Ten Weeks Later

His dogs, his fishing, his solitude.

Will Graham didn't ask for much in life, and if he couldn't have what he truly wanted - found and lost in the brief but memorable times spent with Dr Hannibal Lecter - he expected life just to let him be.

As far as Will was concerned, however life, had other ideas.


"I'm still recuperating, Jack," Will said, walking along the jetty towards his boat, as Jack trailed after him like a dog that had caught the scent of a bone. "Dragons, Rippers, Shrikes. I feel like I've lived on the dark side of the fairytale for long enough. Time to find another Knight in shining armour to rescue the damsel-in-distress."

He unmoored the line and was preparing to cast off, feeling his skin pierced by the unrelenting and persistent gaze of Jack Crawford. "You, Agent Crawford, as you well know, have done as much damage to me than any of the killers I helped the FBI catch," Will said with more indignation than hurt.

Jack dropped his shoulders and sighed. It was as close to humble begging as Will had ever seen the man come. "People are dying, Will, becau— …"

"Because of me?" Will concluded, as he hopped onto the deck of his boat. "Dammit Jack, people die every day. With or without the intervention of Will Graham."

"A compromise then," said Jack. He knew, despite all Will had endured, if he pushed hard enough and then relented with some concessions to appear to give Will an upper hand, he would more likely get what he wanted. "If you don't want to catch the killers, help me teach the ones that do."

Will started his boat before turning back to the Head of BAU. He didn't answer, but the look on Will's face was enough to give Jack a sliver of hope that his request would at least be considered.

Will took the rudder and guided the boat away from the dock towards open water. He didn't look back at the man standing on the jetty staring with resigned hopefulness after him.

Yes, Will Graham had learned much under the skilful and all-too-fascinating mind of Hannibal Lecter, including when to let your prey think they are the ones in control. Just enough resistance. Just enough give on the line to keep them intrigued. Will smiled as the fresh sea air whipped his face. Within two weeks, he would be back within the walls of the FBI, now a fox amongst the chickens. His turn to lure the man he loved back into his world.


Hannibal perused the online news with dwindling interest. Nothing to immediately catch his attention.

The FBI had reported his own death, but all mention of Will Graham and his involvement in taking down the Red Drgaon had been quashed. Hannibal was none the wiser - almost frustratingly so - as to the fate of Will.

Until today, happening upon the front cover story of the rag he had often used to his own advantage which in its own turn, was used to publish to contents of the scum-encrusted bottom of the information barrel. The title was delicious in its ignorant premonition of the future.

FBI SACRIFICES ITSELF ON THE ALTAR OF WILL GRAHAM
The selling of law enforcement's soul in the name of saving lives.

There, staring back at him, was the man simply impossible to forget for all the layers of beauty he had brought to Hannibal's world. Hannibal rarely dreamed. But in the weeks since their fall into the Atlantic, his nightly slumber had been frequently invaded by the sound, touch and scent of Will Graham. Hannibal had evolved. After their shared experience in the slaughter of the Dragon, he knew that the kill, consumption and artistic portrayal of his prey would no longer satisfy his appetite. Will's taste still lingered on his lips, sweeter than any meat. Evidently, for Will Graham to have willingly re-entered the hallowed halls of the FBI, he felt the same. The message was clear. Hannibal could see it in the look in his eyes as he gazed at the camera.

Here I am, Dr Lecter. Your move…