Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was beautifully tragic.

To be standing on the precipice, the inevitable finale he’d been replaying in his mind like a DVR stuck on reruns of the same show. Playing the same moments over and over with no awareness. No, perhaps it wasn’t like that, he was aware. Aware that he’d visualized this fantasy for months, clinging to it as though it was his raft in an endless ocean. Ironic, really. 

Gone were the days he took his fishing rod to the river and baited it with a masterful hand. Now, he only found solace in leaning over the edge and watching the waves below. While the waves remained false in his mind, they were very much real. A real place he had once visited on a hike. 

Then, it was just a cliff, a cliff that may as well have sunk to the bottom of the world. It faded into the darkness of the horizon line. It tilted up into a smooth incline, it jutted out of the wall, precariously dipped over the vast body.

Little did the cliff know it would become his sanctuary. He closed his eyes and dreamed of it, it was more beautiful than the blood that lingered on his slender fingers after killing victims who weren’t his own. It waited for him and longed for him. Will felt an ache akin to that of a lover he could never have. It wanted him, but when he got too close it pushed him away. 

He called it names. 

Will told the water it was bipolar and mocked it for its indefinite desires. Then he’d apologize, feeling guilty for degrading the one thing that kept him at peace.

His own desire was definitive. He simply didn’t know when it would be the right time. 

He received mixed signals from Hannibal. He wants me alive? He wants me not.

Hannibal treated him with the same apathy as always. Will found it disturbing, how Hannibal seemed to genuinely care for him and his well-being. He wouldn’t ever have suspected a thing if their time together was restrained to that of the psychiatrist’s office. 

However, out in the field, when Will towered over a crime scene with the stench of innocents’ death soaking into his person, he’d see Hannibal out of the corner of his eye. The way Hannibal observed with an nearly imperceptible twinkle in his eye. The look of a man who was more curious about the death itself rather than who was responsible. 

Sometimes Will wonders if he, himself, is responsible.

It’s thoughts such as those that feed his longing to go overboard . To fall off the side and into the eternal waves that anchor him to the ocean floor where he can liberated from the worries of man. The burden of these worries once seemed effortless, placed brick by brick and trivial. 

One day as his eyes were closed, a final brick was slipped into his sack and has been on the verge of tearing a hole through the bottom of his sack.

And it seemed that day was upon him.

“Did you really save Bella for Jack?” They weren’t ones for small talk. Will rarely even gave a ‘hello.’ He let himself into Hannibal’s office and walked straight towards his chair.

Hannibal had been reorganizing a shelf filled to the brim with textbooks on anatomy. Meanwhile, his books on psychology sat in the neighboring shelf accumulating dust since he was assigned to Will. He wrote enough on him to fill his own books—those journals would be kept to himself. 

He went to take his seat. “And for Bella’s sake, whether she believes it was out of the goodness of my heart or not.”

“That’s not what I was asking.” Will tutted.

“What’s the alternative?”

Will sighed, one of mental exhaustion. “That you did it to prolong Bella’s suffering.”

“I couldn’t in good conscience let her take her own life. Not in my office, let alone my presence. ” 

Will set his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his knuckles as he laid back into his chair. “According to her, you told her to follow through with it.” He spread his legs to get more comfortable. At that, Hannibal smiled, Will’s gesture one of exposure. Will’s guard went down inside these walls, not deeming it necessary to be on the defensive.

“I acknowledged her desire to let the pain go. I did not condone it.” 

Hannibal’s words are often left to interpretation—that’s what he wants the receiving end to think. That when his patient makes a decision, it’s not out of the seed Hannibal had planted ages ago. Hannibal won’t confess to manipulating Bella into killing herself, but Will is privy to his tactics.

“There’s a difference between condoning an action and leading one to indulge in it.”

“Do you see death as an indulgence, Will?” Hannibal canted his head. 

Will could sense his curiosity. His blank slate is betrayed by Will’s intimate connection to him. He can see his grin underneath the poised persona. Bedelia refers to him as a patient in a person-suit. No, Will perceived him as human, he’s seen glimpses of it. Will is more sensitive to his duality, whereas Bedelia refused to see any man at all. Maybe it’s easier than recognizing such people walk with them.

“I see death how everyone sees it.” Will tilted his view to the far wall, away from Hannibal’s doting eyes.

“And how is that?”

“A way out.”

Hannibal leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. Lips pursed and eyes drifting. “Don’t most people see it as an unfortunate departure?”

Will saw him get closer out of the corner of his eye and his own trailed along the red and white striped curtains. “People agree on that in spoken terms. No one wants to be so vulnerable as to share that they fantasize about the day of their ‘unfortunate departure,’ though everyone does.”

“You speak in absolutes.” When Will didn’t respond, Hannibal continued, “I’m an example of the exception to that rule. I am familiar with the seductiveness of death, but I do not wish for it myself. You, however, are implying that you do?”

Will scoffed, “Every rule has an exception.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand. Everyone fantasizes death—except for you?” 

“I fantasize about it.” Will admitted with an air of wistfulness, and regarded him. Hannibal's countenance is complex, either perturbed or nonchalant… A half-smile, one he is personally familiar with using in stressful situations. “I do not want to partake of it.”

“The line between hungering and acting is slim. What happens when your lust turns to endeavor?”

“It’s not lust-”

“Aren’t fantasizing and lust one in the same? One merely has a sweeter sound.” There was another pause. Will’s gaze shifted to the floor. “Are you lying for me or for you?”

.o0o.

“-May experience: suicidal thoughts, weight gain, dry mouth…” He always chuckled at the ads for antidepressants. They’re incredibly eager to scroll past the damning side effects. Treating depression with suicidal thoughts is one way to approach the bridge. Why cross it when you can go over it?

The ad he’d heard dozens of times on the radio was cut off with the turn of his key. He slammed his car door shut and the scrawl of caution was cleansed away as his eyes drifted over the hoard of profilers and forensics. The wall of personnel obscured the body and he strolled to crime scene tape that was conveniently wrapped around neighboring trees, an organic fence. 

They were about thirty minutes out from Will’s home in Wolftrap, located in a sparse part of the woods. Past the thickets and looming plants, there was a ramshackled bridge arched over a petite stream that went on for miles. There was vague birdsong in the face of the rising sun and occasional chirping of awakening crickets. 

He ducked under the tape and hunched in on himself as he attempted to get through the swarm without touching anybody, it’s then that he discovered the body. The man laid far below the bridge, sprawled out, waterlogged and encrusted with mud. 

Jimmy was on his haunches and rattled off, “His right knee is dislocated, most likely a result of impact. This could also explain the blow to the head, just as well as it could have been premature…”

Brian scratched into his clipboard. “We thinking someone was trying to off this guy? What do you bet it was a mugging gone wrong?”

“I mean, he still had his wallet, his ID, Arman Short.” Jimmy noted, but but Brian refuted.

“Well, he wouldn’t want to come all the way down here to retrieve it after.”

“Walking down here is not that difficult.” Jimmy said condescendingly. 

“It’s also not that difficult to get a job.” Brian and Jimmy argued logistics.

Will was alerted to Jack by the crunching of shriveled leaves. Jack asked him what he saw. His words differed from his thoughts, “Sometimes people fall.”

Jack’s voice is surprisingly steady. These days Will’s always tense with anticipation, waiting for the moment he somehow pissed him off. Next thing he knows, he’s checking his ear for hearing damage. “Zeller and Price are considering foul play, you disagree?”

They had moved over to the body. He had almost tripped at the rapid incline. The land dipped down and dissolved into the water like a biological gradient.

Will heard the pair cataloging injuries. Jimmy pointed at bruises and rambled while Brian jotted down the observations, both with clinical views. He envied their ability to see the man as nothing more than a lump of meat.

“Sometimes they’re pushed, it’s hard to tell.”

“What can you tell?”

Will gave that awkward closed-lip grin, grasping for the words Jack wanted to hear. “Either way… this wasn’t an accident. There was no hesitation.”

Jack isn’t satisfied, he clapped him on the back. “Do your thing, Will.” He yelled at the group to clear out, unnecessary, really. Will has to walk up the hill and around to get to the bridge. He nearly dove head first into the mud as his boots slid against it and did a half-crawl back up. 

The bridge moaned at his arrival.

Will closed his eyes, behind them a pendulum.

When they’re reopened, he stands on the path several feet away. 

“I walk up to the bridge—and hear the wood creak under my feet, but I don’t move… I’m not worried about it breaking underneath me… It’d make my job easier. The moonlight shines on me like a spotlight. It’s my audience, ready to applaud my final act. 

He rests his hands on the short wall, “The architect really should have made it taller.” He raises one foot and steadies it on the thin railing before doing the same with the other. “I let go and stand to my full height. I stumble and automatically catch myself, regaining my balance without a thought. Survival, it’s instinctual.”

He trembles with anxiety. “My mind is already set, it’s my body telling me to back down. I don’t listen. I extend my arms out at my sides. I’m- I’m not entirely sure why. It’s what people do before they give in. A sign of acceptance.” He lifts his foot and feels it wobble…

And then he jumped.

Will gasped, kneeling before the dead man. He hadn’t a clue as to when he got back down there. His pant legs were tarnished with grime. The bridge mounted over him, causing a shiver to wrack his spine. It felt like a warning, as though it could crash down on him at any moment. Nothing supported it but frail beams that groaned under the burden of its own heaviness.

The beams snapped and it caved in. Splinters plummeted in slow motion. A stray piece of wood stuck out like an icicle and plunged down, lodging itself through his torso.

He scrubbed his cheek with a dirty hand and shouted, “Jack!”

Jack ran up immediately. “What is it, Will?”

“He did this of his own volition.” His voice was rigid, but the statement startled him.

“What gives you that impression?”

Will took a moment, swallowing. “Sometimes people jump.”

“What do you see, Will?”

“Myself.”

The resemblance was a coincidence—of that much, he was sure. His dark curls, strong cheekbones, the bags under his eyes. He almost wanted to blame Hannibal for killing this man, a way of taunting Will after their previous discussion. 

The man’s death was of his own accord. He wished it wasn’t.

Will looked up at Jack, eyes uncharacteristically locking onto his. “His name was Arman?”

“That’s correct. Arman Short.”

Not his own then. The man’s name wasn’t Will. 

He wished it was.

Jimmy tapped the table with a latex-gloved hand. “Names Arman Short. Mid-thirties, married, two kids, wealthy. Living the American dream.” 

“Minus the living part.” Brian helpfully added.

“It's an expression.”

“It doesn't apply here.”

“That's why it's just a figure of speech-”

It wasn’t the first time he attended such a scene. Not the first time he had to be there while Jimmy and Brian examined the body in the lab, despite being certain of the cause of death. The room smelled of antiseptic solution and Alana’s soury perfume, consisting of citrus and vanilla. She used too many spritz and even Arman was becoming sodden with the scent of oranges. They’d called her in for the mental aspect, but perhaps they should’ve hauled off for now.

Arman’s body was on display on the autopsy table, visible all except for the sheet shielding his groin. His skin took on a light greenish-bluish tint, almost like he was molting. Shedding this body to remold into something greater… From this angle, he appeared unmasculine, tiny. Will sat on the edge of the rear metal counter with his legs dangled.

They managed to shift back to the matter at hand. Jimmy went on, “He wasn’t on any medication, there were no drugs in his system, he had a blood-alcohol level of 0.00%, he’s as clean as a whistle.”

“ Was as clean as a whistle.” Brian noted.

“Can you not—can you not talk for—”

Jack interrupted with a loud cough. “What else?”

They shared an ‘I’m-still-annoyed-with-you’ glare and Brian took the lead, “The way his legs snapped upon impact suggests an outside force.” He gestured to the man’s tibia on an X-ray pinned up to the lightbox. His finger followed the breakage line. “There is a spiral fracture running down that you don’t typically see in a straightforward fall.”

“You’re saying his legs twisted?” Jack clarified and Jimmy nodded.

“Yepper-doodles. It’s an unusual angle.”

“But not unheard of?” Jack glanced between the two of them.

“No.” The duo said in unison.

“So, we can agree on something.” Jimmy said, which resulted in him and Brian bickering again.

Some people just don’t stand a chance. It seemed Arman didn’t stand one. You’re supposed to send prayers for the family members of the one that was lost, but if Will prayed he’d send it to Arman. Be it heaven or the void or the vacuum of space, wherever he was, he surely wouldn’t deny them. 

Will wonders if anyone prays for him. He thinks so. Thinks sometimes Alana does. He can hear her voice in his ear like a guide. She tells him to determine which battles are worth fighting. Arman is worth fighting for. He never heard Arman’s voice, but he can imagine what he sounded like, he imagines Arman telling him he’s okay in the afterlife. 

He glanced at her, but then the image altered. He can see him now. Arman standing on the cliff and a hint of jealously spiked through him. He debates telling him to get off his cliff, but he seems unfathomably happy. When he blinks it’s like the world is subdued, before his lashes press back to reveal his bright eyes once more.

“Will?” … “Hey, Will!”

Will snapped out of his mental escape. He’s dead-set on Alana, and she stared back peculiarly. He hurriedly pivoted to Jack who was looking at him expectantly. “Is your opinion still that of suicide?”

“It’s fact. He killed himself, Jack.”

“How can you be so sure? He had a perfect life. Family, money, health…”

“There are more reasons for taking one’s own life than being poor and alone.” Alana butted in.

Brian cut in with a contradiction. “These don’t exactly scream self-inflicted, Will. You think he twisted his leg mid-air?”

“He landed on it.” Will uncrossed his arms, placing his hands to grip the counter he was perched on. “This type of fracture occurs when the individual’s body is limp, he wasn’t bracing for impact he was accepting it. Focus on the lack of fractures. It’s instinct to push out your arms to prevent a fall, his arms weren’t beneath him, they were in flight.”

“It’s a long fall.”

“Wouldn’t you put your arms out?” Will challenged and Jack’s lips remained tight.

.o0o.

The first time Will mentioned the cliff was in passing sarcasm, a statement made out of aggravation. Hannibal told him there were other ways of finding peace, ones that didn’t involve drinking himself into a stupor to actually get some sleep each night.

“Other ways of finding peace? Like what? Walking off the nearest cliff?”

Hannibal eyebrows wrinkled subtly, “Is that what’re considering, Will? A permanent solution to a temporary problem?” 

“I—No. I want release, but not in the form of finality.” 

“Yet you talk of nearing the brink.” 

Will ran a hand down the side of his face. “Not everything I say is meant literally. There are certain phrases that are to be taken with a grain of salt.”

Hannibal smiled a little thing. “I don’t often use salt in my cooking. It’s overpowering, it tends to drown out the rest of the flavors. Death would drown out the rest of your flavor, and we can’t have that now, can we?”

Will shut his eyes in exasperation. “This is why I don’t like eating with you.”

Perhaps, Hannibal would want him to fall, if only for a taste test.

“I much prefer you alive.”

“That makes two of us.” Will concurred.

The air exuded confidence, and on the other end of the spectrum, skepticism. Hannibal crossed a leg over his knee while Will picked at the loose thread on his leather chair. “On the topic of cooking, I’d be honored if you were to dine with me again.”

“I’m thinking of practicing veganism. I know that’s something you aren’t fond of.”

“You tease me, Will.”

“I’m not a fan of Soylent Green.”

Hannibal’s amusement was tangible. “Everybody cheats and everyone lies, but when it comes to promises I am a man of my word. What if I assured you that there is no people in the food I serve you?”

Will didn’t like what ‘you’ implied. “How about no people in food, period.”

“Now you are asking too much of me.”

There’s that smile again, it’s indiscernible. Hannibal refuses being the Chesapeake Ripper, refuses being a killer, a cannibal. His words are said in jest, but where it ends is impossible to decipher. They say, “I’m messing, Will, I’d never stick anyone in a stew.” And they say, “I’m confessing, we both know I did it. Too bad no one trusts you.”

Hannibal copied Will’s usual way of sitting, leaning back with his legs separated, expecting Will to follow. He does, subconsciously mimicking Hannibal’s posture. “How are you planning on chasing this release?”

“I’m in the formulation process.” 

The hour was over, and Hannibal went to get the door for Will. “Can I trust that you’ll be okay on your own?”

“I’ll see you later.”

He pondered the concept of being in the same position as Bella over the course of agonizingly long months. Would Hannibal bring him back? If he got too close? It’d be out of self-interest, of course. Not out of friendship, but out of the urge to see him spiral further. At a time in the far future he would ask him just that: “You won’t let me fall, even if it’s what’s best for me?”

And Hannibal would respond: “As a doctor it’s my duty to protect you.”

“As your friend? Would you pull me from the brink even if it meant hurting me?”

“As your friend… I have a selfish desire to keep you. I couldn’t bear to part with you.”

Will visited the cliff. He stared at the clouds and felt the wind brush his face like a tender caress. It rustled his clothes and sent a shiver through him.

.o0o.

It was a moody day. He loved when the sky was dim and filtered the world into a gray scale. That’s how he envisioned it anyway, everything is merely a shadow or a shade too dark. The gloominess was palpable, he could practically feel it on his tongue and savor the bitterness. He bloomed in the melancholic tincture that was partitioned over his eyes. When the melancholy transformed into desolation, that’s when he truly feels tranquil… It’s like coming home. 

Alana once told him about the dangers of romanticizing depression. How she’d have patients who did so out of necessity, how they felt it would alleviate struggle if they gave into the sadness. And in turn the sadness graced them. Then there were those who were happy, but had an unhealthy pull to the idea of depression. They saw it as a beautifully tragic performance that they could experience themselves.

For him it was the former, had been the former. He’s given so far into his own manipulation that it doesn’t feel like manipulation anymore, yet he’s aware it is. It’s a paradox. He isn’t attempting to convince himself that depression is the answer, rather it is the answer, it’s his way of living and he doesn’t know anything else.

He talked to her—to the cliff. 

He sat with his legs swinging over, feet suspended how many miles in the air.

“Hello… It’s been a while, I’ve been caught up with work. I miss teaching. I wish I could go back to lecturing full time but I think Jack would have my head. He’d pull out a literal guillotine. Literally, not in the way people use it when they mean ‘figuratively’, but literally.” He spoke nonsense, but she listened. His sentiments didn’t go unheard. 

Her hands swirled out of the ocean and herded the soundwaves in as though they were the sheep she needed to wrangle in, not one would be forgotten. 

Will heard her too. She’d tell him of the people that sailed out on their precious boats, be it on vacation, transport, or minor reprieve. She’d tell him of her day and how she loved when the morning rays reflected off her body or how it felt when raindrops hit her surface. She’d also tell him how it hurt when he left.

“I have to leave, I have to get back to them.”

“Back to who?”

“There’s Jack, and… Hannibal. Alana. The others.”

“Your colleagues.”

“And my friends.”

“What about me?”

“You’re my friend too.”

“You choose them over me.”

“I choose both.”

“When can I expect you next?”

“Soon.”

His heart breaks a bit more each time, but he goes with a promise that he’ll be back.

.o0o.

Jack had them look into Arman’s medical records, searching for evidence that would support it was Arman’s choice. 

“A man like this just doesn’t kill himself, Will. It’s possible, but unlikely. It’s going to take more than the fact that his arms weren’t crushed to convince me of that.”

“That’s exactly why you won’t find anything. He kept this to himself, he didn’t want to worry his wife or be a cause for concern. He was going to overcome this himself and when he couldn’t he gave up.” 

They piled over files nonetheless. As he watched them scan papers and comment on medical history, he realized what it was: The fear that a man as perfect as he could only imagine surrender as relief. Because if a man as perfect as that couldn’t last, then what does that mean for the rest of them? 

“Why are you so keen to believe it was by his own hand?” He and Jack had been going back and forth all day. When the discussion seemed to dull out, one of them would press rewind and start again from the beginning.

“Jack… You asked me what I saw. I saw a man who’d been tipping for a long time. Eventually he questioned if keeping his feet under him was worth the effort and he decided it wasn’t.”

“And you’re asking me to take his silence as evidence.” Jack said, sounding as perplexed as the past dozen instances. Will can’t fault him for it, but Jack’s increasing doubt prodded at his fragile esteem.

“It’s the shortage of evidence on the opposite side.”

“We’ll continue looking for indicators, mental illness, the like, but I won’t rule out murder. If you can give me something solid, I’ll reconsider.”

“Some people don’t stand a chance…”

.o0o.

That night, after having pored hours over Arman’s livelihood, he sleepwalked to the bridge. He’d thought such episodes were a symptom of encephalitis. Apparently, his overactive brain must remain just that even in unconsciousness, regardless of condition. He was partially cognizant, but not enough to register that he meandered around half-naked or the cuts from gravel that scraped his feet. 

His legs were numb and the pain muted from lack of sensation. Bits of frost clung to his heel and toes and browned with the dirt. 

In the twilight, puddles flickered with hues of orchid and wisteria. Condensation was visible on the leaves, droplets gathering before splashing on the softening snow. His pallor was chalky and seemingly translucent, akin to a ghost’s. He glided around like one as well, drifting through the trees with an otherworldly elegance. 

When he came to, he looked over the handrail and saw himself splattered. A golden halo spun around his head and sang soft melodies of transcendence.

Chapter Text

Will felt ill. His wishes don’t normally come true. 

Maybe Hannibal heard. He’d integrated his self into Will’s very being until the thoughts echoed through like a string on a can. He’d listened intently to his desperate yearning for solace and sought to fulfill it elsewhere. For this was surely done by Hannibal.

He peered down at a man bearing an uncanny likeness to himself. His facial structure, build, hair, even his clothes—all undeniably Will. 

He had wished that Arman didn’t kill himself, but that someone else would pull the trigger for him. Hannibal obliged with another.

Stretched out on the wet ground was Ellis Thacher. He was in his early-forties, single, and a teacher at a nearby high school. His appearance and occupation implied a humble wage.

Will looked up at the bridge where he had the pleasure of acting his own demise a couple days prior.

Ellis’s legs lie in abnormal directions. His arms were above his head like a snow angels’ and white feathers decorated the space beneath them. “They were in flight.” And the classic sign of the Chesapeake Ripper, a missing organ, his heart to be exact. In it’s place laid the heart of a deer.

“Why a deer?” Jimmy pondered with a crooked brow. 

“He’s taunting me.” Will replied.

“With a deer heart?”

He’s trying to decipher the meaning behind Hannibal’s deed. A taunt, a misdirection? Leading the FBI after Arman’s hypothetical killer with a murder that would make them connect unrelated dots? Or… is it a promise?

“He’s telling me that all I need is a push.”

“But why a deer's heart?” Jimmy repeated. His words are washed away with the ruckus of police and running water.

Hannibal, who had been watching beyond the police tape pulled it up and stepped forward. He came to stand beside Will, “Arman’s family must find peace in the fact that at least he wouldn’t abandon them willingly.”

“That’s putting it bluntly.” Will remarked as he readjusted his glasses.

“That’s what suicide is. It’s leaving behind those who love you. Now they must carry the burden of your death and live with the knowledge that they weren’t enough to prevent it.”

He took a bit of offense to that. “No one wants to die; they want to be set free.”

“Does that change the nature of what it is?”

Will ignored the question and set them back on track. “It wasn’t the Ripper who killed Arman, his body was completely intact.”

“I didn’t say it was the Ripper.” Hannibal conceded, “I do find it peculiar that a man is killed here only two days after the last one.”

“All it would take is for one person to read that Arman killed himself on this bridge and decide to add to the pile, two bodies in the same place doesn’t equal correlation. Thanks to Freddie Lounds, his death was marked with the headline ‘Me, Myself and I: Death by whose hand?’ You’d think a writer could create a better title.”

For someone so shameless, he had the delusive expectation that her repressed propriety would attend. Suicide is taboo , a topic to be handled with care and not to be spoiled by her misconduct. He’d been up late reading and rereading Freddie’s article. Her writing was more harsh than the scene itself. How she could bend words to her own agenda and somehow once again place blame on Will Graham was astounding. 

“Will Graham shook in front of the corpse like a man possessed.Was he reenacting a poor man’s death or was he reliving his euphoria, watching the man’s life leave his eyes? Graham’s answers must come from a higher power, for they come faster than it would take to survey the scene. He was oddly desperate to have Jack Crawford believe it was nothing more than an individual giving into his despair.”

Hannibal clasped his hands. “I was under the impression that you wished for Arman’s death to be murder.”

Will’s eyes shot over to Hannibal’s, giving him the trademark pouty lips and creased brows. “Wishful thinking doesn’t effect reality.”

“Do you let wishful thinking affect your own reality?”

“I don’t follow.” Reality isn’t subjective, there is and there isn’t. Will wasn’t so far gone as to believe he could manipulate the laws of the universe with internal dialogue. Hannibal must think it so—he’s confided in him his delusions of being other people. His rationale was curbed. Reality was not.

“Will the day come when you’re no longer tipping?” Hannibal asked with a cloak of wariness.

“Because I’ve jumped the hurdle or jumped the bridge?”

“What is your wish?”

Will shook his head dubiously, “I wish I wasn’t so tired.” 

Hannibal sniffed. It reminded him of a cat, the way they bob their little heads when smelling the air. He’s leaning in close, picking up a scent that Will hoped he wouldn’t notice. He closed his eyes in preparation. “Have you been drinking, Will?” And there it is.

“I had a shot of whiskey.” Two shots.

“Is this habit something we should discuss further?”

“No discussion is needed, it’s not a problem.”

Jack wandered over, his hands rested in his coat pockets. His visage was that of a man who was sporting ire under a calm facade, though the shape his mouth would be making is unknown due to the cigarette hanging from his lips. “Will, what do you have for us?”

“It’s clearly the Chesapeake Ripper. He wants us to second-guess the initial fall despite it not being his own doing. He’s, additionally, sending a message that nobody is spared from the depths of depression. If nothing is stopping a social man from suicide, what is there to stop a lonely one?”

“We’re in a suicide epidemic.” Jack mentioned with a foggy exhale, “You think he’s advocating that? That people should throw in the towel?”

“It’s more than that… It’s an invitation. ‘If you seek death, but can’t swallow the pills yourself, let me do it for you.’” Will traced his hand over the outline of a bottle in his jacket.

“An offering.” Hannibal agreed. “He’s trying to be selfless?”

“If selflessness is convincing people to come and be put out of their misery.” Will mumbled.

Jack cut off the rising tension, “What do you see, Will?”

“I see an apparent suicide, or to be depicted as such, with a hint of sass. He’s laughing at us, ‘it’s not suicide, see, here are his insides.’”

“What are you going on about? Just do whatever the hell it is you do.” Big puffs of smoke escorted Jack elsewhere. He’d spectate from a distance.

Hannibal was displeased by their shared impertinence but withheld a response.

Will murmured as he pocketed his glasses. As always, he erased the world away, until it was him and the bridge.

“I’m brought here against my will. I wrestle with my abductor, but his arms are wrapped tightly around my midsection, my arms pinned at my sides.” His breathing is ragged and he can’t quite get his feet to cooperate. “I manage to trip him up, I use this to my advantage. I head butt him. He’s momentarily capacitated-” Momentarily isn’t an ample amount of time. “It angers him.” The man squeezes and the oxygen is pulled out of him.

“He’s taking me to a specific spot,” he gasps out. “A spot of significance.” He tries to get a decent inhale, but the man makes sure his endeavors are all for naught. He bangs his sluggish fists against his attacker’s thighs.

His vision is growing dark and his mouth won’t form the words he needs. In his blurring sight he sees a bridge. The realization strikes him instantly and his efforts come back tenfold. With the last of his reserves, he fights against his opponent. Still, it’s not a fair fight. He thinks he hears a crunch and suddenly he’s choking. The pain is gone in nearly an instant when he goes soaring over the railing.

He came to. Blinking rapidly and choking—he’s choking. His hands flew to his throat, clutching at it with ferocity that’ll leave a bruise. His eyes are clenched tightly and there’s a fire building up in his chest. There’s something lodged in his windpipe, he can’t breathe. His bruising grip intensifies. Out, out, out. He has to get it out-

Soothing hands clasped around his own, detaching them from his throat and holding them securely. His gasping hiccups hitched when he saw Hannibal crouched next to him.

Hannibal held his hands like they were for safe keeping. “Will, are you with me?” The same firm weight from moments ago…

This isn’t how it’s meant to work. 

He plays the role of the killer not the victim. Not that it matters. He knows the killer’s motive, he knows the killer. He’s currently being comforted by him.

Uneasy by the revelation, Will jerked his hands away as if burned. Hannibal, in a rare display of emotion, appeared saddened by the gesture. Though he must’ve imagined it for it was gone in an instant, the same cold eyes bore into his. 

He put his glasses back on, using them as a shield to block Hannibal out. 

Jack seemed just as troubled. Will’s severe reactions to crime scenes that were arguably much less intense than the routine, butchered, bloodied bodies were increasingly common. While far from pleasant, this case shouldn’t warrant panic in the ex-cop. 

Will detected the scrutiny from his superior and stood, patting his jacket. He swabbed the sweat dripping down his temple with a sleeve and pushed his glasses further up.

“What did you see, Will?” What’s got you so riled up? It’s always Jack who asks that question. He should stop speaking in absolutes, for it wasn’t Jack this time, it was Hannibal. Hannibal went to place a hand on his shoulder, but quickly retracted and his fingers curled in. “Will? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” 

Jack was silent beside him, watching their interaction unfold. 

“You seem disturbed.” Hannibal added.

“I just watched a man die, of course I’m disturbed.”

Jack faced him head on and repeated the question, “What did you see, Will?”

Will refrained from rolling his eyes, “He didn’t know his attacker. He was chosen deliberately and taken to this location with the intent of… going overboard. He was able to hold his own for a while but was finally overpowered. It’s what it looks like, he was pushed over.”

Jack nodded, disappointed, “I thought as much. Well, we’ll let the guys take care of the body.”

“Pushed by the Chesapeake Ripper.” Brian said from afar, “Not his usual m.o. Can we say for certain it was him? Someone else could’ve carved a heart out last minute.”

Jimmy’s nose scrunched, “The Ripper’s been our regular organ donor, I think it’s safe to say it’s him.”

“It’s him.” Will interjected.

Jimmy grinned, “Brian just likes to negate everything.”

“I do not!”

.o0o.

Will is aware of Hannibal’s twenty-four-hour cancellation policy, but as he drove home, he realized he just didn’t have the energy to go in. He should’ve notified him before fleeing but then Hannibal would go on some spiel about how one skipped therapy session will get him in the habit of playing hooky. After parking on the dirt road outside his cabin, he shot Hannibal a text and proceeded to sag in his seat. 

The weather was biting while the heater toasted-up his car and he considered taking a nap then and there. He could see his dogs jumping up on the window sill and immediately skidding down out of sight. He chuckled at Buster’s paws going in and out of sight, trying to climb up the wall. “Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

The cold was like a punch to the noggin and he shuddered. Slapping the door shut and locking it with the press of a button, he ran inside where his legs were bombarded in an instant. “Hey, guys.” He set aside his boots that tracked sloshy snow in and settled in by the fireplace. It had long been patched since his… incident. Alana had the decency to not mention the occurrence though the embarrassment lingered. 

He fetched his flint and stone and kneeled down. The sparks caused barking and rowdiness, but once it was going, the pack calmed and plopped themselves down in a semi-circle around Will.

It was late-afternoon, too early to relax for the day, at least too early to be considered socially-acceptable. No one was around to see him eventually grab a pillow and blanket to plonk down back in front of it. He hadn’t been sleeping well, not sleeping at all, really. The floor wouldn’t soothe his aching back or aid his fifty-year old bones in his mid-thirty body, but it was warm and cozy.

The dogs snores were a subduing white noise that assuaged his anxiety and turned his drowsiness into authentic sleep. A sleep that wasn’t disrupted with nightmares or visions of cliffs, oceans, or Arman …

.o0o.

Jack slouched in his wheely chair and wiped at the specks that littered his desk. Alana sat across from him in a padded office armchair. He had invited her to discuss Will’s mental decline. Learning of his disease was a huge relief at the time as he wasn’t mentally ill as Hannibal had suspected. Still, a mind as fragile as his was prone to fracturing, it’s the impact that worried him. When the pieces fly, who will glue them back together? He’d like to nip this in the bud and abstain from calling in all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.

She was livid as ever. Her hands were intertwined and stiff on her floral skirt, the veins in them popped out and if he didn’t hurry the claws would follow. “His breakdown was avoidable. Prison was avoidable. This is all a complete joke and it isn’t funny. Now that he’s acting ‘off’ it’s time to pursue the cause? Where was this considerate side months ago?”

“This is different.”

“How?”

Jack recited a speech she knew by heart. “With all the odds against him, his detective skills remained prominent. He took down Garrett Jacob Hobbs and Abel Gideon. Despite his irrational thinking there was a clarity that would outmatch anyone who’d have attempted to do it rationally. He’s gifted, Alana.”

“The difference?”

“Now? Now he’s nodding off and claiming the clues aren’t aligning. He always has something. There’s a wrench in his brain clogging the gears and it isn’t related to physical health.”

“He has an empathy disorder. It’s never been singularly concerning his physical health, you have to take into account his psychological health and it’s suffering. He needs a break.”

“We can’t give him that.”

“Why not? And don’t say it’s because he’s saving lives.”

“He’s saving lives.” It drives her crazy when he does that. Can he not come up with any other explanation? They have a lengthy list of people eager to take the reins. They may not be Will, but Will isn’t firing on all cylinders.

“Jack.”

“Alana.”

When is he going to start seeing Will as more than a guinea pig for him to toy with? He swore he brought her in for Will’s benefit, yet simultaneously reiterates how Will is a crime-solving machine and little else. He has a life outside the FBI. He’s a teacher, teaching a new generation of young adults how to take down a killer, but apparently that doesn’t pass the bar, doesn’t meet it. According to Jack, If Will is not actively selling his soul for answers then he’s lazy and unworthy.

Talking to Jack is like trying to communicate with a base isolator—once his mind is set, it is unshakable. His feet are on solid ground while an earthquake envelopes the ground surrounding him. 

Being a frustrated crier is something that’s stuck with her since childhood, she remembers that when she has to bottle-up brimming tears. He has a knack for bringing those tears to the forefront, but she won’t be seen as weak. She snuffled inaudibly and tried another strategy. 

“Think of a game of Sudoku. You can sit there for hours and not find a number, it’s not present. You’ll write a possible entry into each cell and it won’t click. You go do something else for half an hour, come back, and suddenly that singular square that was screwing you up is evident and you will wonder how you didn’t spot it before.”

“I see where this is going.” Jack sighed. He does that a lot.

“Let him destress. He can come back clear-headed and find that missing number.”

“We don’t have time for that.” He exaggerated his statement with extended arms and palms up, as though he could feel the minutes slipping through his fingers.

“You don’t have time for him to observe with glossy eyes either.”

“He’s had time away already!”

“Prison doesn’t count! He hasn’t gotten proper rest since this whole ordeal began.”

“We both know he wouldn’t be sleeping anyways.” That elicits a furious side-eye. “He can be sitting at home or continue putting a profile together.”

“Hannibal was a decent replacement while Will was incapacitated. Better than decent.”

Jack is bull-headed. He respects the opinions of therapists, though it’s rare he follows the advice given. Alana’s chances are slim when it comes to convincing him of anything. Where as Hannibal is capable of getting past those barriers, not always, but Jack holds him in the highest regards. 

She filled the silence to appeal further, “Hannibal has a keen eye for the details, having been a surgeon and all. He gets into people’s heads for a living, too.” 

Is that a fissure?

“He has a decade on the study of psychology. He and Will don’t have indistinguishable perspectives, but maybe you need that second eye. Remember when he discovered the killer was inside of his own ‘mural’. Give him a chance, a bowl of pins and some red thread.”

It does the trick.

He cursed loudly, not bothering to hide his indignation, “Fine. Fine, I’ll put Will on temporary leave and inform Hannibal we acquire his assistance.”

“Thank you. Truly, thank you, Jack… How long is temporary?”

“About to be nonexistent.”

“I’ll be going.”

.o0o.

A knock on the door startled Will out of his sound slumber. It was time to get up anyways, his clock read that nearly three hours had passed. Once upon a time he was ready to dispose of his analogs in favor of all digital. He wasn’t fond of them after a particular exercise.

“Said it was an exercise to ground me in the present moment. Handle to help me hold onto reality.”

“Was the clock normal?”

“Would I be here if it wasn’t?”

Another knock rattled his door, and he shucked the blanket, throwing it over the side of the couch as he went. 

“Will.”

He rubbed his clouded eyes and shunned from the sunlight.

Will often referred to himself as a hermit, a recluse. The term that seemed most appropriate, however, was a vampire. The late nights, introvertedness, fascination with blood, drawn to the darkness. Aversion to the sun is added to the list.

“Hannibal. Are you a traveling physician now?”

“After your episode earlier, your cancellation worried me. I wanted to check in on you.”

“I wouldn’t label it as an episode, it wasn’t drastic.”

“Day terrors then.”

Seeing as how this wasn’t going to be a one-and-done conversation, Will stepped back and gestured inside. Hannibal slipped in and shirked off his jacket, draping it over a stray chair. The dogs scuffled and poked Hannibal’s dress shoes with their noses. Will sauntered to the fridge, “Can I get you anything?”

“Water would be lovely, thank you.” 

Normally, Hannibal waited for a seat to be offered, not wanting to impose. Though he’d always felt comfortable in Will’s home. He hadn’t visited many times and yet it felt as close as his own home, if not moreso. It wasn’t grandiose or immaculate, but as cheesy as the saying goes, he thinks a home is composed of the people in it and not of the structure itself. Will is his base and this is where he feels closest.

He sat down beside the blanket Will tossed onto the couch. It was dark green, and worn-out, loved. He sniffed it and got past the strands of dog hair to breath in Will’s essence. He folded it into place as Will puttered over with two cups. One with water, one with something stronger.

“Thank you.” Hannibal accepted it and sipped. “I hope my visit isn’t troubling.”

“No, not at all.” Will plunked on the opposite end of the couch. The dogs ran over, yipping at his heels. Winston stood upright with his paws on Will’s knees, Will shooed him down and he rested his head against them.

“Day drinking?”

“Are you going to chastise me for day drinking?”

Hannibal rested the cup on his thigh. “That would be hypocritical, wouldn’t it?” His index finger trailed the rim. “What’s been on your mind, Will?”

“I’m not your patient right now.” Will emphasized by propping his legs on the ottoman and sagging into the cushions. Winston hopped onto the ottoman and put his head on Will’s ankle instead.

“Indeed. What’s been on your mind, my confidant?”

Will tittered, “What’s been on yours?” His means of diverting attention wasn’t subtle, always posing the question back. It didn’t seem fair to only have to answer himself, he’d rather not answer at all.

“You. I can feel you disengaging. You’re like a rope getting stretched further and further. It’s progressively tightening. I fear what comes next, when it’s too taut and you’ll snap. Will it be a short descent or a rapid one?”

“You pulled me back from the cliff today.”

“What happens when I’m not there. Will you be able to pull yourself back?”

“You’ll be there. You’re always there.”

There was a number of things Hannibal could say. The detrimental effect that form of co-dependency could cause. Similarly, the importance of self-sufficiency. The unfairness of such a task on Hannibal’s shoulders.

Hannibal beamed. It was the most he’d witnessed from the unresponsive man. His dimples were prominent and the partial amount of teeth that peeked through his lips were gleaming. Will had to admit that such a smile looked good on him. “I’m always here for you.” Hannibal confirmed. “I’m glad you’ve recognized that.”

Will gave that straight-lipped smile, the ends curved and his teeth clenched underneath. It perfectly displayed his uncertainty to be flattered or scared. He took a long drag of his beer.

Hannibal took a swig himself and continued, “I’ve come to see you as more than a friend, more of a companion. Conceivably, even one in the same. There isn’t much distinctiveness between us anymore. Where do you end and I begin?”

“It ends with our principles.”

“Oh, Will, I don’t want to argue about that.” Hannibal said as he straightened out his tie.

“Afraid of a little Freudian slip?”

“In Freud’s eyes you would’ve been a divine gift. It’s too bad he isn’t around today.” 

“Good thing too. I wouldn’t want to meet him.” Will jabbed Winston with his foot where the dog’s fur was tickling his heel.

“Afraid of a little psychoanalysis?”

“I’m fed up with psychiatry.”

Hannibal stared at a miniature snow-globe that sat on his bookshelf, in it resided a boat tied to a pier. “If only we had met under different circumstances. I imagine you’d like me more if we had bumped shoulders in a coffee shop.”

That got a full blown laugh out of Will. “That’s a bit too ‘meet cute’ for my tastes.”

Hannibal got up and ambled to the globe, he shook it gently, watching the flakes flurry. “Speaking of taste, that dinner I suggested, I’d like you to come next Saturday evening.”

Will grimaced but it didn’t defeat the spark of hilarity he found. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

“Not even for me?” Hannibal grinned. Especially not you. “I’d enjoy your company nonetheless.”

That’s what Will despises. They enjoy each other’s company and that’s dangerous. He looks forward to spending an hour with Hannibal in their weekly sessions. That’s the true reason he’d canceled, so he could pretend having Hannibal there to rouse him wasn’t a blessing. When he came to after his reconstruction, Hannibal hands encased his own, he could’ve lifted them. Lifted those sturdy hands marred with calluses to his lips-

“I’ll attend.”

.o0o.

He hadn’t planned on the stroll to his cliff, but it seemed fitting under the circumstances. Hannibal had left and the loneliness was already suffocating. He used to be a lone wolf, intolerant of the company of others. Now it depended on the company and Hannibal was good company. Unfortunately. 

Things almost went very differently. As Hannibal headed out the door, he nearly uttered the words; You should stay for the night. That could’ve been taken severely out of context. He meant, “I’m terrified of myself.” With an excuse of, “It’s late and who knows what’s out there?” Funny, given that Hannibal is ‘what’s out there.’ 

When Hannibal stood, saying he should let Will be, Will bid him a goodnight and made sure he got to his car safely. Stupid. Hannibal waved and he waved back. He closed the blinds, rubbed his glabella, and tied his shoelaces.

Vines reached out to his feet and guided him to his refuge. The forest thinned for him, the trees separating akin to subjects clearing a path for their king. The flowers swirled above his head in a florally crown. He sat on the cliff like it was his throne and the ocean was his queen. 

Her face was distorted in the shallow ripples and the tides that sloshed into the rocky wall. But her happiness radiated in the mist and capsuled in salt that smothered the adjoining land. Will inhaled it in and felt a high like breathing in fumes. It was dizzying and intoxicating. He swayed his feet on top of the world.

This is where he’s meant to be.

Chapter Text

Will sat on the side of his bed, white t-shirt and blue boxers. He swished around a glass about a third-full of Moncharet wine and took intermittent sips. It calmed his nerves, helped him zone out. Winston laid beside him, his head resting on Will’s lap. He petted him softly and gave him a good scratch behind the ears. 

What had he agreed to? There was a time he was blissfully unaware that the meat he consumed at Hannibal’s wasn’t the pig, or cow, or whatever animal he’d lied about. While Hannibal excused him of the treatment, the same couldn’t be said about Jack. A bitter and unexpected snicker sprung out of him, sprouted from sheer bewilderment. How had they got caught up in this mess?

He felt an odd sort of detachment. Not from his person, but from his environment. His cabin no longer felt like his own. He recognized his belongings, the books he’d read and the lures he’d made. Spending hours at his table tying them together and reorganizing his tackle box. The spare parts of mechanical projects that cluttered the entryway along with wrenches and extra screws.

However, the whole picture wasn’t present. A person’s home is the epitome of who they are as a person. They’re likes, dislikes, interests, personality are put into their safe space. It’s what you miss while you’re away.  When he’s there… he still feels missing.

His sentence in prison was remarkably short, but he hadn’t departed unscathed. It is laughable—prison is a system to rehabilitate people. Transform them into good people and reintroduce them to society. His time at the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane permanently marked not only his record, but his moral code. It’s like he never left.

It wasn’t until he was behind bars that he succumbed to the notion that he had nothing left to lose. He chose to lie, to manipulate, to murder . Second-hand, but murder all the same. He can’t determine if he’s joyous that the operation failed, and Matthew Brown ended up with a bullet to the heart. 

Will can’t fathom a life without Hannibal, just as he can’t fathom continuing life with Hannibal in it.

The two most passionate emotions are love and hate. It’s easy to get tangled between them… 

He glared at the back of his hand, nursing his drink in the other. He can feel the warmth of Hannibal’s touch persisting on it. He hadn’t accounted for the look of pure devotion from the man when he’d rejoined the land of the living.

Hannibal understood where he was. If he had the opportunity, he would’ve pushed Will further into that space. The space that Will controlled in his head, would’ve pushed him there so that he could join him. Up there it would only be the two of them.

He chugged back the rest of the alcohol and set the glass on his bedside table. He massaged his forehead and stared off into space. His toothbrush waited for him on his bathroom counter, badgering him to spend the mere two minutes required to clean his teeth. The wine dwelled on them with a sheet of film. He’ll brush in the morning…

“C’mon, buddy.” He scooted Winston aside, who whined but nudged against him again once Will had settled under his covers. 

Arman’s figure was morphing.

He’d wrapped up, shrouded in blankets. They molded to him and pulsed until they landed on the shape to take. 

For eons, Will stood at the foot of the bed watching over him, as one would their baby to make sure they breathed soundly at night. His chest expanded ever so slowly.

He eventually ambled to the side and stretched out his hand, pulling the edge of a blanket back. The pads of his fingers touched Arman’s neck and delicately landed on his pulse. It was steady with sleep. He raised his hand to trail up his jaw, and at that moment he felt it shift.

Will’s breathing hitched, his hand going still. Arman’s jaw became squarer, his hollow cheekbones began to flesh out. His dusty blue eyes converting to an auburn. 

Arman pulled the blanket back over his face and Will tried tugging it, subsequently starting a game of tug-of-war. He’d yank it for Arman to pull back twice as hard. “Arman! What’s happening?” With impeccable force, Will took hold and managed to rip the top layer off-

-and gasped when Hannibal was staring back at him.

Will woke to a buzz that wasn't his alarm. It's quiet enough to bring him to consciousness but not to startle. In his line of work, he doesn't have the pleasure of putting his phone on ‘do not disturb’ at night. 

It's a text from Alana: “Please just hear him out.” It does not sound promising. He's sure he knows who ‘him’ is. He doesn't know what the ‘out’ is but it seems he'd rather not hear it. The foreboding aura outweighed the ominousness of the vague statement.

Through the communication barrier of flat texts, he thought her tone was pleading, though it could be a ‘polite’ command.

After a few minutes of staring off, he received another: “Does he know about the drinking?”

Damn.

“You don't hide it very well, Will.”

He shot her back a message: “That's because there's nothing to hide.” He crossed his fingers that his passive aggressiveness was discernible.

.o0o.

“You called?” Will asked immediately as he entered through the glass doors of Jack’s office—large and pristine in thanks to his prestige. Jack hadn’t been doing anything when he arrived. Hands folded on his desk, unordinarily twitchy. They separated to rub the polished wood.

“Yes, thank you for your punctuality.”

“Um. You’re welcome?” Will’s hands made kneading motions against his jeans, grasping and ungrasping the fabric.

“Care to take a seat?” Jack arose and made way around his desk to pat the back of the armchair.

“What is this?”

“A long time coming.”

Will swiped his bangs back, his palm loitered on his forehead. "That sounds… final.”

“Not final, short-term.”

“You’re firing me?” Will inquired with incredulity. It’s clear as day what Jack is getting at. His bluntness has been tampered with in favor of ‘breaking the news lighty.’ Though the implicit message rather than a straightforward one was worse.

“What do you want, Will? I’m giving you too much work. You ask for time off. I grant you time off and now I’m the bad guy?”

“You brought me back on the case before I’d walked out the doors of the prison. I didn’t decline.” Jack practically pried the bars himself to get Will out of there and back on task. He thought it ludicrous that Jack remained doubtful about his role as the Ripper as he handed over the documents. Desperate times…

“And for that I am thankful. Now, I am giving you a vacation, you should take it.”

“What did I do?”

“Go home, Will.”

Will won’t let him off the hook and Jack was ready for the backlash. Infuriation sizzled in his eyes while Jack’s eyes articulated pity but not guilt. “Cut the crap, Jack. You can’t lure me in and cut me loose without giving me a suitable answer.”

“I chatted with Alana, and we agreed that you need time out of the field to recuperate.”

He took great offense. “You guys ganged up on me?” 

“We aren’t conferring against you.”

“You aren’t with me.” Will is sick of people conspiring about him behind his back, pitting against him. He’d blamed it all on Hannibal’s influence previously, but there isn’t an excuse for this. “It's Alana, isn't it? She wants me off the case and you're the fall guy.”

“I'd say don't shoot the messenger, but I'm equally guilty. She may have convinced me to go through with this, but I submitted. She is headstrong, a quality one admires until they’re on the receiving end.”

“Alana can’t make you do anything.”

“Which is why this is temporary. Enjoy a few weeks of fishing, see a movie, go get a tan, just— just let it go, Will. I’ll contact you.”

“Sure.” Will grumbled and stormed out the doors.

Jack shook his head. Let him loose and he strives to stay. Reel him in and he’s not fit to work. It seemed he couldn’t win with that kid.

Will couldn't win with Jack. He set such a high bar that no one could meet it, let alone surpass it. 

He's been having a more difficult time putting the pieces together. After killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs, it was hard to imagine how it felt killing others. Now that he knew how it felt. The surge of adrenaline and exuberance as he watched the man bleed out on the floor changed his perception. His raspy voice repeating words he failed to understand to this day: “See? See…” 

“I wonder if then you would finally understand what you’ve become.”

His brain has been skewed to plant himself in the perspective of the murdered.  

“I liked killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

He had disappointed Jack to the point that he had given up on him. 

.o0o.

He daydreamed of his cliff.

It whispered a promise into his bleeding ear, a getaway from the torment. It waited for him when the pain became too much to bear. Presently, it was bearable. It always loomed in his subconscious—it proposed a surrender so pure he could consider it holy.

His emotions towards work were contradictory—it infected his brain, and each memory was altered negatively. A filter of gore blemished every photograph. In footsteps he sees tracks of red. In eyes he sees diluted ichor- he chose to stare at his shoes.

He hated looking into the magic eight-ball that are people’s eyes. He could read them in an instant, they’d say no, or yes, or ask again later. It was intrusive . When he’d make out their thoughts, they could make out his own. 

The problem is, when he’s not working, he’s thinking and when he’s thinking, well… Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. 

He foresees two options: One, rebirth in sin, he gives into the temptation. Two, rebirth in resolution, which is looking more probable.

He sat in the driver's seat of his Volvo and thunked his forehead against the steering wheel. He refused to go back home. Not wanting to waste another day of staring into the flames with a silent prayer that it would extend its fiery tongue and swallow him whole.

His mental escape of fishing hadn’t been appealing for a while. When he waded in the stream in his vest and hat, it was more than catching dinner for him. It was the stillness of being in the middle of nowhere. The lullabies of birds and shifting of the foliage. It no longer provided such stillness. As his legs were pulled into the water like quicksand, it reminded him that he could be looking down on said water. 

From his mighty cliff, he could broaden his stance, pose his arms out and sail into the abyss. 

His pretty, pretty cliff. She was made for him. His star-crossed lover, always there and never meant to be. Could he go so far as referring to them as Romeo and Juilet? …If circumstances permitted, his fate would be the same.

They’d be united soon.

In the meantime, he headed elsewhere.

Hannibal heard footsteps echoing down the hallway outside his office. He hadn’t much free time between sessions, but he wasn’t going to turn him away. His next patient could sit in the waiting room. 

He had a pencil in hand and sketched on Bristol paper. He recreated the style of renaissance portraits with different subjects, this piece portrayed Alana and Will’s complicated love, though Will’s gaze ventured far off, as though looking to another.

He knew that gait, the heaviness of his feet and yet the hesitancy of his steps was gone. He pushed aside his supplies and gathered the shavings from sharpening his tool. They were emptied into his trash bin as Will made an entrance.

He barged in, not a call, not a knock.

Hannibal perked up when he rolled in. Will smelled strongly of pinewood, thanks to his aftershave. He had selected a different scent after Hannibal last commented on it, this was better. Still he’d prefer something tastier. 

He checked the time, “Will, am I forgetting something?”

“No… no, no you aren’t.” He paced the room, his hands on his lower back as he dented the floor with his hefty strides. He’s distraught. Either he’ll clam up and refuse to say anything of substance, or it’ll come gushing out of him. He presumed this to be a clamming-up instance. 

“Sit, Will, please.”

Will did so. He strode over and sat, but it wasn’t five seconds later when he stood again to survey the place. 

“May I ask what has you in such a tizzy?”

“You may.” Will remarked sarcastically. 

“What has you in such a tizzy?” Will’s arms crossed, uncrossed to rub the back of his neck, and crossed again. A clamming-up instance, indeed. “You came here for a reason, Will. I’m grateful you feel secure enough to turn here in times of anguish.”

“I went to the cliff. My cliff. Not- not this time, but I thought about it.”

“This cliff, it isn’t a metaphor?”

“It’s a real place. I go when I need to leave everything behind.”

“This obsession with this cliff is unorthodox, Will. You are personifying it, allowing for a far more emotional attachment than should be associated with it. You’ve affirmed your urge to go over it again and again. I need you to stay away from it, Will.”

“She’s more than that. It's beautiful. I smile down at the ocean and she smiles back. In her smile I see the culmination of the happiness I've been dreaming of.” His gaze pensive and it resonated a surreal sympathy.

“This type of language, it frightens me. When you think of going there, you need to contact me promptly, do you understand?”

“I can’t do that.”

“You must, Will. This is not a negotiation.”

“I can’t promise I’ll never see her again. I came here today, that’s not enough?”

Hannibal stood, “This is not a matter I will take lightly. I will contact the authorities if need be.”

“And risk putting my life in the hands of another?”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. It was an argument easily won. Hannibal can’t give up that control. His dominance over Will won’t be relinquished. “Please, Will,” he said sincerely, “don’t put me in that position.”

Will strode over to the ladder and climbed onto the mezzanine, a way of distancing himself from Hannibal’s superfluous commiserate. He sat with his back against the railing, one leg tucked under him and resting his chin on the other knee.

“I dreamed about you last night.”

Hannibal clicked his tongue. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Arman lay swathed in a cocoon of his own making, but when I peeled back the layers, he metamorphosed into you.” Will knew how to enchant him with his imagery, in his flirtatious manner of speaking, even the most horrid of statements were seductive from his rosy lips. 

Will turned his head, his side profile present and Hannibal watched those lips. “He shed his skin to reveal the wickedness that has corrupted me. For in Arman, I see myself and in myself I see you. You’ve already devoured me, Hannibal, what is left to give? What is left for you to take?”

“I am not so heedless as to take what isn’t mine. You’ve given yourself, Will. I’ve taken it graciously, but you must be the one to give.” 

A wearied exhale blew out his nostrils. His eyes scrunched and he massaged his temple, tell-tale signs of a headache.

“Are you feeling alright, Will?”

“I haven’t drunk any water.”

“Why don't you come on down from there?”

When Will made no move to get up, Hannibal came to him. When he wouldn’t be dislodged from his spot, Hannibal sat next to him. 

Will’s weary eyes closed, and his head dipped. His chin sliding off his knee and instead his cheek rested against it. Hannibal isn’t one to act on whims, and yet as he took in the adoring sight of a sleepy Will, his hesitance to touch the unsociable man was put into action. He moved his left hand to land on Will’s nape, who jolted. He maneuvered to cup the side of his face and rested Will’s head on his shoulder. 

“What brought you to this point?” Hannibal asked softly. 

“You did.” Will mumbled with the way his jaw was pressed. 

“I did…”

“Did you really think I was going to come back normal after everything you did to me?” He doesn’t have to put it out there, but it surges out of him uncontrollably, “You made me forget everything over and over so that you could do it again for no reason but your own entertainment.” Will continued to lean into Hannibal as he moved his head to speak easier. “To you it didn’t matter, because you always knew you could get me back out, and you did. 

“My imprisonment was enacted and thwarted by you. My encephalitis was exacerbated and healed by you. You make my problems with the promise of solving them so that I can not be rid of you for I have to rely upon my captor, all the while awaiting your next trial. I can’t flee; my solutions reside with you. I am free of my cell and yet remain a prisoner in another’s domain.” 

Hannibal tsked. Will chewed the inside of his bottom lip. Hannibal wouldn’t look at him and that is a first. Was that remorse? “I’m sorry.” It was. Hannibal apologized to him.

“You’re not.” He wanted to accept Hannibal’s apology, to think he was capable of feeling sorrow of all the grief he caused Will, but he knew it wasn’t true, nothing was stopping Hannibal from doing it again. “You’re not sorry or you wouldn’t have killed Ellis.”

“Please, Will.”

He hadn’t the faintest idea what Hannibal was getting at. But then he stood and extended his palms for Will to take. He helped to pull him up and they migrated back to the main floor.

Will propped himself on the wall of shelves as though he couldn’t hold himself up.

Hannibal eyed the subtle outline of the flask that inhabited Will’s coat pocket. His drinking was truly get out of hand, but mentioning that now would not do him any favors. Wordlessly, he grabbed the pitcher from his side table and poured Will a glass of water. Will accepted with trembling fingers and stuck it in the crook of his elbow.

Will fished a bottle of aspirin out of his pocket and dumped a couple pills into his palm. Another excessive habit. As though Will wanted to dissolve the world into puddles that he himself could sink into. He worried about when Will would eventually turn to something stronger to dull the pain. While the medication itself isn’t addictive, he’s formed a psychological dependence on it.

He threw back the pills and swished them down with a gulp.

“Better?” Will shrugged with a hand keeping him upright. Hannibal led him back to his seat, who obediently stayed this time. “Why are you drawn to this cliff?” He received another shrug. “What does it provide to you that the living can’t?”

“A look beyond the veil.”

“But they do. Isn’t that what your Ripper has been pestering you about?”

“Are you making the offer?”

Hannibal went to pour a glass for himself and returned to sit on his armrest. “Elliot Budish made his victims into angels. He stretched the skin off their backs into wings and positioned them to pray over him while he slumbered.” He had a far off look, like the gruesome memory was nostalgic. “I didn’t go to the scene, but I saw photos… I believe that I peeked beyond the veil. As I saw them I briefly thought myself an angel. I could kneel down then and there and see a glimpse of what the afterlife has in store for me.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I worried that I may not want to come back. I have responsibilities to maintain while I reside in my physical body.”

Will scoffed and shook his head. “Your responsibilities won’t matter if you’re gone.”

“They do for those in waiting.”

That’s where they are different. In death, Will wouldn’t be stuck on those still here. If they want to keep living, then so be it. He wouldn’t let that effect his decision, not that he’s decided. Why should others have a say on how he goes out?

“You haven’t a shred of empathy for those in mourning?”

“Let them mourn me. I won’t be mourning myself.”

Will grimaced at the sound of saliva swishing around in Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal washed it back with a drink of water before noticing Will’s emptied cup. He stood and refilled it for him who murmured a petulant gratitude. 

With one hand on the pitcher’s handle and the other placed on it’s cool glass, Hannibal asks, “Can you bring me to it?” Will’s eyebrows raised not so inconspicuously. Are you asking what I think you’re asking? “Will you show me your cliff?”

“I could do that… You mean right now?”

“No. Unfortunately, I’m five minutes past my regular.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I would stop mid-appointment for you, Will.” Will inhaled and bit his lips unsure of how to proceed. “Whether it’s three in the morning or you’re across the globe. I’m here when you need me.” He added, “That’s what it means to be a doctor,” as a means of explanation. “If you prefer we leave now, I could cancel.”

“Uh, that isn’t necessary.”

He nodded and replaced the pitcher. “Let me see you out.”

Hannibal opened the door and stepped aside. Will did a double take at Hannibal and the door frame. “Bye.”

He watched Will fade down the hall way.

Hannibal looked to his next patient, “Shall we?”

Chapter Text

“Pr. Graham is back?”

“I thought he died.”

“I thought he killed and ate a bunch of people.”

“He was exonerated.”

“I do not want to be alone in a room with him.” 

“We have a couple dozen classmates in there.”

“I’d be fine with that. In fact, I’d let him have a piece of me, if you know what I mean.” 

“That’s disgusting.”

 “You’re disgusting.”

The rumors spread like wildfire. Will was surprised to find he was still employed at the academy given his “stunt.” ‘All publicity is good publicity’ didn’t apply in the world of catching killers. 

Discovering the pictures your criminal psychology teacher presented on the projector were his own doing didn't sit well. Discovering that he was wrongfully accused doesn’t ease the fear. His record will never recover. It’s dwindling on unaffordable life-support. 

Will walked in with his briefcase and a cup of scorching coffee he’d snatched from the lounge. Other teachers had avoided him like the plague. Aside from the occasional friendly nod or grin, people would think him an absolute stranger. They were worse at making eye contact than he was. 

Half of his class’s population didn't show up. Either they’d given up on his schedule or wouldn’t risk becoming a future snack.

It was eerie—the lethargy of his classroom. As though everyone had been replaced with a mannequin, not a single click of a pen or crumpled paper was heard. The annoying clapping he’d received when he came back after taking down Garrett Jacob Hobbs would be readily accepted compared to this. His students’ soulless eyes were glued to his back as he made way to his desk. 

He set his items down and loosened the collar of his shirt with a tug. Confidence wasn’t something he struggled with when public speaking. He goes beyond the line of introversion, but they aren’t talking back. They’re consuming the knowledge he proffers. However, in this instance, the confidence waned. The quiet he preferred was now that of the silence in a forest where a predator is lurking.

He unclasped his briefcase to pull out his laptop and hook it up to the screen.

“The Chesapeake Ripper is having a field day…”

He went on to give a lengthy description of both scenes they’ve had involving the bridge. Arman Short, possible murder disguised as suicide, though Will begged to differ. The last, but not least, Ellis Thacher. The man whose heart was replaced with a deer’s. 

He steered off track as his mind wandered to his recent conversation with Hannibal: “Elliot Budish made his victims into angels.” He was referencing the Angel Maker. This victim had bird wings- angel wings taking flight. Hannibal had been known as their copycat before they were all linked to the Ripper’s kills. Not that the others followed, Jimmy and Brian continued to give him a hard time about the correlation. But he knew the truth.

Was this an homage to him?

Hannibal wants to make me into his angel.

Will recited his observations with matching photos. “This isn’t just a means of taking meat, though that should be noted. This is about control. If man finds himself seeking death, yet is too cowardly to deal a mortal wound, the Ripper is happy to provide. He wants to be sought instead.” He clicked the button on his remote to flip to the next slide, it was a close-up of his Ellis’s hollowed out chest. 

“This was done post-mortem. Inflicting pain wasn’t a priority. It’s exhibition, he is making a show of bringing these individuals…” As he projected his voice, he saw Jack in the entryway to the lecture hall, “to God.”

He was observing him. How long had Jack been standing there? Alana was beside him. They’re helicopter parents.

“The Chesapeake Ripper enacts in sounders of three or four. And he’s changing his game. With luck, he’ll slip up and his next two to three victims will be brought justice. Or maybe we can prevent them altogether.” With that, he closed his laptop, signaling the end of his lecture.

His students filtered out of the room in a whirlwind. Computers and folders were shoved into shoulder bags and backpacks. They parted like the red sea as the notorious Jack Crawford made his way through the aisle. Alana tagged behind, one hand clutching her purse and the other fidgeting with a zipper.

Do we have to do this right now?

“I passed my psych eval with flying colors, remember?” Hannibal had signed it off before they began speaking to put the paperwork aside in favor of actual psychiatry. It was forever ago now, but he needed something to be pissy at them about.

“Yeah, then you had a meltdown at a crime scene.” 

“Anyone would panic when getting grabbed by a corpse.” One of the mushroom men had launched forward and latched onto his wrist. He thought he had hallucinated it. No, it was a nightmare come to life. He had stumbled back into a tree to get away which was completely justified. They treated it like an unnatural reaction due to trauma. He’d had to bring the paper back to Hannibal, telling him the signature was premature for crying out loud. 

“We aren’t here for a psych eval.” Alana clarified. “We wanted to see how you were doing.”

“In my place of work, during a presentation on the Chesapeake Ripper. You,” he accentuated at Jack, “used to storm in here like you owned the place, but at least then it was to kick me into the field. Now that I’m out of the field, you’re checking in to see if I can handle something as simple as some bloody pictures.”

“That’s all it is, a check-in.” Jack replied in an ornery tone. 

“You take away my consulting, and what, now you’ve come to take my lecturing?”

“This isn’t about taking anything away! We’re here as concerned friends.” Alana said with escalating frustration.

“Then why are you here?”

She looked at him, to Jack, and back at him. “...To say hi.”

Will smushed his stuff into his case with a grunt. “Hmm, I’m done here.”

“Let us take you out to lunch.” Jack offered.

“It’s long past noon.”

“An early dinner.”

While Will adamantly declined, he wound up in Jack’s car. Alana got shotgun, leaving him alone in the back. 

They drove to some crappy fast-food joint where the hamburgers were soggy, and the fries burnt to ash. It was cheap but thanks to the ‘fast’ part, they received their food within minutes. Will vacuumed up his crispy chicken sandwich with a false hope that he could eat and dash, though he needed a ride back for his own vehicle. He should’ve just told Jack he’d meet him there and then ditched. 

They sat opposite from him at a booth near the exit. The seats were pleather and solid. Jack sucked on the straw of his diet Doctor Pepper and Alana took casual bites of a salad that shouldn’t be on the menu given it didn’t meet the grease standard. 

“You were telling your students this was caused by the Chesapeake Ripper.” Jack began.

“Because it is.”

“You claimed it was, and Price agreed.”

“But you don’t.”

“Three times is a pattern, we’ve only had two-” at Will’s countenance, he corrected, “maybe one instance of this. It’s conclusive but not irrefutable. As Zeller said, this strays from the Ripper’s motive.”

“I’ve never felt him as deeply as I did when I saw the body. I could practically feel him breathing down my neck.” He did in a sense, as he reenacted the scene, it was Hannibal holding him.

Alana spoke for the first time since they switched to this topic, “You felt Hannibal?”

“Yes.”

Fortunately, Jack’s cup wasn’t made of foam, or his thumb would’ve gone straight through it. “And how do you know what Hannibal feels like?”

Alana’s forehead wrinkled and Will’s eyes drifted to the ceiling high enough for his eyelids to cover his pupils. “His presence, his being. Like - like when someone enters the room, and you know who it is without looking.”

“Like an aura?” Jack asked with such incredulity they may as well have been talking about voodoo and witchcraft.

“This isn’t black magic!”

“I just don’t want you spreading false information to your class.” Jack said straightforwardly.

Through clenched teeth, Will responded, “I know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not that we don’t trust you.” Alana assured with a pat to the back of his hand. “Times are tough. How are you, really, Will?”

“I’m stable.”

“Stability holds you above the surface, but will it keep you floating? Beyond stability, can you see yourself being happy?” 

Will plucked at the peeling paint on the table. “The therapist in you is showing.” Will remarked distastefully.

She blatantly ignored his comment. “Do you think yourself capable of happiness?”

Paint flakes collected under his fingernails. “That’s a loaded question.”

Jack was disconcerted about Will shying away from a simple ‘yes’. He may not be happy now but is it so far-fetched to believe one day he would be? “Dr. Lecter deals with this on a regular basis?” He whispered.

Will overheard the question, “How does anyone know when they're truly happy? How is it measured? Or is it the state of not being miserable that clues them in?”

A quarter of his sandwich is left in its plastic wrap and the fries go untouched.

Alana derailed his spiraling with a new path, “How can we help?”

“Help?”

“You’re peeved with me for getting you out of the field, which!” Her volume increases as he goes to interrupt, “-wasn’t a rebellion. And I get it. However, that doesn’t make me regret it. Steering clear of everything that happened isn’t coping. You need decent coping mechanisms, Will. You can’t drown in alcohol.”

Will could have bashed his head into the ugly bright-yellow wall.

Jack’s arms must’ve teleported to the table where they were folded over. “Have you been drinking on the job?” Alana assumed Jack knew of his ‘problem’ and her lips sealed so tightly they disappeared. She sent Will an apology frown, but he didn’t see it. His gaze was on a dust particle sifting through a light. “Answer me, Will!”

“Not on the job.”

“Before?”

“I swear, Will, if that suicide-Chesapeake Ripper-message b.s. you’ve been preaching was gushed in a drunken haze I will knee you so hard you lose all sensation down there.”

“I’ve had a shot or two in the morning, but nothing more!”

“You shouldn’t even be driving down there with a level over 0.00%!”

Will could see the staff getting nervous at their argument. A scrawny kid with a white grease-stained cap was whispering to a cashier. The cooks, who’d been spectating, scrambled to pull potato slices out of the deep fryer. Those workers have probably experienced a brawl or two around there, and with the way Jack is looking, maybe they’re right to expect another. His face was redder than the underworld. 

Jack went on, “And a shot after?”

“Yeah, but I’m not on the clock.”

“It’s the lavish drinking I’m stuck on.”

How is this anyone else’s business? “What’re you going to do about it? It’s not like you can fire me!” 

Jack was going to explode; Will should be bracing for impact. “Actually, I can. Given that I didn’t sack you, this is paid leave!”

“Then I quit.”

They were stunned. The abrupt puzzlement that enveloped them was immensely satisfying. Jack gaped, the food in his teeth on full display. 

Alana butt in, “Will, you’re upset and not thinking rationally. You are deflecting your insecurity by-”

“Do not tell me I’m irrational.” She seemed almost frightened. He wasn’t a typically imposing figure, but he knew how to be and his tone was downright menacing. “Irrationality is for the crazies locked up in their metal cages with a cutesy little muzzle to prevent imprudent love-bites. For months I was ‘mad’ but with my freedom came my sanity. You do not get to take my sanity away from me.”

Will got out of the booth and opened his wallet, chucking a twenty-dollar bill at Jack. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Alana, thoroughly chastised, asked timidly, “What about your car?”

“I’ll have Hannibal pick me up.”

Jack and Alana looked like fishes out of water, their mouths wide o’s. 

He waited outside in the blistering cold with his back pressed to a pole. He called Hannibal who was more than willing to come fetch him. On the phone, Hannibal had mentioned that it was a great time to visit the cliff if Will wished to. It sounded like the perfect escape. 

It didn’t matter that it’d be some time, as Hannibal was far out of the way from his route. His bones were chilled and his toes blue despite his boots, but Hannibal’s approach was a balm to his soul.

.o0o.

Will gave Hannibal the directions and they took a long drive to Wolf Trap. Trepidation and enthusiasm swelled inside Will. This was an opportunity to show Hannibal the beauty of the place he held dearly. His agitation was more prominent. What if he insulted her? What if he couldn’t see her for all her glory? 

And the jealously. What if she thought he was choosing sides. She always stressed about him spending more time with his friends than her;

“You are my friend.”

“As much as you are friends with them?”

“Moreso.”

The heaters were on full blast and the seat-warmers were an appreciated addition. 

Will’s palms hovered above the fans and Hannibal spun the notch to turn the air higher. His eyes refocused on the road as Will said, “The deer heart.”

Hannibal knows how Will's mind works and therefore doesn't question his non-sequitur, “Deers symbolize rebirth. In the shedding of their antlers, they are granted new ones. They represent innocence, but there's a mysteriousness about them in their gentle but drab eyes.” Hannibal spieled.

“They mean something different to you and I.”

“It reminds you of Garett Jacob Hobbs.” Hannibal remarked as he turned on his blinker.

“You forget to mention yourself.”

“...What's the correlation between me and him?”

Will's head thudded against the headrest, “You called out the Minnesota Shrike. You stuck Cassie Boyle on a stag head, treating her like a piece from an art gallery rather than a person. Those girls weren't human, they were materials. You two have an affinity for antlers.”

Hannibal summarized, “That's what the deer hearts are for? A gibe? The Chesapeake Ripper must think the FBI needs extra help connecting these ‘suicides’ back to him.”

Will shook his head, “That's not it. Not all of it.”

They park on a marginal hill a distance away. He puts on the parking brake before hopping out. Will is reaching for the handle when it glides open for him. Will nods his thanks to a somewhat somber Hannibal.

It was a bit of an adventure to get to the edge itself. They go through archways of drooping branches and slide on unlevel ground. 

Will was in his winter coat, gloves, and a navy beanie. Hannibal wouldn't go anywhere without his finest attire, even if it meant wearing a suit in below 40° weather. His sweaters were solely for his home, a fact that irrationally maddened Will. He at least wore a thick jacket over it and a light-green scarf.

Their noses were already tinted pink and skin almost transparent.

“When did your fascination begin?”

“I’m not sure… I came here once on a walk and admired it, but there wasn’t anything inherently special about it. Then she put a leash on me and sometimes I feel her tug on it.”

“Why don't you let me untie the leash?”

“I like her pull. Reminds me there's someone who cares.”

“I care.”

“Someone who isn't a cannibalistic serial killer.”

“Ah. When will you ever get over that?” Hannibal said teasingly.

Will rolled his eyes. “You're not even trying anymore.”

“Would denying it change your mind?”

“No.”

Hannibal jerked his head as if to say, ‘then why bother?’ “You are a pessimist, Will. You believe every man thinks the world revolves around himself. You refuse to submit to the mindset that you are deserving of love.”

“I think most people are deserving of love. It’s not that I don’t think myself one of them, I just won’t fall into the trap that someone's love is enough to rescue me.”

“Most people? Not those who have sinned? What of second chances?”

“Second chances are for those willing to change. Then you have those claiming they’ll do better when applying for parole. Next thing you know, they’re robbing gas station clerks and holding them at gunpoint.” Will removed his fogging glasses and wiped them on his shirt. “Optimism is the kind term for naivety. Pessimism is reality.” He put them back on, though it wouldn’t take long to sheen over again. 

“You've linked your suicide fantasy to a location. In this fantasy you’ve manufactured, her love is idyllic. It isn’t weighed on expectations or reciprocations. It is one-sided and therefore safe.”

“It’s unconditional.”

The soft breeze rustled Hannibal’s flawlessly combed hair and Will’s frizzy strays. Hannibal went to brush a strand behind Will’s ear before altering his path to rest on his shoulder. 

Will’s eyes wandered between Hannibal’s nose and hand but didn’t comment. He patted his shoulder and lowered his hands into his pockets to fight off the wind. 

Mine is unconditional.

“You have many who love you. Jack, Alana, Jimmy…”

“No Brian?”

“I hate for you to find out like this.” Hannibal said with a faint smirk.

Will huffed a laugh. His fleeting smile steadied out as he asked, “Beverly?”

“Yes, she did.”

“...You?”

“That goes without saying.”

The question was accidental, the need for an answer coming before realizing the repercussions of asking it. “You love me?”

Hannibal’s hands raised, this time they grazed his jaw and did touch his ears, however, it was to remove his glasses. Will observed silently as his glasses moved off the bridge of his nose. Hannibal carefully wiped the lens with his sleeve. “Yes, Will. I love you.” He brought the glasses to his eye to look for smudges, and when he was satisfied, he tenderly placed them over Will’s ears. 

Will was speechless. The confession could arguably be platonic, as Hannibal had mixed himself in with other names, but the way he voiced it. It was unadulteratedly intimate. They said, ‘I’m in love with you.’

The confliction danced in Will’s eyes and a shiver reverberated through him. It could be mistaken as the cold biting his spine, but Will knew better than to think that Hannibal would perceive it as such. Instead, Hannibal simply used that as an excuse to wrap his scarf around Will’s neck. It smelled of posh cologne and grapes.

“Thanks.”

“It suits you.” 

His blush was covered by the weather. 

Hannibal was going to be the death of him. Most likely in more ways than one. 

“Was it curiosity that brought you here?” Will inquired.

Hannibal gave a meaningful look, which consisted of puckering his lips and his eyes gazing into the distance. “She’s made quite an impression on you. I wanted to see what could be so worthy of your devotion.” Hannibal is decisive with his speech, every sentence is carefully crafted to drive his point effectively. Will was struck by his choice of ‘she’ as he hadn’t been calling his cliff that previously. Manipulation, he's winning you over.

The flask came out and Hannibal went as far as to take it away. He grabbed Will’s wrist as he uncapped it and confiscated it with his other hand.

“Hey!”

“I won’t have you soil pleasant memories with drink. You need to fill your head with fond moments to look back on. Look at what we have.” Hannibal clasped the lid and splayed his arms out. “Capture this time, take a mental photograph and store it with your indispensable possessions. This isn’t a time to be tossed during spring cleaning. It is infinite, as you and I are infinite. When our bodies lay decaying in the ground, our souls will be interlocked all the same.”

“That’s backwards. Recently, you’ve been impressing the finity of time like a stamp on my brain. What is it, do we last forever or fizzle out?”

“In that case I will reiterate; Our time on earth is finite, our time in the afterlife is everlasting.”

“Then what’s the purpose of earth at all? Why don’t we preach the word to chuck ourselves off the nearest balcony?” The peril of Will’s words didn’t go unheard.

“Our actions here affect our rewards, our punishments in the great beyond.”

“How does God feel about serial killers?”

“He made me this way.” Hannibal said matter-of-factly.

“Then how does He gauge where the retribution falls?”

“Time will tell.”

It’s always a riddle with him…

At the cessation in conversation, Will went to grab the flask and Hannibal raised it higher. “We were having a heart to heart.” Will stumbled on Hannibal’s feet as he tippy-toed to get it. “You’ve become dependent on it, Will. What happens when your cup runs dry?”

“Then you refill it!” Will replied angrily, his hands scrabbled at Hannibal’s arms who didn’t even budge. “Taking something that isn’t theirs is considered rude, Dr. Lecter. Give it back.”

“What’s worse would be letting you waste away on this.”

“Why now?” Hannibal’s arm was slackening and Will took the opportunity to go at it again. Hannibal managed to slip it into his coat pocket and grab Will’s forearms, pressing them to his sides.

“You are muddying our time together with the notion that drowning your sorrows can only come from reprieve. Tell me you don’t appreciate my being here, away from the prying eyes of the world. I can be your ocean if you let me. I can be your cliff. When you fall, it will be into my arms, and I will carry you home.”

“Put down the poems.” Will spoke with animosity. “Poetic language isn’t going to persuade me.”

“I only wish for a you that’s not impaired,” Hannibal said, “Stay with me in spirit as well as in person.” He reluctantly fished the flask out and handed it to Will.

Will opened it in record time and chugged back indecently large swallows. With dismay, Hannibal gave Will the agency to do so. Will coughed and wiped the residue from his lips. He extended it in a joking manner, “Care for a sip?”

“It’s a shame your behavior can no longer be blamed on cognitive dysfunction.” Hannibal linked his arm with Will’s and led them away from the precipice.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I think it’s best if you get some rest.”

They left the area. Hannibal got into the driver’s seat and Will scratched his head for a moment before slipping into the passenger side. The streets were oddly empty and snowflakes sprinkled the window. The windshield wipers occasionally shuffled by to clear the view. 

“Are you mad at me?” Will asked with neither apology or for sick thrill, it was numb interest.

“No, never that.” He admitted gently, “I am discouraged. Wounded. I was foolish to think your loathing of me was a passing paranoia. I convince myself we see eye to eye, but then you look away with repugnance and from the gash protrudes despondency.”

“I can’t be who you want me to be.”

“You already are.”

Will can hear the splish of liquid in his flask, a motivator to bring it to his lips once more. As it journeys there, the vehicle comes to an abrupt stop that has it sloshing out over him. He hisses and curses and Hannibal gave him a sorry smile, “Oops, stop sign.” Will brushed off the mock-apology and pulled napkins from the glove box.

Hannibal parked his car on the dirt road and walked Will to the door.

Will walked through the door of his home, standing there momentarily before turning back.

“Hannibal!” In that single second that they made eye contact, Will felt the weight of feelings mingling between them. “I’m sorry.” “All is forgiven.” His smile was sincere.

The door closed with a faint click and Will went to grab the lapels of his coat in order to tug it off, though his fingers made contact with the scarf. He’d forgotten to give it back. Quickly, he turned and walked out onto his porch to hand it over, but Hannibal was long gone.

He threw the scarf onto his bed and flopped down beside it. 

.o0o.

He was naked. Hannibal strung him up by a rope around the neck. It tore into his sensitive skin and his breathing had stopped long ago, though he was still fully present. His 'arms' were partially up in an a-pose. Though they were wings, alluring and pristine. 

Hannibal told him to fly and so he flapped his wings but the noose held him in place. His feet grappled for purchase, a mere half-foot off the floor. 

He witnessed a mound of flesh fall out of his torso, as though it rejected it. His entire stomach was concave. Hannibal stepped forward with the heart of a deer and rested it like an offering on the pedestal made of his innards. 

"You are angelic in more than your appearance. Your mind is your strength." 

"What of my heart? You took it away." 

"It is a bargain. You give me your mind and I give you my heart... " 

His neck was stretching from his body. He could be decapitated. 

"You make a beautiful angel, William."

Chapter Text

“Jack gave me a frantic phonecall about your abrupt dismissal. I thought you simply wanted to spend time together, I didn’t realize my picking you up was a means of escape.”

Will thunked the back of his head against the top of the chair with a sigh. “It wasn’t meant to be, I just had to get out of there… away from them.”

“Their company, it no longer suits you?”

“It’s suffocating . I was fuming when Jack dismissed me, but in a way it’s the push I needed. At lunch I told him I quit.”

Hannibal shifted his cuff link, though his gaze was fixated on Will’s disheveled hair. “This job was more than your livelihood, it’s your only true means of socializing and providing you the stimulation your brain needs.”

Here they are again, in Hannibal’s office. Will feels like he was just here. He has difficulty grasping onto the passage of time, where there are clocks he sees distortion and numbers melting through the glass.

“I was doing just fine before Jack waltzed into my life.” 

“You are resorting to extreme measures. This is a result of your lacking of control, is it not? You’re through with Jack and the others dictating how you should live your life and therefore you are cutting them out completely.”

“This isn’t about severing ties, I’m not ceasing all communication, just anything that involves my job, my well-being, or anything to do with me.” Will said ironically. 

“And in doing so, cutting them out completely.”

“Yes, it appears so… You don’t seem all that surprised.”

“Freddie Lounds is ahead of you.” 

Will’s head sunk into his hands. “I wish I could say the thought didn’t cross my mind.”

Hannibal fetched his tablet from his desk and pulled up his web browser. He tapped the characters into the search bar, Tattlecrime.com, being regularly visited autofilled. It was the most recent article and showcased a picture of Will arguing with Jack and Alana through the windows of some fast-food place. 

How she knew where they were and able to take decent photos is something he finds equally concerning and impressive. He maximized the page and handed it over for Will to take.

Will looked up through the gap of his index and middle fingers. In bold letters, the title read ‘Now Hiring - Calling All Whackjobs’. “She needs to take Privacy 101. Do you think I could file a restraining order?” Hannibal smirked as Will scrolled. Adding to his amusement, Will spoke up once more, “How come you haven’t eaten her yet? Really, for someone so rude, it’s a miracle she’s still alive. Scratch that, a tragedy.”

“It is quite possibly a supernatural phenomenon, but I will agree it is far from a miracle. What can I say, Will? Who will there be to write the accomplishments of mass murderers if not for our faithful tabloid journalists?”

“Is that an admission?”

“It is sarcasm.”

Will read aloud the first paragraph of the scummy piece. 

“Our main character, Will Graham, appears to be entering his villain arc, that is, if he’s not in it already. If he continues down this path, we may just have a civil war on our hands. What happens when FBI turns on FBI? Then again, he’s not even allowed a badge. It’s scary to think who they’ll allow in the walls of our most secure government agencies.” 

His eyes continued roaming, “It’s scary to think people like this have access to the internet. If only we could ban stupidity online.”

“Alas, there wouldn’t be an online community.” Will snapped the cover of the tablet into place and passed it back. Hannibal accepted it and set it aside. “You are a peculiar specimen. The world is waiting to read your next move.”

“According to her, I’m committing treason.”

Hannibal snorted, “She does have a flair for the dramatic… Will you do teaching full-time, or stick with part-time?”

“Undecided.”

“This disconnection from your life. Are you, in fact, trying to get better? To ease your mind from the cruelties of man, or is it another cry for help?”

“I’m not really quitting.” Will declared with a laugh, “I wanted to see the look on Jack’s face, to see how he’d react. Lecturing will fill the gap. And as for getting better, I thought that was a given. I’m here, in your office. Therapy is for those who need help. ” 

“You told Jack you would quit out of curiosity? To see what he would do?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal understood that.

“Jack put you under my supervision. We would never have met if he hadn’t sought my approval. Are you here now because you choose to be here? You did ‘quit’, after all.”

Will gave an unsure smile. Crying for help would mean he has a reason to go on. Therapy was mandated from the start. “You’re right. I technically don’t need to show up anymore.”

“Now, now. As I said, control is key. I didn’t mention your being here to insinuate you should leave. It would pain me to take you off my schedule.”

Will huffed a laugh, “I was about to ask if that was the money talking, but you aren’t straining for cash.”

“You are the highlight of my week, Will.” Will’s smile faded. He could say the same for Hannibal and that’s why this is a great excuse to get out. “Jack’s authority is a facet of your life, he does not have full jurisdiction over it.”

As Hannibal went down a rabbit-hole of who’s playing God, he was entranced elsewhere, ‘the highlight.’

Hannibal is everyones’ dream man. He’s a Doctor of Medicine and psychology. He can play multiple instruments, knows more languages, intelligence ties in with all of that, polite and funny, and a remarkable cook. 

He’s come over to Hannibal’s house early enough that he is still in his cozy red sweater that Will finds endearing, and a pot of coffee brewing. He’ll prepare a cup for Will just how he likes it without asking. On the colder days, it’ll be a mug of hot chocolate instead. Outwardly he’ll complain that it isn’t caffeinated, but mentally he’ll think it’s adorable that Hannibal made a little smiley face out of creamer. Even if it will soon be splashed away with marshmallows.

He loves Hannibal’s smile. When it’s authentic, his eyes get squinty. When it’s to appease someone, it doesn’t have the same twinkle. Unbeknownst to him, he is the sole owner of that twinkle in Hannibal’s eye, as it is reserved for no one else. 

So as they sat there, with Hannibal admitting that seeing Will is the best part of his week, Will came to the conclusion that if he didn’t put this on halt, it would go somewhere he’s not ready to handle.

“I’m going to take a break from everything. Go all-in on teaching. If I put all my energy there, it’ll be easier to get into the grind and the rest will come naturally.”

“I implore you to continue with sessions, nonetheless. This is to aid you in destressing, not adding to it.” Hannibal’s hands itched to extend Will’s meeting time, not eradicate it. 

He can’t imagine trying to legitimately postpone their sessions. If he truly broached the topic with Hannibal, Hannibal would confirm that stress is the reason he needs to be there. He can picture it: “I’m a major source of stress for you.” 

“Yeah… I think it’s time to start searching for another therapist.”

“Would change be wise? You are a creature of habit, such change is likely to exacerbate your stress-levels.”

It wouldn’t do to change anyways. Hannibal is still an intellectual equal, they understand each other intimately. That he accepted when they first met. He could tolerate the invasiveness and the lies, he can tolerate him from one murderer to another, even if he stayed stubborn on the subject of his cannibalistic diet. Yes, he’d stay in therapy, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

“About that dinner party tonight…” Hannibal sighed as Will moved on. “I’ll attend under one condition…”

Will’s been invited by who else other than the cannibal himself? He is exempt, but surely Hannibal will be serving human heart disguised as a fancy cuisine on a silver platter to the rest. And he accepted, but the conditions changed. There’d been a fall-out since then. 

“And what is that?” Hannibal inquired.

“You don’t invite Jack.”

“I already have; it would be rude to disclude him.”

Jack was coming. 

Will came anyways. His manners did not.

.o0o.

“Tonight, we’re having feijoada. A traditional Brazilian stew consisting of black beans and pork, accompanied by white rice.” 

“Beans and rice? Is that all, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked with a hint of disdain as he spread the mush with his fork, poking at the meat. 

“One’s palate must be open to any dish. Simplicity is often overshadowed by the belief that it equates to quantity over quality, I can assure you the quality is not suffering.”

“It’s an exquisite presentation as always.” Jack saved with an underlying parental scolding tone aimed at Will. Be nice to our host.

Hannibal set the table and poured their wine with a toast to the pig that gave itself for this meal. “She was rather unruly, made my job difficult but rewarding.”

Will observed Jack who had already scooped up a chunk on his fork and lifted it to his mouth. He watched intently as Jack chewed, his lips puckering as the taste resonated against his tongue. “Mmm. I don’t know how you do it.” Jack’s eyes shifted from his food up to Will, who was studying him with a perturbingly neutral expression.

“What do you think?” Jack asked and Will gripped his utensil tightly.

He took a large forkful, shoved it down his gullet, and spoke with remnants of fat in his teeth, “Not like any pig I’ve ever tasted.”

Jack kicked him under the table and Will pouted. “Ow…”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter, I thought we were over this hiccup. ”

“One need not apologize on the behalf of another. Will doesn’t believe he is in the wrong and therefore has nothing to apologize for. Nevertheless, I would appreciate a civil dinner despite our discord.”

“Elegantly put.” Jack replied with feigned composure and shot another glance at Will.

“Feijoada often includes ears and feet.” Will nearly gagged at the non-sequitur, instantly flashing back to the time he’d coughed up an ear—Abigail's ear. It was squishy and flexible like jello made of skin. “It is spared from this course as the gelatinous texture is not favorable amongst most, though many believe every part of the pig should be used.” 

Then it’s not murder.

“I can’t say I’m mourning the loss of ears and feet in my food.” 

Hannibal chuckled courteously at a comment Will found unbearably stale. Jack chuckled back and they all carried on eating, including Will. There was a lull in the conversation as they appreciated the meal. Jack was making love to his own serving and Will poked at his and indiscreetly sniffed it, it smelled like pig. 

“How is this doctor-patient relationship functioning?” Jack pointed back and forth with his fork with a mouthful.

“It isn’t.” Will replied with a stab at the poor, innocent beans that he was unleashing his pent-up hostility on. If he wasn’t careful, the next stab would be to Hannibal’s gut. Or Jack’s if he kept chewing so loud, he had a megaphone where his uvula should be.

“We have our ups and downs.” Hannibal said as he carved into a larger portion of the meat with his knife.

“What are we, an old married couple?” Will snorted, and Hannibal hid his expression with a sip of wine.

The glass was placed on the table with a slight clink. “I suppose so. I make you dinner and you make me happy, dear.” 

If Jack wasn't aware of their dynamic, he might've felt that he was invading on something personal. Rather, he chortled into his napkin as he dabbed at his lips.

Wills face reddened with humiliation, softness or discomposure, it wasn’t clear, though his following comment suggested the latter. “Call me that again, and I'll stick that deer’s antlers up your-”

“And here I thought Bella and I needed couples counseling.” Jack remarked in order to watch the five stages of grief pass by Will’s face. He set the napkin next to his knife and continued scarfing down the food like a rabid animal. Rabid animal may be a harsh comparison, but Will thought Jack might actually choke.

There was gnashing of teeth and profanities spewed. Jack’s belief that maybe Will had reached acceptance is allayed when he spoke, “I hate you.”

Hannibal grinned. “No, you don’t.”

Will side-eyed Jack with a ‘this-is-your-fault’ glare. 

“You love when I tease you.” The tips of Will’s ears burn when he’s flustered. They make Hannibal want to take a bite right out of them.

“I’d love for this day to be over.”

“Don’t you go wishing the day away. When there’s no more, you’ll wish for them back.”

Jack left with compliments and Hannibal asked to be kept updated on Bella’s condition, as well as to call him if he should need anything. 

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter.”

“Now, what did I say about you calling me that?”

Jack smiled, “Hannibal.”

Hannibal gave a fond nod and waved Jack off. Will hurriedly followed him out the door, but evidently not fast enough. 

“Will?” Will gritted his teeth and turned to face him. “Do you have a favorite dish? Perhaps next time I could treat you with it.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It would be my pleasure. I want all my guests to feel comfortable in my home.”

“I don’t have any grievances with your recipes. It’s your ingredients. ”

“Which ones?”

“The human ones.”

Hannibal’s eyes glinted, “What if I instead offered you an extra drink?”

That’s how he ended up in Hannibal’s sitting room on a cushiony red sofa with his legs propped up near the fireplace. The warmth and tingle of alcohol put him in a dreamy trance. 

“Don’t I have a drinking problem?” Will joked.

“It’s only a problem when one doesn’t have a partner in crime.”

“You would know a thing or two about that.”

Hannibal sat adjacent from him, nursing much less liquid than Will. Not because he’d consumed more, but because Will’s serving was quite generous. Will was on his first, going on second, refill. He should put a damper on it, emphasis on should.

Then there’s Will, debating if this was a good idea. It wouldn’t do to show up to work hungover. He looked into the wine and saw a siren swishing about, she peeked up coyly as she hummed. He twirled it and watched as she swam in circles, her call tempting him to another sip.

“Should I grab a new bottle?” Hannibal offered with what could be described as a humorous smirk as he presented the empty one. 

Will smiled shyly and placed his glass precariously on the armrest. “It’s best that you don’t.” He wiped drowsily at his drooping eyelids. “Don’t you have stuff to do tomorrow?” Will gestured to Hannibal’s own decreasing cup.

“Sessions from morning until evening. I appear to hold my alcohol better. That and drinking in moderation.”

“Moderation doesn’t count when you have a partner in crime.” Will repeated and Hannibal seemed genuinely pleased by the sentiment.

“I second that. Although, I would like to be coherent when I arrive at my office tomorrow.”

Will yawned and sank into the pillows supporting his back. He shouldn’t have stayed, but the promise of more of his fine wine was too good to pass up.

“You’d accompany me only for access to my wine cabinet?”

“I didn’t realize I had said that out loud.”

“You didn’t, I simply know how you think, but it does answer my question.”

And gracefully , he proceeded to knock it over. “Ah-” It immediately soaked into his plaid shirt and the rug that surely costed a fortune.

“Then you go there spilling it.” 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t fret.” Hannibal went to retrieve towels. Meanwhile, Will’s face flushed with embarrassment at making a mess, with the wine he’d admitted to staying for, too intoxicated to register that he should be helping Hannibal clean up. He rubbed his sticky fingers together as a distraction. 

Hannibal returned and handed Will one, placing the other over the stain and applying pressure to the spot. Will’s semi-working hands fiddled with the towel and stroked it awkwardly over his stomach. Hannibal seemed to have noticed his predicament and adjusted his focus to helping Will. 

The red shade tinting Will’s face deepened when Hannibal untucked his shirt, though he remained silent. Hannibal took back the towel, stretched out the material of his shirt and pressed down in the dampened areas. He felt childish while Hannibal wiped him down like his father would after toppled orange juice.

“I like you loosened up, it accuenates your charming boyishness.”

Will’s face heated up more than he thought himself capable of. Much of the wetness was sponged up, though the color popped out in a pronounced splash along his front. Hannibal worked reverently to pick up the residual moisture.

“Yesterday you snatched my flask and gave me a lecture on alcoholism.”

“That was before I had you lounging in my home looking like that; it’s precious.” Oh. “I can also monitor you from here.” Hannibal said as he bunched up the wet towel. 

“Thank you, Hannibal.” He struggled to retuck his shirt into his buttoned jeans. Random sections stuck out which had him looking more questionable than if he had left it as is.

“I do hope you remember this.”

Will chuckled, “You’re acting like I’m a stumbling disaster.”

“A bit of a disaster.” Hannibal replied affectionately. He straightened himself and dusted his knees from where he’d been kneeling to dry Will off. “You look exhausted. Shall I drive you home?”

“I took a cab.”

“Hmm,” was all Hannibal gave in response; displeasure written in the slight downturn of his lips. “You never know who’s vehicle you could be stepping into when taking a cab. There are some dangerous people out there, Will.”

It may have been the wine, but Will was sure the frown on Dr. Lecter’s face turned to a smirk. 

“Well, I-”

“Please, it would give me the utmost pleasure to drive my guest home.”

Will turned the words over in his mind. Utmost, what a funny word. Pleasure, an intimate one. His cheeks were already on fire, so he didn’t voice these thoughts. He decided instead on, “Wolf Trap is pretty far.”

“That hasn’t stopped me before. Come, get your jacket.”

Too tipsy to argue, Will acquiesced. The thoughts of what the man could do to him were pushed aside when Hannibal interlocked their arms, leading Will out of the house and to the Bently.

Like a true gentleman, Hannibal opened the passenger side door and helped Will inside, leaning across his lap to help him buckle the seatbelt. 

“I can do my own buckle,” Will pouted, indignantly, but allowed it to happen anyway. As Hannibal pulled away, Will got the familiar whiff of expensive cologne - the kind that made his mind even fuzzier and brought a smile to his lips. “You smell nice.”

A small voice in the back of his head supplied him with a curt, that was not the right thing to say, but in favor of what little dignity Will had left, he chose to ignore it.

“And you smell like a pack of dogs. I wonder why that is.” Will saw his eyes glistening, crinkled and satisfied. The unbridled contentment emitting from Hannibal mollified his own rampant overthinking. 

He sat back and let the gentleman take him home.

Chapter Text

He walked out to the bridge, this time of his own accord. He was fully conscious as he approached the nearby bench to sit on. He sat there and waited, waited for passersby. There would hardly be any at such an hour. It was midnight when only the partiers and subsequent drunks would be out. 

After dinner he was restless, even in his alcohol-induced daze the fear of waking to a crime scene ate away at him. 

The Chesapeake Ripper has never killed in the same spot twice, but there’s a first time for everything. His fear has been festering and the pent up urge to come has gotten overbearing. He had to make sure there wouldn’t be another, no more Ellis, no more Arman.

Will felt like he knew Arman. Not in the same way as Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He knew of him when we was alive—as though when Hobbs was hunting, he was fishing. That as he lay down in bed at night, Hobbs was too. He’d turn on his side and see Hobbs beside him. Settling down and sheets shifting like a phantasm, glowing in ethereal light where the stars glimmer peeked through his curtains. He could reach out and touch him, his visage cracked with decay and dried skin that flecked off onto his pillow. 

Arman was unique. Will had the ability to put himself in anyone's shoes, too much so where reality and falsity smeared. Yet with Arman, it was like the presence of an old friend. A friend you don’t recall much anymore, but when you do they fill a hole you weren’t aware was there. 

He eyed his watch periodically and began to doze off on the rusty seat that was increasingly accompanying the longer he sat. His head fell back on the prickly boards and if he was lucky he’d only come away with a few splinters. 

As he faded, he saw him—not Hobbs, but Arman. They were also different in the sense that he depicted Hobbs as a corpse. Arman looked alive, not the version he’d seen bleeding out and bent. He laid a hand on Will’s cheek and told him to see his cliff again. “She’s waiting.”

“She’s always waiting.” He whispered to his friend.

“You must not keep her that way.”

Will obeyed. He stood on irritated bones and stretched until they cracked. He’d already been there two hours. He drove this time, not having the energy to take a hike. 

It’s like coming home… That’s how he had described it before, but he’d since found a better comparison. It was like returning to a familiar grave. His own graveyard. The place where he can lay down to rest, may it be in peace. He sat on the edge as he came accustomed to and brushed his fingers over the indents as though his name was engraved in the very stone. ‘W… i… l…’ they were visible to him, his own braille. ‘Will Graham’ etched right there.

His birth date rested below it, ‘June 19, 1975’ where his death should be was blank. Today was November 7th. 

When would the date fill in?

He went to the bridge every night. One day he’d catch the Ripper.

It was silly.

He knew who the Chesapeake Ripper was. What will he do when Hannibal appears, bloodied, carrying a body bag with the man he’d gutted? He could call Jack, Alana, they might show up, if only to drag him back to bed and pump him with sleeping pills. 

It was clear. If he witnessed Hannibal’s crimes, he’d do what he’d always done.

He’d turn his back. What else was there to do? But to look the other way.

.o0o.

Beside lecturing at the academy, his days were lacking.

The first, he cleaned out his fridge.

The second day, he realized he had nothing to eat.

The third, he grumpily went shopping and got a single bag full of sardines and fruits. Fruits like bananas and plums… the ones that increase serotonin levels.

The fourth day, Will played a game of chess by himself. He lost.

The fifth, he was ready to yank his hair out.

And the sixth, he wished for an excuse to get back to consulting.

There he goes again. Wishing for things he didn’t truly want.

...

On the seventh, he awoke to a crime scene. The period of clemency hadn’t lasted longer than a week.

Jack looked furious. “Why are you here! And what happened to quitting?”

“Where there’s a dead body, Hannibal and I are bound to be nearby.”

Will can’t tell if it’s just him or if Hannibal has become more expressive. For the look that Hannibal gave him was dirty.

“ Will, you were given explicit instructions to stay home. I will pull you, kicking and screaming, back to your cabin myself if I have to.”

“It’s alright, Jack.” Hannibal cooled him down with a friendly squeeze to his bicep, “I’m here to keep Will in line. There will be no reenactments or fits. I made him promise we’d only be coming to survey the scene.”

“Alana won’t like this.” 

“What she doesn’t know…” Hannibal started, and Jack finished with a long-suffering exhale.

“Won’t hurt her.”

“Good man.” Hannibal teased and Jack clicked his tongue, amused but distracted.

As Will predicted, there was another death on a bridge. It wasn’t the same one. They were far from Wolf Trap, closer to the vicinity of Hannibal’s home. Convenience and all of that. 

He really couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t swaddle himself in his little cabin when people were wasting away in ditches.

Hannibal stepped aside to get a good scan and Will used it optimally, “We have to do something about this, Jack. He kills this way again it becomes a pattern. We have to set up surveillance in bridges’ perimeters.”

His name was Felix Korenuk. Their second victim, third according to the others, meaning it would already be a pattern, though Jack doesn’t care…

“That’s unreasonable. We can’t set a guard at every single bridge each night from now on.”

“And if someone else dies this way?”

“Then I’ll reconsider.”

Felix was posed with his wrists touching above his head, white feathers strewn out beneath and the deer heart . He’d told Jack the game was changing and he was right. Hannibal treats each piece as though it is his magnum opus, putting effort into originality, creativity. This was different, they’ve been the same. Not even escalation that comes with serial killers experimenting and the consuming desire to achieve that first rush—because their man is experienced.

Will asked indignantly, “You’re going to let people die because of resource management? It’s not coming out of your pocket.”

“Careful, Will.”

“I’m serious. He’ll kill this way again and it could’ve been completely prevented.”

“Could’ve been? It hasn’t happened ‘yet .’ You can’t put blood of deaths that haven’t occurred on my hands.”

“I guess we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” Will remarked resentfully, and Jack opened his mouth to speak but Will wouldn’t let him. “The Chesapeake Ripper is stepping out of his usual role. This is important—he needs us to acknowledge his mercy.”

“Now he’s merciful?” Jack huffed skeptically.

Hannibal came back around and intervened in agreement, “They’re mercy killings. He harvests their organs as an afterthought, he’s still going to get his meal one way or another, but that’s not the point. The point is, he’ll provide death to whomever seeks it.”

“Did Ellis ask for it?”

“Not aloud, no.” Will answered.

“You said he takes the organs of the rude, that they are nothing more than pigs . What if this is another killer, deaths by bridge? The heart could be unrelated.”

“The heart was personal!” Will practically shouted, garnering unwanted attention that caused him to clam up. He sunk into his coat and suffered the wrath of Jack’s piercing glower. 

“Are you referring to symbolism?... He’s tried to contact you before, this obsession with you—are you suggesting this is twisted love?”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting.” Will sighed weakly and cupped his head in his hands before shaking himself off. 

“Great, that’s better than the alternative. I’d rather the case not be that he’s trying to get a grasp on you, because whatever love he has for you is perverted.” That time he must’ve imagined Hannibal's ‘tsk’. It’s Jack’s turn to get in more words before Will, “What we know is that Ellis Thacher was found dead with his arms positioned above his dead. His chest cavity was open and his heart had been replaced with that of a deer’s. We should be looking in the direction of the copycat, he has a thing for antlers—for stags.”

“The Ripper is the copycat! It has to be the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“We have nothing else to go on at the moment.” Jack said and Will muttered something under his breath, “What was that?”

...Every rule has an exception.

.o0o.

“Are you happy, Will?”

“Ugh,” Will begrudgingly acknowledged Hannibal without actually answering, “Have you been talking with Jack and Alana?”

“No. Should I be?”

“My happiness feels irrelevant.” His voice was raspy, “It’s a layer of distraction.”

“Distraction? Is happiness not the purpose of our existence?”

“It’s indulgent.” They’re raw, leaving Will’s lips, “ Excessive. It’s a beam that obscures the consequential matters. The focus is centered on the present, not the pitfalls of the future. It eradicates caution.”

“You thrive on fear. Positive affirmation is a greater motivator than discipline. People who respect a merciful king will stand by him. People who fear a tyrant will celebrate as he falls.”

“I’m one person. Unless I’m planning a mutiny against myself. Besides, people like me… they aren’t meant to be happy.”

“Happiness is a construct. A fleeting sensation to be appreciated while it lasts. You are on a higher plane than most. You don’t think yourself unworthy of the emotion, it’s that you won’t be wallowing in it.” Will saw a lightbulb glow above Hannibal’s head. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Their seats are close enough that their knees are scraping against each other. He leans in, “It’s not that you feel undeserving of love, it’s that love isn’t satiating. You hunger for it, but it isn’t fulfilling.”

“Perhaps I haven’t found my person.”

“Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

“I’m not looking for it. It’s an unforgiving road. Everyone expects to find their soulmate, but that’s not what love is. At the end of the day, it’s a means of expanding the human population. Without the desire for sex, our species would go extinct, and we can’t have that can we?”

“Is it so wrong to extend your lifeline? Pass your beliefs, your stories, memories onto your children.” Hannibal can envision a life for himself in which he has children; A boy with short black curls and a girl with straight mid-length blonde hair. 

“I don’t want children.”

“You treated Abigail as one of your own.”

Will’s face scrunched and he spoke belligerently, “And look where that got me?”

“Kids aren’t supposed to die before their parents…” Hannibal’s words trailed off. “Moving on without a legacy, that doesn’t faze you?”

“We’ve been over this, Dr. Lecter. My legacy would matter only to the living, when I’m gone I won’t be worrying about what’s left behind.”

“I’d like to think that my achievements are worth celebrating. That people will go on to praise my work and cherish those I’ve aided in my varying lines of work. I’ve made an imprint on many.”

“Great, it’s not like I asked about yours.”

Hannibal’s eyes flashed with mostly concealed vexation. “I am attempting to have a civil discussion, Will, can you show a degree of the same courtesy?” That’s different. Not anybody can get under Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s skin, but Will isn’t anybody.

Will backtracked to the previous statement made by Hannibal, “I didn’t take you for needing validation.”

He’s caught off guard as Hannibal goes back too, “You are compensating. You’re impertinence knows no bounds and you are using it to push me away. The other night, we got a bit too close for your liking, didn’t we? Staying late, drinks around a fire, drunken flirtations.”

“Careful, I could accuse you for trying to take advantage of me.”

“One can’t take advantage when both parties are invested in the outcome.”

Will huffed, “That implies that we are capable of becoming more than what we are. I don’t sleep with the enemy.”

“Ah, it’s a good thing I’m not the enemy.”

Hannibal’s tenuous romantic advances had been becoming more apparent in the past few months. There was always a tension there like a taut string gradually fraying. While it’s secrecy prevailed in the public eye, his overtures were abundant in private. His statements are often chaste and mellow, but in them he hears, ‘you say the word.’

It seems that no words were needed. Before he could comprehend his own actions, Will’s fingers curled into Hannibal’s tie and yanked him forward. Their lips met in an instant and Hannibal took no time in cradling Will’s neck. Will bit Hannibal’s lower lip and he loved how he could feel the man’s indecision to recoil or let Will bite hard enough to draw blood.

Their legs meshed in an alternating pattern, one knee trapped between Hannibal’s thighs, and the other on the outside. Their chairs really had gotten closer over time, not an accident in the slightest. His palm was sweaty around Hannibal’s tie and he moved two fingers into the knot to undo it. 

Then as if Will had stuck said fingers into an outlet, he was shocked into the real world.

He stumbled back with such intensity that the chair glided behind him. If it was any smaller it would’ve tipped. He kissed Hannibal. More than a kiss, a kiss that he was going to turn into a full-on make out session. 

He ran to the door and twisted the knob before realizing what was wrong, “You locked the door?”

Hannibal arose and meandered over. His visage held a mix of yearning and dismay. “I assumed things would escalate. I wanted to be prepared.”

Hannibal is using you. He had to repeat it, his new mantra. Hannibal is using you; he is using you to get what he wants. He is using you. He wants you. He wants to use you—Stop! It doesn’t work, it never works. 

At his pause, Hannibal flipped the lock and opened the door for him. “Goodbye, William.”

Will’s eyes bulged at the name. No one calls him William. His father had when he was a boy. But the last time he heard that was… Was in his dream wherein Hannibal was the angel maker. He turned down the hall with heavy strides.

Things are clicking into place that shouldn’t be clicking into place. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. How Hannibal has wormed his way into Will’s skull. Will is supposed to be the empath, yet Hannibal is attuned to him so deeply—it’s a taste of his own medicine. He uses others emotions to his own benefit, but now that someone else is doing the same, he finds he despises it. Only he should be privy to his feelings.

Hannibal is a leach sucking the life force out of him and replenishing it at the same time. 

Hannibal is using you.

He is using you.

He’s using you…

I kissed Hannibal.

Chapter Text

His phone rang repeatedly. If he didn’t pick up soon, he expected Jack to drive over to give him a good back-handed smack.

Will had been ignoring people, specifically one person, adamantly . As in, he already found a sub for the class he had just gotten back to because Hannibal might visit. As in, he had screwed in another set of locks on his door so Hannibal can’t barge through… Maybe he should barricade the windows. 

As in, shutting everyone out so no one can get in.

He hadn’t left the house in three days.

He used mouthwash like water, gurgling it so often he surely drank copious amounts of it. Washed his mouth out with soup and then guzzled back enough beer that he should’ve died of alcohol-poisoning. 

He’d kissed a cannibal and liked it and hated himself for it and hated Hannibal and the world and everyone in it. He’s freaking out. That’s what happens when you fall in love with a psycho.

Fall in love…

No, that’s too much. It’s not love.

The phone rang.

And there it is again. 

He looked at the screen to see ‘Jack Crawford’ sprawled across in bold letters. The name appeared three more times.

When there was a knock on the door, he resigned himself to the fact that answering would've kept Jack at bay and now he must face his punishment face to face. 

He pulls on a pair of jeans and ambles to the front. Winston is scratching the handle like he could open it himself and Will whistles at him to behave. He's already speaking as he opens it, “Look, Jack, I'm- Alana.”

“My name is Alana, too.” Will is met with Alana’s pearly whites and bright blue eyes that he once could've sunk into. 

She's in a knee-length red dress with small black polka-dots with a resemblance to that of a ladybug and she pulled it off. Ladybugs, they symbolize love and protection. 

Could he be protected from here? This is it, he thinks. She's showing off her teeth before she takes a chunk out of his face. She must've heard he was at the scene and came to put him in his grave. In that moment he also noticed she held two coffees, one iced and the other black with a few too many packets of sugar. 

He took the latter without admitting he'd already downed two cups mixed with liquor. “What're you doing here?”

“You kind of fell off the face of the Earth. I went to the Lecture Hall and saw someone in your place.”

“I-”

“And if I recall correctly, you were very defensive when I mentioned your teaching. Nothing was going to get in your way. So… what got in the way?”

“I'm sorry I overreacted.” Having a public meltdown in a rundown diner became another bullet point on his list of regrets. Though he gave himself some leniency in this instance—he was sick of the countless interventions under the guise of “check-ins”. This was bordering on babysitting.

“Not everything is an attack, Will. My goal in life isn't to make yours harder.” He looked down at his feet, not pretending to make eye-contact by lingering on her forehead or between her brows. “Hey,” she placed a hand on the side of his neck, “How long have you been sitting around here for?”

“Just a few… days.”

She sighed and moved past him. He bit his bottom lip and held his arm out to say come on in.  

His phone was on the fritz in the kitchen. It thudded against the island marble rapidly and Will went to put it on silent. 

“You're popular.”

“Too bad it's with Jack.”

Alana snorted, “Not some hot chick with long legs?”

“That's not in the cards for me.” He chuckled mirthlessly.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Her lips shifted to the side as she chewed at the inside, “Are you going to get it?”

“Do I have to?”

He doesn’t know why he looked again, but when he did, it was Hannibal. Will felt guilty as he let it go to voicemail, but Hannibal wasn’t one to call back. If someone was busy, he’d leave them alone and try again later.

“Depends on how much you bet on him following through with his threats.” Alana answered with consternation at Jack's fixation with him. “What is it? You quit…”

About that.

There it goes again. Ring, ring. ‘Hannibal Lecter’.

I’m really gonna do it this time.

Hannibal is going to be the straw that broke this camel’s back.

“It's, uh, it's Hannibal. Excuse me.”

She threw her head back to push the hair dangling in her face as he grabbed the phone off the counter. 

He faded into the back of the house, tapping the green button and pressed the device to his ear.

“Will?”

…

“I’d like to come over.”

…

“I’m coming.”

“Don’t.”

“Will.”

Will had to refrain from bashing his head into the wall. “What happened was stupid, I wasn’t thinking. I’m not thinking a lot these days.”

Hannibal’s fear shined through. His politeness cast out, “Which is exactly why I’m not leaving you alone. When I arrive you better let me in or I’ll break a window if I have to.”

Where are my wooden planks and nails? He knew he should’ve gone to Home Depot. He could always dismantle a bookshelf. “Alright, but you’re paying for the repair man.” He was eying the bookshelf in the corner of his living room with genuine contemplation.

“That wouldn’t be suitable. And we can’t have you cutting your feet on the glass. Let me in when I get there.”

“I feel empty.” Will whispered. It was out of the blue, an unexpected admission, the kind Hannibal always received with or without effort. “I’m an hourglass. Always spilling… It appears I’m on my last grain, but then I loop. Right back to the beginning and ready to sacrifice it all once more.”

“One day the glass will stop turning.”

“You’ll turn it for me, you assured me of that.”

“I did. That’s what I’m doing. Stay there.”

Will thought Hannibal might hang up. The command sounding like the end of their call, but he could hear Hannibal rushing out the door and a jangling of keys. The silence was pregnant. He heard it all, from the car revving and blinkers flashing. He hadn’t buckled his seat belt. 

“Talk to me.” Hannibal was listening too, footsteps on tile and then on wood and the opening of curtains.

Will shuffled his feet as he stared out the window as if Hannibal would materialize on his porch. “What do I say?”

“Anything. I just need to know you’re there.”

His phone buzzed and he checked the interface. “Jack is calling.”

“Don’t hang up on me.”

“I’ll see you later, Hannibal.”

“Will!” Hannibal raised his voice. Hannibal never raised his voice. There wasn’t one instance he could recall in which Hannibal’s voice had gone up an octave, lest of all targeted at Will.

“Therapy, the usual, see you then. Bye.” Whatever the man was about to say cut with a swipe of his finger. He’d get an earful for that. “Yes, Jack?”

“Where the hell have you been? You gotta tell me right now if you’re on board or not. You made it clear my disciplining you wasn’t going to hold you back. So you either get here this instant or I sew your lips shut so you don’t give me crap about shelving you.”

“Another body?”

“What else? Be here in five.”

His response was clipped with a beep. Jack knew that was impossible given the distance to Baltimore. 

Will strode into the front room and flung a jacket over his shoulders. 

“Where are you off to?” She asked not to be pushy but not letting him off the hook without an explanation.

“Hannibal wants to see me.” The lie easily slid off his tongue.

“Guess we'll do this some other time.” Alana emphasized, pointing her index finger back and forth between them. Unsure of what ‘this’ is, but needing to flee before Hannibal barged in with a battering ram, he agreed.

He tugged on Hannibal’s green scarf and went out the door.

.o0o.

“I was walking late at night all alone, but I’m not worried. I can handle my own.” I need to clear my head and relax in nature. “As I walk down the path, I come across a bridge.” He stops for a moment and takes in the serenity of the place. It’s quiet, he can hear himself think. I rest my elbows on the railing and watch it flow languidly. 

The water is pitch, complimented only by a faint lamppost several feet back. It needs a new bulb, flickering indecisively as though leaving a message in Morse code.

“There are footsteps behind me, curiously I turn back. There’s a man not much taller than me, it’s hard to make out his features… He’s walking past me. No, he’s walking towards me. I go to speak, but suddenly his hands are on my shoulders.” 

Will, the girl, stumbles. In turn he places his hands on his attacker and tries to shove him away, but he quickly gets the upper hand. 

“He pushes me back into the wall, my hands scramble to his face.” He’s attempting to shove it to the side, to throw him off somehow, but it’s in vain. “His grip tightens and suddenly he whips me around. My stomach is pressed tight to the wall.” It’s hard to breathe, he’s hyperventilating, trying to cope with the fact that these may be his final moments.

“With a final push, I’m tossed over the railing…” 

He came to with a realization, his pendulum was gone. His veil between the killer and himself—the victims and himself hadn’t appeared since the first. He was becoming one with them. His pendulum had stopped oscillating. 

Jack stood in the middle of the scene watching the men catalog evidence. His hand was fisted over his mouth in a hardened ‘don't-interrupt-me-I’m-thinking’ way. 

It was a bloody mess. Another grotesque yet artful signature was like the ‘x’ that marked the spot, her chest carved open with a deer heart crammed into the cavity. White feathers grew from her arms, sewn in to evoke that they’ve always been a part of her. Her arms stretched upright, laid flat, hands supine beside her ears. The blood wasn’t just courtesy of the open wound, but her face had been cut clean off.

He didn’t hear Will approach. At least not until he was stomping up to him. Will’s gaze was sharp. He’d never seen an expression so blank yet fiery. Even through the chaos he swore Will’s teeth were grinding together. He doesn’t look like a scared little boy—the one they’ve been acquainted with when he reenters after experiencing carnage firsthand.

Jack is almost intimidated by him. 

“This is exactly what I said would happen.”

“Where’s Hannibal?” Jack responded instead.

“I ditched him.” Jack’s jaw hung slightly in frustrated resignation, his bottom teeth peeking through. Whatever ‘lover’s quarrel’ they had going on wasn’t his business unless it put a damper on Will’s concentration. A warning he was going to publicize when Will added, “I mean just on the phone. He might show up, or he’ll be waiting at my cabin for revenge.”

Jack was on the verge of giving someone a beating. He side-stepped the topic of their fighting. “The pattern is official, we can do something about it now.”

“You could have done something before.” Will spat.

“You’ve made your point and we’re dealing with it.”

“You bring me back to consulting, ask me what I think, and then chuck everything I tell you out the window. What is the point of my being here?”

There was a faint “Oooh” in the background, Jimmy, followed by a distinct smack. “Hey, watch it.”

Jack pursed his lips and straightened his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be suspended. As for asking in the first place, you have done us a lot of good, Will. That doesn’t mean I can take everything you say to heart.”

“Well, now someone else has lost their heart.”

He could see Jack about to combust, to go off on him about questioning his authority. He wouldn’t fire him, not actually. Jack hadn’t the willpower to pawn off their best asset, albeit it a feisty asset. Will was too valuable, his mind is valuable, and Jack isn’t willing to give it up, even if he sought to detach Will’s brain from his cranium and communicate with it without having to deal with the whole package—being Will’s stubbornness and ability to talk.

“We’ll get him, Will.”

Will’s eyebrows turned into mountains; they even had a peak for his surprise to sit on. Then they were furrowing with disbelief. Jack probably sensed how close he was to breaking and couldn’t risk shattering his favorite toy. His voice came out hushed, “Yeah, I know…”

Will cleared his throat and nodded in her direction, “Who was she?”

Jack grabbed her wallet, encased in an evidence baggy and passed it to Will along with a pair of rubber gloves. He snapped them on and pulled it out and ran a thumb over her ID through the plastic pocket. He pried it out of the compact slot, “Adelaide Butler.” 

Adelaide Butler was a mere twenty-one years old. This was a classic case of in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was a dark-skinned girl with gorgeous black locks and striking hazel eyes, the orange made them nearly incandescent. 

“Why did he remove her face?”

Will ran a hand under his glasses to rub his eyes. “...I don’t know.”

“What do you know?”

“I… It’s the same. The wings, the heart, the position. A reminder?”

“You make leaps Will. Take pieces that no one but you would consider important and come to a seemingly impossible yet correct solution. I didn’t listen before, but I’m listening now. If you have something you gotta tell me.”

“I don’t have anything.” He said defensively. He can’t confess to Jack that he’d been stepping into the victims’ shoes rather than their murderer’s. He’s been pushed so many times he’s beginning to feel that he is in a perpetual state of falling. The fall—the weightlessness, a craving that’s becoming unavoidable. “She was mutilated. He removed her identity, that could be attributed to jealousy, anger, pride. ”

“Could it be that he just didn’t want anyone to know who she was?” 

“He is meticulous, he would check for a wallet and trash it—No, her identity held no significance…”

Jimmy came shimmying over with his flamboyant attitude, “Think he’s making Frankenstein’s monster? He’s got hearts and faces, maybe next time he’ll add a brain to his collection.”

“That’s insensitive.” Brian remarked with a frown.

“More insensitive than what you said about her slim figure?” Jimmy shot back.

“What! She’s good looking!”

“She’s dead.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate her sexiness. Am I supposed to say she’s ugly?”

“Maybe don’t say anything.” Jimmy quipped, “That’d do us all some good.”

.o0o.

There was a mask made of skin. It was squishy and malleable. Fragile and to be held with steady hands, though the blood made it difficult. It was slimy and nearly slid out of his grip. He stood in front of a mirror, adorned in his daily attire. 

He cupped it firmly and raised it to his own face, droplets skid down his arms and plopped on the floor. The journey to his face was short but spiritual. A chorus of angels sang in his ear as the coppery substance made contact and acted as an adhesive. It was settling seamlessly into place as if Adelaide’s face was made for him. 

It was he who stood there, but he saw her looking back at him. She wore a white dress that accentuated her carmelly skin. She’d have people falling to their knees and begging for forgiveness with one glance, for her eyes held the embodiment of all human suffering.

The blood was now pouring and drenching his cuffs. 

Then she was gasping from pain and hunching over. A scream tore out of her throat. Her jaw dropped so far it could’ve unhinged and cries crawled through. Her head arched back and puffs of white sprung out, fluffy and soft. They extended, tearing out and marring her otherwise untarnished skin. The white blob formed, separating and taking the shape of individual feathers.

He lowered his hands. As she cried, her own face slipped off. It was now his, and he wore it with pride.

Will jolted out of bed. The tang of her blood resided on his tongue. Her skin had molded around his own and seeped through his lips. He fingered his own frantically and felt wetness. He sat there frozen in shock, terrified of pulling back to discover red. He licked his lips and tasted salt. 

Sweat.

It was sweat, pellucid and one of the most glorious sights he’d ever seen. His hair was matted to his forehead and his shirt clung to his torso and biceps. He reached for the collar and flung the gray tee across the room to which the dogs went over to sniff and paw at. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and Winston poked his feet with his nose.

Will maneuvered around him to grab a towel from the cabinet in his bathroom. He thought the days of fevered nightmares were behind him. He supposed it was better that than wandering the streets in the middle of the night, he’d done so recently. He wondered if he’d visited the bridge again, would Hannibal be there waiting for him?

“What do you need?”

“A push.”

He’d considered purchasing child locks; the plastic kind you stick on doorknobs to stop kids from getting out. Surely he’d have a hard time wrangling it open in an unconscious state… It sounded like a poor man’s cell.

He’d spent enough time in a cell already.

.o0o.

“Have you come to sort out our marital issues?” Hannibal inquired as Will slammed the door open.

“Why did you slice off her face?” There was another slam as the door slotted into it’s frame.

Hannibal is taken aback, “Pardon?”

“The removal of the face wasn’t necessary for your other masterpieces. What do you want to portray now that you haven’t before?”

“I can’t say. I’m not responsible for her death.”

“Her face was taken . It wasn’t sliced and discarded; it wasn’t there. Is face on the menu?”

“I’m getting rather tired of these accusations, Will. You haven’t a shred of proof that I am involved.”

“I remember , Dr. lecter. How you induced seizures, drugged me, shoved an ear down my throat. Abigail's ear.”

“Yes, and I informed you that it was all psychosomatic. You couldn’t handle the trauma of supposedly killing Abigail and you constructed a reality in which someone else did. I am arguably the closest person to you and therefore the easiest to latch on. Similarly, you could’ve accused Alana of the same. Yet it stuck. After you were acquitted I’d had the gall to think the allegations would be put on hold.”

“Alana isn’t capable of this kind of deception.”

“In the manner of intelligence?”

“In the manner of morality. Most do not commit murder because our society perceives it as wrong .” Will pronounced ‘wrong’ like he was talking to a three year-old.

“A God-given commandment.”

“Most would tell you that murder is wrong from a moral standpoint. No one will admit it’s because it’s against the law. Alana understands morally that killing is only justified under specific circumstances. In that scenario you’d refrain because of the law, but even potential punishment won’t cease your war-path.”

That’s why he did it. It doesn’t matter who you are, in poverty or upper-class, in sickness or in health, everybody dies.

Hannibal ran a tongue over his lips in thought. His hand grasped the back of his armchair tightly. Will saw veins beneath his white knuckles. “Is that why you interrupted me? I don’t appreciate being interrupted.”

“Jack’s the boss. He calls, I answer.”

“Do not lie to me.” The statement acidic. 

“He was calling.”

“You fled your house and ran to Jack like a damsel in distress as to not be left alone with me. Then confront me in my office? That’s some contradictory thinking, Will. Unless that’s not all there is to it.” His square jaw pulsed as his teeth grated. His nostrils flared and his lips tremored with the strength it took not to snarl. Hannibal was pissed. 

He came forward and Will nearly tripped back. Hannibal ranted, “You must think me ignorant. Every session, waltzing in here, condemning me without fail and pleading for my counsel. Counsel from your psychiatrist or from The Chesapeake Ripper? What do you want from me, Mr. Graham? If you are entering the lion’s den, why throw a stone at the lion’s nose?” 

Neither of them registered the letter opener in Hannibal’s hand until Will noticed his fist clench. 

“I didn’t enter; I was cast away.” His voice was unbothered, hiding his tremble.

Hannibal tilted his head back and pondered him through slitted eyes, “King Darius threw Daniel into the den before he was shown the error of his ways.”

“It wasn’t King Darius who saved him, it was God.” 

Hannibal smiled, amused at the sentiment that he himself would normally provide. “Then God punished those who plotted against Daniel by throwing them and their families into the lion’s den.” His visage morphed into one of derision. “Daniel suffered for his faith— you are no Daniel.”

Will thought better than to retaliate.

“You delight me and repulse me. I should’ve had you on my dining table the moment you found me uninteresting. But I couldn’t, with you it’s not foolishness. You strive to get under my skin as I do yours. If you were taken by Hades, who’d be there to challenge me? That’s what relationships thrive on. Are we not partners? In all ways, but one.”

The letter opener was marking a cylindrical indent in Hannibal’s palm. 

“Hannibal, stop.” 

He was backing Will into a corner. “Did you come here because you wanted what the others wanted? Death? Because you want me to kill you?” Will’s back hit the wall. “Or because you want me? ”

Hannibal leaned against the wall with his left hand, his arm in the way of the exit. His right hand was at his side and still armed. They both heaved as if they’d ran a marathon.

“Hannibal.” It was whispered so softly.

In that moment he could sense Will’s arousal and his fear. It caused Hannibal to drop his arm. Then he circled back to arousal. It's aroma was sweet and tantalizing. 

He stepped away, but Will didn't scurry off. Will straightened from where he'd made himself a smaller target. He pushed up and discreetly shifted his waistband as if Hannibal wasn't engaged on him.

It was a duel of patience, and Hannibal’s was running thin. They waited for the other to make the first move. He was a firm believer of good things coming to those who wait, but the good thing was irresistible.

Hannibal approached Will like he was a frightened animal. His shoes quietly tapped and he loomed over him once more. Will tilted his chin up, not in defiance per se, but to show he wasn't afraid. His movements were at half speed, giving Will the opportunity to retreat if he wished. Rather, Will peered through lidded eyes as Hannibal descended upon him.

Will’s fingers brushed Hannibal’s knuckles, but only to take the letter opener from his solid grip. Will grasped it and gently pulled it into his own. The sharpened tip pressed just beneath Hannibal’s navel. 

“Is that how this is going to go?” Hannibal asked seductively.

The sound of the tool bouncing off the ground went unheard as Hannibal’s lips locked with Will’s. Will sighed into his mouth and tugged Hannibal by his lapels. 

Arms wrapped to grasp the small of his back. The tension that built up to their kiss didn't dissipate, it stoked it. Hannibal’s fingers splayed possessively behind him as he tried to press their lips more firmly together. They were already so close, he couldn't do more for risk of breaking Will's teeth.

Will's fingers deftly lowered to pop Hannibal's suit coat button out of its slit. It was rare to see Hannibal without it. He'd never seen him shirtless either.

He recalled hearing Matthew Brown’s attempt at taking him down. Drugging Hannibal in the swimming pool and then hanging him up by the neck and arms, keeping himself from choking by tiptoeing on a bucket. How he envied the thought of watching Hannibal dangle there in black, tight-fitting swim trunks. Blood spilling from his wrists and down the drain in a penny-scented waterfall.

Maybe one day, Will would do it himself. Not to kill, but to experience it firsthand rather than live the recounting of the event. He'd look up and tell him, “You make a beautiful angel, Hannibal.”

The fantasy sent heat to his groin, and he almost forgot that Hannibal was truly standing in front of him. During that train of thought, Hannibal had slipped his hands under Will's shirt and moved up the somewhat hairy plane of his otherwise smooth chest.

The fantasy also sent a dowsing bowl of cold water over him. Normal people don't fantasize about hurting others to get off. Normal people don't have to remind themselves of that.

Will turned his head to the side in a sign of discomfort. He put his hands underneath Hannibal’s arms, though he didn't withdraw them. 

Hannibal continued feeling him up and Will tried not to clench his muscles at the ticklish sensation. Hannibal's calloused hands against his underwhelming skin made him self-conscious. He's by no means pudgy, or deterred from exercise, but his soft flesh conveys he's not a man of physically laborious work. 

“Don't fight me, Will.” Hannibal murmured alluringly. “Don't let societal presumptions obstruct your capacity for pleasure.” His veneer of the respectable professional, whatever was left of it, was absconded by his lascivious timbre.

“We can't do this.” Will asserted. He's so back and forth. A seed of foolish guilt lodged in his abdomen at the thought of sending Hannibal mixed signals. ‘I want you to screw me’ and ‘I want you to stay as far away as possible’ are the wishes scrambled in his own haywire, crap-shoot, freakshow of a brain.  

“Why can’t we?” Hannibal said shallowly as his hands explored lower and fingered the waistband of Will’s jeans. His mouth realigned with Will’s, who grunted but stayed put. He then pressed his tongue to the other’s lips, though he wasn’t granted entryway. “Will.” It sounded like a plea.

“You are everything wrong with the world.” Will said and Hannibal sadly nuzzled his collarbone. Will wanted so badly to let Hannibal take him. He repeated, “We can’t.” He nudged Hannibal off and went to the exit. Facing away, he started, “I…” He doesn’t finish. He is sorry. He remembered the now loosely draped scarf around his shoulders and began removing it to hand it back to Hannibal.

“Keep it.” Hannibal said. “It’s yours,” and he readjusted it around Will’s throat.

Will frowned and left.

Chapter Text

Part 1: Curiosity never killed anyone.

Hannibal wondered if he had taken this too far… but there was no putting an end to it now. 

He had considered it thoroughly. They were in dangerous territory. However, Will sealed his fate when he spoke that sweet sentence and Hannibal was curious as to where this road would lead. 

They say curiosity killed the cat, which in this case would be referring to Will and not himself. It raises the stakes. With the way their situation is panning out, that's becoming a plausible outcome, but he can't make himself stop.

The keyword: “can't”. For one, he can't seem to acknowledge that the word currently applies to himself. When has he not been able to do something? He feels strangely helpless. Not spinning out of control, but an irregular detachment to his realm of authority. 

He is in power when it comes to all faculties over his body; He can dull pain as to combat the effects of torture. He could starve to death and never once beg for a single scrap—not a morsel. 

He is not vulnerable, only when it can be used to manipulate or to bring someone closer to him. There's only one person who's opinion he cherishes, craves more than Eve craved an apple from the tree of knowledge. Therefore, Will is the only person that breaks him.

Hannibal no longer wants to hurt Will. What he did to put him in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is his biggest regret. It severed their miniscule link. It was done for his own benefit; he could help Will escape, he couldn’t escape himself. There was also the curiousness. 

He recalls the moment Will stared at him through the bars of his cage. Hannibal was euphoric. Will looked gorgeous; his face dark, his look sinister—like he could pry the bars apart, and tousled curls that couldn’t quite hide the plot brewing in his eyes. 

If looks could kill, he would’ve turned to ash. Nothing grand, but a sudden fade to dust. It was everything.

Will wasn't supposed to discover it is he who is the Chesapeake Ripper, no matter how much he deflects. He'll confess to him soon, he has to. Maybe honesty will be the new beginning to a stronger bond. Akin to sawing wood in order to glue it back together.

He doesn't harbor many regrets, perhaps that's why it continued to haunt him. He doesn't want Will hurt and definitely not eying the cliff as he should instead be eying Hannibal.

Yet, killing these people, has brought Will not only to the cliff, but to him. That sentence: “For in Arman I see myself and in myself I see you.” That admission was the moment he knew he'd proceed.

If he prolongs in the thoughts and feelings that Will succumbs to in this era of death, then the path to it must go on.

Killing is the key to living in Will's mind.

So, kill he does with remorse to the pain it'll bring Will and not his victims because at least then, then he has Will’s attention.

Part 2: Don’t Tell Alana

Hannibal stepped onto the bridge in Wolf Trap, Virginia. After Will rejected him, again, he decided to let his rage out in the best way he knew how. 

During a hunt, his heart rate increases with exertion. The running, lunging, whatever it takes to get his prey down. Little of it has to do with consequences, such as getting hurt or caught. He’s been doing this for years, the thrill had long since worn off. Here and now, his heart thumped with doubt—refusal that Will would leave him permanently, and anger that the man could do that to him. Who was Will to reject him?

It was five a.m. The people who awoke bright and early to get a walk in before going to work would be passing this way within an hour or two.

He donned his translucent murder suit. Designed to keep his clothes unsullied. It wasn’t strewing evidence that he was worried about, otherwise he’d wear a cap to prevent loose hairs. His blue pinstripe suit remained neatly ironed underneath and his hair was combed back and somewhat brown from gel. He was a tad groggy, but energy would strike when necessary—when his victim came into view.

Then there was a voice, but not one asking who he is and why he’s dressed like that. It was that familiar timbre.

“Will. What’re you doing here?” He faced Will who stood up from where he occupied a rickety bench.

“Stopping you.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“Take me home.” Will ordered with long eyelashes.

Next thing Will knew, Hannibal was stripped of his plastic suit and their hands were intertwined. Will ran hot, stress rose body temperature. However, in the chill, their cold hands warmed.

Hannibal started to drive to Baltimore. Will told him that Baltimore isn't his home. Hannibal reluctantly turned the vehicle around.

One day it would be.

“You’re coming inside and staying. You get to sleep on the couch.”

It was a fifteen minute drive to the cabin that shouldn’t of been comfortable but was. Comfortable for Will. Hannibal’s hand itched to let go off the steering wheel and reunite with Will’s, to let it glide down his side and squeeze his thigh. 

The call to Will’s place wasn’t for a one-night stand. Wills informed him of his intention to keep an eye on him from the getgo; “ Will. What’re you doing here?”

“Stopping you.”

He’d take it, nonetheless.

“It’s been all of ten seconds and I’m banished to the doghouse?” Will rolled his eyes and chucked a blanket at him. The green one. “You’re inviting a murderer to spend the night.”

“If you are here then you’re not out there .”

“What’s to stop me from leaving while you slumber?”

“You won’t leave me. This is home.”

It’s not manipulation if both are in-the-know. Will referring to it as ‘home’ to Hannibal was an alluring move to keep him there. Will knows he’s Hannibal’s kryptonite. Hannibal knows that Will knows he’s his kryptonite. 

He accepted his order to stay on the couch like one of Will’s strays.

Hannibal was given a spare toothbrush that’d been sitting in packaging for eons. After drying it off, he set it into the plastic Walmart cup next to Will’s. He’d also snatched a razor and unnecessarily shaved his shaven face so that he could claim the bathroom drawer he’d put it in. 

He slept in only his boxers. He’d asked for a pair of pajama pants and Will declined, not that they’d fit but he tried. Will thought he would stay in his slacks… His clothes were folded compactly on the ottoman. 

The blanket wasn’t long enough for an adult man to lie stretched out, but he wished to be completely enshrouded by Will—stamped with his scent. He huddled halfway to the fetal position, snug and serene. His knees more so against the cushions than his chest. His dignity at Will finding him in this position was inconsequential to the pure bliss of residing in Will’s sanctuary.

If he needs to be kept on lock down tonight, he’ll have to be kept tomorrow as well.

Will waited until Hannibal’s breathing decelerated. He was proven correct, Hannibal didn’t retreat. 

His bare feet padded softly against the wood planks. They were cold, snatched from the safety of his warm sheets. His toes welcomed the rug and his hands the couch that his palms settled on. He peered over the back. 

This is what Hannibal looked like asleep: small, peaceful, innocent .

He maneuvered the blanket higher to cover where it’d slipped off Hannibal's shoulders. “Sweet dreams.”

Will slept with a gun under his pillow.

…

Will was terrified. He’d stormed out of Hannibal’s office that day , technically yesterday, hours had passed with hardly a wink. The man was holding a letter-opener and ready to open him. It was only in his ‘heroic’ addled brain that he went to the bridge as was his routine to catch The Chesapeake Ripper. Of course it would be the one night he almost didn’t muster the courage to go that Hannibal would.

And what better way to postpone his murder-spree than to bring the murderer into his own home. 

This was the third time he’d stirred awake in the past two hours. He hadn’t gotten into bed until around ‘5:30’. It was nearing eight a.m. and he felt like a zombie. Well, if there were two people who could survive the apocalypse, it was him and Hannibal Lecter. They already have the eating-humans thing down.

He slipped out and ambled over to the armchair next to the couch Hannibal was snoozing on. His soft snores the only noise breaching the dawn. It wasn’t fifteen minutes later that the snores were interrupted by his waking. In that time, Will had got up to make coffee. 

Hannibal stretched then stilled. “Good morning.” He said cozily and dug his head into the armrest. His untamed hair gave him the look of a man half his age, although a majority of his face was covered by the blanket balled in his fist. 

Will was not melting at the sight.

That is a cannibal. He has a cannibal resting on his couch. Whose idea was this?

“Morning.”

“Not a good one?” Hannibal teased. He moved the blanket under his chin and yawned.

“I haven’t figured that out.”

Hannibal gave a quiet laugh, and he sat up. The blanket fell to his waist, obscuring only his boxers which supplied Will with the unhelpful image of a nude Hannibal underneath it. “What are you thinking?”

“What are you thinking?” Will deflected poorly and sipped. He'd put in more liquor than usual and he repressed a sour-face.

“I think it was nice of you to welcome me into your home, even if it was under an unforeseen series of events. I wouldn’t mind staying to provide you peace of mind another way.” 

Will grimaced uncertainly, kind of flattered, sort of disturbed. “If you refrain from killing people, I’ll consider it.”

“If I refrain then I won’t have leverage.” He joked.

Ringing erupted and Will startled. 

Hannibal tittered and asked with an extended hand, "Would you please?” Will was buffering this morning, and it took him a moment to grab the discarded pants from the ottoman to pass. Hannibal accepted graciously and retrieved his phone from the back pocket. “It’s Jack.” Will groaned.

“Yes, he’s right here.” Will’s eyes snapped up, no matter where he is or who he’s with, Jack would get through to him somehow. “I brought him breakfast this morning.” He was surprised the doctor hadn’t outright told Jack he had spent the night, and he’s grateful for it. If he had, Jack wouldn’t dwell on it… right? “I’ll pass it to him now.” Hannibal put his hand over the microphone, “Apparently you haven’t been answering your phone.”

Will cursed, having left the muted cell on his bedside table. Hannibal withheld a smile as Will tore the device from his grip. “It can’t be a body,” Will hissed as he scrutinized the mostly naked man still lounging on his furniture. “It can’t be, Jack, I swear.”

“A body?”

“Don’t say ‘what else’ , okay? It’s not.”

“It’s not that- why couldn’t it be a body?”

“Because Hannibal was with me all night!” It was off-the-cuff, spontaneous, his uttered reasoning was a mortifying accident. Will blushed hard enough to feel his upper half fluctuate in temperature. He may as well of set his face on the stove. He tried to save it but a feeble squeak came out.

The smile Hannibal was hiding spread from ear to ear. 

An error message popped up in Will’s eyes as he became redder. “Ja-ack.” Will stuttered and Hannibal was so proud.

The silence persisted for an inconceivable ten seconds. A longer silence than any phone calls had the right to. Until noise from Jack’s end filtered through, though it was unintelligible. Hannibal was about to take the phone from Will to speak for him.

“Alana saw you in an article.” 

Will hummed. It was pretty much inaudible, and Hannibal stifled a laugh as he propped himself on the armrest. If there was one thing scarier than Jack’s wrath, it was Alana’s. It would of been scary, period, if he wasn’t hung up on making a fool of himself.

“And you are going to tell her, I did not contact you. You came to Felix Korenuk’s crime scene all on your own .” It was then he heard Alana yell in the background. Jack had called while he was being reprimanded which would only fuel her temper as she was being ignored.

“What was Alana doing on TattleCrime?” He managed to say. 

“Come ask her yourself.”

“What happened to ‘inditing her on obstruction of justice’?”

“She’ll be dealt with.”

Will would swear on his life that he legit heard a feminine yelp on the line and it wasn’t from the woman in the room. The line went dead and Will figured he couldn’t get out of this by simply not showing his face. He crossed his fingers that Jack might hold her back.

“What has gotten into you?” Hannibal said with glee. “We did spend the night together, there’s no need to get flustered over it.”

“We didn’t spend it together.” 

“We did. Literally.”

“You know how it sounds!” Will shouted.

Hannibal got up and did a fuller stretch, “I do.” He pulled on his pants and leaned down to get his shirt. “Your words are rebuking, but your eyes tell another story.” 

Will had been watching him change, time to look away.

“You’re convincing yourself you don’t want this. Or,” He gazed at Will darkly, “You just like being rude. ” Then another option came to mind, “You like when I’m rude. You rile me up and watch me go.” 

Will had no comeback. “Jack is waiting for me.”

Hannibal licked his bottom lip knowingly before it morphed into a grin. He had forgotten about buttoning his shirt, the large v showed a portion of his chest. “Shall I stay here?”

“Go home.”

“This is home.” He was stupidly smug.

“Go to your home!” Will went to change and collect his wallet and keys. Hannibal was putting on his shoes when Will yanked him to the door and shoved him out. He exited too, locking the door and stomping to his car. 

Hannibal went to his own with unsuppressed pleasure. When it comes to Hannibal, Will has no clue what he considers rude in an offending sense, rude in an endearing sense, or rude in a… sexy sense. Will made sure Hannibal drove off, then he left himself. 

.o0o.

“We had an agreement!”

“He showed up with Hannibal with no summons!”

Alana’s purple knee-length dress and matching high heels belied her vehemence. She looked like a kindly school teacher who taught first graders, but her expression was that of a wounded soldier seeking vengeance. 

Jack appeared as always, though a bit rough around the edges. He stood beside his desk, one leg bent with his foot hooked over by the ankle. One palm held him up on the wood and the other sat on his hip. His resting ‘how-is-this-my-life?’ face was more pronounced and grumpy.

“Why was he with Hannibal?”

“They came together!” He emphasized his aggravation by swinging his hand up, though immediately restored it to its initial position in a mediocre attempt at keeping his cool.

“But why!”

“I didn’t ask because I didn’t care .” 

“You should! As Will’s psychiatrist, Hannibal must know more than anyone how fractured Will is! We can see it from the outside, what does Hannibal see?”

“I take it, that’s why he came with Will. You trust Hannibal, or you have until now, though I’m not sure what changed.” Jack said irritably and rounded his desk to reach his phone.

“Are you kidding me? You’re going for your phone right now? I’m talking to you, Jack.”

Will Graham was one of the few people he had starred in his contacts. He tapped on his icon and waited out the muzac with a banshee screeching in his ear. 

“That is so incredibly disrespectful! No one is going to save you from this one!” 

The longer the tune ran on the more his head had a tantrum on the drums. Will didn’t have a voicemail set and it played the default robotic woman’s voice partnered with booming static.

“What’re you planning on asking him? To come save you?”

Jack hung up to call again.

“This is profoundly insulting.”

Jack jammed the phone against the side of his face, ear-shattering music blasting through his brain to shroud out the scrutiny. “I’m bringing Will in so you can guilt-trip him. ”

“A guilt-trip only works if you feel bad about what happened. You don’t, and I doubt he does.”

“Well, you get to make him feel bad,” Jack muttered as he scratched his screen, tapping the buttons like it’ll get Will’s attention through the current. “Will!” He yelled at no one. He couldn’t get ahold of him and dialed Hannibal. Thank goodness he was with Will.

“Alana saw you in an article.”

.o0o.

Will shuffled through the doors with empty hands. He hadn’t eaten and his laced coffee was curdling on his dresser. 

He thought of Hannibal’s silly smile as he wandered to his car, his messy hair and flirtatiousness that Will was one step from succumbing to. Time is running out. Hannibal lingers in his mind, on his hands, in his home. The final barrier is crumbling. His fortress’s foundation had cracked the day they met.

He got closer. Dread dampened by aloofness coiled his being. Jack’s office was no lion’s den, the entrance to it came into view. 

Jack looked dead inside as he blocked out a crazed Alana.

Feigning neutrality as he walked in was easy, it dipped into his real indifference. “What’s this?”

Alana’s fangs were poking out like that of a sabertooth tiger. “Some other time.” She told him sarcastically as a reference to their previous conversation. Hindsight told him he should’ve admitted it then. 

Will replied snarkily, “How about this. You’re not my boss, he’s sitting right there.”

Jack watched on, “Keep me out of this.”

Alana was vibrating with her unconcealed temper. “Jack put out the final order!” He was not kept out of it. “Sure, he’s the one in charge and he ordered you not to engage. You quit!”

“I said I quit to get you off my back!”

“Because I’m such an inconvenience! Just a mother hen?”

“I didn’t say that.” Will smushed his palm to his mouth.

“I am an annoyance.” 

“This isn’t even about you, Alana. Why is my coming to work a source of agitation?”

“It isn’t about me.” She agreed. “It’s not the work, it’s your self-destruction! I’m trying to protect you. We are. You’re not in a headspace to be empathizing with killers. Your indecisiveness has proven that! How are we supposed to know what you want, when you don’t know?”

“I think it was about protecting me once.”

“Yeah, and what’s it now?”

“You have an obsession of having access to all parts of my life!” Will bellowed. “That’s why we couldn’t date right? You knew you’d get carried away! You feel the need to plan all aspects and strip me of my agency!” Ironic that the man he couldn’t stray from currently held the power.

Jack was going to admonish him. However, Alana threw her arms around, gesturing wildly as she spouted, “You are so selfish! Everyone else is a nuisance in Will Graham’s world! God forbid we all die out so that you can be left to do as you please. And you’re right, I’m part of the problem! I make everything about you. I think about you, I worry about you, I come to see you. I can’t believe I ever had feelings for you!”

She had dodged a bullet… If they ended up together, all would revolve around him, wouldn’t it? “Thanks for telling me how you really feel.” It was meant to be a hostile jibe, but it was said monotone. 

“Will… It wasn’t supposed to come out like that.” She can’t say she doesn’t mean it. She does. All the while, Jack is chilling stiffly in the background and somehow this isn’t the most humiliated Will has been in his life. What’s more, he can’t argue with her.

Will swallowed the saliva collecting where his tongue was folded back in his mouth. “Um.” This appeared to be his sign to call it quits, officially. His co-workers hate him, he hates them, he hasn’t truly aided in any investigation for months and his pendulum is broken. “I guess this is my resignation letter.” He added, “Officially,” there he said it. “I’m not what you need on the team.”

Jack stood, “Will, things have been looking down, but that’s why we gave you a reprieve in the first place. Why don’t you take a break, an official break, and see how you’re doing in a few weeks?”

 “My personal grievances aren’t a disregard to your character.” At the extension of Will’s eyebrows Alana corrected, “I have issues with you in my personal life, you saw that, but your work ethic, that part of your character is essential here. And I don’t hate you.”

“You said it best, Jack. This was a long time coming.”

Jack came to stand in front of him. Could he see this wasn’t a battle worth fighting? The pushy, arrogant Jack he was acquainted with was mildly despondent. He was on the fence about a frown or a half-smile, nonetheless, he wasn’t happy. 

“Much to your chagrin, I’m not making it official. Not yet. Three weeks. If you’re done then you’re done.” Jack held out his hand and Will shook it. A shake that held no more promise than crossing pinky fingers, a trivial gesture.

Alana’s reaction was harder to read. Her anger simmered into pensiveness, resolution, maybe? There was a hint of homesickness, like she missed the ‘he’ he once was. She stepped forward and wrapped him in a yielding hug. 

They talked more and then he left for home.

He felt melodramatic. He was working hard to chuck everything down the drain, for he was worthless. He didn’t have much and didn’t deserve what he had. 

Only one person could make him feel better. The person he'd thrown out of his home not an hour before because now nothing is holding him back.

It’s wrong, it’s always wrong and he’ll regret it as soon as it’s over. But… this was always how it was going to go. 

He’s heading to Hannibal’s, he’ll probably do something he’ll regret, and then he can finally kill himself.

There it is. He thought it. Made it real. He really is going to kill himself, isn’t he? Getting with Hannibal is his excuse to do that, to finally cement it. He’s going to Hannibal’s and then that’s that. He chuckled as the cliche phrase came to mind, “Goodbye, cruel world.”