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When Will Graham woke up this morning, something in the back of his tangled web of thoughts spoke with alarming clarity;
The backdrop is set. Something extraordinary is coming.
He sat on those words when the orderly brought what could only very loosely be described as breakfast, and later when the Baltimore State Hospital guards came by with a bite mask and a set of bespoke restraints. If they noticed the anticipatory tremor in his hands as they cuffed him, they didn’t mention it, not even when they led him out of his cell past the other prisoners. They’re still afraid of him.
As they should be.
The prisoners are afraid of him too but for a different reason entirely. It does them well to remember who put them in those cells.
Will has only been at the BSHCI for six months out of the hundred and thirty–year sentence magnanimously bestowed upon him by the state of Virginia, but he spent several weeks before that in a real hospital for encephalitis treatment following his arrest. It seems like a lifetime ago now.
Maybe that’s why his anxious excitement makes little sense—what sort of extraordinary thing could be awaiting a convicted serial killer? Especially one who used to parade around as the FBI’s bloodhound while taking nearly as many lives as he saved? It seems ridiculous.
But, Will Graham knows better than to lose hope completely. Cynicism breeds suicides in a place like this.
Today is his final appointment with his neurologist. Dr. Chilton has made it a priority that Will attends each and every one “in case of long–term side effects”, but Will is well aware that Frederick has no interest in Will’s health other than to guarantee content for the book he’s determined to write. What good is a pet serial killer if his brain catches fire again?
With this in mind, Will is grateful when the guards lead him outside to the ambulance and Chilton is nowhere to be found. He was hoping to see sunshine, but the clouds have rolled in, threatening rain. Will keeps his eyes down.
He walks past the armed guards, past the portly, freckled, ambulance driver—whose badge says Roland, Seth, beneath a falsely enthusiastic ID photo—and allows them to chain him to the floor. Ankles, wrists, all connected to one chain. Outside the bite mask, Will isn’t as secure as he probably should be, but he isn’t about to complain.
There’s one guard in there with him, sitting with his back toward the front of the ambulance. He has a white-knuckled grip on his nightstick and on the outside, he looks impenetrable. Will knows better. The man is terrified of him, unwilling to look at Will directly.
Will doesn’t bother to fight his smile.
From outside, he hears the doors open a second time and the dull, metallic screech of a dolly. Another patient?
“Another one?” He hears the driver echo, sounding mildly annoyed.
The orderly hums, non–commital. “Crawford wants him for questioning.”
Those five words have Will’s interest beyond piqued. He sits up a little straighter, ignoring how the guard beside him stiffens like Will is a spider crawling across the wall.
The diver lets out a disgruntled sound. “Goddamnit. I’m the only driver. Pete called out.” A pause, another sigh. “Load him too.”
“Together?”
“I’m not about to make two fucking trips in the same direction.” The driver grouses. “I’ll take ‘em both. Two birds, one stone.”
There is a moment of silence, and Will can feel it. The unease. The nerves. Everyone is wary of the proposed carpool, but no one is brave enough to question him on it.
Will’s curiosity skyrockets.
“Load him.” The orderly says with an edge that only Will can detect.
Outside, there is a flurry of activity and noise when the hospital staff wheels the other prisoner around the back. Will purposely keeps his eyes forward, fixed on the paneling of the wall, feigning disinterest as the guards march the second prisoner into the ambulance in the furthest corner away from him.
He doesn’t look over when he feels the energy shift with the addition of a presence much larger than his own.
He doesn’t look over when he feels eyes on him, burning holes into the side of his face with dark intensity he’s never felt before.
He only looks over when the doors are sealed, the ambulance begins to move, and the stage is set.
And, oh. Something extraordinary indeed.
Will’s eyes travel from a chiseled, angular jawline, to high cheekbones, to familiar eyes that mimic the color of blood. He’s only ever seen this man in photos; he was arrested only a few weeks ago due to the intentional Freudian slip of his psychiatrist, one Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, but Dr. Chilton was kind enough to bring Will the paper the morning after the Chesapeake Ripper was caught. Will stared at that face on the page in front of him for hours, seeing him for the first time, but knowing him in his heart like he knows his own name. Oh, yes. Will knows him.
He’s studied him. Profiled him. Fixated on him.
Worshiped him.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter sits on the other side of the small, enclosed space wearing a bite mask that is white, unlike Will’s which is clear. He’s in a straight–jacket, also unlike Will, but despite his restraints, his posture is immaculate, and his stance is lax. He’s not quite as tall as Will always pictured him, he’s really only a few inches taller than Will, but he’s so striking and his presence is so large he may as well be nearly a foot taller and three times as broad. He looks like the proper gentleman socialite from his previous life, unbothered and carefree. Give him a bespoke suit and a glass of wine, he could be posing for GQ instead of being taken to Quantico for murdering and cannibalizing several dozen people. (And that’s only the number they could prove.)
Will can hardly believe it. His inspiration. His architect by proxy. The Chesapeake Ripper. He’s admired Dr. Lecter for years, even before his arrest, back when Will was still a teacher and would look through cold cases just because he could. Back before he became a killer too.
He’d stare at Ripper scenes, imagine and reconstruct, touch and admire every bloody detail. It was light, color, music, and air. Even when he had nothing, had no one, Will always had him. And with him, Will never, ever felt alone. It terrified him as much as it thrilled him, it was terrible and it was wrong, but Will was addicted. All there was left to do was let the darkness swallow him. The Ripper carved out a place for himself in Will’s head and heart, and the first time Will took a life, he did it with his monster in mind.
The first time he built a tableau, out of poor Freddie Lounds no less, he prayed that the Ripper would see him. He must have. The idea makes his chest go tight and fills him with a sense of wanting he hasn’t felt since the first time he saw a Ripper scene with his own eyes.
Suddenly the universe’s message is well–received. He knows this face. He knows those eyes.
And, evidently, those eyes know his too.
Dr. Lecter stares at him from across the ambulance, the blood in his eyes burning with curiosity, familiarity, and something close to excitement. He’s recognized not only another apex predator but a kindred spirit. Just by that look alone, Will knows that Hannibal Lecter has seen his work, and admires it. Admires him. The intensity is so profound it almost feels like a physical embrace. Hannibal Lecter could be touching him.
It’s a tragedy, really, that they’ve been in the same building, mere hundreds of feet apart, most likely, and yet this is their first meeting. Possibly their only. Everything Will Graham has wanted for years is right in front of him, chained to the floor just like him. In a cage.
They are not meant to be caged.
Will forces himself to relax. He puts on a bored face, takes a deep breath, stretches his neck from side to side, all under the watchful eyes of two armed guards and Dr. Lecter, who looks like he’s starving. He glances around, then locks eyes again with his prize.
Comfortable, Doctor? He asks silently, with a small, rogueish smirk.
Dr. Lecter blinks once, innocent like a cat, then flickers his gaze around the small space. The white mask obscures his mouth, but his eyes say enough. Not particularly.
Will dips his head a fraction of an inch as an acknowledgment. Neither is he.
There are two guards. One to Will’s left, one beside Hannibal across from him. There is likely a third guard in the passenger seat, plus the driver, and there are two cops, one car in front, one in back, escorting them to their respective destinations. Six people in total, and only two are direct threats at the moment. The police and psychiatric medical forces of Baltimore have miscalculated, but for once, it works out in Will’s favor.
His first priority would be to get Hannibal Lecter free. The rest? Well…
Will looks down at his hands and flexes them. He’s only secured by handcuffs. He meets Dr. Lecter’s eyes again. How badly do you want to get out of here?
Bloodstained eyes crinkle at the corners. A smile.
It’s all Will needs to know. He grins.
All I need is one hand free.
With a single push, Will expertly dislocates his thumb and throws the cuffs from his wrists. It fucking hurts, but only for a second, and suddenly, everything happens very fast.
The blonde guard to Will’s left is on him in a second, slamming into Will’s front with enough force to send him almost flying back into the seat, but Will Graham is much faster. From childhood bullies to barfights in his college years and his FBI training, Will is quick, agile, and knows how to block a blow. He knocks the guard to the ground where his head hits the metal floor and leaves him dazed.
The second guard, the one who was sitting next to Dr. Lecter, tries to grab hold of him, but to Will’s delight, Hannibal Lecter body–checks the poor son of a bitch to the side where he falls to his knees. Will fists his filthy dark hair, lifts his head, and smashes it into the bench seat one, two, three times. Blood spurts from his broken nose and cracked teeth, and when he drops to the floor, it’s clear he’s already dead.
Panting hard, Will shakes the pain from his wrist and darts across to Dr. Lecter, whose eyes are shining with something so close to pride. It hurts to force him to turn around, but the jacket needs to go if they’re going to have a chance. Will tries to make quick work of the straightjacket’s buckles, managing to somehow get halfway before the dazed guard on the floor jumps up and catches Will around the waist, yanking him away and throwing him nearly into the wall.
The guard shouts something unintelligible to Will’s ringing ears, and the next thing he knows, he’s flipped over onto his back and the guard is above him, raising his nightstick, ready to bash Will’s head in as necessary.
The stick comes down, but suddenly the van is jerked to the left sending the guard stumbling. The driver has most likely heard (and felt) the commotion. This leaves him seconds to spare.
Will jumps to his feet as the van swerves again and he kicks out, forcing the heel of his foot into the inner side of the blonde guard’s knee. The bone cracks, making him scream in pain, which gives Will the perfect opening to take hold of the nightstick and bring it down across the man’s head, breaking his jaw and sending him back to the floor.
Without wasting a second as the van screeches to a halt, Will makes his way back to Hannibal Lecter’s side and makes quick work of the remaining buckles that secure his arms. The jacket isn’t off, but Hannibal is free. Ish.
Two sets of pounding footsteps come around the side of the van. The two killers share a look, and without saying a word, the next step of their plan is devised. Hannibal places his arms behind his back to give the illusion that the jacket is still secured. Will turns, cracks his neck, and faces the door with his arms out and his fingers clawed, ready to strike.
The lock on the door clicks.
Will takes a deep breath in. He feels Hannibal’s proud stare on the back of his neck. He breathes out.
The doors open.
Will lunges.
The guard and the driver were not expecting him. Will tackles them both, landing on top of them in a heap on the asphalt. The impact hurts, but Will doesn’t let it stop him. He punches the driver in the face to stun him just as the guard manages to wriggle out from under him and get to his feet.
There’s a flurry of movement in Will’s peripherals—the two police officers are shouting and running over from their respective cars behind him. A gun goes off somewhere to Will’s right but he doesn’t have time to pay it any mind because the remaining guard grabs him around the chest, pinning his arms as he tries to pull him away, but Will throws his head back into the man’s face as hard as he can, loosening the man’s grip.
Another gunshot goes off, seemingly in the opposite direction, followed by the sound of shattering glass, but Will can hardly see a fucking thing. He breaks free of the guard’s grip and swings around, delivering a powerful blow to the man’s throat.
He looks around quickly, taking in his surroundings. The ambulance is empty, aside from the two corpses, and on the ground near his feet is a small pile of glass from the broken window of the police car. On the ground outside the police car, is a cop lying on his belly. His neck is twisted at a sickening, unnatural angle, and it’s obvious he’s dead. However, Hannibal Lecter is nowhere to be seen.
Feeling his heart sink, the world returns to its quickened pace, and the guard, though choking, runs at him. Will ducks, swiping a large shard of glass from the ground. When the guard turns around, Will lashes out and sinks the glass into the side of his throat, severing his carotid artery. Blood goes everywhere and the fucker falls. He’s not dead yet, but he will be.
However, before Will can even breathe, the cocking of a gun from behind his head pounds against his eardrums. His heart skips when the gravelly voice of the last remaining cop thunders; “Get on the ground! Hands on your head!”
Will squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to, but he knows the consequences of noncompliance. Hannibal Lecter is fuck knows where. Maybe he saw his opportunity and fled the moment he killed the cop, leaving Will here to deal with this alone. A sinking pit forms in his stomach at the thought. It makes sense. They don’t know each other. What is Will to him?
But Will Graham will not go back to prison. He’s faced men with guns before. If there’s only one left, then he’ll fight. He’d rather die fighting for his freedom than have it taken away again.
Slowly, Will raises his hands.
“Turn around!”
Slowly, Will turns to face down the barrel. The cop is bleeding from the temple and panting like a dog. His face is twisted up into a hateful, furious snarl, his finger dances on the trigger. He wants to pull it. He might try.
“Get on the fucking ground.” The cop barks.
Hateful and terrified, Will tries to formulate a plan. He won’t go back to prison. He will not.
But then, a shadow strides out from the side of the ambulance—the idiot pig forgot his blindspots—and solidifies silently just over the cop’s shoulder.
And oh, Will’s heart gathers itself together, pounds and pounds and pounds.
Hannibal Lecter, miraculously free of both the straightjacket and the bite–mask, takes one hulking step forward and brings his elbow down with the speed of a serpent, sending the gun slipping from the cop’s grip and clattering to the ground without discharging. Hannibal’s large, powerful hands take the man’s face between them, and he snaps the cop’s neck.
Will watches, enchanted, and more than a little breathless.
Hannibal releases the broken cop, discarding him like trash onto the ground, then turns to the driver, who is writhing on the asphalt and delivers a powerful kick to his face. The driver goes still.
The world around them is suddenly quiet. Still except for the slight breeze and the heaving of Will’s chest. Hannibal straightens his spine and lifts his head to lock his eyes with Will’s.
We did it, Will realizes. Holy fuck, we actually did it.
He has no idea what’s going to happen next.
Hannibal is looking at him with a carefully neutral expression like they’ve just met for dinner instead of murdering several people and escaping prison, somehow entirely calm and collected. The only thing that gives him away is his eyes; they’re gleaming.
“Well done.” He purrs, not taking his eyes off Will.
Will’s heart thrashes against his ribs. “You too.” He spares an unsympathetic look to the dead cop at their feet, feeling gratitude wash through his veins that does nothing to calm his racing pulse.
Hannibal Lecter stayed. He didn’t take the first opening he saw to run away; he got free of his restraints, came back, and killed someone for him. Someone who threatened Will’s life. It may not mean that much to him, but to Will… God, it feels better than the sunlight does, and Will didn’t believe he’d feel that ever again.
When he looks up again, Hannibal is studying him with a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and Will doesn’t quite know what to make of that. He needs to say something else. He doesn’t know how long this will last, this little moment of theirs, and Will wants it to last. He’s been looking for the Ripper for so long, and now he’s finally right here in front of him.
But Christ, what does he say?
Express his gratitude, maybe. Dr. Lecter appreciates politeness, and it’s not like he has to fake it. Will is grateful. for what it’s worth.
“Thanks,” He adds, gesturing at the corpse. “For uh…”
His head dips in thanks. “Your quick thinking led us to freedom. Saving your life seemed the least I could do.”
It’s so casual that Will forgets himself for a second and laughs. “Meaning I had you three–one, and you didn’t want to let me have all the fun.” He says teasingly.
So much for politeness.
Well, Dr. Lecter read Tattlecrime. Even before his arrest, she always painted him as a creepy asshole, which, unfortunately, is rude while not precisely untrue. If Hannibal Lecter expects Southern hospitality out of him, he’s going to be very disappointed. And honestly, so will Will.
Hannibal, however, just looks amused. The corner of his mouth creeps up even higher, the mask shifting to feigned innocence as if to say who, me?
Thank God Will’s monster has a sense of humor.
A second passes, maybe two, then Hannibal raises his hand towards Will’s face. Instinctively he wants to jerk away from potential touch (especially from a killer whose motive is unclear, even if it is the Ripper) but Will finds he’s frozen in place once Hannibal’s fingers graze the plastic edge of the mask still covering his jaw.
Oh, shit. The mask. In the chaos, Will had forgotten about it.
“May I?” Hannibal asks. The gleam in his eyes reflects that he knows just how dangerous Will is with his teeth, but the relaxed posture and imposing calm say he is comfortable with the threat. Trust has bloomed between them in a sick sort of way.
Will nods and turns his back. His heart continues to pound when Hannibal steps closer and the shadow of his imposing form consumes Will’s shadow on the ground completely. They look like one entity. Will can’t help but feel a little giddy about that. He feels Hannibal’s breath at the back of his neck, hears him inhale— did he just smell me? Being scented by a cannibal is not exactly a good sign, but oddly, being in such a vulnerable position in front of Hannibal Lecter gives Will the sensation of being on a rollercoaster. His adrenaline spikes, fear, and a dangerous sort of excitement builds between his ribs.
The Ripper’s fingers are nimble and clinical when they undo the buckles around the back of his neck. Warm and soothing in their weight. As the mask begins to loosen, Hannibal says in an airy voice; “Forgive me, but I must say, Will, I am rather thrilled to meet you in person.”
His pulse spikes. Another strap comes loose, the one on top of his head. Will can barely pay attention to it. “You are?”
“Yes.”
The mask comes loose. Hannibal pulls it off, exposing Will’s skin to the fresh air for the first time. His touch still feels better. More important.
Will turns to face him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
“I love your work. Had time not been an issue,” He takes another step forward, towering over Will with his power and majesty alone. His voice lowers to a dark rumble. “I would have taken great pleasure in watching you paint.”
Will nearly swallows his tongue. The words drape across him like a cloak. The energy between their bodies sparks and fills with static.
I would have taken great pleasure in watching you paint.
He knew from the first look in the van that the Ripper admired him, but to say something like that and mean it?
Desire pools in Will’s lower abdomen, his cock quickly taking interest. Hannibal’s nostrils flare as if he can smell the arousal.
Will’s cheeks are on fire, pink as the sunrise he’s sure, and without thinking about his words or the consequences too hard, he swallows against his heart. “I have always taken great pleasure in watching you sculpt, Doctor Lecter.”
Maroon eyes darken impossibly further with desire, like onyx under firelight. Will is not the only one affected by this exchange, it seems. Dr. Lecter looks like he wants to devour him whole.
Will might actually let him.
Christ, they need to get out of here. They can’t do this in the street.
The energy shift has also become too overwhelming and dangerous, forcing Will to drop his eyes. He clears his throat, and in a low, sultry voice that’s trembling ever so slightly, he says; “It won’t take them very long to find this. Crawford will be here with a team within the hour. We should clear.”
Hannibal tilts his head, considering, then he turns on his heel and strides away toward the police car without a broken window, past the corpses on the ground.
Confused, Will lifts his head. “What are you doing?”
“You know, Will, you worry too much,” Hannibal calls back over his shoulder as he steps over the mangled form of a guard. “You’d be much more comfortable if you just relaxed with yourself.”
Without missing a beat, he slips into the driver’s side of the car that’s still running and shuts the door. For just a second, Will wonders if he’s going to simply drive away, but to his amazement, Hannibal doesn’t. He pulls the car around to the curb where Will is standing, then leans over the center console and opens the passenger door.
He flashes Will an award–winning smile, the invitation (and dark insinuation) written all over his face.
“Going my way?”
Will doesn’t even need to think about it. Doesn’t fight his grin. Doesn’t fight the way his heart melts. He simply reaches for the door.
“Where else would I go?”
_________________
Oddly enough, the first thing Frederick Chilton does once Jack hand delivers the man responsible to passionately plead his very dismal case is laugh. He glances over the imbecile’s shoulder at Agent Crawford to make sure he heard correctly, and once the statement is confirmed, he simply can’t help it. He laughs. And it is not kind.
Mr. Roland looks confused when the laugh comes out. For a split second, Frederick wonders if he’ll start to laugh as if he were off the hook like in an underwhelming comedy film, but to his surprise, the idiot doesn’t. It’s almost disappointing. Almost.
Jack Crawford remains stoic, if not vaguely annoyed by the outburst. It was not quite the reaction he was hoping for, which Frederick also finds rather funny. He’s known both the Chesapeake Ripper and the Wendigo since before their capture and incarceration—Jack should know better than to gamble with a man’s sense of humor.
“So you are telling me,” Frederick purrs. “That you were too lazy to do your job, the job I pay you to do, so you put the two most intellectually capable, dangerous men in the country, both of them convicted serial killers, and at least one of them a cannibal, let’s not forget that little cherry on top,” He glances back at Jack pointedly, making him wince slightly, before twining the pen in his hand to point it at the young driver. “You decided that the sensible solution was to put them in one van. Together. Within kissing distance.”
Seth flounders. His eyes—well, eye, the left one is swollen shut, presumably from the impact of Hannibal Lecter’s kick—widen and he throws his hands up in the air to exclaim; “They were in chains! Lecter was in a jacket!”
“Dr. Lecter,” Agent Crawford growls. “Had a broken arm and a bullet in his stomach and he killed four of my SWAT team. One of them with his teeth.”
“Yes, and poor Nurse Dalton.” Frederick follows, tasting something sour in the back of his throat. “I take responsibility for that one; placing Hannibal Lecter with a dispassionate RN who narrowly passed phlebotomy. His pulse never got above eighty-five. Not even when he swallowed her tongue.”
He’ll never forget that scene as long as he is alive. They had already sedated Dr. Lecter and thrown him back in his little cell by the time he was alerted, but the blood was still running in rivers across the floor, and the poor, unfortunate woman’s jaw was almost torn through. He could hardly keep from gagging when he turned to his guards to order they “call Jack Crawford now. Right goddamn now.”
Mr. Roland swallows audibly in the quiet room.
Now he’s frightened. Good.
“And, Hannibal Lecter is not the only one of them to kill a member of Dr. Chilton’s staff.”
Ah. Frederick feels a shiver go down his spine, and he briefly fixes Crawford with a glare. “That is unfortunately true. An unstable orderly in this very hospital got a little attached to Will Graham. His admiration turned to flirtation, turned to obsession. He thought he was in love, and Mr. Graham played him like a fiddle. Mr. Brown then decided to escalate. He got a little… shall we say handsy.”
“Dr. Chilton—” Jack tries.
“Then, Will Graham tore Matthew Brown open,” Frederick draws his thumb crudely across his lower abdomen from left to right. “With his own scalpel. Gave him a smile.”
Mr. Roland’s eyes go very wide, and Dr. Frederick Chilton knows that his point has been received.
“Twelve members of my staff quit that day,” He says with a tight grimace.
Jack Crawford visibly cringes, most likely remembering walking up to Will Graham’s cell upon his arrival and seeing the self–satisfied little smile on his former profiler’s face. He still had blood in his teeth. Frederick will never forget that either. Nor will anyone else, once his book is published. It’s the very first scene. Frederick’s editor believes it’s a brilliant hook, and Frederick is inclined to agree.
The book may be delayed now that the main subject has escaped his clutches, but he has been struggling with an ending for some time. The manhunt for Will Graham could wield some rather glorious results, thus producing a better ending. Not to mention with whom he escaped…
As they say, the plot thickens.
“Well… that’s a good thing, right?” The driver says meekly.
Frederick is jarred back to the present, absolutely astonished by the sheer stupidity of this statement. The mutual escape by the two most savage, notorious serial killers in history is a good thing? He must up the screening procedures for his staff again.
A bead of sweat trails down young Mr. Roland’s temple. The scrutiny is getting to him now. He’s the type of man who will never admit he’s done wrong. Always able to find a pro amongst his ever–growing list of cons, so long as it benefits him in the end. Seth Roland glances between them for a second, then shuffles his feet awkwardly on the floor.
“They’re both violent,” He argues with more confidence than he obviously feels. “They’ll kill each other. Or one will kill the other and then you only have one to catch.”
“Or they separate and we never see either of them again.” Jack snaps.
An unpleasant chill goes down Frederick’s spine. He barely manages to keep from making it obvious.
Jack sighs in frustration. “You ever been fishing, kid?”
“Y-yeah?”
“You catch a fish once, and it gets away, it’s a lot harder to catch again. Will Graham said those words to me. Ironically about the Chesapeake Ripper.”
Ah, yes, Will Graham, the feared Wendigo of Wolf Trap, began as a consultant who quickly became nearly as obsessed with the Ripper case as Agent Crawford himself was. According to Alana Bloom, the three crime lab agents used to refer to the Ripper as Will Graham’s boyfriend as a rather macabre joke after Will Graham made a similar joke about his date with the Chesapeake Ripper.
Oh, yes, there is more than one reason why Dr. Chilton made very specific rules to keep those two men from ever meeting face–to–face.
When he tunes back in to the conversation, Jack is still droning on, berating the idiot for his negligence. “—Dr. Lecter is intelligent, he has resources, and he will disappear, blend in, and get away again. It could take years to find him.”
“And do not dismiss what I said about Will Graham. He is a vase of Aconitum. Beautiful to look at, but touch it and it will kill you. He is a master manipulator, and rather charming when he wants to be. Catnip for killers, he is. Not to mention his fascinating mind, something I know Dr. Lecter would have loved to poke and prod at, manipulate to his own will.” Another shiver crawls up Frederick’s spine and this time he doesn’t bother to resist it. “The best case scenario would be their mutual deaths.”
“What’s the worst case?”
“Dr. Lecter already has shown a weakness for smart, pretty brunettes with blue eyes given his infatuation with Dr. Alana Bloom. Will Graham fits his profile, and has a black, murderous heart to match. They are passionate monsters,” He grins, showing teeth. “And now, they’re all alone together.”
The air in the room seems to drop by several degrees as the statement hangs above their heads. It’s a bold insinuation, Frederick’s aware, but he knows what those men are. Will Graham’s fascination with the Ripper was speculated on and is well known, but no one but Frederick seems to believe that Hannibal Lecter is just as enthralled with his admirer.
After his arrest just nine weeks ago, Frederick decided it could be beneficial to discuss Will Graham in his therapy sessions with Hannibal. Both men are—loathe as Frederick is to admit it—extremely brilliant and singularly fascinating, and while they had never met, Dr. Lecter’s keen insight, he believed, would be helpful to his novel.
Something rather peculiar happened when Frederick said Will Graham’s name. Hannibal had looked dramatically bored before this, but the moment those two syllables had slipped past Frederick’s lips, oh, it was like a match had been struck. A spark of something fiery lit up the dark, cavernous pits of Hannibal’s eyes, illuminating his monster for just a second.
His novel may end up being longer than he believed.
Finally, it seems, both men have stopped believing that Frederick is exaggerating. Jack Crawford swallows hard against what has to be bile and stutters: “You think they’ll… they might start…”
“Fucking?” Mr. Roland exclaims.
“At the very least.” Frederick says. “If either of them is capable of love, it wouldn’t surprise me if we received a happy announcement by the end of the year.”
Agent Crawford lets out a wounded noise and sags against the wall.“Jesus fucking Christ. So, either they separate, one kills the other, or… or they join together.”
Yes, in the Biblical sense, Frederick thinks. “If Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham decide to kill each other, it’s a 50–50 chance of who lives. You may find the winner, you may not. If they part ways, you may find them, you may not.” Jack sags even further. Frederick huffs out a laugh that feels like it burns. “But, if they intertwine themselves, you will never find either of them ever again.”
He has no doubt in his mind that this is true.
Seth Roland looks positively put in his place. His shoulders are hiked up to his ears and he isn’t bold enough to look Frederick in the eye when he mutters: “I’m definitely fired right?”
“Yes.”
Agent Crawford grunts irritably. “You’re under arrest too.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet.” A pause. “For being a fucking idiot.”
_________________
Being inside of Will Graham is the closest thing to bliss Hannibal Lecter believes he’s ever felt. Silken heat, made wet by the oil they stole from the kitchen, and so gloriously tight, as he was made specifically to fit Hannibal’s body. As if Will was made for him.
Hannibal has never seen a more beautiful sight. The ethereal, deadly boy beneath him arches his back and cries out hoarsely, his eyes roll back, and a shiver rocks his body. His curls are damp from sweat and there is flush from the tips of his ears to his sternum. Several bruises in the shape of Hannibal’s teeth litter his throat and collarbones. It’s not enough. Hannibal wants him to bleed. He snaps his hips forward just to hear Will make that sound again.
Will lets out a strangled moan and claws down Hannibal’s arms, marking him. “I dreamed about you. Chesapeake Ripper. Oh god—” He whimpers when Hannibal growls at his slurred, rapturous words. “I wanted to find you. I wanted to know you so badly, fuck.”
This impossible, wicked boy. Will Graham. The Wendigo. A monster whose complex, cultivated darkness was born from righteousness and a compassionate heart had created such enchanting works of art from the blood of sinners. A killer of killers. He beguiled Hannibal Lecter before Hannibal even knew his name. The very first time he saw the tableaus on Tattlecrime Hannibal knew that someway, somehow, he would meet this monster, and he would keep him for himself. Now he has him.
The obsession burns brighter, tightening the knot of arousal that’s building in Hannibal’s abdomen. “I never believed I would find you.” He says.
Will nods vigorously, then gasps and shudders as Hannibal’s cock drags against his prostate again. “Fuck, I’ve loved you for so long.”
In that moment, Hannibal feels like a God. He wants to tear this boy open and devour his heart, but instead, he crushes their lips together, stealing Will’s pleasured cries from his lips and drinks in the taste of his pleasure. He fucks Will harder, keeping his thrusts deep and slow so that he can drag it out while his boy begins to tremble and fall apart.
“Tell me.” He commands against Will’s lips.
Will, the lovely thing, almost sobs. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Hannibal—“
“Would you have stayed with me?”
“Yes.”
“Killed with me?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Beautiful thing.” Hannibal kisses him again, though it's hardly a kiss and more panting into each other’s mouths just consuming the other’s breath like a drug. He brushes his lips down to Will’s throat and purrs; “Would you have dined with me?”
“God, yes. I’d have brought you the meat, oh fuck—“ Will keens when Hannibal bites down, drawing blood that falls in droplets to the pillow below while he babbles almost drunkenly on his ecstasy. “Ch-chilton’s liver, Jack’s kidneys, Freddie Lounds’ tongue. Ah— anything you want. Anything, anything…”
A growl rips its way out of Hannibal’s throat as his need to possess and claim clouds all rational thought. This boy is perfect. Hannibal wants to eat him whole. “I want you. You belong to me now. I will slaughter anyone who dares to touch you.” He slides his hand up to curl his fingers around the base of Will’s heavy, leaking cock and begins to stroke him in time with the thrusts of his hips, making Will whimper desperately for more. “You are mine. Mine to touch, mine to mark—“
“Yes, please, oh my god—“
“Mine to worship. Mine to bleed. Mine to love.”
“Keep me, keep me, fuck, please—“
“Say it.”
“I belong to you. I’m yours.”
“Then prove it. Come for me.”
Will does with a silent scream, spilling hot and thick between their bellies, trembling with desire and overstimulation, but his eyes are blown wide with sparkling, definitive, obsessive devotion. It’s enough.
Hannibal sinks his teeth into the side of Will’s throat and bites down hard as his orgasm ignites a fire that spreads throughout his body and makes him collapse into Will’s arms which take him in an iron hold. Hannibal fills him with every single drop, all while his boy’s rapsy, broken voice whispers glorious, unnecessary prayers in the side of his neck, “keep me, keep me, I love you, I need you.”
As if Will hasn’t become his center of gravity.
As if Hannibal would ever let him go.
_________________
“How long do you think we’re safe here?”
Hannibal, who had been blissfully floating between consciousness and unconsciousness, is pulled back to reality by Will’s voice. His beloved’s shoulders have tensed slightly beneath his palm, and his voice is tight with nervousness, but nonetheless, Hannibal smiles. He can’t wait to wake up like this every morning.
But first…
He quickly flips through the possible scenarios while Will is taking his next breath, then replies; “I estimate five to six weeks. Which is more than we need.”
“You have a plan already?”
Hannibal hums, pausing for a moment, feigning thought. The truth is, he’s been planning their departure from the country since Will climbed into the passenger seat of the police car. His conviction has soured his usual contacts, not because they think him immoral, but because they know his head now comes with a price, and he suspects any one of them would use him for average if they needed to. it would be too risky to attempt business with any of them. Not now that he has Will’s safety to think of.
That leaves only one option. It’s been quite a long time since he spoke to Chiyoh, but she will help. He is very sure of that.
“I’m going to contact a friend of mine. She will help us to make arrangements and obtain travel documents.” Will shifts his weight over to his elbow so he can look Hannibal in the eye. He looks almost adorably surprised. Hannibal adores him. “Money is no trouble either, I have plenty stashed in several institutions under different names all over the world.”
Will smiles softly, looking youthful and beautiful with that burden lifted. He relaxes onto Hannibal’s chest once again, his head pillowed on his breastbone while Hannibal cards his fingers through soft, sweat–damp chestnut curls.
“Where are we going?” Will asks with an unmistakable thrum of excitement.
“Anywhere you’d like, my love. The world is ours to conquer.”
“We should go south. Lie low for a bit.”
It’s a justified answer, though Hannibal can’t help but feel disappointed. Extradition laws would be a bit of a challenge, given who they are, but not impossible to get around with Hannibal’s knowledge and expertise. There would hardly be the need for a disguise so long as they altered their behavior to keep up appearances. Regular people are so easy to fool.
Hannibal wants to take him to Florence. France, Hungary, Switzerland, the possibilities are endless. He wants to show Will the beauty of planet Earth, lay him out, and make love to him in sacred places. Take him hunting one country at a time. Create masterpieces. He does not want INTERPOL’s presence to loom over Will Graham like a shadow, tainting their new life together.
But, perhaps a new, albeit temporary beginning in Cuba won’t be so bad.
Will is very quiet for a few moments. Without a word spoken about it, he can tell that Hannibal is discouraged by that answer, but he doesn’t argue. His arm tightens around Hannibal’s waist and he tilts his face down so that he can speak directly over his heart. His voice trembles ever so slightly.
“I only just found you.”
Oh, my beautiful boy.
“Will,” Hannibal murmurs as softly as he can. “Look at me, please.”
When his boy silently refuses, he gently forces his head up. It takes a moment for Will to lift his eyes, but once he finally does, Hannibal can see the sad, young boy that Will Graham once was—the one who never dared to be vulnerable, never allowed himself to get close to anyone no matter how much he craved understanding and acceptance, and now he’s finally found someone he wants to hold onto. Someone who can love him. Someone he is so desperately afraid to lose.
And by some miracle of Almighty God, that someone is Hannibal.
The obsession swells inside his heart. Hannibal caresses his boy’s soft cheek, tucks a curl behind his ear, worshiping him with every touch. “You will not be taken from me, Will. I would never allow it.” He says, low and intense.
Will searches for the lie he expects to find, but when he finds none, he smiles, bright, beautiful, and sweet. “We’re going to be hunted for the rest of our lives.” He notes.
Hannibal chuckles, unbothered. Let them try. It is simply another challenge. Only now, he knows with a swollen, loving heart, that he is not alone. They are smarter together, stronger together, and it would take divine intervention to bring them down.
After all, the FBI aren’t the only hunters on this planet. There are far superior beasts in this world.
“Yes, my love. We will.” Hannibal says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And how exciting it will be.”