Essentially, this fic gives an alternate ending to Season 1. Hannibal planned to set Will up, and killed Abigail, but was discovered by the FBI before he had chance to truly frame Will. So, he went on the run from Jack Crawford. This fic begins six months later, when Hannibal returns to Will's house to ask for help, and how Will adapts to having the Chesapeake Ripper, as well as Hannibal, back in his life.

Désert

The sun was hanging limply in the sky as Will Graham drove slowly up to his house. He frowned as he turned off his engine, the noise of his strays' howling audible even over his car, louder in the quiet. Something must have agitated them, he wondered if maybe someone had called while he'd been out. Though he couldn't think who would.

He climbed out, taking the paper bags from the back seat, heavy with the shopping he'd just brought. The shop had been long overdue; he'd just been unable to face company before. He'd take the dogs out, and then put it away. Maybe he could cook himself something. Anything but the tinned crap he'd been living on for the past few weeks. Or was it months? Either way, proper food would make a welcome change.

He wrestled with the bags as he tried to slot his keys into the door. From within, the dogs barked louder.

'Guys, it's just me. I'm home again now. Give me a minute...' He stopped as the door pushed open at the slightest pressure under his fingertips. 'Ah, shit.'

He went to put the bags on the floor, when he stopped himself. Maybe he'd forgotten to lock up. That would explain it. The door wasn't damaged at all, no signs of forced entry anywhere on the wood. Besides, what would any thief hope to gain from driving this far out and breaking in to his house? All anyone had to do was see the exterior to realise there was nothing within worth the effort of stealing. No, he must have forgotten to lock up, and maybe one of the dogs got out. That would be enough to agitate the others.

With a shake of the head and a slight chuckle, he pushed the door open completely and walked in, expecting the greeting of his strays. Except they were all crowded around the chair opposite the door, where a figure sat, staring directly at Will and he felt his breath knocked from him as their eyes met. The bags fell from his hands.

'You.'

He had never expected to see Dr Hannibal Lecter again. The thought had crossed his mind a few times in the first few weeks, but it had been six months now, and nothing. Without his permission, his mind flicked back to their last meeting. It had been at Lecter's house, maybe a therapy session, maybe just a social call. They seemed to blend into each other after a while. Every social call ended in therapy. Every therapy session ended in conversation. Lecter had given nothing away, nothing unusual. Then, the following day, Will had received a phone call. They'd found the Chesapeake Ripper. Jack was coming over to drive him to the Ripper's house. When they pulled up outside Lecter's house, Will had assumed they were merely calling for the doctor too. But Jack left the car, called Will out.

And then he knew.

He could never have guessed the true extent of the doctor's crimes, however. The body parts that littered the fridge and freezer, all of which were positively ID'd as human. All victims of the Ripper's latest killing spree. The drawings in his study, detailing each murder in soft granite and careful strokes. The plastic suit in the wardrobe, covered in blood from the last death. Will was the only agent who was still relatively unaffected by this point. Jack had been sick after the fridge, when he realised just what Hannibal had been feeding him for months. Will, however, couldn't tell if he was apathetic or merely not truly seeing the scenes around him. The basement changed that. He'd descended the stone steps in darkness, feeling around for the light switch. He found it, only to be met with Abigail's glassy stare from a wooden chair in the centre of the room, her throat slit jaggedly, a look of pure horror frozen on her face. That's when he'd fainted.

'Will? Are you alright, Will?'

The slightly raspy, probably from disuse, voice of Dr Lecter brought Will back into the present, yet could not erase the last image of Abigail Hobbs from the agent's mind.

'What are you doing here...? How did you get...? Get out! No. Get out!'

'Will, let me help you.' Hannibal ignored all of Will's jumbled questions and demands, and gestured to the shopping that littered the floor. He began to rise from the chair, going to help.

'Stay in the fucking chair, Lecter.' The agent reached round to the back pocket of his jeans and the doctor expected to find a gun pointed at his head. Instead, he was met with Will's cell phone. 'I have Jack Crawford on speed dial. One move from you and he's over here before you can do anything.'

'You don't have Jack Crawford on speed dial, Will. I doubt you've spoken to Jack in months.'

The flicker of a frustrated frown across Graham's face told Hannibal he was right. 'Fine. But I do have Alana Bloom on speed dial.'

It was a poor threat, something both the doctor and the agent were aware of. But it was enough to keep Hannibal seated, while Will bent down and began picking the food from the floor, his gaze flicking between the objects in his hands and the man watching him intently. From the chair, Hannibal could see Will's mouth moving, his lips forming silent words.

'My name is Will Graham. It's 12.57, and I'm in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My name is Will Graham. It's 12.57, and I'm in Wolf...'

He stopped when he saw Lecter's piercing dark eyes, almost reflected red in the light, focused on him. There was almost a smile perched on the doctor's face, and that made Will's blood boil further.

'I trust you've received medical treatment for the encephalitis?'

'You knew, then?' Will scoffed, his eyes narrowed in pure anger. 'Of course you did. You saw it on the CT scan, didn't you?'

'I'm sorry for ever keeping it from you.'

'You're sorry from keeping that from me? Ha.' Hesitantly, almost, Graham stood up straight and took a couple of steps towards the seated figure of his psychiatrist. Hannibal could see him shaking, as if the act of keeping the anger from his voice was physically too exhausting. 'Is that all you're sorry for, Dr Lecter? How about manipulating me, manipulating the entire FBI? How about trying to set me up as the copycat killer?'

'You found the lures?'

'Of course I found the fucking lures. The FBI combed my home for weeks, dragging me from one interview to another. They nearly arrested me anyway, despite the evidence against you.' He was furious now, his vocal dynamic rising to a shout, louder than Hannibal had ever heard him. Louder than Will had ever believed himself capable of. It felt like release. 'How about you apologise for being the fucking copycat killer? Or the Chesapeake Ripper? Which do you prefer? Maybe you could also apologise for being some lying, cannibalistic murderer?'

'Will...'

'HOW ABOUT YOU APOLOGISE FOR SLITTING ABIGAIL HOBBS' THROAT? OR IS THAT TOO BANAL FOR YOU?'

'Will, please...' He went to stand from the chair, to try calm the man before him, whose cheeks were wet from the white hot tears that were spilling from his eyes. But at the sight of the doctor's movement, Will backed away, until he had his back against the shut door, his phone pointed in his hand as though it were a gun. He almost wished it were.

'Don't move. You take one step, I phone the police. And, this time, you will not get away, I promise you.'

'Please don't. Don't do that, Will.' Hannibal stopped moving, and lowered himself slowly back into the chair beneath him. 'You can't call anyone. They'll lock me with the criminally insane, Will.'

'You are insane. You're sick. You've always been the sick one.'

'I'm not sick, Will, you must know. You understood the copycat. The Ripper. You understood them. Me.' He was flustered, more so than Will had ever seen him. In all the scenarios he'd played out in his mind of meeting Hannibal again, he'd never imagined the doctor to be in such a panic.

'I could never see the Ripper's mind. I could never see your mind. The FBI asked me to, after they cleared me, but you were too close. Always too close...'

'Will.'

'Did it ever mean anything to you? Did any of it matter to you? Or was I just a little pawn in your game with Jack Crawford? He took me to crime scenes, while you took me to bed, was that it? Did anything you did...anything we did, matter? Did you mean anything you said? Or did you just say it all to get me on side, to put you above suspicion in my eyes?' This was more how he had imagined their meeting, more emotional, more vulnerable. Except, he didn't feel vulnerable. He just felt angry.

'I didn't need you on side, Will. I wasn't playing games with Jack, not with you. It mattered to me, it all mattered. You mattered. You still matter. I meant it all. My dear Will...' He went to stand once more, as if hoping his words had disarmed the agent. He was disappointed.

'Sit down, Lecter.' Will was feeling behind him with his free hand for the door handle, pulling it open as he edged around it. 'I need to go. If you've moved even a fucking inch when I come back, you'll be lucky if I only hand you over to Jack.'

He was hoping it had been a strange dream. He'd wake up in his bed, drenched in cold sweat and the only consequence would be a restless night. Part of him was even hoping it was the encephalitis returned, and he had been simply talking to shadows, rather than the death-infected being that haunted him so. He sat out in the woods by the river for an hour, maybe two, surrounded by emptiness. He knew there must have been sound, but in his mind, he could only hear the pounding of his own heart and the rush of his own blood. If it was all real, what was he to do? What did the doctor truly expect him to do? He brushed all thoughts like that from his head; even if Lecter was real, and had been truly in his home, he was not going to stay there. He'd been expecting...what? Forgiveness? Understanding? Nothing that Will could ever provide him.

He was wrong. Of course he was wrong. He should have known better than to ever try to understand the psychiatrist who greeted him when he returned home, still sat in the chair opposite, still surrounded by Will's family of strays. They recognised him from before.

'You're still here, Dr Lecter.'

'You sound surprised.' Lecter cocked his head slightly as he spoke, as though genuinely confused by Will's shock. 'I trust you have called Jack Crawford?'

'Is that what you expected me to do?'

'You were gone for two hours and twenty-one minutes precisely. More than enough time to consider your options, decide that there is nothing I can offer you that will benefit you or atone for my actions, and phone the FBI to inform them directly of the situation.'

Will stood silent while Hannibal spoke, his mind racing. He really thought that Jack was on his way, with a SWAT team, and yet he remained sat motionless. After a few moments, he sighed. 'I didn't phone Jack, or Alana, or anyone. I sat beside the river and lost time.' He fell silent, waiting for anything from the doctor. Any form of gratitude, or protest, or question. Nothing. 'Why are you here, Lecter? What do you think you being here could ever possibly achieve?'

Will had never seen the effects of his speech on a person as clearly as he saw them on Hannibal in those few moments. The question seemed to shatter the remainder of the doctor's emotional wall, the fort he'd built himself up to case his emotions and desires in, leaving only defeat and dejection on his face. Even his eyes, that had always seemed to shine with some reflection of inner emotion, seemed to dull as Will's words sliced the air.

'You take in strays, Will. I was hoping I could be one of your strays.'

'The Chesapeake Ripper is a stray puppy now?' He spat the question out mockingly, yet Lecter's vulnerability hit him somehow, as much as it pained him to admit. 'You're not a stray, you're a fugitive. And a killer.'

'Have you ever questioned your current strays on their prior actions? How do you know they are not strays of their own devising, rather than the faults of others? That they deserve your sympathy?'

'A disobedient dog is different to a murderer,' Graham said, desperately trying to stop Lecter hitting him. Desperately, his mind sought to cling to who Hannibal really was. A killer. A liar. He murdered Abigail. Yet, he couldn't stop the next words leaving his mouth, propelled by some unknown, masochist part of him. 'Strip. Do it.'

He watched, almost with some form of angered amusement, as the doctor's eyes widened. 'Will...'

'You want me to help you, fine. But, I need to know you're safe, and I don't trust you.'

He half expected to be refused, for Hannibal to put up some form of fight. In truth, he half wanted it, if only for an excuse to throw him out that Hannibal would understand. But, Graham was let down once more as Lecter slowly began to peel the clothes from his body. He began with the dirty shirt, the grime and sweat more visible on the material as it fell to the floor, drawing disgusted looks from even the dogs as it landed at their feet. Lecter was thinner, Will noticed. He'd always been lean, but now he looked thin. Ill. His skin was cut and bruised, and damaged. It reminded Will more of his own form than that of the psychiatrist's past figure.

He was down to his boxers when Will looked again. They were some coarse material, so unlike anything he'd worn before. A desperate purchase, maybe?

'Everything, Lecter. All of it. I don't trust you.'

Again, he expected to be refused, and again he was surprised. Deep within him, he felt a form of pride at the power Lecter seemed to have given him. He could refuse nothing Graham ordered. It was the most control he'd ever had over the course of their relationship.

Though, he had to give the doctor credit. He remained stood straight, the air against his naked flesh causing not even a slight shiver. He was exposed, vulnerable, but Will couldn't forget that this did not make him completely powerless. He had merely let Will take control for the moment.

He let Lecter stand exposed for a minute or so, before he gestured to a door leading out the room. He struggled to keep a bitterness from his voice. 'Take a shower. Take some of my clothes. You know where everything is still, I presume.'

'I'm grateful, Will. I truly am.'

'Just go.'

It sickened him to see Lecter in his clothes. The clothes he wore in his everyday business, to shop in, to fish in, to work in. And now they were corrupted, turned black as the ash that Hannibal left in his destructive wake. He was awkward in them, also, surprising given his circumstances over the past few months, yet he wore them as a teenage boy wears his first suit, tugging at the material constantly.

Will glanced at him as he approached, newly clean from the shower, yet refused to meet his eyes. On his small table, he placed two plates, and gestured for the doctor to sit down. Lecter remained standing, however, hovering behind the chair.

'Please sit, Will.'

'Nice to know six months of escaping the FBI for the murder and mutilation of innocent people hasn't dented your manners at all, Lecter,' he said, eyebrows arched mockingly, yet still took a seat.

Hannibal sat down opposite, and looked down at the meal set before him. It looked like some form of chicken, yet had a slight burning smell to it that instantly turned the doctor off the food. However, he was aware of his body's need for food, especially given his prior situation.

'This brings back memories of the first time I ate here, the morning you shot Garett Jacob Hobbs.'

This caused Will to look up from the food, of which he had only been toying with, to Hannibal's irritation. 'I'd rather you didn't try engage in conversation, Lecter. I'm having trouble enough merely being sat here.'

'You find my company distasteful?'

'I find you distasteful.' He was desperately trying not to snap, to keep any form if emotion from his voice. He knew what Hannibal was doing, and he didn't want to give him the pleasure.

'I am the same person I always have been. The same person you worked with, you talked to, you cared about...'

'No. I cared about...I loved Dr Hannibal Lecter, the esteemed psychiatrist and trusted by the FBI, the man who cooked for me, and helped me, and I trusted. But that isn't you. You're the Chesapeake Ripper. The copycat. Hannibal the Cannibal, I believe Freddie Lounds so beautifully penned. And I don't care for you.'

'Hannibal the Cannibal?' The doctor asked, amusedly. 'You must admire her sheer creative genius.'

'I admire her more than I do you.'

Will didn't speak the rest of the day. He had to leave the house, get away from Lecter, before he too became corrupted by the dark he radiated. He left in his car straight after eating, leaving Hannibal to walk once around the house, as if learning the building would help him connect once more with its occupant. He found little changed, however, except the air was mustier from lack of cleaning and a layer of dust had fallen on Will's fishing equipment. The lures must have turned him off the hobby. He sat still for the rest of the time Will was absent, his eyes leisurely following the ticking clock, his mind churning, hidden.

He returned appropriately drunk, roughly sober enough to walk and talk, yet he was less concealed, all emotion was painted across his face as though a map. Like most of Graham's exploits, it caused a half smile to pass across Hannibal's lips as he watched him.

'You've been gone a while, Will. I hope it was not our earlier conversation.'

'I drove around. Went to a bar. I'd have taken you, of course, except you're the FBI's most wanted and your picture is pasted across every newspaper in America.' He knew he wasn't speaking intelligently, he could feel his words slurring into one another, but he smiled still, the smile stretched pained across his face. 'You can stay here, Dr Lecter. You can sleep on the floor, like the other strays. In here.'

He wanted Hannibal to protest, to argue, to do anything other than the singular nod of his head. 'Thank you, Will.'

Hannibal lay awake that night, the hard floor against his back. Cold metal bit into the skin on his wrist, and he turned his head to see Will's handcuffs attaching him to the table leg beside him. With a smirk, he remembered the last time he'd seem those handcuffs, and how Will couldn't meet his eyes as he'd locked them around his wrist earlier. He turned his gaze back towards the ceiling, staring straight ahead. Around him, he could hear the light, slumbered breathing of his fellow strays. Above that, however, ever so softly, he could hear Will Graham's breathing, and he knew he was lying awake also.