Archive of Our Own ^beta

The air smelled like cold steel. He could feel it against his teeth. He felt limp and shaky. His muscles were like soft butter, malleable, useless. He couldn’t make his arms move. His wrists were pressed together behind his back, his fingernails curled into his palms. The skin of his wrists and ankles itched. Something that felt like horsehair was rubbing against it.

All his thoughts came to his brain slowly, chugging through a thick fog that curled around his brain, making his inner monologue slurred. He felt exhausted, but not the kind when he hadn’t slept in a while. More like the kind when he’d just awoken from an unplanned mid-afternoon nap, muscles aching, head fuzzy, sweat-soaked and confused.

He opened his eyes—more effort than normal—to find that he was engulfed in darkness. He blinked, thinking stupidly that he could clear the darkness away. He smelled and tasted steel and rust, and heard, very faintly, the metallic clang of machinery whirring, pipes groaning, and footsteps against a hard tiled floor.

Full awareness came to him after several minutes, and brought with it several sinking realizations. He was bound, ropes pulled tight enough to cut off circulation, and far too tight to tear loose. He was gagged, too, a thick cloth, slick with saliva, shoved between his teeth. He was lying on his side on a metal floor, probably some kind of factory, and evidently far away from the light of day. Or the light of the moon. He wasn’t sure what time it was.

The last thing Will remembered was arriving home later than he’d anticipated. He’d been eager to cast aside his work attire, rank with sweat and tainted by the stench of blood. He’d changed clothes—he was wearing flannel pants and a grey t-shirt; he could feel the telltale fibers against his skin. He remembered feeding the dogs, sitting on the floor with his hand buried in Winston’s fur, and then he’d gone to bed. He couldn’t remember if he’d woken up, or if this was the first time.

He tried not to panic, and was mostly successful. His heart was thrumming madly in his chest, the sound of blood rushing past his ears like the roar of a waterfall. He forced himself to breathe slowly, biting down hard on the gag, using it reluctantly as a grounding force. He raked his fingernails against his palms, etching tiny white lines into the tender skin.

Nothing hurt, and he couldn’t feel blood anywhere, fresh or dried. If he’d been struck on the head, it would be agony, but aside from some residual fogginess and a general sense of disorientation, he felt alright. Probably drugged, then, though how, he wasn’t sure. Could someone have slipped something into his food? He’d eaten a protein bar for breakfast, and the entire time he was at work, he’d only drank half a coffee and some chips from the vending machine. When he got home, he remembered throwing something in the microwave and tossing it mostly uneaten. He supposed it was possible he’d been poisoned then, but it seemed unlikely. Especially since someone with that kind of intimate access to him wouldn’t have needed to go to all the trouble in the first place.

That left him with really only one alternative, one that made his gut roil. He’d been sleepwalking again. It meant not only that his list of potential culprits was entirely open-ended, but also that he had no way of knowing how long he’d been out for. He could be anywhere in the country right now. Hell, he might not even be in the country anymore. His breathing picked up, sharp tendrils of panic shooting through his chest.

Breathe. Focus on logic. Focus on the evidence. Is there a way out of here?

He tested the ropes again; an effort he knew was fruitless. All he got for his troubles was even more rope burn. He tried inching sideways, moving slowly and carefully, but he exhausted himself quickly, and he didn’t bump against anything in the dark. For some reason, that only increased his panic, so he took a few seconds to press his face against the cold floor and breathe, whistling through his nose in spastic exhalations.

Escaping on his own seemed impossible, at least for now. He assumed, with no small amount of dread, that whoever had kidnapped him would make themselves known sooner or later. Perhaps they’d release him from his binds, or at least turn on a light. For now, all Will had to cling to was the hope that someone else might find him.

When he missed work tomorrow (if he hadn’t already) that would surely set off alarm bells. Probably not enough to get a house call—though Alana might pop by, if she was in that kind of mood. Hannibal would notice when he missed his usual appointment. At the very least, two days could not go by before someone tried to check up on him and found they couldn’t.

I’ll be fine, Will told himself. His inner voice was shaking.

A sudden metallic shrieking broke him from his thoughts and sent his head snapping upwards. High above him, the wall opened up, a rectangle of harsh yellow light shooting spots of colour across his vision. A grate-enclosed walkway and a rickety staircase leading down to his level was illuminated, peeling red paint turned faintly orange in the glow. A single dark shape blocked off a section of the light, round-edged and hulking.

Slow, heavy footfalls clanged down the staircase, each movement reverberating through the room like shockwaves. When the figure reached the bottom of the stairs, there was just enough light to cast a glow on his cold, gnarled features. His brows were thick and downturned, beady, snake-like eyes hooded by a protruding forehead. His lips were thick and pale, curled into an unsettling grin, bulbous nose wrinkled as if in disgust. His skin was patchy and white, like a dirty canvas, beads of sweat sparking on his face and his bald head. He was dressed in a bright orange Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, his fat, pale feet shoved into a pair of worn black flip-flops just small enough that his toes hung over the edge like sagging globs of dough.

“Hello, there.” His voice was deep, his accent vaguely southern. Will hoped he was a traveler, and not that he’d been smuggled down to Texas in the hours he’d been unconscious. “I’m glad you’re awake.” The man’s brow furrowed. His face moved like shifting putty. “You are awake, right?”

Will grunted, shifting slightly. The man smiled. He had crooked teeth.

“That’s good. That’s real good.” He began sauntering towards Will, kneeling down close enough that his knobby knee almost prodded him in the chest. “You know why you’re here?”

Will didn’t try to respond. The man kept talking, anyway.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Not if I can avoid it. You’re very important to me, Will.”

There was something in his tone that made Will’s gut twist. He was used to getting into the heads of the vilest of people, but this man held an air different than that of an intelligent psychopath. He spoke to Will with something akin to affection. He was looking at him with soft eyes, like he was squatting over a wounded animal.

Cold, bony fingers wove into Will’s hair. He hissed between his teeth and shifted uncomfortably, cringing away from the man’s touch. “Shh,” he crooned, the stubs of his nails raking against Will’s scalp. “I said I won’t hurt you. I just... I’m curious about you, Will. You’re a fascinating man.”

Will did not recognize this lunatic. He figured he’d never forget a face like this if he’d seen it before. Either this guy worked with the FBI (unlikely), or he’d read Freddie Lound’s article, and apparently walked away with an impression far more favourable than most.

“I know you do amazing work,” the man went on. “I think it’s extraordinary. Which is why I need your help.”

Will stared up at him, eyes wide, fighting to keep his expression, or what the man could see of it, as neutral as possible. Showing fear, or any signs of aggression, felt unwise. Thankfully, he didn’t seem too interested in studying Will for the moment.

“I have troubles, dear Will. Terrible troubles. My mind, it’s... it’s like a long, dark cave.” He shuddered theatrically. “So many bad thoughts lurk at the back, and it’s not a pretty journey back there. But you—you can slip into the mind of someone like the Chesapeake Ripper. That’s what I heard, at least. You know killers, and it seems like you like ‘em.”

Will bristled.

“I ain’t no killer. I got skeletons in my closet, though, and I’d sure like your help to sort through ‘em.” He slid his hand along Will’s scalp, fingers grazing his ear. Will shuddered at the touch, trying to shift his head away, but the man’s hand followed, the corners of his mouth quirking into a self-indulgent smile. “Of course, I’ll have to wait a few days. Let you acclimatize. And, in case you get some ideas, we’re nowhere near anywhere, so runnin’ will do you no good. I’d just have to go after you, and then I’d be mad, and then, well--” his face darkened, like a cloudless sky growing suddenly black. The hand in his hair tensed. “I said I don’t wanna hurt you. Not that I can’t.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “I done it before. I can do it again.”

Will stayed frozen. He half expected the hand to start squeezing. But after a moment, the thunderclouds cleared, and he was smiling again, the same unsettling, crooked-toothed grin as before.

“But it won’t come to that,” he said cheerfully. “You’re a smart young man. Smarter than the last, I hope. Anyways, since you’ll be my guest for a while, we might as well start with some introductions. I already know who you are, and it’s not like you can talk anyways, so I’ll go.” He cleared his throat, a soft red blush creeping to his cheeks. “The name’s Hosea Browning. I was born in Florida; you can probably tell ‘cause my accent. I moved around a bit and I wound up out here lookin’ for work. Had trouble finding any, but I set up shop in this old factory—it's abandoned; hasn’t been touched in years. It ain’t the Ritz, but it does the trick. And like I said, it ain’t close to nothing, so folks’ll leave us alone.”

Will swallowed a painful lump in his throat. He needed to spit. His mouth was full of his own warm, frothing saliva. He gritted his teeth, molars grinding.

“I’m going to go out for a bit,” Hosea said. “I hate to leave you here like this, but it’s your first day and I worry you’ll get bad ideas and try to run off. Don’t worry, I’m gonna feed you and everything. If there’s one thing we southerners know, it’s how to be a good host.” He chuckled, rising to his feet with a low groan of protest from his creaking joints. Will let out a soft, muffled sigh of relief as the hand finally retracted from his hair.

“I’ll see you soon, Will,” Hosea said. He started his slow, rickety ascent towards the rectangle of light. “Why don’t you try to get some more rest? I know you’ll probably need it, once we get started.”

---

Will did not show up for his 7:30 appointment. He’d been consistently punctual and never cancelled a session. He’d shown up on Hannibal’s doorstep unannounced just because he had something to get off his chest. Hannibal would be lying if he said he didn’t find Will’s attachment to him, however unconscious, somewhat endearing. As a psychiatrist, he’d had his fair share of bizarre patient-therapist relationships, but Will Graham was a novelty among novelties. Their sessions—conversations, technically, although he knew what they were even if Will did not—always left him with a lingering feeling of electricity in his veins. It was not unlike the thrill after the act of killing. Even then, the adrenaline he got from the hunt was, these days, like the background hum of an old refrigerator. Seldom few things gave him the jolt he so loved, and Will’s brilliant but malleable mind was one of them.

He told himself that it was for this reason, and this reason only, that as 7:30 became 8:00, and the sky transformed from inky blue to black as pitch spotted with dying stars, he rose from his chair, gathered his coat, and left the warmly-lit comfort of his office to seek out his tardy patient himself.

Will was not at the bureau. He had not been seen there all day. Jack for once did not have him consulting on a case, but he’d missed two lectures, and when he inquired with Alana, she reported that he’d not answered her calls.

“He must be sick,” was her suggestion.

“I am surprised you didn’t check up on him,” Hannibal remarked. He leaned forwards slightly, resting his palm against Alana’s desk. The wood creaked beneath his weight.

“Well, I have other things to do.” Alana paused, seemingly mulling over how unnecessarily cruel her statement had sounded. “I mean, Will’s an adult. He can look after himself. And as it happens, currently, I am busy.”

“Then I will not waste your time.” Hannibal eased himself off the desk and turned to go.

“When you do catch him,” Alana said, eyes shifting downwards, “will you give me a call?”

Hannibal dipped his head in acknowledgement. Alana smiled thinly.

It was admirable, how she cared for Will. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, if he was honest. Jealous was not the right word. It was a childish emotion reserved for those with no ego to keep them stable. Anyways, it would be foolish to envy Alana, a woman who could have had Will Graham but had denied him, on the basis that he was too unstable. Will had feelings for her, yes, but those feelings were shallow. Surface-level. The physical ache of a man too long deprived of human connection and the most basic of those human desires that kept men slobbering and hungry. For Hannibal, his tastes were more refined, and his human need for intimacy was satiated in the consumption of his needs. He suspected Will was not so fortunate in his hobbies. Dogs, charming though they were, could not provide the man what he needed most desperately.

Hannibal’s car pulled from the crowded FBI parking lot. He turned onto the road that he knew would take him to Will’s isolated home.

It wasn’t sex that Will was after. Not ultimately. Hannibal could see the look in his eyes. A true mark of a man who only wanted to be understood. He could relate. They had found in one another a kindred soul, diametrically opposed as they may seem. But like it or not, Will possessed the accursed ability to understand even the most depraved of all minds, and Hannibal knew darkness like the back of his hand. While Will stumbled blindly through it, Hannibal could see in the dark. He thrived in it. The shadows cast by his mind gave him shade from the misery and dullness that were the beating sun of this life.

By the time Will’s house came into view, it was nearing ten o’clock. Will’s car was sitting idle in his driveway. The lights in the house were all off. Using the spare key he’d been gifted, he let himself in, and was immediately set upon by seven energized dogs, excited to see the man they had now come to recognize as the bringer of food. Hannibal ignored them, wandering deeper into the house, gaze shifting over the darkened rooms.

He called Will’s name, to no reply. He hadn’t expected one; that’s why he hadn’t bothered with knocking. He wasn’t sure if he thought he’d find Will passed out in bed, but when he stepped into Will’s bedroom and found it empty, the corner of his bedsheet folded aside like he’d risen from it in a hurry, he found he had been hoping to find him there.

Uncharacteristic worry coiled around Hannibal’s ribcage. For Will to wander off was not a cause for concern, but to be missing for over twenty-four hours was alarming. He’d evidently made him home last night, but had, it appeared, departed his home at some point in the night and failed to return.

A million grotesque scenarios filled Hannibal’s mind. What one might consider a downside of his lifestyle was that he was often forced to think the worst of the world he lived in. He had hunted too many men down darkened streets to discredit that the same had happened to Will. Or perhaps a less sinister, but no less terrifying, fate had befallen him. A car had failed to spot him shambling down the road in the darkness and struck him. Perhaps he had wandered too far into the woods and fallen. He may be injured, if not dead. He may simply be lost. It was late fall; the temperatures at night would be below freezing. In his pajamas, Will would be at the mercy of the elements.

Hannibal glanced out the window. It was the darkest of nights. If poor Will was still out there, alive, he would be suffering a second night of darkness and cold all on his own. A strange, unpleasant feeling stirred in Hannibal’s gut, akin to protectiveness. To call it paternal felt perverse. He could not delude himself into believing his feelings towards Will were strictly platonic.

He fed the dogs; they would have been starving by now. As he made for the front door, still undecided as to his next course of action, he spotted something on the floor. A small, bright patch of colour that stuck out against the faded carpet. It half glowed in the dim light. Hannibal crouched down, squinting at the object, his jaw clenched.

It was a bit of fabric, bright orange and tangy. He had never known Will to wear orange.

There were rough edges and protruding screws and nails everywhere; any home intruder might have caught themselves somewhere, perhaps without even realizing it. There were no signs of a struggle, but if Will had been caught in a dream he might not have awoken at all. This mystery intruder could have easily jimmied the lock, or found an unlocked window. He must have been quiet to avoid alerting the dogs, but it wasn’t impossible.

The fact that Will had, as it appeared, been taken and not killed, gave Hannibal hope. He bent low and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the fabric. He caught a strong whiff of must and dog hair, but along with it the sharp, irony scent of metalworks and the rancid tang of old sweat.

A slob, then, who dwelled somewhere industrial. Perhaps a factory worker, though he doubted they would be working in a shirt so tacky. Besides, a factory, emptied of its’ workers, was the perfect spot to house a captive.

With a strong sense of vigour in his bones, Hannibal left the house. There could only be so many abandoned factories in the area. He could start there. And if he didn’t find his Will, he could let Jack Crawford and the FBI help him along.

---

He was aching and exhausted, but he’d made it to the stairs. Will laid for a few moments, breathing heavily, letting his screaming muscles relax. He lungs felt half-empty; the gag was absorbing so much of his precious air. After he caught his breath and felt some strength returning to his limbs, he rolled into position against the rusted guardrails, blindly feeling out a patch of jagged rust to rest his bound wrists against.

It hurt, the ropes chaffing his already ragged skin. He could feel spots of blood beading under the ropes, smeared left and right as he rubbed vigorously at his binds. He could feel the ropes loosening, thick coils worn thinner and thinner, until he felt, at long last, the rope snap.

He tore madly, hands ripping free, and tugged the gag away from his mouth. It hung off his neck, the front heavy with spit. The corners of his mouth ached. He fumbled with the ropes at his feet, fingers clumsy and trembling. His wrists were indeed bloody, and the skin felt raw, flecks of white skin peeling from the many wounds like bits of torn paper.

He was unsteady on his feet, and he had to cling to the guardrail to make it up the stairs. Every footfall sent a heavy clang throughout the room, and he feared more than anything that Hosea’s form would appear suddenly, the same thundercloud darkening his face. He didn’t want to learn what this man defined as necessary when it came to keeping him in line. As far as Will was concerned, whatever skeletons he had in his closet should stay buried.

He reached the top of the stairs uninhibited, hope flowering in his chest. It was short-lived. His triumphant escape was halted when he tried to shove open the heavy iron door, only to discover, unsurprisingly, in hindsight, that it was locked. He tried again, shoving his entire weight against it, but it didn’t budge.

Will sank to his knees, his forehead pressed against the cold metal. Tears welled in his eyes, but he swallowed his frustration, searching for a rational thought to cling to. He’d been here at least several hours. Someone might come looking for him soon. And he was free now, freer at least than he’d been before. Hosea would return, but he’d be expecting Will to be still lying helpless on the floor. He was a big guy, but if Will had the element of surprise, he might be able to get by him, and from there---

Hosea had said they were in the middle of nowhere. If that was to be believed, running blindly into the world might not be the wisest choice. But Will was in it now. He doubted Hosea would take kindly to Will having torn his binds; he’d be punished no matter what, so he might as well make a brake for it while he could.

Reinvigorated with this plan, Will positioned himself against the wall, poised to strike whenever Hosea entered next. He massaged his aching limbs, careful to avoid aggravating the chaffed skin. Everything was going to be fine.

---

The bell above the door dinged softly. The cashier, a teenaged girl wearing a name tag that read Emily, glanced up from the magazine she’d been absent-mindedly flipping through to see a squat, bald man entering the convenience store, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. It was chilly out, and he was clearly dressed for warmer weather. Emily got a fair number of weirdos in a day. A pasty guy wearing khaki shorts in November was nowhere near the top of the list.

He perused the aisles, plucking items off the shelves with careful consideration. He carried his haul in both arms, hugging it close to his chest, and dumped them unceremoniously onto the counter like a kid buying an aisles’ worth of candy with the fifty bucks they’d gotten for Christmas. “Cash, please,” he said.

He was buying twinkies, several boxes of Kraft Dinner, and a roll of duct tape. “Your total is $27.84,” Emily said with put-on cheeriness. Middle aged men were the most likely group to tell her to ‘smile more, sweetheart’.

The man handed over a wad of crumpled, sweat-slicked bills. Repressing a shudder, Emily reluctantly leafed through them, counting out to twenty-five. The man slid the remaining change across the counter and began to collect his items, once again clutching them haphazardly close to his chest. “I don’t need a recipt,” he said, “have a nice day.”

The bell dinged again as he left, and Emily rushed to the back to wash her hands.

---

He’d almost fallen asleep, but the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps startled Will into readiness. He poised himself, shifting so that the second the door opened, he could pounce. As the door cracked open, his stomach clenched. He was fully aware of how terribly wrong this plan could go, but he didn’t have a choice. It was fight now, or lose any chance at all.

The moment he saw the flash of orange, Will pounced. He slammed full-force into Hosea, knocking him into the wall with a cry of alarm. The things he’d been carrying spilled to the ground. Will didn’t wait around to see what they were. He shoved his way past Hosea, sprinting madly down the long, dingy hallway he found himself in. He could hear Hosea cursing behind him, and after a moment, he gave chase, charging like a raging bull in Will’s wake. He didn’t dare look back. At the first turn, he darted left and kept sprinting, praying desperately that he wouldn’t encounter a dead-end.

The hallways kept twisting and turning, and Will was pretty sure he was running in a big circle. He could faintly hear Hosea stomping around, but it didn’t seem like he was hot on Will’s trail. He’d lost him. Will felt relief wash through him and slowed his sprint to a jog, not wanting to waste his energy.

He eventually emerged from the maze of hallways into what he assumed had once been the main factory. He walked down a long, suspended walkway, stretched over a dark pit of massive empty basins. He wondered what this had been a factory for, and how Hosea had come to find it. How he was going to find his way away from it. Hosea had been gone a while; he probably hadn’t been bluffing about this place being remote. Still, if Will could get outside, he could probably--

A sharp hiss filled the air beside Will, and a sudden hot, searing pain ripped through his arm. He cried out, his hand instinctively coming up to clutch the fresh wound, blood leaking through his fingers. A neat, thin tear had been sliced through his bicep.

“What did I say?” Hosea’s voice, husky with rage, sent a wave of horror through Will. He quickened his pace, clutching his arm, but he didn’t get far before a second shot rang out, and this time, its’ aim was much deadlier.

Will screamed as the bullet sunk deep into his calf. He pitched forward, knees striking the ground with a painful thud. A burst of hot blood soaked his pant leg. He tried to drag himself upright, but the pain was so intense he crumpled to the ground once again, and before he could reach for the railing, Hosea was standing over him, gun pressed against the back of his head.

“I oughta kill you right now,” he seethed. Will glanced over his shoulder, vision hazy with pain. Hosea’s eyes were bulging, flecks of spittle spewing from between his teeth as he spoke. “What did I tell you? Didn’t I say I didn’t want to hurt you? Now, look what you’ve gone and made me do!”

He laid his foot against Will’s calf. He cried out, unable to bite it back. The pain tripled, waves of hot anguish rolling through him like tremors. “Stop,” he pleaded, his tone breathless, “please...”

“Oh, now look who’s all polite,” Hosea jeered. He pressed his calloused heel into the bloody hole. Will screamed. “I told you to think twice about runnin’, but I guess you need to learn your lesson the hard way.”

He twisted his foot, rough-edges skin wrenching the tattered flesh like a screw in a hole. Will’s vision went white, the pain crescendoing, a high, droning ringing filling his ears. He pitched forwards, unable to catch himself, his cheek smashed against the grating. The last thing he felt before the bright light filled ever corner of his vision and he lost consciousness was a stubby hand gripping his hair.

---

He was in a chair, now. His ankles were tied to it, his legs spread apart, feet hooked around separate legs. His arms were draped over the back of the chair, wrists bound, the ropes looped through the chair’s back so he couldn’t dream of wriggling free. He’d wound duct tape around his mouth, wrapping it entirely around his head. It stuck uncomfortably in his hair, and beneath the tape his skin felt clammy.

His leg and arm were bandaged, although both wounds still throbbed, and his leg felt heavy, like it was made of led. He hoped Hosea had removed the bullet, but he couldn’t tell. He felt sick. He leg fucking hurt. He wanted to go home.

He wished Hannibal were here.

Hosea had put him in a different room. It looked like an office. It was probably where the boss had sat, doing paperwork and counting money or whatever it was he did. Will’s brain was still a little fuzzy. The shades were drawn and the door was, presumably, locked. Not that it really mattered. After his stupid stunt, Will doubted he was getting another opportunity to escape again.

See above, he needed someone else to find him.

A shadow moved across the blinds, and the door swung open with a low groan. Will tensed. Hosea was standing at an angle, a shiny patch of sweat glistening on his forehead.

“I owe you an apology, Will.” He staggered forward on crooked knees. He knelt before Will, resting his hands on his thighs, fingers sliding into the tight space between his legs. Will cringed away, muscles tightening. “I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. It makes sense that you’d be scared and confused right now. You barely know anything about me.”

Hosea’s breath reeked of alcohol. His eyes were watery. “Let me explain, alright? I promise, this ain’t as bad as it looks.” He hiccupped and wiped a bead of saliva from his lip.

“I’m... I’m not like other men, Will.” There was an airy, far-off quality to his voice, like he was remembering a dream he’d had long ago. His eyes were becoming glassy. “My ma always said it was a disease. I don’t know about that. It ain’t physical, at least.”

He began to rub gentle circles against the skin of Will’s inner thighs. He let out an involuntary protest, muffled and indecipherable. The corners of Hosea’s mouth quirked upwards in a repressed chuckle.

“I used to like boys my age, but when I got older... well, you know how it is.” He pursed his lips. “What’s that sayin’? The one from the movie? ‘Those high school girls, man... I keep gettin’ older, but they stay the same age.’” He chuckled. “Well, for me, it weren’t the girls, if you know what I mean.”

Will’s stomach flipped.

“Had to move around a lot—you know, bad publicity, parents complainin’. I never did nothin’ too bad, but some of them boys went and ratted me out, so I had to move on. Haven’t found a mark here—least I hadn’t, until I read about you in that article. And then I saw you, and I thought, ‘hell, he ain’t half-bad looking, neither’.” Hosea smiled up at him, his expression serene, like he expected Will to feel the same. “Maybe you can fix this whole... problem I got goin’ on. I know you can’t talk right now, but you can just nod your head.”

It took Will a second to realize Hosea was expecting him to give an answer to his implied question. He blinked, unsure. If he said no, Hosea might get angry again, but he feared what saying ‘yes’ might entail.

It would only be a matter of time before someone came looking, he reminded himself. He had Hannibal Lector and an entire division of the FBI looking out for him, for God’s sake. His objective right now was simply to survive long enough to let them find him. And if that meant playing into Hosea’s delusions, then maybe it was for the best.

He nodded jerkily. Hosea’s smile broadened, his wrinkles curving like play-dough. “I knew it,” he said joyously. He breathed a hot waft of alcohol-thick air in Will’s face. “This is gonna be great, for both of us.”

He gave Will’s thigh a tight squeeze on his way out. “I’m gonna set things up,” he called over his shoulder, “don’t-- heh—don't go anywhere.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Will felt a terrible, sinking feeling in his gut. He felt like a lost child standing in the middle of a crowded bus station. Faces whipped around him, but none of them were the ones he was looking for. His leg still throbbed, pain like a pulsating heart in his calf. He could feel blood soaking slowly through the bandage Hosea had tied clumsily around the wound.

Hannibal, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t even do that.

---

Hannibal had been correct. There were only so many warehouses in the area. He checked off each one with a neat tick, sliding off the gloves to hold the pen. His clear plastic suit crinkled as he walked, but by this point he was well used to the discomfort. And it was secondary to his mission, of finding Will, preferably alive and in one piece. He had carving knives and several syringes as a failsafe, although, he mused, he may end up using them regardless of the state of Will.

He’d cancelled his appointments from today until midweek, fully prepared to have his hands full with whatever this turned out to be. He could quell the mounting worry in his gut with every empty factory he wandered into. The smells were all off; he knew he hadn’t found the right one and overlooked it, but he was beginning to doubt his own nose, a sensation he was unfamiliar with, and not at all open to. With Will hanging in the balance, it seemed, mere faith in his own intuition and abilities was not enough.

After the fourth dead end, Hannibal began to wonder, albeit reluctantly, if he should have called Jack. But the only evidence to go on was the bit of cloth, and after all their lab tests and official checkpoints, they would be no closer than Hannibal was himself to finding Will. Besides, one man alone stood a better chance of slipping in, unnoticed, to the den of a sinister villain than an entire squadron of FBI agents.

He had only two more factories to investigate before his search would officially become expansive. The first of the two lay only half an hour away, but the second was almost hidden in a thick, wooded area, surrounded on all sides with untamed land, the first sign of civilization for miles a shabby gas station that boasted 50¢ coffee on Tuesday mornings. It was nearly an hour drive, and that did not include picking his way through a wood almost certainly too thick to drive through.

Hannibal revved his engine and pulled onto the dirt road that would take him to the untamed place. How this mystery kidnapper had wrangled Will all this way, he did not yet know, but he knew exactly how Will would be found.

---

The ‘set up’ was an empty room. Perhaps another office, cleared of its’ furniture, with every window taped over in black. There was no light except a reading lamp bent to face upwards, shooting a concentrated beam of pale yellow light against the high ceiling. Hosea dragged Will’s chair into the room, breathing heavily, and deposited him into the center. Despite his relatively short stature, he was disconcertingly strong.

“I’m gonna take the tape off,” he said, in a tone like a father bargaining with his unruly child, “and I ask you not to scream. Murder on the ears.”

Will nodded stiffly. He winced as Hosea peeled the tape from the back of his head, yanking with it several tufts of hair. It had practically fused onto his skin, and it stung like being slapped as he tore it from Will’s cheek. The skin beneath was tender, spared the same moistness as the rest of his face. He felt feverish, and heat radiated from the bullet wound in his leg.

Will smacked his lips a few times, licking all his teeth just to relish the feeling of finally being able to do so. “What happens now?” he asked. His voice emerged weak and shaky, a pale imitation of his usual sharp, direct tone.

“Now?” Hosea’s eyes gleamed like flickering fireflies. “Now, we get right to it. You’re gonna uphold your end of the bargain.”

Instead of asking what bargain Hosea was talking about, Will nodded mutely, head listing to one side. “Okay. Um... how do you want to do that?”

“That’s your call.” Hosea positioned himself cross-legged in front of Will, his nose inches away from Will’s knees. “You’re the genius. You do your... do your thing, and I’ll let it wash over me.”

Will cringed internally at the way he said it. There was a look of deep peace in Hosea’s eyes—not in a calm, serene sense, but in a transcendent way that only a select few people could ever achieve. Will himself had never felt it, but he’d imagined it, felt the soft edges of the feeling when he delved into those depraved minds he profiled for a living. Bliss achieved through inflicting suffering. Joy—true, genuine joy, not some cheap copy built from straw—brough on at the expense of another.

How one could feel anything but misery after hurting someone innocent, Will could never understand. He claimed to know serial killers inside and out, but that was the one thing he did not grasp, and never wished to. Killing out of necessity was one thing, but to reach out and take a life like plucking heads of wheat was as foreign to Will as if the action did not exist.

Hosea was not a killer. Not so far as Will knew. But there was wickedness in him, perhaps even more so than some killers, because at least the ending their victims’ misery. Hosea basked in it. Relished it. It brought him sick pleasure.

A thought occurred to Will, sickening and cold. Did Hosea want to be cured, or just to be entertained?

He stared deep into his eyes. They were pale pools of glee, twinkling like stars, but with nothing behind them but an empty man waiting to be filled up. He gazed back at Will, lips cracking open, a spot of drool appearing on his chin. His tongue grazed his upper lip, wet and shiny.

“Go on,” he whispered. His voice was like car tires rolling over gravel. “Do it, dear Will.”

He felt sick. He felt afraid. He felt unwanted hands, stubby and sweat-slick, grasping the flesh of his inner thigh. He felt fingers woven through his hair, tugging at the roots until it hurt. He closed his eyes, swallowed a painful lump in his throat. He felt a mouthful of bile slide down with it.

He couldn’t do it. Not just because he didn’t want to, but because this wasn’t a murder scene. There was no design to analyze, no evidence to glean from. Will had never sat in front of someone and slipped inside their head. It didn’t work that way.

But he supposed he had to try.

“You...” his voice quivered. “You spent your whole life being told you were diseased.”

“Yes,” Hosea breathed. Will cracked one eye open, and Hosea was panting, sweat pooling in his pores. His hands were trembling, lifted from his lap.

“But you... you started hurting people. Boys.”

“Never hurt no one.” Hosea’s voice was drifting closer. Will kept his eyes shut, unwilling to stare into his empty eyes again. “Not gonna hurt you, neither.”

Will swallowed thickly. “You n-never meant to.” God, he despised this man. This monster. Why had he never faced justice? Why had he been allowed to outrun the punishment he deserved? “You just... you wanted...”

The words choked and died on his tongue. Empathy only extended so far. It didn’t cross the thick line into understanding, nor stray into the black void of agreement and sympathy.

He tensed. He could feel Hosea’s warm breath against his cheek. He cracked his eyes open and jolted, bile rising once against to his mouth. Hosea was perched over him, hands hovering just above his thighs. His eyes were closed, his lips rubbing together, tongue protruding slightly like he was about to indulge in a delicious meal.

“Please, don’t--” Will tried to snap his mouth shut in time, but Hosea jolted forward suddenly, smashing his lips against Will’s. He tasted like cheap beer and cigarettes. He reeked of sweat. His skin glistened with it. His crooked teeth scraped Will’s lips, nibbling holes in the soft skin. He tasted blood on his tongue. He tried to twist away, jerking so madly he nearly tipped the chair, but Hosea gripped his shirt, squeezing fistfuls of it between white-knuckled hands.

“Stop,” Will managed to gasp between Hosea’s desperate bites. He was immediately tugged back in, a wet tongue sliding between his teeth. He jerked like a he’d been struck by lightning. He could feel tears soiling his cheeks, fat droplets curving into his mouth, making the kiss salty.

He reared his head back, mouth grazing along Hosea’s sweaty face. He faced the ceiling, spitting viciously, as if there was anything he could do to rid himself of the foul taste.

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” Hosea said, not sounding sorry at all. His eyes were bright with an almost feverish joy. “I know I said I wanna change, and all, but—damn, boy, you’re heavenly.”

Will bit back a desperate sob. He was already thoroughly humiliated. Whatever Hosea had in store for him next, he wasn’t sure he could take it. Not right now. Not after that.

An unprecedented noise startled both of them. Hosea leapt to his feet, eyes darting wildly to the door as the echoes of another door slamming shut rang throughout the building. Will’s eyes widened, hope fluttering like a butterflies’ wings in his chest. He opened his mouth, a sharp breath and the beginnings of a word escaping his lips before Hosea had a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snarled. All sense of serenity was gone, replaced with the same animalistic fury from before. “Remember, I don’t wanna hurt you, but I fuckin’ will.” He twisted Will’s head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. His eyes bulged, ablaze with wild rage. “Keep your pretty mouth shut, and I won’t have to carve another hole in your leg, you understand?”

He didn’t let Will answer. He kept one thick arm wrapped around Will’ mouth while he wrestled something out of his pocket. He slapped one end of a roll of duct tape against Will’s cheek, tugging the roll around his head until he once again had it secured. Will couldn’t help the tears that slid down his face, a symptom to the sinking feeling that this would be a never-ending cycle, hope bashed in with cold reality, Hosea always on top, himself always trapped, always a slave to the man’s wild whims.

“Whoever this is,” Hosea seethed, “whatever damn fool came into my territory, I’ll blow his damn head off, and then I’ll come back and we can finish up.” Something swept over Will’s eyes, his field of vision going suddenly totally black. Hosea tied a tight knot at the back of Will’s head, pinching a tuft of hair between the edges of the cloth.

The door swung open and then slammed shut, and a latch clicked shut. Will tipped his head forward. His eyes burned, hot tears stinging the skin around his eyes, unable to fall freely.

Perhaps the intruder was Hannibal. Perhaps it was someone from the FBI. Or perhaps it was some entirely random, unlucky soul who was about to get their head blown off. Will selfishly hoped it was the latter. Hosea shouldn’t drag down any one of his friends in his perverted quest.

---

He knew he was in the right spot the second the stench hit him. That, and there were fresh boot prints trailing through the woods, leading directly up to the hole that had been unevenly sliced in the wire fence. The factory had probably once produced children’s toys. Now, it sat alone, and housed someone very foolish who was about to meet a very unfortunate end.

He heard footsteps charging towards him, the harried, heavy footfalls of a man half-crazed, driven with a purpose only he could understand. Hannibal’s jaw clenched. There was no telling what this man had done to his Will.

He rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the closest thing to a raging bull that a person could be. The man before him was nearly half a head shorter, but his eyes were on fire with territorial fury, sweat gleaming on every patch of his bald head and gnarled face. And he was holding a gun.

Well. That complicated things.

Hannibal cursed himself internally for not preparing himself better. It was unlike him. He knew why, though it was not something he might readily admit to himself. His Will would have to wait, just a while longer, while Hannibal dealt with this ridiculous man.

“Hands where I can see ‘em, mister,” the man snarled. He was from the south. His hands were shaking against the trigger, but clearly not from fear. He’d held a gun before; probably fired it at his fair number of moving targets. Hannibal reached for the sky.

“You gonna tell me why you’re intruding on my land?” A speck of froth, like that of a rabid dog, flew from between his lips. “Or should I just pump you so full of lead, they’ll be able to write a damn letter with your corpse?”

Wincing internally at the hokey line, Hannibal shook his head. “No need, my friend. I am not here to hinder you.”

The man straightened the gun, the barrel aimed directly between Hannibal’s eyes. “You a cop?”

“Far from it.” Hannibal smiled. “I’m an admirer. Shall we say, you and I share a common interest.”

“Is that so?” Some of the fury leeched from the man’s expression, replaced by a careful curiousity. “How do you know?”

“I know the man you’ve taken.”

Realization dawned on the man. “Is that the... common interest?”

“Exactly.” Hannibal let this man do the driving, nodding along to his every guess. It seemed to satiate him, as next, he said:

“You wanna see him?”

Amazed at how a man so amateur and easily fooled had caught Will, Hannibal nodded. He was led through the maze of corridors until they came to a row of blacked-out windows, ended by a locked door. Hannibal watched as the man opened it, ready to act, but he didn’t spare enough time before he was upright again, and his eyes were back on Hannibal.

“There he is,” he said cheerily. This man’s mood swings should be studied. “Sure is a pretty one, huh?”

Hannibal found himself agreeing, partly. The sight of Will bound helplessly might be a delectable one under different circumstances, but knowing that strange hands had been the one to subdue him, tie him to that chair and blind and gag him so cruelly, only made his chest burn with protective fury.

At the arrival, Will’s head, bowed low as if in defeat, snapped upright. His forehead glistened under a sheen of sweat, his curls damp. The skin that Hannibal could see was streaked red with tears. His arm was bloodied, his shirt torn, and his left pant leg had been torn clean off below the knee, a blood-soaked bandage coming slowly undone around his calf.

“Hello, Will,” said Hannibal. At the sound of his voice, Will tensed, then let out a muffled sound that appeared very much to be a sob.

The ruddy-faced man swung the gun loosely around his finger. He was casual. Breezy. He was most likely coming down from an adrenaline high, be it rage, or something more... unsavory. Delicate though Will might appear, Hannibal knew it would take more than an amateur kidnapper to reduce his boy to tears.

“How do you two know each other?” he moved closer to Will as he spoke, but he kept his gaze half-fixed on Hannibal. He wasn’t entirely stupid, then. “You’re not, uh... an item, are you?”

Still partly stupid.

“No,” Hannibal replied, mentally tacking on not yet, “merely colleagues. But he has captivated me for a long time.”

Will stiffened. Hannibal’s mouth twitched in faint amusement. Afterwards, when his tears were dried and he was laid in Hannibal’s bed, Will would be able to laugh at this, too.

“Can’t say I blame you. Will is a thing of beauty.” Gun still hanging from his right hand, the little fool wove his fingers into Will’s curls. Dark knots tangled around the stubby things, snagging like a clumsy deer’s in a thornbush. This man was clumsy. He was ambling stupidly through a maze of that which he did not understand. He couldn’t be blamed for wandering into Hannibal’s domain; he had done so unwittingly, and likely would have made no such error had he known any better. But he had done it, and Hannibal could not bring himself to feel a stir of sympathy for this weaselly little thing. Least of all when he was tangling Will’s beautiful locks around his fingers.

“You have a taste for ensnaring your prey,” Hannibal remarked.

“I guess. Never really thought too much about it. It’s more practical this way, but I can’t say it ain’t doin’ nothin’ for me.”

Will tensed, muscles going rigid as the gun’s cold barrel pressed against his throat. The man was caressing this thumb over his collarbone. Hannibal ground his back molars, the sound like rumbling boulders in his ears.

“Anyways, I was about to make some moves with dear Will here. If you want in on the action, I’d be right happy to let you. Course, seeing as he is my—how'd you put it? Prey—I'd expect a little something-something for my generosity.”

Seeing little men bargain was always amusing. Hannibal smiled stiffly.

“How much do you charge?”

Will made a muffled sound of protest. The man’s grip in his hair tightened. Hannibal imagined tearing his arm clean out of its’ socket.

“Not too much. Twenty bucks an hour? I haven’t seen what he can offer yet.” His lustful gaze swept over Will’s frame. “I’m used to younger targets, you know. Lot more squirming.”

Hannibal’s lip curled in disgust. His taste for human flesh did not paint him with the kindest of brushes, he knew, but even he felt nothing but contempt for men who preyed on the young. There was no honour in it. Nothing to take pride in. He considered them lower than those of discourteous sensibilities. To consume them would be to poison the blood.

“I will afford you privacy,” Hannibal said. Will’s shoulders slumped. “But may I see his face? I’d like to know if he’s been... tarnished.”

Will could never be tarnished. Soaked in blood and soiled in tears, he was godly. But the man began to unwind the blindfold, bending low, hands occupied, and the split second was all Hannibal needed.

He moved fast, and as the man lifted his head, a look of alarm crossing his features, Hannibal had struck him with a swift fist in the throat. He staggered, winded, the gun slipping from limp fingers. Hannibal snatched it from his hand.

“W-wait,” he coughed, hands raised, eyes wide with terror. “What do you want? I won’t make you pay. You can—you can take him. You don’t have to--”

“You’ve made a fatal error,” Hannibal said cooly. His finger grazed the triggers’ edge lovingly. “Will is not yours’ to take.”

The gunshot echoed like a clap of thunder, the sound reverberating off the enclosed walls. The man crumpled, a red flower blooming in his chest, streams leaking from every side of his body. He lay in a twisted heap on the floor, neck bent, mouth agape, limbs splayed out at awkward angles. He wasn’t dead yet, but unless God himself forbade it, he would be soon.

Will tried to twist in his chair, as if he could see what had happened. “Mmmmnn,” he whined, and made a noise that sounded like, “Hannibal.”

He knelt at his side, laying a gentle hand on his arm, fingers grazing the red patch of skin just below the wound. “My dear boy,” he murmured, “it will be alright.”

He tugged off the blindfold in one go. The knot was already loosened. Will blinked, eyes bloodshot, his unfocused gaze swinging drunkenly to Hannibal’s face. His eyes were spotted with tear drops, laying on his lashes in neat rows. He was pale, like the blood eking from his leg was being drawn from his face.

Next came the tape. Hannibal tried to be gentle, but it was stuck in his hair, and he rightly assumed Will would rather suffer a momentary discomfort and lose a few strands than continue to suffer the indignity of being speechless. He whispered a soft apology and tugged the tape free. It peeled free slowly, sucking patches of skin in a painful stretch before coming entirely loose. The second his mouth was free, Will let out a soft whimper, hunching forward as if to hide his face in shame.

Hannibal remained silent as he undid the ropes that bound his hands and feet. His skin was chaffed bloody underneath. His arm looked alright; the bleeding had stopped, at least, but Hannibal knew his leg would be much trickier. He gently coaxed Will to turn slightly, inspecting the neat hole in his calf. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, just slowed, and it already reeked of infection.

“I’ll wrap it,” Hannibal said. “But we must get you out of here.”

Will didn’t say anything. When Hannibal looked up, meeting Will’s gaze for the first time since freeing him, he saw that his eyes were vacant, gazing into a world Hannibal could not see.

He laid a hand against Will’s cheek. He was cold, and he was trembling.

“Will.” He uttered it as a statement, not a request. Will flinched. “Will, don’t retreat into your mind. Stay here, with me. I am here. I will protect you.”

Will’s lips parted, a tiny, breathless sound escaping him. Hannibal leaned forward.

“Would you...” his voice was shaking. He sounded sick. “Were you g-going to... let him?”

Hannibal clasped Will’s hand firmly in his. Will was still staring dazedly into space, so Hannibal fixed his gaze on the man bleeding quietly in the corner. “Never, Will. No one will touch you as long as I am here.”

As if granted permission by the assertion, Will tipped forwards, eyes drifting shut, and fell lifelessly into Hannibal’s waiting arms. He cradled his boy like a precious gemstone, easing him onto his lap, unwilling to let his head touch the dirty floor. He brushed a tuft of rebellious curls away from Will’s eyes. They were soft. He knew Will didn’t use expensive shampoo, so he must just be blessed with immaculate hair.

“Don’t worry, Mylimasis. I am not letting you go.”

---

There were jagged, hazy shapes floating in his vision. He could hear a voice, distant and muffled, as though underwater, speaking above him. The voice was crisp and soft-edged, tinged with a delicate accent. It washed over him like a gentle surf, smoothing sand into a glittery sheen, washing away the waste that had been dragged to shore.

He groaned, twisting his face into the cushion beneath his head. A breathy chuckle warmed the side of his face. “Open your eyes,” the voice commanded. He made commands sound like requests. And Will wanted nothing more than to please him.

He squinted, and the blurry shapes came suddenly into sharp focus, forming an ornate bedroom from the angle of the floor. Not floor, he realized, his fingers woven into the silk sheets, but a bed. Someone else’s bed. In someone else’s room.

“How do you feel?” Hannibal was kneeling at his side. There was a chair positioned by the bed, abandoned long ago, or perhaps just as Will was waking up. He blinked, lips parted, unsure of how to respond, because he found he didn’t know.

His body, as if risen from hibernation by the prompt, answered for him. Will’s leg gave a low throb, a pulse of agony thumping beneath the tight bandages he could feel woven around his skin. He raised his head, trying to peel back the blanket covering his legs, but Hannibal stayed him with a hand on his wrist.

“Rest,” he said, “you are alright, Will.” He brought up his hand to card it through Will’s tangled curls. “Do you remember what happened?”

Will’s stomach turned. He hadn’t forgotten, but through the haze his mind had dulled the memories, made them more palatable. Now, along with awareness, was coming the sting of horror and dismay, the burning shame of what had been done, and of what Hannibal no doubt knew.

“Can you speak, Will?”

He hadn’t answered any of Hannibal’s questions. Will wet his lips.

“I...” his voice was raspy. Hannibal offered him a glass of water from the nightstand, and Will propped himself against the pillow to drink. “I feel okay, now.”

“That was question one,” Hannibal said coolly. “What do you remember?”

Will’s cheeks grew hot. He brought the glass up to his lips, hoping to hide behind it.

“Much, then,” Hannibal said. “What did that man do to you?”

“Hosea,” Will muttered.

“Hosea,” Hannibal echoed. “What did he do?”

He downed half the glass, lips peeling back slowly, padding time until he had to answer the question. “Not much.”

“You were crying, Will.” Hannibal’s tone wasn’t judgmental. In fact, he sounded almost the opposite. “I have not known you to cry so easily in front of others. I already know what Hosea had planned for you, and I was made to pretend to want the same thing to get close to him. I promise you, nothing you could tell me would change the way I look at you.”

“It was just a kiss,” Will said softly. His hands were shaking. Hannibal took the glass from him before he could slosh water onto the bedsheets.

“You didn’t kiss him,” Hannibal said plainly.

Will stiffened. He plucked handfuls of the sheets between his fingers. “No.”

The bed creaked as Hannibal lowered himself onto it. He sat opposite Will, his torso twisted so he could face him. “My darling boy,” he said, stroking a thumb over Will’s hand, “you need not feel shame. Lust marks only those who feel it, not their victims.”

“I’m not a victim,” Will said.

“Survivor, then.”

The corners of Will’s mouth turned into small smile, as if pulled by invisible strings. “You make it sound heroic.”

“It is, in a way. Lesser men have crumbled beneath the woes of life.” Hannibal’s eyes gleamed. “You have blossomed.”

At that, Will laughed. It was a dry, pained sound, and with it came the sting of tears against his lashes. “I haven’t,” he said, his voice trembling. “I...”

He brought up a hand to slap away the tears that had begun to slide rebelliously down his cheeks, but Hannibal stopped him. The skin of his hands was oddly calloused, in stark contrast to his elegance and grace. Will had the fleeting thought that even someone like Hannibal would have skeletons in their closet. Perhaps, just as he understood the sickest and most depraved of all men, Hannibal could understand him.

The thought brought on a new wave of emotions, and what was once a small trickle became a heavy onslaught of loud, wet sobs. Hannibal shifted, and Will thought for a moment that he would leave, perhaps to afford Will privacy, perhaps out of sheer disgust. He did no such thing, and Will felt strong arms envelope him, lifting him gently from his back and cradling him against Hannibal’s solid chest.

“Hush, Mylimasis,” Hannibal murmured. His voice was like the gentle surf against sand. “You will be alright.”

“I--I—I couldn’t help him,” Will choked out, “he-- he wanted m-m-me to help him, and—and--”

“Shhh. Breath, Will. You are overwhelmed. Focus on me, on my voice.”

Hannibal kept up his soothing litany, one hand rubbing Will’s back, the other tangled in his curls. Distantly, Will thought the gesture should remind him of Hosea, but he found it solely comforting, and after several minutes like this, he began to calm down.

Once his tears had lessened and his breathing was under control, Will slumped against Hannibal’s chest, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion overwhelming him. He felt hollow and dazed, unable to form coherent thoughts or sentences, but the idea of falling asleep was daunting.

“My poor dear Will,” Hannibal murmured. It would have sounded patronizing from anyone but him. “I hope you understand that you and that despicable man are nothing alike.”

Will whimpered into Hannibal’s shoulder. He felt his chest heave, the hand in his hair moving to cradle Will tighter against him.

“Did he make you enter his mind?”

Will made a miserable sound of approval.

“We are all more than the places we have been, Will. Far more than the places we have been forced to go. A man who preys on the weak is a coward. A man preyed upon by a coward is just as I said. A survivor.”

“You think I’m weak?”

“Of course not.” Hannibal breathed in, his nose nestled in Will’s hair. “Much to the contrary, I admire your strength and resilience. It makes you...”

It was so unlike Hannibal to leave a sentence unfinished that Will pulled away to study his face. “What am I?” he asked, half-smiling, his cheeks still wet with tears.

Hannibal returned the smile, his softer and more real. “Beautiful,” he said. “Magnificent.”

“...beautiful?”

“Mesmerizing.” Hannibal leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against Will’s. “I could go on, but I am loathe to bore you.”

And because Will had never found himself in such a situation, where someone so perfect in every way gazed at him adoringly and showered him in praises befitting an angel, instead of replying with something equally as graceful and heartfelt, he said, “oh.”

Hannibal laughed. It warmed Will’s face and made him blush. “You fascinate me,” he said. He leaned back, affording Will some space. “I can give you something for the pain you are no doubt in. That and several days bedrest are what I recommend.”

“I-- I have classes,” Will said lamely.

“You do not. I have contacted the necessary departments and informed them that you have taken ill and will not be returning to work for another week. Jack knows, as does Alana.”

“What about my dogs?”

“Alana will feed them.”

Will didn’t bother unpacking the fact that Alana now knew that Will was staying with Hannibal, and what sort of questions that might lead to. It was certainly a breach of doctor-patient etiquette, but in light of recent circumstances, Will couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Hannibal returned shortly, bearing with him painkillers and a glass of tea which he made Will drink, despite his protestations that he didn’t like tea. It tasted sweet, and it warmed his insides and made him sleepy. Will didn’t ask Hannibal to stay with him as he drifted off, but it was as if the man knew, because he didn’t leave. He sat by Will’s side, a warm, calloused hand laid over Will’s own, and as the drag pulled him under Will found himself mulling over Hannibal’s words, soft echoes in his mind.

Beautiful.

Magnificent.

Mesmerizing.

From anyone else, he would have ignored it.

But he believed Hannibal.