Will Graham dozes in the passenger seat of Hannibal Lecter's car, just barely eavesdropping on the argument taking place outside. The imposing shapes of Hannibal and Jack Crawford block the moonlight from streaming in through the car window, leaving Will in artificial darkness.
"We need to take him to a hospital," Will hears Jack say. The special agent keeps his hands in his pockets to ward off the cold, but his tone betrays an unchangeable persistence.
"I have already examined Will's wounds," Hannibal replies amiably. "They are not serious. What he needs is rest, and, if you have any intention of ever listening to my advice, I would recommend a short vacation."
At the moment, Will agrees with Hannibal. The wounds, though they ache, aren't bad, and Hannibal has already bandaged them with exquisite care. Will tugs a shock blanket around his shoulders and settles into the leather seat of Hannibal's Bentley. The car, like everything else in the doctor's life, is well kempt, and the pleasant scent of good leather and the doctor's aftershave make it quit easy for Will to tune out the voices outside. Assisted greatly by the sedatives in his system, he manages to doze through Jack's pleading arguments and Hannibal's sharp rebuttals, and he has nearly slipped into a dreamless sleep when the driver's side door opens and a puff of frozen air chills him to the bone.
Hannibal gets into the car and starts the engine, which grumbles to life at a pitch not dissimilar to the doctor's voice.
"Are we leaving?" Will manages, though his speech is slurred.
"I'm taking you home," Hannibal replies, and they begin to drive away from the scene. Will glances through the window at the body of Dinah Hicks. Her eyes are glassy, and arrows lie about her, some broken, others still intact. Just before the car turns a bend and the body vanishes from sight, Will sees the paramedics lift the body onto a stretcher. The movement of her limbs is so unexpected that Will thinks for just a moment that she is still alive.
"Thank you," Will says after a few minutes of silence.
"It was my pleasure," Hannibal replies, his expression not faltering from its eternal serenity.
"I owe you one," Will mutters.
"An understatement," Hannibal contests, "but seeing you alive and intact is compensation enough."
Sometimes Will wishes that Hannibal were a bit less polite. He cannot remember the last time he saw a genuine emotion pass across the doctor's inpenetrable mask, not rage, not sorrow. If it were not for the nearly oppressive nature of his presence in the car next to him, Will would suspect that Hannibal was not, in fact, human. Then again, the heat that practically radiates from him and the heady scent of his cologne begs to differ.
Will glances sidelong at the other man, noting the way his profile cuts against the moonlight like a scythe, the way the sharp curve of his cheekbone casts a deep shadow on his collar. Something is bothering Will, but he cannot quite place it through the haze of pain and sedation.
"Hannibal," he says finally. The doctor's ears prick up – it isn't often that Will uses such terms of familiarity. Surnames act much in the way a pair of glasses do; they place another layer of separation between him and the person to whom he is speaking.
"Yes, Will?" Hannibal replies, sneaking a glance at the man beside him before returning his attention to the road.
"You didn't just safe my life; you killed someone for me. You seem unusually calm about it."
Hannibal takes a long time to respond. When he does, his words are measured and precise.
"When I was a surgeon," he begins, "there was always a chance that a patient could not be saved. Once I had been surrounded by death for so long, I began to believe that I had become desensitized to it, but when it came time for someone to die on my own table, I found that this was not the case. Since then, I've found it's better to regard death as sometimes being a necessity.
Will nods, satisfied, though he still feels as if Lecter is holding something back. "I don't know if I can think like that," he says, turning to look out the window.
"To each his own," Hannibal replies.
To each his own, Will thinks, memorizing the way the words roll off the doctor's tongue, his tone, his inflections.
They drive in relative silence for the remainder of the trip, for which Will is grateful. The conversation has deadened his last reserves of energy to the point that, when Hannibal finally pulls into the driveway, he dreads having to leave the warm sanctuary of the car. Hannibal exits, rounds the car, and opens the passenger side door before offering a hand.
Will accepts it gratefully and, shrugging off the shock blanket, climbs to his feet. His right leg immediately buckles beneath him, but Hannibal halts his descent with a strong arm, which snakes around his ribs and secures him tightly.
"Why don't you lean on me?" Hannibal suggests, and Will nods. After regaining his balance, he slips an arm around Hannibal's neck, and the two begin their awkward journey to the front door. An onlooker would be given the impression of a four-legged spider with a fifth leg already on its way out struggling to cross the driveway. Once at the door, Will fumbles with the key for a moment before sliding it into the lock and finally escaping the cold.
He slips out of Hannibal's grasp to flick on the light switch, and the movement of his arm tugs at the bandages beneath it, eliciting a short burst of pain. Will groans and presses a hand against his side, but he is comforted somewhat by the group of dogs that flock eagerly to him.
"Hi, Winston," Will chuckles, patting one of the larger dogs on the heads. He glances up to see Hannibal staring in concern at him.
"I'm afraid I wasn't able to clean your wounds sufficiently before. Come, I'll draw you a bath."
Will freezes – the idea of being unclothed and submerged in the other man's presence isn't appealing, but Hannibal is his doctor, and above all else, Will trusts his opinion.
"If you could direct me to your washroom…" Hannibal inquires, his eyes surveying the rather shoddy state of Will's home.
"Oh, it's over here," Will says, beginning to make his way across the living room, but his leg once again falters beneath him, and Hannibal lends the service of his arm. Once inside the bathroom, Hannibal sweeps away the shower curtain and turns on the hot water tap. A rush of water strikes the basin, and steam slowly begins to rise from the bathtub.
"You can adjust the temperature to your preference," Hannibal says, "though I assume you'll want it hot. Allow me to fetch the first aid kit from my car; I'll only be gone a moment."
Once Hannibal leaves the room, Will divests himself of his shirt. Hannibal already unbuttoned it once in order to bandage his side, and Will hadn't bothered to do it up right; he finds now that he has missed six of the buttons. His pants, which are now missing a leg below the knee thanks to Hannibal's scissors, will have to be replaced. Will pays them no mind as he tosses them on top of his shoes. After taking off his socks, he contemplates whether or not to remove his boxers, eventually deciding that he won't mind getting them wet as long as they afford him some degree of modesty. By the time he has peeled off his bandages, the bathtub has filled by nearly four inches.
Letting out a sound close to a moan, Will lowers himself into the steaming water, sighing as his aching muscles relax in the presence of heat. His injured calf stings for an instant before being reduced once again to a dull aching.
The sound of the front door creaking alerts Will to Hannibal's return, and a few minutes later the doctor emerges with the first aid kit. He is dressed only in his shirtsleeves, which, considering the amount of clothes he usually wears, puts he and Will at roughly the same level of undress. Will's breath hitches in his throat as Hannibal sets the box down next to the sink, causing the fabric of his shirt to tug across his chest, and he quickly diverts his gaze.
Hannibal grabs a washcloth and goes to kneel by the side of the bath. He peers at Will's nearly submerged body. His expression changes for a fraction of a second when he notes that Will has not removed all of his clothing, and Will thinks he detects a hint of disappointment in the doctor's face, but his cheeks color at the mere thought. Hannibal dips the washcloth into the water, which is beginning to cover Will's torso.
"Lift your arm," he says gently, and Will obeys, allowing Hannibal to wipe delicately at the wound in his side. He winces, and Hannibal pauses before softly beginning again. He reaches to turn off the tap once the water threatens to spill over the side of the bathtub and then, inexplicably, kneels beside Will again.
Will lifts his gaze to study Hannibal's face. He's memorized the tender yet cruel outline of his lips, the dark shadows of his brow, yet he has never seen a hunger so deep in his maroon eyes. Will feels an oppressive heat somewhere at the core of his body, and he strongly doubts that it is due to the near-boiling water.
In the future both men will attempt to absolve themselves of responsibility by claiming that it was the other who made the first move, but the truth is, both are to blame.
While it is true that Hannibal reaches out and cups the side of Will's head, his long fingers tangling in the profiler's hair, it is Will who first leans forward and presses their lips together.
Will's eyes slide closed, and he sighs into the kiss. Hannibal's mouth is strong yet oddly soft against his, and the hand that knots in his hair grips him tight, providing a feeling of total safety. Will reaches out instinctively and presses his hand against Hannibal's chest, feeling taught muscle and a fluttering heartbeat that beats in perfect time. Will wonders why it never occurred to him that Hannibal should have a heartbeat.
The door to the bathroom creaks, and Hannibal breaks away, his eyes opening wide as if surprised by his own actions. Will glances at the door and sees that it is simply his dogs that have entered, curious to see what had become of their master. Will chuckles, but he falls abruptly silent when he sees Hannibal's slack expression.
"I'm sorry," Will says hurriedly, removing his hand from Hannibal's chest. A searing flush has risen to his cheeks. "I didn't mean to – "
Hannibal lunges forward, stealing Will's words and his breath as he captures his lips again. Will feels Hannibal's hands on him once more, one cradling the back of his head, the other pressing possessively against his shoulder.
"Will," Hannibal whispers as if the name is a prayer, and Will shudders. Suddenly the hand on his shoulder trails down his chest before delving between his thighs.
"Hannibal, wait," Will says, reaching to halt the hand, but without warning, he finds himself overpowered; the hand behind his head goes to his throat, and Hannibal shifts his weight so that Will is immobilized, all the while kissing him hungrily. "Hannibal, stop!" Will nearly shouts, ripping his lips away, but Hannibal ignores him. Fingers tighten on his throat, and a nimble hand slips beneath the elastic of his boxers
Frightened now, Will struggles to push the stronger man away, but when his eyes focus on Hannibal, he freezes.
He is no longer in his home in Wolf Trap, Virginia.
He is in the forest, where the moonlight doesn't shine quite right, and the trees cast ghastly shadows on the clearing. Will does not recline in a cast iron bathtub; instead he finds himself chest deep in a pool of blood, the same pool where once, in a dream, he saw a woman with skin like starlight vanish beneath the surface.
The creature hunched above him, trapping him, is not a man, but it is not a stag either. No, it has a man's face, but its skin is raven black and long antlers protrude from its skull. When the stag-man turns its head and meets Will's gaze, its eyes are a deep maroon.
Will hears a deep growl, and when he looks at the forest beyond, he sees the source.
Seven frothing hounds come slinking out of the darkness. Their eyes are crimson, their fangs bared; slaver drips from their mouths. Will, however, is unafraid. He knows somewhere deep within him that the hounds will not harm him, just as the stag knows that he is afforded no such safety. The stag rises, a shadow of a creature clothed in darkness and shirtsleeves, and the hounds fall upon it in a bloody fervor of barking and teeth.
Will watches in horror as the hounds tear at the stags arms and chest, clawing its cheeks and dragging it back towards the tree line. The writhing mass of predator and prey (Will is unsure which is which at this point) disappears into the forest, but Will can still hear the growling and gnashing of the hounds and the unbearable screaming of the stag.
He pulls himself out of the pool, though blood clings to him like paint, and attempts to chase after the hounds.
Back in the real world, Will Graham's leg shivers and collapses beneath him as he tries to stand, and he falls, striking his head on the side of the bathtub. Clothed in only a pair of boxers and soaking wet, he sinks to the floor as consciousness leaves him. As he sinks into sleep, he half-remembers a line from a story, one he doesn't quite know if it is real or not.
"Diana's hounds, no longer recognizing their master's companion, as he had become a beast, fell upon him and tore him to pieces."
Will does not depart easily from his fever dream. By the time he finally wakes, his mind is muddled with images of forests and gods, and he has the peculiar feeling that his brain is on fire. The growling outside the bathroom further aggravates the feeling. Thankfully, Will can hear no sounds from the stag, which means either that Hannibal is dead, or he has somehow evaded Will's dogs.
Will slowly drags himself to his feet and stumbles into the living room. He sees blood on the floor, but no sign of dogs of Hannibal. He continues on into the dining room, shivering somewhat. There the sight of a man lying prone on the table greets him, the feeble rise and fall of his chest the only sign that Hannibal is still alive.
Will's dogs circle the table warily, though Winston is the only one still on high alert, his teeth bared, the odd bark escaping him.
"Good boy," Will whispers.
The shape on the table, which is too bloody and mangled to be recognizable as a man, stills at the sound of Will's voice. Will backs away, out of the dining room, up the stairs. Before he deals with the disaster downstairs, he needs a change of clothes and a painkiller for the splitting ache in his head from the collision with the edge of the bathtub. At least the wounds in his side and leg have ceased to bleed.
A half hour later, Will feels that he is presentable, and he has had time to collect his thoughts. He has made a number of connections, many of them surprising, some of them less so. By the time he returns to the dining room, he finds the table vacant, though the smears of blood betray what was there before. He steps into the living room and sees Hannibal hunched in an armchair. The dogs stand guard but make no move to strike; they've done their duty, protected their master.
"Hello Hannibal," Will says, sitting down in a chair opposite the other man.
Hannibal makes no reply, only glares at Will under bloodstained brows.
"I've been thinking, Hannibal," Will continues. "There's a reason that I see you the way I do. You were lying before, weren't you? Killing Dinah Hicks didn't bother you because you've done worse. Isn't that right?"
"Depends what you mean by worse," Hannibal spits, blood flecking his lips.
"How does 'impaled on a stag's head and left to rot in a field' sound?" Will asks.
"Sounds much worse," Hannibal replies, still retaining his dark sense of humor even through the pain.
"That wasn't the work of a first-timer," Will says. "How many people have you killed?"
"A difficult question," Hannibal says simply.
"The real question," Will says, exhaling sharply, "is how we're going to explain this. You don't usually sustain those kind of injuries falling down the stairs."
"No, you don't."
"I can't tell the truth," Will muses. "They'd take away my dogs."
"Can't have that."
"I suppose…" Will says, thinking out loud, "There are wolves in this area. It's plausible. You get sent to urgent care with no one the wiser. I could go to your house, pass it off as getting a few things for a friend in the hospital, and while I'm there, accidentally stumble on something suspicious. A trophy, maybe?" Will scratches his chin. "A lock of hair, piece of jewelry. Something incriminating."
"Now you're thinking like a serial killer," Hannibal says through clenched teeth. One hand presses against his abdomen as if trying to keep something from falling out of it.
"You are the authority on these matters," Will responds, inclining his head respectfully. "I just have one question."
Hannibal cocks his head to one side.
"What did you do with Cassie Boyle's lungs?" Will asks. "Odd thing to take. Organs tend to shrivel up after a while. Do you keep them in formaldehyde? Freeze them? Or…"
Hannibal merely stares at Will, his face betraying nothing, as the profiler works it out for himself.
"What will I find in your fridge, Doctor Lecter?" Will asks, horrified. Hannibal doesn't answer. Then, "How many meals have we shared together?" Again, no reply. Neither question really needs an answer. Will knows the most crucial piece of information without having to voice it aloud.
He's eating them.
(A year later)
"Hey, Tracy, how was your jog?"
Tracy grunts in reply and opens the fridge. She reaches blindly inside, unscrews the cap from the orange juice, and drinks deeply.
"Oh, man. I told you not to drink from the carton," Tracy's roommate, Catherine Martin, protests.
Tracy just shrugs and walks over to the kitchen table, where she stops dead in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the newspaper in Catherine's hands. Catherine glances at it then pushes it across the table.
"Yeah, the jury bought the insanity plea, but he's still going away for the rest of his life. He'll just be in a loony bin, not a prison."
Tracy sets the orange juice down on the table and sinks into a chair. The headline glares at her – Lecter Spared Death Penalty; Committed to Chesapeake State Hospital. Lecter Spared Death Penalty. Lecter. Hannibal Lecter.
"I remember reading about him when he first got caught," Catherine says excitedly, a slight flush rising to her round cheeks. "Talk about gross. All that stuff they found in that room under his kitchen, not to mention what he was doing in the kitchen. I feel bad for anyone who came over for dinner. I mean, ugh!"
Tracy barely acknowledges her roommate's voice. There is a part of her she thought she had tamped down like a fire long ago, but the flame apparently still lives somewhere and can be revived by something as insignificant as a headline. She remembered clearly how an officer had opened the door of her interrogation room and told her that she was free to go. She remembers how minutes later a second officer informed her that her sister was dead, and that she was sorry for her loss. She remembers months of asking 'How?' and finally learning the circumstances, another month spent asking 'Who?', which no one was willing to tell her, but after he was incarcerated it didn't seem to matter anymore, and she was finally given a name.
Lecter. Hannibal Lecter.
By that point it didn't matter. Tracy thought she had buried that chapter of her life along with her sister, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
"Hey, Trace, are you all right? You're looking kinda clammy."
"What? Oh no, I'm fine." Tracy smiles feebly at her roommate. "The jog just took a lot out of me."
"Ugh, you reek. Go take a shower."
"Okay. We got any eggs?"
"It's your turn to go to the grocery store."
"Oh yeah. Sorry. I'll do that."
"After you take a shower."
"After I take a shower."