i’ll bury us both, fed to the night

Hannibal Lecter is a vampire, and he has been considering making Will Graham the same for some time now. Unfortunately, at an alley way crime scene, someone beats him to it.
Will’s belief that vampires are inherently evil leads to him being incredibly self-destructive. Hannibal is determined to make sure Will is not the cause of his own ruin.

Notes:

Just so you know, for your peace of mind, I already 40 chapters of this written :3 I’ll update every 5 days
This picks up after episode 1, and you should also be aware that Margot/Alana is already established bc well…I love them

Chapter Text

The alleyway was a sea of red.

There were seven bodies, six of them with their throats completely torn out and the seventh with severe lacerations to the jugular. This crime scene was different in that the bodies were not arranged artfully; they were seemingly discarded , as if thrown there haphazardly, drowning in an ocean of crimson.

“They died here,” Beverly was saying. She was knelt by one of the bodies closer to the mouth of the alley, gloved hands turning the victim’s head carefully to one side and then the other. The head seemingly hung on by just a sinew of flesh. “All nearly decapitated.”

“The cuts aren’t clean,” Price added. “They weren’t made by a knife. Something more jagged but that still affords a similar amount of precision.”

“Like teeth,” Will said quietly. Hannibal and Jack both stole glances at him: Hannibal’s knowing, and Jack’s curious.

“It could have been,” Price agreed.

“The seventh body,” Jack said. “The wounds aren’t nearly as severe.”

“Nope,” Beverly agreed. “Looked like the victim put up a hell of a fight. Got blood under her fingernails and what could be ocular tissue.”

“So, she was able to fight the attacker off?” Jack reasoned. “Even if she succumbed to her wounds?”

“No,” Will said, with a scoff. “This level of savagery, it’s almost...desperate. The killer needed to do this. They wouldn’t have allowed themselves to be fought off.”

“So, why leave this one behind?” Jack pressed. “What’s so special about her?”

Will observed the scene in front of him. He could feel how frantic the killer had been, how...hungry. It wasn’t a crime of passion, rather one of necessity. It was spelled out in the way that no throat was torn the same; there was no discernible pattern. The victims lay, in a somewhat linear order, as if the killer had gone from one to the next, moving faster after each. No, this seventh victim wasn’t special. And the killer wouldn’t have been fought off. So, why...

“Perhaps he was interrupted,” said Hannibal, his tone even and easy, lightly speculative.

Will blinked . When he offered no protest, Jack nodded. He gestured for all of them to clear the alley, everyone except Will.

When they were gone, Will closed his eyes. He cleared his mind of all previous assumptions; he needed to see it happen entirely from the killer’s perspective. He emptied his thoughts of anything Will. It was a process that became easier and easier each time he did it, like shedding an ill-fitting second skin. And each time he returned to himself, he did so with more difficulty.

The pendulum swung: once, twice—

Before the final swing reached its highest point, someone collided with Will, sending them both tumbling to the ground with bruising force.

Will blinked, disoriented, and found himself in the alleyway in his own mind, not the killer’s. On top of him was a pale man, his eyes alight with some avid madness that made his movements twitchy and imprecise. He tried to pin Will’s arms, but Will was able to get his hand around the gun holstered to his hip.

Before he could use it or even raise it any further than where he held it by his thigh, the man on top of him latched onto his throat with his teeth.

Hannibal was right. The killer had been interrupted, but he was back now. He was back, and trying to tear Will’s esophagus out with his abnormally sharp teeth.

The pain was explosive, concentrated in sharp pinpricks at the side of Will’s neck, but after a moment all sensations went numb. Even the ever-present headache that plagued Will constantly, the pounding behind his skull receding like the tide from some distant shore. Will only had the presence of mind to chalk it up to adrenaline as he squirmed underneath his attacker.

The killer growled in frustration, grasping the collar of Will’s jacket in shaking hands and using it to slam Will down against the concrete. Will’s vision blanked, going white as his struggling ceased momentarily. With all the strength he possessed , Will’s finger twitched on the trigger of his gun, then squeezed, the shot firing into the alley wall and ricocheting off ineffectually.

The killer unlatched from Will’s throat and leaned back only far enough to sneer down at him mockingly, lips twisted in an ugly sneer. “You missed.”

Will tried to say, ‘ Did I?’ But the pain was back, teeth sinking once again into the soft skin of his throat and his breath escaped him in a pained gasp.

Another gunshot rang out in the alleyway, and the killer slumped forward onto Will, a neat bullet hole in his head. Will shoved the man off him frantically, sitting up and gasping to fill his lungs with air even as his vision swam in front of him.

Jack stood at the other end of the alley, his gun still raised and smoking. Hannibal brushed briskly past him, coming to a stop at Will’s side.

“Will,” Hannibal said, trying to get his attention.

Will tried to reply, but he couldn’t tell if he succeeded or not. Everything felt very far away from him, like it was happening to someone else. It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar feeling, but it was accompanied by an unpleasant lightheadedness and nausea that twisted his insides and made him shake.

Prompted by Will’s irresponsiveness, Hannibal kneeled next to him. Will wanted to tell him not to crease his nice shoes on the dirty concrete, but he couldn’t get any words out. Hannibal lifted Will’s head with a gentle but firm hand, tilting his chin to the side to see the wound.

“He’s in no immediate danger of bleeding out,” Hannibal relayed, and Will realized that Jack was now at his other side. He was also aware of Beverly, Price, and Zeller standing at the other end of the alley but trying to see that far away made Will’s head reel with dizziness.

“That’s him,” Jack said. Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw a blur of metal; Jack brandishing his gun at the newly dead man. The movement made Will feel unmoored, and he reached out for anything solid to ground him. His fingers gripped the sleeve of Hannibal’s suit jacket. “That was the killer, wasn’t it, Will?”

“His teeth were very sharp,” Will slurred nonsensically. The words were a buzz in his ears.

Hannibal frowned up at Jack. “Jack. Could Will and I have a moment?”

Jack deferred to Hannibal without protest, as he normally did. “Of course, doctor. Shout if you need anything.”

Will didn’t watch them go. His eyes were fixed on the concrete in front of him. The gravel whorled around in loops and circles in a way that reminded him of television static. Was that normal? Was concrete supposed to move?

“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asked. His voice was the only steady thing in the barrage of movement, the only thing that didn’t make Will feel like emptying the meager contents of his stomach.

Will didn’t answer. He wouldn’t be able to even if he knew what to say, and he didn’t know what to say. How could he describe what he was feeling? The way that his head felt so light that he could barely sit up on his own, how his ears were ringing loud enough that he couldn’t hear his thoughts over the obnoxious, resounding tone of it, or that he could feel himself shaking, imagined himself hearing his bones clattering under his skin?

“Try to relax, Will,” Hannibal said. The sound was a distant murmur now, one that didn’t breach the fog of Will’s mind. “What comes next will be very unpleasant, I’m afraid.”

Will wanted to laugh and ask how it could get any worse, but suddenly he was being lifted off the ground and the world tilted sharply, and then sound, sensation, and sight faded away and left him alone in darkness at last.

Hannibal prided himself on his incredible foresight. He knew to expect things before they happened; he knew to expect that Jack Crawford would continue pushing Will Graham, and he knew that Will Graham would break. He knew that the case of the bloodletting in the alley was not a usual one, and he always knew to expect the unexpected where Will Graham was concerned.

Which was why Hannibal could not be entirely surprised that Will was unconscious in the passenger seat of his car with vampire venom coursing through his veins.

He’d known from the moment he saw it that the murders in the alley were the work of vampires. The ‘desperation’ that Will had described was doubtless the work of a fledgling, scared and confused by their new bloodlust and driven to madness by their desire to kill. ‘Savagery,’ Will had said. The person responsible had been ‘savage.’

And wasn’t it ironic that Will was about to be made the same special brand of savage that he had condemned not even an hour before?

From the day Hannibal met Will Graham, he had been intrigued by him. Typically, when Hannibal was intrigued, it meant several weeks of observation and careful studying before he killed the object of his interest and bled them dry. But part of what made Will so interesting was his beautiful mind, and Hannibal couldn’t exactly study it if Will was dead.

Hannibal was coming up on two months of having known Will, and the idea to turn him had crossed his mind many times. But he had been waiting for the right moment, the precise time when Will trusted him enough to come to him to nurture the new murderous feelings he was going to experience. He wanted to be the one to help Will through it, to slit his throat and watch his blood run black in the moonlight, be the one who wielded the spade that gently buried his body, and the one who gave him his first taste of blood after he struggled to unearth himself from his cocoon.

Of course, there were other options now that Will had the venom in his blood. The first was to die and be buried, to resurrect in his new form; the second was to be sacrificed on the altar of a holy place and consume holy water to burn the venom out, to reverse the transformation; the third was to let the vampiric poison run its course, burning Will’s beautiful mind with fever and slowly stopping his heart.

The second option would not be possible, for Hannibal could not bring Will into a holy place if he himself could not enter. And he wouldn’t have wanted to reverse this transformation even if he could; Will was changing into something magnificent, and he would never be able to go back again.

Hannibal would never allow the third option .

Even though Hannibal had wanted to be the catalyst—the one who sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of Will’s neck to intoxicate him with his own venom—he still cherished the opportunity he had to guide Will through the transformation and to be the one to grace his lips with the first drops of blood he would drink as his new self.

Hannibal was going to guide Will through his becoming. His own blood surged at the thought.

Will groaned, shifting in his seat. The movements were weak and sluggish, and his muscles trembled with the little effort he gave.

“Will,” Hannibal said, keeping most of his attention on the road in front of them. He could smell the sickly-sweet fever in the air between them; the venom smelled like honey, and it was a heady scent when it intermingled and coursed through Will’s bloodstream. The havoc it was wreaking on his nerves was beautiful for the knowledge of what came after.

“Dr. Lecter?” Will muttered. His head moved toward the sound of Hannibal’s voice, but it quickly slumped down to rest on his shoulder, the strain of holding it up too much for him.

“Try and relax, Will,” Hannibal told him, reaching over to brush sweat-slicked curls out of his eyes. He could feel the burn of Will’s skin at such close proximity, fever rolling off him in waves. It excited Hannibal.

“What’s happening?” Will asked. His breath came in little huffs, and his chest moved quickly with his exhales . “Where’s Jack?”

“Stop speaking,” Hannibal said, firm but calm. “Save your strength. You’re going to need it, Will.”

Hannibal spared a glance at his passenger; he clung to consciousness valiantly, eyes roving aimlessly under half-closed lids. Finally, they fell all the way shut, and Will let out a pained noise as his head slumped forward.

Hannibal refocused his attention on the road.

Soon, they arrived at the place Hannibal had selected. Even though he hadn’t yet had any concrete plans for when he was going to turn Will, he had worked out some of the details, such as the location of his burial. It was a wide-open field, obscured from any view from the road by a thick copse of trees. A stream ran along the western edge. The soil was rich and healthy with nutrients, the perfect place for digging. Hannibal got the car as close as he could to the edge of the trees and killed the engine.

Will was completely limp in his arms, muscles pliant and weak. His head bounced softly against Hannibal’s shoulder in time with his steps, and the scent of him made Hannibal’s own head feel heavy, like he was intoxicated.

When Hannibal put Will down in the field, grass swaying softly against their legs, his knees buckled. Hannibal held him upright, his back pressed firmly to Hannibal’s chest. The knife slid easily out of Hannibal’s sleeve. He held it in front of them, and he could see the reflection of Will’s widened eyes in its polished edge.

“Quiet,” Hannibal murmured, stopping Will’s feverish attempts at speaking, lips pressed to his ear. “Soon, you will be new. Do not fear what happens to you in this body.”

Will opened his mouth again, but before he could make any noises, Hannibal opened his throat, the blade kissing his skin with deadly precision.

The knife dropped to the grass, quickly followed by large amounts of Will’s blood. Hannibal marveled at the sight. It was painting the earth obsidian.

Will sputtered, jerking in Hannibal’s hold. Hannibal held him tighter, hushing him again. Will didn’t listen; he made wet, choking sounds, the air he was trying to gasp into his lungs gurgling ineffectually in his gaping throat. Hannibal could feel the blood pool on his skin, running over his hands and between his fingers where they held Will.

He tried to get out of Hannibal’s arms again, but his body jerked and spasmed in a way that undermined all his efforts. Hannibal whispered softly into his ear, but if his renewed struggle was any indication , Will was not taking any comfort from his words .

Eventually, Will’s squirming slowed. He tried to breathe again, his head moving back until it rested against Hannibal’s neck; Will’s head fit perfectly under his chin. Finally, his body spasmed one last time before falling completely still. His weight rested entirely in Hannibal’s hold.

Hannibal had made preparations for the burial to be as easy as possible when the time came, and it wasn’t long before Will was gently cradled in the cavernous arms of the earth, much as he had been held in Hannibal’s. The hole was six feet deep, and Hannibal could just see the moonlight glinting off the whites of Will’s eyes from where he stood at the edge of the grave.

The first shovelful of dirt sounded like death.

The last shovelful sounded like life.

Taking the same knife he had used to cut Will’s throat in hand, he drew it across his palm, creating a shallow cut in the lined and callused skin. Holding his hand above Will’s grave, he squeezed his fingers, drops of blood landing on the mound of dirt like rain on arid land .

Hannibal stood by the bed of dirt he had made for Will. And he waited. It was up to Will now, to claw himself into new life. And Hannibal knew that he would.

Earth.

Above and below and under and around him.

It was all he could see and all he could taste, the cold and metallic taste of it threatening to drown him; clogging his throat with the sheer amount of it. His eyes stung where the dirt crept beneath his tightly closed eyelids, and he could feel it in his ears, going deeper each time he struggled to move.

But he couldn’t move. There was too much, and he was stuck pinned under its oppressive weight. His lungs felt collapsed, and he doubted his heart was even beating. Pressed so thinly between layers of the earth, there was not enough room for it to expand and do its job, pumping blood through his body.

Blood.

He could smell it. Somewhere above him, away from the cruel fingers of dirt that held him idle under their weight. His own fingers twitched, curled into his palms. Earth shifted around him.

Will lifted his hands. And c lawed .

Hannibal stood waiting by the car. He had left a thin trail of blood from his palm through the woods, one that Will would easily be able to follow with his keen sense of smell, heightened by the desire and desperation of a fledgling. He would be able to find his way to Hannibal with his eyes closed if he wished.

Whenever he arrived, reunited with Hannibal in their twin forms, he didn’t have to drink from Hannibal’s palm if he didn’t want to. Hannibal would be happy to open any vein or artery for Will to take his blood from. Though he doubted Will would be picky . The hunger would be eating away at him, needing to replenish what the fever had burned away.

Soon, Hannibal heard footsteps in the woods. The steps were staggering, as if the person taking them was struggling to stay upright. Hannibal made no move to meet Will halfway. It was something he had to do himself.

At last, Will emerged from the tree line; covered in dirt, his hair disheveled and his eyes searching, illuminated in the moonlight, blood still staining the front of his clothes and his ghostly pale skin. He was the most captivating sight Hannibal had ever seen.

Will collapsed to his hands and knees. His chest heaved, and he was still shaking from the effects of the venom and his turning. Hannibal approached him slowly, but his steps were not belabored by fear or apprehension. No, the anticipation was what slowed him, knowing that this was a moment he would want to return to when it was over; he had to commit it perfectly to his memory palace.

Will looked up at Hannibal when he stopped by his side, Will’s gaze going right through him. Hannibal knelt. And put his bloodied palm beneath Will’s nose.

Immediately, Will’s pupils expanded, black swallowing up all of the blue in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, the scent of blood lighting his nerves on fire. He looked down at Hannibal’s hand, but did not move past that.

“What’s happening to me?” Will whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse.

“You must drink,” Hannibal told him. “To finish the transformation. Or you will die.”

Will’s eyes lifted to Hannibal’s, wide and wild and fringed by dark lashes with dirt still clinging to them. Hannibal placed his uninjured hand to the side of Will’s burning face, a gentle thumb brushing across his eyes to clean the earth away.

“You want me to drink,” Will said, struggling to speak through gasps of air, “your blood ?”

“Desperately,” Hannibal replied evenly.

Will jerked away from him, replacing Hannibal’s gentle hands with shaking ones of his own, which grasped and pulled at his hair with dirty fingers. Hannibal frowned.

“What is going on?” Will gasped to himself. “ What’s happening to me? I feel like I’m on fire —”

“That is why you must drink, Will. The fever from the venom is burning your blood, and so you must replenish it.”

Will looked at him again, across the inches he had put between them. Some clarity returned to his gaze, as he studied Hannibal with a frantic expression. Something shifted, and his brows furrowed along with a slight narrowing of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was thready and weak, heightened with fear. “Did you bury me, Dr. Lecter?”

“The murderer in the alley put the nail in your coffin when he put his venom in your neck,” said Hannibal. “I simply buried it.”

Will looked as if he was about to say something else, but he hunched forward suddenly, groaning in pain as he clutched arms around his trembling middle, like there was something begging to get out that he could keep in if he held on tight enough.

“Will.” Hannibal’s tone was heavier now, tiring of watching Will suffer needlessly when all he needed was to reach out and take.

“I’m not drinking your blood,” Will snapped loudly. He continued to clutch at his head, shaking like a wounded animal. “What’s happening to me?”

Hannibal left him there for a moment, returning to the car to procure his back-up plan. While most fledglings’ fever-addled minds were much too desperate for blood to question its origin when they clawed themselves from their graves, Hannibal was not surprised that Will was an exception. He was much too perceptive for his own good, too present in his own mind to know what he needed.

Hannibal knelt by Will’s side again, offering him a bottle. “Here. Drink, Will.”

Will eyed it warily and then treated Hannibal to the same unsure assessment. He was still sweating, burning with fever that had yet to abate. Hannibal knew it would only get worse before it got better. He steadied Will with a hand on his shivering shoulder.

“What is it?” Will asked, not protesting or moving away from Hannibal’s touch.

“Something that will help you to regain your strength,” he told Will truthfully.

Without further questions or prodding from Hannibal, Will took the bottle in his wavering grasp. After watching him struggle to open it once, Hannibal unscrewed the lid with patient fingers; he had to hold it and Will’s head steady as he drank.

Will drank quickly and greedily, gulping down the blood with unbridled need. Hannibal let him drink about half before he took it away, and Will tried to grab for it when it was gone.

“You can have more later,” Hannibal promised soothingly. “You’ll make yourself sick if you drink too much.”

“I feel sick already,” Will murmured, exhaustion slumping his shoulders and pitching his voice lower.

Hannibal smiled. “Yes, I’m sure you do. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

With his appetite momentarily satiated, Will’s muscles seemed to be giving out on him. He listed sharply to the side, and Hannibal held him up with a steady grasp.

“Am I dreaming?” Will slurred. “This is a nightmare, isn’t it?”

“It may feel like a dream when you wake,” Hannibal said. “But I assure you, it is not. You are new now and can never return to how you were before. It is a beautiful thing, Will.”

Will’s eyebrows knitted tightly together; eyes almost crossed with how hard he was trying to comprehend Hannibal’s words. “I don’t understand.”

“It will take time,” Hannibal told him.

Suddenly, Will’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed forward, his forehead colliding into Hannibal’s collarbone. Hannibal’s arms went around him, holding Will in his new body for the first time. It was an intoxicating feeling; he could smell it on Will now that he had new blood in his veins, flushing out the vampiric venom. But it would be hours before all of the venom was gone, and it would not be an easy night.

“Don’t worry, Will,” Hannibal whispered as he lifted Will’s limp body into his arms again. “I have you now.”

Chapter 2 Summary:

Will eventually gains a bit of coherence. Necessary conversations and revelations are had.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Energized and enlivened by the blood now in him, Will fought against Hannibal’s hold as he carried him into his home. He pushed and pulled at Hannibal’s arms and groaned low in his throat, the sound almost a growl. His eyes danced around listlessly, feverishly bright.

“You must be calm, Will,” Hannibal told him as he shut the door gently behind them with his heel. “Since you were unwilling to take from me, the blood you drank was not nearly strong enough to stave off the fever.”

“What blood?” Will gasped, writhing. Hannibal held him tighter. “What fever?”

“You are undergoing a transformation. The process is not easy, nor is it painless. But you will be better for it, Will.”

Hannibal set Will down on the couch in his office, kneeling beside it, and Will immediately tried to surge to his feet, his head darting side to side as he took in his new surroundings. Hannibal kept him seated with firm hands on his shoulders, displeased with how strong Will’s fever still was. Normally, drinking human blood upon turning would reduce the effects of the venom greatly, but Will had not drank blood from a human. He was still suffering.

“Will,” he said firmly, taking Will’s chin in his hand to focus his wandering attention on himself. “My offer still stands.”

Will’s gaze remained cloudy, though his expression twisted up in an attempt to concentrate , a deep crease appearing in the space between his brows . “What am I doing here? Where’s Jack?”

“At home with his wife, I presume. You are here because you need help with your becoming.”

Will tried to move away from Hannibal’s hand in a jerky and disjointed effort. Hannibal had no trouble holding on , leaving a slightly red mark in the shape of his fingerprint on Will’s chin .

“Will. Are you hungry?”

At just the suggestion of hunger, Will’s pupils dilated. The tip of his tongue swiped slowly along his bottom lip, and Hannibal was utterly enraptured.

“No,” Will breathed, hands clutching feebly at Hannibal’s wrists to move him away, and Hannibal let him go this time. “No, no, no...”

Covering his face with his hands, Will continued to repeat the word over and over in a hushed and frightened tone, as if the simple litany would be enough to stave off the all-consuming hunger Hannibal knew was plaguing him. Will’s stubbornness perplexed and fascinated Hannibal, though it was frustrating to watch him refuse his instincts so thoroughly .

At length, Hannibal got to his feet. He gathered what he knew Will would need to get through the night; blankets, a bowl of cold water and a soft cloth, and another canister of blood. Will was in the same sorry state when he returned , though it appeared he had not had the strength to move from the spot Hannibal had left him in .

“I have to go home,” Will told Hannibal, looking up at his return. His words came out of him strung together haphazardly with very little coherence to them. “I need to feed my dogs, and I need to tell Jack that I’m sick and I won’t be in tomorrow, I need to go to a hospital, and call Alana and ask her to watch the dogs because—”

“No hospitals,” Hannibal said, removing Will’s hands from where they continued to grasp and claw at his curls. Will sputtered, trying to speak, but Hannibal ignored him, wiping his face clean of dirt and sweat with the cloth he had brought. Despite his apparent distress, Will leaned into the cool dampness of the fabric , even as a faint note of indignation continued to sour his features . “We have everything you need here, and a hospital will not be able to treat you.”

Will relaxed marginally under Hannibal’s ministrations, but he continued to speak between harsh gasps for air. “My dogs.”

Hannibal avoided his unfocused gaze and instead moved to his hands next, scrubbing them clean of the earth that clung to them in thick clumps like gloves. “I will call Alana and ask her to watch after them.”

“What’s wrong with me, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked despairingly, exhaustion and fever causing his tense muscles to finally unclench. His weak body subsided into the cushions behind him, even as he continued to shake gently.

“Nothing,” Hannibal said with sincerity. He placed the cloth back into the bowl and began unlacing Will’s mud-crusted boots. Will made no protest, and Hannibal looked up to see his eyes were dropping shut slowly. “You will feel better in the morning, Will. You have only to get through the night.”

“Am I dying?” Will murmured. “It feels like I’m dying.”

“You have already died.”

Hannibal held Will’s foot steady when a full-body shudder overtook him, wracking his frame in its intensity. With both shoes removed and set aside, Hannibal draped a thick blanket over Will. Shocked by the weight of the fabric, Will tried to bolt upright again as another bout of venom possessed his movements. His breathing became frenzied as Hannibal held him, exhausting himself by struggling against Hannibal’s much stronger hold.

“Relax, Will.” Hannibal felt the muscles in Will’s shoulders spasming under his touch. “It will be like this for several more hours. You must save your energy.”

“Can’t,” Will gasped, gripping at Hannibal’s biceps with fingers curled into claws.

“I could sedate you,” Hannibal offered, holding on to Will’s resisting frame.

Will stilled for a moment. When he began moving again, it was to burrow further into the blanket that Hannibal had placed over his shoulders like a shroud. “No.”

“Very well. Then you must try to sleep, Will.”

Will didn’t respond, pushing himself back onto the couch as if he could convince it to swallow him back up like he had been swallowed by his earthy grave. He was still feverishly frenzied, but Hannibal could see the energy evaporating out of him. His eyes fought to stay open, and his head nodded intermittently towards the cushions, the venom fighting for his consciousness just as fiercely as sleep did.

“You will begin to appreciate this for the gift that it is,” Hannibal told him, his voice softening. “I can’t say that it will happen soon, but it will happen.”

Will slumped like a marionette with its strings cut. His voice was thick with exhaustion and despair as he slurred, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I will explain it all to you when you are feeling better,” Hannibal said, his voice pitched low with solemnity. He couldn’t be sure that his vow was heard, however, because Will was finally asleep.

Hannibal did not leave Will that night.

He sat resolutely by his side, wiping away sweat from his burning face and readjusting cushions and pillows when he awoke in a panic. He woke often, and each time almost sent him tumbling to the ground with the force of his desperate attempts to be rid of the blanket covering him.

Delirious and disoriented as he was, it was easy for Hannibal to convince Will to lie back down and surrender again to sleep. He was weak, and Hannibal was gentle with him; it was a gentleness he knew he possessed but didn’t often bother to exhibit . Something about Will’s utter helplessness drew it out of him like a moth to a flame.

As the moon traversed its arc across the night sky, Hannibal felt his own exhaustion acutely. Fortunately, Will stopped thrashing violently when he awoke from whatever nightmares plagued his sleep, and instead came to with a small jolt, like returning to consciousness was the equivalent of a plunge into cold water . Each time he was less and less bewildered, glancing over to lock eyes with Hannibal and then losing himself again to a fitful sleep.

When the sun peeked over the horizon and the office room was illuminated with its light, Hannibal felt a sense of relief that was similarly bright. As the first beams crept over Will’s face he turned away, then blinked his eyes open with a groan. It was the first time Hannibal saw any semblance of lucidity in his blue gaze.

“Will, are you thirsty?”

He blinked a few times in quick succession, his face crumpled in confusion. He looked around at his surroundings without any hint of recollection and pushed the blanket away from himself with a measure of distaste. His limbs were still weakened by lingering fever, but it was already waning away with the strength that his new form provided .

Hannibal put a canister of blood into his hands, and Will startled at its sudden appearance. He glanced up at Hannibal for a moment, unsure, then twisted off its lid on his own before taking a hesitant sip, then another, and finally Hannibal suspected that he drained the whole container. It was for the best that its contents remained unknown to him.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Hannibal asked when he was finished, taking the canister and placing it on the side table.

Will’s gaze was clouded as he thought. “I remember the crime scene. Seven bodies. I remember...someone attacking me? Did I imagine that?”

“You did not,” Hannibal replied. “The killer attacked you, and so Jack killed him.”

Hannibal watched Will’s mind work through the window of his eyes, marveling at how every second of his thinking seemed to be modeled there in various shades of blue. There was a furrow between his brows.

“Do you know what happened next?” Hannibal prompted.

“I remember feeling sick,” Will said. “I remember the concrete.”

Hannibal’s head ticked to the side almost imperceptibly . “In what regard?”

“The, um,” Will waved one hand around in circles as he spoke to demonstrate , “the concrete. In the alley. It was moving.”

“That you did imagine, I’m afraid.”

Will’s circulating hand moved to press into his closed eyelids, rubbing them as if he could expel the memories returning to him in fractured increments.

“It is natural to feel sick,” Hannibal told him, “when one is injected with a vampire’s venom.”

Will’s head jerked upright. He looked at Hannibal with a muddled medley of confusion and shock that contrasted sharply with his apparent amusement, which shone hesitantly through in the inflection of his voice.

“I may have misheard you,” Will said slowly. “Did you say vampire?”

Hannibal maintained his serious expression, holding Will’s gaze steadily. “I did.”

“ You’re going to tell me that I, what? Can’t go into the sun? Should avoid garlic?”

“Myths,” Hannibal said dismissively. “Though you may experience a slight aversion to bright lights.”

He could see that Will almost laughed but thought better of it when looking at Hannibal’s earnest face. Now Will’s head tipped to the side, observing Hannibal with scrutiny.

“We may have differing opinions on this, Dr. Lecter, but I don’t believe in. ..vampires ,” Will said, a pause before his last word that indicated he might have thought Hannibal was insane.

Hannibal took his disbelief in stride. It was to be expected. “Try and remember what happened after we left the crime scene last night.”

Will raised his eyebrows and finally let out the derisive laugh he had been holding in, though it managed to be mostly self-deprecating. “I couldn’t have even told you that it was last night. I don’t remember much of anything.”

Hannibal did not sever their eye contact. “Try.”

Will held his gaze for a moment longer, looking perplexed by the intensity of Hannibal’s request. Then he dropped his eyes, studying the floor while Hannibal studied him.

“I remember being attacked,” Will said slowly. “I remember feeling a moment of pain and then...calm. A strange sense of tranquility, even when I knew I should have been panicking.”

“Your instinct to be calm and collected, even when danger is present,” Hannibal expanded. “It is one of the first things granted by vampirism.”

Will scrutinized him beneath hooded eyes before avoiding his gaze again. “After that, I remember firing my gun. To signal for help.”

“We heard. And when we came, you were under the killer. Jack shot him.”

“Yes,” Will allowed. “I remember pieces of that.”

“What next?”

Will’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “Dr. Lecter—”

Hannibal remained unyielding. “This is important, Will.”

Relenting, Will continued to think. “After that I remember passing out. In the alley. And the next thing I was aware of was feeling like I was—like I was floating. Carried as if by...a stream.”

Hannibal felt a small smile grace his lips at Will’s gentle recollection of having been carried in Hannibal’s arms.

He continued, “And then I was in your car. And I was...burning.”

“With fever and with venom,” Hannibal told him.

“And we were in a field. Someone was holding me because I couldn’t stand.” Will’s words came quicker now, flowing out of him like water from behind a broken dam. It was the dam in his mind, being deconstructed under Hannibal’s meticulous care. “You were holding me.”

“I was.”

“And there was moonlight and—and a blade,” Will said, his brow furrowing more, his head shaking as he spoke like he could undo what he was only now recalling. “Someone was holding a blade.”

Hannibal leaned in closer.

Will’s eyes raised to his, shock and betrayal warring in them. “ You were holding a blade.”

Hannibal’s head inclined. “I was.”

His own eyes were quick enough to track Will’s movements as he rose from the couch, the backs of his knees colliding with the cushioning as he took an unconscious step back. Hannibal could see that he was still deeply enveloped in the throes of his memories.

“Did you kill me?” His voice was a harsh whisper.

Hannibal approached Will, holding his shoulders like he had the night before. Only, they were no longer trembling with fear, but with power and strength that lent itself to the gift of vampirism. Hannibal tightened his grip.

“What happened to you next?” Hannibal urged. “After you died, behind the veil of this life.”

“ Dirt ,” Will said. “It was everywhere. I felt like...a bug pinned between panes of glass.”

“Stuck between lives.”

“Between deaths,” Will amended fervently. “And I remember digging and clawing my way out of the grave.”

“And out of death,” Hannibal said. “Don’t you see?”

The window separating Will’s memories and his present shattered, and his expression cleared as he met Hannibal’s eyes. “I was dead.”

“And now you are something else entirely,” Hannibal told him. “Will, whatever you wish to call it; undead, demons, children of Lilith, vampires, it is what you are. You are more than human now.”

“No,” Will said. “No, no, vampires aren’t real, Dr. Lecter. They’re a myth. Made up. Figments of superstition.”

“Then explain to me how you are living now, when you know that you died,” Hannibal pressed. “Explain to me your hunger, which you feel coursing through your veins.”

Will flinched, his expression injured.

“You are hungry now,” Hannibal said, slower and quieter. “And you could rip into my throat at this moment just as the killer did to those people in the alley. Or I into yours. We are the same, you and I.”

Will jerked away, breaking Hannibal’s grasp and spinning on his heel so he was between Hannibal and the door. “This isn’t real.”

“Then what is?” Hannibal asked evenly.

“Something else,” Will said desperately , breaths quickening . “Something that I’ve left behind.”

“That you will never get back. Remember how you felt killing Garret Jacob Hobbs, Will. You will feel it again, and more.”

The dam in Will’s mind was broken; pulverized and obliterated. The flood was cascading, and Will was swept up in it. The torrent pushed him away from Hannibal, sending him running out of the office.

Hannibal’s gaze lowered to the boots Will had left, still clung to by the mud from his grave.

Notes:

Will: you literally cut my throat
Hannibal: don’t be mad princess ahah you’re so sexy 😅
Did I write Hannibal too fervent? Possibly. But he’s yearning folks let him yearn

Chapter 3 Summary:

Will struggles. Hannibal…helps?

Notes:

Little bit of a quick one but it’s necessary :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The night was deep . The only illumination was the moon, but even without it Will would have been able to see through the forest’s darkness. His vision was keen, and it took no effort at all to peer between the tangle of trees whose branches resembled antlers.

He could hear breathing, miles ahead through the thickets. Heavy, desperate, and afraid. The person had been running. Running from Will.

Will crept on silent feet, and the leaves did not rustle underneath him. Prowling, he approached the gasping and whimpering man. He crouched nearby, a single gnarled tree trunk all that separated him from his prey. Will stayed there for a moment, still as stone. Just to listen to the sound of fear he had created , the emotion splattered like crimson red against a pristine white canvas.

Then, when he felt intoxicated by the heady feeling of it, he attacked. Incisors lengthening, he aimed for the man’s throat. Will’s target was the beating pulse point in his jugular, and he knew he had it when the tangy and metallic taste of blood exploded in his mouth.

The man screamed. Will held him and bled him dry. He felt it intermingling with the new blood coursing through his veins: power.

The feeling catapulted him into wakefulness with its force, and he sat bolt upright in bed, gasping like the man in his nightmare.

Shaking, he looked around him. He was alone. He lifted a hand to his teeth and his wandering fingers were not met with the kiss of fangs. There was no blood on his hands.

It was a recurring nightmare. He had had it every night since Hannibal Lecter killed and buried him, which he realized grimly had been seven days ago. He had missed his last appointment with Hannibal. He knew Hannibal would see it as rude, but Will couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t know what he would do if he found himself pinned under that piercing umber gaze again.

Instinctually, he searched around the room for his dogs. They weren’t there, of course; he had asked Alana Bloom to take care of them. He knew Alana didn’t mind—Margot Verger was a dog person—but it still made him feel like a burden.

But more pressing than his fear of being a burden was his fear of waking up to find himself massacring his own family.

Even if he denied fervently to Hannibal the existence of vampires, he couldn’t ignore the changes he was experiencing. He was hungry. It was all-consuming, an ache that he felt in his very bones. He spent his days with blurry eyes, headaches, and near-fainting spells. Every time he was within a yard of a living being, including each of his dogs, he could smell their blood through their pores, and it nauseated and sickened him. But not because he was repelled by it; because he wanted it.

That was the reason he asked Alana to take care of them. He could barely stand talking to her the few minutes it took for her to gather the dogs and their things, and she surprisingly had no qualms accepting the lie that he was sick. He definitely looked ill. He had tried eating normal food, drinking water or wine or whiskey, anything to dull the ache in his head. But everything he ate, his body expelled. He easily recognized the symptoms of dehydration and malnourishment in himself.

That’s how he knew. As certainly as he ached for the taste of blood, as certainly as the moon rose at night and as certain as he was that he had died and somehow clawed his way back to some semblance of life, he knew that Hannibal Lecter was not lying to him.

He had been transformed. And he was terrified.

But there was only so long he could keep himself locked away in his small house in Wolf Trap. He cowered under the guise of sickness for only a week before Jack Crawford demanded he either return to work or go to a doctor. And if he didn’t seek out a doctor, Jack would send Hannibal. That was motivation enough.

Normally Hannibal drove him, picking him up on his way to Quantico for the sake of convenience, but today Will told Jack that if he was demanding his presence, he would have to be the one to get Will there. Maybe it was petulant and unnecessary, but Will was barely thinking straight about most things and couldn’thold the childish slight against himself.

So, Will found himself at another crime scene. Before he even entered the snowy clearing with Jack at his side, he could smell the blood. He had smelt it as soon as he opened the car door and tried to ignore it. There was no ignoring it now.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw it. It was identical to the previous scene in a way that horrified him. His stomach flipped, and he pressed his eyes closed, desperate not to recall that night.

“Do I need to get Dr. Lecter to stick a thermometer in you?”

Will blinked, focusing on the sound of Jack’s voice instead of the velvety wash of crimson that stained the white snow. His eyes lifted to where Hannibal stood with Beverly, but he quickly averted his gaze again when Hannibal returned it with a burning intensity that could have melted the snow and ice between them.

“No,” Will murmured. “I’m fine.”

Jack eyed him for a moment longer before turning his attention to their team. “Talk to me, Z.”

“I would be surprised if the bite marks on these guys didn’t match the ones from the alley last week,” Zeller said. “Same wound patterns, but nine victims this time.”

“And he finished the job,” Beverly added, gesturing to the way that each victim was mutilated with brutal efficiency. “No unfinished work on these.”

“That killer is dead,” Jack reminded them. “I shot him with my own gun. Saw him go down.”

“He could have been working with someone else, though,” she reasoned.

“We’ve got footprints out of the clearing.” Jack’s eyes followed Zeller’s pointing finger to the far end of the snowy expanse, where shallow boot prints were stamped into the ground. “They go a couple of feet then stop. Like he started flying or something.”

“Not flying,” Hannibal said, and Will winced at the sound of his voice. It seemed to grate on his ears, reminding him of words heard through a feverish and delirious haze. “Climbing, maybe.”

“ Are t he trees around here climbable?” Jack asked.

Price threw a cursory glance around them, even though Will was sure he had already examined the scene from every possible angle . “It’s doable.”

“The last perp was hanging out at the crime scene,” said Zeller. “Could still be here somewhere.”

Jack raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Zeller, who shrugged innocently. Then he looked sidelong at Will and said simply, as if the utterance of the name itself was a command , “Will.”

Will realized his breaths were coming too quickly. He made a conscious effort to slow them, but the deep intake of air through his nose invaded his senses with the smell of blood, and his vision swam dangerously in front of him. He clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms in an attempt to sharpen his thoughts.

“You don’t look too hot,” Beverly said, and unlike Jack’s, her voice was laced with a light note of concern. “You sure you’re not still sick?”

“I’m fine,” Will said again.

“And?” Jack pressed impatiently, gesturing expansively to the bodies littering the wintery scene.

Will pressed his hands to his eyes and felt his fingers shaking, trying to press hard enough to push the smell of blood out of his senses. His knees threatened to buckle.

“Will,” Jack said again, but the summons wasn’t demanding this time. It was perhaps the softest Will had ever heard Jack speak to him. A large hand landed on his shoulder, meant to be steadying. It only served to make Will feel unbalanced and off-kilter.

Before Will could insist that he was fine again, the hand on him was briskly brushed away and replaced with much gentler ones.

“He is exhibiting warning signs of syncope,” Hannibal said, and Will flinched at how close his voice had become. “Sit, Will.”

If he didn’t sit, Will reasoned to himself, he was going to collapse. So, he did what Hannibal said and sat heavily on the unwelcoming blanket of snow. He was distantly aware of Hannibal crouching in front of him.

Then, the gentle hands on his shoulders guided him back and down until he was lying in the snow. The coldness of it shocked him in a pleasant way, clearing his head infinitesimally. Hannibal lifted Will’s unresisting legs and braced them on his own knees, maneuvering Will into the recovery position and allowing the blood to flow to his head.

At least, that was what it was supposed to do. Will’s head still felt like it was light enough to drift away on the gentle breeze that shook the tree limbs.

“Take deep breaths, Will,” Hannibal said.

Will let out a short laugh that sounded more like a whine when it escaped his tightening windpipe. “I don’t want to.”

There was a short moment of silence before Hannibal spoke again, like he was considering his words very carefully so as not to alarm their present company any further. When Will peeked through bleary eyes, he could see Jack’s silhouette outlined against the sky, and in front of him sat Hannibal. Will quickly closed his eyes again.

“I know,” Hannibal said finally. “But you must. You haven’t been taking care of yourself.”

“This job will kill you if you let it,” Jack added unhelpfully .

Will tried to laugh again at the irony of the sentiment , but it tore out of his throat painfully. He wondered if there was still a gaping wound there, the flesh of his neck sliced open by none other than the very man who was kneeling in front of him now; it explained why everything he should be saying to Hannibal was crawli ng out of him in ineffectual soundlessness.

Frowning, Will placed his arm over his eyes and tried not to breathe in the smell of blood.

Hannibal’s hands around his ankles tightened, but the grip remained gentle. Will could feel the warmth of his hands on his frigid skin. “I should take him home, Jack.”

Will didn’t lift his arm to see Jack’s reaction. It was Beverly who spoke next. “Should he be walking yet?”

“I suspect that walking anywhere will be better for him than remaining here,” Hannibal told her evenly.

Will’s frown deepened, but he made no effort to disagree.

“Can you stand, Will?” Hannibal asked.

Wil recalled the feeling of being carried in Hannibal’s arms and quickly replied, “Yes.”

He braced against the bank of snow behind him and pushed himself upright, forcing shaky legs to take his weight again. When he wavered, three pairs of hands reached for him but only Hannibal’s made contact.

“My car is not far,” Hannibal said.

The notion wasn’t nearly as comforting to Will as it likely was to Beverly or Jack, but he followed Hannibal out of the clearing anyways, without turning back to see anyone’s expression at his surprising display of weakness. He could feel his face burning with shame. He was never normally bothered by crime scenes, and they were likely wondering what it was about this one that had him so rattled. Or maybe they just assumed he was still sick. Will hoped that was the case.

Hannibal kept a steadying arm on his elbow for the entire trek to his car, and Will felt too weak to push it away. The farther from the scene they got, the easier it became for Will to breathe. He still felt faint — his head was as light as a cloud , like it had been stuffed full of cotton. But being away from the cloying aroma of blood relieved his senses to some degree .

The sound of a car door opening alerted him to their arrival, and Will climbed in as Hannibal held it open. He closed it firmly behind him, and the noise of the latch clicking filled Will with a sense of unease.

Hannibal turned the heat all the way up when he got in, and it was only then that Will felt the shaking of his limbs. He was shivering.

Neither of them said anything for the duration of the drive, but Will could feel the displeasure radiating from Hannibal in waves. It was almost enough to counteract the heat from the car’s vents, icing Will’s nerves all over again. He was silent until the car drew up to Will’s home, and only then did he speak.

“May I come in?”

Will’s voice was humorless when he responded. “You have to ask? It must be true then.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal’s lips tick up into a small smile. But as quickly as it appeared, Hannibal erased it again. “So, you have accepted the truth?”

Will inhaled before sighing deeply through his nose, collecting his scattered thoughts. “Knowing is not the same as accepting.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed.

Will studied him for an interminable moment. “You can come in.”

Hannibal followed him up the stairs to the porch and waited patiently while he unlocked the door. He slipped in behind Will like a specter and closed it again behind him. Will studied the small space, trying to ignore the stark absence of his dogs.

Hannibal must have been thinking the same thing. “Where are your dogs?”

“With Alana,” Will murmured. He sat in one of the armchairs, relieved to be off his feet for good. “She doesn’t mind the company. Margot doesn’t either.”

“You must eat, Will,” Hannibal said, and Will’s gaze snapped to his with alacrity, his momentary relief usurped by the sudden change in direction.

“Nothing you can say would convince me,” Will told him, and heard that his voice was thick with exhaustion. “You should stop trying.”

“I will not,” Hannibal replied, his voice resolute.

Will shifted in his chair. “Well then, we’ll both be disappointed. Because I’m not drinking blood.”

They held each other’s gaze, a silent battle between their resolves. But Will’s strength was sapped, and he was the first to look away.

Hannibal’s head inclined slightly. “You will.”

With the same silence and stealth that he had come in with, Hannibal left, shutting the door resolutely against the wintry November air in his wake.

Notes:

Will making a vampire joke that surprisingly lands (Hannibal will only accept these shenanigans from Will)
Don’t worry Hannibal will resolve this situation soon 🙏 (or at least he’ll try…)

Chapter 4 Summary:

Will is stubborn. Hannibal loses his patience.

Notes:

I like this chapter :3 I hope you do too :3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The night before Will was supposed to return to the academy to teach after his temporary leave of absence, he didn't sleep a wink. He figured it was better to show up with exhaustion clinging to him rather than have the fear of a nightmare lingering in his eyes like dark storm clouds. He tried not to think about bodies, or throats, or blood, or some grotesque but horrifyingly enticing combination of all three.

His hunger continued to gnaw at him like a relentless dog with a bone, making his head feel light and his arms and legs shake. He had all the textbook signs of malnourishment and dehydration. He woke up feeling like a corpse and wasn’t aware of much other than that.

He must have gotten to the academy somehow, though, because the next thing he was aware of was sitting at his desk as the students trickled in slowly. He blinked down at his trembling hands, trying to remember how he’d gotten there. He had lost time, at least an hour. The only thing he could conjure up was Alana, greeting him with anxious concern that she attempted to conceal with a bright smile as he entered the academy building. He might have ignored her. The effort of recalling even that scrap of a memory, faded and sun-bleached in his mind, left him feeling even more drained.

Will flipped his hand over, checking his wristwatch. It was time to start his lecture now. Time to stand up, in front of the room full of people, and begin speaking.

The task seemed herculean in size. He felt like his brain was expanding in his skull. His heartbeat sounded like an avalanche.

Just stand up. Just start speaking.

Pushing through the swimming of his sight and the ringing in his ears, Will stood. And immediately felt his knees buckle and his legs go out from underneath him as the floor approached with dizzying speed, his vision reduced to darkness.

“His stubbornness is infuriating,” Hannibal was saying. He paused for a moment and thought deeply, trying and failing to find a word that encapsulated his feelings about Will Graham. “Infuriating and something else.”

“Endearing,” Bedelia supplied.

Hannibal’s frown was slight. “’Endearing’ is your word. Not mine.”

Hannibal had been seeing Dr. Du Maurier for years now. Even though she had retired some time ago, she still saw him in her home office. It was difficult to find a psychiatrist with whom he could discuss anything, and the unique supernatural characteristics he shared with her made her the ideal pick. In addition, he had something over her.

Bedelia had been much like Will when she first became: desperate to avoid and refute the gift she’d been given. Driven to depravity by the bloodlust she kept denying, she had attacked and killed one of her patients. An accident is what she claimed it to be, but no one would have looked at that crime scene—the man’s throat torn out, his head hanging on by less than a scrap of flesh—and thought for a second that Bedelia was innocent. Except maybe Will Graham.

That was another reason Dr. Du Maurier still treated him: to ensure his silence. It had never been explicitly spoken between them, but both of them were keenly aware of the fact that Hannibal had witnessed Bedelia murder one of her patients. And then he had helped her to hide the body.

“Whether Will Graham is infuriating or endearing,” Bedelia said slowly, “he is interesting. You are intrigued by him.”

“I am,” Hannibal agreed. “I am intrigued at the intensity of his refusal to take what he needs to live. That his desire for survival is so miniscule. He is plagued by his morals.”

“On the contrary, I would argue that it is greater than you imagine. He’s clinging to the scraps of humanity you’ve taken from him. Maybe the morals that you think of as a plage are what he needs to live.”

“I did not take his humanity,” Hannibal reminded her pointedly. “I was simply the one to wield the blade. I was not the one who gave him the venom.”

Bedelia considered him, scrutinizing with a watchful and discerning eye. Hannibal did not waver under her gaze, familiar with this routine they had built between them.

“You were planning to, though,” Bedelia said at length.

“I was,” Hannibal allowed.

“Then it is the same thing.”

His head ticked to the side. “The intent is the same as the execution?”

“To Will Graham it is,” said Bedelia.

Hannibal had to concede that point. Right now, Will blamed Hannibal for his transformation as much as he blamed the nameless man in the alley, if not more so for the role that Hannibal had played in his death and burial. Not that it should have been something anyone had to take blame for; Will should have been grateful for it.

Easing away from the subject of Will Graham, as loathe as he was to do it, Hannibal told Dr. Du Maurier about the two cases of murders by separate vampires. Really, he told her, they had been massacres. Piles of bodies missing their throats, almost entirely drained of blood, and he described them to her in grisly detail.

Bedelia pursed her lips in apparent distaste. She did not approve of vampires killing publicly or for sport, and she preferred to stay unaware of cases such as these.

“It must be the work of fledglings,” Hannibal said. “They are too...adventurous for their own good.”

Bedelia looked at him through a veil of lashes. “If you are keen on observing him for much longer, you had better keep a watchful eye on Will Graham.”

Hannibal’s int rigue peaked, coalescing into something altogether more potent than curiosity. It bordered unnervingly on protectiveness, but Hannibal suppressed it. “What do you mean by that?”

“If these killers are working together,” Bedelia expanded, “it can be assumed that they were friends.”

“Allies, with some kind of partnership.”

She nodded. “And it can be assumed they will want revenge.”

“Will was not the one to pull the trigger, Dr. Du Maurier.”

A small smile touched Bedelia’s lips, but there was no humor in it. She had become familiar with the routine between them just as much as Hannibal had; perhaps she had even grown to enjoy it. “He was planning to, though.”

Hannibal felt his expression darken. And knew that she was right. Will would have killed that man in the alley; Hannibal knew he would have. He saw the desire in Will clearer almost than he felt it in himself. It was what drew Hannibal to him in the first place, like a moth to a dark and murderous flame that was unaware of the brightness of its own illumination.

“Then the intent is the same as the execution,” Hannibal said.

“Then Will Graham was the executioner.”

Hannibal was leaving Dr. Du Maurier’s office when he got a call from Jack Crawford. He knew immediately that the only thing Jack would contact him about was Will, which was why he answered without hesitation.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Lecter,” Jack said, and Hannibal could hear the stress wearing his voice thin. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I hope you aren’t busy.”

“Not too busy for you, Jack,” Hannibal said politely, if a little briskly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Will Graham,” Jack replied sardonically.

Hannibal mused silently that everything in his life presently seemed to revolve around Will, held into orbit around him like stars and planets in a solar system of Hannibal’s own making.

“What’s Will done?”

“It isn’t what he’s done so much as what he hasn’t . When you told him to start taking care of himself, I don’t think he took your advice to heart, Doctor.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed solemnly. “I did not think that he would.”

“He returned to work today and frightened a class of academy students by passing out before his lecture.”

Reckless, Hannibal mused. Reckless and stubborn.

“I can be there very soon, Jack,” Hannibal said, already starting the car and pulling out of Dr. Du Maurier’s drive.

“Thank you. I’ll allow you to berate him as you see fit, as the medical professional between the two of us.”

“I will be sure to make good use of the occasion,” Hannibal replied, and with thoughts of vengeful vampires—and reckless ones—he drove.

Jack was waiting for him when he walked up to the doors of the academy in Quantico.

“Thank you again for coming at such short notice,” Jack said, shaking Hannibal’s hand and leading him inside. “I need him, but I can’t always get through to him.”

Hannibal thought but didn’t say that maybe Jack should consider what Will needed every now and again. Instead, he said simply , “I will do my best.”

He followed Jack down a hall that led to an office with the engraving ‘Special Agent Crawford’ on its door. Through the glass panes of the wall, he could see Will slumped in the desk chair, holding a cold compress to his head, and Alana Bloom leaning back on the desk in front of him with her arms crossed tightly around her chest.

Jack rapped twice on the door before entering, and both of the room’s inhabitants looked up at their entrance. Will regarded Hannibal with a tired resignation, seemingly beginning to accept that he couldn’t get away from Hannibal any more than Hannibal could get away from him.

“Dr. Lecter,” Alana said, greeting him with a warm but wan smile. Hannibal had no doubt she had already tried her hand at talking a bit of sense into Will to no avail. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Have you eaten anything, Will? Today or...within recent memory?” Jack asked drily. “That’s likely half the reason for this.”

Will peered distastefully at the bottle of water on the desk in front of him that sat sealed and untouched. Hannibal knew his stomach was twisting with nausea at even the thought of ingesting something that wasn’t blood. “No.”

“Your blood pressure is abysmally low,” Alana pressed in the longsuffering tone of someone who knew their words were falling on deaf ears. Hannibal found himself admiring her continuous effort. “You have to eat or drink something.”

Between Jack and Alana and the desk separating them, Hannibal locked eyes with Will. Will’s expression was subdued and apprehensive—no doubt discomforted at the concern that hung in the room like a thick fog—and he looked much worse than he had at the crime scene the day prior. His eyes were sunken and dull, and his cheekbones were sharply defined and had a sickly, unhealthy pallor to them.

“I’m not hungry,” Will said pointedly, his voice resolute and obstinate as he held Hannibal’s gaze.

Hannibal held back a smile. Reckless. Reckless and stubborn.

Jack shook his head and stalked out of the room, and Will shrunk almost imperceptibly into the chair. He regarded Jack’s opinion of him much too highly and reacted to reprimands like a dog who disobeyed its master.

Alana, however, persisted. “Will, talk to me. Why am I watching your dogs? Don’t get me wrong, Margot loves it, and I want to help in any way I can, but I know you’d rather have them with you.”

“You said you wouldn’t ask why,” Will said, not quite meeting her eyes. He had removed the cold compress from his head and now blankly stared down at where it sat in his gently trembling hands.

“And I didn’t,” Alana agreed, her voice taking on a hint of desperation. “For a week, I haven’t asked you why. But you’re not well, Will. Tell me what’s going on.”

Will opened and closed his mouth, looking at Hannibal as if asking him to step in and rescue them both from this conversation full of half-truths and meaningless platitudes. Hannibal remained silent.

Shaking his head, Will said, “I can’t.”

Alana followed Will’s gaze to Hannibal. Her expression was strained, the corners of her kind eyes creased with tension. “Then you’ll tell Hannibal?”

Will’s eyes darted away from Hannibal, flitting around the room. “I don’t have to tell him.”

Alana’s brow furrowed. She looked Will over again before pushing the water bottle into his flighty line of sight.

“Alana,” Hannibal said patiently. “Perhaps you could allow Will and I to speak in private for a moment.”

She sighed but nodded, retiring from her self-appointed post with one last despairing look over her shoulder at Will. On her way to the door, she stopped by Hannibal’s side, giving him another small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Don’t let him stand unless you’re ready to catch him,” she said quietly, and he could tell that she meant it.

Hannibal nodded solemnly, and he meant it, too. And with that, the two of them were alone. Hannibal took a measured step closer to the desk.

“Will.”

“Dr. Lecter.”

“This is a zero-sum game. A stalemate, if you will. The only one you are harming in your obstinance is yourself, Will.”

“Then I guess you should give up trying.”

Hannibal came closer, and Will leaned back slightly in the chair to maintain their eye contact. Coming to a stop at Will’s side, Hannibal pushed the water bottle away from them with one finger.

“You hit your head when you fell,” Hannibal observed .

Will nodded, gesturing with the cold compress. Hannibal detected an undercurrent of embarrassment at having collapsed in front of a room full of FBI trainees, but no remorse for his deplorable self-care. “I’m told it was audible.”

“That does not surprise me; you are hard-headed. May I check?”

Will’s expression was baleful, but he nodded again. Hannibal felt along his scalp with clinical hands, working his way from the top of Will’s skull to the nape of his neck checking for bumps or bruises. Even though Will’s soft curls against his fingers beckoned him to draw out the inspection, he didn’t allow himself to indulge. Hannibal’s hands seemed to beckon to Will in a similar manner ; he didn’t miss the way that Will leaned into his touch almost imperceptibly , like a cat arching their back to their owner’s hand. Ironic.

Satisfied, Hannibal retracted his hands. “Nothing of concern.”

“I could have told you that,” Will said wryly. “I told Jack not to call you.”

“Jack is almost as stubborn as you are. He would have me tell you to start taking better care of yourself so that you can return to work,” Hannibal told him, ignoring the implication that he should have been kept away. It distressed him in some small measure, to imagine his not being notified that Will’s health had taken a steep decline while Hannibal was not there to witness the fallout.

Will hummed in quiet consideration. “ That’s what Jack would have you tell me. But what would you tell me?”

Hannibal looked out the window of the office, the soft light of the morning casting the courtyard in a golden hue. From here, he imagined that he could see the dew on the grass outside, and the melting snowfall weighing down the leaves of the trees. It was a peaceful morning, and Hannibal sought to replicate that peace to placate Will into allowing him to help him.

“I would tell you to let me drive you home,” Hannibal said at last, under the facade of giving ground.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment; Hannibal’s steady and unwavering while Will’s was searching and unsure. Then, Will nodded.

Hannibal offered a hand, and was ready to catch him as Alana had said. Will was unsteady but remained upright with the help of various pieces of furniture and Hannibal’s grip on his elbow. He didn’t walk very fast , and Hannibal slowed his pace accordingly, paying close attention to the rhythm of Will’s breathing for any indication that his blood pressure was dropping again. Being near enough to Will to hear his breathing was a potent reminder of why Hannibal had wanted to turn him in the first place. Now was the time for Hannibal’s guidance, whether Will felt like he needed it or not.

Struck with a discordant but not altogether unpleasant note of déjà vu, he held the door open for Will as he climbed into the car. This drive was equally silent but much less tense than the last; Will fell asleep slumped in the passenger seat, his head leaning against the window. His face was tight even while he slept, but Hannibal noted with some satisfaction that his shoulders were relaxed, his muscles finally able to unwind after the continuous strain Will put on them.

Although, he supposed Will wasn’t the only one responsible for the unbearable weight on his shoulders. Jack was in part to blame, and admittedly, so was Hannibal. He couldn’t say just yet how that admission made him feel, other than alive and invigorated by his cavernous curiosity that at times felt akin to hunger; his desire to know what came next.

Will woke when the car pulled to a stop, blinking red-rimmed eyes, and he did a visible double-take when he saw where they were.

“Dr. Lecter,” he said slowly. “You said you would take me home.”

“I have,” Hannibal replied, being intentionally obtuse. “I’ve taken you to my home.”

Will dropped his face into his hands, and Hannibal noted that they were shaking. Will was looking much paler, his skin almost the same shade as the layer of snow that blanketed the ground outside. Hannibal thought about the fledgling vampires murdering hordes of people in dark places, and how it was entirely possible that they were seeking vengeance against Will. And they would have no trouble achieving that goal with the state Will was currently in.

This realization combined with Will’s persistent stubbornness was causing Hannibal’s patience to wear thin.

Will’s head lifted again when Hannibal opened the passenger door, and he didn’t protest as he was pulled somewhat roughly —or at least with less care than Hannibal normally handled him—out of the car. He followed Hannibal inside in a similarly silent manner, clearly reading Hannibal’s earnest and unrelenting demeanor for what it was.

Once inside, Hannibal hung both their coats up by the door. He had to wrangle Will out of his, as he was still entirely too unsteady. It made him all too easy for Hannibal to settle him down onto the same couch where he had spent a night sick out of his mind with fever just over a week ago.

Hannibal left Will for a moment, procuring what he needed and returning to his side quickly. He put a cool palm to Will’s forehead under the guise of feeling for a fever. Will let him, eyes fluttering closed in sheer exhaustion.

“Will,” Hannibal murmured, his voice close to a whisper. “You will drink. You gamble with your health without regard and shirk the responsibility of deciding between yourself and the cage your morals have become. But you are out of time to decide. I am deciding for you.”

Will’s eyes flew open at his words, but the needle was already in the delicate vein of his neck, the same one that had been punctured to administer the venom that turned him. Hannibal depressed the plunger slowly, easily brushing aside Will’s protesting hands and ignoring his panicked words mumbled through clumsy lips. He steadied Will’s head with his free hand, sliding his thumb gently along the edge of his temple.

Moments of fleeting franticness passed. It danced in Will’s eyes like leaves in a furious wind before an artificial relaxation glazed them over, making his eyelids drop and his entire body go slack. Hannibal supported his weight, lowering him slowly to lying on the couch. Will’s hand lifted one more time in an aborted reach for Hannibal before dropping heavily . Hannibal wondered if his intent had been to harm or to hold; both were appealing in equal measure. He situated Will’s arm back onto the couch at his side.

He watched over Will’s sedated sleep for only a moment before leaving, slipping back into his coat and locking the front door behind him.

Notes:

Sorry to leave you on a cliff hanger!! I’m going to the beach with my best friend this week but dw I’ll keep up with my upload schedule :)
Who’s ready for Hannibal and Will to go back to their therapy sessions? Bc I am. Also Margot and Alana will make an appearance next chapter! :D

Chapter 5 Summary:

Hannibal’s measures are extreme, at least in Will’s opinion. Someone else becomes curious.

Notes:

Never let it be said that I’m not dedicated to this ship or this fandom bc I am posting this AT the beach 😇 enjoy 😇

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Will felt himself drifting, weightless and unmoored, but the sensation was not pleasant. It felt like falling endlessly, and the only thing to mark the passage of distance or time was the depthless blackness that swathed his vision in shadows, impenetrable and thick. He floundered uselessly for his bearings, following the thread of a metallic scent in the air, desperate for his consciousness to return to him.

Even though he had to claw himself back to awareness, he realized distantly that it was the first time in a week he had woken by choice and not from the terror of a nightmare.

He knew his eyes were blinking open, but his vision was blurry. From what he could make out, the world was vertical. Or he was horizontal. He was lying on a couch. A familiar couch. The one he had spent his worst night on, wracked with fever and sickness.

Feeling the touch of fear like a familiar hand on his shoulder, Will rubbed the bleariness out of his vision and forced himself upright with trembling hands. But when he saw what was before him, he wished he was still stuck in that weightless ether.

Slumped on an armchair in front of him was a man. He was stirring just as Will was, awaking from a deep sedation. His arms were bound behind him, and a clinical plastic sheet was spread on the floor beneath his chair.

Hannibal stood behind the man. “Will, you are awake. Perfect timing.”

Will was perfectly still on the couch, shock and confusion and that ever-present fearfulness stilling his bones. He felt that his eyes were wide and searching but he couldn’t control his expression.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Hannibal said. He placed a hand on the bound man’s shoulder, who jolted at the sudden touch and lifted his head, blinking against the light in the room. “This is the only option you have left me with.”

“What are you talking about?” Will said slowly. His words were quiet, trying not to prompt Hannibal into doing anything Will would regret. Because whatever happened here, he knew that Hannibal would have no regrets.

“You will not eat,” Hannibal replied calmly. “Whether for a lack of wanting to choose your prey or some other instinct to cling to your humanity.”

The man in the chair pulled at his restraints, at first with a distant confusion and then with more force. Urgently, he jerked against the ropes and kicked his feet, which were bound to the legs of the chair.

“Be still or I will kill you slowly,” Hannibal said firmly, and the man stilled almost entirely except for the harshness of his breathing.

Will could feel himself losing his grasp on the situation, if he had ever had one to begin with. The headache that had plagued him for the past week returned with fervor, pounding in his skull like a drum. He thought that the sedative might still be impacting his thoughts, making them thick and slow like molasses.

He could smell the man’s fear.

And he recognized that scent. And suddenly, he recognized the face, too.

It looked like the man Will killed in his nightmares.

“Blood from a dead creature will not satisfy you nearly as much as something living,” Hannibal said, unaffected by Will’s distress. “So, I have chosen your prey for you, Will. He is a bad man; a poor excuse for a human being. He has made many choices that have led him to this fate.”

“If I. ..kill him,” Will responded quietly, “then I’m just as bad as him. Worse, even.”

At Will’s words, the man whimpered but wisely stayed unmoving.

“No.” Hannibal slipped a knife from his sleeve, but Will’s eyes remained on his face. It was impassive and unmoving, almost indifferent. But something in the glint of his amber eyes gave it away; he was far from indifferent to what was transpiring here. “If you kill him, you are doing what is natural and right. But I can see now that you will not come to understand that for a long time.”

Will stood, slowly and carefully. His legs felt weak beneath him. Even though the man could not see Hannibal’s unsheathed weapon, he must have seen something in Will that alerted him to the mounting danger he was in . Tension surged and then snapped like a rubber band pulled taut in his body, and suddenly he was squirming and writhing again.

Hannibal frowned down at the struggling man. “So, I will do the killing for you, Will. And you will do the drinking.”

Faster than Will could follow, the blade was against the man’s throat, and then drawn mercilessly across the fragile flesh, the parody of a musician drawing their bow across a violin’s strings to hear its music.

And the man did make music. He screamed, even around the gag in his mouth, and the sound pierced Will’s ears. It was intoxicating.

Even more potent was the smell of blood that suddenly invaded Will’s senses. It was the only scent he could inhale; the only thing he could see was the tide of red leaving the man’s throat in great gouts, and all he could feel wasanticipation of its viscous sweetness coating his tongue.

And before he was conscious of having moved, his fangs snapped downward and his teeth were sinking into the man’s ruined esophagus.

Explosive and thick, the blood slid down his throat and filled his veins in what felt like seconds. He imagined he could feel it coursing through him, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the strength that it filled him with. After being starved for days, he couldn’t pull himself away from the vein supplying him with such life; making his head swim with the sheer potency of its power.

Will’s hands gripped the man’s coat. He could feel the moment he stopped struggling, when he succumbed to the sweet call of death.

But Will didn’t stop. He sucked the river of blood dry, until the man’s corpse felt shriveled and empty beneath his teeth.

Will jerked away from the man, gasping for air. He stumbled backwards but somehow kept his footing. He looked down at his hands, feeling like he was floating outside of his body. They were spotte d with blood , dripping a sharp staccato beat onto the plastic covering the floor. They were shaking.

“Will,” Hannibal said.

Jerking back another step, Will put as much distance as he could between himself and Hannibal with legs that suddenly felt much weaker than before.

“Will, the sedative is still affecting you,” Hannibal said calmly, and Will seethed silently and furiously. How could he be calm right now?

“Don’t come near me,” Will hissed, and Hannibal stopped in his approach. He held up placating hands, as if Will were a wild animal. He certainly felt like one, trembling and baring his bloodied teeth.

“You need to sit down, Will,” Hannibal continued. “The only reason you were able to regain consciousness was that your instinctual desire for your prey’s blood was much stronger than the sedative.”

“I don’t have a desire for prey or blood,” Will managed between painful gasps. “I don’t have an instinct.”

“You’ve just displayed a very strong one,” Hannibal countered, gesturing to the man’s carcass.

Will’s vision dimmed. He felt himself pitching toward the ground. But he never made contact; he was aware of strong arms catching him before he fell.

And then, he was conscious of nothing at all.

Hannibal cleaned up the mess with ease, wrapping the plastic over the man’s body , taking the spray of arterial blood along with it and disposing of it quickly. Even though he made sure the task was thoroughly done, no evidence left behind, his mind was elsewhere.

Seeing Will drink the man dry ignited a strong feeling in him. It was not dissimilar to the feeling he had when he killed, or when he served a meal to oblivious guests. He couldn’t have stopped Will if he wanted to, and he had never wanted something less in his life.

After Will lost consciousness to the drugs still in his system, Hannibal removed his bloodstained clothes and replaced them with clean ones. Then, he laid Will back on the couch. It was the healthiest Hannibal had seen him look since the night he died; his skin didn’t have a sickly pallor, and his eyes no longer appeared sunken in his skull. He would likely feel much better when he awoke, as well.

As Hannibal was polishing the knife he had used to open the man’s artery, there was a knock on his door. Checking his watch, Hannibal remembered his appointment with Margot Verger. It seemed that Will had removed all other thoughts from Hannibal’s mind as easily as he had removed the blood from the dead man’s veins, and he looked down on Will’s sleeping face with fondness as he passed .

Opening the door, Hannibal offered Margot a small, apologetic smile. “Margot. I’m sorry to have to cancel at such short notice but I am otherwise preoccupied at the moment .”

Margot sniffed. “That’s unlike you.”

“Very,” Hannibal agreed. “Give Alana my best, and will you tell her that Will will be well enough for his dogs again soon?”

“That’s a shame,” Margot said. “I’m kind of attached. So is Applesauce.”

Margot peered around Hannibal’s shoulder, rudely curious. Hannibal frowned and moved to obscure her view, drawing the door closed an inch.

But Margot’s expression had already lit with a dark interest. “Speak of the devil, is that Will Graham sleeping on your couch?”

“It certainly isn’t the devil,” Hannibal returned with faux lightness . “I will call you to reschedule your appointment as soon as I can, Margot.”

Sensing his waning patience, Margot nodded. She tried to steal another glance behind the barricade of Hannibal’s body, then left into the darkening evening.

Hannibal watched her go and knew that he would be hearing about this from Alana.

Margot Verger was very fond of dogs, and she was also very fond of Alana Bloom.

Well, she was fond of nearly all animals; horses, cats, birds, even pigs. That was partly why she hated her brother so much. But she could draw up an infinite list of reasons to despise Mason that went far beyond that.

Which was why her mind was partly on Will Graham while she ate microwaved mac and cheese with Alana. They were eating dinner after feeding his pack of strays, and it was more convenient to stay and eat at Will’s rather than make the drive home.

“A delicacy,” Margot said, stirring her dinner around to get out the cold spots. She was too lazy to put it back in the microwave.

“Sorry,” Alana said with a smile. “I got here a lot later than I thought I was going to. Paperwork to do and two extra lectures to give. Thanks to Will. And mac and cheese is the only thing he has in his fridge.”

“You know you don’t have to make anything for me when I come over,” Margot replied, giving her own smile at Alana’s words. She knew that Alana didn’t have a single bone in her body that was capable of feeling any real frustration with Will Graham. He was sort of like his dogs, Margot thought wryly, watching Winston silently beg Alana for a scrap of food. Except Will was begging for any bit of affection he could get, however much he would deny it.

On that note, her curiosity was peaked at the thought of him sleeping soundly on Hannibal Lecter’s couch.

“Speaking of Will,” Margot said slowly, “has he seemed any different to you lately? Or weird? Weird er ?”

Alana hummed in thought. “Unfortunately, Will is at his most productive when he’s afraid. It’s his strongest motivator. And Jack Crawford has no qualms with abusing that fact.”

Margot’s eyebrows raised. “You think Jack is abusing Will?”

“Not abusing,” Alana amended. “Pushing. Too far. I’ve told him not to, but he doesn’t listen to me.”

Margot scoffed dryly. “ He’s a stubborn ass. He doesn’t listen to anyone.”

Alana grinned, standing to take their plastic bowls to the trashcan. Margot saw Winston’s heart visibly break when she didn’t drop any scraps.

“Another time, Winston,” Margot told him sympathetically. “Oh, that reminds me.”

“What’s up?” Alana asked, stepping over to Margot’s chair and enveloping her in a hug from behind, resting her chin on Margot’s head.

“Dr. Lecter said that Will is going to take his dogs back soon,” she said, holding onto Alana’s hands. “Too bad for Applesauce.”

Alana laughed, and Margot felt pleasant vibrations on the crown of her head from the movement. “Too bad for you, too. You’ll miss them as much as she does.”

“Very true,” Margot agreed. “So...Will hasn’tdeveloped any new strange habits? That you’ve noticed, at least.”

Alana retracted her arms to reclaim her seat at the table, peering quizzically at Margot. “What’s got you so interested in Will all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know,” Margot said expansively, dodging the question. “He’s a very interesting man.”

“ I guess he is. Well, I’ll indulge your curiosity. He hasn’t really had any new habits that I’ve noticed, just weird new behaviors.”

Margot tried not to appear too invested, swirling her glass of wine around idly. “Like?”

“Well, it’s normal for him to not take wonderful care of himself, but—” Alana paused, as if searching for a way to correctly express what she wanted to say. “Never this bad. I mean, fainting during a lecture? It’s completely unlike him. He wouldn’t even drink water after, either, like his self-preservation has flown out the window. Almost as stubborn as Jack.”

Margot jolted. “What?”

Alana’s eyes knitted. “He wouldn’t drink. Or eat anything. What’s gotten into you, love?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Margot said dismissively, forcing her face to return to impassivity. “That’s just strange.”

Even though Margot looked away, she could still feel the weight of Alana’s stare on her. She regretted making Alana worry, but she knew with grim certainty that she had ascertained what she wanted.

Alana stood suddenly. “ You’ve got me worried now. I’m going to call Jack.”

She left the kitchenette, and Margot expelled the breath she had been holding. The sight of Will Graham sleeping on Dr. Lecter’s couch was still engraved in her mind, and the knowledge that she now had of him was an equally heavy weight on her conscience.

A plan began to form in the deepest recesses of Margot ’ s mind.

Notes:

Idk if any of you Hannigram enjoyers are also Aftg enjoyers, but me and my bsf got matching Andreil charms for our crocs…she got 10 and I got 03 :D

Chapter 6 Summary:

Will has some words for Hannibal.

Notes:

I’m back from the beach 💔 I only got a little sunburnt 😛

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The next time Will was aware of himself, he felt better than he had in days.

He awoke and left the soft lull of sleep without exhaustion clinging to him with desperate fingers, and the pounding in his skull had receded to grant his brain a much-needed respite. The ache of emptiness in his stomach that he had grown used to wasn’t there, and in its place was a calm restfulness and a strength had returned to his limbs that he had thought was lost to him forever. The morning light beaming through the windows warmed his face pleasantly.

When he remembered why he felt so calm and restful, his eyes flew open.

He was still on Hannibal Lecter’s couch, but there was no evidence of the grisly scene that he remembered. Planting his feet firmly on the floor, he sat up and put his face in his hands. He tugged at his hair, trying to remember if it had been real or imagined.

The sound of Hannibal’s voice shouldn’t have shocked him as much as it did. “You did not imagine it, Will.”

At the sight of Hannibal standing before him, cool and collected, no hint of remorse on his face, Will’s nerves lit on fire. He stood, expecting to feel unsteady, and was only partly relieved to find that any unsteadiness was purely in his mind.

He had drunk someone’s blood. Drained them dry. With his teeth sunk into the vein like an animal bred with some primal instinct to kill. And Hannibal had just watched him do it.

“Where is my coat, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked quietly. His voice shook; not with uncertainty, but anger.

Hannibal ignored his question. “I had your best interest at the forefront of my mind. I always do. ”

“You made me drink his blood ,” Will whispered harshly.

“Made you? I didn’t make you do anything , Will . Your actions are entirely your own. Yours were the teeth that drained him dry.”

Will flinched at the blunt wording . “You cut his throat.”

“I did,” Hannibal conceded.

“And you knew what I would do.”

Hannibal studied Will, his gaze sharp. “I did.”

“And you don’t see anything wrong with that?” Will demanded, dreading that he already knew the answer.

“I did not coerce you,” Hannibal replied, and his tone became strangely appreciative. “You killed him of your own accord. Quite viciously, I might add.”

Will shuddered, recalling the feeling of the man dying beneath him. He turned away from Hannibal to get out from under the prying scrutiny of his eyes. He looked instead at the statue of the deer on the far wall, its antlers imperious and grand.

“What if I told Jack?” Will asked, but the words sounded thready and weak even to his own ears.

Hannibal tsked . “You know why you cannot do that.”

Because then Jack would ask where the body was. And Will would have to tell him that he had bled it dry. Hannibal had done the killing, and Will had done the drinking. Just like Hannibal planned.

“He’s dead because of me,” Will said hollowly.

“You were becoming malnourished and unhealthy, and others were starting to notice. Alana Bloom has been worried about you. You haven’t received any bit of nutrients since you were turned.”

Will closed his eyes. At some point he had crossed over the line of questioning what he had become, and it frightened him that he could not remember when it had happened. “If I have to kill to live, then maybe I should be the one killed.”

“What about when you killed Garret Jacob Hobbs?”

The sound of the name on Hannibal’s lips was like an electric shock to Will’s system, and he felt himself shudder again.

“You told me that you felt powerful when you pulled the trigger.” Hannibal’s voice was marginally loude r now, and Will knew he was coming closer. He didn’t have the strength to ask him not to. “ Perhaps that is why you did it nine times. Should you have died then?”

Will inhaled shakily. “No. I killed him so that Abigail could live.”

“Will. Look at me, please.”

Will forced his eyes open. Made himself turn, even as it felt impossible to face Hannibal’s gaze again. Even so, when they locked eyes , Will found that he couldn’t look away.

“The man that I killed yesterday,” Hannibal said calmly, “I killed so that you could live.”

Will let go of the breath he had been holding in. “I will never drink blood from a human again. Not like that.”

Hannibal returned Will’s gaze evenly for another long moment, as if reading the resolve written over his face, and finally inclined his head. “Very well. It was necessary this time to return you to full strength after the toll the transformation took on your body. But you must eat, Will.”

“I’ve tried,” Will said derisively. “I can’t keep anything down.”

“And you will continue to be unable. Everything that you eat must contain human blood in some measure. Fortunately for you, I happen to know of a company that breeds livestock for the specific purpose of vampire consumption. I’ve actually just spoken to one of the members of their family this morning.”

Will blinked . For some reason, it had never occurred to him before this moment that there were more than just him and Hannibal; that his change in worldview affected more than just the two of them.

“There are more than you think,” Hannibal said in response to Will’s visible double take.

“That is not nearly as comforting a thought as you think it is,” Will told him.

“Maybe not,” Hannibal conceded. “Nevertheless, I will order the amount of meat you should need and have it shipped to your home periodically.”

Will couldn’t bring him to protest, or acquiesce, or even to respond to Hannibal in any measure. He suddenly wanted very desperately to be at home with his dogs.

Interpreting his silence, Hannibal led Will to the door and gave him his coat. He made as if to help him into it, but Will stepped away easily, pulling the sleeves on himself.

He paused before leaving out the door that Hannibal held open for him, suddenly remembering something. “I could smell him. Very strongly. His fear, his...blood.”

Hannibal’s face remained unchanged. “And it was not the first time you’ve experienced this.”

“No,” Will agreed.

“Nor will it be the last,” Hannibal said. “Your becoming comes with many new abilities, some that you have yet to discover. One of them is a heightened sense of smell; an affinity for not just blood, but emotions. Fear, as you said.”

Will looked over at him, perturbed and confused by how Hannibal was acting. “Why are you doing all of this, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal smiled, like the question pleased him in some small way. “Helping you, you mean? Because we are the same.”

The notion displeased Will, but he did not express it. Instead, he asked, “And it’s better to be alone together than to be alone all by yourself?”

Hannibal didn’t respond immediately . His silence stretched on long enough that Will lifted his eyes again, to find that Hannibal was already looking at him, the intensity of his gaze slightly jarring. He replied simply, “Yes.”

Will was prowling through the woods again. But he wasn’t chasing something. This time, he was the one fleeing.

He ducked behind trees and heard leaves crumble beneath his racing steps, the sound unbearably loud in his ears. His heartbeat was even louder, beating like a drum. He knew that his pursuer would hear him.

He ran for miles. His surroundings became a blur as his terror urged him onward, until he had to collapse at last against the trunk of one of the trees. Its gnarled bark dug into his back sharply, but he used the unpleasant feeling to ground his panicked mind. He pressed his eyes closed, trying to keep his gasps for air quiet.

There was no use. When he looked up, he saw that he was already caught.

A tall creature stood before him, with inky black skin and milky white eyes. It had antlers that reached up toward the night sky, sharp and deadly like the tips of knives.

The creature’s fingers were curled into the hair of an unconscious woman, who dangled in his grip, limp. But the creature wasn’t looking at what he had ensnared; it was looking directly at Will.

And the creature wore Hannibal’s face.

Then, he cut the woman’s throat with his claws.

Three days later, Hannibal was in his office listening to Franklyn Froideveaux unburden himself through sniveling tears. He was sitting in the very chair that Will usually occupied, which Hannibal somehow found offensive. At least he could keep the consecrated couch untouched, the last place Hannibal could confidently say Will had had a restful sleep.

Franklyn blew his nose into a tissue that Hannibal offered with artificial sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” Franklyn blubbered with a watery laugh. He put the used tissue on the glass side table, and Hannibal eyed it with displeasure.

“You should never apologize for expressing your feelings, Franklyn,” Hannibal said evenly, letting none of his real emotions show on his face.

“It’s just that I can’t talk about this with anyone else,” Franklyn told him, wiping his eyes on his sleeves.

“You have spoken to me of friends before. Why do you feel you cannot share this with them?”

“Well, I’ve mostly only mentioned Tobias,” Franklyn said. “And he isn’t...good with emotions.”

“With receiving them or expressing them?”

“ Either, ” Franklyn chucked. “Sometimes I wonder if he even has them.”

“The lack of an expression is not necessarily indicative of an absence,” Hannibal said, and thought of Will. Will had been adamant to not let his instincts take hold of him, taking his show of stubbornness so far as to drive himself to collapse with hunger. But as soon as Hannibal had supplied what he needed, the instinct had made itself known in a beautiful and extraordinary way. Unexpressed at first, but certainly present.

“I don’t know,” Franklyn said uncertainly. Hannibal tried to remove thoughts of Will from his mind. “I can’t remember the last time I even saw Tobias smile.”

“You seem to be preoccupied with Tobias Budge,” Hannibal observed . “Is there something bothering you?”

“He’s definitely been different lately,” Franklyn ventured, hesitating as if afraid of saying something that might somehow offend his friend. “He makes...odd jokes.”

“Distasteful jokes?”

“Yes,” Franklyn agreed. “Almost insensitive. He teaches music to children.”

“And has he said something distasteful in regard to the children he teaches?” Hannibal pressed.

Franklyn seemed to be clamming up, suddenly reluctant to talk about this subject with Hannibal. His reticence, however, only served to make Hannibal more interested, if not slightly annoyed.

“I’m sure he was only joking,” Franklyn said slowly.

“One of the warning signs of sociopathic behavior is joking about things that other people don’t ordinarily find humor in.”

Hannibal watched Franklyn blanch at his words. He began to shift in his seat, his eyes widening fractionally.

“Do you think that Tobias is a sociopath?” Franklyn asked.

“I am not diagnosing Tobias,” Hannibal replied easily. “I am simply analyzing you based on how you analyze Tobias. And I am giving you a more concentrated lens through which you might analyze him.”

Franklyn looked confused.

“Tell me what Tobias has said, Franklyn.”

“He talks about how good his students’ blood might taste,” Franklyn said quickly, like the words burned coming out. “But...I don’t think he’d ever hurt anyone.”

Hannibal kept his face impassive but committed the name Tobias Budge to his memory. Not that he would have forgotten, but the name was now associated with a deep level of intrigue that it had not had before.

He wondered what Will would think of Tobias Budge. Perhaps he would be just as interested in him, but Hannibal risked breaching doctor-patient confidentiality if he dared to find out.

Franklyn resumed crying in earnest, and Hannibal silently berated himself for letting Will Graham invade his thoughts again.

Notes:

The plot is arriving 😛 I’m so excited for the next couple of chapters, Will and Hannibal are gonna have some GREAT convos now that Will’s not dying of starvation

Chapter 7 Summary:

People worry, and Will hates it. At least there’s a happy reunion.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Will’s students stared at him like he was going to collapse at any second for the next four days. He tried not to glare at them balefully and instead gave his lecture with a clearer mind than he had had in weeks. He avoided thinking about why that was, and managed to get through the period before Jack Crawford came in. The students parted for him like the Red Sea on their way out, and he approached where Will stood leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed.

“They seem to still be worried about you,” Jack observed , watching the last straggler disappear around the corner.

“They shouldn’t be,” Will muttered, eyes fixed resolutely on the knot at the top of Jack's tie.

Jack craned his head downward to get into Will’s line of sight and Will reluctantly lifted his gaze.

“Should I be?” Jack asked pointedly.

“No,” Will said decisively. “You won’t like me when you’re worried.”

“I barely like you half the time anyway,” Jack said, and Will huffed a laugh. “Jokes aside. I’m being serious now, Will. Do I have to worry about you?”

The question was spoken more emphatically this time, like a demand, and Will knew he wouldn’t get away with deflecting or lying this time.

Sighing, he took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “ I’m fine now, Jack. I was feeling...badly for a few days . But I’m fine now.”

Jack raised a brow . “Better would mean not passing out on the damn floor.”

Will felt himself bristle. “Sure. Fine. Yeah, I’ve been better, Jack. Trouble sleeping, and...”

“And what?” Jack pressed relentlessly.

“It’s getting harder to look,” Will snapped. “It’s just harder now.”

Jack eyed him sharply.

Will dropped his eyes again, and muttered, “Sorry.”

There was a pause, and then Jack sighed before moving to stand beside Will instead of in front of him, evidently trying to assume the position of a friend rather than an employer. Will felt tempted to remin d him that he specialized in psychoanalysis and that the subtle manipulation did not work on him, but resisted the urge.

“You hold onto too much, Will. You have to let some of it go.”

“It seems that it's easier to get into my head than it is to get back out,” Will said darkly.

“Maybe,” Jack allowed . “That’s what makes you the best at what you do.”

“Lot of good being the best does,” Will mused bitterly.

Jack ignored the snide remark. “Are you still seeing Dr. Lecter?”

Will stiffened. “He’s not officially my psychiatrist, but we...talk.”

“ That’s good. That’s what I want to hear.” He eyed Will sidelong. “You may be wondering what inspired this conversation.”

“Concern for a colleague?” Will guessed wryly.

“For a friend,” Jack corrected. “My concern, and Alana Bloom’s. She called me a few nights ago asking about you. She’s angry with me.”

Will cleared his throat and stood, suddenly vastly uninterested in entertaining Jack’s concern. He briskly put his coat on. “She shouldn’t be. I’m as guilty as anyone else.”

Maybe more , Will thought as he brushed past Jack, leaving him to interpret Will’s words how he wished. That seemed to be what he was best at.

Arriving at his home in Wolf Trap, Virginia filled Will with a warm sense of calm as it always managed to do, even as he hunched into his coat and rubbed his hands together to fend off the chill in the winter air. The door swung open at his approach, and all seven of his dogs—plus Applesauce—came rushing out to greet him with enthusiasm. Alana stood on the porch, watching them with a fond smile.

“Come inside,” she called after allowing them their boisterous reunion for another few moments.

Will got to his feet and the dogs followed him in, barking and swarming around his and Alana’s legs as they struggled to get through the doorway. Will took his coat off and hung it by the door.

“Thanks for watching them,” he told Alana, reaching down to Winston . Winston looked up at him with a question in his eyes, and Will tried to convey how sorry he was for leaving them with the affectionate ear scratches he gave.

“Of course,” she said, but her smile was slightly sad. Will avoided looking at her face for too long. He had been honest when he told Jack he wouldn’t like Will when he was worried: Will hated having people worry about him. It made him feel conspicuous and awkward, which he felt enough of on his own.

“I’m stealing this one.”

Will glanced up to see Margot Verger cradling Buster close to her chest. He was melted into her, cuddled up to the warmth of her body.

“He’d go with anyone who fed him,” Will said, and Margot laughed.

“Speaking of food,” Alana said slowly. “You have eaten? Today?”

The question recalled the not unpleasant taste of blood coating his tongue, and Will swallowed thickly, drawing away from Winston to move further into the house. Alana followed closely behind him as he puttered around uselessly, picking things up and moving them around arbitrarily to avoid having to meet her gaze.

“Honestly just tell me you’ve eaten at any point this week and I’ll be satisfied,” Alana said, placing a hand on his shoulder to still him.

“I have,” Will said quietly. For some reason, he could feel the heaviness of Margot’s eyes on them, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m fine, Alana.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Jack said that’s what you said to him, too.”

Will offered her a sheepish smile. “Well, it’s true.”

“You can understand why we’re worried, right?”

“Your worry isn’t baseless,” Will admitted. “Just...misplaced.”

Alana considered him for another moment. Then she opened her arms a little, and he didn’t hesitate long before falling into her warm embrace more willingly than he meant to. Even though he wanted to linger, his face was close enough to her neck that he could smell the sweet tinge of her blood and was the first to pull away.

“You have to take care of yourself, Will,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Hannibal can’t be expected to do it for you.”

Will’s brow furrowed in confusion at her words, but she was already turning away. She grabbed one of the leashes from the hook by the door and clipped it onto Applesauce’s collar.

“I’m going to let her use the bathroom before we head out,” she told them over her shoulder, and shut the door behind her.

Will felt himself relax slightly in her absence, as if his body had been unconsciously tensing up under the weight of her concern. He went to one of his cabinets and poured himself a glass of whiskey , feeling restless and twitchy .

“Want any?” he said to Margot, who had put Buster down and was now leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.

“I know what you are,” Margot said.

Will’s grip on the bottle of whiskey weakened suddenly, and he put it down so as not to drop it. The glass made a loud clink in the silence that seemed to flood the room in the wake of Margot’s declaration.

Will stared into his glass. “What?”

She came closer, standing across from him. She picked up the bottle and took a swig straight from the neck. Her face remained impassive. “I can see it on you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Margot ignored his lie. “I can see it on Dr. Lecter, too. That’s why I wanted him as my therapist.”

Will felt that the floor was dropping out from under him, leaving him grasping blindly. All he had to hold onto was a glass of whiskey, though, so he took a generous drink of it. It burned going down, and didn’t settle his stomach any.

“You’re a vampire, Will,” she said, slowly and deliberately.

Will finally lifted his eyes to hers. She was staring at him intensively, her eyes boring into him as if she could see straight into his head and read the truth there.

He swallowed. “And you are too?”

Margot laughed, the sound derisive and sharp. Her tone was self-deprecating when she spoke. “No. No, I’m not. Not me.”

“Does Alana know?”

The question was quiet and tentative; he was fearful to hear the answer even as he asked it. The thought of Alana knowing this about him, what had come to be his darkest secret, sent a jolt of panic to his very core. He would keep this skeleton in his closet until the day he died, if he could.

You’ve already died, and Hannibal knows , he reminded himself. He had to drown that thought out as soon as it surfaced.

“Alana doesn’t know,” Margot said. “She suspects something. But not this.”

“What does she suspect?”

“Who knows what her pretty head dreams up about someone like you,” Margot mused, watching Alana with Applesauce out the front window. Her voice was almost unbearably fond .

Will cleared his throat, and murmured, “You’re not going to tell anyone?”

Margot’s eyes darted back to him as if she had momentarily forgotten he was there. Then she scoffed. “ I’m not going to tell anyone. What reason would I have to do that? No, I want you to turn me.”

Will was beginning to feel like he needed to sit down. So, he drained the rest of his whiskey and went back into the sitting room, sitting down heavily in one of the armchairs. Unfortunately, Margot followed. She stood in front of him with her arms crossed but didn’t speak.

“What reason,” Will said slowly, “would I have to do that, Margot?”

Margot shrugged. “I guess you don’t have a reason. Other than that I’m asking you to.”

Will asked, perhaps more pertinently, “What reason would you have to want that?”

Margot pursed her lips. She mulled his question over for a moment before sighing and taking the other chair .

“My brother is a vampire,” she said at length. “That’s what gives him...power over me.”

“And you want to neutralize that power?” Will expanded .

“Yes,” Margot replied. She fidgeted with her hands as if admitting any of this was making her physically uncomfortable. Will wished she wouldn’t . “This is something he’s held over me ever since he was turned. Without it, all the other little cruelties that he inflicts on me are trivial.”

“Margot,” Will said softly. “I can’t do what you’re asking.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“ I don’t even want what this is,” Will said, somewhat despairingly . “I wouldn’t ...I couldn’t give it to you. I don’t even think I would know how to if I wanted to.”

Margot opened her mouth to respond, likely to plead her case again, but the front door opened, and Alana poked her head in.

“Let’s go, love,” Alana said. “Applesauce is already in the car. Oh, no, don’t get up, Will. We’ll walk ourselves out. You look tired.”

Will subsided gratefully back into the chair, doubtful that his legs would have held him even if he had tried to stand. Margot went to the door and Alana took her hand.

He could have sworn that even when she was gone, he could still feel Margot’s piercing gaze on him.

The night Margot and Alana left his home, Will went to sleep with a measure of hope in his chest, despite what Margot had said to him. He was tentatively looking forward to a night spent without nightmares. It felt much more natural to slip into his bed when his dogs were there, tucked into their own beds and sleeping soundly. Will hoped that his mind would grant him a similar reprieve.

But when he closed his eyes and was finally able to drift away, he found himself in the woods again. Staring into the eyes of the creature that wore Hannibal’s face .

The woman in his grasp bled profusely from her throat, the life cascading out of her like rushing water. All Will could do was watch, paralyzed by his fear. Even knowing that the woman was dying in front of him, he couldn’t unfreeze his body from where he sat at the base of the tree, poised to run at any moment.

Then the creature dropped the woman to the forest floor, and the light of the moon granted luminescence to her lifeless face.

It was Margot Verger.

Notes:

I posted the first chapter of another fic I’ve been working on if you guys want to check that out :0 I’m pretty proud of it

Chapter 8 Summary:

Dangerous encounters as the investigation continues.

Notes:

I’m at the beach again and I got burnt…but it’s ok because I ordered two hannibal t shirts from hot topic…

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“You gotta give him credit,” Zeller said. “He is loyal to his method.”

“Must be tiring,” Price agreed.

The third attack from the killer who had been aptly named “The Throat Ripper” was identical to the first two in every way except for the number of victims. The kill count kept creeping grimly upward; the scene before them now boasted ten bodies, and they were still no closer to finding the killer. They were standing under a bridge, the river behind them lapping gently at the rocky shore with the sun glinting off its peaceful surface. It was in sharp contrast with the violence that seemed to mar the strewn corpses.

“Not much to go on over here,” Beverly reported. “Same as the last two. No prints. No discernible bite marks; flesh is too torn.”

Will nodded. “Can I be alone for a minute?”

Everyone around him simultaneously exchanged uncertain glances that he was sure they thought were furtive or subtle. He tried not to express his frustration but knowing that their concern was coming from a good place did not serve to quell his irritation.

It was Jack who broke the tentative silence. “Sure, you can. You can be alone with Dr. Lecter and these ten bodies.”

Will winced at his choice of words, but Hannibal wore a quietly amused expression.

Jack beckoned to the rest of the team, who shuffled away behind him. Beverly threw a glance over her shoulder at Will before rounding the corner of the bridge. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but he couldn't be sure that it translated.

When they were gone, Will closed his eyes. He tried to ignore Hannibal's presence, which was a task that proved itself to be almost impossible. But he managed to drain his mind of any other noise or thoughts, and the pendulum swung.

Once. Twice. And he opened his eyes, and it was night.

He was not alone. There were at least two others, in addition to the ten victims who lay sedate under the bridge. Their faces were lit up in the moonlight, and illuminated behind the sheen of each one's skin were their veins. Blood running, rushing, and calling to him.

There was no etiquette or hesitance or order to the killing. It wasn't artful in any sense of the wrod. He and his companions tore into their victims, the sweet taste of blood exploding in their mouths. They moved with haste and abandon, with eagerness and passion. And it felt good.

Will's eyes flew open. He ran his tongue over his teeth, making sure that they were smooth and flat. There was no blood in his mouth.

"There are more than one," Will said, without needing to check to know that Hannibal was listening. "Working together."

"A team," Hannibal offered, "with an alliance."

"A pack," Will corrected. "With primal urges. Instincts."

He spoke the word with disdain, hating the way it felt on the tip of his tongue.

"The first killer waited," Hannibal said. "At the scene of the crime. Is it possible that they are doing the same? To see the carnage they've caused."

"It is possible," Will allowed. "They aren't afraid of being caught. Nothing about this is fearful. It's almost...petulant."

Hannibal moved closer to him, and Will met his questioning gaze.

"They know we see them," Will said, quietly but certainly. "The bodies are a message."

Hannibal's head tilted to the side. "A message for us? Or for you?"

Will's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You were the one who killed that man in the alley," Hannibal pointed out. "A pack, as you say, with primal instincts, would favor the urge to avenge."

Before Will could respond or express his discomfort at that notion, Jack was coming back around the corner of the bridge, apparently having decided that Will's time was up.

"Is it just me," he said, "or is it getting easier for you to look again?"

Will frowned. His response was slow and contemplative. "I can make myself look. But sometimes, when I'm thinking... it feels like drowning."

When Hannibal spoke, his voice was quiet, low enough that Jack wouldn't have been able to hear him over the soft susurration of the river. "I can think for you. If you are drowning, I will be your paddle."

Will's eyes darted to his, startled.

"You and Dr. Lecter have already talked about what you saw from the scene?" Jack asked, his voice almost jarringly loud. "What you think about the killer?"

"Yes," Hannibal said when Will was silent for a beat too long. "We have."

"Perfect," Jack said. "You're going to have to do it again."

"Turning someone," Will said experimentally, as if trying out the sound of the words in his mouth. "How does it work?"

Hannibal watched him pace along the railing around the second floor of the room from below, hands behind his back. Will trailed his fingers along the shelves as he went.

"It is a rare and special gift," Hannibal told him.

Will scoffed.

Hannibal glossed over the derisive noise. "Vampires only have enough venom to turn one person in their lifetimes. However, it can be used also just once to heal another vampire from a mortal wound. Incredible, is it not?"
Will stopped, leaning over the railing to look down at Hannibal. "Someone recently asked me to turn them."

Hannibal nodded. "It was Margot Verger, was it not?"

Cocking his head, Will moved to the next pillar. "How did you know that?"

"Mason Verger is a vampire," Hannibal explained. "And while it doesn't make him any crueler than he already is, it certainly makes him more powerful."

"Margot resents that power," Will interjected.

"Precisely. It would certainly send a message about the power imbalance, or lack thereof, if Margot were a vampire as well."

"Why don't you turn her, Dr. Lecter?" Will asked airily.

"It is a rare and special gift," Hannibal replied, purposefully leaving his response vague and repetitive. "A once in a lifetime gift."

Will seemed to consider that for a moment. But then, he changed the subject. "Why do you think that this killer's message is just for me? I didn't get a chance to ask."

"If there was one vampire in the alley that first night," Hannibal said. "It is possible that there were more. Vampires are night stalkers.”

"So, you think they know l'm..." Will trailed off, and Hannibal knew he preferred not to utter the word 'vampire' in relation to himself.

Hannibal nodded, allowing Will to deflect. "It is entirely possible."

"But these killings aren't vengeful," Will said. "They're only flexing their power; exercising it."

"Yes," Hannibal agreed. "Flexing one's power comes before using that power, to see what one is capable of. Then, it is used. Perhaps for vengeance."

Will laughed darkly, walking past another column with his hand grazing along the rail. "If only they knew how little I want this. How I wish that it had never even happened to me, just as much as they do."

Hannibal felt a sense of restlessness and buzzing irritation that he was familiar with in the context of Will; restlessness for Will to embrace his full potential, irritation that he would not. Will was too busy fumbling with the dropped shards of his morality, weak and feeble values born and thrust upon Will only due to his associations.

Hannibal saw what Will was really trying to suppress: something much darker.

He only needed a push in the right direction.

"Will."

Will paused, turning to face Hannibal again. "Dr. Lecter."

"What I am about to tell you risks breaching doctor-patient confidentiality. I will tread carefully."

Will's brow furrowed and he tilted his head slightly to the side. Hannibal had his interest.

"One of my patients has relayed to me some concerning things said to him by a friend. I will spare the details, so as to tread carefully, but you should know that I suspect this man may be one of the vampires we are looking for.

He frowned. "That's not much to go on. Not enough for a warrant. I'd have to go on my own. What else did your patient say?"

Hannibal inhaled. "Tobias Budge owns a music shop in Baltimore, Maryland..."

Chordophone String Shop was sightly but unassuming on the outside, nestled between town houses that were all identical to each other. Will stepped up to the door alone, opening it to the pleasant sound of twinkling bells.

The walls were lined with stringed instruments, but it was otherwise devoid of human inhabitants. Will checked his watch and the time posted on the door. It was within store hours, so Will decided to look around for the owner. The next room boasted a piano and a wall dedicated to cellos. Will let his fingers brush over the strings, and a discordant note echoed off the walls.

Before he could turn back around, there was an arm around his throat.

Will tried to inhale, but the elbow pulled tighter, effectively cutting off his air supply. Will's fingers clawed into the coat of the man behind him, and he knew instinctively that it was Tobias Budge, like a prey knew its hunter by scent alone.

"You're Will Graham," Budge said, his voice calm even as Will struggled and writhed in his grip. "And Hannibal Lecter told you who I am."

"Vampire," Will managed to gasp, and was rewarded with Budge's headlock becoming impossibly tighter. Will's vision began to blur.

"Reckless," Budge seethed in his ear. "You will die for what you've done."

Before Budge could decide to act on that threat, Will freed his gun from its holster. Swinging his arm forward to generate as much momentum as possible, he jammed the butt of it into Budge's kneecap and heard a satisfying pop as a reward for his effort.

The arm around his throat was retracted, and Will stumbled into the wall behind him, gasping for breath.

Largely undeterred by his damaged leg, Budge approached Will with something long and silver clenched in his fist. Still wheezing, Will weakly lifted his gun, but Budge batted it away easily. With fervor, he stabbed the endpin into Will's thigh.

Will was momentarily blinded by the pain, his vision flashing a brilliant white as the makeshift weapon was buried deep in his leg. The next thing he was aware of was lying flat on his back on the floor of the museum, Budge's face swimming above him.

"You may be of use to me yet," Budge told him. "There seems to be bigger prey than you, Graham."

Before Will could respond, the man was gone.

He heard the sound of chimes and subsequently, a door slamming shut.

Will struggled to force himself to sit. He looked at the pin sticking out of his leg and promptly vomited on the floor beside him. With shaking hands, he removed his phone from his pocket, yelping in pain when the movement jostled his leg.

He knew with a grim certainty where Tobias Budge was going, and his fingers fubmled through his contact list as he desperately attempted to get there first.

"Hello?"

"Hannibal," was all Will managed to say.
"Will? Are you all right?"

"Listen," Will said, stopping to grit his teeth together against the fresh wave of pain that assaulted his senses. "Tobias Budge is coming."

"Are you hurt?" Hannibal asked, ignoring Will's attempts at a warning.

"Endpin," Will gasped. "In my leg."

"It is still in your leg?" Hannibal pressed.

"Fuck," Will choked out, looking down at the wound again. That was a mistake; his brain connected the pain he was feeling to the wound in his leg and sent a lurch of agony through his thigh. Everything was going blurry, but he could somehow see the endpin and the blood seeping out around it with perfect clarity. "Yes."

"Take it out."

Will pressed his eyes shut. "What?"

"Take the endpin out of your leg, Will. Trust me."

And for some reason, Will did. He trusted him, and without asking another question, he yanked the endpin out of his own thigh.

He immediately lost consciousness.

"Will? Will, are you still there?"

Will blinked. He was still clutching his phone, and Hannibal's voice was still coming out of it.

Will felt for his leg, and found the endpin on the floor beside him. It was out of his leg. Of course it was out, he had pulled it when Hannibal told him to.

He had pulled it out.

Will sat bolt upright and looked down at his leg.

It was still awash with blood, but when Will pressed trembling fingers to where the wound was, he found the skin completely unmarred and whole. As if there had never been a foreign object in his body at all.

"Holy shit," he whispered, voice wavering.

"I'm assuming you've just discovered another advantage to your gift," Hannibal said. Will jolted, having completely forgotten he was still on the phone. "Will, I must go now. I seem to have a visitor."

Notes:

Hannibal: I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you this
Will:
Hannibal: OKAY FINE I’LL TELL YOU DAMN
Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger :0 come back to see what happens, I post every five days :3

Chapter 9 Summary:

Will did not see this coming.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Hello, Tobias.”

The man at the door had hands coated in blood, and Hannibal assumed that it was Will’s. Hannibal tightened his grip reflexively on the doorknob, stepping aside to allow Tobias into his office. Tobias stepped inside and looked around with an air of disdain.

“You told on me, Dr. Lecter,” Tobias said.

Hannibal closed the door quietly and turned to face him with his hands neatly behind his back. “Yes.”

“Franklyn told me about you. He came crying to me one day, begging my forgiveness for telling you about me.”

“He has an unfortunate habit of apologizing where it isn’t necessary,” Hannibal observed.

Tobias ignored him. “He says that he doesn’t think I’m a sociopath, and he regrets telling you anything.”

Hannibal smiled. “He also has an unfortunate habit of being wrong.”

“I have to kill you now,” Tobias told him. “For sending an agent of the FBI after me.”

“Will isn’t an agent,” Hannibal said evenly.

“Regardless,” Tobias replied simply, and then he pulled out a knife.

The man lunged for him, but Hannibal stepped quickly to the side, expecting his attack. He caught hold of Tobias’s arm, using his momentum to send him stumbling into the door. Tobias lost his grip on the knife in the process, and both of them moved for it.

Hannibal was faster, but when he got his hand around the handle of the weapon, Tobias crushed his wrist with his heel, digging in cruelly until Hannibal felt the delicate bones there grind together. Gritting his teeth, he used his free hand to take hold of Tobias’s other leg and yank it out from under him.

Tobias went down hard, losing his breath on impact. He had the presence of mind, however, to kick the knife away from them. Hannibal felt his upper lip curl. He pounced on top of Tobias, and the impact sent them rolling across the polished hardwood floor. They fetched up against the side of one of the armchairs, with Hannibal on top. He latched onto Tobias’s throat with unforgiving hands, feeling the man’s fragile windpipe close beneath his touch.

Flailing and writhing beneath him, Tobias tried to jam his knee into Hannibal’s back, but Hannibal did not loosen his grip. Tobias was reaching for something, his arm thrown desperately to the side, and Hannibal realized a beat too late that it was the fallen knife.

Tobias’s hand raised, the knife in his grip, and buried the weapon in Hannibal’s side.

Hannibal jerked away from him instinctively, the knife still lodged in his ribs.

Tobias turned onto his side, gasping and coughing desperately to return air to his lungs through his swollen windpipe.

Before he could recompose himself, Hannibal had yanked the knife out of his body and had it held to Tobias’s bruised throat.

The man beneath him regarded him with wide eyes. “You’re a vampire.”

“I am,” Hannibal agreed. “And you should go.”

Tobias’s gaze clouded over with confusion. “I should...what?”

“You should go,” Hannibal repeated, and moved the blade away from his assailant. “Before Will brings the authorities here to apprehend you.”

“I don’t understand,” Tobias sputtered.

Hannibal got to his feet, tucking the knife away in his coat. “Nor do I expect you to. You have made some mischief, Tobias, and I am very curious to see where it goes.”

“You’re letting me go?” Tobias asked dumbly, using the chair behind him to struggle into a standing position.

“I am,” Hannibal said. “But I may change my mind if you stand there with Will Graham’s blood on your hands for much longer. Or Jack Crawford may arrive before you are able to take advantage of my mercy.”

Tobias took a step toward the door, watching Hannibal like a spooked animal. He went slowly, never turning his back on Hannibal. Once he was in reach of the door, he threw it open and ran.

Hannibal sighed and closed the door behind him.

Jack Crawford arrived less than ten minutes later, leading Will and the FBI like the calvary. The two of them immediately approached Hannibal where he was sitting at his desk, while the rest of the team spread out to survey the scene.

“Are you all right, Dr. Lecter?” Jack asked.

“I am,” Hannibal said. “I was able to fight him off. But he ran.”

Will eyed him speculatively, but Jack seemed to buy the story easily enough.

“It looks like you’ve been bleeding,” Jack said, nodding to where Hannibal’s suit jacket was darkened with blood at his side. “Do I need to get medical over here?”

“No, it is mostly Tobias’s,” Hannibal lied easily. “But you should know, Jack, that before he attacked me, he confessed to having been a part of the group that has been tearing out their victims’ throats.”

“Why would he admit that to you?”

“Because the person that their message is for is part of the FBI,” Will said in answer to Jack’s question, but he kept his gaze trained on Hannibal. “They want their target to know who it is. And that they’re not afraid of getting caught.”

Jack looked between Will and Hannibal, but neither of them spared him a glance. Eventually, someone called him away, and he left the two of them in their silence.

“It went away completely on its own. The skin stitched up, only without stitches.”

“As did mine,” Hannibal said.

“So, whatever we are,” Will said slowly, “we can heal from any wound?”

“Not any wound,” Hannibal corrected. “There are some wounds that are too fatal, such as a blow to the heart. There are also weapons forged in holy steel or treated with holy water that a vampire’s healing abilities are useless against. Under more ordinary circumstances, yes; we can heal from any wound. But you don’t sound grateful, Will.”

Will shook his head, tapping his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. Their appointments had become more regular, but this was the first time Will had breached the subject of his miraculous healing abilities since Tobias Budge’s attack a week ago.

“No,” Will said, somewhat scornfully. “I am not grateful.”

“Why not? Everyone’s bodies heal themselves, if slowly and overtime. It is a gift afforded only to a rare few that ours should heal themselves almost instantly.”

“It’s not a gift. It’s a curse,” Will refuted. “And by having it bestowed upon me, well—I’m a curse now, too. Something dark that...infects whatever it touches.”

“You see yourself as a blight upon the earth?” Hannibal asked. “As God sees sin?”

“Sin is something that God allows to exist in the world, despite having the power to remove it.” Will shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe He would allow whatever it is we are to exist.”

“You feel unseen by God,” Hannibal interpreted. “But you think He would remove us if He saw what we are.”

Will smiled, but the expression was cold. “I don’t believe in God, Dr. Lecter.”

“Nevertheless,” Hannibal conceded, “you feel as if you are a curse.”

Will didn’t respond, and Hannibal took his silence for the confirmation it was.

“Does that make me a curse, too?” Hannibal asked evenly.

Holding his gaze firmly, Will replied quietly, “I suppose that it does.”

Hannibal nodded consideringly. He watched Will’s fingers fidget. “And Abigail Hobbs?”

Will tilted his head, brows knit in confusion. “What about her?”

“Is she a curse, too?”

Will froze, his fingers ceasing their tapping. “I must be misunderstanding you, Dr. Lecter.”

“You are not,” Hannibal returned evenly. “Abigail Hobbs was turned by her father before he attempted to kill her. Do you consider her a curse, too? Something God should remove from this earth? You worked so hard and have suffered so much to keep her here, after all.”

Will stood while Hannibal spoke, as if his legs suddenly couldn’t bear to keep still. He paced the space between them for a moment before going to the window, staring out into the darkening evening.

He shook his head, jostling his curls. “You’re lying.”

“What reason would I have to lie to you about this?”

Will let out a sharp laugh. “What reason do you have to do anything that you do? What reason did you have to let Tobias Budge go?”

Hannibal felt his eyes narrow. Will’s back was still turned to him. “You believe that I let Tobias Budge escape intentionally?”

“Yes,” Will said. He turned to Hannibal. “No. I don’t know, maybe. I believe that you could have killed him. I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

Will rubbed his eyes with shaking hands as if in an attempt to stop his spiraling thoughts from escaping him further.

Hannibal skipped over the issue of Tobias Budge, returning to the question Will had asked before it. “Some things that God does may seem unreasonable. I collect church collapses. Did you hear about the one in Sicily? The facade fell on sixty-five grandmothers at a special mass. It seems purposeless, does it not?”

Will dropped his hands, but his expression was still darkened by confusion. “Are you trying to liken or contrast yourself to God?”

A faint smile touched Hannibal’s lips. “You never answered my question, Will. Is Abigail a curse because of what she is?”

Will raised his eyebrows, tilting his head. Hannibal was intrigued greatly by his pointed expression. “It depends on what god you believe in. Maybe we’re damned.”

“Will. We are not cursed, nor are we curses,” Hannibal told him, “regardless of whether or not we are damned. And you should know that I do not pray.”

Silence held them in its somewhat tenuous grasp for a long moment following Hannibal’s declaration. Will was the first to break it, and his voice was anything but tentative.

“I want to see Abigail now.”

Notes:

Sorry for the cliffhanger AGAIN. Hannibal gets to have his fun keeping things from Will so I guess I’m just taking a page from his book 😇
I’m back from the beach again but I’ll be leaving again in three days 😛 I’m traveling to Iceland :0 I’ll still post chapter 10 on time but if I don’t respond to comments as quick as I usually do that’s why :3

Chapter 10 Summary:

Will and Hannibal get to talk to Abigail, Alana tries to talk to Margot.

Notes:

I’m posting this from my hotel room in Iceland 😛 it’s 2 am in my home state but 6:45 am in Iceland so that’s why the timing may be a bit whack

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Will and Hannibal were able to see Abigail Hobbs at Port Haven Psychiatric anytime they wanted, even after visiting hours, due to their status as her legal guardians. Freddie Lounds, however, did not share that privilege, but was on her way out when the two of them arrived.

“Will Graham,” she said with artificial warmth. Will would have preferred to breeze past her, but Hannibal was much too polite, so Will followed his lead and came to a stop in front of the flame-haired reporter. “What a pleasure. Are you any closer to catching The Throat Ripper?”

“We aren’t to discuss it,” Hannibal said, and if Will didn’t know any better, he would have said Hannibal sounded regretful. “But whoever they are, I’m sure they appreciate your clever sayings printed on clothing to be sold like merchandise.”

“’The Throat Ripper can open my throat,’” Will quoted dryly.

“It’s reserved, I know,” Freddie said, looking smug at Will’s recalling the ostentatious phrase. “I could have been much lewder.”

“I’m sure,” Hannibal replied. “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Lounds, we’re here to see Abigail.”

“Oh, I was just with her,” Freddie said, her tone glib. “Abigail seems reluctant to talk about the murders, almost suspiciously reluctant. Perhaps someone’s been telling her something they shouldn’t have?”

“You’re purposely misreading her dislike of you for reluctance,” Will told her bluntly . “ She’s smart to not want to speak with you. Goodbye, Miss Lounds.”

Will brushed past her and heard Hannibal apologize to Freddie before hastening to follow, likely disappointed in Will’s rudeness. He didn’t spare a thought for Hannibal’s disappointment, however; all his attention was focused single-mindedly on seeing Abigail.

When he arrived at the door to her room, he took a moment to steel himself. He knocked, and heard her call for them to come in.

She was lying on her stomach in bed reading a book; Will recognized it as the one that Alana had been reading to her in the hospital.

She showed a small amount of surprise at seeing them , but offered a smile, nonetheless . “Wow, aren’t I popular today.”

“What did Freddie Lounds want?” Will asked.

Abigail huffed lightly. “Hello to you, too.”

“Will is sorry for his rudeness,” Hannibal told her. “Fear makes him that way.”

Will gave him a baleful look, and Abigail eyed them curiously. Then, she cleared her throat and sat up, putting her book on the nightstand.

“Freddie wants to write about me,” Abigail said. Will could hear the bitterness in her voice even if he couldn’t detect it on her face. She had already become good at hiding it. “About...my story. Whatever that is.”

“She wants to write it, but are you interested in sharing it?” Hannibal asked. He moved to the window seat and sat down, but Will stayed standing at the door as if ready to bolt and abandon the conversation at any moment. Thoughts flashed through his mind of holding her near and slitting her throat, and they lit his nerves on fire even though he knew the thoughts were not his own .

“Freddie seems to think she knows it all,” Abigail replied. “But there are parts of it that I know I’ll never be willing to share.”

Hannibal’s voice remained impassive and steady. “Like when your father turned you.”

Abigail stiffened immediately , her horror at his words apparent in her crystal blue eyes. She glanced quickly at Will, who avoided meeting her gaze.

“It’s alright, Abigail. Will knows.”

Hannibal offered Abigail a small nod, as if in encouragement. She swallowed thickly and looked suddenly sheepish and embarrassed.

“Do you think less of us now?” she asked quietly, the question directed at Will. He almost flinched. “Knowing what we are?”

“If I think any less of you, then I think even less of myself,” Will said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “We’re the same.”

Abigail’s brows knitted together, and she looked back and forth between the two of them. “You mean...?”

When Will remained silent, still staring at the floor instead of the girl in bed, Hannibal answered for him.

“Yes. There are no differences between the three of us.”

“How?” Abigail asked, but her voice was uncertain, as if she didn’t know if she was allowed to be asking . “And when?”

Will stayed silent for a moment. He tried not to pace the small room; he didn’t want to make Abigail any more uncomfortable than he could already feel she was. He cleared his throat and made his voice as steady as possible. “It was during a, um—a case a few weeks ago. We thought the killer was gone, but he wasn’t . And that’s when...when it happened.”

“I know about that case,” Abigail said. “Hannibal’s been telling me about it.”

Will looked up at Hannibal a bit sharply at her familiar use of his first name, giving him a questioning look. It seemed that Hannibal had been to visit Abigail more often than he thought; they had talked about feeling responsible for her, but he hadn’t expected Hannibal to be so open or honest with her. He cared for her more than he let on .

Abigail misinterpreted his surprise as disapproval of Hannibal’s telling her about the case. She pursed her lips and said, “You have something in common with Dr. Bloom. She doesn’t think I should be hearing about it either.”

Abigail’s hand lifted almost unconsciously to touch the scar at her throat, but she dropped it again when she remembered that they were watching her.

“Well, Alana is an excellent psychiatrist,” Will said.

“So is Hannibal,” Abigail replied pointedly.

Will conceded, lapsing into silence again.

Hannibal cleared his throat and stood, drawing both of their downcast gazes to him. “Perhaps I should step out for a moment and leave the two of you to talk alone.”

Will looked to Abigail, a question in his eyes.

“Yes,” Abigail said, and Hannibal nodded. He was gone a moment later, and the two of them were alone. Will took the seat he left unoccupied. It was still warm.

“What was it like?” Abigail whispered the question, and Will almost didn’t catch it. She was idly rubbing her palms together as if nervous for his answer. Like she wanted to hear what he said but was also fearful that she might end up regretting asking.

“I was...confused,” Will told her quietly. He tried to allow himself to be honest with her, even though his first instinct was to lie or deflect. “I didn’t know what was happening. But I knew enough to be scared.”

“I knew what was happening,” Abigail said, blinking furiously. Despite her obvious effort to hold them at bay, tears sprung to her eyes and lined her dark lashes in a neat row. “I suspected that he was...different for a long time. I thought I was the insane one.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Will told her. “We can talk about something else. Or nothing, if you like.”

Abigail wiped at her eyes. “No. I want to talk about it. It helped when I told Hannibal.”

Will nodded in understanding.

“Before you guys showed up,” she began, her voice wavering a bit less now, “my dad bit me. He...injected me with his venom. Then he cut my throat. Trying to kill me so I’d turn.”

Looking back on it, it suddenly made perfect sense to Will. Garret Jacob Hobbs had been preparing to turn Abigail the whole time he killed those eight other girls in Minnesota. He wanted to get it right when it came to Abigail. Will remembered Hannibal saying that it was a once in a lifetime gift; Hobbs had wanted to share his with Abigail.

But he waited too long. By the time they found him, he hadn’t been ready.

“Hannibal took me from the hospital that night,” Abigail continued. “The doctors didn’t know it, but the venom would have killed me if they kept me there. Hannibal cut my throat again and he... he buried me. Hannibal told me that most of the staff that night was sick, so they didn’t notice us leave or come back.”

“Hannibal’s doing,” Will interjected quietly.

Abigail nodded. “I was scared; terrified. But it helped that Hannibal was there. I don’t remember...drinking his—his blood after, but I know that I did. He told me I did.”

“I didn’t,” Will told her.

She trapped her lower lip in between her teeth, nibbling at it anxiously. “You think it’s wrong, then. You think that what we are is...evil?”

Will swallowed and looked out the window behind him. The moon was steadily rising between the branches of the dark trees that lined the facility, and Will was reminded of the night he turned. When Hannibal carried him from that alley and cut his throat, bleeding him out and then burying him to give him a new life.

“I did at first,” Will murmured. “But I’m starting to reconsider.”

“How come?”

Will looked back at her steadily, and she saw all the answers that she needed in his eyes; she was the reason he was reconsidering. She nodded.

“You know...you shouldn’t feel like you have to be my father just because you killed him.”

Will shut his eyes against her words. He remembered that day vividly. He had gotten so far into Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s mind that he brought something back with him inadvertently: his love for his daughter. And even though it hurt, he knew now that he wouldn’t have put it back even if he could.

“Hannibal doesn’t have to either,” she added, her voice low.

Will met her eyes again. Her expression was uncertain but also set in stony resolve; as if she expected him to agree with her and leave her there in the psychiatric ward all alone, just like her biological father had left her.

“I don’t feel like I have to, Abigail.”

Abigail nodded again, relief dancing over her features. She heard the words he left unspoken: I want to.

Will and Hannibal left the ward under the light of the moon, and Will pulled out his phone to see a message from Jack. It was a link to an article written by Freddie Lounds on tattlecrime.com. He stopped to read it, and Hannibal waited silently beside him.

“Dammit,” Will muttered. “She moves quick.”

Hannibal frowned at his strong choice of words but took the phone when Will offered it. He skimmed briefly over the article, and Will could tell when he saw the picture of Abigail in her bed with Will and Hannibal standing beside it, taken through the small window on her door; his expression darkened almost imperceptibly at the sight.

“She seems to think you’re the one sharing details about the case with Abigail,” Hannibal surmised, handing the phone back.

Will slipped it back into his pocket, his sharp movements serving to punctuate his anger. “I don’t understand why she can’t just leave Abigail out of it.”

“So, you do not think Abigail is cursed or a curse?” Hannibal asked evenly.

“I don’t,” Will answered quickly, then paused. “I sometimes feel like I might be. Most times, actually . But Abigail isn’t .”

They continued walking. The car wasn’t far, and Hannibal didn’t start it up immediately when they got in. He seemed to be contemplating something, and Will allowed him his silence.

“You are wondering,” Hannibal said finally, “that if someone like Abigail can be what we are, if maybe you deserve to live as well? She certainly does.”

He looked sidelong at Will, but Will didn’t reply. Hannibal had voiced his thoughts perfectly, and part of him was disturbed at having been read so easily. So, he simply sat with his eyes pointed straight ahead, unseeing out the windshield.

Satisfied, Hannibal started the car.

Margot winced but otherwise stayed perfectly still, a skill Alana knew she’d gotten unnervingly good at. Alana’s lips pulled downward into an unhappy frown as she wiped the deep scratch on Margot’s back with antiseptic.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Alana said quietly. “But it might help.”

“Might?” Margot said lightly. Her preferred defense mechanism was humor, and she slipped into it like a glove now. “You tell me ; you’re the psychiatrist.”

“Okay,” Alana replied. “I’m telling you that it will help to talk about it.”

Margot’s shoulders relaxed incrementally when Alana moved the damp cloth away and picked up a roll of bandages. The cut wasn’t deep enough to warrant stitches, but it continued to bleed sluggishly even as Alana worked.

“There’s nothing to say,” Margot murmured. “You know what happened. I feel like a broken record.”

Alana placed a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder before beginning to apply the bandage. “Nothing about you is broken. But you don’t have to tell me what happened again if you don’t want to. Just tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I’m feeling like my brother tried to stick me like a pig,” Margot snarked. Alana stayed silent, and she immediately turned to face her, features softened by remorse. “ I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap. I know you’re only trying to help.”

Alana smiled. “ It’s okay, love. Turn back around, I need to finish up .”

Margot obeyed and stayed silent for another moment. She was fiddling with the fabric of her skirt, rubbing it between anxious fingers. Alana watched the movements with a sharp, almost clinical eye. She tried not to treat Margot like a patient—Alana was her partner, not her psychiatrist—but old habits die hard, and Alana still had trouble not treating herself as a patient.

“If there was something I could do about this,” Margot said slowly. “To stop Mason from...hurting me, but I knew that it was wrong...should I do it?”

Alana’s hands stilled . “You mean killing him?”

Margot scoffed; the sound almost horrified. “No, I couldn’t kill Mason.”

Somewhat relieved , Alana resumed her work. She could admit that the urge to kill Mason had crossed her own mind a time or two, but she was a mandated reporter who worked for the FBI; her girlfriend couldn’t confess meditated murder to her. “So, what would you do?”

Margot bit her lip. “Is it okay if I don’t want to tell you just yet? I will eventually, but...right now I can’t .”

“Of course,” Alana said easily, offering Margot a smile even as her stomach clenched. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Margot nodded. She waited another few moments before continuing. “It would hurt someone; what I’m thinking of. But it wouldn’t be Mason I was hurting. It would just stop him.”

Alana hummed in consideration. “I suppose it depends on what’s more important to you: protecting that person you’d be hurting or protecting yourself.”

“I don’t know,” Margot whispered.

Alana pressed the edges of the bandage down firmly. When she was satisfied it wouldn’t move, she turned Margot around to face her.

“It’s okay to not know yet,” she told her. “Just make sure you’re certain before you make your decision.”

Margot smiled, but her eyes were still clouded. Her expression seemed shuttered to Alana, as if she was closing herself off.

Still, Alana kissed her deeply, trying to ignore the pit of unease that seemed to be growing inside of her.

Notes:

I had a little too much fun making hannibal feel scandalized by will’s rude behavior in this chapter
Also ao3 kept trying to make “tattlecrime.com” a live link 😭 like no…we do NOT endorse Freddie Lounds here…that beautiful diva…

Chapter 11 Summary:

When are these killers going to show their hand?

Notes:

I’m back from Iceland and jet lag’s a bitch so I didn’t get to edit this chapter as thoroughly as I wanted to but I hope you like it :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I can tell that he’s been eating consistently,” Hannibal told Bedelia the day after his and Will’s visit to Port Haven. “I’m pleased with the progress he’s made.”

It was true: Will hadn’t had any more fainting spells, and even Alana had become less and less worried about him over the past few weeks. He had regained a healthy pallor and seemed to have a better handle on his thoughts during their conversations. Hannibal knew that taking Will to see Abigail had been the right choice; it pushed him away from the dark thoughts about the nature of what he considered to be a curse. He even seemed to be coming to terms with the fact that he deserved to live, even if it was by unconventional means.

The notion that it had been with Hannibal’s help that Will was gradually coming to accept himself filled him with a burning sensation of what he hesitated to call possessiveness.

“I have a patient,” Bedelia said, “that is very interested in this case.”

Hannibal considered this. “Interested in a fanatic manner or in a participatory one?”

“I’m not yet sure,” she admitted, “but he is also very interested in Will Graham. The two subjects tend to overlap. In fact, most subjects seem to overlap with Will Graham.”

This fascinated Hannibal, even though the information was not new to him. “Tell me, Dr. Du Maurier; are they vengeful toward Will?”

“They seem to be. They feel threatened by him, and like scared animals, they are ready to lash out at the ones who have them caged.”

“Bite the hand that feeds,” Hannibal mused. “But Will is not their master.”

“Maybe it’s enough that he understands them,” Bedelia offered, “like a master would.”

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that Will’s pure empathy acted as a threat to him rather than an aid.

“A rabid dog would kill its master, if it were to feel threatened by him,” Hannibal pointed out. “Or try to, at least.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Why haven’t these dogs bitten yet?”

Bedelia considered his question for a moment, mulling it over. “Perhaps they are waiting to acquire the right bait. And someone to pin the blame on.”

“You give them too much credit,” Hannibal said. “Dogs are not so intelligent.”

“Aren’t they?” Bedelia asked. “Tobias Budge found you once. He can find you again. He’s on your scent, Hannibal.”

“Will’s scent,” Hannibal corrected.

Bedelia’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “The two seem to be merging. You spend enough time with Will, know him deeply enough. One might mistake Will’s scent for your own.”

Hannibal didn’t respond. Bedelia was right, of course. Hannibal had sent Will after Tobias Budge, and then Tobias had come after him.

“I would caution you, Hannibal,” Bedelia continued evenly, “not to get too close to Will Graham.”

Hannibal cocked his head. “Even to help him?”

“You are obsessed,” she told him.

“I am intrigued by him,” Hannibal refuted.

Bedelia smiled, and Hannibal suddenly felt that she was seeing far deeper into him than he meant to allow her to see.

“Obsessively,” she amended, and Hannibal didn’t correct her this time.

It had been two weeks since the last time the Throat Ripper—or Rippers, as they were more appropriately referred to—had killed.

They were no closer to catching them as they never left any physical evidence and Tobias Budge had all but disappeared, gone without a trace as if having vanished altogether. The case was confounding and plaguing Jack to say the least, and Will watched and felt his frazzled edges fray like they were his own.

Will sat with Hannibal, Jack, and Alana in Jack’s office trying to profile a group of psychopaths they knew virtually nothing about. Hannibal and Will sat side by side at his desk while Alana perched on top of it, and the three of them watched Jack wear a hole in the floor. Will was just glad that he wasn’t the one doing the pacing for once.

“Two weeks,” Jack said, the words like a mantra. “Will, are they going to kill again?”

“Yes,” Will replied with surety. “They’ve been easing into their power. Flexing it, like a muscle. Getting ready for something. The taste for the game was always there; they’re just getting stronger.”

“Or developing a stronger plan,” Hannibal added.

“Getting ready for something,” Jack repeated. “Like Garret Jacob Hobbs was getting ready for Abigail?”

Will shook his head fervently. “No, that was practicing to get something perfect for someone he loved; honing his craft. These killers are warming up to someone they hate. Someone that they feel wronged them. That’s why they need to be strong when they strike.”

As he spoke, Will could feel Hannibal’s eyes on the side of his face. They both left unspoken the fact that the person this killer was warming up to was Will. Alana watched them closely, concern apparent on her face, but she wisely remained silent.

“Maybe they have refrained from killing these past weeks because they have what they want,” Hannibal said.

“Then they’d be done,” Alana said. “But Will says they aren’t.”

“Maybe they’ve already exacted their revenge?” Jack guessed. “One of the victims at one of the crime scenes, someone killed with intent and motive?”

Hannibal’s calm and steady voice contrasted starkly with Jack’s anxious and sharp tone. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that. Perhaps whatever they are planning requires meticulous preparation. If they’ve stopped, the next one is likely to be the one.”

Will met Hannibal’s gaze. Neither of them wavered, even as the tension in the room thickened to an unbearable degree.

Jack dismissed them an hour later, saying that he needed to think about it on his own for a bit. Will wanted to tell him not to bother, that they weren’t going to see these killers again until they wanted to be seen, but instead he just followed Alana and Hannibal into the hall.

“I’m worried about you, Will,” Alana said quietly, so that Jack wouldn’t be able to hear her voice. “I know that’s nothing new, but still. I hear what you’re not telling Jack.”

“And what’s that?” Will asked, his gaze fastened on her shoulder to avoid meeting her eyes.

“That you think you’re the one the killer is warming up to,” she said.

Will stole a glance at Hannibal; he was looking at Alana with a measure of respect, as if he admired her for being able to put together what Jack could not, and even more so for not giving away the truth.

“Just be careful,” Alana asked, drawing Will’s attention back to her.

“I will,” he told her, trying to sound as convincing as possible. It must not have been enough, because she eyed him uncertainly for a moment before turning to Hannibal next.

“Be careful with him.”

Before either of them could respond, she had turned away, disappearing around the corner of the office. Will listened to the click of her heels on the marbled floor, trying to use the noise to drown out her parting words.

“There’s not much we can do,” Hannibal said when her footsteps faded to silence, “besides wait for the killers to strike. We don’t know much about them, except for that they aren’t very intelligent. They are stealthy, as all vampires naturally are, but they aren’t trying to disguise the fact that they are working in tandem. It might have afforded them an advantage to do so.”

“A killer who isn’t afraid is often more dangerous than one who is,” Will observed, meeting Hannibal’s eyes again.

Hannibal’s gaze became intense. “You are afraid, yet you are still plenty dangerous.”

Wills brow furrowed. Disgruntled, he muttered, “I’m not trying to be.”

Expression turning somewhat amused, Hannibal said, “It was a compliment, Will.”

Not knowing why, Will was suddenly overcome the need to look away, feeling flushed. He fidgeted with his fingers a little, trying to clear his mind of Hannibal’s words and focus instead on the killer. It was a difficult task, but he managed.

“They feel like they’re close,” he said at last. “Whatever they have planned, they’re almost ready to execute. They didn’t start this plan to abandon it when they have me in their sights.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed. “They must feel that they have something over you.”

Will felt himself scowl. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if there was something over me.”

“Think, if you will,” Hannibal said. “What might be held over you? Perhaps you can beat the killer to it.”

Will considered it. There was a time when he would have confidently answered that there was nothing. Nothing he cared about enough to be used as collateral against him. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the change had occurred, but now his mind came up with more things than he was comfortable admitting.

Suddenly, Will froze. His body went cold; it felt like when you put your foot on the wrong patch of ice, in a spot that was too weak to hold your weight. Like taking an unexpected plunge into frigid water.

“Hannibal,” he said slowly. “Do you think the killers read tattlecrime?”

Hannibal’s eyes lit up with understanding an instant after Will uttered the cursed tabloid’s name. His face set with a grim but steely resolve.

Without uttering another word between them, they ran for Hannibal's car.

When Alana arrived home from the BAU, Margot was crying on her couch.

Margot didn’t try to wipe away the tears streaking through her makeup; she hadn’t come to Alana to obfuscate. She had come for comfort, and she found that even just being in Alana’s presence acted like a soothing balm on her bruised skin.

She heard the clatter of Alana’s keys being discarded on the entryway table. Ordinarily, Alana was religious about locking the front door behind her—a habit she had picked up thanks to her grim line of work—but today she shirked the habit in favor of hastening to Margot’s side. She perched on the cushion next to her, putting a gentle arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a fierce hug.

When Margot didn’t respond, Alana pulled away slightly, cupping her face with gentle hands and brushing away tears with her thumbs.

“What’s wrong?” Alana murmured.

Margot stayed silent. She avoided Alana’s gaze as she took in Margot’s slightly pained hunch, the way she held herself gingerly because everything hurt. Alana’s face tightened.

Her eyes darkened with something akin to rage. She stood up, pacing away from Margot with brisk steps that betrayed her agitation.

“Margot,” she said, and her soft voice wavered. “Come live with me.”

Margot swallowed thickly through her tears, strangling back the sob that threatened to escape her. “Alana, you know that I—”

Alana turned back toward her sharply, and seethed, “He’d never be able to touch you like this again. I’d make sure of it.”

“I’d just be putting you at risk,” Margot said, her voice breaking. A small, cowardly part of her that felt cornered by this interaction suddenly sharpened into regret for coming to Alana’s home with this.

Alana’s frustration rolled off her in palpable waves. “I don’t care what danger I’m in. I just want you out of it.”

Margot’s heart clenched. She tried to offer Alana a small smile, but her voice broke when she said, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why are you so afraid of him?” Alana demanded.

Her eyes darted away from Alana’s. She thought about Mason’s sharpened fangs, his bruising, unnaturally powerful grip, and the sadistic emptiness in his eyes when he touched her with punishing hands. Margot had suffered his abuse for years, ever since their parents died. She’d managed to hold up under his unending streak of violence.

But she was tired now. Tired and scared. For once, she wanted to take something from someone instead of having something taken from her. She wanted to be cruel, instead of having cruelty inflicted on her.

And she didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Margot’s voice was steely this time. “I’m going to tell you.”

Alana’s tension subsided, and she furrowed her brow. “Tell me what?”

“Everything,” Margot replied. “Sit down, Lana.”

Alana looked nervous now; uncertain. She crossed her arms. “I prefer to stand.”

“Please,” Margot insisted. “Sit. For my peace of mind. This isn’t going to be easy to hear.”

Frowning, Alana approached the couch slowly. She took up her spot beside Margot again, but she wasn’t sitting quite so close this time. Her shoulders were tense.

Margot took a deep breath. “Do you believe in vampires, Lana?”

The moon was at its peak in the sky by the time Will and Hannibal arrived at Port Haven Psychiatric, and they bypassed all the mandatory check-in procedures in their haste to get to Abigail. Will heard a nurse yell after them as they ran by, but both of them ignored her.

“Someone was here who wasn’t meant to be,” Hannibal huffed, and Will increased his stride.

They burst through Abigail’s door, and she sat bolt upright at the sight of them, rubbing her eyes blearily. By the time she reached over to turn the bedside lamp on, they were at her side.

“You’re all right,” Will gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice laced with alarm. “Are you? What’s wrong?”

“No one was in here?” Hannibal demanded. “No one you didn’t know?”

“No,” Abigail said slowly. “You guys are starting to scare me.”

Will was opening his mouth to assure her that everything was fine as long as she was, but a whizzing sound suddenly filled his right ear, and Abigail slumped toward the edge of the bed, coming dangerously close to teetering off the side with a small dart in the side of her neck.

It was only because Will and Hannibal were so occupied with making sure that she didn’t hit the floor that the next two darts met their marks; and all three of them fell to the ground.

Notes:

Don’t hate me…I love a good cliffhanger…

Chapter 12 Summary:

These killers are ready to set their plan in motion.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When Hannibal regained consciousness, the first thing he saw was Will.

They were sat in their respective armchairs in Hannibal’s office, just as if they were having a regular appointment. However, both of them were gagged, which would not have been conducive to conversation. Hannibal was acutely aware of a man standing behind him, hovering like an ominous presence.

Will was also blinking himself awake, and Hannibal watched him register the same things Hannibal had, his expression slowly returning to clarity. Will rubbed his wrists, seemingly confused over the lack of restraints. Hannibal tilted his head to indicate that he was wrestling with the same confusion.

The man looming over Will was much larger than Will was, and he was holding a silver blade. It glinted in the light of the moon streaming into the office, and it was offensive to Hannibal’s careful eye. He knew intuitively that it was a holy blade. One neither of them could heal from.

“You shouldn’t have let me go, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal recognized the voice of Tobias Budge without having to look, but he turned his head to the sound anyway. The man stood in front of Hannibal’s desk, and held to his chest was Abigail. Tobias had a knife to her throat, the other arm wrapped possessively around her waist. The position mirrored the one that Garret Jacob Hobbs had had her in in their kitchen in Minnesota. Abigail’s face was damp with tears.

Next to Tobias was an armed woman.

So, Hannibal thought, there are four of them.

Will tried to speak, but the cloth in his mouth effectively silenced him. Tobias gestured to the man behind Hannibal.

“Let Dr. Lecter speak,” Tobias said.

A harsh hand held his head steady as the cloth was yanked out of his mouth. Hannibal grimaced at the taste of the musty material and regarded Tobias.

“I must admit that this turn of events was unforeseen,” Hannibal said evenly.

“Your interest has worked against you, doctor,” Tobias said with a mocking smile.

Hannibal looked at Will from the corner of his eye, who was looking back at him with a clouded expression. The man behind him was standing far too close for comfort.

“Maybe so,” Hannibal replied.

“Here is what is going to happen,” Tobias began, his voice grand. He was pleased with himself; that he had been able to undermine and catch them off guard, no doubt. Hannibal watched him hold Abigail with amusement. “I am going to kill Will Graham. You are going to confess to his murder, and the other murders of which my colleagues and I have been accused.”

“Colleagues?” Hannibal repeated, meeting Will’s gaze again with a sideways look. Will’s expression remained shrouded; his focus was fixed intently on Abigail.

Tobias ignored Hannibal’s thinly veiled taunt and continued. “We know what you’ve been doing. We see it as the worst crime, making you deserving of this fate. Vampires should not kill each other, Dr. Lecter. But we know that you have been doing it anyways. Prolifically.”

“One might say religiously,” Hannibal added with unabashed agreement.

“There is nothing religious about the sins you’ve committed,” the man behind Will sneered, but Tobias silenced him with a glare. Hannibal could see Will shifting, as if getting ready to move, but Hannibal knew he would not risk doing so while Tobias had his knife so close to Abigail’s throat.

“You may be wondering what motivation you have to do what I say,” Tobias continued stonily. “If you do not, we will kill this girl. Abigial Hobbs.”

He said her name without much familiarity, as if the first he had heard of her was in Freddie Lounds’s article.

“We’re going to take her with us regardless,” Tobias added. “To ensure that you don’t decide to renege on your confession. You’ll confess to her murder and posthumous consumption as well. I’m sure you understand, Dr. Lecter.”

“I do,” Hannibal said with fabricated sincerity. “You’ve planned this through very thoroughly.”

Tobias ignored him again. “These are holy blades. You know what that means.”

To punctuate his point, Tobias pressed the edge of his blade to Abigail’s throat without drawing blood, but she still cried out at the contact as it burned the pale skin of her slender throat.

Will tried to speak again, like he couldn't help but to protest at the sight of Abigail’s pain. It only served to draw Tobias’s attention to him, as if he had momentarily forgotten Will’s presence while he spoke to Hannibal.

“I told you that you would die for what you’d done, Graham,” Tobias told him.

Hannibal felt himself tense. He heard Abigail crying.

Tobias nodded to the man behind Will. He rounded the armchair, towering over Will, and plunged the holy blade into Will.

Abigail screamed. Hannibal stayed where he was but poised himself to move, watching closely. Will hunched over the wound, but any sound he made was swallowed up by the fabric stuffed into his mouth. His hand moved to hover over the handle of the blade, still inside him, but he made no further move to dislodge it.

“Pick your poison,” Tobias said. The two men moved away from the armchairs to flank Tobias. “Leave it there and it’ll burn you up from the inside out or remove it and bleed out.”

Will managed to look up at him, his gaze darkened with something other than pain. Hannibal couldn’t look away from him, magnetized to the murderous intent whispered in the depths of his eyes.

Tobias gestured to his cronies, and they began to head for the door. Tobias stayed for a moment to look at them, tightening his grip on Abigail when she tried to squirm away.

“We’ll send you her body if you don’t do what I’ve told you within the next twenty-four hours.” His voice was incredibly smug, endlessly proud of himself and what he had accomplished. He held Abigail to him like a prized pet and yanked her around harshly to get both of them moving for the door.

Hannibal was still watching Will. Will’s fleeting focus darted from Tobias to Hannibal, and they locked eyes. Everything faded away for a moment; the sound of Tobias, issuing more orders, Abigail’s stifled whimpering, and the pain Hannibal knew Will was feeling. His blue eyes sharpened as he strained to concentrate on Hannibal, and his hand tightened around the handle of the knife.

Hannibal nodded, and spoke his words for only Will to hear. “Trust me.”

Will yanked the knife out of the wound and tossed it to Hannibal with what little strength he managed to gather. Hannibal caught it easily, and didn’t wait to watch the blood pour out of Will’s side, though he could smell its sweet aroma in the space between them. He stood, pivoting toward Tobias, and threw the knife.

It flew through the air, tip over handle, and lodged itself with merciless accuracy in the back of Tobias’s skull.

Everything moved very quickly after that.

Abigail turned to him, her mouth opened in a perfectly rounded circle of surprise. Her gaze dropped from Hannibal to Tobias, and then she darted out of the way.

The woman came first. Hannibal lunged to the side, dodging her outstretched knife smoothly and slipping behind her. He hit her over the head with his elbow, feeling the impact all the way to his shoulder, and didn’t stop to see her fall to the ground.

The second man was upon him, the one who had been behind his chair. He made a grab for Hannibal’s throat, but he ducked under the man’s arms. His assailant pursued his movement, following with a well-placed kick to his ribs. Hannibal stumbled backward but managed to maintain his footing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something silver slide across the floor.

The vampire who stabbed Will had joined them, and they attempted to attack Hannibal from both sides. Hannibal ducked, crouching low to the floor and picking up the knife that Abigail had kicked in his direction. He stood in time to catch the first man on his blade, but he didn’t make the same mistake Tobias had. He yanked the knife out of the man and turned to the one who had stabbed Will.

Aiming low, he swiped for Hannibal’s midsection, and Hannibal distantly registered a shallow sting of pain across his ribs, no more than a graze. He ignored it and landed a deep cut across the man’s arm as he retracted it. He hissed in pain but was otherwise undeterred. He quickly swiped for Hannibal’s throat with his knife, but the attack was easily knocked away with Hannibal’s own weapon; it had been a cover for his next move, when he followed through with a vicious punch to Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal felt a crack and knew that the man had broken his nose. The vampire approached him again, quick enough that Hannibal didn’t have time to raise the knife to block his attack. Instead, Hannibal threw up his arm and caught the edge of the blade across the back of his bicep.

The next time the man threw a punch, Hannibal dropped into a crouch. This man’s problem was that he was too top-heavy; focused on using his fists and weapon. It left his lower half completely unprotected.

Hannibal plunged his knife into the man’s exposed torso, digging in with all his strength until he heard the blade grind against the man’s ribs.

Abigail’s voice broke through the haze of his bloodlust, thick with tears as she called out his name.

Hannibal stood, dropping the knife. All four of the bodies lay in large pools of viscous blood, and Hannibal turned to Abigail.

She was kneeling by Will’s side, looking up at Hannibal with big, desperate eyes. She had already removed his gag, but she seemed to be at a loss as to what to do beyond that. Hannibal approached them, kneeling on the other side of the armchair.

Will was pale, even paler than he normally was, and his breathing was labored and shallow. He seemed to be clinging onto consciousness, his eyes falling closed and then opening again with fervor, focusing on something in the middle distance. He was soaked in his own blood.

Hannibal tore open Will’s shirt easily; the fabric was already coming undone. He tried to be gentle, but Will let out a pained noise anyways. The knife had gone between his ribs—the blood was coming too fast, and with the indication of Will’s gasping breaths and the blood on his pale, bluish lips, Hannibal knew that it had punctured one of his lungs.

“Will,” Hannibal said. Will didn’t look up at the sound of his voice, his curls obscuring his eyes, but Hannibal continued, confident that he was listening. “I must inject you with venom. It will make you sick again, like the night that you turned, but you will heal that way.”

Will’s eyes slipped closed again, but Hannibal patted his cheek lightly to regain his attention.

“You’ve never,” Will murmured, in between his gasps, “used—used it? Before?”

Hannibal used the hand he had on Will’s face to turn his head toward him. Through a haze of exhaustion and pain, Will managed to meet his eyes. “I have not. I’ve been saving it.”

Will closed his eyes again, but they continued to move around as his head bobbed with fatigue.

“Do it,” Abigail whispered. “Please.”

Hannibal nodded. “Abigail. There is a medical kit in the cabinet of the waiting room. Bring it to me, please. He will heal slowly, but I’m going to stitch the wound to aid the process.”

Abigail swallowed thickly but nodded, looking at Will’s downturned head. She placed her hand briefly on top of his before turning to run out of the room. Will lifted one of his fingers weakly in response, but she had already gone.

“It will not be as bad this time,” Hannibal told him. “Since you’ve already been turned. Are you ready, Will?”

Will hummed in assent; it was all he could manage.

To inject someone with vampire venom, you could use any vein in their body as a conduit to the heart. However, the jugular vein was the closest one that was easily accessible, and thus the most common. And Will needed the venom to reach his heart as soon as possible, so it could begin healing his dying body.

Hannibal held Will’s head steady with gentle, almost reverent hands, fingers buried in his damp curls. He tilted it to the side slowly, exposing the column of his throat. Hannibal leaned in, and Will made a soft noise when his nose brushed his cold skin. Will’s scent enveloped Hannibal; the blood from his wound which was pumping through his veins, the sweat that beaded on his fair skin, but deeper than that was a scent that was fundamentally Will in a way that was heady and intoxicating to Hannibal’s senses.

Will’s heartbeat was weak, his pulse thready and faint. Urged on by its decreasing pace, Hannibal sunk his teeth into Will’s neck.

Will gasped, his body jolting involuntarily at the sudden prick, but Hannibal held him still. He didn’t intend to take any of Will’s blood; he had already lost so much and had precious little to spare. All Hannibal did was inject his venom into Will, feeling it leave his own body to course through Will’s veins and into his heart.

He retracted his fangs after that but lingered near Will’s throat. He could feel Will’s hair brushing against his face, and something about the soft texture of it anchored him there.

He only moved away when he heard Abigail return to the room.

“Is he okay?” she asked anxiously.

Will’s eyes had slipped closed, and his breathing evened out; Hannibal knew that he had only fallen asleep, but his sudden unconsciousness had clearly worried Abigail. Hannibal told her as much, and she nodded trustingly.

She brought him the medical kit, and he opened it up to procure what he would need to stitch Will back together.

“After I apply the sutures,” Hannibal told Abigail, “we will call Jack Crawford. But we must wait until Will is conscious again, or they will want to take him to a hospital.”

“But he’s going to be okay?” Abigail pressed, eying Will’s prone form.

“Yes,” Hannibal assured her calmly. “He’s going to be okay.”

The FBI arrived an hour later. Hannibal had moved Will to sit at his desk chair. Will sat slumped, but he stayed conscious and aware; color was returning slowly to his face, even as exhaustion painted dark crescents under his tired eyes. Hannibal stayed close by his side, close enough to catch him if he fell, and so did Abigail.

Jack approached them immediately, only sparing a moment to look around at the carnage; four dead bodies, and liters of blood made Hannibal’s office into quite a grisly scene.

“None of you are coming in to process the bodies, correct?” Jack phrased it as a question, but it sounded more like a command. “Will, you’re looking a little bit sick.”

“Too much excitement for one night,” Will responded weakly.

“So, I will be taking him straight home from here,” Hannibal said. “Abigail will come with us.”

Jack slowly eyed the three of them in turn. “I’d like to ask a few questions first.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Jack.” Hannibal offered a polite smile, but his resolve was unwavering. “But as soon as we can we’ll come in to answer them all.”

Jack relented, nodding. “Take care of yourself, Will. I mean it this time.”

When he was gone, Will sank a little further into his seat. He looked up at Hannibal and said quietly, “You never told me that you kill other vampires.”

Hannibal raised a brow. “You never asked.”

“If only I had known to.” Will tried to laugh, but it turned instead into a painful cough. Hannibal frowned.

“Can we go now?” Abigail asked, shifting on her feet. “The smell of all this old blood is making me sick.”

Hannibal helped Will struggle to his feet, one arm tucked securely around Hannibal’s neck. Abigail followed closely by his other side; her steps also labored by exhaustion. No one tried to speak to them on their way out, a fact that Hannibal was immensely grateful for.

Will fell asleep the moment Hannibal deposited him into the passenger seat of his car, and Abigail followed his lead not ten minutes into the trip. Hannibal felt an odd sense of serenity, driving the two of them safely all the way to Wolf Trap.

Notes:

What a whirlwind! I’m not the best at writing fight scenes but I feel like I didn’t do too terribly on this one 😛 comments and kudos greatly appreciated mwah!
Also the tension…more of that later? Maybe? You’ll have to wait and see >:P

Chapter 13 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Will’s kitchen was woefully understocked. Hannibal knew that his could be considered the opposite, and that his passion for culinary arts caused him to be almost obsessive about what he had in his kitchen, but Will’s selection was objectively abysmal. All he had was a saucepan and some miscellaneous wooden utensils. Even his selection of spices was lacking.

Hannibal scouted out what ingredients he could, trying to be quiet in his search. Will was asleep on his couch, not having made it quite as far as his bed, even though it was just across the room. It had been a battle for Hannibal to even get him that far; Will’s wound was healing, but it was sapping what little strength he had left. That was why Hannibal was cooking them a meal with the Verger meat Hannibal kept Will’s home stocked with; he needed to get blood back in Will’s body the only way he would allow it.

He would have asked Abigail if she wanted to sous-chef, but she had become enamored with Will’s dogs. She was cuddling with Zoe, the pug mix, and she seemed to be enjoying Abigail’s attention greatly. Winston, however, was sat forlornly by Will’s side, as if disappointed that his master was asleep. Hannibal could understand the sentiment.

While he was preparing the meat, there was a knock on the front door. Abigail’s head lifted, looking to Hannibal questioningly. Hannibal put his utensils aside and strode through the living room, checking the time as he went. It was well past one in the morning.

Standing at the door was Margot Verger, and she stiffened when she saw him.

“I was expecting Will,” she said. She appeared nervous, wearing a tight expression that looked unnatural on her face; Hannibal was used to her being a calm and collected woman who rarely let her feelings show. He was sure she had learned it from Mason Verger; cold and calculated until the last.

“Naturally,” Hannibal replied. “It is his house.”

Margot shifted. “I heard about what happened. From Alana.”

“How is Alana?” he asked politely. “Last time I saw her she seemed quite stressed.”

“I think I may have exacerbated that,” she said stiffly, shoulders hunched against the cold. “Do you think I could talk to Will for a second?”

Hannibal knew what Margot’s intentions were.

Margot had wanted to be a vampire for as long as she had been attending his therapy sessions; she was aware that they shared the knowledge of the vampires’ existence, and it was one of the reasons she continued seeing him even after he encouraged her to make a second attempt on her brother’s life. When Will told him that Margot had asked him to turn her, Hannibal knew it was only a matter of time before Margot tried to force his hand.

Margot was desperate, and desperation made her rash and impulsive. She had tried to kill her brother once before without the proper planning. Hannibal was suddenly curious if she would fail again, if she were to be blessed with the gift of vampirism.

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder, where Will slept soundly on his couch. One arm was used as a pillow under his head while the other hung haphazardly over the edge near where Winston sat; he had fallen asleep petting his loyal dog. He found his thoughts drifting to the events of the night; Will had lost a large amount of the blood in his body, even though Hannibal’s venom was helping to heal him. But Will still refused to drink the blood of a human, and it was detrimental to his recovery.

He looked back to Margot. She didn’t understand the depth of Will’s hunger or see in him what Hannibal did: Will was a predator, and every predator had their prey.

Hannibal left Margot waiting by the door and went to Will’s side. He laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Will groaned softly, then blinked blearily up at Hannibal.

“Margot would like to speak to you, Will.”

Will shut the door gently behind him, pulling the coat Hannibal had made him put on tightly around himself. He didn’t look Margot in the eye, preferring to wait until she spoke first.

“I heard about what happened,” she said lamely. “At Dr. Lecter’s office.”

He nodded. “I figured Jack would tell Alana.”

“She was worried about you.”

He frowned down at the snow laden porch. “She tends to be.”

“It’s in her nature,” Margot agreed. “She’s a worrier.”

They stood there in silence for another moment, both of them braced against the bite of the cold and the tension in between them. Will’s mind kept returning to what Margot had asked of him the last time they’d been here.

“Look, Will,” Margot began suddenly, her sharp voice slicing through the silence like a knife. “I’ve been backed into a corner. Someone...Someone is trying very hard to take my options away, and I’m doing all that I can to keep them open. To be able to defend myself.”

Will felt his brow furrow. His thoughts were muddled by exhaustion.

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do,” she continued.

Maybe the blood loss was lowering his inhibitions and disarming his better nature.

“You can call Alana,” Margot told him. “I’ve told her everything.”

Because when Margot drew a blade and slit her own arm, from the inner elbow all the way down to her wrist, Will didn’t have time to think before he was on her, pinning her body to the frozen porch with his weight as his fangs snapped into place in a way that satisfied an urge in him whose existence he had been desperate to deny.

She yelped in surprise, but did not struggle when he latched onto her bleeding wrist. He heard small gasps of pain escape her parted lips, but it all faded to background noise in his ears, like the sound of some distant river.

It made him feel strong, powerful, to have someone else’s blood flowing through his veins again. The strength that had left him when the holy blade pierced his skin came rushing back into him like a flood, drowning out all of his other thoughts and reservations with the magnitude of its force.

He couldn’t have made himself stop if he wanted to, and no part of him wanted to.

He only stopped when the river ran dry and the flood abated, the tide receding from the shore. His fangs retracted and he sat back on his heels, the frigid air burning his lungs when he gasped it in.

Will felt himself shaking. From cold or from fear or from the power that now flooded through him, he did not know. He felt numb all over but could expect that his panic was going to set in at any second.

Margot’s body was sprawled lifelessly in front of him. He was covered in blood for the second time that night, but this time it was not his own. Maybe that thought held a sick sense of satisfaction for him.

This was his curse.

See: he was a curse.

When the front door of his home opened, he was aware that he was hyperventilating. The panic had breached through the fog of his mind at last, however lethargically. He couldn’t get his thoughts in order: all he could see was the red that coated Margot thickly.

Someone knelt in front of him, blocking his view of her.

“You’ve killed her, Will,” Hannibal said. His face swam into focus, the only steady thing in Will’s sight.

Will swallowed, burying his crimson stained hands in the snow. He relished the burning sting. “It felt...I felt—”

“Good,” Hannibal finished for him. “Listen to me carefully. You can save her or let her die.”

“What?” Will stammered, blinking quickly.

“You can inject her with your venom,” Hannibal explained patiently, “and save her life. Give her what she wants. Or you can let her die.”

Will’s breathing wasn’t getting any slower. The panicked huffs of breath were causing him to feel lightheaded again, but he tried to focus on the options Hannibal was presenting him with.

Ever since that night where Hannibal buried him in the earth, Will had felt that something else crawled its way back out. Something other than what he had been before: this new creature who wore Will’s face like a mask felt vicious, felt powerful when he killed and savored the taste of blood. He reveled in the thrill of the chase, basked in the glory of the kill. He was something akin to Hannibal, who came to Will in dreams to entice him with prey that Will couldn’t resist.

All that had become him when he clawed himself from the earth.

But before that, hadn’t Will felt powerful when he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs? Didn’t he revel in the thrill of slipping into a killer’s skin, getting so deep inside their mind that he sometimes couldn’t find his way back out again? Didn’t he bask in the artistry of their kills, marvel at the tapestry of their designs? Maybe the reason he struggled to find his way back out of a killer’s mind was because that was where he belonged.

Maybe Will had been this all along; a predator. And every predator had their prey.

He felt alive when he killed Hobbs, and when he drank that nameless man dry in Hannibal’s office. And even now, with Margot’s body on his porch, some part of him dared not to hide away; it was delighting in his savagery.

Hannibal had turned Will so that he could live. The same part of Will that was daring not to retreat into his mind knew that Alana would want the same for Margot.

“I have to save her,” Will croaked out haltingly.

Hannibal nodded, something that looked like approval touching the dark amber of his eyes. “Your mind will read your intent and tell your body what to do.”

Hannibal guided Margot’s bloodied wrist back to Will’s mouth, and Will pulled his intent to the forefront of his mind: for Margot to live.

“That’s it,” Hannibal said, and was pulling her away from him before Will had even registered what had happened.

“Did it work?” Will asked, somewhat listlessly. “She said to call Alana.”

“It will,” Hannibal assured him. “We will make sure Alana knows. You’re shivering, Will.”

Will didn’t bother to assess himself to see if it was true; he felt like the ache of the cold lived in his bones now. It stung his knees through the denim of his jeans.

“Go inside,” Hannibal told him. “Clean yourself up. I will take care of Margot.”

Will was too exhausted to argue. He struggled to his feet, aided by the warm strength of new blood in his veins.

He crossed the threshold of his home and closed the door, distantly aware that something deep inside him had been utterly changed that night.

Hannibal took care of Margot. It was not nearly as invigorating an experience as Will’s burial and rebirth had been, but with that fact in mind he did not deny Alana’s right to involvement.

He dropped the two of them off at Alana’s home and after a short period of deliberation, he returned to Wolf Trap. Will was sitting on the steps of the porch, his feet regrettably bare and wearing nothing but a thin short-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and Hannibal wondered if he was trying to keep something other than the cold out of him.

“Will,” Hannibal said by way of greeting, stopping in front of him.

Will’s eyes lifted slowly, and the recognition came sluggishly, as if he had only just noticed Hannibal’s presence.

“Why are you sitting out here in the cold?”

Will glanced over his shoulder, to the blood staining the snow on the small porch. He murmured, “Her blood’s still there.”

“It will melt, and then it will dry,” Hannibal replied calmly. “If there is a stain, I will help you remove it.”

He held out a hand, and Will eyed it for only a moment before taking it, allowing Hannibal to pull him unsteadily to his feet. He led him inside and sat him firmly on the couch. Abigail watched them from where she sat with the dogs, but Will didn’t acknowledge her attention. Or Hannibal’s, for that matter.

He was dissociating, the last refuge for his rattled mind. Perhaps he felt guilt for what he had done to Margot—not that he’d been given much choice—but Hannibal knew he also felt something else. It was a flame that he was desperate to stoke, to fuel and feed like a pyre. That was why Will was escaping into himself: because it hadn’t made him feel bad, rather it had felt good. And he knew that scared Will.

“You can’t let him be so careless with himself,” Hannibal told Abigail as he wrapped a blanket firmly around Will’s gently shivering shoulders. Will made a halfhearted grab at the material, his fingers clenching reflexively. “His self-preservation can be dismal at times.”

“Is he okay?” Abigail asked, concern apparent in her voice. “Who was that on the porch?”

“A friend of a friend,” Hannibal replied vaguely. “He will be fine, but he’s distracted right now. He’ll realize what’s important eventually.”

“Abigail,” Will said suddenly, as if in response to Hannibal’s statement. His voice was weak, and his eyes weren’t entirely focused.

Abigail’s response was uncertain. “Yes?”

“He seems to be stuck in his memories of the events of the night. We must leave him to his rest,” Hannibal said, and heard distantly that there was a note of fondness in his voice. Abigail’s eyes were sharp as she watched him, and he was sure she noticed. So, he cleared his throat and said, “I was interrupted in the kitchen. Would you like to assist?”

She was warm, almost uncomfortably so. Sun beams assaulted her closed eyes, and she tried fruitlessly to cringe away from them. Groaning, she huddled further into the blankets.

“Good morning, sunshine,” a voice said.

Margot cracked open her eyes. She wanted to see the face that that voice belonged to. Alana was smiling down at her, but the expression was strained, something haunted in her eyes. She was stroking Margot’s hair gently.

Tension pulled Margot’s muscles taut. She whispered, “Did I dream that?”

Alana’s hand stilled on her head for a moment. “Which part? I’m still not entirely sure that I’m not dreaming.”

Margot chewed her lip. “Do you wish I hadn’t told you?”

“If you hadn’t told me, would you have asked Hannibal to call me like you did?”

“No,” Margot answered truthfully.

“Then, I’m glad you told me,” Alana said. She smiled, slightly smug. “It was a rough night. And not in the way that I like.”

Margot laughed weakly. “You’re not mad at me?”

“If anyone would be mad at you,” Alana said slowly, “it might be Will. But he’s not the type to hold a grudge.”

“I had no choice,” Margot whispered.

Alana didn’t respond at first, her nails scraping gently against Margot’s scalp. “Do you regret it?”

“No. I don’t have to be afraid of him anymore. If Will’s angry with me...I think I can live with that. Things might be awkward with Dr. Lecter for a while, though.”

Alana frowned. “How do you mean?”

“He’s very protective of Will. You know, the reason my suspicion about Will being a vampire was piqued because I saw him sleeping on the couch in Dr. Lecter’s office.”

Alana’s eyebrows raised a bit.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that,” Margot joked, her tone light. “Might be a detriment to your professional curiosity.”

Alana smacked her arm, but her smile was a bit less strained now, the tension leaking out of her eyes.

“Can I ask you something, Lana?” Margot said quietly.

“Of course you can,” she replied. “Anything.”

“How do you feel about children?”

Notes:

I was proofreading this one and realized im actually really proud of it 🤭 kudos and comments muy appreciated

Chapter 14 Summary:

The event of Will’s encounter with Margot get him thinking.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Weeks went by, and the three of them fell into a strange but comfortable new routine.

Abigail returned to Port Haven, but she spent most of her time at either Will or Hannibal’s homes. The two of them had received harsh words from Alana Bloom and the night nurses for taking Abigail from her ward after visiting hours—the story that they told the FBI was that Abigail had already been at Hannibal’s office when Tobias Budge arrived—so they made sure to get her back before it was dark outside.

“I have nightmares when I sleep there,” she had told them, turning sad eyes on them. “Nightmares about my father and...about Tobias.”

She had glanced at Will at that last part, and Will had avoided her gaze, uncomfortable with being the cause of someone’s concern so often recently.

“We will help with the nightmares,” Hannibal told her. “But you must continue to sleep at the ward, I’m afraid.”

“We can’t bend the rules any more than we already have,” Will added drily.

Will and Hannibal continued to have their conversations, but the topics they covered had shifted steadily away from whether Will thought he deserved to live and creeped instead toward how he felt when he killed. This development thrilled Hannibal, even as Will expressed horror at the feelings that had overcome him when Margot’s blood coated his hands. But Hannibal sensed he wasn’t being entirely truthful with himself; the horror belonged to someone else, someone Will thought he ought to be. The thrill of the hunt was entirely Will’s own.

Hannibal had been there when Alana furtively told Will that Margot’s turning had gone well, and that she was sorry for what she had done: a lie, Hannibal and Will both knew it. But they stayed silent, and Alana said she was hopeful that Mason wouldn’t be a problem for Margot anymore. Will had awkwardly mumbled something about being happy for her and fled the conversation with as much grace as Hannibal could muster on his behalf.

Now the three of them were in Jack’s office as he told them that the killers had been convicted and sentenced.

“With no help from Freddie Lounds, however much she’d like to disagree,” Alana said stonily. She was incredibly bitter with the reporter for the article she had written about Abigail, even if she didn’t know the whole story. She was still under the impression that Abigail had been at Hannibal’s office that night purely out of coincidence.

“Abigail could press charges,” Hannibal pointed out, mostly for Alana’s gratification.

“But she won’t,” Will said.

“No,” Hannibal agreed.

Jack dismissed them, and they bid Alana goodbye at the doors of the academy. Hannibal started in the direction of his car, stopping when he realized that Will wasn’t following. He was still on the sidewalk, his gaze distant and contemplative.

“Will?” Hannibal prompted.

Will’s eyes stayed unfocused as he said, “I was thinking about Alana. What she said about Margot.”

“You feel like you cursed her,” Hannibal replied evenly. “Or do you not believe that to be true anymore?”

“It may not be a curse,” Will ventured slowly. “But it has a...strange and animalistic way of taking things out of my control.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Perhaps your control is strange and animalistic.”

Will furrowed his brow. “Sometimes I feel animalistic. Because of the things that it makes me do. Maybe we are animals.”

“When animals kill humans, it is considered savage,” Hannibal observed. “But when animals kill other animals, it is natural.”

“Is that why you do it?” Will asked. “To keep things natural?”

“Did it not feel natural to you?” Hannibal questioned in response. “Or do you feel like an animal?”

Will’s brow furrowed. His face crumpled in confusion, but he let out a light laugh. “Both? I don’t know how I feel anymore.”

Hannibal felt a jolt at the admittance and the levity of Will’s tone, but he kept his face impassive. “It is important that we set an example for Abigail. We can’t have her falling victim to the same web of thought that you found yourself caught in.”

Will didn’t reply, but he followed Hannibal to the car. They climbed inside and sat in pensive silence for a beat.

“The next time you plan to kill,” Will said slowly, “will you tell me?”

Hannibal felt himself still. He looked sidelong at Will, but he was staring intently out the windshield as if he knew that Hannibal would be pleased by the question and didn’t want to see the emotion touch his eyes.

“Is this observation or participation?” Hannibal asked.

“Not participation,” Will answered. Then, paused. “I just want to know.”

Hannibal nodded, and started the car.

Will knew he couldn’t evade Hannibal’s curiosity for long, so he was only mildly displeased when Hannibal breached the topic the next time they were alone together in his office.

“What makes you want to be aware of when I am killing?” Hannibal asked.

Will exhaled heavily. “I’m not aware of what makes me want it. I just know that I do.”

“Do you feel condemnation at the thought of me killing,” Hannibal pressed, “or approval?”

“If what you said is true,” Will retorted, “then it should be natural, shouldn't it? Animals slaughtering animals.”

“Those are my words. Do you believe them?”

“This entire situation has altered everything I believe,” Will said, a bit sharper than he meant to. He softened his tone with effort. “Would you allow me to leave it at that?”

Hannibal spread his hands in a parody of concession. “I only wish to help you understand how your beliefs have shifted.”

Will swallowed his bitterness and sighed, feeling guilt for speaking so harshly. That was the point of these conversations, after all: to be honest with Hannibal and tell him how he truly felt. “You’re right. Please proceed, doctor.”

Hannibal nodded in understanding and continued. “If your beliefs were so readily challenged, perhaps it is time to develop new beliefs, Will.”

Will eyed him warily. “Based on what?”

“Based on you. Instead of your associations, what you think you should believe.”

Will shifted. He trusted Hannibal—a realization that admittedly hadn’t come easy—but something about this conversation felt eerily like Hannibal was trying to mold him into something that fit his desires. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but Will felt he owed it to Hannibal to hear what he had to say.

“I think that a lot of things I believe have changed,” Will began. “Necessity...sometimes dictates actions that wouldn’t ordinarily be acceptable.”

“Such as murder?”

Will didn’t answer. Hannibal knew what he meant; he just wanted to hear Will say it. For some reason, Will was reticent to grant him the satisfaction.

Hannibal seemed to understand this. “Tell me how you feel when you kill, Will.”

Will closed his eyes. “I feel powerful. I feel like I’m acting on instinct rather than desire. And that makes it less...hard to accept.”

“The line that exists between instinct and desire is thin. Tell me, Will; do you feel the line blurring?”

Will swallowed thickly, and pressed his eyes shut tighter. “Yes.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Different than I know I should.”

“How you should feel is dictated by your beliefs,” Hannibal reminded him patiently. “Recall that we are rebuilding them.”

Will nodded. “I’m not scared by the blurring of the lines. I’m not...displeased by it.”

“Then perhaps it is meant to be,” Hannibal said, and Will opened his eyes. There was something deeply discerning and pleased in Hannibal’s gaze.

“You feel like a conduit.” Will heard himself say the words, but didn’t remember deciding to do so. “Or a magnifier. To these primal instincts. Are you doing it on purpose?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Magnifiers do not create. They amplify what is already there. If you are feeling primal instincts, Will, that you feel have to do something with me; I assure you that they were already there to begin with.”

Will felt something stir inside of him at those words. His mind attempted to reject them, convince himself that it wasn’t true, and the internal struggle made him breathless. Or maybe that was Hannibal’s doing as well.

“I’ve been thinking,” Will diverted, “about what you said about it being natural. Is that why you only kill vampires? Is that how you...choose them?”

The words felt disturbingly similar to something Jack would ask him when they were working on the profile of a killer; it was disconcerting when he tried to consider it in the context of Hannibal.

Hannibal’s lips tilted upward almost imperceptibly. “What gave you the impression that I only kill vampires?”

After Hannibal’s admission—he refused to think of it as a confession—Will had a lot to think about. If the lines had blurred between desire and instinct, then how could he fault Hannibal for acting on instinct? What difference did it make that Hannibal killed humans too, other than the fact that it wouldn’t be ‘natural,’ by Hannibal’s logic?

Was it natural for Will to feel a chilling thrill go up his spine when he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs, the feeling of control that he had felt that bordered on satisfaction?

The lines were almost invisible, now.

Will was sitting on the bank of his river when he got the call. He shifted his pole to one hand to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.

“Hello?”

“Will.” It was Hannibal’s voice.

Will stiffened. He knew what Hannibal was going to tell him, but he wanted to hear the words from him. “Yes?”

“I am going to kill a vampire named Abel Gideon tonight,” Hannibal told him. His tone was characteristically steady and calm. “Do you understand?”

Will distantly recognized the name but struggled to recall any concrete details associated with it through the dull buzzing of his thoughts. He blinked a few times, trying to focus. “Yes.”

Hannibal said nothing else before ending the call.

Will looked down at his phone for a moment. His job was to catch killers. He worked for the FBI profiling murderers, getting into their minds with the ultimate goal of catching and turning them in.

But with Hannibal’s admission weighing heavily on his mind, Will put his phone back in his pocket. And returned his attention to the river.

Notes:

I only have two more chapters of this fic to write and I’m working on two outlines for other projects…exciting times in the world right now (Mr. Robot reference in honor of it being on Netflix now)

Chapter 15 Summary:

Hannibal gives Will flowers.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Two days later, Will was standing at the crime scene of Abel Gideon’s body in a grass field in Baltimore.

What they knew about Gideon was that he had been investigated for the assault of his wife two years ago, but she mysteriously dropped the charges, seemingly for no reason. His only real punishment had been mandated therapy with psychiatrist Frederick Chilton.

“Looks like someone decided he was guilty,” Jack said, observing the scene.

He had been disemboweled, and a bouquet of flowers filled the cavern the killer had made of his abdomen. Blooming in dark shades of red and blue, it was a grotesquely beautiful sight. He was lying in a small bed of blue hyacinths, and his eyes had been removed and replaced with crimson carnations.

All of the colors seemed to harmonize with each other, brightened under the warm light of the sun. It made the grisly violence of the murder into something meticulously arrange d with a delicate touch; this kill was the murder er ’s art, the mural of flowers decorating the cadaver was his design. Will found himself captivated by it, loathe to look away.

"Every organ except for the lungs have been removed,” Beverly told them.

“It’s what gives the body breath,” Will said, his voice low. He felt that if he talked too loudly, he might disturb the sanctity of the killer’s work. “It supplies life the same way the heart does by giving blood. Is the heart missing?”

“It’s in the bouquet,” Zeller reported.

Will frowned . It was what he had expected. He looked askance at Hannibal, who affected an innocent expression at Will, his head tilted to the side.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Jack said, and led the rest of them away from the body.

Will watched Hannibal’s retreating back. Then studied Abel Gideon’s body.

He closed his eyes, and the pendulum swung.

He knew that Hannibal was the killer, and Will’s job was to embody the mind of the killer. So, he embodied Hannibal.

Hannibal approached Abel Gideon’s home in Maryland late at night. The door was locked, so Hannibal knocked quietly.

The door creaked open, and Gideon looked out at him questioningly.

“Hello, Abel,” Hannibal said. Then, he struck out quickly with his right fist. Gideon stumbled back, clutching his broken nose. Hannibal followed, closing the front door behind him.

The pendulum swung.

Gideon was tied to his own dining room chair, which had been drawn into the kitchen for convenience. The knife block on the counter glinted threateningly, but Hannibal did not draw a weapon yet.

“I hear you have an interest in the Chesapeake Ripper,” Hannibal said amiably.

“I do,” Gideon replied slowly. “Are you he?”

Hannibal treated him to a slightly admonishing look, as if asking why he would admit that to someone as insignificant as Gideon.

“Tell me what you did to your wife,” Hannibal prompted.

“What I did to her?” Gideon echoed; his eyes sharp. “You might recall that all charges against me were dropped. I am an innocent man.”

“I don’t believe that, ” Hannibal said firmly. “And neither do you, Abel.”

“My psychiatrist says I’m not so sure what I believe,” Gideon replied airily. “I seem to have a few...disorders. Of the personality variety, of course.”

“Of course,” Hannibal repeated, a light smile touching his lips. He was amused by Gideon, but also disgusted. “ I’d like you to tell me the truth. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what the consequences might be if you choose to lie.”

“No, no,” Gideon sighed, as if the entire situation was merely a minor inconvenience, an interruption to his otherwise calm night. “I’m quite familiar with your methods.”

“And what methods might those be?”

“Disembowelment. Cannibalism. Vampirism. ”

He said the last word with a gentle emphasis, like it was a secret that he treasured and kept close to himself. Hannibal’s eyes flashed.

“Very good,” Hannibal said. “Now tell me, Abel.”

Gideon spoke in a grand tone of voice, as if orating a tale of great courage and heroism. “My wife began to notice me doing strange things. Going out at night, in the light of the moon, with no apparent destination. She saw spots of blood on my clothes, and on my skin.”

In other words, Hannibal thought—or rather Will thought, in the corridors of his mind—Gideon was careless.

“I had to do something about her suspicions,” Gideon continued. “To silence them. She either had to be on my side, or she had to be dead.”

“By ‘on your side,’ you mean turned,” Hannibal clarified.

“Indeed. So, I tried to. To turn her. I wasn’t quick enough in killing her. I’ll admit, I wanted to savor the experience. She got hold of a cell phone. Claimed domestic abuse—I had barely gotten started, you see. Rotten luck.”

Or rotten preparation. An utterly unskilled predator.

“I was able to...persuade her,” Gideon said carefully, “to drop the charges.”

“By threatening her.”

“By threatening to finish the job,” Gideon agreed. His eyes were bright, thrilled at the opportunity to recount his story to Hannibal. “She was terrified of me, you see. Horrified.”

Hannibal nodded slowly and turned to the knife block. “I do see. You reveled in the opportunity to kill your wife. Gideon, I am going to revel in the opportunity to kill you now. And I can assure you, I will not fail in the same way that you did.”

Now, Will and Hannibal were in his kitchen in Baltimore. Hannibal was preparing Abel Gideon’s kidneys with expert hands, and Will stood nearby, leaning against the gleaming countertop.

“Does it change things,” Hannibal said, “that you know who I am know?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” Will replied, feeling somewhat numb .

Hannibal did not confirm or deny, his eyes and hands fixed almost singularly on his work.

“It doesn’t change the fact that you kill people. It just means that you do more than kill them; you make them into art.”

Something deeply satisfied shone in Hannibal’s umber eyes. “Tell me, Will, what did you see in the art that I made of Abel Gideon?”

“You left his heart and lungs,” Will said quietly.

“I did,” Hannibal replied, slicing through the tender meat.

“You did it on purpose,” Will added.

“Everything I do, I do with purpose. Abel Gideon’s death was nothing less than merciful.”

“Are they all like that?” Will pressed. For some reason, he ached to hear the answer. “People or vampires who have done something terrible? You only kill them as a righteous act of retribution?”

Hannibal’s knife stilled , and he looked up to meet Will’s gaze. “No. Many of them are perfectly innocent, or as innocent as one can be in the eyes of God. But I still find the act to be righteous.”

Will couldn’t explain why the answer drained him of some of the tension in his limbs, but it did. He felt more at ease somehow.

“Next time, will you remain an observer?” Hannibal asked.

Will lowered his gaze. “Even though I watched you do it...or felt like I did, the complicity makes things more complicated.”

“It doesn’t make the situation any more complicated,” Hannibal corrected. “It only complicates your feelings, until you cannot understand them. Even with your new beliefs, you struggle.”

Will nodded.

“Maybe what you are feeling is not guilt,” Hannibal said evenly. “It could be any number of other things. Like satisfaction, or righteousness. Or power.”

His eyes returned sharply to Hannibal’s, touched by some measure of surprise at the familiar words, like Hannibal had reached into his mind and plucked them right out.

“Observation still makes you complicit, Will,” Hannibal added pointedly. “But participation might absolve you of your guilt of idleness.”

Before Will could respond—to deny or agree?— Abigail entered the kitchen asking to help. The conversation shifted from murder and feelings of complicity to much easier and lighthearted things.

Notes:

Quite a short chapter but the next one is pretty long and will get the ball rolling on a couple of fronts (Who’s curious how Jack feels about all of this?)
I finished s3 of the X files yesterday, I’m literally binging it at the speed of light (so I can get to my fifth rewatch of Hannibal ofc)

Chapter 16 Notes:

My computer is acting up right now…this almost didn’t get posted tonight but I prevailed through the frustration

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jack Crawford did not buy the story Dr. Lecter and Will told him about the night of Budge’s attack.

He believed that there had been an attack, and that Will had been the target. He believed that it had taken place at Dr. Lecter’s office.

But that’s where his belief ended, and his suspicions began.

He knew about the soft spot that Will had for Abigail, and he did not think it a coincidence that she had been there for the events of that night. Will had continuously told him that the group of killers were looking for something to hold over their target’s head: it seemed that they had found the perfect collateral in the form of Abigail Hobbs.

Will claimed not to know why the killers also targeted Dr. Lecter. They both claimed that he was just a victim of circumstance, much like Abigail had been. While Jack believed that Will had an unfortunate habit of roping those closest to him into dangerous situations, he did not believe that that was the case here.

There was some other common thread tying the three of them together, one they were trying valiantly to keep concealed from Jack.

So, he watched Will and Dr. Lecter closely at the next crime scene they encountered. It was easy to keep them both in his metaphorical crosshairs, as they were always near each other.

It was a somewhat complicated case. Two days ago, a middle-aged ex-convict had been murdered in his home in southern Delaware and relieved of all his teeth. This morning, a young girl had been murdered on her way to school and was marked with a set of bite marks that matched the teeth stolen from the man murdered in Delaware.

Jack gestured to the body of the girl, at odds with the cheery scenery of the park's sidewalk. "The killer used the teeth of the last victim as a murder weapon."

"No fingerprints," Beverly said. "Or any bite marks other than the ones from the case in Delaware."

"Like he was trying to frame a dead guy," Zeller remarked.

"Which makes no sense, for obvious reasons," Price put in, and Zeller rolled his eyes.

"He wasn't trying to frame him," Will said. "He was trying to replicate him. What was the man from Delaware convicted for?"

"Couple of battery and assault charges," Beverly reported. Then added drily, "Seems to have been a biter in life as well as death."

"It's emulation," Will explained. "Because he admires him. He'd be targeting people with a specific type of criminal record."

"Why not just take his own victims?" Jack asked. "More honor in that, no? Instead of returning the killers posthumously to their former glory."

Will grappled for the words to describe how the murderer felt, shifting through the swell of longing and crippling shame of inadequacy that belonged to someone else. "He doesn't feel like he's good enough to do that. To kill by his own hand."

"Or tooth," Hannibal said lightly, but Will ignored him.

"There's something about the original killers...some trait or aspect of their personality, something that makes them admirable that he wants to be able to recreate."

"What's being emulated?" Jack questioned, looking down at the body of the girl. "Other than murderous intent."

"No, this killer doesn't need to kill," Will said.

"But he wants to need to. He desires the obligation for bloodlust instead of just the feeling of it. He's trying to emulate their desperation."

Jack looked at Will sharply. He had always been fascinated by Will's abilities to empathize with the killers, claiming he was only interpreting the evidence, but now it unnerved him. He felt that he was missing pieces; more evidence that Will wasn't sharing with him for some reason.

And Dr. Lecter was helping him cover it up.

"You said that about the Throat Ripper, too," Jack said, keeping his voice observatory; void of the suspicion he was feeling. "Is there a connection here I should know about, Will?"

Will looked tense and flighty, but that was nothing new. He always looked as if he was poised to bolt when he was profiling at a crime scene.

"Jack, perhaps we should ask him about this killer," Dr. Lecter said evenly with the tone of suggestion. Always the voice of reason. Jack kept his eyes from narrowing. "Not ones that have already been apprehended."

Jack dismissed the two of them from the scene soon after and watched as they left together as they always did. He was so concentrated on his thoughts that he almost didn't notice Beverly approaching him.

"Hey, you all right?" she asked. "You were kind of giving Will the evil eye back there. He do something to piss you off? More than the usual, I mean."

Jack crossed his arms over his chest, gaze fixed on the two figures retreating into the distance. "There's something they're not telling me.”

Her brow furrowed. "Who? Will and Dr. Lecter?
You think they're hiding something from you?"

"Keeping something from me, yes," he said.

She opened her mouth to reply, likely to refute his suspicion, but he cut her off. "Before you try and tell me that I'm wrong, I'm not accusing them of anything. I just want to get to the bottom of all this."

Beverly subsided, and the two of them stood quietly for a moment, tentatively silent.

"You doubt their story about the night Budge found them," she said slowly. "Is that it?"

Jack nodded. "Will doesn't know this killer. He only feels like he knows him. He says he can't explain why his mind makes these connections, but sometimes they're too connected. Too cohesive."

"He once told me that all he does is interpret the evidence," Beverly replied. "You know everything he does, Jack. The evidence is all there."

"No, it isn't," Jack said, shaking his head. "Not all of it. They're keeping some of it from us. And we need to find out what it is before their reason for concealment comes around to bite us in the ass."

Hannibal stepped into the grand expanse of the museum's carnivore exhibit, the heels of his shoes clicking lightly on the marbled floor. His approach caught the attention of Randall Tier, who froze at the sight of him.

"Good evening, Randall," Hannibal greeted, coming to a stop across from him, the posed skeleton of a cave bear in the space between them.

Randall kept his eyes furtively downcast, attempting to hide behind a facade of unrecognition. "Can I help you?"

"Almost certainly," Hannibal replied with a smile.
"I've seen your work, Randall."

The nervous man looked up at that, peering through his lashes. The dim lighting of the exhibit room cast shadows over his features, but Hannibal could see through to the light that shone deep in his eyes. "It's been a long time since you treated me, Dr. Lecter."
Hannibal nodded. "Yes. But I recognized you through your art. It's admirable."
"You think it's admirable?" Randall repeated, his voice piqued by suspicion. "What I did to that girl?"

Hannibal tutted. "Not just that little girl. I'm sure there have been more. Correct? You've honed your craft."

Randall glanced around the empty room, as if worried someone would overhear his admission if he chose to make one. And he did; in the form of a single, curt nod.

"Tell me, Randall; why have you not found a way to turn yourself? You could possess the traits you so fervently emulate." Hannibal paused, and then added for his own amusement, "Participate rather than observe."
The man's face contorted into a scowl, the expression doubtful and self-deprecating. "I am not made for that. I am made to be something lesser, something that looks up on those above, not joins them."

"The worshipper versus the worshipped,"
Hannibal expanded, humming contemplatively.

He thought but did not say, the prey versus the predator. "Worshipping becomes you, Randall."

Randall furrowed his brow, seemingly becoming skeptical about how much praise Hannibal was giving. "Have you sought me out for a purpose, Dr. Lecter? Or are you just here to congratulate me?"

"No, not only to congratulate. I am here to warn you."

He tensed. Hannibal could see that he was skittish and jumpy by nature; the perfect qualities for one who was destined to be prey. "Warn me against what?"

"They know, Randall," Hannibal lied. "They are on your scent."

"They can't be," Randal said quickly, shaking his head. "I've been so careful; I did everything to cover up my tracks-"

But the predator does not stalk their prey on sight alone.

And Hannibal was going to lead Randall Tier right to the predator.

"Not careful enough," Hannibal said. "They will find you."

"'ll be ready," Randal replied determinedly, but Hannibal could smell the fear underlying his words.
"Your preparations will fall short," Hannibal told him. "And when they do, it is imperative that you do exactly what I say."

"You shouldn't read tattlecrime, you know," Abigail said. "It'll rot your brain."

"It might not rot your brain," Hannibal put in,
"but it will certainly make you bitter."

"My brain's already rotten and bitter," Will muttered. He was reading Freddie Lounds's latest on the case of the Throat Rippers, with a particular focus on Tobias Budge and his affiliation with Will. There was speculation that Will had somehow gotten himself-and the innocent Abigial Hobbs —tangled up in
"something dark."

"The use of technology at the dinner table is considered rude in many cultures," Hannibal said, with a tone of indifference. Will put his phone down anyways.

"Sometimes it seems like you can't do anything right," Will said, his voice tired. "You don't catch a killer, you're bad at your job. You do catch a killer, you're involved in a sinister plot."

"Nothing sinister about you," Abigail replied.

Hannibal gave Will a glance that told him he disagreed with Abigail's words. Will ignored him. He preferred not to have that conversation around her.

It was a common routine for them; on weekends, when Port Haven was laxer on visiting hours, Abigail came over to one of their houses for the evening and then stayed the night. Now that more time stretched between Abigail and what her father had done, she was slowly being transitioned from in-patient at the psychiatric ward to out-patient. She had confided in them that it was often the only day of the week that she slept through the night.
Tonight, they were at Will's home, and Hannibal had made them dinner.

Abigail looked down at Winston, who sat imploringly by her side.

"Do your dogs eat table food?" she asked.

"Sometimes," Will replied, in unison with Hannibal's firm, "No."

She offered Winston a shrug. "Out of luck."

Hannibal then began to tell them about the meal they were eating. It was a recipe from Europe, he said, but he had made a few minor alterations. Will listened intently, even though most of the culinary terms he used went over Will's head. It calmed him, just to listen, and to hear the subtly passionate undertones to Hannibal's voice.

"This is so different from dinner with my family," Abigail said suddenly.

Will looked immediately to Hannibal and then admonished himself silently. This was one of the first times that Abigail had mentioned her family, except for when talking about her nightmares, and he didn't want to discourage her by making it seem like he was uncomfortable.

Hannibal, however, responded smoothly. "How so?"

"It always felt like we were pretending," she said quietly. "Putting on a show for my mom. Like a parody of a father and daughter. I knew what my dad was doing, but..."

"You never tried to stop him," Hannibal finished for her. She nodded.

"It wasn't your responsibility to," Will said with a frown.

She shrugged, moving the food around her plate with her fork. "I feel responsible."

"You feel complicit," Hannibal expanded, and Will could feel his gaze on him. He avoided it, keeping his focus on Abigail.

"I guess," she said. "I mean, what he did to those girls...I knew about it, and yet I did nothing."

"Sometimes familial obligations feel stronger than moral ones," Hannibal told her. "You were afraid to destroy the relationship you had with your father, however falsified it may have felt to you."

"I still feel afraid of him sometimes," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I wish I didn't feel a familial obligation."

Will cleared his throat. "Then you should build a new one. One that wouldn't make you feel guilty or afraid for its obligation."

"Like you did," Hannibal said. "With your habit of taking in strays."

"With your dogs," Abigail agreed fondly with a quiet sniff, scratching Winston behind his ears.

"I was not referring to the dogs," Hannibal said plainly. Will stiffened. But before Abigail could respond or even fully react to the implication, Hannibal asked, "Would you like to spend the night at my home tonight, Abigail?"

"Umm..." Abigial looked at Will, who shrugged.
It was up to her whose home she slept at on her night away from the ward. "Sure. I'll go get my things."

After she was gone, Will gave Hannibal a questioning look.

Hannibal turned to Will, his expression hardening into something more serious than the fondness he regarded Abigail with. "I may know who killed that girl."

Will blinked. He hadn't been expecting that at all; Hannibal was normally strictly against discussing cases at the table, especially when Abigail was with them.

"His name is Randall Tier," Hannibal continued.
"A former patient of mine."

"You may be in violation of your confidentiality oath, doctor," Will said lightly.

Hannibal tilted his head. "We are far past rules such as those."

Will felt something simmer low in his stomach but ignored the sensation. "Why do you think that it's him? Who is he?"

"He is just the person you described. Desperate to become, condemned to the obscurity of recreation."

Will nodded. He had not been able to say all he knew at the crime scene, but now he said, "He wants to be turned. The ex-convicts he's targeting are vampires with a record of assaults. That's why he's stealing their teeth."

"Yes. He had often expressed feelings of inadequacy to me during our sessions. This is how he's chosen to make up for it."

Will detected something in his voice; some sense of surety that was too great, some tone that suggested he was speaking definitively instead of hypothetically. "You already know that it's him. You've been to see him."

Hannibal leaned back slightly in his chair. "I have. He confessed to me."

Will tensed. "You know where he is?"

"I know where he will be. Tonight."

Will waited. He didn't prompt; he suspected that Hannibal was making him wait on purpose, to gauge his reaction. In response, Will made his face as impassive as possible as he looked evenly back at Hannibal.

"I gave him your address," Hannibal said, "and told him to kill you. He will come tonight."

"You want me to kill him," Will stated. His nerves felt dull with a strange sort of anticipation; for what he did not know. He couldn't tell at that moment if he was angry with Hannibal for arranging this without asking him first, but he didn't think he was. His mind was too caught up in imagining it. Thinking about how it would happen, what he would do. He reigned his thoughts back in, appalled at his own earnestness.

"Do you want to kill him?" Hannibal retorted.

Will tried to press his lips together to keep the word from escaping, but it crawled up his throat and slipped past his lips on a breath of its own volition. "Yes."

"If you do not want to kill him," Hannibal continued, "you can take Abigail to my home and wait for me there. I will handle it."

"No," Will said, too quickly.

Hannibal tilted his head. "How will you do it?
With a gun, as you killed Garret Jacob Hobbs?"

"Guns are impersonal. Less...intimate."

"They allow you to set an action into motion instead of executing it yourself," Hannibal agreed. "Will you execute Randall Tier yourself?"

"What are you guys whispering about?"

At the sound of Abigial's voice, Will jolted, shocked at the way the reverie had shattered like a thin pane of glass. Hannibal looked up smoothly.

"Nothing of consequence to you," Hannibal replied. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yep," she said. "You should tell Alana to bring Applesauce over some time, Will. I haven't got to meet her yet and I'm feeling neglected."

"She's uh-been, um, busy," Will muttered, feeling too distracted to be thinking about inviting anyone into his house except Randall Tier.

"Yeah, I heard she's moving in with Margot," Abigail replied, either nonplussed by Will's preoccupation or just possessing the grace to ignore it.

"Margot is moving in with her," Hannibal corrected as they moved toward the door together.

"Same thing."

“Is it?”

As Hannibal held the door open for Abigail and she stepped out onto the porch, Will shot to his feet. "Hannibal."

Hannibal paused, one hand still on the knob as he turned toward Will. His eyes were alight with interest: it was the first time Will had addressed him by his first name. Will couldn't say what had stopped him before; an attempt at professional distance?

Whatever the reason, it felt right to abandon it now in favor of something more familiar.

"Thank you," Will heard himself say.

Hannibal studied him for a moment, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then, he nodded once and disappeared into the night.

Notes:

Hannibal teaching Will table manners, Hannibal and Abigail banter, you will always be famous 🙏

Chapter 17 Summary:

The aftermath of Randall Tier’s visit.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It was two o’clock in the morning when Hannibal heard a knock at his door.

He hadn’t been sleeping and hoped that Abigail was not awakened by the noise. The door swung open to reveal Will, covered in blood from head to toe.

“I did it with my teeth,” was the only thing Will said. And then his eyes went vacant.

Hannibal pulled him inside with gentle hands. He shut the door, and guided Will into the kitchen. He was compliant, almost concerningly so, but he had expected Will to retreat after killing Randall Tier. Will had been convinced that he was not a killer for such a large majority of his life that he was now battling to come to terms with the truth, and it was unfortunately not a battle that Hannibal could help him win; all he could do was hold him together when the teacup threatened to shatter.

He put a soft towel under the warm water of the sink. Will stood beside him listlessly.

“Sit down,” Hannibal told him. Will obeyed, dropping heavily into the first upholstered chair in the dining room. Hannibal joined him a moment later, claiming the seat next to him.

With a light touch, Hannibal turned Will’s face toward him. He could feel the muscles in Will’s jaw clench and unclench under his fingertips. With one hand holding him steady, the other wielded the cloth, wiping away the blood that stained his face. Will’s lips parted, allowing Hannibal to clean the blood that had dried between them, and Hannibal felt his own breathing stutter in his chest.

“Don’t hide inside your mind,” he said quietly. At some point, Will’s eyes had drifted shut. “It may feel like a refuge now, but it is safer to face what you’ve done. Stay with me, Will.”

“Where else would I go?” Will’s eyes remained firmly shut, and Hannibal was suddenly glad for that fact because he couldn’t have been sure what expression he made at those words. He moved away from Will’s lips for his own peace of mind and picked up Will’s hand; the knuckles were split under violet hues of bruises and Hannibal dabbed at them with the cloth. Will winced, but did not move away.

After a pause, Hannibal said, “With an imagination like yours, I’m sure you have many places to go. Where are you trying to escape to now?”

“A stream,” Will murmured. He flinched when Hannibal probed a tender spot of broken skin. “It’s quiet there. Sometimes I imagine...taking Abigail there.”

“I’m sure we can make that a reality someday,” Hannibal said softly.

“Her father taught her to hunt,” Will replied pointedly. Hannibal noted with some satisfaction that his voice sounded more substantial now, like he was gradually returning to the present moment. “I’m not sure how much she’d appreciate me teaching her to fish.”

“She may appreciate it very much. Have you asked her?” Hannibal had cleared the dried blood away and lifted Will’s hand to wrap in a layer of gauze.

“I haven’t.”

“You should,” Hannibal told him. “You tend to dance around her.”

Will huffed. “I spent so much time in Garret Jacob Hobbs’s mind...”

“You’re afraid you might bite,” Hannibal finished for him. “Remember that your actions are your own.”

“My actions are my own,” Will repeated, a little absently, eyes still closed.

Hannibal regarded him curiously for a moment. “Are you feeling paternal, Will?”

Will let out another puff of air, the parody of a laugh. His face was still tight, but his eyes were open now and he was looking at Hannibal with a concentrated gaze. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal replied simply. “Very much so.”

Will hummed quietly, and Hannibal continued to wrap his hand. Will was watching his movements now, with an ease to his posture and expression that indicated he had returned fully to the moment at hand, leaving the stream of his mind behind to join Hannibal at the table.

Now that he had Will with him, Hannibal asked, “What did you do with the body?”

Jerking his hand away, Will leaned back in the chair. His eyes lost their tranquility, but they sharpened, his focus a razor. Hannibal watched his reaction with great interest.

“In my boat house,” Will said. “I’m not finished with him yet, but I’ll bring you what’s left.”

Something stirred in Hannibal at the words, some baser and more animal part of him that uncurled instinctually at the implications. The fact that Will had spoken to that part of him was not lost on Hannibal.

Hannibal couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What will you do with the rest of him?”

Will fixed him with a measured gaze, one that was not dissimilar to the one Hannibal often assessed him under. “Do you like surprises, Hannibal?”

“I do,” Hannibal said. “Though, depending on the nature of your surprise, Uncle Jack may not share my appreciation.”

Will peered at him through his lashes. “No, Jack is most certainly not going to share your appreciation.”

Hannibal stood, turning away from Will and clearing his throat. He felt a the inexplicable need to collect himself. “You should change, before Abigail wakes and sees the blood. I’ll draw you up a bath.”

He left the dining room, but felt Will’s eyes on his back the whole way.

Will was right: Jack did not appreciate his surprise.

Of course, Jack wasn’t aware that Will was the one who had displayed Randall Tier so crudely as the cave bear at the museum exhibit he worked at. But Jack was angry that another killer had been killed before being served justice under the hands of federal law. Instead, they had been subjected to a more animalistic—what Hannibal would have called natural—type of justice.

Will kept his promise and gave what was left of him to Hannibal to serve. And maybe Hannibal was feeling testy, or maybe he was too satisfied with the idea of Will finally having killed in this way, but he decided to invite Jack over to dine with the two of them, along with Abigail, the night that he served Randall Tier’s body.

Hannibal described the dish to his guests in great detail, distributing plates with careful precision. Then, he took his seat at the head of the table between Will and Abigail. Jack was on Will’s other side.

They ate in silence for a while, though it wasn’t a tense silence. Jack remarked on Abigail’s continued progression away from the treatment of the psychiatric ward, and they explained the arrangement they had. Jack expressed his happiness for them.

He went silent after that and kept glancing at Abigail as if he was unsure about his next preferred topic of conversation with the consideration of her company. Hannibal, seeing his quiet deliberation, prompted, “What are you thinking about, Jack? Is it about Randall Tier?”

Will caught on to Jack’s plight. “Abigial has a strong stomach. Thanks to Hannibal.”

Abigail scoffed. “I don’t know what half of the things I put into my mouth are when I come over here.”

Jack wiped his mouth with his handkerchief but obliged them. “I was just wandering at the fact that murderers have a strange habit of disappearing without being brought to justice where the two of you are concerned.”

Abigail wisely kept her face blank, and Hannibal did the same, keeping the amusement he felt away from his expression. “Randall’s death served him some measure of justice in the end. However unconventional.”

“Isn’t that what you came to me for?” Will asked with a light note of curiosity. “To stop the killers? He’s been stopped, whether by my involvement or not.”

Jack eyed Will with a measure of suspicion. “I just hope neither of you are doing anything...illegal. Or untoward.”

Hannibal tutted. “We aren’t doing anything unjustifiable, Jack. Or unnatural. You have nothing to worry about.”

“And the conversations you’re having. They’re helping you, Will?” Jack said the word ‘conversations’ like he wished he could replace it with something else, something more suggestive of a psychiatrist-patient relationship.

Will glanced at Hannibal before responding. “Immensely.”

Jack gave a smile, though it seemed uneasy. He raised his glass of wine in Hannibal’s direction. “Then I suppose you’ve served your purpose, doctor.”

Hannibal offered his own smile to Will and said simply, “I’m glad.”

Abigail cleared her throat. At some point she had grown uncomfortable with how obviously Will and Hannibal were dancing around Jack’s questions and responding with loaded answers that only went over his head. She politely asked Jack, “Have you heard about Margot and Alana?”

“I have,” Jack said, relieved at the new direction. “Although I don’t know much beyond that. They seem to have removed themselves somewhat.”

That attracted Will’s attention. Hannibal watched his brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Alana is still teaching in Quantico, but she’s told me that she doesn’t want to consult in any cases anymore. She’s refused all the ones I’ve offered her.”

“Good for Alana,” Hannibal said with sincerity.

“Have you been harassing her with calls?” Will asked pointedly. “Like you did to me the week I was out...sick?”

“No more than is professionally necessary,” Jack replied defensively. “Although, I do admit I’ve called Margot a time or two. Just to make sure that Alana is well.”

Will and Hannibal shared another look. Hannibal said, “Alana is strong. She’ll pull through whatever’s got her down.”

Jack looked between the two of them. But he nodded and smiled at Hannibal’s words, raising a toast, the wine in his glass glinting the color of crimson blood in the light of the chandelier.

“Fetch, girl!” Margot called, throwing the stick into the trees. Applesauce bounded after it, snow kicking up behind her in a flurry.

Alana watched her disappear into the icy bushes. “Does it come with some kind of super strength? Applesauce has been getting way more exercise lately.”

“It probably does,” Margot said, and beamed when the dog came bounding back to the walking path with the prize in her mouth. She danced around in front of Margot for a moment, as if daring her to try and take it, and then bolted away again.

Margot straightened up, brushing her hands off. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you why I have multiple calls from Jack Crawford.”

“Did you answer them?”

“Of course not,” Margot snorted. “I was just wondering why he seems so intent on blowing up my phone.”

Sighing, Alana said, “He’s giving me the same treatment, if it’s any consolation. He’s in denial that I’m done profiling. And I can’t explain to him why, either. ‘Oh, sorry, Jack, it’s just that my worldview has been entirely shifted with the realization that vampires are real!’”

Margot laughed. “You’d be securing yourself a one-way ticket to the BSHCI.”

“They would lock the door and throw away the key,” Alana agreed. “How am I supposed to effectively advise Jack on the motives of a killer if I’m not even sure myself that they aren’t a creature that desires bloodlust for reasons entirely unknown to us?”

Margot stiffened imperceptibly. She echoed Alana’s chosen word quietly. “’Creature?’”

Alana covered her face with her hands and shook her head. “Shit. I did not mean it like that.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Margot said lightly, but Alana’s eyes still betrayed her guilt. “It’s weird, I get it.”

Alana took her hand as they walked, squeezing it tightly. They stayed in comfortable silence for a minute, their shoulders brushing as they attempted to stay as close as possible to share the warmth between their bodies.

“What about Will and Dr. Lecter?” Margot asked. Then she laughed quietly. “I guess I can call him Hannibal now that he’s not my psychiatrist anymore.”

Alana considered the question for a moment. “I do feel myself putting distance between myself and Hannibal. It’s not on purpose, I just...can’t get the memories of that night out of my mind.”

Margot nodded understandingly and gave Alana’s hand her own comforting squeeze.

“But Will is Will,” Alana continued. “From what I’ve observed, things tend to happen to him instead of because of him. This is no different.”

Margot made an inquisitive sound. “He seems to be acclimating to it better than you’d think.”

She felt Alana fix her with a questioning look. “What do you mean? How’s he acclimating?”

Margot schooled her expression to indifference. Maybe Alana hadn’t noticed, then; her thoughts of Will were blindingly fond at times. “Oh, nothing. Never mind.”

She knew Alana was still curious, but she let it go. Applesauce excitedly returned to them again and circled their legs. Alana crouched down to cuddle her to her chest.

Margot watched them for a second, and then tentatively asked, “What about me?”

Alana stood back up and kissed her fiercely. Margot squeaked at the suddenness of it but quickly relaxed into the warmth of her embrace, her arms coming up to circle around Alana’s waist.

“I would never think any differently of you,” Alana pulled back to say. Then she pecked Margot’s lips again sweetly. “Never.”

Applesauce barked. They disentangled, laughing, and Margot took the stick she dropped in front of them and threw it again. They kept walking, watching Applesauce run wildly in the snow.

“You know who does think differently about me?” Margot asked, somewhat smugly. “Mason. I haven’t spoken to him a single time since he found out.”

Alana grinned. “I would have loved to have been there for that conversation. How did it go?”

“I wish I could have seen the look on his face,” Margot said longingly, “but I didn’t actually witness his reaction. I’m assuming he found out somehow, which is why he hasn’t tried to intervene in my moving in with you.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am about that,” Alana said. Then she nudged Margot playfully with her elbow. “But I can show you later.”

Margot laughed, and Alana smiled even wider at the sound. “I am absolutely holding you to that.”
“Now that Mason can’t get his claws—fangs?—into you, we can do anything we want.”

After her declaration, Alana went to usher Applesauce away from the edge of a frozen lake, but the dog dodged under her outstretched arms. Margot couldn’t contain the bright smile that overtook her expression, but she felt something nervous and foreboding gnawing at the back of her mind. Mason wouldn’t remain idle for long, and he would not be amused at the way things had turned out with Margot. Unfortunately, he liked to keep himself amused.

And Margot knew what would keep Mason in incredibly good humor, and who he would be chomping at the bit to get his fangs into: Will Graham.

Notes:

Can yall tell how soft I am for Marlana? Hannibal and Will are fielding murder accusations and Margot and Alana are trouncing through the snow with Applesauce… 🩷🩷

Chapter 18 Summary:

Hannibal and Will make some plans.

Notes:

I’m gonna be honest I did not get the chance to proofread this a second time like I normally do 🩷 also idk why the formatting ended up like this but I hope yall don’t mind

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

You seem to be growing immeasurably closer to Will Graham,” Bedelia observed. “And you have great influence over him.”

Hannibal tilted his head. He had been telling Bedelia about Will’s progress; how he had moved away from the idea that he did not deserve to live simply because of what he was. Evidently, she was reading between the lines. “Are you suggesting that I am abusing my influence?”

Instead of answering his question, Bedelia posed her own: “Would you agree that Will is more susceptible to the power of suggestion than an ordinary person?”

“I would,” Hannibal said. “Considering his empathy disorder and the hall of mirror neurons that to make up his mind.”

“Are the things that you suggest,” Bedelia began consideringly, “always in his best interest?”

“’It is the glory of God to conceal a thing,’” Hannibal said, a small up-tick to his lips.

“A proverb,” Bedelia said. “Do you believe yourself to be Will Graham’s God?”

“Will is my equal. In every way.”

Bedelia’s eyes were sharp. “You are making sure of that fact.”

“Whatever is inside of Will, it has always been there. I did not put it there. But I see it in him.”

“And it draws you to him,” Bedelia added. “Like a moth to a flame.”

“Yes,” Hannibal allowed.

“Moths are delicate creatures,” she said. “Easily destroyed, burnt to ash. Tell me; are you the moth, or is Will?”

Hannibal stayed silent, watching Bedelia. She was digging her heels in on this; she truly believed that Hannibal was damaging Will in some irreparable way. What he was inflicting upon Will was not damage; it was glory. But she was correct in that there was no coming back from it.

When his silence persisted, Bedelia said, “Your love for Will Graham makes you reckless, Hannibal.”

“I am never reckless. I’m an opportunist.”

“And what opportunity are you taking with Will?”

Hannibal felt himself smile. “All of them.”

Bedelia’s fingers began to tap restlessly against her leg, a rare show of her true emotions, as if she were agitated that she could not get through to him. He watched the stilted movements with great interest.

“That leaves little room for certainty,” she said at last, “and much room for consequence.”

“Is opportunity not born from consequences?” Hannibal asked, not bothering to conceal the slight amusement in his tone.

Bedelia’s silence was measured and weighted. Her gaze was full of scrutiny and a distant glint of reservation as she studied Hannibal. “Not if the consequence is Will Graham’s destruction. There will be no opportunity for him after that.”

Will was reclined in Hannibal’s desk chair, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

His expression was calm, bordering on serene, and his pale skin looked almost translucent in the pale light of the moon beaming softly through the windows. Part of Hannibal wished he would open his eyes so he could see the blue of them cast in silver. His fingers were interlaced, resting over his stomach. His legs were crossed at the ankles, booted feet kicked out in front of him. He was the picture of relaxation.

Hannibal watched him, as he read aloud Freddie Lounds’s latest article, perched on the desk in front of Will. It outlined the “strange” relationship between Will and Hannibal, as well as their shared guardianship of Abigail Hobbs. Freddie emphasized the number of murderers that had been killed before incarceration in cases that the two of them were consulting in, much like Jack had only a few nights ago. However, unlike Jack, she also made another tentative connection between them and Abel Gideon—if anything Freddie Lounds did could be considered ‘tentative.’

“If she hadn’t written that article about us visiting Abigail last month, do you think Tobias Budge would have found her?” Will asked, eyelashes feathered over his cheekbones.

“It seems unlikely,” Hannibal replied, closing the article. “One of Miss Lounds’s character flaws seems to be conspicuousness.”

“She has an infinite number of character flaws,” Will retorted, his voice bitter.

“Her words upset you,” Hannibal said, leaving it as a statement instead of a question.

Will’s eyes opened, gracing Hannibal with the sight of earnest blue, bright with enthusiasm.

“They don’t upset me; they’re too insubstantial to upset.” He chewed the emphasized word with contempt, as if it offended him simply with its connotation. “It’s more like...irritation.”

“Abigail seems to share your sentiment,” Hannibal said. “She thinks no more of Miss Lounds than one thinks of a gnat. With irritation, as you say.”

“Abigail has every right to. Freddie Lounds sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong,” Will added. “With tastelessness.”

Hannibal considered Will. Then said in a low voice, “Gnats are not impervious to apprehension. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Will cocked a brow. “What are you suggesting?”

Before Hannibal could respond, Abigail came into the room. Will straightened and swiveled in his chair to face her. She stood in the door with her arms crossed, and immovable expression on her face and her eyes resolute.

“I know that you guys killed Abel Gideon,” she stated. “And Randall Tier, too.”

“Eavesdropping is rude, Abigail,” Hannibal said.

“Don’t try and deny it, either,” she shot back, ignoring Hannibal’s remark. “I’m not stupid.”

Will’s shoulders had become tense, and he glanced once at Hannibal with a measure of surprise in his expression; Abigail’s accusation had caught him off guard. Then, he turned back to the girl in the doorway.

Hannibal, conscious of the way that Will was staying carefully silent, calmly replied, “No, of course not.”

“Were you guys trying to hide it from me?” she asked, and her voice pitched upward with her obvious aggravation.

“If we were,” Will said, “it clearly didn’t work.”

Abigail looked between the two of them. “I want to be there when you kill Freddie Lounds.”

“Absolutely not,” Will said immediately, and although Abigail’s grip tightened around her own biceps in frustration, there was also a hint of gratification in her expression that neither of them had tried to deny her words.

She turned her gaze away from Will. “Hannibal?”

“I must agree with Will,” Hannibal told her evenly.

Will looked back at him quickly; he had been expecting Hannibal to acquiesce to Abigail’s request. Hannibal felt a moment of satisfaction at having been able to surprise him, but he only reveled in the sensation for a moment before returning his attention to Abigail.

“You may be there for the dinner,” Hannibal told her, “and the preparation of it, if you wish. But you may not be in the room when Miss Lounds dies.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “You said that you wanted to set an example for me, to show that when we kill it isn’t wrong. We have to do it to survive, you said so yourself.”

Will was still watching Hannibal closely. Speaking quiet enough that Abigail couldn’t hear him, he said, “This is different. Freddie Lounds isn’t a vampire. This isn’t natural, it’s...”

“Savagery,” Hannibal finished for him. He was aware of Abigail watching them, though she did not approach them to hear their murmured words. But he paid her little mind in that moment. His attention was entirely on Will, and the dark flame in his eyes that set his expression in stone.

Will nodded once.

“And you have accepted that?” Hannibal asked. Then, throwing Will’s words back at him, he added, “And remember that knowing is not the same as accepting, Will.”

Will’s face remained steely, almost impassive despite the matter at hand; they were discussing the taking of someone’s life, and yet Will did not flinch away. He did not hide behind his morals or values; he was finally allowing himself to be that which he had always been but had fought for so long. Hannibal felt a warm heat pool low in his stomach.

“Tell her she can’t be there when it happens,” Will said, and it was as good as acceptance.

Hannibal lifted his gaze to Abigail. “You may believe that you are ready to see death. But you have barely yet experienced life, Abigail. The darkness that is require of killing; I do not see it in you.”

His words were partly meant for Will, but he didn’t look to see his reaction. Instead, he watched Abigail’s anger simmer, her eyes bright with defiance.

“When you have seen someone die for the first time, you will wish you hadn’t,” Hannibal said deliberately. “Their last breath will feel like yours. Do you truly wish to watch life bleed from someone’s eyes? Or the movement drain from their limbs? Do you desire to be there in their last moments, with the grim knowledge that they are the last?”

He watched Abigail’s resolve waver, her determination waning not at the graphic descriptions, but at the suggestion that she could be so cruel as to want to bear witness to them. Her shoulders lowered slightly, her anger unraveling as she silently relented.

But Hannibal still found himself speaking mostly to Will. He knew that Will did want those things, in a deep part of himself that he had yet to unearth. It was a part that was kindred with Hannibal’s own longing; a twin flame. While Abigail shied away, Will turned further toward Hannibal as his breath caught in his throat, visibly drawn to his words.

When Hannibal finished speaking, Abigail slipped silently from the room.

Will didn’t immediately face Hannibal. “That was our warning. We’re becoming too obvious. If Jack hasn’t caught on yet, he will if we kill Freddie Lounds.”

“My memories of this life are vast,” Hannibal replied, his voice low again. “They fill expansive corridors of my memory palace. There’s an image of a skull, graven on the floor. They will always be there; I am free to visit them and recall them at any time.”

“You escape there,” Will said. Hannibal watched the back of his head as he spoke. “To your memory palace.”

“I do. Where do you escape to, Will?”

Finally, Will faced him. His brows were furrowed slightly, but he met Hannibal’s gaze deliberately. “A stream. It’s quiet.”

“But full of your memories,” Hannibal said. “Overflowing.”

“Polluted,” Will murmured.

“A palace is ever-expanding. Sometimes one leaves one wing for another. Are you willing to leave one stream for another? And to share it with two more?”

Will’s expression cleared. “Is your palace big enough for two more?”

Hannibal smiled. “It is.”

They held each other’s gaze for an interminable moment. Hannibal was inextricably drawn to Will; he thought he might never be able to look away. Something had pulled them together like magnets, and Hannibal felt the call of it in the very core of his being, like it was braided into his nerves. A kind of golden thread, uniting them. The new wing of Hannibal’s memory palace wouldn’t just be big enough for Will; it would be erected in his honor and consecrated by the essence of him. The marbled floors would sing his name, and the glass would be stained the precise blue of his eyes.

Will cleared his throat, and the reverie of the moment shattered.

“We’ll have to ask Abigail,” he said haltingly.

Hannibal took a moment to gather himself, somewhat appalled by Will’s ability to render him nearly speechless. “Of course. She might consider being taken under Alana and Margot’s care should she desire to stay.”

“They’re adopting, you know,” Will added. He used his heels to wheel the chair backwards an inch or two, and it was only then that Hannibal realized how close together they had been. “They’ll be excellent mothers.”

“They will,” Hannibal agreed easily, despite the fluttering in his stomach. “They possess the innate desire to care for innocents. Much like you, Will.”

Will’s gaze moved to the floor. “You told Abigial that you don’t see the capacity to kill in her. But you do see it in me?”

“For longer than you have seen it in yourself,” Hannibal replied. “Though you are not as horrified by it as you used to be.”

“The apprehension that I used to feel,” Will said slowly, “there’s something else in its place.”

“Does it appear in your dreams?” Hannibal asked. “The way that Abigail’s father used to?”

“It does,” Will murmured. “It has antlers. And it’s powerful.”

“Powerful enough to undermine what you used to perceive as your morals; what made you who you were. You are becoming now, Will. Garret Jacob Hobbs may have been the first steppingstone. But Freddie Lounds will not be the last.”

Dear Miss Lounds,

Your articles have intrigued me as I’ve been an avid reader of yours for quite some time, and now I find myself seeming to be the object of your own fascination. Perhaps you will indulge me in an evening spent together, to satisfy my curiosity as well as your own. I give you full permission to publish any information you may get away with. Will Graham will be in attendance, as will Abigail Hobbs. They seem to have drawn your attention in a similar fashion.

It will be my privilege to provide meat this time, but I must insist that the honor be yours whenever next we enjoy each other’s company.

Regards,

Hannibal Lecter

Notes:

I almost forgot to post this 💀 me and my friend went shopping and almost developed sinus cancer bc we were smelling so many scents in bath and body works

Chapter 19 Summary:

Dinner with Freddie Lounds.

Notes:

The moment we’ve all been waiting for!!! Including me!!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The dining room was set, the candles casting the room in an ambient glow that combined with the snowfall outside to provide a warm, wintry atmosphere. Hannibal had worked tirelessly to make it just as he wanted it to be when Freddie Lounds died, and Will and Abigail lent assistance under his careful instruction. Abigail helped them in the kitchen, as Hannibal had promised she would be able to, and she worked with a morbid curiosity, declaring that she had never prepared someone’s last meal before.

Now, the sky had darkened to dusk, Freddie had arrived, and Hannibal set the table.

Sautéed kidneys—a delicacy in France, he told them—served with bacon chops and liver as well as roasted tomatoes. The smell that filled the room was heady, and Will felt as if he were in a trance listening to Hannibal’s voice as he gently placed each plate at its setting.

“The kidneys were sautéed in sherry, which hails from Spain.” Hannibal said as he sat. He offered Freddie a polite smile. “Although the dish is traditionally European. It was Napoleon’s last meal.”

The table fell silent for a moment as everyone took their first bite. The flavors intermingled perfectly, and Will savored it. He tried to replicate the taste in his mind, so he could remember it perfectly whenever he wanted.

“It’s delicious.” Freddie's curls bounced as she took a small sip of wine. “You know, ordinarily I am strictly vegetarian, but I’ve been told by more than one person that I must try your cooking at least once before I die. As a journalist, I keep myself open to opportunity.”

“I am glad you chose tonight to take your chance,” Hannibal said pleasantly.

Freddie smiled back, but her eyes were slightly narrowed. “You said in your letter that you wanted to satisfy your curiosity, Dr. Lecter.”

“I did,” Hannibal replied. “I am curious what has someone like you so interested in Will and me, Miss Lounds.”

“You seem awfully familiar with each other,” Freddie offered.

“Is that all it takes?” Will asked, his voice somewhat dry. “I thought journalists had to be selective.”

She turned her artificial smile on Will. “And I thought that FBI agents were meant to catch their killers.”

“He’s not technically an agent,” Abigail pointed out.

Will glossed over Abigail’s comment, matching Freddie’s petulant tone. “What do you mean by that, Miss Lounds?”

“Only exactly what I’ve said in my article,” she replied sweetly. She looked between Hannibal and Will with an innocently confused expression. “That is, of course, assuming that you’ve actually read it.”

“We’ve read it,” Hannibal said. “It is inspired work. You seem to very passionately believe that we are killers ourselves.”

Freddie paused, thrown off by his blatant acknowledgment of her accusation. She caught herself quickly, however, and easily replied, “I have put some consideration into the idea.”

“The evidence is overwhelming,” Will remarked, unable to keep his sarcasm in check this time. “After all, we are seen together quite often. It must mean that we’re coconspirators in some evil scheme.”

“You make jumps you can’t explain, Mr. Graham,” Freddie said, “I’m only doing the same.”

“The evidence explains,” Will retorted, the response almost instinctual.

“I have evidence,” Freddie stated. “That connects you to all three murders I cited in my article.”

“Tobias Budge was murdered in self-defense,” Hannibal put in. “Or don’t you agree?”

Freddie smiled again, and the expression was self-satisfied. “That isn’t a very good defense, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal considered her for a moment. Then, almost jovially, he said, “I suppose you’re right.”

Falling silent, Hannibal continued to eat with an impassive expression. Freddie was visibly thrown off-kilter by his lack of an attempt to defend himself. She spent several silent minutes while they ate searching blankly for the next topic of conversation to sink her hooks into.

She landed on the one that Will wished she would have ignored, the one that he would have sheltered from her beady eyes if he could.

“Abigail,” Freddie said brightly. “You seem to be spending lots of time with Mr. Graham and Dr. Lecter.”

“I do,” Abigail replied, seemingly unbothered by the attention. “They saved my life.”

“By killing your father,” Freddie tacked on.
“He was trying to kill me.”

“Mr. Graham shot your father nine times.” Freddie peered across the table at Will out of the corner of her eye. Will did his best not to tense at the mention of Garret Jacob Hobbs. Something about the memory of that day still put him on edge; perhaps it was simply the memory of feeling Abigail’s life nearly bleed out underneath his hands. “There’s a thin but discernible line between self-defense and a murder committed in cold blood, don’t you think?”

“Not that thin,” Abigail said plainly.

“Not that discernible.” Hannibal smiled at Abigail, but unlike the ones he had offered to Freddie, this smile was genuine. The room felt a little brighter.

Freddie Lounds, however, seemed a bit more uncomfortable. “I’ve yet to hear a single refutation of my claim. It’s telling.”

“Maybe Hannibal didn’t invite you here to refute,” Will said.

Freddie’s sharp eyes darted between them at the use of the familiar. “Then what did you invite me here for?”

“For an enjoyable meal,” Hannibal told her.

At that, Will felt himself smile.

Hannibal wiped his mouth and stood. “Abigail, would you help me bring the dessert?”

Abigail nodded, following him out of the dining room and leaving Will alone with Freddie.

“I don’t believe that you killed Hobbs in self-defense,” Freddie told him, her voice quiet. Will thought with vague amusement that for some reason, she still preferred not to offend Hannibal directly. “I believe you murdered him.”

“Do you?” Will said with disinterest that bordered on boredom.

“And I believe that Dr. Lecter murdered Tobias Budge,” Freddie continued, not allowing herself to be thwarted by Will’s plain and vague responses. “It’s only a matter of time before Jack Crawford believes it, too.”

Ironically, Will knew that that was true. And Freddie’s death would be the tipping point to set it into motion.

“You have always thought I was crazy,” Will said. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, in the doorway behind Freddie, but he kept his gaze trained calmly on her face.

“I’ve always thought you belong in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane,” Freddie amended. “But it seems you’ve found the same company right here.”

Freddie gasped when one of Hannibal’s hands slipped around to cover her mouth, the other braced against her collarbone. She went completely still at the feeling. Hannibal tightened his grip for a moment, as if in warning, and tutted quietly.

“That is an incredibly rude thing to say, Miss Lounds,” he said.

Will couldn’t have said how he ended up on the other side of the table, his own hands pressed against Freddie’s shoulders. It happened so quickly he hardly had time to process the terror in her eyes as his fangs fastened around the column of her neck, Hannibal’s strong grip holding her head back and her body steady.

They had discussed beforehand how Freddie should meet her end; they both agreed she should not be drained of blood—which might damage her organs—but rather be made into a delectable meal for Jack Crawford’s enjoyment. So, Will unclamped his fangs from her throat and allowed her to begin bleeding out.

The blood ran in thick rivulets instantly, drenching her dress and staining the table crimson. A torrent of it splattered across the room, but Will did not close his eyes against the spray. Freddie reached desperately for the knife that was still on her plate; Will pushed it to snatch it just inches away, tantalizing in its proximity to her desperately reaching finger.

Hannibal tightened his grip on her, her head held against his chest with merciless strength. Just like before, as Hannibal had crept silently into the room, Will kept his eyes locked on her face, watching as she gasped for air and writhed against Hannibal’s hold. He watched as she died, to make up for all the times he hadn’t.

He observed, but his observation did not negate his participation. No; it affirmed it.

When it was over, Hannibal dropped her carelessly back into her seat where she slumped, lifeless, over her plate. He took a small step closer to Will.

“Are you here with me, Will?” he asked quietly.

“I am,” Will said truthfully, and turned to look up into Hannibal’s amber eyes. The vitality and life that brimmed within their depths were in stark contrast to the now unseeing stare of Freddie Lounds, but the color of her slowly drying blood matched. Will found himself unable to look away.

Hannibal slowly offered a hand, pulling Will away from Freddie’s slumping body and the mess they’d made of the dining room table. He braced a hand on the side of Will’s face, his thumb brushing gently against his cheek. He murmured, “You have blood on your face, Will.”

Will covered Hannibal’s hand with one of his owns, his fingers circling Hannibal’s wrist. “You have blood on your hands.”

Hannibal’s gaze lowered to Will’s other hand, down at his side. “So do you.”

When his eyes lifted again, Will captured his lips against his own.

The kiss tasted of blood and sherry; of moonlight and power. Hannibal now cradled Will’s face between both palms, and his fingers in Will’s curls were the gentlest touch he had ever felt. Hannibal’s tongue darted out to taste the drops of blood on Will’s lips, pulling him impossibly closer. Will heard a noise deep in his own throat, the sound almost animal. He clung to Hannibal’s shirt, grasping and clawing like he could meld the two of them into one being with one will and soul.

Their breaths intermingled in the space between them, harsh and quick. Will quickly felt himself become intoxicated with the feeling; his inhibitions lowered as warmth spread through his entire body.
Hannibal pulled away first, and Will inadvertently made another sound. He rested his forehead against Hannibal’s to maintain the contact between them.

“This will be the first room in my new memory palace,” Hannibal said breathlessly.

Will felt his heart leap into his throat. He had never heard Hannibal breathless before.

“What will be the next one?” Will rasped.

Hannibal kissed him again, but this one was short and sweet, even with the metallic taste of blood still dancing between their tongues. Hannibal raked a hand back through Will’s curls, and Will leaned desperately into the touch, his nerves lit on fire with the feeling of it. Gently, he pulled Will into his chest, holding his head there. While it mirrored the way he had held Freddie as he killed her, it was different in every way that mattered; Hannibal held Will with an infinite tenderness, his hands reverent in a way that made Will’s pulse pound in his ears.

“The next will be the one where you kill Jack Crawford in this very room.”

The phone rang. Will picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Will.” The voice was stony.

Will matched his tone. “Jack.”

“I’m assuming that you’re aware of Freddie Lounds’s disappearance. She’s been reported missing for three days, now.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“I’m also sure you’re aware that you were the last person she wrote an article about. You and Dr. Lecter, that is. She made some pretty heavy accusations.”

“Hannibal has always found her very rude.”

“And you? What do you think of Freddie Lounds?”

A pause.

“Are you accusing me of something, Jack?”

Jack’s voice softened slightly, with something akin to exhaustion. “I’m not accusing, Will. At this point I’m simply asking. You’re hiding something from me. And I don’t take well to being played for a fool.”

“You seem to be hiding things from me, too. When was the last time Hannibal or I consulted on a case?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Seems that it was a considerable time ago.”

“Well, you have a new life with Abigail Hobbs. You seem...comfortable.”

“That’s not you, Jack. That’s not what you actually think, and it’s not why you’ve alienated us from the FBI.”

The air between the lines thickened.

“No. No, it’s not what I think. But you’ve always said that all you do is interpret the evidence, and what I do think is that someone is trying very hard to ensure that there is no evidence.”

“You’ll just have to keep looking. They’re bound to reveal themselves eventually. Oh, and Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Hannibal asked me to invite you to dinner at his home. Would you join us?”

Will stood on the lower level of Hannibal’s office, catching spiral-bound notebooks and journals that Hannibal tossed down to him from above.

“These are your notes on your patients,” Will said, turning one of the thicker books over in his hands consideringly.

“Observations,” Hannibal called back, searching through the books on his shelves for anything that might incriminate him when they were gone. “Predictions. The one you’re holding is about Margot Verger.”

Will hummed. “Did your predictions about her come true?”

“That remains to be seen,” Hannibal replied. He tossed another, and Will caught it precariously in his free hand. “As long as Mason Verger is alive, she has the opportunity to align herself with the events I anticipate.”

“You think she’s going to kill him.” Will hefted the book into the fireplace, listening to the satisfying sound of the crackling embers as the flame consumed the words from without.

“I hope,” Hannibal amended. “She has attempted to do so before.”

“Why did she fail?” Will asked curiously. “Lack of intent?”

“No, there was plenty of that.” Seemingly done leafing through his expansive collection, Hannibal began his descent of the ladder. He held another book tucked under his arm, close to his body. This one was smaller—small enough to fit into a coat pocket. It was leatherbound and neatly held shut by a thin piece of golden thread. “It was her lack of preparation. Her eagerness blinded her, as it often does. I have always thought her akin to a caged animal in that fashion.”

“Afraid and ready to strike at her master. And, evidently, me.”

Hannibal nodded, coming to stand beside Will at the fireplace. “But Mason is not her master anymore. You freed her, Will.”

“Not intentionally.”

“The outcome is the same,” Hannibal replied.

The two of them stood side by side in front of the fireplace, watching the licking tongues of orange and red devour the receipts of Hannibal’s past life, reducing them to ash.

“I can’t take my dogs,” Will murmured.

“No,” Hannibal agreed. “But Alana and Margot will take good care of them or find someone who will.”

Even though Will knew it was true, he still felt a pang of loss that went deeper than anything else about their leaving. The dogs reminded him of love and care, of nights spent cleaning one of them when they got into the mud or of watching them play on the bank as he fished. His family of strays were a hallmark of his better self, a testament to his morals and humanity.

But perhaps it was fitting, then, that he was leaving them behind. It was almost like trading one family for another.

Hannibal seemed to be aware of where his thoughts were churning. “There are many things you must leave behind. Will you mourn them?”

His voice held genuine curiosity; the lilt of his voice inquisitive. When Will turned to him, his eyes were bright and looked much deeper into Will than he was comfortable imagining.

“I’ll mourn them like I’d mourn an old coat,” Will replied evenly. “One that doesn’t fit anymore.”

“Indeed, it does not,” Hannibal said, satisfied. “Will you mourn Jack Crawford? He is your friend, after all.”

“Jack is a good man,” Will allowed. There was a time he would have agreed with Hannibal, that Jack was his friend. But now, as he thought about Jack, he didn’t feel anything at all. There were no obligations there anymore; Jack didn’t know him at all. Will’s voice was even and unaffected when he said, “But good men die, too.”

Hannibal offered neither approval nor disapproval, and Will found that he preferred it that way.

Will gestured to the journal he held cradled against his side. “That’s about me, isn’t it?”

Hannibal nodded. He did not offer the journal to Will.

“Did your predictions about me come true?” Will asked softly.

“Some of them, entirely,” Hannibal murmured. “Others, not at all. A few are as yet unseen. You are the most unpredictable of all my endeavors yet.”

Will’s eyes flashed; something about that admission filled him with an odd sense of fulfillment. “Does my unpredictability frustrate you?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “It isn’t frustration. It’s captivation. It makes you irreplaceable, Will.”

“Were you planning on replacing me?”

“Fine China sometimes requires it,” Hannibal told him seriously.

Will furrowed his brows. “Is that what I am?”

Hannibal considered him. “Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose. I’m not satisfied if it doesn’t gather itself back up again. I hoped that one day, maybe it would.”

Will denied himself the reprieve of glancing away from Hannibal’s intense stare as the warmth of the flame colored his face. Or maybe it was something else. “Did I?”

“Impossibly, you did,” Hannibal replied, his voice becoming soft. “Into something even more beautiful than you were before.”

Will finally allowed his eyes to drift away, but he still felt the warmth of Hannibal’s eyes on him. It made his nerves feel like they were swimming inside of him, unable to keep still.

“’Hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb,’” Hannibal said quietly. “’For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?’”

Notes:

I hate Freddie so much I didn’t even allow her to be good at being vegetarian 🩷
If you can find the Ethel Cain lyric in this I will give you literally 1 million high fives
Oh lord season 2 finale approaching who’s ready…

Chapter 20 Summary:

Dinner with Jack.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The night approached with little fanfare, although it felt monumental to Will. The end of something and the beginning of something greater; the moment when the teacup gathered itself together again and became something greater.

Jack arrived under similarly bland circumstances. It was like any other evening he might have spent with Hannibal and Will, but the air held a distinct tension that could have been cut with a knife. He stood in the kitchen with them as Hannibal put the last touches on the meal. Abigail was there as well, still wearing her apron.

“You’re early, Jack,” Hannibal said, though he did not look up from what his hands were occupied with.
Jack offered a bright smile. “I couldn’t wait to arrive.”

They lapsed into silence. Will heard his heart beating. Hannibal must have been able to hear it, too, because he turned his serene gaze on Will in the way that he hadn’t afforded Jack.

“The two of you seem to be like planets,” Jack observed. “In some inseparable orbit. Like sun and moon.”

Hannibal’s expression turned amused. Will entertained himself with the fact that Hannibal was likely imagining which of them was the sun and which was the moon. He also knew that Jack was at this moment planning some way to separate those he deemed ‘inseparable.’

Will looked to Abigail, his expression betraying none of his anticipation. “That makes Abigail the Earth.”

The smile that she gave was sheepish, but impossibly bright.

Jack watched them with uneasy apprehension. He took a breath, then said, “Dr. Lecter, perhaps Will and I could help by bringing the wine glasses into the dining room?”

“How kind of you,” Hannibal said. He gestured with one hand to the glasses and the bottle of wine.

The thickness and strain in the air followed them to the dining room. Abigail trailed behind, carrying the bottle. Will set his glass down at the table, but Jack’s dangled precariously in his fingers and then fell to the floor, shattering into brilliant pieces.

Jack’s proffered smile was artificial, as rigid as plastic. “My apologies.”

Hannibal came into the room at the sound. “Please, Jack, don’t concern yourself. I will take care of it.”

Even through his nerves, Will mused that Hannibal was polite almost to a fault.

Jack returned to the kitchen, and Will followed behind him.

The two of them faced each other across the marble expanse of the gleaming floor. Both of them stood ready, their bodies taut with anticipation. Will’s fingers twitched; the knife block in front of him seemed to be singing his name. He didn’t miss the way that Jack’s hand traveled furtively to the holster on his belt.

“You know, Will,” Jack began haltingly, “I’m afraid that I broke you. With the work that I made you do, the things I made you see. You told me that it was getting harder to look, and I didn’t listen.”

Will watched Jack speak in silence, poised.

“Then you shattered,” Jack continued. “Along with all your mirrors. They must have had the bad habit of absorbing rather than reflecting. The killers stayed stuck in the maze of your mind.”

Will laughed, the sound dark and derisive. “You didn’t break me, Jack. Hannibal did. But it made me into something much better.”

The tension pulled an inch too far. It snapped, and the loose ends whipped dangerously in the charged air.

He watched the resolve sharpen in Jack’s eyes. He saw the glint of Jack’s gun in the light of the overhead chandelier. And he felt his arm rise from his side, the knife flying end over end to embed itself in Jack’s hand, disarming him.

The gun clattered loudly to the floor, and Jack grunted in pain. Will reached for another knife, but Jack had ripped the blade out of his own hand and charged Will like a bull. Will darted to the side, but the knife, acting as Jack’s horns, buried itself deep in Will’s bicep. Will hissed and pulled away viciously, dislodging the blade in the process, already feeling the broken skin knit itself back together.

Hannibal stalked into the kitchen on silent feet, a shard of glass tucked into his sleeved hand. Jack was unaware of his approach, leaping again for Will, and released a yell of unbridled fury as Hannibal’s makeshift weapon found its home in the meat of his shoulder. His knife fell uselessly to the floor, his fingers releasing at the sudden strike of pain.

Jack whipped around, the glass still inside him, and seized Hannibal by the lapels of his suit, slamming him mercilessly into the stainless-steel fridge behind him. Hannibal grunted but kept his footing.

Will attempted to catch him from behind, but his steps weren’t as soundless as Hannibal’s had been; Jack, alerted to the presence of Will behind him, turned and struck out with his knife. Will ducked at the last moment, sliding under his outstretched arm and slashing his blade across Jack’s Achille’s tendon.

Hannibal followed Jack to the ground when he fell, though he was favoring his left arm. He managed to land two solid punches to his face before Jack rolled out from underneath him, grabbing for his discarded gun. Hannibal’s leg kicked out, sending the gun sliding across the floor.

Will pounced. Jack, having turned onto his stomach, was defenseless to the knife that Will buried in the small of his back. Jack’s noise of pain broke off into a grunt as Hannibal kicked the glass still embedded in his shoulder, burying the shard even further in the delicate skin there.

Jack lifted his head weakly, and his gaze landed on the space where the stab wound should have been in Will’s arm. Instead, all he saw was uninjured but bloodstained skin, and his eyes widened. “What the hell are you?”

Will ignored him, his eyes going instead to Hannibal. Hannibal nodded and held Jack still as Will struck the killing blow, lurching toward Jack and hunching over him like some kind of animal to rip his throat out with his elongated fangs. Will pulled back, and instead of spitting the blood out, he swallowed it.

Hannibal held on as Jack sputtered, keeping him still on the floor and unable to strike out against Will, who stayed sitting back on his haunches. He was close enough to lock his gaze with Jack, whose eyes flashed with something akin to betrayal. Then, resignation. His eyelids fluttered shut, and he took one final breath before falling eerily still.

Will’s eyes stayed fixed on his face.

“Will.”

But the sound of Hannibal’s voice drew his attention.
Hannibal was now sitting back against the fridge, holding his right arm tightly against himself. “Do not retreat, Will. Face what you’ve done. What we’ve done.”

Will didn’t look away from Hannibal. He was afraid that if he looked at Jack’s body again, he really would get stuck in the maze of mirrors in his mind. And knowing that he was covered in Jack’s blood made looking into a mirror the last thing he wanted to do in that moment.

“Do you regret it?” Hannibal asked softly.

“I’m not feeling regret,” Will murmured. “I’m just...feeling.”

Even though Hannibal’s breaths were shallow and pained, his voice was even when he replied, “Jack was, at one time, one of your closest friends. It is understandable that you would be feeling in this moment. But remember, Will; it will pass.”

Will knew it was true. When the initial shock faded away like colors bled out of overworn fabric, he would be left with something that lasted much longer. A feeling that he had come to recognize and long for.

Blinking away the haze that threatened to envelop him, Will focused on Hannibal. “Are you hurt?”

Hannibal winced. “Regrettably, I am.”

When the sound of footsteps reached their ears, they both looked sharply to the door of the kitchen. Abigail was standing on the threshold as if uncertain if she was allowed to enter, her eyes seeming to stick on Jack even as her words were directed at Hannibal.

“Are you okay?” she asked Hannibal worriedly.

“My shoulder is dislocated,” Hannibal replied, grunting as he tried to move the limb. His arm sat limp at his side, hanging at an unnatural angle.

Abigail took another step forward. “Why isn’t it healing?”

“It’s in the wrong place,” Hannibal explained simply. “I must put it back before my body is able to heal.”

Will stood, stepping over Jack’s body with little regard. He knelt at Hannibal’s side. “Tell me what to do.”

Hannibal sat up a little straighter, his face tight with the pain he was unable to conceal. “Grab hold of my wrist, firmly.”

Will obeyed, circling his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist. Hannibal grunted again as the movement jostled his shoulder, but he made no further indication of discomfort.

“Brace your other hand on my uninjured shoulder.”
Will did, feeling that Hannibal’s muscles were taut with tension. They stiffened a bit further under Will’s touch.

“Pull. As hard as you can, Will.”

He hesitated, uncertainty making him still as he looked into Hannibal’s eyes. He couldn’t explain why he faltered; something inside of him protested loudly at causing Hannibal any more pain than he was already in, even as he knew logically that he was helping.

“It’s all right, Will,” Hannibal said softly.

Will nodded, gathering his resolve. He took one sharp breath and pulled.

He heard the sound Hannibal’s shoulder made as it reclaimed its rightful place in its socket, a sickening pop and grate of bone on bone. Hannibal made no noise of pain, but Will heard Abigail let out a sound of distress. Hannibal’s only reaction was an involuntary jerk forward, his shoulders instinctively curling inward against the pain as his head came to rest roughly on Will’s shoulder.

Instinct seized Will. His hand came to the back of Hannibal’s head, his fingers curling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck with the intention of comforting. Some of the tension bled out of Hannibal’s frame.

He only allowed the embrace for a moment longer. Then, he pulled away from Will and used the refrigerator to assist him to his feet. He offered the hand of his uninjured arm to Will.

“Accompany us to Florence, Will?” Hannibal said warmly. “I hear the weather is magnificent this time of year.”

Will’s lips twisted into a grin as he looked back at Hannibal. Unbothered by the blood that stained the skin of both of them, Will took his hand.

Sun beams danced in the open sky, lining the clouds with silver that reminded Hannibal of the way Will’s eyes looked the night they killed Freddie Lounds. He closed the small window, to allow Abigail to rest more peacefully. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and on the other side of her was Will.

“Are you thinking of Jack?” Hannibal asked him quietly.

Will blinked out of his thoughts and turned his face to Hannibal. “No. I was thinking of what you said about your memory palace.”

Hannibal nodded. “It’s time to begin construction. The things most important to me will be there in the new place I create.”

“You said there was a skull graven on the floor,” Will said. “You had a real place in mind. Will you show it to me?”

Hannibal smiled; the expression soft. “I will, in time. If you wish to see it.”

“I do,” Will replied. Then, he added, “I have this overwhelming desire to be in every place you’ve ever been.”

Warmth flooded through Hannibal at the words, warmer still for the gentle feeling of Abigail sleeping against him. His heart expanded almost painfully in his chest, until he was certain that it would crack the cage of his ribs open and expose his innermost parts to Will. Oddly enough, Hannibal felt that he might not mind that.

“Florence is a vast city,” he told Will. “One that I’ve seen much of. But we have all the time in the world.”

Notes:

Mizumono if it wasn’t full of agony and despair and suffering 🩷 we’re down one bloodbath and up one happy family!!
If you’re here for the angst, don’t worry because there is PLENTY coming 😇
Also just a heads up the next chapter is pretty short (only about 800 words) but it’s necessary and I like it so I hope you guys will too :3

Chapter 21 Summary:

Florence, Italy.

Notes:

I wasn’t kidding when I said it was short. Kind of like a vignette…

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The years go by. It would seem that Hannibal was right; they did have all the time in the world.

They lived in a quaint apartment on the third floor of a building in Florence, Italy. Hannibal had put much time and effort into decorating it, and three years later it was the warmest and most welcoming home any of the three of them had ever known.

Hannibal and Will shared a bedroom with a balcony that looked out over the streets of Florence. Sometimes, when his sleepless mind kept him awake and his legs begged his restless body to carry him somewhere, he would pace the balcony and trace the alleyways and canals with his eyes, imagining Hannibal living there in his childhood. His thoughts searched anxiously for the parts of Hannibal’s past that were still a mystery to him.

People didn’t pay much attention to the foreigners; the Fell family, as they had come to be known. Hannibal worked at the library of the Palazzo Capponi, but he diligently kept any unwelcome attention—which was any attention at all, really—off the three of them. He enjoyed his job and the insight it gave him into Florence’s rich history, as well as the opportunities to share that history with others, but what he really loved were the long days spent traveling with Will and Abigail to various cathedrals and monuments, reveling in their beauty with the two of them; they were who he really wanted to share Florence’s history with.

Will taught a small high school class at the local school near the private university Abigail attended. But he didn’t teach forensic science; he taught biology. His soft spot for nature and its animals persisted, even in this life. Not that his teaching license was valid—but neither were their passports or their birth certificates or any other legal document that confirmed their existence here. Legally, they were ghosts. In reality, they were something much darker.

And when that dark desire did take hold; when Will’s restless mind needed something more than to pace the balcony and Hannibal’s fingers began to itch with the desire to wield a weapon more substantial than a vast knowledge of the city, they traveled away from Florence to satiate their animalistic appetites. They were intent on giving Abigail a stable life and were careful not to allow their hunts to threaten the life they had built with and for her. The small cities that bordered Florence had all felt their ghostly touch and experienced the kiss of their fangs, but never for more than a night. They came and went like specters in the night, leaving nothing to trace them by.

Then, Hannibal would make them a meal. The kitchen was the heart of their home, just as it had been in Baltimore. No one was ever alone in the kitchen; whether Hannibal was cooking while Abigail was lending a hand, or Abigail was seeking a bite to eat while Will was aiding in her search for contraband, or if Will’s nightmares rendered him sleepless and his aching feet led him to the kitchen while Hannibal followed him, they were never alone. Their fondest memories were made there, and Hannibal had recreated it perfectly in the corridors and chambers of his mind.

On the outskirts of the city, where mundane life fell away and surrendered to flora and fauna, there was a stream. It whispered quietly, soft enough that only those who listened with careful ears could hear the tumbling of its water. Will went there often; it was within walking distance of their home. When he looked at his reflection in the surface of the crystalline water, the image it reproduced was not nearly as harsh as a mirror’s. Abigail sometimes came with him, and he taught her the Palomar and clinch knots.

The quiet of the stream did not always drown out the screams in his mind. Some nights, Will woke from nightmares with a shattered cry. Those nights, he was glad that Abigail’s bedroom was on the other end of their home. Hannibal, a light sleeper, was always woken by the noise. The memories that plagued Will mercilessly were from the life he lived before, when the guilt of killing was suffocating and crept down his throat like thick fingers of smoke, wrapping around his heart like a vice. But those memories belonged to other people, killers he had been forced to empathize with and imagine before he reclaimed his mind as his own. Those nights, Hannibal was glad that they had killed Jack Crawford.

But over the years, those nights inhibited by nightmares grew fewer and fewer. The three of them hung over the city of Florence like smoke, fitting into its grooves and contours with alacrity, and they disappeared from Baltimore like so much evaporated mist.

Notes:

I’m actually really happy with this chapter and I hope you guys like it <3
I’ve been partially neglecting finishing the last chapters 49 and 50 of this fic in favor of outlining another fic that I’m SO SO excited about :0 I’m not gonna say what it is just yet but I think I’m gonna really enjoy writing it

Chapter 22 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Alana and Margot’s son is a year old,” Will announced, reading their letter under the lights of the candles that lined the dining room table. Hannibal was fond of candles and preferred them and natural lighting over overhead lighting. It made for a moody and ambient atmosphere, not that Will minded. It was easier on the eyes and helped to ease his intermittent headaches.

Abigail beamed, delighted. “We have to meet him one day. I wish they’d send a picture, and one of the dogs, too.”

Will smiled indulgently, even as they both knew that neither of those requests were possible. They were only able to correspond with Alana and Margot under a very specific set of circumstances, and it only involved incoming letters, but it helped institute a bit of normalcy to imagine that they could reply.

Abigail turned to Hannibal and asked sweetly, “Who were we eating just now?”

Hannibal took a slow sip of his wine before answering, consideration deepening his gaze. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not; it doesn’t change the taste any,” Abigail replied. “But it matters to you.”

Hannibal’s expression grew so fond that Will almost had to look away. “His name was Professor Sogliato. He lived in Cinque Terre, and he was a very rude man.”

“His fate was deserved, then,” Will said, peering at Hannibal through hooded eyes as he took a drink of his own wine.

Hannibal’s eyes burned with intensity as he watched Will. “And well commemorated by this meal.”

Abigail, seeming to sense something in the air between them, stood. “Do you guys need my help cleaning up?”

Hannibal blinked and looked up at her. “No, saulytė, we will take care of it.”

She looked between the two of them with a smug smile. “Just make sure to actually get some cleaning done, yeah?”

Will rolled his eyes fondly. “You’d better leave before he changes his mind.”

She laughed, the sound pleasant and warm, and moved toward the door. She threw over her shoulder, “Hey, I’m gonna take the shopping list, okay? I’ll be back before it’s dark.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal called after her, at the same time Will said, “Be careful.”

The door closed gently behind her.

Will stood, affecting ignorance to Hannibal’s attention on him. He collected his plate and padded into the kitchen on socked feet, aware of Hannibal following him. As he placed his dishes in the sink and began to wash them, Hannibal bracketed him in against the counter, his warm presence enveloping Will from behind. He pressed his lips to the back of Will’s neck and inhaled the smell of him, causing Will to startle gently.

“You smell amazing,” Hannibal murmured against his skin.

“I smell like the meal you cooked,” Will retorted.

Hannibal hummed in agreement, as if to say that that was exactly his point and wrapped his arms around Will’s middle.

“What did Professor Sogliato do?” Will asked quietly, reveling in the feeling of Hannibal’s embrace.

“Does it matter?” Hannibal replied, and his voice sent vibrations down Will’s spine that started at the nape of his neck. “His existence was offensive to me.”

“I guess not,” Will said, echoing Abigail’s words from before. “But you usually have a reason for these things, and it matters to you.”

Will felt something wet pressed to the skin under the hair that curled at his nape; Hannibal’s tongue tasted him reverently, and Will’s knees weakened. Hannibal punctuated the stroke of his tongue with a kiss. Will’s dishes lay forgotten in the sink in front of him.

“Professor Sogliato was not very progressive in his thinking.” Another kiss. “And he had a child in your class.” One more, to the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Snide remark, biting words.” Accompanied by Hannibal’s fragmented sentences, the next kiss dislodged a gasp from Will’s throat. “Fighting words.”

“Hannibal,” Will rasped, needing to tell him before he lost his own capacity for words, “I’m going to spend the next three days away. I’m travelling.”

Hannibal’s teeth grazed his neck, and Will surrendered entirely to his hold, letting Hannibal take most of his weight. “Have to make tonight count then, mylimasis.”

“How much time do you think we have before Abigail gets back?”

Hannibal pulled him toward the bedroom, his grip earnest yet gentle. “Enough.”

Alana Verger was officially no longer under the employ of the FBI, as of two years ago. She no longer taught at the Academy, and she did not profile. Instead, she worked at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. She no longer felt the capacity to deeply understand people in the world; they were too unpredictable, and her beliefs had been upended on that night when Margot told her everything.

Working under Frederick Chilton, who was still blissfully unaware of the truth of the patients who lived right underneath his nose, provided a gauge for Alana that made her feel less like she was blindly grasping for straws. She was in the field as a psychiatrist, as she had always been, but she was no longer responsible for serial killers and murderers. Well, she was in part; just the ones who’d already been caught.

She lived with Margot and their son Morgan on a ranch in southern Virginia. Margot trained horses and was already desperate for Morgan to be big enough to ride. She had tried to get Alana to learn, but Alana hadn’t gone any faster than a trot. Horses were much too far off the ground for her liking.

Morgan was the center of their world; with wavy black hair and bright blue eyes, people had no trouble identifying him as their son. He was their spitting image. He knew nothing of vampires, nor had he ever heard the name Mason, and that was the way they liked it.

Which was why when Mason contacted Margot for the first time in three years, her first reaction was to beg Alana to take their son out of the room.

Startled, Alana asked if everything was all right. Knowing that Morgan wasn’t even nearly old enough to remember this did not help to alleviate Margot’s panic; her senses felt overloaded with the irrationality of her fear. With the phone pressed against her chest, Margot promised to tell Alana everything as long as she took Morgan away right at that moment.

Margot watched them go, the picture of what mattered most to her in this life. And now, Mason was calling her, no doubt intent to ruin everything that she had built apart from him.

With shaking hands, she lifted the phone back to her ear. “Hello?”

“I missed hearing your voice, sis,” Mason exclaimed, and the sound of his voice sent chills down her spine. She had often thought that if she never heard it again, it would be too soon. “Did you miss mine?”

Margot was struck suddenly and viciously by her naivete. She had believed that they were equals now, that Mason wouldn’t dare to touch her. But he would always be bigger, and she would always be the pitiful creature under the heel of his merciless boot.

“Why are you calling me, Mason?” She tried to strengthen her voice, but it cracked pathetically under the pressure. She felt herself wince at her display of weakness. It would not go unexploited by Mason.

“What circumstance finds you and Dr. Bloom in Virginia?” he asked jovially, as if they were an ordinary pair of siblings catching up over the phone. “I’ll say, Margot, I always thought you were a little too appreciative of the female anatomy.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. She should hang up and end this now. But she needed to know why he was calling; if he had any intention of harming Alana or Morgan. It was her job to stand between them and the cruel beast that had crawled out of the womb with her.

“You’re not very talkative but that’s slightly comforting to me, Margot, you haven’t changed much at all.” She could hear the manic grin in his voice. A corner of her was pathetically thankful that she didn’t have to see it. “I’ll cut straight to the point, sis. I want you to come visit me at Muskrat Farm, soon. I’ll fly you out. But you have to be here soon, say...at the end of this week.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked shakily.

“Oh, Margot, I know I hurt you,” Mason said, his voice taking on a note of mock-pity. “You never did like my chocolate. But we had some good, funny times together! I just want to see you again.”

Even through the shake in her voice, Margot seethed, “I’ll see you in hell, Mason.”

Mason laughed, delighted. “I’m sure that you will. But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say, and so will Dr. Bloom. I’m having a guest over, Margot, someone who made a great impact on your life.”

Margot choked on her next inhale.

“I thought you might want to be here when he dies,” Mason continued, either unaware of or, more likely, impervious to the way that his words exacerbated her terror. “Truly, I’m sure he’d like to see you again, too, you inherited all the Verger good looks—”

She hung the phone up before he could finish his sentence.

She rushed to find Alana on shaking legs. She was leaving the nursery, closing the door gently behind her. Alana pressed her finger to her lips, and Margot nodded. Alana took her hand and led her to their bedroom.

“It was Mason,” Margot choked out as soon as the door closed.

Alana blinked, then her face contorted with anger. “What? What did he want?”

Margot paced further into the room, collapsing onto the bed and dropping her face into her hands. She was keenly aware of Alana’s presence as she joined her, wrapping a gentle arm around her shoulders and pulling Margot against her side.

“Hush, love,” she whispered, soothing Margot’s shuddering breaths. “He can’t hurt you. Or make you go anywhere you don’t want to. If he comes here, I swear I’ll kill him.”

Margot managed to collect herself marginally, straightening to look Alana in the eye. “He’s going to bring Will Graham to Muskrat Farm.”

She watched the blood drain from Alana’s face. “He’s found them? Hannibal and Will?”

“Just Will,” Margot said. “Right? Your letters were addressed only to Will and you never mentioned Abigail or Hannibal.”

Alana chewed on her lower lip; her brows furrowed deeply with consternation. “But if they’re together...”

“You can’t go down that road,” Margot begged. “You can never consider the worst with Mason. The best scenario is that he’s only found Will.”

Alana stood, crossing her arms. She tapped her foot and cursed under her breath. “That’s not an amazing scenario either, Margot.”

“I know,” Margot said despairingly. “He said he’ll fly us to Maryland...to Muskrat Farm.”

Freezing, Alana turned to her. “No. You’re not going back there.”

Margot insisted, “We might have no other choice, Lana. Would you let Mason kill him, knowing you could have done something to stop it?”

Alana turned away, hiding her face from Margot. But Margot already knew the answer to that question; no, Alana would not let Will Graham die or allow him to come to any harm that she could have reasonably prevented. And while there was nothing reasonable about this situation, she knew that Alana’s better nature would win the internal struggle.

“Our best option is to contact Hannibal,” Margot said gently, even as every instinct inside her screamed its protest to her words, “and go to Muskrat Farm.”

“We can’t save him,” Alana murmured.

“No,” Margot agreed. “His only hope is Hannibal. That he’ll make it on time.”

“So, you want to stall? To buy Hannibal time to get to him?”

“Yes,” Margot agreed grimly. “If there’s anyone who can hold my brother’s attention, it’s me.”

Notes:

Things are moving quickly bc that’s the only way I can stand it! I don’t have time to write a more thoughtful caption but I hope yall are having a great week mwah

Chapter 23 Summary:

Will returns from his trip.

Notes:

This is one of my fav chapters :3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Botticelli’s Primavera was on the second floor of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. It was the final stop on their third day of Will being away, and Hannibal and Abigail sat side by side in front of it.

“All of it seems very peaceful,” Abigail said. She spoke very quietly, as if afraid to disturb the sanctity of the place. “Over on the left side, at least.”

Her gaze roved over the rightmost half of the painting with deep consideration.

Hannibal nodded, looking at where her attention was directed. “Zephyros, the god of the west wind taking his wife; the nymph Khloris. She’s transformed into Flora, the goddess of spring. The painting is also known as ‘Spring.’”

“Who are the rest of them?”

Hannibal couldn’t deny that he was delighted by her interest, whether it was feigned for his sake or genuine. “The woman in the middle is Venus, the goddess of love, and blindfolded above her is her son Cupid.”

“Pointing his arrow of love at those girls,” Abigail added, amused.

“The Three Graces. They represent Love, Beauty, and Chastity. The man with the winged heels next to them is the god of May.”

“A springtime wedding,” Abigail deduced.

Hannibal found himself offering her a pleased smile. “Indeed. Gifted by Botticelli to his most loyal patron as a wedding gift in 1482.”

They returned to silence for a time, contemplating the Botticelli and its many parts.

“Where did Will go?” Abigail asked.

Hannibal kept his eyes on the painting. “I assume that Will is trying to be as intimately familiar with my history as I am with the history of the Primavera.”

She hummed in consideration. “I’ve always wondered why somebody would care about someone else’s past if they know who they are in the present.”

He turned to her. “Do you feel as if your past shaped you, Abigail?”

“Some things in my past, I guess. I can’t deny that there was a part of me that was...shaped by who my father was. That keeps me up at night, sometimes.”

“The thought that you might be like him,” Hannibal said. “Irrevocably damaged.”

Abigail nodded, and the pale scar on her throat from before she turned glinted in the dim lighting of the gallery.

“That fear is an artifact of your past, Abigail, even if it isn’t true.” He fixes her with a pointed look. “And it isn’t true.”

She sighed, her eyes turning sad as she regarded the painting. “It’s just hard to imagine that that could happen to me and not change me at all. I feel marked, somehow. And I guess I am, in a way.”

“It may very well have changed you,” he said, “but you make that change into what you want. Let the fear he left you with serve you, not control you.”

Her brow furrowed. “How could fear serve me?”

Hannibal’s mind, as it was wont to do, drifted to Will. “Fear is a powerful motivator. Sometimes it makes us do what we otherwise would not, pushing us toward a precipice that we would have liked to avoid and allowing gravity to do the rest.”

“So, your fear of the past shapes your future,” Abigail said.

“It can,” Hannibal agreed. “It can also shape your memories. Damage or change them. You must be very careful with your memory palace, Abigail. What does yours look like?”

Abigail, who had heard Hannibal speak about his palace and Will about his stream, considered the question deeply.

“I don’t think mine would be so...specific as a single place,” she said slowly.

“Nor does it have to be,” he assured evenly.

“It would be a combination of lots of places.”

“Your favorite places?”

Her face softened and her eyes crinkled at the corners as she allowed herself to explore her mind. “Yes. I think Will’s home in Wolf Trap would be there. With his dogs and the lake all frozen over in the wintertime. The field, covered in snow.”

Hannibal began to imagine with her, his mind wandering where she directed it with her lulling words and gentle voice.

“His home was one of the first places I didn’t have nightmares, after Port Haven. Rest was a rare thing back then. I only found it there, and at your home in Maryland. I loved being in the kitchen there. This one is perfect, but that one...it has the texture of memory, the softness of it. Like a photograph.”

Hannibal saw the three of them in the kitchen, spending evenings cooking dinner and late nights baking desserts. Will was strictly against measuring cups, and while it sometimes worked in his favor, it often didn’t. Hannibal saw Abigail’s face light up with laughter and joyful tears spring to her eyes as she tried one of his failed attempts at a tinginys.

“And the nights that Dr. Bloom visited me at Port Haven. Sometimes she’d read to me before I fell asleep and leave late at night because I told her once I didn’t have nightmares when she did that. I know that she’s a wonderful mother.”

Abigail’s voice became quieter and quieter, like she was talking herself into a deep reverie of the comforts of her past.

“All the places we’ve visited in Florence. Our home here, even though we’re still here. Did you know I don’t have nightmares anymore? Part of me feels like I managed to pass them off on Will somehow.” She laughed softly, and the sound seemed to awaken her from the trance she’d fallen into. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

Hannibal smiled at her, feeling an incredible fondness. “Don’t be sorry for sharing your places with me; I feel honored.”

She smiled back and moved closer to him on the bench until their shoulders were pressed warmly together. “Maybe one day you’ll share yours with me?”

Hannibal looked up at the Primavera. “I already have.”

They didn’t arrive home until late that night. Hannibal unlocked the door, holding it open for Abigail to go in front of him. As he was closing it, she tugged at his sleeve to get his attention and pressed her finger to her lips to silently quiet him. He pulled the door to slowly and turned to see Will lying on the sofa, asleep. He was slumped against the armrest as if he had meant to stay awake, but his tiredness had got the better of him.

“I’m going to make him something,” Hannibal murmured to Abigail. “I’m sure he hasn’t eaten nearly enough left to himself these past three days. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll just sit out here and wait.”

He nodded and watched for a moment as she approached the couch on quiet feet and grabbed a quilted blanket folded over the back of it, spreading it gently over Will’s sleeping form. He didn’t stir at the movement.

Unable to bear the swelling of his chest and the tender feeling in his throat any longer, Hannibal moved into the kitchen. He made something quick and easy, wanting to get it into Will and Will into bed as quickly as possible.

By the time he returned to the living room with a small plate, Abigail was seated on the floor in front of the couch, and Will was awake. He maintained his comfortable lying position and one of his hands was buried in Abigail’s hair, scratching lazily at her scalp. She was the one asleep, now.

Will offered a sleepy smile at his appearance, and Hannibal moved to the couch, claiming the cushion next to Abigail and setting the plate on the oak table in front of them.

He asked Will softly, “What did you find?”

Will’s gaze moved from the crown of Abigail’s auburn head to Hannibal. “I found you.”

Hannibal’s head tilted to the side. “You did not find me. You found my past, the origins of it. A small but discernible difference.”

“Yes,” Will agreed, “but that’s part of you. And I want to know every part of you, Hannibal. Like I want to know every room in your memory palace. Isn’t that why you’re showing me Florence?”

Abigail stirred, and they both watched as she readjusted her head to lay deeper in the soft foam of the coach. Will’s hand froze in her hair for a moment and resumed when she was still again.

“I suppose it is,” Hannibal answered at length.

Will paused, his expression considering. “Do you want to talk about Mischa? Any of it?”

Hannibal felt his expression twist, perhaps in a brief spasm of pain, but he wrestled his features back into apathy just as quickly. Perhaps there were parts of him that he wished for Will not to find. He told him as much, and Will nodded easily.

“Did you meet Chiyoh?” Hannibal asked.

“I did,” Will replied. “And her tenant. I was...tempted, to say the least.”

Hannibal nodded. “I’ve felt the desire, as well. She will have been grateful that you resisted the urge. Chiyoh’s foundation is solid, admirably stable, but I can’t say that I agree with where she’s built it.”

“She believes that that man killed Mischa,” Will observed.

“She does believe that.”

Will’s sharp gaze turned to him. “And in a way, he did. But you turned her. And then you killed her.”

Part of Hannibal was utterly enraptured by the discernment in Will’s eyes, but a small, pathetic part of him longed to crawl away from the blade of their blue, into some shadow where he could not be known so intimately. Instead of indulging in this desire, he simply said, “Yes.”

Will nodded and looked back down at Abigail. “If you ever want to talk about it, I want to listen.”

Hannibal felt himself relax marginally, unaware of when he had become tense. “Thank you, mylimasis.”

The silence returned, but it was a warm and comforting creature. It curled up in their laps and nuzzled soft fur against their skin, easing their minds and bodies in a way that only the simple pleasure of each other’s company could.

“If I saw you and Abigail every day forever,” Hannibal murmured, “I would remember this time.”

The corners of Will’s responding smile were softened by tiredness, but he offered Hannibal his free hand to hold. Hannibal took it and circled his thumb over the delicate veins that webbed over the back of it. The simple motion of it made him want to dig his teeth into them, to draw blood until he tasted Will as keenly as his fingers felt his skin.

“I want to show you something tomorrow,” Hannibal said. “Abigail can stay here. It’s in Palermo.”

“What’s in Palermo?” Will asked curiously.

“A cathedral,” Hannibal answered vaguely.

“You’ll have to be more specific. Italy is crawling with cathedrals.”

“You’ll have to deign to be surprised, Will.”

Will gave him a sardonic look, but his soft smile was still firmly in place. “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll bear it, then, for my sake,” Hannibal replied, and his voice, too, was beginning to blur with the gentle lull of encroaching sleep.

Will’s eyelids drooped, and Hannibal began to suspect that the three of them would spend the night there and wake up with terrible matching aches in their limbs. “Fine. For your sake.”

The plate of food sat forgotten on the oak table.

Hannibal woke to the sound of a sickening crunch as a blinding pain burst from his nose.

He jerked upright—he had been leaning against Will—and lifted a hand to his face. When he brought it away, still disoriented from sleep, it was coated with blood.

Will was slumped forward over his knees, his head in his hands as his sporadic breathing caused his shoulders to shake. His shirt was drenched through with sweat, and his curls were equally dampened.

“Will,” Abigail said, who looked like she had been awake longer than Hannibal had. She had hands on both of Will’s knees and a deep sadness in her eyes that Hannibal felt echoing in his chest with a pang.

Hannibal put a heavy hand on the back of Will’s neck to force his head lower until it was between his knees; he was hyperventilating violently and Hannibal feared that he would faint if he continued this way.

“Breathe, in and out,” Hannibal commanded, his voice slightly nasally as he spoke through the thickness of blood in his nose. “It is three thirty-seven AM, you’re at home in Florence, Italy, and your name is Will Graham.”

Through gasps, Will choked out, “My name is Will Graham.”

"He’s had a nightmare about Garret Jacob Hobbs,” Hannibal told Abigail calmly. Will’s next breath caught in his throat as he spluttered and gasped, and Hannibal rubbed firm circles into his back. “Easy, Will.”

Abigail’s frown deepened, her expression of concern morphing into something more like horror. “How do you know?”

Hannibal knew because any time Will had an episode such as this one, he would remind Will of three things: the time, their current location, and his name. Will would grasp onto and repeat whichever reminder he needed most; if he had dissociated, he would repeat the location; if he had gotten disoriented and confused, he would say the time. Whenever Will woke from nightmares where he embodied killers from another life or if he got stuck in the mirror maze of his mind, he would repeat this litany; My name is Will Graham. Hannibal knew from the severity of his distress now that this nightmare had been about Hobbs.

But now was not the time to teach Abigail how to identify the causes of Will’s panic attacks. He told Abigail as much and she nodded, moving to sit on the couch on Will’s other side. She leaned her shoulder against his and they waited, listening as Will’s pants slowly evened out and the rhythm of his breathing matched their own. Hannibal doubted Abigail was aware she was doing it, but at some point, she had begun exaggerating her inhales and exhales as if modeling for Will the correct way to do it.

“Will,” Hannibal said.

“It’s three in the morning, we’re home, and my name is Will Graham,” Will repeated dutifully, and finally sat up though his arms still trembled slightly. Then, “Shit, did I do that?”

Will cupped Hannibal’s neck with one hand to hold his head steady as he probed gently at his broken nose.

Abigail chimed in. “You accidentally kicked me while you were...dreaming. I woke up and then you did too and you kind of elbowed Hannibal in the face by accident.”

Will swore again and seized Hannibal’s wrist. “Come on.”

Hannibal followed Will into the bathroom feeling slightly amused. It wasn’t the first time that Hannibal had caught a stray limb when Will’s nightmares caused him to lash out, but it was the first time it had resulted in a broken bone. Will rummaged in the cabinet under the sink while Hannibal leaned toward the mirror. The blood had already stopped flowing as the broken skin knitted itself together quickly, but the bone would need setting before his body was able to heal itself.

“I’m sorry, Hannibal,” Will said as he resurfaced with the first aid kit. He pulled out butterfly bandages as he shook his head.

“Don’t apologize for what isn’t your fault,” Hannibal chided.

“I am sorry, though. I’m also sorry that Abigail had to be there.” His expression soured with something like shame.

“Abigail had nightmares for many years,” Hannibal reminded him pointedly. “She is sympathetic in this way. She told me yesterday that she feels like she passed her nightmares onto you.”

“I would have gladly taken them if it worked like that,” Will said with sincerity and moved towards Hannibal’s face with the butterfly bandage, but he paused after a moment. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Hannibal smiled. “I can do it myself, Will.”

Will sighed but relented and surrendered the bandage to Hannibal. “I would ask you to teach me if my hands weren’t still shaking.”

Hannibal took Will by the sleeve of his still-damp shirt and directed him to sit on the lid of the toilet seat until he regained stability in his limbs. Will protested lightly but complied and watched Hannibal apply the bandage across the bridge of his nose, wincing as he pulled the bone back into place. He turned back to Will when he was finished.

“Good as new,” Will said.

“I haven’t suffered any permanent damage,” Hannibal agreed. He surveyed Will furtively, taking in the way he fidgeted restlessly with his hands and how the corners of his eyes gave away the headache that was plaguing him. “Will, if you are not feeling up to it, we may move our excursion to a later date. I don’t want us to go if you are in any discomfort.”

Will frowned. “What? No, I want to go. It was just a nightmare; I’ll feel better by the time we leave.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am,” Will said. He stood from the toilet, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I should probably go tell Abigail that that’s why she’s not allowed to be near me when I’m sleeping.”

Notes:

more on Mischa later btw

Chapter 24 Summary:

A trip to Palermo and a trip back home.

Notes:

Enjoy :3🩷

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Capella Palatina in Palermo was a crime scene.

Hannibal led Will in through the back, an entrance that led into a maze of tunnels and a case of stairs. They emerged into a cathedral with a skull graven in the floor. Will’s eyes lit with recognition as he took in the soaring arches of the ceiling and the beauty of the gold inlaid around the paintings on the walls.

Around the swarming mass of the FBI, Will could see a body in the center of the chapel. The body had been mutilated, divested of its extremities, skinned, and bled dry, and was contorted into the shape of a beating, bloody heart, the aorta and vena cava adorning it like a crown.

Will was enraptured by the sight, but the feeling was amplified by the look on Hannibal’s face, who was smiling softly with pride, hands folded neatly behind his back, looking for all the world like a cat who had left a dead bird for its owner to find.

“It’s beautiful,” Will murmured. He kept his voice low, so he didn’t draw the attention of the investigators.

“I wanted to have a gift for you when I showed you the Capella Palatina,” Hannibal said. “To commemorate the experience.”

Will didn’t comment on the fact that it had taken them three years of living in Florence; he knew that Hannibal did everything to the best of his ability, agonizing over small details and factors. He had made it perfect for Will to see and had offered him his heart on a living canvas.

Well, a canvas that used to be living. In that vein, Will asked, “Who was he?”

“His name was Antony Dimmond .”

Will felt that the beauty of the chapel could not compare to the beauty of what Hannibal had made inside of it.

“Was this the last place?” Will asked. “The final room in your memory palace?”

“You’ve seen them all,” Hannibal confirmed. “Yours now shares many corridors with my own.”

“Inextricably intertwined.”

Hannibal hummed. “Made of the same stuff. On the same foundation.”

Impulsively, Will took hold of Hannibal’s hand. They weren’t much for physical contact in public, as it tended to draw unnecessary attention, but Will felt that he needed to connect them physically at that moment in the way that they were connected on some higher plane. They shared so much cognitive space that it was only natural that they shared their tangible space as well.

“Chiyoh told me that you can’t go home,” Will said, and felt Hannibal’s fingers tense. “Why not?”

Will listened to the sound of Hannibal’s breathing as he thought. “Three years ago, I would have said she was right.”

“What’s changed?”

“Everything,” Hannibal replied simply. “I told Abigail yesterday that your fears can ruin and taint the memories you have of your past if you let them.”

“But you’re not afraid of your past anymore,” Will stated .

“I haven’t been for some time now,” Hannibal said. “I can’t say exactly when that change happened. Perhaps it was when the teacup came back together.”

Will looked down at their intertwined hands. He made small circles with his thumb in the soft skin on the back of Hannibal’s. “The...interest that you had in me. When did it stop being interest and become something more?”

Hannibal hummed. “Perhaps far earlier than you may think.”

“Estimate,” Will requested .

“My feelings aren’t linear,” Hannibal said evenly. “There wasn’t an exact moment when it stopped being that and became something other.”

Will knew logically that the answer to his question didn’t change anything, but no matter how hard he tried to expel it, to rip it from the depths of himself with claws and fangs bared, there always lingered a thread of insecurity in the tapestry of what he had made with Hannibal. He thought it might be the ugliest part of himself, the one fiber of their interwoven life that didn’t come from Abigail or Hannibal; it was solely Will’s.

Hannibal, either impervious or oblivious to his loud thoughts, continued, “I can’t pinpoint a moment because it’s still occurring. Every day my feelings for you change, Will. They evolve as we do; constantly and infinitely.”

“Hard to comprehend infinity.”

“It certainly is.”

Will looked back at Antony Dimmond’s body. He wondered about the moment when Dimmond’s fear had manifested, when he saw Hannibal as the harbinger of his death. Was there a moment? Or did some part of the prey always recognize their predator?

He wished he could have been there for that moment, when prey became hunted and hunted became art. But at least he got to bear witness to the art , and to its artist.

“I think I will return home,” Hannibal said.

Will blinked . “When? Now?”

“There is no reason to delay the inevitable,” he replied. “You take the train home to Abigail, and I will go to Lithuania. I’ll be home soon.”

“You’re going to kill Chiyoh’s tenant,” Will said matter-of-factly.

“I am. I will free Chiyoh from her self-inflicted burden, to free both of us. To excavate the fear from its root.”

Will took the train home without Hannibal. He felt a little melancholy pulling out of the station, and Hannibal stood there until the train faded from view. Even when Hannibal disappeared over the horizon, Will felt like he could still see him, a golden thread connecting them that refused to be severed.

He got home late that night and approached the door quietly in case Abigail was already asleep. He froze when the smell of blood assaulted his heightened senses.

Stalking to the door on nimble feet and drawing on his vampiric stealth, he slid his knife from the inner pocket of his coat. He found the door unlocked, and the oversight that was entirely unlike Abigail sent chills down his spine and raised the hair on the back of his neck.

It swung open on silent hinges. Will made sure not to let it hit the wall.

When it was open enough for him to step inside, the knife slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with an earth-shattering clatter.

Abigail lay on the floor of the kitchen in a pool of her own blood. Her clothes and her beautiful auburn hair were soaked in it, her pale skin stained crimson.

The next thing Will was aware of was being at her side. His knees ached, and he registered distantly that he must have fallen to them.

Shaking hands caressed her face like the most precious porcelain. Her throat had been cut nearly from ear to ear. Bruises marred the skin of her forearms, offensive blossoms of purple and blue pressed into her by merciless fingers. She had put up a fight. And she had died in the kitchen.

Abigail had died in their kitchen.

Will couldn’t hear anything. Abigail faded in and out of focus in front of him, her crystal blue eyes focused on nothing. Infinitely on nothing. It was much easier now to contemplate infinity than it had been in the Cappella Palatina.

Abigail was infinitely precious to him, infinitely loved and cherished, and now she was infinitely dead. There was no gathering this teacup back together. The magnificent shards of her had ricocheted to somewhere neither he nor Hannibal could retrieve them.

He heard an animal noise of anguish through the static in his ears and realized that he had made it.

When a sickly-sweet cloth reeking of chloroform covered his nose and mouth and his arms were yanked behind his back, he almost welcomed the darkness that encompassed him.

Notes:

I’m sorry…you know what they say about Abigail and kitchens…

Chapter 25 Notes:

Literally at work rn but I can’t make you guys wait any more for this chapter (I love this chapter)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Hannibal Lecter was going to tear Florence apart.

He would eviscerate it, dig his claws in and open it wide from groin to gullet and reach in with ruinous hands to dig out the offending organs. He would bathe in its blood, drink the viscous fluid and keep the red of it soaked under his nails until it dried into a rusted maroon.

For whoever had butchered Abigail in this way would wish they could crawl back into the womb when he had his hands on them. He would make them wish he would eat them; what he had in store for them was much less merciful than death and posthumous consumption. He would consume their fear and revel in the taste.

But right now, it was Abigail’s blood that was drying on her own skin, pasting her hair to the gaping wound in her throat. Hannibal held her, anyway, ignoring the marks it was leaving on his own skin.

He smelt Will on her. And beneath that, he smelt chloroform.

He would tear Florence apart indeed, Il Mostro di Firenze, from sea level to skyline so that the horizon collapsed in the wreckage.

Abigail cradled in his arms, Hannibal surveyed the room for anything that could hint to the presence of his prey. His eye caught on a white envelope on the entryway table. He stood, bearing her weight easily, and laid her on the couch. Red flakes fluttered down from her skin to adorn the golden fabric and Abigail looked even paler against its surface.

The letter was addressed to Hannibal. It was from Alana Verger.

Dear Dr. Fell,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. It has been some time since we last met, and Mason Verger has invited Margot and I to be his dinner guest at Muskrat Farm at the Verger estate in Northern Maryland in two days' time. He says Will Graham will be in attendance and would be delighted by our presence.

This information is yours to do with what you will,

Alana Verger

Hannibal folded up the letter, and lifted Abigail back into his arms, away from the blood and viscera that stained the floor and fabric around her. He draped his coat over her body and left their home in Florence.

Will was covered in blood. In Abigail’s blood. He was forced to watch as Garret Jacob Hobbs—who was not her father anymore and hadn’t been for a long time—opened her throat on his cruel blade. He was forced to watch her sputter and die under his helpless hands, shaking and straining to keep her beautiful blood in her body where it belonged, to keep pumping the heart that was half of his own. But it wasn’t working. The light in her eyes was dimming and he would never feel the warmth of her smile again.

He couldn’t save her on his own.

He couldn’t bring her back alone.

Where was Hannibal?

Will jolted, gasping for air even as the desperate inhales made his brain throb viciously in his skull. He blinked blurriness out of his vision and felt the remnants of something wet on his face.

“Mr. Graham, how good of you to join us.”

He didn’t recognize that voice. And his head was pounding. He tried to lift his hand to his face, but found it bound to something in front of him. Panic overrode his senses. He yanked harder, to no avail.

“Calm yourself, you’re not dead just yet.”

Will forced his eyes open. He was bound in a rolling chair, his wrists cuffed to a lap bar in front of him, sitting at a dark wooden table. He tried to kick out with his legs, forcing his foggy brain to communicate with his limbs, but found them similarly restrained.

“Normally I have more of an exciting welcome for my guests,” the voice said, sounding almost gleeful, “but I know you’re a wily one, Mr. Graham. Couldn’t risk having you slip away into the shadows again.”

Will’s vision finally focused, and he was able to make out the man sitting across the expansive table from him. He wore a self-satisfied smirk and had cruel blue eyes. Will thought that his face was distantly familiar, but he turned his attention to the room around them. It was a vast and richly furnished dining room, with vases of flowers lining the mantelpiece and candles affording dim light to the gloomy space.

“You’re looking a little out of it,” the man said. “That’s the drug we’ve laced you with. It’s specifically made for vampires, to lower our senses and stop the healing properties of our blood. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Will grit his teeth. “Who are you?”

The man laughed; the sound full of dark amusement. “Margot didn’t tell you about me while you were filling her with your venom? I'm her big brother. I must say I have a protective instinct for her. You can call me Mason, not that you’ll be needing to for long.”

Feeling disoriented and unbalanced, Will struggled to wrap his mind around what the man was saying. Whether it was another side effect of the drugs or a product of his grief, Will didn’t care to think about too hard. Still, a corner of his mind managed to feel relieved that Mason didn’t seem to know about Hannibal. He intended to keep it that way.

“You made a poorly miscalculated error when you allowed my sister to beguile you with her feminine wiles,” Mason said, his voice losing some of its good humor. “You took something from me. I’m afraid I’ve had to take something from you, too, Mr. Graham.”

Will’s vision blanked again. But he knew the cause of it this time; it was pure and unadulterated rage, lodging somewhere in his throat and making him lightheaded with its potency.

“I am going to kill you slowly,” Will said, dragging his words out darkly, “for what you did to her.”

Mason tsked, shaking his head slowly. “You’re in no state to be killing anyone, I’m afraid. Which reminds me. Cordell!”

At the sound of his call, a large, portly man with the smile of someone indulging a small, irritable child entered the room.

“Mr. Graham is looking a little too...murderous over there. I think it’s time for another dose, don’t you?”

The man—Cordell—nodded. “Of course.”

He walked briskly over to Will and pulled a syringe from his coat pocket, along with a small vile. He pulled Will’s sleeve up his tense arm with clinical ease and distance, and didn’t bother with any type of sterilization before situating the needle over a vein in his forearm.

“This may sting,” Cordell said delightedly, and depressed the plunger.

The effects were immediate. A thick storm cloud shrouded Will’s mind, a feeling like cold rain drenching his bones and thunder shaking the marrow in his bones. Will blinked furiously against the onslaught, but it didn’t help alleviate the effects of the burning liquid traveling through his veins like poison.

“Would you like to test its effectiveness?” Mason asked. “Cordell, don’t bleed him too much, just enough to excite him. Well, me.”

Cordell procured a scalpel in his broad hands and pressed it to the skin just under the puncture wound, digging in with its point until a bead of blood appeared. He pulled it away, and Will watched as it continued to emit small jewels of ruby red.

“Amazing. Don’t you agree, Mr. Graham?” Cordell smiled.

Will bared his teeth and heard himself growl through the tempest in his mind.

“His bark is much worse than his bite, Cordell, don’t worry,” Mason said dismissively.

Will’s eyes narrowed. He lurched forward, as far as the chair would allow, and sank his teeth deep into the soft flesh of Cordell’s face. Normally, when he tasted blood, it made his incisors sharpen, but with the drug lowering his inhibitions they stayed disappointingly dull.

But it was still enough to inflict damage. Cordell cried out, the sound high and shrill, and Will tore away with the chunk of skin clamped firmly between his teeth. He spit it onto his plate, cringing at the sweaty taste.

“Mr. Graham,” Mason chided, as if he were disciplining a small dog. “Terrible table manners.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Cordell’s pudgy hand clench around the handle of the scalpel, and he shied away instinctively.

“Do not touch him,” Mason hissed. “Don’t waste him.”

Cordell, scowling down at Will, shoved the weapon back into his pocket and stepped back into the corner, a hand to the wound in his face.

“Do you know how valuable vampire blood is to the right buyer?” Mason asked when Cordell was out of Will’s line of sight.

“You seem to love the sound of your own voice,” Will said, and heard that his words were slurred from the drug. He frowned.

Mason ignored his remark. “I’ve likely already wasted hundreds of dollars with those few precious drops on your arm. I’ll have to save some for myself, and maybe for Margot, too.”

“That’s your plan?” Will asked. “Bleed me dry?”

“Precisely,” Mason replied, smiling brightly. “Cordell.”

Will heard the man approach him from behind, and thick fingers wrested his head to the side to bare the vein in his neck. Will tensed, seeing the glint of a needle in Cordell’s hand. He remembered the drugged dreams he had had of Abigail, of her lifeless eyes and bloodstained hair, and he writhed against the chair.

“No,” he snarled, “don’t.“

Then came the prick of the needle. His traitorous mind began to shut down, even as his body continued to twitch in forfeited protest.

“You won’t be nearly as comfortable the next time you wake,” Mason said from somewhere miles away. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Graham.”

When Hannibal boarded a plane to Maryland, there was still blood and dirt under his fingernails.

It was making his skin crawl, being unclean even in that tiny, insignificant way, but he kept his mind focused on what was more important. Finding Will. It was the only thing he could control: what happened to Will from here.

He had buried Abigail in the supple soil of the earth next to Will’s stream on the outskirts of the city. If he had had more time, he would have buried her in Wolf Trap in the winter, covered in snow. But at least by the stream, she would be nearer to Will.

As he distantly registered the takeoff of the plane, he thought that he might lock Will away when he found him. Somewhere only Hannibal would be able to find him; he’d keep the key tucked into the pockets of muscle between his ribs so that it poked into his lungs every time they expanded with breath. Anything to make sure that what had happened to Abigail couldn’t be done to Will; that he couldn’t be taken from Hannibal, ever.

In that moment, Hannibal believed that a caged bird was better than a dead bird, but Will may have disagreed with the sentiment.

He physically felt the distance lessen the closer they got to Maryland, the golden thread connecting him to Will taut with the tension of their separation. The one responsible for that separation would be made to pay.

Would he kill Mason Verger by his own hand, or would he allow Margot the honor? The psychiatrist in him told him to allow Margot the therapeutic release of at last ending the life of her tormentor and brother, but his animalistic instinct told him to crush whatever took Will and Abigail from him with his own fists.

He thought about Abigail asking to be there when Freddie Lounds died, and how Will had protested vehemently. Hannibal realized with a measure of surprise that he was glad for that fact now. Abigail had never seen death, and he wanted to keep it that way. Her mind would not flourish in the darkness of it the way that Will’s and his own did. She was different in that way, and it was part of what Hannibal loved about her.

Hannibal had to shut his eyes against a wave of pain. He loved her. Like he had loved Mischa, and they were both gone. It seemed like the things he held onto with a white-knuckled grip were the ones most cruelly ripped from him, leaving him with only a gaping sense of absence and wrongness.

He returned his thoughts to Will. And knew that he would not allow him to be taken, as well.

If Will was the Lamb, then Hannibal was the Devil. And Mason Verger had no idea what Hell he had just unleashed.

Abigail was in front of him, hands clasped tightly to her bleeding throat. Her eyes were wide, with panic and shock and betrayal.

Will was holding the knife. The blade was dripping with her blood.

He woke thrashing against relentless restraints, thick Velcro straps digging into the soft flesh of his wrists and ankles and constricting tightly across his chest. Ordinarily the weakness of anything less than steel would have made him scoff, but he was feeling quite weak himself.

He had felt off at Mason Verger’s table, but now he felt like his head was ready to fall off his shoulders with the slightest breeze. His limbs were weak, and his vision stayed hazy this time, no matter how much he tried to blink the fog away. Each time his eyelids closed, they threatened to stay that way.

He felt the prick of something sharp in his inner elbow. A needle. He turned his head slowly, but even that much effort had his stomach twisting violently with nausea as his head pounded.

There was a fluid bag on a hook near the bed he lay in in a sparsely furnished room with clinical white walls. The bag was full of blood.

“That blood is coming from you.”

Will startled, the IV yanking painfully at his skin as his body jolted.

Cordell chuckled. “Sorry to scare you, Mr. Graham. I just thought you might like to be aware that that blood is being siphoned from your body.”

Will tried to open his mouth, but his tongue felt thick and heavy. His lips were dry, and at his feeble attempt to move them, they cracked, and he tasted something metallic.

Cordell continued, unbothered by Will’s pained grasp for words. “The average human has one and a half gallons of blood in their body. Vampires have closer to two. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

Will looked back at the bag of blood on the hook, only moving his eyes this time. There couldn’t have been more than half a gallon there.

“Humans can lose forty percent of their blood and live,” Cordell continued, as if reading Will’s thoughts. “But I’m confident that I can get at least a gallon out of you before you go into hypovolemic shock. What do you think, Mr. Graham?”

Will licked his lips and fought past the dryness of his tongue, even as it stuck like cotton to the roof of his mouth. “I think I’m going to enjoy seeing the look on your face when you die.”

Cordell laughed again, and the sound grated on Will’s nerves. Why did this man laugh so damn much? “If I were Mason, I wouldn’t risk leaving you alive this long. After all, wild animals do instinctually bite back.”

His hand lifted to his cheek at his own words, and Will felt a grim sense of satisfaction at the pain that flitted across the man’s face when his fingers brushed the bandage there.

“But Mason is much more gracious than me,” Cordell said, catching himself and quickly lowering his hand. “He’ll let you live long enough to see his special guests for dinner.”

Will knew immediately who he was talking about, though his head was beginning to throb again, this time even more viciously. Margot and Alana. Mason had said that Will made a mistake when he turned Margot, never mind that it hadn’t even been his choice. Mason wouldn’t care to listen to reason; he would get his amusement from anywhere he could.

“I must go attend to dinner plans, now,” Cordell informed him courteously. “But I’ll be sure to be here when your body succumbs to the blood loss.”

With that, and another piggish smile, he turned and left Will alone to his swimming thoughts.

Notes:

Comments and kudos very appreciated!! 🩷

Chapter 26 Summary:

Happy reunions and just a little blood loss.

Notes:

Being so honest in the chat rn I did not proofread this 💔

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Margot refused to fly in on Mason’s dime. So, they opted for driving to Maryland. Alana was at the wheel; Margot didn’t trust herself to operate a piece of heavy machinery right now.

“How do you feel, love?” Alana asked. “I know neither of us are feeling particularly great, but...”

Margot let out a sardonic laugh. “My brother’s amazing. Can’t wait to reunite with the family.”

Alana smiled, but the expression was pained, like she had just bitten into something sour. “I will never understand how he put you through that.”

Margot looked out her window. After all these years, she still found herself avoiding the sympathy in her wife’s gaze. “He’s a sadist. He didn’t care about hurting me, he just cared about having his fun.”

“And now he’s having his fun with Will,” Alana said, the steering wheel creaking under her tightening grip. “Do you think he’s moved on from you?”

“Maybe,” Margot said slowly. She felt herself shiver at the next words that left her mouth. “At least, physically. Clearly, he’s still reaching for ways to torment me.”

“He doesn’t see you as an equal,” Alana said.

“I’ll never be equal to him,” Margot scoffed. “I’m no better than a pig.”

“Psychopaths are often narcissists. Everyone is less than to Mason.”

“That’s why he gets off on teaching his prized pigs to eat people,” Margot added, her voice dry in a way that her eyes were unfortunately not. “It’s not even wrong to him; just pigs eating pigs.”

Alana paused before quietly asking, “Do you think you’ll be afraid when you see him?”

Margot exhaled shakily. “I’ve always been afraid of Mason. Just the sight of him awakens this—this animalistic terror in me.”

“Those aren’t your words,” Alana said knowingly with a glance at her wife.

“No,” Margot agreed. “They’re Hannibal’s. He said that was why I failed when I tried to kill Mason; I let him back me into a corner.”

Alana visibly stiffened at her choice of words, but Margot continued.

“But even if I’m terrified, I know that I have to do this. The fear, it’s...irrelevant. I put Will in this situation. I owe it to him to get him out of it.”

Alana shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, we aren’t getting Will out of anything. We aren’t putting ourselves in a position to be hurt by Mason, Margot.”

Margot shot her a look. “You mean I’m not.”

“Exactly,” Alana said. “The only one who can save Will now is Hannibal.”

Margot returned her eyes to the road, her stomach churning uselessly. She felt caged and cornered as she said, “That’s nothing new.”

The room around him was fuzzy and out of focus, like Will was looking at it through a thick sheet of glass. He felt disconnected from his body, watching like a specter as he shivered in the crude excuse for a hospital bed he was strapped to.

The door wasn't locked. A mocking reminder of how useless Cordell had rendered his body under Mason’s cruel instruction.

Will closed his eyes and tried not to see Abigail behind them. He didn’t want to remember her that way; he wanted to remember her happy, smiling at him as they stood knee-deep in the stream just outside Florence, laughing as Hannibal attempted to teach her some culinary practice that went way over her head, sleeping peacefully next to him as he caressed her hair gently. She loved when they played with her hair.

A creaking sound tore Will away from his thoughts. The door was opening. Will tensed, prepared for Cordell or Mason to enter and talk useless circles around him as they slowly drained him of his life. He had already stopped looking at the fluid bag to see how much of his blood was no longer in his body.

But neither of them walked in.

It was Hannibal.

Relief flooded Will’s quickly emptying veins, but right on its tail was a jolt of fear.

“Where’s Mason?” Will asked.

“Dead,” Hannibal said calmly. He was at Will’s bedside a few moments later, and Will blinked away his disorientation at how quickly the scene was progressing.

“Abigail,” Will croaked, his throat dry and sore.

“I know,” Hannibal replied, his eyes obscured by shadows. He perched on the edge of the bed, taking one of Will’s hands in his own. A corner of Will was confused at the lack of urgency in Hannibal’s actions, but a vastly larger part was relieved to not be alone anymore. Hannibal’s hands moved to Will’s face, caressing and brushing sweat-soaked curls out of his eyes.

Will allowed the touch for a moment longer before attempting to sit up, expecting Hannibal to help him when he faltered. Instead, Hannibal pushed him back down onto the bed by his shoulders, his hands gentle but unyielding.

Will’s breath caught. “Hannibal?”

“Dear Will,” Hannibal said softly, tracing the vein through which the IV ran. “It’s better this way. You’re better lifeless.”

The shadowed doorway emitted another figure. Will watched it with sickness and dread lining his stomach.

Abigail stepped out of the shadows, soaked in blood like a sacrificial lamb. “See? It’s your fault, Will.”

Before Will could open his mouth—to scream? To cry, to beg for her forgiveness?—the shadows coalesced into obsidian hands that reached for his throat, choking off any sound he would have made.

“You aren’t looking too good, Mr. Graham.”

Will could barely open his eyes, even as his consciousness returned to him, thick and slow like molasses. He felt his breaths coming faster—a remnant of the nightmare Mason’s voice had woken him from or a symptom of the blood loss?—and he would have turned on his side to empty his stomach from the dizziness that enveloped him if he didn’t feel so weak. His limbs felt full of lead, and his bones felt constricted by his skin, like it was pulled too tightly.

The room was empty save Mason and himself.

Hannibal wasn’t there. Neither was Abigail.

“But you’ve brought this on yourself, I’m afraid,” Mason continued. Will forced his eyes open, feeling sweat drip into them as a reward for his efforts, to see Mason standing over the bed he was strapped to. “You gave Margot something she didn’t need.”

Will opened his mouth to tell Mason that he had brought that onto himself, but all that escaped his cracked lips was a quiet whine.

“Don’t try to speak, Mr. Graham, save your strength,” Mason said, and punctuated his words with a rough pat on Will’s shoulder. Will winced at the contact; it sent his head reeling, and the room began to spin. “Did you know that Cordell took a gallon of your blood?”

Gathering from the last vestiges of his waning strength, Will managed to grit out, “I hope Margot kills you slowly.”

“Margot isn’t going to kill me,” Mason exclaimed, seemingly outraged at the suggestion. “She needs me.”

“You get all your power from dependence,” Will panted as his lungs screamed in protest. “But what you don’t real—realize is that she hasn’t needed you since...since she met Alana Bloom.”

Mason’s gaze hardened to steel; his blue eyes flinty. “Cordell.”

“Yes, Mason?” Cordell stepped out of the corner, and Will startled at his presence.

“Mr. Graham is looking tired,” Mason said. “Sedate him, please.”

Will’s muscles tightened, trying and failing to squirm away from the needle that Cordell approached with.

Will gasped, straining his neck away, causing his head to become fuzzy with static. “No—”

The prick of the needle pushed him over a dark edge, and his nightmares rushed up quickly to embrace him.

Margot had only seen Muskrat Farm in her darkest nightmares for the past three years, and now that it was in front of her, she felt like she was floating outside herself.

The only grounding sensation was Alana’s hand, squeezing gently around her own as they approached the door. It swung open before they could knock, and the urge to run overtook Margot like a tidal wave.

“Margot and the famous Alana,” Mason crowed with delight, stepping aside to usher them across the threshold. Ice froze Margot’s spine when her heel crossed through the doorway. “Come in, come in. What a handsome pair you make.”

Alana looked about her with an air of apprehension but kept a calm expression on her face and her hand tightly clasped around Margot’s. Margot wouldn’t have been surprised if Alana felt her pulse beating against her fingers like an entrapped insect’s flapping wings.

“Dr. Bloom, so nice to meet you,” Mason greeted, offering a hand.

Alana took it with her free hand and gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wish I could say the same.”

Mason only laughed at the insult. “You do know how to pick them, Margot. Speaking of picking them, I’ve got a very special guest here, as I said in my letter, who I’m sure you’ve been dying to see again.”

“I hope for your sake that you haven’t hurt him,” Margot said quietly, the first words she’d spoken to him in years, and they managed to be a vague threat made on someone else’s behalf; Hannibal’s behalf.

Mason beamed. “Marriage becomes you, Margot, but meanness does not. You’re like a yipping chihuahua.”

Alana and Margot made brief eye contact, the knowledge of what awaited Mason passing between them. Whether or not Will was alive by the time Hannibal arrived, he was going to ensure that Mason wasn’t for much longer.

“There are bigger dogs out there, Mason,” Alana said vaguely.

He only seemed delighted by her ominous assertion. “We shouldn’t keep Mr. Graham waiting any longer. He was looking like he might be nearing his expiration date the last time I saw him.”

Now Alana’s hand became tense, but Mason was already sauntering off down the hallway. Margot pulled her after them, and they followed Mason around the corner and up a grand staircase. At the top, there was a room to the right that spilled soft golden light out of a door left ajar.

Mason disappeared into the room, and Alana and Margot locked eyes one more time before following.

The table was set to perfection, and the sight of it made Margot nauseous. Candles and frilled tablecloths and potted greenery adorned the room that was at once intimately familiar and alien to her.

At the far end of the long table sat Will Graham.

And Margot suddenly felt that maybe she wasn’t the most miserable person in the room.

Will was unconscious, despite being restrained into a sitting position and dressed in a tailored suit. His head lolled against his rapidly rising and falling chest, and his skin appeared clammy and pale. From what little of his face was visible through his damp curls, she could see that his face was gaunt, his veins standing out starkly against his ghostly white skin. A portly man stood behind him, a pleasant smile on his face.

There was an IV pole on the other side of Will with a large amount of crimson blood in it, and it was still filling.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, ladies,” Mason said congenially, halting Alana in her tracks. “Or anything Mr. Graham will regret, I should say.”

Slowly, and at Mason’s enthusiastic gesture, Alana and Mason took the seats that had been conspicuously placed for them. Mason sat at the head of the table, across the expanse from Will, and Alana and Margot were sat on either side of him. Margot didn’t miss the fact that this arrangement was all about separation; Margot and Alana with the table between them, and Will nearly on the other side of the room.

“Mason,” Margot began, her voice thick with trepidation. “This was not Will’s fault. I made him do it.”

“Oh, I know, dear Margot,” Mason assured her, taking a bite of the juicy meat on his plate. Margot looked down at her own plate with vague disgust. “I would expect nothing less from a Verger.”

Margot looked down the table at Will. Even unconscious, he was shivering slightly, barely perceptible twitches to his limp limbs. “Then why are you doing this to him?”

“No one deserves to be the one who turns a Verger,” Mason replied. “Consider this his penance. His death will be very useful to me. And, of course, we’ve had some funny times together. Haven’t we, Mr. Graham?”

At the sound of his name, Will emitted a soft noise, barely audible from the distance at which they sat. His head lifted an inch or two but immediately fell back down against his chest.

Margot heard Alana’s sharp intake of breath, and Margot felt similarly. She hadn’t even realized Will had enough blood left flowing to his brain to support a state of consciousness.

Mason was impervious to their shock. “You should know, Margot, that I also killed the man who turned me, with the help of dear old dad. It’s like a Verger rite of passage!”

Margot stiffened. “Whatever passage that rite led you to, I want no part in it.”

Mason tutted, affecting disappointment. “Well, your options are to kill him mercifully now or I’ll keep draining him of life. A pity, he was so vivacious. He tried to bite Cordell’s face off just a few nights ago.”

“Look at him,” Alana said, her voice cracking as she gestured to Will’s prone form. “He’s going to die at any moment whether Margot kills him or not. He needs medical attention.”

Throwing his head back in glee, Mason laughed. “That’s the idea, Dr. Bloom.”

“I’m not killing him, Mason,” Margot said quietly.

“Don’t feel so pressured to decide right now, sis,” Mason told her. “Just eat. Enjoy the meal Cordell prepared us. It should never be said that I’m not a generous host.”

Margot looked at her brother, who gave chocolate to young children and collected the tears of the people he hurt, delighting in the carnage he caused. Then she looked at Will, who had a penchant for collecting strays and who had nearly broken his mind in the pursuit of justice, who was now suffering at Mason’s hands because of Margot. Because she was an animal, who lashed out at good people when she was afraid.

Alana was watching Will, too. Both of them sent out a plea into the universe—because surely God didn’t see them now—for Hannibal Lecter to be quick.

Notes:

For the sweet amazing people leaving me comments I have seen and read them and will hopefully have time to respond soon 🙏 but just know I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart and I’m still sorry for what I did to Abigail!!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷😭

Chapter 27 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hannibal did not dwell on the fact that he was back in Maryland. Nor did he dwell on the threshold of the Verger estate, stalking like a predator in the dead of night. In fact, he didn’t dwell on anything other than the simple priority of getting to Will.

To relieve the tension on the golden thread that bound them. To hold Will close and fill this cavernous space that had opened in his chest cavity.

He killed the arm guards with little finesse and much efficiency. None of them made a sound; Hannibal lowered their lifeless bodies to the floor so as to not alert the real prey. He did not divest them of their weapons. When he killed Mason Verger, he would kill him with his teeth.

The sound of quiet voices led him to a room on the second floor—although, he was not following the voices. Rather, he was following the scent of Will that he detected faintly in the house. Nevertheless, there was one voice that was louder and more boisterous than the rest that Hannibal couldn’t help but be drawn to. At the sound of it, Hannibal felt his upper lip curl in anticipation.

Hannibal did linger on this threshold. Any missteps tonight could lead to him burying another body.

He listened long enough to hear Mason tell Margot to kill Will. That was all he needed to hear. He entered the room on silent feet. His eyes did not land on Will; if he saw him now, there was no accounting for his actions.

Mason had made the fatal error of seating himself with his back to the door. He was a fool, in every sense of the word.

Margot saw him first, but nothing in her expression betrayed that she was aware of his presence. She looked once at Mason and then at Alana, whose face lost some of its tightness at the sight of Hannibal, as if his arrival was a matter that she had found herself questioning. He wanted to berate her for her lack of faith but held his tongue.

Down by her thigh, Margot held her palm out with her fingers spread: Wait.

Hannibal paused.

She swallowed thickly, her throat bobbing visibly. “Did you ever love me, Mason? In your own sick and twisted way?”

“Margot,” Mason said, as if he were talking to a small child. “You’ve always been dramatic, but this is new even for you.”

“I might have forgiven you,” Margot whispered. Small drops of salt beaded her eyelashes. “But you always took it too far.”

“If you didn’t like my chocolate, Margot, you should have fought harder,” Mason chided, amusement coloring his voice.

Margot blinked. And nodded. “That was all I needed to know. I hope you find what you were looking for in the next life, Mason.”

Her words were permission. Hannibal sprung into motion, not bothering to enjoy the look on Mason Verger’s face as his fangs ripped into his throat. He felt the jugular vein burst and heard Mason sputter as his blood colored the spotless tablecloth that adorned the table. He tore the tunnel of muscle out of its cage of flesh, robbing Mason of the air that fueled his sadistic mind. He continued to gasp for it anyway, his movements sporadic and weak, flailing like an infant.

Hannibal finally allowed himself the honor of looking down the table at Will. And anger burned deep inside him as he registered the bag of blood on an IV pole behind him.

At the sight of Hannibal’s attack, Cordell had lunged for Will, seeing his only chance for survival was to use Will as collateral.

Will, miraculously, had his head up. And there was a steak knife in his hand.

Hannibal shouldn’t have been as shocked as he was. Everything was miraculous where Will was concerned. And whoever had seated Will that near a weapon deserved whatever fate Will chose to bring upon them with it.

One of Cordell’s arms went in front of Will, moving to put him in a headlock. Will struck out and down with the knife clutched in his bloodless fingers, stabbing it through weak muscles and bones in the back of Cordell’s hand and through the dark wood, effectively pinning his hand to the table.

With the last drops of his strength bleeding out with the blood that now seeped from the wound in Cordell’s hand, Will’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed against the bar that held him in place with a shudder.

Cordell screamed, the sound piercing even through the sudden chaos that had enveloped the room. He moved to strike out at Will’s prone form with his free hand, but the click of metal halted his attempt in midair.

At some point Alana had risen, and she now stood with the barrel of a gun inches from Cordell’s head. “Don’t. Touch him.”

The golden threat had been stretched as far as it could go, and Hannibal dutifully collected its slack as he approached Will.

He went to his knees at Will’s side in a reverent position of worship. Will’s head did not have the strength to lift, so Hannibal lent his own. He cradled Will’s face with gentle hands, and even though it was streaked with sweat and the healthy pallor of it was all but forgotten, the feeling of Will’s skin finally in contact with his own was like a soothing balm to his soul. His soul had been burning, but as always, Will was like a well of endless life.

Will’s eyes blinked sluggishly, and Hannibal’s heart clenched with the fear that they would not open again.

“Do not sleep, mylimasis,” he murmured, brushing curls away from his eyes. “I know it’s hard, but please don’t leave me now.”

Will shivered and his teeth chattered, the lack of blood in his body leeching him of warmth. His breaths stuttered in his chest. “Not—going.”

Hannibal pressed a kiss to his forehead, tasting Will on his lips.

The taste of Will was divine. And someone had taken the most vital, most potent part of him and hung it up in a bag. Had left Will cold and devoid of his strength, depriving his beautiful mind of air.

Hannibal's eyes lifted slowly and dangerously to that someone. Cordell was still simpering, his hand stuck mercilessly to the table.

“Give me the key,” he said darkly.

Alana stepped closer with the gun, nudging Cordell’s temple with the cool metal to punctuate Hannibal’s demand.

The man’s hand dug into his pocket clumsily and emerged with a small key on a silver chain. Hannibal took it before Cordell could offer it and turned back to Will. He removed the IV first, frowning at the bruise that bloomed at the site. Cordell had been careless. He worked quickly and efficiently to unlock the restraints that held Will down.

Once he was free, Will slumped forward out of the chair. Hannibal caught him, reveling in the familiar weight of him in his arms. Will was trembling so hard that it felt like he could shatter at any moment. Hannibal held him tighter, even as he knew that Will was made of tougher stuff than glass. He tucked Will’s head into the crook of his neck and rested his chin on top of it, providing as much warmth as he could.

He regarded Alana over Will’s bowed head. “Kill him, Alana. Or give the gun to me.”

Alana’s mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Her arm lowered, and she handed the weapon to Hannibal grip-first.

One arm holding Will to his chest, Hannibal took the gun with the other and rested it on the table. He did not even hear Cordell’s whimpering now; everything but Will had faded to background music, irrelevant and ineffectual to him. In one swift movement Hannibal dislodged the knife from table and hand and plunged it deep into Cordell’s gut before yanking it free. The man collapsed, disappearing from view.

“It will take several minutes for him to die,” Hannibal said, his eyes narrowing slightly at Alana. “Do not be merciful, Alana.”

Alana nodded slowly, her expression grim.

Hannibal managed to maintain a facade of calmness even as his world unraveled in his arms. “Will is going into hypovolemic shock.”

Alana blanched. “Is he—”

“Dr. Lecter,” said a breathless voice, interrupting Alana’s words. Hannibal turned to Margot. “Follow me. Will needs the medical ward.”

Hannibal’s grip tightened on Will, who remained pliant and unresponsive in his grasp. If he wasn’t holding something so infinitely precious, he would have grabbed the IV pole himself. A protective, animalistic part of him bared its teeth at the thought of anyone else handling Will’s blood.

But he was holding something precious. So, he gestured to the fluid bag with his chin. “Bring his blood.”

It was disconcertingly easy to lift Will into his arms. Will’s weight had dwindled to almost nothing, and he felt the absence of his blood in the way he sagged limply against Hannibal’s chest as he followed Margot through the Verger estate with brisk steps.

“Abigail,” Will muttered.

Hannibal’s heart lurched but he did not stop moving. Will’s eyes were closed, the lids webbed with too-dark veins that looked nearly black against his ashen skin. His cracked, pale lips were parted around her name, and Hannibal didn’t have the heart to gently hush his fevered words. He hoped that however Will was seeing Abigail, she was happy. Will deserved to take refuge in his stream with her.

“Hannibal, is he going to live?” Alana asked desperately, struggling to keep up with Hannibal’s much longer stride.

He ignored her and followed Margot into the medical room. Loathe as he was to let him go so soon after finding him, Hannibal laid Will on the bed. He pushed aside vials and glasses in various drawers and cabinets and without looking said to Alana and Margot, who hovered uncertainly at the door, “Please leave.”

He heard their feet shuffling away and the quiet click of the door closing. Lost in the throes of a dream, Will whimpered, sweat beading across his hairline.

Hannibal returned to his side and laid the back of his hand against Will’s head. It was cold to the touch, much colder than any human’s skin should be. Hannibal took the blanket that was folded at the foot of the bed, frowning at its thinness, but spread it over Will’s quivering form anyway. His undead body had the ability to navigate through extremes, but his temperature was dangerously low even for a vampire. He knew without checking that Will’s pulse was rabbiting weakly in his throat.

Hannibal prepared an IV, using the opposite arm of the abused vein Cordell had. He hooked it to a fluid bag of saline, dripping precious life back into Will’s veins and oxygen into his brain. In another vein, Hannibal connected the fluid bag of blood back to Will, this time directing it into his body.

“Listen to me, Will.” Hannibal patted Will’s cheek gently to rouse him from his fever dream. Will’s eyes fluttered open weakly, the blue dulled by exhaustion and pain. “You need blood.”

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, his eyes already falling shut again. “Are you really here?”

Hannibal should have killed Mason slower. Should have fed him his own entrails. He allowed none of his rage to touch Will, however, as he drew gentle circles on Will’s face with his thumb to keep his waning attention. With his free hand, he took one of Will’s in his own and began to massage warmth back into his frigid fingers.

“I am here,” Hannibal told him. “And I will not allow you to be taken from me again. You’re safe now.”

“Abigail,” Will said again brokenly, the name spoken like a litany or a plea.

Hannibal closed his eyes against a wave of pain and hurt, bringing Will’s hand to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

Will took a particularly large breath that sounded more like a gasp which lodged painfully in his lungs. The sound spurred Hannibal back into action.

“You need blood, Will,” he said again, more insistently this time. He moved to cradle Will’s head in one hand and pressed his other wrist softly but insistently against Will’s bloodless lips. “Drink.”

Will’s tongue swiped weakly against the sensitive skin of Hannibal’s inner wrist, and Hannibal’s heart surged in his chest.

“Drink, mylimasis.”

Will’s fangs sunk into the vein Hannibal bared for him sluggishly. Hannibal bore all of his weight in one hand and kept him steady as he drank slowly and absently.

He tried to withdraw, but Hannibal held him there and pushed desperately, “More, Will.”

Will whined but obeyed, and Hannibal only let up when he suspected that Will’s body and mind physically couldn’t take being awake any longer. Hannibal laid his precious head back onto the pillow, watching his eyes dance behind his eyelids. He was still far too pale and shook from head to toe, but Hannibal felt marginally better knowing that he had warm blood in him to aid in the efforts of the saline drip.

“Rest now,” Hannibal told him softly. “I will be here.”

Even through his weakness, Will managed to dart a hand out to grasp onto Hannibal’s wrist with a firm grip and tug.

Hannibal read the request without much thought. He eased into the small bed, careful not to jostle Will’s limp body. He wrapped him up in his arms, pulling him against his chest and willing his own warmth into him. Will’s nose was cold against Hannibal’s neck but he didn’t mind; if anything, it urged Hannibal to pull him closer.

He could tell that Will was fighting against the hold exhaustion and fatigue had on him; his eyelashes fluttered restlessly against Hannibal’s neck, like they were jolting open anytime sleep tried to fully claim him. Hannibal ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of Will’s neck, trying to relax and unravel his tense muscles. Will was already weak, and his tension and anxiety was sapping any drops of strength he had left.

“Sleep, please,” Hannibal murmured against his hair. “Just close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.”

The hand that Will had twisted in the material of Hannibal’s shirt at his wrist tightened and loosened reflexively, still trying to keep himself awake.

Hannibal sighed, and Will tensed further at the sound, although the movement was weak and disjointed. “Don’t...don’t se—sedate me.”

Hannibal closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the crown of Will’s head; that was exactly what he had been considering doing, and Will knew him enough to know it. There was a time when he would have done so even without Will’s permission, but now all he did was softly reassure Will, “I won’t. But you need to sleep.”

“Trying,” Will whispered, and Hannibal found some comfort in the fact that he seemed to be losing the battle for his wakefulness by some degree.

“No, you’re not,” Hannibal stated simply but softly. “Are you afraid of your dreams? What awaits you in the darkness of sleep?”

Will’s only response was a quivering exhale, and Hannibal knew he was right.

“Just listen to my voice, mylimasis.”

He continued to card through Will’s soft curls with one hand, the other holding him flush to Hannibal to offer his warmth. In that moment, Hannibal felt his own tiredness catch up with him. He hadn’t slept since the day he found Abigail’s body in their kitchen. His words were slow and quiet as he spoke, and Will eventually fell asleep to the sound of Hannibal telling him the story of Achilles and Patroclus.

“They’re asleep,” Alana whispered to Margot. She peered in through a small crack in the door at the small bed where Hannibal lay with Will wrapped protectively in his embrace. Will’s face was turned into Hannibal’s neck, and she couldn’t see much of him as he was wrapped tightly in a thin white blanket. Hannibal’s expression was lined and framed with tension even in sleep, and Alana wondered how taxing it must have been for him to be apart from Will.

Margot exhaled as Alana silently closed the door. She put her head in her hands and muttered, “Thank god he’s okay. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not, love,” Alana assured, pulling Margot into her arms. Margot stayed stiff, her muscles taut as if she were refusing to allow herself the simple pleasure of Alana’s comfort.

She pulled away after a moment. “If I had never gone to Will in the first place, Mason wouldn’t have come after him.”

Alana sighed. “You did what you had to do.”

Margot scoffed bitterly. “I don’t think Dr. Lecter would see it that way.”

“Hannibal won’t want to be seeing much of anything besides Will for a while,” Alana said with a small smile. “He doesn’t blame you, Margot. He knows you, remember?”

Margot wiped at the tears that sprung to her eyes. “He knows that I’m manic and I tried to kill my brother.”

“You aren’t manic, honey,” Alana replied calmly, and rubbed up and down Margot’s arms soothingly. “And if I recall, didn’t Hannibal encourage you to kill Mason?”

“Yes,” Margot said weakly.

“See? He doesn’t blame you for what happened here.”

Margot shrugged Alana’s touch away. “But what if I blame myself? This is what I do; I get scared, cornered like—like a wild animal, and I hurt the people who are kind to me. I hurt Will, Lana.”

Alana furrowed her brow. “Are you worried that Will never forgive you for what you did?”

“I don’t know,” Margot said despairingly. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

“If there is anyone who would forgive you for being motivated by your fear, it’s Will Graham,” Alana told her pointedly. “But if you still can’t forgive yourself, then that’s something that will come with time.”

Margot sighed and finally fell into Alana’s open arms. She curled against her chest and Alana inhaled the scent of her.

“You’re still holding onto your anger for Mason,” Alana said. “And that’s completely understandable, but it’s making you blame yourself for the things you did to escape his cruelty.”

“Well, I’ve escaped it now,” Margot said with a sniff, humor in her voice that eased Alana’s nerves.

Alana hummed. “We have Hannibal Lecter to thank for that.”

They stayed in their embrace for a moment longer before Margot pulled away, wiping her eyes. She turned to move off down the hall.

“Where are you going?” Alana called, struggling to keep her voice low.

Margot said over her shoulder, “To get some more blankets for Hannibal and Will. And to find a bedroom for us to sleep in that isn’t Mason’s.”

Notes:

Thanks for reading :3🩷

Chapter 28 Summary:

Mason left some trauma in his wake.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When Hannibal woke, there was a blanket covering him. He frowned, displeased that someone had come and gone without him noticing. He looked down to check on Will, who was also covered with a much thicker quilt than the white one Hannibal had found.

Hannibal felt for Will’s pulse, pleased with how it was much closer to average than it had been last night. Will’s skin was still cold to the touch, but he wasn’t shivering anymore, and blood was returning color to his pallid face. He still needed rest, so Hannibal settled back in and continued stroking Will’s hair.

It wasn’t long before Will began to show signs of waking, with his breathing becoming quicker as he twitched in his sleep. Then, his eyes burst open and he sat bolt upright in the bed, his gaze vacant and scared as he looked around the room.

“Will,” Hannibal said, trying to gain his attention. He didn’t attempt to grab or restrain him because he knew it would only panic him further.

He quickly regretted that decision, however, as in the span of a second Will took in the sight of the fluid bag full of blood next to him and without hesitation tore the IV that connected him to it out of his skin viciously.

Hannibal heard himself make an unhappy noise and grabbed Will’s hands before he could afford the same callous treatment to the needle supplying his saline. “Look at me, Will.”

Will wasn’t listening, squirming weakly against Hannibal’s hold as his breaths became frantic and his eyes widened wildly.

Hannibal held him fast and made an estimate based on the meager sunlight streaming through a small window on the plain wall. “It’s seven in the morning. You’re in Maryland. And your name is Will Graham.”

Hannibal purposely left out the part about them being at Muskrat Farm.

“I’m in Maryland,” Will croaked, and the fight drained from his arms as he surrendered to Hannibal’s hold. His gaze was still clouded, however, hazy with confusion and disorientation. “It’s seven. And my name...”

“Is Will Graham,” Hannibal finished steadily for him. He released one of Will’s arms to gently brush away the blood on Will’s skin from where he had torn out his IV. It wasn’t bleeding anymore but the wound hadn’t closed; loss of blood was causing Will’s vampiric abilities to be dampened. “Why did you remove your IV, Will?”

Will looked from his arm to the fluid bag and back to Hannibal with consternation. “Mason Verger...”

Hannibal cupped his face and swiped his thumb along the bruises under Will’s eyes carved there by sleeplessness. “Is dead. The blood was going back into your body, mylimasis.”

“What happened?” Will asked quietly.

“What do you remember?”

Will frowned as he visibly sorted through his memory and spoke slowly. “We were at the Cappella Palatina, and I took a train home alone.”

Dread pooled in Hannibal’s stomach. “Is that the last thing you remember?”

“No,” Will muttered. “I got home, and...”

Hannibal watched the realization dawn on his face. His expression crumpled, and he screwed his eyes shut tightly. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal swallowed thickly, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “Yes?”

“Abigail.”

“I know.”

At the confirmation, Will collapsed forward. He buried his face in Hannibal’s collarbone, and Hannibal’s arms went around him.

“My fault,” Will gasped.

“It isn’t,” Hannibal refuted immediately. “In no manner of possibility or reality is any of this your fault, Will.”

“I dreamed that I killed her,” Will whispered. His voice was broken, and Hannibal ached to put it back together. He cursed Mason silently for shattering what should have been only Hannibal’s to break and reshape as he saw fit. Now he was grasping for fragmented shards of his teacup, praying that none of the jagged edges caught either of them during the recollection.

“Dreams are not reality,” Hannibal reminded him. “And your name is Will Graham. You are not Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

“I felt him,” Will said desperately. He shuddered against Hannibal. “I was him.”

“You never were. What you feel does not negate what is true. You are not the killers you empathize with, and you loved Abigail in a way that her biological father never did.”

“Loved,” Will repeated weakly. “Because she’s gone now.”

Hannibal closed his eyes. “She is. But you’re still here, Will. Do not disappear.”

Hannibal felt Will begin to sag as his shaky breathing tapered off. He had exhausted himself as well as having halted the steady stream of blood he was being supplied with. Hannibal lowered him back down onto the bed, easily maneuvering his limp body. Will held his eyes the whole time, shattered blue meeting steady amber. Hannibal pressed a kiss to his sweat soaked head when it rested on the pillows and stood.

“Where are you going?” Will asked immediately, too weak even to grab for Hannibal.

“Nowhere,” Hannibal promised. “But you must allow me to reinsert your IV. You still need more blood, Will, or you will continue to feel this way.”

Will closed his eyes, and Hannibal expected it was more because of his body shutting down than any conscious effort of his own. “Wait ‘til I’m asleep?”

Hannibal frowned, hesitating. “You’d allow me to enter your IV while you are unconscious?”

“I’m asking you to,” Will murmured. “Please, Hannibal. I trust you. And I don’t want...”

Hannibal heard the words he didn’t say. I don’t want to feel the needle slide under my skin again. With the fear of wondering if it's giving or taking.

Hannibal knew that even if Will was intuitively aware that the blood was directed into his body and not away from it, his mind would still weaponize the weakness and limpness of his limbs to convince itself of the opposite. His fear would paralyze his common sense.

“You have my word, mylimasis. I will wait until you are asleep and not a moment before.”

In his dreams, Will waited in a kitchen that wasn’t his with a blade to Abigail’s throat. She whimpered and writhed against him, asking why he was doing this to her and begging him not to hurt her. But Will was unmoved by her tears and remained impassive, watching the door.

Then Hannibal walked in. And his eyes widened with betrayal and surprise.

And Will painted the kitchen with Abigail’s blood.

But when Will woke, drenched in sweat and shaking, Hannibal wasn’t there. Will was alone in the medical room at Muskrat Farm, waiting for someone to come in and reduce his frail body to even lower reaches of weakness.

Before he could think about what he was doing, Will threw the blankets—three of them—off himself and stood on shaking legs. He didn’t even feel the pain as he once again ripped both needles out of his arm with brutal efficiency. He quickly grasped for the nearest wall when his knees threatened to buckle and held onto it for support as he staggered to the door.

His hand shook on the knob. He expected it to be locked. But the door swung open, and Will stumbled into a grand hallway. He longed to call out for Hannibal, but he was afraid of who else might hear. So, he went as quietly as he could to the staircase and held onto the banister to keep himself upright.

Normally, he could smell Hannibal even if there were several rooms separating them due to his heightened senses, but even as he strained to do so now, he couldn’t. He could, however, smell the scent of meat cooking somewhere in the house, so Will followed that instead.

Eventually he found himself in the doorway of a large kitchen with expensive looking stainless-steel appliances; it wasn’t nearly as homely as their kitchen in Florence. Will wasn’t sure whether to attribute the darkness around the edges of his vision to that line of thought or to his blood loss.

“Hannibal,” Will rasped.

There wasn’t any sign of Hannibal’s surprise except for the quickness with which he turned. The only time Will had ever been able to catch him off guard was when he was cooking.

“Will, you shouldn’t be out of bed, much less walking on your own,” Hannibal chided. He hastened to Will’s side, offering his arm. Will took it, grateful for the stability as his limbs felt light enough to float away. Hannibal led him to a small table by a large window and sat him down with hands on both his shoulders.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” Will replied simply.

Hannibal’s gaze was discerning. He nodded. “I apologize for my absence.”

Will watched Hannibal return to the stove where he had been working when Will came in.

“How long have I been asleep for?” Will asked. He was glad for the warmth that wafted gently from the stove; he was still quite certain that whatever blood Hannibal had managed to get back inside him was frozen in his veins, chilling him from the inside out.

“Since this morning. I arrived at the estate yesterday,” Hannibal told him as he flipped something in the pan, offering a much-needed gauge for Will’s internal clock. He turned toward Will and eyed him sharply. “Your teeth are chattering.”

Will looked out the window. “It’s January. It’s cold.”

“Vampires do not feel the cold,” Hannibal shot back evenly, his voice stern. “And you’ve ripped out your IVs again.”

“I have.”

Hannibal’s expression was displeased. “How are you feeling?”

Will sighed. His temples were throbbing with an oncoming headache, but he figured that was a given. Hannibal was aware of his chronic migraines already. “Like my bones are empty.”

Hannibal nodded again, putting something in the pan that sizzled on contact. Will’s mouth began to water. “The loss of blood is much more devastating to a vampire than it is to the average human.”

Will rubbed his tightly closed eyes with a hand that tremored slightly with the strain of being lifted more than a foot above his side. “I hate feeling this way.”

“It will pass in time, mylimasis,” Hannibal assured. He added pointedly, “With rest. In bed.”

Deciding to come right out and say it before it festered and ate away at what little marrow was left in his bones, Will said, “I dreamed that I killed Abigail.”

Hannibal was quiet for a long time, and Will listened to the sounds of him moving around in the kitchen. This wound was still fresh, and neither of them were anxious to talk about it anytime soon.

“And even though you did not, the simple fact that you imagined you did frightened you,” Hannibal said.

“And I didn’t want to be alone with it,” Will said quietly.

“I should have asked Alana to watch over you. I apologize for the oversight, Will, I was aware of your nightmares.”

“Don’t apologize,” Will said a little sourly. “I shouldn’t need watching over. It wouldn’t have helped anyway.”

Hannibal hummed. “Wouldn’t have helped to have someone there?”

“Not if it was anyone other than you.”

Hannibal didn’t answer, and Will wondered if he’d caught him off guard again with the simple confirmation of what they both already knew—Will needed Hannibal. Just as surely as he needed blood in his veins.

Will closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. He didn’t realize he had begun to doze until several plates were placed in front of him. He opened his eyes to see Hannibal standing over him with a slight frown on his face. “I was going to bring this to you in bed.”

Will smiled as Hannibal claimed the seat across from him. “Breakfast in bed?”

“Indeed,” Hannibal agreed. Spread in between them were plates with crepes, bacon, sausage, and eggs.

“Comfort food,” Will observed. He pointed in the general direction of the sausage and bacon. “Who is that?”

“That is Mason Verger.” Hannibal pushed a plate toward Will. “And we are both in need of some comfort. More eating, less talking.”

Will obeyed. He managed to get through half a crepe before his mind caught up with itself and the taste turned to ash in his mouth. He stared down at the plate, memories plaguing him, hanging over him like spirits.

“What’s wrong, Will?”

Will felt himself shaking, and he knew it was not only because of the cold. “Sausage and eggs was the last meal Abigail had with her family.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Was it?”

“Her biological family,” Will corrected himself and lifted his eyes to Hannibal’s. “But you already knew that.”

“I did,” Hannibal agreed. “She mentioned it several times.”

Will’s eyes sharpened. “You’re trying to be my psychiatrist.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Hannibal.”

At Will’s unwavering tone, Hannibal swallowed and put his fork down. “As a result of your trauma largely manifesting itself in your mind through the abuse of your imagination, you tend to favor an avoidant coping mechanism.”

“And so instead of avoiding,” Will said slowly, “you’re forcing me to confront.”

Hannibal held his gaze. “I am.”

“But you’re not pushing me to talk about it,” Will replied. “Which is your favored coping mechanism. Because you don’t want to talk about it. You’re trying to avoid just like I am, Hannibal.”

Hannibal stiffened slightly, as if the thought had not occurred to him. Like a creature of habit, he had simply been doing what came naturally to him. “So it would seem.”

Will’s voice grew quiet. “She wasn’t just my daughter, Hannibal. I’m not the only one who lost her.”

Hannibal nodded. “You’re right. Perhaps you’re not the only one attempting to avoid.”

Before Hannibal could reply, Alana burst into the kitchen. “Hannibal, have you seen—”

She stopped when she saw the two of them sitting at the table together.

“Will?” Hannibal finished. “Yes, I believe I have.”

Alana sighed heavily and took the seat next to Will. “How are you feeling?”

Will’s knee jerk reaction was to say Like I’ve been drained of half the blood in my body, but he refrained if only due to the deeply concerned expression his friend wore. He sighed. “Better. Less...dead.”

Alana smiled. “That’s good.”

“We are leaving here tomorrow morning,” Hannibal said abruptly.

Alana and Will both looked at him, but it was Alana who spoke. “What? Why? Will still looks terrible, he needs to rest. No offense, Will.”

“None taken,” Will said drily.

“He does,” Hannibal agreed easily. “But his current setting is not conducive to rest. Remaining here is taking a toll on his physical and psychological wellbeing.”

Alana looked between the two of them, and even though her lips were pursed, she said, “If you think that would be best.”

“It would,” Hannibal said.

And wasn’t the timing of Will’s body immaculate, because it was at that very moment that he felt as if all the blood in his head was draining down through his spine and into a pit in his stomach. Lightheadedness assaulted him.

“Hannibal,” Will said weakly, and Hannibal was at his side in moments.

“You need to get back to bed,” he said, steadying Will in his seat. “And if you rip out your IVs again, I will have them stitched in permanently.”

“You won’t,” Will rasped, his vision going foggy, “but it’s a nice thought.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Hannibal said, and his voice was fuzzy in Will’s ears. “Can you stand on your own, Will?”

“Yes,” Will managed, and before Hannibal could protest, he pushed himself to his feet, using the table as leverage. Just as swiftly, his vision went black.

He heard Hannibal make an unhappy noise as Will fell limp, but he knew that he would catch him anyway.

Hannibal caught Will as he fell, the weight of him in his arms still too insubstantial for his liking. He lowered Will gently back into his seat and held him there with one hand while he used the other to turn Will’s arm over, frowning at the angry bruising at the sites of where Will’s IVs had been.

“Every time he behaves so recklessly with his health, he takes years off my life,” Hannibal said, gently brushing over the marks with his thumb.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re immortal,” Alana said, her voice touched by tenderness and amusement, “or he’d have killed you by now.”

Hannibal wanted to ignore her but made some vague sound of acknowledgement so as not to be rude. He lifted Will from his chair and cradled him against his chest, comforted by the even breaths he felt on his neck. Will was getting better, but he continued to have trouble regulating his body temperature and his blood circulation was poor. He would need more time on the saline drip, but the bag of blood that had been drained from him had been returned almost in its entirety by this point. What Will really needed was rest, to allow him to recuperate mentally and physically from the ordeal Mason Verger had put him through.

He brushed past Alana and carried Will out of the kitchen, turning as he went through the doorway to keep Will’s lolling head from making contact.

To his dismay, Alana followed on his heels. “Does he remember, Hannibal? About Abigail?”

Hannibal was glad he was not facing Alana so she couldn’t see the bitter expression that crossed his face as they began to scale the stairs. He knew that Alana had had a brief relationship with Abigial during her time at Port Haven, but it didn’t make hearing her name on the other psychiatrist’s lips any easier. He wanted to lock Abigail away in his mind and soul so that no one else would be able to perceive her in her purest form the way Will and Hannibal had.

His tone was clipped when he replied, “Yes.”

Alana knew better than to ask how he was handling it. She followed him back to the medical room and stood at the doorway as he situated Will back on the bed. Hannibal bandaged the wounds on the inside of Will’s elbow and moved to his other arm to reinsert the saline and blood drips, keenly aware of Alana’s attention on him the whole time.

Only when he was done and had Will tucked under the blankets again did he return her attention. “I assume you are curious about what happens tomorrow morning, Alana.”

“I am,” Alana said. “Curious and confused. Where could you go?”

“Where we go is between Will and I,” Hannibal replied evenly. “We will leave before the sun rises, so if you wish to tell him goodbye you should do so soon.”

Alana’s expression turned sad as she looked at Will’s sleeping form, and she crossed her arms over her chest as if to hold in her feelings. “I wish this hadn’t happened to him. Of all the kind and caring people in this world, Will deserved this the least.”

Hannibal agreed adamantly with the sentiment, but all he said was, “Will will recover. He's stronger than you give him credit for.”

“Probably so,” Alana allowed. “It’s been years since I’ve really known him. He’s...changed. This would have broken the Will I knew.”

Hannibal knew she was referring to Abigail’s death just as much, if not more so, than Will’s tumultuous stay at Muskrat Farm. “The Will you knew was allowed to abuse his own psyche repeatedly under the facilitation of those who should have been protecting him.”

Alana’s gaze turned flinty. “Don’t mistake me for Jack Crawford, Hannibal.”

Hannibal nodded. “Of course not. Tell me, Alana, who is the new head of the Behavioral Science Unit?”

Even though Alana’s brow furrowed at the question, she replied without hesitation. “Miriam Lass. An agent trained by Jack himself. Why?”

Hannibal felt his expression darken, all congeniality he had worn for Will’s sake sliding off him like water. “Because when you call Miriam Lass—and I know that you will, Alana—you may tell her whatever you wish about me. Tell her I killed Mason Verger and his doctor, or tell her that you and Margot did.”

Alana stiffened at the severity of his words but did not interrupt.

“Convey whatever version of events you wish to,” Hannibal continued. “Make up whatever reason for my presence that pleases you. But do not utter Will’s name to Miriam Lass, or I will know. And if they find him because of you, Alana, I promise you this; I will kill you. And I always keep my promises.”

She had paled, her countenance weakening as she stood in the doorway, but her voice was steady when she asked, “You don’t trust me, Hannibal?”

“I am the only one I trust with Will,” he replied. He looked down at Will’s sleeping face, his expression laden with a peacefulness that bordered on serenity, blissfully unaware of the conversation taking place.

When he lifted his eyes again, Alana was gone.

Notes:

Thanks for reading 🩷

Chapter 29 Summary:

The beginning of a trip to someplace else.

Notes:

I’m sorry this chapter is so short, I hate that it’s so small but somehow I screwed up the chapter breaks around this point in the story so this fragment is left awkwardly on its own. I hope you enjoy anyways! Short and sweet :3🩷

Chapter Text

The next time Will woke, he did so with a jolt, shaking the remnants of a nightmare from the back of his eyelids. It was dark outside, and Hannibal was not there.

Alana was, however, in a chair pulled to his bedside, and she was gently stroking the back of his hand, murmuring to him that it was all right and she was there. There was a tightness to her expression that Will didn’t care to take the time to undress; he only wanted to know one thing.

“Where’s Hannibal?” Will asked, his voice grating against the edges of his dry throat.

She smiled thinly. “He’s getting things ready for the two of you to go.”

“’Things?’” Will repeated.

“The saline and IV lines and anything else you might need while you recover. And he doesn’t want what’s left of Cordell to go to waste,” she expanded. “He says you’ll be taking Mason’s car. He won’t miss it.”

Will nodded. He felt exhausted; even though all he had been doing recently was sleeping, the nightmares almost took more of a toll on him than staying awake would have. The only time he hadn’t had one was when he slept in Hannibal’s arms. He frowned at the thought, noting Hannibal’s absence.

“What do you dream about?” Alana asked gently.

“I dream lots of things,” he said vaguely. “None of them are pleasant.”

Alana’s eyes suddenly became misty, and Will’s stomach flipped at the familiar concern that shrouded her gaze. “I’m sorry that this happened to you, Will. Margot...Well, some part of Margot blames herself.”

That made the knot in his gut tighten even further, his guilt making him feel almost nauseous. “Sadists will do what sadists do, I suppose. It isn’t her fault any more than it is yours. Neither of you have anything to be sorry for.”

Her fingers tightened reflexively around his hand. “It’s not your fault either, Will. Any of it.”

Images of Abigail flashed behind his eyes, scenes of carnage where she fell bleeding and gasping to the ground with her throat torn wide open like the mouth of a grave, and in them Will always held the knife.

“Knowing isn’t the same as believing,” Will said with a self-deprecating smile. He was intimately familiar with that phrase at this point in his life.

“I guess that applies to Margot, too.” Alana wiped her eyes furtively. “I just wanted to say goodbye before you left.”

Something in Will’s chest tightened. “We won’t be able to correspond anymore.”

Alana nodded grimly. “I’m certain that’s how Mason managed to find you. Christ, maybe it’s my fault.”

Will clasped Alana’s hands between his own. “It isn’t your fault. Anything that can happen happens, in one way or another. We just managed to draw the short straw this time around.”

She laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Seems to be happening a lot lately. Maybe the only things that can happen are bad. Every option is deplorable.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe the only thing you can hope for is good company in...deplorable circumstances.”

“Well, I’ve struck gold there,” she said, her expression softening.

A presence at the door turned both their heads. “Are you ready to go, Will?”

“Ready as I can be,” Will said, giving Alana’s hand one more squeeze before moving to sit up.

Hannibal was at his side in moments. “If you cannot stand, do not lie.”

“I can stand,” Will insisted. “I just might need a little help.”

Will maneuvered his legs toward the edge of the bed until his feet rested on the tile. The cold of the floor leeched through his soles even though they were covered in thick woolen socks. Maybe the cold simply lived inside him now. He stopped for a moment to blink the black spots out of his eyes, aware of Hannibal and Alana both standing within arm’s reach of him.

Hannibal offered his hands, and Will took them, levering himself to standing. When he wavered, Hannibal took his weight and pulled one of Will’s arms around his neck.

They made their slow way into the hall and down the stairs that way, Alana in their wake, and Hannibal stopped to wait patiently anytime Will needed to fight past a wave of dizziness. He never tried to sweep Will up into his arms, though Will knew he could have. He was endlessly appreciative of that fact; this short walk to the car felt like a desperate grab for the last dredges of his independence.

They stopped at the door so Hannibal could help wrangle Will’s trembling and uncooperative limbs into a thick coat. Will didn’t bother to ask whose it was; it fit well enough.

When he was zipped into the coat, Alana stepped forward and pulled him into a long hug. He leaned into her warmth, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Please take care of yourself,” she whispered. “Listen to me this one time.”

Will smiled. “I’ll try.”

She pulled back and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. She stepped back to allow Hannibal to take Will’s arm back over his shoulders.

Alana looked to Hannibal, something uncertain in her eyes. But despite her apprehension, she said, “Take care of him when he won’t do it himself.”

Hannibal’s grip around Will’s middle tightened. “Always.”

She nodded and turned, disappearing up the staircase, likely to find Margot. Will limped out of the door with Hannibal, lending his weight to him as the wintery air outside seeped through the coat and nipped at his skin.

But even though the cold seared him, the feeling that encompassed him as they left the Verger estate soothed him. He hoped that he would never have to see Muskrat Farm again, even as he knew that it would continue to taunt him when he was asleep.

Hannibal helped him into an expensive looking car and rounded the front to climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine. He glanced over at Will, who struggled to conceal his shivers, and cranked the heat up as far as it would go.

“Here,” Hannibal said, offering him a metal bottle that was warm to the touch. “Chamomile tea. It will keep you warm and hydrated until you can continue receiving saline.”

“Thank you.” Will took it, and even though it was hot enough to burn his throat as he drank it, it managed to thaw the chill inside him by a few degrees. “Where are we going?”

Hannibal put the car in reverse and began backing out of the obnoxiously long driveway. It offered Will the opportunity to watch the estate disappear in front of him, and it warmed him in a similar way to the tea.

He breathed a little easier when the house was gone from his sight completely, obscured by trees and the darkness of the night.

“A safe house on the edge of Maryland,” Hannibal replied.

“Safe house?” Will echoed curiously.

“I have many,” Hannibal confirmed. The highway that they merged onto was dark, and Will wondered if Hannibal was navigating the road from memory. “Especially around northern and western Maryland.”

Will took another sip of the tea. “What’s it like?”

Hannibal glanced over. “The safe house?”

Will nodded.

“I suppose I’ve never thought much about it,” Hannibal said. “It’s a small cabin deep in the woods, near the base of a mountain. There’s room enough for two, though most of them are more suited to housing one. It has running water, but we may need to obtain food.”

Will’s eyes had begun to droop as Hannibal spoke, fatigue seeping into him through the warmth of the tea. “I could go fishing. Is there a river nearby?”

Whether it was Will’s current state of unwellness or the idea of him fishing without Abigail after all these years that put a hint of trepidation in Hannibal’s voice, Will didn’t know, but he spoke with a measure of apprehension when he said, “There is.”

Will closed his eyes and they stung with tiredness, but he stayed awake. “It’ll be nice to be near running water again.”

“You missed it,” Hannibal said. “Being around nature. And not just at the Verger estate; you’ve been missing it since you left Wolf Trap.”

Feeling a pang at the thought of the field in front of his home in Virginia where his dogs loved to run and the faithful river that ran along its edge, Will hummed in confirmation to Hannibal’s words.

“We won’t stay at this cabin for long,” Hannibal spoke softly. “But perhaps the next place we go can be much less urban.”

Will rubbed his eyes. “I’d like that.”

Hannibal looked over at the movement and gently took the tea from Will to place it in the cupholder between them. “Sleep, Will.”

“All I’ve done lately is sleep,” Will said, almost plaintively.

“Evidently not enough,” Hannibal retorted. “Your body and mind have not recovered from your ordeal. If they ask you to sleep the rest of the winter away, you should grant them that reprieve.”

“You have to promise to be there when I wake up,” Will replied. “It’s the only time I don’t dream.”

Hannibal smiled and quoted Will’s words; “Where else would I go?”

Chapter 30 Summary:

In a cabin in the woods…

Notes:

A whole chapter of comfort bc im nice yayyyyy!! 🩷🩷🩷

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Hannibal felt a measure of relief when Will finally fell asleep in the passenger seat, his head pillowed on the coat Hannibal shrugged out of to give him.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Alana that Will’s disregard toward his own health affected him greatly; he was reminded of a time when Will was so doubtful of his own right to live that he almost starved himself to death. And just as he had done then, Hannibal felt an immense responsibility to be there to ensure that Will was taken care of when he refused to do it himself.

That was part of the reason Hannibal chose not to wake Will when they arrived at their destination two hours later. They couldn’t drive to the cabin because there were no roads that led through the thick forest surrounding it, so they would have to walk the last leg of the journey. Well, Hannibal would walk, and Will would be carried. Hannibal couldn’t trust him to be honest about how he was feeling.

He had managed to fit everything they brought from Muskrat Farm in one backpack, and he hoisted it over his shoulders before easing Will’s door open and wrapping the extra coat he had been using as a pillow around his shoulders. He pulled Will out of the car slowly and lifted him into his arms, dodging low hanging branches as they traversed through the woods.

The cabin was five miles into the trees, and Will woke at some point around the three-mile mark. With the poor excuse for sleep he had gotten in the car, he still looked exhausted, and Hannibal was able to convince him to go back to sleep much easier than he normally would have.

The wooden house came into view, and Hannibal set Will down on unsteady feet so they could walk in together. There was a small living room with a single couch and coffee table in front of the fireplace. The kitchenette was on the other side of the room and was much less furnished than any kitchen Hannibal was used to cooking in, but it would do for their purposes. There was a door on the other side that led to a bedroom with no furniture except for a bed and a wardrobe, and a small bathroom connected to it.

“Quaint,” Will observed, still clutching Hannibal’s arm for balance. At some point he had abandoned the extra coat, and Hannibal wished he hadn’t.

“I’ll stoke the fire and put on a pot of tea,” Hannibal said, depositing Will onto the couch. “But first, the saline.”

“How much longer?” Will asked idly as Hannibal prepared.

“Perhaps just for today,” Hannibal replied. “Good rest and nutrition will do the rest.”

Hannibal unpacked the saline bag and IV pole, but when he turned back to Will, his eyes were vacant. He had bared his forearm for Hannibal, but he had evidently gotten distracted by his thoughts. There was something haunted about his expression as he stared at something far away. Hannibal tapped his arm gently.

“Will? Are you with me?”

Will didn’t respond and gave no indication that he was even aware of Hannibal’s presence. He had begun to shake gently, and his eyebrows furrowed, his lips turned down sharply as he gazed with consternation at the far wall.

Hannibal took one of his trembling hands in his own, stroking it in irregular patterns in an attempt to garner Will’s attention. “With me, mylimasis. Don’t let your mind hold you prisoner.”

Will remained unresponsive. Hannibal glanced down at his watch to track the time in case what Will was experiencing was a focal seizure, but he strongly suspected that Will was only dissociating, his conscious mind trying desperately to escape from his overactive imagination.

Three minutes and forty seconds passed before Will took a sharp breath. He blinked and his eyes slowly gained clarity. “Hannibal?”

“I’m here,” Hannibal said, clasping his hand. “Are you with me, Will?”

Will rubbed his eyes. “We’re in Maryland. What...what time is it?”

Hannibal glanced down at his watch again. “Five thirty-two AM. Where did you go?”

“I don’t know,” Will murmured. “I just blanked. I don’t remember what I was thinking about. The last thing I remember was you getting the saline ready.”

Hannibal nodded. He pulled Will’s arm back to him and began disinfecting the skin. “That was the last thing that happened before you dissociated.”

“Could that be an effect of the blood loss?”

Hannibal hummed, situating the needle above the vein and gently pushing it in bevel up. “It could be, but it is more likely an effect of your restlessness.”

“I’ve rested plenty,” Will retorted indignantly.

Wiping away the small droplets of blood with his thumb, Hannibal stood to hang up the IV bag. “But you’ve had nightmares, correct?”

Will didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.

“Your body might have rested, but your mind has not,” Hannibal said.

He watched Will stiffen a thought that seemed to flit across his mind. “You don’t have any sedatives, do you?”

Hannibal frowned. “Of course not. And even if I did, I would never use it without asking you first.”

Of course, Hannibal knew intuitively that there were caveats to that statement. He thought of the time he had sedated Will when he refused to eat for a week straight. It could have been argued that Will forced his hand. Still, he couldn’t imagine acting so brashly now; something had shifted in the dynamic between them long ago.

“I know,” Will said quietly, looking guilty at even having suggested otherwise. “It’s just...”

“You’ve gotten used to being handled carelessly without your consent.”

Will swallowed thickly and nodded. Hannibal wondered not for the first time how difficult it had been for him to be alone at Muskrat Farm with only his overactive imagination and a needle full of unwanted sedatives to keep him company. Had he known that Hannibal was coming? Had he dared to hope? Hannibal desperately wanted to imagine that he had.

He forcibly shook off thoughts of Will scared and alone and headed for the kitchenette. “Hopefully we can remedy that during our stay here. I’ll put the kettle on.”

The day passed slowly, and they ate what was left of Cordell even though Hannibal complained about the lack of resources available to him in the cabin’s small kitchenette. He lamented that the meals were too modest, but Will assured him they were excellent.

Now, as the evening darkened outside and the fire lit the room to a cozy glow, Will lay with his head pillowed on Hannibal’s lap as Hannibal combed slowly through his hair. Their mugs of tea sat on the coffee table getting cold, but it was worth the feeling of being this close to Hannibal to leave them discarded there.

“I’ll have to go into the nearby town tomorrow to procure more resources,” Hannibal said. “Food, clothes, medical supplies.”

Will didn’t answer; it made him slightly anxious to think about Hannibal leaving him in the middle of the woods on his own, but his common sense told him to stop being so dependent. They needed more than what they had at the cabin, and Will would only be a burden if he went, too. He forced the knot in his stomach to ease, begging his mind to grant him a moment of peace without imagining the worst possible scenario.

“Are you tired?” Hannibal asked.

“No,” Will lied, but the gruffness in his voice may have betrayed him.

Still, Hannibal made no comment on Will’s need for rest. Instead, he said, “We can’t stay here for long. It’s too close to the Verger estate, and Alana will call Miriam Lass sooner rather than later.”

Will’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Who’s Miriam Lass?”

“The new Jack Crawford,” Hannibal mused.

There was a time when Will would have tensed at the mention of Jack, but he had no such adverse reaction now.

“She was a trainee under Jack,” Hannibal continued. “It would seem she’s risen quickly.”

“Ambition born from a vendetta,” Will suggested.

“Likely,” Hannibal agreed. “Her search will be thorough when she arrives.”

They fell silent again, and Will watched the flames dance in the hearth, using the searing brightness of it to ward off the exhaustion that plagued him constantly. At least he didn’t feel so cold anymore, though he was sure he could have attributed that to Hannibal’s closeness.

Will found his thoughts drifting to where they often did; Abigail.

“Did Abigail ever mention anywhere to you?” Will asked softly. “Anywhere she wanted to see?”

Hannibal’s hand paused for only a moment before resuming its soothing caressing. “When we visited the Uffizi Gallery, she expressed interest in visiting The Louvre.”

Will felt himself smile. “I can imagine her in Paris.”

“So can I. Somehow the glamor of city life becomes her.”

“Think she’d like seeing the Eiffel Tower?” Will wondered.

“Seeing it, yes,” Hannibal said with a touch of melancholy amusement. “Traversing its steps, not so much.”

Will’s smile slipped from his face as a strong surge of sorrow engulfed him. Every time he remembered she was gone, that he would never hear her laugh again or watch her disappear out the door as they called after her to be careful, it was like finding her body all over again. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, and the pain was worse than dying.

“I’m going to miss her forever,” Will whispered. “It’ll feel like this forever.”

“Everything fades with time,” Hannibal said. “Grief fades.”

Will shook his head, his cheek brushing against the soft material of Hannibal’s pants. “This isn’t just grief. This is...”

“An irrevocable loss,” Hannibal finished for him. “Part of your soul ripped away. You feel things very deeply, Will.”

Will turned to look up at him and see the sadness echoed in his eyes. “You feel it, too.”

Even though it hadn’t been a question, Hannibal said, “Yes.”

Will nodded and turned back to the fireplace, settling in and relishing the feeling of Hannibal’s easy touch. “Is this how you felt when Mischa died?”

“It is not dissimilar,” Hannibal replied slowly.

“And it faded?” Even though Will felt he may have been treading into uncomfortable territory, something in him longed to hear the answer anyway.

“Yes. With time. Grief and mourning pass and fade away, but love does not. Your love for Abigail is what will stay, and it is what you’ll find when you visit her in your stream.”

Will closed his eyes. He couldn’t imagine this feeling fading to anything duller than what felt like the splintering of his ribs in his chest, reminding him of what he’d lost every time he took in a breath, the jagged edges piercing his lungs. But he trusted Hannibal too much to doubt his words.

“Did she tell you about her memory palace?” Hannibal asked.

“She did,” Will said. “It made me miss...before, a little. Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal replied easily. “It’s normal to mourn for the life you weren’t able to have, even if you love the one you do.”

Will let out a shaky breath. “I miss my dogs. I miss the river by my house, and the stream in Florence. I miss Abigail, and I’m just afraid that...life will just be a constant missing. Knowing the best is behind.”

“Missing something means you loved it once,” Hannibal pointed out. “Life is full of love.”

“If it all ends in loss...” Will’s words trailed off to silence as he considered the crushing weight of that avenue of thought.

“Would you rather spare yourself the pain of loss by having never loved at all?”

Will contemplated the question deeply. He thought about everything and everyone he had ever genuinely loved, and it all led him back to this little cabin where he laid with his head in Hannibal’s lap, and the golden thread that tied them together. He answered truthfully, “No.”

Hannibal hummed. The moment softened to a blur with Will’s fatigue dragging his eyelids shut.

“Hannibal?” he murmured.

“Yes, mylimasis?”

“I don’t think everything fades with time.”

Hannibal’s ministrations paused again. “Perhaps some things are permanent.”

Even though his voice slurred, Will stated with certainty, “Some things are.”

Hannibal scratched at his scalp lightly with gentle fingertips, which he knew Will liked best. Will melted, his body sinking further into the small couch.

“Sleep, dear Will. I will be here when you wake. I promise.”

Clinging to the promise like a drowning man clings to a rock at sea, Will drifted off into a peaceful sleep, the firelight painting the backs of his eyelids golden.

Notes:

If you noticed the nod to lyrics from Waco, Texas by Ethel Cain and/or Eugene by Sufjan Stevens, you’re the coolest

Chapter 31 Summary:

Trip into town.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hannibal left early the next morning to ensure that he could make it back before Will woke. He trekked back through the trees to the car that he had left on the side of the road and began the drive to town.

It was a half hour drive, and on the way was nothing but dense forests and small backroads, which made Hannibal feel marginally more confident about leaving Will. The town was small and quaint, not dissimilar to the cabin itself. The buildings were old and antiquated and likely held some significant historical value to its inhabitants, who milled about completely unaware that Hannibal Lecter was in their midst shopping for groceries.

He went first to the supermarket where he procured several foods that were high in protein and nutritional value; later that night he would return to town and wrangle something a bit more alive to sate their appetites.

Next, he found a small clothing store on the corner of the same block. It comforted him that everything was within walking distance; it reminded him of Florence. He walked into the small shop and was immediately drawn to a coat that he couldn’t help imagining Will in. He enjoyed picking out clothes for Will as the other was notoriously uninterested in paying attention to what fashions and styles suited him. No matter, thought Hannibal, as he spent most of his own time paying attention.

Satisfied with his selection, he moved on to a pharmacy across the street. He found a first aid kit—which was a good item to have in any household, especially one that had the honor of housing Will Graham—and more saline. He looked around for a bit longer before picking up a bottle of aspirin that he knew Will would appreciate.

Hannibal left the shop, the bell over the door ringing cheerfully behind him and headed in the direction he had left the car. He was stopped by an insistent hand on his elbow.

He turned to see a small woman with long blond hair who wore a conspicuous three-piece suit and polished black shoes. Hannibal was on edge immediately; her countenance contrasted sharply with the townspeople who wandered with an aimless familiarity down the street. This woman wore a stern, pinched expression and her posture was determined as she held Hannibal’s elbow.

And she held a gun close to her side, pointed at Hannibal’s head.

His head tilted. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“You haven’t,” she said. She had a sharp, clever voice. “Special Agent Lass. You’re Hannibal Lecter. I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said coolly. His mind was already turning, thinking of each way he could disarm and kill her in one fell swoop.

“You’re going to come with me,” Miriam Lass stated.

“You sound very certain about that,” Hannibal observed. “Tell me, Agent Lass; what makes you so certain?”

Lass smiled and touched a communications device pinned inside her suit jacket. “Because the cabin where you’re staying with Will Graham? I have it surrounded by a tactical team right now. And the moment you prove uncooperative, I’ll have them shoot him.”

Hannibal sat in the back of Lass’s car in silence as she drove the road back to the cabin. His brain churned out possibilities of escape as he pulled idly at the cuffs that linked his wrists together in front of him. But he could take no chances when Will’s life was at stake, and she knew it. Her eyes on him in the rearview mirror were smug and satisfied. He maintained his calm countenance.

Another agent was waiting at the tree line for them and kept his rifle trained on Hannibal’s head while Lass kept hers in the small of his back to prod him forward as they made their way through the forest. Hannibal’s dread coalesced into guilt that gnawed at his stomach; he had promised to be there when Will woke, a promise he was unable to keep.

The long walk did not serve to soothe his nerves, and neither did the sight that greeted him at the cabin.

Will was bracketed between two agents who held him up roughly by his elbows.

Four agents in all, Hannibal noted.

Will was pale and his breathing was quick; he had gone hours without the saline drip as Hannibal had quickly run out of the supply from Muskrat Farm, and he was evidently feeling its loss as he swayed on his feet.

His eyes sharpened, however, when Hannibal came into view. Hannibal held his gaze steadily, not giving the agents the satisfaction of seeing his distress.

“Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, apprehended at last,” Lass said magnanimously. “I wonder what the tabloids will have to say about this one.”

“Nothing as scandalous as what the late Freddie Lounds would have,” Will said, and although his voice was faint, he did not look away from Hannibal.

Hannibal smiled. “No, not nearly.”

“You’ll be charged with her murder, of course,” Lass said, clearly unamused by their commentary. “As well as Randall Tier and Abel Gideon. Some will argue Garret Jacob Hobbs and Tobias Budge should be added to the list.”

Will tutted, and it was the first time Hannibal had seen him react to the mention of Hobbs’s name with indifference. A spark ignited in Hannibal’s stomach at the flinty expression Will settled on Miriam Lass and the tension coiled in his posture. He was getting ready for something. “It was purely self-defense, Agent...?”

“Special Agent Lass,” Lass said stonily. “And don’t think that I haven’t forgotten about Jack Crawford. You killed one of your own, Graham. That’s unforgivable.”

“That wound’s still fresh, is it not?” Hannibal asked her with a light tone, and had his question answered resoundingly in the affirmative as she dug the barrel of her gun into his back.

At the small grunt of pain Hannibal made, Will sprang into action. He elbowed one agent in the face and lunged for the other’s neck; the latter agent managed to keep Will away from his throat with rough hands against his shoulders, and Will strained against them with admirable strength considering how pale he was.

Hannibal turned and got his cuffs around the male agent’s neck and pulled him into his chest before Lass could get off a shot. He pulled the chain mercilessly against the man’s windpipe, who dropped his gun in shock and attempted to get his fingers between his neck and the biting metal.

Lass’s gun was pointed at Hannibal, her eyes alight.

“I will kill him, Agent Lass,” Hannibal told her calmly, and the agent groaned in pain as he tightened his hold.

Lass’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you.”

Then she turned her gun away from Hannibal and fired.

Will let out a cry of pain and fell to the forest floor, clutching his shoulder in an attempt to stem the blood that was already flowing in excess. His face was covered in the blood of the agent he had attacked, but any thrill Hannibal felt at the sight was quickly and mercilessly crushed. Hannibal felt his upper lip curl away from his teeth as he snarled; that was Will’s bad shoulder.

One agent stood over Will’s prone form, panting and looking incredibly shaken. However, he too removed his gun and trained it on Will’s head. The other agent held his nose, likely broken, and grappled frantically for where he had dropped his gun in surprise.

Lass’s gun stayed trained on Will, but her words were for Hannibal. “I will not be so kind in my aim next time if you don’t let him go.”

In one quick movement, Hannibal lifted his cuffs and shoved the agent away from him.

Lass grinned, glancing between him and Will. “Looks like we’ve found your weak spot, Dr. Lecter.”

Will had pushed himself to sitting and panted harshly, rapidly losing color in his face. Hannibal wanted to tear Miriam Lass’s ribcage open with his bare hands and massacre the soft things it harbored. Will couldn’t afford to lose any more precious blood, and now it was spilling over the forest floor in sluggish waves of livid red.

It was because Hannibal was watching Will so closely that he saw the moment his eyes widened with an expression akin to alarm, focused on something over Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal only had time to turn his head before the agent he had held hostage whipped his gun across his face, and everything faded to black.

The moment Hannibal crumpled to the ground, Will felt his own grip on consciousness begin to fade like the sunlight through the trees.

He was aware of straining against the holds of the agents as he struggled to get to Hannibal. He continued to fight even as he saw Miriam Lass approach him through blurred vision. She stood over him and rested the barrel of her gun on his wounded shoulder.

“You’re resisting, Graham,” she said, sounding as if she were underwater. “I’m obliged to use force to apprehend you.”

Something metal and cold dug into the gaping hole in his shoulder, and he felt his eyes roll back in his head as his world was reduced to little more than burning agony. Hands yanked him into the air and suddenly he was strapped down to a stiff surface.

He tried to say Hannibal’s name, but someone forced a mask over his face. He shook his head, desperately trying to get away from the hands that restrained him. They were tearing at him, ripping his shirt away as blue and red lights flashed and suddenly, they were moving.

Will tried to bite but the oxygen mask was in the way, so he kicked out with his legs instead. He caught something solid, something that yelped and jumped backward.

“He’s going to injure himself further,” somebody said, the words garbled and thick.

Will shook his head again in a desperate attempt to clear in, but hands held it forward as they shined bright lights into his eyes. Will made a noise of fear and pain that sounded foreign to his ears.

“He needs to be sedated,” someone else barked.

Will choked on his fear. He couldn’t breathe through it. “No, please don’t—”

But they didn’t listen. Nobody listened except for Hannibal, and then the needle was in his neck, and he was plummeting into the oppressive hands of his nightmares.

Notes:

Nothing stays happy too long w me I’m afraid

Chapter 32 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Alana watched Hannibal Lecter through a pane of shatter-proof glass. In all her time working at the BSHCI, she had never imagined this scenario. At some point the line between morality and survival had blurred—somewhere between holding Margot through her transition into a vampire and seeing the things she had to do to stay alive—and now Alana wasn’t so sure she didn’t belong on the other side of the glass with Hannibal.

She was aware that he knew everything that was going through her mind. He stood, amber eyes luminescent and discerning in the bright hospital lighting, like an idle mountain cat stalking its prey. And Alana certainly felt like prey at that moment.

Alana cleared her throat. “Will is recovering at Johns Hopkins. He’ll be fine.”

Hannibal gave no indication that he’d heard her beside a slow blink. A violet bruise blossomed over the right side of his face and Alana wondered if it hurt. Not that he would let on if it did. He held her gaze stoically.

“They’ll believe that Will stayed with you as a hostage, not because he wanted to,” Alana continued. She tried to keep her voice steady, and it worked for the most part. “With Abigail as...as collateral.”

“I will corroborate this story,” Hannibal said. “If Will agrees.”

Alana nodded stiffly.

Hannibal walked out from behind the desk in the cell, and Alana had to remind herself that there was no way out of it. He stood, with only the glass between them, and folded his hands behind his back. “How did they find us?”

“It turns out that the reason it took Mason so long to exact his revenge against Will was because he was preparing,” Alana told him. “He found all your safehouses and reported them.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “But you remember what I promised, Alana?”

Alana held his gaze. “I do.”

Hannibal studied her, her expression impassive and still as stone. She felt like he was testing him, trying to gauge how truthful she was being. She wanted to scream at him that she wasn’t lying, that she would never have let this happen to Will, but she knew what he would say about that; only guilty people beg. So, she stayed silent.

Something flashed across his eyes and was gone. He turned away from her and returned to his original position. While his back was turned, Alana let her shoulders drop for a moment as relief flooded her body before he faced her again.

“Miriam Lass seems to hold a personal grudge against Will,” Hannibal observed lightly.

“She does,” Alana agreed. “She trained under Jack and wanted to work under him in the BAU. She respected him greatly.”

“So did you,” Hannibal said, eyes sharp.

Alana let out a breath. “Jack was my friend. But Will is, too.”

Hannibal appeared satisfied with that answer, and he moved away from the topic of Miriam Lass. “They want something from him.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The reason that they are willing to accept that he was not a consenting party,” Hannibal explained, “is that they need something from him. More specifically, Miriam Lass does.”

Alana’s expression cleared as realization dawned. “You think they want him on another case.”

“A particularly difficult case,” Hannibal added. “One that Agent Lass doesn’t feel she can solve on her own. She wants to employ Will’s expertise.”

“I don’t know anything about that. They wouldn’t tell me, considering my history with Will. I’m not objective enough.”

“You’ve seen him, though,” Hannibal said.

Alana felt her mouth tighten. “I have.”

He watched her in silence, waiting for her to expand. Alana knew she wasn’t meant to be discussing Will Graham with his alleged captor, but it was as she had said—she wasn’t objective. It was already a miracle that she had been able to get herself the role of Hannibal’s primary caregiver. But she expected that was more due to Chilton’s proclivity for playing mind games: let Hannibal think he was in friendly company to loosen his tongue. Chilton would be disappointed, though, if that was his angle here.

“Will’s recovering physically,” Alana said carefully. “He’s been in an induced coma while they stabilize his vitals. He woke up two days ago.”

Hannibal watched her and listened to her words with an intensity that she wasn’t used to seeing from him.

She wet her lips and continued. “He’s still confused; his mind is hazy with drugs. When he sleeps, he screams for Abigail. And he screams for you. I’m the only one he’ll let near him without screaming. That’s the only reason they let me in.”

Hannibal turned his face away suddenly, and Alana knew he was concealing the emotions that flitted across it from her. When he returned his gaze to her, his expression was clear.

“If anything happens to Will while he is forced to do the FBI’s bidding once more,” Hannibal said slowly, “I may not be so merciful.”

“I would never let anything happen to Will if I could help it.”

Hannibal’s eyes darkened. “Then I hope for your sake, Alana, that you can help it.”

Will was tired of being drugged and sedated. He was tired of whatever they were putting through that needle in his vein, lowering his inhibitions and numbing his senses, so the next time he was coherent enough to do something about it he ripped it out of his arm.

“Whoa, hey, looks like you’re feeling more awake.”

He looked up at the sound of the familiar voice, throwing the tubing to the ground with distaste. Alana stood at the side of his hospital bed, the legs of a chair screeching behind her as she grabbed his arm.

She turned it over, assessing the fresh blood. “You should be more careful with yourself, Will.”

He didn’t look down at her hand on him, and said stonily, “I don’t want any more drugs, Alana. This is the first time I’ve been able to think clearly since...what day is it?”

Her expression softened and she sat back down, releasing his arm. “It’s the twenty eighth of January. You’ve been out for nine days.”

Will rubbed his eyes, assessing himself mentally. He felt better and more present in his body than he had for a long time, finally feeling none of the effects of being drained of a gallon of his blood. His mind, too, felt clearer, although he assumed the slight haze was due to the painkillers in his system. He could feel thick bandages covering his right shoulder, though any other sensation was numb.

“You reinjured your rotator cuff,” Alana told him. “Which is why it would have been smart to leave that IV in.”

She pointed to what he assumed was a bag of morphine. Will felt vaguely nauseous at the sight of a bag of anything being near him while he was unconscious, as his mind readily convinced him it was full of his outgoing blood, but he shook his head against that thought and focused back on Alana.

“I didn’t injure it; Miriam Lass did.”

He jolted after speaking her name, and Alana’s brow furrowed in concern. But his mind was already racing, churning as it worked to supply him with the memories that had led up to his arrival here.

“Where is Hannibal?” Will asked quietly.

“Will, I think it’s better if you rest some more before we talk—”

“Where is he?” he demanded, his voice coming out in a growl.

Alana blinked in surprise, her mouth opening, but someone else entered the room before she could answer.

Miriam Lass stepped easily between the two agents manning his door and closed it behind her. She only spared Alana a glance before her eyes settled heavily on Will.

“Mr. Graham,” she said. “You seem to be feeling better. Dr. Verger, could we have a moment?”

Alana stood, but she protested lightly, “Don’t you think I should stay, to—”

She was sharply cut off for the second time with a stern look from Miriam. Will watched with interest as Alana deferred quickly and quietly to her, leaving the room with an apprehensive look over her shoulder at Will. Will couldn’t tell if she was worried more for Will’s sake or Miriam’s.

When Alana was gone, Miriam crossed her arms and regarded Will.

“It’s bullshit, what they’re saying,” she said without preamble.

Will lifted a brow. “What are they saying?”

“That you’ve been Hannibal Lecter’s unwilling hostage these past few years.”

Will kept his face carefully blank as he knew Miriam was going to gauge his reaction. He knew what Hannibal would tell him; to take this defense and run with it. If Alana had already been pleading his case, it was a way for him to stay free of the BSHCI and find out how to free Hannibal.

When he remained silent, Miriam said, “I don’t believe it.”

He found himself reluctantly intrigued by Miriam’s conviction. “Why not?”

She came closer to the bed and took the seat Alana had vacated. He wanted to move away from her—he had been instinctively flinching away from anyone who wasn’t Hannibal for almost two weeks now—but he fought the urge with every bit of his strength.

“Because I know what you are, Graham,” she told him quietly, her voice almost a whisper.

His mind short-circuited. That could have meant any number of things: that he was a disordered empath, he was a murderer, a cannibal by choice and not by force. But he knew what she really meant.

Miriam Lass knew he was a vampire.

“You’re wondering if that means I am, too,” Miriam said, and Will frowned because that was exactly what he had been thinking. “I’m not. And if I ever was, I’d have the decency to take my own life instead of taking others.”

It was so eerily similar to the beliefs he’d had about himself when he first turned that he suddenly felt as if Miriam was studying him under a microscope. He channeled his discomfort into a baleful look that he fixed Miriam with.

“No one would ever believe you,” he said.

She smiled. “No, they wouldn’t. That’s why I don’t tell when I catch one of you. As the head of the BAU, I have all the access to cases I need to determine when I’m dealing with one of your kind.”

Her voice was scornful and full of a deep tone of disdain that bordered on hatred. She looked down at him with disgust.

“My kind?” he repeated with disbelief.

“I don’t believe you have the right to live,” she said with narrowed eyes. “And neither does Hannibal Lecter.”

His mind cleared suddenly as he landed on the only possible reason for such an outlandish story as Hannibal Lecter holding him hostage to be accepted in the FBI.

“You need me,” he remarked with certainty. He was flooded with a sense of ironic amusement at the idea that the FBI would cater to the whims of one killer just to catch another. “For some case that’s got the whole unit stuck. You want me to profile a killer for you.”

She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms neatly across her chest. “Telling this...story about your time with Hannibal, it was the only way to have you acquitted without all hell being unleashed by the press. And you’re right; I need you free because I need your skill. And there’s someone very interested in getting a look inside your head.”

The phrasing sent a chill down Will’s spine, but he steadily asked, “Who?”

“Dr. Frederick Chilton,” she replied. “Seems he wants your help, too.”

Will felt his gaze darken as he realized that he had the upper hand over Miriam Lass, however much she was trying to make it seem otherwise. “What’s in it for me, Agent Lass?”

She scoffed. “Your freedom, for one.”

“Not enough,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “I could have that on my own with the story that you’ve so kindly been spreading. The story of Hannibal Lecter’s helpless captive.”

Miriam’s eyes simmered with quiet fury, and he knew in that moment that she hated him. “What do you want, Graham?”

He answered with immediacy and certainty. “I want Hannibal granted immunity from the death penalty.”

She laughed again, harsh and short. “You know how impossible that will be; even with a plea for insanity, he’s killed a respected FBI agent.”

Will kept his eyes on hers, his gaze shrouded and his voice biting as he spoke. “Weigh one imprisoned life against the lives of innocent people killed by a killer you can’t catch, Agent Lass.”

Miriam Lass was not a woman who liked to be forced; he could see that fact as her entire body tensed as if in preparation to draw a weapon, her face tightening until it looked like she was in pain. Will fought off a smug expression.

“If I do this,” she said, her words weighted and heavy, “you will be compliant and complaisant. You will heed my every order.”

Will nodded sagely. “I’ll be well behaved.”

She glared. “And you will consent to any treatment Dr. Chilton sees necessary for your rehabilitation from Hannibal Lecter’s care. Any treatment at all.”

He felt himself tense, freezing up at the terms of this demand and every cruel treatment that came to mind. But Miriam didn’t pause for him to consider.

“The second you fail to comply with any of these conditions,” she said, “consider Hannibal Lecter as good as dead.”

Will watched her walk to the door where she paused and turned to him.

“You’re wondering why your shoulder hasn’t healed yet,” she said.

He had been wondering that, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of showing it. He stared back at her impassively.

“I’ve had the nurses who are aware of your...situation administer a drug that slows the healing process in creatures such as yourself,” she explained. “It would have drawn too much attention if it healed immediately.”

Will’s pulse pounded in his ears at her words. Maybe she had used the same drugs on him that Mason had. The thought made his stomach churn, and he fought to smooth his expression before his fear showed on his face.

“But it’ll heal soon now that you’ve divested yourself of the IVs,” Miriam continued. “And you’ll be discharged soon. But I’m afraid you still might experience some issues with your shoulder. Turns out being a bloodsucker doesn’t fix everything after all.”

With that, she gave a derisive smile and left him in silence.

Notes:

I can’t believe I forgot to post the new chapter for the first time since starting this fic yesterday 💔 hopefully it was also the last time (no promises)

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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 1 Mon 12 May 2025 10:47PM UTC

I literally mumbled “Hellooo SAILOR” when I read the summary, it sounded so beautiful and undeniably SCRUMPTIOUS!!!
Love Hannibal’s internal monologue about Will. Like, for Hannibal, it was definitely love at first sight. Incredibly fun to read him go on a mental rant about how unpredictable Will is, how intriguing he is, etc. And the usage of the vampirism as Will’s becoming! I am no different than any Hannibal fan, I love the Becoming motif.
I’m curious as to why Jack and co let Hannibal just take Will. Did he promise to take him home, or did they just assume Hannibal was going to tend to his wounds?
I don’t need a Will perspective to know that when Hannibal slit his throat, he was betrayed. I’m curious as to why he doesn’t seem to question the fact that he was buried (un)alive, and Hannibal was waiting for him. He questions it slightly, but’s drawn away from this by desperation. I’m sure we’ll come back to it, but I’m very excited and curious for it.
Amazing amazing work!!! Kudos!!!!!

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 1 Fri 16 May 2025 08:04PM UTC
  
  thank you so much for reading and commenting!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 more from will later…
  
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spacey_ashernaut on Chapter 1 Wed 14 May 2025 06:14AM UTC

oooooo i love your writing I'm so excited to read more!!

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 1 Fri 16 May 2025 08:06PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much!!! I’m really excited to share more :)🩷
  
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swaginator6000 (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 01 Jun 2025 03:20PM UTC

This idea is sososo creative! i love your writing style. i can't wait to see what you do with this story!

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 1 Tue 03 Jun 2025 07:13PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much for reading and commenting!! 🩷
  
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divinepilot on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 11:34PM UTC

ohhhhhh this is FIRE. im so excited to read the rest.... i love vampires and i love hannigram and i can't wait to see what's next. this is just ticking all my boxes i can't believe im just learning about this. the characterization and the prose and the lore just feels right for them. thank you for sharing this with us <3

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 08:27PM UTC
  
  Ah thank you so much this is so kind of you to say!! I’m so glad you like it :3 LOVE your pfp btw 🩷
  
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2. 1. divinepilot on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 09:58PM UTC
    
    mira for LIFEEEE <3
    
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Mogomoago on Chapter 1 Wed 10 Sep 2025 06:13PM UTC

Omg ! twilight version of Hannibal!!!!!! 💖💖💖

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 1 Sun 14 Sep 2025 07:14PM UTC
  
  :D🩷🩷🩷
  
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Katherine_Anderson32 on Chapter 1 Sat 11 Oct 2025 06:09PM UTC

I could feel the emotion in every line. I really want to make a art piece for your story. You can also message me on Insta: katherineanderson9900
anytime.

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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 2 Mon 12 May 2025 10:59PM UTC

I enjoy that when Will asks Hannibal if he killed him, he’s created his own paradox. If Hannibal says yes, the truth, then it means that Will’s beliefs are wrong. If Hannibal lies, then he’s betrayed Will in a way. Within the show, we’ve seen that lying is the line that Will does not cross, he only truly gets mad at Hannibal when he lies to him.
And I SUPPORT yearning Hannibal. I imagine this is how he’s act post-fall, which matches with this because both situations are after (in this case, during) Will’s Becoming. Also because I know that man is a class five Yearner. Professional grade. But now we actually get to see it.
Poor Will. All he cares about is his dogs. I imagine, if he actually does leave Hannibal’s, any person he finds is going to think he’s insane. Like, yes hello officer, I need a ride home because my therapist just buried me alive cause he’s a vampire. No I am not on drugs. However, if Will becomes mentally unbalanced to the public eye, Hannibal’s going to have an absolute field day taking care of him.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 2 Fri 16 May 2025 08:06PM UTC
  
  Thank you so so much for the thoughtful comments it truly makes my day 🩷and I agree, if Hannibal does one think expertly it’s yearn for Will 🙏 Will is certainly going to have an interesting time socializing with other people after this (he was already having a hard time with that but you get my meaning 💀) thanks again!! 🩷
  
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Mogomoago on Chapter 2 Wed 10 Sep 2025 06:17PM UTC

Will be like " noooooo I'm trapped in fucking twilight...!!!!"

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 2 Sun 14 Sep 2025 07:15PM UTC
  
  lmao 💀💀
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 3 Sat 17 May 2025 04:49PM UTC

RRRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH the comparison of “I don’t find you that interesting/ You will,” and “I’m not drinking blood/ You will,” !!!!!!!!!!!! Hannibal please call him the mongoose under your house I beg of you.
I’m curious as to who the perpetrator of this crime scene is. Is it the same guy as before, getting away with it this time? Depending on what ‘iteration’ of vampires we have, it could be Will’s maker. Or maybe it’s Hannibal? But I doubt that he’d be so careless and lack artistry in his work, though.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 3 Mon 19 May 2025 03:33PM UTC
  
  Thank you for noticing this is EXACTLY the parallel I was going for hehehe
  No spoilers but the perp is definitely not Hannibal, not enough finesse…
  
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satelliteminded on Chapter 3 Sat 17 May 2025 05:13PM UTC

Oooh love me a good vampire story and a good tortured will story. This is my jam! Thanks for sharing, can’t wait for more!

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 3 Mon 19 May 2025 03:33PM UTC
  
  I’m glad you like a bit of tortured will bc unfortunately (fortunately? 😭) there will be PLENTY of that in this fic :D tysm for reading and commenting! 🩷
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 4 Fri 23 May 2025 12:18AM UTC

“He woke up feeling like a corpse,” okay so about that ^_^
Hannibal shut uppp Will IS endearing!!! I’m claiming the word now since apparently you didn’t want it. Also I’ll claim Will Graham while we’re at it. You’re intrigued endearingly.
“Intent is the same as execution / To Will Graham it is.” Ohhhh I’m unpacking this. Within the show, Will is so worried that hems going to be a killer or evil or etc all because of the emphasizing that he has with killers. This quote emphasizes this because yeah, to Will, having these intentions and actually doing them are one and the same. Yum yum yum this fic makes my brain HAPPY.
I looove when Will falls asleep in Hannibal’s car in the show. The context, that they’re driving to the Hobbs’ home and Will is (sub)consciously putting together that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, somehow makes it even better?? So I loved reading something similar in this chapter :3

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 4 Mon 26 May 2025 04:38PM UTC
  
  Hannibal is too proud to admit that Will is endearing (for now) 💔
  Thank you so much for noticing and appreciating my little parallels!!! 🩷🩷🩷
  And thank you so so much for continuing to read and comment :) it truly is so so appreciated 🩷🩷
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 5 Tue 27 May 2025 07:02PM UTC

MY SHELL IS SHOCKED BECAUSE DAMN! THAT WAS A CRAZY OPENING?!??!!?! As I’m writing this my jaw is still open. Like yeah, that’s one way to get Will to drink.
“You think Jack is abusing Will?” yes Yes YES say it!!! He absolutely pushed Will too much and contributed to both his physical and mental deterioration within the show.
AND YES!! I AM AN AFTG FAN!!!! That’s so cute, I don’t have crocs but might make a bracelet for me n my partner.
I’m curious as to why Margot’s plan is. Based on her reactions and thoughts, we can assume that she knows of vampires, if not in contact with one directly (my guess is Mason). Is she going to expose him? Or use it as leverage against Will? Or! Maybe she’ll try to have Will turn her so that Mason can no longer use his immortality and powers against her.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 5 Tue 27 May 2025 09:56PM UTC
  
  OMG IM SO GLAD IT SHOCKED YOU 😛😛 I was def going for the shock factor w this one >:D
  Completely agree with you about Jack, he should have listened to Alana fr.
  OMG ANOTHER AFTG ENJOYER IN THE WILD you absolutely SHOULD make bracelets that would be adorbs
  Just a heads up it might be a while before Margot’s plan comes to any type of fruition, but I enjoyed reading your theories :))
  Thank you so much for another thoughtful comment!! It really helps to keep me motivated :3
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 6 Fri 13 Jun 2025 12:10AM UTC

I’m back from the evil realm known as the airport. It was a wonderful vacation but it’s time to get back to what really matters: gay fanfiction.
“When he remembered why he felt so calm and restful, his eyes flew open” ‘Oh yeah, fuck Hannibal, he made me feel better when I was originally a soft breeze away from dying!’
OH MY GODDD IS THE COMPANY THE VERGERS?!!?!!!?!! It has to be them; it would help tie in Margot, certainly.
Normal guy who is normal about Hannibal responding a simple ‘yes’ to Will wanting to know if it’s better to be alone together.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 6 Sat 14 Jun 2025 10:48PM UTC
  
  YAYAYAY im glad you’re back and I hope you had a good time wherever you traveled to :D
  It is indeed the Vergers >:3 I, too, am normal about hannibal wanting to be alone together with Will (I’m a liar)
  
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Alan_Yerblue on Chapter 7 Sat 07 Jun 2025 10:36PM UTC

Omg this is so cool. Really love how it's going so far. Keep it up!❤️

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 7 Wed 11 Jun 2025 06:06PM UTC
  
  Thank you so so much!! :D 🩷
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 7 Fri 13 Jun 2025 01:14AM UTC

“Hannibal can’t be expected to do it for you,” INCORRECT BUZZER. Or at least from Hannibal. How else is he supposed to try and perfectly shape Will (remembers what Hannibal said after the Horse Scene) or maybe not.
“I know what you are,” THE WEEZE I WOZE!!!!! Literally the “I know what you are/ *gay*/ *evil*” meme. Was kind of waiting for Will to deflect with homosexuality. Or for Margot to be like “it’s good for you, Hannibal’s made you seem much better :)” but that’s not realistic tbh.
ALSO HOLY!!! MY IDEA/PREDICTION!!!!! WAS RIGHT?!!?!!!?!!!??!!! ENGLISH TEACHER, BOW BEFORE MY PREDICTIVE SKILLS!!!!! Based on the fact that Will said know, I imagine she might try to get Hannibal to do it. Or she’ll get Will drunk enough, in a mirroring of their hookup from canon.
But uh. I am not liking the way Will’s dream ended.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 7 Sat 14 Jun 2025 10:51PM UTC
  
  Alana doesn’t realize just how inclined hannibal is to take care of Will clearly 😔
  OMG IM SO GLAD YOU NOTICED THIS I lowkey didn’t even pick up on it until I was editing this chapter and then I was like…😏 yeah I’m leaving that
  Your prediction was indeed correct when you first predicted that I was rubbing my hands together like an evil fly
  
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Honor_and_Loyalty on Chapter 8 Thu 12 Jun 2025 06:03AM UTC

I’m really enjoying this!
Will as a reluctant vampire is a great reinterpretation of the (TV) canon character.
Thanks for sharing. I look forward to more!

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 8 Sat 14 Jun 2025 10:46PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much!! I love trying to create parallels to the show in my writing :3 thanks for reading and commenting 🩷
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 8 Fri 13 Jun 2025 01:25AM UTC

Ok so first: sorry you’re burnt it sucks, be a heliophobe like me and religiously reapply sunscreen every 2 hours, every 80 minutes if you’re exercising or in the water. And as someone who wears his Hannibal shirts like everyday: they are a great investment.
“You can be alone with Dr. Lecter and these ten bodies.” Jack nO they’re gonna have gAY SEX!!!!!!
Also I’m sitting and nodding intently when Hannibal talks about vampires and their abilities; I must learn the world-building, it’s so good!!!!
“Hannibal felt a sense of restlessness and buzzing irritation that he was familiar with in the context of Will,” so I was GOING to say that he’s probably upset that he’d have the same unwant if Hannibal changed him. But that made me think of the “I gave you a rare gift” scene and I literally spazzed in my bed. You are making me FEEL things /pos
As a medical enthusiast, I want to tell you: if you’re impaled by something, do NOT remove it. Keep it in till you’re at the hospital, it’s the only thing keeping your blood in you where’s it’s supposed to be. However, if Hannibal Lecter told me to remove whatever had stabbed me I’m sure as hell following orders.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 8 Sat 14 Jun 2025 10:53PM UTC
  
  Normally I’m so obsessive about applying sunscreen 😔 I think I missed the tiniest spot on my knee and that’s the only part of my leg that got burnt 💀
  I’m SO happy I’m making you feel things that is my ultimate goal in writing 🙏🙏
  Will is in the same boat as you, he for sure knows he’ll probably bleed out if he removes the endpin but as soon as hannibal tells him to he’s like 🫡 aye aye captain
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 9 Mon 16 Jun 2025 06:20PM UTC

I imagine, to some capacity, Tobias will come back into the story. Hannibal’s storytelling about what really happened definitely makes it seem so.
Yay!!! Abigail enters the plot!!!! She’s my favorite character so I’m very excited to see how you’ll involve her, especially considering she’s a vampire… I am now remembering Mizumono and I can literally see how you could spin in since they’re all vampires. All I’m asking of you is DON’T.

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 9 Tue 17 Jun 2025 11:25PM UTC
  
  Yup Tobias is not done yet! I’m excited to share Abigail’s part of the story :3
  
  Last Edited Tue 17 Jun 2025 11:25PM UTC
  
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SillyHyperfixator on Chapter 10 Mon 23 Jun 2025 12:48AM UTC

“due to their status as her legal guardians.” I know it’s canon but still: I KNOW what you are!
““I didn’t,” Will told her.” Oh okay, take the moral highground mister ‘I refuse to kill anyone to drink from them but Hannibal kills them anyways’ /sar
“She heard the words he left unspoken: I want to.” And if that isn’t one of the main themes of the show!!!! Want!!!! Longing!!!!! Desire!!!!!!!!!!

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1. 0melina0ballerina0 on Chapter 10 Thu 26 Jun 2025 02:42PM UTC
  
  Thank you for reading and commenting!! :D I love longing and desire as much as the next guy :3
  
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