They're both bleeding; Hannibal from the nose after Will landed a punch and Will from the mouth when Hannibal's elbow connected. Will's on his knees with the sketch of Wound Man clenched in his fist. His knuckles are scraped and bruised, courtesy of a missed punch landing on the bookcase.
"How did you kill Miriam Lass?" Will's lip curled up to reveal bloodstained teeth. His chest hurt.
Hannibal's eyes were fixed on those bloodied teeth and he wanted to kiss Will, taste the blood on his tongue. He took a step closer and Will leaned back until his back hit the wall. Hannibal held out his hand. "Give me the paper," he ordered, voice even.
"No. I put myself in the Ripper's mind again and again, trying to find out who he was. And it was you the entire time. You just watched me do it until I almost broke."
"You're being dramatic."
Will's eyes went wide with incredulity. "Dramatic? I couldn't sleep for days. I became Gideon, or at least who he thought he was. They nearly hospitalized me." He sat back and laughed suddenly. It was a manic, desperate laugh. "It's not like you care; you're a sociopath."
"Am I?" Hannibal asked with genuine curiosity. For the both of them, that word just didn't fit. Square peg, round hole.
They were quiet for several heartbeats. Will's jaw worked in a mixture of anger and fear.
"So, this is it then." Will finally asked. "I'm another Ripper victim, another notch in your knife handle."
"This isn't anything except an overactive imagination at play."
Will rose to his feet and leaned against the wall. "Don't lie to me, not now." He watched Hannibal meticulously roll up his sleeves. "You'll take my heart, won't you? That's just poetic enough for you."
"If you're so sure I am the Chesapeake Ripper why don't you call out for help?"
"I won't fight you, not on this. You played…a great game, Dr. Lecter." Will felt a small victory at the twitch in Hannibal's eyes at the sound of his formal title. Will's mouth twitched up in the ghost of a smile. His eyes dropped to the floor and then back up. He stared at Hannibal, eyes locked for longer than he's ever held it before.
Hannibal pushed Will back against the wall, understanding what the other wants as his hand goes to close around the profiler's throat. Will wraps a hand around the good doctor's wrist as the other is pinned against the wall. He doesn't fight, he just needs something to hold onto.
Tears are spilling onto Wills cheeks, but he isn't crying. This is the intimate killing. It's not brutal and it's not quick, but it's something they're both morbidly content with. And maybe Hannibal's hands are like a vice, cutting off precious air, but Will doesn't think about that. When he thinks about those hands, he thinks about how gentle they were, how safe. During the madness, the sex, the nightmares, Hannibal's hands were nothing if not a safe harbor.
But Will can't think of much at the moment. His head is heavy and his heart pounds like a war drum in his ears. He wants to maintain eye contact because he wants Hannibal to be the last thing he sees, but his eyes are rolling up in his head. He doesn't mean to but he envisions bloodied lips, dead girls and a raven-feathered stag dropping to its knees, dying.
Then suddenly air is rushing down an abused trachea, and Will gasps and wheezes like a man on the brink of drowning just pulled from the water. Spots of light dance in his eyes and he can feel Hannibal's arms around him, holding him close.
"Sick son of bitch," Will chokes out, his voice grating. "I loved you."
His chest hurt.
