Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Love-lies-bleeding, n. : a cultivated plant of the genus Amaranthus (especially A. caudatus ); Love-lies-bleeding stood for hopeless love or hopelessness in the Victorian language of flowers.

The knock on his door should’ve startled him, but he’d never been afraid of late night visitors. Take pity on the rabbit that walks into the fox’s den. Hannibal tied his robe shut, crushed black velvet shining by the light of the fireplace, as he made his way to the foyer. The knocking returned, an increased staccato, frantic, which stopped him dead on his tracks. Curiosity, beyond measure, at the impatient or desperate figure on the other side of his door. He tilted his head slightly, familiar scents flooding his senses. The door swung open, fresh air rushing in. The sight was breathtaking.

Will Graham stood there, crazed and shaking, with blood and tears flowing like rivulets down his face, mingling at the corners of his mouth. The red river continued down his neck into the collar of his flannel, traversing from the tip of his fingers onto his shoes drop by drop. Clothes completely ruined, two shades darker where it had seeped on whomever he had feasted. Hannibal could feel the foreign warmth he emanated even with the distance between them. Will looked alive, his steel-grey eyes now a vibrant sapphire, skin dewy against the usual dry pale. Beautiful, he couldn’t help but murmur. The other man’s head snapped at the word, as if woken up from a trance. Rapid blinking, deep breaths, and hands ushering him inside the golden-warm house before he could become lucid enough to change his mind.

Hannibal said something to him before disappearing, but Will’s head was underwater, unable to be reached. His sight and capacity for feeling came back to him slowly, like a gentle thaw to his troubles. The sweet taste of B+ blood lingered in his mouth, dried and crusty against his lips too. He ran his tongue alongside it, unable to resist, coming back to Earth but still half on the stars. So sweet, like spoonfuls of sugar; and he knew all too well if he gorged like this he would get sick but he couldn’t stop. He licked his palm first, then his bruised knuckle before moving to clean each finger individually, not letting any more go to waste. Will had nearly finished with the other hand, his tongue on the pad of his thumb, when Hannibal re-appeared. His lucidity finally caught up, flooding back with everything that had brought him here. To this house, on this night, after this moment of weakness. Averting his eyes, he took the robe the other man gave him, as he was led to the master bathroom. Hannibal kept talking but Will couldn’t tune into his frequency, everything was luminous and distracting, the muted colours of the hallways were too loud, the stark contrast of white porcelain and marble against the black tiling on the walls of the bathroom nearly incandescent. Hyper and fatigued, lethargic but light as a feather, a need for bursting, a need for emptying, as his stomach lurched and his teeth grinded against each other. Will peeled off his clothes and left them in a heap by the side of the tub, he was going to wash them as he bathed. Trembling, saliva coated hands trying to open the tap to no avail, slipping, missing. With a huff, he finally was able to adjust the water and descend into the expensive porcelain. It turned pink, filling up to his chest, as he threw his head back, observing the high ceiling. Hannibal had left him for privacy’s sake, but a part of him ached for someone, for more warmth. More. Hannibal was like a furnace when he stepped near, every time. No, no more of that. He couldn’t stomach those thoughts, starving in more ways than one.

He took his time to soak in the shame that settled after feeding, lights flickering behind his eyelids. The grandiose crack of the man’s neck, the hot spray filling his mouth, and the sated high stuffing his insides like cotton on a doll. Will tried his best not to take long, not to be the rude unexpected guest that pushes their luck. But the water turned cold soon enough, and the lull came to a halt. He hadn’t paid attention to the red satin robe he’d been given or how he’d have to go commando. Thankfully, a towel was tucked into the bundle. He held the fabric between his index finger and thumb, appreciating the soft richness of it as some dangerous thoughts slipped by.

*

The fireplace licked his face in shades of orange, carving his side profile. All attention on those glistening lips while sipping from his tumbler, as amber as the planes of his face; book in hand, casting shadows on the floor. Hannibal seemed more like  a painting, hazy yet sharp in its own way. He’d been aware of Will’s presence, but waited for the man to make himself known, as Hannibal was more than content in letting him watch until he heard the water drip onto the floor. He placed the book aside, the thud of the spine quickly followed by the soft clinking of ice against glass as a signal. “Will, you could have left your clothes in the hamper.”

“Sorry, I didn’t see it.” Will mumbled, as he took the wet pile from his arms, “Do you have where to… hang them?”

He’d been in the man’s back garden, they’d sat there one lazy sunday, but he’d never seen a clothesline or the evidence the man might own one. Neither had he seen a washing machine or a dryer. Why would he? Those suits and expensive fabrics go to the dry cleaners. The misstep must have been evident in his expression, for Hannibal’s maroon eyes crinkled in a mouthless smile “Don’t worry, Will. Take a seat, I’ll be back shortly.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been here, in this room, nor did he think it would be the last, but the Baltimore home still felt strange. As he plopped down on the seat across from Hannibal’s, the cushion giving in gently to his heavy body, the fairytale-like nature of the room wrapped him. Perhaps it was the faint scent of pinewood, or the green walls a shallow ocre under the dim lights. Perhaps it was simply the surrealness of comfort, of a place which didn’t make him uneasy, a place besides his home he could go to. He observed the dancing flame, drawing his gaze up to the vintage clock on top of the fireplace. Around 4 am. Hands raked his drying hair, curls blossoming without direction or form. His feet had taken him here, where by chance Hannibal had been awake, and ready to accommodate his needs. Was this what friends were truly for? Someone to go to, someone who will always open their door for you? The man had done so much for him, and what had Will done in return but keep asking, keep taking? It had been some time since he’d thought of himself as a leech, but in that moment it was the only word he could pull from the depth of his vocabulary.

Slowly spiraling down that avenue, his eyes landed on the book by the table next to the decanter. The leatherbound edition was open, the sewn in marker a bright red vein between the thin pages. A line beckoned him to read it, a shaky breath exited with the last of his soul, peering into the decontextualized excerpt. He’d never believed in higher powers, but they seemed to be mocking him now:

  V. There are two bodies——the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call “death” is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.

With a warmth of his own, Hannibal’s presence to his side was no longer perceptible, mirroring his head tilt to follow the line that would, from now on, haunt him. It startled him, jittery and overwrought, when the other man cleared his throat, before elegantly lowering himself into the opposite chair to address him fully. “I do not agree with the sentiment, do not believe Poe did either, but in the narrative it is meant to be food for thought.”

Will averted his eyes, heavy, and if he had a beating heart it would be bruising his ribs to get out from the anxiety. A thousand possibilities running through his head, ugly distrust of the relationship they’ve built. The ghost of trepidation resided inside him, physically lingering like a memory. “Hardly light reading for this late at night.”

“Death, and by association, Life, has intrigued humankind since the beginning. To many it’s a disease to be cured, to others it can be a comfort.”

Will clenched his jaw, hand tapping lightly against the armrest, “Would you trade places with me? Would you rather be immortal?”

Hannibal only softened at the accusation, and offered a glass of the unknown liquor. He declined wordlessly. ”Not by any means. The thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty, art and horror of everything this world has to offer.”

At the hollow silence of the slumped shape, and those unfocused shimmering blue eyes looking for words, he finally admitted the defeat. “But I’d reckon we can follow this conversation another time. The guest room awaits you, should you want it.”

“You know I don’t need to sleep. No rest for the wicked, and all.” He stared at Hannibal finishing his drink, wondering if he should walk back home instead. Daylight would be for him reasonably soon, erasing the bloody footsteps from earlier, erasing the deeds that made him a creature of the night.

Hannibal seemed to have read his thoughts, for his lips curled without pity, but with just as much colour. “Just because you do not need it does not mean you can not take it.”

*

Will awoke in an unfamiliar bed, in between the lofty air of clean sheets and spiced soap and coffee. It dragged him by the nose like a cartoon, after a short stop in the bathroom; dragged him downstairs through the oaken corridor and into the kitchen. Bathed in light, the steel counter shining like a polished mirror, and Hannibal cooking there, in his white polo shirt and plush robe. In the daylight he could distinguish the cream embroidery on the edges of the collar, and a few stitches it had been given in the inseam. As if it had burst at some point and had needed repair. The image of those hands mending a piece of clothing seemed foreign, even if his needle threading skills were refined from years of working ER.

The man had his back to him, short hacks punctuating the air. The muscles of his back prominent through the layers, and it made Will wonder if swimming was the only sport the other man did. He'd never commented on anything else. Curiosity escaping him in favour of the heavenly smell, he rounded the counter: a good morning graced their lips, a pleasant, polite exchange. Chocolate, an assortment of nuts, and fresh fruit were blooming into the shape of flowers in front of him. He'd been privileged to see these moments before, moments where the magic happens and ingredients turned to food which in turn turned to art. And for someone who didn't have the need to eat, the consumption of them was the highest praise he could give to the chef. All that Hannibal did was appealing, like a siren song; no wonder he had most people around him wrapped around his finger.

Sometimes his eyes betrayed the fact that he knew this. Sometimes, his eyes betrayed a scorching white blinding light, an all encompassing disruptive power inside him. Will was so cold, he didn't want to look away. His own eyes must telegraph that coldness but Hannibal hadn't looked away either. The thought left him before he realized it had, “When I showed up, you weren’t afraid.”

A quirk of the lips, a hand offering the surplus chunk of dark chocolate that would not go into the display. Will accepted it as the man answered, a pleasant bitter swirling in his tongue. “Why would I be?”

“I was on a bloodcraze, I could’ve attacked you.”

“And you believe I would have let myself be attacked?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow, as he moved to set the mugs on the counter, “My sole preoccupation last night was what could’ve driven you to such a state, not what you might have done because of it.”

Will stared at the scalding dark liquid between his palms, bearing no reflection, “Am I not responsible for my actions? It doesn’t matter how I got there, I got there and-”

He drew a shaky breath but Hannibal interrupted his string of thought, snapped it with the calm but forceful scissors of his voice: “You fed, nothing to be ashamed of, Will. Is it the loss of control or the act itself which is burdening you?”

“What do you think?” A playfully sour smile spreading across his features, which stopped short of a grimace.

“Both, but more so the act of feeding. You lost control in Garret Jacob Hobbs' kitchen, and even though you might force yourself to regret your actions, you saved two lives with those instincts you abhor. That, as you’ve stated before, makes you feel good. Or has that changed?”

“No. I’m glad his wife and daughter survived, they… didn’t deserve to end like that.”

“Because they deserve to live a full and happy life. You agree with that sentiment.” Will nodded, “Then you would agree that you deserve to eat and eat well. It is no secret you have been neglecting a need as necessary as breathing.”

“Nobody deserves to be someone else’s food.” Hannibal tilted his head, not believing him, as much as Will did not believe himself. “Not even true monsters, like Hobbs?”

The twinkle in his eyes, the silence, almost a defeat to his denial, and so he continued, “If you’d had the chance to do so, would you have taken it?“

“I- I can’t imagine a scenario where that’s possible. But…” Will closed his eyes, emotion betraying him with a crack, “But I can imagine it would’ve felt good.”

He ran a hand through his face, letting a humourless chuckle out, it gave Hannibal a small glimpse at those teeth. “This is ridiculous, Dr. Lecter. If the people Jack Crawford catches are the ones deserving of being reduced to food then I would still starve.”

With less bite than intended he added, “I’d rather avoid drinking from anything that moves.”

“Many might agree with you, but in the end, it implies a long life without any delight.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“And thus you will remain miserable until death knocks at your door? That’s hardly living, Will.”

“I’ve been dead for 40 years, Hannibal.” The use of his first name was poignant, bittersweet letters rolling as a warning, “I have no intention of ‘living’ if it means to inflict base savagery on others for sustenance.”

The other man spoke over the rim of his own mug,“What if you could feed in a controlled setting, from someone who offers themselves?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” Stomach churning and twisting in knots, the otherwise appetizing breakfast display turning grey.

“And what am I implying, Will?”

“That someone would debase themselves to walking blood bag status willingly.”

Hannibal frowned, taken aback, before going back to a more neutral expression. It was a half second switch, but it dawned on Will, he’d misinterpreted the cue. The man across from him wasn’t telling him to search for a partner in the way he’d heard so many other vampires did, humans who remained by their side to provide and provide until either of them got fed up and killed the other, or worse, fell in love and got turned. No, he was… testing his willingness to feed on him. Him. Hannibal, accepting his humanity, for he couldn’t be anything but by the heat he radiated constantly, to him. Will wanted to rewind and choose a different answer, do it differently. He wanted to turn back time to never have forgotten to check his backup supply in the shed’s freezer, to never have gone into a craze. If only to not have to have this conversation, in the oversized home, in the borrowed robe and not-as-dry-as-he-would-have-liked boxers.

He gulped his coffee in one go, gingerly placing it next to the untouched fruit plate. “I’m overstaying. Have been since I woke up, and I should really go back, the dogs must be worried and-”

“I assure you, Will, you’re not: my kitchen is always open to you.” Stopping his blabbering short, and hoping to lighten the awkward mood, he added: “But I’ll fetch your clothes, I’d never dare to get between you and your pack.”

The look that the other man gave him could have x-rayed his insides, “Thanks for feeding them, I don’t think I ever actually thanked you for it.” Hannibal gave a short head bow, sand and silver hair short of glowing in the morning light, and slipped down the corridor out of sight. Will played with the knot of his robe, the satin a caress on his calloused hands, waiting. 

Once he was clothed in his surprisingly dry and slightly warmed flannel and slacks, he aimed for the foyer where his dirty shoes resided. They slid into the socks without preamble, and the ache that jolted him threatened to tumble him over headfirst to the floor. Leaving had never been harder, his vulnerability had laid in the other man’s hands for hours, and he was now indebted. It was real. When he arrived home and made the calls necessary not to have this incident repeated, it would all mean it was real. His fingers looped around the lacing one last time, and he turned to say goodbye. Instead, a hand rested on his shoulder, rooting him in his spot. Hannibal had changed into a midnight blue button up, and rust suit pants.

“Will you allow me to call you a cab? I’d offer to drive you myself but I have patients in an hour.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks.”

Hannibal poured him one for the road, the same bourbon that he had declined hours before, with his phone pressed between his cheek and his shoulder. Eyes crinkling when they caught his, and Will recognized a fondness there he had only seen in his dog’s eyes. Something unconditional, and much more terrifying that he imagined.

*

As much as Jack Crawford had tried to stay away at Will's request, the return of the Chesapeake Ripper had him desperate, and knocking once more on his classroom door. There wasn't anything peculiar about the scene as a whole, besides the man whose chest cavity was filled with flowers or the concrete from which the tree the corpse was embedded in had sprouted. No, that was standard for him, the flair and the symbolisms would only get bolder and bolder. Grandeur, elevation, sophistication, all trademarks of this killer. No, the only thing peculiar about this tableaux were the details. The flowers themselves, especifically. The other one of this sounder had been subtle, pointing at a struggle for someone's attention but these roughly translated to love, hopeless, one sided love. The sweet williams wreathed in the brown curls of the victim had been thankfully missed or passed as an observation unworthy of comment. Will couldn't help but think he was being called, and it thrilled as much as disappointed him. Killer falling for the detective who understood him was a worn off trope, hardly ended in anything but bloodshed and arrests. And as much as he should like the idea of infatuation giving way to a mistake, to evidence, to unmasking the Chesapeake Ripper, he didn't want any of that. It felt like cutting an artist's life short, of tearing down something beautiful. All Will wanted lately was to succumb and appreciate beauty, imbibe in it. But an everlasting life turned his vision grey, knowing you will outlive everything you touch rests heavy; reverse Midas, seeing himself be turned to gold as love and hate wither around him. He knew it was in his best interest to catch the Chesapeake Ripper, but he wanted to delight in him for as long as the living could offer their services.

Beverly gave him a weak smile as she pushed through the swarm of agents taking photos of the scene to get to Jack. Their exchange went unheard, but it cleared a second later: two officers were escorting a fiery red figure out. By the time he was dismissed from the scene, another joined him. “Freddie Lounds is terrified of you.” He stated, pointing with a subtle tilt of the head towards the journalist, sitting behind a rolled down tinted window and looking the other way. Will could almost see her shiver as they walked right by her trunk on their way to the black Bentley.

He raised an eyebrow, waning-blue eyes rising to meet his, “That's a pity.”

“Does she know?”

Will turned sour, stopping right before entering the car. “No, and I'd like to keep it that way. Her headlines don't need any more punch.”

“I find it very unlikely that she will find out any time soon. Except for your undisclosed supplier and your superior, none of your peers are aware.”

“And you.” It wasn’t a tease, but the detachment of the statement insinuated something else.

“Am I your peer or your friend, Will?”

“My friend, the psychiatrist, if I remember correctly.” Will’s seatbelt clicked shut, and the engine purred, it took some minutes before he could speak again. “You never told me how you knew.”

Hannibal adjusted the rearview mirror, his maroon eyes encased, isolated. Without the context of his face they seemed to belong more to some wild majestic beast than a man. Those eyes, the last vision before you blinked out of existence. And then, the road, the firm quality of his vowels, “It was a peculiarity of your skin, the differences are subtle, but I could tell. There is an opaqueness to your pale under the sunlight, resembling more the porous material of statues than ordinary flesh.”

“Oh, so it wasn't the fact I dress like I've never owned a mirror?” He let a rough chuckle past him, knowing he’d been anxious about the answer all this time; what little resentment he could have held from that first meeting got lost in the fog of his mind. “I thought Jack had told you before I walked into his office. I thought … You, asking permission to step into my hotel room was mockery. A jab.”

“And still you let me in.”

It took his breath away, the intensity of those 6 words, because it was true. Why had he let him in? Not that he had been opposed to the breakfast, to the old school meal after so long, “You’re very persuasive, and the fact doesn’t escape you.” The other man pressed his lips into a thin line, paying attention to the empty highway when he would’ve by now tried to engage in eye contact. And so, Will doubled down, “C’mon, everyone is in awe of Hannibal Lecter’s grand dinners, whisked under the charisma of the surgeon, psychiatrist, socialite, artist. A renaissance man, the elite’s wet dream.”

“Although that might be true, Will, I have much more in common with you than with the people that grace my table or social circle.” The hint of tongue sweeping across his lips, a short side glance,“Perhaps you’ll see that one day.”

“Perhaps.” He mirrored, knowing it had to be wishful thinking. He was someone interesting Hannibal had grown fond of, not a piece that fit into his luxurious life. The rest of the drive was spent in amenable silence, as Will stared at the empty roads and remembered how little it had changed in all these years.

Hannibal didn’t have the intent to take his hands off the wheel when they arrived, simply observing the confused expression doning Will’s features. He wanted to be invited into the quaint house, into the cream, grey, and light blue palette; he wouldn’t move otherwise. And so, he played into his hand, willingly, “Have a drink with me? There’s tea, and we can’t do much until the lab calls back with results.”

A subdued wolfish grin appeared, which Will mirrored, pointed teeth showing, as he heard, “I’d love to.”

And so they unbuckled their seatbelts and walked into the pack of dogs that whined from the other side of the door. As they were released, they instantly recognized Hannibal. Will was more than ready to stop them from getting their paws and nails on the other man’s expensive shoes and suit, but to his surprise, it wasn’t needed. The figure had kneeled on the not-quite-clean wooden floor of the porch letting Buster, Daisy, Zoe and Ellie nuzzle under his armpits as his hands were busy patting Harley and Max. It was strange, yes, but also endearing. But what made Will realize something was extremely off was Winston, Winston, trying to lick his face. I must be dreaming, he concluded, those were not his dogs, and that was not Doctor Hannibal Lecter carding and fluffing up said stranger’s dogs.

“Who are you and what did you do to my pack?” He asked in disbelief, hoping it came out as teasing and not dumbfounded.

“If I had to guess, they liked the sausages I brought them while you were away, now they must associate me with them.”

Will huffed, forgoing an ‘unbelievable’, as he trudged inside and discarded his coat over the chair. The kettle was on before he noticed the lack of heat in the house, his usual personal furnace still on the porch. He could make out the figure of Max, belly up, as those slender fingers traversed the furry friends. When neither Hannibal nor the dogs gave any sign of going inside unless forced, he whistled. It might have been selfish, but it was cold enough as it is with the door open. The other man had a faint blush, whether from embarrassment, enthusiasm, or the harsh wind he wasn’t sure, but he hung his coat on the unused hook and disappeared into his bathroom. Elegant steps, a certain familiarity which struck him, it was as if it was his own home. Perhaps his house was a place of comfort, of ease, as much as the Baltimore residence was to him.

The kettle boiled before his heart could scrunch further at the small relieved sigh that passed through Hannibal’s lips as his back hit the armchair. He lifted it from the stove and opened the cabinet, and to his surprise, he had less tea than he realized. But then again, did he remember the last time he’d bought tea? “I can offer you an Earl Gray of dubious precedence or…” he turned, going over to the liquor cabinet he did keep stocked, “A long island iced tea.” The lab would take at least 5 hours, they'd said, and the afternoon hadn’t settled yet. At any rate, Will couldn’t get drunk, not this way at least, so he could drive them if needed.

“I have never had one, but I’m more than open to trying it.”

Will took stock of the two tea bags relegated to the back of the cardboard box, “Good, because I was thinking of throwing away that box anyways.”

“I suppose this drink does not have tea, even if the name would indicate otherwise?”

Will smiled to himself as he realized the other man genuinely had never even heard of the cocktail. “Makes sense that you haven’t had one, when did you arrive in the US? These were really popular in the 80s, and as much as I love whiskey, I never could resist ordering one of these at the bars downtown.”

“I was here in the late 1980s, I simply wasn’t in the bar scene as it seems.” He crossed his ankles, his hands finding the dog’s fur again, carding softly.

“Yeah, John Hopkins, right? I can’t imagine what becoming a surgeon must be like.”

“It is very rewarding. The sacrifices one makes are necessary, they pay off.” Hannibal seemed… chipper. His usual schooled or more subtle emotions, now out in the open. Not that he wasn’t expressive, he simply wasn’t overt to most. But that was because they couldn’t read him, or he didn’t want to be read.

“What made you switch, then? You worked in the ER, you saved lives.”

“Not always,” not a hint of regret, just a point-blank statement, “I killed a patient, or at least, one too many. The mind had always appealed to me nonetheless, so I did not consider it a hard choice nor a defeat. And as far as I’m concerned, no lives have been lost to my therapy.”

As they spoke, Will had moved with the certainty of a bartender, taking long glasses from the cupboards, half-full bottle after bottle, and finally some off brand Cola. At this, Hannibal’s nose scrunched, but Will shot him a ‘trust me’ look.

“Jack told me you were a police officer before, but did not disclose details. I doubt he knows more.”

Will hesitated to meet his eyes as he answered the implicit question. It was only fair, he’d poked at his previous career. “Back in Louisiana, I worked homicide but after getting stabbed I got downgraded to a desk job. It was supposed to be better for my mind, I guess, a blessing in disguise. My empathy was something to keep under lock, but trapped inside the precinct all day, cigarette smoke and banal, bigoted droning from all sides, it had me missing the mind of killers.”

“It sounds exhausting. I can understand your choice to leave and start teaching.” Hannibal’s hands had left his dogs, and now rested on his knee; his gaze moved up to the faint scar on his nose, and the genuine pull of his eyebrows. And yet, Will’s voice was light, laced in bottled resentment, “I didn’t leave, I was discharged. Thank god they kept records in very flammable boxes back then, the FBI might not have taken me otherwise.”

His brow furrowed, as he stared at the drinks, taking them over to Hannibal. They locked eyes and took a sip each. Hannibal seemed amused, probably not expecting the kick of the cocktail. But he easily read the conflict inside the other man, the avoidance of what followed in his personal history. “Will, you don’t have to disclose anything you don’t want to. Even if doctor-patient confidentiality doesn’t cover your home, our relationship does. What you say, or don’t say, stays between us.”

The other man took a deep breath, more out of habit than because his lungs worked.

“It’s not like they could fire me for it, but they said I was unstable, waited until I made a mistake to lay me off. My whole world was turned upside down, I died, and I was supposed to keep living, go back to my job in the morning like everything was fine. Of course I would make a mistake, I could barely think.” The grip on his glass tightened, “Someone had fed from me, I could sense the gluttony, they were warm, they were already warm when my head connected with the wall, and they were warm when they almost tore my neck out.” Ire rising to break through, before a shudder had him taking a long gulp of his drink, “But then I could feel their regret as I stopped fighting, I physically couldn’t anymore, and… and maybe they just took pity on me, I don’t know, I couldn’t see them.” He gritted his teeth, and chuckled humorlessly over the rim of his glass, “It’s hard to do your job when you wish to have been left to die, and to have stayed dead.”

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”

Will recognized the quote, of course it was Frankenstein, but the soft spoken words were a touching acknowledgement beyond that. “Always had a knack for the monsters, Doctor Lecter?”

“At the risk of getting my medical license revoked, I must say you aren’t the first ex-human patient I’ve had. Most who have been recently and unwillingly turned show symptoms of PTSD; with how reluctant you were to our first session, I surmise you did not seek therapy back then.”

Will laughed, much more to relieve tension than because he should, the slight peek of fangs visible. “Another one?”

“As much as I’d like to, I think I’ll move to something less alcoholic.”

“Lucky for you, I have wine open.”

To this, Hannibal took his glass and followed Will to the kitchen, and as much as he stood out amongst his rustic aesthetic, he belonged somehow. Don’t be ridiculous, how could he? He can’t do half the things he likes in this space. He barely belongs in your life, let alone your house… And even if he did, he’s ephemeral. You will attend his funeral, and the funeral of everyone else you get attached to.

As he extended the wine glass he looked him in the eye, not afraid of staring too long to memorize the rich golden brown, “I did see someone, it just didn’t work. I was a paranoid insomniac that needed quaaludes and barbiturates, not therapy, apparently.”

“Ah, I can understand how the experience did leave much to be desired.” The cogs behind his eyelids turning and whirring, the screech of a train changing lanes at the last minute, “Will, if you don’t mind, I’m curious as to when you were born.”

“Arranging my timeline?”

“Quid pro quo, if you will. You told me of your vagrant life with your father, and I assumed a date. I may have been mistaken on that approximation.”

“Some other time.” His eyes glistened in a plea, dulled and hiding a casual despondency. Lost. There was something lost and guarded behind a door never to be touched again, chain and padlock. He could respect that.

“Have you eaten today?” Hannibal acquiesced, focusing on the empty glass that belonged to the other man. The blank expression answered enough. “I have no objections to the consumption of blood, Will, some of the best dishes include it.”

“Yeah, but it’s from an animal, not a medical bag.” He took a sachet from the bottom of the small yet industrial refrigerator, held it in the air to show to the other man, almost defiant. 

This is all I need, this is all I have. It was cold, and would still be, but as a ritual he rolled it between his fingers, before bringing it to his mouth. Will tore the seal with his teeth, holding the plastic between them as he squeezed the rich crimson liquid into the wine glass.

Hannibal was transfixed with how it filled to the brim, the thickness, the scent, the way it nearly spilled as it reached his lips, how his eyes fluttered closed at the first sip. Mouth watering involuntarily. He swallowed as Will swallowed, almost able to taste what he tasted. One day, soon, Will would know and the days of cold ascetic food would be over; he’d let him drain the pigs freshly slaughtered, or perhaps, at first, he’d re-heat the stored ones for him like one does a hearty soup. But he had to stop the dreaming short, his own heart could be anfractuous and cavernous, but it was by no means unbreakable. Too many expectations on Will would only shatter faster, harder, and more easily. He thought he would have seen him, by now, fully, for he understood his friend, and he understood the Chesapeake Ripper. Was what Bedelia had called a veil too thick for him to pass? Was he holding back, holding his cards to his chest before the grand reveal? The other man’s morality was not skew but flexible, and his righteousness governed over his ideas of law and societal order. Will was the outsider to the outsider, no longer indebted to men nor death, no longer bound by the principles which held most back of existing without guilt or excuse. And yet, here he was, merely surviving, undead and less than alive, sharing his solitude and loneliness with him, killing time with the FBI. Hannibal wanted to ask him why he did it, why he stayed here to drink refrigerated blood and cocktails for one, and care for dogs that would keep leaving him for a place he wouldn’t reach naturally. No vampire had been registered to die of natural causes throughout history, and he knew Will wouldn’t be the first one. So many had succumbed to despair and madness, for the mind could only abide a lack of humanity for so long before cracking like the spine of a well worn book. So many minds and records are continually lost, because the other is always cast out to the margin, and shame is a slow poison to our souls.

He could help Will extract it, he could show him there was no need to bury everything he was, and yet maintain privacy. He could, and yet an amused expression told him he’d been too enraptured, and he’d been caught staring. “My apologies, Will.” 

Rough pale hands grasped the bulb of his half empty wine glass as he loosened his own grip on it, taking it away, and into the sink. “I think the long island affected you more than you think.”

“You might be right.”

“Wouldn’t want to get Hannibal Lecter drunk on duty.” He murmured offhandedly, turning to wash it all quickly.

“And off-duty?”

“At least I wouldn’t feel guilty about it,” a finger caught the elusive drop of blood from the edge of his mouth before popping inside, wasting nothing,  “and I’d join you properly, in that case.”

“Should we schedule, then?” A toothy half-smile graced his lips without hiding the adoration in his eyes, playing into the tipsy appearance the other man had imposed on him, “I’d propose Thursday night, as I do not have patients on Friday mornings and Jack has cleared your classes for what little remains of the month.”

“Sounds good. I’ll bring my cooler, except…” he arched his eyebrows in mock sincerity, dripping sarcasm, “you don’t happen to have some human blood around your freezer, don’t you?”

Hannibal’s smile widened, cheeks meeting his cheekbones as one mass of flesh, “Pig blood is the best I can offer.”

Will tsked in jest, “Too bad.”

It was dangerous, the pull of the warmth from Hannibal, from his carefree, loose attitude. Would he actually get drunk with him? It had always seemed like a thing to engage in with your friends, male peers, and more than once he remembers having been invited to boys night out, to watch a game and drink beer, but he’d never been close enough to his coworkers to allow himself that. And he’d never had many friends, in general, much less to drink with. The most he’d experienced was in the bars in the 80s when the noise and the habituals drowned everything else he had swirling inside like a whirlpool and the alcohol was a taste that washed away the blood, stinging but never numbing or buzzing his limbs. 

At one point he’d started going home with the patrons that showed interest in him, just for the sake of the warmth of something alive. He’d started rescuing dogs around the same time. Sleeping in a cold bed had always been hard, a source of misery; it was harder even if you couldn't warm it yourself, or keep it filled for more than an hour. After too many botched hookups he’d given up, and moved away from the city, needing more space for his growing pack, for his defeat. It resided in the upstairs bedroom that went unused, the king size bed for the eventuality of someone, anyone, who wished to stay the night, but it was nothing more than wishful thinking, a personal mockery to keep him humble, a reminder. He avoided people at every turn, avoided the teacher parties for the most part, only going to the new year’s eve one because it was implicitly mandatory and had to keep up appearances of not being a creature of the night, and avoided the FBI peers. 

Yes, Jack knew, and kept his distance, reading him well. Beverly didn’t know, but she was kind for the hell of it, and he appreciated it. But the idea that he would outlive any of them made him take a step back when he should take a step forwards. Except with Hannibal. Hannibal, with whom he was going to partake in the age-old ritual of getting drunk together at night, to talk about life and embarrassing stories or whatever came up. And as much as he hated the vulnerability, the display of the cracks on his soul, because the other man held a chisel and hammer with which he crumbled him to dust when given the chance, it seemed, for the first time in a long time, an opportunity. A silver platter opportunity for fun, for companionship, for a relationship that held any meaning. 

That’s what was so dangerous about Hannibal, the meaning of the connections he wove, like a spider in his web, a predator, sticky silk to get you attached until you are devoured. Will perhaps needed that, needed the cocoon, and the subsequent digestion. It’s not like he had anything to lose, he had made sure of that. At the end of the day, he had nothing, as nothing would last to him, and no one would either. It was time to find the freedom in it, it was time to at least try.

“So, Thursday around 7 is fine?”

*

They hadn’t finished processing the first scene when the second body dropped. Unfortunately, it had been laid on the steps of the Academy, early enough that the janitors had found it. If the tree man was a declaration of infatuation, this piece was a call for answers. But how could he? The means of communication were one sided, by design. It rendered him speechless, holding the photos in between his hands and walking down the hall and out to the display, in his head. They’d had to move it in a haste, the placing inconvenient and gruesome to the teachers and students. But the contorted figure left no room for doubt, a message deafeningly clear to Will’s ears. There was no way to keep it to himself anymore, these love letters, but he would stall a little longer. He opened his eyes, fiddling with his symbolically decorative glasses before addressing the solid figure, “The Chesapeake Ripper has insider knowledge, that’s how he knew when the cameras by the entrance would be down for maintenance.”

Jack’s stern eyes widened heavily, as he nodded, looking around the agents in their immediate surroundings. “The rest of the profile still stands?”

“Yes, medical knowledge, early forties to late fifties, most likely male, either patron of the arts or projects that image on his social circle-”

“And with gardening skills.” The men stared stunned at Jimmy Price’s interjection, waiting for him to elaborate. “See, these marks on the back, I thought at first, well, that they were claw marks,” he flexed his gloved hand, motioning on the direction of the wound on the body, “but there aren’t traces of nail or bone, the big scrapes that animals leave when this violent, and assessing the depth, it has to have been a rake. It is evenly spaced, too, see?” 

Zeller stepped closer, removing himself from the computer microscope chair. “Wouldn’t be surprised to find soil in here.”

No you won’t, and it won’t be a rake, it is a claw, you think it’s too big, but that’s a claw. A big, human-palm-sized claw. The Chesapeake Ripper is a werewolf. Maybe. It could explain the dismal brutality of only some, seemingly random, sounders. It would also explain the quick succession of a past triad he’d read on the file, three victims in two nights was a record. If he checked, he was sure it would be a full moon. But he was a very mindful werewolf. One that retained its logic, ambition, drives when turned. Otherwise it would have showed, otherwise-

Train of thought cut short, his superior’s usual booming voice directed only to them, eyes scanning and alert to any eavesdropping by the rest of the busy lab. “Then the flowers weren’t to hide the missing organs, they meant something.” 

Switching gears, Will added, “Check the meaning of the species against the Victorian Language of the Flowers, it might give us a clue.”

“I found seeds sequined into the stomach lining.” Piped Beverly from the other side of the lab. They huddled around her seat, staring at the results on the screen.

“Seeds?”

Zeller was genuinely confused, “Hold on, hadn’t he taken the stomach?”

“No, he took it but then placed it back inside,” Price bickered back.

Will, with a subtle eye roll hidden behind a rough hand to his face, broke through them, “Which type?”

“Ran them just in case, but they’re pomegranate seeds.” The wet ruby jewel visible on the zoomed in image of the screen.

Beverly and Will weighed the evidence for a few minutes, availability, time, patience, it all had to factor and fit together, links on a chain of the motive behind the action. They were due for a revelation, for a dislodging of the muddled puzzle piece but instead the air was cut by an exasperated groan. Even Jack and Zeller, who had been discussing the positioning of the body by themselves, blinked his way. Jimmy’s voice mellowed, eyes half closed under the sharp lights, “Isn’t it a bit obvious?” 

Hands flying as he spoke, almost dancing on their own, “The Ripper is courting someone! First flowers, a whole murder bouquet at that, and then well, took the next step for a be my persephone kinda deal?”

Persephone and the seeds.

“Why else would he have taken the time to sew and stitch... 75 seeds with ruby red thread into this guy’s gut?” He concluded.

75... His age. How could he have been aware of his age?

Brian was quick to stammer an answer, “But none of us has been to all the crime scenes, except Jack but.... you don’t think that…?”

Beverly folded her arms to her chest, and just stared in disbelief between them, always the voice of reason. “C’mon, we can’t be sure he’s courting anyone. And besides, if he wanted a date with any of us, he would ask for it; I doubt we could spot him on sight.” 

“What, so dating is suspended until we catch him? I can’t-”

“No.” Crawford finally interjected, firm, no room for argument or getting a word in edgewise, “Leaving the speculation aside, what do we have?”

“Not much. Prints, hair, blood spots, it’s all from the victim… I’m running the dental records to check for an ID, but, Jack, we’re going to catch him, you know that right? He will make a mistake.”

“Any luck on the flowers?” Will approached the tree man corpse, who had been occupying the center table of the lab, next to the most recent one.

Price answered first, “Still searching.”

“Maybe we should call Dr. Lecter.” Before anyone could ask, he completed his idea, “There were books on floriography at his office, it might be quicker.”

Hannibal was, as always, helpful. The flowers solidified the theory of a courtship, but, just as Will, he glossed over the wreath of dianthus barbatus, mentioning it only as another clue pointing towards the passion of the Ripper. Hannibal stirred the conversation away from the love part of the equation, exacerbating the passion, and how the killer was likely asking for an equal, another killer, which would discard the ones present as the recipients of such ‘gifts.’ The object of The Chesapeake Ripper’s brutal love was none other than another being akin to him. Perhaps a shyer, less experienced man (oh, because he noted how the caliber of the message suggested male, and in addition, statistically, men were killers more often), or simply a retired one, urging him to come out of hiding for him. It was rather arrogant, on his behalf, bold, which had to mean he was growing desperate or closer to a deadline. All the usual profiling tips. The ID of the victim pinged back, too, finally with a name to the corpse at their table. They listened to Hannibal’s speculations, with the authority his psychiatry degree gave him, to the “new” evidence, and even bounced back and forth more ideas, correcting, erasing, scribbling, and re-adjusting their preconceptions of the Ripper. Will stopped participating halfway through, focusing on putting a thick gauze over his pang of hunger, and before leaving the building, the lab, to let them continue running tests on the flesh, the thread, the seeds, and more, Jack took them down to his office.

Will took a seat, and so did the other man, reminiscent of their first meeting. But there were no dead girls in the corkboard to his left, only the thick file with crime scenes turned art installations, and no coffee mugs from which to gulp. The bitterness coating his tongue was his own, and Hannibal’s eyes were expectant to what the man seated on the other side of the desk wished to inform them. “As a formality, doctor, I will need to know your whereabouts for the time between 10pm yesterday and 8am today. We’re running the alibis of all external consultants on this case, past and present.”

Taken aback by the sudden suspicion, he adapted, and answered accordingly. “My last patient left around 4, I must have been home half an hour later. Didn’t have the need to leave until 7 this morning for a scheduled meeting.”

“I will need the names of your patient, any neighbour that might corroborate it, and who you met this morning.” Crawford motioned towards the pen and paper that laid on the light wood, indicating he needed them now. Hannibal understood the urgency perfectly. “Of course.”

Will remained seated on his chair, not looking up from the photos at the desk, holding back a grimace. Even without the usual body cues he could tell it was a lie. The subtleness of Hannibal’s inflexion gave it away, a shrill sound to his trained ear. But instead of prodding, he wandered through and past the steel conviction, a paper thin wall to his all seeing curse, engrossed in the details of those halls of the mind. He thought of the victim, the pig, his sentence for being an animal abuser, he’d been recently kicked out of the shelter he worked in, the same as the past two places of employment; he thought of the stitching on the stomach, of the pose, languishing and lovelorn, of the blonde hair and brown eyes of this male Persephone, see how I’m already yours? see how I’m aching and hungry without you by my side? see how I’ve already made my choice? He thought of the past tableaux, of the bleeding-heart flower where the actual heart should be, of the removal of the lungs and brain with it, I will possess your breath, your mind, your heart, I will make it fill with blood again. Hannibal, right in front of him, lying. Hannibal, with his starving animal eyes, and quick stitching, forceful hacks, and his whimsy, like a director at a play, watching the actors fumble around the script of his making. Hannibal, with his wide shoulders and tailored suits to hide the muscles underneath, coveting the beast that lurked, coveting it in admiration for the eccentric, the grotesque, Leda and the swan breathing down your neck, towering over your meals, a beast kept at bay with the veneer of amiable neutrality and dinner plates like rhinestones on his perfectly clean table. A howling soul that charmed his pack with his presence, his distinct sense of smell, a comforting soothing presence, subconsciously even, and a walking piece of ignited charcoal, elusive, sly, cunning, eyes that can eat you and eyes that can put you on your knees to please, the head tilts, so much of an animal, of another pretend-human amongst the living, another wandering lonely man looking for a feast of understanding. The feasts, the lack of animal protein on their shared meals, oh they both knew the taste of blood too well, didn’t they?, the precision of his handiwork, the diligence, the lack of disgust at getting his hands dirty, getting his hands covered in viscera, even before it meant cooking, before it meant surgery, his hands, now in his line of sight, elegantly looping in the handwriting that could belong to the king’s personal poet, gracing the paper with his presence, with his art, even if they could maul and slash. Art before all, death as the fuel of his life, and the stacks of anatomical sketches, the wounded man, Saint Sebastian, he’d seen them at the office, and the purse of his lips as if he was privy to a joke no one else could get. Now I get it, doctor. You left it all to see if I could solve the puzzle, but a dangerous new game is on the table: What comes next? What am I supposed to do with your evidence? Hannibal Lecter, The Chesapeake Ripper, The Copycat killer, werewolf, and his only friend.

The same night also produced people like ourselves.

You are like me, whether or not you admit it.

Unsatisfied, meticulous. And your hunger is not for experience

but for understanding, as though it could be had in the abstract.

Moonbeam, Louise Glück

Chapter Text

Without a class to teach, or a phone call to invoke him to Quantico, Will watched the next day vanish, piece by piece, as if time was a descending fog to his perception. He stoked the fireplace and laid down on the floor right in front of it, dead quiet between the dog beds, between their huffs and puffs of contentment. Except for Max and Winston, his pack was old. Never as old as him, but close enough in dog years he’d figured out. The eldest was Buster, 12 years old and still a feisty barker, especially when he couldn’t jump down the steps of the porch. Will reminisced the day he’d found him, wounded, just a puppy between the trees, howling like the damned. He’d seen many things come from the woods, dying or soon-to-die: irresponsible hunters leaving deers and stags to stumble into the road, birds with broken wings who were not afforded a soft landing, or their sick babies kicked off the nest and onto the hungry soil. At least the foliage gave them a comfortable bed, and their bones and meat decayed as a grateful return to the trees that had hid and sheltered them. Will would sometimes sit by them, knowing nothing would come to harm, caressed them in their final sigh. He’d found out the hard way animals can’t be turned, settling for nursing back to health the ones he could, the ones who allowed themselves to be kept, coaxing dogs into the back of the car, even a cat into his bundled jacket once. If someone asked him, he would deny remembering every single name of every pet he’d brought home to Wolftrap, every single one he’d had to say goodbye to, either at vet’s table or at his own home, right there where he laid, in front of the fireplace, every single one that was ash in a wooden box with a plaque until he couldn’t bear to look anymore and were buried in the wild. He’d also disassembled the shelf, hanging a big fly-fishing poster to cover the marks on the wall.

Will craned his neck, observing the room of the house he’d owned for a long time now, and the past months washed away like a bad day. Eyelids pale, grey, it felt like lighting a corpse, deciding to kill the rest of the afternoon. In the morning he would have a decision to make, but now, now , he could afford to willfully slip into the soft huffs of his pack, and dreamlessly sink into a velvet void.

And yet, somehow, he had descended into the space where his soul used to be, like the lace veil on a bride, like hooves on wet dust, like a storm on barren land; and flooded his unconscious mind. Resignation rising through his body, a tingling sensation amping into a jolt, a humid ache on his cheek. He’d half expected to find that the source were those dark maroon eyes, black in the moonlight as he’d imagined them, connected to cold gold fur and forty two sharp ivory teeth. Instead, Max stared at him, breathing heavily and nudging against his curls. 

“You need some fresh air, don’t you?” He incorporated swiftly, still in his clothes, and opened the door, “C’mon, buddy. We’ll go out for a walk.” By the time he’d pulled his boots on, Max was already running circles on the freshly fallen snow. Paw prints dragged into lines, dragged into mud and earth. And so he whistled the signal, and the dog trotted by his side for the better part of what was left of the night. Tomorrow would be a long day, waiting for the night to cloak his steps again.

*

Keys? Check. Coat? Check. Full bowls and clean water? Check. And so, Will set the cooler on the passenger seat before climbing into the car. The sunset bled into a bright purple evening, and the day was dead at his feet by the time he pulled over into the grand Baltimore home. Hannibal's garage, oddly enough, had space for two. When he'd been given the code to access it, he couldn't remember.

Will made himself at home, the side door connecting directly to the hallway which bifurcated between the dining room and the kitchen. The low humming rise and fall of strings reverberated through the walls, and for a second he already felt intoxicated. Using it as a guide, he stepped into the kitchen, where the man he’d come to see was pouring ice into a bucket, before propping a champagne bottle inside. “Starting without me?” He teased, gingerly hauling his cooler over the empty countertop.

“I heard the garage door, merely accelerating the preparations.” He wiped the excess water in the apron around his waist, before unknotting it. Hands folding it delicately, with enviable focus and precision, before tucking it inside a drawer.

“No cheating.” Will blurt out, trying to distract and calm himself, knowing all revelations could be compartmentalized for this moment, knowing the forts in the bone area of his skull might not have the best mooring but could hold this at bay, at least for tonight. 

The other man mirrored, amused, as he unbuttoned his charcoal grey waistcoat, “No cheating.”

Hannibal served himself two glasses of champagne as they spoke in the kitchen, then moved onto drinking properly with Will by the loveseat in the study, facing each other by reclining against the armrest. He’d prepared himself two rather tall blue drinks, and brought an opened, already halfway down, bourbon bottle with him. Will had brought over four beer bottles which he’d re-sealed after pouring his alcoholic blood mix, all filled to the brim. It was fun, light, simple. A moment of suspension of belief, where all they had to do was find out who could make the other laugh first, who could make the other spill the most embarrassing youth story first, who could recite a passage from memory the loudest. No crimes, no ulterior motives, no visceral or grotesque beauty, no supernatural elements. Not his werewolf serial killer cannibal friend. Not the vampire empath profiler. Nothing, but the crescendos from the symphony in the vinyl player, but the melodic background silence once the record had finished. Until, obviously, it had to shatter. Because Hannibal was flushed and near euphoric, and Will’s buzz was starting to be tamed.

“If you… drink from me I would sober up a little and you'd get more drunk. Only fair to be equals, balanced." Of course Hannibal never forgot a botched offer, and would always find a way to get what he wanted, “You look famished, Will. I know you can control yourself...” Added with a sly, wolfish grin, “for now.” 

Yes, this was a prod, a boundary exercise, hubris almost. But it was also Hannibal, and even he deserved the disclaimer: “It’s not like the movies, it’s not pleasant, it doesn’t feel right. Tell me you understand that.”

“I understand, Will.”

Will chuckled, and left the empty container on the table. “Take your.. off,” he waved his hand, a vague gesture to signal up and down his waistcoat, “It might be your idea but I'm not letting you ruin your clothes.”

Hannibal shook the garment off, and one hand went back to being draped over the backrest of the loveseat. The other unbuttoned his shirt carefully, top three, shoulder, collarbone, and neck exposed. Chest hair peeking like private roots, twisted and knotting from silver to dark blonde. 

Will could feel himself move, even if he wasn’t 100% aware of it, feather lightness and buzzing like a faulty wire. Hannibal responded to the encroaching of his space, cramping himself between the armrest and the backrest, so Will had no other option but to plant his knees at each side of his hips and trap him on the spot, shoulders encased between his arms for leverage. The pungent scent of blood and alcohol of his breath, a dizzying ambrosia enveloping his senses as he acommodated himself, tantalizingly close yet barely touching, hovering, all around him. He told himself he wouldn’t dare to look away, but as soon as Will searched for eye contact, he ducked, under the cover of offering his flexed neck. Will took a deep breath and brought his lukewarm hand to the cheek that barely touched the covered shoulder, sliding downwards to a firmer grip on his head, grasping the hair on the nape of his neck from the base. Inhale. Exhale. Those lazy browns betraying the overwhelming sense of control the other man felt, knew, he had, even in this state of subjugation. 

Will had never been a sadist, but he did like having the last word. He feinted descending once and for all, slowly, just to retreat right as his teeth grazed the lightly tanned skin. With the corner of his vision he saw those blonde eyebrows knit together, confused. Taken by surprise? An unexpected turn of events, doctor? But you love it, don’t you? It makes me worth keeping around, the absolute knowledge of how I can be your wildcard. I can’t always read you, but I know you. Not sure how, but I’ve known I could know you since I met you. Do you know me too? Did you predict this? Can you predict this? Will brought his bravado and lips to the shell of his ear, tracing before the words etched into the air:

“I know what you are.”

And bit down, hard. The bore would be surrounded by a bruise in the morning, but it was worth the strangled sound the otherwise composed man let out in its wake; an undignified half moan, half groan of discomfort, as the crimson coated his tongue. Each lap and suction at the wound earned a hiss, but he’d been warned and Will knew he had to stop, but for a moment he wondered what would happen if he pushed. Hannibal wondered the same, the other man’s curls obscuring his vision from the wound, his whole body on top of him, molded tight into the best position for the task. It was an ugly thing, to be struck with the realization that he loved him under such circumstances. Not as he’d shown, in the elegance of an equal, in the messages left scattered through the art of killing, but the kind of destructive, all surrendering love. It had crept up on him, the game and curiosity, the mirror he found at the center of Will, and the subsequent fading into the unknown. Hannibal could understand, accept even, that no one could hold the answers to every aspect of life, the universe, and everything. But this defied that belief.  He didn't know why he loved him so much as to want to die of his death.¹ And it was an ugly, terrifying moment of vulnerability. If Will hadn’t unlatched himself from his neck at that moment, he would have pushed and trashed and held him down, pinned against whatever surface he found closer, and demanded an answer. Demanded to have him feel the same fear that had broken his skin in hives, for the first time in his life.

The puncture wounds gurgled for a second longer, a thick stream of blood drawing a path down his collarbone and onto his chest. Will, now drunk, drunker, drunkest than he’d been, pressed his tongue and erased the trail. Still, it was a smear on the skin, flecks and spots on Hannibal’s shirt too, minimal but present. Head swaying as he tried to plop back into a seat, tried to get out of the other man’s gravity zone, but he stumbled backwards. The instinct to hold onto anything a second too late, but the impact against the glass table never happened. Instead, the waist held by two arms, pulling him back into him. Hannibal’s chest and pulse thrumming, heaving, but cold. The urge to nuzzle in, to let his head rest there in the crook of his uninjured side of his neck, to tear and crack his ribcage open to warm him from the inside, for his blood was in his veins, and didn’t he deserve the warmth more than him? Even after all they’d done, was deserve a verb he could use? 

A hand came up to stroke his hair, and Will relaxed in the embrace, eyes watering involuntarily as if he’d been struck in the face. Perhaps tenderness was just that, a slap to the senses. A caress went down his spine, before urging him closer; a damp circle on his back sending shivers of cold down his own. “You say you know what I am, as I know who you are.” 

He helped Will out of their tangled position, and half-upright against the love seat, glazed over eyes, barely any defenses between the two. He smiled sadly, lips extra pink from all the blood, as Hannibal uttered, “Whatever you’re going to do next, Will, do it carefully.” The course of my life is in your hands.²

“Are we…” He struggled to find the word, “balanced now?”

“Looks like it.” Hannibal admitted, the world tilting, even if they were both sitting, speaking with the slow punctiliousness only a gentleman after a drink can muster. “My blood is coursing through you.”

“Fuck, Hannibal. This was a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Look at us.” He laughed, bitter, stale like the air between them, like the sharp silence about to slice through him, “I-I should go.”

“Will.” He stood despite the call, despite the hand reaching towards his wrist, a second too slow to catch him, and started stepping away, mindful of all the furniture, swaying and stumbling and hitting many edges. “Will, you can’t walk.”

As if challenged by the observation, he tried to move further away, faster, one hand on the table, the wall, the arch of the door-

“Will!” It was the first time the man had ever raised his voice in the slightest. He turned around, meeting those glazed over eyes which were molten gold, scorching everything in its wake. His own blues paled at the demand for an explanation, it was the sharpest exchange they’d had so far, and only one word had been spoken.

“You… left me… love letters in the shape of bodies.” he swimmed for the words, despondent, in a way he knew all too well, how attachment slashes through all common sense, and always will. “Gifts for an equal. But we’re not. You’ll be one of them, someday. And I’ll have to stand at your grave. I can’t accept your gifts or-”

“Cease, brother, for I cannot brook these words.— Thy worth, sweet friend, is far above my gifts: Therefore, to equal it, receive my heart-”³

To this, Will snapped, a boiling rage erupting through tears and snot, through the spit that flew like his hands, uncoordinated in the air, “Don’t fucking quote Marlowe at me!” He sobbed, knowing damn well he was saying anything to stop feeling that brand of pain, the one that sears itself into the memory, the one that you can’t help but pick like a scab until it scars. “I don’t want your heart, or your company, Hannibal!”

Hannibal laid stunned on the couch, and he slowly, very, very slowly, with his disheveled hair, and unbuttoned shirt, blinked at him. 

The blinding hurt on his eyes could have slain an entire empire, and all he could do was blabber on, absorbing it, like the ungrateful sponge he was, taking and taking just to rain down. “You’re not a dog I can bury in the back.” He tried to explain, because he hated having to say it, he hated having to bare himself like it, knowing he wouldn’t wish what he had on his worst enemies, if he had them. Knowing his voice was slurred and thrashed by the sudden outburst, he swallowed, and tried again, tried again to continue this embarrassing night, hoping Hannibal would kick him out sooner or later. “I’ve buried my entire family, ma, pa, the cousins, my friends, the few I made back then that is, and I'm… I’m not even that old, am I? How do you… how am I going to bury you?”

Hannibal seemed to have stopped breathing, but he rose from his seat, and with careful sure stops reached for him a second time. Before he could, his voice came back, and ventured where his eyes had been lost. Will stared at the muted colour of the wall, feeling the warmth closer and closer, suffocating him, knotting every organ he could feel. “If I take you, your heart, how am I going to bury you? It’s… It’s not like I can even turn you. I don’t think you’d even want that, if I could.”

Hannibal was a breath away, arms snaking around him, like the jaws on the Venus Flytrap. “I can’t do this, Ha-” But Will was too weak, too attached already, too much of everything too soon and so he let his exposed nerve burst and fizzle, feeling brittle under the strength and the surety of the other man’s words, with his defined vowels and sharp consonants honeyed from the alcohol, “Will, stay, and we’ll sleep it off. We just need to sober up. Stay with me?”

Knuckles white from grabbing fistfuls of his ruined shirt, “Yeah, okay,” burrowing deeper into him as he sniffled, trying to stifle the sobs wrecking his frame, “I’m sorry.”

*

The darkness that flooded his eyes was not dissimilar to the one he’d just come from. And yet, the sharpness of the edges of a room made themselves visible to him, along with the other senses. There was a groggy, uncertain bleariness to the haze, the warmth, and the scent. Words couldn’t quite meet and connect with each other to describe it as he was cocooned in sheets as soft as an angel’s tear, and the temperature he’d retained could almost fool him into thinking he was alive and human. But he recognized the guest room’s wallpaper, and thus, the past 40 years hadn’t been a bad dream after all but the harsh reality. And speaking of harshness, his head ached and begged like his brain had been taken hostage and was banging against the walls of his cranium to be let out. Will finally turned around, awaiting the empty planes on the other side of the bed, only to find Hannibal there. A mop of blond rested facing him, hand tucked under the pillowcase, and his whole shirtless back baring faint scratches. The type he’d seen on wild dogs that had run through treacherous woods, either escaping or chasing their object of interest. By the faint breaths, the other man was sleeping safe and sound, and deeply. Almost too deeply for a drunk, but coherent with exhaustion, with a marathon. Will wiped his face roughly, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Hannibal had asked him to stay to be his alibi. Hannibal had asked him to stay because he’d hurt him and perhaps their conversation in the morning would be more civilized. Those two were coexisting reasons for his actions; just as valid as they were useful. And as much as Will wanted to feel used, he’d rather run his tongue along his teeth for the remnants of sweetness as he was doing at the moment, staring at the ceiling without truly seeing, than think that he could be home or at Jack’s office. Or worse, at Jack’s office having to feign not to know Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper. He closed his eyes, and decided not to question these things any further, willingly taking the sleep he did not need but wanted to anyways. If he had consciously moved more to the middle for the furnace-like heat that radiated the other man, to the point he might start to sweat under the covers, he would never admit it.

*

The second time he opened his eyes, a golden stream of light, one that could have been confused with Zeus himself, replaced the man who had been next to him. Jarringly, a voice short-circuited him fully awake. A voice that had no business on a Friday morning at the Baltimore home. Hastily, Will rolled out of the bed, and realized strangely enough that his flannel was nowhere to be found, neither were his slacks. Without inspecting any further he grabbed a sweater that was folded on the night table and pulled it on, almost jumping two steps of the stairs at once. Feet and arms working faster than his thoughts. 

“Frederick Chilton disappeared last night, after presenting some doubts about you. We know he was taken, and by someone who knew him.” He let a sharp exhale pass him, “Where were you last night?” 

“I was here.” Hannibal’s voice boomed in the quiet, eerie atmosphere; disturbing the crystalline peace of his foyer’s walls.

“All night.” Jack deadpanned, knowing how it was neither a question nor a statement he was willing to believe.

“Yes.”

His annoyance, his dammit you can do better than that, give me something to work with, doctor Lecter, slipping through. “Anyone other than yourself that can verify that?”

“What’s going on, Jack?” Will finally emerged from the shadow under the stairs banister, barefoot and with a red cable knit sweater which hung too low and on his neck, and arms, the perfect impression that it had been borrowed. It cut right where his boxers started, giving the impression that something else had happened the night before. Or so he could read from the man’s schooled but surprised expression. There was a hint of concern there too, which somehow calmed the nerves Will had about this whole ordeal. Jack cared about him, trusted him, and that could be enough for him to blind him long enough. Long enough for what?

“Were you here all night, Will?”

“I sure hope so, unless I’ve started sleepwalking.” Jack didn’t relax, but Will followed with what was actually being asked. “What are you accusing him of?”

“Nothing, only asking his whereabouts.”

Hannibal should’ve been an actor, for his subtly mournful and rough from sleep voice slipped in perfectly for the part, “That’s not all you’re asking.”

“Yes, it is. And now that I have my answers, I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of the morning.” Hannibal opened the door for him, and just before popping out, he turned to say one last thing, “And Will, I will need you at Quantico by 2.”

He tipped his hat to the doctor, and ventured into the cold outside, stuffing his leather gloved hands into the pockets of his thick coat.

Will stood frozen on the spot, looking at the other man. The wound of his neck had already healed, which would have been impossible if he was human, and as he moved without wincing, the scratches on his back must have disappeared under the fast knitting skin. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the bathroom. You took them out after getting sick.”

Will disappeared to redress himself, feeling more and more self conscious by the second. He knew the sweater was probably what Hannibal had changed out of, to answer the door. His shirt and robe combo was probably better to stave off the cold of the winter morning. The shivers running down his spine agreed. The turquoise flannel and slacks laid folded on top of the shelf, the towels moved to the side. There were small specks of blood on the floor, and next to the toilet. The memories of heaving flooding back. If he was more reckless with feeding he would start getting a pavlovian reaction to the bathroom itself. Imaginary blood filled his nostrils already when he thought of these specific sets of black tiles and white porcelain. It took him no time to go down to the kitchen once again.

“Sorry about that.” Elbows leaning on the counter as he watched Hannibal make his version of a hangover breakfast, a big pile of hand shredded cheese only growing bigger.

He separated a small mountain, offering it to him to nibble on as he finished the task. “We hadn’t had a drink in a long time, Will, it’s no trouble.”

Will pinched some and tasted them, the earthy tang making it easier to formulate his next question, “Did I convince you to sleep in the guest room too, or was that… out of your own volition?”

“Ï wanted to make sure you weren’t going to be sick again.” Eye contact for a moment before bringing out the chopping board.

He’d experienced first hand that Hannibal was not a light sleeper, but he would have heard him struggling with his breath if the instinct to unload his guts arrived while by his side,  “Sharp hearing and sharp smell, tell me, how do people not figure it out?”

“Werewolves are extinct, at least in major populated areas.” Will’s hungry gaze laid on him, propelling him into more, into admitting much more than he’d ever had, “The Lithuanian forests have always been a subject of fantasy, as well as horror.”

“Aren’t they the same? One can’t exist without the other, it’s a matter of perspective.”

“Yes. The hunter opened the wolf’s stomach to find little red riding hood inside. To the reader it is a happy, triumphant ending for an ultimately magical fantasy. To the characters, it’s a traumatic experience, where their survival was challenged, as well as the laws of their reality. The wolf had devoured her whole, with no signs of having digested her.”

The glint in his eye hid a lock with the key still in, waiting to either be opened or locked completely. Will turned it, blindly, clicking it open, but not pushing in. “But you were both the hunter and the wolf.” 

Hannibal stopped chopping. Only the sound of water boiling, bubbling, “It is a troubling, yet terrifyingly wonderful thing, to see and be seen, Will. Do not step forward if you have the intention to retreat.”

He straightened his back, no longer hunching over the counter. “Would you say that to the moth circling around a flame?”

“In any case, you’d find you’re flame that has burnt me to a crisp.” The water kept bubbling, but Hannibal paid no mind. It was uncharacteristic, infuriating. Manipulative if he would. We have to end this conversation or the food will be subpar. We have to get to the point, because you wouldn’t let me spoil this, would you?

“As much as getting to know you has been a somewhat conscious choice, Hannibal, you wanted to be seen.”

“By you.”

His throat seized, a lump of emotion he recognized yet abhorred in this way. The line had been cast, the hook had pierced his lip. He could shake and shiver but the reel was driving him out of the water. Would he be strong enough to sever it and land back? Would he drown when he hit the surface this time? Did he want to tug back and take Hannibal down with him? Or would he let Hannibal take him with him into land? They were suspended in the air, waiting on the next move. Will needed time to think. God, I love you but you trouble me.⁴ “You told me to be careful, I’m doing my best to follow.”

Hannibal took a deep breath, looking away. Tugged between two ends, stretched thin, what could he say for Will to stay, to cross the threshold, to stop dancing in the swirling planes of those minutes right before dawn. He needed him to choose whether their day began or not. Whether the night would stretch a little longer. “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“Wouldn’t dare miss it, this cheese is great.” He said, as he grabbed some from the pile he was not supposed to touch, trying to slip back into their old dynamic, even if it felt as awkward as a glove a fit too small. To that, he clicked the stove off, saving whatever that was on the pot. Hannibal smirked, barely lifting his eyes from the block, and shook his head; the air thinning and dissipating the threatening atmosphere. Almost a laugh. Perhaps a laugh would have been too much, his heart might have tried to flee through his teeth into the cold to entomb itself. As they ate breakfast, Hannibal took the time to change the lock of the rooms in his mind.

*

Will walked into the office, deep creased clothes that showed all too well how not only had he stayed the night, but he’d stayed for breakfast, and lunch, before making his way to Quantico. “Close the door.” was the greeting he received, but Jack on a case was too stressed and focused to do pleasantries. It was as refreshing as it was demeaning, but they usually got straight to the point. After filling him in on the details of the psychiatrist’s disappearance, he eyed him up and down, almost like a father does with the son who somehow grew an inch taller overnight, “I saw you’re in the good doctor’s hands. Will you be safe there?”

“Jack, he isn’t who you think he is.” Technically true. “I know his alibis are flimsy but… Doesn’t Dr. Chilton fit the profile in the same way? The Chesapeake Ripper is a ruthless manipulator, convenient for him to plant some concerns and then be kidnapped.”

“You’re saying it was staged.”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility. There were no prints but his own in the house, and no lock was broken or jammed. Either someone he knew well enough to simply waltz in took him or his own feet drove him away from his house.” Jack mulled over the proposition, examining the evidence laid out on the desk. Will continued, picking up some files from the stack, looking for one specific manilla folder, “The first to know the true character of their psychiatrist is their patients, not their peers. As much as Alana’s statement about him benefits our theory, we should ask some of the inmates at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.” 

Will was perusing the folder, when he found it: his leeway, “Here it says he visited Abel Gideon’s cell three times more than any other inmate.” 

The man walked to his side, and Will handed him the open file, signaling the incriminatory data with his pointer finger. It was a simple line in a long yearly report, but hadn’t he caught Hobbs the same way? A simple line, or the lack of it. 

Jack nodded, convinced, “Dr. Bloom interviewed Gideon for his trial, and two more times after that at his request. If anyone can get to him, it’s her.”

*

Their next therapy session arrived, with plenty of time in between meetings for Will to convince Jack Crawford that the well-placed evidence pointed to Chilton being the Ripper, albeit it still left some questions unanswered. Where had he gone? Who was he courting? Why hadn't the other killer answered? It wouldn't be the first murderous serenade to be witnessed in Baltimore, not after the Tobias Budge incident. He remembered how Hannibal had looked at him as if a petty killer could have killed him -but they both knew that immortal did not mean invulnerable- and he had looked relieved, yes, but also… Will knew already. There was no need to dwell on it anymore.

Conversation flowed into the investigation, the manhunt, behind the other psychiatrist he let his nail run along the armrest. Abel Gideon had tweeted like a bird, revealing more to Will about the man sharing the office with him than the one they were after, in the end. “Psychic driving. Seems like something you’d dabble in, too. I couldn’t see why Chilton would be in your circle in the first place, he wasn’t at John Hopkins at the same time as you nor is he a… cherished friend, or a connection to those in higher places. There was no reason for you to know him, unless you share a secret. A secret about the type of therapy you administer.”

Hannibal’s eyes twinkled, getting caught, ensnared by the other man seemed to bring him endless joy, even if all he had to show for it was a look and a twitch of the lip, “Are you calling me unethical, Will?”

He answered back with a gritted-teeth smile, letting past a glimpse of his sharp canines, tilting his head, “Unorthodox.”

“You’re deflecting talking about what transpired on Friday morning, too.”

Will zeroed on him, relaxed shoulders on the seat, as Hannibal stood up from his seat and reached for the cabinet. “Jack Crawford thinks I’m sleeping with you.”

“And you did not correct him.”

“What good would it do? He’d probably think I’m lying to save some face.” Will became transfixed with the sensuous sloshing of the wine filling their glasses, making his mouth water at the thickness of the dark liquid, shining with red highlights from the reflection of the fireplace behind. From one moment to the other, he was unbearably thirsty.

“But you value his assessment of you, why not clarify? Especially since I’ve been treated as a suspect.”

“Not anymore, we’ve officially ruled you out. Chilton is no longer missing, as he is wanted. Anyways, where are you keeping him? Your house has many floors, and probably a basement and a panic room in the lower levels, but it’s too risky to have him that close.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“So the show is still going.” He arched an eyebrow, the cavernous office matching his somber, inquisitive attitude. ”Is the Chesapeake Ripper going to retire? or relocate?”

“I believe he’s going to be put behind bars.” He leaned all the way over for Will to catch the stem of the full glass without having to move an inch from his seat. Fingers catching at the exchange, a simple touch that shouldn't have hurt like an electrical discharge.

“What was Frederick Chilton’s offense? As much praise as he’ll take for your work, he’ll also take the brunt of the angry families, the spit and rocks as he walks to trial.” Words catching over the rim, supple with a hint of derisive, like notes on an aged wine. He didn’t care for Chilton, he’d been sleazy enough about his empathy for him to afford him none. “The death penalty, even.”

“That is something you’ll glean soon, Will. For now, let the events unfold.” He turned, doing a little double take. The whimsy behind his eyes dangerously flourishing, impish, the butcher left alone with his cattle. “Or is it that you fear for my safety?

If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here now. You know that. “Do you have to ask?” 

“I am aware you fear unpredictability,” and the furrowed brow of disbelief, the stirring ache, he expanded, ”to be more precise, the dichotomy between the unpredictability of attachment and the certainty of end points. As much as you’d hate to see me be taken away, it does not mean my well being has to be of your utmost concern. I will die one day, and you’ve been bracing yourself mentally for it as of late.”

Will's mouth was dry, the first layer of the observation covering the sharp detachment of the speech, which he was imposing on himself; a thin veil to the lengths Hannibal would go to protect that which he held dear. The guards outside his palace had returned and were armed to the teeth. This wasn't an accusation, nor a test. It was the rules of the game: Do what you have to do; I won't deny you your nature but if you leave me then I must leave you first; and know that I will have to act as if we never crossed paths, the pain would be too great otherwise. 

“Of course I care about your well being, Hannibal.” It was more of a laugh than the willowy, tooth-rotting truth he’d expected out of his mouth, because it was rotting his already decayed body. Hannibal had to feel the butcher’s knife too, and so he added, “Or at least as much as you care about mine.” 

They stared, sizing each other. The board was clear, no pawns, no bishops, no towers, nor knights or queens. The stalemate of two kings on each side, waiting for the other to surrender even if no further movements are allowed. How had they come to this? I'm not interested in games. I don't need rules, just permission to move on the board.

His eyes travelled from Hannibal to what was left in his glass, “You told me we had more in common than what meets the eye,” he let out a very short chuckle to himself, they'd been transiting through the last few weeks as if two moves away from checkmate at all times, when they'd unknowingly already finished the match. No, it had never started. That was the point, they hadn’t even started. “I get that now. We’re just alike.”

“We want the same things, Will.”

“And what would that be?”

Resting by the desk since he'd never returned back to the seat, fingers laced in his lap “A life where we can do as we please, while embracing ourselves. No explanations, no onlookers, no taming.” 

“And?” He pushed. He had to hear it. If Hannibal wouldn’t dismiss the security at his door, he wouldn’t lockpick his closed rooms again. But they both wanted to.

“And… each other.”

Drunk on the admission, unable to supersede the immensity of the moment, he dragged himself further into the space Hannibal had admitted he'd made and carved for him, “Tonight is the last day of the full moon. I’ve bared myself wild, and without inhibitions for you. Have I earned the same privilege?”

“I will need a token of your trust, as I’ve given you my blood, and lead you through the chambers of my heart.”

“You have my mind already, you will live there long after you’re gone.” He paused to think, pondering, a finger running on the rim of the glass. “I can offer you my honesty.”

Will stood, leaving it on the desk, before leaning side by side now. Hannibal glanced at the new proximity, comforted. “That would suffice, Will.”

Their eye contact did not break as Will started, a thousand different shades of blue coursing through like lightning before the thunder roared, but this storm was more forceful than a deluge, more heavy and charged than any cloud: “I will be wild. I will be brutal. I will encircle you and conquer you...”⁵ stopping to steady his voice, even if it was nothing but a mere whisper between them, with Hannibal moving closer and closer, as a sailor lured to the open sea’s song, a prophet to the angel choir, “There won’t be anyone in your life that’s not me. I won’t accept anything else. But only if you afford me the same experience.”

Those strong hands moved to his neck, his curls, holding the side of his head, nose to nose, if he moved they would touch forehead and- “You’ve seeped into my marrow, imbibed yourself in my bones, and I have no way of exciding you without killing us both. It would be my pleasure to witness you embracing and exacting the power you have over me, as daunting as it may be.”

Will brought his own hand to Hannibal’s, guiding it down his cheek to cradle his jaw. His thumb touched the corner of his mouth, before gliding over his bottom lip. A stuttered breath, as he parted them, letting the pad run along the bottom row of teeth before his greedy tongue pulled him in. Hannibal withdrew his thumb before his cheeks hollowed around it  —as Will grabbed the lapels of his suit to bring him chest to chest, delirious for the loudness of a beating heart pressed against where his own should be— and replaced it with his mouth. They’d agreed to conquer each other, and the promise of that passion was held in the claim of their union. Skin to skin, lip to lip, a devouring only the starved know, as they were melded in the kiss, two beings from whose collision they would never recover. Tongue to roof to teeth to fang, and the desire for blood, not to feed, but to bite overcame him. But before he could fulfill his want, Hannibal broke for the air Will could go without.

Will let go of his lapels, letting his hands roam down from his chest and slip under his jacket, laced behind the small of his back. Hannibal went back for another kiss, but quickly pulled back; Will’s head chasing his, eyes fluttering. With a swift movement he seated himself on his desk, rolling the other man in front of him to stand in between his legs. He held Will’s face between his hands, brushing a stray curl out of his forehead. The tenderness halted his otherwise ravenously hungry mind, a balm to a strong rooted ache, the type that had nested so far inside his ribcage that it was hard to separate his own sense of self from it. They took a moment to bask in the strange ways the universe had unfurled to afford them this moment.

Eyes raked up and down, quickly assessing his disheveled state: the hair usually tucked by the tips behind his ear with wax now dangling loosely, lips sheened over by saliva and reddened, and an illimitable fondness in those blown maroon eyes. Will reached for him, pressing a sloppy kiss on his jaw, dragging down to his neck in search of his pulse point. A harsh inhale, taking in the scent of the blood that coursed under the thin skin, the blood that he’d already had a taste of, the one that itched at him for more since then. Those slender hands were rubbing circles on his scalp, as he rested his head on his shoulder, simply savouring the steady beat of the other man’s heart, when the silence shattered into a dozen little ceramic shards. “It’s getting late.”

Will hummed in acknowledgement, slotting himself closer. Hannibal licked his lips, nudging the other man to detach from him and meet his eye. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I was waiting to get home for that. Not particularly hungry.”

“There is a seat at my table for you, there has been since before I met you, it seems.” 

“Will you serve me real meat now? You know, I thought that the protein scramble you brought me for breakfast had a familiar taste.” He removed his hands from his back, and rested them on his shoulders, “Should we get going?” 

But Hannibal shook his head minutely, “First…” he trailed, the back of his soft hand caressing his cheek, “Let me be your apéritif, Will. A taste to open your appetite.” 

He felt full and nourished at the sight of Will, it was intoxicating to give Will a tangible equivalent. The hooded eyes in response, a shiver, and so this is how having Death, for Will’s as immortal and righteous as her, as a lover felt, and he was his maiden, baring his neck to his skeletal hand. Pain and bliss serrating in equal paths the column of his throat under the grazing touch that broke his flesh into goosebumps. Anticipation threatening to burst behind his eyelids as Will continued to tease. He almost wanted to bite back with a ‘don’t play with your food’ but he chastised himself for the thought, for the possibility of breaking the quiet intimacy. 

Will sunk slowly, without any of the rash violence of the first time, dark crimson beads pooling around the bore. The juxtaposition of cold silken lips sucking on his boiling skin, taking him inside like communion, just the crest of the waves rolling down on him, crashing on the shore as he followed the movement, grinding his hips against Will. At the eagerness, he unlatched, a dark laugh coloring the exchanged air. He wasn't a messy eater when cognisant, but with the distraction, his mouth, chin, even cheeks had been stained, as well as Hannibal's collar, waistcoat and suit jacket. His intention was to speak, but the other man had a better idea: he reached up to lick a strip of his face clean. It was as delicate as it was base, a primal urge even; who whined at the contact they didn't know, it didn't matter. As he finished the cleanse on his lips, catching with teeth, clashing, the passion that had simmered brought to sublimation point. Fumbling to a different type of a glut. Belts hit the floor of the office, a thick thud rippling through their fevered breathing.

*

They left the office with a memory, and the dinner table with another, a different one, albeit they boiled down to the same, to the suffusion of the self, un-defining edges of themselves to overlap and share and repair the broken jagged skin with patches of the other. A meal without gloves or disguises, a piece of meat that used to have a tongue, a mouth that made you believe in both heaven and hell. After their bowels and veins had been satiated, after the reservations had faded like mist in the air, they bid their time, waiting for the moon herself to be released from the cloudy night. Hannibal offered to drive him home, as the isolated woods would be a benefit to the pacted situation. There was no apprehension, no barriers. Will knew those trees like the back of his hand, where the snow hardened easily, where the clearings opened up just to encase you again, how to get lost and how to be found. 

During the ride, Will realized he hadn’t at any point considered turning Hannibal in to the police. Never crossed his mind in the past week. All of his worries had been about trying to hide it, bury the knowledge where the FBI wouldn’t decide to dig up. He trusted Hannibal’s efficiency even if the airs of his vanity seemed to have him dangling in the edge of the blade. Not even once had he grimaced at the eating habits, it had simply been a curious surprise. No disgust, quite the opposite, he’d looked forward to his meals, knowing what they were, but why would he care? Why should he? Men had killed and eaten each other long before monsters had, and they would continue until humankind went extinct. Why would he care? Wasn’t his thirst one step removed from the act of consuming flesh? Or are the dead and undead not truly equal in this way, for it to be considered cannibalism? Either way, meat was meat. He could always choose not to eat. It was not like his stomach needed it, no, it was worse, he did it because he enjoyed it, because he could still enjoy it. He wanted to laugh, Hannibal’s lust for indulgences was rubbing off on him already. Perhaps Hannibal would start keeping jars and bottles of blood for him, given how offended he’d seemed by the insinuation that he would still keep the medical blood pack supply in his house. Perhaps a new killer would surface now, one that bled his victims dry before taking their organs to the pan. Perhaps-

“Will?”

They’d arrived and he hadn’t even noticed. The other man, staring out the window, unreadable, even if a sliver of the darkened stars reflected off his face. At his voice, he turned slowly, “I’d like to assume this is not trepidation on your part.”

“No, just lost in thought.” 

Dogs welcomed them, furiously wagging their tails with excited barks at Hannibal’s presence. The absurd notion that Hannibal could understand them crossed his mind, but he pushed it aside, storing it for later. Right now it was ridiculous to think, even if he seemed to scratch behind his ears in just the right place, and pet and calm them immediately. A sense of kinship, no more than that, one akin to yours. Hannibal doesn’t know your dogs better than you do. Stop. 

He changed the course of his train of thought, sitting on the porch to keep waiting, Winston’s head on his knee. “The weather should clear soon. I’m not sure what you need for this.”

“Moonlight.” 

Both were staring at the obscured sky then, blue-black and cottoned. The winds had picked up into a low howl, ripening the instincts inside Hannibal. He could taste the adrenaline already, the slow build up to his reconfiguration. Silence abruptly cloaked the scenery, a haunting, sepulchral presence to those who didn’t know the ways nature worked, whether inside themselves or on the soil and air. Stripped of light, the trees were reduced to a violaceous silhouette, long fingers reaching up to the heavens and all around, enticing, whispering to step into the copse and let them bend around you in a caress. He stretched his own, the elusive moon peeking out of her hiding place to grace them in her grey bath of light.

“You’ll ruin your clothes?” Will piped, perplexed. 

“I will remove them just before. The transformation is at will.”

“Both in and back?”

He conceded with a nod.

“Anything else I need to know?”

“You wanted reciprocity, Will. I was not given any explanations when you arrived bloodied at my doorstep. What you ought to know, you will see.”

( And the moon clears, clouds dissipating completely. Hannibal takes his clothes off one by one and folds them into a pile. Will ushers the dogs inside. Hannibal closes his eyes and feels the cold in his skin, and as he snarls… )

He grew: Will suddenly felt like an ant staring up at a mammoth, the shadow of the other being engulfing him entirely. Back hunched, shoulders widened along with his neck, feet and arms stretched, as fur stabbed out of his skin like a thicket of antlers. The coat, a lustrous dark mahogany with silvering ends and sparse blonde strands, bristling. Hannibal had always looked solid, even in the waistcoats and vests that accentuated his waist, even in the moments he deliberately made himself look like just your mild-mannered psychiatrist; that image of Hannibal was frail in comparison to the beast, for he had no other way to describe it, even with his loverlike gaze, in front of him. Every muscle now doubled, and the skin thickened, as if his blood vessels had expanded inside. The only feature undisturbed by the becoming were his eyes, maroons no longer incongruent with the ferocity hidden behind.

Not a single cell in his body was scared —as he probably, logically, should be— but magnetized by the hoary creature with those razor sharp teeth visible, wide open mouth pointed towards him. He lifted his hand and he nuzzled into it, his dark snout rougher than expected. Will ran a hand through the fur, realizing how he’d probably never been touched like this, or not innocently at least. He’d only heard of werewolves as a kid, a tale to keep him on the worn road, deter him from the woods at night. The stories seemed unfair in retrospective, specially as he was old enough to understand the fate of these creatures: forced to hide, leave, or be chased off, or get caught, drained, skewered, dismembered and sold for parts; the main cause as to why there were fewer and fewer, why the remaining were more volatile and ireful. They’d been removed from the common vocabulary by now. And as much as Hannibal seemed impervious to shame, and more than capable of keeping his privacy, there was a difference between not denying and out-right admitting, showing, who he was; aware of the risk at all times. His, the first touch that did not represent harm, danger. This was… intimate. Why are you realizing it now? You know the cruelty of man, and you know of the cracks where monsters like you fall through. You’ve been stuck in one for more than you care to admit. 

A low growl snapped Will from his reverie, removing his nails, halting from scratching his side. Loud snapping, resonating from deep into the forest, and both heads spinning. They found each other’s gaze and nodded. This was going to be fun. Hannibal put his hands, now adorned with claws and toughened skin, on the soft snow, on all fours and poised to pounce, and ran, ran as if his life depended on it. Will followed suit, putting his boundless energy to use.

The branches tangled on his coat, roots hitting unevenly through his well worn soles, and before he knew it he’d been slowed down, the hem of his slacks slashed. He would have tore it up and kept running had it not dawned on him. Hannibal. Will had lost sight of Hannibal. He strained his hearing, waiting to catch the ruffling of the leaves, the snapping, crackling of wood under such weight, a breath, anything. But the wind had stopped howling, the other inhabitants of the forest not daring to make a sound either. Nothing. Then, without being given time to react, the corner of his eye blackened. A dirty-gold blur of a shadow before he was flat on his back in the dewy soil. Hannibal had knocked him down to a rough landing but all he could do was laugh. Crystal clear and loud, reverberating, echoing, in such a way that his dogs might have heard it all the way back at his house. Hannibal, open mawed and tilting his head —the usual curiosity tell—, as he lifts one half-paw off his shoulder and onto the forest floor, caging him. 

“I’m at your mercy, is this what you wanted to show me? Your inhuman strength?”

His snout pulled back into a snarl, but Will saw no warning on it. Why be afraid? Those sharp teeth would not bite into him, not if he didn’t ask first. A long rosy tongue darted out, licking a strip of his cheek. It didn’t feel like a dog tongue, it pricked where it should be soft, but it wasn’t like sandpaper either, like a cat tongue. It stuck and scraped enough to let you know how much damage it could do, how useful it was to leave bones bleached and clean. 

Oh.  

“Or is it that mouth of hell you wear so well, then?” (Even if Hannibal denies it later, Will had felt his tail wag lightly against the dirt next to his leg.)

He snuck out a hand to pet him, staring straight into the amber eyes, blown wide. Hannibal sniffed at his neck, then down his chest, before resting the crown of his enlarged head against his breastbone. Crushing Will with his weight, a soft content hum, as he scratched behind his long ear. It was starting to hurt, starting to push all his unessential organs further into his body through the layers of clothes and skin. It was still part of the showcase. Hannibal let out a low growl and a huff, as if he’d fallen asleep on top of him and they had no option but to wait it out. 

Will’s lips twitched, hand not stopping, “I know your mind doesn’t turn with you, Hannibal. Everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing, you’ve calculated. You wanted to lose me among the trees, wanted to catch me like the predator that you are, and now, you want me pinned here, helpless, until dawn.” He took a deep breath he had no use for, except for his own pacing within his thoughts, and finished, “And I’ll play along.”

To that, the beast rolled to the side, still squishing Will with the movement until he was finally free to move unrestricted. Once the blood flowed back to his limbs, Hannibal held his paw-like palm to help him up. In his biped stance, he gave the illusion of being nearly 8ft tall, when in reality he probably had grown to 6 and a half. He was still in awe at how small he felt; perhaps one day he’d get used to it. Perhaps he never would, and that prospect appealed more.

Hannibal heaved back into himself, staggering for a second before Will offered his shoulder for him to lean on. They were both covered in mud, and bruised from the rough play under the foliage. 

"We could do with a shower." He chuckled, still amped up, eyes shining dark like blood on the moonlight from the adrenaline. Hannibal was enthralled, understanding deep in his gut how he’d follow those eyes into damnation, had he not been born there already. As much as the thousand blue hues that those eyes underwent through during the day suited the man, those vermillion seemed most truthful, most transparent. He’d do anything to see them again.

"Quite right."

*

Will left his shoes by the porch, knowing Hannibal’s bare feet would leave enough stains inside. He shouldered the door open, the dogs were frantic to welcome them, but Will settled them back into their beds with a whistle. He peeled off his coat, and pants, quickly, as the other man cleaned his hands in the kitchen, unwilling to take his clothes with dirty hands. 

“Here.” Roughly shoving a glass of water his way, Hannibal appreciated it. But all too soon, the grime they’d collected was too much, and Will guided him to the bathroom, and to his surprise, into the tub.

The warm water, a balm to his oversensitive skin. It happened each time, but he was usually home and surrounded by his 1000 thread sheets by now. He closed his eyes, expecting the door to click shut now that Will had settled the temperature and the water had risen to his chest. Instead, the snapping of a bottle cap opening had him flying to the source. And apparently with more intensity than he’d thought.

Will stopped in his tracks, knelt at his side on the tiles, a hand holding a shampoo bottle, a palm out to catch its contents. Deep creased frown. "I don't have- would you rather I use soap? I-"

Hannibal touched his hand lightly, wet fingers sliding into his palm, "Will, it 's fine."

"I've seen what's in your bathroom; this isn’t-"

"I wouldn't dare change this moment for something as petty as toiletries preferences. I simply believed you were going to go." They shared a small smile, who was mirroring who, they didn’t know.

“You look like you’re going to drop dead. It wouldn’t be a dignified death to fall asleep in the tub and drown, now, would it?”

He squirted a generous amount onto his palm and lathered his hair, scratching the scalp carefully. Hannibal was melting, going boneless under Will’s careful ministrations but decidedly awake. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had helped him bathe with loving fingers. Logically, his mother must have, but that door was boarded, and the key lost. He didn’t dare knock on it, not even to hear if it had been hollowed and swallowed by the tar of the rest of his childhood. Will tilting his chin back to wash the suds, cascading down his back. He was handed some soap, as Will went to fetch their clothes; door left half open, the tranquil night pouring through into the off-white tiles. Any and every contact had him wincing when it came to his legs, his arms, and it was building up like a scream behind his throat. Hannibal wanted it over with, even more so with the water turning lukewarm. The woods had been more treacherous than he’d assumed.

A towel and his clothes were left wordlessly on top of the toilet. With languor he stepped out, drying himself without paying much attention to the other man who was pulling on his night t-shirt, facing the other way. But Hannibal held heavy eyelids, holding his clothes in his hands but not dressing, as if overcome. The planes of his back sloped, deep sigh, satiated, full, too full, the exuberance that can only lead to nauseous decay. Overripe, and spoilt, Hannibal blinked a tear. Coming down was a tear, a wound he licked on his own. But now, it was like he’d taken a hunter’s knife and started flaying himself, peeling off the layer of skin, fat, and muscle. An exposed nerve, out in the open, in limbo, unconvinced with the weighing of his options. Thank Will for the warm bath, excuse yourself, go home. It was unsatisfactory, and yet staying was not an option he considered appropriate either. Distance was the physical barrier that would benefit them both, as they’d plunged into the depths already. They needed to swim back to the surface on their own accord.

The hesitation must have been thick as fog, making the other man search for his expression, "If you don’t want to change, it’s fine, I sleep without pants more often than not. And if you want something else, I’ll grab it. It might fit… tight.”

“You’ve assumed I’m going to stay the night.” And yet, Will’s blue eyes, darkened to purple with their red glint, close to pleading was all it took for him to be hauled back to land. A moue smile, as he darted back down to the clothes he’d been holding. “But you’ve assumed correctly.”

Hannibal pulled on his boxers, and followed Will to bed. He turned to face him, cheek to the pillow. They were under different covers, Hannibal just under the duvet as his skin was burning, while Will had slipped under the sheets, staving off the cold that could still try to slip in even with a body beside him. It didn’t take long for Will to let the question that had been on the back of his skull for days air. The words held time between its fingertips, fragile delicate time, like a snowflake about to melt on the tip of your tongue.

“Was it a familial inheritance or a bite?” 

Waning purple to vivid maroon. The physical space between them in the king sized bed, incomprehensible when they’d never been so entwined. 

“Does it matter?”

Will tasted the weight of his answer behind his teeth; taking a moment in the lulling darkness, taking a moment to savour the soft breaths and the encompassing warmth all around him, the (serial killer) friend, the (beastly) lover, the (inhuman) equal, that laid in front of him.

“No– I don’t think it does.” Two scorching fingers brushed a curl out of his forehead, before scooting closer, meeting in the middle of the bed, the edge of their respective pillows.

Hannibal curled next to Will, and for the first time since he'd moved was his bed warmed by someone. Soft touches, to stitch themselves together tighter in the intimacy, the comfort, until he finally fell asleep. Only then did Will close his eyes, envisioning the wild years to come.

( If they, after Chilton's trial and Alana's wedding, moved to the italian countryside with their 7 dogs, well, it was nobody's business but theirs. If they, after Jack's early retirement, resurrected Il Mostro, it was nobody's business but theirs. And if, on their 10 year anniversary, Will gifted Hannibal a silver dagger for he has asked of his beloved that on his deathbed to hold it with the strength he has left, as his lips part for a last breath, so Will can stake himself on it and die besides him, well, it's nobody's business but theirs, isn’t it? )

The mist rose, taking back proof of love.

Without which we have only the mirror, you and I.

Moonbeam, Louise Glück