It was becoming easier. Another month passed, and aside from a tense exchange about the purpose of the dining room table, they were communicating better in their loud silences. Will's work tended to sprawl around him, and Hannibal's desk was very effective at keeping his projects in order and stifling his creativity. One afternoon, he'd packed his current hook and his attachments into a tackle box and moved downstairs, covering the elaborate ebony table with them. Hannibal hadn't spoken, simply frozen in place in the doorway, and something about his expression istill/i burned whenever he thought of it.

This table was fair game, however. Hannibal considered the kitchen a working space, and Will loved the morning light in the breakfast nook. Consistently an early riser, if he slept at all, Will was often the first one downstairs, and the small compartmented box he tucked under his arm helped wile away the hour before Hannibal made his appearance, and breakfast. They watched each other working from the corners of their eyes, the doctor pausing when he suspended a knot between his pliers and the clamps for a feather, and Will hesitating curiously whenever something was added to the skillet on the fire. It was as peaceful as rooming with a tiger could be. Sometimes they spoke, and sometimes Will spoke to himself and his project, muttering delicate obscenities that made Hannibal smirk over his tea. Will was due to begin teaching again at the end of the semester, and he often recited the skeleton of a lecture to the professor over dinner…the man's eloquence allowed him to better articulate the abstract elements of the cases.

Their more intimate conversations had been stalled at every turn by their schedules. Despite the abundance of quiet working moments, they never seemed to sync. Whenever Will had a question prepared, Hannibal would return to the house with company for dinner, and whenever Hannibal watched him expectantly, Will was already divested between polishing his coursework and his dogs. There were more questions. Every questions bred a succession of follow-ups, and it had only been a single dream, one of an admitted sequence. Will' s curiosity got the better of him late at night, when he lay awake and tried to convince himself that he didn't need to know more, not in that hour, not even that day.

That morning, it was Hannibal that finally dusted the topic off and set it squarely between them. "Would you like to drink tonight?"

Will smiled, trailing seed beads down a short length of Spiderwyre and securing the loop before glancing over at the doctor. The invitation seemed rather blatant, but it was good to know that it hadn't been forgotten. "Are you up to it?"

"Very much. I have cleared my schedule for tonight and tomorrow."

Will's brow furrowed, because he hardly thought that it would require that much time to develop a question and suss out his answers. He thought back to the last conversation over the fire, and a short chill ran down his back. The beads in front of him went abruptly out of focus, and he sighed gently, dropping his hands while he settled into the memory. He forgotten that it had taken him a day or two to shake the dreamscape Hannibal had created for him. He wasn't sure why he assumed the time off was for the doctor's recovery. "Kind of you. I think we could go with a little less ale this time."

"Agreed. Ale with dinner, and after, I had tea in mind."

"Yes." Will nodded, leaning back into his project and threading a tiny curved needle through a scrap of doeskin. "Tea would be perfect."

XXXX

Inexplicably, Will was compelled to keep that hook in his pocket through the day. After availing himself of Hannibal's sundry cheeses for lunch, and half a glass of pinot, he tied his last knot, capped the sharp edge, and tucked it into his pocket, effectively ruining the plume. He realized exactly what he'd had for lunch as he was washing the dishes, and immediately resolved to go see his dogs again. Catching remnants of the doctor in his habits was unnerving.

The drive to Jack's house was exactly fifteen minutes, no matter which of the three lights he caught to the expressway across town. Jack had met him at the door with an unusual exuberance and bear hug, and he could hear Winston and Jacks whining excitedly before he ever made it over the threshold. Jack's back porch was large and covered with a door and two short steps down to the grass. He was abashed at the clamor his pack made against the door when they saw him, but after a moment to guarantee he would not be standing in a puddle of their excitement, he bullied through the door and took off to the far end of the yard. They gave chase and life was good for the next twenty minutes, full of wagging tails and wiggling fur. Jack and his wife watched from the porch for a minute before wandering back inside. Will exhausted them as much as he could before heading to the new kennel and opening its side door. Eight beds on two levels greeted him, the second beginning at his hip. The smaller dogs loved that, it allowed them the rare opportunity to assault his face with love. He flipped the beds one at a time and fluffed them. The water trough was full but filmed over, and he drained it, laughing as they muscled in for the challenge of drinking the fresh water as soon as it left the hose. They failed, and the trough filled a moment later. Jack fed them on the porch, something Will approved of considering that he'd done the same. They seemed to be settling in nicely, and he felt a familiar ache for the woods and stream on the edge of his property as he watched them watching him. He wanted to run them properly, until the smaller dogs lagged stubbornly behind and waited under a thicket for him on the return trip. In the corner of the shed was a comfortable chair with a lamp, and Will settled into it, hands immediately full of curious noses and soft ears. It was not home, but it was close enough. There he remained for the next few hours.

Jack came to fetch him shortly before dinner was ready, offering to let him shower before joining them. He declined politely, quoting Hannibal's dinner menu in very, very poorly enunciated French. Bella winced and covered her ears, and Jack ushered him out the door with a fresh shirt. They hovered on the step together, hands entwined as they waved him down the drive again. Will rather thought he liked this version of Jack…the intimate, Home-Jack. Jack at Rest. Jack and Wife. It suited him, the way Bella's presence soothed his perpetually ruffled feathers with a soft feminine counterpoint. That Jack was easy to get along with.

He kicked his muddy boots off outside the door, forgoing the scraping until the dirt had dried enough to be manageable. Herbs and garlic greeted him inside the door, and he inhaled deeply, locking it behind him. Hannibal appeared from around the corner with two pints, took one look at him, and turned on heel. Will laughed quietly, taking in the muddy paw prints and the distinct aroma that they imparted. The doctor had a very sensitive sense of smell, Will had learned to his chagrin, and there would be no conversation until he'd showered and changed.

Neither took very long, and there was a moment, upstairs in the bathroom, when he pulled the wilted hook from the pocket of his discarded jeans and considered it carefully. Still unsure of why, he was compelled to put it in his pocket again, checking the point's cap with the tip of his thumb. He assessed himself in the mirror, dashing the extra water from his hair with a towel. He looked healthier. He looked well rested. Perhaps would need a shave soon, but there was nothing pale or disheveled about his appearance anymore. Proximity to Hannibal was affecting his upkeep, it would seem. Still, it was refreshing to see himself and recognize that person again.

Hannibal met him again at the doorway with his pint, and the slight curl of his features was gone, somewhat mollified. Will marveled that he'd put so much thought into the kennel given his obvious distaste for the animals. Distaste was too strong a word. Will thought Hannibal reacted to dogs in the same manner he did small children, with resolute disinterest. He sipped his ale and took up his customary post at the end of Hannibal's working counter, watching him plate their elaborate meal and handing him things as he pointed. Hannibal had long given up on referring to things by their true name. Will thought maybe the chinoise/strainer incident had been the last straw. It was a strainer. It strained things.

Will smiled at his own pun but didn't dare share it, passing the expression off as praise of the completed plates. This, if anything, was Hannibal's religion. The doctor even insisted that he be seated before bringing the plates into the dining room, because it mattered that one were mentally prepared to appreciate food. Will didn't even think it was his obsession with his own culinary skill so much as genuine reverence for elevated food items. The doctor was never short of King's gestures.

Dinner passed slowly, with little conversation, but the silence between them was inexorably working towards comfortable as Will learned to adjust to Hannibal's presence. He limited himself to three pints that night, instead of six. He was pleasantly warm when he set his fork and knife across his plate to finish the last sip. "I have had several good questions cross my mind in the last few weeks, and they would disappear the moment I'm given leave to ask."

"I can appreciate your hesitance, but I mourn those questions. So…will you continue dissecting our first conversation or move on to something new?"

"Something new, I think. Having more context for them helps me sort through the answers."

Hannibal's expression slid through a smirk into something thoughtful. He stood and cleared the plates, returning a moment later bearing a tray with a tumbler of whiskey, and a tea pot full of flowers and herbs. He set them down and handed the whiskey off to Will first, ignoring his frown. "I am aware we agreed on three pints, but I ask you to trust me. In the endeavor of building this…'place', with you."

Will hesitated, eyeing the glass. He hadn't allowed himself into that 'place' in a month, but the silence had stained him. It was difficult to keep from sliding into it when he was alone, in the quiet of his room. It pulled at him, until his stray thoughts began to take on elements of Hannibal's dream in a way that he could not quite pin down. Sighing quietly, he nodded, pulling the tumbler closer and tipping it back. It occurred to him that Hannibal only drank Scotch, so this bottle must have been purchased for him. It was of decent quality, all burned sugar and warmth. He leaned back in his chair and considered the tea pot curiously. Hannibal poured him a cup, and the silence stretched on until he had finished both. Hannibal poured him another and began to speak quietly.

"My gender is fluid in these dreams. I awoke slowly, as a young woman. I lay in a dirty blanket on stone, and did not open my eyes. I had to work very hard to breathe. There was no sound except for my heart and breathing, and the smallest scratch of something in the blankets with me. It quieted after a while. There was no light, but I was aware of the time passing, and I did not care. I had been sick for a long while, it seemed, and every muscle in my body was weak, atrophied beyond repair. Despite this, I was young still, my mind bright and feverish as it struggled to make my body obey it."

Will blinked, focusing on the table as he stepped into the scene, eyes tracing the grain of the wood and the way the harsh light reflected on its surface. Hannibal continued, watching him carefully. "At some point, I grew strong enough to move, and stretch. In the act of uncurling my legs, I put my foot through a patch of dried fur and bones. The scent of rot made me gag, but my bed mate had expired a long time ago, and nothing remained of it but the dark crust of blood and bits of leathered skin and guts. A handbound journal presented itself under my fingers, thick, with dark, smudged pages. I concentrated on sitting up, and working my eyes open. It had been forever since I'd seen the sun, but I searched for it instinctively." Hannibal paused here, and Will's mouth was dry. The room felt darker, though he was sure it was not. He resisted the urge to look around, concentrating instead on his immersion, and the sweet, sickly feeling growing in his stomach. It was pervasive, and deep, and he swallowed thickly, sipping more of his tea. The cup was full again, Hannibal had refilled it without his noticing. Will closed his eyes.

Hannibal's voice seemed quieter, here in the dark. "I found myself in an abandoned warehouse, on a dais under a collapsed portion of the roof. The sky above was a mottled purple and grey, the sort created by city light and no moon. The ceiling seemed inordinately high for the building's depth. I could not remember anything more than waking up, and I could not stay that way for very long. A deep wound on my thigh oozed, the blood thick and dark as ink, but it somehow bled through the fabric to the stone, and trickled away over the dais' edge. The sickness reached out of my gut like a thorn, a heavy weight on my mind and shoulders, and after looking my fill, I let it bear me down to blanket again."

Will finished his third cup and reached for his thigh. There was no blood, but he'd been sure—

He met Hannibal's eyes, and they were blurred. The room was, every detail Gaussian and hazed together into an impression of space instead of a reality. Except for himself. He pressed his thigh harder, because it needed to stop, but he wasn't sure he could force it to. Something wasn't right.

"I heard a woman's voice." Will did too, turning his head towards the kitchen to catch the mutter.

"Pulling me up from the depth of my sleep, speaking to me gently, fondly even, in a language I know now has never existed in any form on the planet as we know it. Nothing historical or modern has ever come close to matching those words." Of course not, no one else knew how to speak with their souls, Will's mind supplied, still curious as to whom it was, swaying slightly as he leaned towards the voice and then back again when Hannibal spoke,

"I understood that she loved me, and that she aged and was dying at my side. She told me to stay there, for as long as could. She told me to remain quiet, and unobtrusive for the stars. I mourned her in my silence. After a time, she faded, and I knew she had been protecting me. Whatever I was, I was not right, not meant for this place and its people. As I lay still, I was dimly away of a door behind me, open to the world outside and its people. It rained there, and they walked marched forward without ever seeing my shrine, and its gutted interior. I thought perhaps someone there would be willing to protect me. I opened my eyes, sorting out my fingers where they fell across the thick pages of the book, and I knew better. This book would tell me why. This book iwas/i why. With much effort, I rolled onto my back, gagging up at the sky. My throat worked to swallow, but the rain outside the door did not fall on me here."

He longed for it, reaching for his face and hoping to feel water. Instead, he knocked his glasses to the table, and Hannibal quickly stole them away, tucking them into his jacket. Will blinked, but his tongue was made of cotton, he couldn't protest. A wave of dizziness swept from the front of his brain to the back, tilting his head to look at the ceiling. He could feel the doctor moving, a cool hand on his head, then gone again. He missed the woman's voice, something plaintive in his features as he tried to follow the touch away. The lights went out, and he blinked again, but no, there was nothing in the dark. His vision hadn't failed, blinking once, again, no, there was just nothingness there waiting for him. "The clouds roiled before my eyes, the ceiling lost to the darkness and the stars. They hovered just through and inside the hole above me. I blinked, trying to force them back into place, but it was not my sickness tricking my vision. There, at the edges of the roof's collapse, just inside the edge of the shadows, the stars hovered, blinking, bright lights."

Something bright, a pen-light perhaps, appeared in his left eye, and a strong hand gripped his jaw, locking his head back against the chair. It hurt, and his heart picked up unsteadily, the sick feeling growling low in his chest. He leg bled, bleeding forever. He couldn't lift his hand, and instead pressed it to the perceived wound, as hard as he could, raking the heel of his palm over it as though the stroke would convince it to stop on his own. He felt weak. He felt tired. The pen light was gone, and specks of color danced in its wake. Hannibal's voice was closer, disembodied from the grip at his chin, leaving him suspended between the two.

"They surged in and out of focus with every heartbeat. I just wanted to breathe. Slowly, the pitch black darkened, and the lights became more intense, a contrast I instinctively feared. The stars watched me. Slowly, one at a time, I became aware of the great beings watching me, how vastly tall and empty they were. Their eyes, my stars, turned and slid away into my peripheral vision…a silent, hunting stride that chilled me to the bone." Will felt the panic lock his spine and he leaned, pulling away from the grip with a whined protest, trying to breathe, trying to think, but he couldn't make the blood stop, it just—

"I struggled to sit up, and managed, though barely. One remained, waiting." Lights, dancing specks of light solidified into a undetermined head of an indescribable creature made of pitch and fear. Will thought his heart might burst. A steadying hand appeared over it, and he settled somewhat.

"I tore the book open and pressed the pages to my wounded thigh. The blood became bright again, red with my life and my fear. I soaked page after page, and tore them out, throwing them into the air, my offering."

Will was aware of an intense pain, though whether it originated in his leg or his palm was ambiguous. The grip at his chin shifted to his throat and tightened slightly, and Will abruptly recognized the slick feeling between his skin and the denim. He found strength, fueled by fear, to throw the pages. He felt him, just over his shoulder, felt the shiver in that grip as blood spattered the table, the crystal, and another hand gripped his wrist until the spasms passed and he quieted. "The stars remained, unmoved."

Liar.

"I exhausted myself in the effort, and my wound pulsed freely now, robbing the last of my strength and sending it spilling warmly over the floor." God, he was so tired. So wretchedly tired.

"I knew then, why she'd told me to remain to still. Why she'd left me there to die. It was necessary. A new beginning would come of my end, the death of my innocent existence a release to those who waited." Will nodded faintly, his whole word swaying with every beat of his heart and the warm, but cooling, trickle down over his wrist and the doctor's fingers.

"The last of the light and darkness turned away from me." Will sighed, failure and pain flooding his mind. "A moment later, a long, dark claw speared me from the side, through my skull."

A white blinding pain erupted behind his eyes, traveled through his scalp—no, originated there as a merciless fist appeared in his hair, lifting him from the chair. "And pulled me back into the darkness to be consumed."

A low sound of terror wound its way past his lips, a sad, softly animal cry, something from the soul-spoken language of loss and death. He could not give it shape, and it did not require it, and he fell to the floor, sustained only by the titanic grip just above the nape of his neck. It felt solid, grounding, while the floor that he knew to be hardwood was nothing more than blood-slicked concrete. He panted there, suspended between realities, and reached.

Hannibal let him. Bright, bright, searing pain in his right palm woke him further as he wound a fist into the doctor's shirt and climbed, pressing a numbed face to the man's pant leg. He stumbled up the dark, the grip neither helping nor hindering his progress as he struggled to find his feet with a body that forgot what movement felt like. Several times, he hung from it, breathing sadly, every inhale and release stained with his loss. His heart was breaking, his heart iraged/i. He reached anyway, and Hannibal met him, unyielding, as Will mapped his face, his shoulders, gripped his shirt and then the sun appeared.

Will twisted to see it, the chandelier lit and seemingly spinning to his distraught eyes. Abruptly clear, he reached for the grip in his hair, tugging at it ineffectually, and stared at the table. His overturned tea cup, the ring of condensation stained a bright crimson by…that, his blood, spreading in small, coin-sized pools over the ebony and reflecting the light with glassy efficiency. He squinted at it, reached for his glasses, and the doctor tightened his grip, turning his head to look at him.

At the stars.

Still blinking against the brightness, he witnessed a constellation of dancing spark on Hannibal's forehead, Hannibal's…bloody, features; Will shivered lowly with his fear again. He pulled away, bracing both hands on Hannibal's chest, but the doctor did not release him. A large smear of red covered his eye and spread down his cheek, and Will's throbbing palm was still marking him, seeping through the Egyptian cotton between his hand and the doctor's warm chest. His tongue was still too thick, slurring, "Hann…Hannibal, what've you done?"

"I was unaware that you had something sharp on your person." Hannibal answered, and Will though something bright in the man's eyes answered him more completely. He was smirking again, something vicious and soulless in the expression, and it made the fear in Will's belly coil itself tightly. Hannibal reached for him with his free hand, turning him bodily toward the light, and Will heard a quiet snap as the hook broke free of his beads and feathers and Hannibal held it up to the light. The doctor tossed it to the table, where it marred one of the congealing spots Will had painted over it.

"Let…let go. Of me." Will pulled again, and Hannibal shook him once, sending him back into a paroxysm of stress.

"No, I am holding you up, Will." He replied curtly. "And, I have drugged you, so that may be the case for the next few hours."

"You…can't…do that, it's not genuine." Will didn't even know what he was saying, but it sounded plausible enough in light of how very disembodied he felt in that precise moment.

"Is it not?" Hannibal looked at him, and Will protested, watching the blacks of his eyes spread until no color remained, blinking—it was gone, and Will suddenly felt his body again as the wave receded and he settled into his frame. He snatched his head away, and in a split second decision, slammed his forehead with all the force he could muster into that mouth, and then pushed past him. He stumbled through the dining room, glancing back at the doctor in the doorway to the living room. He stood there, dignified and pristine, painted in blood with a fresh gout spilling from his split upper lip over his chin, shoulders squared, and expression enigmatically accommodating, calling across the room, "Will, I need to stitch your hand."

Will fled.