Hannibal reveled in bringing his human art project to life. Every stroke of the brush, skillfully rendered, painted his mind's canvas with the image of his ideal murderous companion. Within Will's fragile psyche was the potential to self-destruct, and arise from the ashes like a phoenix with outstretched wings.

Will Graham was the beloved muse Hannibal had never known he was missing - until the morning he fed him his first bite of human sausage, and watched him relish the flavor. How eagerly Will had chewed the meat before it passed smoothly down his esophagus and into his waiting stomach; how he had beamed at the unexpected taste; how his lovely smile of appreciation had stirred Hannibal's unflappable composure. In that moment, he had glimpsed the dark potential lurking below Will's guise of boyish, lingering innocence.

Not only physically appealing, Will possessed an alluring purity of soul. When shadows called to him, and he answered without the shudder of fear that was typical of most people. He had seen Hannibal, and not looked away. The idea that someone might finally know him was too intoxicating a notion for Hannibal to abandon. He possessed enough self-awareness to recognize that he was, as Dr. Du Maurier had keenly observed, obsessed with Will Graham. Nevertheless, he firmly believed that he remained in control of his infatuation.

When Hannibal needed inspiration for implementing the next phase of his seduction, he drew it directly from the source. The long-ago moment in Garret Jacob Hobbs' kitchen, when Hannibal saw firsthand the bloodshed of which Will was capable, played on a loop inside the cavernous inner chambers of his grand mansion of memories. Will's recent offering of Randall Tier now crowded his thoughts; earning the distinction of being the happiest memory in Hannibal's recent past.

His fingertips tingled: he still felt them passing over the soft, raw tissue from Will's wounded knuckles. It had taken more than Hannibal's usual amount of self-restraint to keep from licking the blood clean. He would have gladly his muse's offering of Randall Tier with more intimate gestures of affection, but he knew that Will would not have allowed him to break that particular barrier between them. At least, not yet. Resigned to patience, he had tended to Will's wounds in a more socially-acceptable fashion; secretly admiring the resplendent red marks of devotion.

With a rueful smile, Hannibal strode over to his harpsichord, ready to work on his latest composition. He propped open the lid, and then smoothed back the pages of the handwritten score displayed on the music desk. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head over the instrument, blindly caressing the keys with a lover's touch. He allowed his thoughts to take him where they might. As he fingered the notes, the music of his composition transported him to another dimension.

In his mind's eye, Hannibal envisioned Will, bathed in blood; hunching down on a thick carpet of pine needles. Randall Tier's modified corpse, mounted on in the middle of forest clearing, watched over them. The sights and scents of nature filled Hannibal's nose.

He knelt down next to Will, and smoothed his matted hair.

"You have never been more beautiful to me," he whispered, gently unsnarling the tangles from his blood-sticky curls.

Will looked up at him. "Are you pleased?"

The whites of his eyes starkly contrasted with his scarlet-stained skin.

Lovingly, Hannibal gazed at him. "'Pride goeth before a fall.'

Will averted his eyes.

"That being said," Hannibal continued, "I'm delighted by your progress."

"What comes next?" Will murmured.

"That remains to be seen."

Will turned on his focus on Randall Tier. "This can't be the end."

"It never has to end," Hannibal responded. He took his hand away from Will's hair and regarded his blood-soaked fingertips. Drawing the tip of his thumb into his mouth, he tasted it. The iron tang of life filled him with joy. He licked his skin again, seeking more satisfaction.

Will stood up and took Hannibal's thumb into his own mouth. With a quiet whimper, he savored Randall's blood as he sucked it from the flesh like marrow from a bone.

"So this is what triumph tastes like," he murmured, releasing Hannibal's hand.

"You can't even begin to imagine what new flavors await your altered palate," Hannibal whispered against the shell of his ear.

Standing side by side, Hannibal and Will regarded Randall with quiet reverence; relishing the victim they shared.

Will touched his sleeve. "I'm looking forward to drafting our next piece," he whispered.

As his partner admired Randall Tier's display, Hannibal schemed in confidence about their promising future together.

Hannibal's quickened pulse returned him to the present. Savoring the fantasy a moment longer, he eased more deeply into the music of the harpsichord. Enraptured, he allowed his mind to drift into oblivion as he reached the song's climax. On the resounding final chord, his fingers left the keys with a flourish. The last shivery note suspended in the desire-thickened air.

After taking a moment to recover from the emotion his playing always exerted, Hannibal bowed to an empty audience; then strode over to the desk to pick up his phone. His pulse was still racing. Dialing Alana's number, Hannibal forced himself to breathe normally.

"Hello?" Alana's voice was husky.

"I was wondering if you'd like to help me with my composition."

Alana sounded surprised. "Now?"

"If you have the time."

She paused for a moment; then gave a sexy laugh. "Why not? It's been too long since we worked on the last one."

"Indeed," Hannibal replied. "I'll expect you in a half hour then."

Without waiting for her response, he hung up the phone and loosened his tie. A little company from an eager subject might inspire him to orchestrate the next phase in Will's transformation.

Trailing kisses down Alana's neck, Hannibal paused for a moment at the jugular. Her pulse throbbed seductively. Gently suckling on the skin, he took a deep whiff of her lilac scent and let it fill him. Moaning softly, she tangled her fingers in his hair, mussing it. Her aggressive touch ignited a slow burn in his core. Tearing his lips away from her neck, he stared into her striking blue eyes and stroked the curve of her waist.

Hannibal felt no twinge of the guilt over having an affair with Alana. Though she was Will's erstwhile love interest, Hannibal could see that the two of them would never have a chance. Alana thought she understood Will, but that was her illusion. In reality, she couldn't be further from gleaning the truth about his behavior. That was a privilege Will only afforded to Hannibal.

"Where are you right now?" Alana suddenly asked. The worry in her voice was apparent.

"Wherever you are," he smoothly responded.

Alana gave him a doubtful smile. "Are you sure I'm the one who's occupying your thoughts?"

He placed a soothing kiss on her lips. "Who else could occupy my thoughts, with such a vision of beauty before my eyes?"

Dragging his tongue across her collarbone, he found the spot that made her gasp.

"You're so receptive," he whispered.

Alana closed her eyes. "You're not giving me much of a choice."

He parted her smooth thighs and delighted at what he found between them. Alana sighed in complicity. Tendrils of wavy black hair alighted upon her shoulders like wings. Hannibal studied her, truly pleased by her appearance. She gasped; firm breasts heaving with desire and anticipation.

He wondered what Will would do in a situation like this. Would he tenderly caress her, or paw at her with desperate hands? Would he stare into her eyes as she mounted him, or would he take from behind, forcing her to face away so that he didn't have to remember her betrayal? Both were fascinating images to ponder and dissect at length.

A sudden premonition of Alana's dying moment came into him; insinuated itself with sly stealth. Closing his eyes, he heard her gasp her last breath as he squeezed it from her. He would make a transcendent tableau to capture the moment of her stunning death.

For many reasons, Hannibal smiled. With a wry quirk of his lips, he descended into Alana's welcoming arms; inwardly gloating as he took from her the satisfaction that Will's friendship afforded him.

Will wanted to remember what remorse felt like. The world around him was cold without it. Hannibal had taken everything from him, and given nothing in return, save a purer understanding of the evil, and an infinite list of regrets. He was not sorry that Randall Tier was dead, but the images of mutilating his corpse haunted Will's nightmares.

Randall's dismemberment had proved to be messy, exhausting, and mentally disturbing. When Will had finally stepped back to behold his art, however, a perverse sort of pride bubbled up inside him. He didn't want to dwell on the implications of his reaction for too long, lest he lose sight of his quest to incarcerate the depraved Dr. Lecter.

Will winced. His hand still ached from beating Randall to death. The healing wounds on his knuckles throbbed. In the moment, he hadn't felt any discomfort from his destruction. Later, however, after Hannibal had carefully bathed his wounds and offered him seemingly honest words of comfort, the wounds had started to pain him. He briefly closed his eyes, recalling the watery iron scent of his own blood collecting in the warm bowl of water. Hannibal's touch had been firm, yet light; relaxing; perversely soothing.

With a dry swallow, Will knocked on Dr. Lecter's door. It was time for his postmortem therapy session. Although the two of them had briefly spoken the night he killed Randall Tier, Hannibal had insisted they discuss the incident in further detail at Will's next appointment.

"Catharsis is necessary to heal the wounds of the soul," he had said.

Will could admit that Hannibal probably wasn't wrong about that. He cocked his ears, listening for the doctor's approach. After less than moment, the door opened. Will stared at the charming monster he had unwittingly befriended. As always, Hannibal was dressed impeccably from head to toe. His suit was a rich shade of burgundy; his cravat perfectly knotted; the lines of his body smooth and lean beneath his perfectly-tailored appearance. Will felt the familiar twinge of reluctant admiration at how well he looked.

Hannibal smiled warmly. "Please come in."

Will strode inside with purpose.

"Do you have any of the hard stuff?" he asked. He looked around the room, hoping to find the drink cart.

"Always," Hannibal affirmed. Closing the door, he walked over to the corner of the office and brought out the pecan-colored bar cart; rolling it carefully along the floor so as not to upset the glasses. As if from thin air, he brandished a bottle of expensive-looking Scotch and two Copita nosing glasses.

"Lagavulin 16 - one of my favorite Scotch whiskies," Hannibal said. "Some connoisseurs would argue that it's the ultimate Islay malt."

With habitual panache, Hannibal opened the bottle. "Neat?"

"What do recommend?"

"Chillng the whisky dilutes the taste."

"No sense in doing that."

Hannibal poured Will a generous shot of Lagavulin. Their fingertips brushed as Will accepted the drink. Hannibal decanted a healthy dram of Scotch into his own glass and took a seat in the chair across from Will. Firelight enhanced the alluring angles of his slightly flushed face.

The endless waiting silence stretched between them. Taking a sip of the Lagavulin, Will leaned back against the chair's padded headrest and closed his eyes. The smoky-sweet spirits coated his throat with pleasant warmth. He picked at something invisible on his sleeve, a habit from his former self—the Will Graham that neither kept the company of cannibals, nor enjoyed their camaraderie.

"How do you find the Lagavulin?" Hannibal prompted, silently gauging his reaction.

Will flicked his tongue over his bottom lips to catch the remaining drops of Scotch. "It's sinfully palatable."

Hannibal stared into his eyes. "Like murder?"

Will took another sip. "Once you acquire a taste for it..."

"You're loath to give it up," Hannibal finished. He swirled the whisky around in his glass, letting it coat the sides. Narrowing his eyes, he assessed the color and texture of the alcohol. Seemingly pleased, he nodded his approval, and passed the glass beneath his nose, inhaling the Scotch's aroma.

Hannibal took a long, slow sip of Lagavulin and let it linger in his mouth. His eyes closed in enjoyment.

"Thick…rich…huge finish. I find its boldness inspiring. The ideal nightcap to complement an intimate tête-à-tête."

Will felt the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile, and decided to let it happen. He was simultaneously restless and relaxed; all the while, aware of his role as the lure. The position he found himself in was uncomfortably precarious, but he couldn't deny the certain thrill he experienced whenever delicately extracting more incriminating testimony from Hannibal.

"Relax, Will."

Will side-eyed him. "That's impossible."

"Everything will turn out well in the end."

"You don't know that."

"For a man who specializes in empathy, you're woefully lacking in it of yourself."

"I can't change that."

"Really?" Hannibal asked. "You've altered your behavior since I met you."

"I was sick when you met me."

"You were closed when you met me. I enlightened you."

"No offense, Dr. Lecter," Will said, gritting his teeth, "but I don't care for your method of enlightenment."

"Whether or not you appreciate my involvement in your journey to self-awareness is irrelevant. My methods have helped you discover hidden truths. You're open to new possibilities."

Will took a gulp of his drink. "I'm not sure I care for the freedom."

"You'd rather be behind bars?"

Will didn't answer.

"Do you not appreciate how I helped you return to the outside world?"

Will glared at him. "I'll never forget that you're the one who put me there."

Hannibal pursed his lips. "A necessary evil."

"Months of suffering…biding my time in relative silence, everyone believing I was a killer..." Will trailed off, plagued by unpleasant memories. "I couldn't erase what you'd done - who you were - from my brain."

"I never wanted to you to suffer. I always planned come to your assistance when the timing was right."

"How convenient for you."

Hannibal swirled his Scotch. "Best not to dwell on the past, Will. We live in the present."

"I admire your skill." Will gestured to his nearly empty glass. "You always seem to know which drink will suit the atmosphere even before you've grown accustomed to it."

Hannibal took another languid sip. "Something else is plaguing you, Will. Doubt has a distinctly sour odor. It's biting - astringent."

Will watched Hannibal lick traces of Lagavulin from his lips. The amber liquid clung to his sensuous lower mouth before his tongue caught the last few droplets. Averting his eyes, Will forced his facial muscles not to tense.

"It's in your best interest to reveal your doubts," Hannibal insisted.

Will laughed humorlessly. "Since when do you have my best interest at heart?"

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "Since I decided to make you privy to my inner machinations. It's not a privilege that is easily afforded. Perhaps you should take care as to how you comport yourself."

Will tensed. When Hannibal made vaguely sinister statements like that, he almost doubted his fishing ability.

"This psychological venture of yours," Hannibal mused. His eyes glittered over the top of the nosing glass. "It's a foray into the dark unknown. The intimate conversation you're having with your demons presents imminent danger to your current self-perception."

Will rolled Lagavulin around on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.

"And what is my current self-perception?" he responded.

"You see yourself as a victim. You're inclined to believe your actions are the byproduct of the trauma you've endured."

Will gritted his teeth. "The trauma you forced me to endure."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "It's our first instinct to blame others when the undercurrent of guilt runs thickly through our consciousness."

"You're as guilty as I am. More so, even."

Hannibal drummed his fingers on the mahogany chair in a rare display discomfort. "Yes, to a certain extent, I suppose I do feel a semblance of guilt."

"But do you feel remorse?" Will persisted, working his way inside Hannibal's mind. It felt like his own when he stepped over the threshold.

Hannibal gestured with his glass. "Remorse is one of the most humane facets of emotion. That being said, excess emotion impedes the mechanism of logical thought. It's a weakness."

Will didn't even flinch at the sting of Hannibal's smug certainty when he uttered his presumption about the human condition. Leisurely, he took a swallow of his drink. He had been playing the game for so long; it was no longer a stretch of the imagination to think like a psychopath.

"Do you know what I think would benefit you, Will?"

Hannibal's question caught Will off guard.

"What?" he asked.

"I want you to relive the moment you killed Randall Tier."

Ill at ease, Will frowned. "I don't see what good that would do. I put him in the past, you got what you wanted. As usual."

Hannibal quirked his lips into a tight smile. "You sound hurt."

"Bitter, maybe."

Hannibal steepled his fingers, considering Will's statement. After a slight pause, he remarked, "Bitterness stems from hurt."

Grinning, Will bared his teeth. "Then I guess I'm guilty as charged."

Hannibal pursed his lips and looked to the side. "Do you know why I sent Randall after you?"

Will smirked. "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Yes, but beyond that, I was intrigued," Hannibal replied. "I see great potential in you, Will. It's been so rewarding to watch your transformation."

Will shook his head. "You changed me."

"Life changed you," Hannibal countered. "I'm merely one of the people who influenced your course of action."

"You're not a person, Doctor," Will muttered. "You're far from that."

Hannibal peered at him. "Then what am I, Will? A monster, like the one you see yourself becoming?"

"Your appetite for murder is voracious," Will said. "To the average person, your actions would be construed as psychopathic."

Hannibal shrugged. "Freedom from societal conventions of right and wrong does not make me a psychopath."

Will grimaced. "But killing people and eating them does."

"And what does that say about you, Will? Look at the company you keep."

Will shifted a bit in his chair. "I know how much we're alike."

Hannibal licked his lips. "Do you think that by killing me, you'd be killing the worst part of yourself?"

Will mulled over his next words, before deciding that honesty would bring him no harm in this situation. "I'd have justice."

Hannibal tilted his head to the side. "But think of the aftermath. Once I was dead, you would be alone again. No one else understands you like I do."

"That's probably the main reason why I haven't tried to kill you again," Will muttered. The alcohol was fast-acting tonight.

"But the fantasy of murdering me is ever present in your mind," Hannibal pressed.

Will drained the contents of his glass, wincing as he gulped the fiery Lagavulin. "Can you blame me?"

"It is not my role to assign blame," Hannibal said.

"Not even when I'm openly admitting to having these…urges?"

Hannibal tilted his head to the side. "Tell me more about when you killed Randall Tier."

Will took a tight sip of air. "I imagined I was killing you."

"In this lucid fantasy, how did you murder me?"

Will smirked. "With my hands."

Hannibal peered at him. "Were you on top of me when you delivered the final blow?"

Will nodded; then drained the contents of his glass. He started to feel warmer, whether from the alcohol firing his blood, or openly fantasizing about Hannibal's death, he couldn't distinguish.

"Did I say anything to you?"

"You smiled," Will finally replied. "Like you were glad."

The fire crackled. Hannibal leaned back in his chair, pensive.

"Perhaps I was. In one's fantasies, all is possible."

"What dreams may come, to those who wake," Will said with a bitter smile.

"Were anyone ever to kill me," Hannibal leaned forward, gazing into Will's eyes, "I would want it to be you."

"I'm flattered," Will said in a voice barely above a whisper. His breath was tight in his throat.

Out of the corner of his mind's eye, Will saw the stag toss its head. It walked toward him, challenging; beckoning. He shivered.

"'Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him," Hannibal quoted. "We are as one, and the same."

"You're already inside me," Will confessed.

Hannibal briefly glanced at Will's mouth. "Where?"

Will tapped his head. "Here."

The silence between them imparted veiled meanings.