A/N: I don't have any extensive medical knowledge, just basic knowledge of CPR and other stuff most people know from personal experience, so please don't take the treating of Will's wounds too seriously. I did a little research though, so hopefully it's realistic.

Chapter warnings: more graphic violence, mentioned domestic violence and more talk of sexual assault (basically just a description of my OC from the last chapter), as well as the other general stuff related to a show like Hannibal.

Hope you enjoy!

when the fire dies

darkened skies

hot ash, dead match

only smoke is left

it's a bad debt

Will presses down on the gushing wound, attempting to halt the blood flow, as he waits for Hannibal to answer. He's noticed the doctor's more casual approach to the topic of murder, and he hopes his suspicions about the other man are, at the very least, remotely true; he's not particularly in the mood for a court case.

Will's about to hang up and try again when the phone clicks, signalling the beginning of a conversation.

"Will?"

His voice sounds a lot more pained than he'd like when he asks, "You said you were a surgeon?"

"What happened?" Hannibal asks, and Will can easily pick up on the genuine concern in the other man's voice. "Are you alright?"

"I may have been stabbed."

"Stabbed?"

"Twice."

"By whom?"

"Not important right now, Doctor Lecter."

"Where?"

"My thigh."

"How bad is it?"

"Bad, I think. There's a lot of blood, Hannibal."

"Where are you?"

"At home."

"I'll call a—"

"No, don't. You can't."

"Why?"

"Because you can't. I need you to come," Will says, voice breathless. "Preferably quickly. And with painkillers."

"Are the wounds deep?"

"Kind of."

"That's not an appropriate answer, Will," Hannibal says, and Will can hear him rushing around on the other end of the phone.

"I think I'll need stitches."

"Wonderful," Hannibal deadpans. "An ambulance would get there quicker."

"And you'll see why that's not an option when you get here."

Hannibal sighs, and Will can hear the slamming of a door. "Are you applying pressure to the wounds?"

"To one of them. The knife's still in my leg."

"Don't remove it." Hannibal tells him, and Will can hear the engine of a car start.

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

"How long will you be?"

"I'll get there as fast as I can. Remember to remain calm."

"'s easy for you to say."

"Try and apply pressure to both wounds, preferably with something other than just your fingers. Use a cloth if it's on hand; your shirt if necessary. Don't let your dogs infect it."

"How do I apply pressure if the knife's still in it?"

"Apply pressure around the knife as best you can. If it's possible, press down on the main artery closest to the wounds as well as the wounds themselves."

"I…Okay."

"I'll be there shortly, Will."

"Yeah, hurry up."

By the time Will hears Hannibal pull up next to his own car, his eye are heavy lidded and half of his dogs have surrounded him, worried, while the other half are either sniffing the dead body on the floor, or outside keeping Buster company. There hadn't been a cloth on hand, and he hadn't wanted to move, so he sits with chest bare, his shirt soaked with blood and pressed tightly against his injured thigh.

His house is cast in darkness, and Hannibal has to fumble for a light switch when he appears at the door. Will watches as his face contorts from concern to a look of mild surprise as he takes in the body on the floor, the copious amount of blood staining the carpet around it, as well as the chair Will sits in.

"I see why an ambulance wasn't an option."

"Yes."

"Although," he says, stepping over the cooling body of Michael Spencer as if he weren't even there, "I wish you would have told be about the carpet. I have a self-made concoction at home that helps with the staining."

"I've been meaning to rip it up, anyway," Will mumbles. "Dog piss is easier to clean off of wood."

Hannibal huffs a laugh as he places his hand on Will's neck gently, checking the other man's pulse before dropping to the floor in front of him. Looking over the area of the wounds, he says, "I hope you don't like these pants, Will."

"Why?"

Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Hannibal nods to the trauma shears resting on top of the bag he'd brought with him, "Because I have to cut them."

"Right," Will mumbles, exhaling deeply as he leans back in the armchair.

He watches, transfixed, as Hannibal's demeanour changes. The sardonic persona vanishes to be replaced with a professional one, the other man working with ease as he swiftly removes the cloth surrounding Will's leg. Moving Will's hands out of the way, he examines the wounds carefully, sighing as he assesses the damage.

"You're lucky he didn't get the artery."

"Thank God for small mercies," Will grumbles in reply, watching as Hannibal reaches back to the bag before pulling out a small, rectangular box.

Opening the box quickly, the doctor pulls out a green circular tube and passes it to Will, "Inhale it."

"What is it?"

"A Penthrox inhaler," Hannibal says, quickly returning to the wound. "It will reduce your pain to a light tickle."

Will doesn't need to be told any more than that. Bringing the object to his mouth, he inhales hesitantly, sighing as some of the pain begins to ebb away.

"It will also make you slightly high."

"What?" Will asks, looking at him oddly.

"Don't worry, it's nothing too serious. Now," Hannibal murmurs, handing him a new cloth, "Press down around the knife while I take care of the open wound."

Will grimaces but follows the doctor's instructions, watching as Hannibal begins to disinfect the cut. He inhales more pain reliever, glad at the weird, light feeling that clouds his head as the pain continues to disappear. His vision blurs slightly as he stares at Hannibal's face, at the evident concentration that sits there as he tries to help heal Will's wounds as effectively as possible.

The loss of blood mixed with the pain reliever makes him lightheaded, and he finds himself closing his eyes as Hannibal pulls out the appropriate equipment to stitch the deep cut.

"Keep your eyes open."

"Huh?"

"Don't lose consciousness, Will."

"'m tired."

"I don't care," Hannibal tells him firmly. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, Will opens his eyes and looks at the top of Hannibal's head, "What?"

"Talk to me, Will. Stay awake."

Will watches as Hannibal starts to stitch the first wound, glad the cut isn't as wide as it is deep.

"I haven't got any pants on."

Hannibal huffs another laugh, "You're not incorrect."

"Hmm?"

"You have a pant leg on."

Will inhales more pain reliever, "And no shirt."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"'dunno," Will murmurs. "How can you talk and concentrate on stitching me up at the same time?"

"Practice."

"Do you do this a lot?"

"I used to."

Will mumbles something illegible and continues to watch while Hannibal finishes stitching the first cut, fascinated at the sight. "You're good at this."

Hannibal hums, "Will?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to pull the knife out now."

"Okay."

The doctor nods before carefully removing the knife from Will's flesh, grimacing as blood starts to spurt from the wound and on to his clothes at a rapid rate. Had Will told him the circumstances, Hannibal would have brought his plastic hazmat suit. It would've made the clean-up incredibly easier.

The bag he's brought with him is well stocked with apt medical equipment, but he still wishes they were in a real hospital, or at least in his home, so he could properly take care of Will's wounds. Nevertheless, Hannibal works quickly to stop the blood and stitch the wound, only half paying attention as Will mumbles to his dogs about something he can't quite make out. Once both wounds are stitched, Hannibal removes his gloves and places them atop of the blood soaked cloth before producing more wipes and disinfectant.

"Stand for me, please, Will."

It takes a moment, but the injured man eventually manages to stand, his hands resting on Hannibal's shoulders to balance himself. He sighs as Hannibal begins to wipe the blood from his thigh, hands moving almost idly until Will's smooth skin is free of blood.

"Tell me if it's too tight," Hannibal says as he pulls gauze from the bag and begins to cover the cuts.

Will nods, the action causing a wave of dizziness that makes him shut his eyes. "I want to sleep," he mumbles.

"Soon."

"What about the body?"

Hannibal sighs, "I'll take care of the body."

"How?"

"We're lucky you live in a secluded area, my good Will."

"What about Buster?"

"Buster?"

"My dog. He's hurt. He hurt him."

The doctor finishes dressing the wounds and stands, hands grabbing a hold of Will's upper arms to help keep balance, "I'll take care of Buster, too, Will."

"Promise?" Will whispers, and he looks so incredibly vulnerable when he says it that Hannibal moves one of his hands to tenderly brush the curls from his eyes.

"I promise, Will," he murmurs. "Now let's get you to bed."

The temporary pain relief starts to wear as Hannibal gently pushes Will to his bed, an amused smile on his face as the injured man groans and tries to remove the one pant leg he's still got on. He eventually succeeds and lies on his back, smiling as Hannibal puts a blanket on his almost completely naked body.

"Are you alright?" Hannibal asks, his fingers checking Will's pulse once more.

Rather than giving an appropriate answer, Will stares at him for a moment before blurting out, "The Chesapeake Ripper spoke to me."

Hannibal arches an eyebrow, "What did he say?"

"To put the bar in his neck," Will mumbles, face rubbing against his pillow. "'s how I killed him."

"Well," says Hannibal, "I thank the Chesapeake Ripper for his advice."

When Will wakes the next day, it's to the sound of his dogs barking happily outside, a horrible ache in his left leg, and the smell of someone cooking in the kitchen.

Disorientated from sleep, it takes a few moments for him to remember what happened the night before, but his eyes widen and he jumps out of bed when the memories piece together. He moves swiftly to the kitchen, dressed only in boxers that are still covered in blood, and stares dumbly at the figure standing above his stove.

"Hannibal?" he asks, rubbing one of his eyes.

Hannibal spares him a glance, a smirk on his face, before refocusing on the meal he's preparing, "Good morning, Will."

"Wha—" Will starts, stopping as he looks towards his living room.

The body of Michael Spencer has disappeared, yet the previously beige carpet is now tinged pink, remnants of blood staining the fabric beyond repair. The covers of the chair he had collapsed in were gone, but he could still see traces of blood on the yellow stained cushion.

"I've organised to fix the carpet," Hannibal says. "You needn't worry."

"How?"

"I have many connections, Will," Hannibal murmurs, looking at him once again. "Now, there's a painkiller on your table. Take it and put on some pants while I finish cooking breakfast."

The mention of the word breakfast reinforces the scents coming from whatever Hannibal has in the frypan, and Will's stomach grumbles as he's reminded of his hunger. He follows Hannibal's instructions without much thought, taking the mentioned pill before disappearing into his room to put a pair of loose pyjama pants on. Buster runs through the open door as he re-emerges into the main rooms of his home, and he smiles, ignoring the pain in his leg to crouch down and greet the dog.

"Hey, buddy," he murmurs, scratching behind the Jack Russell's tiny ears. Buster barks happily in response, his tail wagging, and Will looks towards Hannibal. "You fixed him for me?"

Hannibal huffs a breath of laughter, "Your dog is rather overly dramatic, Will. The wound was minor, yet with the way I found him outside, you'd think he was dying."

Will laughs and stands, moving to rest against the counter not too far from Hannibal. "All the same," he says, crossing his arms against his bare chest. "Thank you."

"Mm," Hannibal hums, adding an egg mixture to the meat in the pan. "How's your leg?"

"Sore," Will tells him honestly. "It bled a little. Can't wait for the pain relief to kick in."

"A good meal will make you feel better, hopefully."

"I haven't eaten since late morning yesterday," Will confesses, rubbing a hand against his stubble.

"That isn't healthy."

"Blame Jack," Will mutters. "He called me away before I could eat lunch, and when I got home… Well, there were other matters to take care of."

"Indeed," Hannibal sighs, looking towards Will's tired face. "Will you tell me what happened?"

Will makes eye contact for a millisecond before diverting his eyes, first to the food, then to his dogs, and then to the blood stained carpet void of a body. The other man had helped him immensely, and he feels as if he owes it to Hannibal to let him know the circumstances.

"I used to be a homicide detective," he says as Hannibal begins to plate the food. "Eventually I got sick of it and decided to teach at Quantico."

"Why do you think that was?" Hannibal asks him, nodding to a pitcher of juice and moving to Will's small kitchen table.

Will dutifully picks up the jug and grabs two glasses before joining Hannibal at the table. "I'm not sure," he answers truthfully. "It got harder to walk away from. I was spending each day in the company of corpses and other men who weren't much better."

Hannibal slides a plate to his side, knife and fork placed neatly atop the dish, and takes a bite of his own meal before asking, "Did you feel you were becoming one?"

"I sometimes felt like I was losing myself," Will says, bringing a forkful of meat to his mouth and chewing slowly. "I sometimes still feel like that. But I also felt curious."

"Curious?"

"When one spends so much time in the company of killers and corpses, one starts to become curious, Doctor Lecter."

"You wondered what it would be like to kill?"

"Yes," he admits, sighing as he pours himself a glass of juice. He sees no point in trying to deny it now, not after last night. "It got harder to stop thinking about. I wasn't able to distinguish my thoughts from those of the killers, and although most incidents weren't as…horrific as the ones I deal with these days, they were still bad."

Will watches Hannibal's face for a change in emotion – surprise, shock, disgust – but the other man remains indifferent, no easily readable reaction presenting itself on Hannibal's face.

"Do you still find yourself curious about what it would be like to kill someone, Will?"

Will stops moving, fork halfway to his mouth, as he blinks dumbly at Hannibal. "I don't need to be," he says slowly. "I've done it, twice now."

"Circumstances, Will," Hannibal murmurs, sipping on his juice. "The two times you have killed have been in situations where you have needed to defend either yourself or someone else."

"So?"

"So the feelings you experienced would be different to those of the emotions you feel from psychopathic killers. It is likely that the curiosity that you felt, or perhaps still feel, is in regards to how it would feel to murder somebody in cold blood."

"I…" Will swallows audibly, unsure of what to say. He looks at the doctor before turning his gaze back to his half empty plate.

"Either way," Hannibal murmurs, staring at him intently. "None of this answers my original question. What happened last night?"

Will takes another bite of food before nodding, glad for the slight change in conversation. "That's what I meant to get at," he says. "Ten or so years ago, before I was an official homicide detective, I worked a case of an attempted murder. There'd been a domestic dispute, and the suspect had tried to kill his girlfriend. He beat her around and strangled her. She was lucky to survive."

"This suspect was the man lying on your living room floor?"

"My testimony was the definitive factor that put him away in a high security prison," Will tells him. "He used to be a real pretty boy, blond hair and blue eyes and all the rest of it. I hadn't thought about it at the time, but judging from what he said last night, I think he was…taken advantage of while incarcerated."

Hannibal nods, a look of distaste on his face as he finishes his meal. "He blamed you, then?"

"Mm," Will hums, swallowing his last bite. "Tracked me down and tried to kill me."

Hannibal takes another drink of his glass of juice and stays quiet for a long moment, his eyes wondering to the bloody carpet briefly before returning to Will's face.

Eventually, he says, "While there is ample evidence for a successful self defence argument, let's make this our little secret, hm?"

Will huffs a laugh and leans back in his chair, arms folding against his torso once more. "You don't tell anyone I lodged a crowbar in someone's neck, and I don't tell anyone you have homemade concoctions that remove blood from carpet? Or that you know how to dispose of a body with ease?"

Hannibal arches a brow at him, "What makes you think I can do it with ease?"

Will smiles, but there's no warmth to it. "Are you denying it, Doctor Lecter?"

Maroon eyes lock with blue, and Hannibal assesses him carefully, calculating his response. He's silent for a long time before finally murmuring, "No, I'm not."

Will understands the threat in the words, can see the simmering danger Hannibal conveys through his eyes. Yet, rather than feeling scared or disgusted or any other appropriate emotion, he feels excited, curious. Small butterflies erupt in his stomach at all the possible meanings Hannibal's statement could have, and he feels his smile widen, feels creases form around his eyes.

"A dirty little secret between good friends," he says softly, feeling as if he's made a deal with the Devil himself.

Hannibal nods once, lips turned upwards into a barely there smile, and stands. "Go shower so I can check over your wounds, my dear Will."

Will hadn't thought his injuries would be overly noticeable, but as he follows Jack onto the scene of a crime, he walks with an obvious limp and grimace on his face.

"Female victim, looks young," Jack's telling him. "They say it happened last night."

"Do we know anything else?"

Stopping in front of the apartment door, Jack puts a hand on Will shoulder. "I need you to prepare yourself, Will."

Will suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and moves to open the door, stepping through to see the blood bath the high end apartment had turned into. Remnants of blood painted previously white walls and expensive furniture in long, crimson stripes, and a vision of his own home flashes before Will's eyes.

He sighs, eyes trailing over yellow squares that indicate evidence and turns back to jack, "Where's the body?"

"This way," the other man replies, walking towards another open door.

Will limps after him, eyes widening as he ends up in a vast bathroom. What was once a pristine white basin is covered is crimson, a dismembered body lying on its porcelain bottom, purple tinged water filling the tub shallowly. He swallows dryly before moving towards the basin, a sick feeling coiling in his stomach with each step.

Brian looks up towards him, passing him a pair of surgical gloves before sighing, "No signs of sexual assault, but whoever did this ripped each limb from her body. Considering the wounds, I'd say it was with an axe."

"She was stripped before she was cut up and put in the tub. Judging by the clothes we found on the floor, she was out partying last night," Beverly says.

"Where's her head?" Will asks, bending over the bath.

"There's no trace of it," Beverly tells him, sighing.

"We think he took it with him," Jimmy adds.

Brian shakes his head, as if trying to get rid of the thought, and mutters, "That's one sick trophy."

"Are we sure it's a he?" Will asks, looking back towards Jack.

"Definitely a he," Jack says. "One neighbour heard a man yelling, and another saw one leave."

Will nods and takes another step towards the bath, grimacing as the edge makes contact with his wounded thigh.

"You alright?" Jimmy asks, brow raised. "You're limping pretty bad."

"I'm fine," says Will. "Just my dogs."

Jimmy looks like he's going to ask another question, but it's cut off by Jack's brisk, "What do you think, Will?"

Will takes another look at what's left of the body and turns to look through bathroom door, closing his eyes as a pendulum swings. When he reopens them, the only people in the room are him and the body. He blinks slowly before walking back to the main room of the apartment, eyes examining blood spurts and ruined furniture.

I watch her for most of the night. She's pretty, wealthy. There are men constantly going up to her, but she ignores them all. She ignores me, especially me.

I wait, patiently, for her to leave. I follow her home, and in her drunken, defenceless state, she doesn't notice me. Not until I'm right behind her, hand covering her mouth as I push into the apartment.

Finally, her attention is on me.

I tell her to stay quiet, but she tries to scream. Anger. I'm angry. I tell her to calm down, but she won't listen. I pick up the axe I brought with me, and wack her in the back of the head with the blunt side. She drops to the floor, but she still tries to scream. I wack her again, and again, and again. The blood spurts from her body, covering the walls and furniture, covering my clothes and my face.

Only once she is dead do I move her, drag her from the carpeted floor to the tiled bathroom. I try to lift her into the bath, but her dead weight is too much to carry at once. I carve her, cut her, like the piece of meat I view her to be.

I fill the basin with water and lavender scented soap before placing her limbs and torso in the bath. I keep her head as my token, so I will never forget the way she looked when she was finally paying attention to me.

This is my design.

Will emerges from the scenario with a gasp, his hand reaching out to steady himself.

"What is it?" Jack asks

"Male. Mid to late thirties. Average or ugly looking," he tells Jack. "Middle or working class. Easily overlooked. Lonely. He hates women, or he envies them. Particularly the pretty and wealthy ones."

"Some guy is doing this because he can't get laid?" Brian calls out, brow furrowed.

"Not exactly," Will murmurs. "He craves the attention more than the actual act of sex. You said yourself there were no signs of rape."

"Could've killed her before he had the chance," Beverly points out. "We can add 'doesn't enjoy necrophilia' to his profile."

Will nods thoughtfully, "Putting her in the bath could have been a sign of remorse, or, depending on his mental state, affection."

"Some way to show affection," Jimmy mumbles. "Honey, I love you so much I'm going to kill you and put your limbs in a bath."

Will ignores him and turns to Jack again, "He stalks them. I'd say this wasn't his first time."

Jack nods once, "I'll see if there's a pattern."

"Have your colleagues noticed anything different?" Hannibal asks him a week later, having just redressed Will's injuries.

"Jimmy noticed the limp," Will tells him, leaning against Hannibal's desk while the other man pours two glasses of wine.

"And Jack?"

Will chuckles humourlessly, "Jack doesn't care if I'm walking funny. Not if my mind still works to suit his needs."

Hannibal hums his agreement and hands him a glass, moving to stand in front of him, "And how is your mind?"

Will sips the alcohol and shrugs lightly, "I'm glad this case is over."

"How did they find him?"

"One of the neighbours made a positive ID," Will mumbles. "It was enough to search his apartment, and they found the head in the fridge."

"Peculiar trophy, isn't it? I can't imagine why one would want to keep the head of their victim."

"He wanted to remember the look on her face," Will tells him, sighing. "I've seen odder things."

"The nature of the crime isn't what's bothering you, then," Hannibal states, taking another sip.

"Not exactly," Will admits. "I don't usually work sexually motivated crimes."

"Why's that?"

"I don't want to get inside the head of a violent rapist."

"You think you won't be able to shake the feeling? That, if you were to become too involved, you will act on those particular urges?"

"I think, if I were to become too involved, there would be a possibility of me losing control, yes," says Will. "I'm already a killer, I'd rather not be a rapist, too."

Hannibal gives him a calculating look, head tilting to the side slightly. "Did you feel this way about getting inside the heads of murderers?"

"No. I hadn't thought it would affect me like this when I started."

"Like how?"

"The thoughts…cravings, really. The emotions I feel even when I'm far away from a crime scene."

Hannibal stays silent for a long moment, contemplating the information while he stares into the deep red of his wine.

"How did it feel when you beat Michael Spencer with a crow bar?"

Closing his eyes, Will thinks back to the incident. Hannibal hadn't been lying when he said he'd handle the carpet, and now the only remaining evidence that anything happened at all were the two cuts on his leg, and the almost healed scratch on Buster.

You remember seeing the body sprawled on the floor, defenceless as you brought the bar down once, twice, so many times you lost count. You remember the anger you'd felt beforehand, the unidentifiable feeling bubbling inside of you, almost to the point of exploding. You remember how it vanished with each hit, how each drop of blood made your chest swell with a sense of clarity you hadn't felt since Hobbs' lifeless body fell before you.

You remember smiling, manically, as you complied with the Ripper's whisper.

"Cathartic."

"Doing bad things to bad people makes us feel good."

Will shakes his head, "That's not why."

"Why, then?"

Will opens his mouth to answer, but his words die as the chime of his phone goes off. He sighs, reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling it out. The name Jack Crawford is displayed on the screen, and he looks at Hannibal apologetically.

"I have to take this," he says, putting the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Will. Good," comes Jack's voice, loud enough in the otherwise quiet room for Hannibal to hear. "You're not going to believe what's happened."

"What is it?"

"I just got a call from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. An inmate has attacked and killed a nurse."

"And you want me to come take a look."

"You're going to want to look, Will. Dr. Fredrick Chilton claims it was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper."

Will stills, eyes looking towards Hannibal's in surprise, "The Ripper?"

"The removal of organs and abdominal mutilations are, apparently, all consistent with the previous works of the Ripper. I'm on my way there now. Can you come?"

Will nods, knowing he can't be seen. "I'm with Doctor Lecter, do you mind if he tags along?"

"Another insight couldn't hurt," Jack says through the phone. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," Will mumbles, hanging up before turning to Hannibal. "Did you hear that?"

"Indeed I did," the other man replies, a faint look of surprise gracing his features. "Rather surprising."

Will's lips tilt upwards briefly, and he puts his half drunken glass of wine on Hannibal's desk. "You don't mind coming with me?"

"On the contrary," Hannibal murmurs, placing his own glass down before moving to get their coats. "I would be offended if I weren't invited."

I know not all countries have them, so the Penthrox inhaler that Hannibal gives Will in this chapter is an Australian invention that's used by emergency services to reduce pain. Basically it's just this whistle like thing you inhale that uses methoxyflurane as a non-addictive and non-narcotic pain reliever. I used it here because I didn't know what else to use, and semi-high Will adds a little comic relief.

i think the violence in this may be breaking some kind of guideline for this site, so if it ever gets taken down, I'm posting it to my archive of our own account as well (same name as on here), so you can find it there.

next update may take a little longer as i have to be social these next few days. feedback appreciated, and any questions can be sent as a PM or over on my tumblr account (www . snaxo . tumblr . com)