Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That night, like most nights, Will’s whiskey washed away the spots of stress and intrusive emotion that polluted his mind. He sipped it slowly, savoring.  

With a sigh, he sank back into his old armchair.  It was familiar and sturdy beneath him.  He took another sip.  The nearly-empty glass was cool in his hand.  Will focused on that, and the alcohol-infused warmth that unfurled inside him.  

Moonlight pooled through the open blinds.  It cast streaks of watery light on the thick, dirty rug that covered the wood floor.  Will’s eyelids grew heavy.  That day, like most days, had been long.  His head fell back and his jaw went slack.  

The glass slipped from his fingers.

His body tipped through the waking world and into the dreaming as if it were falling through honey.  The world grew amber around him, hazy and viscous.  His chair had disappeared, and he fell.  He fell through time, through space, through his mind.  His limbs were limp.  He was untethered.  Unbound.  Falling. 

Then, he landed.  

There was water all around, and a thick, spongey layer of mud below.  It soaked through his t-shirt and boxers immediately.  As he blinked his eyes open, a dense humidity rose up, the very air thickening into a cloud.  

Louisiana , Will thought.  I’m back.

The swamp extended on all sides, rushing impossibly towards the horizon any which way he looked.  It was an endless expanse of knotted mangrove trees, dying algae, and tall reeds poking out from brackish water.  Will peered through it all, through the night, and found no hint of a direction towards land.  

He rose, the muck pulling against his bare feet.  The water only lapped up to his thighs now.  It was black, like oil, perhaps, or ink.  Will ran a hand through it and found that it left a slimy film on his palm.

Just as he was about to take a step forward, to embark in any direction, he heard it-- rustling.  Like reeds brushing together, a body carving a path through the landscape.  The swamp was silent.  No birds chirped, no frogs croaked.  There wasn’t even a gust of wind to rattle the leaves.  

Will cocked his head to the side, tuning in.  He kept his breathing quiet.  

Nothing.

Right as he was starting to think he’d imagined it, he heard it again.  And on his left, movement.  A shadow danced just out of sight.  

He wasn’t alone.

There was something here with him.  

Will turned towards the sound and saw rings of a ripple flowing outward in the midnight water.  It looked glossy in the darkness.  Will exhaled shakily.  Adrenaline seeped into his body.

He took a step forward, slowly, away from where he’d heard whatever was out there.  

Another step.  He paused.  One more.  It felt as if the humidity was increasing somehow-- like the air was congealing around him.  Mist rose in a thin layer, rising from the water to dust against his hips.  Will glanced around, body thrumming in anticipation.

Then he saw it.  A form in the darkness.  It was dark, infinitely dark, looming.  There wasn’t enough light to see by for Will to make out the exact shape, but he knew it was large, and he knew it was looking right at him.  Will could feel its gaze in his soul.  

He ran.  

Will tore off through the swamp, as fast he could through the muck.  The earth itself seemed intent on slowing him down, though; the suction from the mud and the resistance from the water made his movements painfully delayed.  

And that thing behind him gave chase.  It was breathing down his neck, growing closer, ever closer.  But when Will turned, he saw only a dart of darkness in the corner of his eye.  

The mist rose higher, up to his chest, and the water splashed in clumsy waves as he tore forward.  The path he carved was one of instinct-- he could see next to nothing now, with the sky obscured by tall trees.  Only a few stray beams of starlight pierced the swamp, as if through cracks in a tomb.  

Will ran.  

All around, the mangroves seemed to reach out, their gnarled roots extending like hands in the shadows to grab him.  

He ran and he ran, but fatigue never set in. 

How long had he been running?

What would happen if he just . . . stopped?

No, he thought.  Not yet.  I can’t stop yet.

He pushed forward, leaping over another root.  

The creature crept up on his left side again, so Will went right.  

He had the distinct feeling that he was being herded-- gestured in a direction that he wouldn’t have found on his own.  As the thought struck him, he turned, and saw the creature’s cloak of shadow form the shape of antlers poking out from a regal head and long neck.  

They made eye contact.

Will’s breath left him in a strangled huff.  

The creature-- the stag-- had a piercing gaze.  It saw through his skin, right to the core of him.  And it did not look away.

Will swallowed thickly.

Why was he running? 

Why did he run at all?

Will’s pulse steadied out.  The adrenaline faded.  The ground beneath him grew firm and stable.

Before he realized what was happening, the water lowered and fell away entirely, blackness retreating, and his feet touched dry land.  Somehow, the pocket of endless swamp had indeed ended.

But the creature-- the stag-- had followed.  It emerged with him, no longer hiding.  Its body was void; dark, twisting, shining, smooth.  Any faint remnants of light around it were sucked into its shadow and vanished.  

It was beautiful.

The stag lowered its head to him, almost nodding. Will took the hint.  He craned around, body twisting, to see just what was lurking behind him-- to see why he’d been led here.

Not ten feet away stood a man.  He was burly and tall, about Will’s age.  His hands were large and his knuckles were tattooed.  And that face-- Will knew that face.

Will wanted to put a knife in it.  The immediate urge was countered by his learned impulse to flee-- to avoid conflict, to pretend to be harmless, to lie.  He felt the swamp returning, the ground growing soft and thick again.  His hands twitched.  

He couldn’t recall the name; not now, not like this.  All he wanted was to hide somewhere else in a dark corner of his mind where no one could hurt him anymore.  Or, rather, where he wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The stag’s stare on his back burned behind him, and the ground shook.  Will’s bare feet began to sink into the earth.

Stand your ground, it seemed to say.  

But what ground?  

What ground did he have to stand on, when all he wanted was to surrender to these . . . urges?

It was wrong.  It had to be wrong.

Didn’t it?

Will opened his mouth but nothing came out.  His heart pounded in his chest, battering against his ribs.  His lungs grew tight.  Was that mist rising back up to his hips again?

In his head, a faint ringing.

Then, a voice.

Stand your ground.

You don’t have to hide anymore.

You don’t have to pretend.

The stag huffed once more, and then-- when had it gotten so close?-- nudged his shoulder.

The man looked down at Will and smirked.  One of his teeth was chipped.

You cannot change what you are.

You can only Become.

Will gnawed on his lip.  He looked at the ground, at the sky, at the man.

“Become what?” Will asked aloud.  “What will I Become if I let go?”

The only answer he received was a rush of icy calm which ran through him, sending a shiver down his spine and through his jaw.  He exhaled and a waft of smoke and shadow left his parted lips.

He shuddered.  

Another exhale, and his body purged more smoke, more lies.  They spilled from him as he tremored, body alight and electric.  He coughed, and the last bit of darkness slipped up the column of his throat and dispersed into the night air, leaving the taste of blood on his tongue.  Will licked his lips, flexed his hands.  

It was as if someone had wiped years of dirt out of his eyes, for how clear his vision became.  The world honed into focus.  Everything was sharper, a knife’s edge.  He balanced atop it all, no longer the victim.  

Perhaps he never had been.

The man, who’d been momentarily forgotten, was still smirking.  Will decided he was going to do something about it.  In fact, he was going to snuff out the light behind his eyes like a candle flame between his fingertips.  

Will looked back up at the stag.  He felt no anger, no rage.  No, it was a cool, steady pull.  Even Will’s bones knew what was about to happen.  

He was going to stop running from himself.

He took a step forward and noted that the scar on the man’s left cheek was familiar.  Will knew that face.  How did he know that face?

It didn’t matter.  Not now.  Not yet.

The stag nudged him one last time, and any last sliver of uncertainty melted away.  Will couldn’t quite put words to the feeling, but he knew that the stag understood.  That’s why it had brought him here.  He wasn’t transforming into something new.  He was simply sliding into his own skin.  He was Becoming himself.

With the ground steady once more and his blood singing, thrumming just beneath his skin, Will struck.

Chapter Text

Will’s day had started off suspiciously and terrifyingly fine.

He’d awoken from his vivid dream with an itch under his skin and a nervous energy he couldn’t quite shake.  The sun shone brightly through his curtains, casting a golden glow about his cluttered room.  Something about it grated on him.  He felt like a coiled spring, a rubber band pulled taut.  

But he dressed, fed the dogs, and shaved like normal, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.  

Breathe in . . . 

Breathe out.  

That damned sunlight was too bright, even this early in the day.  The sky was too blue.  Will wanted to claw his skin off.  His jaw twitched.

Focus on something else.

He poured water into his coffee machine, hand shaking ever so slightly, and pressed brew.

Normally, that old hunk of junk spat out a black froth that tasted vaguely of gasoline.  So when Will sipped at today’s output, he nearly spat it out in shock.  It was delicious.  Silky smooth.  And it actually tasted like coffee?

That should have been his first warning sign.  

The second came in the form of his commute.  The drive from Wolftrap to Baltimore was its own form of Hell-- riddled with yippy entitled brats in adult form that couldn’t drive to save their lives.  But today, no one cut him off.  No one honked fruitlessly at the wall of traffic.  No one threw cups of soda out their window to splatter onto his windshield.  

At this point, he should’ve known that another shoe had to drop eventually.  But he continued to the university anyway, a decision he would come to regret.

--------

Clad in flannel and glasses, only sweating mildly, Will pointed up at the slide he was displaying to the class.  It depicted a woman, very much deceased, sprawled clumsily across a tile floor.  She’d been buried alive in Kansas before her corpse was cleaned off and then staged as a tableau in a kitchen-- information he’d not yet imparted to his students. 

In order to test their instincts, he showed them pictures of the kitchen scene with no background knowledge.  They were focused today, gaze honed and intent.  Silence permeated the cavernous lecture hall until Will gestured broadly up to the woman.

“What do you see?”  He asked the class.

And here was the third warning sign: the lecture was actually going well.

The students engaged today, well-caffeinated and ready to fancy themselves as little detectives.  They responded to his question earnestly.  Hands shot into the air.

Will nodded to a girl in a long teal scarf.  

She beamed, calling out brightly: “Ligature marks on the wrists!” 

A gangly young man in a turtleneck next:

“Her left shoe is gone.”  

They went on like that, moving through the sea of faces eager to share their ideas, until a deep, confident, weathered voice called out from near the lecture hall door:

“What about the dirt under her fingernails?”

Everyone swiveled to look at the source.

There he stood, in all his obnoxious, dedicated glory: one Jack Crawford.

Goddammit.  

Will rubbed at his temples, removed his glasses, and then let out a sigh that could probably be heard from Pennsylvania.

The students looked at Jack, then back at Will, while the former man’s eyes burned holes in Will’s skull.  Could a look alone say, Why have you been avoiding my phone calls, Will?

Apparently.

Jack sauntered closer, then leaned against the wall.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he said.  

Will fought not to roll his eyes.

Breathe in . . .

Breathe out.

Whatever you do, do not punch Jack in the face.

Will fiddled with the glasses in right hand and ran his left through the damp curls that swept across his forehead.  The quiet in the lecture hall sounded like church bells in his ears, hush expanding into a reverberating shape inside the shadows of Will’s brain.  

He sighed again.  The students looked around the room at each other.  Will was losing them.

Maybe that was for the best.

The next twenty one minutes and thiry eight seconds were agony.  He rushed through the lecture, feeling Jack’s scrutiny and knowing-- just knowing -- that their impending conversation was going to give them both migraines.  

Eventually, Will caved and dismissed class early.  He moved to his desk, lowered himself gingerly into the ancient swivel chair, and then rested his head in his arms as the last of the students filed out of the room.  

“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” Jack said.

Will didn’t respond.  The room narrowed around him, walls closing in, and he staunchly refused to look up at Jack.  His heart was erratic, skipping beats, breath catching in his throat.  

Will didn’t want to think.  He didn’t want to have to go to crime scenes and pretend he saw tragedy, when really, all he saw was self-expression: paintings, blood as acrylic swept messily across canvases of human flesh.  

He didn’t want to be oggled at by beat cops and forensic techs who could never understand-- who could never see the design.  

He didn’t want to kill another Garret Jacob Hobbs.  He didn’t want to watch their life splatter out onto the walls and drain away and enjoy it.

He didn’t want to feel like a freak.

Jack assessed him, eyes shrewd.

“It’s the Ripper,” he continued.

Will looked up at him from under his hair, arms still folded and back hunched.

“I’m a professor, Jack,” he finally said.

Jack moved closer, pulling up a chair and sitting at the other side of Will’s desk.  He leaned forward, thick elbows scattering the masses of paper there.

“You respect my judgment, Will?” Jack said. 

“Usually.”

Jack huffed out a laugh.

“Good enough.  Because my judgment is telling me that we need you on this one. ”

“You mean you need my disorder?” 

Jack reached a heavy hand out and put it on Will’s shoulder.  It was a dead weight, intrusive-- Will flinched. 

“You’ve seen things no one else could.  Will, you have a gift. ”

“It certainly doesn’t feel like one.”

The hand still on his shoulder began to burn, seeping into him like a brand.  Would it mark him?  Will wouldn’t let it.  He leaned back, away from Jack, and stared out at the empty rows of seats.

Jack hummed quietly, picking him apart.  Will felt the beginnings of a headache blossom behind his eyes, petals of a dull ache unfurling.  

“How about Alana?  I know you trust her.”

Will furrowed his brow.

His fingers clenched, unclenched, flexed around nothing.

Do not punch Jack in the face.  

“What are you saying?”

“We’ll get you a therapist-- someone to accompany you at the crime scenes, help you work through any lingering . . . effects, of looking into these bastard’s heads.”

“I don’t think Alana would be particularly receptive to that arrangement.”

“Then I’ll get you someone else.”

Will laughed, humorless, running a hand down his face.  The lights in the lecture hall seemed to pulse brighter, drilling into him, and shaking fragments of his skull loose.  He needed to end this conversation before he gave Jack more information than he wanted to.  Jack was already seeing too much-- even though he wasn’t quite on base yet.

“Is this because of Hobbs?  I know how hard that was on you.”

Will shook his head, teeth grinding.

Jack really didn’t know when to shut up, did he?

“That girl is alive because of you, you know.”

“I killed her father in front of her.  I’m not sure how ‘alive’ she’ll ever be again, Jack.”  

“But she has a chance now.  That’s what we do-- we protect people so they can have a chance.  Don’t you want to protect people, Will?”

Will rocked back in his chair.  He took a breath, feeling the air in his chest, expanding, contracting.  Don’t think about Hobbs’ blood on your face.  Don’t think about how much better it would have felt to kill him with your hands.  

He steadied himself, then kept his tone as even as he could.

“I don’t work for you, Jack.”

The response was immediate and biting.

“What are you saying?”

Jack’s righteous fury was almost its own entity.  It began to simmer under the surface, bubbling up in the low rumble of his tone.  Usually, around this point in the conversation, Will would roll over, back down.  But his head fucking hurt now, the ache raging at full force, and his skin prickled like there were maggots crawling beneath it, aching to get out.  He couldn’t stop thinking about the blood.

“I’m saying I don’t want in on this one.”

“Why not?!”  Jack yelled.  

Will jerked back, unable to stop himself.  Jack noticed-- of course he did-- and lowered his voice, leaning forward.  

“Will,” he said.  “It’s the fucking Ripper.” 

And in that moment, Will knew Jack meant well, in his own desperate, controlling way.  But he wasn’t listening.  

People never listened.

Jack reached a hand out again, as if that would change anything.  Unimpressed, Will eyed it, and shifted in his chair.  Jack was still talking.  Why the hell was he still talking?  Couldn’t he see Will’s eyes were about to pop out of his skull and roll across the floor?  Couldn’t he see the sweat that had started pouring in full force down Will’s neck and into the collar of his shirt?  

“Help us catch this son of a bitch.”

Before he could stop his mouth from forming the words, Will heard himself saying:

“Last I checked, Jack, that was your job.  Not mine.”

And there it was: an intake of breath.  A clenched jaw.  A hand drawn back from where it had been outstretched like a misguided olive branch.  When Will risked a glance up, Jack’s face revealed nothing.  His body language, however, said enough.

Jack stared him down, as if that could rewind this conversation five minutes.  

Will avoided eye contact, grateful for the 35 years of practice doing just that.  

The sound of their breathing was too loud in the room.  It pulsed between them, grinding like a brick against a stone.

It was because of this quiet that Will could hear the distinct sound of high heels clacking on the tile floor just outside.  They approached, then, out of the corner of his eye, Will thought he saw a flash-- something bright in the doorway-- but then it was gone.  The footsteps retreated.

Jack didn’t seem to have noticed-- or if he did, he didn’t care.  

He rose to his feet, looming over the desk for dramatic effect, before knocking once on the desk.  His gaze was dull, disappointed.  

Was this how he usually tried to intimidate people?  

“I’ll give you some space,” he said, lip curled.  “And hope you come to your senses.”

Really?  The disappointed father routine, Jack?

Despite the side of him that fled at the first sign of conflict, Will found it in himself to be amused.  Palms clammy, he watched as Jack retreated, broad shoulders hunched forward under his coat, feet heavy on the floor.

He’s going to turn around and lecture me again in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . 

Jack turned.  Halfway to the door, calling back over his shoulder: 

“You know, we only have two more bodies until he disappears again.  And those deaths will be on you, Will.”

Another ten feet away, just at the doorway, and then:  

“Don’t do something you’ll live to regret.”

Will released a shaky exhalation.  He sat in silence, heart pounding, before he muttered to himself with a crooked, twitching smirk:

“I think that went quite well.”

--------

While Will didn’t necessarily consider himself a proponent of day drinking, he did keep a bottle of whiskey tucked under his desk for a reason.  He was four swigs in, eyes squinted shut against the Crawford-induced headache, when he felt a puff of breath on the back of his neck.  

The hair on his arms stood up and his heart skipped a beat.

He turned slowly, bottle gripped tight . . . 

Only to find that there was no one behind him.  

The room was empty, still, and the space behind his desk was just as hollow as his attempts at normalcy.

But that breath of air on his neck had felt so real.

Just like in the dream.  

Will closed his eyes again, the stag sauntering through the shadows in his mind’s eye.  Darkness bent around it, thick like oil, glistening in the gloom.  

The stag huffed.

Will’s pulse steadied.  Tendons in his fingers spasmed.  He set the bottle down on his thigh, head tilted back on the chair, neck limp.

Don’t hide, it had said.  

If only it were so easy.

---------

The next morning . . . 

Hannibal Lecter sat at his dining table alone.  He had prepped and plated a simple sausage and egg scramble with a side of fresh fruit, now half-eaten.  A steaming americano with an extra shot of espresso rested by his laptop, which was opened to Freddy Lounds’ latest article.

There was a brief, amusing coverage of the BAU’s progress (or lack thereof) on his latest victim.  Hannibal was unconcerned.  Crawford may be a formidable agent to most, but when it came to the Ripper, he’d just been fumbling around in the dark as of late.  

Hannibal sipped at the coffee.  It was divine.

He scrolled and scrolled, nearing the end of the article.  In the last section, he paused.

His brow furrowed.

There were two photographs-- the first, of Jack, entering a university building.  The second, of Jack leaning over a desk, behind which sat . . . 

The caption identified the dashing, ruffled mystery man as one William Graham.  

Hannibal felt his heart skip a beat.  

“William,” he rolled the name over his tongue.  

“Who,” he murmured, “are you?”

He intended to find out.

Chapter Text

Will dreamt of killing him.  

It was the man from before-- with the same smug smirk, the chipped tooth, the confident slant of his shoulders; there was something familiar about him, something tucked away in the recesses of Will’s psyche.  He’d have been bothered by it-- it would have nagged and nagged at him, a small child tugging at the bottom of his shirt-- if he was not otherwise occupied.  

Occupied by the killing.

He used his hands this time, the way he wanted to.  Over and over he punched down on the larger man, knees stabilized on either side of his waist, knuckles cracked and bleeding, his victim’s flesh distorted from the repetitive impact, and never had Will ever felt better-- more powerful, more in control, more honest -- than in this moment, as the twitching and screaming below him slowed, then stopped.  

“Will.”

Will saw nothing else around him, nothing else in the dark.  Just the body beneath him, lesser beast slain.  He’d won.  The face staring blankly back up at him from where it’d been pinned was caved in.  Fragments of bone shone through, peeking up coyly through ripped and bruised flesh.  It was all stained by blood, thick scarlet pooling below him, staining his jeans and spotting freckles across his nose.  

The corpse was limp, ragged, like a discarded toy left out in the rain.  The jaw was shattered completely, the nose mishappen beyond recognition . . . 

But those eyes.  Those eyes, milky and distant now, were not the way they were before.  They did not belong to this face.  

They did not belong here at all.

“See?”  

It was a low croon, that whisper in his ear.

“See?”

And yes-- they were Hobbs’ eyes, blinking up at him now from the broken body.  Amidst the lumps of flesh and bone shards, there he was.  A reminder.  Always.

“Will?  Anybody home?”

Will’s heartbeat kept steady, his pulse slow, chest rising and falling in an even rhythm as he rose surely to his feet.  

His gaze didn’t drift.  It was fastened to the body, the patchwork quilt of a face, fascinated, disgusted, thrilled, satisfied.  He simply observed, now.  That was all that was left here, was to observe.  Bullet holes began to riddle what was left of the chest cavity as if struck by an invisible shooter.  They erupted with geysers of blood, bubbling and flowing in impossible quantity, emptying gallons, gallons of dark red, pouring out onto the floor in an ocean that quickly rose up to Will’s ankles, lapped at his knees--

“Will!”  A female voice pierced the air.  “Talk to me.” 

There was blood on his hands. . . 

And a puff of breath on the back of his neck.

Will blinked.  

The face was different now, standing before him, not beaten or bloody.  A sharp autumn breeze whipped at him, and Will rubbed his hands over his eyes.  When he looked again, he saw her clearly: one Beverly Katz, clad in skinny jeans and a look of genuine amiable concern.

“Hey,” Bev grinned.  “There you are.”

They made eye contact briefly and he flinched, gaze averting.  But she saw that he saw her, and moved closer, leaning casually against the wall beside him.  About two feet of space stretched between them.  It was surely intentional.  Bev knew him well enough not to get too close.   

They stood there together in silence for a moment, simply staring out into the parking lot behind the university building.  The cool stone pressed against his back, grounding him.  Leaves in brown and amber and scarlet scattered the ground, many getting caught up in the wind, carried onto cars or through the air.  

Like most people, he loved this time of year.  Everything was crisp, clear-- and lord knew he needed clarity.  Will huffed a silent laugh to himself.  That was what he’d come out here for, really-- some clarity, or just fresh air, while he was on a break between classes.  It’d been a week since he’d effectively told Jack to fuck off, and there’d been no communication between them in the interim.  Apparently, Jack had meant it when he’d said he’d give Will time to think.

And think, he did.  Cerebral by nature, he’d been even more in his own head than usual-- drifting off, dreaming, losing himself to the turmoil inside that’d been itching to manifest itself in the physical.  

As if she could hear his thoughts (but thank god she couldn’t), Bev turned to him.  

“I hear you and Jack kind of got into it the other day.”   

Was that a twinkle of glee in her eyes?  

Will flashed a crooked smile.  He laughed, just a little, but it was a broken sound, reverberating in the hollowness of his chest-- a lie, just like everything else.  Were the cracks in his facade as obvious to her as they were to him?

“We may have had a difference of opinion,”  He said matter of factly.

Bev smiled right back at him.  

She wouldn’t scold him for it.  She wouldn’t tell him to do the right thing .  Will found comfort in her amusement, her slight air of mischief.  Some of the tension in his shoulders slipped away.

But now that he was looking at her, he could see something beneath her polished appearance.  Under the stylish faux leather jacket and eyeliner, under the smile and the loose posture, lurked something that looked a lot like exhaustion.  

Like she needed help.

So that’s why she’s here.

Somehow, it didn’t irritate him as much as Jack’s visit had.  But then, she hadn’t burst into his lecture, caught him off guard, and invaded his space.  That does make a difference , he thought with an internal roll of the eyes.

Far more than anyone else, Bev had always been more willing to meet him halfway.  True, she could never begin to understand him-- but damn it, she tried.  She approached him like a spooked animal at times, more cautious than he wanted, but how could he tell her that?  What they had was fine.  They cooperated.  They talked.  They sometimes drank coffee in the same room.  Hell, she’d even watched his dogs once while he’d been out of town.  

So yeah.  Bev could ask him for help.  He’d probably say no, but he’d at least hear her out.  

He owed her that much.

Will leaned his head back, looking up to the sky, just for a moment.  His nose was beginning to run just slightly from the chill.  It felt good.  He felt awake.  He turned back to Bev, eyeing her knowingly.

Bev sighed.

“I think you know why I’m here,” she finally said.  Her voice was strong but weary.

“Yeah,” he replied.  “I do.”

She nodded, a strand of dark hair falling in front of her face.  

“I won’t ask you to consult.”  She paused, considering her words, arms folded across her chest against the chill.  “We can come to a . . . different arrangement.  Something more short-term.”

“Meaning?”

“I could bring you pictures if you don’t want to go to the crime scenes.  I don’t even have to tell Jack, if you really don’t want him to know.  You don’t have to stay on for the whole case, either-- just look at the bodies, and tell me what you see.  I can handle the rest alone if you can help to point me in the right direction.”

Her words lilted with hope at the end.  

She could handle the Ripper alone if pointed in the right direction?  She was one hell of an agent-- Will had seen that first hand-- but to think that this guy was like anything she’d ever seen before was beyond clueless.  That wasn’t entirely her fault, though-- how could she know?  How could she see?  She wasn’t like Will, or the Ripper, or even any of the other killers they’d crossed paths with.

And when did he start thinking of himself in the same category as the people he’d caught?

“Please, Will.”

He clenched his jaw, considering.  Obviously, he had no problem with the crime scenes themselves.  It was the company included.  Analyzing a killer while fantasizing himself in their place was one thing, but to do it in front of a team of law enforcement?  That could spell trouble for him quickly, especially while he was grappling with his current . . . situation .  

But to cut ties from the BAU all together would look suspicious, wouldn’t it?  Jack certainly wouldn’t just let him go without an ordeal, and, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t want to let Beverly down.

The path forward would have to be walked delicately.

He ran a hand down his face, feeling the scruff at his jaw and wincing, knowing he looked a wreck.  Though he already knew the answer, he had one last question for her.

“Did Jack put you up to this?”

Her response was immediate: “No.”

Will nodded.  He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing, and braced himself for the mess he was about to dive headfirst into.  

“Then I’ll think about it.”

They both knew what this meant.  Beverly beamed brightly, teeth exposed, some of the darkness beneath her eyes lightening.  She clapped him on the shoulder.  

“Thanks, Will.  Really.”

She turned on her heel and jogged off into the parking lot.  Over her shoulder, she called back: “I’ll get you those photos tonight!”

And while Will’s hands twitched at the thought of getting close to the Ripper, of seeing through his eyes, the smile that pulled at his mouth was real.  

---------

Meanwhile . . . 

Call him old-fashioned, but the internet wasn’t Hannibal’s favorite tool.  He preferred the time of phone books, stolen business cards, and carefully asked questions.  But perhaps the excitement of a new opponent had him feeling a little impatient.  Who could blame him?  He wanted to know everything there was to know about the enchanting, ragged little man in the photograph.

After an hour with his laptop and some espresso, Hannibal had discovered frustratingly little.  

The first thing he noted was that Freddy Lounds seemed to approve of neither this Will’s professional accomplishments nor his general existence.  This didn’t tell Hannibal a whole lot, given that Freddy Lounds usually only approved of bribery, manipulation, cheetah patterns, and rule-breaking.

The second discovery was that William was a professor at the FBI Academy.  He’d been teaching there for a good while now, and his classes on criminal psychology filled up every semester.  

Third was that he’d been a police officer in Louisana many years ago, although Hannibal was not sure why he’d left.  He’d been born in the South and raised there, departing about a decade ago, now.  These days, he resided in Wolf Trap.

And, lastly, and most frustratingly, was that he apparently kept to himself.  He led a quiet, private, offline life.  There was nothing on the internet about a husband or wife, children, Instagram photos of his breakfast, or a kayaking blog.  Hannibal had no idea what Will Graham did outside his teaching, how he specifically helped Agent Crawford, or why he had that feral, haunted look in his eyes in the photo.

In many ways, he was a ghost.

“Mr. Graham,” Hannibal whispered to himself, tapping his fingers on the laptop.  “What are you hiding?”

--------

Hannibal knew that Jack had been at the FBI Academy that day to ask Will to consult.  Whether or not Will had accepted remained unclear.  Behind Will trailed a decently long line of previously consulted cases, and not one remained unsolved.  It seemed that, whatever he did, he did well.

But just how good was he?

Hannibal had to know.  Not because of the warm, bubbly feeling in his chest, certainly.  But because if this Will was going to be poking around his crime scenes, it was imperative that Hannibal had as much information as possible to weaponize.  After all: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”

Hannibal did not succumb to anything.  And he certainly didn’t suffer defeats.

He’d get a handle on this situation, and quickly, which was why he rang up an acquaintance.  Alana Bloom picked up on the first ring and, of course, graciously accepted his invitation to dinner.  They set the time for seven sharp that very evening.

Alana arrived, punctual as ever, holding a bottle of wine in her right hand.  Her sleek navy blue dress washed her out slightly-- or perhaps it was just the unforgiving Baltimore streetlights.  The deep brown of her hair framed her face, which looked just a little tired after a day’s work.   She smiled up at him.

Hannibal held one hand on the door and stepped to the side, waving her in his foyer.

“Please,” he said.  “Do come in.”

They made their way to the kitchen, her sensible low-heeled shoes clicking lightly against the floor.

Everything was spotless, of course.  The counters shone in the overhead lighting, not a speck of dust in sight.  He’d set out bowls and cutting boards for the dinner prep already.  Alana hummed in appreciation, chuckling softly.

“I guess you’ve started preparing without me.”

Hannibal took the bottle of wine from her, careful not to touch her hand.

“It’s only polite for a host to be ready for his guest.”

“Who said you had to be polite with me?  We’re old friends, not strangers.”

Do you really believe that to be true?   He supposed she did-- most everything Alana did and said was undyingly earnest.  Hannibal wondered if this Will fellow felt surrounded by strangers who fancied themselves friends as well.  His lips twitched at the thought.

Alana was saying something else now, something about the weather.  Hannibal, of course, didn’t care.  He responded like he did, though-- like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.  

They kept up some light small talk as they began to prepare dinner together, exchanging pleasantries and general life updates that would smooth the impending conversation Hannibal’s way, like butter on a hot pan.  

While pouring her a generous glass of wine, he commented, “I read your latest publication, fascinating take on the influence of spravato treatment,” and then, later, pouring her another:

“The traffic on 66 has been even more atrocious than usual,” and finally, finally:

“Did you hear about the latest Ripper killing?  Dreadful stuff.”

At that, Alana’s energy shifted.  No one else would notice-- she was better at masking her feelings than she was ever given credit for.  But the slight waver of her hand as she chopped onions betrayed her involvement.

Just as I thought.

Yes,” she said.  Her eyes were just a little distant, but she provided a lipstick-smeared frown plastered to her face in a way that was very near convincing.  He felt a twinge of respect for her.  Of course she was not as skilled in the art of manipulation as him (and why would she be?  She had no need), but she maintained her autonomy and divulged information with caution.  

No, Alana was, in many ways, a colleague-- certainly not a pig, unlike the individual they’d be dining on tonight.

“What do you make of it all?”  He prompted, keeping his tone intentionally light, airy, unconcerned.  Don’t let her feel you prodding.  It came like breathing to him, this conversational dance.

Alana flashed him a look, her dark blue eyes thoughtful.  She set down the knife, finished with her task, and moved the onions into the sizzling pan.  Their aroma mixed with the herbs and garlic, lilting in the air.

“I think that Jack is in over his head with this one,” she said.  

He most certainly is.

Hannibal nodded.  “Perhaps dear Jack needs a helping hand.”

“I think Jack agrees with you on that,” she laughed.  “I mean, this killer-- his motive is indiscernible.  There are no patterns in the victims he’s choosing.  How could Jack possibly figure out how to stop him?”

There it is!  

Alana had unknowingly revealed more than she’d intended.  But this wasn’t her fault-- she was just talking with an old friend, a mentor.  They were partners of psychology, eternal students, meeting for dinner.  Of course she wanted to talk.  Of course she trusted his opinion.  

The two glasses of wine probably helped, too.

Hannibal figured it was safe to poke a little more.  She certainly wouldn’t give him direct details on Mr. Graham, but he may be able to pry some more hints from her before the night was over.

Hannibal emptied the last of the bottle into her glass.

“So he’s in need of a consultant, then?  Perhaps to help him find a different point of view.”

Alana flashed him a look and for a moment Hannibal wondered if he’d pushed too far (and what would happen then?  Would he have to lure her in all over again?  Seduce her?  Change the topic?  Would she get nervous of his line of questioning?  He truly hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her this evening.  That would be a headache).  

But then she sighed, sipped at the wine, and her shoulders slumped.  He was in the clear.

“You read Freddy’s article, huh?”

Hannibal’s lips pursed in a bashful smile.  “You’ve caught me.”

“I wish she’d leave Will out of this.  He’s been through enough already.”

“You know him?”

“As much as anyone can know him, and I’m not sure that’s that much at all.”

Hiding something, indeed.  What’s your secret, dear Will?   

Alana paused, took a breath.  “Jack actually asked me to help.”

Hannibal almost dropped the spatula.  

“He thinks that if I come on the case as a-- not exactly a therapist-- but as a familiar face for Will, or a touchstone, he’ll agree to consult again.”

She eyed her glass, still half-full, a flush rising to her cheeks from the alcohol.  

Then she continued, almost under her breath, “I think the whole thing is horribly condescending.  Part of me hopes Will just quits altogether.”

But he won’t, will he?

Hannibal had gotten what he needed-- it was time to ease her back down again.  There was no need to get her worked up.  People remembered emotional conversations, and this was not a dinner he wanted to stick out in her mind in the weeks to come.

“You’re a good friend, Alana,” Hannibal said gently.  

She granted him a small smile, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I could say the same thing about you, mister.”

He tried very hard not to laugh.  Instead, keeping his expression placidly sympathetic, Hannibal opted to pull the meat from the oven.  As he was setting it on the counter, an idea struck him.

“Do you think that your friend Will could use help?”

She nodded.  

“But you’re too close to him-- aren’t you?”

“It wouldn’t be professional.”

“Then perhaps,” Hannibal said with a sly grin, “he needs someone to accompany him who isn’t involved in his personal life.”

Alana hummed in agreement.  She downed the last of her wine, mulling the statement over.  Hannibal eyed her while appearing focused on plating up their meal.  Her gaze was far away, thoughtful.  

Well, the seed had been planted-- not too obviously, he hoped.  All that was left now was to wait for Alana to water it and think it was of her own volition.

He steered the conversation back to shallower waters and Alana to the dining room.  By the time they were seated and comfortable, across from each other at the dimly lit table, hearty meal before them, his idea had expanded into the beginnings of a plan.  The first steps were clear.  He knew exactly how he needed to proceed.

With a devilish smirk on his face and an indescribable look in his shark’s eyes, he lifted his fork.

Chapter Text

Three days later. . . 

The October chill was damp and gray.  It cast a silver glow across the sky, washed out and rolling with low stratus clouds that blanketed the world below in a thin gloom.  Wet, rotting leaves clung to the pavement, clustering in puddles and sticking to the bottoms of shoes.  The pavement was black and glossy like oil.  The electric yellow of the police tape stood out starkly against it all.  Jack stared at the scene, the collar of his coat turned up against the faint breeze; a knot of dread sat heavy in his stomach.  

He’d known.  Before he’d even gotten the call, he’d known.

The Ripper had struck again.

The body was left where it’d been found, discarded, almost carelessly but with supreme confidence, like a gauntlet thrown down in the empty gray parking lot.  

Cops and techs and agents alike swarmed around the crime scene, which had been kept as pristine as possible for the BAU.  They flashed pictures and whispered-- low, hushed-- amongst themselves.  The air in the lot was dense.  Jack inhaled deeply, chest tight.  He loosened his tie.  Let’s do this, he said to himself.  

Steeling himself, he walked right up to the corpse, standing over it, looming for a moment, before squatting down to inspect details.  Of course, it would all be documented carefully in pictures and reports, but Jack had to see it for himself.  He had to know, to put together the pieces however he could.  

The first thing that he noticed-- and frankly it was hard to fucking miss-- was that the head had been . . . relocated.  The cut across the neck where the victim had been beheaded was clean, professional.  The blade had been sharp, the hand holding it strong and sure.  Jack was not often moved by death anymore, but his mouth still twisted into a sickened frown.  His brow furrowed.  

There was another clean cut across the abdomen, the victim’s shirt cut away presumably for the Ripper to see what he was working with.  The guts and organs were missing, cleaned out to make room for the head, which was tucked, face up, into the massive cavity in the stomach.  The corpse’s hands were placed on either side of the cheeks.  The eyes stared blankly, forever horrified, up at Jack. 

What the fuck.  

Who does shit like this?

Jack quickly donned a pair of gloves and reached forward carefully.  He pried one of the hands off the cheek, movements slow and gentle.  The fingers were already stiffened with rigor mortis.  He held them up as he peeked beneath, glancing at the sides of the face they had covered.  What he saw made him blink in confusion.  

Chunks of flesh were missing.  

The cheeks were concave now, hollowed out by a blade.  It looked as if the Ripper had lopped off the sides of the face, hiding the damage with the body’s hands.  But where were the cheeks?  And, for that matter, the internal organs that had been removed?  Was the Ripper really taking all of these as trophies?  Was he discarding them?  Preserving them?  What was Jack supposed to make of this? 

And where the actual hell was Will Graham when you needed him?  

Jack sighed and rose to his feet.  He pulled off the gloves, then glanced at his watch: 11:36 AM.  He’d called Will over an hour ago, and again half an hour after that.  Jack checked his phone, clenching his jaw just slightly when he saw that neither call-- or voicemail-- had been returned.  

“Hey, Jack.”

He turned, tucking his phone away, and watched Katz saunter over.  Like everyone else at the scene, she looked washed out and tired.  The collar of her jacket was turned up, and her hair was tousled from the wind.  She moved to stand beside him, the two lingering over the corpse as if it would wake up at any moment and point them in the right direction.  

Jack closed his eyes, blocking it all out, just for a moment.

“No sign of Will?”  He finally asked.

Bev looked away, lips pursing, hands behind her back.  He sighed heavily for what felt like the fortieth time that morning.

“Lay it on me,” he said. 

“Will and I have come to an arrangement.”

For fuck’s sake.  An arrangement?  Jack ran a hand down his face.  

“He’s not coming, is he?”

Beverly shifted on her feet.  She bit her lip, and seemed to chew on the words on her tongue.  Jack stared at her, unyielding.  Beverly didn’t cave, though-- she wouldn’t.  She’d tell him on her own terms, and, though he may not say it out loud, he did trust that she did whatever she thought was best.  Jack just didn’t want to deal with the results of that, though, and he certainly hated being left out of the loop.  Graham needed to be here, now, to help him make sense of this madness.  Jack opened his mouth to prompt her again, to push, just a little bit (because maybe he was irritated, and maybe his fuse was a little short today, but who could blame him given the circumstances?).  But before he could say anything at all, there was movement in the corner of his eye. 

Jack glanced over as a car he didn’t recognize pulled up and parked by the crime scene.  A tall man in a brown suit jacket and cream sweatervest stepped out.  His hair was gelled back, tucked behind the ears, save for a few pieces that had rebelled.  Jack turned away from Bev and observed as the man--- who was most definitely not one of his employees-- scanned the area.  Bev turned, too, mirroring him, and followed Jack’s gaze, perfectly happy to be out of his scrutiny for the time being.  

The man noticed them and moved closer, trotting over and carefully avoiding the puddles.  The closer he got, the more out of place he looked at the scene of the crime-- too clean and soft for it all.  When he reached them, he nodded to Beverly and extended a hand to Jack.

“You must be Agent Crawford,” the man said. 

“Ah!”  Oh shit.  “And you must be Doctor Lecter,” Jack flashed a smile, shaking his hand.  

The man smiled back.  “Pleased to meet you in person.”

Bev looked between them awkwardly, brow raised.

Lecter released Jack’s grip and stepped back, scanning the crowd.  

“Looking for someone?”  Beverly asked, voice kept light.  Jack didn’t register the probing undercurrent in her tone, mind too occupied by the shitstorm that was his current predicament.  He did register, however, the way Lecter cocked his head and turned to her, pausing before giving his response.

“Yes, actually.”

Jack shifted beside her.  Dammit, Will.  He clapped a hand on Lecter’s shoulder, beginning to guide him away from the body.

“About that . . .” Jack began.

Before they had turned completely, an indiscernible shadow passed across Lecter’s eyes.  Beverly caught it, and she heard Jack say:

“I’m sorry, but it seems Mr. Graham won’t be coming today.”

As Jack dealt with that particular matter, Beverly jogged to the outskirts of the scene, brushing past techs and ducking under police tape.  She whipped out her phone, shaking her head, and pulled up her latest conversation with Will.  Her fingers moved fast over the buttons, typing out:

You’re not gonna believe this . . . 

----------

To say Hannibal was irate would be an understatement.  His jaw twitched and a warm, bubbling anger simmered behind his eyes, but he maintained his composer and air of vague, professional concern with the mastery of someone who’d been practicing for decades-- which, of course, he had.  

But even so, that Agent Katz had watched him, eyes skeptical and inquisitive.  He wondered, distantly, if he should be keeping an eye on her as well.  He would manage either way-- after all, what was one more pawn on the chessboard?  In the meantime, though, it was imperative that he figure out how to draw out Mr. Graham.  

Why hadn’t he come to the scene?  How could he have resisted?  Hannibal created it just for him.  No , he chided himself-- he had created it to get Will to come so Hannibal could see what he was capable of.  

Yet here Hannibal was, standing there in the damp autumnal chill, alone with Agent Crawford.

All of this trouble to get Alana to put in a word for him so Jack would reach out and appoint him as Will’s ‘touchstone’, and then the raggedy little fellow hadn’t even shown up!

Something would have to be done about that.

-------

Approximately 16 miles away and 14 hours earlier. . . 

True to her word, Bev had gotten him the pictures.  They were hand-delivered to his door in a manila folder by the agent herself.  She’d also come bearing gifts, much to his amusement-- some coffee, dark roasted, the way he liked-- and a little note that read: You’re the actual best, dude.   

After she’d departed, (off to check out a new karaoke bar in Baltimore, apparently), Will got to work.  He pinned the note to his corkboard, next to a photo of his dogs, then opened up the bag of coffee and set to brewing himself a cup.  While his shoddy machine worked its magic, he leaned against the kitchen counter, folder in hand.  His fingers danced along the edge of it for a moment before dipping inside, pulling out the first photo.  

It was an overhead shot of the body, taken at approximately 2 PM, judging by the lighting.  The corpse was laid out in a grassy meadow, long hair spread in a blonde halo.  She wore a sundress, stained scarlet-brown with dried blood.  The skin of her face had been removed entirely, and her neck bore sharp ligature marks where she’d been strangled with something sharp-- piano wire, perhaps?

Will cocked his head to the side, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  

I rid you of your mask . . . made your true face obvious for the world to see--

The coffee maker beeped at him, interrupting his thought.  Will blinked, tossed down the picture, and poured himself a cup.  Mug in hand, he snatched the folder back up and moved to the living room, where he settled onto the couch.  Buster hopped up with him, settled against his side while the others drifted into the room to settle in their preferred places on the carpet, dog beds, and armchair.  Will smiled at them, enjoying that moment, just for a second, before taking a swig of his coffee and diving back into the Ripper’s work.

He spread the photos across his coffee table like a deck of cards.  There were shots of individual parts of the body, of surrounding details in the crime scene, of the whole corpse where it’d been displayed, and photos of it on the autopsy table.  He studied them, gaze coming back time and again to the face, the lifeless gaze, the exposed, raw, red muscle and too-white teeth.  Juxtaposed against the leisurely pose and pristine condition of the hair, a picture began to form in Will’s mind.

You were never what you pretended to be.  You hid behind your beauty, an angelic grace masking something rotten beneath.  

Will saw himself sneak up behind her and wrap his hands around her throat.  He didn’t want to kill her-- not yet.  He subdued her, leaving her gasping, overpowering her with ease as he whipped out a scalpel.  She screamed, yelled at him, but her throat was hoarse and her voice was weak.  He brushed the hair from her face and began to carve, peeling away what she used to hide behind while she victimized others.  He would take her mask from her, take her power, and that power would become his.  This was his design.

When he was done, she was a twitching, howling mess.  There was still a little fight left in her, but not enough-- never enough.  Bored of the endeavor, he wrapped the wire around her neck and squeezed the life out of her, efficient and terribly unconcerned.  You can die now.  I am done with you.

Will leaned back into the couch, mug forgotten.  The feeling running through his veins was cool, electric, tantalizing.  His living room disappeared from him as he was bombarded by a kaleidoscope of images, difficult to discern.  There was a strong hand that was not his own, clutching a pen, veins prominent and striking.  A series of drawings, of papers scattered, flying.  A dark-painted fireplace roaring with flame, casting a haunting glow.  The scalpel, clean and sparkling.  An oven.  A timer, ticking.  The scalpel, bloody, dripping.  A clock.  A pair of antlers, growing, twisting gnarled and inky.  A stag.

The Ripper appeared to him as a jigsaw puzzle, coming to him piece by piece, image not yet complete.  There was something he was missing.

Will closed his eyes, trying to see, to clear his head, to put it all together.  The pictures were strewn about the table and his lap.  The coffee had long since grown cold, and his fingers twitched with remnants of the Ripper’s energy, precise and ruthless.  

Show me, he thought.  Show me.

He laid there, heart rate slowing, until his body eased into a deep sleep. 

He was back in the swamp clearing in the dead of night, mangroves and reeds forming a dense perimeter.  This time, however, there was moonlight-- bright and viscous, dripping down on him like honey.  It illuminated the space in front of him, where the man from before stood once more.  Burly and tall, he appeared about Will’s age, though perhaps worse for wear.  His hands bore tacky tattoos and his face bore that nails-on-a-chalkboard smirk.  It was so familiar, haunting, nagging at his brain.  How did Will know him?  

His hands twitched, but not just with his own strength.  Fragments of the Ripper flowed through him, like part of his essence had been transfused into Will’s own being.  And with that came an old, icy rage-- but this was entirely Will’s own.  It settled into the pit of his stomach, and he clenched his teeth.

“I know you,” he whispered.  

Then, louder, “I know you.”

The man looked at him,  arched an eyebrow, as if to say, “No shit,” and gave him a dull, bored once-over.  Well, he wouldn’t be bored for long.

Will took a step forward and a ball of thick twine appeared in his hands, rustic and sturdy.  He unraveled about three feet of it, wound the end around his hand, and pulled it taut.  The man watched, chin up, cocky and smug.  Will’s lips curled up in a snarl.  

He thought of the Ripper’s hands, sure and deadly.  The Ripper would not be concerned with the morality of what he was doing.  Why should Will be?

He rushed forward, bounding across the clearing.  Will ducked behind him, smaller but faster, so much faster, and wrapped the twine around the man’s neck.  

For possibly the first time in his adult life, Will awoke peacefully.  His body tingled faintly, as if sensing the arrival of a long-awaited storm.  There was a name on the tip of his tongue and a face in his mind’s eye.  Sunlight streamed in through the windows, weak, thin beams of gold watered down by heavy clouds just outside.  Will looked out the window for a moment, still reclined on the couch, and watched the wind shake the trees.  He checked his watch; it was just a few minutes before noon.  

Something wet nudged his hand then and Will glanced down quickly.  Buster was still tucked against him, tail wagging, ears flopping.  Will laughed, a bright, free sound that he’d forgotten how to make, and scratched behind Buster’s ears.  The other dogs rose to attention, heads perking up as they saw their person roll off the couch and rise to his feet. 

“I guess you all want breakfast, huh?”

Zoe barked in excitement and ran to her bowl.  The others followed, trailing close behind.  Will remained where he stood, stretching slightly, then rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The room was a mess, cold coffee on the table and pictures strewn about, but he’d deal with that later.  Will ran a hand through his hair and then began to walk after his pack, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He felt like a new man.  He felt like himself.

After the dogs had been fed and let out into the yard to play, Will stacked all the pictures carefully back into the folder.  He tidied up the room, folding blankets and wiping away dust, then showered, and re-heated the coffee from last night.  Sipping at it at his dingy dining room table, dressed in a clean flannel and jeans, Will finally pulled out his phone to check his messages.  

Three voicemails from Jack, and a text from Beverly.    

The first voicemail was simply: “There’s a new one, Will.”

The second: “Answer your phone.  I’m at the crime scene now.  Where the hell are you?”

The third: “Beverly told me you’re not coming.  Guess I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I couldn’t figure that out myself.  I’d really like you to have my back on this one, Will.  And I’m trying to have yours.  Call me back when you can.”

Jack’s tone was surprisingly civil in the third voicemail, and it assuaged Will’s concerns.  He figured Jack could wait.  He’d told Bev she could spill the details to Jack-- Will didn’t really have anything against the man, other than his occasional bursts of anger and propensity for patting Will on the shoulder without his consent.

Taking another long draw from the mug, he opened Beverly’s text.  

You’re not going to believe this, Will.  Jack brought a shrink to the crime scene.  He looks like the kind of guy who collects luxury tableware for fun.  The name’s Lecter, if you want to look him up.  I’ll get you the pictures tonight.

And then, sent a minute later: Pictures of the crime scene, not Lecter.  Lol.

Will huffed a laugh, staring at the messages for a moment before responding.

Jack is going to be Jack.  I guess I have two people to avoid now, don’t I?  

He paused, then added.  Glanced at the first set of photos last night.  Check for additional bruising around the neck, beneath the ligature marks.  I think the Ripper used his hands to choke her first.

With that done, he tucked the phone away.

As he went about his day, a face lingered in his mind.  He brushed his dogs, and saw a smug smirk.  He checked email, and saw broad shoulders.  He left Jack a voicemail apologizing and telling him he’d write up a report about his thoughts on the Ripper before the end of the week, and saw tattooed knuckles, a chipped tooth, and cruel eyes.

The name was on the tip of his tongue.  It nagged at him all day, waves of the dream coming back to him, lapping at the shores of his mind.  

Beverly dropped off the set of photos from the Ripper’s latest victim around dinner time.  She scratched his dogs’ ears and rubbed their bellies, then handed him the newest folder.  Eternally grateful for her perceptiveness, he waved a farewell when she clearly noticed he wasn’t in a chatty mood and simply bid him goodnight.  After she drove off, he set the new folder on his counter and allowed himself to really think.  

And think he did.  

Will thought about the dream.  He thought about the swamp and the stag.  He thought about the man.  He thought about being guided in the right direction.  

He thought about murder.  

It hit him: he knew that face-- he’d seen it before, back in Louisana, growing up.  He knew that face, that name.  Tim.  Timothy White.  

Memories flooded back, then, shattering the dam in his brain and drowning him.  

Tim following him around the school, freshman year, making fun of his too-big shirt and his sneakers that were splitting at the seams.  Tim picking him up like he weighed nothing and shoving him into a locker.  Tim tripping him down the stairs, Will hiding his broken arm from his father until he finally accepted it wouldn’t heal on its own.  Tim stealing his notebooks and scattering the pages across the school.  Tim cornering him, taunting him, shoving him until Will hit back with a snarky retort and left with a shattered nose and rearing black beast inside him.

It had been so long.  But even then, the feeling had been there.

Will’s hand curled into a fist.

In many ways, Tim was the one who got away.

What , he wondered, is Timothy doing now?

With the power of the internet and a background in policework, finding Tim wasn’t difficult at all. 

He had married one Maria Lopez, a school teacher, four years ago.  It had been six since he’d left Louisiana.  In that time, Tim bounced from construction company to construction company, never holding a job for longer than a year.   He posted unsavory political rants on various social media platforms along with pictures of beer-laden fishing trips, and seemed to lead a largely predictable, unremarkable life.

But there was more to the story.  

Will dug a little deeper, knowing in his bones there was something more here, and-- yes .  There it was. 

A criminal record.  

The various speeding tickets and night spent cooling off in a cell after a particularly rowdy barfight were of no interest to Will.  The charge that made him pause, however, was the one that had been dropped by the very person who’d filed it.

His fingers flexed against the keyboard.  Part of him knew where this was going, knew what he would find-- but the thought still made his blood run cold.  No matter his own homicidal tendencies, there were certain types of monsters he had a particular disgust for.  He considered shutting his laptop and walking away.  He considered telling Jack.  He considered calling Beverly.  But what would they say?  

They would tell him to stop.  And some part of Will knew he couldn’t.  He’d been holding himself back his entire life, and what did he have to show for it?  One friend who, despite her best efforts, could never quite understand him, and a sort-of-boss who thought he was fragile china, only to be brought out for the meanest of dinner parties.  

No, Will would see this through.  Even if it was only once.  

It won’t just be once, a voice in his mind whispered.

Will took a long, slow breath and opened the hidden file.  It confirmed what he’d already guessed: domestic assault, six months ago.  Attached were pictures of bruises, notes taken down about the incident, and reports from neighbors.  His stomach churned.  He was not supposed to be seeing this-- the cops who’d overseen the case had buried it, tossed it away once Maria had been forced to back down.  It had never even gone to court, and it never would.  

Tim hadn’t paid for what he’d done.  He’d been allowed to go about his life, still breathing, still spreading pain everywhere he went.  

Will leaned back in his chair, face stony.  That woman did not deserve this.  No one deserved this. 

Timothy White would never stop.  

Not unless Will stopped him.

----

Tim’s latest apartment was in Martinsville, Virginia, a small town not too far from Wolftrap. 

Oh, look, Will thought as the address flashed across his screen.   We’re practically neighbors.   Had anyone else been in the room as Will discovered this, they’d have seen the predatory glint flash across his eyes like the warning of lightning before a torrential downpour.

He closed his laptop and rose to his full height.  It was time to pay Mr. White a visit.

Chapter Text

Night had already fallen by the time that Will packed up everything he’d need for this particular trip.  He tossed the duffle bag of supplies into the trunk of his car, turned the keys in the ignition, and ventured out, away from known territory, and towards the broad horizon of something new.

The ride from Wolftrap to Martinsville went smoothly.  Only a few cars passed him by, headlights shrinking away into the dead of night as quickly as they appeared.  He drove at precisely the speed limit, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh, and spent the entirety of the ride in an anticipatory silence.  There was a gentle, low, simmering buzz in his head and veins.  Will allowed the energy to flow through him, relaxing into it.  

By the time he passed through Roanoke, he had entered an almost meditative state.  The world blurred around him in shadow, his eyes only on the strip of road in front of him.  Minutes melted, turned into hours.  Around half past three in the morning, he blinked, and Tim’s apartment complex rose up before him.

He parked his car at the end of the lot, beneath a shattered street lamp.  A twist of the keys shut off the engine, and he peered out the window at the building.  The siding was molded and the paint had long since chipped.  There were two layers of apartments, with a single, narrow outdoor staircase leading up to the catwalk that ran along the string of upper doors.  It was all illuminated by a bit of starlight, cast yellow by the clouds, and a single, flickering faux lantern by the stairs that had collected a swarm of moths. 

Even without his time as a cop to inform him, it was blatantly obvious that there wouldn’t be any security cameras around a place like this.  Still, he would be careful.  You never knew what surprises life may throw your way, especially when conspiring to commit murder.

He closed the car door quietly, slinking out into the night.  On light feet he crept up the stairs, hand ghosting over the railing.  Tim’s apartment, 2C, would be on the second floor.  It didn’t take long to find the right door, and he paused outside it, breath slow and even, as he leaned against the door to listen.  It was silent inside.  

It hit him then, that this was his last chance to back down, to back out.  But he dismissed the thought.  There was no way he was going home until he’d seen this through.  It had to be done.  

Content with his decision, knowing Jack would have an aneurysm if he saw what his little pet project was doing now, Will pulled his lock pick from the pocket of his cargo pants.  The lock was crappy and likely older than him.  It took seconds to click open, just a twist of the wrist and a jab of thin metal.  

The door swung open into a dark, dingy hall.  Will licked his lips and stepped inside.

The smell hit him first.  It was sour, rancid, thick.  There were empty beer cans crushed against the floor.  Dirty socks lined the hall into the kitchen.  Unopened mail was abandoned on the small stretch of counter.  Will glanced around in the dark, analyzing his surroundings swiftly and efficiently.  There was no sign of Maria anywhere; no purse, no women’s shoes next to the pile of men’s work boots.  He breathed a sigh of relief at that.  It seemed the Universe truly was on his side tonight.  

Reassured, Will ventured deeper into the apartment.  He opened the first door with a gloved hand-- the bathroom, compact and empty.  As he shifted his weight,  a floorboard creaked beneath him.  Will froze.  His breath stopped, frozen in his chest.  He listened.  

Silence.  Another moment passed, and he turned his head to peer down the hall into darkness.  Silence, still.  Nothing in the apartment stirred.  He waited one more eternal moment, just in case, before he exhaled and drifted to the second door.  

Will cracked it open, one inch at a time, and poked his head inside.  He saw the shadowed outlines of a double bed, narrow dresser, and piles of clothes that he could smell from where he stood.  The bedroom, then.  It was small, with a popcorn ceiling and single window who’s curtains were shut tight.  And there, in the middle of it all, was Tim.  Timothy White, tucked into bed.  Timothy White, alone and asleep.  Timothy White, abuser and scumbag, defensless now, and soon to leave this world for the next.  Will’s fingers twitched in anticipation.  He flexed his jaw, eyes narrowing.  The blood in his body fizzed, urging him forward.  Will was happy to oblige.

He crept in and resisted the urge to immediately leap atop his target and artlessly squeeze the life from him.  Instead, Will checked the closet quickly, just to confirm his suspicions.  There was no women’s clothing inside.  Maria definitely wasn’t staying here anymore-- thank god.  The woman had been through enough.

With nothing left in his way, Will flicked on the bedroom light.  He leaned casually against the wall, ankles crossed, the blue of his eyes glowing with cold fire.  Tim rolled over, groaning.  Will waited.  

It took eight more seconds for Tim to sit up.  The man rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the light for a moment before he started.

They made eye contact.  A pause.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tim yelled.

Predictable.   Will tilted his head at him.  

“You don’t remember me?”  

He reached into another pocket and fished out a six-inch hunting knife, flicking it open.  He twirled it in his hands, blade flashing in the fluorescent lighting.  Tim caught sight of it and flinched, heat rising on his face.  

 “That’s okay,”  Will drawled as Tim rose from the bed and started towards him.  “Because I remember you .”

Tim was four feet away now, huffing and puffing and pissed.  His face was an ugly shade of mottled purple, jaw rough with old stubble and a series of suspicious stains lining his once-white undershirt.  The man’s fists clenched.  His posture screamed violence.  

Will didn’t care.

Another rush of calm ran through him, head clearer than it’d ever been.  Will blinked, long and slow.

Tim took another step forward.  He growled.

“I’m gonna bash your head in, motherfucker!”

Will arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

His target jolted forward, arm swinging out to hit him.  Will ducked under easily, then surged forward and slashed out in a wide arc, cutting clean through Tim’s throat and severing the vocal cords.  Tim gagged, eyes wide and hands flying to his neck.  The man fell to his knees with a dull thud.  Blood spurted out, soaking Tim’s shirt and spraying across the wall and onto the floor.  Tim’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.  Will simply stood over him and observed.

A bubble of blood rose from Tim’s mouth before popping almost comically across his face.  It ended quickly, after that.  The last of the life dribbled out of Tim’s throat and onto the carpet.  The wall behind him was like a Jackson Pollock, spotted and streaked.  There was no light left in Tim’s eyes.  The body was hollow, now.  Will relished in a moment of silence before he got to work.

Will could be quite efficient when he wanted.  He worked swiftly now, with purpose.  Leaving the body for just a moment, he jogged lightly back to his car, breathing in the night air, and though he relished in the powerful, addictive energy that pulsed within him, he did not stop.  Not yet.  

Will heaved the duffle bag from the trunk and over his shoulder.  The lantern by the stairs flickered.  Covered in another man’s blood, Will smiled.

He had work to do.  

This was his design, after all.  He wanted it to be perfect.

Chapter Text

Four days passed before the neighbors reported a stench more horrible than usual emitting from Tim’s apartment.  The local police found him strung up in the bedroom, bound in twine, arms suspended on either side, head dangling limply against his chest.  

Maria White was immediately released from suspicion for two reasons: the first being that she simply lacked the physical strength necessary to haul around a 220-pound corpse, and the second being that she had escaped to Tenessee days ago to stay with her family, who were more than happy to verify her whereabouts at the time of the murder, and to tell the police not to look too hard for the killer, because, according to Maria’s mother, “that good-for-nothing scumbag had it coming”, and according to her younger brother, “I’d have killed him too if someone else hadn’t beaten me to it”.

Needless to say, the police did not have any leads.

------

Hannibal Lecter leaned over the cool kitchen counter where he’d propped his laptop.  Evidence of the sunrise cascaded through the tall windows, kissing the room in shades of bronze and rose.  He hadn’t yet dressed for the day, opting instead to navigate his home in the comfort of a simple silk robe and his boxers for the time being; after all, he didn’t have to go into the office today-- a slow start was in order.  With an air of leisure about him, Hannibal pulled two shots of espresso, briefly admiring the crema, before he exhaled long and slow and set the mug within arm’s reach. 

The first order of business was queuing up Tattle Crime.  This, he was only a little embarrassed to admit, was a regular habit of his.  When it came to the macabre, he was an enthusiast-- sue him.  

Of course, there likely wouldn’t be anything new today.  Ms. Lounds was likely still releasing articles about his killing from a couple of days ago-- she seemingly had nothing else interesting to talk about.  The thought made his lips twist up smugly.  

Hannibal clicked open today’s first page, eyes already glazing over.

At first, he didn’t even register the headline.

He did a double take. 

He blinked, looked again, as if the screen would change before his very eyes. 

It was at this point that his jaw dropped.  The latest article was not about him.  Why was it not about him?

Hannibal scanned the headline, the pictures, scrolling frantically through the entirety of the piece, then returning to the top to take it all in slowly.  His fingers drummed on the counter, gaze intent and piercing.  Twinges of excitement blossomed in his gut.

Displayed was a glorious murder, and close by, too.  The headline read Move Over Ripper, There’s A New Maniac in Town!   

A wolfish grin split his face.  It was horrifically distasteful.  He reveled in it.

As usual, Freddie had obtained photographs she absolutely should not have been granted access to-- whether she’d stolen them from the police or snuck into the crime scene to take them herself, he was not sure.  But however she’d gotten them, Hannibal was grateful.  The work they depicted was masterful.  In the first, he saw the outside of a shoddy apartment complex, swarmed with police vehicles.  The second was taken in a short, yellowed hallway, peering into an open bedroom door, where the outskirts of a pool of blood on the floor flashed almost coyly at the camera.  Come in, it said-- come and see what I’ve done.   

The third photo-- Hannibal’s favorite-- showed the victim.  

The burly man’s throat had been slit (competently and with great elegance, Hannibal noted, fingers now curled around his countertop in a bruising grip).  The victim’s hands had been cut off completely, severed at the wrists.  Hannibal could not tell what kind of knife has been used from the photograph, unfortunately, but he suspected it was serrated.  The severed hands themselves had been placed on the floor at the body’s feet.  Thick twine had been wrapped around the forearms, suspending the victim a foot above the ground in the form of a cross.  The legs dangled limply, heavily, and the twine was knotted with an experienced artistry that tugged at something in Hannibal’s chest.  He leaned closer to the screen, entranced.

This was not a crime of passion, but there was emotion behind it-- Hannibal could feel it through the screen, could smell the killer’s righteousness.  This murder was a message, that much was clear.  The killer was saying something .  But what?

It wasn’t about religion.  It was about sacrifice.  

Is this your first murder?  Has this victim sacrificed himself to ignite your becoming?

Judging by the drag marks and splattered puddles of blood, the killer had struggled to move the body, seeming to stop for rest a couple of times; so he was likely a smaller man, perhaps wiry.  A feral little thing though, for his radiant determination shone through; he had a vibrant energy to him, almost youthful, and certainly untamed.  The raw power and drive pulsed through the pictures and Hannibal’s fingers twitched.  This was something else, something new.   God, it had been so long since Hannibal had had a break from his routine, and, if he was being honest, he’d been growing bored. 

If he was being very honest, he’d also been growing . . . lonely.

Hannibal wondered, distantly, if Will Graham would come out to play for this murder.  

He shoved that thought aside and curled large, skillful hands around his coffee mug and brought it to his lips.  

Focus , focus.   

Hannibal stared.  The crucifixion, the severed hands, the twine, the throat-- what was this young beast saying?  The answer was in the hands, that he knew.  What that answer was, he did not yet know.  But he certainly intended to find out.

With a renewed sense of purpose, and a feeling suspiciously like butterflies in his stomach, he smiled to himself and closed the laptop.

“This could be interesting,” he said to the empty kitchen.  

-----

Will picked up the phone on the third ring. 

He regretted it immediately.

“Get your ass over here now.”  Jack’s voice was gruff and left no room for argument.  But given that Will had only had one cup of coffee that day, he fully intended argue anyway.  He rolled his eyes at the empty kitchen and leaned his hip against the counter.  

“Hello to you, too,” Will said, snark slipping into his tone.

“Dammit, Will--,” a sigh, someone chattering in the background, and Jack’s distracted energy seeped through the phone, crawling into him like a worm, an infection.  Will shook it off, jaw set.  

“Just have Bev send me the pictures again,” he said.  “Our arrangement is working fine-- great, even.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your arrangement right now, I need you here, stable or not.”

“Who said I wasn’t stable?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer, Graham.”

Will’s brow furrowed.  His body tensed, coiled like a spring in his cool, dimly lit kitchen.  He opened his mouth to say something biting, but then a muffled female voice grew closer on the other end of the line, words unclear but tone frenetic and rushed.  A scuffling sound followed, some light static, then Jack grunting, then Jack swearing, then Jack yelling something that sounded like I get no goddamned respect around here and Will stifled a laugh that became a loud, resounding chuckle when Beverly answered the phone moments later, a little breathless.

“Will,” she said, as if getting her bearings.  Jack huffed somewhere in the background.

“Beverly,” he answered, shoulders lowering.  He leaned back into the cabinetry, tension slipping from him.

“I hate to do this to you, but Jack’s right-- you’re going to want to see this one.”

With that, he sighed.  He craned his neck back, head banging on the upper cabinets.  The hard wood was a grounding force behind his skull.  Will focused on that sensation, knowing he’d need to be centered for whatever curveball Bev was about to throw his way.

“Can’t you just get me the photos?  I’d rather not drive all the way out there.”  

They both knew he didn’t give a shit about the drive, but Bev let it slide.

“Trust me,” she said.  “This is not a crime scene you want to miss.”

She rambled off the address to him, which he jotted down on a notepad in handwriting his schoolteachers had called ‘barely intelligible’.  He’d just set the pen back down when she spoke again.

“Oh, and Will?”

“Yeah?”

“Drive fast.”

She hung up without preamble and left Will holding his cell in his right hand, eyes distant as curiosity lapped at the shores of his mind and apprehension followed close behind.

-----

Will did, on occasion, do as he was told.  

This was one such occasion.  He attempted to make himself presentable in a hurry, slicking back his hair and running a comb through it, though a few loose curls fell over his forehead and around his ears.  He dressed in a blue flannel and dark pants, black boots, opting for contacts instead of his glasses today.  Once his teeth were brushed and his jaw was freshly shaved of errant stubble, he said goodbye to his dogs and then careened out of his driveway, hauling ass through Northern Virginia traffic.  

Surprisingly, he actually did make it to the crime scene double time. When he arrived, moderately punctually, Beverly was waiting for him in the parking lot.  Her energy was far more scattered than usual, the usual cool-and-collected demeanor completely absent.  She had gloves sticking out of the pocket of her jeans and her coat collar was turned up unevenly against the autumn breeze.  Will noted that the edges of her eyeliner were already smudged, and it wasn’t even noon yet.  A ghost of a grin crossed his face; she still looked more put together than him.  

Bev thrust a cup of boiling coffee into his hands in greeting. As she did, she looked around, not even bothering to be subtle as she scanned the crowd.  A few long moments passed, and she didn’t seem to find whatever-- or whoever-- she’d been looking for.  She turned back to him finally, then shot him a too-wide smile, eyes flashing in warning.  Will tensed.  He began to glance around as well, gaze furtive, though he didn’t know what she-- what they -- were keeping an eye out for.  

They stood in the front of an apartment complex, a ramshackle brick thing with a gaggle of squad cars and yellow tape decorating the exterior.  Cops, detectives, agents, techs, scumbag reporters, and residents all scurried about, some petrified, some dazed.  Their collective energy overwhelmed him.  

Will did his best to shut it out as Beverly led him through the mass of people and into the dilapidated lobby, where, at the very least, the sounds of traffic died off.  He eyed the space suspiciously.  It was quieter in here, largely because the reporters hadn’t made it in yet.  

Bev scanned the space quickly and with practiced ease, registering the front desk, few barred windows, linoleum tile floor, fake potted plants, and fellow agents.  Once again, her shoulders lowered back down, not seeming to locate the person she was searching for ( or avoiding , he thought).  Beverly sighed, then placed a hand on his elbow-- a rare act, given his usual distaste for contact.

“I am sorry to drag you out here,” she said, voice low.  “But this one . . . I figured you’d want to see while it’s fresh.”

Will gave her a puzzled look, brow furrowed.  

“Meaning?”

“You don’t wait three days to eat fresh-baked cookies.  You grab ‘em hot out of the oven.”

Will laughed, hand tightening around his coffee.  “I doubt this will be quite as tasty.”

Bev shot him a tired smile.  “No kidding,” she said.  “But you’ll see what I mean when you get in there.”  She took a breath, leading him towards the stairs, before stopping.  “One more thing--”

“You must be Mr. Graham!”  

A chill ran down his spine. Beside him, Beverly swore quietly.  

The voice was deep and accented, like a fine silk cut rough around the edges.  Will fought back a visible shiver.  He gave himself one moment to raise an eyebrow at Beverly, whose palm rested blatantly over her face.  So this is who we were avoiding , he thought.

Will took one more deep breath and then turned.

Oh fuck.

The man was gorgeous, because of course he was.  Will immediately hated him.  Will hated his chiseled jaw and he hated his high cheekbones.  Will even hated his suit-- and on that note, who the hell dressed like that to a crime scene?  It was a black and silver striped monstrosity, which he somehow wore elegantly.  His shirt was a deep eggplant color, fitting him not quite right.  The choice seemed intentional.  But Will wasn’t going to think about that, and because he’d already been staring too long, and he certainly didn’t want it to look like he was checking this stranger out, because he wasn’t--

But then he noticed that the mystery man standing below them in the lobby had also done a far better job with his hair than Will had.  It shone glossy in the light, slightly grayed at the temples and soft-looking.  His shoulders were broad, their strength hidden beneath plush, obnoxious fabric.  Will guessed him to be in his late forties.  He was striking, even in the obnoxious fluorescent light.  Will frowned openly at him.  Get your shit together, Graham, he thought.

Beverly was glancing between the two now.  She arched an eyebrow at him, opting not to comment.  

Will had to salvage this trainwreck, and he had to do it now.

So he kept his tone bored and drawled out, “Do I know you?”

Bev gave him a look .  She said, voice neutral: “This is Doctor Lecter .”  

Ah, from her text earlier.  So this is who Jack wants to be my shrink.  Good luck with that, buddy.

Bev flashed Will an ‘ I’m sorry’ smile, but it was laced with a curiosity that had Will knowing in his bones they’d be discussing this later.  That was a problem for Future Will, however, so he just rolled his eyes conspiratorly to her and then turned back to the doctor, keeping his gaze just over the man’s shoulder.  

Lecter approached, moving with a feline grace Will most definitely did not register, and stopped just before the pair.  He extended a hand to Will.  Will staunchly ignored it.  

Only a foot apart now, he could feel Lecter’s gaze on him.  It was heavy, inspecting.  Will felt like those eyes might just pick him apart.  It set his hackles up, hair on the back of his neck rising to attention.  Will avoided the piercing gaze, countenance carefully set somewhere between “annoyed” and “dismissive”.

The man lowered his rejected hand and pursed his lips.  Of course Doctor Tall, Dark, and Handsome wasn’t used to this sort of reception.  A twisted little flash of pride curled within Will, knowing he’d knocked the man off his game before their conversation had even begun.

Lecter scanned him up and down once more before he shifted on his feet and then began to speak.

“It’s a pleasure to finally make your aquant--” his honeyed voice was cut off sharply by Jack, and Will had never been happier to see the detective.  Sadistic amusement surged through him at the thickly veiled irritation that flashed across Lecter’s face, so subtle that no one else could have noticed.  But Will did.  And he beamed.

“Will!”  

Jack’s voice was booming as always, but filled with a genuine warmth to see him.  “I’m glad you could make it.”  

Will’s lip curled up at the corner.  “I don’t think I had much of a choice,” he said wryly.

Jack huffed out a laugh and placed a hand on his shoulder.  Will did his best to pretend it didn’t repulse him.  Lecter meanwhile, lingered beside them, face composed and cool.  His lips were plastered in a painfully polite smile, but his eyes tracked Will.  Will could feel it viscerally, that stare.  What was this guy’s deal?   

That doesn’t matter, he reminded himself.  He was here for work, to get in, do his job, and get out-- and that was all.  Don’t ruminate on the brooding psychiatrist.  Don’t ruminate on the brooding psychiatrist.  Don’t rumina--   

Jack seemed to finally realize the doctor was there.  The detective nodded to him, a hurried, distracted greeting.  

“Doctor Lecter,” he said.  “Thanks for making it out here so short notice.”

Lecter smiled, and it was very nearly convincing.  “Of course.  It’s no trouble, really.”

Beverly glanced between them all for a moment, brow furrowed.

“Guys?”  She said.  “Crime scene?”

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.  Will stuffed down a chuckle at that, and painted his face in neutrality.

“Yeah, Jack,” he said.  “The body?”

Jack let out a heavy exhale, chest almost shaking with the world-weary force of it, and without even speaking, he asked the two of them: ‘ Since when did you learn to start ganging up on me?’

Beverly and Will exchanged sly smiles, which Jack chose to ignore, but Doctor Lecter most definitely seemed to take note of.

Jack turned to the Doctor in question and said simply:

“You can come with us, Doctor.”  

Jack then gestured to the both of them, nodded a goodbye to Beverly, and then began to steer Will up the stairs and towards the crime scene.  Will glanced behind him just in time to see Beverly mouth to him: ‘ good luck ’.  They reached the top of the staircase then, turned a corner, and she was out of sight.

Lecter, however, was indeed annoyingly trailing behind, hovering.  There was a weighted air between them, as if he wanted to say something, to strike up a dialogue.  Probably just wants to give me a new diagnosis, Will thought bitterly.  He refused to give Lecter an opening, keeping his eyes dead ahead on Jack’s wide back as they made their way through a weaving hall lined with atrocious, peeling wallpaper.  

It took them just a couple of minutes to reach the correct apartment, but time elongated for Will, stretching out around him.  The hallway was so long, and the air was so thick; something about it was beginning to feel familiar.  

Had he been here before?  

He blinked, and they were standing outside the door.  

It was cracked open already, unlocked for agents to filter in and out of.  Jack opened it all the way and led them to the bedroom.  The bedroom in a shitty second-floor apartment.  A bedroom with low fluorescent lighting, and a thick, rancid stench.  Familiar, indeed.  

Will focused on his breathing-- in, out, pause, in, out, pause -- as he fought to keep his mind pinpointed on the now , not drifting away back to Tim’s apartment, to killing him, to how it had felt to wind the twine around his arms and lift him up, a sacrifice, a hecatomb, an offering to his own past and future selves, an appeasement.  Will breathed.  In, out, pause.  In, out, pause.

The three of them waited for a loaded second outside the bedroom door.  Will felt Lecter’s eyes on the back of his neck, heavier than ever.  In, out, pause.   Jack waved away the remaining agents, sending them off to who knows where, and then they were alone.  Just the three of them, and a dead body beyond that door.  In, out, pause.   Will glanced up at Jack, taking in the prominent bags under his eyes, as well as the flickering fire, fear, confusion, and determination that rested within his countenance.   This wasn’t just a dead body, then.  They wouldn’t have called him out here for another routine victim.  In, out, pause.   Will cocked his head to the side, swallowing thickly, curls falling across his eyes.  Jack leaned over Will and said:

“You’re aware of the killing in Martinsville a few days ago?”

Will nodded.  Lecter shifted beside him.

“Good.  Because so’s this guy.”

Jack cracked open the door and stepped aside.

“Will,” he said.  “Please tell me what the fuck we’ve got going on here.” 

In, out, pause.   

Will ducked in the door and closed it behind him, taking just one more second before he braced himself, and turned.

There it was.  The body.

Will blinked.  He blinked again.

He grinned.

It was beautiful.  God, it was so beautiful.

And it was all for him.

Will’s hand slipped off the doorknob.  He moved into the room slowly, taking it all in.  The chatter outside, the presence of Jack and his prospective psychiatrist, the entire world-- it all slipped away into nothingness, into void.  This bedroom became an island, floating beyond time or space.  It was just Will, here, now, with this artwork.  This gesture.  

The main details were the same, but it had someone else’s flair.  The curtains were closed, and the bed was made.  It was neat, focused, fastidious.  Will hadn’t cared about that when he’d killed Tim.  But then, this wasn’t his crime scene.  It was the Ripper’s-- that he felt immediately.

The room almost glowed with confidence; it had been staged to perfection.  The Ripper took pride in his work, and this was no exception, certainly.  A rush of heat surged through Will as he thought about that.  His face grew warm.  His hands twitched.  

The Ripper had seen Will’s murder-- he must have read Freddie’s article, because now here he’d created a near-exact replica: the crucifixion, the severed hands, the throat, the arterial spray coating the walls in crusting streaks and splatters of scarlet-brown.

There were, however, a few key differences.  In addition to the pervasive neatness and intentionality of it all, it was clear from the way the blood had fallen that the Ripper had had an easier time moving the corpse than Will had, (whether that was due to experience or raw strength, Will did not know).  There were no large pools indicating he’d had to stop and rest.  The trail between the initial kill and the place where the body was posed was clean, thin, and even.  This was not the most interesting difference, however.  No, what really caught his eye were the hands.

They were not cast carelessly at the corpse’s feet in judgment.  Instead, they were unfurled, open, extended towards him.  It was an invitation, a question.  In his mind’s eye, the Ripper asked through the corpse a simple question that sent a surge of electricity shooting down Will’s spine: 

“Do you want to play?” 

The Ripper had seen him.  Will had his attention.  What was he going to do with it?  The possibilities had his body feeling like a live wire, sparking dangerously at the edges.  A hapless and wildly inappropriate smile threatened to split his face.  He’d never minded being alone before, but perhaps it would be nice . . . to ‘talk’ with someone like-minded.  

-----

When he left the room, Jack immediately rose to attention from where he’d been leaning against the wall.  Lecter’s eyes were on him instantly as well, though they revealed nothing but casual curiosity.  

In, out, pause .  

Will’s hand tightened on the cold, forgotten coffee that Bev had given him.  He looked down at his feet and plastered on a worried frown, masking the inside of him that was blushing, beaming.

“Well?”  Jack prompted.  

Will raised an eyebrow.

“Is this the same guy?”  Jack asked.

From where he stood a few feet away, hands folded behind his back, Lecter chimed in.

“Perhaps this killer was interested in the Ripper and wanted to emulate him, to become another household name.” 

“No--” Will shook his head, dismissing it.  “No.  This isn’t the same guy as Martinsville.”

“Copycat, then?”  Jack asked.

Will laughed at that.  He rubbed his free hand behind his neck, the collar of his flannel sticking up awkwardly.

“Not quite,” Will said.

“Out with it, Graham!”  Jack was losing his patience.

In, out, pause.

“It’s the Ripper.”

A beat of silence.

Lecter’s gaze darkened imperceptibly.  

“What?”  Jack said.  He moved closer, looming.  “This isn’t the Ripper’s M.O.  Why would he mimic some sick rookie’s crime scene?”

“The Ripper is a patron of the arts.  He’s admiring art-- what he considers to be art.” 

“A conversation between artists?”  Lecter’s voice was light, musing.  “Perhaps he’s leaving a review of a new exhibition.”

Will turned to him slowly, weary.  “Yes.  He has something to say.”

“And?”  Jack’s probing tone was just a bit more grating than usual.  “What’s he saying?”  

Will stared down the hall, not quite seeing the wallpaper, the carpet, the broken sconces.  He paused, licked his lips, steadying himself.

“He’s saying. . . hello.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal was still reeling.  

The goal had been to draw out Will Graham and see what he could do.  

That goal, to put it lightly . . . had been accomplished.  

He ran his fingers through his hair in uncharacteristic dishevelment, staring out his office window, expression longing.  The leaves fell outside, more brown than scarlet now, caught in a relentless autumn wind.  The pavement was damp-- had been all morning.  People milled about outside, hurried and completely oblivious to the presence of a predator, watching them with a distant, tortured smile caressing his countenance.  Knees crossed, Hanibal watched them without truly seeing them.  He leaned back heavily into his armchair.  

Never in his 47 years had he met someone quite like Mr. Graham.  William-- he corrected himself.   William Graham.  He rolled the name over in his mind, tasting its vowels and consonants.  They were sweet, a little salty.  He wanted more.  He needed it.  

His jaw flexed.  William had understood Hannibal’s message exactly and immediately.  He’d cut through any red herrings, ignored Hannibal’s proffered misdirection.  He’d known.  He’d felt it.    

Hannibal didn’t know what to do about it.

Part of him-- a frankly, frighteningly, small part-- wanted to just kill the scrappy little man and have the threat done with.  But he couldn’t.  Not yet.  Even though William had been quite rude, Hannibal was more entranced than anything, and it disturbed him.  He hadn’t slept that night, or the night after.  Instead, he spent time at the office, pacing, pondering.  Waiting.

For what?

A message back from the other killer?

For Graham to point the finger at Hannibal?

To be surprised?

Perhaps it was that last one, Hannibal thought as he turned his gaze away from the window.  Perhaps all he wanted now was to sit back and see what unfolded.  He’d tipped over that first domino.  The rest . . . well.  The cards would fall as they may, tumbling like leaves in the wind of fate.  He smiled, lips twitching, though purple bags beneath his eyes betrayed his investment and impatience.

Hannibal rose to his feet, stretching slightly.  His next appointment would be arriving soon.  He found that he did not care.

All he could think about was how William had been feisty, disheveled, and feral.  When he’d shown up in his blue flannel with his messy, curled hair, looking soft and chaotic and delectable , Hannibal felt his mind go momentarily blank.  A rush of pride had surged through him, warming his belly, as the consultant eyed him, staring longer than was appropriate.  But then he’d opened his mouth.  And that drawl-- that bratty drawl, the haughty smirk when he’d declared Do I know you?  God, he was the most beautiful thing Hannibal had ever seen.  

But then, maybe his vision was clouded as well by the violence he’d seen behind William’s gaze.  It was there-- he wasn’t imagining it.  He couldn’t be.  Perhaps it only lurked there because of everything that those blue eyes had borne witness to, but Hannibal had other suspicions.  Beneath the rugged, delicate beauty, there was a shadow within him that Hannibal saw, and part of him wondered if he could draw it out-- or if, perhaps, it had already been drawn out on its own.  

Maybe that’s what you’re hiding , Hannibal mused.  

And hiding something, he certainly was.  That much was obvious from his interactions with Detective Crawford and that astute Agent Katz.  But the true nature of his secret shadow remained a mystery.

For now.

In the meantime, Hannibal would wait.  Things would reveal themselves in time, and he would simply have to be patient-- however hard that may be.

-----

Will wasn’t a morning person, but Old Rag was worth it. 

The trail was always packed with tourists and amateur hikers by lunchtime, and the blaring of music and long line of bodies ruined the experience; he knew, now, to be at the trailhead before sunrise.  Given that the drive was just under two hours from Wolf Trap, that had meant being out the door with his dogs (all wiggling and wagging, knowing what was to come) by 4 AM.  By 5:45, he and his crew of furry friends were off-- filed out of the car and filtering into the trees, up the mountain.  Buster in particular was overeager, practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement for new smells and a new adventure.  Will kept an eye on him, although he trusted them all off-leash.  Their recall was great, and frankly, he wasn’t concerned about too many people (and distractions) being here so early in the day.

He’d dressed for the weather, in thick flannel and a pair of cargos, tucked into his size 10 hiking boots that were just a tad too big for him.  The weather was crisp, especially without the sun to provide a counterbalance.  November would be here soon enough, and with it, the beginnings of winter.  

For now, though, he relished in the slight chill that brought a touch of red to his cheekbones and nose.  The dogs loved the weather too, preferring it to the summer heat.  They were all more active this time of year.  And it was a good thing, too, because Will needed this trip.  He needed to get outside, to be alone, away from everyone.  He needed to sit with his own mind, his own thoughts, without interference.  It was like tuning out radio signals, clearing away static.  The quiet that descended out here was something to be cherished.  

They’d made it two miles when the sun breached the horizon.  It crested tentatively, gently, kissing the tops of the rural Virginia trees that stood tall and proud around him even without their leaves.  He whistled to the dogs and they gathered, sitting around him, tails still swaying back and forth.  

Will sighed.  Tension slipped out of his shoulders, down his body and back into the earth.  The sky lightened before his eyes, painted in shades of rose and amber.  He stood above it all with his pack, just a little ways up the mountain now, autumn breeze running through his curls.  Will breathed deep, closing his eyes for just a moment.  In his hand, the hot thermos of black coffee he’d brought with provided a grounding warmth.  Will opened his eyes and brought the thermos to his lips.  He sat with the flood of familiar, comforting bitterness for a moment before he nodded to his dogs and they continued their hike.

His lectures had been going well.  Will spoke with more confidence now, his voice gaining strength and focus.  Jack hadn’t interrupted him again, and for that Will was grateful.  Outside of class, however, he found his mind wandering.  

This, of course, wasn’t unusual for him.  But as of late-- especially after the most recent turn of events-- they strayed almost solely to the Ripper.  The images wormed their way in, dripped into his mind like condensation through a window.  Fluid and persistent, they flooded into every nook and cranny of his brain.  The body.  The artwork of it all.   The Ripper himself-- his message, his power, his hand extended in a siren’s seductive hello .  

Will took another sip of his coffee.  They’d gained more elevation now, framed by silver stone and moss and the colors of the woods.  He put one foot in front of the other, boots crunching over leaves.  

What did the Ripper want from him?  A sparring partner?  Entertainment?  Or just a like-minded hobbyist to exchange notes with?  Will needed to know.  The possibilities rolled around inside him, but in his days of pondering, he’d not been able to discern anything with absolute certainty.  And he wouldn’t-- not without trying.  Not without extending his hand back.  He’d have to take a risk.  He’d have to-- as Bev would say-- ‘fuck around and find out’ .  

The thought made his heart beat just a little faster.  His fingers clenched and unclenched around the thermos, fidgety, restless.  Will knew he should be careful but the tingling in his limbs and the pooling in his stomach made him want to throw caution to the wind.  

He sighed, craned his head up to the sky.  It granted him no answers.  

They stopped for breakfast around mile 4, resting on a rocky overlook.  

The dogs ate happily, then made a mess lapping up water and getting drool everywhere.  Will watched them, eyes soft, as he tucked into a PB&J.  

On the way back to the car, he made a decision.  He would reach out.  But he would be reasonable at first.  Careful.  Testing the waters.  

They’d made it back to the trailhead when Will amended his decision.  He would reach out-- he didn’t think he could stop himself if he tried-- but first, he would do his research.  The thought had just crossed his mind when his phone buzzed in his pocket.  Will loaded his dogs back into the car before finally digging out his phone, swiping it open, and checking to see who had the audacity to attempt to contact him before 10 AM.  

Ah.

It was Bev.

Will huffed out a laugh and opened her message. 

You.  Me.  Coffee.

His brow furrowed.  He leaned back against the car, looking at those three words.    He had an inkling of what this was about, but before he could type out an excuse, Bev sent him another message. 

You’re not getting out of this one, Graham.

He rubbed his temples and exhaled.  Still, he couldn’t be mad at her-- no, more than anything he had done this to himself.  Of course she had noticed what had happened at the crime scene.  And of course she wanted to talk about it-- about that damned psychiatrist.  That damned elegant psychiatrist, with his fancy suit and cheekbones.  That damned psychiatrist, with his low, rumbling voice and obnoxious attempts at engaging him in a dialogue.  That damned psychiatrist, who'd been eyeing him closely, unrelenting behind his air of impassivity and clinical detachment.  The very same psychiatrist who Will had most definitely not been checking out.    

Fucking Bev, and her acute perception.

Will made peace with the onslaught that was soon to come, and typed out his acquiescence before hopping into the driver's seat and beginning the journey home.

Chapter Text

They decided on a cafe they’d been to a couple of times previously.  It was a quaint little thing, tucked into one of the quieter streets of Leesburg. Dark navy walls contrasted pale trim and window frames, as well as rustic, antique tables that looked to have been restored and refinished in a faded eggshell white by hand.  The space was lined by potted and hanging plants, which were strategically placed throughout to give an air of separation and privacy for patrons.  Will’s favorite part of the shop was the back, furthest from the large bay window overlooking the street outside.  It was darker there, shielded by shadow and greenery.  He hoped, on his drive over, that it would be unoccupied.  

He arrived a minute or two after what they’d agreed on.  So he wasn’t looking forward to this conversation-- sue him.  But clad in a green and gray flannel, hair knocked wild by the wind, Will dragged his feet through the door.  Immediately, he was struck with the intense aroma of caffeine, deep and bold and comforting.  It permeated his senses, soothing the frayed edges of his nerves.  Fortunately, there weren’t too many clusters of people at this time, most having gone back to work or school.  The morning rush had passed, leaving the shop relatively hushed.  

Will scanned the space.  His eyes glazed over the coffee bar, which was tucked along the side, made of driftwood from the Chesapeake and manned by a team of two baristas who looked like they just stepped out of an LLBean catalog and were now struggling to acclimate to the real world.  He registered all the familiar paintings, the wide-plank floor, the young, unemployed couple near the front of the store and the single middle-aged man furiously typing away on an ancient laptop.  Then he saw her.

Beverly had arrived first, as usual.  She’d confided in him ages ago that people assumed she was too easy going to have a penchant for showing up with rigid punctuality, but really, underneath the mischievous smile and cool-and-calm, unshakeable demeanor, Bev was quite disciplined.  And, he noted, observant.

She had claimed his favorite table.  Even though he was sure she’d have preferred to be in the light, Bev had plonked herself down in the back of the store, half-hidden by a giant fern.  Will approached, and registered that she had already ordered for him, too.  He lowered himself into the seat; the old wood creaked, the sound faint, swallowed easily by the rest of the ambient noise around them.  Bev gave him a sly grin and shoved his coffee towards him.  It was tall and dark, nearly overflowing from the sea-glass colored mug.  The steam kissed his face.  It smelled divine.  

His first sip was too hot, burning the tip of his tongue.  He didn’t mind.  Will settled into the chair and did his best to ignore the rest of the people around him.  It was easier for him than it would have been in months prior.  Even so, a tingle of discomfort lingered in his veins knowing why he was here. 

But there was no avoiding Bev; she would pry information out of him one way or another.

It would be best to just grit his teeth and get this over with.

At least he was getting caffeine out of it.

  Will finally glanced up from his mug to look at her.  She was dressed in her usual faux leather jacket and skinny jeans today, long black hair tied in a low ponytail.  The smile on her face was earnest now.  She gripped her own mug-- wide, blue, and half-empty-- and lifted it up in a cheers.  Will rolled his eyes.  She smirked.

He clinked his mug against hers and they sipped together, both relishing the influx of energy.  When they set their mugs back down with a dull, muted thud, Bev leaned forward, elbows on the table.  On instinct, Will leaned back just slightly.    

“You know why you’re here,” she said.  She sounded smug.

Will groaned.  The guttural sound left him involuntarily.  

Her returning laugh was bright, eyes crinkling at the corners.  A flush of hot embarrassment streaked through him.

“He’s sexy, isn’t he?”  Bev said.

Right to it, then.  Fuck.

Will attempted to plaster a neutral expression on his face, which was warming by the second.

“If your idea of dirty talk involves the DSM-5, sure.”

She snorted.

“Don’t play with me, Graham.  I saw you checking him out.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” 

He took another sip of coffee, staunchly looking at the fern as if it could teleport him out of here.

“Don’t even try,” Bev said.  “I know all your looks of disdain, and the one you gave Lecter?  That was one I have never seen before.”

Will shifted in his seat.  His tongue was dry in his mouth, palms just a bit sweaty.  He avoided her eyes expertly.  He was staring at the fern.  He was staring at the fern very intently.  In fact, how had he not noticed before that it was so very very interesting, with its leaves and, and stem, and green-ness, and--

And oh god, she was still talking.  

“You’re not gonna let him be your psychiatrist anyway.”  She waved her hand in a general, knowing gesture.  “You may as well just ask him out for dinner.”

A blissful pause came when she took a swig of her coffee, and Will tried to banish all images from his mind of taking Lecter to dinner and staring at the sharp planes of his obnoxious, regal face, and how it would look in candlelight, shadowed and severe, and how it would look above him, eyes alight in pleasure, beads of sweat trickling down the temples, lips parted in a moan-- gah!  Shut up.  Shut up.  Breathe.

“Oh!”  Bev beamed, setting the mug down with a clunk.  Her words came out hurried now, delighted.  “Two birds with one stone.”

Will was still blinking away unwelcome images of what Lecter was hiding beneath his suit.  He gaped at her like a fish, then let out a strangled, “What?”

Her lips pursed, eyebrow arched. 

“If you guys are involved,” she said.  “Jack will have to flounder around finding someone else to be your psychiatrist.”

His laugh was desperate.  

“I do enjoy Jack floundering.”  

Will took a breath, feeling it expand in his chest, filling his lungs.  On the exhale, he trailed off in a sigh.  “But still . . . Not worth it.  Lecter’s insufferable.”

Bev leveled him with a stare.  The dark eyeliner made her gaze even more piercing and intense.  Beneath it, though, was a genuine kindness that somehow caught Will off guard even more, even after all this time.  She inspected him, piecing him apart as best she could.  Yes, he would always be separate from her, foreign, unknowable.  But damn it, she would try to understand.  However she could.

“He seems stuffy,” she finally conceded.  “But you don’t have enough evidence to call him insufferable yet.”

“I don’t need evidence.”

Another stare, this one unimpressed.

“Maybe,” Bev said.  Her voice was musing now, a little more serious.  “You know I trust you.  And I want you to trust your gut.  But I don’t think you should write the guy off entirely-- you don’t even know him yet.”

“And I don’t want to,” Will said.  “I don’t find him that interesting.”

“But you will,” Bev said.  The certainty of the statement caught him off guard.  

She continued: “Sure, he seems spiffy, and he totally has a stick up his ass.  But I have a hunch that he’s hiding something.  There’s more to him than meets the eye, and you picked up on that too.  Even if you don’t want to pursue him romantically or,” she wiggled an eyebrow, “sexually--  you should try talking to him as a colleague, or, god forbid, a friend.”  

Will almost choked on his coffee.  

She sent him a teasing smile.  “Who knows, Will.  Maybe he’ll have something interesting to say.”

He paused.  If he were a normal person in a normal situation ( nothing about this is normal , he thought), then maybe what she was saying would make sense.  From her perspective, it was just an office romance.  Hell, not even that serious-- Lecter was effectively a consultant, and so was Will-- they wouldn’t exactly get in trouble with HR at the BAU if they had intimate relations.  

But it was more complicated than that, not that he could tell Bev.  

Yes-- Lecter was hot.  Will had eyes.  Even so, this whole ordeal was just too much for him to deal with right now.  He wasn’t usually a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy, but he definitely wasn’t about to enter a serious relationship with a fucking mental health professional, especially not now that he was literally killing people and trying to bond with one of the most infamous serial killers of the twenty first century .  

Fuck, the whole thing was a lot to wrap his mind around.  He didn’t need to bring someone else into the mix.  Especially not someone who looked at him the way Lecter did, all fascinated and severe and heady.  Will didn’t want to give the man a chance.  In fact, he didn’t want to ever see him again, ideally.  

Nothing good would come of it.  

Besides-- the Ripper was more than enough to keep him occupied.  And he and the Ripper would certainly have more in common, it seemed.  Will didn’t have the energy to juggle both, and at the very least, if he fucked things up with the Ripper, it would be new.  The psychiatrist would just repeat the same patterns Will had in romantic entanglements.  Will just wasn’t good at it-- he’d end up scaring him off, and he didn’t want a normal person near him while he was learning to kill from the best.  

And yet, part of him couldn’t deny that Lecter was beautiful.  There was something strange to his energy that Will hadn’t been prepared for.  We don’t need to be worrying about that right now, though.  There are more important things, like not getting caught by a psychiatrist you want to bang.  You need to pull it together.  You need to focus.  Ignore Lecter.  Ignore Lecter--

Beverly interrupted his thoughts.

“Will, just promise me you’ll give it time.”

He blinked.

“Why?”

He looked to her, brow furrowed, not asking the questions he wanted to ask her.  Why him?  Why won’t you let me push this away?  Why can’t I shake these feelings?  Why the Ripper?  Why Lecter?  Why me?

“Because,” she paused, hands curled over her coffee, eyes soft.  “I’ve never seen you look at someone like that before.  And the way he was looking at you?”  Her lips curled up in the corner.  “Well.  I have a feeling you’re going to look back on this conversation one day and be glad you listened to me.”

----

“ Promise me you’ll give it time . . .”

The words lingered in his mind hours after.  

He knew she was, on one level, referring to Lecter-- and on another, to just putting himself out there, forming relationships with people who weren’t her-- but he could only think about the Ripper.

Give it time. . .

He didn’t want to give it time.  This realization wasn’t much of a surprise.

Perhaps it made him sound like an impatient child, demanding a new toy or asking again and again ‘ are we there yet?’ , but goddammit, he wanted to talk to his new friend, and he wanted it now .

Will licked his lips, his mouth a dry cavern, tongue heavy like sandpaper.

Be rational, he chided himself.  Please, for the love of god, don’t do anything insane.

It was a fruitless plea, knowing himself.  Will sighed deeply, wearily.  He closed his eyes.  Reveled in the darkness.

Recon: it was a necessary first step.  He already knew this.  

He could move towards communication, but first, he had promised himself that he would be informed before he tackled this monumental task.  Before he took the leap.  Something in him was restless now, longing to throw caution to the wind.  To reach out blind.

But no.  He was smarter than that.  

Maybe.

He took a deep breath.

“ Give it time.”

Time, indeed.

The day passed in a daze.

Any benign interest he’d held for lectures and students had dissipated.  Will spent the afternoon on autopilot, lost in daydreams-- fabricated murders inside the homey four walls of his skull.  By the time the clocked chimed 7 and the light outside was gone, Will was itching with need to be free of the daily charade.  He stumbled home, shrugging off his “Professor Graham” suit like he was shedding his skin.

And thank god for it.  The fizzing electricity in his veins was wilder than ever.  How had he lived like this, all stuffed up into an ill-fitting costume?  How had he lived, suppressed and restrained?  How had he lived, before Timothy’s slaughter?  Before knowing what blood felt like splattered across his face?  

And how had he lived, before the Ripper?

Will wet his lips, breath just a little uneven, like his anticipatory smile.  He cracked open his front door and stepped inside, basking in the privacy.  Everything was quiet.  The absence of people washed over him, thawing him out, like a hot shower after a cold day.  No chatter, no eye contact, no bodies or niceties to navigate around.  

Finally, time to himself.

His dogs, of course, rushed to greet him.  He gave them each individual attention, patting heads and scratching behind ears.  As he did, his mind drifted.

Since his coffee with Beverly, he had been desperate to move forward with his plan.  Desperate to reach out.  Not because he was lonely.  He wasn’t lonely.  Just . . . because it was an opportunity too exciting to miss out on.  

And he wouldn’t miss out.  Now, free from prying eyes, he could look through the case files.  There wouldn’t be students or agents or colleagues with badgering questions or obligations to interrupt him.  Will had security clearance for the Ripper cases, and no one would bat an eye at his digital record of access.  After all, Bev had managed to convince him to consult.  That was an invitation to look through ( to admire) as much as he wanted.  And even if diving back through the years did raise questions-- he was Will Graham.  Offbeat.  Quirky .  Weird.  Weird guys were expected to do weird things.  It was fine.  

On the very off chance that it wasn’t, and that he did arouse suspicion somewhere along the way . . .

Excuses and lies would come easy enough. 

They always did.

Chapter Text

After feeding the dogs and changing into some pajama pants and a t-shirt, Will settled onto the couch with a tumbler of cheap whiskey and his laptop, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.  The sky outside had long since set, heavy clouds cloaking what light may have been cast by moon or stars, making the world even darker than he already knew it to be.  Will glanced out the window, gaze distant, fingers poised over the keys of his laptop.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for-- a sign to turn back?  To keep going?  Or did he just want to feel closer to the Ripper, to know him, to have an advantage before the real dialogue began?  

Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to feel out of his depth.

And yet, the overwhelming unknown was exciting.  Since the Ripper’s message, Will had felt more electric-- more alive-- than he had in years.  Bev would say some camaraderie would be good for him.  That he could use an adventure.  And that’s what this was, right?  Perhaps not the way she’d approve of-- his mind nagged.  But still, it felt right.  And wrong.   His heart raced.

It was, in a way, like cliff diving.  Here he stood, balanced atop a precipice, waiting to see what the ocean below held.  Would it be pleasure?  Satisfaction?  Thrill?    Or death?

Goddammit, he wanted to know .

He wanted to know what this future held.  

He wanted to know, for the first time in his life, what it was like to be truly seen.

He wanted to know whether the Ripper would like what he saw.

And maybe Will even wanted to know if he could impress the Ripper.  If he could capture his full, undivided attention.

Will blinked, running his tongue over his teeth.  He fought to push the thought aside.  Focus on what’s in front of you , he told himself.  

Focus.  

A deep breath steadied him, cool air taming a bit of the fire in his chest.  

A sip of whiskey grounded him further.  

Will set the glass back down silently and reached forward, back straightening as he peered at the long list of digitalized case files.  They stretched back years, meticulous records cataloging act upon act of extreme violence.  The Ripper’s work could have filled a small library.  Will’s head swam for a moment, struggling to grasp the breadth of murder before him, then he determined the only logical thing to do was to start at the beginning.

He cracked open the first file.  

The photos filled his screen.

A corpse laid with the arms posed, almost elegantly, lounging.  The face frozen in terror.  A missing kidney.  Accompanying notes, lab results, frustration from the local PD.  No DNA at the scene-- not a hair, not a fingerprint.  Nothing to go off of other than the elaborateness of it all.  For a first kill, this was masterful.  Suggesting that perhaps it was not the Ripper’s first-- that it was only the first that they knew of .

Weeks later, another body.  This one lounging on a couch, hands folded over the stomach, necked craned back at an angle that indicated breakage.  The faintest outline of a broad purplish handprint, suggesting the Ripper was a man, likely over 5’9”.  (But then, they had already assumed that).  

Last, propped upright in a chair before a table, head facing a window, an empty plate before her.  There was no one else after this for a long while.  Will squinted, sipped at his glass.

What had Jack said?  Sounders of three?

The Ripper was a patient man.  A careful man.  That they knew.  But something about the posing struck him.  It was sophisticated, derogatory.  Almost possessing the energy of a smug secret-- an inside joke.  Will wanted to be let in.   

What was the Ripper referencing?

His tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth as he worked.  He leaned forward, hunched over the laptop now, brow furrowed.  

He opened the next set of cases.  

A liver missing, a hand severed.  Bowels split open, gutted like a pig.

Like a pig.

That’s how he sees you all.  Will’s lips twitched.  Swine, to prepare for slaughter.

He poured over the next files, still dating back years, and the next, and the next.  The pictures caught the corpses at different angles, alongside important details from the crime scenes.  Little hints, breadcrumbs left behind for anyone brave enough to follow.  Will made note of each one, diligent in the task.  Each scene was expertly crafted, since the beginning.  There was not an element out of place.  The Ripper was in control of what he was displaying . . . but no one was receiving his message.  

What was the message?

Will frowned.

He already knew the big picture: the MO, the patterns.  Groupings of three, each brutal and beautiful in their own right.  There were throats slashed, eyes gouged, organs missing.  The Ripper didn’t stick to a specific method, but there was no chaos or disorganization that usual came with that characteristic.  This wasn’t a killer that could ever be described as unfocused.  No, every single body had had its life snuffed with precision, and with precision they were staged.  

But he doesn’t respect you, Will mused, hand tightening on his glass.  It was a shaming, nearly every time.  The Ripper looked down on these people.  

Pigs -- the word came back to him.  He thinks of them as pigs.

And yet, they were being posed with such care.  Such control.  They were being . . . elevated, into something more.  

It was art.  

Art!  

An idea struck him, a jolt of lightning cracking across the sky of his mindscape; Will’s fingers rushed in a flurry to pull up another tab on his laptop.  He clicked on the first result that popped up, beaming in vindication.  He split his screen, staring at the painting he’d found, then at the Ripper’s body of work.  Will scrolled back through to find the right date, the right body, and re-opened the file.  

Yes-- it was a match.  The way the corpse was lounging, arms splayed, was like Lady On A Divan by Julius Leblanc Stewart .  His heart leapt. 

He knew it had looked familiar.  He had fucking known it.

Now, Will certainly wasn’t a regular patron of the arts.  But he’d been to a museum or two in his day, and had read through some books in spare time as a lonely teen.  So he nurtured just enough familiarity in the subject for him to have a nagging feeling of recognition.  He should look back at previous cases for other matches.  Just in case . . . 

Because he was on to something.  

Maybe.

Hopefully.

The more he studied, the more beautiful it all became.  

Sure-- the whole affair was grotesque.  But that was part of the beauty.  Inseparable from it.  The Ripper was acknowledging that his references (pastiches?) were horrific, and he was finding humor in it.  

Will’s canines flashed as he grinned, body posture relaxing over the course of the evening.  His tumbler was empty now, long since drained.  He didn’t think to refill it though, too focused on the task at hand.  

Had he looked up, he’d have noticed that hours had passed and the world outside was thick with darkness.  But he did not look up.

Instead, he continued his study.

He pinpointed a tentative allusion to the demonstrational operation performed by Vincenz Czerny, and to Robert Smirke’s The Seven Ages of Man. He was more confident in the similarities between a 2009 victim and some work by Pieter Bruegel the Elder.  Most of the murders, however, he simply couldn’t place.  It was over his head.  Or, perhaps, there just wasn’t anything to find at all.  (This he sincerely doubted, but it was a possibility that couldn’t be fully dismissed).  

Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could ask the Ripper one day.  The thought made his stomach twist, just a little.

For now, though, he wouldn’t give up.  Not yet, anyway.

Hours passed without his awareness.  In that time, Will identified only one more possible match.  It was slow going.  Not that he noticed.  Time melted around him, and he found himself spiraling down a rabbit hole of research that made the backs of his eyes burn. 

In spite of this, he felt better than ever.  Had anyone else been in the room at the time, they’d have seen a rosy sheen on his cheeks and an intent focus in his sea-blue eyes, the way he bit his lip, and how he leaned closer, closer, glasses sliding down his nose.  A few feet away, his yellow table lamp glowed softly.   It cast a golden wash across his face, laptop, and scattered papers covered in his trademark clumsy scrawl.  

His back ached from hunching over, but he couldn’t distract himself from this pursuit.  Will poured through online blogs about artwork, about the Renaissance, about museum pieces.  He studied those sounders of three.  The elegance.  The ego.  The ruthlessness.  He studied until his mind swam and his body was numb.

He fell asleep at his desk that night.

-----

As he dreamed, images came to him, disorganized, frenzied.  They flickered across his mindscape like disjoint images on an ancient projector:

The scalpel-- what seemed to be one of the Ripper’s favorite tools. 

Splitting flesh, welling blood. 

Gnarled, onyx antlers. 

Faces screaming, melting into each other, blurred and fuzzy.  An operating room.  A pencil, freshly sharpened, cradled by a thick, veiny hand.  Blood.  Buckets of blood, blood bottled into reused glass containers.  A bottle of wine.  Wine pouring into a proffered glass.  Steak, sizzling in a hot pan. 

A faceless, broad-shouldered man sitting alone at a breakfast table, candelabra and dining plate before him.  

A cellar door. 

A candle, melting.  Wax pooling onto the table. 

A slaughterhouse. 

Meat.

A whisper in a voice that was not Hobbes’: “See?  See?”

Will woke up in a start.  He jolted upright, blinking sleep away.  

He rolled off the couch, limbs flailing, not quite sure how he’d gotten there.  No matter.  He immediately scrambled to his laptop to pull up the first picture he saw.   Brow furrowed deeply, Will traced his fingers over the graphic violence with reverence.  His touch was delicate, and his breath stuttered.

Understanding swept through him, a powerful current clearing away the fog that had clouded the Ripper previously.  He stared at that picture before him and asked of the Ripper, already knowing the answer:

“Are you. . . eating them?”

The thought should have repulsed him.  

Why didn’t it?

He licked his lips.

----

The first thing he should’ve done was call Jack-- or Bev-- and let them in on his epiphany.  Instead, he put away his empty glass, straightened up the living room, and ran his hands through his hair with a secret smile on his face.  

Certainly, he could clue in the BAU as to the meaning of the missing organs later.  But for now, he’d keep the knowledge to himself.  In fact, he was more anxious than ever to reach out; he was going to try to impress an artist.  A butcher.  A monster.  A savant.  A Renaissance Man.

And in order to impress a  Renaissance Man, he would need inspiration.  It certainly wouldn’t come to him just laying around the house; his dogs were all napping, however, so a family hike was out of the question.  With his options narrowed down, Will decided that a drive was in order.

He threw on some boots and gloves, both worn with years of use.  Next, he snagged his keys and a bottle of water, the latter of which was tossed in the passenger seat before he turned the keys in the ignition.  One last glance at the house, the locked front door, and Will peeled out of the driveway.

His hands were solid on the wheel, grip relaxed.  His foot weighed heavy on the gas pedal.  He relaxed his back into the seat, shoulders knotted from years of tension.  He barely noticed it anymore.  Will let his gaze soften on the road in front of him, landscape familiar to the point of having been memorized.  If pressed, he could draw each tree, each branching street, with eyes closed.  

First came a right turn at a hollow stump.  Then he navigated around the pothole that the city had forgotten to fill three years ago.  He drummed his fingers on the wheel.  Gnawed on the inside of his lip.

The first few miles were always the slowest.  It passed by at a crawl.  

He let himself drift.

Vienna turned to a speck behind him.  Though nervous energy fizzled in his stomach, a ghostly smile was plastered across his face, small and twitching.  

The road was smoother now, better maintained, but that came with more cars.  In order to get out of the city, he had to take busier roads-- which, in Northern Virginia, was a given.  The highway was congested even at 11 AM on a weekday, but he didn’t let it irritate him.  He stayed the course, easing further from the magnetic pull of home, until it grew weak enough that he felt detached and ungrounded.  

Eleven became noon.  He took an exit on impulse.  It careened around the highway, took him further out, and then eventually, split away from the concrete noise walls and the endless start-stop of traffic.  

The sky was lighter now-- a bright shade of clouded gunmetal.

Will breathed.  He thrummed his fingers some more.  The motion was rhythmless, clumsy.

What was he looking for, today?  What was he ever looking for?

How do I impress you? was the real question, the one he turned his mind’s eye from.  It reverberated inside him, though-- an echo, relentless-- so he pursed his lips and flipped on some music.  He’d left the radio on some soulless classic rock station hosted by a man with a boisterous, cocky voice.  Queen came on, and Will tried to bounce his fingers to the bass.

Before him, the roads narrowed out.  Traffic had narrowed as well, the sea of cars becoming a light trickle that kept up at a reasonable pace.   Will took another exit anyway, filled with the sudden urge to be as far away from civilization as was reasonably possible this afternoon.  Much to his delight, no other cars turned off with him.  A Beatles song had started on the radio.  It meandered down the road with him, trailing sound behind his car that disappeared into the afternoon.

A few more miles, and then some more after that.  The digital clock by his dashboard read 1:26 PM now.  

Remnants of Northern Virginia melted into the rural rolling hills and scattered, smaller houses.  The road ahead was clear, empty.  The question returned.  

How do I impress you?

Will sighed.  He took another turn, past a giant old oak tree, as if that would steer him away from his own mind.  It didn’t work.  He made a left at a barn, veering off into territory that was entirely foreign to him.  The rural community, sprawled and rambling, was free from the ambient honking and skidding of tires.  

Will’s brain was louder now, though not quite distressed.  He breathed.  He breathed.  How do I impress you?  He breathed. 

In the last ten miles, he’d passed only one car, headed in the opposite direction.  

Will shifted in the seat, focusing on keeping his breath steady.  In, out, pause.  In, out, pause.  The restlessness-- excitement-- buzzed low within him, a rumble like an engine now, and not an all-consuming roar.  But energy was energy, and he needed something to do with it.  He’d come out here for inspiration, but, now, he knew that it was created.  Action was what was in order.

And what action was fitted for reaching out to the Ripper? There was only one, really. But who?

Who would be his next victim?

The answer came easier than he’d expected.

Sprawling yard after sprawling yard passed him by, separated by intermittent clusters of trees and the occasional ramshackle, abandoned, crumbling house.  Every once and a while he passed one that looked inhabited, or was less worse for wear.  There would be a clothing line strung up in the front yard, a children’s playset, or smoke rising from a chimney.  Things he knew, as a former cop, to look out for.

Signs of life.

But the signs were fewer and far between now.  With distance separating Will from the frenetic pulse of the city, agitation and anxiety seeped out of his flesh, through the car, and were left behind him on the road.  All that remained was his eagerness, his uncertainty, his need to please.  

Meanwhile, the music in the background faded to white noise until he couldn’t distinguish individual words anymore.  The world passed by.  His mental chatter slowed.  So did the car-- his foot easing off the gas subconsciously, reducing from 60 to 50 to 45.  

There would be something here, soon.

Inspiration.  Action.  

Yes, he would find something here.  

Someone.

Field after field.  Rolling planes of grass, damp from past rain.  It swayed in the wind, mesmerizing, akin to a tide in the ocean, the land moving as one, gently, with an ebb and flow Will could only hope to align with.  

He had been cruising along at 45 miles an hour for 20 minutes now, eyes careful on the landscape.  Something was coming.  He just had to find it.

Another 7 minutes, another series of grassy planes.  Will was propped on the edge of his seat, gaze alert.  At first, there was nothing new but then. . .  

In the distance, a shape.  A stump?  A fallen log?  He approached, eyes lasering in.  

It wasn’t a stump.  Trash, then?  No-- Will squinted-- it was moving.  He drew closer, closer.  Will was barely looking at the road now, trusting that no one would be passing him by.  

The shape was dark, smaller than a person.  Definitely alive.  An animal?  

Closer still, and the shape grew larger, more distinct.  Will slowed down further.  The speedometer inched from 40 to 25.  

Closer.

He could see it now.  The furry thing had floppy ears, four legs, and no tail.  It was attached to a stake by a length of chain.  His heart plummeted into his stomach.  

Will was only a couple hundred yards away now and was pulling over before he even knew what he was doing.  The poor thing was surrounded by holes in the ground, dug presumably out of boredom or anxiety.  The little guy was ragged as the houses surrounding, thin and fur matted.  Will’s jaw and his heart clenched.  

Then fury overtook him.  It was cold, ice cold, and surged through his veins like shards of glass.  He was pulled over onto the side of the road, took his keys out of the ignition, stuffed some dog treats into his pocket, and hopped out.  Cool fresh air slapped against his countenance.  The clouds above were tall and roiling.  Will checked quickly to see if anyone was around.  But no-- he was alone.  It was just him, this poor Rottweiler, and the owner’s house, set back from the road.  There wasn’t another residence for several acres.  

Will crossed the street now, eyes fixed on the house.  It was a single story with red shutters, well-maintained for the area.  And inside, lived a monster.  A pig.

Inspiration: it was here.  

And so was a necessary action.

Will was closer to the dog now.  It pained him to not just free him immediately, looking at those adorable brown eyebrows and fuzzy tummy.  But first, Will had to ensure no one would come looking.  He had to make sure the proper people were punished for this.  No-- there was a time in his life when he would’ve taken the conflict-avoidant route, would’ve snuck around.  But now?  Now he would dish out karma as he saw fit.  

The dog looked at him, eyes wide, and barked, once.  It was a deep, clipped noise, not an alarm to alert the owners.  The dog tilted his head to the side, one ear flopping adorably.  Will pulled out some dog treats.  He tossed them, from a distance, to the mutt.  

“It’s okay, buddy,” Will whispered.  “I’m coming back for you.  We’re going to get out of here together.”

Who could do something like that to an animal?  This was-- at least in part-- why Will fucking hated people.  They were constantly disappointing, constantly cruel.  

He thought back to his own childhood in Louisiana, his penchant for skipping school to hang out at the local shelter and volunteer to socialize the dogs.  They were better.  All animals were.  They didn’t judge or hate or abuse.  

He looked out to the house.  The sun was high over the horizon now, though barely visible amidst the blanket of stratus and cumulonimbus.  Streaked in silver and steel blue, the sky descended to meet Virginia’s low, emerald hills; it was almost picturesque.  It didn’t deserve to be, though.  Not with the evil that lived here.  Will would make sure everyone ( The Ripper, his mind chimed in) saw the irony-- the grotesque underbelly of the scene.  

He marched towards the house.

It was a quick walk, his strides strong and sure.  His hands were furled into half-fists, no plan in his mind other than the hazy image of violence, of penance.

Will blinked, and found himself before the front door.  Pulses of calm, cryogenic rage flowed through him.   It carried him forward, heavy boot kicking out near the doorknob like he’d been taught in the police academy.  The force of the kick snapped the lock, door swinging open with a thud .  The knob dented the wall behind the door, leaving a crack in the peeling wallpaper.  

Will stormed inside.  He heard, over the slow rhythm of his heart, soothed by action, the frantic footsteps of someone lighter than him.  They approached hurriedly, stupidly, creaking over the floorboards.  A woman turned the corner.  She froze at the sight of him, a deer caught in the gaze of a predator.  She was middle-aged, with long red nails and unbrushed hair.  She was dressed in a bathrobe and leggings, clearly not intent on leaving the house today.  That suited Will just fine.  He’d make sure she never left the house again alive.

His victim glared at him, lips curling up in a defensive snarl.  

“This is private property,” she said.  Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.  Will dismissed it.

He moved towards her, steps sure, boots thudding beneath him like thunder.  A flash of fear rose in her eyes.  She began to back away, glancing behind her and back to him.  He moved forward, slow, slinking, strong.  Was this how the Ripper stalked his prey?  Will almost smiled at the thought.  

She moved clumsily back through a doorway, into the kitchen.  

“Stop--” she said, voice wavering just a little, still full of spite.

Will did not stop.

He prowled closer, a predator unleashed.  The woman searched for any sign of mercy or hesitation on his face and found none.  His cool blue gaze revealed nothing.

She moved faster, still glancing behind her, until her back hit the kitchen counter.  She looked around, gaze darting for anything to defend herself with.  She reached to the knife block, hand scrambling, shaking.  

Will reached her first.

He batted her hand away from the knife block with ease.  Her breath rattled in her chest, eyes growing wild.  Will did not care.  He moved behind her, the bottom of his chest against her shoulder blades, reached around, and placed his hands carefully at her jaw.

He yanked.

It was a sharp turn, a jolted motion.  A fast, clean affair.  The cracking and grinding of bone lingered in the air, like the taste of a dessert lingering on the tongue after a fine meal.

Her body fell to the floor immediately, heavy and limp, head bouncing off the kitchen cabinets on the way down.  Will stood above her, breath calm, stance relaxed.  He cocked his head to the side, gaze impassive.  Now he did smile.  

She looked like a broken toy left by a careless child.  

No sirens came.  

No one knocked on the door.  

Will glanced out the window and saw only a moody, October sky and, beyond a few hundred yards of grass, the open road.  It was quiet.  So, so, quiet.  He inhaled.  Held the air in his chest, along with something that tasted like pride.  He exhaled.  Still, silence.  It reverberated throughout the house, into his bones.  Will looked down at the body, that shattered, lifeless thing.  

She had gotten what she deserved.

And now, it was time for him to do the real work.

Will would not hide the body-- he would not hide himself.  Not from his new friend, anyway.  He thought about the compositions he’d seen in his research; the Ripper’s penchant for fine arts and carefully placed corpses.  The Ripper had reached out in Will’s language, and now, it was Will’s turn to reach out in the Ripper’s.  With all the studying he’d done the night previous, a painting came to mind.  

John Everett’s Ophelia .  A beautiful work with an interesting story.  He didn’t care so much for elevating this . . . trash.  But, he did care about mutual respect and admiration.  He cared about the image he would present.  And Ophelia would be a fine enough opening note.  

He had found his inspiration-- that much was certain.

The madness, the grief, and the painting’s own history-- yes.  The Ripper would know what it meant.  

He would see, and know that Will was saying hello back.  

He would see, and know that Will was telling him his story.

----

Once he’d completed his composition, Will wiped away all of the fingerprints he’d left and did a final scan of the house.  

It was silent.  

Unshaken.  

Waiting.  

Room to room he traveled, light on his feet, and each dusty corner, each cracked closet door, revealed nothing of concern.  There was no one else home; no one hiding.  

But-- in the bathroom were two toothbrushes, and the bedroom held men’s clothing.  Photographs hung on walls depicted a saggy, ugly man in his 40s holding various fish.  The husband, then.  

So his victim had a partner in cruelty.  Will cocked his head to the side, studying.  He rocked back on his heels.  He was not aware of it, but a serene, dark smirk had formed.  

Maybe, he thought, I’ll come back for you.  

There would be time for that later.  For now, however, he had a new pack member to take home.

It was, as he knew it would be, slow going.  He knew it was a risk-- the husband could be coming home at any time.  Witnesses could pass by on the road.  So many things could go wrong.  But he would not abandon this dog, and he would not traumatize the dog further by forcing him into the car or moving too quickly.  

So he took a slow, careful approach.  

Treats and gentle coos eased the dog towards his car over the span of half an hour.  The dog was hesitant, frightened, but followed Will with hope in his eyes towards the vehicle.  Will gently cracked open the door to the backseat, and spent another eight minutes helping the Rottie in.  Eventually, Will got him settled into the backseat.  He paused to look at the dog, curled up and ready to find safety with him.  For the first time all day, Will’s eyes were gentle, loving. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” he said, before hopping into the driver’s seat.  “We’re going home.”

------

Hannibal ran his fingertips over the screen, reverent.  “ Ophelia , hmm?”  

His tongue darted out, wetting his top lip.  It was an unconscious gesture-- a rarity for him.

Sunlight streamed in through the open blinds, cascading in shades of watery gray across the room.  He was once again sat at his kitchen counter, enjoying a breakfast scramble and an americano plated delicately on blue china.  He’d forgotten about the meal completely, however, enraptured by the recent turn of events.  

Now that he’d left that message for his killer friend, Hannibal was more diligent than ever about checking tattle crime.  He kept hoping the scrappy thing would accept his invitation, would say hello back, but he’d never anticipated the response would be this . . . stunning.

And stunning it was.  

Frankly, there was no other word for it.

( Playful, captivating, enthralling, horrific, demure, unhinged, his brain rattled off unhelpfully)

Light gleamed off Hannibal’s dark irises, off the computer screen.  The world disappeared from around him.  He stared, awed.  If only I could have seen you do this.  I bet you were beautiful.

Freddy Lounds could do it no justice-- she had no idea what sort of creature she was covering.  Her article was exploitative as usual, written for shock value.  But this little creature-- this beautiful monster-- was not trying to shock anyone.  No, he was trying to please Hannibal.  And if the thought of that made the front of his pants tighten, just a bit-- well, no one would know but him.  

Hannibal shifted in his seat, tongue heavy in his mouth, eyes lidded.

He let out a long sigh.

The woman was displayed in the bathtub.  Fully clothed still, lounging, half-submerged.  Her arms were out, splayed to the side, expression vacant.   The monster had used fake flowers (presumably found in the house) and scattered them in the water.  To anyone else, it may have looked like a horrific distortion of a romantic bath.  

But Hannibal knew better.  

He knew what his monster was saying.  It was a depiction of Ophelia, the story of the woman driven mad with grief.  And the painting itself held its own turmoil: the model, a young woman sat in a cold tub for hours, almost given hypothermia by a painter who cared not for her well-being.

Hannibal’s lips parted.  He exhaled a warm tuft of air.

“Do you feel left out in the cold?”  He asked softly.  

He knew the feeling: to be so hopelessly different that no one could understand you.  But here was someone.  And this clever, precocious man had Hannibal’s full and undivided attention now.

“I can help you,” he whispered.  

Then, in Lithuanian: “ My little monster .”

------

Will named him Buddy.  

He kept him separate from his dogs, in a closed room, for a while, and introduced them one by one.  It would take time to acclimate Buddy, for the poor guy to adjust to his new, safe environment-- but then, with rescues, it always did.  Patience was essential.  Buddy would be okay, just like all of Will’s dogs before him.  

In the meantime, he set up a vet appointment, cleaned his house, and tried to keep himself busy while he waited.  

For Jack to find his body.

And for Jack to alert the Ripper.

The ball was out of his court now.  He’d done his part.  

He could only hope the Ripper liked what he saw, and would send him another message.

Chapter Text

The call came a day later.

Will pulled up to the crime scene prepared for once.  He wore a baby blue button down and black slacks, and even ran a brush through his hair.  In the back of his mind, he knew Doctor Lecter would be there, hovering, looming, all dark and relentlessly polite in his gaudy suits.  But Will would ignore him.  That’s all.  And his choice in attire had nothing to do with the doctor anyway-- he was simply a changed man.  A prepared man.  A professional.

Right?

Right.

Will shook his head, hopping out of his car and into the cool air.  Unlike in the city, there were no leaves to crunch underfoot, no slate gray liminal parking lot, no street lights and witnesses to duck past.  It was just rolling plains, open sky.  Will breathed deep as he jogged across the yard, past the stake where Buddy had been tied.  He made his way up to the house.  It looked different now.  Smaller.

People stared at him as he passed, whispering.  Or perhaps that was in his head.  Will paid them no mind.  They didn’t matter.  

None of them did.  

His legs carried him straight to the front door, which was propped open for personnel to pass through; everyone was in such a hurry, caught up in their own worlds, their own tasks, with heads and hands so burdened that they couldn’t be bothered to open and shut a fucking door on their own.  

Will dug his nails into his palm and lowered his shoulders.  They’d tensed up, coiling with the energy that echoed like a resounding memory, a ghost of the violence he’d committed here so recently.  Breathe.  In, out, pause.

He crossed the threshold, trying to plaster his face with the vague consternation that would be expected of him.  It wasn’t difficult.

Neither was finding Jack.

The detective stood proud and confounded as ever, planted in the kitchen with a frown split across his face deep enough to rival the Mariana Trench.  

He looked like a boulder of a man in his tan coat-- all broad and weathered.  Will drifted closer until he could hear the inhale-exhale of Jack’s weary breath.

The detective didn’t look up until Will was right beside him.  When he did, however, he gave a half-grin, almost surprised.  Will noted it-- the light in his eyes.  The arch of the left brow.  It was data, all of it.  

And he’d use it how he saw fit.

Jack, meanwhile, rose to his full height and turned his body to face Will.  Next came the customary pat on the shoulder; Will fought not to cringe.  Ignore it.  Just ignore it.   Breathe--

“So you’re cooperating now?”  Jack said, eyebrow still raised.

Will swallowed back bile and venom.  He made his smile bashful, hands folded before his chest.  

“What can I say?  Beverly convinced me,” he lied.

“Remind me to give that woman a raise,” Jack muttered under his breath.  

Lord knows she deserves it.

 “Anyway,” Jack continued.  “It’s good to have you on board.  I hope you and Doctor Lecter are getting along well.  He’s an asset to this team, too.”

Will did not roll his eyes, but it was a close call.  

“He’s on his way, I take it?”

Jack nodded absentmindedly.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, Jack making note of the weather, Will humming in response-- and then Jack was on the move, leading him through the initial wave of techs cloistered around the scene.  

Down the hallway, Jack said over his shoulder: “I thought this was the Ripper at first, but something doesn’t seem right.”

Astute, for you, Jack.

Will painted his face with a cautious, contemplative expression before responding.

“I heard there were . . . similarities.”

“And differences,” Jack’s lip almost quirked up at the corner.  

Will huffed out a laugh that was only partially disingenuous.  “Well,” he said.  “I’ll see what I can find.”

-----

A few hours earlier. . . 

Hannibal was still elated.  

The feeling was heady and thick, bubbling inside him.  He struggled to keep the smile off his face as his patients droned on and on about mundane problems and neuroses.  

His monster wanted to talk.  

His monster wanted to talk.  

Butterflies blossomed in his stomach.  Their delicate wings fluttered lightly, composing a pitter-pattering rhythm in the depths of his belly, bumping against his ribcage in a musical tap, tap, tap that challenged the neutral mask that masterfully veiled his true countenance.

He nodded with convincing sympathy and feigned interest at the patient who sat across from him-- some middle-aged travel agent with a recently occurring anxiety about airplanes.  The patient pontificated, now on a lackluster spiel about the symbolism of flight, and Hannibal leaned back in his chair, eyes glazed over.  Though he had expert control over his movements and tells, the urge to bounce his leg in anticipation was strong.  Hannibal held firm, body glued into a relaxed, easy, frozen pose.  But god, the excitement.  When was the last time he’d been this riveted, this curious, this . . . alive?

The phone call had come in the morning.

“Are you available for another consult, doctor?”

It was Crawford, of course.  Bless him, he sounded hopeful.

“For you, or for Mr. Graham?”  Hannibal had asked, tone amused.

An awkward chuckle.  

“He’ll be there, and we’ll . . . work on his manners.”

I should hope not-- he’s perfect the way he is.

“I have three appointments this morning, but my schedule is clear after 1 PM,” Hannibal had said instead.

“Perfect-- I’ll text you the address.”  

A pause on the line as Jack had presumably fumbled around, briefly distracted.

A moment later, there was a quick: “Thank you, Doctor,” and then the line went dead.

So, Hannibal seen the first two patients in a hurry, daydreaming through their appointments, offering placating comments and hollowly probing questions that came second nature to him at this point in his career.  

Which brought him to now.

He discretely checked his watch.  Ten minutes until he could head over to the crime scene.

Ten minutes until he could see firsthand what his monster had left for him.

Ten minutes.

Who knew such a short span of time could stretch for such an eternity?

But it passed.  Everything did eventually.

Now, Hannibal battled the urge to race straight to the scene.  He had a reputation to uphold, after all.  Instead of rushing over to the house all askew and breathless, he combed his hair carefully back into place and straightened his tie-- not that it had been crooked in the first place-- before adjusting his watch and sliding into his car.  His thoughts strayed immediately.  Hopefully William would be there.  Hannibal couldn’t wait to be greeted with his insights, snark, wisdom and dismay.  He wanted blue eyes and a ferocious smile.  He wanted sarcasm and sharp wit.  He wanted to see what he could get away with.  He wanted another perspective on what he was dealing with in this . . . courtship.  Because that’s what it was (or what Hannibal wanted-- needed-- it to be.  A courtship).

The GPS directed him down roads he’d never been down.  It grew increasingly rural.

Would William prefer it out here, away from the pulse of the city?

Did his little monster?

He arrived in a blink, his mind keeping him ceaselessly occupied through the commute.  He slid out and into the cool autumn afternoon.  Through the bodies, he made out Agent Katz, standing tall and fashionable as ever off to the side, bent over something with a pair of tweezers near a small group of techs-- presumably subordinates.  Agent Katz looked up suddenly, turning to him.  Her eyes narrowed.  Hannibal cocked his head to the side, waved in greeting.  She paused where she stood, casting him an unreadable look, before a small smirk formed on her face.  She waved back, waiting a moment too long.  

What on earth could that mean?

He had wanted to rush straight over to Graham and Jack, but this . . . seemed worth addressing.  So, Hannibal strode over, cautious to keep his natural predatory stalk out of his gait.  No point in frightening the woman.  A frightened agent was an alert agent, and he certainly didn’t want to alert this one.

He stopped a respectable distance away, making note of her artfully executed metallic eyeliner, and the gun at her hip.

“Agent Katz,” he nodded to her.  “Please to see you again.”

Her lips pulled up at the corner.  “Likewise.”  That tone-- full of secrets.  

Hannibal would pry them out of her eventually.

One of the agents kneeling with tweezers looked up to see what had made his boss stop working.  Beverly waved for him to continue.  She moved forward, slightly, nodding away towards the house.

“Graham is in there already with Jack,” she said.  

Yes.  Yes-- Hannibal breathed.  “I hear that is out of character for him.”

“You hear a lot of things about him?”  

This question was a challenge-- a test.

“Someone in Mr. Graham’s position is going to catch attention.  And with attention comes chatter.  Some good, some . . . less so.”  Hannibal inserted a thoughtful pause here before continuing.  “But I’d prefer to make an assessment myself.”  

Katz nodded.  “Collect your own data?”

Did I pass your test, Agent?

Hannibal glanced at her as she began to walk.  He trailed behind.  A beat of silence passed.  

“So,” Hannibal said.  “What do we know?”  

“Apparently, the woman had been a known animal abuser-- never been arrested, though.  The killer took the dog, we think.  Husband is in shambles.”

She’s a very loyal friend, isn’t she?  

This thought was immediately followed by: I wonder what her and Graham’s relationship is.  And yes--there was that possessive streak of his. 

Katz was talking again.  “. . .Anyway,” she was saying.  “You’re not here to talk about her criminal background, are you?”  

Hannibal pursed his lips.

“Graham’s inside already,” she said, tone smug.  “I bet he’s getting started right about now.  You can catch him if you run, but you’re not really dressed for that, are you?”

She cast a pointed look at his suit and loafers.  

“I best get going then,” Hannibal said.  “Wouldn’t want to miss the festivities.”

She waved towards the house, a clear dismissal.

Hannibal nodded a farewell, excitement bubbling in his lower stomach.  He kept his face neutral as he ducked past agents and into the house.  His strides were long, longer than he meant for them to be, as he navigated down short, narrow halls and found his way to the bathroom, pausing a few feet from the door.  

Jack Crawford stood outside, and beside him . . . good lord.

William was leaning against the wall in a baby blue shirt that matched his eyes.  He was avoiding eye contact with Crawford but there was something different about him, something more composed, something more . . . dangerous.  Hannibal froze where he stood, as if struck by lightning.  William froze as well.  Glanced up from under thick lashes.  Their eyes locked for a split second, then Will whipped his head down, ducking to avert his stare.  Hannibal licked his lips.  In that moment, that split second, he had seen something.  Something he almost recognized.

But it ducked away, hiding in shadows behind the gaze the little consultant was so careful to avert.  Jack, meanwhile, had noticed nothing awry.  But William kept his chin tucked down, and his posture stiffened imperceptibly.  The casualness his body projected was a mask-- and a convincing one.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Hannibal asked: What is he hiding?

He shook himself.  Eye candy or no, Hannibal would have to be careful.  Now more than ever, no matter how interesting he was, Will Graham could pose a threat.  To his own extracurriculars, and to his dialogue with the Martinsville Killer.  And he didn’t want that to be interrupted.  Not when things were just getting interesting.

Perhaps . . . too interesting.
He swallowed thickly around his thoughts.  Before he could announce his presence, Jack interrupted the moment.  It shattered in mirror-shards at their feet, any suspense or tension broken irreparably.

“Doctor Lecter!”  The detective’s voice was strong, gravely, like bedrock.  

“Agent Crawford,” he answered with a respectful nod.  “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Please, call me Jack.  And not at all.  We were expecting you.”  With this, Jack cast a warning glance at Will.  Interesting.

Will’s lips quivered at the corners, into something between a smirk and a grimace.  Hannibal stared, eyes lidded.

“Yes,” he said, stepping forward.  “Hello, Will.”

He did not offer his hand this time.  Just stood closer, seeing what he could get away with.  Will inched back into the wall slightly, as if it would give way behind him.

“Doctor,” Will said in a clipped greeting.  His voice was strained.

Hannibal lingered for a moment there before leaning back slightly, giving Will his space again.  “I’ve not missed anything important have I?”

“Define important,” Will said, still not allowing his eyes to lock with Hannibal’s again.

Jack sighed.  “We were just getting started, Doctor.”

“Oh, good.”

Will spoke again, tone flat.  “The body is in the bathtub still.  It’s getting . . . soggy.”

A laugh almost forced its way past Hannibal’s lips.  He kept them tightly sealed, chest shaking a bit from the effort.  His eyes crinkled.   

And maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he saw a little twinkle in William’s gaze as well, where it was centered so firmly on the floor.  

Hannibal swallowed thickly.  “Beverly mentioned that there was a missing dog?” 

“Yeah,” Jack said.  “They had a Rottweiler, but it’s gone now.  Either the killer cut it loose or took it-- the dog wasn’t microchipped though so even if it turns up somewhere, we won’t know.”

Will shifted on his feet.  Hannibal stared at him out of the corners of his eyes.  

“The killer kept the dog,” Will said.  There was no uncertainty in his voice.

Hannibal cocked his head.  “A trophy?”  

“No!  No,” Will ran a hand through his hair, those dark curls, and Hannibal’s fingers twitched of their own volition, involuntary, traitorous.  Completely oblivious, Will took a breath.  “He’s taking care of the dog.  He’s his now.  The old owners didn’t take good care of him, so the killer . . .  intervened.  To do a better job.”

“Hm. . . A killer who cares?”   

“He has a--” Will paused here, and Hannibal could see him rolling the words over on his tongue once before releasing them: “a particular sense of justice.  His own pastiche of right and wrong.  He’s treating everyone how they deserve to be treated.”

Jack scowled.  

“This woman deserved to be slaughtered in her own home?”

“Maybe she did.  The killer certainly thinks so.”

William!  Hannibal gaped, pulse skipping a beat, then two.  He once again stifled laughter, feeling, sensing, watching Jack’s energy harden and simmer, not evening having to look over to see the detective’s countenance curl in disgust.  Before Jack could let lose the reprimand that was surely coiling up inside him, Hannibal stepped forward, shifting his body ever-so-slightly between his two compatriots.  This time, William did not lean backwards.  Hannibal smiled, polite, clinical, amicable, and set his voice into a low and soothing tone he used for disgruntled patients.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “If that’s what you can tell from the dog, I want to hear what you have to say about the body.”

Will turned his chin up at Hannibal, cerulean eyes impossibly stormy.  They locked on Hannibal’s for a breath.  The two men stared, a golden thread extending like gossamer between them, hovering in the air, shaking with each exhalation, all tensile strength and fragility-- then Jack sighed, and the thread snapped, dangled in the air before falling away to disappear in the soft breeze of their breath.  Will turned his head sharply, as if shaking errant thoughts away, and Hannibal felt a tiny piece of his heart break off.  He blinked it away.  

Clinical.  

Distant.  

Amicable.  

Will nodded towards the bathroom.  

“You know where to find me,” he said, and then stepped inside and closed the door. 

Will emerged a little more composed than when he’d entered.

His shirt front was smoothed, his face was relaxed, and his shoulders were low.

A single thought struck Hannibal:

He is not as shaken as he was at the last crime scene.

Something about this one is less shocking to him than the one that Hanibal had left.  

What could that mean?

“Let us have it,” Jack said flatly.

Will glanced between the two men, did not make to move forward from where he lingered in the doorway.  The fidgety consultant whetted his lips quickly before speaking.

“It’s not the Ripper.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Pinky promise?”  Hannibal asks.  Will jolted, just slightly, and a wry smile split his face.  It vanished as quickly as it appeared, like a blink of light from a firefly in the summer dusk.

“Pinky promise,” Will echoed back.  He folded his arms across his chest.  “It’s the Martinsville killer.”

So sharp, Hannibal mused.  You really are a dangerous little thing, aren’t you?  

“Dammit!”  Jack’s exclamation grated on Hannibal’s ears.  The detective ran a hand over his head.  “First he went after a known wife beater. . .”

Will nodded.  “Then an animal abuser.  Lounds is going to have a field day with this guy.”

“I can see the headlines now,” Jack muttered.  

“Psycho killer cleans the streets-- but at what cost?”

Jack nodded, rolled his eyes.  “Sounds about right.”

Silence descended, covering the unlikely trio like a coat of dust that wouldn’t be out of place at all in the filthy hallway.

Hannibal allowed it to linger there for another drawn-out moment before he cocked his head, pasted on a thoughtful, cautiously-concerned expression he usually reserved for patients or consults.  

“Perhaps,” he said, “we should allow Ms. Lounds to write what she pleases.”

Jack frowned.  “You think it will draw this fucker out?”

“I don’t think a tabloid spotlight is gonna make this guy reckless,” Will said.  

“What do you think it will make him?” Hannibal asked.

Will paused, took a breath.  

“Bored.”

With that, the twitchy little man nodded once to Jack, then walked away, off down the hall, and out the front door, leaving Hannibal’s mouth feeling a bit dry.

Hannibal found his body rushing after Will before he even ordered it to.

Jack was left at the scene, alone-- surely he would find something to do.  

Out in the open hair, Hannibal used his long legs to catch up to Will, who glanced back with a look of genuine surprise.  Then came a flash of irritation, no intent to mask it evident.  But nevertheless, Will slowed his stride, allowing Hannibal to catch up and fall into pace with him.  

Closer now, straying even nearer than he’d been in the hall, Hannibal caught a whiff of laundry detergent, plentiful dog hair, and an atrocious aftershave.  He stored that combination of scents in a little bottle where it would be tucked onto a shelf in the library of his mind.  

He noticed that, while they’d been inside, the sun had come out from behind the clouds.  It glowed more silver than gold; the light was weak, watered-down.

“What do you think of this, then?”  Hannibal asked.

Will turned to him, gaze wary.  “How do you mean?”

Hannibal paused, then said, “The killer, what sort of man do you think he is?”

Will sighed.  “I think,” he said, “That he’s not too big on people.”

No, he’s doesn’t possess the most favorable view of humanity, does he?

Hannibal looked down at Will, who’s pace had slowed to a more leisurely one as they surveyed the yard, out of earshot of everyone else now.  

I know someone else like that, don’t I?

Hannibal smiled.

“I suppose that’s something the two of you share in common.”

Will faltered, just briefly.  

Interesting.

“What are you insinuating?”  The tone was cutting, defensive.  A man used to being accused of the worst, then.  An outcast.  Well, Hannibal had already known that.  Nevertheless-- it was time to backtrack.  He didn’t exactly wish to spear himself on this particular porcupine’s quills.

“Just that someone with your abilities is prone to seeing the worst in people.”

“And you?”  Will probed.  “What do you see?”

Hannibal nearly tripped, caught off guard.  He paused, staring down at the profiler whose own eyes were locked firmly, faux-casually at the ground, gaze averting prying eyes and vulnerability.  Hannibal took the opportunity to scan the elegant, scruffy planes of Will’s face, the tender and rugged curl of his hair.  

What do I see?  

What do you want me to see?  

What are you hiding from me?

Hannibal looked at the way the watery sunlight glanced off the blue of Will’s irises.  He smiled.

“I see . . . an open door.”

“And behind it?”  A wavering uncertainty there?  

“Something you or I has never quite encountered before, I suspect.”

At that, Will smiled too.

The smile struck him, a jolt down his spine.  Hannibal was once again reminded of a lightning bolt.  And this lightning cleared away any clouds in his mind in an crisp, resounding flash. 

Yes.

Now he understood.

Hannibal knew precisely what he had to do.

----

Hannibal killed her slowly.

He’d been keeping her business card for some time, waiting for the right dinner party.  

And the time for that dinner party was now. 

With a scalpel, he slit her throat, deep and clean, controlled, slow.  

So slow.  

He watched the flesh split open like a seam, a zipper.  Watched her neck open up to the world, blood spilling out as she spluttered helplessly in his arms.

He killed her with focus.  He killed her with joy.

She would serve her purpose.  

His purpose.

She would be his letter.  

His grand gesture.

His open door.

Chapter Text

Hannibal left her lounging in an armchair by the fireplace.  Her arms were splayed just so , her chin propped, and her blouse front soaked through with blood that had already begun to grow tacky in the night air.  If one only saw her silhouette in the darkness, they may think she’d fallen asleep reading.  

The terrific nonchalance of the scene would, hopefully, distract certain FBI agents from the significance of a tiny detail that he would leave-- one he knew Will Graham, and, hopefully, the Martinsville killer would find.

Both men needed to see it.  

Hannibal’s efforts hinged on their mutual discovery.

Will was hiding darkness.  That much was certain.  There was something deep and dark lurking within him and Hannibal would figure out what it was-- in due time.  He would coax it out, nurture it, lure it into the light.  This detail, and what he did, or didn’t do, with it, would be a litmus test.  A canary in a coal mine.  A gentle shove into the deep end of the pool.  It was necessary.  

For Hannibal’s own curiosity, and . . . 

Because he needed to see what he could get away with.

As for the Martinsville killer . . . this tiny detail was a gift, a request, and, like with William, a test.  But the nature of the Matinsville killer’s test was a touch different.  Hannibal was not pushing boundaries or peeling back layers of carefully crafted deception and masks.  No-- rather, it was a test in the sense that Hannibal was beginning to suspect that his little monster had inserted himself into the investigation somehow.  The Martinsville killer was likely getting his hands on the police reports or acquiring insider information one way or another.  Hannibal needed to see just how involved his monster could be-- how deep he could worm himself in without getting caught.  

So, Hannibal placed his cards carefully, painstakingly.  His token, tucked away in the background of another crime scene, would hopefully be meaningful only to the right people-- if those people were cunning enough to find it.  

He prayed they were.  

They had to be. After all, this entire endeavor was a risk.  So much could go wrong.  So much was being left to chance, to the skills of a select few, and to the stupidity of the rest.

Yet this risk was one he had to take.

He couldn’t stop himself.

Not when he’d been so bored for so long.

Hannibal’s skin crawled with the need for excitement, for something to study, to play with. And here, fallen straight into his lap, was the opportunity of a lifetime. The prospect was too tantilizing to pass up. And even more tantalizing was the thought of possibilities previously unimagined, of open doors, as he’d discussed with dear Will.  The more twists and turns and knots in his stomach that this journey brought him, the more Hannibal longed to kick down any remaining barriers, to stalk straight through the broken shards of wood hanging on the door frame, and to seize whatever lay behind it.

Hannibal was not a weak man.

He was patient.

He was willful.

He was disciplined.

But now he felt weak-- he felt weak because he needed.

He needed to hear from his monster directly.  No more vague gestures and distant, abstract, violent courting.

No.

He needed words.

He needed words to travel through their shared doorway, needed to hear the voice of whoever lay behind it.  In his minds eye, he heard a soft voice, masculine, a little rough around the edges, twisted with quiet humor and a beautiful, musical cynicism.  And behind the voice, a shadow figure, the figure of the Martinsville killer, lingering the doorframe, backlit by a low glow, radiating around him like a distorted halo, mist pooling at his feet, a little angel, a demon, a fallen star.  

In this vision, this image that haunted him now day and night, every once and a while, the light would bounce just right and cross in a thin streak across the shadow figure’s face revealing keen, bright, piercing eyes in a devastating shade of stormy blue.

And if that shade influenced his choice in flowers, well then, who was to know?

Hannibal shook himself.  

He’d been here too long, ruminating, fussing about in this murder scene in the dead of night.  He moved to the edge of the room and took it all in.  Everything was in its place-- he’d checked and double-checked.  He’d left his little detail folded carefully away where it would wait to be found.  The flowers were tucked into a vase on the table.  The body was positioned just so .  

Hannibal nodded to himself. 

Yes, it was perfect.  It said precisely what he needed it to say. 

Composition complete, he loosened the zipper at the throat of his murder suit and headed out the door to venture home for the evening.  

His work was done.  

Another masterpiece.

-----

Another fucking obnoxious suit.  

Peacocking, Doctor Lecter?  

For who?

It was, blessedly-- for the remnants of Will’s dignity--, not the first thing he noticed at the scene.  No, before he took in the stretch of scarlet fabric across the psychiatrist’s chest, and the way the black and silver striped suit jacket emphasized the broad expanse of his shoulders, Will saw violence.

He felt it in the air, could see it as an amorphous energy outside the house.

The sun was still rising, dawning a new day on this landscape of death. Ochre and honey faded up into purple, then a faint periwinkle color that, alongside the relentless autumnal breeze, ushered in the daytime and put the night to rest. Will breathed in the air intentionally, feeling it cool the fire in his ribcage. 

Around him, extravagant suburban homes with manicured lawns and newly painted mailboxes stretched out in a long, hollow line that made his skin itch.  They all looked the same.  He’d surely get lost wandering around here, with no discernable landmarks.

But the killer had known exactly where he was going.

Will looked up at the house.

The house.

It was a typical upper-middle class Falls Church residence.  Beige siding.  New roof.  Red SUV parked in the driveway.   Curtains drawn.  

Will closed his eyes.  A beat passed.  He opened them.

Blood spilled out the front door in a little stream, down the front steps, down the driveway, under the tires of the car, and pooled in the quiet suburban street.  It glowed faintly in the morning light, color just a bit off, all burgundy and slick.  

See?  That damn voice again.

See?

The voice was not Hobbes’.  Yet it was familiar.

Will closed his eyes.  

When he opened them again this time, he was greeted with the sight of Doctor Lecter.  In his suit.  At 6:50 AM.  

Did the man sleep in those?

The mental image of the psychiatrist curling into bed at the end of a long day, still dressed in attire fitted for a European ball, was more than Will was willing to deal with.  He rubbed his temples, nearly dislodging his glasses.  

Doctor Lecter glanced around, finally finding him.  Their eyes caught for a breath too long, then the psychiatrist was striding right up to Will.  He crossed the distance quickly, halting suddenly, just a little too close, skirting within the confines of Will’s space bubble.  So near, Will could smell his cologne-- amber, musky, expensive.  The doctor’s hair was neatly combed.  Will frowned.

“Three crime scenes in a row.  And here I heard you were uncooperative.”  He sent Will a playful smile, one just in the eyes.

Will felt his breath stutter in his chest.  Damn him .

“You hear a lot of things about me?”

“You’re the talk of the town.”

“A lot of grotesque things are popular-- Lounds is proof of that.”

Lecter cocked his head, expression unreadable.  A shadow passed behind his eyes-- or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“You think yourself grotesque?”

Will shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, frowned.  “What I do is,” he said.  But even to him, it sounded like something he’d just been repeating from memory-- lines in a bad play, one who’s actors had been in the game too long, growing bored, inspiration seeping out of them with each recitation, each gesture to the crowd.  And here, under Lecter’s piercing stare, he worried it was transparent.

He felt transparent.

Will swallowed.  He can’t know.  

He can’t know.

And even if he did, he couldn’t prove it.

You’re just a weird guy, that’s all.  That’s all he sees.  A weird guy. A freak to study.

For once, the thought was a relief.

Lecter was talking again, though.

“I thought you and Ms. Katz had an arrangement?”

“We did.  But that was then.”

A furrowed brow.  Will elaborated.  “I have an investment in the case now.”  

An understatement.

“Getting personal about your work?”  The question was light-- a jab.  Will almost smiled-- almost.  He lifted his chin instead, and posed a question in return.  

“Don’t we all?”

Hannibal hummed, leaned forward just slightly.  “For those of us who view work as an extension of ourselves.”

“Do you?”

“Hm?”

The question left Will’s mouth before he could stop himself.

“Do you view your work as an extension of yourself?”
“Certainly.  As a psychiatrist, it’s hard not too.  But,” he said.  “It’s important to maintain some separation of the self.  To extend and extend would lead one down a path of madness.”

“The world is already drowning in madness, Doctor.”

“And do you wish to pull it back to shore, or shove its head further beneath the waves?”

There was something underlying his words, his tone, that tingled the back of Will’s brain.  He couldn’t quite place the familiarity it struck, the cord.  

Perhaps there was more to Lecter than he thought.  

He recalled his conversation with Bev when they’d gotten coffee.  “I don’t find him that interesting,” Will had said.  And, with all the certainty in the world, she’d responded: “But you will.”

Will thought of those words, now, as he avoided Lecter’s honeyed eyes that seemed to peel away the layers of his flesh.  “ But you will.”

And what else had she said that day?  “I have a hunch that he’s hiding something.  There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

So it seemed.  So it seemed.

Will found himself answering the question honestly, then.

“What I wish . . . is a matter of personal conflict for me, Doctor Lecter” he said.  “Right now, I’m taking it day by day.”

“Please,” Lecter said.  “Call me Hannibal.”

Will looked up at him then, noting the way that, even though the doctor was only a few inches taller than him, he seemed to loom, lit from behind by the gold and silver dawn.

“Hannibal,” he said, feeling the word out in his mouth, experiencing the shape of it.

And at that, a shadow did pass over his eyes.  Will couldn’t have been mistaken.  He opened his mouth again to say-- something, anything-- but then there was a heart-jolting honk of a horn as Beverly pulled in nearby in her blue Honda Accord.  She parked, hopped out, and jogged over to them before either man could fully react.  Then, without preamble, Bev shoved a coffee in Will’s hands. 

The atmosphere shattered.  Will staunchly studied its broken-glass carcass, scattered across the pavement, and was almost grateful.

“Hey guys,” Bev said, voice nonchalant.  

The knowing glance she directed at Will, however, told him all he needed to know about how his conversation with Hannibal had appeared to onlookers.

Will greeted her with a weak smile.

Hannibal nodded to her respectfully.  “Agent,” he said, voice sending a cascade of unwelcome shivers down Will’s spine.

Bev flashed him her signature grin-- just a little crooked, a glimpse of teeth, full charm.  Beside her, Will took a sip of the coffee; the moment the bitter caffeine hit his tastebuds, he groaned.  Bev just laughed.

“Want me to leave you alone with that?”  She asked.

Will shook his head.  “It’s fucking early.”

Hannibal observed the two-- Will could feel his eyes on him, and the beast inside him curled uncomfortably, shying away from the peering, the psychiatric examination.

“No coffee for me?”  Hannibal said, voice light, jesting.  “How rude.” 

Bev flipped her ponytail over her shoulder carelessly.  “Sorry, regulars only,” she shot back.  “But, if you’re going to be a fixture on our team, I can bring you some.  Otherwise--”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit--   Will had let his guard down too much, hadn’t told Bev he had no intention of pursuing Hannibal, and now he should have known she’d want to interfere after seeing the two of them leaning all close to each other and --

Bev continued: “--you’ll just have to get some with Will this afternoon.”

Yep.

There it was.

Hannibal’s grin was almost predatory.

“Perhaps I will.”

…What?

Beside him, Bev smirked.  Will didn’t even have time to process, mind completely blank and face slack, ears ringing and stuffed with cotton.  When he tuned back in, Hannibal was watching him out of the corners of his eyes, and Beverly had switched gears, talking about the karaoke bar she went to in Baltimore and the friends she made there.  

“But anyway,” she was saying.  “I have a feeling that’s not your scene.”

She took a breath.  “This, however . . .”

She nodded her head over at the house.

“Ah,” Hannibal hummed.  “Yes,” he began to say.

“I should, you know, go do my job.”  Will said in a hurry, cutting him off.

“On that note.”  He added, awkwardly, shuffling on his feet.

Beverly quirked her brow at him, clearly suspicious.  But she took a step back, waved him on.

“Go forth and conquer, Graham.”

Will gave her a crooked, half-hearted smile, then turned sharply on his heel, almost stumbling as he moved up the driveway.  Hannibal followed closely behind.  

Shake it off, Graham, he told himself.  Ignore him.  He’s not what you’re here for.

But, that didn’t feel entirely true.  Will couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

The body was up a flight of stairs and past a roomy landing.  Still reeling, Will paused outside the door, which had been left slightly ajar.  He half-turned to Hannibal, who lingered behind him like a shadow.  

“If you don’t mind,” Will said, taking a step back.  

Lecter looked between Will and the door.

“Ah,” he hummed in acknowledgment.  “Yes, of course.”  

Lecter waved a hand for Will to go ahead, stepping aside even though he was not in Will’s way.  Will resisted the urge to shoot darting glances back at Lecter as he slipped in to view the awaiting scene in private.

He closed the door behind himself, leaned his forehead against it, took a breath.

In, out, pause.

Will felt the spongy carpet settle beneath his shoes.  

In, out, pause.

Another moment, just one more, and then he rose, turning to face the corpse that had been waiting so patiently for him.

The corpse wasn’t the only one waiting.

The Ripper was here.

Will felt it in his bones, could feel the looming presence behind him like an extra shadow.

The Ripper had been here.  Not long ago, either.  

His latest victim was left lounging casually in a tastefully decorated office, reclined in a chair before a faux fireplace.  On the table beside her, neatly stacked papers, a mason jar of pens, and an ornate, European-looking vase that was nearly overflowing with blue flowers.  It appeared out of place in the room.  Will looked back at the woman.

“These aren’t your flowers, are they?”  His voice was a whisper.

He drifted closer to the table, steps silent.

Irises, Forget-Me-Nots . . . 

Will raised a trembling hand, ghosting over a petal.

This was . . . unexpected.  Will couldn’t tell if he was grinning, or if he was a beat away from heart failure.  He steadied himself, a hand planted on the table now, as his head spun faintly.  He cast a glance over his shoulder, looking back to the middle-aged woman, who looked considerably calmer than he felt at the moment.

The icy pallor of her flesh reminded Will why he was here.  He stood upright, taking a deep inhalation that puffed out his chest.  

You didn’t just come here to leave flowers.  You came here to leave a message.

The corpse here was a bottle, in that sense, with the Ripper’s message folded carefully inside and cast off towards Will’s shore.  As always, it was planned out to the finest detail, carefully controlled, orchestrated with mastery.  There had been no broken windows, broken locks.  No signs of forced entry.  No signs of struggle.  

You didn’t have to fight to get in, did you?

You knew her.  Or, she knew of you.  Had you interacted before?  Were you acquaintences?  Coworkers?  How long ago did your paths cross?  For how long had you dreamed of killing her?

Will looked at the stiffened limbs, the recently-ironed fabric of the corpse’s expensive clothing.

You loathed her.

No-- you found her . . . distasteful.

But, you’ll make her taste better soon, won’t you?

He blinked, involuntary, hands twitching.  

He remembered that morning, that morning that felt like lifetimes ago now, waking up from a series of dreams, images, visions on the couch, and knowing, feeling, understanding:

You’re eating them.

There would be organs missing.  A kidney, perhaps?

You took what you wanted.  But you’re also giving a gift, aren’t you?

The blood, the throat parted, the flesh curled back to expose ligaments and tendons.  Will was familiar with gore.  The gore wasn’t why his stomach was in knots, now.  

No.

You’ve . . . left something here.  You’ve left something here for me to find.  Not just the flowers.

Will glanced around the room, licked his lips.  

In, out, pause.  

Breathe.  Fucking breathe.

His chest was tight.  Was the feeling pleasant or painful?

Was there a difference anymore?

The orbit of his gaze returned to the corpse.  Lounging.  Casual.  Like she’d be ready to crack open a newspaper with a cup of coffee this fine morning.

See?   The voice crooned in his ear.  It was not Hobbs.

Seeeeeeee?

Ready to crack open a newspaper . . . . 

A newspaper.

See?

Yes.

Will saw.

Mindful of how long he’d been in here alone already, he moved quick.  

Will scanned the space with a profiler’s scrutiny and moved about quietly, swiftly, covering the square footage in a methodical sweep that was nearly reminiscent of his days as a beat cop.  Now all he needed was a Glock 22 and a radio.  His fingers twitched, almost moving to his hip.  

He caught his reflection in the window and saw that his pupils were blown.  Breathe, Graham.

Will could almost feel Lecter’s breath down his neck through the door that separated them.  He could hear the techs and cops shuffling about down the hall, knew that more were waiting outside.  

Where had the Ripper left it?  Where was it?

Not on the mantel.  Not on the windowsill.  Not on the bookshelf.  He looked back to the corpse, as if she’d tell him.  Maybe she would.

Will almost laughed.

Outside, through the low ringing in his ears, over the beating of his heart, he could hear low chatter.  People buzzed about the house; many, surely, waiting for him to be done in here.   

Will stopped moving.  He closed his eyes, as if in prayer.  What was your design? 

It would be somewhere where it wouldn’t seem out of place, where it wouldn’t have unnecessary attention drawn to it.  

Will’s body carried him back over to the table.  He looked at the vase, the flowers.  His gaze drifted down.  He sank to his knees, crawled half-under the table, careful not to bump his head or make a sound.  

Will looked up at the underside of the table top. 

He blinked.

Well.

There it was.

A newspaper, taped carefully, waiting.

Hands almost shaking, Will peeled it off the table and rose to his feet.  He flipped through the thin pages, heart pounding in his ears, unsure what he was looking for-- but then, he found it.  In the margins of the classifieds section, a small drawing.  Fine lines, black ink, careful strokes marking out a beautiful little vase of flowers sat atop a table.  

“Of course you can draw,” Will muttered with a faint smile.  His mental picture of the Ripper was expanding, growing clearer by the minute.  It was like wiping the condensation-fogged glass of the bathroom mirror after taking a hot shower.  Beyond the blur, there stood the outline of a tall man, a regal man, one confident but not overly talkative.  Put together, professional.  Likely with medical experience, a background in the arts, some measure of wealth, and a high degree of dignity.  

And here, with a bouquet and a drawing in the classifieds, this man was telling Will that he views him as an equal.  A conversational companion.  And this-- this was a request.  An assertive one.  Will bit his lip.  It was, in a way, not unlike someone walking up to him in a bar and asking flat-out for his number.  

The Ripper wanted more than crime scene communication.

He wanted Will to open a dialogue. 

An actual, honest-to-God written conversation.

Serial killer to serial killer.

The Ripper wanted . . . 

Fuck.

Will could have laughed at the absurdity of the situation.  For a split second, he almost wished he could tell Bev.

In the last few weeks, he’d gone from a hopeless wreck, to here, to now.

Standing in a crime scene, gingerly cradling the classifieds, knowing, realizing, processing . . . 

That the Chesapeake-fucking-Ripper wanted to be his pen pal.

Was he shaking?

He felt like he was shaking.

Will was, once again, grateful that everyone already thought he was a weirdo.

He couldn’t take the newspaper-- that was too much of a risk, on the off chance that some else had peaked under the table before him, and would notice it missing.  So, reluctantly, he left empty handed, out into the hall, in a daze.

Will gave a spiel to Jack briefly, could barely remember what he said even as he was saying it, and felt Hannibal’s searing gaze on him casting prickles down the back of his neck.

Careful, careful.

Will ignored him.  

He took off outside to get some air as quickly as he could.  The cool wind was a relief, whipping him in the face and knocking his hair back.  Goosebumps prickled along his arms, which were clad only in a thin shirt today, not quite adequate for the changing weather.

Hannibal chased after him again.  Of course.

What the fuck is his deal?

“You should have worn a coat,” Hannibal said, an offering.

“Wasn’t high on my list of priorities this morning when I got a call about another gruesome murder,” Will said, brushing him off.

Hannibal paused.  

“About earlier,” the psychiatrist said.  

Will raised a skeptical eyebrow.

It seemed like there was more Hanibal wanted to say to him, like there were words dancing on the tip of his tongue, and maybe Will would have heard him out this morning, but now .  . . now there was too much to think about.  He couldn’t juggle this all.  He just wanted to get him and think.  Think about his next move.

“Beverly had suggested that we get coffee--”

Before Hannibal could finish his sentence, a shrill, grating female voice interrupted.

“Mr. Graham!  Mr. Graham!”  

Will groaned.  There had already been too much excitement today.

“Will Graham!  Can I get a comment?”

It was a demand, not a question.

Lounds.  Freddie Lounds.  

Of course she was here.

She was hopping in her leather boots to try to see past a tall cop doing his best to block her.  The perimeter of yellow police tape was a flimsy barrier. Will thought for a moment of her running towards him with her camera, scarlet mane billowing behind her and face plastered in a serious-concerned frown that was more satirical than sincere. She would approach, heels clacking on the pavement, thin legs sweeping her towards him, and as soon as she got close, Will would reach out like a snake, sharp and fast and ruthless, grab her by the neck and squeeze-- 

“She certainly seems enthused about her job,” Hannibal said at his shoulder.

Will jolted.  

When had the psychiatrist stepped so close?  

And, more importantly, when had Will allowed it?  He couldn’t recall the last time he’d let anyone get so near without raising his hackles.

Only a few inches separated them.  Will did not revel in the heat of proximity.  He was just cold, that was all.  He should have worn a coat.

“What?”  

Hannibal glanced down at him, raised a pale eyebrow.  “Mind wandering, William?”

Will scowled.  Hannibal’s eyes twinkled. Will scowled harder.

“Will Graham!”  Lounds was shouting.  “Is it the Ripper?”

Will took a step back, knees just a bit wobbly.  

“I should get going,” he said.  “Before she breaks past that cop and tries to maim me with her camera.”

They both looked over to Lounds and saw her trying to duck past the cop.  He was shuffling back and forth, attempting to stop her from dodging.  She waved her camera in a wide arc.

“I promise I would protect you from that insufferably rude woman,” Hannibal said.  “And her camera.”

It should have been a joke, but something underlying that tone was a bit too serious for Will’s comfort.  He swallowed thickly.  

The sun was fully risen now and the sky was a wash of forget-me-not blue.  Will avoided those piercing honeyed eyes, avoided the relentless flashing of the camera, avoided the palpitating of his heart.

Will did the only thing he could.  

He hurried off to his car without another word.

Chapter Text

Thirteen and a half hours later . . . 

The sky was clear that night.  

Skin prickling and blood thrumming, Will settled into the worn rocking chair on his front porch, the wooden slats creaking softly beneath him. They day had passed in a frenetic haze since the morning, and now, autumn had draped the world in a quilt of crisp leaves and cool air, their scent mingling with the faint trace of wood smoke from some distant neighbor’s fire. It soothed the frayed, excited edges of his nerves.  He exhaled deeply, back aching.  Above, the sky was lit in a hazy blueprint of scattered stars, largely undimmed by city lights.

It was the first cloudless night in weeks.

Buddy and Winston lay sprawled at his feet.  Will looked at the pair, their fuzzy coats glossy in the night.  They had formed a close bond quickly, Buddy beginning to mimic Winston’s routines as he adjusted to his new, kinder life.  Now, the Rottweiler’s favorite pastime mirrored Winston’s: napping beside Will whenever possible.  Will smiled.  

He took a long draw from the tumbler of whiskey he’d brought out with him.  Lord knew he needed it.  

Other than the whisper of the wind, his dogs’ rhythmic breathing was the only sound that punctuated the thick veil of the night’s silence. The air was pleasantly cool, a contrast to the burn of alcohol on his tongue.  As he leaned back, the blurred chaos of the day seemed to filter down into his bones, like sand and silt drifting down in still waters. His eyes grew heavy.  Will took another sip of his drink.  

The porch light cast a soft glow around him, its halo spilling over the yard and blending into the darkened edges of the world. He sighed deeply, ran a hand over his jaw as his eyelids lowered.  

As his vision dimmed, he saw the outline of a tall figure, hair slicked back with care.  He saw a bucket of blood.  A paintbrush.  A scalpel.  

Will yawned.

With each breath, his body grew heavier in the chair, until the line between wakefulness and sleep grew faint.  What had Hannibal said, crime scenes ago?

“A conversation between artists?” 

It stuck out to Will, raised the hairs on the back of his neck.  At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it.  But it was a pointed comment, masked in a musing tone. 

And there was Will’s own voice, calling out to him in the recesses of his mind: The Ripper is a patron of the arts.  He’s admiring art-- what he considers to be art.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal-in-his-mind chimed in, “he’s leaving a review of a new exhibition.” 

Was Will being invited to create an exhibition?  

Another yawn came, and Will set his glass down, nearly empty.

He had a sinking feeling that the good doctor knew more than he was letting on.

Will would watch him.  Would watch himself.  

No matter what he decided to do next, he couldn’t let his guard down. 

He never could.

Under the vast, clear sky, Will’s weariness carried his anxious thoughts like the autumn leaves swirling around the porch. He surrendered to it, sinking into a slumber, the soft cadence of his dogs' snoring a single solace as the night swallowed him. 

The night spat him out.

Will blinked.  

In the low, hazy light, it took a breath too long to begin to make out the shapes around him.  The wobbly, knobbed outlines of trees took shape before him, around him, on all sides.  Above, far away, stars glittered brilliantly.  Their images reflected on the still water that lapped at Will’s calves, casting a thick, incandescent sheen that almost seemed alive.

He curled his toes in the cool, spongy layer of mud below.  The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rot, mingled with the faint, sweet aroma of wild honeysuckle. The only sounds were the occasional rustle of foliage, the lapping of low waves against an invisible shore.  

It was the same swamp.  Extending impossibly on all sides, an endless expanse of knotted mangrove trees, dying algae, and tall reeds poking out from dark water that cooled his calves and smelled of salt.  Will peered through it all, through the night, and, this time, worried not about finding direction towards land. 

The river stretched out before him, a serpentine ribbon winding through the dense thicket. Will’s heart beat with the familiar cocktail of anticipation and restlessness that had characterized his last few months. He waded deeper into the water, feeling it rise up to meet his knees. 

As he ventured further in, a faint chill prickled up his spine. Will ignored it.  He was here, in the water, where he was meant to be right now.  

When was the last time I went fishing?

The thought struck him randomly, almost comically, but with it came a deep longing.  As if on que, (or perhaps it really was-- and perhaps his own mind was finally obeying him for once) a rod appeared in his hand.  Solid but light in his hands, it was a beautiful tool.  He found the fishing line already tied, ready for him.  As if it had been waiting.

Will ignored the chill of the water seeping up to his thighs.

He ignored the feeling that there was someone watching him.  

He cast his line with practiced ease, the lure cutting through the air before splashing down into the water with a delicate plop. He watched the ripples expand outward, the circle of disturbance slowly fading as the water settled once more. He cast again, finding a rhythm.  The moon rose above him, sending streaks of silver light that danced across the water’s surface. 

Fishing had always been a form of meditation for Will, a way to find some semblance of stillness amid the chaos of his thoughts. But tonight, even the rhythmic cast and retrieve of the line felt hollow. The swamp’s relentless stillness was almost oppressive, amplifying the anxiety of the crossroads he stood at in the waking world. The emptiness here echoed his own internal disquiet.

Will cast his line again.

Nothing bit.

The back of his neck tingled, hairs rising.

Will sighed, bone-weary, and cast again.

His thoughts wandered to his life back in Wolftrap—a life of routine and predictability. He had friends, or at least acquaintances and Bev, but there was a distance he couldn’t quite bridge. He was an eternal outsider, a visitor in his own life. Until Him. Until the Ripper.  There was a constant, gnawing feeling that he didn’t quite fit anywhere, that he was always on the periphery of something more meaningful.  And now, here, that something meaningful danced dangerously before him, inviting, taunting, haunting. 

Will didn’t feel ready. 

The river grew darker, and the stars punctured the twilight sky. 

If he ran forward with this insanity, would he be chasing a phantom? Was the companionship the Ripper held out to him now just a mirage that would always remain out of reach?

What if Will reached out and found that mirage to be solid?

What if that mirage was real?  

A tug on the line jolted him from his reverie. Will pulled it in with practiced skill, feeling the weight of the catch. It was heavy.

Very heavy.

Will pulled hard, leaning back and shifting his center of gravity to offset the intense pull.  He tugged, tugged, tugged.  And then . . . 

It stopped.  The line went slack, and as Will stumbled, regaining his balance, he drew the line back in, only to find it severed halfway.  

The water went still.  Very still.

And then it emerged.

A dark, twisting shape, onyx and slick like oil, glistening, impossibly dark.  It rose from the swamp, some ten feet away, slowly, unfurling.  Will’s breath caught in his throat.  He did not move to run.

A twin shape emerged, both rearing in harmony, and then the rest of the shape broke free from the water’s embrace, and Will realized they were antlers.  Attached to a head-- but not the head of a stag, not this time.  No, it was a human head.  A man’s head.  

The shadow figure stood, broad, square shoulders breaching the surface, then the spine straightening and the torso rising, then a pair of strong legs, also dark and inky, and then the man-- the shadow, the stag, the creature-- was fully emerged, facing Will directly, giving him an eyeless, featureless stare.  

His heart pounded.  

He was not afraid.  

The creature took a step closer to him.  The water parted around it-- him.  Will held his ground.  His fingers tightened around the fishing pole, but not with the urge to strike out.  

Another step.  

“It’s you,” Will heard himself say.  His words echoed faintly off the trees.

It’s you.  It’s you.  It’s you.

The creature paused.  He cocked his head, as if in confirmation.  Or perhaps it was a playful, “Who, me?”

“What do you want from me?”  Will asked.

The man extended an arm, some six feet away now.  He unfurled his fingers, palm open to the night.  

At first Will expected there to be something in the hand, something he just wasn’t seeing.  But then he realized.

Ah.

Yes.

Will moved forward, waded through the water, heart thick in his throat.

The river rose up to his hips, and he concentrated on how the ripples from his movements caused the reflections of the stars to dance on the inky surface.  

Then he stood before the monster.  The man.

Hand extended, waiting.

Will did not look up.  He just reached forward, and placed his hand over the other, larger one.  

It was warm.  The fingers curled, folded over his in an otherwordly embrace.

Will woke up slowly, skin prickling in the morning sun.

He rubbed at his eyes, his temples.

Blinking against the open sky, he greeted the new dawn with a single word:

“Fuck.”

There was no point in delaying it.  Will needed to get it over with before he chickened out or overthought himself into paralysis.

He gave his message a final once-over, considered tweaking the structure of a sentence again, nearly tore his hair out, then hurriedly submitted his ad to the classifieds, shut his laptop, and left the room as if he could flee the exhilarating, terrifying reality of what he had just done.

The message read: 

“New friend, 

I’m not a patron of the arts like you, but we have something in common.  Send a letter to this address with details of your latest work if you’d like to talk.  

I look forward to hearing from you.  

-Martin.”

He jotted down a P.O. box address at the bottom and signed it with a coy abbreviation of Martinsville.  

The Ripper would know what it meant.

Hannibal flipped idly ( hopefully, nervously ) through the paper in his robe.  Amber sunrays filtered through the window and spilled puddles of light on his floor.  He made a concentrated effort to read the front pages first, and not crack open the classifieds immediately.

His effort failed.

So did his grip on his mug.  

It clattered to the table, teetering dangerously, but Hannibal barely noticed.  He leaned forward, eyes alight, when he saw it.  A flush of heat surged through him, crashing against the inner confines of his body like a barely-contained tsunami.  

Yes-- it was foolish.  He was being, perhaps, a little rash.  But he was in control.  And he was curious.  It was a calculated risk.  He repeated that in his head.  A calculated risk.  That’s all.  Certainly not infatuation.  

And the baby blue flowers he’d left?  Not infatuation.  Surely.

Hannibal blinked, steadied himself.  He eyed the mug of coffee, which had blessedly not cracked and leaked all over his kitchen.  He took a long sip before he returned his desperate gaze to the message.

And oh, that message.

His little monster really had come through.  What a clever, resourceful boy.  

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

Well.  The sly creature-- Martin (hah!)-- would not have to wait long.  

Hannibal thought about Will’s words.  About his assessment of this monster’s character.  Given the profiler’s track record, there was likely an element of truth, or several, to it.  But however much Hannibal respected the consultant’s insights, he would still like to find out for himself.  To make his own observations and determinations.  To get under his skin.  To see him.  To know him.

Fiddling with the elegantly curved handle of his mug, Hannibal wondered what he looked like.  He would be largely unsuspecting, perhaps a touch shy, and certainly reserved.  A loner.  For some reason that he would absolutely not reflect on, Hannibal assigned him curly brown hair and thick, dark eyelashes.  

It seemed fitting.

That was all.

He grabbed a pen, stretched out a piece of paper, and wrote a letter.

My Dear Friend,

I hope you enjoyed my recent rendition of Mary Cassatt’s Before the Fireplace.

You say you are not a patron, yet you create art.  With every knifeblade brushstroke, you carve out something which moves its audience.  Is that not what art is for?  To move observers?  

Regardless, I appreciate the efforts you have made to communicate on my terf, and in my native tongue.  It’s only fair I extend you the same courtesy.  Tell me, what do you consider your domain?  What is your language?

Eagerly awaiting your correspondence,

C. R.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped lower.  A golden glow backlit the forest that framed the house, casting long, twisted shadows over the landscape. Will stood on his porch, clutching a steaming cup of coffee as he scanned the road leading up to his property.  She’d be here any minute now.  There was no way he was getting out of it.  The long string of increasingly-persistent texts was evidence of that.

The last message, sent at 5:08, read: On my way.  Don’t think you can run from me, Graham.

And yes-- he knew he’d have to get this over with one way or another.  So, instead of hightailing it into the forest to stall, Will simply leaned against the porch railing and waited.  

He didn’t have to wait long.  A blue car-- recently cleaned-- pulled into the driveway, and Beverly hopped out with a cheerful wave and a heavy-looking box tucked under her arm. She made her way up the steps, her face lit up with a mischievous smile.

“Hey, Will!” 

She set the box down on a wicker chair and turned to him. “How are you holding up?”

“About the usual,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.  

Bev raised an eyebrow.

“Scouts honor,” he added, as if that would somehow be convincing.

“You weren’t a very good scout, were you?”

“Kicked out at 9 actually,” he said, smiling ruefully.

“Didn’t even make double digits?  Color me shocked.”

“What can I say?”  Will gestured with his mug.  “Large groups and menial activities didn’t really suit me.  I preferred peace and quiet.”

“Bet you get plenty of that out here,” Bev offered.

“Yeah,” he paused.  The lightly whipping wind filled in the gaps of his silence before he continued.  “It’s nice to just be . . . away from the noise.  The chatter.  The chaos.  The intensity.”

Beverly nodded, but then something shifted in her eyes.  “Speaking of intensity, care to fill me in on what you two were talking about before I interrupted?”

Will nearly choked on his coffee, setting the mug down with a clatter. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on,” Beverly said, leveling him with a look that was thoroughly unimpressed. “At the crime scene?  He looked like he wanted to eat you.  I can’t imagine what topic of conversation would lead to,” she trailed off, tilted her head slightly, as if searching for the right word, before settling simply on: “ that. ”

Ah, yes.

That.

The glint in his eyes.  The lack of personal space.  The stifling heat.  

Will shifted uncomfortably, shuffling his shoes. “You’re imagining things. Hannibal’s just being friendly. It’s nothing.”

Beverly’s grin widened. “Graham, I know friendly.  “Friendly is pickle backs on a Thursday night when the kids are asleep.  Friendly is ‘get well soon’ cards.  Friendly is water cooler gossip between coworkers.  Friendly is not looming over your supposed-to-be-patient outside a murder house looking downright hungry.”

“In fairness, Bev, I tend to have that effect on those in his profession.  I’m . . . food for thought.”

Beverly rolled her eyes.

“Ugh.  Look,” she said.  “You can make your own choices.  I just know you.  And I know you’re not exactly captain cutloose.  It could do you some good to mess around every once and a while.  You know my stance on that.  But,”

Will waved his hand.  “If I want you to drop it, you’ll drop it.  Got it.”

She raised an eyebrow, propping a leather-clad elbow against the porch railing.

“And?”

Will stared at his coffee.

Bev sighed.  “And . . . do you want me to drop it?”

Will looked away.  The steam had stopped pouring out of the mug, which was cooling to drinkable temperatures in the late autumn weather.  It’d be winter soon.  The stores had long since put out their holiday decorations.  An image came to mind of Hannibal Lecter in a Christmas sweater and his eyes crinkled at the corners.  He ducked his head, letting his unruly bangs hide the sudden flash of amusement.  He pictured himself across a quaint cafe table from Hannibal, finally conversing beyond the framework of horrific violence.  What would they even talk about?  In his minds eye, it was snowing, faint, jolly music in the background.  Spots of blood dripped from Hannibal’s fingertips.  The doctor raised them to his lips slowly, almost casually, and licked them clean.  Will grit his teeth against the thought.  He darted his free hand out, gripped the porch railing, grounding himself in the moment.  He took a shuddering breath.

“Will?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

He looked out over the fields, surveying his property. “The timing isn’t good.  He’s a psychiatrist.  I’m myself.”

Beverly stood patiently beside him.  Will continued: “It’s been so long since I’ve . . . you know.”  Will shrugged.  “Been involved with anyone.  I’m not good at any of this.  And I certainly wouldn’t be good at anything with him.”

“So you’re interested.”

“What?  That’s not--”

“That is exactly what you just said.  You want to, but that mind of yours has come up with a million reasons why you can’t.”
“Nothing good will come of it. Nothing good comes of anything I do.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”  

Will thought of Buddy, now safe from neglect, never to be chained again.  He thought of the teacher, Maria, and her family, now safe from Timothy White.  Then he thought of his short string of past lovers, disenchanted and heartbroken.  

Why do you always keep me at arm’s length?

Is there someone else?

What’s wrong with you?  Why can’t you just be -- normal?

The common complaints.  He was too much.  He wasn’t enough.  Same old, same old.  

So he couldn’t please a partner.  At least he could save a dog.  At least he could stop an abuser.  That was something.  That mattered.

But then why did he feel that pit of longing within him?  And why did that longing surge up like a wave-- an irresistible current, an eternal tide-- at each crime scene, each message?

Beverly moved closer, hesitant to place a hand on his shoulder.  She opted to hover her hand an inch over his flannel, miming the physical comfort that someone else would have appreciated.  He felt the warmth of her hand, a hair's-breadth away.  The gesture of it wasn’t lost on him; the blatant recognition of his boundaries wasn’t either.  A swell of latent fondness welled in him, tainted only by the knowledge that her care and respect could not transcend the reality of who-- what-- he really was.  

But still.

It was nice.

She was nice.

And she was talking.

“Will,” her voice returned to him.  “You deserve to be happy. No matter who, or what, that looks like.”

He lowered his head.

“I don’t think I even know what happy would look like for me.”

“That’s your second lie of the afternoon, Graham.”  Her tone was teasing.  “You’re on thin ice, now.”

Her thin dark hair whipped up a little in the wind.  A dusting of color had risen across her nose and cheeks, brought out by the chill.

“Come on,” Bev said.  “Let’s head inside.  I’ve got some files you might be interested in, and I’d like to pet some dogs, seeing as I made the trip out here.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were settled on the couch.  Beverly cradled a chipped mug of spiked chai, legs crossed at the knees.  She’d set the heavy box down on the coffee table, opening it to reveal stacks upon stacks of case files, their manila folders yellowed and coffee-stained.  

Outside, the sun sank, kissing the horizon.  Will kept the curtains open for now, allowing ember light to spill onto the rug that had been worn thin over the years.  He flicked on a floor lamp in the corner though, for when it grew dark.  It cast a soft glow over the room, catching on Winston’s fur where he was curled up on a dog bed in the corner.  Denny, Will’s border collie-mix, sat at Bev’s feet.  She scratched at his ears gently.  

Will relaxed into the cushions.

Then Buddy walked into the room.

For a second, he thought nothing of it.  But only for a second.  

Beverly spoke: “Did you get a new dog?” 

Will’s brain was static.  Violent flashing and screeching, on and off like a broken television.  Think of something think of something think of something-- fuck!

He sat, frozen, icy, paralyzed.  

Buddy walked right up to Bev.  His movements were slow, not quite trusting yet, but the large dog stopped near her and tilted his head.  The length of his body was loose, mostly relaxed.

“I don’t think I’ve met you,” Bev said to him, voice cooing.

“Yeah,” Will said slowly, finding his voice again while his heart jumped in his chest and his left eye twitched.  “Found him wandering out in the woods, and the vet couldn’t find a microchip.  He seemed to really get along with the others, so I decided I may as well keep him.”

“Why am I not surprised?”  There was only softness in her voice.  No suspicion.  Will slackened his grip on his mug, then took a long sip from it.  He noted the temperature, the flavor as it crossed over his tongue.  Breathe.  It’s fine.  You’re fine.  Breathe.   His lungs weren’t quite ready to obey him yet.

Will took another long sip.  There was a knot in his stomach from lying to her, but it was small.  It wasn’t his fault she would never understand.  And he didn’t want to put her in the position where she’d have to take him to the station.

When had it come to this?

Will thought about all the turns he’d taken on the road to the house of the couple who’d been abusing Buddy.  The winding path that had led him there, fate guiding his movements in the car, each tilt of the wheel, helping him chart his course and reach his destination. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t fate.  Perhaps it was just mental illness and random chance.  

What would Hannibal say?

“There is no random chance-- only opportunities seized.”

Yes.  Probably something like that.  Will flexed his fingers, remembering the snap of neck, the weight of the corpse as he positioned it in the bath.  It had been an opportunity.  He had seized it.  There would be other opportunities.  He would seize them too.  Was that also how the Ripper had begun his work?

He doubted it.

“Will?”

He blinked.  “What?”

Beverly laughed, but there was something worried behind her eyes.  Like she didn’t want to ask-- knew she’d get brushed off.

“Will you tell me?”

“Huh?”

“If you need help.  If you need to take a step back.  Will you tell me?”

His brow furrowed.

“Yeah, Bev.  I will.”

She nodded.  “Then, go on.”  She gestured at the box.

Will turned his attention to the stack of manila folders and neatly labeled files. He began flipping through them, noting the dates on the paperwork and the accompanying photographs. “These aren’t recent.”  

“No.” She sighed, settled back into the couch.  Buddy was becoming more comfortable with her now, and plopped his heavy head in her lap.  Bev scratched behind his floppy ears, smiling faintly.

“They’re from early on-- right when Jack took the case.  Years ago.  I figured you’d probably already seen some of this, but a few of the photos here were kept real quiet-- these are the only copies we’ve got.  Figured it couldn’t hurt for you to take a look at them, seeing as we’re so stalled on the case, especially with this new guy.”

Will nodded. His fingers skimmed over the contents, pulling out photographs, notes, and briefs related to the Ripper case.  His eyelids lowered, fingers growing warm.  He shifted his body slightly, angling himself away to mask his expression from Beverly.

Then he picked up a photo.

The corpse looked cold.  It had a blueish-sheen to the skin, pallid and ghostly.  Exsanguinated.  The stomach was peeled open to reveal knots of rope stuffed in place where the intestines should be.  Will tried not to smile fondly.  This was a while ago; the energy felt no less dignified and determined than the present Ripper, but somehow . . . less directed.  Bored, perhaps?  There was a lingering frustration.  Will moved on to the next photograph.  Slit wrists, pools of blood.  The third-- a hanging.  All within a span of a fortnight.

“Sounders of three,” Will said.

“Come again?”

“The Ripper always kills in groups of three.  He doesn’t have to-- he just does.  Because they’re pigs.  They’re all pigs to him.  And they’re a part of his show.”

“His exhibition,” Beverly said, musing.

Will cocked an eyebrow.

“Have you been talking to Hannibal?”

She turned to him, brow furrowed.

“How’d you know?”

Will avoided her piercing stare.  “Those are his words.” 

“Exhibition?”

“Like he’s displaying a gallery of his finest work.  Showing off.”

“And you agree?  With Hannibal?”

Will propped his chin on his hand, stared down at the papers before him, spread across the table in patterns he wasn’t even consciously aware of forming.

“I think Hannibal is more correct than he knows.  Or maybe he knows exactly how correct he is.  Maybe I’m not sure which.”

Beverly was quiet.  She eyed him, expression careful.

“Maybe . . . you should find out,” she said finally.

“Over dinner?”  Will shot back, flashing a crooked, broken smile.

She sighed, but it was laced with tired humor.

“If dinner is what will finally catch this fucker, then I’m buying,” she said.

Will leaned back, away from the photos.

“This is going to get worse,” he said.

“Can it?”

“Can’t everything?”  Will rubbed at his temples.

Beverly was quiet for a moment.  “We need to know how Martinsville plays into this.  What their relationship is.  I know you don’t think he’s just a copycat.”  

When Will just continued to stare at the photos, she continued.

“Jack is hoping they’ll just kill each other.”  

Will looked at the blood in the photos, the drawings.  Like the drawing he had been offered.  The flowers.  God, the flowers.  His cheeks warmed.  

“They’re courting,” he said, brokenly.

Beverly choked on her drink.

“. . . Meaning?”

“Meaning . . . this exhibition-- it’s a way of catching attention. Someone’s attention.  The Ripper wants to prove that he’s the best-- that he’s worthy. ”

“Worthy?”  The word was rolled over her tongue, disbelieving.

It came to Will now, flowing easily and freely.  “He’s fascinated.  By the Martinsville killer, that is.  He wants to peacock, to prove that he’s worth paying attention to. Communicating with.  Painting for.”

“Painting-- like each of these scenes is just a canvas?”

“Or a letter.”

“Love notes passed behind desks while the teacher isn’t looking.”

Will huffed out a laugh.  He leaned back, craning his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes, heart fluttering weakly in his chest.  His palms felt strangely clammy.

“You haven’t told Jack this,” Beverly said.  

“I suppose I didn’t even fully realize it until right now.”

“If they’re building each other up-- trying to impress each other-- then it is going to escalate,” she said.  “Jack is going to lose his shit.  The Ripper is bad enough, but the Ripper on a mission?  He’ll turn the DMV into a bloodbath.”

“The Martinsville Killer won’t be far behind, either.”

Beverly had her fingers woven through Buddy’s fur now.  He nosed her side, as if comforting her.  

They were quiet for a long moment.  Outside, the sun had disappeared.  The amber light on the carpet had turned silver and liquid at some point during their conversation.  Beverly’s cup was nearly empty.  Will figured he should offer her a refill, but he was also ready to be alone, antsy for the soothing balm of solitude on his live-wire nerves and feverish skin.  Beside him, she frowned, set the cup down on the table by the scattered papers.

“Talk to him,” she said, finally.

“Jack?”

“Hannibal.  Maybe he’s picked up on something, some detail, that he hasn’t even processed as important yet.  He doesn’t have your scary psychic skills-- but he’s got good instincts.  He’s quick.  You could help him put some pieces together.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just trying to set us up again?”

She smiled, held open her arms in a ‘guilty as charged’ motion.

“I won’t push it,” she said.  “I just want you to be happy. To live a little.  Sometimes, the risks are worth it.”

Will kept his eyes glued to the table. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Beverly.”

Beverly stood up, stretching and cracking her knuckles with a soft pop . 

“It’s getting late. I should head back.”

Will walked her to her car. “Thanks for bringing the files,” he said.  “And for everything else.”

“Anytime, Graham.”

Will lingered on the porch as she hopped into her car.  The honda pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, moved like a glistening blue beetle past a cluster of old oaks, and was gone.

A tangled knot of apprehension and elation sat in his stomach as the looming night painted him in shadow.  Wolf Trap grew sleepy around him.  Will stood still.  Bev’s words resounded against the walls of his mind.  

Help him put some pieces together.   

Help him put some pieces together.  

Help him put some pieces together.

Will took a breath.  His chest ached.

What pieces did he want Hannibal to put together?  He hadn’t anticipated him and Beverly speaking.  He hadn’t anticipated Hannibal’s keen eye and piercing wit, his relentless, faux-casual intrigue.  It was becoming increasingly apparent that Will would have to give him something to chew on.  But what?  What mangled patchwork puzzle would Will hand Hannibal a corner piece to?  Beverly was counting on him.  Jack was itching for a breakthrough.  Tattlecrime was growing more obnoxious and pointed by the day.  And Will felt the mounting pressure to put together something beautiful-- a work to remember-- for his new penpal.  He wanted to make an impression.  A statement.  

Something that would be impossible to ignore.

. . . And something that would not get him caught or pinned like a butterfly on a velvet board beneath the spotlight.

Help him put some pieces together.

Will gave one last look out to the road, eyes tracing the route Beverly had taken in her exit, as if he could map the effervescent light of her existence there, trails of life painted in phantasmal shades of remembrance.  But there was nothing.  Open road.  Trees.  Nightfall.

He sighed.

Then, as the moonlight fell upon his face and cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, beneath the hollows of his eyes and jaw, Will smiled.

An hour and a half away . . . 

The aroma of dark chocolate and espresso filled the air as Alana drifted about Hannibal’s kitchen. She had always felt comfortable this space, though today her host seemed in need of some rare alone time.  Something in the undercurrent of Hannibal’s polite smile when he’d stood still for a moment before moving aside to let her in raised the hair on the back of her neck.  She didn’t make it a habit to drop by friends’ houses without at least texting beforehand, but she’d been scattered tonight-- busy with patients, paperwork, and Margot’s upcoming birthday-- and, frankly, didn’t want to clue Hannibal in ahead of time to what she was going to inquire about.  Sue her.  She was a psychologist-- she knew a few tricks.  Nevertheless, a slight twinge of guilt ran through her.  Not enough to make her leave immediately; but she would keep this visit short.  He had enough on his plate.  Of that much she was certain.

The man in question stood over the stove.  Hannibal swirled a pot of cream cooly, methodically.  Had Alana been paying more attention, she may have noticed ink stains on his fingers and by his temple, smudged where he’d been running his hands through his hair unconsciously in focus.  But she did not.  So she didn’t quite place what was different about his usually perfect appearance this evening.  His sharp, regal features were illuminated by the glow of the overhead lights; Alana felt subtle tension in his posture.  Was he irritated with her, or worried about something else?  

About Will?

The look on her face, no matter how hard she’d tried to keep in neutral, had surely betrayed her intentions.  There was really no point beating around it.  That she’d known from his greeting minutes before, in the hall:

“Alana,” he had said, his tone smooth yet edged with an impatience that lingered just beneath the surface. “What a surprise.”

“Surprise visits are the best kind,” she had replied, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed casually, though her eyes searched his face for any hint of what lay beneath his composure. 

Now, she lingered, hesitant, apron tied over her pantsuit. 

“I thought I’d check in,” she said, toeing the waters.  “Heard you’ve been busy with that Chesapeake Ripper case.”

“Ah, yes. The case.” Hannibal’s voice had a measured cadence, the hint of a smile curling his lips. “Will and I have been spending quite a bit of time on it. It’s a rather intricate puzzle.”

This was a prod, a poke-- he was teasing her.  It was clear from his mention of Will’s name so early in the conversation.  She must’ve been so transparent.  For a moment, she felt a stab of empathy for his patients.  Hannibal was a little too good at his job.

“A puzzle indeed,” Alana replied, allowing her concern to color her tone. “How is Will handling it?”

Hannibal stirred shaved chocolate and a pinch of salt into the cream, his eyes fixed on the pot as if it held the answer to her inquiry. “He’s doing remarkably well.”

Alana raised an eyebrow. “And you? How are you handling it?”

“Oh, I’m merely the facilitator in this scenario. My role is to support him, to help him navigate the complexities of his mind and the investigation.”

She stepped closer. “You make it sound so clinical.”

She took a breath as Hannibal refused to fill the silence.  

“You’re not just a facilitator, are you?”  She prompted.  “You care about him.”

“I care about all my patients, Alana,” he replied, his gaze finally lifting to meet hers, a hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “Tell me about you instead. How are you and your girlfriend faring?”

Alana felt a flush of warmth at the abrupt shift in focus. “We’re good, actually. It’s been nice having someone to share my life with outside of work. She’s very understanding, especially when I get lost in my cases.”

“Ah, the occupational hazard,” Hannibal said with a knowing nod. “It can be all-consuming.” He moved to the refrigerator, retrieving a bottle of wine. “Would you care for a glass?”

Alana accepted the offer, watching as the wine streamed in a delicate flow, tumbling into the proffered glass and catching the kitchen light with a sharp gleam.  

“I still want to know how you’re both coping with the case. The Ripper’s not just any murderer; he’s been haunting Jack for years.  Now he’s going to haunt you and Will too.”

Hannibal took a measured sip of his wine, the glimmer of something darker flickering in his eyes. “You say that as if he’s a ghost-- not a man.”

“Maybe he is.”

“Don’t you go giving our friend Ms. Lounds any ideas,” Hannibal smiled around his glass. 

“The very best monsters are only men, Alana,” he said when she offered nothing in return.  

“And are you any closer to catching this one?  Can you do it without jeapordizing Will?”

“Will’s insights are invaluable.  His perspective is enlightening.  That alone makes him ‘jeapordized’, with or without my aid.  But I promise I will do what I can for him.  To pull him back from the edge, should he allow me.”

“Should Jack allow you,” Alana scoffed.

“Jack is only eager to get this all done with.  And can you blame him?”

Alana paused.  “You didn’t answer my question.  Are you any closer?  Will this have been worth it?”

He looked her in the eyes, held her gaze.

“Yes.”

After dessert-- a stilted but amiable affair of mousse and more wine-- they lingered at the door, Alana feeling as if there was something she’d forgotten to ask.  Hannibal waited gracefully, attentive as always, as she tugged on her coat.  She smoothed the rumpled fabric straight.

“I’ll be hosting a dinner party soon,” he said as her hand hovered over the doorknob. “I’d like you and Margot to come.”

“A dinner party?” 

She paused, fingers resting on the cool bronze. Hannibal hummed in response.

“It’s been a while,” she said.  “What’s the occasion?”

“Does one need an occasion to celebrate good companionship?”

She smiled.  “I suppose not, Hannibal.”

“Then I trust you’ll attend?”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, then stepped out into the night.

Hannibal watched the front door close.  

Alana’s departure sent a swirling surge of relief through him, washing away the lingering irritation at her unexpected visit.  She’d surely intended to catch him off guard-- a dirty trick, really-- which meant she suspected there was something interesting going on between him and dear Will.  Which meant that Jack had been talking about them.  Which meant that Jack was paying attention.  Which meant that Hannibal would need to invite the detective over . . . for dinner.  

Well.  

It would certainly be a party to remember.

He wished his monster could attend.

He smiled to himself in the low lighting of the foyer, hands folded behind his back, shoulders loose.  He spun on his heel, returning to what had previously enraptured his attention that evening.

The letter was brief, scratched out in frenetic, handsomely messy penmanship on lined paper ripped from a notebook. Hannibal could imagine him hunched over a desk, surrounded by scattered papers and a cup of long-since cold coffee on a weathered desk, maybe before a cracked window.  Fingers dancing along the words like tracing a pattern or a vein, he read the contents again.

And again.

And again.

C.R., 

My domain is the forest.  My language is the sound of a bubbling stream churning foam over river rocks somewhere far away from here.  Frankly speaking-- and I feel, with you, I can be frank-- I don’t often have much of a tolerance for conversation.  Or people, for that matter.

But you had already guessed that, hadn’t you?  Don’t lie.

I appreciate the question, anyhow.  Let me ask you one in return: What do you hope will come of this?  Our dialogue?  

What do you hope to get from me?

Anyway.  I’d say I’m interested to see your next exhibition, but it’s my turn now, isn’t it?  So-- looking forward to your review of my work.  

I think you’re going to like this one.

M.