Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They move into a house, just the two of them, and the dogs, a run-down two story house that looks like it desperately wants to be from the Gothic revival period but its builders just never had the money. The place is cheap - some grisly murders took place in it, a few years ago. 

Abigail says, upon hearing it, that it'll feel so much like home.

Will finds work within the local police force as a special consultant, and Abigail enrolls into the local community college. She wants to study to become a veterinarian. 

She starts nabbing local cats, every once in a while, for a little exploratory dissection. Will sighs, tells her to stay away from the dogs, and builds her a little workshop in the basement. It would bother him, but he knows she’ll run out of cats eventually even without his inference. At least then she can go into the woods and find some variety. 

His work takes him out of town sometimes, because on top of the consultant job, he's researching for a new book on serial killers. He wouldn't mind the traveling, except that he loathes to leave Abigail by herself. He comes back from his trips with little gifts.  

"This is why you should start dating again," Abigail remarks idly. She's turning a severed hand, cast in wax, in her own delicate ones, examining it thoughtfully. 

"She said it's a candle," Will tells her, freshly back from seeing a woman in Norfolk who encases her victims in wax and puts them out on a display. The police were so close to cracking that case. "And I'm not sure whether I'm intended for that sort of thing. I never dated, not really, I just met people who somehow found me likable - but how many times is that guaranteed to happen? I think I’ve run out of my kind of people."

“They do have a tendency to scream and run,” Abigail says. Will sighs, starting to unpack his suitcase. It feels good to be back, in the creak and whispers of their home. Abigail flops on to his bed.  

"What about when I graduate?" she says. "Will, I love you, but I need to go do things on my own eventually. You can't baby me forever." 

"I don't baby you," Will mutters. 

"You shot that frat guy, even though I was going to poison him," Abigail says accusingly. "I had it under control but you had to step in. You didn't even let me take care of the body." 

"Abigail, as your guardian, it's my duty to protect you from entitled future leaders of this country," Will says evenly. “Besides, he made good dog kibble, didn’t he?”

"I can't be your only focus, Will. And neither can the dogs. You need to get out more - and not just to interview people for your book," Abigail says stubbornly. "At least try to make friends." 

Will opens his mouth to protest.

"I'm your adopted daughter, not your friend." 

"Well-" 

"Winston is your dog, Will." Pause. "Stop sulking." 

Will tries to school his features in order, puts away his stained rain poncho, and spreads out the newspaper. "Fine. I'll find something to do this weekend." 

* 

Wine-tasting. Out of all the social events he could be attending, Will figures that this, at least, has the advantage of copious amount of alcohol. 

He could have done without the spitting. He finds himself flinching, ever so slightly when someone gurgles their wine and spits it into one of the buckets placed around the room. He downs his own glass in outright retaliation. The room is filled with people he has absolutely nothing in common with, as they are, smug and sometimes slightly desperate to belong to this setting, and Will has nothing against them, he really doesn't, but he could really go for some kind of a cleansing fire. 

He catches someone's eye by an accident, and a couple, man and a woman, glide across the room with that intent, hungry gleam in their eyes that makes Will grab another glass of wine. They want to socialize.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" the man drawls. His teeth are so white they’re nearly blinding.

"Ah, what?" Will says carefully, and the man gestures at his wine.

"That year! Don't you just love the oaky aftertaste?" 

"Oh, stop it, Joshua," the woman chimes in, smacking her husband's shoulder good-naturedly. They chortle at each other. "He just has to show off in these events ever since we acquired our little wine cellar." 

"I'm more of a whiskey person myself," Will says, and tries to force a little smile. 

"Really," Joshua says, his eyes glazing over in a way that tells Will without a doubt that he's not interested, that whatever Will is going to say will be disregarded because these two are here to talk about themselves, first and foremost. 

"Well, wine has its upsides," Will says, giving up entirely. The room is wearing entirely too much pastel for him anyway. "For instance, even the most renowned tasters can't always detect whether a red wine has been poured from a barrel with an animal body trapped in it. Or human. There was a case last year - the wine was spoiled, of course, and thirteen people were hospitalized. In hindsight, they should have kept a better eye on their children. A whole batch ruined." 

"That's - not an upside," Joshua says slowly, staring at Will. 

"Good heavens," the woman says weakly, her fingers reaching for her pearls. "How on earth do you know this?" 

"I'm a consultant for the police," Will says curtly. "Enjoy your wine." And he turns, pushing himself through the crowd, heading out to the balcony. The place he’s in is practically a manor - as far as Will knows, the event is being held in someone's home every month. The décor isn’t displeasing: he wonders if the walls are as soundproofed as they look.

He considers heading back home. Abigail would be disappointed, no doubt, after going such lengths with Will's wardrobe, but Will is longing back on his couch with the dogs and a good book, listening to ominous footsteps and moans in the attic. At least whatever's up there never has the audacity to try to make Will talk about what he's drinking.

Someone nudges his arm with a glass. 

Will turns, coming face to face with a man - a little older than himself, a little taller, and extremely well groomed to the point where his hair looks like it’s painted on. 

Will makes eye-contact, deliberately. The man's eyes have an odd red tint to them. 

"I heard you preferred whiskey," he says softly. His voice is low, with a hint of an accent, and as sophisticated as his appearance. "I hope you don't mind that it's neat." 

"Thank you,” Will says promptly, dropping his gaze. “No, I – I don’t mind at all.

"Dr. Lecter," the man says smoothly, passing Will the glass so that they can shake hands. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter, at your service." 

"Really?" Will says, raising an eyebrow. "You don't even know me, Dr. Lecter." 

"Please, call me Hannibal," Dr. Lecter says. He smiles, slowly. "I am sure that we'll be fast friends." 

Well. What can he lose at this point in the evening? "Will. Will Graham," Will says. "I should warn you, Hannibal. I'm becoming a bit of persona non grata with your group, and fast."

"Then let us stay out here. I would much prefer it." 

"Don't you have a reputation of some kind to uphold, Hannibal?" 

Hannibal ducks his head, a small, personal smile playing on his lips. "As a matter of fact, I have several." 

* 

"You're cooking?" Abigail asks, incredulous, when she comes home at the end of the day. Will is relieved - the dogs are going absolutely barmy about the smell, despite Will's best attempts to keep them out of the kitchen by himself. 

"I told you I invited him over to dinner," he responds, as calmly as he can. He doesn't mention that it was momentary insanity or that he's sorely tempted to call and cancel the whole ordeal because it seems too hard, even if he likes Hannibal. Despite her incredulousness, he thinks Abigail might be proud of him.

“You’re cooking?” Abigail repeats. Will shoots him a warning glance. She looks unrepentant.

"A dinner, huh?" And now Abigail is smirking. Will casts his eyes in the ceiling, praying for strength. 

"A friendly dinner,” he says. “You told me to go out and find friends. I found a friend. Now I’m making dinner for him. For my friend." 

"For your friendly friend." 

"Abigail."

"And here I was thinking of luring our pizza guy down to the basement. What's his name, then?" Abigail asks, shooing away the dogs and sitting down.  

 “Ah - Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Hannibal Lecter." 

"It rhymes with 'cannibal'," Abigail muses. "I like that." 

* 

Hannibal arrives in a suit as equally expensive as the previous one, a bottle of whiskey and a conspiratorial little smile as he greets Will. Abigail stands back, in the dark decor of their house, her sweet heart-shaped face pale and smiling, eyeing Hannibal thoughtfully. 

"And this must be Abigail," Hannibal says, warmly, offering to shake Abigail's hand. 

"Nice to meet you," Abigail smiles, her mouth curving crookedly. "Oh! I completely forgot. Will, I have homework I need to get done tonight. Is it okay if I skip out on the dinner?" 

Will frowns, mostly because Abigail is painfully obvious, and she knows it. It's a little embarrassing. "Fine. But make sure to grab something to eat later on." 

"Of course," Abigail says agreeably. "I'll just be at the back – you know, in the woods. It was nice putting a face to the name, Dr. Lecter." She pulls on her coat, and picks up an axe with a purposeful air. Hannibal raises both eyebrows, looking at Will. 

"Abigail," Will says, with his best parental voice. "Where do you think you're going with that?"

Abigail sighs, pausing at the door. 

Will pulls open the closet, picking out another axe. Hannibal follows the proceedings silently. "That thing is so blunt that you're going to hurt yourself before you hurt anybody else." 

"You're babying me again," Abigail mutters, but makes the switch. 

"Someone has to," Will returns mildly. He kisses her cheek, sending her on her way. 

As he turns back to Hannibal, the man is wearing the most peculiar expression Will has ever seen, his eyes wide and his cheeks slightly flushed. He looks – and Will is sure that he must be imagining it – lovestruck.

“So,” Hannibal says, his voice a little hoarse. “What’s for dinner?”

“Ah,” and now Will smiles, just a tiny bit, self-satisfied. “Well, it’s not pork.”

Chapter Text

“Hannibal called you,” Abigail says, lingering at the doorway. She frowns. “Again.”

Will sighs, takes off his glasses and folds them against his chest. “I’ll call him back.”

“Is there something I should know?” Abigail asks. “You two didn’t have a fight, did you?”

“Of course not,” Will mutters, sitting up properly and gently shoving three dogs away from his lap. As an afterthought, he hands the crime scene photos he was perusing to Abigail, who eyes them with the critical eye of a connoisseur.

Will really can’t put his finger to it. There is nothing wrong, as far as he can tell – Hannibal calls him nearly daily, and their conversations are pleasant, intimate – perhaps a bit too metaphorical sometimes, but Hannibal makes it fun. He brings presents, he’s replaced all the knives in the house, he spends time with Abigail, he stands next to Will’s bedside sometimes when he wakes up; his connections to FBI have given Will a far better chance of meeting people for his book than he had before – and yet, somehow, Will feels like there’s something missing.

“Are those the chocolates Hannibal brought?” Abigail asks, plopping down next to him. Will notices she’s trying to slip a crime scene picture into her bra.

“Help yourself,” he sighs, snatching the photo and passing her the box. “I don’t know what it is, Abigail. I have no trouble getting into people’s heads, and yet –“

“Is that an eyeball?”

“Please eat it, I don’t like the runny ones.”

A bit muffled. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Will slips his glasses on, frowning as he stares into the empty shadows of their lounge room. The shadows seem to stare back at him, but they always do that. “I just wish I knew – how he really feels about me.”

*

The day is still barely in its babysteps when Will gets out of the car, squinting in the flash of blue and red lights. The crime scene is warded off with yellow tape, and he slips underneath it with practiced ease. Jack Crawford approaches him, his mouth set in a displeased line – Will has known the man now for only a couple of months, and as far as he knows, Jack has no sense of humour. He’s never even once laughed at Hannibal’s puns.

“Mr. Graham. I’m so glad you could make it today. Are you at all familiar with the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“My daughter started scrapbooking thanks to him,” Will says absently, looking around. He doesn’t mention that he did too – he doesn’t want to sound too much like a fanboy. Jack pushes on with oblivious determination.

“Excellent. I hope you don’t mind taking a look. It’s been a while since the Ripper struck, and it’s certainly been a while since he’s left us with anything – this, uh. Flashy.”

Jack sounds like he’s not sure what word to use. Will follows him into the building curiously.

The crime scene is in an upscale restaurant. Will wonders if he should mention the fact that he and Hannibal visited this particular place about two weeks ago – but Jack seems to have a lot in his mind as it is.

“That’s a lot of… rose petals,” Will says slowly, staring. The entire ceiling has been covered with hanging fishing lines, with bits and pieces of human parts strung up with flowers like some particularly macabre interior design piece. The floor is pink and soft with petals scattered all around. All in all, it makes a pretty picture – Will reminds himself to bring one back for Abigail’s collection.

“Our other profilers think Ripper is sending a message to someone,” Jack says grimly, startling Will out of his reverie. “The problem is, we have no idea who. Can you do your thing and – give us your insight?”

“Of course,” Will says obligingly. He takes a step back, and then lets his mind relax, starting to circle the piece. It’s set in the middle of the restaurant, the tables pushed to the side – by the Ripper, Will notes, not by the FBI.

He can feel the intent in every part, every detail: a perfectionist care has been taken to make a fantasy come true, to create something visceral and soft, something dreamlike. Keeping his eye on the lines, Will walks slowly, coming to stop roughly where he and Hannibal were seated weeks before – and all suddenly becomes clear, literally, as the seemingly random pieces of human carcass suddenly line up in the right angle, forming what Will can only assume is the secret message Ripper intends to send.

I LOVE YOU

A bit simple, perhaps, but Will has to give him points for brevity.

He feels a bit flustered, and a bit embarrassed that he is. It’s not like the message is for him – the Ripper has a sweetheart, and Will, and the FBI, have simply stumbled upon something private, something intimate – something passionate.

Inexplicably, there is a stab of envy.

Will stares at the words for a moment longer, and then hastily keeps walking, before Jack comes to see what he’s looking at. He tries to rub the blush off his cheeks, reminding himself, over and over again, that the emotions are not his to have – that he’s simply taken a peek of a love meant for somebody else.

Somehow, it doesn’t really make him feel any better.

*

Hannibal’s knife glides smoothly to gut the fish on his cutting board. Will watches, the sight of a thick hint of blood and the silver of the scales mesmerizing him into some peaceful lull, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee.

“You’ve been very quiet today,” Hannibal comments softly. He’s rolled up his sleeves and set out his tools, bowls and ingredients around him in a methodological, almost neurotic order. Will likes that about him – that particular primness, the decisive delicacy that Hannibal has in everything he does.

He tries not to think about white linens stained with blood, the frenzy of a massacre and the tender combination of flowers and flesh.

“I had a long drive today,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Although the scenery was beautiful. There is something special about a killer who can make a murder into a work of art. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

“That’s because you are a work of art,” Hannibal says, with a sly sidelong glance at Will. “You’re the muse, not the artist, Will.”

Will huffs out a laugh, and sets out to peel the potatoes, nudging Hannibal’s shoulder with his. “As if my flannel inspires that particular passion in anyone. Maybe in a homicidal lumberjack.”

Hannibal’s expression is briefly, bizarrely affronted, before he looks bemused.

“Will,” he begins to say softly, carefully. “What exactly did you see at work tod –“ 

“Hannibal!”

Abigal breezes into the kitchen, the dogs following close to her heels, mostly because she keeps feeding them under the table but also because she’s covered in generous amounts of blood. She’s wringing her hands worriedly.

“Whatever is the matter, Abigail?” Hannibal asks – Will detects a hint of some odd stiffness.

“I messed up,” Abigail says, distraught. “Look, look what I did –“

She lifts up the hem of her dress. Will leans over the counter to take a look.

She’s sewn a severed hand onto her dress.

“I was going to wear this to a party,” she says pathetically.

“That’s all right,” Hannibal says briskly. “Happened to me all the time as a young boy. Sometimes with socks as well.”

“So you think we can move this hand up a couple of inches?”

Hannibal pauses.

“Absolutely,” he says firmly.

“I can hold down the fort here,” Will says, his mouth curling against his will. “I can even deal with the fish. Grilled, right? Maximum flame?”

“Don’t touch the fish, Will,” Hannibal says, looking pained. Will grins.

Hannibal, manhandled slowly out of the room by Abigail, casts an odd, searching look after Will - leaving him wondering whether he’s just missed something extremely important.

*

“There he is, the man of the hour!”

Will, who so far has triumphantly avoided looking any of the people working for Jack in the eyes, or indeed focusing too long on their faces at all, suddenly has to stop and stare at Beverly Katz who’s grinning like a lunatic.

The Ripper crime scene is another familiar place – a theatre, this time. Hannibal had taken him and Abigail there, the second day after they’d met, and Will had watched as he and Abigail whispered to each other throughout the whole play with a mixture of warmth and wariness.  

The actors on the stage are unfamiliar, which means that the cast of Les Miserables didn’t meet their maker. Of course, Will could be wrong – for the most part, the victims are also rather unrecognizable.

“What do you mean, the man of the hour?” Will asks – and two of the other crime scene investigators burst into muffled laughter, where they’re crouching on the stage.

“I think you need to take a closer look, Will,” Jack says gravely.

“I think he needs new glasses,” Beverly says. “I mean… it’s a bit on the nose.”

“Literally, if you look at victim #3,” Zeller says. “Someone was using small tools.”

Will takes a step back, squinting at the stage. The bodies are arranged like mutilated puppets, singing serenade to the empty rows of seats. Words adorn the drapes, written in blood, words are carved to the bodies, into the clothes, the flesh and the bone. Shouting from the rooftops, the same thing over and over again.

WILL GRAHAM

“That –“ Will says, weakly. “That’s very forward.”

“Someone’s very into you,” Beverly smirks. “Look, this one is holding their own lungs.”

“You take my breath away,” Will translates automatically. He’s staring. He’s starting to blush.

“Will,” Jack says, and his voice is grave, his hand settling heavy and intrusive on Will’s shoulder. “Has the Ripper contacted you before? Should we be worried?”

“Well – no, I –“ Will shrugs Jack’s hand away, looking at him helplessly. His heart is thrumming in his ears, his palms sweating. “I swear, Jack – I haven’t – do you think he really likes me?” He feels like someone’s tickling the bottom of his stomach.

“That’s – that’s not really the issue here –“

“Sure he does!” Beverly pipes up cheerfully. “Look how many times he’s written your name over and over again. I mean, the last time I experienced that kind of obsession was on third grade.”

“Wait, this one says Will Grahaw.” Price says. He pauses, narrows his eyes thoughtfully and then turns a detached hand with a singular “W” carved on it the other way around. “There we go.”

“You’re not seriously considering the romantic advances of a psychopath who probably harbours some dark and twisted sexual fetishes?” Jack asks incredulously. “You really want to be in the same room as this guy when he unleashes this on you?”

“Well, I mean,” Will shifts uncomfortably. His whole face feels hot. No one’s ever left him love notes before “Not on the first date, no.”

For some reason, he finds himself looking at Beverly for help.

“Only if you really like him,” Beverly says primly. “Otherwise it’s third date, tops.”

*

When Abigail comes home at night, Will is sitting on the kitchen floor with a bottle of whiskey and his tool-kit, fixing the refrigerator.

“All those livers and kidneys Hannibal keeps bringing for us,” Will says, evasively. “I think the freezer doesn’t work properly, they’re not keeping good for as long as they should.”

“If you need something to fix, I’ve got an electric chair down in the basement,” Abigail says mildly, leaning on the counter. “Right now it’s only good as a toaster.”

“I thought I told you we’d look at the Craigslist together.”

“Well, you’ve been busy making googly eyes with Hannibal. And it was my birthday present.”

Will drops his screwdriver, which rolls underneath the fridge. He sighs and lies down to fish it out, one of the dogs moving predictably to lick his ear. “We haven’t been – we’re friends, Abigail. As I recall, you told me to go out and get one.”

“Uhhuh.” Abigail’s voice sounds distant and a little odd. Will feels an odd twinge of guilt in his chest.

“Abigail,” he starts carefully, flattened on the floor, staring at the underside of the fridge. “How would you feel if I – started dating somebody?”

Abigail is quiet for a while.

“Depends who they were,” she says, finally – like she tries to sound casual. “If it was, oh, someone I knew –“

“I think the Chesapeake Ripper likes me,” Will blurts out. He squeezes his eyes shut, resting his forehead against the floor.

“What?”

“You know who I’m talking about, you had newspaper clippings on your wall for a year –“

“I know Chesapeake Ripper, Will, I just – when did this happen?” Abigail sounds, to Will, strangely distressed, and he sits up hastily, peering at her – she’s sitting on the counter, her sweet pale face scrunched up, biting her lower lip in consternation.

“He’s been… leaving me messages. Personal ones,” Will says, hesitantly. “It’s flattering, I just – I’m not sure what to do, Abigail. It’s been a long time since I last – well.”

Abigail stares at him, worrying the ends of her hair with her fingers.

“You should tell Hannibal,” she says, finally. Something about the idea makes Will’s stomach twist into uncomfortable knots.

“I’m not sure –“

“Tell Hannibal,” Abigail says firmly. “He’s – he’s smart. He’ll help you figure it out, Will. Just – tell him, okay? You should – you should tell him.”

She’s right, of course – of course. Hannibal has a stabilizing effect on him, something with the way he sees the world matching Will’s step by step. And Hannibal is always eager to listen, hanging to Will’s words just as you’d expect from a therapist. Abigail is absolutely correct in her suggestion.

It doesn’t, however, make it feel any easier for Will.

*

Will sort of wishes the Chesapeake Ripper would stop committing his crimes in places that somehow bring Hannibal into his mind. He stares at the lakeside, now empty of fishermen (an unfortunate afternoon of fishing and trying to fish Hannibal’s cell phone out of the lake, almost a month ago), while Jack barks orders behind him for people to clear the area.

“Well?” Jack asks, coming to stand behind him. “What do you see?”

Will closes his eyes, needlessly, and lies, because he needs to figure this out on his own.

He sees an invitation to meet.

*

 “I’m so glad our schedules could finally be matched,” Hannibal murmurs, strolling alongside Will. The moon is high, casting a gloomy silver glow over the tombstones decorating the backyard of his house. Will had paid extra to keep them from being removed.

“Me too,” Will says, and he means it, his mouth curling helplessly. The dogs follow them, dashing off into the darkness and occasionally returning with a femur. Will feels serene, in the way he doesn’t often feel, Hannibal so close by his side that he can feel the heat radiating from him, behind him the soft glow on the windows of his house, a pale twisted face peering from the topmost one in the attic. Will waves at it. It waves back.

“My larders have been packed full as of late,” Hannibal is saying. “Enough that I think I’m going to have a little party. You and Abigail are invited, of course.”

“Are you going to invite any of your patients?” Will asks curiously. “I might like to introduce Abigail to that Randall boy. He’s been on the news lately. It could be – what’s the word – a real meet cute.”

“Not unless she’s willing to don on some very expensive bones, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. One of those.”

Hannibal chuckles, abruptly, hands in his pockets. Will looks at him curiously.

“Meat cute,” Hannibal says. “I might use that some time.” Will finds himself grinning stupidly.

“That’s awful. Don’t you dare.”

“Perhaps I’ll work it into a conversation with Jack,” Hannibal says, unabashed. “I’ll wait until you’re just taking a sip.”

Will tilts his head back and laughs, reaching out for Hannibal’s arm for balance, finding his hand instead, reaching out for his. He looks back, and finds Hannibal grinning at him, his teeth a row of white pearls in the darkness, rarely seen, and pleasant warmth fills his chest.

“You are dangerous, Hannibal Lecter,” Will says, entertained. Hannibal inclines his head modestly.

“As long as you keep inviting me to your life, Will, I feel comfortable with a little teasing,” he says, and then, a little bit unsure. “I hope… that I have sufficiently conveyed my feelings to you. I’m not always very good at – being earnest in words.”

Will pauses, looking at Hannibal as he digests he’s said. It’s true that Hannibal is, at times, inscrutable – but perhaps it is because Will’s been expecting to hear when he should’ve seen.

He thinks about gestures: Hannibal always insisting on coming to his house, despite the fact that Hannibal’s own kitchen is much better equipped. Hannibal wearing the most ludicrously expensive fishing boots at five in the morning. Hannibal staying up until five in the morning to craft a perfectly functional miniature guillotine with Abigail.

He thinks about the ease Hannibal has laboured to craft between them.

The Chesapeake Ripper might have some strange passion for Will, might yearn for him like some force of nature, and some part of Will appreciates it, even craves for it - but even a larger part of him is slowly realizing that he might really like Hannibal quite a lot.  

The cemetery is full of graves meant for two, stones carved with forevers, people who’d taken till death and ran with it. Will wonders, for the first time in his life, if that might be his option.

“You have been understood,” Will says, and his voice is softer than he intends, smile tugging the corners of his mouth. He glances at Hannibal, whose eyes glint red in the moonlight. “Loud and clear.”

“In that case,” Hannibal says, shrouded mostly in shadows now. “I’ll eagerly await for our next meeting.”

Will really needs to tell the Chesapeake Ripper he’s interested in someone else, now.

*

His phone is buzzing.

The lake spreads flat and reflective before him, like a dark mirror. Will’s not sure whether he should be standing inside the yellow police tape, so he waits, visible against the shoreline, hoping that he’s in the right place. He fishes out his phone.

Hannibal’s caller ID flashes on the screen, and Will puts his phone back into his pocket, trying, and failing, not to feel guilty. He tells himself that he’ll call Hannibal, afterwards, that he’ll explain everything. Right now anxiety makes his chest tight. Despite everything, Will is conflicted – worried that the Ripper’s emotions will whisk him away like a tidal wave, too strong to resist. If what he’s learned from Ripper’s work, they’ve barely even scratched the surface – he tries to ignore the anticipatory shiver that shakes through his body at the thought.

A figure is approaching, walking a leisure pace alongside the lake. There’s a flash of light – the Chesapeake Ripper is checking his phone as well.

When he gets closer, Hannibal’s face is still illuminated by the cold light of his screen.

“Will,” he says, warmly.

“Hannibal?” Will asks, taking a step back, and then another, looking around, blinking rapidly like he might be dreaming. He must be – it must be one of his vivid dreams, but Hannibal is standing there solid and real, his expression slowly shifting into surprise and dismay as he takes in Will’s reaction.

“You’re shocked to see me.” He says this softly, as a statement, his tone completely flat. He pauses, his fingers curling into fists. “You – didn’t know?”

“No!” Will exclaims, running his fingers through his hair. “You – you’re the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Hannibal inclines his head mutely. Will takes a deep breath.

“God,” he says.

“Not quite,” Hannibal says – his tone dark and bitter.

Between his rapidly beating heart and the strange relief flooding him, Will watches Hannibal bow his head and not say anything, like an animal about to charge.

“You – you left me all those bodies,” Will says helplessly. “The flowers, the knifework – they were beautiful. They were –“ he swallows, finding his  voice a little hoarse. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I could feel your emotions through them – they were –“

“Will,” Hannibal interrupts, colourlessly. “Why were you here to meet me, if you didn’t know who the Ripper was? Were you here to talk to some stranger, while you knew how I felt? Will.”

He’s approaching now, his shoulders hunched, his face dark and – for the first time, Will sees that expression – terrifying.

“I wanted to turn you down,” Will says softly.

Hannibal stops.

“What?”

“I –“ Will lets out a little huff of laughter, shakily. “I was going to reject the Chesapeake Ripper. For you.”

“But the Ripper is me,” Hannibal says unreadably. “What I mean is – the Ripper is just as much me, as the person you know as Hannibal Lecter. Another side of me.”

“You think it was an easy decision?” Will asks, softly now – takes a step closer, watching Hannibal’s face, watching the emotions roil under the surface like storm under waves, taking in the horrible wrath that Hannibal keeps tucked away behind his eyes. He feels breathless. “I was – completely taken aback, flattered – aroused, even. But – I knew Hannibal better.”

Hannibal pauses, curls and uncurls his fingers, looking away as he thinks.

“I suppose – that makes sense,” he finally grants, reluctantly.

“Hannibal?” Will asks, quietly.

“Yes, Will?”

“Do you – “ Will swallows. “Is that really how you feel about me?”

Hannibal stares at him, unreadably, for a long while, in the silence of the night – long enough for Will to imagine all things he could’ve lost.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, eventually. “I meant it. All of it.”

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, Will?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Will asks softly.

“Why didn’t you just realize?” Hannibal responds.

Will smiles, weakly. Steps even closer. Hannibal does the same, his expression smoothing slowly, his eyes gleaming. He looks like Will is the only person left on Earth – he looks like someone whose love overwhelms, takes over, suffocates.

Will wants more.

“You know,” Hannibal says huskily. “I was this close to cutting you open.”

“That’s way too messy,” Will says, his tone matching. “You should’ve just strangled me.”

Hannibal smiles, a crooked ghost of a smile, his arms going around Will. Will finds himself doing the same – tension and familiarity melding together into an expectation of something they both know is coming.

“Perhaps one day one of us will kill the other,” Hannibal says softly.

“How about we try a kiss, first?” Will suggests. Hannibal looks – and Will knows that now, for sure – lovestruck. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Above them, clouds drift lazily over the moon, and darkness envelopes them.