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Will dreamed of Hannibal's voice more often than not, which should have alarmed him far more than it did.
The dreams always arrived uninvited, richly detailed, and leaving him restless. Tonight he woke gasping, not from fear but from recognition - recognition of a dark hunger he could no longer pretend wasn't his own. In the dream, Hannibal had watched him from across a table, candlelight shining in his dark eyes, with the particular patience of a man who had already achieved his goal. The air had smelled of wine and something darker, richer.
"You're still fighting it," Hannibal had observed, his voice soft, almost fond.
"I have to."
"...must you?"
Will hadn’t answered. Couldn't, not without admitting the fight was mostly theater now - a performance for an audience of one that had stopped believing in the act months ago. In the dream he had said nothing, letting the silence stretch until even the pretense of resistance felt thin.
Now, fully awake, the metallic taste of the dream lingered. Will sat up and pressed the heels of his trembling hands to his eyes. Inside of him, the hunger stayed, quiet and certain, waiting for the next time he closed his eyes.