Cœur de L'Homme

Will doesn't see Hannibal for a week while he works the Chesapeake Ripper case. Not only is he busy reading every report ever associated with the Ripper, from the mundane to the pedestrian to the downright boring, he's also got fresh crime scenes to visit. Worse, since they follow the Ripper's geographical pattern, they're all in the Baltimore area. It's as though the Ripper knows how sorely tempted he is to stop by unannounced at Hannibal's office or home. But Will has been too busy, and, not having slept well all week, too tired to schedule something with Hannibal. Knowing how Hannibal appreciates appointments, Will won't just drop in on him unannounced. That would be rude.

But riding to Baltimore almost every other day with Jack wears on him. Once, Jack drives him past Hannibal's office and Will wonders if it's Jack's way of asking whether he's been by to see Hannibal recently. Not because Jack knows about their new arrangement. Of course Jack doesn't know. Rather, he does it because even as he pushes Will too hard, Jack also worries about him. It was Jack, after all, who brought Hannibal in to begin with to keep Will grounded.

Will's mouth quirks. He might thank Jack for that sometime. Hannibal grounds him in a way no one else ever has. He's always been a live wire, running at too high a voltage; Hannibal is both insulation and conduction, giving him the safety he needs while also channeling his thinking in productive directions.

The handsome façade of Hannibal's building slides past and into the distance. Will doesn't look back. He won't give Jack the satisfaction.

Half an hour later, screams saturate the air as Will steps inside the Ripper's head for the fourth time in a week. For some time, he can't find the quiet place inside he needs to go on.

The Ripper's design is vicious, brutal, contemptuous, brilliant, artistic, and even, in a twisted way, beautiful. Beautiful to the degree that such an heinous act can be aesthetically pleasing and hence appreciated. But that move requires separating the act from the person, the savage beauty from the life ended. It's something the Ripper does easily – and something Will can never do.

He has nothing to offer Jack. Yes, it's the Ripper. It's elaborate and orchestrated, elegant and graceful. Revolting.

Will does his work, follows the meticulous collection of evidence until he's seen so much more than he ever wanted to see, and, when he starts falling asleep on his feet, goes and sits in the SUV on Jack's unspoken order. It bothers him deeply that he isn't contributing much to this case. Police work, not his insights, will catch the Ripper.

Christopher Ward's screams, still echoing in his mind, become Darrell Ledgerwood's. Will sees himself slicing into Ledgerwood's abdomen and removing a healthy spleen. Ledgerwood is still alive. Every scream, every breath between every scream, and each of the tortured sobs, gasps, and squeaks that follow fill Will with vitality. He pours that vitality into his art, crafting an aesthetic commentary on this hunk of meat in order to elevate him. Ledgerwood is so much greater in death than he ever could have been in life.

Will wakes with disgust churning in his stomach. The parking garage at Quantico. Jack's sideways glance: we're here.

It has to be Jack who'll catch the Ripper, Will thinks as he unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. He can't get as deep into the Ripper's head as he did with Hobbs. It's too dangerous. Since Hobbs, the line inside of him separating the act from the person has faded. Once made of reinforced steel, concrete, and rebar, it's now sand shifting in a wind storm. Sometimes he can't see it at all.

Standing behind Jack in the elevator, Will places a hand over his face, pressing down just hard enough to relieve the tension in his brow and soothe the ache behind his eyes. He catches himself falling asleep before he can sway; when the elevator reaches their floor, he goes straight for the coffee.

Some time later – he has no idea how much later – he's in his lecture hall, half-asleep, doing his best to study the reports about Christopher Ward as they come in. Motion catches his eye and he looks up to see Beverly Katz approaching the desk.

"Geez, Will, you look tired." She hands him what appears to be a sandwich he doesn't recall requesting. "Zeller thought you were part of the lunch run. Hope you like roast beef."

Will takes the sandwich, still a little confused, his mind skipping as he tries to transition from the details of the crime scene to live human interaction.

"I like roast beef just fine."

Bev gives him a half-pitying look that says he said something just different enough to be noticeable.

"Did you go home last night?"

Will's eyes shift from her to the yellow legal pad on his desk. He stares at the blue lines running horizontally across the page, wondering what the answer is. He went home at some point. It was fairly recently. He's sure of that much. But the way everything has begun to blur together, "recently" could be two or three days ago. The Ripper has kept him so busy that he hasn't bothered to keep up with time as it's measured by clocks and days and other human inventions not hardwired in his brain.

When he looks back at her, it's clear that he's taken too long to answer. She'll tell Jack when she sees him. Fine. Whatever.

She sits on the desk as though invited to do so, getting closer to him than he allows most people to get. He leans back in the chair but doesn't flinch.

"You've been holding up well," she says with her critical yet understanding look. She's been a surprisingly good person to be around. No bullshit with her.

"I guess," Will says, rubbing his eyes. The sandwich is warm. He can smell the meat. His stomach growls and suddenly he's ravenous; he realizes he's not sure when he last ate.

Bev looks at him with complete honesty. With her, he doesn't mind the eye contact. "The Ripper has been doing this for a long time. Sure, some people expect you to catch him. You've caught all the others. But he's not like everyone else."

Will shuts his eyes and nods. "He's so careful."

"We haven't found anything," Bev commiserates. "Anything."

A smile tugs at Will's lip. She's just as frustrated as he is. Knowing that makes him feel better. For the first time in days, he feels like the pressure isn't all on him.

"You'll find something," he says with a small but genuine smile.

Katz returns his smile. "Only if you don't beat us to it."

And with that, she's gone. He appreciates her vote of confidence as he tears open the sandwich and devours it. He returns to the most recent set of forensics on Ward, trying not to spill au jus on the paper.

Several hours later, Jack shakes him awake. Initially, he has no idea how much time has passed. All he can do is stare at the crumpled sandwich wrapper as his dreams fade into memory.

"He never kills two nights in a row," Jack says, also sitting on the desk.

What is it with people sitting on the desk today?

"Not even at this accelerated pace. Go home, Will."

He must nod or make some other gesture of acknowledgement because Jack looks satisfied and leaves without further ado. Mechanically, Will packs his things, walks to the parking lot, and drives toward Wolf Trap.

His overworked mind, seeking solace, wanders to Hannibal. He wonders what Hannibal is doing right now. Will glances at the clock in the dashboard: 7:06. Still at the office if he's having a late session. Otherwise, at home, probably prepping raw ingredients for dinner. Or, if he had to pick up a few things, at the market and then home and dinner.

Will muses that if he weren't worn out, if the dogs didn't need to be fed, if it wouldn't be an intrusion, he'd calculate the best route to Hannibal's house from here. But he is and they do and it would be. When it comes to interacting with people, excuses have always been easy to find. Even if it's Hannibal. Hannibal, with whom he's had tremendous sex frequently in the past month or so. Hannibal, who sees his antisocial tendencies, his anger, his fear, his ugliness, his instability, who sees every terrible, unattractive detail about him, and who still, somehow, wants to see him. Who's taught him so much about pleasure. Who's become intimate with him without changing the fundamental nature of their relationship. Who's a sort of friend before he's a psychiatrist or a lover.

Am I your psychiatrist or are we having conversations?

Will recalls the departure from their routine at last week's appointment. The glass of wine. Because Hannibal had seen his own psychiatrist before he'd seen Will. Does Hannibal talk about him with his psychiatrist? Is it narcissistic to think so or naïve to think not? Truthfully, he doesn't want to think about it all. The notion that Hannibal has a psychiatrist troubles him for some reason, but he hasn't had room in his head, much less the time, to think about Hannibal having a psychiatrist. Moreover, if he's going to think about Hannibal, he'd prefer to think about him in a different way.

The car tires chew up asphalt as the yellow dividing line zips past; Will zones out, staring blankly at the taillights of the car ahead of him.

When his mind comes back online, he's ten minutes from home and still thinking about Hannibal. There's something special between them that Will can't put a name to. He's not always good at reading motive and intention when the situation isn't forensic. All he knows is that the thing he has with Hannibal feels right and for once in his life, he doesn't want to ruin something by thinking too much about it.

He thinks instead about the last appointment. About finishing the glass of wine with Hannibal. About staring at him for some time, his mind blank. Then Hannibal asking if he'd like to have dinner.

"What, now?" Will asked.

"In twenty minutes when your hour is up."

Will narrowed his eyes, considering the situation. The two empty wine glasses. "I don't think I have anything else to discuss. Now is good."

Then they'd exchanged smiles and the evening's trajectory was set. Will followed Hannibal home, wondering just how appropriate it was to go from having a conversation with his psychiatrist to making dinner with his friend to sleeping with his lover, all without changing the person behind the roles. He quickly decided that he cared not a whit about the answer.

Hannibal had him washing Brussels sprouts, which he thought he hated, and slicing butternut squash, which he'd never heard of before.

"I'm having a dinner party," Hannibal said. "Next Saturday at 8 o'clock. I'd be delighted if you would join me."

Will's knife stilled over the squash. "Dinner party," he echoed, shifting his weight. Hannibal glanced up at him from the meat he was preparing. Will returned to chopping. "I'm not exactly dinner party material."

"You could be."

The glimmer of hope in Hannibal's voice made Will feel bad about having to say no. He sipped his wine before answering. The more liquid courage, the better.

"I have to pass. I appreciate the invitation, but I'm not the party type."

"You are the dinner type, though, I'm happy to say."

And Hannibal had given him a smile that said all was forgiven. Later, when the food was eaten and the dishes washed and put away, Will fucked him over the back of the leather couch in the library, sweetly at first and then hard and fast until Hannibal came with a breathless moan that sent Will over the edge.

Sitting in the car, one turn away from home, Will rubs himself through his khakis. He's been too busy to take himself in hand since that night. A week ago? Maybe more than that. Will isn't sure what day it is. Thursday? Something like that. He saw Hannibal last Wednesday.

The last time he was home, his nightmares took a pleasurable turn and he woke up sticky from the first wet dream he'd had since he was a teenager. That feels like a few days ago.

Shit, the dogs. If the dogs haven't torn up the house completely in his absence, he's going to owe his neighbor a cord of firewood. He realizes it's been too long since he gave the dogs any thought: it has been a few days since he's been home. Probably closer to three than two. Shit.

The dogs are boisterous when he opens the door, forgetting their discipline and piling out onto the porch and into the yard. He doesn't even try to go inside the darkened house. Winston and Ella stay with him on the porch while the others run to the tree, some finding a bathroom spot, others running for the sake of running.

Will stands in the sallow illumination of the porch light, watching the dogs play, and smiles. Winston nudges his hand. He squats to scratch Winston and Ella behind the ears, their fur warm and soft under his fingers. They whine happily, filling his nose with terrible breath that he minds not at all. Winston wants to lick him. Will allows it, and when Winston snuffles against his cheek, the tension in his mind and body snaps like a cord held too long at its breaking point. He falls onto the porch with a sigh and, wincing, stretches his legs out in front of him. He hasn't kept up with the exercises for his leg. He pats his jacket for the aspirin bottle and swallows two. Winston licks him again and he smiles through the pain, suddenly aware that he's reached the drunken, goofy stage of exhaustion.

Will allows himself five minutes pure, simple canine interaction. Their happiness amplifies his emotions own until he feels happy himself. More than happy. Loved. Loved in the uncomplicated way only animals can love. He closes his eyes, sighs, and lets the feeling wash over him like waves on a summer day in the Gulf.

Eventually and with not a little reluctance, Will gets to his feet with and ventures into the house. The scent of unwashed dog wafts from the door. All seven need baths. Winston and Ella follow him inside where he nearly trips on their toys as he finds the light switch. Light floods the room and he sees less chaos than he expected. He owes his neighbor two cords of wood.

Will contents himself with the simplicity of domestic chores, tossing a frozen dinner in the microwave, putting food out for the dogs, and tidying the worst of their messes. If he weren't running on fumes, he'd consider cooking something. He's learned enough from Hannibal to prepare complex meals for himself.

Not tonight, though. All he wants to do is spend a little more time with the dogs, eat something, jerk off, and pass out. Maybe not even jerk off. He has an appointment with Hannibal tomorrow evening and he likes the extra boost he gets when he waits a few days. He doesn't want to wake up sticky again, but he's so damn tired and his leg hurts and his inability to contribute more to the case makes him feel impotent. And he'd much rather wait. He'll risk it.

He calls the dogs inside, eats while they eat, and sits on the floor in the middle of their beds, rubbing the heads and backs of everyone who comes near, dodging the thwacks of happy tails. He nearly nods off on the floor a few times before he struggles to his feet, turns out the lights, strips to his underclothes, and lies down with a sigh. Closing his eyes, he listens as the dogs settle into their beds for the night, and soon he's asleep. It's not quite 9 p.m.

The Ripper doesn't let him sleep for long. Scream-laced nightmares tear him from sleep again and again. He goes through three shirts and two pairs of shorts, and at 6:30, he gives up. The dogs go out while he brews a miserable excuse for coffee and microwaves another frozen dinner. A trip to the grocery store is long overdue.

He's at Quantico by 8:30, pouring over the reports produced overnight by the unit's many forensic scientists on Christopher Ward. Nothing new, nothing that will help him do his job. Class passes in a blur. If asked later in the day, he wouldn't be able to recall exactly what he'd said to the students. It's Price who brings him lunch and reassurance this time. Price has the good grace not to pretend Zeller put him on the list by accident. Will hands over a ten dollar bill, somewhat surprised that he has cash in his wallet. Another item there catches his attention and he flushes and hopes Price doesn't notice.

After lunch and a cup of the strongest coffee he can find, Will pulls out all of the crime scene photos he has and piles them on his desk. Their brutality assaults him; he reels, hearing the screams that rent his sleep, his right hand mimicking the surgical cuts, his left the vicious stabs. He's locked inside experiences that aren't his when Jack checks on him.

Will isn't fully cognizant of what he says to Jack. All he knows is that Jack leaves and he can return every ounce of his energy and focus to the case. Hours pass in a steady stream of mutilation, artistry, and feelings so intense that he can't move without tipping the knot of nausea in his stomach. Blood roars in his ears, sometimes drowning out the screams, sometimes not. His unwillingness to lose focus prevents him from seeking out more coffee. When he finally does to get up to use the restroom, the walls ripple around him. He stares at the floor as it slides by beneath his improbably real shoes and threatens to rise up to punch him in the nose. Other people slip by him like shades. The water he sips from the fountain next to the men's room tastes coppery and fearful. He forces himself to drink so he can swallow more aspirin.

Back at his desk, he sits forward, elbows on the desktop, and cradles his head with both hands. He doesn't remember what it feels like to not have a headache. His watch tells him he needs to leave for Baltimore in an hour. He's got to figure out how to climb back to the surface of reality so he can function, so he can get to Hannibal's office. But everything swims in front of his vision as though he's trapped in a swimming pool a foot below the water's surface. Light scatters, refracted by water. The chemical stink of chlorine reminds him of cleaning blood stains off of floors, its presence a signal of violence erased but never really gone.

He's in Abigail's house with her and Hannibal, watching her absorb the scene of her near death. Chlorine tingles his nose. He wonders if Abigail smells it, too, and thinks of her blood spilled and then wiped away, rendered meaningless, consigned to memory. His hands shake, hot and sticky with her blood.

You be my dad.

She sounds happy when she says it. Yes, he answers in his mind, and a vision of himself teaching her to fly fish unfurls. She smiles when she casts perfectly and the fly lands on the water. An enormous trout hits it.

"Set the hook, Abigail! Yes! Reel it in!"

He waits with the net and scoops the magnificent fish from the water. She beams at him and he looks on her with all the paternal pride never showered on him. Passing this skill on to her, watching her execute it perfectly, being the object of her daughterly adoration: fulfillment.

Later, they sit across from each other while tree frogs sing a summer chorus at the edge of a field. Cassie Boyle, impaled on the stag's head, is nearby but unobtrusive. Her sacrifice brought them together, father and daughter, in this moment of shared familial bliss. Even as storm clouds gather overhead and wind rustles the trees, he feels such peace and stillness. The world could end at this moment and he would go willingly, happily, into the night.

"It's better that it's just the two of us."

She smiles. Happy. Perfect. He doesn't need to speak to agree. She knows he agrees.

She hears something. Her expression turns troubled.

"Dad?"

How right to hear her call him Dad.

"Yes?"

"There's someone else here."

The tranquil scene dissolves as Hannibal calls his name. The lecture hall replaces the field and he feels his eyes cease their back and forth movement and return to his control.

Hannibal in his handsome blue suit, set off by the pale yellow shirt and slightly ostentatious tie.

"I have a twenty-four hour cancelation policy."

The bottom falls out of Will's stomach as he realizes what's happened. "What time is it?"

"Nearly 9 o'clock."

Shit. His eyes feel gritty, like he's been caught in a sandstorm. He rubs his face with both hands, trying to clear away the clinging sensation of sleep. He apologizes – unnecessarily, Hannibal says, but no, it's necessary.

"I must have fallen asleep," he says, more to himself than to Hannibal. He doesn't remember intending to sleep. He doesn't remember much of anything from the day that isn't unbearably violent, yet the peace of his dream keeps him calm. It was so vivid. So real.

"Was I sleepwalking?"

"Your eyes were open, but you were not present."

Shit. Not only did he miss their appointment and worry Hannibal – because why else would he have driven all the way from Baltimore – now he's got another bizarre sleep problem. Sleeping with his eyes open. Is that even possible? Was his dream actually a hallucination? Is he hallucinating now?

Will presses against the headache pounding his skull hard enough to vibrate the bones and fissures.

"Felt as if I was asleep," he says. "Need to stop sleeping all together. Best way to avoid bad dreams."

Hannibal's attention shifts away from him, thankfully, and to the photos piled on his desk. "Well, I can see why you have bad dreams."

Will rises from the chair. He can't miss the chance to get Hannibal's perspective. Not when Hannibal has been so helpful.

"What do you see, doctor?"

Will taps the desktop with two fingers, then a knuckle, eager to hear Hannibal's assessment but a little nervous because he doesn't deserve the help.

"Sum up the Ripper in so many words."

It's a herculean task. "Choose them wisely."

"Oh, I always do. Words are living things. They have personality. Point of view. Agenda."

Will looks at him, again marveling at the depth of Hannibal's understanding. He files Hannibal's comment away, though he didn't need Hannibal to tell him that he chooses his words wisely. It's one of those similarities they share that makes it so easy for Will to interact with him.

"They're pack hunters," Will adds, turning vicious for a moment as he imagines words chasing, nipping, biting, and ripping the throats out of unsuspecting interlocutors.

Hannibal's focus shifts to the photographs.

"Displaying one's enemy after death has its appeal in many cultures."

Hannibal always opens with a statement that's broadly true but misses the specifics.

"These aren't the Ripper's enemies," Will clarifies. "These are pests he's swatted."

"The reward for their cruelty."

The vowels of cruelty roll off of Hannibal's tongue. Personality. Point of view. Agenda. But not the Ripper's.

"He doesn't have a problem with cruelty," Will corrects. "The reward is for undignified behavior. These dissections are to disgrace them. It's a public shaming."

"Takes their organs away because in his mind they don't deserve them."

Will nods, surprised by how perceptive Hannibal is, though he shouldn't be surprised. Where Hannibal's insight into such darkness comes from is a mystery to him. He hasn't wanted to pry into Hannibal's past, but there's got to be more to it than an academic understanding of evil.

Will straightens up and backs away, wandering over to the chair. Hannibal is kind to indulge him, to help him with this case – and was even kinder to drive all the way down here to check on him.

Hannibal selects the one photo that doesn't fit with the rest: Miriam Lass's arm. Like Will, he excels at finding patterns and anomalies.

"What's this?" he asks.

"That's Jack Crawford's trainee," Will supplies. "She's not like the other victims. The Ripper had no reason to humiliate Miriam Lass."

Miriam Lass would be a puzzle if the Ripper's intentions with Jack weren't so clear.

"Seems to me he was humiliating someone," Hannibal remarks.

"He was humiliating Jack."

"Did it work?"

"I'd say it worked really well."

Hannibal puts the photo of Miriam Lass's arm down and works his way around the desk, taking up a photo here and there. Will walks to the edge of the platform on which the seats rest, his back turned to Hannibal. His quadriceps pulls painfully when he takes each step, and the dull ache he felt earlier in the day ratchets up to an incessant throbbing as blood fills the muscles. The pounding in his head syncs with that in his thigh, driven by each beat of his heart. He shakes two more aspirin out of the bottle.

"You've been studying these photos all day."

"More or less."

Hannibal has gone to the other side of the desk, still immersed in the photos, working his way toward the legal pads on which Will was taking notes earlier. Will takes the long way around the desk so he can see if Hannibal has rearranged anything. A few photos are stacked: Hannibal has imposed a modicum of order on his chaos. He fans them out, sees that they're of the same victims, then stacks them again. Nothing grabs his attention; he comes to rest on Hannibal's right.

Hannibal glances at him. "Have you found anything?"

Will rubs both hands over his face again, trying to banish the tired ache in his bones.

"Nothing I can use. Nothing I didn't already know."

"And yet you continue to try."

"Have to do something."

"Must be frustrating."

Will sighs. "That's not even the half of it. I keep hearing their screams. When I close my eyes – "

"Will, there you are." Jack. Jack and Bev. "And Dr. Lecter, what a surprise. We have a lead. Would you care to help us catch the Ripper?"

"How could I refuse," Hannibal replies.

Will spares half a moment to grab his jacket and he and Hannibal follow Jack and Bev to the parking garage. Jack fills them in on the way: private ambulance as a mobile operating room and perfect way to blend in with police. Hiding in plain sight.

"Knew you'd find something," Will says to Bev with a smile.

Jack wants Will to ride with him – huge surprise there. Will tries not to look forlorn as Hannibal leaves them for his car. They'll meet up at the private ambulance company in Baltimore. Will listens as Jack and Bev discuss their plans. He doesn't remember falling asleep and is surprised when Jack wakes him up outside the ambulance garage.

Will stays back with Hannibal, doing his best not to limp. His nap served only to make him more tired. Bev has yet another smart tidbit about GPS tracking and soon they're on their way to the Baltimore Police Department's Central District to run the sweep and coordinate with a SWAT platoon. Hannibal seems enthralled by the drama of rolling out with the SWAT team. Will is glad that he didn't drive all the way to Quantico for nothing.

This all feels too easy, though. Using a private ambulance is smart but not cunning. It doesn't feel like the Ripper, just as the kill in the hotel didn't feel like the Ripper. Not theatrical enough. No flair. No artistry. Too practical.

And so Will doesn't feel the same adrenaline rush that propels Jack and Bev out of the unmarked police car. He's not sure he has any adrenaline left at this point, anyway. Hannibal, as an observer, remains in the background with Will. They watch the SWAT team pry the door open and Jack point his shotgun at the man inside.

Then Jack calls for Hannibal and the air around Will turns frigid. He watches numbly as Hannibal climbs into the ambulance, removes his jacket, and feels around in the patient's body with a gloved hand. The action of Silvestri stepping out of the ambulance and Jack and the SWAT team swinging to the side door to arrest him funnels away.

No, this isn't a Ripper kill. Silvestri isn't the Ripper.

Those thoughts float above his head like balloons. He's anchored to the pavement, watching Hannibal keep the patient alive with a single hand, and suddenly he's lying on the concrete behind Hannibal's office, the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His left hand jerks over the scar hidden by his corduroys. Pain flares in his leg, but he's too numb to feel it.

He smells blood, his blood, too much blood. Warmth tingles at his back. Blood spreading out beneath him, soaking through his clothes. He hears himself panting, gasping, moaning, hears his own mortal terror. Smells Hannibal's cologne in his jacket, feels Hannibal's hand on his neck, hears Hannibal telling him stay with him, feels himself fading away.

It's the same peace he felt when he dreamed of Abigail calling him Dad.

It's death's warm welcome.

Will stands and stares and does not move as Hannibal holds the clamp on the patient's renal artery. Hannibal sees in Will's eyes that he is deep inside his own head, remembering – reliving – the night he was shot. Though he looks shell-shocked, and indeed does have a clinical subtype of post-traumatic stress disorder, what Hannibal sees is his empathy at work. It has placed him in a dissociative state. Though Hannibal has not seen him enter his famed dissociative state at a crime scene, Will's eyes tell Hannibal that this is a version of it. The fact that Will steps closer, that he watches so intently, even though he's not fully present in the moment fascinates Hannibal. Unlike Alana Bloom, Hannibal has no reason to avoid a study of Will. Indeed, he would not have spent so much time on Will if he weren't so intrigued by both the neuroses and the man himself. It's only a pity that Hannibal cannot more openly watch him stare at the patient.

Will stands unmoving as Silvestri is led off in handcuffs and a forensics team paces in the background, waiting for the patient to be taken away so they can do their work. Hannibal watches as closely as he can given that he's holding a clamp on a man's renal artery. What will bring Will out of his state? How will he react to the transition? Hannibal suspects Jack will be the catalyst for Will's shift – and a few minutes later, he is.

Jack stops next to Will and leans in. He exchanges a look with Hannibal that says he's not entirely sure what's going on with his best pony and that Hannibal needs to tell him if there's a problem. It's a curious moral calculus Jack makes, valuing the lives of others over Will's sanity and health. Though Jack is the God of his universe, his protection does not always extend to Will.

Jack looks back to Will. "Is it him?"

A few seconds tick by before Will steps back into the moment. Hannibal sees him half-blink, his eyes rolling back into his head for a fraction of a second: a change in perception. Will takes a deep breath and answers.

"No."

Jack's jaw muscles jump out on his face. "You're sure?"

Will blinks and his eyes slide over to Jack without a turn of his head. "Absolutely."

Will does not hold his gaze, but Jack appears convinced. Jack looks to Hannibal again, acknowledging that Will hasn't worked through the trauma of his near-death experience yet, and silently asks Hannibal to fix it. Hannibal agrees.

God smiles on Will tonight.

As Jack leaves, Hannibal's gaze returns to Will. He's still in the present but only just so. He stares at the patient as openly as he did before, but his eyes say that he isn't empathizing or hallucinating. Rather, as Hannibal noticed in Will's lecture hall nearly two hours ago, Will is absolutely exhausted. He hasn't slept well in many days. While Hannibal regrets none of his actions, he does regret that they've done this to Will. Even if it's really Will who does it to himself. Will, who enslaves himself to others: feeling what they do instead of what he feels, catering to their needs first, valuing their lives above his own. By Hannibal's definition, what Will subjects himself to, what Jack Crawford puts him through – those actions merit the label of criminal.

Another ambulance arrives and one of the paramedics leads Will away. Hannibal, too focused on handing the patient over the paramedics, loses track of him.

Once Hannibal has fulfilled his obligation, he finds Will, shock blanket draped over his shoulders, standing next to the unmarked car they took to the scene from the Baltimore Police Department. Flashing red and blue lights illuminate his vacant, haggard face. Will climbs into the passenger's side on his own but has to be told to buckle his seatbelt. Hannibal drives them to the police station to collect his car and then straight to his house. Will's eyes remain fixed on some distant point on the horizon; he doesn't say a word. Hannibal recalls a conversation they had on the night Will hurt himself while sleepwalking.

You haven't said much about what you do remember.

That's because I don't want to remember what I remember.

Freud may have been wrong about a number of things, but he was right about the return of the repressed. Will must come to terms with having nearly died if he is to go forward.

Will's breath frosts the air as he follows Hannibal to the door. Hannibal steps aside to let Will enter first: he plods forward like an automaton. Hannibal would not be surprised if he doesn't know where he is.

Will shrugs his jacket off and turns to face Hannibal. Hannibal closes the door and sets the keys on the foyer table, then meets Will's gaze.

Something in Will's eyes tilts – falls – smashes. His gaze turns predatory for an instant before he closes the distance between them in a near run. He slams Hannibal against the door and, before Hannibal can push back, roughly claims Hannibal's mouth. Will kisses with absolute abandon – sloppy, needy, holding nothing back. His lips, cold from the winter air, warm quickly and then scorch.

He shoves at Hannibal's jacket before Hannibal catches his wrists and takes over the job of undressing. Their hands bump together as Will unbuttons his shirt and Hannibal his vest. Will closes in several times to snatch greedy kisses, breathing in urgent, uneven gasps. Hannibal hears his own breath echo Will's. His fingers fly over the buttons of his lemon chiffon oxford as Will nearly rips his undershirt in the act of removing it. Will seems unaware of his own strength.

In the time it takes them both to lose most of their clothes, Hannibal considers that, although Will is in no state for this, it would be wrong to miss this opportunity. Will is primal, bestial: responding to the reminder of death with an affirmation of life. Hannibal will not deny him that affirmation.

Will breaks away, grabs Hannibal's wrist, and tugs him toward the kitchen. He uses too much strength, nearly catching Hannibal off balance. Will pulls him past the refrigerator and to the end of the kitchen island. He stares at Hannibal for a single intense second before yanking a handful of Hannibal's undershirt and situating him between the island and Will's insistent hips. Will presses against Hannibal with all of his weight and kisses aggressively, pinning Hannibal in place. He grinds, hard as a rock through his corduroys. Hannibal's blood rushes south with dizzying force.

Will's intention could not be clearer: he will fuck Hannibal right here, right now. It would be vulgar, what they're about to do in this place of culinary art, if not for Will's animality. In this moment, Hannibal can refuse him nothing.

Will pulls away and crosses to the olive oil dispenser and back, his bearing in complete contrast to the slumped shoulders and drooping head Hannibal observed less than ten minutes ago. As Hannibal makes short work of his belt, trousers, and underwear, he can't help but be impressed: not only has Will overcome his physical limitations and the emotional turmoil of the past few hours, but his movements are deliberate, confident, calculated.

He's been planning this. Will Graham has been planning for him a hard, violent fuck.

A moan climbs out of Hannibal's throat of its own accord. He pushes up on one foot so he can sit on the cold metal of the island and slips his trousers over his shoes as delicately as he can given his decidedly indelicate state: flushed, panting, heart hammering, insistently hard, naked save for his shoes, which he quickly toes off. Will's careful consideration of this act, evident again in the wolfish gleam in his eye as he pulls a condom from his wallet, gets Hannibal harder than he's been in years. He closes his eyes and lets lust rage in his blood.

Will drops his pants, breathing through parted lips, dons the condom, and slicks himself with oil. They exchange an intense stare, a harbinger of the rough passion to come, as Will takes two steps forward to press his body against Hannibal's. Will pushes him down, nothing about him gentle, and, without warning, shoves two fingers into him. Hannibal moans more loudly than he intends as pain-tinged pleasure harmonizes in his blood. He pulls his knees to his chest to give Will easier access.

Will doesn't ask or pause: just stretches him roughly, removes his fingers, and rams his cock in so hard that a cry rips from Hannibal's throat. Dimly, he hears Will cry out, too. Hannibal grasps the edge of the island to hold himself in place as Will bucks into him as though his life depends on it. Hannibal adjusts his hips, and there, perfect. He tilts his head back and presses his body against the steel, urging Will to fuck him faster, harder. Perhaps he speaks. He doesn't know.

Their animal noises mingle as viciously as their bodies. Hannibal's orgasm crescendos so much more quickly than he prefers, but Will is possessed, rabid: this should not last, cannot, will not. Hannibal fights the tide of pleasure as long as he can, his knuckles white as he grips the island. Obscene noises fill the air. When he feels Will approach his final rut, he looses his hold on himself and lets Will fuck him through the torrent of release. Ecstasy laced with violence. Pleasure with pain.

As Hannibal comes down, putting the energy he has into holding still for Will, Will ruts faster, his head back, hair flying, the vessels in his neck dark red and pulsating with life. Will shouts and Hannibal feels Will's cock jerk as he comes in hot spurts, buried to the hilt.

Will falls out of sight as his legs give out. Hannibal hears his flesh slap against the floor and his noise of surprise turn to the pleasured breaths of afterglow.

Yet again Will surpasses himself. He's even more beautiful, even more rarified than Hannibal could have expected.

Hannibal slowly sits up, cleans himself, and gets to his feet only to sink down next to Will, who landed in a sprawl next to the cabinet of storage containers. Will's pants are tangled around his ankles; he's still wearing his shoes. Body sated, hands clumsy, he slides the condom off and, as if sensing Hannibal's observation, pulls his shorts and pants up, but leans back against the cabinet, exhausted again, as though he's forgotten he should fasten them.

Will rubs his leg and grimaces, then turns his liquid eyes to Hannibal. He blinks as though he's seeing Hannibal for the first time.

"I didn't mean to be so rough." His eyes widen slightly with concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"I would have stopped you if you had."

Will nods as though he's known the answer all along. There's no need to tell him that he was indeed too rough; the pain will linger with Hannibal into tomorrow as a reminder of Will's animal violence. He's no masochist, but this hurt is excruciatingly good.

"I've never seen you quite like that," Hannibal observes. "If you'll forgive my asking, what did you see?"

Will places a tired hand over his eyes, rubbing them as though it's the only way he can stay awake.

"It was like I was looking at a crime scene. But I didn't have to concentrate to do it. Didn't have to make myself look. It was just there."

He closes his eyes and Hannibal watches the blood recede slowly from his neck and chest.

"A hallucination?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think so. It was more like it was inside me waiting to come out. It presented itself. I didn't have to look for it."

Though not deliberate, Will's words perfectly express his violent tendencies as well. Hannibal slips his briefs and trousers back on from his position next to Will on the floor. Hearing his own agenda for Will come out of Will's mouth without him knowing what he's saying threatens to excite Hannibal again in spite of the biological imperative to rest. He closes his pants carefully.

"What was it you saw?"

Will takes a deep breath and pushes himself up with trembling arms. His left hand tracks toward his thigh.

"I saw you… working on him… and it was like seeing you work on me." His fingers twitch near the scar. "But I didn't see that happen, so it's not a memory. I guess it's a projection. But I wasn't you. I was me."

Hannibal nods. "You are not usually the victim."

Will sniffs and tilts his head. "I'm never the victim."

"Memento mori," Hannibal explains. "They tell us how we react to death. To its threat. You wanted to reaffirm life."

Will cracks his eyes open. "That's very generous."

"What would you say was your reaction?"

"I felt like I was disappearing." Will rubs one hand over his eyes again and the other over his thigh. "Like I would fade away like a whisper if I didn't do something."

"But you don't normally do something like this."

Will sniffs and shakes his head. He pulls his legs up, wincing, and pushes off from the cabinet and into a crouch. Hannibal gets to his feet quickly and offers Will a hand. Will stands unsteadily. His pants slip down his hips. He takes a step so he can lean against the counter while he fastens them, then limps to the trash with the condom.

Hannibal offers him a glass of water; he drinks greedily, spilling some down his bare chest. He dries his chest and stomach when Hannibal offers a hand towel and, when Hannibal tells him to go to bed, smiles sheepishly and limps away.

Hannibal retrieves his and Will's clothes, strewn near the door, and inspects his for damage. Nothing his dry cleaner can't fix. He takes them to his bedroom, pausing on his way back to check on Will, who's sprawled on his back on top of the duvet with his shoes still on.

Will has inspired him: he removes the heart of Robert Gafferty from the freezer and sets it out to thaw. He had planned to serve it to Will in a confit with fig, peppercorn, and celery root paired with Biale Black Chicken Zinfandel. Though the symphony of the aggressive, mineral flavor of the heart and the equally strong notes of spicy and sweet Thai peppercorns, dark and sweet figs, anise, and fresh horseradish in a celery root cream with a crunchy toping of raw celery root would not be fully appreciated by Will, Hannibal thought he might understand the message of the dish: strong notes temper one another; strength shared is strength augmented. Now, however, he will cook the heart slowly until it's rare and eat it with nothing but the Zinfandel.

A tribute to Will's primal action.

Hannibal opens the wine and pours himself a glass while he waits for the heart to thaw. He does not particularly want to sit – indeed, Will has made his morning appointments with two insipid neurotics that much more challenging – so he leans against the counter. Hannibal drinks and studies the spot where he allowed Will to claim him more roughly than anyone else ever has. He doesn't bottom often. Will is a special case. Special enough to be worthy not just of a sexual relationship but of something significantly more difficult for Hannibal to offer: friendship.

Dr. Du Maurier thinks he's lonely in his well-tailored person suit. To some degree, he is. He shares all of himself with no one. No one has ever been his match. Will is getting very close, but he must be made to see human life in relative terms, not absolute terms. He already knows most of what he needs to know about himself: that killing makes him feel powerful; that he enjoyed killing Hobbs; that he enjoys their paternal relationship with Abigail; that regular sex makes him feel both powerful and loved; and that he has little power, joy, or love in his life otherwise. Once he ceases to bear his guilt like a cross, he will be to Hannibal not just a friend but a partner.

Hannibal scents the wine and drinks, savoring the notes of licorice and caramel underneath the assertive spice of the grapes. He has preferred not to share all of himself with anyone up to this point in his life. Will Graham changed everything. Will is the strong note in Hannibal's life he didn't know he was missing. Like the meal he intended to serve Will, life takes on more depth of flavor and texture when Will is around.

Now Will has seen what he can do when he is in the right frame of mind. He won't easily forget that tonight he transformed his sense of being a whisper, through sheer force of will, into a cataclysmic bang.

Hannibal resolves to reserve some of the nearly thawed heart to prepare for their breakfast. A protein scramble, perhaps, to remind Will of their first breakfast together. To send another obvious message to Will: after tonight, they are reborn.

Hannibal smiles as he finishes the wine, ties the apron around his waist, and lights the stove.