Archive of Our Own

The job was hectic, for sure. No one called emergency services because things were going well, let alone emergency medical services. But that’s why he liked it.

Will got to the scene as chaos was reigning. Voices loud, sirens bright, desperate rushed motion. A body failing, by internal forces or external. There was nothing to do but act.

And after all this time, there weren’t many things he hadn’t seen. After all, the body was a delicate thing. So many things could go wrong. And that was without malicious forces.

Will swung the back door of the truck open, immediately seeing the grim faces of cops milling around the scene. All urgency had deflated from them. That usually meant one thing.

Dead On Arrival.

Will sighed. He hated DOA’s. Nothing made him feel more impotent than having nothing to do. He much preferred the chaos, it was easier. It was unpredictable, but methodical. There was a manual. There was a process to follow. It was the reason he was still working this job.

He’d graduated with his doctorate a few years back. Back then, he’d only been an EMS part time to help supplement his meagre grad student stipend. Instead, he’d fallen in love with the pace of the job. It was just what he needed. His mind didn’t have even a second to latch onto anything or anyone.

Will hopped off his rig, the adrenaline steadily flowing out of him. Any joy he felt at the rush of action, leaked out of his pores, taking his good mood with it. 

“Where’s the vic?” His voice was rough, he knew, but he didn’t care to gentle it. Not that the cops expected any different. He’d been around long enough to have a reputation: he wasn’t friendly. 

The rig was parked in front of a popular cafe and the scene seemed to be in the alleyway it shared with the nail salon next door. Not exactly a dignified death, to die in an alleyway. Doesn’t matter now.

Mundane, Will noted, peculiarly so. He wouldn’t want to meet his end somewhere so unremarkable. 

And somewhere so close to the University too, with all these students milling about, gawking and gossiping. He couldn’t imagine a worse situation.

He waited for his partner to hop out and join him before following the officers pointed finger deeper into the alley. 

She nudged him as they walked, grabbing his attention, “I heard it’s gnarly.”

Beverly had a way of injecting levity into everything she said, something Will was yet to learn. Or express appreciation for. He did appreciate it, but he appreciated giving her a hard time more. 

Will scoffed at her expression, “When isn’t it.” She immediately rolled her eyes, unamused at his deadpan. She hated when he was in his ‘broody moods’ as she dubbed them. He didn’t care for the name nor to make himself amusing for her.

They ducked under the police tape and stopped at the perimeter of the scene. There were crime techs waiting on the wings along with cops and a few suits. They had his attention for half a second before he saw the vic.

The first thing that struck him was the smell. There was coffee in the air, considering their location, but closer to the epicentre was the smell of burnt flesh. 

It was nauseating and Will was suddenly happy the man was dead. He threw a glance at Bev and saw the unease on her face—she’d call him heartless, but would probably agree with the sentiment. 

Taking in the scene, the pieces began clicking in his mind. A blonde man, late 20s, nondescript casual clothing. Average build, medium length hair, clean shaven. Looked like a student. The apron had the cafe’s logo. 

His face was serene, but below the neck was anything but peaceful. The man looked like he was gutted. It was hard to tell actually, with what was left of him. Will stared blankly, willing his brain to stay focused on the moment ahead of him. 

It had been a while since he was presented with a still body. A body where there was nothing for him to do, but look. And looking was exactly what Will was running from. 

Cut open, midline starting at a sternotomy straight down to the lower abdomen. But the body cavity was the wrong colour, the wrong smell, the wrong look. 

Coffee poured into the cavity? Must’ve been hot, that explains the burns. 

It wasn’t exactly artistic, but the message was clearly one of disrespect. 

Will couldn’t help but imagine what he’d done to deserve this. He banished the thought immediately, it did him no benefit. 

He hated DOA’s.

He approached slowly, avoiding the large puddle that surrounded the man. He stopped at the edge of the puddle, keeping his eyes fixed on the body. Amateur cuts, he noted distantly. 

The man was missing his heart, Will immediately noticed. Heartless? Coward?

Probably missing something else too. Shit, he can’t do this right now. Why were they even called? 

He turned around swiftly, walking back to Bev who hadn’t moved yet. His shoe was squeaking. Upon investigation, he realizes he’d stepped in the coffee. 

“DOA, we can go,” he muttered to which she nodded, immediately breaking away to find the nearest cop. He liked to leave the talking to her. Benefits of having an extroverted partner. 

He scrubbed the sole of his shoe on the ground, trying to wipe away the coffee-blood and the day maybe. It wasn’t wet anymore, at least. He waited a couple of beats before slowly walking away, leaving the body behind. He could still feel him though. Not the vic, but the killer. 

Will knew what his mind could do. He knew what it was capable of achieving. He also knew the effect that it had on him. He knew that he was a man haunted.

He could feel the killer’s anger, restrained as it was. He could feel the disgust, at having to even touch the manthe pig. Even worse, he felt his joy—at practicing his craft. At enacting his will. At hunting. At becoming.

Will, ever dogged by his darkest desires, felt joy the strongest. Humans were weak to positive emotions and he was no exception, especially with a joy so potent. Nausea roiled in his gut as he saw himself making joyful cuts behind his eyelids. 

Slashing with precision. Taking time to guide his blade, steady hands with the perfect amount of pressure. Watching the chest unspool, the red spill out—decadent and rich. His favourite colour. He was hungry. 

So distracted he was by his thoughts, he didn’t notice the boy until they’d collided. Nothing major, just a little side-swipe. He recovered quickly, rectifying the kid’s posture and with a quick apology he resumed his walk to the rig, his speed picking up. He still couldn’t bid himself to pay attention to his surroundings, all he registered was the soft sweater under his hands and strong brow bones. 

He needed to get away from there urgently. Will hoped the more miles he put between himself and the body the further he’d get from the ghosts that haunted him. 

He opened the back door and hopped in, taking a couple of deep breaths. 

Slowly, he returned supplies to where they belonged, taking stock and making mental notes, attempting to centre himself in the tedium of his tasks. 

Will sighed deeply in relief at the sound of Beverly approaching behind him. 

Her voice echoed through the back of the truck, “You ready to head out?” 

Will turned around, meeting her eyes and frowning. He found the concern intrusive, but he couldn’t ever properly explain why DOA’s pissed him off.

He dropped his eyes to her shoulder, sending a short nod as he hopped out of the back. 

“We’re all good back here,” he muttered, walking to the passenger seat without another word.

It was a couple of months before they were called out to another DOA. Life had gone back to normal eventually. 

It had, admittedly, taken a while. 

Will had felt wisps of the killer for a few days, regardless of how ruthlessly he stamped it down. 

Each interaction had felt grating, and he’d found everyone around him to be unbearably rude. He’d felt his hands and fingers tingling and buzzing, aching to take action of some sort.

At the height of it, he took a few days off to spend time in nature to reconnect with himself.

He came back feeling more himself than he had in weeks.

It was early in the morning when they were radio’d and the operator made it clear that they really only needed to call it. 

’Just a quick one’

Will looked at Bev pleadingly, but he knew they were the only ones on shift in the area. No choice but to show up.

When they got there, it was the same as any other DOA—people milling about without any urgency or noise or rush. 

Will hated the lack of noise, ruckus, or life, literally. He hated the impotence. 

Without waiting for Bev he hopped out and made his way to the body briskly. May as well get this over with.

At the approach, Will was immediately hit with the smell of flesh. Metallic and raw. 

He realized why seconds later. 

The body was skinned. Will frowned, did they really need to call it? It was missing all its skin?

His eyes couldn’t leave the scene slowly taking it in with distaste. Bright reds and pinks. Dripping, pooling, staining everything.

The message was quite clear in an obvious way. The man was hanging on hooks, skinned and sectioned like any other animal would be at the butcher shop behind them. 

It hardly looked human, if not for the size and location—huge, bloody, and outside of the shop.

Will’s mind was assaulted with emotions; disgust, excitement, revulsion, anger, joy, fear, interest. The feelings were… familiar.

He looked away quickly, finding the eyes of the nearest cop. He approached rapidly, a snarl in place. 

“You really needed us to tell you the guy’s dead?” he snapped, anger seeping through his body. The badge was useless, standing there like a dullard. He didn’t need to be here and to subject himself to this. To force himself to feel these things. 

The man opened his mouth to respond, looking taken aback at Will’s anger. It only made him angrier.

“Are you so stupid you can’t see that the skinless lump doesn’t have a pulse?”

The cop’s mouth was firmly closed, looking at Will with a bewildered angry expression. He looked so stupid, Will felt the anger burning through him—his fists were clenched, fingers tingling in anticipation of action. Will couldn’t be here. He turned quickly, to walk away.

Instead, he felt Bev’s hand catch his shoulder heavily, bringing his attention to her and her eyes. Concerned and alarmed. 

His jaw stayed clenched, unwilling to yield his anger. He looked away from her, just over her shoulder, and caught the eyes of a boy in the meagre crowd.

He hated the way these scenes were always treated like a spectacle, always drawing at least a few people who milled around and watched in slack jawed fascination. 

Will blinked once, then twice. Those eyes were familiar and expression in them even more so. Did he know that kid?

He took in the scene. The kid was standing on the outside perimeter of the scene, watching with eyes that were just blank enough for the passing glance. Will could see the excitement, though. Sort of morbid, but Will had seen weirder. The boy was looking at him with that same excitement, which he couldn’t understand. 

Did it fucking matter? He sighed, shaking off Bev’s hand and walking back to the rig. What he wouldn’t do for a live one. For something to do other than let his imagination run.

He felt like a failure as he climbed into the passenger seat. He hadn’t saved a life, instead he’d imagined himself taking and skinning one. Instead, he’d be fucked for another few weeks. 

He waited impatiently for Bev to rejoin him, knowing that he’d have many questions to answer. 

Fishing was peaceful for Will. It was a calm meditation, a rewarding practice in patience. Even if there were no catches, he was rewarded with a sort of mental calm that was unmatched.

Fishing this time was not quite as peaceful. His thoughts flurried around the day before, where they’d been called to another DOA. 

The moment Will had gazed upon it, the pieces had clicked in his head. The same amateur strokes, the same detached anger and rampant glee. Like an artist that uses flesh and blood rather than canvas and oil. They were dealing with a little fledgling killer, spreading his wings and trying to earn his stripes. 

Clearly he hadn’t been the only one to make that connection because this scene had a few extra suits around. A couple extra eyes and one particularly annoying shutterbug. 

Will had been watching dispassionately when he saw, nestled into the crowd, a familiar pair of eyes. 

Alight with excitement again, looking ready to burst. The boy was… a little obvious, Will realized. 

He was starting to look like a groupie, following around the sounds of sirens.  

Will wasn’t sure that anyone else noticed him, but Will’s eyes kept catching him after the first time. Did he even know he was being watched?

Will was, at once, amused. The turmoil that was unspooling had vanished in the face of this ridiculous little killer. Here Will was, wrestling with his desires, building his life around his triggers. And here was this little twerp… living it up, acting like the stakes weren’t as high as they were.

The way he was enamoured by the bodies, the way he would listen to the stray comments of the cops and detectives. The sparkly eyes and bated breath. It would be cute if it wasn’t so pathetic. 

Will felt movement on his line, snapping him out of his thoughts. He gave it an experimental tug and found the slack had been restored. No fish. He sighed, settling back down. The fish were just as discomfited as him.

Maybe Will was old and bitter. Maybe he was jealous. Or maybe he was actually considering the risk.

Either way—the dots connected pretty quickly when he heard the boy interviewed by the cops. The vic was his classmate. 

Will had genuinely smothered a laugh when he’d heard the kid’s voice. Green as the spring grass. 

Will felt another tug on his line, this time more insistent, he stood up quickly pulling it taut. He gave a couple of light tugs before starting to reel the line in. 

A sizeable trout. Will smiled, turning to toss it in his icebox. The box was full now after several hours of fishing. He stared at the caught fish, lifeless and grey in the white box. 

The kid was running around killing people he found rude and as far as reasons go, that wasn’t too bad. It wouldn’t hurt to watch this play out. He could put an end to it whenever he wanted. 

Will was at the bank for the third time that month. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t in a good mood. Not at all. Each time he called them to resolve whatever issue they’d created, he was asked to come in to discuss. 

When he’d walked in, irritated, he joined the back of a sizeable line. It had been 5 minutes and the line had pushed forward, which revealed a familiar boy ahead of him. Will watched in curiosity as the boy approached the teller. 

His outfit was different, not as nondescript as when he was scoping his own crime scenes. The kid—which he undeniably was—was dressed formal. dark brown trousers, a cream v-neck knit, and polished brown loafers. He looked so serious, how cute. 

The boy’s voice projected loudly through the small bank. Almost as if he had no manner of modulating it or not a modicum of consideration for the people around him. What once was amusement, turned to irritation. The kid was so clearly out of touch it was almost offensive. 

He heard him speak in polite accented tones asking about his account, his trust, and his money.

Truthfully, Will didn’t listen to the words that the boy was saying, he was more listening with his eyes—drinking in the body language, the posture, and the expressions.

He saw when the boy’s shoulders tightened, when his fist suddenly curled in. He saw the furrow in his brow, the slight snarl in his upper lip. And then, he saw the way his face smoothed suddenly, the way his shoulders dropped, and his hands slackened.

Just like that, all irritation was wiped away.

“May I have your business card?” was the next thing the boys said, his face politely curious and his tone inoffensive.

Well couldn’t help but smile, amusement blooming once again. How delightfully obvious, he thought. And charming.

He watched the boy leverage his handsome face and polite mannerisms, the teller seemingly charmed and suddenly scrambling to find a long-forgotten card.

The card was smoothly grabbed between the boy’s index and middle finger, given a look-over, and put it in his right breast pocket. 

And just like that, their interaction had come to a close and the teller’s fate was sealed, Will assumed. The boy turned on his feet and began walking away swiftly.

Will watched curiously. This would only be as fun as he made it.

Subtly, Will stuck his shoulder out and just as he predicted, the boy—distracted by his own supposed victory—bumped right into Will, making him drop everything in his hands.

Will made sure to exclaim loudly, hoping to embarrass the boy.

Will dropped to a squat, to collect his belongings—a pair of keys and his phone—and watched the boy squat to his level, to help.

Will stood then, clasping the boy’s shoulder, ensuring his grip was solid and heavy, making the boy struggle a little to stand back up. 

He leaned down, towards his ear, “I’d wait longer than a month, champ, it’s getting a little obvious.” Will smiled at the kid, sardonic and teasing.

Without another word he turned back to the line, ignoring the boy once again. He felt his presence beside him for several seconds, the boy not making a noise or moving an inch. But then, he broke away and left quietly. 

Will smiled to himself, this was fun.

Will obviously didn’t expect the kid to heed his warning. He wasn’t naive and the kid was clearly overzealous.  

What he didn’t expect, though, was to be called out to a DOA the next night.

He wanted to laugh. It wasn’t even meant to be bait, but the kid still took it. A true amateur. 

When he got to the scene, he didn’t so much as give the peripherals a glance, he was too curious to see what was waiting for him. He hopped out of the rig, leaving Bev behind and speed-walking towards the scene.

At his bank.

Now the kid was starting to step on toes.

It was actually in the bank, god knows how he pulled that off. 

Right at the spot Will had been standing was a corpse, seated on a chair. It must’ve been the teller’s chair pulled out from behind his desk.

His eyes were missing and he had a Columbian necktie. Will stopped short as soon as he saw it, his imagination slipping away from him. 

Spite, glee, annoyance, amusement, anger, curiosity.

A message, for him. snitches get stitches. 

All things considered, it was simple in comparison to the others. Quick and to the point—it might not even be attributed to the same killer.

Will’s shoulders tightened regardless, his lip curling a little. As amusing as the kid was, he didn’t need any scrutiny. He didn’t need anyone looking too closely. 

He found the nearest cop, clasping his shoulder, “DOA.”

He turned and left swiftly, catching Bev right as she was entering the shop. “We’re good here, I talked to ‘em.”

She nodded, following him out silently, “Y’know, I don’t like DOA’s either. I’d much rather save them.”

Will looked over his shoulder. She was already looking right back, mouth quirked in a smile. “No one likes to see a dead person, you’re not special. No need to act so misunderstood,” she added, voice deadpanned.

He liked Beverly a lot. He would probably consider her his friend, the only one, but he doesn’t know if he can ever give her what she wants. If Will was open about his thoughts and wants, she would have him committed.  

Will snorted, stifling a smile, before turning back around. “Let’s go,” he grunted, hopping in the driver’s seat before she could. 

He drove off as soon as she shut the door, taking them straight back to dispatch. They rode in silence, Will’s mind too distracted by his plans. 

By the time Will was back home, he knew exactly what he needed to do. He went straight to his shed.

He methodically dug through the less visited corner of the shed, opening up locked chests and searching in the dark. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing him in here. He packed a bag and lugged it back to his car, tossing it in the passenger footwell before settling himself behind the wheel. 

Will drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he took a moment to collect himself. He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to. He really didn’t, but he needed to.

He drove back to the bank, turning his car’s lights off when he got to the street. He parked a few blocks down, keeping his car idling. Quietly, he reaches into his bag, grabbing the binoculars, and zeroing in on the figure he knew would be waiting.

A true amateur.

The kid was loitering on the street in front of the bank, so disillusioned that he expected his little message to be well received. As if Will would be meeting him and laughing in good fun. 

Will kept watching, drinking in the nervous ticks and impatience. He had restless hands, always drumming and tapping a rhythm. He was remarkably still outside of that, but seemed to maintain some movement to look less conspicuous. 

After a few minutes, Will noticed the book in his hands. After a few more minutes, the boy started reading it. 

Will wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he looked. The kids idea of inconspicuous was standing in front of an active crime scene at night, reading a book.

Riveted, Will kept watching, his eyes glued to his binoculars. There was something about this kid, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He was the kind of person that Will would regularly disregard; he was young, obvious, and snooty looking. He was handsome, sure, but what did that matter?

Will found his eyes going back to his face regardless. 

It took an hour for the kid to give up. Will had expected longer—he was obviously starved for company—but he supposed it was rather cold out.

Will put his binoculars away, watching the lone figure start to walk away. He turned down the adjacent street and disappeared, prompting Will to shift into drive. He left the car lights off, careful to evade notice. Luckily, there were other cars on the road. 

He followed the kid for a few blocks, watching as he approached a.. Mercedes? Will rolled his eyes, watching as the kid started the car up, rubbing his hands together to warm up.

Eventually, he pulled out of his parking spot at a local convenience store and began driving. It took a little under an hour for the kid to finally pull into a building lot. Will recognized the area instantly. Where a lot of the Hopkins students live—the rich or older ones at least. 

A student here, then? The age worked. The kid’s accent placed him as a likely international student. Made sense, Johns Hopkins was well renowned. But a rich European student with a knack for clean anatomical cuts? That screamed future surgeon. 

Will chuckled. Was the kid practicing then? an unhealthy perfectionism or curiosity? He would figure it out soon enough. 

Will kept driving, past the lot, and into the next highway ramp. He got what he needed.

Hannibal was his name, Will learned. Along with a litany of other facts.

He was raised wealthy, evidenced by his refined mannerisms and his predilection for formal-wear. The most casual Will had seen was knitwear. The kid even wore a collared pyjama set.

He kept a schedule that was simultaneously strict and flexible. He hunted when the mood struck, but he woke up regimentally. He was never late through any fault of his own. 

He always packed food or snacks and he had a sweet tooth. 

And he was an honest-to-god cannibal. That had taken a little longer to find, but there were really only a few explanations for the consistent confiscation of organ meat.

Will had spent months doing reconnaissance on the boy and they were possibly the best months of his life. The feeling of hunting… stalking. It fed a deeper urge that had been clawing at him.

Each ignored thought or desire had felt like an additional pound of weight on his shoulders, but each piece of information he collected, each picture he took, each look at the boy—it was another pound removed. It was thrilling. 

He felt, at once, like the version of himself he was meant to be. And scared of. 

But that didn’t matter anymore. None of it did, not now that he’d let himself free and now that he had the perfect opportunity to begin phase two.

The great thing about an internationally renown medical school was that they intended to keep their acclaim. They hosted events and galas where they paraded around their geniuses and savants and future doctor’s. 

One particular future surgeon fit all those criteria; a handsome foreign nobleman who was a genius and talented artistically. He was perfect—for the school, for Will.

Will had, in preparation for phase two, revamped his image. Will was now an active member of one such organization and had found himself on the list for their event tonight. 

Something geared towards connecting future healthcare workers with current professionals in the field. The perfect time to fuck with the kid.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Will had cleaned himself up a little. It was feasibly a part of his cover. He had to look like the kind of guy to be at these things, but vainly, he wanted to come across a certain way. 

Will wasn’t unaware of his appearance, of his appeal. He knew the kind of attention he could command and he wasn’t averse to leaning into it. He trimmed his beard, brushing oil into it. He picked a navy blue suit to bring out the blue in his eyes. He styled his hair with a little bit of gel. Nothing drastic, but enough.

He hopped in his Volvo chuckling to himself before peeling out. Traffic was mercifully light, allowing him to park and enter 10 minutes early. There were still workers in little black bow ties making rapid trips from the kitchen and back, people milling about throughout the halls, and the slowest filtering of guests. 

Will set himself up at the bar with a glass of whiskey to keep himself occupied. 

He sipped his drink quietly as the event came to life behind him. He could feel and see the movement all around him, but it didn’t interest him in the slightest. He felt akin to a man on a mission, his focus narrowed to his target. The one boy he came to see. 

There was an air of melancholy that surrounded him, something the people around him could surely scent. He wasn’t used to these events and he felt out of his depth in a way he despised. 

When he looked around, he saw the rich reds and purples that made up the decor. They were meant to create an impression of luxury in the venue, but to Will it looked tacky. It all tried too hard, much like the snooty attendants that circulated with their little cliques of sycophants. 

Will tried weakly to suppress his frown, watching the people network with each other. It was all so pointless, but it filled the lives of these people.  

Hi

Hello

How are you 

What do you do 

What do you study 

How’s your evening going

Bits of conversations floated in the air, the same call and response repeated ad nauseam. Each question, high energy, eager, as if the answers were life-changing. They knocked around the room, clashing with each other, building the volume to a consistent static in Will’s mind. 

It dulled his senses almost making the smokey whiskey easier to sip and the time easier to pass. A meditation that Will had learned in the past few months. The art of stillness, of narrowing ones focus to a pinhole, or to a specific person. 

The static came sharply into focus at the sight of a plaid suit, grey with a deep red windowpane overlay. The colour combination was striking, the suit material shimmering. High quality, probably soft. Suddenly the noises that had been inundating his bored brain were of grave interest. Will tried to tune into the conversation happening around the kid, but he couldn’t seem to parse the wall of sound.

The eyes of the people around Hannibal were adoring, glazed and enthralled. They offered their throats, willing sacrifices at his altar. It looked as if he was holding court, with the amount of people that he attracted. 

His lilting voice was lost to the noisy venue. A true loss, Will thought bitterly.

“Hit me again,” he muttered to the bartender, turning back around and dropping his empty glass. He couldn’t indulge himself too much here, with the abundance of witnesses, so might as well drink instead. He’d satisfied himself for now, the sight of the boy enough to whet his palate. 

A full glass was placed in front of him, replacing his empty. He stares into the crystal tumbler, the amber liquid reflecting through the intricate glass designs. It was dancing with the lights in the room, changing colours and shapes. Not unlike the people around him who danced to the tune of the most interesting speaker, changing colours and shapes. 

He took a second before picking the glass up and slammed it back, the pleasant burning lined his throat and awoke his senses. He dropped the glass back down heavily and left the bar. 

The event was still lively around him, conversations starting and ending in a smooth rhythm, disjointed words and noises swirling around him like fumes. He narrowed his focus to the kid who was somehow still talking. There was only one person listening now, looked like a classmate. 

Perfect.

He walked towards them with a sure gait, his gaze didn’t waver from the side of the kids head. In this moment, he felt more himself than he had all evening. He was doing exactly what he was meant to. 

Hannibal’s shoulders visibly tensed when he noticed Will’s approach, recognizing him, and making Will smirk. He stopped just short of the two students, who’d grown silent and watched him with curiosity and a little frightened anticipation.  

Will brought a hand up to the kid’s shoulder, cupping the scruff of his neck. He used his grip to bring Hannibal a little closer into his space, smiling a little brighter. The classmate looked scandalized and Hannibal looked very carefully blank.

“That’s a cute suit, kid,” he murmured, leaning closer into his ear, but allowing his voice to project.

“—Hannibal, who’s your friend?” 

He took a hard look at the kid’s friend before turning to catch Hannibal’s eyes. The kid looked a little lost and mercifully Will decided to help out; he let the kid go and dropped his hand.

“Just an old friend. It was nice seeing you, but I’ve gotta head out,” he threw another smile at the two before turning and walking away. His hand was warm where it had touched the kid, he felt his palms heat—he scrunched his hand into a fist, digging his fingernails into his palm. 

Blood thumped in his ears, creating a beat that he followed with his feet. Before he realized it, he found himself in his car, staring down at his hand. 

He couldn’t stop clenching his hand, chasing the feeling of Hannibal’s neck in his grip. This was beginning to be a problem.

The weekend passed slowly. Will was particularly contemplative, confounded by his reaction to Hannibal. He’d grown so used to watching the kid from afar—watching, cataloguing, judging—but being in his presence had caused a reaction he couldn’t have anticipated. 

Maybe he’d grown little to used to glass and space between them, the lenses of his binoculars providing a certain distance. 

As he looked around his house—at the little artifacts he’d picked up because of the associations they brought, at the little notes with scrapes of information, at the odd picture—Will realized that he’d unknowingly built a shrine to man he didn’t know. 

He didn’t know Hannibal and yet, he knew him more intimately than anyone else. 

The thought had haunted him for the two days that followed the event. It followed him through the halls of his empty house and the wide open forests that he spent his time mapping. Even the company of his loyal pack didn’t stray his mind far. 

His mood was made worse when he was tossed the keys at dispatch and assigned a random partner on Monday. He sighed heavily, hopping into the drivers seat. He hated when Bev was out sick, it meant he had to socialize. At least she knew his rhythm and his aversion to conversation. And his humour. 

He looked over at Brian Zeller and knew he was in for a grating day. The weather was muggy, the roads a little wet, and his partner had already started trying to make jokes. 

“Y’know Bev said you were funny, but I’m just not seeing it.”

Will didn’t turn his head, only grunting to acknowledge the other man. They’d just left a drive-thru with fresh coffees and bagels. There was little they could feasibly do in the absence of calls. 

Bev usually brought a book. Brian didn’t. Apparently Brian and Jimmy usually ‘chatted’.

Will sipped his too-hot-coffee and stared out the dirty windshield into the parking lot they were situated in. He wasn’t averse to conversation, but he needed the right partner. What would he even talk to Brian about? Instagram or whatever the fuck he was always bringing up?

The rain was a steady patter on the roof of the truck, giving Will something to pay attention to. It was easier to tune things out when he focused on a sound. Slowly, Brian’s chosen radio station faded away, leaving him with a comforting static.

Through the static all Will could hear was familiar accented voice, soft lilting tones. Will couldn’t make out the words, only the tones and intonations. Will focused on it, feeling his shoulders relax and his fingers unclench. 

The coffee was good. After a few sips the bitter warmth sat on his tongue comfortably, the aftertaste making him crave more. His cup was empty before he knew it, prompting him to check on Brian.

He was looking right back with an anticipatory look on his face. 

“What?”

Brian frowned, talking a large sip on his coffee before looking away, “I’m never picking a shift up if you’re involved.”

The smell of coffee wafted to him from Brian’s cup. Will frowned, “I didn’t even say anything.” He didn’t know why he was defending himself, he didn’t ever want to work with the man again, but he felt weirdly prideful.

“Yeah,” the other man sighed. “Exactly.”

Will frowned. He missed Bev and he didn’t want to make conversation.

Luckily, Will was saved by the sound of the radio coming to life. First, an increase in static and then a request to return to dispatch. Will shifted the rig into drive, not waiting for Brian’s confirmation. He left the sirens off, unsure of the issue at hand. 

When they pulled into the parking lot they noticed the activity near the other rigs. All the rigs were grounded and there were cops milling about. Will didn’t spare Brian a look before hopping out to investigate. His gut told him something was wrong.

Blood thumped loudly in his ears as he got closer, his anxiety spiking without reason. He felt his tongue in his mouth, bitter tasting and obstructive. He took in the scene in a detached way, trying to calm his own rushing mind, to prove nothing was amiss. 

The smell hit him first. Rich and metallic and unmistakably blood. The crowd gathered outside the rig wasn’t in motion, wasn’t rushing around trying to stymy it, wasn’t concerned with survival. They weren’t moving much at all, all hunched over into themselves, shaking with the weight of their tears. sobs, really. 

They spared him lingering glances, watching his approach. They congregated in a semi-circle surrounding an open rig—someone died on route? Was it someone important? Workplace accident?

All his questions were answered once he got close enough. The sniffles and choked sobs turned to ringing in his ear as his brain struggled to process the sight. 

Bev.

Posed inside the rig. Her body was rigid with rigor mortis, but she was standing—leaning over. 

She was missing her head.

She was wearing… a draped fabric, white originally, but stained vibrantly with blood. The smell permeated the air, leaving no question to wether she could be saved or not. The blood wasn’t fresh by any means. 

She was missing her head.

She was posed, Will realized after a second. She was leaning over, both hands stuck in place holding a golden platter.

Her head was on the platter.

This was—this work was painfully familiar. It was petulant. It was the work of cocky little fucker who was entirely too comfortable.

“She was—,” came a sniffling voice. He turned to the source, startled, but he wasn’t sure who it was. Another nameless colleague. He never usually paid any mind to anyone who wasn’t his partner. Who wasn’t Bev.

Will turned back to the open truck. His face felt hot. He knew what he had to do. 

“We opened the back to take inventory before heading out. And here she was.”

The voice was distant in his ears, he couldn’t look away from her. He blinked once, twice, and let the pendulum swing.  

Bowed in servitude, she waits for..? A head atop her platter. She’s draped in the dress of a servant. Of a worker. 

She is…

From the Beheading of John Baptist.

John Baptiste who conspired to lead a revolution, who was beheaded to diminish his influence. 

Will blinked, taking heavy step backwards. The kid thought he was funny. He thought that he held the future in his hands? Will would show him what he was.

Finding Hannibal’s friend was pathetically easy. Will wasn’t surprised to learn he only had the one. Stalking them wasn’t as satisfying as it was with Hannibal, but he got all he needed in preparation. 

He waited for the body to grow limp in his hands, the drugs quick to take effect. It wasn’t hard to find them alone—their weekly study group was consistent and usually ran late. 

The kid was light, easy enough to carry back to the main wing of the med school. This was going to be quick. Will’s idea was simple, but he knew the meaning would be clear. 

The room he’d chosen was a regular looking lecture hall. It was closer to a lecture theatre actually; the seats slowly increased in height, scooped seats organized in a semi-circle around a main stage of sorts for the lecturer.

Will dragged the body to the lecturer’s desk, each noice and grunt echoing through the empty room. He dropped the textbook he brought beside the body, opening it up to the page he’d marked. 

The Wound Man. 

He began with a single clean pierce through the kids heart, not interested in torturing them. They were just the means to send his message, nothing more. 

He kept the textbook open for reference as he continued to pierce knives and blades into the corpse in different areas. It took no longer than 15 minutes to get it right, leaving Will plenty of time to adjust angles and presentation. 

The shield of latex gloves began to make his hands sweat, the feeling amplified by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He took a second to look at his tableau before grabbing his bag and leaving. He left the textbook on the desk, closed, but with the ‘Wound Man’ diagram dog-eared. 

The next day, he needed only wait till midday for the new post on TattleCrime. He smiled victoriously when the murder was linked to Hannibal’s litany of tableaus. Perfect.

It had been a week since he’d dropped the body. Since he’d done exactly what he’d held himself back from doing since he was freshly 18. Will had been in two minds, initially. He’d been angry that he’d broken his promise to himself. 

That he’d succumbed. 

After that had passed, after he’d felt the rush and relived it with each comment on TattleCrime, he was happy. At peace even. 

And the sight of Hannibal receiving his gift was even better. Regrettably, he wasn’t able to see the kid’s reaction to the tableau, but Will had had a perfect vantage point to see him open his other present.

Will had found the perfect pink cooler and even learned how to tie a bow, just to get the look right. The kid opened the door hesitantly, already on edge from Will’s tableau he’s sure, and had just stared at the box.

He opened it right on the porch. Risky. And then his breath had hitched, making a pretty little noise he imagined. His posture had tightened and immediately, he looked franticly around. He never lost his composure, but his gaze was frightened like a prey animal. Will had gotten the perfect picture.

Predictably, the kid had taken the cooler inside, but Will just hoped he’d eaten the incriminating evidence too. He realized soon that he hadn’t. That he’d ground it down into sausages and then thrown them out. Ungrateful.

Will had waited a month before he’d set up his next tableau, at the theatre this time. Another place he knew that Hannibal favoured and frequented. 

He’d killed a woman who he’d seen Hannibal interact with on several occasions. The theme this time was penitence, something he hoped to inspire in the boy. He took Hannibal’s cue and posed her centre stage, like Caravaggio’s Penitent Magdalene. 

Draped just like Bev was—a tie back to him. He’d also ripped her spine out, for good measure. The boy was known for his grandiose and grotesque displays, so Will did his best. The woman’s back was flayed, revealing her spinelessness. 

As obvious as it was to Will, it was enough to be tied, once again, to the newly dubbed ‘Chesapeake Ripper’. And Will loved the mounting tension he saw in Hannibal’s shoulders. The angry scrolling he watched the boy do on TattleCrime. All the outward signs that Will’s taunting was working. Will had proved to him one thing: that he wasn’t special. That he wasn’t in charge. That he should be paying penance. 

The next day, Will watched Hannibal receive her heart in a green cooler with a bow. Surprisingly, he’d prepared and ate it that same night.

Now, a month later, Will was planning his next tableau. He was considering ways to incorporate Hannibal’s preferred cheese market. There were a few viable options, although they seemed messy.

Thoughts of Hannibal and his continued torment plagued Will’s mind regardless of the time of day. On shift, he would preform CPR and lose himself in the rhythm, imagining the body was another flesh canvas. He’d accidentally broken extra ribs before he was able to reign himself in.

Today was no different in that regard. He was distracted. It had been too long since he’d been in action. He watched Hannibal grow complacent; weeks of inaction on Will’s part must have allowed the threat to fade into the back of his mind. Allowed safety to take root and bloom into comfort. Will didn’t like it.

He sat in the driver’s seat—he never let his new partner drive—staring out the window. It was rainy again, the sound a harsh repetition. His coffee was scalding, disrupting his thoughts with every tentative sip. 

The bitterness felt good on his tongue, a familiar comfort. Perhaps he could dress a corpse in a 3 piece suit and replace it’s abdominal organs with a wheel of cheese. 

Will scoffed to himself. That was ridiculous. 

Before Will could take another sip of his coffee, the radio came to life. It read out a code and then an address. Suicide attempt, critical. Familiar address.

Will’s heart began racing at the thought. He didn’t think the kid would do something so stupid. He put the truck into drive and drove off, no glance spared to his partner. Will’s regular coffee shop—something he’d switched—was a 5 minute drive from the location. Will found that, with his familiarity, he didn’t need to spare a glance at the GPS. 

Will hopped out and ran towards Hannibal’s door. He could hear some noise behind him and assumed his partner would prep the rig. It was impossible to think about that or anything else as the ringing in his ears grew louder and his mind ran through a dozen devastating scenarios. 

He should’ve known the kid wasn’t mature enough to deal with things the right way. He should’ve known he’d need a heavier hand. 

Will threw his shoulder against the door, busting it open, and running through. He found Hannibal in the kitchen standing above the sink—he looked fine. Eager, actually.

Hannibal smiled at Will, a small one that looked genuine. His eyes looked a little crazed, tired too.

“I wasn’t sure the ideal method of communication between us,” he began. His voice was as soft as Will remembered. Subconsciously, he relaxed at Hannibal’s words. At the confirmation that he was alright.

Will’s eyes roamed the boy, taking in the long gash down his wrist, purposefully deep enough to cause serious harm. He smiled at the ruby red blood, the metallic tang sweet to his nose. He wanted to taste it. 

Unable to resist, he took several steps forward, lifting Hannibal’s forearm closer to his face. At a closer glance he could recognize the clean lines that Hannibal prided himself on. No hesitation, even in disfiguring himself. Cute.

“..And I know penitence was what you desired.”

Will looked then, at Hannibal’s face, zeroing in on his eyes. 

Fear. Of Will’s knowledge. Of Will’s wrath. Of Will’s unpredictability.

Desire. For Will’s forgiveness. For Will’s partnership. For Will’s mercy..?

Will smiled wanly. He didn’t entirely believe the expression. “And if I leave you here, watch you bleed, and only consider the debt paid when the last drop leaks out?”

There it was, Will crowed internally. There was the panic, finally flashing through his eyes. Will’s smile became genuine then, watching the boy tense and stare at him owlishly. Watching the boy realize again that he was not in charge. 

Will let go of Hannibal’s arm, stepping away from the boy. His eyes were fixed on him as he reached to his belt and grabbed his radio.

“10-74, kid just needed to be talked down.”

Will watched as Hannibal’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes cutting to the barely visible sliver of front door. The radio static increased then, his partner’s voice coming through, “Copy. Didn’t realize this shift had so many false starts, damn.”

Will chuckled, voice echoing in the otherwise empty kitchen. Hannibal’s eyes met his as he leaned into the radio again, “It’s that time of the school year, I guess. Take a ride, I need time to deal with this?”

The response was quick, like he knew it would be, “Roger, thanks for the break.”

He dropped his radio, uncaring when it thudded onto the floor. His focus was dialled into Hannibal so strongly, he hardly noticed anything outside of him. 

The micro expressions. The furrowed brow. The tension in his shoulders. The way he cupped the underside of his dripping forearm, allowing the blood to flow slowly. The way he waited with bated breath, surrendering his fate to Will. 

Will approached again, arms immediately grabbing and cradling Hannibal’s bleeding arm. He raised it up swiftly and bought his lips down, to kiss, to taste. All hesitation lost. 

His blood was sweet; he knew it was the psychological influence changing his olfactory perception, but the taste was alluring all the same. The taste of Hannibal. 

He grabbed the gauze roll he kept in his cargos, tightly wrapping Hannibal’s arm. 

“Where do you keep your med supplies?”

He looked back at Hannibal then, finding his eyes already fixed on him. His eyes were glittering in the light filtering in from the kitchen, shimmering like stars as they stared up at Will. Will smiled then, small and genuine.

“Hm?” he asked again, grabbing Hannibal’s focus. He nodded quickly, head turning to point.

Will moved to grab it and made quick work of stopping the bleeding. “You need stitches,” he told Hannibal, laughter in his voice. Without another word, he opened the suture kit, prepping the needle. 

His eyes flickered between Hannibal’s face and the needle as it broke skin, wanting to see his reaction. He looked like he was holding his breath, eyes riveted and fixed on Will’s hands. 

He made each stitch slowly, mending the broken skin with his own hands. He watched as the beautiful red was covered by Hannibal’s flushed pink skin, soft and sensitive from the trauma. He listened to each hitched breath and grunt not-really-suppressed. He smelled the iron—the flavour of the sweet blood still fresh in his memory. At this proximity, Will smelled Hannibal too, his sweat, his cologne. 

The contrast of the stark black of the stitches against his milky skin had Will mesmerized. It looked like his own mark on Hannibal, made not by him, but for him. In his honour. He felt his marks of ownership embedding into Hannibal’s skin with each pierce of the needle. 

“All done,” Will muttered, voice almost clogged with emotion. He took his hands away, beginning to clean up the area around them, not looking at Hannibal—embarrassed by the depth of feeling he’d developed. The kid didn’t even know him. 

Will grabbed the kit, ready to move away from the boy, to leave. 

“Stay with me,” Hannibal asked, voice pleading. He held his stitched arm close to his chest, but the other was gripping Will’s shirt. 

Will looked down at the hand pawing at him, before looking back at him. Hannibal’s eyes were soft, his expression a little apprehensive—unsure and insecure. 

Will smiled, “Where else would I go?”