the pen resting on a closed notebook, he goes around the armchair to the paintings and drawings in frames on the opposite wall. 

"The paper was a group project from the start. I mostly delivered photographs of the subjects of the work, as well as the environment. I have no related degree; my co-writers always do. What I can do is provide neutral and detailed observation notes."

"Are you into photography, Will?" The question may seem useless since the man just spoke of doing it for multiple articles, but what Hannibal is thinking of is no evidence of it being any important interest back in Will's house in Wolf Trap. Fishing, creating lures, yes. Dogs, obviously. Books. But there were no camera bags or backpacks, no accessories, no tripods stored around the rooms. Most importantly, no framed photos or custom-made posters of his own shots, which could be expected from someone with such a hobby. 

"Yes and no." Will puts back down the decorative wooden toy horse that Hannibal had purchased years ago in Sweden, simply because it was aesthetically pleasing and fit the color scheme of the books behind it.

"I don't really care for photos or all the technicalities involved. They're an afterthought, something to bring back from what I was actually doing…" A charming frown forms on his face while he apparently works on collecting his thoughts. "I do it well, though, of course."

"Of course," Hannibal agrees softly. "To be published in scientific journals you must be good. Considering what I know about you so far, you are not a man to choose sub-par in anything."

To that, Will shrugs, though there is a bit of a smile on his face, as much as Hannibal can see of it from his seat. 

It is terribly inconvenient and unusually uncomfortable for Hannibal to be the man in the room who knows less. Will's work is currently a mystery to him, he can't simply extrapolate it from what he's seen so far. Truly, he's 'dropped the ball' completely, as the American saying goes, and he'll have a lot to do once he's alone with a laptop. 

While he's having his little crisis, Will keeps moving as he has been on his feet since he walked into the office. 

During a comfortable (but anticipatory) silence between them, Hannibal offers him water or something stronger if he wishes, and finally gets the polite request of water.

When Will is reaching the end of his story, which means his travel to Maryland and his last two days of being the guest at the University, Hannibal has managed to convince him to sit down opposite him with the glass of water with fresh mint leaves that Hannibal provided him with. Will brings up again searching for Hannibal and his decision to show up at his address.

"- And I thought: what the hell, what's the worst that could happen?" he's saying, clearly amused by whatever his mind has brought up in answer to that question.

"What is the worst that can happen?" Hannibal asks with polite curiosity, purposefully using the present tense.

"Well, you could subdue me, likely drug me first, and keep me in your basement to experiment on what I am. Quite possibly eat me to find out what a lamia's tail tastes like."

"I could make a lot of money on you," Hannibal suggests.

"Yes," Will agrees easily. "You wouldn't want to."

"I wouldn't?"

"No. To make money off of me, you'd have to sell me or otherwise share me. You're not hurting for money and you have a possessive personality. You'd hold onto me. Eaten or under lock and key, it would be the same to you."

Will keeps eye contact for what must be the longest he has with Hannibal since their first meeting, which is why Hannibal notices the shift in his eyes with clarity. 

"You're possessive but not greedy," Will tells him. "You want money not for the sake of being rich. You need it to use it; it's a tool. You are and have been, for a long time, making the amount that you find sufficient, through your work and investments, so you're quite content with your life as it is now. My value is far from dollars."

"An accurate assessment," Hannibal says, inclining his head in regard. 

"Does it make you uncomfortable to be analyzed?" Will asks, his eyes cool, perfectly neutral or even detached from emotion and everything around him. While Hannibal usually prefers the natural, unrestrained view into the window of the soul, this is also fascinating to observe.

"Someone else would have gotten it wrong if they tried, therefore I would not bother to give them a second of my time. By you? I'm not sure yet what it makes me feel."

Will smiles then, not bright but sharp like a knife, and finally looks away to focus on the glass he's holding. He shakes his head slightly, and the next time he looks up after taking a sip of his drink, the change in his eyes is gone. The stormy sea returned.

"Going back to the original question, what's the worst that would actually happen is that you'd fail in trying to own me. I would kill you and eat you, which I'd prefer not to have to do. If I were forced, I  think I would be quick about it."

'I wouldn't want it to be quick' is what Hannibal thinks and doesn't say. 'Why would you care, what is the sentiment driving you to want to be merciful?' is what he wonders and doesn't say.

"I'll drink to the best that could happen for us," Hannibal says, raising his glass of water to his lips.

*

Chapter Text

Delighted by the challenge he was gifted with, Hannibal could spend a whole day in his office doing nothing but speaking with and watching Will. The time they have together passing the evening is at once too short and it feels like they got to talk for a week or longer, only because of how much Hannibal was left with to think over when being alone afterwards. 

Will is a shifting, changing being, and this observation has nothing to do with his physical appearance and anatomy. He chooses his words deliberately for everything he says, seamlessly switching between amusement, teasing, thoughtful questions that show his curiosity in Hannibal, dipping into thought-out, serious questions and commentary. 

The dance is already familiar; Hannibal knows enough people he keeps around himself who are enjoyable to host dinners for, and that is precisely why. With dear Will, though, they're quite literally of two different worlds, made from different natures and under different nurture. And yet, they could not possibly fit together any better to be partners in this dance. 

This is indeed enjoyable, Hannibal thinks while the moment lasts, observing Will while being observed himself in return. Everything about the man in front of him tilts Hannibal's world out of order just so, giving it new colors and taste he didn't know he was missing before. 

Therefore, it is even better when Will makes it clear he'll be open to receiving an invitation for the following day, someplace... less official. Hannibal smiles at the impolite, sure-of-himself assumption that brings warm satisfaction instead of annoyance. Of course he's going to invite Will to his home, ask him to dine with him. There is already a whole vision of it happening in his mind, of plans for the whole early evening.

Before it happens, before another day, Hannibal focuses on the now, focuses on what he sees with his physical, human eyes without his imagination's input. 

What Hannibal sees in this one deceptively human body is both an intelligent, engaging person and an alert, always watchful predator. A predator who is content in a new environment, which he now considers both safe and interesting to him. It never leaves Hannibal's awareness that he is the main draw and attraction inside these walls. He's the prey worth following out of the more convenient way. 

(That is what Hannibal will see in his mind when going over their meeting later, in the solitude of his bedroom, hours after Will's return to his hotel for the night. Tomorrow, Hannibal will enter his office at the usual time to find Will's scent lingering in the air. Lingering on the small figurines, the spines of books in the mezzanine library, on the balustrade where Will has leaned forward to gaze down at Hannibal in his armchair below him.)

*

The pot with simmering contents on the stove hasn't done anything to deserve the intense glare it's receiving, but a glare is what it gets. There is nothing wrong with it. There's nothing unwanted or out of order about anything currently being used in the kitchen, be it the ingredients individually or together, be it the recipe or the utensils. The man himself is the source of his displeasure, especially because it's not deserved and self-inflicted.

The only reason for Hannibal's very uncomfortable feeling of being unprepared is the importance of his guest. Truly, objectively, he is never unprepared. There is always something in his home that he skillfully can put together from the physically available ingredients, which he keeps a wide assortment of at all times. His pantry is especially impressively restocked after his recent 'break' from his work in Baltimore. He knows he currently has the best frozen components to get a very satisfactory result, which he knows can't be outdone by almost any establishment in the city... and yet…

What is it, exactly, about Will Graham that makes him want - need - to perform better than a 'satisfactory' way? It was Will who'd appeared out of nowhere with no word ahead. It was he who'd invited himself for the second meeting the following day with no respect for the 24-hour policy, which Hannibal can't break himself to give himself more time for preparation by staying at home?

What does Will Graham mean for the future, with his unpredictable and surely unintended by himself ability to rearrange Hannibal's life on short notice? 
It's not about his not-human nature alone because anyone on the street would have been changed by learning about that detail. Hannibal is not anyone. 

The night in the office, they'd left the building together to then part ways on the street. Will had a cab, Hannibal had his Bentley waiting for him. In the last moments of them physically standing close, Will had said softly, "I will come hungry."

'Cruel, impolite boy', Hannibal had thought then and keeps thinking while working on what he chose to prepare with some contents of the 'Will' freezer section. It would have been unadvisable to hunt for fresh cut on such short notice, even for him. No, that way lay mistakes and subpar cuts.

* *

At 7:30 pm, as agreed, the guest is already present inside the house, looking over Hannibal's shoulder at his hands working on the last touch. 

From anyone else, it would have been irritating at best or an offense deserving of dealing with at worst. As has been the theme, he is the exception to Hannibal's rules.

Where Will is considered, it is a charming kind of curiosity, especially since it is being acted. Living a perfectly human life, even the lamia isn't a hidden woodland creature brought out into the large city; seeing a modern human house with its kitchen and other parts isn't for him to look at in wonder. 

Hannibal entertains the mental exercise of putting Will into the role, aided exceptionally well by the pick of clothes he wears, and that aftershave.

The reason why Will is standing beside him at all, was the request Hannibal made to "sit down, please" instead of wandering around admiring the shelves. Everything was literally almost ready to be served for his arrival, as planned. So then, for Will, the next best choice of action was to hover. 

Will offers his help to carry what needs to be carried to the table where Hannibal had already set the twin dining arrangements hours ago. After that is done, Hannibal lets the exasperated roll of Will's eyes go, when the man inspects and then lightly pokes at the expansive floral decoration from his preferred Baltimore florist.

"Not to your tastes?" Hannibal asks, though his guest isn't showing any disapproval. They sit down.

"Oh, no. I like it." His eyes briefly flick up to meet Hannibal's, too briefly. "The dark color palette goes well with the long leaves and velvet petals. I guess." A soft chuckle follows whilst Will keeps looking at the arrangement. "There is something to be said about human love for tidy, sanitized and sorted, and hand-picked plants they surround themselves with, while they escape the Nature itself to go live within concrete walls and glass."

"I admit I very much fit that… sorted life, I suppose." Hannibal gestures at specific flowers, lightly inclining his head. "My favorite kind." 

With the floral topic finished there, they share comfortable silence while sharing the meal. Hannibal is, in the end, pleased with himself and has eyes to see Will appreciating the meat he'd prepared. Besides meat, there are many precious details he works on for every attended meal, so he knows it's perfect.  

"Hmm. Well, life choices aside, I appreciate the dish," Will comments after a minute and sits back a little, making himself more comfortable. 

"Is that to your liking, as well, then?" Hannibal smirks. 

"How do you deal with un-liking?"

"I would rather not."

Some time later, they're sitting in the twin forest-green armchairs in the living room, after giving Will the grand tour of the house. During the tour, the guest received the full detail about what they shared at the table, since it was kept an agreed 'secret' to not spoil the experience. 

Then, without agreeing on it in words, they become so mundane in chosen topics it's almost pedestrian. Conversing about the city from the point of view of each of them, of dogs, about colleagues that deserve to be shot in the town square. Hannibal knows mundane intimately, and it tastes differently with Will. It's a game they're now both in on.
Will brings up the roadworks he had to pass by, and Hannibal tells about his return home. They also have some older topics touched on before, during their first longer meeting in Wolf Trap.

For a slight change, eventually, Will points out the collection of a variety of skulls with substantial antlers and has questions about their origins. Forced to admit it to himself, Hannibal hasn't thought much of them after his return, even being aware of the Stag. He says as much, adding that without seeing it, it remains more of a concept than a tangible vision. "Only one of them came from an animal I ever saw in full body. They were all acquired at different points, but most specifically for this house," he finishes.

Will nods in acknowledgment. "They're not an heirloom." 

"No."

They both allow the room to fill with a pensive atmosphere, which is all the same companionable. Hannibal wisely makes use of the moment to admire the creature comfortably seated in his armchair. It gives him some amusement to note all of the signs of disapproval of his décor in stormy eyes, made darker by the dimmed lights.

What he truly pays attention to - has been since he opened the front doors - is what he will cherish the most: everything that has changed in the lamia in the time in his house. 
He has been calm and sure of his own person, of course. However, the posture of the lamia changed slowly. Still is at home in the warm seat, he's sinking deeper as much as he physically can, while remaining cautious of the piece of crystal glass, a twin to what Hannibal is drinking from as well.

His well-maintained nails have gained pointed tips, now standing out against the background of the glass. They are darker than they have been during dinner, as well. What truly is the prize to see, in Hannibal's mind, is the most difficult to catch in the right light - Will's third eyelids lazily sliding now and again. 

There are no studies in the academic books Hannibal managed to read so far about a lamia's human part and how it comes to be in terms of looks, from parents' genes as usual, or by choice of something supernatural. It matters nothing to Hannibal, of course, but it'd be interesting to know if Will in any way chooses the shape of his jaw or the curls of his hair himself.

"You're angry," Will says casually, à propos nothing, watching Hannibal from the corners of his eyes, which are crinkled with no lack of concern for the words. He uses a soft, almost whisper tone.

"Am I?" Hannibal tilts his head, then adjusts his position just slightly, still looking at his guest. He does truly want to know what about.

"I may not be naming it right." Will puts his practically empty glass on the side table. "I see something is bothering you. A thorn in the side that I didn't see immediately, or… which is bothering you more now."

All right, so it is another dance.

Hannibal gives this a moment of consideration before agreeing, "You aren't wrong." It is said much more carefully than is usual for him, and he sits silent with it for a while, because he is given that moment by Will. Who he is not looking at anymore. They are both considering the antlered skulls behind the desk, though they're not the topic at all.

"I'll solve the problem for you, Doctor," Will says, still quietly, but quite clearly he didn't just come up with it now. Hannibal is familiar with what smugness appears like when concealed.

"I think," Will proceeds, "you were rather enamored with the image of me waiting for you in my house by my stream. A secret kept from everyone save for the nearest neighbors in the nearest town. It makes you seethe with jealousy to think that a full auditorium got to listen to me and to be around me while you did not.
I could have let you know of this ahead of time. I could have still invited you when I was in the city on the first day. It would have been no issue at all to save you a seat in the row for the academic guests. Why didn't I do any of that?" Then, a pause after the question.

Hannibal may have ideas, but cannot know. Some are more favorable than others, and he will have to have it answered for him. Oddly, that is not his standard way of going about uncertainty.

"I don't know, Will," he keeps his hands open on the armrests. "I can only hope you will tell me."

"Maybe the image I like is of you waiting for me, away from anyone else. Anyone alive, that is." Will finishes with a mischievous smile, bringing back to Hannibal's mind their first meeting.

"Maybe I like sharing even less than you do," he finishes in a low tone.

Hannibal takes a deep breath through his nose to rein in the emotions inside him that are being played like an instrument by the man in front of him. "It seems," he begins, "we're both on the way to have what we want, no matter the level of planning involved."

"To plan, one needs to know what it is they want."

Chapter Text

After Will's departure, Hannibal returns to his usual weekly schedule. At first, it is too normal. He finds himself unsatisfied most of the time, without any particular reason for it, but the feeling of missing something lingers. After seeing patients or spending an evening at the opera, Hannibal wishes he could have Will beside him to talk to about this or that and to hear his commentary, no matter what it might be.

He still doesn't search for Will's full name on the Internet, but does fight the urge to. Instead, he finds himself sketching first and then fully drawing Will's profile and then Will's figure sitting in the armchair by the fireplace as he had during his visit, holding a glass in his hand.

Days later, Hannibal moves on to drawing the top of Will's body without a shirt, lying on his side propped up on his elbow, facing away from the viewer. This is the drawing he is most fond of. Later, nursing a long drink in the evening, Hannibal dares to draw him in that position again, with what he knows a lamia's tail is supposed to look like.

They have not exchanged phone numbers at any point. Will has the means to find Hannibal's and he hasn't done it, so Hannibal knows it's not a way of communicating that would be appreciated. It's a shame, but he has accepted it. As for himself, he is able to get in his car and drive to Wolf Trap at any time he wishes, but that is also something he has to accept as a thing to be savored, not overused.

So in the Inbetween, Hannibal makes a decision to free himself from a bothersome patient by referring them away, and not long after that, he happens to acquire a new, much more interesting one. Margot Verger isn't someone he can help as a psychiatrist or the Ripper, but he can certainly converse with her, which he enjoys, and push her gently towards her own path. He'll see how this develops.

Eventually, he decides the Chesapeake Ripper has been invisible for too long, after all, well past his usual pattern of silence. It seems like some people have become too confident in their positions in the city, and he finds he doesn't like it much. Considering it his responsibility to set them straight, Hannibal thinks of three 'proper' kills with appropriate scenes to display them. It is something to occupy himself without extra time left to think of other matters, because making sure he is as untraceable as always requires effort. He precisely plans out the kills in a two-week period. Each tableau is a reason to be proud of himself and proof that he's nowhere near losing his touch. Each display is both for the FBI and for the competition. This time, the art is not as much for himself for the sake of beauty in death. He is also quite pleased with the good cuts he collected for his table and his storage.

What is his favorite work of the month is something he's planned out separately from the other hunts. While he's standing before his fourth kill, admiring his finished display in the darkness of the late night, he wishes he could be there when it is discovered, to hear the ideas the Bureau's current brightest will have about the dragonfly motif. 

In the unpleasant wind brought on by a change in the weather, Hannibal pulls his collar higher while he walks back to the car. With his physical work done, he's left with the thoughts in his head, as he's been often lately. He's quite aware things have changed. Having inspiration in people is nothing new or strange for him, but to prepare a scene based completely on someone else's interests, while they are living and close to him… that is new. In a way, there was nothing in the scene for Hannibal himself except the pure aesthetic satisfaction itself. Everything else he got from it was thinking about Will. Will's stream, Will's photography. Hannibal shall count on the TattleCrime to acquire photos of the fourth tableau, which he'll hopefully be able to show Will at some point.

And so, everything in his life is technically the same, and everything is changed. There is a very unusual, resetting countdown permanently hanging over Hannibal's head now, having appeared on its own but staying hanging with his permission: to the time he'll see Will again. 

* *

Will can hear the incoming car before his four-legged, hairy pack catches up. The engine makes a low sound, an expensive sound. A familiar one. It's still a bit far from the house, but Will picks it up easily even with the doors and windows closed, from the comfort of blankets on his bed. 

He both is and isn't bothered by the uninvited guest. He is because now he needs to unwind from his nest, straighten his tail, and move away from the warmth of his dogs piled on the blankets around and on him. There are some soft whines and grumbles while some other pack members sleep on like furry sacks of potatoes, and Will sighs theatrically in response. He isn't because at worst, he'll be treated to more offerings from Hannibal and at best, he'll get a meal and the conversation will be interesting. (Or rather, all that is just a performative line of thought; he's acting out annoyance for nothing. What he truly feels is the pleasant hunger already waking up in his belly, warm instead of biting.)

Winston tries to use puppy eyes on him to keep him from moving, but he's also fully ready to follow Will anywhere at a second's notice. A heartfelt groan leaves Will's lips when he stretches his back with his arms above his head. Something pops in his tail, vertebrae brushing against each other when he changes position from a comfy pretzel to being mostly straight for an easier shift down on the carpet beside the bed. Oh well, stretching is nice, too. He should, in fact, do this more often, judging by the number of pops and cracking happening from this movement. 

He's been too lazy, hasn't he? Yes, he has been. There's been no reason to be active recently, really. Being neither bored nor hungry allowed him to focus on his house, dogs, and on fishing out of habit more than for catch and enjoying the peace of his stream. He even finished reading two books in the meantime and began working on writing his own.

His shift is slow, there is no hurry at all. There's no guilt in letting Hannibal wait at the door because it's not like he'll pack up and leave if Will's not at the door fast enough. Besides, those were his gifted dishes that became the cause for Will's lazy and contented state. 

On the way to the door, on two human legs and in a pair of soft shorts, while finishing pulling a t-shirt on, Will gives a signal to his now fully awake pack to stand down and wait.

Hannibal is not literally at the door, which Will already knew because of the lack of his scent spreading around and no sounds of steps nearby. The man is present, but he's still near his car with the headlights on. His hand is on the open driver's door, his body turned towards Will. It's dark outside, a normally too-late hour for friendly visits (what is normal about either of them?), but it's no issue for Will to see every detail of him even with the headlights making it uncomfortable to look past them. 

It is Hannibal, but it's also not. This is not the man whom Will had sat with at his office and in his home in Baltimore, talking about their work, their interests, about art. Not the one who'd prepared fancy utensils with fancy plates as the perfect host in his expensive home.

This isn't even the one who had brought Will home-made dinner just because he'd felt like going back into a monster's den to thank him for sparing his life. 

No, this is the man Will had held under his claws, whose blood he had tasted after cutting his flesh with his fangs. This is the one who had fought Will with no chance of making it and still smelled of no fear despite the facts looking him in the face. There was no concealing three-piece suit then, and there is none now. No patterned ties, no polished and gleaming Italian shoes. What he's wearing is an all-black outfit: pants and a light sweater fitting his form in such a different way than suit jackets do. His body is no secret to Will since their first meeting, but it is a welcome change to see him this way today.  

Behind Hannibal and the car, at the edge of the trees in the black shadows, a great stag watches them with wide, supernaturally bright eyes. It shakes its head, putting its black feathers back into order with a wave passing all along its body. 

It is a shame these beings are too otherworldly even from Will's point of view. He can't communicate with it any more than Hannibal could if he could see it and be aware of its presence. There is some understanding of its intent, though, when Will gazes at it. It's enough to compare what he'd read from it when he'd agreed not to eat its Bonded human to know when it's calm and at ease and when it's agitated, and the silent defender.
They don't stare at each other for long, because Hannibal is what interests Will the most, and right now the human's going to the back of his car, the boot of it clicked open, so Will can hear the sounds of something alive coming from it. 

He won't come closer to see, even though curiosity spreads pleasantly through his body. It'll be a while before the scent drifts over to him, but he doesn't need it to get the idea. Will only tilts his head, watching the car, and hisses lightly at his pack in an order to stay near him on the porch when they become more lively around him.

Hannibal pulls out a body - a living human - out of the boot of his car with what probably would have been an effortless strength at another time, if he didn't already look like he's had an eventful evening. Possibly the whole day. 

Will aches to be able to scent him up close, to find what superficial injuries he's sustained, possibly lick the blood of any cuts he might have. With that and the hunger that has already woken in him at the sound of the car, Will is impatient. He's not shifting, but his gums itch inside his mouth. It's not hunger for what Hannibal is holding but for… 

The human prey is dropped on the ground at Hannibal's feet, where it squirms and makes a lot of noise through the skillfully-made gag in its mouth. It can't run away.

Will pets Winston's head when the dog pokes at his knee for attention, but his eyes never leave Hannibal. This was worth untangling himself from the nest.

So far, Hannibal has said nothing since appearing at Will's home. He's breathing heavily but calmly, deeply. An obvious sign of exertion, but it must be far from exhaustion. Will doesn't know yet how much exactly his human is capable of, but he'll certainly enjoy learning all there is to learn about it. 

He wants to know just how feral he can be. As he is now,  he's not tamed by suits, offices, and fancy houses in the middle of an important human city. Freed from product and polite styling, his hair appears very soft where it falls loosely over his forehead, becoming damp with sweat. At this distance, his eyes seem wholly black. 

There are still no words when Hannibal looks to where Will stands, ignoring the weak thrashing and muffled cries from below completely. Then, he turns his attention back to the car and pulls out another living, tied-up gift. After dropping it as unceremoniously as the first one on the ground, Hannibal shuts the boot and grabs one of the humans at random by the fabric of their clothes to drag them over towards the house. Not all the way, only to where the moonlight nicely colors the pathway halfway between the house and the car. Between Will and Hannibal. 

There's some blood in Hannibal's hair, but it's not a significant amount and unlikely to be his own. Will notices only when the man turns back to his second offering, to bring that also closer to Will. The wind is gentle that day, pushing the mix of scents towards Will with a delay. The delay makes it sweeter, but at the same time, Will wishes it'd be more.

"Let them go," he says. They're the first words between them because there's no explanation for the gift needed. They break the silence of the early night, which only the fearful gasps and Hannibal's breathing were breaking until then.

Will sees his human twitch in surprise, a disappointed hint of a hurt… Will grins slowly, showing fangs. "Cut them loose," he repeats the request. This time, Hannibal does exactly that, producing a knife from his pocket. He goes on one knee on the ground to make it more comfortable for himself to go through the good tape and the binding rope. 

"You get a chance," Hannibal whispers to the one man on the ground just clearly enough for the other to hear it too. The first one doesn't wait for the other, pushing himself up and sprinting in the first chosen direction away from the farmhouse. Will shakes his head in mocking disapproval. He waits until Hannibal is done freeing the other and only he remains standing there, watching into the darkness where his catches disappeared. 

The Stag remains where it was from the start, watching as well. 

Will walks to close the distance between them, happy to focus on the one human only. 

"Good evening to you, too," he says with a smile, not giving Hannibal the time to reply in any way before grabbing a fistful of his black sweater and pulling him close enough to kiss. Just as expected, there's a hint of blood from the damaged lip on the skin and inside his mouth when Hannibal lets him in. A small sharp intake of breath indicates surprise, but he's returning Will's kiss soon enough with eagerness. 

It's meant to be short for obvious reasons, even if Will gets hungry for more of that, too. When he moves backwards, putting two steps between them, Hannibal's eyes aren't hiding the desire for a longer kiss either. 

"Go make yourself a coffee, make yourself at home in general," Will says with amusement. "Wait for me."

Will always hunts alone. He knows what it's like to be with someone of his kind, doing this in pairs or even threes, but he is the same as the others are: solitary, fond of their peace in their chosen territories, haunting them alone. 

The black Familiar following him is an odd change. The creature is completely soundless as it moves through the bushes and its fur and feathers become smoke, so the being weaves in and out of mist and foliage as it wishes. It is completely silent and unobtrusive, but Will is constantly aware of its presence. He doesn't mind only because it is a part of Hannibal.

It takes a while to locate the first of the prey, which is good because Will doesn't like boredom on easy hunts. Of course, it is nothing compared to how it had felt to hunt Hannibal that first night, nothing compared to how good a chase that was.

Will doesn't rush it because this is a gift and he intends to enjoy it appropriately, so after shifting back into his natural body, he slithers through familiar grounds unhurriedly.

It's only after the second kill, when he's content to rest a moment in the evening-cold grasses, that Will notices what the Stag does. After the first kill, Will only marked the place in his mind and promptly followed the second man without looking back, so he missed it completely. Now, he's right there to watch as the Stag comes to stand over the warm body and bows down to almost touch it with its grand snout. It doesn't touch. With an open mouth, it breathes in a glowing gray mist that rises from the body... and it swallows all of it. 

Will blinks, says nothing at first. Then: "Ah. I see." Finished, the Stag blinks back at him placidly.

The being doesn't leave him to trot back to the house to Hannibal after it's devoured all that it is it feeds on, but stays nearby while Will feeds on the physical body. It follows him only once it's all done. Will makes sure the remains he isn't interested in are properly left out for the familiar wild fauna to make disappear, and then beckons the spirit closer. He only meant to make it follow him home, but it comes close enough to butt its head into his raised hand. He can actually touch it in the moment. He's not sure what it means yet but… he's not going to push it away. On their way back, when they're the nearest to a body of water, Will spares a few minutes to take a full dive into it to wash off the mess he's made of himself when he was devouring his dinner. He shifts back into a human form once he surfaces and gets back on the ground, so the walk home is done with his wet hair dripping moisture into his shirt.

*

"I didn't bring back anything for you," Will says, unapologetic. He's back at the farm, walking towards the house where Hannibal, accompanied by the pack, is sitting in the wicker chair on the porch. There's a mug from Will's kitchen on the table beside him, as well as a copy of one of Will's works, now closed and no longer being read.

"And you shouldn't have," Hannibal replies, standing up and stretching a little. "That was all meant for you."

He meets Will halfway at the little stairs. They stand with the dogs between them, giving out pets without taking their eyes off of each other.

"They should have been your kills," Will points out curiously. "Your enemies, your trophies."

He doesn't like the way Hannibal doesn't answer right away. He's bothered by something, which is not a good sign in Will's understanding. 

"They were important and directly attacked me-" Hannibal begins.

"But."

"They're not the source."

"Killing them wouldn't have satisfied you as you want to be."

"No."

Will smiles, wide and lazy. His human had preferred to come to him to share than enjoy his kills personally. It feels good.

There is a discussion to be had between them, both about the Stag and about other humans, but Will isn't one to rush to talk. He would have been happy to stay on the porch and sit with Hannibal, because while he's under-dressed for the outdoors in his shorts and t-shirt, he is very warm from feeding and doesn't mind the evening's chill. He's thinking about Hannibal, however.

"Have you tended to yourself?" he asks. He can't tell what minor injuries might be hiding under the dark clothes; he only knows that the blood from the split lip is gone and there is a light bandage on Hannibal's right hand now. The blood in the hair is still there.

"Can't do much about bruises," Hannibal says dismissively. "Bruises are all that's left besides this," he raises his wrapped hand briefly to show what he means.

Will hums thoughtfully. He doesn't keep any conventional medical stuff like anti-swelling gels and it must be too late for ice packs to do any good. Well, Hannibal is one most qualified to look after his own body anyway.

What Will can do is take him back inside and see to him in other ways.