Hannibal drove through the sleeping city, flitting in and out of shadow as he passed beneath the streetlamps, maintaining a plausibly unsuspicious distance between his car and the one they were following. Almost childishly he hoped that Will, who must have tailed many cars himself in his career, could see from the passenger's seat how expertly it was being done.

They were both a little drunk, and it was incredibly foolish for them to be driving – they, of all people, could scarcely afford to be pulled over. But Hannibal was not an amateur. He was more than capable of obeying the rules of the road, even in his current state.

Even as consumed as he was by what had already happened tonight.

It had begun so innocently. A man at the bar had been rude. So, of course, Hannibal had pointed him out to Will as potential prey, a game he played quite often. A game which Will, in the past, had typically refused to indulge, committed as he was to keeping Hannibal on a short leash. But tonight, with no warning, with this particular prey, he had done more than indulge it. He had encouraged it, fed it, participated in it. He had taken the fantasy farther than Hannibal had dared to hope he might.

Hannibal had seen the eyes of a predator in his face again.

And then they had seen the man begin to close his tab at the bar, and Will had brought his mouth to Hannibal's ear and said "let's follow him."

How could he refuse?

They had waited for the man in their car, had moved it just outside the parking lot to a side street in order to make it less obvious when they began to tail him. They had waited for him in electric silence, Hannibal's every sense heightened, muscles coiled and excitement crackling, and Will had smelled of the beer than the man had spilled on his shirt, spilled without even apologizing, and Hannibal had tried to focus on the task at hand through an almost overwhelming sense of glee.

And then the man and his friends had stumbled out of the bar and piled into their car and begun to drive, and Hannibal and Will had followed them.

But even still, despite his excitement, Hannibal did not really expect that he would kill with Will tonight. After all this time, he thought it would take more than one night of lightheaded yearning to make Will relax his rigid rules and kill what he would surely consider 'an innocent man.' This pathetic creature would not be the catalyst for the next stage of Will's transformation.

But why, then, was Will doing this?

Was he steeling himself to kill, playing through the first steps of a murder and seeing how they affected his still-present moral feelings? Was he following a sudden whim, curious to see what might happen if he did?

Or was he simply toying with Hannibal?

The dangerous thing about Will was that he might not even know the answer himself. Hannibal loved that about him. And that beautiful unpredictability was why Hannibal, despite his near certainty that Will would not kill tonight, was not playing a game. He was operating under the assumption that they would kill the man.

He was going to make Will stop him.

And until then, there was no reason not to enjoy the fantasy.

So, then. They would do it just as they had said they would, sitting at their little table in the corner of the bar, fingers intertwined, breathing each other's cruelty like air. They would take him when his friends drove off, as he drunkenly fumbled with his keys at the door. They would take him home, Will would tie him down. And Hannibal would watch Will release rivers of darkly shining blood from his body and claim his precious life.

They would do it however Will wanted it done. Quick or slow. Merciful or torturous. Clean or savage. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Hannibal could already feel his prey struggle and then grow still beneath him, could already see the blood slicking Will's skin, could already taste the meat.

And then, as their quarry pulled through a yellow light just ahead of them, Will put a quick hand on Hannibal's shoulder and said, simply, "Turn the car around."

And Hannibal obeyed.

As they wound their way back to the house they shared, Will sitting quiet and unmoving beside him, Hannibal wondered happily if Will had any idea how much this little experiment had tormented him. How much it had strained at his careful composure. To be prevented from killing, that was no more than a dull throb of disappointment, familiar now after so many months living under Will's rules.

But for Will to dangle this in front of him? To show Hannibal a glimpse of the monster inside him and then slam the door shut on it again?

That was almost too much for Hannibal to bear.