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“Sorry I’m late,” Will begins as he steps into his classroom, the chatter falling to a simmer but never to a proper hush.
Will Graham is never late to his class. He’s there before and far after his students, looking scruffy in that way of his that was barely considered professional if inspected closely.
“Busy morning.” He turns a dead-eyes glare towards the direction of any chatter and the room quickly becomes a respectful hush.
After all, no-one is entirely sure what angering their odd, though generally well-meaning, teacher would do.
“Heard you were late to class today. That’s a first, right?” Beverly is peering into an oesophagus that had been sloppily split down the middle and lined with crushed velvet.
“It was Winston, he’s still adjusting — made a mess this morning.”
“Winston?” Beverly glances at Zeller and Price who shrug at the unfamiliar name. Graham is either completely oblivious to the silent conversation or willingly ignoring it, looking at one of the uncovered cadavers with a jaded expression.
A small boy, no older than ten, his entire lower half removed and replaced with that of a deer’s.
“He’s new, I just got him settled into the house. The dogs are adjusting to him as well.”
Zeller mouths, “how many dogs does he have?” but he’s never given a response as Will begins to say something about the fictional town of Hamelin and a pied piper.
“We’re looking for a child predator — someone who’s never offended and probably never will if he can keep his desires in check. The bodies don’t appear to be sexually abused pre or post-mortem, it’s safe to say he’s killing as an act of killing his own desires. Leading the children away from a starving town, as both a punishment and a mercy,” He’s eyeing the little girl Beverly stands in front of with something that registers only as sadness rather than pity, “look into any missing children from both abusive and, and low income households.”
“All that from a.. tasteless taxidermy?” Price asks, raising an eyebrow but Graham is looking elsewhere, avoiding eye contact anyway he can, but there’s a frown on his face that has Beverly shushing the other two and nodding her assent.
“We’ll get someone on it as soon as we can.”
The killer, a man named Derek Carlton, is apprehended though he later commits suicide in his cell and Will comes to work smiling a lot more.
These two things are possibly unrelated but people take notice either way.
His students note that he is less severe in the classroom than usual, it prompts them to be more willing to ask questions where there was once the lingering fear of sounding stupid before the man who caught the Minnesota Shrike.
It’s as he’s packing up for the day, already eyeing the stack of papers he has to grade with distaste for the horror show he knows it to be as shown by previous essays, that Alana approaches him. She has that open, patient expression that she only wears when she’s gearing up to coax an explanation of some sorts out of him.
Will can’t blame her for that, he knows talking to him is like pulling teeth, but the part of him that he finds is often coiled and ready to strike like a snake is always just a touch weary of her intentions. There’s an instinctive hesitancy in regarding Alana as both a friend and an adversary.
“Hey, how was class?” She starts politely, as always, it’s really no wonder she and Hannibal get on so well. Will makes a noise that could be misconstrued as a laugh to those who don’t know him, placing the papers in a folder to shove into his briefcase.
“They weren’t too fond of the Pied Piper’s design.” He starts, “though not many are. Making art out of an unwanted desire is rarely a pretty thing.” He adjusts his glasses to avoid her eyes, searching for him in that way they always tend to do. He isn’t sure what she’d find in their depths but he already knows what he’d find in hers — pity, concern, something that only vaguely resembles platonic love and the repression of its ability to mutate into something more.
“Surely you aren’t here to rehash the line threading paedophiles to murder though, right?” He watches the lower half of her face and she smiles, soft and warm and real. There’s little judgement there and some of the relief Will feels at that is to be put aside and studied later.
No words pass between them but Will can feel her looking at him as he leans against his desk, pressing the sharp edge against his hip to focus on anything other than the feel of her eyes.
“You seem happier.” She observes, quiet and sudden, prompting Will to meet her eyes briefly, feeling the rush of warmth in it before he quickly looks away.
“Do I?” He doesn’t feel happier. There’s a contentedness that lines his stomach now but he’s not sure if it’ll last long — he’d sleepwalked last night, ended up in the yard, shivering awake from the frosted chill of the air.
“You seem.. more aware of yourself in a way I haven’t seen in a while, Will.”
The words prompt him to uncomfortably clear his throat and glance at his watch. His eyes trace over the time and he jolts, startling Alana as he quickly grabs his briefcase.
“I need to go, Alana, I really shouldn’t leave Winston alone for so long-“
“Oh, I didn’t-“
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And then he’s out the door, leaving behind a puzzled Dr. Bloom.
“Winston ate all of his food today.” “Winston is playing very nicely with the dogs, it’s very enlightening and sweet.” “Winston sleeps in the bed with me instead of his own. I should break the habit but.. it makes me stay myself, some nights.”
Jack has heard these things in idle conversation with Will, from Hannibal, from the team, from Alana and he can’t decide if this is a good thing or not — Will Graham adding a seventh dog to his fold is all the signs of someone with a crutch, an addiction, and it appears that Will is addicted to not being lonely.
He’d try to push him closer with the team if he wasn’t aware that Will was more likely to snap back than he was to meshing nicely. Besides, other than Beverly, he already knew that Zeller and Price were less than ideal players for a work friendship — Will unnerved them.
As of now, Will Graham isn’t at work after he called and reported that he was going to the hospital. He didn’t say a ‘why’ but he did say: “Winston thought I was acting strange. Stranger than usual.” and so he’s out for the next week unless a body ends up quite literally in his lap.
It was almost amusing how the worry expressed by his human counterparts wasn’t enough to have him get checked out, but worrying his dogs was a step too far.
Hours later, Jack receives a call from Will.
“It’s anti-NMDAR encephalitis. My brain has been.. stewing itself in its own juices for a little over a month now. Any longer and I would have been useless.”
“Jesus,” Jack breathes and just beneath the shock is a sort of guilt — he didn’t know how one got encephalitis but he has this itching feeling that out of the field, in the comfort of his classroom, such a thing would have never occurred.
It’s a heavy weight but one Jack is willing to shoulder.
“You have the insurance mandated to all FBI agents, even if your position is less than permanent in nature. How long will the treatment last?”
“I’m being pumped full of steroids as we speak. There’ll probably be a plasma exchange as well. Thankfully I thought to hire a sitter for the next week.”
“I’ll let Dr. Lecter know, we’re all here to see you through this.”
“Do me a favour, Jack. Keep Hannibal and Alana away from my house.”
It’s an odd request — it was odd but strangely Will. Jack can count on one hand the amount of times he’s been to Will’s home, even less the amount of times he’s been inside. Wolf Trap is Will’s sanctuary, it would do them all good to avoid the probability of sullying it.
“That I can do. Keep me updated.”
Strangely, Jack finds himself almost feeling thankful to Winston.
Will recovers, slowly, but he only stays in the hospital for a week before he’s sent home with enough pills to get him through the dredges of it. He doesn’t invite anyone over and he doesn’t make any calls that aren’t necessary.
He has his students doing all their coursework online and finds that it’s easier to engage them that way. They actually ask him questions when there isn’t the fear of potentially being ridiculed by classmates for their misunderstandings.
It’s nice, he finds, to settle back into himself. His body and mind was forcibly shared with Garrett Jacob Hobbs and so many other killers that he forgot what it was like to be alone in it.
It’s ill-fitting, at first, stretched too wide and ripping at the seams, but he puts it back together stitch by stitch.
He’s complete again.
Wolf Trap is covered in a layer of pure white, unbroken snow.
Will’s house sits like a beacon of light and warmth amongst it, nestled in like a gem among the trees and snow. Hannibal cannot deny that there is a serenity within the simplicity, a thread of it that he cannot find within his own home of aesthetics and carefully manipulated beauty.
Will Graham’s happiness comes from dog hairs and fishing lines and a clean kitchen.
Opulence does not fit him, he’s too jagged and rough to fit into the smooth lines and crisp edges of Hannibal’s life but he can always grind Will’s edges down, make him as smooth as a stone cut from obsidian.
With his encephalitis now treated due to one of his particularly nosey mutts and then his home being effectively barred off by a glaring dog sitter and a guilt-ridden Jack Crawford, his plan for Will’s becoming has been stunted.
He’s had to think of a way to work around this and the best way is by playing the concerned friend. Showing up unprompted helps immensely, it shows Will that he was thinking about him. It’s pedestrian but he’s willing to make exceptions for Will.
For Will, Hannibal finds he would be willing to make more exceptions than he’s ever allowed since he was a young boy, wiping blood off of Murasaki’s blades.
He’d make exceptions and excuses for Will that he never would have made for even her.
He parks neatly behind Will’s car, gathers the food and drinks he’d prepared and packed neatly. This wasn’t his first time in Will’s home but he was never alone during that time and other than that, it helped to build a sense of comfort if Will could see him against the unfitting lines of his home, if he could imagine him comfortably in a space he would otherwise not be comfortable in.
The Virginia winter is stinging but it’s nothing like the winters of Lithuania. He smiles idly to himself at the thought as he knocks on the door and politely waits. The dogs are barking but they quickly go quiet with a sharp noise before the door is being opened and Hannibal is met with air.
He lowers his gaze, allowing a little of the confusion he’s feeling to come to the surface though it stops being as controlled when he’s met with a little boy who couldn’t be more than eleven, if he had to hazard a guess.
He’s dressed in a sweater and sleep pants with fish on them, glaring at Hannibal with brown eyes set behind fanning lashes that brushed ruddy cheeks covered in freckles and brown skin with every blink. His hair is an amassing of dark curls though two braids frame his hairline and face, ending in clacking blue beads that clink against his shoulders.
“Hello, is Will here?” He wasn’t expecting the possibility of Will having company over but it would only work in his favour as most gossip tended to.
The boy’s lips curl into a frown and the door is promptly slammed in his face.
What a rude little thing.
If children weren’t off limits in regards to his kills, he’d take a vindictive joy in stringing the little boy up. No tableau, he’s young and smelled healthy enough beneath the scent of dog fur and sweat, he’d use every inch.
The door opened not even a full minute later, this time revealing Will, who looked at least a little bashful.
“Sorry about that. Winston doesn’t like meeting new people.”
Winston?, Hannibal wants to ask, the boy we all assumed with a new stray?
“I wasn’t aware you had kids.” Hannibal says softly as he’s invited in, aware of the little boy tucked close to Will’s side, face pressed to his side as he watches Hannibal with obvious distaste before looking away.
Will smiles in a way that borders between embarrassed and skittish. “It’s a new development.” He looks at Winston and his expression softens, gentle and warm, “go sit down, I’ll be there in a moment.”
The boy nods and walks away, unaware of the look of hurt that briefly comes over his maybe-father.
“He won’t speak.” Will whispers, looking at Hannibal, “hasn’t since I found him. The only thing he told me was his name.”
Hannibal allows himself to soften a bit for the other, making himself pliable. “Trauma can have detrimental effects on things like speech. It isn’t something to worry about unless you feel it’s affecting him beyond mutism.”
Will nods a little and then leads them to the kitchen where Winston is sitting at the island, colouring book before him, the dogs laying around his barstool like a pod of sharks protecting a vulnerable calf, eyeing Hannibal.
“If it helps, I do come bearing gifts.”
“Do you now?” Will presses a kiss to Winston’s temple as he passes, a thoughtless action speaking of familiarity and comfort, the boy presses back into it for a moment, not looking up from the trees he’s coloured realistically. If Hannibal was a child psychiatrist, he’d probably express worry for the lack of imagination displayed by such a young child.
“Nothing complicated, but to help you as you mend.” He produces the food, speaking to Will and his ward, though only one pays him any mind.
“You made us chicken soup?” The man sounds surprised, though only a little, as if he was almost amused that such a simple recipe was elevated to the extent that it was in his kitchen.
Hannibal pauses, expecting to be overcome with irritation but feeling only a tinge of warmth in his chest.
Exceptions.
“Yes.”
Winston glanced at Will and then Hannibal and back to the other man before making a small noise and hopping down from his seat, careful not to land on any of the dogs, who immediately perked up and yawned, content to follow the tiny shepherd around the house.
He didn’t spare either of the men a glance as he walked away, presumably up to his bedroom, having decided he was done with them. Where Hannibal was caught on his rudeness, Will was smiling softly.
“He stayed longer than I thought, that’s good.” And Will’s ease seemed to leech out some of Hannibal’s distaste.
Eventually, Will takes Winston to some sort of hospital to recover his parents. He doesn’t tell Hannibal what he discovers there but the boy stays in his custody, now legally, and word begins to spread of Will Graham’s son.
No-one else has seen the boy, kept carefully hidden from the public eye with Will’s intriguing mix of introverted nature and paranoia. However, Hannibal can firmly say the boy is being cared for.
Will takes a pleasure out of brushing and braiding his hair, out of feeding him and curling up with him. The boy still doesn’t speak but there’s been discussions of sign language during their conversations.
Without the encephalitis, it’s harder to wind Will up. Any manipulations have to be incredibly subtle and spread out enough that he isn’t inviting scrutiny.
If anyone is more likely to see through his person suit, it’s the consultant.
If he was any less in control of himself, there would be an ache — he aches for Will, but Hannibal is used to pain, he knows how to swallow it down and keep it buried.
Attraction was something he found to be beneath him in most cases. Aside from Murasaki, most relationships were just things to feign the normality that kept people from looking too closely at him. Though, as he’s grown older, it’s been easier to stave off any false pretences as most simply see him as someone comfortable enough with himself to not seek the closeness of something romantic.
What he wants with Will Graham would be disgustingly romantic if it wasn't covered in blood.
Bella takes one look at Winston, sitting in the seat next to Will who’s looking over a file, and Jack sinks a little into his seat.
“Who’s this?” She asks, smiling softly at the boy. Winston doesn’t smile back but he does politely wave and then look back to the book Will’d sat in his lap earlier — a copy of Catwings.
“Winston.” Will answers softly, not looking up, he misses the smile that crosses her face.
“You’ll have to bring him over one day. He’s got such beautiful hair.” This catches Will’s attention, he doesn’t look directly at Bella but he smiles at Winston’s bowed head with a love Jack has never seen in his face before.
“That he does.” He reaches over and soothes his fingers through the curls, not catching a single tangle. The boy leans his head into Will’s hand, making a noise that could be read as contentment before he pulled away and Will dropped his hand.
“I do it as often as I can but I worry there’s such a thing as doing it too much.”
Bella tuts, and Jack can’t help but think he’s never seen her so relaxed, “no such thing. What do you usually put in it?”
Will glances up at her then. “.. water?”
Jack clears his throat to force back a laugh when his wife’s eyebrows raise a little, a look of endearment crossing her face.
“You should bring him by the house sometime.” She states once more and Will has the grace to look a little sheepish.
Winston doesn’t like Hannibal. Will can say that with little to no doubt but a hell of a lot of confidence in regards to the boy’s expressions and his progressing ASL.
“I don’t like him.” Winston signs one day after Hannibal drops by, glaring at the door as if Hannibal will come walking back in so soon after leaving.
“Why is that?” Will found it was best to talk to him the way he’d talk to any other person, the boy didn’t enjoy any form of verbal coddling when he was communicating.
“He feels like dark.” The words are said roughly, the sign falling hard and jerky. His little brows were furrowed and his explanation brought Will to pause. If it was something silly or even the expected jealousy of having to share Will in their home, it would have been easy to soothe.
He feels like dark was a statement that had deeper connotations. Will briefly thinks of his encephalitis and the knowledge of Hannibal’s sense of smell. He thinks of the moment the doctor had nearly had his nose buried in his hair and his stomach drops.
The suspicion had been there but only mildly. It left with the sickness and sleepwalking and the feathered stag, he had readily assumed it wasn’t what it seemed — that Hannibal wouldn’t willingly put him in the line of fire.
But here sits Winston, silent and indignant, aware of a darkness that Will felt he’d only glimpsed but so quickly dismissed. Everyone has the capacity for darkness in them, but what made Hannibal’s so profound?
“I’ll keep him out of the house.” He promises softly and it relaxes his ward’s thin shoulders. His hair is sitting around his face and shoulders in smoother curls than when Will brushed through it with a wet brush — it tended to dry frizzier that way — big brown eyes lined with purple beneath, forcing Will to swallow.
He wasn’t the only one with nightmares these days.
“Let’s eat dinner, bebe mwen.” After all, it was a waste to throw out the lamb Hannibal had prepared for them.
“You’re barring from me your home on the basis of your child?” Hannibal asks politely, though to Will’s searching eyes, he doesn’t look particularly upset.
“You unnerve him. I think he has a.. thing.. about men.” It was only half a lie, Will doesn’t like to think too much on the way Winston had cried when Will dressed him those first few days while his little wrists had healed from infected wounds.
It was fresh after the Pied Piper murders and he’d slept in his car after walking through the mind that he had.
It was a risk he wouldn’t take, not when he could prevent it.
Hannibal nods in understanding. “Doing this for him marks you as a better parent than many.” It’s an uncomfortable truth that Will has read too many files on, taught too many classes about.
“You’re telling me.” He breathes, shaking his head a little.
“I completely understand.” He smiles a little and Will thinks about his nose in his hair.
Will enrolls Winston into therapy and online school, in that order. He has to move his hours around but it’s worth it and HR understood. He knows he could just hire a babysitter but then he’d never see the boy, between Jack and classes and everything else.
Besides, there’s a peace in making them both breakfast while the dogs trot around and Winston gleefully does his assignments. The boy likes school, much more than Will did, and it shouldn’t surprise him much — he’s already read all the books Will’s gotten him.
He’s unsure if Winston will ever speak again and it bothers him less than he thought it would. Will doesn’t know the extent of his trauma, doesn’t know if the scars he keeps hidden under long sleeves will ever fade enough to stop hurting, but he knows that he doesn’t mind his silence.
It’s never empty.
“You’re staring again.” Will laughs softly at the underlying sass of his tone — he’s rubbing off on him, just a little, but he’s never rude enough to warrant scolding.
“Of course I am. I have such a smart boy.” And because it’s a miracle to think the house feels alive. When it was just Will, only him in this house that was too big and cold with six dogs, it always felt like he was on a boat in the middle of nowhere.
Floating down the river Styx without a paddle.
Now, he’s finally got his bed out of the living room and there’s actual furniture and Winston has books and toys scattered over the coffee table. Where there should be annoyance, there is beauty. It looks lived in, it looks loved.
Will smiles at Winston and the boy smiles back.
There is love.
The next day, Will reluctantly calls his sitter, Mariah is almost always available and Winston actually likes her company, but he has classes to teach and a new corpse was found.
“I’ll see you later, alright?” Winston nods, letting Will kiss his temple, “Mariah will be here in fifteen minutes.”
Then he’s off, already feeling a little anxious about leaving the boy even though he has yet to pull out of the driveway.
The reality is that he’s already anticipating if the mind he climbs into will be a hard one to shake off.
Classes are well, the essays leave much to be desired and his students are clearly excited for the upcoming breaks if their lack of attention was anything to go by. Will was thankful when it finally ended, sitting at his desk and texting Mariah to check in.
He’s considering what to do next — there’s still a body to look at — when there’s a soft knocking.
Glancing up, he’s met with curious maroon eyes.
“Oh, Hannibal, hello. I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Jack Crawford has asked me to step in, I thought it wouldn’t be too much of an issue to visit you since it isn’t too far out of the way.” That brings a smile to Will’s face.
“Thanks, it’s much appreciated.”
“How are the youth?”
“More interested in their phones than murder. How disdainful.”
His words make Hannibal chuckle and Will’s smile widens.
“I have to admit, my reason for being here is a bit selfish. I was looking to invite you over for dinner if you’d be open, and the invitation extends to Winston as well.”
Will stares at him for a moment before his brow crinkles.
“I’m turning into one of those parents that never leaves the house, aren’t I?”
Hannibal is polite enough to look away and hide the smug smile that crosses his face.
“I’d be lying if I said you weren’t.”
Will dropped his head into his hands and shook his head. “I didn’t even notice. I enjoy spending time with him, he’s so darling. Though, adult conversation would be nice — how many books about talking, possibly magical, cats are there? I’m not sure but I could write a thesis on at least two.”
That brings a real laugh from the doctor, it’s a shockingly warm sound. Will feels his pupils expand and he has to look away to hide the warm flush that wants to build on his skin.
“His sitter is with him. I’m sure an extra hour or two won’t cause any problems.”
Hannibal left Will to his own devices, sipping a warm and smooth whisky that cost more than his entire wardrobe while he finished aestheticising their meal into something that was more art than food. He slowly wandered around the dining room, looking over the now familiar art.
Winston’s words were at the back of his head the entire time.
He saw that darkness too now that he looked for it. It wasn’t overt by any means, nor was it needlessly cruel, but there was a thrum of electricity underneath the elegance and genteel nature.
Dangerous.
Hannibal was dangerous.
It was hard, though not impossible, to reconcile the two versions of the man he’d presented with. The question then was: how far did it go? Was it a true, violent danger or was he dangerous in the same way a dog was?
Capable, and perhaps with a past of violence, but ultimately without a means for causing harm? Or was he something else, something Will should shoot now and ask questions about later?
The questions circled his head endless until the man in mind cleared his throat and grabbed Will’s attention.
He’d been staring at the centrepiece the entire time, it would seem.
“Are you alright, Will?” Gentle, worried — but was it real? He couldn’t help but try and pick everything about Hannibal apart while he hoped that nothing unravelled.
“Fine, just lost in my head. My work is never done.” He takes a seat as he says this, missing the calculation in Hannibal’s gaze.
“The case?”
“The Ripper.” Will grimaces, “he’s been quiet for months, it only makes sense that there’s a sounder starting up now.”
“You’re worried.” Not a question, too gentle to be an outright statement, always careful to stay within the conventions to not be anything more than calm and respectful.
“The Ripper is the type of work I don’t want to bring home. Granted, it’s not as bad to see the work done through photos rather than standing in the midst of blood and viscera, I worry there’s going to be a case that requires me to see it as fresh as possible.”
“You don’t want Winston dragged into that part of your mind — I can’t imagine a reality in which you would. He’s a sweet boy, he shouldn’t be sullied by something as avoidable as this.”
A plate is set before him and the wine is poured. Will smiles softly at the arrangement, taking in the care and precision that went into it. That was followed by a name, veal, but Will grew up in a world where false morality over the age of a pig was nothing.
He thanks him instead.
“I worry I will be sullied and driven into dust before the Ripper is done with me.” He takes a bite and the flavours fill him with a joy that he can only find at Hannibal’s table.
“This is amazing, thank you.”
The conversation moves on from there. Hannibal makes him smile and he makes Hannibal laugh and it’s like a date.
Will pauses in sipping his wine and looks at Hannibal. The man’s brow curls in question and he quickly swallows his mouthful of wine, working the words out through a sense of incredulity.
“Hannibal.”
“Yes, Will?”
“Are we on a date?”
Hannibal tilts his head in that way that often reminds Will of a particularly curious puppy, “do you want it to be?”
Will’s eyes narrow over the glass before he sits it down. “This isn’t a question you can answer with a question, you know.”
The older man hummed softly at that and then nodded his understanding.
“I suppose, in a way, I was hoping that you’d see it that way.” Shameless as always, enough to make Will’s lips quirk up in one of these mean little smirks he can’t resist.
“You could have asked me, Hannibal. I would’ve said ‘yes’.”
Even with this knowledge, the conversation does not grow tepid and when it ends, Hannibal walks him to the front door. He’s a gentleman so he helps Will into his jacket, not-so subtly sniffing the back of his neck but Will is kind enough to allow it without any fuss.
He isn’t expecting a kiss, and Hannibal is probably following some code of gentlemanly behaviour that forbids him from assuming and kissing Will first so he compromises by kissing Hannibal’s cheek.
“I’ll see you later. Thank you for having me.”
Hannibal’s eyes are like pools of warm blood — “it’s always a pleasure.”
Will drives home in a half-daze. His not-therapist took him on a sorta-date and now he’s driving home to his maybe-son.
His life has never been so full of uncertainties.
Life continues, though not without a few bumps.
Will gets into his first argument with Winston, and he’s ashamed to say he probably lost to a newly twelve year old. The Ripper finishes his sounders and Jack is getting anxious.
Any moment the murders could stop completely and the Ripper will slip away without a trace.
His relationship with Hannibal is a point of contention with his son and Will can’t say he’s surprised. It’s almost a point of contention with himself. Hannibal is hiding something, though the “what” has yet to make itself known past the glimpses of his true self that Will gets.
They aren’t a hand-holding type of couple and he’s not sure many people are even aware they’re dating now but sometimes Hannibal holds him and that’s nice. Sometimes they make out, pressed close and tight, heat between them like a furnace and that is very nice.
His time with Hannibal is often one that fills his chest with fondness. He’s found out so many little quirks that he isn’t sure to attribute to richness or being European. He probably gets called ‘dearest’ than his name and sometimes Hannibal serves him plates of fresh fruit for no other reason than he can.
His oranges are always carefully peeled.
When they have sex, there is a need in Hannibal that extends far beyond pleasure. He spends hours pulling Will apart and putting him back together, like he can’t decide if understanding Will’s mind or his body will bring him the ultimate satisfaction. He takes pride in seeing Will unable to leave the bed, in wearing the scratches down his back that he keeps hidden beneath bespoke suits.
Everything is fine until it isn’t.
Will is staring at the body, a new sounder began not even two months after the last, left nailed to a tree in a sacrilegious rendition of the crucifixion of Christ.
The body had been hollowed out, stuffed full of flowers and twine, missing the ring finger on his left hand.
“A proposal.” Will breathes, staring at it with wide eyes, pupils round and dark.
Zeller and Price are eyeing him in worry, the looks have only gotten worse since they discovered Winston was a child and not a dog, but thankfully due to Will’s paranoia, Freddie Lounds hasn’t gotten even a glimpse of him. Small blessings.
“Who’s he proposing to? Or is it even meant to be seen that way, his killings are usually mockeries.” Beverly says beside him, staring at the body with a critical eye.
“This is the Ripper’s work,” Will says, sure of it in every syllable, “but not in his usual way. The Ripper often kills with a sort of.. bragging humour. It’s why he can put so much time into these displays, he’s taunting us. Saying we won’t catch him. But this..” Will takes a step closer, squinting at the flowers.
“This is a declaration of love.”
“He’s got a crush?” Price hisses and then turns to look at the corpse. “God help their soul.”
The body is collected and the area is swept even though Will knows that there won’t be any evidence found. There is always an underlying frustration at Ripper sites, though this is the most unnerving.
An intelligent psychopath with the capacity to love?
Will looks up at the sky. He’s encroaching on an answer, there’s a tug to the line he cast and now, he worries about what he’s reeling in.
“Got a look at the flowers. Guess what? We got more than just a proposal — it’s a vow.” Beverly looks as unnerved as most in the room feel. “Light red carnations for fascination. Yellow roses, the first meaning is joy but dig a little deeper and you find they mean possessiveness too. Asparagus fern, gloxinia, blue hyacinth, all some form of love or possession.”
Will tilts his head, a frown on his face.
“Is it possible that this man is the Ripper’s beau? Not literally, but I don’t see why he wouldn’t seek out a victim with a resemblance to the person meant to receive this love letter.”
Price laughs softly and quickly coughs as if to hide it when Jack turns to glance at him.
“Plan on sharing with the class.” Jack grits out and Price looks away.
“Well, it’s just that you also resemble the victim.” He points out and everyone in the room glances between Will and the hollowed out corpse.
Will guesses there’s a vague resemblance — same hair, build, but his eyes are brown and he’s clean shaven. His frown deepens as he looks at the cadaver, tracing over it. There is a familiarity in it beyond just the resemblance, a feel to it that Will knows but cannot place.
Taking a step closer, he looks down at the body, searching for the single thread that will either tie it all together or make it fall apart and —
He feels like dark.
He drives straight to Baltimore, nervous and second guessing and at least thrice, sick enough to pull over and vomit up stomach acid. He lost any food in his body the last two times.
He’s shivering when he pulls into Hannibal’s driveway though not with fear.
Will’s gun is in its holster when he knocks, not having to wait more than a few moments before the door opens. It’s clear that Hannibal wasn’t expecting him, he’s dressed down in a cream sweater and corduroy pants, his hair falling over his forehead rather than slicked back.
“Will, are you alright? You look poorly.” He’s guiding him in but Will can’t stop staring up at him with wide eyes. Now that he’s looking, he doesn’t know how he missed it. He cannot seem to look away.
There’s a strange and otherworldly beauty in the darkness that exists behind the carefully constructed mask Hannibal wears. It reminds him of his stag, and that in a way, is a comfort.
Hannibal sits him down in the living room and leaves. When he comes back with a cool, wet towel, Will’s gun is aimed at his head.
The man stills, not looking particularly scared but he’s got enough sense not to move or ask any questions.
“I can see you now.” Will rasps, slowly exhaling, “I don’t know how I didn’t before.”
There is a curiosity in Hannibal’s eyes and not much else. He takes a step forward and Will clicks the safety off, prompting him to stop, eyes focused on the gun for a moment before he looks back at the other.
“I wanted you to see me.”
“You proposed to me. It’s been two months.”
Hannibal smiles and it reaches his eyes. “I’ve been trying to get you to see me for a very long time, Will.”
“He could see you. Winston. From the day he met you, he could see through you and he’s been trying to warn me away.” Will swallows harshly at that, narrowing his eyes. “Would you have killed him?”
This prompts an unexpected reaction — Hannibal flinches. It’s not a large movement, it’s mostly in his wrists before he forces them to steady once more.
“You should know the answer to that. I’ve never once killed a child, I wouldn’t have started now. Besides, the only person he could have told would have been you.” And you didn’t listen.
It goes unsaid but the truth of the statement is almost enough to make Will pull the trigger.
“You’ve been feeding them to people.” Hannibal nods slowly, aware of Will’s disgust, though there’s no regret. Of course there isn’t, why would there be? “You fed them to me. To my son.” His voice shakes on the words, eyes wild before it fades away to something resigned.
Will sighs and clicks the safety back on, shaking his head in disbelief. Hannibal walks over and sinks to his knees in front of him, using the now mostly warmed towel to wipe away some of the sweat gathered at his hairline, gentle and steady.
“I should turn you in.” Will whispers and Hannibal nods, turning Will’s head with a nudge of his thumb to his chin. Their eyes meet, Will’s waterline is red from where he must have cried at some point.
“You won’t though, will you?”
“I should but no,” He shakes his head, “no, I won’t.”
Hannibal sinks a little lower and lays his head on Will’s thigh, the muscles tense beneath his cheek.
“If you want to stay free and alive, you’ll stop. You’ll throw out the rest of it and you won’t ever kill again. The Ripper is dead now.” Will twines his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and yanks, dragging his head up so that their eyes meet.
“He’s dead now.”
It takes time. Will watches closely as he disposes of the meat. It aches, Hannibal is shocked to find, to let some of them go. He had inadvertently tied himself to them, to the pieces of flesh and blood, unaware of why that was or when it even began.
The rest of the basement will take longer than a few hours to change into something less incriminating but it will be done, if only because there is a worse penalty than prison hanging over his head.
He glances up to find sad blue eyes watching him.
It isn’t hard to part with the Ripper. The Chesapeake Ripper was simply a mask that hid his face, a final lock before the darkness beneath was revealed but ultimately, not an entire facet of himself that would need to be cut out.
He finds himself reaching for it with every rude shopkeep, inconsiderate driver or irritating teenager but the need for retribution is a dull simmer.
Rudeness is an epidemic, yes, which is why he’s resorted to wearing a mask.
His relationship with Will takes longer to mend. He doesn’t push, he lets Will initiate the intimacy that was so quickly lost. The first time he holds Will again, pressed tight to his chest like he couldn’t help himself, he feels something in him relax.
Not manipulating the other is a deal harder. Will sees him but he can see Will. There’s also the curious case of his son, who is adept at undoing any work Hannibal manages. He’s smug about it too, pressing close to Will whenever Hannibal sets foot in the house like a cat with cream.
He doubts Winston knows what or who he is, but it’s clear that he can see enough of Hannibal to be decently weary.
They’re never left alone. He can’t tell if it’s intentional on Will or Winston’s part but perhaps it’s better that way. He doesn’t expect the boy to ever see him as a father, not in the way he sees and loves Will.
He wants to say he’s just settling, that it would be easier to kill Graham and leave the boy an orphan twice over but he doesn’t like the thought of Will dead. He likes the idea of eating him, his brain would have been delicious had the encephalitis lasted longer, but his eyes are something he would love to eat raw and without anything to hide the delicate flavour.
He resists by sinking his teeth into Will’s shoulder when they both throw caution to the wind and consummate their newfound intimacy on the desk of his office.
Will sounds beautiful when the sting of pain and the feel of Hannibal’s throat working to swallow down his blood sends him tumbling over the edge.
They lay naked against the wood, panting and languidly kissing through the taste of Will’s blood on Hannibal’s teeth when he speaks.
“I don’t know what you really want with me.” Hannibal opens his mouth to respond but he doesn’t get a sound out before Will is shushing him. “I see you now, Hannibal, I know you wanted something. Whether it was to eat me or to make me kill or something else, I’m not certain. I guess my real question is what do you want now? Your initial plan fell through but you’re still with me.”
Hannibal tilts his head in thought and nods at the question. It is strange, Hannibal doesn’t often entertain things for the sake of entertaining them. He likes his life to be full of meaning, of purpose, and what purpose does Will Graham bear that doesn’t simply fall under the title of “partner”?
“I’m not sure.” Hannibal begins softly, wondering if this was a conversation better suited for being had while seated. Will didn’t seem uncomfortable, however, as he carefully chose his words.
“I’m certain you understand that I don’t generally attach myself to others. I have never had any reason for it, and even if I had, there was no joy in someone who simply wanted the self I presented to the world.”
“So, you’re with me because I know the real you? That doesn’t seem sustainable.”
Hannibal smiles a bit and shakes his head.
“I find I have grown to desire you. Your presence, your voice, your mind. I desire it and I find myself all the happier being given the pleasure of having it. It wouldn’t be remiss to say that I love you, not at all, because I do. Regardless of what the books on psychopathy may say.”
“Have you loved before?” It’s a gentle, prodding question. Hannibal smiles at it.
“It was a very long time ago. I loved her but the real me, behind the obfuscations, horrified her. I don’t blame her for running.”
“She lived?”
Hannibal nods and Will hums as he thinks over the words.
“You don’t horrify me. I thought you did. I felt.. betrayed. That betrayal wounded me and it’s still healing but I’m not scared of you. I’ve seen what you can do, what you’re capable of, and I know you could do it to me but you won’t.” He’s so sure of himself and even though it’s the truth, it was a private one that Hannibal never once shared.
He doesn’t need to elevate Will Graham to art for he is his best, most beloved, muse.
“The darkness in your mind is what initially attracted me to you. However,” Hannibal shifts, rubbing his thumb beneath Will’s eye, tracing the warmth of his skin. “You aren’t pure darkness, not like some others. Your darkness isn’t empty either. Most people are completely unbalanced, yours is ever-changing. Always in metamorphosis, never still.”
“Careful,” Will chuckles, cheeks turning that darling pink that Hannibal found himself replicating in acrylics so often, “I might think you’re trying to propose again.”
Hannibal dips down and kisses Will gently.
“And if I am?” He asks when their lips part, watching as a small smile crosses Will’s face.
“Try again in a few years.”
Winston brings home a stray.
He’s brown with spots all over his face, some mix of German Shepherd and Border Collie. He’s dirty and has old blood on his back legs but other than that looks relatively fine.
“Who’s this?”
“He was in the middle of the field. I think someone dumped him.” Winston frowned as he said that, motioning to the dog and then back to the others. “Can we keep him?”
Will crouches down before the dog to pet him, smiling when he’s receptive.
“Of course you can. What should we name him?”
Winston stares at the dog for a few moments and then goes: “Lionheart. Like the cat.”
It brings a smile to Will’s face. Of course.
He washes him in the yard with Winston’s help and introduces him to the rest of the pack. They smell him and Lionheart is excited the entire time and soon, he’s eating with the others while Will watches with a smile.
Content.
The Ripper’s trail goes cold for years. Winston slowly starts to speak again, but his voice is thin from years of disuse but steadily growing stronger, though he’s still partial to sign language.
His dislike of Hannibal lingers but it’s eased from what it had been before.
“He treats you well.” Winston signs one night, “he doesn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t let him step foot in here if I ever suspected he was going to hurt you.”
It’s better than nothing. Will tucks him into his arms after and buries his face in his hair to hide his tears.
Will is just waking, turning his body into Hannibal’s. He’s like a furnace, always so hot regardless of what’s going on, apparently a holdover from his years in such a cold climate. He’s already watching Will as he opens his eyes, expression soft and taken.
“Would it still be too early to ask you to marry me?” He asks, seemingly unaware of what he was going to say until he’d said it.
Will smiles and lays his head against Hannibal’s bare chest.
“Ask me again after breakfast.”