~ CHAPTER IV ~

Will huffed as he sorted through the clothes that Hannibal had handed him. He hadn't mentioned that he was going to give Will multiple pairs of sleep clothes and multiple pairs of clothes for the morning. One of each was more than enough; it wasn't as if Will had never fallen asleep in his day clothes before.

He stripped his clothes off and, after a little contemplation, picked a lighter-weight sweater and a thin but soft pair of sleep pants from the pile to wear. Will set the rest of the pile on the armchair in the corner and climbed into bed. The sheets were even softer than he had imagined they would be; he didn't even want to think about how expensive they must be. The mattress, too, was far comfier than what Will had at home. He didn't know how many years he'd had the same mattress on his bed frame, but considering how badly he had been sweating at night lately, he wondered if he should rethink that.

Will turned off the light and tried to get comfortable, but despite his exhaustion and the alcohol still running in his veins, his headache had worsened to the point where it felt as if hot knives were being jabbed into his temple. Sighing in defeat, Will flicked on the light and rummaged in his discarded suit jacket for his bottle of aspirin. He almost took the pills dry before he remembered that drinking water might stave off a hangover that would make his current headache feel even worse. He went into the bathroom without turning on the vanity light, swallowed the pills with a few mouthfuls of water, and then laid back down.

The night seemed to stretch on for an eternity in the dark. Will tossed and turned, rubbing at his temples in a futile attempt to ease the pain building up there. Other than the rustling of his sheets every time he moved, the house was eerily silent. Unlike Will's old house in Wolf Trap, Hannibal's house didn't creak or settle in the night. It was as if the house itself were holding its breath — what for, Will couldn't guess. The silence didn't help him sleep. He was used to the snoring and soft breathing of his dogs, the nocturnal calls and rustling of creatures in the nearby woods, and the wind whistling in his attic and down his chimney.

Will flopped onto his back with a sigh and stared at the darkened ceiling. It was impossible to tell what time it was. There was no digital clock on either of the bedside tables, and he didn't want to blind himself with the light from his cell phone; the blue light would only make it harder for him to fall asleep. The only light in the room came from around and under the thickly curtained windows designed to keep the Baltimore streetlights at bay.

His eyes eventually fluttered shut, and to his immense relief, his body began to relax into the soft mattress. Exhaustion swept over his mind like a wave. Maybe he could finally sleep.

And then something creaked down the hall.

Will froze, wide awake. He sat up partway, leaning on his elbows. The sound was reminiscent of Alana's high heels clicking on Hannibal's hardwood floor as she had left them earlier that evening, but there was something off about it. It was an all-too familiar sound, one that was confirmed when his bedroom door nudged open. Beyond the door, in the shadows of the hallway, stood an enormous black stag. The stag snuffled and ducked its head to enter the room, so as not to catch its impressive rack of antlers on the top of the doorway. In the dark, it was hard to tell, but Will knew that instead of fur, it was covered in midnight black feathers.

Perhaps a normal person would run away, or scream, or god knew what else upon such a vision. But Will, for better or for worse (definitely worse), had become familiar with the stag's presence. It was never outwardly harmful. At most, it was a neutral presence. Sometimes, it even had a strangely comforting aspect to it.

But the visions that accompanied it? Those could be harmful.

Will stretched out his hand to touch the stag's snout. The stag's eyes glistened in the low light of the room as it bent its head and blew hot air on Will's outstretched hand.

Before he could touch it, however, he blinked and the stag was gone. Will was alone again. He leaned back into the mattress, ready to try to go back to sleep, but froze in horror. He was laying in something hot and wet.

Will gasped and struggled to sit up as sticky, black liquid rose up and lapped over the mattress, as though he were on a sinking lifeboat in the middle of a raging sea. No, no, no, no, no, he did not want to drown, especially not in this, this viscous liquid that smelled too much like the iron found in blood and left its tainting influence behind on his skin. But it was too late — the liquid rose and rose, engulfing him in its sticky heat, and Will screamed bloody murder and bolted upright in bed.

It took him a few moments of gasping desperately for air before he realized that he was no longer drowning in blood. There was no blood, and there was no feathered stag; all there was was himself, sitting in a pool of his own sweat.

He had been dreaming (or hallucinating) again. So much for not sweating profusely all over Hannibal's expensive sheets and clothes.

Will threw the covers back and peeled the soaking sweater off of his body, wincing when the cool air hit his sweaty skin. He did the same with his pants, leaving him shivering violently in his boxers, and held one sweaty article of clothing in each hand, unsure of what to do with them. If he was at home, he would have simply thrown them on the floor and waited until the morning to put them in the laundry basket, but that would clearly not do here.

After a moment's contemplation, Will stood up and padded tiredly into the bathroom, draping the sweaty clothes over the shower rod. Then he went to the sink and splashed water on his face, to wash the sweat off, but also to try to cool the fever that pressed at his temples along with his headache. The last thing he wanted was to be sick at Hannibal's. It looked as if that hope might be dashed right along with his sweaty bed sheets.

The cool water against his face didn't seem to do anything, but it had been worth a try, he supposed. As he rubbed his face dry with a towel, Will glanced up in the mirror and froze, unable to believe his eyes.

There was a soulmark on his chest.

Will moved closer to the mirror and flicked on the light, horrified but also intrigued in spite of himself. The soulmark rested directly above where his heart beat sporadically in his chest. It looked a lot like a fresh tattoo, shiny and rich in color, although it had appeared on his skin without him being stabbed with a needle full of ink, of course.

Will's reservations aside, it was beautiful. The soulmark was an anatomical heart, painted in vivid shades of red and complete with detailed veins and arteries, collagen, and muscular definition. Digging into the sides of heart, reminiscent of ribs, or maybe tree branches or choking vines, were what looked like a stag's antlers. Bunches of flowers sprouted from the major veins and arteries at the top of the heart in a grotesque bouquet.

Will traced the soulmark with his fingers. So Hannibal Lecter was his soulmate. His stomach twisted and sank even as he tried to be hopeful. A part of Will had always assumed that he didn't have a soulmate. Now the part of him that had always feared that if he had a soulmate it would be unrequited reared its ugly head. Unrequited soulmates were rare, but they did happen — two people would kiss, and only one of them would develop a soulmark. Will had been more relieved than he had wanted to admit when he hadn't developed a soulmark after kissing Alana and she rejected him. It would be just his luck to be rejected by his soulmate.

He tried to ignore the voice in his head that whispered that there was still a chance he could rejected by this one. After all, his soulmate was apparently Dr. Hannibal fucking Lecter, former surgeon, renowned psychiatrist, refined urban socialite, and filthy stinking rich. He was rolling in wealth. And who was Will? Just an mentally unstable FBI professor and criminal profiler, living alone in the middle of nowhere with seven dogs, antisocial and unrefined, happy to spend his days fishing and fixing boat motors with no other humans to keep him company, and did he mention currently struggling with hallucinations and the occasional vivid murder fantasy? The odds of Hannibal returning Will's soulmate feelings were so scarce that Will hadn't even bothered to consider Hannibal as a love interest until his own feelings were staring him in the face.

A knock on the door frame to his room made Will freeze again, but it was Hannibal's voice that made him panic.

"Will? Are you okay?"

Oh SHIT.

Before Will could attempt to cover himself or the soulmark on his chest, mocking him from where it sat upon his heart, Hannibal entered the guest bedroom slowly and peeked into the lighted bathroom, his forehead creased in concern. Will could do nothing except turn to face him, soulmark clearly visible, and brace himself for rejection.

Hannibal's mouth parted slightly, eyes roaming over Will's chest, but within seconds, his eyes were on Will's.

"I heard you screaming, so I came to check up on you. Nightmares again?"

Will swallowed. "Yes."

Hannibal's eyes drifted back to Will's chest. "Is that…?"

Will couldn't meet Hannibal's eyes or even look him in the face. But what else could he do but be truthful? It was better to get the rejection over with as quickly as possible than to draw out the pain unnecessarily, right? "A soulmark, yeah. I, uh. It just appeared."

Hannibal stepped forward. Will tensed but didn't move away. Hannibal stopped only a foot away from Will and reached out slowly, and when Will stayed put, he touched Will's chest lightly and traced a finger across the heart soulmark. Will couldn't help himself; he shivered and leaned into the touch.

"After I kissed you." Hannibal's voice was so low and quiet that if Will hadn't been straining his ears, he could have easily convinced himself that he had imagined it.

Will swallowed. "Yes."

Hannibal pulled his fingers away, but Will's disappointment at the loss of contact was short-lived. His breath hitched and got lost somewhere in his throat as Hannibal pulled off his own sweater to reveal that he had the same soulmark, resting directly over his heart.

"It appeared this evening, after we kissed." Hannibal dropped the sweater to the ground and touched Will's face, his touch so light that Will almost cried from the gentleness. "May I kiss you again?"

"Yes."

Then they were kissing again, and Will was lost in a sea of emotion, clinging to Hannibal as if his life depended on it.

Maybe it did.