Archive of Our Own

The light in Jack's office stings Will's eyes, but then, most light has since he was released from his basement cell. Returning to the light should have been a relief, but after spending all that time underground, and all that time living in his head, he's made himself comfortable in the dark. He feels like one of those cloudy-eyed deep sea creatures never meant to surface.

And yet here he is, trying not to cower in the glare from the dirty window panes and framed documents on the wall.

When he blinks, he sees Doctor Lecter from the night before behind his eyelids, first bargaining against the barrel of Will's gun. In the next blink, he sees him closing his eyes and turning his temple toward its muzzle, awaiting Will's judgment. He's not sure if it was the curiosity that Lecter invoked to try and save himself, or worse, a heavy burst of phsyical revulsion when Will tried to pull the trigger. Either way, now here he is with Jack, buying time or wasting it.

Jack scrutinizes Will, fingers steepled in front of him. Will focuses on a coffee mug of cheap ballpoint pens just below Jack's eyeline and wonders how many of them are dried out.

"Does this mean I'm getting you back?"Jack says.

"There's something that only I can help you with. I'll consult on that case, and that's it."

Jack scoffs. "That's it?"

Of course Jack hates it, but he owes Will and he knows it. If Will is the only person who can catch the Chesapeake Ripper, and especially if he's ready to break the rules, then Jack will give him what he wants. That's been the only thing that Jack has ever really wanted from Will, after all, no matter how many times he's been dragged to crime scenes hundreds of miles from home.

"So, I keep you on the payroll as a consultant—"

"With full pay and benefits."

Will's encephalitis is in remission, but that doesn't mean it won't come back. At worst, if it does, he might actually kill someone this time. But at the most mundane level, there's a chance Will is really going to need the health insurance. He doubts he could beat the FBI's health benefits package working on boat motors.

"But you don't consult on other cases. Just for the Chesapeake Ripper."

"Unless you don't think it's worth it."

Jack lowers his hands, fingers now pointed straight across the table in passive accusation. "You know you've got me over a barrel, Will."

Will smirks, examining his nails to avoid Jack's unnerving cocktail of guilt and impatience. "I'll take that as agreement?"

"We can start slow and see how you feel after you've had some time to get your feet back under you. How about that?"

"As long as that's not in the contract."

"You're killing me, Will."

"And you're giving me a headache, Jack. Do we have a deal or don't we?"

"Fine. Yeah, we've got it," Jack sighs.

Will stands, trying to suppress a wince at the ache in his joints and back. All those treatments he'd received while imprisoned had calmed the inflammation in his brain, but his illness had left him with a kind of all-encompassing pain that he didn't know was possible.

Jack stands too.

"Hey," he says, stretching out his hand. "I get it. You need time. We'll just work with what you can do right now and I'll try not to push, okay?"

Maybe Will hadn't done as good a job of keeping his expression neutral as he thought. He glances down at Jack's hand, then takes it. For an embarrassing moment, Will thinks Jack is going to pull him in for a hug, and he thinks that he might not mind it so much. But Will has conditioned Jack not to do things like that.

"It's good to have you back, Will," Jack says, sticking to a couple friendly pats on the shoulder.

At home in Wolf Trap, Will sits in a chair on the front porch with his old friend, Jim Beam, trying to force himself to acclimate to the light again. Winston lies with his chin resting on top of Will's boot laces, snoring softly, as the other dogs romp around the property and nap in the sunlight.

Other than making sure they stay alive, Will only has one reason to be here: to put Hannibal Lecter in a cell forever. That's it. That's the only reason he exists. Other than that, all he has is a body that betrays him and a short list of people who he can't really call friends.

So what's the rush?

He's on his third glass of bourbon by the time the sun sets. He wishes the dark weren't such a relief.

—

Driving home from his first appointment back with Doctor Lecter, Will realizes that, for the first time in weeks, he feels no pain. It's the adrenaline; it heightens his sensations so much that they've risen from that baseline that has made everything a slog.

Had Lecter always looked at Will the way he had tonight? Had Will just been too sick to notice? Too angry? And if so, what did that mean Will was feeling now that he was noticing? Because that flame of rage shouldn't be doused yet.

Something is cooking inside of Will, but it isn't anger. Hopefully it isn't his brain this time either.

His fingertips tingle as he grips the steering wheel. Cold mist swirls away from his headlights as he turns into his driveway, and gravel grinds under his tires.

As Will gets out of the car, a muffled chorus of barking rises inside the house. He sighs as he clomps up the wooden steps, trailing icy grit from the bottoms of his boots. The dogs scramble over one another, and Will's feet, when he opens the door. The commotion nearly drowns out his landline ringing from the table next to the couch.

When he sees "unknown number" on the caller ID, he nearly doesn't pick up. All kinds of misguided people have been calling lately: People who are fans of the Chesapeake Ripper and are still convinced Will is guilty. People who are very much not fans of the Chesapeake Ripper and are still convinced he's guilty. A few lewd phone calls. More than a few.

But because he's too curious (and pathetic) for his own good, Will answers the phone.

At first he's greeted only by static on the other side. He's about to hang up when a woman's voice, delicate with a light drawl, says, "Is this Will Graham?"

He detects instability in this person immediately. What he doesn't detect is malice.

"Who is this?" Will says.

"I…I think I might be your mom?"

The words punch Will in the diaphragm, but he recovers quickly. Just because she's saying it doesn't make it true. And there's an easy way to test her.

"What makes you think so?"

"I saw something about your trial on Facebook, and you looked so much like your granddad did. Just the spittin' image. And then there was your daddy's last name…"

These are things anyone could say, Will thinks. Biting back a sigh, he ambles out onto the porch to watch the dogs, letting the door click closed so as not to let the cold in. The dogs romp around the yard, as if it were midday and the moon weren't full overhead.

"And then there it just was in my head," the woman continues, "and at first it didn't make any sense, but then I thought…well, there's this sweet boy I work with who was born a girl, and I thought maybe you'd done what he did."

All the sudden, Will's legs turn to rubber and he drops into the wicker chair. Within seconds, Winston is at his knee, dolphin-flipping Will's hand with his snout until Will rests it on the top of his head.

"What did you name me?" he croaks.

"Well, the boy at work, Dillon, he says that it's not good to—"

"Just say it."

She does. It comes out as a choked whisper, but Will's the one who covers his mouth. Suffice it to say, it's the right name. He nods, but then realizes she can't see it, of course. But too many sentences are competing for him to pick any one thing to say.

Finally, he settles for, "How did you find me?"

"Tracked down your Aunt Birdie. And let me tell you, she was not happy to hear from me," she—his mom, he's almost convinced—says.

"She's never been too happy to hear from me either," Will says, a smile creeping onto his face. "Thinks I'm a filthy degenerate."

And maybe she's right, Will thinks sullenly, but not for the reasons she thinks.

"Hateful woman. Always was one. But she had your number, so at least there was that."

For a while, she parrots her conversation with Will's aunt, his father's sister, but it's just a hum in his ears as he lets the feel of Winston's fur ground him. At last he's composed enough to stand. He murmurs for her to hold on before whistling for the dogs, and a furry stampede bottlenecks in the doorway as all of them slide home.

"How many dogs you got?" she asks.

"Seven."

"Well, slap my ass and call me Sally!"

Will bursts into shocked laughter.

"I'm sorry, you don't have delicate sensibilities do you? I sure hope not."

"No, not at all. You just surprised me," Will says. He shuts the door and weaves through the pack to get their dinners ready and maybe find something to graze on himself.

"That's another thing you and your granddad got in common besides the looks. He always had three or four hounds wandering around when we were kids, but they'd steal the food right out of your mouth soon as look at you."

"I'd like to think I've got them trained better than that. Then again I haven't had many people eating at the same level as their faces."

"No little ones, huh?" And then her tone compresses, like it's been ironed out. "That's…probably for the best."

One second passes, Will's appetite evaporating. Two seconds, and his just-kindled delight snuffs out. The reality of her absence for his entire life leading up to the past five minutes is the only thing he can think of.

"Because the trial would've been hard on a kid," she adds, hurriedly, but too late. That's not the reason. But whatever it is, he's not asking her tonight. No amount of curiosity can circumvent the lump in his throat.

"Anyway, I just…wanted you to know that I'm happy to see you alive and that you're not…"

"A murderer?" he forces out.

He's not sure how, but he hears her balk. "Well, kind of…"

"But I did kill somebody. Did you not see that part?"

"Oh." Like she's reached the end of the toothpaste tube. "You did?"

"It was while I was working. He was a serial killer who was about to…" he clears his throat, as his brain catches up with his mouth.

"Oh, okay, well that's different." She sounds relieved, about as relieved as Will is not to have to talk about Abigail right now. "I was going to say 'like me.'"

And that could mean all manner of things. The right question braids itself together, and then unravels in Will's mouth before it can make it past his lips. Urgency, like a stranger, begs him to try pushing, to try to use any of his investigative skills to get her to reveal one of the uncountable things he's been dying to know since he was old enough to think.

"What should I call you?" is the best he can do.

"Well, it wouldn't be right to call me mom, would it?" Will is glad she agrees to that at least. "Just my name, I guess. Linda. Or Mindy. Your daddy called me Mindy."

A flash of an afternoon outside a trailer on a Michigan lake shore, playing tug of war with a yellow lab mix puppy whose skin still was too saggy for its body. Will was experimenting with different names for it. He was calling it Mindy when the trailer door banged open and his dad rattled down the steps, eyes blazing with pain that Will couldn't make sense of.

Like a judge pronouncing a sentence, he'd sputtered out a rule about how it was unnatural for dogs to have human names, then stumbled back inside to drink for the rest of the afternoon.

This is real. It has to be. And the buzz he'd copped from his session with Doctor Lecter tonight has disappeared, leaving that bone-deep ache to flow back in again and replace it.

"Well, Mindy. I'm a little worn down. But do you want to talk again? Maybe early next week?"

Her voice goes high and syruppy, "Well sure, baby. I mean—" she catches herself, but not before Will's heart drops into his stomach. "Sorry. I mean, that sounds just lovely. How about eight Monday? I'm on east coast time, too."

"Sure…"

Both of them stammer awkwardly until Will gets himself to hang up. He runs a hand over his face, and he's not sure whether the sweat is from his palms or his forehead. But that scream that's been perched under his chin since he was first arrested, the one he'd never let out, is making itself known all over again.

—

Somehow, Will finds himself spending more evenings in Hannibal's office than are on his calendar. He's starting to think Hannibal has somehow programmed Will's car to drive itself there, because he always has two wine glasses prepared when Will arrives.

Eventually, the two of them always move to sit in front of the fireplace. Fires are excellent excuses to prolong an evening. They can't be left alone to burn, and it's silly to douse them if you're in no hurry. Never once have they run out of things to talk about, and Will finds himself less and less eager to go back to Wolf Trap at the end of the night.

Even worse, Will is struggling to hold onto his desire for vengeance. Hannibal is like a new element that has caused Will himself to undergo an irreversible chemical reaction. Now, instead of anger, he's feeling something more like frustration—disorganized, obsessive frustration threatening to overflow its beaker.

The flames only stoke it. Hannibal has to know that.

And yes. To add further indignity, Will has succumbed to thinking of him as Hannibal instead of Doctor Lecter, though he has managed not to say it aloud.

Sharing Hannibal with Jack makes Will feel like a guard dog at the edge of a property line. But because it makes more sense for the ruse he's created, he growls (albeit ironically) at Hannibal instead. Hannibal glows when Will snipes at him, which Will now realizes he's always done. The realization heats the surface of his skin from his chest to his jaw.

The Nietzschean trout they eat that night wouldn't have been to everyone's taste, but it was perfect for the two men who spent much of their childhoods eating cold, gelatinized food out of a can. Abigail would have hated it, Will thinks, but he stops that line of intrusive thought before it can pull him too deeply underwater.

How can Will enjoy Hannibal's company so much after everything he's taken from him?

There's a brief flash of concern on Jack's face that he quickly tamps down when he realizes Will is lingering after dinner. But he recovers quickly, slips his mask back in place, and Will makes a mental note to come up with an excuse for the next time they meet.

The dishes done, Will and Hannibal relax in the study with cognac in crystal glasses. They're quiet for a while, the change of venue from the office stripping artifice off of the conversations they've been having over the past couple weeks.

Hannibal sips his cognac, then licks his lips in a way that's much too decadent for how dainty the action had been. Will keeps his eyes glued on the fire. Anything to avoid staring at Hannibal's mouth.

Will's sip of cognac is much less dainty. He'll need to be careful. Having to spend the night here would be unwise. Flip the pages, close your eyes, and point, and you're sure to land on a reason.

"How have you been re-acclimating to life outside the BSHCI?"

Will sniffs. "Is this a therapy question?"

"I believe we can draw harder lines between mere conversations and therapy now."

"Can we?"

Hannibal looks at him sidelong, bemused. Maybe they can. In therapy, they discuss all the formerly locked rooms and shadowy corners Will has kept concealed for so long, but there's so much more to Will. Life is made of so many long, silent days and nights, and he's finding, to his horror, that he wishes Hannibal could stand in those spaces with him.

"My mother called me."

Keeping his eyes glued on a single log, engulfed in flames and ready to crumble, he feels rather than sees Hannibal look at him. "The last time we spoke of her, you had never met her before."

"I hadn't," Will says. He takes another sip, then, rudely, smacks his lips.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather bring this to therapy?"

Chuckling, Will shakes his head. He doesn't want to talk to his therapist about this. He wants to talk to Hannibal, his friend.

"How were you able to determine it was truly her?"

"She was…" Will starts, then stops himself, recognizing an opportunity to needle. He shifts to face Hannibal. "Well, now Doctor Lecter, let's see. With all that lost time I spent in your presence, how much of my body have you seen?"

Hannibal's features flatten, the way they did when he visited Will after Matthew Brown's attempt on his life.

"I never expected crudeness from you, Will," he says.

"But you should expect your deflections not to work on me."

Hannibal stares, unblinking, into Will's face, as if that would ever be enough to convince Will of his honesty. "I never violated you, Will."

Will lets his cruelest, most rueful laugh off its leash. "You absolutely violated me. We wouldn't be where we are now if you hadn't. Just because it wasn't sexual doesn't mean it wasn't a violation. But that wasn't my question."

It's impossible to argue with, and Hannibal knows how foolish he would look if he tried. "I spent many hours by your hospital bed, and I have seen your medical records."

"And obviously you've been through all my things." If it weren't for all the planted evidence, Hannibal's silence would be answer enough. "So you know."

"I know that that you're transgender, yes." Will's nose twitches. "Or do you prefer the more antiquated 'transexual'?"

"I prefer you not refer to it at all."

Hannibal nods. "I had not planned to mention it."

For some reason that's even more offensive, despite what he'd just asked of him. Hannibal shows an insatiable need to know every detail of Will's life. Why is this different?

Why does it matter?

"Someone else could have uncovered that information," Hannibal offers. "Or perhaps someone from the hospital leaked it."

"Nobody outed me in court—or they didn't get around to it at least"—thanks to Matthew, thanks to Hannibal—both thoughts volunteer themselves and Will feels the chewed up bits of trout swim in his stomach. "Freddie Lounds clearly doesn't know or she would have published something by now, and if anyone was going to leak it, she would have paid top dollar. So, how would some random woman who has my Aunt Birdie's number know?"

Hannibal is silent for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. "Aunt Birdie?"

This time, Will's laugh is lighter. "She's about as mean as they come."

"Most birds are."

They're both smiling. Will hates that he's smiling, and he hates that the warmth is coming from inside himself instead of just the fireplace.

"It wasn't you, was it?" Will says. "You didn't pay some woman to pose as my mother and start calling me at night for some reason?"

Part of him says that's what it has to be. But god, Will really doesn't want this to be another game. Can't one difficult thing to be difficult in a normal way, not in this twisted, crucible-like way that everything seems to be with Hannibal?

Hannibal shakes his head. "For one thing, I knew nothing of your Aunt Birdie. Nor do I know your mother's name."

"It's Linda. Or Mindy," Will says softly, almost to himself. The ice has melted so much that they look like lenses, staring up at Will from his glass. "Don't lie to me, doctor."

"I'm not lying to you, Will."

They'll have to revisit this, but for now, Will lets it go.

"How's Alana?" he says, not really sure why. Maybe it's because he needs to redirect himself to something that he knows Hannibal has done to intentionally hurt him. It's not something he has to reach very far to find.

Crossing one leg over the other, Hannibal noisily readjusts in his chair. "I wouldn't know. We are no longer seeing each other, and in fact may no longer be on speaking terms."

Will can't help his incredulous look. Did Alana actually listen to him?

"Why?"

"She was quite adamant that I not only refuse therapy sessions with you, but cut you out of my life completely. I told her that her opinions on who I associate with had no bearing on my behavior. The conversation escalated, and ended with me telling her that if she was so strongly against our association, she was no longer welcome in my home."

"So she left." Hannibal nodded once, eyes on the fire, refusing, for once, to look back at Will. "Sounds like a loss of control, doctor."

That turns Hannibal's head, though Will has trouble reading his eyes. "Not a loss of control, an intentional application of force. Once Alana forgives me, hopefully we can resume cordial relations, but I will not allow her to come between us."

Will feels like he's missed the final step on a staircase, stumbling before barely catching himself. He downs the last of his liquor, thankful that the ice has completely melted so they can't clink and betray his trembling hands.

"I thought that was the plan all along," he says, cursing the shake in his breath.

"Plans change, Will," Hannibal says. "Even mine."

—

Buster is curled up against Will's side as they lie on top of the comforter, Mindy on speaker phone on the pillow next to them. He's just broken into a brand new aspirin bottle, and is proud of himself for skipping the whiskey tonight. Having a distraction helps.

"So, what do you do with your days?"

He tries to keep his voice above a grumble. He's felt pretty low energy for a while. Maybe it's from being alone for the past few days. Or maybe this is just the way he is now.

"Not much," Mindy says. "Been a cashier at Dollar General here in Roanoke for a few years. Got a little garden patch and a plum tree out back the house, so that's how I spend the off hours."

"Roanoke ain't but what, four hours away?"

They're suspended in thick silence, as if absorbing a possibility too imposing to name. Will hasn't talked like this since he moved North for the first time and got made fun of for talking like a hick. Even when he was working in New Orleans, he kept his dialect pretty non-regional—mostly because, no matter the reason, he had a feeling he wouldn't be sticking around there for very long.

It's just linguistic mirroring. He tries not to do too much, but obviously these are special circumstances.

"You live with anybody?"

"I got a roommate Brenda, she's a few years older'n me, but we get along. She's got a dog, Beulah, sneaks into my room after Brenda goes to work in the morning and sleeps in my bed like a teddy bear."

"Oh yeah? What kind."

"Some kinda mutt. Ugly as hell, but a sweetie pie."

A picture surfaces of Brenda—sensible shoes and charm bracelets, hair spray and acrylics, a smokers voice and a booming laugh to balance out Mindy's soft chuckle.

"Are you and Brenda…"

"No, no. Just friends. Only ever been men for me, except for….well that didn't count." She laughs it off, and Will chuckles and lets it slide. "What about you? Is there a special girl in your life? Or boy? Do you like girls or boys, honey?"

"Don't much matter," Will says. Even with Buster cuddled up to him and the rest of his pack sprawled in a pile on the floor, the house seems suddenly cavernous as a sarcophagus. "There hasn't been anyone for a long time. Well. Not really."

"Mm…sounds wishy-washy to me. I can't believe you don't have the whole town breaking down your door. You're still so pretty, is that bad to say? Boys are pretty, too."

Will doesn't like being called pretty, but he hasn't reached this level of misery in life by having healthy boundaries. "You can say it."

She sighs. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I know I don't have the right."

He rubs one of Buster's silky ears between his finger and thumb, and Buster fusses a little before burrowing harder into Will's side.

"I thought there was potential with someone," Will says, "but things changed once everyone thought I was a serial killer."

"They didn't believe you?"

It strikes him that he's not sure exactly who he's talking about. It started out as some vague picture of what he and Alana could have been, but all the sudden he feels like someone's put a clamp on his bronchial tube, and he realizes it's not Alana he's thinking about at all.

A primal urge that he's never experienced before tears at his insides. He needs his mother. He needs to tell her and he needs her to comfort him. He should be protecting his heart, but clearly the way he is with Hannibal proves how hopeless he is at that.

His empathy makes him forgive too fast, and when he forgives, he puts himself back in harm's way—like a kid who forgets that the stove top burned him the last time he put his hand on it.

"My psychiatrist. Well, he wasn't really my psychiatrist—we were just having conversations because the FBI wanted me to talk to somebody about… I don't know if you heard about what I do, but I have to get into this headspace."

He's talking too fast. He's talking nonsense. He wants to tell her but he can't tell her. Not without putting her in danger.

(But does he even care about putting her in danger or does he just care about putting Hannibal in danger?)

"Anyway. I blamed him for what happened to me."

"Because he let you lose control?"

He feels so small, like he's about to dissolve through a crack in his floorboards, washed away by his own childish tears.

"He…let me think I was going crazy. When I was just sick."

His mom grunts. "Shrinks. They make you feel like you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground when all you're doing is not minding the rules they made up."

The tightness in Will's throat breaks apart with his amusement.

"All the other ones before him treated me like a bug under glass. But…" No. It's too much now. He's about to go even futher than he's allowed himself to think, about the way Hannibal regards him, about the way Hannibal seems to exalt him above everyone else in their lives. "He doesn't make me feel stupid. As much the opposite of that as you can get."

She gives him time. He can hear his own jagged breathing echo back at him through the phone.

Finally, her breathing returns. "Do they have you doing that thing you do for the FBI again? I did look it up back before I called you, and it sounded like it would take a lot out of you."

"I'm taking a break," he lies, wretchedly.

"Good. People like us, Will. We're bad for th—" and it's like her voice goes angular, pixelated, like there's a glitch in the matrix. The windowpanes rattle, but none of the dogs seem to notice.

"What's that?" Will says.

She speaks again, but her voice turns to rocks. He thinks about asking her to repeat herself, but dread jerks like a broken zipper up his spine. He lets a few more unintelligible words waver in the air in front of him, gritting his teeth against the noise until it finally shifts back into something he recognizes as language again.

—

Hannibal doesn't ask whether Will wants to go home with him after he fails to shoot Clark Ingram; he just drives them back to Hannibal's house. Once there, he sits Will down in his usual leather chair in the study, disappearing into the kitchen and reappearing with a full Japanese-style tea tray that clinks gently as he puts it down on the table between their chairs.

The way Hannibal moves is so manic he leaves trails behind him as he zips from one place to another. Will finds himself with a cup and saucer in his hands, a throw blanket draped across his legs, a fire in the fireplace, all before he can even orient himself in space.

The imprint of the trigger is still pressed into Will's index finger. His face tingles with the memory of Hannibal's hand on it. His own hand drifts up and rubs along his jawline, just as Hannibal appears with something that is almost too small to be called a plate. On top of it sits a pink, round cake of some kind.

"Daifuku to go with your tea. A sweet mochi filled with red bean paste and dusted with matcha powder."

Will raises his hand, glancing up at Hannibal and waiting for a nod before picking up the morsel with his fingers. He can feel eyes on his lips as he slips the cake into his mouth. It's impossibly soft, sweet but not too sweet—these certainly aren't the type of red beans Will is used to. The whole thing is gone in just seconds.

When he glances up again, Hannibal is still hovering over him, radiating self-satisfaction.

“Are you rewarding me?" Will asks.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows with false innocence. "Rewarding you?"

"I’ve trained enough dogs to know what positive reinforcement looks like, Hannibal."

Before Will even realizes what he's done, Hannibal's eyes go incandescent. Will had finally let his first name slip. The look on his face is, to what should be Will's horror, positive reinforcement all on its own. But instead of horror, Will feels something much different. He squirms to try and relieve the sudden throb between his legs.

"You have had an emotionally draining evening," Hannibal says. "You need to hydrate and raise your blood sugar and internal temperature."

A smile tugs at the corner of Will's mouth, and he again hates himself for it. After tonight, Hannibal must think that he's won some battle between the two of them, that Will has been pulled a few additional feet toward Hannibal's camp. He's more right than he knows. Will thinks that, in all likelihood, Hannibal won that battle a long time ago.

As Will continues to stare into the fire, Hannibal settles into the chair next to him. For a while, they say nothing. There is nothing, and everything, to say. The everything is just too much for Will to broach right now.

He'll have to, someday. He can't put it off forever.

"The song bird," Hannibal says, wrenching Will out of his reverie. "The bird that Peter Bernardone placed inside Clark Ingram's victim. Was that a member of your family, Will?"

Will's lips part as his mind flicks through all the things that might mean. It takes Will a second to land on their conversation about Will's mother. The tension snaps, and Will's composure splits into a million hysterical pieces. As he dissolves into giggles, Hannibal flashes his reptilian grin.

"Stop that," Will gasps. "Birdie a perfectly normal Southern nickname."

But Hannibal isn't finished. "It may not be terribly succulent, but if we've learned anything from the people of the British Isles, it's that anything can be palatable when battered and fried. If I'm not mistaken, that's a common practice of your people as well, isn't it, Will?"

A vivid image flashes through Will's mind of an elderly woman, skin a breaded golden brown, with a Sunday hat perched jauntily on her head.

"Are you talking about the song bird or my aunt?" Then, "Don't answer that. Not even as a joke."

"Why shouldn't I? You said she treats you poorly."

"I've caused my family enough trouble just by existing."

Hannibal's grin disappears, and he grows solemn again. "You were a cygnet born into a family of ducks. You went unrecognized and have only begun to reveal your true nature. Those who could not recognize your potential did not deserve to see it."

"And yet, none of them ever sent me to prison," Will says. "Or drugged me. Or murdered people I cared about. Shall I go on?"

It just feels like lobbing water balloons at Hannibal—messy, but ultimately innocuous.

Two amber eyes glint in the lamp light, suddenly in front of him and at eye-level. Hannibal is kneeling on the rug at Will's feet, and he might as well be digging his thumbs into Will's throat for the effect it's having. (How did Will not know that choking aroused him this much?)

"What is this?" Will whispers.

"I assumed you wanted me to grovel."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know you're not sorry. You're not capable of it."

Hannibal sits back on his heels, and looks up, pathetically. Like one of Will's dogs when they're pretending they haven't just eaten dinner.

"I cannot feel remorse in the same way that many can, no," Hannibal says. "But I can wish things had gone differently, and I can desire your favor enough to beg for it."

His hands settle on the tops of Will's thighs. Will white-knuckles the armchair to keep from grabbing Hannibal's hair and pulling his head where he desperately wants it.

Unreality seeps in through Will's optic nerves as he stares into Hannibal's face. The hands resting on his thighs go black and shiny as oil slicks, spilling against gravity and replacing shirtsleeves, flattening and reshaping Hannibal's facial features, climbing into jagged antlers.

It doesn't frighten Will. The speed of his heartbeat is due to something else entirely.

The sound of Hannibal's voice seems piped in from the walls around him.

How can I persuade you to forgive me, Will?

It's a struggle to draw breath into his lungs. Every part of him aches with exhaustion, the crash that comes after an adrenaline high, the disappointment of pulling a trigger without seeing the splatter of brain and blood and skull that should have come in its wake.

And on top of that ache, the pain of Hannibal pulling him inside-out like a dirty nitrile glove from his fingers.

Unable to stand it anymore, Will reaches out with a trembling hand and sinks his fingers into Hannibal's fine hair. Hannibal's eyes shut, the way they had when Will's gun had been pointed at his head, and his parted lips ghost against the inside of Will's wrist as he leans into the touch.

Will's heart pounds in his ears.

He wants to tell him that begging is a good start. God help him, he wants to tell Hannibal to take him to bed, and he knows if he asked, Hannibal would. But the truth is, Will forgave Hannibal the night Hannibal closed his eyes, ready to accept Will's sentence like God's mercy.

Will lets his hand go limp, easing it gently back to the arm of the chair. Hannibal watches it fall like it's a priceless jewel dropped into the deepest part of the ocean.

"I have to go home," Will rasps.

"Do you?" Hannibal says.

Will nods slowly. Part of him wants Hannibal to stop him by any means necessary. Keep begging. Block the door. Tie him down if he has to. But Hannibal doesn't. He helps Will into his coat and watches like a sentinel until he gets into his car and pulls away from the curb.

When Will gets home, he thinks about calling Mindy. The phone is in his hand by the time he realizes that he never asked for her number. But when he checks his cell phone, he has a goodnight text from Hannibal.

—

And Hannibal doesn't stop texting. Photos—first of whatever he happens to be cooking, but then passages from books he's reading, artful slices of life that would get him thousands of social media followers. But also reminders to eat, polite check-ins, a good morning waiting when Will wakes up and a good night when he starts fighting his eyelids.

It fills the silent days and nights, when Will still isn't investigating or teaching. But he supposes this is what he's actually getting paid to do—to lull Hannibal into trusting him. Into loving him. Because Will hasn't had anyone fall in love with him before, but there's no other way Hannibal's behavior toward him can be interpreted.

Sleeping is starting to get difficult again.

Mindy calls him again one night. He's already a couple glasses of whiskey deep, trying to keep himself from getting in his car, driving to Baltimore, and showing up on Hannibal's doorstep like a lost puppy. It must be obvious in the lazy drag of his voice when he answers the phone.

"Are you okay, Will?"

Deflect, Will thinks. Ask her something about herself.

What comes out is a quiet, "Why did you leave?"

For a moment, all he can hear is white noise. He waits for the click of the call disconnecting, because is he really just going to jump in with that first thing? But the click doesn't come, just a long, wistful sigh.

"Been waiting for you to ask me that. Surprised you didn't do it sooner, if I'm honest."

Will doesn't reply. Just waits.

"I got sick too, sweetheart," she says, and Will's throat constricts at the endearment. He doesn't get called a lot of those. "My doctor didn't tell me about post-partum or nothing like that, and I didn't have any friends to help me out cause I was…"

"Weird?" Will offers.

"Yeah."

"So I get that from you too, huh?"

"S'pose so." Her laugh is so brittle it cracks. "But I'd hold you, and all that stuff they say you're supposed to feel about your baby…I just didn't. There was just this deep, empty well inside me, and all I could imagine was throwing you into it."

Will bites down hard on his lip. Not in horror. It's just suddenly so vivid, the idea of clutching a wailing infant with a heart full of bottomless sorrow. Opening your eyes to nothing but yawning darkness, and thinking the only thing that could possibly make it go away is to make a sacrifice to it.

"But then I'd look you in your pretty blue eyes, and you would look back and bawl your head off like you could see all the horrible things in my head. And I thought—"

She cuts herself off abruptly, and Will jams a knuckle into his mouth, biting down until the sting soothes him. When she starts again, her voice is sodden.

"I thought you must be so scared of me, because I was the one who was supposed to protect you, but you could tell I wanted to hurt you. So I started leaving you in your crib and hiding in the closet. And every time I was out of sight…you'd stop crying."

So it is my fault, something evil in Will, which speaks so seldom he thought it was voiceless, whispers.

"And then your daddy would come home and he'd be so mad at me for leaving you like that, and he'd scoop you up and look at me like I was Satan himself. You knew I was a monster. Weren't but a couple months old and you could see it all."

"You weren't…It wasn't your…."

"I know," Mindy whispers. "I know it wasn't my fault, Will. I've had my own shrinks. But even though I felt that way, I did love you. I loved you so much that I couldn't let you be in danger like that. I wanted you to have a chance. That's why I left."

It strikes him that Hannibal was wrong. Someone in his family had seen him and immediately knew what he was and what he would be.

But then again, someone had to put that swan egg in the duck's nest in the first place, right?

For a moment, he wishes he'd gone for NSAIDs and sleeping pills instead of alcohol tonight. But there's nothing to be done about that now. He empties the rest of the bottle of whiskey into his glass.

—

The table is laid tonight with what is, essentially, a test.

"Choucroute garnie à l'Alsacienne. An assortment of smoked meats and sauerkraut," Hannibal says. Somehow he's managed to make a plate of sausages and pickled cabbage into a work of art.

A plate of human meat with, other than a rainbow of condiments, very little else to conceal it.

Will takes up his fork and knife, not breaking eye contact with Hannibal as he brings the first forkful to his lips. He smiles at Hannibal as he chews and swallows. Hannibal's pupils dialate, and his expression relaxes even as he looks primed to pounce.

All throughout dinner, Hannibal's eyes are like brands on his skin, but Will doesn't flinch away from them. Part of him wants to—the part of him that is already grieving, but most of him wants to drink in every drop of tonight for as long as he can.

In the study after dinner, he is too restless to sit down. He walks the perimeter, so much like Hannibal's office with its floor to ceiling bookshelves and oddities and its plush furniture. Eventually, he lands in front of the window; the curtain stands open, revealing an old fashioned street lamp illuminating empty streets and perfectly manicured lawns with warm light. No sidewalks. This is a neighborhood that doesn't encourage pedestrians.

Through it all, Hannibal sits patiently in his usual chair in the center of the room.

"My mother left me to save me from herself," Will says, abruptly.

"Physically?" Hannibal asks.

Will nods, not looking back. "She had urges. And she thought I could see them." He takes a sip of his cognac. It feeds the pain in his joints, the stab through his temple, the pit in his stomach, as he thinks about Hannibal's lips on the heel of his palm.

"Perhaps she was right. Perhaps someone saw you after all, even so young," Hannibal says.

"And didn't want me," Will says.

Hannibal appears at his shoulder. "Is that what you truly believe? Because I think many would recognize it as an act of love."

"I believe I've spent my entire life trying to correct the error of my birth," Will says. "And as soon as I reached a state where I began to feel like some version of normal, I was already beginning to deteriorate."

A warm hand closes over his shoulder, and Will crosses an arm over his body to take it before he can stop himself.

"You were not born in error, Will. Transformation is at the core of your being. A rose is perfect at every stage of development, and even after its petals fall, the hips linger through winter frosts and become an ingredient that many consider magical."

"And imminently consumable," Will says, without the venom the observation requires.

It certainly doesn't dissuade Hannibal, whose hand makes its way from Will's shoulder up the side of his neck, thumb rubbing at the base of his skull. Will wants to turn around so badly, but he knows exactly what would happen if he did.

"We can't do this, Hannibal."

There's another hand now around his waist, a body pressed against his back. "Can't we?"

"You're not thinking clearly," Will says, as if somehow he is. "Use a little deductive reasoning. What is the FBI paying me for right now?"

Hannibal stops moving, but he doesn't step away.

"I'm not teaching," Will says. "You and Jack had to drag me into the Ingram case, so I'm not consulting."

"I assumed there was some sort of settlement…"

Will gives a single, punched out laugh, a little surprised as Hannibal's hand lowers from his neck instead of tightening around it.

"There's no settlement Hannibal." He turns around, because Hannibal has backed away a couple steps. "The only thing I do is see you, which I can't do anymore, because I can't hurt you, no matter how much I should want to."

Hannibal's face is a blank mask. He seems much less willing to acquiesce to his life and freedom being spared than he was to Will taking it from him. "What will you do?"

"Go back to consulting on cases," Will says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tell them Chilton brainwashed me into thinking you were the Ripper like he brainwashed Gideon into thinking he was the Ripper."

"Such a thing is beneath you, Will. They'll never accept it."

"They'll have to."

Hannibal tucks his chin down, still as the air before a thunderstorm. "Was any of this true, Will? Or has the whole of our friendship been a net you were weaving with Jack Crawford?"

It's a dangerous choice, but Will has very little to lose at this point. If Hannibal decides to take out the scalpel that Will knows he has in his pocket, then so be it. He steps forward into Hannibal's space and digs his fingers into the meat of his upper arms. Tipping his chin up, Will leans in until their lips are inches apart.

"What was that you were saying about acts of love, Hannibal? Can't you recognize this one?"

And because in his heart of hearts, Will Graham is an impulsive man, he gives Hannibal one of those kisses that he knows will ruin them both. But they were already lost causes, so does it really matter? Hannibal chases his lips before Will ducks away, but ultimately, he lets Will flee.

In the car on the way home, Will finally lets himself scream.

—

Jack Crawford starts out as a hard sell, but Will is right in the end. He takes the explanation like bad-tasting medicine.

Alana sits opposite Jack, listening in as Will perches on the desk, eyes almost completely shut against that goddamn glare. It doesn't help that every time he opens his eyes, Alana is glaring at him, too. She has almost completely changed her look, hair cut short and done in finger waves, clothing and makeup borderline gothic.

"You were adamant. For months. You would tell anyone who would listen," Jack says.

"You tried to have him killed," Alana adds.

"Allegedly," Jack says.

"It was transference. I became too dependent on him. I saw things that weren't there, and…then I saw things that really weren't there."

That raises an eyebrow from Alana. Jack, thankfully, is too in his head to notice.

"And then Chilton got in my head and fed my confusion. It's taken a lot of time to untangle," Will adds, for Alana's sake. It does nothing to soften her judgment.

The meeting ends with Will agreeing to a revised contract to consult on other cases. A little piece of himself chips off and floats out of sight as he realizes his personality is going to start eroding all over again. But then, at least he still has a reason to exist.

"Will!" Alana's voice follows him down the hallway, and as much he doesn't want to, he waits for her to catch up. "What was all that about?"

"What else is there to say? Jack's with me. Chilton's in prison. We're moving on."

"If I played 'got your nose' with Jack, he'd just scowl at me and demand I give him his nose back," Alana says. "So did Chilton brainwash you or did you just fall in love with Hannibal and get cold feet?"

Will flinches. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I might buy that, if Hannibal hadn't dumped me like he was emptying a spit bucket when you got out. So shockingly rude that it was probably the best evidence against his being the Chesapeake Ripper," she says.

The fight or flight reflex seething in Will's blood subsides a little. "What are you saying then? That you don't think he did it?"

She sighs, flipping her non-existant hair back in muscle memory. "No. I don't think he did."

He tamps down on a relieved sigh, because Alana wears her heart on her sleeve, and he doesn't read dishonesty from her. If she were to ever become suspicious, she could be a dangerous enemy.

"Well, then you can probably go get him back now."

"Do you think I'm that stupid? Even when we were together you were all he talked about."

The hallway is suddenly much too crowded with people clomping by in hard-heeled shoes. Their footsteps echo like seconds ticking toward disaster, and all Will can think is that he just wishes it would get itself over with.

"I know things haven't been great between us, and I know I disappointed you in a lot of ways," Alana says. "But I know what it's like to have your heart broken by Hannibal Lecter so…if you ever need to talk…"

It's a nice gesture. Really. But it's a terrible idea. He forces a smile and thanks her anyway.

But Alana is not the only woman who wants to talk to him about Hannibal, and Margot Verger is a lot pushier about it. She shows up at his house, telling Will about Hannibal's suggestions that she kill her abusive brother. It wouldn't phase him all that much, if earlier that day, Will and Jack hadn't interviewed another of Hannibal's former patients, who almost definitely was using a mechanical cave bear suit to maul people to death.

Anxiety mixes with all the other emotions threatening to burst from Will's chest. His sweaty hand slips on the deadbolt as he locks it behind Margot, and he's winded by the time he lies down on his bed. Even though it's nearing midnight, he calls Hannibal.

Hannibal picks up on the first ring.

"I'm curious what would happen if your patients started comparing notes," Will says. "Margot Verger just came to speak with me."

"Did she?" Hannibal's voice is cold, and Will realizes with unfair satisfaction that it's with jealousy.

"Mmhm. Met with Randall Tier today too…at your suggestion, or so Jack tells me. You just love stirring the pot, don't you?"

"Have you called to discuss the case, Will? Or merely to torment me?"

The forwardness shuts Will up for a second. He bites his lip. The ceiling above him waves like the surface of a lake. If Hannibal wants to play this game, Will can play it.

"Tell me the truth. Did my mom just really find me out of the blue, or did you have something to do with it?"

Silence. The whiskey in Will's stomach turns into lighter fluid, and anger licks up into his throat.

"She said she saw something about my trial on Facebook. I wonder how she suddenly came across something like that. You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

"When you were released from prison, Will, who loved you? Other than me," Hannibal says. It puts a lid over the flame, smothers it so the oxygen is slowly eaten up. "You were planning to kill me. Someone needed to be there for you. Contingency plans needed to be made."

The lid is ripped off, and Will explodes.

"So it was for my own good? You've got a really fucked up idea of what's good for me Hannibal. Do you still not see how you've ruined me? I'm going to be sick for the rest of my life because of you. I know for sure that it's my fault my mother rejected me because I'm a monster, and I will probably never be able to have a family, and it's because of you. And you're saying this is my own good?"

His pulse pounds in his ears, but he still hears an intentional intake of breath on the other side of the line.

"Are you finished?" Hannibal says, audibly grasping at the shredded remains of his dignity.

"Yeah. I really am." Will says.

The line goes dead.

—

When Randall Tier lies dead on his floor in a pile of glass and a pool of blood, Will calls Jack. He corrals the dogs in the back room, then sits on the foot of his bed, curled up with his elbows on his knees, lost in the vision of his fist connecting with Hannibal's face.

If you want it…so bad…I'll let you…have it.

Someone takes his bleeding hand and starts to softly dab it clean. Someone he loves whispers soothing words to him and breathes in his scent through the fog. Finally, a coherent sentence breaks through his catatonia.

"Will, let me take you to the hospital."

When he looks up into Hannibal's eyes, he's not proud of the way he reacts.

"Jack—what is he doing here?" he calls out.

"Please, Will." The look in Hannibal's eyes is even more urgent than the first time he was begging for his life in the Hobbs' kitchen.

"I'm fine," Will says, flexing his hand. Nothing is broken other than skin. "No thanks to you."

"You're incomparable, Will. He was never your equal, but I'm telling you—"

"Jack!" Will's voice cracks.

Jack's heavy tread crosses the wood floor, and soon his soft voice is at Hannibal's shoulder urging him to stand. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. Will, I didn't realize there was an issue, my apologies. Let's go, Doctor Lecter."

After they've all gone, Will's phone lights up with Hannibal's name. Will rejects the call. When Hannibal tries again, Will blocks his number.

—

Mindy doesn't call back. Will isn't surprised. After what he forced her to say during their last conversation, he wonders if she ever will again.

—

A round of raucous barking can only mean that it's Alana's car rolling up the driveway. It's late, but Will doesn't mind so much. Margot Verger is in his living room again, gripping a tumbler of whiskey like it's the last thing she's ever going to drink. She needs something from him. Not wants. Needs. And she's been pouring whiskey as fast as he can drink it.

He must stink of it, because when he opens the door, Alana blinks hard and her nostrils flare. Applesauce, with her eye patches and caramel-dappled coat, stands with ears perked as the pack rushes the door to greet her. Will steps back to let them in, swaying a little on his feet. He'd say it's from the whiskey, but it's been happening a lot more than usual.

His eyes sweep the treeline before he shuts the door. He's seen the man with the antlers so many times by now, it might as well be a shrub.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Alana says, an edginess in her voice making Will wonder if there's a world in which she'd approve of him having any love in his life.

That's not fair. That's the whiskey talking.

"Not at all," Margot says before Will can respond. The difference in her tone before seeing Alana and after seeing her is like the difference between a film negative and a color photo. She stands as Alana lets Applesauce off her leash.

Alana flushes as she takes Margot's outstretched hand, giving it an awkward shake as they introduce themselves.

"We were just having a night cap," Margot says, looking in the general direction of the kitchen she's never been to. "Could we find her a glass?"

We, meaning him. Fucking rich people.

"Alana, do you want whiskey too? Or I might have some High Life." Will turns to Margot and explains, "It's the champagne of beers."

"I can drink whiskey with the big boys, it's alright." Alana flutters her eyelashes at Margot. Will had no idea he'd be third-wheeling it tonight, but here they are.

On coltish legs, he shuffles toward the kitchen for a glass, Winston close at his heels. None of the rest of his dishes are very fancy—he's only got two crystal glasses because he's a normal person, and usually he just uses the one. For the millionth time today, the hundred billionth time since they last spoke, Will thinks about Hannibal.

When he tries to take a glass out of the cupboard, it crashes to the floor. Winston leaps backward, nails skittering on the hard wood.

"Will? You okay?" Alana calls.

"Everything's fine!" He curses as he gets the broom out of the cupboard and shoos Winston away. "You don't have any thumbs, buddy. You can't help."

Winston watches Will helplessly from the edge of the kitchen, finally resting with his chin on his paws.

After what seems like forever, Will returns to where the two women are in the thick of a conversation. They really do make a pretty picture as they sit side by side on the bed—the same darkly elegant aesthetic, Mona Lisa smiles. Alana graciously looks up at Will as he pours her a finger of whiskey, but doesn't miss a beat of her conversation with Margot.

He doesn't interrupt them, even though he really wants to ask what possessed Alana to come here so late at night. Usually when he asks people questions like that, he doesn't like the answer. And maybe if he just keeps his mouth shut, they'll at least let him sit in the same room with them again.

He lets them talk and stares at where the window used to be, certain he can see the pair of inhuman eyes watching him from the treeline through the tarp. It makes him feel like he's boiling from the inside; his grip is so weak around his glass that he drains it dry and sets it on his bedside table.

"How are you feeling, Will?" Alana finally asks. He jerks so hard out of his reverie that every muscle in his body throbs. His mouth drops open, but no words come out. "I heard about the attack," she nods toward the window that Randall Tier had crashed through the night before.

Margot squints at him, undoubtedly, recalling the lie he'd told about a lost stag.

"And Jack told me about how upset you got with Hannibal," Alana continues.

"I told him that I couldn't see him anymore. He should have known to stay away."

"Can you blame him for worrying about you? A man tried to kill you in your house. He cares about you."

"Oh, so you two are suddenly talking again? You're here to play matchmaker?"

"No, I just think if he's worried, there's probably a reason, and if you won't talk to him about it, then maybe you'll talk to me."

Now, Margot's eyes are wide open. "Oh, so I'm really barking up the wrong tree, then."

Will freezes. Alana frowns at Margot, Will's emotions written plainly on her face, minus the sick, surveilled feeling creeping over him.

"You're a lesbian, Margot," he says. His voice sounds far away to his own ears. The fuzziness at the edges of his consciousness that has been closing in all night is starting to fully take over.

Margot's bottom lip disappears between her teeth as she gathers the last of the courage she's been grasping for. "I need a sperm donor," she mutters into her glass of whiskey.

Alana blushes a deep red, and Will doesn't know whether he's relieved or deeply saddened. Either way, he snickers, quietly at first, and then in bigger and bigger belly laughs until he can't stop. It sucks out the last of his energy until he has to brace himself over the arm of his chair.

"Jesus," he hears Margot say, as if she's looking down at him from the edge of a dock, as if he's slowly sinking into murky water. He's vaguely aware of how labored his breathing is, even after the laughter has stopped.

"Will?" Alana's voice is sharp. He hears an unfamiliar ringtone jangling, hears her answer it. "Tell me you didn't—" she stands up, walks to the window that's still intact, and peeks out the curtain. She huffs in frustration as her face is illuminated by the porch light.

Did he fucking follow you? Will thinks he asks, but realizes his tongue has turned to lead in his mouth. He can only hear the front door creak open, because his vision goes dark before he can confirm who walks through it.

—

Will's eyes blink open, aching like they were the last time he woke up in a hospital bed. His first feeling, even through his grogginess, is panic. He jolts upright, only to find that, to his relief, he's not in restraints.

It takes him a moment to realize there's someone sitting beside him. He turns his head and sees a woman. Possibly early sixties, but care-worn and old-looking for her age; sun-spotted with soft curves and sad blue eyes. She's dressed in an outfit that looks like it's been worn for a single special occasion before this, if that.

"Mindy?" Will croaks.

"Hi, baby," she says gently.

His hand creeps toward her in the slight space on the mattress, as if he's afraid for her to notice. She does notice, and she lays her own hand over it and squeezes so hard it grinds his metacarpal bones together. It triggers his tears, along with sobs that catch in his throat.

Will has never been a pretty crier. If anyone can attest to that, it's Mindy.

He turns his face away, hiding it from her with his free hand.

"Will, it's okay, please," she says. "You don't have to do that. I'm not going to leave."

That only makes it worse. But there's nothing to hide under, not even a blanket. He has no choice to weep openly in front of her, and the tears just don't stop coming. Finally, a nurse comes in and puts something in his IV, and Will's breath starts to even out.

"Wait—" he says, jaggedly, before the nurse can leave. He stops in the doorway. "Sorry, I'm here for a brain thing…" he looks over apologetically at Mindy. "Is there a woman sitting next to me?"

The young man grins. He's obviously going to bring Will's stupid question to the breakroom later.

"Yeah, sure is. Total babe, too," he clicks his tongue, smooths a hand over his carefully styled black hair, and winks at Mindy.

"You're incorrigible, Téo," she laughs. Will wonders how long she's been sitting beside him, waiting for him to wake up.

Once Téo is gone, Will takes a couple deep breaths, letting the drugs work their way through his system. He reminds himself he isn't trapped. He could leave if he wanted, but it would be better if he didn't. He knows exactly what's wrong with him, and what's wrong with him is treatable.

Finally, he allows himself to look at his mother. There's still emotional pain, but now it's almost theoretical, a picture in a book instead of a locked room he's trapped in.

"How did you get here?"

"Your friend came and picked me up."

He doesn't have to ask, but he does anyway. "Who?"

"Doctor Lecter."

Will sighs. "He drove all the way to Roanoke and back?"

"You should've seen how jealous Brenda was when that Bentley pulled up in front of the house." She smiles. "He said you wouldn't like that very much, and that you wouldn't want to see him."

Something happens then. Nothing changes visibly on her face as she continues to look at him, but Will feels her push past his defenses. He wonders if this is how other people feel when he looks at them. It's no wonder they keep their distance.

"But you do want to see him, don't you?"

Will sucks in air through his nostrils. He'll just have to accept that all he is right now is a drugged lump of flesh and need. He nods, but he doesn't release her hand. She nods back, and taps something into her phone.

Within seconds, Hannibal appears in the doorway. He looks like he hasn't changed clothes since Will was admitted to the hospital—however long ago that was.

Mindy starts to stand, and Will tightens his grip on her hand. A pained look passes over her face.

"I'll be right outside, baby, I'm just going to give you two a minute to talk."

"She can't go anywhere, Will, her belongings are in the trunk of my car," Hannibal assures him with a cheeky grin at Mindy. In spite of the sedatives, the statement makes Will's skin go cold. All the same, he releases Mindy's hand, staring up at her as she gingerly leans down and presses dry lips to his forehead.

Once she's gone, he and Hannibal are left in that buzzing, flourescent ambience of hospital, the antiseptic scent locked in a neverending battle with bodily fluids. Hannibal slowly makes his way to the chair where Mindy had been sitting and lowers himself into it.

"Tell me how you found her," Will demands.

"I created a dummy social media account and identified a number of women who I believed may possibly fit the parameters," Hannibal says. "I sent them each information about your trial, then I left the rest to fate. Once I learned her name from you, I was able to find her and bring her here."

An invisible hand grips Will by the throat as his eyes take in Hannibal's crows feet and the purple bags under his eyes. He glances at the empty doorway. "Please don't hurt her," he whispers.

Hannibal leans in, taking Will's hand with both of his own and kissing his fingertips. "Now why would I do that?"

"Abigail…"

"Is alive," Hannibal whispers.

Will flinches. He couldn't have heard right. "No."

"Yes. Your ordeal gave her a chance to start over with a brand new life free of prosecution, but that is a discussion for another time and place."

"How…"

"Shhh…"

Hannibal's hand goes to Will's cheek, thumb tracing his ear. It should be ghoulish considering the subject they're discussing, but Will can't help but lean into it, eyes closing with the pleasure of his touch.

"Why are you doing this for me?" Will whispers.

"You know the answer to that."

It can't be that easy. This—all of the tests and traps Hannibal has set up for him, all of the hoops he's made him jump through, all of the ways he's broken Will down—it' can't just be about love.

"You broke your toy, Hannibal. You can't possibly want to play with it anymore."

"You can't be so näive to think I consider you a plaything," Hannibal says. "Our souls resonate together, Will. Reflect one another, mirror-like. I know you feel it too."

Will bites his lip. He's running out of tacks to throw under Hannibal's wheels.

"Jack…the FBI…"

"I recognized your act of love for what it is. It took. And there is not a single person in our lives who is unaware of my feelings for you. And I'd be so bold to say a vanishing number of people can deny your feelings for me."

That is bold; bold enough that Will's breath catches, and he can only answer with stuttered nonsense. Hannibal brushes his fingers through Will's curls and leans closer, tipping their foreheads together.

"I want to stay in your life, Will. As your friend at the very least," Hannibal murmurs.

Will is suddenly aware of his stale breath, his swollen nasal cavity and the salt streaks on his face. Clearly, with how close he is, and the desperation radiating from him, Hannibal doesn't give a good goddamn. Untangling his fingers from Hannibal's, Will grips him by the shirt collar.

"No," he says, and before the flash of pain in Hannibal's eyes can quicken, adds, "I want more."

—

A year later, Will wakes to sunlight outlining blackout curtains, a pair of strong arms wrapped around him and warm, steady breath on the back of his neck. The light doesn't sting as much as it used to, especially since he quit his consulting job and Hannibal had moved the two of them and their pack of dogs out of sight of the FBI.

Jack wasn't happy to see either of them go, but he had watched Will break down enough times by that point not to argue. The evidence against Chilton was compelling enough for everyone else. He focused on spending as much time as he could on Bella, then took bereavement in Italy.

Mindy is still in Roanoke. They fly her up to Connecticut every few months to visit. The baggage will never truly be unpacked, Will knows, but they're both trying.

There is a postcard on a corkboard in their hallway—an ultrasound of Margot and Alana's baby boy due within the next few months. Margot's brother Mason had passed away not too long after the announcement arrived. An accident in one of his specialty pig pens.

His body hurts every day, but having Hannibal there to help him manage the pain helps, and so does having part time repair work he can do on his own schedule.

Any new friends Will makes only know that he likes boats and dogs and fishing and fixing things, and that's how Will likes it.

There's only one person who knows all the other parts of him, parts that Will thought were signs of rot, things he thought were dragging him into the grave. Hannibal sees them as miracles.

And all of those things, imperfect as they are, are more than good enough reasons to exist.