Will does not make a follow-up appointment, and he does not call back.
His number is out of service.
News of the Chesapeake Ripper's latest murder has reached the mainstream press and it swamps the news circuit over the next few days. One of Hannibal's more paranoid patients voices concerns about seeing a strange man following him, perhaps the Ripper himself, but Hannibal cannot take his usual secret pleasure in playing the bogeyman lurking outside locked doors.
He wishes he had not let Will Graham live.
Four days after his appointment with Will, Hannibal stays at his office later than usual. Although it always proves a pleasure, his consulting work for the FBI leaves him with more paperwork than he can conceivably finish between daytime appointments. The amount always increases in the aftermath of a new Ripper kill.
His only regret is delaying dinner.
Hannibal is bent over the fireplace, in the middle of twisting off the gas and watching the flames die, when he hears it.
He twists around.
The low growl raises the hairs at the back of his neck, a static charge that shoots down his spine and raises bumps along his arms, but the office is dark and he cannot see anything. The lights have already been flipped off in anticipation of his departure.
Hannibal reaches back and blindly grasps for the handle of the fireplace poker. He draws it from its stand with caution, eyes never leaving the shadowed corners of the room. He can't pinpoint the location of the sound, but when he steps around the edge of the desk and towards the light switch by the door, it intensifies.
He freezes.
The growl rises to a thunderous crescendo, a roar that vibrates throughout the room and leaves Hannibal rooted to the spot. Something not unlike fear flickers to life within him, and the feeling is so foreign, nearly forgotten, that he almost drops his weapon.
Then, as soon as it began, the noise stops altogether. The air is silent once again.
Hannibal lunges for the switch and casts everything back into light. He gasps as his eyes dart around the room, draws in the breath he'd been neglecting to take, and tightens his grip on the poker. He stands with his hand against the wall for another couple moments. Just until his muscles unlock and the adrenaline leaves his body. Then he searches the entirety of the room, from the mezzanine to behind the curtains, and confirms the absence of any reasonable explanation.
He's on edge the whole drive home.
Off-kilter and hyperaware of any sound as he unlocks his front door, floods the foyer with light before stepping into the house.
He undresses and takes a shower just long enough to clean the cold sweat off his body. His appetite is gone, but he heats the oven and warms a plate of leftovers anyways. He eats the last of Mr. Dunham standing at the counter, staring at the darkness outside his kitchen window.
Hannibal climbs into bed at half-past eleven.
He's adjusting the alarm on the bedside table when a flicker of movement registers in his periphery. He turns his head towards the doorframe.
The black mass is waiting there.
It stares back with eyes like golden fire. It makes no sound but he can smell it this time. Decay and wet earth.
Sometimes there was nothing, but sometimes I'd see it there.
He blinks, and it's gone.
Hannibal falls asleep with Will Graham on his mind and the scent of death in his nostrils.
He opens the door to his waiting room at 7:29, a week after Will walked in and back out of it.
Hannibal is unsurprised to find the man standing on the other side.
Will is facing him this time, a smile on his lips.
"Hello again, Dr. Lecter."
Hannibal steps aside. "Please, come in."
"I wasn't sure you'd keep my appointment time."
Hannibal closes the door behind them, locks it. When he turns to face the younger man, it's to find Will climbing the ladder to the mezzanine. His coat is draped across the back of the patient's chair like before, and he's once again engrossed in examining the library.
"You did not make another appointment," Hannibal feels a need clarify. He leans against the edge of the desk and looks up at the man perusing his collection of medieval philosophy. "I was unsure if you intended on continuing therapy with me."
Will steps away from the shelves, leans over the banister. His expression is somewhat bashful.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't sure either."
"Yet here you are."
"Here I am," Will agrees, wanders back towards the books. Hannibal watches him run his fingers over a couple volumes before selecting one and pulling it from the shelf. He traces the scalpel in the front pocket of his suit pants.
"How long did it take you to collect all these books?"
Hannibal meets the curious look Will throws over his shoulder. He's flipping through the pages of something much older and much more expensive than he probably realizes, but Hannibal doesn't allow his disdain to surface.
He gives the other man a patient look and answers. "I've been collecting them since I established my practice. Some from before, even. I acquired many of the medical texts while still in school."
"What drew you to psychiatry?"
Hannibal pushes off the desk and walks towards his liquor cabinet. He can feel Will's eyes tracking him across the room, but when he chances a glance back, the man is once again absorbed in the text.
"I was a surgeon first. But the appeal of the mind is undeniable."
"Why did you stop being a surgeon?"
Hannibal pulls two tumblers from the shelf. His hand hovers over his usual choice of wine before he considers current company. He selects bourbon instead.
"Would you care for a drink?"
A huff comes from the balcony.
"You drink with your patients?"
"Are you my patient, Will?"
Hannibal pours two fingers in each glass. He re-corks the decanter before turning around.
Will stares at him from above. The overhead lights cast his face into relief but his eyes seem to glimmer even so. He shuts the book in his hands, pushes it back into place, and ambles towards the ladder.
Hannibal takes a glass in each hand and walks to meet him. When both of Will's feet are solidly on the ground floor, Hannibal extends the crystal towards the younger man. Their fingers brush as Will takes the glass and yes, he's real. Not a hallucination.
"Buffalo Trace Kentucky Bourbon. I presumed you'd prefer this to cabernet."
Will tips the liquid back and swallows half in one shot.
"You presumed correctly."
This close, Hannibal can take in the finer details of Will's appearance. The resident facial hair that seems only half-thought out, the smudged circles beneath downcast eyes, the rumpled collar of a plaid shirt speckled with dog hair. Glasses, worn at the edges. He is every bit the sleep-deprived loner he suggests he is, but Hannibal knows that is not all.
He connects their eyes and brings his glass to his lips. The whiskey burns pleasantly on the way down and for a moment it's the only thing occupying his senses. But when Will looks away and moves to finish off his own tumbler, Hannibal leans in ever so slightly and inhales.
Will smells like thunderstorms.
He brushes past Hannibal and places his glass on the desk.
"Why did you stop being a surgeon, Dr. Lecter?"
Hannibal remains where he is, bourbon forgotten.
"I killed someone."
Will's eyes flash.
"I would think that comes with the job."
"It was," he begins, free hand drifting down to settle in his pocket. Around the scalpel. "It was one life too many."
Will hums. Stands there.
"I saw it again. The watcher."
Will rounds the desk, drifts towards the fireplace. He pauses before it and gazes into the flames, his back to Hannibal and the rest of the room. His voice is quiet when he speaks the next words.
"I wasn't asleep."
Hannibal moves away from the ladder.
"I was in the field outside my house. I usually walk my dogs in the morning, but I was alone this time."
Hannibal places his nearly full glass on the wood next to the empty one.
"It had just rained and it was still sort of drizzling. Some lightning far off but most of it had already passed. The kind of weather where you can still feel the electricity in your bones."
Hannibal slides the blade into his sleeve, takes a soft step past the desk.
"So I was in the middle of the field, the middle of nowhere, and I heard a step behind me."
Hannibal pauses, but Will doesn't react.
"Not a human step, something smaller. More like," he laughs, rubs at the back of his neck, "a dog. I thought one of my dogs had followed me out there. So I turn around and I'm ready to see Winston or one of them holding a stick for me to throw but it's the thing, it's the watcher, and it's standing there less than three feet away and it's staring at me."
Hannibal is steps away and he can see how easy it would be to raise his arm and plunge the metal into Will's neck. How quickly the younger man would slump to the floor, bleed out. Reap the consequences of his deceit and keep Hannibal's secrets forever.
"And then it looked me straight in the eyes and spoke."
Will turns on him in a blink, locking their eyes with an intensity rivaling Hannibal's thoughts. The firelight casts flickering shadows across his cheekbones and his irises are golden in the flames.
Hannibal can't look away.
"What," he finds himself speaking, arm limp at his side. "What did it say?"
Will's voice is as solemn as it is certain.
"Repent."