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Will was aware that the optics of this situation were… Off-putting.
There was no shortage of middle-aged, blue-eyed, blonde women in Eastern Belgium, but, after victim number four, it was becoming difficult to defend as a coincidental mishap of random sampling. The question of defend to whom was also worth considering, as numbers two through six (now seven) had been a secret from Hannibal, but Will was unwilling to ponder the implications of that.
It was not that Will was killing people because they looked like Bedelia. It was that people who looked like Bedelia reminded him of Bedelia and that intrinsically pissed him off, making him view their every action through his Bedelia-focused lens, which was guided through an aperture of hatred and resentment. Which led him to kill them.
Nevertheless, he maintained the assertion that this was not his fault. If Hannibal weren’t so intent on brushing him off with some newly-donned, all-encompassing need for safety, Will wouldn’t still be feeling… Whatever this was. To call it jealousy was another admission that he wasn’t ready for, to defend it to Hannibal would be excruciating. So here he was, hauling Victim Number 7 through the snowy forest on a sled. He didn’t even remember where he had met this one, only that she wore her hair in that artfully-styled curl that Bedelia had always been partial to and had dressed in the same highfalutin fashions.
The reasons Hannibal would hate what he was currently doing were innumerable, but a few rose above the rest. Missing out on seeing Will kill was sure to enrage him, for one. Secondly, the fact that Will was artlessly and dispassionately disposing of her entire body would drive him up the wall. Well, good. That’s what he deserved, really.
In addition to that, Will had been gone for a few hours longer than he said he would, but Hannibal deserved that, too.
The snow was coming down hard enough that it covered Will’s tracks almost as soon as he made them, and the walk back with the sled was frigid and tiring. When he reached the edge of the woods, he found himself almost ashamed at the joy he felt seeing the haven of his truck, which he threw the sled into immediately.
With the heat on, the snow was more beautiful than oppressive, so he took a scenic route back to their home. Some forty minutes later, he let himself into the cottage and found himself embarrassingly charmed by the sight that greeted him; Hannibal sat on the edge of the couch, sketching intently. There was a fire warming the living room, and their stupid Italian greyhound was curled up at the hearth.
Endearingly, they both perked up as he entered, the dog trotting over to Will and Hannibal putting his pencil and pad on the end table.
Will didn’t have a strong opinion on Italian greyhounds, but the eventuality of making Hannibal walk such a stupid-looking dog around town, probably wearing some ridiculous checked coat, not unlike the one she wore now.
In part to annoy Hannibal and in part because he was still Will Graham, he greeted the dog first, picking her up and then joining Hannibal on the couch.
“You’ve been gone awhile,” Hannibal said, doing a remarkably convincing job at seeming unconcerned.
Will hummed noncommittally. “What were you drawing?”
Lips quirking up in something approximating a smile, Hannibal regarded him for a moment, then passed the pad over. The drawing was hyperrealistic, the exact scene Will had come home to: the dog curled up in front of the fireplace, hearth ablaze. There was something almost preternatural about the things Hannibal drew, the way they could communicate personhood so clearly despite being drawn by someone who felt so removed from it. Will grazed it with his fingertips and nearly felt the warmth emanating from it.
For his own entertainment, Will showed the drawing to the dog in his lap, who sniffed it perfunctorily then rested her head on his arm once again. “Bug likes it,” Will translated.
“Do you refuse to call her by the name you allowed me to choose for your sake, or to remind me that she is your dog?” Hannibal watched his face for a second. “I have no desire to quarrel with you over her ownership.”
Will’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “I can’t call her Hestia because it’s a stupid name. Who chose it is immaterial.”
It was fascinating, in Will’s biased opinion, to watch Hannibal respond to barbs. His face would remain blank for a moment, then a sort of smug amusement would slink over it like a fox. “Remind me what it was you were doing today?”
“I went for a run in the woods,” Will said automatically.
“Another five hour run, that’s two this week.” Hannibal took his drawing back, brushing off imaginary eraser shavings then fixing his gaze on Will. “You must be getting very fast.”
And, because he was mean, Will said, “it never hurts to be prepared.”
Unsatisfyingly, Hannibal’s smirk remained firmly in place, though Will could almost hear the cold wind blowing behind his eyes. “You should shower. You smell like the forest and…” He trailed off meaningfully. “Something I just can’t place.”
Will scowled at him, fully aware that, on some level, he had been caught. The real question was why he was being allowed to get away with it. Unless, of course, Hannibal had his own misdeeds for which he was employing discretion. Somehow, that thought made Will more angry.
He rose from the couch, putting the disgruntled dog on the cushion where he had been and watching her go curl up against Hannibal’s thigh. His anger abated a little as he watched him begrudgingly pat her head.
In the shower, Will let his mind run wild, only for a few minutes. Was Hannibal also killing in secret? Was he committing some other grievous offense that Will would find even more abhorrent? Was he consorting with someone else, whispering in the chrysalis of one of his patients, a new, fresh Will Graham?
The closer he got to a finished product, the more he wondered if Hannibal would start seeking new raw materials. The delight he got from tormenting Hannibal, from planting seeds in his mind and watching them sprout like ivy, sprawling and gripping like ropes, like chains, it wasn’t only for revenge. Granted, that brought some small satisfaction. It was also because to continue resisting was to continue to be interesting. Complacence was dangerous, for either of them. If Hannibal felt too stable, too docked a ship, as it were, he would need to investigate choppier waters.
Between the two of them, Hannibal had a considerably greater expanse of stormy sea to explore. Every person Will had ever cared for had either been alienated or killed. Hannibal still had his share of targets, not to mention loose ends like Bedelia and Chiyoh.
Above the sound of the water, Will heard the doorbell ring. Without thinking twice, he leapt out, tying a towel around his waist and leaning down the stairs to listen in.
“Are you Pieter Desmet?” A gruff voice asked in French.
“I am, and you are?” Hannibal replied smoothly.
There was the audible sound of a throat clearing, then the same voice spoke in English. “Agent Ilias Duquesne. Are you the psychiatrist of a Ms. Ornella Ramaut?”
There was a moment of silence. “I am, is everything alright?”
“Not exactly. She didn’t turn up to a few meetings she had today. May I ask you a few questions?”
He heard the creak of the door. “Please, come in,” Hannibal said politely. “My partner is in the shower or I’d ask him to corral the dog.”
“It’s not a problem,” the officer replied. Will tracked their footsteps to the kitchen, which allowed him to hear the conversation better. “How long have you been seeing Ms. Ramaut?”
“We only moved here eight months ago,” Hannibal said peaceably. “Can I offer you tea or coffee?”
The officer hummed. “Tea would be great, thank you. Is she… Flighty? Has she mentioned anything about running away?”
“I’m generally not at liberty to disclose the nature of our sessions.” There was a pause where Will could picture the fake remorse on Hannibal’s face. “However, I will say that she never expressed any such sentiment to me. How long has she been missing?”
“Since earlier this morning, she had a few scheduled meetings that she didn’t turn up to. You haven’t heard from her at all?”
In an instant, Will knew exactly what was happening, and what would happen. He had been afraid of becoming too complacent, too… At ease. Hannibal now, with absolute certainty, knew that Will had killed this woman. And he was not the sort of man to miss a chance to make Will squirm.
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.” There was another pregnant pause, and Will could almost hear Hannibal’s thoughts. “I use the house phone for clients, though, and I was away from it for a while earlier this morning. If she called, my partner would’ve picked up. He’ll surely be down soon, we can ask him.”
There was no reason to fear growing too secure in Hannibal’s presence, not when Hannibal’s desire for amusement would lead him to these disastrous lengths. Will had been so intent on keeping Hannibal from trusting him, he had forgotten the force of his distrust for Hannibal.
He hopped back into the shower, breathing deeply. Will wasn’t afraid, of course, he was a better agent than this man and he knew how not to get caught killing. Fear was not at his helm, rage was. Moreover, he felt stupid. Stupid for being endeared to him at all, stupider for committing to it, seemingly forever. His affection for Hannibal was a weakness, but its roots were too deep to extract. Hannibal would let him suffer if it meant entertainment, Will was ashamed of himself for forgetting that.
When he stepped out of the shower, he felt steely. He felt like he had no heart, like he never had and never would again. The wrath that steered him for so long was back, deeper this time than before. Not for the first time, he wanted to hurt Hannibal Lecter. And, for all his faults, Will Graham knew how to hurt Hannibal Lecter.
First, he had to get through this.
He traipsed down the stairs in a flannel and old khakis, the rims of his eyes more than a little itchy. Upon spotting the agent, he forced himself to appear surprised. “Everything alright, officer?”
“Just asking your partner a few questions,” the agent said calmly. “Do you mind answering a few for me?”
“Of course not,” Will said, sitting down easily at the table.
To know how to hurt Hannibal, Will first had to know what he wanted. In this instance, the answer was twofold; first, to see Will attempt to evade what would eventually become a murder charge. Second, knowing, almost certainly, that Will had been eavesdropping, perhaps he wanted to see Will attempt to incriminate Hannibal, himself.
Will would play neither game. Not satisfactorily, anyway.
“Did you receive any calls on the home phone this morning?” The agent asked.
“No, I was in the garage,” Will replied.
“All morning?” The agent had apparently been informed, by some fictitious happenstance, of Will’s run.
Will shook his head. “No, I went for a run for the last few hours.” He looked faux-concernedly at Hannibal. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course,” Hannibal told him, badly suppressing a smile.
The agent cleared his throat. “Where did you run?”
“Through some of the woods nearby.” Will made his eyebrows furrow. “I’m sorry, I want to be more specific, but I got lost, especially in the snow. Has something happened?”
“A patient of mine has gone missing,” Hannibal told him.
Will raised his eyebrows. “Around here? Are we safe?”
The agent shook his head. “It’s okay, sir, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re just trying to figure out where to go from here.” He pushed a photo across the table. “Have you ever met this woman?”
Will glanced down, picking up the picture. She was as pale alive as she had been dead. He remembered, now, that he had met her at some high-society party that Hannibal had dragged him to. He remembered her shy greeting, shamefacedly admitting to being his patient. He remembered her drinking too much, touching Hannibal’s arm, and telling Will how handsome they both were. He remembered now, more than ever, her speaking, half-under her breath, to Hannibal in French, not knowing that Will, too, could understand it. Her comments about her own therapy, how helpful Hannibal had been, how no one suspected anything. It was all innocuous enough, she could’ve meant stealing some lipstick or planning a surprise party, but Will didn’t need to know.
“She looks like that woman from the Blendemans’ party,” Will said softly. “Odella?”
“Ornella,” Agent Duquesne corrected gently. “Ornella Ramaut. You met her?”
“Only at that party, and only for a few minutes.” Will touched the photograph with his thumb. “Is she…”
The agent shook his head again. “We don’t know anything, yet. You say the Blendemans threw a party with her in attendance? That’s Max and Eveline?”
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Will said. “They said she drank too much, but I didn’t think she was the drunkest one there.”
“Who was?”
“The hosts were pretty drunk themselves.” Will told him. “I don’t really know anyone else’s name.”
Agent Duquesne nodded, and Will knew he had won. “That’s alright, sir. Thank you for your time, both of you.”
“Please, do keep me updated,” Hannibal told him, passing over a business card and then gently showing him out.
As he did so, Will stormed upstairs, grabbing his warmer coat and gloves and a backpack he kept. He stomped back down, incensed to find Hannibal calmly putting the mugs away.
“Developing a type, Will?” He asked without turning around.
“Get fucked,” Will told him, voice devoid of warmth.
In an instant, Hannibal shifted, facing him and taking in the sight. Will, with his bag, coat pulled over his shoulders and working on his gloves. “Going for another run?”
“I…” Will trailed off, staring at him, searching his face for something, anything to grab onto for safety. Choppy waters it was, then. “I’m done with this.”
“Will-”
“Don’t fucking… You gambled, Hannibal. You got bored and you gambled and I’m tired of losing. As always.” Will looked frantically around the living room for anything else he wanted to take.
“Hestia, come here,” Hannibal said softly. The dog trotted over to him, and, for a moment, Will feared that he’d kill her. Another lamb sacrificed at Will’s altar, unwitting and unwanted.
Instead, Hannibal picked her up, her ungainly legs sprawled as he sat on the couch with her. “You will know where to find me. As always.”
Will stormed out, slamming the door behind him so hard the house shook.
He drove around for hours, staring at the snowy road ahead of him hatefully. The purpose was not to leave, the purpose was to make Hannibal afraid.
After an hour, he asked himself the question he hated more than anything. Did he love Hannibal? Visions raced through his head, bleeding out on the kitchen floor, sending a killer after him, imprisoning him, setting his mind ablaze.
At the same time, he remembered the feeling of everyone else he’d ever loved. The stifling, suffocating mask he wore, the comfortable mendacity of normalcy. He remembered his entire childhood, the way he’d felt… Distant. Untouchable, but not the way that deities are untouchable. The way that infectious things are untouchable. There was sickness in him, or, at least, people were detecting sickness. And, at a certain point, those become the same thing.
His father didn’t look him in the eyes. The pastor’s hand at the church would hover over Will’s shoulder, like he thought that the slightest brush of contact would set something terrible off. It was unclear whether he was ostracized because he was grenade-like or because people feared he’d infect them with his inherent wrongness.
His entire life, lie or be loathed. And the awareness that any affection bestowed upon him was contingent on the quality of his performance was heavy. And he had lived with this kayfabe for so long that he learned to stop recognizing how much it weighed.
Then, like a cruel, omniscient angel, there was Hannibal. He was not an angel in that he was angelic, only in that he was so far from human that he was almost horrifying to behold. He was beautiful, true, but to gaze upon him or any form of him was painful. Hannibal saw Will for what he was, whether that was an earth-rattling weapon or a highly communicable disease didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it was accepted. And those who had forsaken Will, not only were they wrong, in Hannibal’s eyes, they were idiotic.
Will was disgusted to admit that he knew the answer to this question. He turned the car around.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, it was nearly midnight. He stepped into the house to see Hannibal reclined on the couch, Hestia tucked into his shoulder. Will’s heart lurched.
Hannibal’s eyes opened quickly and he sat up, setting the dog next to him on the couch. “You’ve returned.”
“Got bored,” Will said.
“You were satisfied that you’d punished me sufficiently, you mean,” Hannibal replied lightly.
Will put an innocent look on his face. “If you say so.” He joined them on the couch, the dog making herself comfortable on Will’s lap. “This is not sustainable.”
“Which part in particular?”
“I don’t want to keep being your opponent. I’m even more tired of being your entertainment.” Will kept his eyes fixed on his lap.
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That would leave us in an imbalance.”
Will nodded solemnly. “I know.” He forced himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “Why haven’t we killed Bedelia yet?”
“As I have told you, it isn’t safe enough-”
“Cut the bullshit,” Will growled. “I’ll tell you what I think, and you can tell me I’m wrong.” He paused, rolling his lips between his teeth. “I think the fact that it gets a reaction out of me excites you. I think it makes you happy to have a backup plan if this goes south, that you have another option and I don’t. I think you like the waiting because you like that I hate it.”
Hannibal’s head tipped sideways, expression pointedly blank. “I think you’ll find I’m very good at waiting.”
Will scowled, unsure if the heat inside him was guilt or justice. “Well, you’ve had enough practice.”
A small puff of air blew out of Hannibal’s nose, something approaching a laugh, then he looked toward the fireplace, where the flames licked lowly at the blackened wood. “You are wrong, at least partially.” He resolutely did not meet Will’s eyes. “Do you know why I killed Abigail?”
“To punish me,” Will answered, as though it didn’t still hurt. As though it wasn’t cruel and horrible, the kind of pain one can only inflict on their most beloved.
“I was very fond of her,” Hannibal said. “I cared for her… An uncomfortable amount.”
“I know that.”
Hannibal hummed. “I cared for her more than I had cared for anyone in a long time. Except, of course, you.” His eyes shifted to meet Will’s. “To ‘punish’ is not my preferred lens of this, though I understand that it is yours. It was not about justice, to me. It was about leveling. I could not kill you, but to allow you to carry on after betraying me was too uneven. I cared for Abigail, but to lose my position with you was incompatible with my feelings for you. I loved you more than I cared for her, so I killed her to put us next to each other once again.”
“Sounds an awful lot like punishment,” Will said, biting his lip now to stave off the tears in his eyes.
“I wish that things were different,” Hannibal said, and he looked like he meant that, too. “I wish that it didn’t still hurt you.”
Will cast his gaze downward, tears dripping off his face and onto his pants. He felt childish, he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and bury his head in his hands. “Why are you doing this?” He managed to growl out relatively evenly.
He felt Hannibal stand and leave the room, then heard water running and footsteps as he returned. Hannibal knelt in front of him, wiping the tears from his face with a cool rag. “I do not wish to see you in pain, Will.” Will shot him a disbelieving look. “Not like this.”
Will snatched the rag from his hand, pressing it over his face until he was more composed, at which point he shook his head rapidly and looked back at Hannibal, who was staring at him with appalling sincerity. “Why are we rehashing this?”
“It is the same principle. I respect Bedelia, of course, but her significance is moderated by how she affects you. I want to see you kill her, of course. I am sure it will be among the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. But, in the meantime, I do enjoy watching you resent her. And there is a punitive element. For as long as I waited for your return, to allow you this sort of instant gratification would be unfair. I did not entirely anticipate you taking a surrogate. Or, I presume, more than one.”
“Seven,” Will groused. “Will there come a time when we don’t have to punish each other anymore?”
“The cessation of punishment suggests forgiveness.”
Will’s head ached, his brows pinched together and eyes itchy once again. “Have you forgiven me?”
“To forgive you would imply the existence of a separation such that one may forgive the other.”
Will blinked. “So you haven’t forgiven me.”
Tilting his head to the side, Hannibal let silence hang in the air for a few seconds. “I cannot forgive you any more than I could forgive my own tongue or stomach. You are intrinsic to me, forgiveness is immaterial.”
In Will’s mind, they stood, once again, at a cliffside. Side by side, this time, hand in hand. Will could feel it, the mounting tension, the dichotomous road laid out ahead of him. He could step over, let the fight crest over them and pull them to a watery current once again. Or, and he had not previously considered this, he could step back. Disarm the situation like a bomb threat, a chuckle in the middle of a boxing match to remind them what they were to each other. Hannibal had handed the option over to him, as he was wont to do.
“Is this enough for you?” Will asked him cautiously, choosing to abstain for a moment longer.
Almost comically, Hannibal appeared bewildered. “What has led you to believe that it isn’t?”
“If I stop… Does it become monotonous? Is it no longer the earth-shattering, all-out brawl that you’ve been seeking with the only opponent you can respect?”
“It’s you,” Hannibal said with heart-wrenching certainty. “When have I ever asked for more than you?”
The mask on Will’s hard features cracked and he felt a fractal of his now-ancient vulnerability pass across his face. “You will,” he said, then amended, “you might. Even complex people grow predictable in time.”
“There is a difference between you growing predictable and my growing ability to predict you. To understand you does not reduce you, it reflects my understanding of who you are. What is love, if not that?”
His chest felt tight, and a part of him wanted to allow this flowery statement to move him, to end this argument and feel close once again, but he couldn’t. Not honestly. “That is not love, Hannibal,” he admonished, voice almost gentle. “It’s empathy. You can understand someone without revering them, I should know.”
He wondered, then, if he was being crueler now than he had been thus far. He had taken advantage of Hannibal’s feelings for him before, that was commonplace. But to deny their existence or validity felt like a new degree.
Hannibal looked at him contemplatively. “Perhaps it is not the presence of understanding but the desire to understand further.”
The earnest vulnerability of it made Will uncomfortable. He could put the nail in this coffin, now, he felt it. With less beauty and greater indignity than he had been offered in the past. And it did cross his mind, of course.
He stepped away from the cliff of his mind, their joined hands pulling Hannibal back with him. “I don’t want to keep punishing you. And I don’t want you to keep punishing me. Not for old wrongs, anyway.” Will let a smile blow across his face. “New ones are still on the table.”
The most beautiful thing Will had ever seen was the speed with which Hannibal understood him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, openly pleased. “In that case, I would like to discuss your apparent refusal to dry dishes.”
“If you put them upside down on the mat, they dry themselves. It’s a needless task.”
“If you didn’t wash clothes for three years, the bacteria on them would die and become inert, that does not negate the necessity of washing clothes,” Hannibal countered, but he seemed delighted.
Will huffed a laugh. “Well, why don’t you add my business card to your special collection, then?”
This was better, infinitely better. He felt… Close. It was like a great wave had crashed over them and here they were, still standing. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, but it was lightened by relief. Hannibal looked at him strangely. It was not dissimilar to the amazement he adapted when Will killed.
Slowly, fearing the shattering of the glass beneath them, Will leaned his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal was almost deadly still for a moment, though Will could feel the slight hitch in his breath. Lips pressed against the top of his head.
After a minute of blissful silence, Hannibal spoke. “Have you really killed seven blonde women?”
Will groaned. “It does not look good.”
“It does not,” Hannibal said cheerfully. “We can discuss plans to take care of Dr. DuMaurier.” Will felt him rub his cheek against his curls, catlike. “We’ve waited long enough.”