Will sat up abruptly, gasping for air and violently panting, eyes wide and unseeing. His shirt was drenched in a cold sweat, a sheen of moisture on his face twinkling in the pale moonlight of the early morning. The haunting crimson of a stag's eyes was burned into his eyelids, a curse that pulled him from reality each time he closed his eyes.
Nightmares had become a regular affair, ever since he had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Nightmares were his anchor, the thing that made him sure he was still sane, that all of the dreadful things that his mind subconsciously imagined wouldn't happen while he was awake.
Because he wouldn't let them.
He believed that he was still emotionally sober enough to have control over his actions, disgusted by the images his thoughts conjured. So disgusted, that he was able to lie to himself, lie to his subconscious, lie to his therapist... that he didn't just slightly enjoy them.
Yet, as he pulled back his cover, which was twisted and mangled due to his habitual thrashing, his hands shaking and fingers numb, he wondered.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, staggering to the kitchen to make himself a strong coffee, he wondered. He wondered about his beliefs, these imagined concepts that he drilled into his own mind to let him sleep at night.
He may have been emotionally sober... Before he woke up covered in blood.
Before he realised it was not his own.
Before tonight.
--
The waiting room was warm. The paintings that hung over the neat sofas were only slightly disturbing, which was a comfort, Will thought, to those incredibly disturbed.
It was warm, and the sofas were comfortable, yet he did not sit, nor did he undress. He kept his coat tightly zipped, his hat firmly over his head, and his hands in his pockets, waiting for the gates to his only save haven to open.
Will was scared. He was absolutely terrified of what might happen, what could be taking over him.
What if what the voices said was true?
No, he corrected himself. Not voices. Voice. A very familiar voice, that drilled deep into his mind every single day, every single night. Smooth, gentle, eloquent, with a distinguishable Lithuanian lilt.
It told him he was a killer. It told him he was made to maim and to rip and to cut and to tear. It told him to join it. To join the hunt.
In fact, the invasive presence in his mind had become so constant that he had become used to it, if not rather fond of it. He found himself talking to it sometimes, when he was alone. It would help him with cases, unlock information that was tucked somewhere in the depths of his mind.
Yet, despite its seductive smoothness, despite its familiarity, he refused to refer to it as Hannibal.
It was obviously Hannibal's voice, Hannibal's influence birthed it in Will's mind, yet it was not him, as he told himself many times when he was close to succumbing to its demands.
It was simply a product of his colourful imagination, of his unproved accusations and yet unachieved expectations of the man.
"Will?" That same, velvet voice rang out behind him, making him jump, ripping him from his daze.
The brunette turned to see a tall man standing at the oaken door, a concerned look painting his face.
"Sorry, spaced out," Will muttered, waiting until Dr. Lecter's previous patient walked out of the waiting room, ignoring the sideways glance she sent him, before pushing past the suit-clad man into his office.
Sighing, he flopped down onto one of the chairs and waited for the doctor to enter after him and close the door.
"Are you okay, Will?" His calm voice questioned him.
"I'm fine." 'No you're not,' it corrected him. "No, I'm not," he amended. "I need your help, Hannibal. You're the only one that can help me." 'You could go to Jack,' the voice laughed. 'Or do you think he'd think you're insane? Oh wait! You are.'
"Why don't you take your coat off and then explain. You must be uncomfortable," Hannibal sat down opposite to him, crossing his legs regally.
"I'd rather not. I wouldn't want to get blood on your furniture." Will said matter-of-factly, tugging his coat around him and looking the doctor in the eye. 'I wouldn't think you'd actually care that much about the furniture, per say...'
"Why, are you bleeding, Will?" Hannibal leaned forward, concerned. He shook his head.
"No, I'm okay."
"Not your blood?" Hannibal caught on, eyes hardening. Will didn't answer. "Whose?" He pressed.
Will finally looked away from Hannibal's maroon eyes, casting his vision down.
"I'm not entirely sure. I think it's Thomas Caster's-"
"The man who went missing a week ago. Interesting."
Will blanched, jarred by the psychiatrist's calm demeanor, yet not entirely surprised by it.
"I woke up this morning covered in his blood, Hannibal. I dreamt that I hunted him, dreamt that I chased him like a rabid animal. I ripped his throat out with my teeth. I opened his rib cage like it was made out of butter. I hung his body with his own intestines, I-"
"And you're still in the clothes you woke up in? Did you not think to change?" Hannibal dismissed his panicked rant.
"That's your problem with this? Anyway, I didn't want to leave any evidence behind. You know how Jack is, always snooping around in other people's business," Will explained, exasperated. 'Plus, you were too scared to do anything save from coming here, weren't you? You were shaking like a child, not that you'd ever admit it,' it added, its nonchalant seriousness unfaltering.
"And so you brought the incriminating evidence here instead, thank you for that," Hannibal sighed. "Go, take a shower. I'll prepare some clothes for you. Leave the bloody ones in the bin," he instructed.
Will nodded mutely, practically running to the bathroom. The voice sighed. 'You should kill him,' it nagged him, again. It did every time he saw Hannibal, without fail. 'It would be so easy. He trusts you. Just kill him.'
As Will stood under the hot water, rubbing the blood away from his skin, washing away his worries, he pushed those thoughts aside. Hannibal was the only person who wouldn't feel inclined to throw him in a mental ward once he confessed. He needed that right now.
Once he was sure that not an inch of blood was left to stain his skin, he pushed aside the shower curtain and stepped out of the bathtub slowly.
The bathroom was beautiful; it's high domes and cozy cream colours adorned with winding thorned flowers certainly fit the atmosphere of the rest of the house. It was big and spacious, old fashioned, yet equipped with all modern necessities. Will wondered in awe for a moment as to how much it must have cost to renovate the house in this way. A small fortune, no doubt.
He spied a pile of neatly folded clothes resting on the toilet seat, the realisation dawning that Hannibal must have been in the bathroom while he was showering, since the bin had also been emptied. He was less discomfited by that thought than he maybe should have been, as he pulled on a pair of slightly oversized black boxer shorts and an even more oversized baby blue shirt. It was silk, he noted, as the cold fabric slipped over his worn skin, which was sore and tender from the scrubbing he just gave it.
He returned to find Hannibal in his office chair, looking through what he assumed were his notes on patients. He heard Will coming; his back tensed only slightly, hands pausing on the pages he was flipping through.
"So, Will," the tall man looked up at the brunette, "I think I'm right in saying you have a certain... Suspicion towards me? You have accused me of murder several times, after all," he said, a smirk pulling up the corners of his lips.
'I think suspicion is putting it lightly...' "Yes, I do. I believe, among other things, that you are indeed the intelligent psychopath we have been looking for," Will stated, sitting on the loveseat beside the window and pulling his legs up to his chest.
"And still, bearing this acclaimed knowledge you have in mind, you came to me?" Hannibal questioned incredulously, one eyebrow rising.
"No. I came to you especially because I believe all that stuff," Will said. 'All that stuff. What an artistic way of putting it. Your vocabulary is booming these days, William,' the voice commented, dripping with unadulterated sarcasm. Will ignored it.
Hannibal sat in silence for a moment. "I am assuming you thought, then," he started, "that since I am the psychopathic killer you perceive me to be, that I would not judge nor discriminate against you, thus making me an effective outlet for your emotions, correct?" He questioned in a somewhat scolding tone that instinctively made Will feel guilty.
"Pretty much," the brunette answered sheepishly. "There might be something more to why I came here, but for now I'm in denial." 'Oh, sure you are. Christ, if I'm going to listen to your whining about him one more time I will auto-defenestrate. And you're coming with me.'
"In denial? So disregarding that, you decided to risk everything and let the chips fall where they may?"
"No, Hannibal. I didn't risk everything coming here. I may be in denial but I at least know how to acknowledge the facts. I know you're fond of me, for reasons that I'm not even going to try to comprehend; my imagination doesn't stretch that far into the void." 'You're not that far off though.'
Hannibal chuckled, leaning forward. "Your point is?"
Will sighed, tugging at the loosely buttoned silk shirt that had slowly been sliding off of one of his shoulders. "I think, and this scares me beyond anything I've ever experienced, that I might be a bit fond of you too."
'You mean, you 'love' him, you idiot. You should love me.'
--
"When the fox hears the rabbit scream, it comes a-runnin', but not to help."
