As has happened off and on since the Ripper reappeared, Will dreams he's the Ripper.
He sees Donovan Victor walk down an alleyway in Annapolis to his small motorcycle repair shop tucked out of sight in a derelict block. A dingy sign marks the entrance. He listens for the click of a lock. Hearing none, he waits until he hears the sound of Victor moving heavy objects. With gloved fingers, he turns the knob and slips inside.
Victor has his back turned. Will walks quickly but quietly up behind Victor and grabs his throat, squeezing until Victor is unconscious. He uses Victor's body to shove motorcycle parts off of a wooden table as he wrestles the man's heavy weight up and onto the table. An undrilled drag bar clatters to the floor: the best instrument at hand for the task of pinning Victor to the table.
He enjoys this kind of violence. It challenges his strength, his determination, his stamina. Though there's nothing sexual about the murders, it's the antipode of good, meaningful sex, offering the same hormone-laden thrill and fulfillment.
Will grips the metal handlebar. It's just the right weight for his purpose. He lifts it and plunges it through Victor's intestines. Victor jerks awake and tries to scream through his crushed larynx. Will ignores him. Slicing through Victor's abdomen, Will reaches into and behind intestines and viscera for the left kidney, pinches the vessels that feed it, and extracts the healthy organ. Will cuts Victor's right side and savors Victor's terror and pain as he repeats the process to retrieve the right kidney.
He does not speak to Victor as he works. He does not need to say anything to this pig of a man.
Will places the organs carefully in something – a plastic bag or something similarly leak- and scent-proof.
He removes the bloody gloves and places them in another plastic bag, careful not to touch the bags with naked fingertips. He washes his hands at the sink in Victor's shop. Watery blood runs down the drain next to the nail brush Victor used to clean the grease from his fingers. Will dries his hands with a shop towel and places it in the bag with the bloody gloves. He puts on another pair of gloves – nice, thick winter gloves this time, not the surgical gloves he had been using.
He slices Victor's throat and leaves him to bleed out.
Will conceals the organs on his person. He has to wear a coat to do this, but a coat is not out of place in winter.
He must dispose of the bloody gloves and shop towel. He could do this anywhere. He chooses a location far from the scene, leaving only the evidence he wishes the FBI to recover.
Victor's kidneys are still warm against Will's body as he leaves the alleyway.
In a dark room, he prepares one of the kidneys. The other he stores for later.
The scene shifts to his own kitchen. Will browns the organ in butter. He wants to taste it as it is: a fresh treat. He's excited, his mouth watering and stomach growling. So thrilled is he in fact by the anticipation of tasting fresh flesh that an erection strains against the confines of his pants. His body trembles with excitement.
When the kidney is ready, Will puts it on a plate and takes it to his kitchen table. His hard cock rubs almost painfully against his underwear. He reaches down and strokes himself through the fabric, inhaling the scent of the kidney. The keening tension in his groin is relieved slightly as pre-come wets his boxers. He unbuttons his pants and unzips his fly so he can sit comfortably.
With a butter knife, he cuts into the cooked organ and lifts it to his mouth. Uric and mineraly, the meat melts in his mouth. As he savors the rich taste, he slides a palm over the head of his cock and fists himself leisurely.
With his left hand, he cuts another piece of kidney and spears it with the fork. Exhilaration makes him harder and he moans and –
Will's eyes snap open.
Sweat, terror, and hyperventilation: these are the only things familiar to him. Everything else is foreign. He has no idea where he is. Directly in his line of sight is his arm and a translucent tube running into it. Medical. But he's in a house, not a hospital. His head and stomach ache; nausea swirls below his ribs. For a handful of disoriented seconds, he thinks he's been kidnapped – that Jack was right and the Ripper poisoned him with the aim of spiriting him away.
Entirely at odds with his panic is something he's never experienced upon waking from a nightmare: a hard, needy erection straining against his shorts.
Before he can sort out what's going on, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He starts, breathing like a flushed rabbit: kidnapped. He grips the side of the bed with his right hand, knuckles going white as he seeks an anchor in physical reality, desperately trying to think of a way to escape.
"Shh, Will, you're all right."
Hannibal.
Hannibal's voice behind him.
Hannibal's hand.
He's in Hannibal's house.
Relief floods through him. His breathing slows from that of a terrified prey animal to something closer to a startled human.
He's in Hannibal's house because… he's sick, very sick… and Hannibal is in bed next to him?
That explains the erection.
Sort of.
He doesn't know what to make of it. Is it a response to the power and thrill he felt in the dream or to Hannibal's proximity to him in bed?
Or both?
He hopes it isn't both.
He swallows heavily, fearing it is.
For the first time, he's thankful for nausea and a headache. The erection fades quickly in their company.
Hannibal hovers behind him, his hand still resting lightly on Will's shoulder. Instinct tells him to flee. His tired, feverish, unhappy body tells him not to move.
"You're in bed with me?" Will asks once he's caught his breath. His voices breaks like an adolescent's.
"Yes."
Hannibal's voice is so close again. Will can feel his body nearby. Not touching, but very close. Very close.
"Do you recall that I sought your permission?"
That memory, wrapped in hazy relief, returns as well.
"Mmm," Will replies.
He remembers thinking that the request was a little odd but ultimately reasonable. Hannibal was tired but wanted to be nearby in case Will needed help. It was a good idea: Will does need help. More help than he wants to acknowledge.
He'll start with something easy, something he can abide – help getting up.
"Can you unhook me?" Will asks. "I need to pee."
"Certainly."
He feels the mattress dip as Hannibal's weight shifts. He's going to have intense fantasies about this later, when he's well and the Ripper has gone to ground. When he has time to indulge his lust.
Hannibal rounds the bed and comes into view, dressed in that handsome robe of his, his hair out of place and the pinch of tiredness around his eyes. He's devastatingly attractive.
No, not these thoughts now. Will refuses to let his mutinous mind and body confuse the inexplicable lust of his nightmare with the entirely justified lust for the man in front of him. He can't have one of the few good things in his life tainted by his fracturing mind.
Will runs a hand over his face, trying to clear the remains of his nightmare. God, his head hurts. His stomach is hollow yet angry. He feels battered and bruised, as though he's been caught in the swift current of a spring flood and bashed repeatedly against driftwood and rocks. The current carries him farther from home and closer to the open sea. An anchor, a paddle: he needs one or both so badly.
When he's free, he pushes himself up carefully and moves to shed the wet t-shirt before he thinks better of it. Instead, he fingers the material.
"Sorry about the shirt," Will says, not meeting Hannibal's eyes. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and manages to sit up. The room spins. His hands curl into fists as he seeks something solid.
When Will opens his eyes, Hannibal looks ready to catch him if he falls. Will is relieved, comforted by the kindness – then, without warning, his chest constricts with emotion and he feels tears welling up. Jesus. He is so fucked up.
"Don't be sorry," Hannibal says kindly. "I'll bring you another."
"Thanks," he mutters and cautiously stands, embracing the dizziness that, thankfully, tamps down his emotions.
Now Hannibal's hands are on his shoulders, holding him steady, then moving to one side as Will takes a tentative step. Hannibal helps him across the room – goddamn invalid – and to the bathroom.
Will relaxes slightly when he closes the door. Alone. Good. He needs some space.
What the fuck is wrong with me, he growls to himself as he strips off the now-cold shirt. He pulls his penis out of the silk boxers – Hannibal's boxers, Hannibal wears these boxers, fuck – and glares at it like it's a traitor as he urinates.
It does make sense, the way he woke up. He was sleeping in a bed next to Hannibal, wearing his clothes, breathing his heady fragrance. Of course he'd wake up hard.
But the dream. The vivid, revolting dream. The tension of his dream erection as he consumed the flesh of his victim, as taut and needy as the erection he woke up with.
Will's stomach rolls and he's vomiting before he knows what's happening. Acidic bile burns his throat and nose. He drops to his knees in a single, jarring movement, and feels pain lance through them, but his focus is fixed on his tumultuous stomach. This time is more difficult and painful than the others. The strain is immense. Maybe he has pulled a muscle. Fuck.
As quickly as it came, the attack fades, and he's left breathing heavily and trying to spit the taste out of his mouth. He isn't sure if this is the food poisoning or a visceral reaction to the dream. He often feels like throwing up in response to his dreams, but it's never happened before. Then again, he's never gotten hard in a nightmare, either.
Will sits back on his heels and then the floor as he pulls his legs up against his chest. He rests his aching head on his bruised knees and thinks about his dogs.
He visualizes each of their faces. Their uncomplicated love. Their pure happiness.
Each of their faces. He misses them. The ease of being with them.
He sees wagging tails in his mind's eye – and then a flash of himself consuming kidney and jerking off.
He starts, suddenly panting, adrenaline jolting through his body.
He studies the floor, trying to banish the images, and realizes he must have fallen asleep. Not for long. Not for more than a few minutes or Hannibal would have come to find him. Because he fell a-fucking-sleep.
Will wants to hit something to direct his anger and frustration outward. Instead, he picks himself up and goes through the motions of rinsing his mouth out and washing his face. Hannibal – kind, courteous, thoughtful Hannibal – has left a bottle of mouthwash next to the sink. Will's hands shake as he unscrews the top and rinses his mouth out.
He studies his reflection in the mirror. Pale and sallow. Scruffy. Eyes red. Hair wet and matted.
He's a fucking mess.
Dwelling on it will get him nowhere, though, and he's too shaky to be on his feet.
When he returns to the bedroom, self-consciously bare-chested, he's pleased to find a clean shirt waiting for him and no Hannibal. He pulls the shirt over his tired body and notices towels on the bed. He needs a moment to recall that he mentioned using towels to Hannibal. Hannibal remembered. Will doesn't let himself think about how he feels about all of the considerate things Hannibal has done for him. He needs to feel nothing right now.
He arranges the pillows so he can sit up and climbs into the bed. He draws his knees to his chest again and stares at the duvet, trying not to fall asleep.
When he hears Hannibal coming, his head is heavy, begging to be rested on his knees. Will forces himself to look up as Hannibal offers him a pale disc the size of a dime.
"Ginger," Hannibal says. "For your stomach. Just place it in your mouth. You do not need to swallow it."
Will takes the disc and inhales the scent, skeptical that a slice of root will do much for him.
"Does it work?" he asks.
"It works for me," Hannibal replies.
Will stares at him for a moment before he gets the reference: Hannibal has had food poisoning, too.
"I thought you were careful about what you put into your body," Will says.
"I am," Hannibal answers amiably. "I'm also an adventurous eater. I have encountered a few unwelcome guests in the past. Ginger helps." He pauses. "Or I can give you something else."
"No," Will says. "Everything I've had has made me sleepy. I don't want to sleep right now."
"Ah, yes, you were having a nightmare," Hannibal says.
Will says nothing. He wonders how much Hannibal saw. What Hannibal saw. No one has witnessed one of his nightmares in a very long time. Hannibal watching him dream: another thing he doesn't want to think about. He distracts himself by placing the ginger in his mouth. It clashes with the minty taste of mouthwash and he wants to spit it out, but Hannibal has done so much for him. He won't be rude.
Hannibal gently takes Will's arm and reconnects the IV.
"You are under a great deal of stress," Hannibal says as he works. "It's not surprising that your dreams are worse."
"They've never been this bad," Will says vacantly, his eyes fixed on the footboard.
Cool fluid runs into his arm. He shivers – then blinks as Hannibal holds out a hand toward his face like a person trying to make friends with a frightened animal. He wants permission. But for what? Will stares blankly at him until he realizes that Hannibal wants to check his temperature. Probably because he shivered. Chills and fever.
Will silently grants permission but looks away as the back of Hannibal's hand rests lightly against his forehead. Why would Hannibal choose this inexact method? Because he lacks the equipment? No. Because he wants to touch Will?
Fuck.
"What makes them so bad?" Hannibal asks quietly.
Will blinks, his heart skittering. He lost focus too quickly. He has to backtrack to remember the reference in the question.
The dreams. What makes the dreams so bad?
"The Ripper…" Will begins, trailing off. Images of the crime scenes lurk just outside his vision. "I can see how he does it. I can see why, too. But I can't see him. He doesn't want me to see him."
Hannibal brings a chair from the other side of the room so he can sit next to Will. He crosses his legs as though they're in his office and nothing is amiss.
"That must be endlessly frustrating," Hannibal says.
Will makes a noncommittal noise and rubs a hand over his eyes. His head is throbbing like he's just looked at a fresh crime scene.
"Do you have anything for a headache?" he asks.
"The tincture I gave you earlier will help," Hannibal answers, unfazed by the change of subject. "I can give you a small amount now and more later."
Will closes his eyes. "I don't want to sleep yet."
"A few drops will relax you and ease your pain without making you sleep," Hannibal explains.
Will considers it. Between the headache, nausea, and lingering disquietude, he feels terrible. He's tense but tired: overused. He needs very badly to relax.
"As long as it won't make me sleep," he says.
In answer, Hannibal retrieves the brown bottle. If this works – relaxation without sleep – Will must get this tincture for himself. Whiskey hasn't helped as much lately as it used to.
When Hannibal leans in with the dropper this time, Will doesn't feel the overwhelming urge to flee. Perhaps he's too tired. Perhaps he trusts Hannibal more now than he did earlier today. Whatever the reason, he doesn't care. He just wants some respite.
The headache and nausea fade slightly as the medicine takes effect. He can still feel them, but they're less bothersome. It's as though someone turned the volume down. He leans back against the headboard as his body relaxes. The sense of well-being he felt earlier returns in a milder form. Hannibal gave him just enough to take the edge off of his pain and calm his nerves but too little to cloud his mind.
He must be careful, he thinks, not to mistake Hannibal's consideration for something else.
Will's eyes slide lazily to Hannibal as he returns to his chair and crosses his legs again. As though nothing about this is strange.
"So, this dream bothered you because it was frustrating," Hannibal says.
"No," Will replies. His eyes shift back to the footboard. "I dreamt about the crime scene this morning. I walked through the murder as though I were doing it. But this time, it didn't end with the ripping. I dreamt I was eating the organs I'd taken. Kidneys. In my kitchen."
He can't bring himself to mention the erection. Not when Hannibal probably caused it. Will is certain Hannibal has no interest in him beyond friendship. How could he? It's not possible.
"The thought of becoming a cannibal troubled you?" Hannibal inquires.
"Yes," Will says. "But it's not just that."
He feels Hannibal studying him.
"You enjoyed it," Hannibal says.
Will sighs and nods slightly, wishing he didn't have to acknowledge this truth.
"What did you enjoy about it?"
As much as he doesn't want to have this conversation – not right now, not when the dream is still so fresh – Will knows he needs to talk. And Hannibal, unlike every other person Will knows, is not repulsed by the dark visions Will sees. Nor by the darkness in him. Rather, he's willing to confront that darkness and help Will toward the light.
Will blinks tiredly as he stares at the end of the bed. "I don't know," he answers after a moment. "It wasn't like killing Hobbs. I didn't feel powerful. I didn't even feel like myself."
"Perhaps you enjoyed it because he enjoys it?" Hannibal suggests. "After all, you feel what others felt when you're at a crime scene."
"I suppose so," Will says. "He does enjoy it. But why my kitchen?"
"You haven't been home in a while," Hannibal supplies. "You miss the familiar surroundings."
"Maybe," Will says uncertainly. Then he brightens and looks at Hannibal. "How are the dogs?"
"Good," Hannibal answers with a smile. "They miss you."
"I miss them," Will echoes.
Hannibal pauses as he often does when he wants to change the subject.
"I understand from the papers that the murders have been happening quickly," he says. "The Ripper kills in streaks. Jack won't let you go home until they're over or you catch him. Do you know how many are left?"
Will nods. "Just one."
Hannibal leans forward slightly. "Do you think you can catch him?"
Will sighs. "Not this time. He's too careful. I don't think he would have come back at all if he hadn't been baited."
"You do not usually doubt yourself, Will. What's different about this one?"
"He doesn't make mistakes," Will answers. "And he's motivated by anger this time. Annoyance. He's making a statement. Once the statement is made, he'll disappear again."
"But Jack thinks he can be caught," Hannibal says.
Will laughs bitterly. "Jack has a personal stake in it."
"So he told me," Hannibal says. "I was sorry to hear about his trainee."
Will hears an unspoken addition to the sentence: that he has taken the role of Miriam Lass in this round of murders. It's too easy a fit, too shallow an interpretation, which is why Hannibal doesn't voice it.
"You think I'm going to end up like her?" Will asks, shifting his eyes to Hannibal so he can study the man's expression. Friendly interest. Concern. There's more, but he's too tired and fuzzy read it.
"Do you?" Hannibal asks.
Will lets the evasion slide. "It's possible," he answers mildly. "He'll know when I find him. He may know before I do."
"You have a regard for this killer I have not heard you express before," Hannibal observes.
Will turns his gaze back to the footboard. "He's very good at what he does," Will says. "He's toying with us because we pushed him."
"We?"
"Jack, Alana, Freddie Lounds, and me," Will replies. "They wanted to confirm that it wasn't Gideon."
"They," Hannibal echoes. "You didn't agree with the method?"
"Not at first," Will says.
"And now?" Hannibal presses.
Will closes his eyes, feeling guilt like heavy shackles binding his hands. "Now it doesn't matter."
He hears Hannibal shift in the chair. He's sitting forward. Will can see Hannibal's posture without opening his eyes.
"Will, you burden yourself with guilt for mistakes that are not your own," Hannibal says. "Is this any different?"
Will doesn't answer. Keeping up with the conversation is more difficult than it should be. Sleep tugs at him, trying to drag him under. He dreads dreaming again, but he simply isn't going to be able to stay awake.
Will is relaxed enough to consider taking a risk.
He opens his eyes and clears his throat. "Sometimes, when I'm having a rough night," he says, trying to keep his voice impassive, "I let the dogs sleep in the bed."
He can't look directly at Hannibal, but he sees no overt signs of disgust or dismay. Instead, Hannibal stands and puts the chair back where it was, then comes to rest next to the dresser on which he's left the brown bottle.
"How is your head?" he asks.
Will looks near him but not at him. "Still hurts."
Hannibal offers him a tissue for the remains of the ginger slice, then fills the dropper. When he gets close this time, Will relishes his proximity. He's going to enjoy having Hannibal sleep next to him. In his relaxed state, he thinks only of the positive aspects of nearness rather than all the things that can go wrong. As with whiskey, this drug has dulled his critical reflexes. He realizes it but can't bring himself to care.
With a larger dose under his tongue, Will slides down the bed so he can lie on his side. He isn't bold enough to face Hannibal. Better to turn his back.
Hannibal leaves the room wordlessly. Will closes his eyes, weighed down again by the drug. He struggles to stay awake until Hannibal returns. He wants to know that Hannibal is next to him.
When he feels the mattress dip and Hannibal's body near his, close but not touching, Will finally lets go.