"You tampered with evidence?" Hannibal asked as he picked up Will's coat from the night before that had been thrown unceremoniously to the floor. It had been oddly heavy and Hannibal had emptied the contents of the pockets to find an evidence bag with a loaded magazine.
"To protect us," Will muttered around the cup of coffee that was at his lips. "If they can place me at that crime scene, they're going to know I remember you and know where you are."
Hannibal looked over the magazine thoughtfully, trying to take in the empath's meaning behind it, unsure if he should be proud or not. He was relieved that his earlier worry of being turned over to the authorities had been only that, a worry.
But now Will was changing, morphing, becoming. He was becoming something that Hannibal always knew he could be, becoming something Hannibal had awakened in the man. But at the same time, as exciting as that was, Hannibal loved Will just as Will had always been. The empath who felt far too much and tried to help even if it shattered him into pieces. Hannibal didn't want to lose that part of Will to whatever path Will was taking now, but he would follow Will to the ends of the earth. After all, everyone changed. No one was ever the same person they were a month ago and it was Hannibal's job to accept the changes and love every version of this man, not just the version he had fallen in love with.
"You don't seem pleased," Will's voice called, pulling Hannibal from somewhere deep in the back of his mind.
"I didn't say that," Hannibal contradicted, hanging up the coat and bringing the scrunched up photo and evidence bag to the dining table that Will sat at, feet up on the chair across from him, coffee mug in hand and looking out at the sliding glass door to the backyard where the dogs were. Hannibal set the items on the table in front of Will. "I am just concerned for your wellbeing is all."
Will smiled. "My wellbeing? My wellbeing was shoved out of a window the moment I decided I was in love with you."
"And when was that moment, Will?"
Hannibal picked up his own mug that Will had poured for him and took a sip, waiting for Will's face to return from the thoughtful frown it had dove into.
"The first time I felt something for you was when you saved that man in the ambulance. Seeing you so willing to protect..." Will trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. "But I realized I loved you that night I called you," Will answered softly, grip tightening on the cup. "I wasn't decided. Not until I heard your voice and told you to run."
Hannibal stood still, in contemplation, a hint of regret digging through his veins like daggers in his blood. Had he read the situation wrong? He had been the happiest in his life he had ever been until the moment he smelt Freddie Louds on Will. Had been so blissfully unaware up to that moment and then everything shattered, crashed down around him. And maybe that had blinded him to Will's true feelings. Will wouldn't have warned him if he didn't care. It was a bitter pill to take, but one Hannibal could readily accept. He was not above accepting his flaws. He had been wrong.
"I'm sorry."
Will coughed on his sip of coffee and sputtered, hand going to his mouth as he sat up, feet now on the floor. "What?" he asked, looking up at Hannibal.
"I was wrong," Hannibal said with a small nod, though he didn't dare look at Will. No, he kept his eyes firmly outside on the rising sun. He couldn't look at Will's expression. He didn't want to see the pain there, didn't want to know what Will was thinking. "I reacted poorly and took many things from you that night. I'm sorry."
Out of his peripherals, Hannibal could see Will rise to his feet, but he still kept his eyes trained outside. Out on the misty winter morning. Out on the snow that was frozen to ice and no longer a gentle powder from the last snowfall.
"You mean that?" Will's voice asked beside him.
Hannibal gave a small nod, feeling Will's fingers sink into the fabric of his shirt at his hip. A tug on the fabric finally called Hannibal's eyes to meet his Van Gogh painting.
"Tell me you mean it," Will instructed. "There aren't marbles in your head. I can't hear you nod."
Hannibal's lips twitched up into a smile as his words were shot back at him. "I mean it. I'm sorry I stole so much from you." Hannibal reached out a hand and caressed Will's check. "It was wrong of me."
Will pushed himself up on his toes and planted a swift kiss to Hannibal's lips. "Thank you."
"Where are you going?" Hannibal asked one morning as Will came down the stairs, fully dressed and keys in hand, bypassing the breakfast that Hannibal had set out. Not that it was an impressive spread, oatmeal and fruit, the kitchen being quite bare once more, Will's shopping habits having not improved in the slightest over the last few weeks. "Your classes aren't until later."
"Canceled," Will stated, grabbing his coat from where he had left it on the back of the couch the night before.
"Then come eat before you go rushing off," Hannibal instructed, moving over to Will and taking Will's hand. Will gave a small sigh and a nod, letting himself be pulled to the table. Will still wasn't used to the constant care from Hannibal. He had always skipped breakfast and lunch, usually eating dinner when he got home. He was sure that Hannibal had been this accommodating when they had been alone for three months as well, but what he could remember of those three months was a blurry, drug induced haze. "Where are you going?"
Will dug his spoon into the oatmeal and took a bite that had been stained almost a purple color from a blueberry. "Alana's," Will answered before taking a gulp of coffee that was still a little too hot.
"Why?"
"To check on Morgan." Will took another hurried bite, not noticing the odd look that had plastered itself over Hannibal's face. "It's the least I can do for her. She did validate my alibi for Jack. I can check in on the kid."
"I want to come."
Will finally looked up from the food he was ungracefully shoving into his body. "Hannibal-"
"I need to see the child," Hannibal insisted, voice firm and determined.
"We've talked about this. You know that you're not supposed to leave-"
"Will," Hannibal said.
There was something in Hannibal's tone that made Will come to the realization that Hannibal almost never asked for anything from him. Will bit his tongue, wondering if the word was said deliberately, if Hannibal knew exactly how to shape and level his voice so that the melody of it fell somewhere between wistful petition and a very clear demand.
Will closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. This was the first thing that Hannibal had asked for since he had stayed, other than Will to pick up some more expensive produce so that Hannibal wasn't reduced to cooking from cans.
A hand took his and pulled it away from his face so he could see Hannibal's.
"Please," Hannibal whispered.
It was nice to have the Witch Hunter's case behind them. Freddie Lounds had written her fill, still knowing far more information than she should have, but Jack didn't really care much anymore. As long as she stayed out of the way.
Closing up this case and processing the bodies had put their other case on hold. Hannibal had been quiet since this last spree and Jack found he had to focus more on closing up one case than working on one that had been open for years. It wasn't until Zeller burst into his office with a frantic expression and Price hurrying in shortly after that Jack knew just how badly he was needed back on the Chesapeake Ripper case.
"It's gone," Zeller said, out of breath from having run from the lab and to Jack's office.
"What's gone?" Jack asked as he sat forward in his chair, hands folded on his desktop.
"All of the pictures we took of Hall Mansion," Price answered, just as out of breath as Zeller.
"What do you mean they're gone?" Jack demanded.
"They're not on any computers, they aren't on the cameras, some of the evidence is missing," Zeller pressed on, hands on his hips under his lab coat, a deep seated fear pulsing through his veins. He knew what this meant, what all of it meant. They were in deep shit. "We have it documented in the reports what was found, but it's not in the evidence locker."
"We tried to pull things from the hard drives and pull up backups of our files but there's nothing," Price said, ready for Jack's explosion. "Nowhere."
"What about security footage? There has to be something on there? Everything is recorded," Jack pointed out, looking between the two men.
"The footage is recorded over every 48 hours," Zeller explained with a pained expression.
"You would think that the FBI would hold onto all of their footage," Price said with a scolding tone to his voice like a parent who was upset with a child. "They should know better."
"So, someone has deleted everything and stolen from the evidence lockers without being noticed." Jack rose to his feet and stepped around his desk, hands in his pockets. "Someone obviously connected with the Ripper case. Someone who would have to have clearance to get in."
"Or know how to sneak in," Price offered, receiving a dark look from Jack.
Zeller groaned, head thrown back. "No," he said sharply. "It wasn't Will. Stop trying to peg everything on him."
"He fits. He obviously hasn't been telling the whole truth about what happened at Hall Mansion." Jack leaned back against his desk. "He knows more than he's telling us."
"Will has an alibi for that night," Price reminded, looking between Jack and Zeller. "Or are we forgetting that he spent all night in the ER with Dr. Bloom? His name was on the registry. The staff verified that he was there."
"Dr. Bloom has come into a lot of money."
"She did not pay off the medical staff, Jack," Zeller argued, arms folding over his chest. "Why on earth would she have needed to?"
"To hide what really happened to her son, possibly," Jack answered with a shrug.
"Her son tripped into their pond and almost drowned," Price pushed. "Dr. Bloom would never hurt her own child. And neither would the Verger girl."
"Then why was he at an ER twenty minutes from their home?"
"He got transferred!" Zeller said exasperatedly. "Jack. All of these things happened. They have paper trails that prove they happened. Stop trying to pin things on people when they couldn't have been anywhere else."
"Will," Margot greeted, giving Will a hug as he stepped inside of the house. "Dr. Lecter." The name was not said kindly, though she didn't argue to find the man back inside of her home. She knew exactly what he had done for her, that they were even and she was grateful, she had just hoped that that night would have been the last she would have had to see the man before her. "I don't believe I ever told you thank you."
Margot turned away from the two and led them through the large house and up a flight of stairs that Will had never been on before.
"You're welcome," Hannibal replied simply, not asking for anything more to be said about his sacrifice.
"My son is still currently in his lesson. It should be done in a few minutes if you don't mind waiting," Margot continued, motioning to a door. "You can go in, just please don't disrupt."
Will glanced over at Hannibal, an awkwardness in his limbs at being allowed into a classroom for a child that he honestly didn't know very well. But Hannibal didn't need any further permission. He reached for the door handle, pushed the door open and let himself inside, Will following behind.
Hannibal closed the door quietly and both stayed by the door, seeing a small boy in a desk with a book open in front of him. A woman who had blonde hair remarkably as light as Bedelia's was standing at the front of the room, a chalk board in front of her with words written on it in a language that Will didn't know.
"Sie können nicht, wenn Sie es nicht fühlen können, wenn es nie ist erhebt sich aus der seele und schwankt das Herz eines jeden Hörers, Mit tiefster Kraft auf einfache Weise," Morgan read aloud, the blonde woman nodding.
"The Vergers work closely with the German markets," Hannibal explained softly to Will who stood in a stunned silence over the boy's fluent reading of the language. "It is important for him to learn the business early so he can carry it on."
"What is he reading?" Will asked just as softly.
"Faust." Hannibal moved a little closer to Will. "You'll sit forever, gluing things together, cooking up a stew from other's scraps, blowing on a miserable fire, made from your heap of dying ash,'' Hannibal translation for Will. "Let apes and children praise your art, if their admiration's to your taste, but you'll never speak from heart to heart, unless it rises up from your heart's space."
"It's beautiful. I'm assuming it's a classic that my school system failed to teach me," Will muttered with a small smile.
"Quite so," Hannibal agreed with a small nod. "But you aren't a Verger heir, so I doubt you will need to trouble yourself with such dictations."
"Will you read it to me someday?"
"If you so wish."
"Hanni?" a new voice asked, causing Will to glance down at the small child.
Will looked between Hannibal and Morgan and gave a snort of laughter. "Hanni?" he asked, receiving a cold glare from Hannibal. "I don't even think you would bother cooking me if I called you that."
"Hush," Hannibal instructed before kneeling down to Morgan's height. "Hello Morgan. How are you feeling today?"
Will fell silent as he took in the man before him beside the small child, Hannibal making it so the two of them were equal, not one of them better than the other. Voice kind, but not talking down to Morgan. Morgan was as good as any other adult that Hannibal could speak to and would be treated as such. The boy had somehow earned it.
Morgan smiled. "Dr. Nepp said that-said that I'm perfectly fine."
"Good," Hannibal said with a nod. "Do you remember anything?"
Morgan's face scrunched up in thought. "Not much. I remember being taken and Dr. Jefferies telling me to be quiet. And I remember this really tall building, but not much else."
Will watched as Hannibal's hand reached out and petted at the boy's head with a sigh. "Good." It was good. The boy would be fine and he didn't need to remember the traumatic. Will was certain that the boy wouldn't miss the memories like he did. Will craved to remember the traumatic, but he couldn't exactly bring himself to indulge in said cravings. "I'm glad you're doing so well."
"Do you remember, Will?" the young boy asked, making Will bite his lips. "Hanni said that you have been having a hard time remembering things. Like you didn't remember him."
"I remember him," Will said, lowering himself to the floor as well, feeling awkward in the fake idea that he was above the conversion. "I remember him very well."
"That's good," Morgan said with a bright smile, one undamaged by the harshness of the world. "Hanni was sad that you didn't."
"He was, was he?" Will asked, voice soft as he glanced at Hannibal who surprisingly had a small rosy color come to his cheeks.
"Wouldn't leave his bed for nearly a week," Morgan continued, clasping his hands behind his back and rising onto the balls of his feet before falling back down. "Dr. Jefferies said he was depressed."
Will reached out and carefully pushed a lock of hair behind Hannibal's ear, the man staying deathly quiet, barely breathing as his secrets were spilled out for the world to hear. Not the world, but his world.
"Because of me?" Will asked softly, eyes not leaving Hannibal's still face, hoping to catch any emotions that flickered across it under the flush of his skin.
"Always you," Hannibal whispered, voice sounding sticky from his throat, though he didn't look over at Will.
"Hanni, can we go look at the horses? Please?" Morgan snatched up Hannibal's hand and pulled on it, though he didn't have the strength to budge Hannibal. "Will can come too. He'll like Persephone."
"I'm sure he would," Hannibal agreed. "Let us check with your mothers first to make sure you don't have any other classes to attend to."
"Your professional opinion?" Alana asked as she came to stand beside Hannibal. Both of them looked towards the other end of the stable where Margot, Morgan and Will were all by Persephone, a dappled grey coat that looked nearly blue. Hannibal stared over the small unit of people nearly curious if this would have been Will's family if Mason hadn't stolen Will's child from Margot.
"I don't think there's anything wrong with the boy," Hannibal answered, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. "Thank you, by the way."
"For what?" Alana questioned, looking over Hannibal's face, taking in every detail of the man who didn't look nearly as sinister as he had in the past. Mellowed out now, perhaps a bit. Calmed and tamed by an unstable man across the way.
"Being Will's alibi."
Alana sighed with a small nod. "I can't very well be in debt to you, Hannibal. I don't want you to come collecting."
Hannibal licked at his lip, holding down a chuckle as a horse nipped at Will and Will jumped, a horse much bigger than a dog. "I won't darken your doorstep again for what I hope is a very long time," Hannibal agreed. "I just had to make sure the boy was alright. And he is. His mental functions are all there, physically capable. I think you got him to the hospital just in time."
"You got him to the hospital in time." Alana came to stand in front of Hannibal and Hannibal glanced down at the dark haired woman. "I don't think I will ever come close to being able to understand how your mind works, not even after all of that time together in the state hospital. But..." Alana glanced behind her at some laughter and could see Will helping Morgan back to his feet, the child having fallen to the ground somehow. "How do you pick?"
"Pick?" Hannibal echoed.
"Pick," Alana answered with a nod. "How do you decide who to save and who to kill? Why didn't you let my boy die? Why haven't you killed me yet? How do you pick?"
"I don't even know if dear Will knows the answer to that fully either," Hannibal mused. "I suppose it has to do with opportunity, the situations presented and how people hold themselves in those situations."
"You don't know yourself?" Alana frowned and blinked as she tried to make sense of the answer.
"It is not something that I can put into words. The psychology behind my reasoning would take more than a single session to dive into and you are not my attending physician, I am afraid."
But the answer wasn't truly all that complicated, or at least not as complicated as he made it sound. He really had been telling the truth when he had told Will he ate the rude. Ever since Hannibal had been a young child he had equated love with destruction and distance.
His parents had loved him, and while they had never been abusive, they had been distant. Cautiously distant from their children and cautiously isolating of the children so much so that Mischa was Hannibal's only friend. Unfortunately, Hannibal had never had a moment to ask his family why the distance was so needed when he and Mischa were perfectly happy being close.
And when Mischa died, fed to a starving Hannibal in a cold dead winter, Hannibal found the destruction in the love, promising that his sister's murder and consumption wouldn't be senseless. She was slaughtered by starving kidnappers, but Hannibal would have traded his life to save hers. He would have willingly believed, only the way a young child could, that once he was dead they would let his sister go and she could live on.
He was never given the option though. Separated in the night and if Hannibal had known that she was taken from him, he would have fought fiercely for her. Instead, it wasn't until he was eating the soup that had so magically appeared that he realized what or rather who was in it. It wasn't until he saw her red hair ribbon, his favorite color because of how it blended with her hair just so, slowly burning at the edge of a barely lit fire, that he knew she no longer needed it.
It was then that he dedicated his life to her so his betrayal of her would cut so deeply. Why hadn't he asked where the soup had come from? Why hadn't he insisted on knowing where his sister was when he was rudely awoken from a cold and shivering sleep? Whatever the reasons, they didn't matter anymore. It was too late now.
To avoid hating himself and throwing himself into his own destruction and reject Mischa's sacrifice, he began to identify love with destruction. To use a man's death to fuel another man's life had to be love, didn't it? Mischa had died and allowed Hannibal to live, even if it hadn't been her choice. Hannibal had allowed his love for Mischa to be reborn and for Mischa's sacrifice to be renewed each time he turned another being into a meal.
If God could cause a church roof to collapse on his worshipers and not be considered evil, then Hannibal could cause some destruction on not nearly as large of a scale to less savory people and could not be found any more evil than God.
So, all in all it wasn't too complicated, and his ideas of love being the same or equal to destruction had led to his courting of Will and the misunderstanding of what his actions meant. But at least now Will understood. And that was the only person who Hannibal cared to be understood by.
"Shame we didn't have more time to ourselves for me to pick your brain a little more," Alana said, turning back to face her family and Will. "Be careful who you hold onto, Hannibal."
"Hmm?" he asked, curious as to what Alana was referring to.
"My son is my weakness. Will is going to be yours if he isn't already."
"Will is not my weakness," Hannibal stated strongly, definitely, mouth turned down in a scowl.
"I see the way you look at him, Hannibal," Alana continued in a voice that Hannibal had come to know well. A distant observation. "You can't hide your emotions in your eyes like you used to. He's broken down that wall you so carefully built. The one I couldn't get behind."
"No one is allowed behind my wall."
"No one but Will Graham."
Blood was normally such a comfort in its heat. Something life bearing. Something that he could control. The red was like liquid rubies in firelight as it rained to the floor, smashing apart in beads like a bottle of merlot.
And the way that blood would shine against skin that took on the paleness of the moon was usually so breathtaking. A vast contrast that was like a rose blooming in the snow. So much harshness crashing together to create beauty.
And the sounds were like Handel played with instruments that had taken the time to be tuned from an A440 down to A415. Melodies played without the added flirtation of an overstated vibrato. There didn't need to be a vibrato when the sounds were so organic on their own, perfect in their own right.
But Will's sounds were not an overture of hooked bowings praising the Messiah. They were nails on a chalkboard, a fork scraping a plate, two pieces of Styrofoam being rubbed together. And Will's skin was not the ghostly milk of lunar rays. It was the shattered face of a clock, broken china, a white feather tarnished by an oil spill. And his blood was not rare jewels to be held onto. It was a red shirt that got mixed in with the whites in the wash, a bucket of paint that had spilled over newly laid carpet, coffee dumped onto a laptop.
Will's death was not art. Not the art it was meant to be.
Because Will wasn't meant to die. There was no reason for his death other than the intense rage that controlled his hands. The rage built up after so many hopeless attempts at getting the man to remember.
But Will never did remember. He was as good as ash being blown through the smoky air after a fire. Something that was once something else, but nothing that someone could get back, licked by flames.
He had tried everything to get his memories to come back. He had killed and kissed and destroyed and loved. Nothing, absolutely nothing, worked. And this act, this crime of passion, was his breaking point. He snapped. Snapped so hard that his hands moved without his wishes, the caged beast breaking from its carefully crafted chains.
And here was Will Graham, his beloved Will Graham, beautiful empath, silly boy, gasping on the ground. Eyes sparkling through the immense pain in them. That blue that was a color no artist could ever match; no mixture of paint would ever compare to that blue. That tragic blue.
All he wanted was to be remembered. And he didn't need the medical or academic community to remember him. He didn't need Chilton's book or Freddie's tabloids. He didn't need his published works hung in a museum. All he wanted was to be remembered by Will Graham.
Will Graham needed to remember him. He had to. Will Graham was the only one who had ever seen him fully, accepted him as he was. Monster, god, devil or something in between them all.
And that knife that glittered like a Christmas ornament of polished silver just continued to drag down and down and down until it ran out of flesh to carve through. Gasping, gurgling, choking on blood, light fading away from those blue eyes.
"I could never forget you, Hannibal."
The words echo around like he's trapped inside of a cave. His hands shake as they desperately try to undo what he's done. Blood not the normal heat, instead it's ice cold as his hands try to close the deep wound down the very center of Will's torso. A gash from the dip in his clavicle all the way to the waistline of his pants.
He begs the skin to heal itself. Begs the blood to stop flowing. Begs for the light to return to those eyes that made his sky colorful, for breath to return to those lungs, for life to return to the bones that will turn to dust without it.
Because Will remembered. Called him by name. But Will is not there anymore. And he knows it's all his fault. If he just held on longer. Just waited. Was more patient with Will. Gave Will the world like he promised instead of taking away his own world from himself in an unconscious self-sabotage.
"Come back."
The room was dark when Hannibal woke. His breathing was frantic, heart erratic and he couldn't remember the last time his body didn't stay calm and under his control when he wanted it to.
His shaking hands reached out beside him and when he found the bed empty, his heart sank. He sat up and didn't bother to grab for anything as he left the room in search of Will, afraid of what he'll find.
The dream had been so real, and Hannibal had relived murders in his dreams before, he almost didn't want to look for Will. Will could be laying across the glass of a shattered coffee table with blood cradling him, his curls a halo around his head, framing his pale face and dead blue eyes.
Hannibal hit the last stair and turned into the living room to find a fire crackling in the inept fireplace and a curly haired man on the couch with a glass of whiskey in hand, lost in thought.
Will's eyes jumped from the fire to the footsteps and he gave a concerned look, setting the glass aside and getting to his feet. "Hannibal? Are you alright?"
Hannibal stared at the man who stood before him, whole, alive, heart beating, head remembering, blood free. But that didn't stop the dryness in Hannibal's mouth and the twitching in his fingers.
Hannibal stepped closer to Will and his hands searched over Will's skin, pulling at the collar of the man's t-shirt to see the dip in his clavicle. No marks there. And his hands quickly dipped under Will's shirt, tugging at it as he dropped to his knees.
"Hannibal?" Will asked once more, fingers finding their way through tangled silver locks.
Hannibal's fingers and eyes flickered over Will's torso, tracing every scar that was there, none of them straight down his center. Hannibal let out a deep breath and rested his head against Will's stomach, hands clutching the man's hips tightly. Will shifted uncomfortably at the bruising grip but didn't say anything. Just let Hannibal be, gently petting at his hair.
Will's fingers dipped a little lower, finding Hannibal's pulse and he frowned. He had never known it to race. His pulse was always a steady beat, only rising if he put forth physical effort into something.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Will asked softly after another moment of silence. Hannibal gave a small nod against Will's body, still breathing hard and broken.
"Your diagnosis?" he asked through a dry mouth, inhaling as deeply as he could of Will's scent. He smelt just as he had that night. Petrichor, earthy, strong. That same night that mirrored this very conversation, though Hannibal hadn't been nearly as worked up over the dream.
"Nightmares." Will's tone was solid. "The question is..." Will's hands took Hannibal's face and pushed Hannibal back so that Will could lower himself to the floor as well to be the same height as Hannibal. "What do you have to be afraid of?" Hannibal gave a small, amused huff of air, face in a frown. "Do I have to guess?"
Hannibal licked his lips, thinking over the responses in his mind before deciding on one. He shook his head and met Will's eyes, with a small, "No."
"Then humor me," Will said, the back of his fingers gently caressing one of Hannibal's sharp cheeks. "What do you have to be afraid of?"
"You."
The answer was simple and hung in the air as Will tried to take it in. Will inhaled deeply and gave a small scoff, a nervous smile on his lips, but Hannibal didn't return the expression.
"I'm nothing to be afraid of," Will threw out with a shake of his head. "You can't be serious."
"Deathly."
The smile slipped from Will's mouth and his eyes once more searched the normally so well put together man before him. Same grey well cut hair, clean shaven face, impeccable clothing, even if it was just evening wear.
"Why me?" Will gasped out, breath heavy as he tried to find the answer in the unreadable expression on Hannibal's face, blue eyes flickering about.
Hannibal looked over Will in silence a moment longer, wishing that his body would listen to him and stop being locked in panic, one that still had his hands trembling as he reached up and took Will's wrists, Will's hands still at his face.
"Losing you terrifies me," Hannibal replied in barely more than a whisper. "And losing you by my own careless hands is worse."
"You're not going to lose me," Will assured, dragging Hannibal closer. Hannibal blinked as he was tugged against Will's chest as Will sat fully on the ground, back against the couch. Hannibal let himself be guided until he was laying with his head in Will's lap, one hand's fingers tangled with his, the other empath's fingers playing with his hair. Hannibal inhaled deeply, closing his eyes on the exhale and relaxed into Will's hold. "I'm here for you, through the blood and sugar. Forever and always."
"Don't forget me," Hannibal whispered, words raspy as they came from his mouth. He licked at his lips, trying to wet them, but it did nothing to help.
"Never."
Hannibal shook his head at the ridiculousness of his request. It was absurd and he shouldn't expect a truthful answer from Will. "I don't want you to forget me."
"I promise," Will whispered, his hand leaving Hannibal's hair to pick up his drink so he could have a sip.
"That's a lie."
Will set his glass back down and looked curiously over Hannibal's pained face, fingers pressing into the lines in Hannibal's face to smooth them out. "It's not a lie."
"You can't promise that," Hannibal argued back, though his eyes stayed closed and he didn't move. Will sighed, fingers still working on Hannibal's face that was slowly relaxing under Will's touch.
"Have you not realized that even when I don't know you, I still remember you?" Will asked with an exasperated sigh that made Hannibal's maroon eyes open curiously. "You are a plague in my system, the fever in my lungs. I dream about you, I can't stop thinking about you. I might not know your name or your face, but you're there. You're constantly all I can focus on." Hannibal was quiet, listening to Will's rant as Will looked at the fire, seeming unable to meet Hannibal's gaze. "I search for you." Will licked at his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth, his hand returning to Hannibal's hair, taking a handful of it and holding it tightly as if Hannibal were smoke and was going to blow away. "I couldn't let you go. I will always search for you, Hannibal. You don't need to be afraid of me forgetting. You don't have to be worried over my mind. It might be shattered and broken but you are etched into every piece of it. You must be out of your mind if you think I can keep you out of mine."
Hannibal gasped as Will leaned over and placed a harsh kiss against Hannibal's lips, knees curling up to make Hannibal an easier reach. His fingers tugged carelessly at Hannibal's hair, kiss inelegantly hot and wet, teeth sharp as they latched onto Hannibal's bottom lip.
"Jack," Will groaned through a mouthful of food as several folders were thrown onto his desk. "I'm in the middle of lunch. I don't want to think about my next class, much less over this case right now."
"Evidence has gone missing and has been deleted from our systems," Jack explained, pointing at the files. "Someone has access to this case and it, for once, isn't Freddie Lounds."
Will frowned and lowered his fork back into his tupperware dish, chewing slowly on what was still in his mouth. "Do you know what's missing?" Will asked, a hand reaching out and taking one of the folders, flipping it open.
"A gun magazine. We're still checking through everything else. Reports mention it being found, but it's not in the evidence locker and we have no pictures to prove that it was there."
"No pictures?" Will questioned, flipping through the reports, trying to look like he was interested. He took another bite of his lunch and became suddenly very aware of Jack staring at him.
"Someone has gone through and deleted all of the photos of the crime scene that were taken. The cards for the cameras are missing. Everything that wasn't printed out was deleted from our systems. We've tried to find backups, but everything is erased from the hard drives," Jack explained.
Will gave a small nod and took another bite of his lunch, pulling the file closer to him to look over. After a moment of silence, Will took another one of the folders and flipped it open. "Did the clip belong to any of the guns that were found?" Will asked around another mouthful.
"What are you eating?"
"Lunch," Will grumbled, looking up at Jack over the rim of his glasses. Jack tapped his fingers on the desktop and Will sighed. "A French lamb stew called lamb shank navarin or something to that effect, if you must know. I don't see why it matters."
"Did you buy it?" Jack asked and watched carefully as Will lowered his fork and sat back in his chair, in thought. Interesting.
"No," Will finally settled on.
"Did you make it?"
"No," Will repeated, truth in his words, though they were annoyed. "First you interrupt my lunch and then you judge me on what I brought to eat. Do you want me to look over this case for you or not?"
"Where did you get it?" Jack pushed.
Will frowned and quickly began picking up his lunch, shoving the closed tupperware back into his bag and getting to his feet. "A neighbor brought it by the other night when I came home late from the Witch Hunter's crime scene. She was taking care of my dogs for me. I kept it in the freezer until now. Happy? Or would you like me to share? I can call her and get you the recipe if my food is so interesting to you."
Jack didn't say a word further about the food and Will must have satisfied the man. "Tell me who deleted all of our information," Jack instructed instead, voice impatient.
"They would have to be an employee," Will offered, slowly lowering himself back into his chair at his desk and opening the last file. "Or at least someone with access to FBI facilities."
"Like you."
"Like me," Will agreed with a single nod, licking his lips. Had he already been caught? Jack wasn't stupid, but Will had hoped that Jack's normal blindness and stubbornness would allow Will more time to take care of everything that he needed to. He had slowly been removing evidence of himself from Hall Mansion, carefully, a little at a time. "Do you think it was me, Jack?" He had to know, be certain. He had to make sure that Jack wasn't baiting him because Jack was a good fisherman.
"No," Jack answered with a scrunched nose and a shake of his head, fingers tapping on the desktop once more. "Because we would have all of your badge logins of you entering the building and you haven't been in the lab since I took you there."
Will knew well enough how to piggyback on someone else's badge. It wasn't a difficult thing to pull off and he was more than aware of the security tapes recording over previous footage after 48 hours. As long as he wasn't noticed within those 48 hours and he didn't leave any other evidence behind him, then he was safe. Jack couldn't prove anything.
"So, has there been any suspicious badge activity then?" Will pushed, trying to once again look busy with the case files that Jack had basically thrown at him.
"None that we have been able to find."
Will gave a nod. "So, they use someone else's badge. Someone who enters the building regularly, or irregularly, as you do. Has anyone's badge gone missing?"
"Nothing reported," Jack replied.
"Punishment is harsh for a lost badge, Jack. Maybe start there."
Jack gave a nod and pulled the file from Will's hand, scooping up the other two as well, leaving Will with a confused look. "Your neighbor is nearly 80 years old," Jack stated strongly. "She stopped taking care of your dogs because of her age. I remember you telling me about how Walter was going to have to start taking care of the dogs. An 80 year old woman with arthritis in both knees is not going to spend all day in the kitchen making a French lamb stew. And we both know that your cooking is as good as my mother's Oriental Noodles."
Will bit his tongue but didn't say a word, just stared Jack down, challenging him to keep talking, daring Jack to say exactly what was on his mind. Jack turned as the classroom door opened, signaling the end of Will's lunch prep and his next class beginning.
"Is Dr. Lecter's cooking still as good as it was all those years ago?" Jack called over his shoulder, pushing through the students and leaving the classroom and Will with a dry mouth, heart pounding.
Sie können nicht, wenn Sie es nicht fühlen können, wenn es nie ist erhebt sich aus der seele und schwankt das Herz eines jeden Hörers, Mit tiefster Kraft auf einfache Weise: You cannot, if you cannot feel it, if it never is rises from the soul and wavers the heart of every listener, With the deepest strength in a simple manner.