Clarice wrapped her jacket around herself more tightly. Perhaps she should invest in warmer clothing if Will kept sending her to observe autopsies of Hannibal Lecter's victims.
Once again, the FBI lab was colder than usual; the temperatures dropped so the flowers would keep. A beautiful array of blooms was already in front of her, each in an evidence bag laid out neatly on the table. Stunning, if she didn't know where they were plucked from just minutes ago.
She glanced at the three bodies on the table, with Price and Zeller hovering over them, methodically picking up flower after flower with twizzlers.
A small part of her had expected the sight to repulse her, just as it had the first time. But now, as she stood there watching, her stomach didn't churn as violently. The queasiness was still there, but it was muffled, buried under layers of forced professionalism. A few more bodies like this, and maybe she would get used to it...
"This is almost like gardening," Zeller remarked, holding up a freshly plucked flower to the light.
"As a passionate gardener, I can assure you that it is not," Price replied flatly. He sealed another evidence bag with a sigh, glancing at the growing pile beside him. "We need to restock on supplies. At this rate, we'll run out."
Zeller grunted in agreement. "You know, if there's one silver lining about Hannibal Lecter, it's that he's probably keeping some florist in business."
Price shot him an unimpressed look. "You really think he's buying those instead of stealing them?"
"Stealing would be rude," Clarice interjected, drawing their attention. She squirmed a bit under their gaze. "What?" she asked defensively.
"Please, don't talk like him," Price said, clearly uncomfortable.
Clarice couldn't help but roll her eyes. "I'm sure I have a long way to go before I start talking like Hannibal Lecter."
Price looked even more uneasy. "Actually, I meant Will."
"Speaking of," Zeller said, "maybe someone should check on him? You know, make sure he isn't going to end up on that table over there." He pointed to the fourth autopsy table, which was cluttered with evidence bags.
Clarice huffed. "I'm pretty sure Hannibal Lecter won't attack Will while he's inside the FBI building," she said dryly.
"Actually, I was more concerned about Jack. You seem a bit fixated on Lecter, Clarice," Zeller replied.
She shot him a pointed look, her attention drifting back to the three bodies laid out on the tables. "Oh, I wonder why Lecter would be on my mind at a time like this," she muttered sarcastically. Then, with a touch of indignation, she asked, "But since we're on the subject, has Agent Crawford always been this aggressive towards Will?" Her voice rang out with more force than she intended.
A strange protective instinct stirred within her, an indignation on Will's behalf that seemed absent from his own reactions to Crawford's outbursts.
Clarice noticed Zeller's expression grow sober. He exchanged a glance with Price, their usual silent communication playing out right in front of her once again.
"No, not like that," Zeller finally said. "Jack's got a temper, sure, but he's never let it show like this."
"To be fair, Will has never gone this far either… at least, I don't think he has," Price added, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Zeller let out a huff of frustration, shaking his head. "I don't know what the hell he was thinking with that article," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Trying to bait Lecter like that… it's reckless."
"He was just trying to draw him out," Clarice said immediately. "I'm sure he didn't expect Lecter to kill anyone over an article. It's not like that was part of the plan."
"Well, then I guess all three of them have turned it up to eleven now," Zeller said, exasperation and annoyance mixing in his voice. "Which is why I'm saying maybe Will and Jack shouldn't be left alone together right now…"
"Call Jack. Right now," Price interrupted, urgency threading through his words and making Clarice tense instinctively.
"Alright, alright, I was only joking!" Zeller replied, rolling his eyes. "There's no way Jack would actually kill Will…" His words faltered immediately as he turned to Price, and Clarice understood why.
There were rare moments when Jimmy looked as serious as he did now—or rather, as shocked. His gaze was fixed on one of the bodies on the table, particularly on a part of the corpse that had been revealed from beneath the pile of flowers.
Zeller quickly moved to his side, and as soon as he saw what Price was studying, his eyes widened in disbelief.
"Yeah, I need to call Jack." he stated, already pulling his phone out of his pocket.
Curiosity piqued, Clarice rose to her feet and carefully made her way around the body until she stood next to Price.
"What did you see…?" she began, but her question faltered when she caught sight of it.
Her forensic sciences training may have been limited to that of any typical FBI agent, but even she could instantly recognize what she was looking at—and what that information would imply.
"Is that… adipocere?"
Crawford walked into the morgue just three minutes later, with Will right beside him—Crawford wearing an annoyed expression, while Will seemed unfazed, even a bit intrigued.
The moment they stepped onto the lab floor, Price jumped in to explain, "As soon as we began examining the bodies, it was clear they were well into the later stages of decomposition. The only issue was, we struggled to determine the precise stage due to all these flowers obscuring the areas."
"But now that we've cleared them away, it's obvious that the decomposition is quite… advanced," Zeller added, looking uncomfortable.
Crawford furrowed his brow. "How advanced?"
Price and Zeller exchanged a glance before replying in unison, "Extreme."
Crawford rubbed at his temple in annoyance. "I'm going to ask how extreme, and you better give me a more scientific answer than 'very extreme'."
Taking his words to heart, Price and Zeller swiftly gestured towards one of the bodies.
"Take a look at those ligamental attachments along the vertebral column; they're covered in adipocere. That typically forms between two to nine months post-mortem," Zeller pointed out quickly.
"And just so you know, this stage can persist even longer if the body isn't exposed to the elements. If they were kept indoors… we could be talking years," Price added, their words clearly unsettling Crawford further.
His expression darkened as he scanned the bodies. "And what about the others?" he asked.
"Extremely decomposed," Price said, but when he caught Crawford's disapproving look, he quickly added, "I mean, the cortical structure is already degrading. You can see parts of the spongy bones being exposed. That's typical after about a year to a year and a half post-death."
Zeller nodded, "But it can happen as early as four months after death, depending how the body was preserved."
Crawford scanned the bodies for the longer moment, Clarice could almost see the gears behind his eyes turning.
"What's the earliest possible time of death you estimate?"
Zeller and Price looked at each other, some fragments of their unspoken conversation spilling out.
"…with the erosion of skeletal elements…"
"… bleaching of the bones already started…"
"… desiccated tissue…"
"Three months, Jack," Will cut in, as he leaned against the table, arms crossed, casually glancing at the bodies. "The earliest time of death is three months ago."
Price snapped his fingers, "Yeah, that one." Zeller nodded in agreement beside him.
Crawford's jaw clenched. "What the hell are you trying to tell me? Those people didn't die recently?"
"That's what the science would indicate." Price said quietly.
At that, Crawford slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the evidence bags scattered across it, causing Price to flinch. "That was a Lecter crime scene!" he fired back. "The bodies, the flowers... it's his signature. Hannibal Lecter!"
Will let out a deep sigh, a hint of exasperation in his tone, "No one is arguing with you on that, Jack."
Crawford pivoted toward him, annoyance flaring in his eyes. "So if he didn't kill them recently, where the hell did he get those bodies?"
"Maybe he kept them in the fridge for rainy days." Will pondered lightly.
Price grimaced, glancing at the corpses with evident distaste. "Oh, they were definitely not kept in the fridge," he said, shaking his head. At the sharp glance Crawford shot him, he quickly backpedaled. "I mean, what a dreadful thing to say! God, Will, can you just not think like that?"
"All of you need to stop talking out of your asses," Crawford growled, rubbing his temple in frustration. "How does any of this make sense? If these people died months ago, how does this tie back to your damn article?"
Will shrugged casually. "Maybe it doesn't. Not everything revolves around me, Jack."
"It sure as hell does for Hannibal Lecter," Crawford shot back, his voice rising. His sudden shift made Clarice tense, prompting her to speak up for the first time.
"The flowers are fresh," she said quickly, drawing everyone's attention. "The flowers are fresh, even if the bodies aren't. And look at how cold we need to keep the lab just to keep them from wilting. They looked absolutely pristine in that cabin. They must have been placed there very recently. Maybe Lecter killed them months ago, but only just returned to... decorate."
"So the bodies were just left there for months?" Crawford asked, his brow furrowing.
"The Trapper's Tilts are primarily used during hunting seasons. That officer mentioned this one had last been used in October of last year. The bodies could have been there since then."
"Maybe it's not Hannibal this time…" Crawford mused aloud.
"Oh, it's him." Price chimed in, "We've already processed the fingerprints we found on those blood writings. They came back quick. It's definitely Hannibal Lecter."
Zeller frowned, adding, "Which kind of seems like he wanted us to know it was him. I mean, fingerprints are easy to cover up. He could've just worn gloves."
Crawford began to pace back and forth, his mind clearly working overtime. A few steps here, a few steps there. Finally, he stopped and turned sharply to Will. "What's he thinking?" he demanded. When Will didn't reply, he pressed harder, "I mean it, Will. What's he thinking? Tell me."
"You sure you want me to dive into his mind, Jack?" Will asked, a touch of challenge in his voice.
Crawford's jaw tightened. "You're already there," he growled.
The room fell into a heavy silence, until Price awkwardly cleared his throat. "Should we… clear the room, or...?"
"You can stay," Will interjected, then shot Crawford a daring look. "This should be fairly easy."
Crawford's lips pressed into a tight line. "I'm sure it will be."
Clarice watched as Will closed his eyes, his face slipping into something unreadable, like a fleeting shadow that wasn't quite his own. It lasted only for a moment before it settled in, like a mask that fit the contours of his features, and for an instant, it was hard to imagine him without it. There was something deeply unsettling in how completely his demeanour shifted—he wasn't just empathizing; he was becoming.
"These three I chose at random." Will's voice dropped to a low hum, resonating with an almost clinical detachment. "They were there—convenient. In the moment, they acted in ways that, by social conventions, could be considered... inappropriate." His eyes remained closed, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. "I took their lives," he continued, the words sharp and deliberate, "but I couldn't elevate them in death. I couldn't make them more than what they were. There are barriers in place; limitations. The scene I meant to create..." Will paused, his breath strained, as though he were struggling to articulate the thought. "I can't transfer it. The vision is stuck. My mind can't place it onto this—this… canvas. What I've constructed here? It's fractured. Incomplete." He took a slow, measured breath before finishing. "It's shameful. A broken attempt at something... that should have been perfect."
When he opened his eyes, the sudden focus and sharpness of his gaze seemed to bring an eerie stillness over the room.
"This is weirder than I remember it being," Zeller muttered to Price, who nodded in agreement.
Crawford shot them a brief disapproving glance before turning his attention to Will. "You say he had limitations. What kind of limitations?" he asked.
Will shrugged, "Hard to say. There are countless ways someone could be limited. I don't have a clear view on that. What do you think, Clarice?" he asked, and she found herself startled by the sudden attention, still unaccustomed to it.
She straightened her back, took a slow breath, and forced herself to meet Will's gaze instead of Crawford's.
"Limitations can manifest in both the physical and the mental," she began, "Bedelia du Maurier said Lecter showed up to her house severely injured. If these victims were killed months ago, he would still have been recovering. Maybe he overestimated his own capabilities. Perhaps his injuries were debilitating—he couldn't perform the way he wanted to. So he killed those three, waited until he healed, and then killed again."
Will nodded thoughtfully. "Those are physical limitations. But what about mental ones?"
Clarice frowned, brow furrowing in concentration. "I… honestly can't think of a single mental limitation Hannibal Lecter might have."
Will met her gaze, his expression unreadable, and murmured, "Must be the physical limitations, then." And there was something almost indulgent in his tone.
Crawford crossed his arms, looking at Will expectantly. "So, you're suggesting that's why he hid them? That he didn't display them because they didn't meet his standards? Because, to me, they looked very much like Hannibal Lecter's work."
"They might look impressive when you dress them up with flowers, but once you strip them bare… they're definitely lacking," Will replied, almost with disdain.
"Lacking what exactly?" Crawford demanded.
"Dedication." Will stated simply.
Crawford's brows furrowed, and he stepped toward Will, sharp and abrupt. Clarice's body reacted before her mind could catch up. She took a step forward, mirroring Crawford's, both their movements synchronized in a way she couldn't explain. Her attention snapped to Crawford, her body tense, eyes locked on his in a challenge. She was aware of every shift in her posture—how she angled herself just slightly toward Will, as if bracing herself to step in between them if needed.
Crawford's eyes flicked to her in a quick, calculating scan. He was trying to read her, and she knew exactly what he saw: her body wound tight, ready, her protective instinct clear in the way she subtly shielded Will without even thinking.
And Will? He simply watched, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
Crawford glanced between them. With a sharp exhale, he muttered under his breath, "I can't fucking believe it." Then, he cleared his throat and turned toward Will, making no move closer to him. "If this is so lacking and shameful, why'd he come back for them? Why present the bodies now?"
"I can only speculate." Will said, "And my speculation is that Hannibal was trying to prove a point."
"What point is that?" Crawford asked.
"That even with these meagre, shameful materials, he can create something far more beautiful than the Phantom Killer ever could."
Clarice's frown deepened as she absorbed Will's words, but it was the bodies that drew her attention next. She studied the tables in front of them, the grotesque transformations of once-human forms into something twisted and artful. The first two bodies, she understood—those she could see. The cold dehumanization, the meticulous way Hannibal had shaped them, leaving his unmistakable signature that Will had taught her to recognize. But that third body...
There was something about it. It was mutilated the same way, decorated with the same chilling artistry as the others. Yet it felt different to her—she couldn't place it. It was… this feeling.
She turned to Will, questions just at the tip of her tongue, but as she opened her mouth, she hesitated, acutely aware that Crawford was right there. No, she thought. Not here. Not now. She couldn't bring herself to voice her thoughts in front of him—she knew the reaction it would provoke. Crawford would simply brush her off. She could almost hear him chiding her for wasting time on baseless theories.
Clarice bit her lip, frustration settling heavily in her chest. She would have to keep her thoughts to herself until she could talk to Will privately.
A beep from the computer screen broke through her thoughts. She looked up just as Price rushed over to the monitor, excitement in his voice. "Looks like you guys have your speculations, but science has some concrete facts. No offense, Will," he added, glancing at him.
Will raised his hands in mock surrender. "What does the science have for us?"
Price's eyes scanned the screen, and after a few seconds, his expression lit up. "It has… the identities of two of the victims!"
"That was fast," Crawford commented with a frown.
"Yeah, well, their DNA was already in the system," Price shrugged. "Meet Paul Noel and Page Lawrence." He whistled softly under his breath. "These two have quite the rap sheet. They even had arrest warrants out for them a few years back."
"What kind of crimes?" Clarice asked, leaning in.
"Paul liked to rob houses and then set them on fire," Price said, reading off the screen. "And Page? She dabbled in child and animal abuse… sometimes even baby animal abuse."
Crawford's gaze lingered on the bodies for a moment longer, his furrowed brow deepening as he examined them once more. "Do they have any connection to each other?"
"No," Price answered, shaking his head. "Nothing other than being active around the same time. Different locations, different circles... different everything."
Crawford's agitation clearly grew as he began pacing again. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. "There has to be some connection between them," he muttered under his breath. "I can't believe it's just a coincidence that Hannibal would target two random people who both happen to be wanted criminals."
Will rolled his eyes just enough for Clarice to notice. "Criminals can be rude too, Jack. Some might even argue they're ruder than non-criminals."
Crawford shot him a sharp look, but just as he opened his mouth to respond, the computer pinged loudly, cutting him off and drawing everyone's attention. Price leaned in closer, and Crawford's focus shifted instantly to the screen. "Do we have the identity of the third victim?"
Price hesitated, scanning the data on his screen, his brow knitting together. "Uh… no. I think this is something else…"
"Something else?" Crawford asked, his voice tense.
"Yeah, it's… it's the results from the DNA we found on the door handle. You know, the bow?" Price added, the words tentative.
"Yeah, I know," Crawford replied, impatience clear in his tone. "I'm not suffering from short-term memory loss here, Price."
Price's fingers hovered over the keyboard. "Right, well… it looks like it matches someone in our database." He paused, his expression growing increasingly unreadable. "And it's—" He stopped short, his face draining of colour.
"What? Is it from another wanted criminal?" Zeller asked, leaning forward.
"No," Price whispered, his voice barely audible. "It came back as a match in the FBI personnel database." His eyes darted to Clarice and then back to the screen
Clarice felt her stomach drop. Before Price even turned the monitor toward them, she knew what they were going to see.
The screen lit up with a familiar face—her face. A moment frozen in time from just a few months prior: bright-eyed and eager, the unmistakable glow of a new FBI agent on her first day. Her FBI ID photo.
Silence fell in the room, and Clarice could only hear her heart beating louder and louder in her chest.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" Crawford exploded; his voice sharp with disbelief.
Price shifted uneasily, casting nervous glances between Clarice and Crawford. "The strands of hair we found on the door handle—they belong to Clarice."
The room fell deathly quiet again. Clarice could feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon her. As if they were waiting for an explanation she didn't have. All she managed to whisper was, "Oh."
Her fingers brushed the hair on her shoulder, each strand suddenly feeling alien, as if they belonged to someone else—a strange blend of vulnerability and protectiveness washing over her, realizing where some of them had ended up.
Crawford's voice broke the silence, his tone harsh, as he turned to Price. "Are you sure you did the test right?"
Price stiffened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Of course I did, Jack. What do you think this is—weekend chemistry class? And don't even start with the cross-contamination nonsense... Every sample was handled separately, analyzed individually. All results matched up. I can understand one false positive, maybe two. But seventeen? No way. They're all valid…"
Before Price could finish, Crawford was suddenly in front of Clarice, anger radiating off him as he demanded, "Is there something you haven't told me, Agent Starling?"
"E-Excuse me?" Clarice stammered, taken aback by the accusation.
"Let me be more specific," Crawford pressed, his voice sharp. "Was there any encounter that might have allowed Hannibal Lecter to get close enough to you—close enough to take strands of your hair—that you neglected to disclose?"
Clarice felt her eyes narrow.
"Agent Crawford, what exactly are you implying…?" She tried to sound outraged, but her voice came out thin and lacking conviction under the pressure of Crawford's insinuation.
Before she could finish, Will was suddenly there, standing between them. His posture was tense, his gaze hard as he locked eyes with Crawford. "Easy there, Jack. Your obsession is showing again."
"You of all people should stay out of this...!"
"I'm with Will on this one, Jack." Zeller joined in. "You're starting to sound a bit... unhinged." And Clarice could see genuine worry in Zeller's eyes as he cast a cautious glance at Crawford.
"Then tell me, someone—where the hell would he get her hair?" Crawford snapped, his voice rising.
The question echoed in Clarice's mind. A cold realization crept up on her. "My hairbrush…" she muttered quietly, more to herself than anyone else.
"What?" Crawford's voice was sharp, demanding.
Clarice gulped, her stomach twisting as she met his eyes. "I… I noticed it was oddly clean this morning. I didn't think too much of it…"
"You should've thought a little more!"
Will sighed deeply, his eyes narrowing with disapproval. "Come on, don't get ridiculous now. If you have her leaping from this to 'a serial killer must've broken into my apartment,' she'll just end up paranoid…"
"How could he even break in, huh? We've got officers everywhere!" Crawford's interjected, frustration clear in his voice.
Will just looked at him with forced patience, "I doubt even Hannibal could sneak past all that security. He must have been there before anyone was watching."
A chill ran down Clarice's spine, her breath hitching at the thought. The idea that Hannibal Lecter had been watching her was disturbing enough. But the realization that he'd actually been in her apartment made her feel exposed in ways she couldn't articulate.
Her jacket felt tighter around her, and she instinctively pulled it closer, the fabric pressing against her chest. She could almost feel those slender fingers from her nightmare again, curling around her, tightening their grip…
"We need to move you somewhere else," Crawford said abruptly, his voice pulling her from her thoughts.
Clarice blinked, her mind scrambling to catch up.
"You want me to move?"
Crawford nodded curtly. "Yes. Just until we apprehend Lecter. We'll find you a secure location—somewhere far from here, with 24/7 surveillance..."
Clarice felt the indignation rising, a heat prickling beneath her skin. "I don't want to hide…!"
"I wasn't asking your opinion, agent Starling!"
"You should be asking her opinion, Jack." Will interjected smoothly, "Last I checked, holding someone against their will is illegal in this country. You kind of need her consent."
Crawford's eyes narrowed. "Not when there's a serial killer after her!"
Will's tone remained light, but an edge slipped through. "I could name a few Supreme Court justices who'd argue with you on that. So unless you have a really good lawyer, let's ask a question that might help us sidestep a lengthy, expensive court case. Clarice, would you like to be relocated to the middle of nowhere?"
"No." Her response was curt and unwavering, her glare aimed squarely at Crawford.
"Glad we cleared that up," Will said, nodding and shooting Crawford a barely concealed smile, clearly meant to annoy him. If Crawford's twitching eyebrow was any indication, he had succeeded.
"And what exactly do you propose to keep her safe?" he asked, addressing Will alone, which only deepened Clarice's irritation. He won't even ask her for her input, will he?
"Same measures as right now." Will replied without hesitation. "Constant monitoring of her apartment, tracking devices on her electronics, those two bodyguards you assigned—right there." He tilted his head toward the hallway, where Tate and Pembry sat, chatting casually, blissfully unaware of what was going on inside the lab.
"And you really think that will be enough…?"
"Agent Crawford, this is ultimately my decision on how I want to go about ensuring my safety…" Clarice cut in through gritted teeth.
"And you'd rather place your safety in his hands?" Crawford shot back, incredulity marking his tone as he pointed at Will.
The rising frustration with Crawford, his assumptions, his lack of respect for her autonomy—it broke through...
Clarice stepped forward, standing tall in front of Crawford, her eyes blazing with a fire that went beyond mere anger. "I will place my safety in my own hands. I'm an agent of the FBI," she declared, straightening herself even more. "A very good agent. I ranked in the top five of my class. I think I should be able to keep myself alive with all those resources at my disposal." She continued firmly, "Frankly, your suggestions are beginning to sound insulting, Agent Crawford."
Something flickered in Crawford's expression, a flash of something vulnerable, quickly hidden beneath his usual hardened demeanour. He let out a sharp breath, his annoyance deflating into something quieter, almost resigned.
"Fine. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't save someone from themselves." His voice softened, laced with a reluctant understanding. "You make your own choices, Agent Starling. But you will be staying at a hotel tonight. No arguments. We need to have your apartment combed through by a forensic team. If Hannibal was there, we need to gather every piece of evidence we can. You can return once they're done."
"That's acceptable," Clarice replied. She caught Crawford's glare out of the corner of her eye, but it hardly mattered now.
"Alright," Price's voice cut through the tension with forced enthusiasm. "Now that we're all sort of agreed on... all that," he gestured at the group, "Can we please get some directives? Are we moving ahead with the autopsy? Checking out Agent Starling's apartment? Or should we be grilling every florist in the ten-mile radius about recent flower purchases...?"
"All of the above," Crawford snapped, already striding toward the hallway, his footsteps echoing with irritation.
Behind him, Price and Zeller exchanged looks that clearly said, 'Not again'.
"I'll brief Agents Pembry and Tate and take care of your hotel arrangements," Crawford added, throwing a quick look at Clarice.
"Is there anything you need me to do, agent Crawford?" she asked, trying to restore some semblance of professionalism between them.
"Just keep yourself safe," he called back over his shoulder, his tone dismissive—exactly what she expected from him.
"And while we're busy with all that, what will you be doing?" Zeller shot after him, annoyance dripping from his voice.
Crawford turned around. "I'll be checking on Molly Campbell to see if there are any issues. I also need to get in touch with Alana to ensure she's protected as well."
"She's fine," Will interjected before Crawford could even reach for his phone. "I called them."
Crawford fixed him with an unimpressed stare. "I'll make that call myself, if you don't mind. Just to be safe."
Will send him a small smile. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jack."
Crawford threw them one last glare—one for each of them. Will, Clarice, even Zeller and Price. Then he turned sharply, his eyes zeroing in on Pembry and Tate, who jumped to attention the moment they saw him.
Clarice sighed, feeling the tension finally drain from her.
"I'm not sure I'm enjoying this side of Agent Crawford," she muttered.
"You'll can get used to it with time," Will said lightly.
"We never got used to it," Price chimed in from the back.
"Was he like this the last time he worked the Lecter case?" Clarice asked.
"Jack didn't work that case. He lived that case." Will said.
"Amen to that," Zeller added, with Price nodding in agreement beside him.
"Guess we'll better get started. Let me just put away… this, as we know now it doesn't belong to any of the victims." Price awkwardly held up the evidence bag containing her chestnut hair, casting her a look. "I'd give it back, but, uh, it's evidence."
"I don't want it back," Clarice replied dryly. "Keep it."
"Well, I need coffee," Will declared with an exaggerated sigh. He turned to Zeller. "Text me once you get started on the autopsy."
"So, Jack's bailed, and you're not going to help us either?" Zeller asked, clearly frustrated.
"Of course I will," Will said immediately, and just as Zeller's face lit up, he added, "I'll bring you some coffee from the cafeteria. Want to join me, Clarice?"
The corners of Clarice's mouth twitched upwards as she nodded and followed Will, not looking back at the exasperated looks on Zeller and Price's faces.
"That's it?" Price called after them.
Clarice didn't respond, but she could hear Zeller mutter, "It's more than you've done for me today…"
"Oh for heaven's sake, just knock it off!"
The cafeteria was filled with the usual chatter, the hum of conversations and the clinking of trays. Will led her to a corner table, settling into the seat with an air of ease, his eyes scanning the room absentmindedly while he stirred his coffee. A few agents at nearby tables kept sneaking glances at them—at Will, mostly—some filled with admiration, some with apprehension, and others with a confusing blend of both. But Will didn't seem to notice or care.
Clarice, on the other hand, fidgeted in her seat. "They're all staring at you," she murmured, pushing her cup away as if trying to hide behind it.
"It's been a while since I've been here," Will replied, shrugging it off. "They're just curious. Some might be wondering about you too. The FBI is practically a gossip mill. They must know you're involved in the Lecter case."
With a sigh, Clarice took a sip of her coffee, her eyes flitting nervously around the room. "Yeah, seems like Hannibal Lecter's the case everyone's fascinated by... well, everyone but you," she noted with a slight edge in her voice.
Will raised an eyebrow, and Clarice met his gaze defiantly.
"'Everyone's focused on Hannibal Lecter's comeback, but Will Graham's focused on a worthy threat—the Phantom Killer,'" she recited from the article. "You didn't exactly mince your words."
"Freddie paraphrased," Will replied nonchalantly, stirring his drink again.
"So that was your plan to smoak out Hannibal Lecter from his hiding place? Guess it did work in a way. Although, I hope that's not the way you actually intended it to work… right?" she asked, just a little bit uncertainly.
"Not quite the response I had in mind," Will mused. "Luckily, he decided to take his frustration out on people who were already dead."
"And thankfully, they were criminals anyway," she added quickly, then froze. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. The comment lingered awkwardly between them.
Will's eyebrow arched, his gaze sharp yet not judgmental—more inquisitive. Clarice felt her cheeks heat up.
"Not that it makes it any better," she said hastily, nervously fiddling with her cup.
But Will looked at her unfazed, his voice light and casual. "Doesn't it?"
Clarice gulped, some righteous words just at the tip on her tongue, the rigorous assurances of sanctity of life forming in her mind. But this was Will; he wouldn't twist her words or judge her harshly.
After a moment of hesitation, she admitted, "Maybe it does. Just a little bit." The words felt heavier than she expected, a discomfort settling in her chest as she added. "Is that a terrible thing to say?"
And Will simply shook his head. "Not at all."
Clarice shifted in her seat, a creeping sensation crawling down her spine.
"Anyway, I'm glad what you did didn't result in more deaths," she said, though her voice wavered. "But I'll admit, I didn't enjoy the... personal touch in that whole scene. I'm still not sure how to feel about Hannibal Lecter being in my apartment." The word 'violated' lingered unspoken in her mind.
Will's tone was surprisingly upbeat. "You should feel lucky. When he snuck into my house once, he put human remains in my fishing lure and tried to frame me for multiple murders. Taking some hair is not so bad, really."
"Well, when you put it that way…" she replied weakly, but his oddly detached manner somehow lightened her mood, easing the tension she had been holding onto.
There was something in the way Will spoke—so unbothered, so steady—that made her feel at ease. At ease enough to discuss what was sitting uncomfortably in her mind.
"Do you really think provoking Hannibal Lecter like this will help us find him?" she asked.
"Do you have doubts?"
Clarice took a deep breath, shaking her head as if to reassure herself. "Lecter is incredibly intelligent—almost disturbingly so. Don't you think he'll see right through your tricks? Won't he know you're just trying to get a rise out of him? He could lead us straight into a trap instead of to himself."
Will hummed thoughtfully, like he was turning the idea over in his mind. "Even the most cunning predators can be spooked into running right in front of a truck."
Clarice's brows furrowed, uncertain. "I can't imagine Hannibal Lecter being... spooked."
A corner of Will's mouth twitched upward, just a little. "Shock and anger can blind just the same."
"So, you want him... blinded?"
"I want him in front of a truck."
And again, something about his tone was just off—was it exasperation tinged with fondness? Or perhaps an irritation that lacked genuine anger?
"I'm with you on that one," she said, leaning back and letting out a soft sigh. "Too bad we don't have any solid leads on how to find him yet."
Will leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as if he was holding something back. "Don't we?"
Clarice raised an eyebrow, suspicion creeping in. "Do we?"
"You tell me."
She snorted, half-laughing and half-irritated. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, exhausted. "You know, you're a bit infuriating sometimes."
Will's smirk widened slightly. "I've been told that. Most recently by Jack."
"Is that what you were discussing when you two disappeared earlier?"
"I can't say for sure. He yelled, I ignored."
Clarice shook her head, "You know, I feel like Crawford is taking this too intensely, and you're taking it too lightly."
For a brief moment, Will's expression softened, almost imperceptibly, before the familiar guarded amusement returned. "Maybe I'm taking it lightly because Jack is taking it too intensely. If we're all so high-strung like him, we'll never get any work done. People are already afraid to speak up with the way he's acting."
Will's gaze was focused on her now, not just in a polite conversational way, but as if he were truly seeing her through her. Clarice felt her discomfort return. "Are you talking about anyone specific?"
Will just tiled his head, still looking at her expectantly.
"You had a look. Earlier, at the lab. I'm starting to see it more and more the longer I see you next to Jack."
Clarice stiffened, a knot forming in her chest. She took a sip of her coffee, suddenly aware of how dry her throat had become.
"What look?"
"Like you thought of something but didn't feel like you should share it. Not in front of Jack."
Clarice immediately thought of that third body. Of the way it prickled her interest despite not being able to pinpoint exactly what was wrong with it. Maybe Will could…
"It's hard to come to Jack with suspicions you can't quite articulate," she said, her voice betraying a hint of frustration. "Honestly, I'm not even sure what it was, but with that third body—the one that still doesn't have an ID—there was just this feeling. Something isn't right, but I can't put my finger on it."
Will didn't rush her. He just nodded, waiting for her to continue.
"Did you see it too?" she asked, a little uncertain.
"There was something," Will conceded but remained vague. "But I don't want to taint your perspective. Tell me, what did you see?"
Clarice gulped, settled more comfortably in her chair and started to sift through her tangled thoughts.
"It looks like the others, but... there's a detail I can't place. The angle of the wounds, the order they were inflicted. I don't know, something's missing."
"Maybe it's not in the crime scene itself. Maybe it's in how you're looking at it."
Clarice frowned. "I'm looking at it the same way I've looked at every other crime scene, Will. There's a pattern here. Something that ties them together. But this one... this one feels different. I can see the pieces, I know some fit together, but I can't figure out the picture I'm supposed to be assembling. Not in a way that makes sense." Clarice leaned back, a hint of frustration creeping into her tone. "The more I look, the less I understand."
"The trick is to think less about the murder itself and more about what the killer is trying to reveal. Or perhaps... what they don't want us to see."
Clarice's skin prickled, and she thought back to the blood signs on the wooden wall. The words echoed in her mind: 'SEE?'... 'SEE?' ...'SEE?'
A shiver ran down her spine. She wasn't sure if Will had meant to say those words to shake her like this, but he had. And something told her that he knew exactly what she was feeling.
"And what is Hannibal Lecter trying to show us?" she asked, her pulse quickening.
"Who says anything about us?"
Clarice frowned, then caught herself. "Oh, I guess, it's just you..."
Will remained silent, watching her closely... waiting. But when she didn't say anything, he simply sighed. And Clarice, for the life of her, could not figure out why that sound came out as disappointed.
"Well, Clarice, what is Hannibal revealing?"
"I don't know…" she started uncertainly, but Will firmly interrupted her.
"You don't need to have an answer at the start. You just follow the clues until they lead somewhere. You follow what you see. You say something is different. What makes it different?"
Clarice gulped, her mind racing under Will's expectant gaze.
"The first two victims—their wounds, they seemed... violent. Sudden. But the third one..." Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the words. "Even though the injuries were the same, there's a quietness to it. It's as if they were ready for it. As if they had anticipated the blow."
Will hummed in response, his eyes still fixed on her, his coffee cup hovering at his lips. "So, are you thinking that the third victim had more interaction with Hannibal? That maybe they were lulled into a sense of security before the slaughter?"
"I... don't know," Clarice said, her voice softer now, almost to herself. "The first two... their positions felt... forced, like they didn't have a choice. But the third... it's different. It's... it's like the victim surrendered, like they were a participant..."
Will only continued to sip his coffee, as if he was listening to a lecture. "You think Hannibal gave them a choice? That the victim thought they had control, even if they didn't?"
Clarice let out a slow exhale, her mind trying to piece it together. "Not an actual choice... An illusion of control..." She frowned, her brow furrowing in concentration, the tension in her shoulders building. "The way the victim was positioned, how they were posed... it wasn't just about the killing. It's how they were led into it. Almost like... Lecter guided them there, made them feel like they were participating in something, not being forced into it."
Will leaned back a little, a contemplative look crossing his face. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking. Once the forensic results come in, we might just have enough to shift those theories into something resembling facts."
Clarice blinked, a realization hitting her. "Wait... if you were thinking this all along, why didn't you mention it to Agent Crawford?"
Will raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you?" he countered.
Clarice's face flushed, and she looked away, embarrassed. "I... I didn't feel comfortable sharing these thoughts with agent Crawford," she muttered. 'Not anymore', she wanted to add, but didn't.
And that was the truth, wasn't it? Back at the university, she had yearned to work with Jack Crawford, or someone she thought he was. To let her mind roam free, to dive into discussions most people would shy away from.
She craved to explore human minds to the fullest; and now she found herself too timid to even voice her thoughts.
"You shouldn't take it personally." Will said, eying her carefully, "Jack investigating Hannibal is very different from Jack investigating anything else. He can be quite... unapproachable." There was a pause, suggesting he wanted to say something more but chose to hold back.
"It's not it." She sighed tiredly, "Even before Hannibal Lecter... Hell, even before I approached him about the Phantom case... there were cases before that where I tried and it never led anywhere... Honestly, I'm not even sure if agent Crawford is much interested in what I have to say anymore."
"Make him," Will said simply, his tone flat, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Clarice snorted a quiet laugh. "Easier said than done."
"I know," Will agreed, his voice suddenly taking on a more serious tone. "I've been there."
Clarice frowned, "How did you get him to listen then?"
Will's eyes darkened slightly. "I didn't. Not until I was falsely imprisoned and charged for crimes I didn't commit. And Jack still wouldn't listen to my suspicions about Hannibal. After that, I stopped caring whether he listened or not. I knew I was right, with or without his validation. It made standing up to him easier. But I wouldn't advocate for that route."
Clarice shook her head. "Yeah, I think I'll pass on wrongful incarceration if I can help it."
"Good choice," Will said, lifting his cup in a mock salute. But then he grew serious, his expression softening. "Listen, if you're seeking validation from someone—especially Jack—to know your worth, you're setting yourself up for disappointment. You shouldn't need anyone's approval to know you're good enough for the job. You're good enough because you are. It's not about what Jack or anyone else thinks. In the end, all that matters is who has the answers. And your instincts are solid. Don't doubt them. Use them."
Clarice studied him for a long moment. She felt something stir in her chest—something small, something faint. It wasn't quite hope, but it was close. With her eyes starting to feel embarrassingly misty, she cleared her throat and said as lightly as she could, "You're starting to sound like you're handing out some parting words of wisdom."
Will shrugged, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Maybe I am."
Clarice's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes widened. "Wait... Are you... leaving?"
"Not yet. But once this Hannibal mess clears up, yeah... I'm done."
And of course, Clarice knew that. She knew he would leave after this case. After all, Will was retired. He wasn't part of this world anymore. She had known it... but hearing him say it made it real, and suddenly, it hurt in a way she wasn't prepared for.
"Do you mean you're leaving the FBI for good this time or...?" she asked, her voice tight.
"I'm planning on it. I want to travel. I've never really allowed myself to... other than that one time, but that hardly counts as a vacation."
"So you're going to leave... completely? Leave the country?"
"There's really not a place for me here anymore." Will said, wistfully, not at all disturbed. Calm.
Meanwhile, Clarice's heart was beating louder.
"Is it because of agent Crawford?"
"Because of a lot of things." Will said, as vague as ever.
Clarice felt her chest tighten, her pulse quickening. "Where will you go?"
"I don't know yet," he said, his tone unexpectedly sharp, as if the question annoyed him. "Still working out the... details with my travel companion."
Clarice stared at him, taken aback. "You have a travel companion?"
Will raised and eyebrow at her, some amusement in his eyes, "I'll choose not to take offense at your disbelief."
"Sorry," she stammered, feeling the blush creep up her neck. "I just... It's hard to imagine you as a tourist. Solo or not."
"Yeah," he said with a small laugh. "I can't really picture it myself. But guess I'll find out."
Despite the ache in her chest, Clarice smiled faintly. "You've definitely earned it. After everything you've been through, you deserve a break. You should explore the world beyond all this. I'm really happy for you, but..." Her voice softened as she locked eyes with him. "I guess I'm going to miss you."
He smiled back, the warmth in his eyes genuine. "I guess I'll miss you too."
Clarice hesitated, her brow furrowing. "Honestly... I'm not sure what I'll do when you're gone. I've probably burned my bridges with Crawford..."
Will's expression hardened. "You're looking at it wrong, Clarice. You don't need Jack. Jack needs you. And if he can't see that, well... the FBI doesn't start or end with him. Maybe it's time to find your footing somewhere else."
One thing Clarice had to give Agent Crawford credit for: he really didn't skimp on the hotel. It was more like an apartment than a room—perfect Wi-Fi, a separate space for her bodyguards, even a kitchen area with a fancy coffee machine that hummed to life a couple of times already. Pembry and Tate seemed thrilled by it. She could hear them chatting in the kitchen, their voices muffled by the walls, the sound of the machine buzzing in the background.
At least she knew the two of them had plenty to keep them busy while she sat alone in her room, her laptop balancing awkwardly on her knees.
She tried to clear her mind. She tried not to think too much about the fact that there were probably dozens of agents and officers rummaging through every inch of her apartment right now, rifling through her personal things. If Price happened to be there, maybe he could help salvage the bit of dignity she had left—if he even had the energy, that is. After the autopsy that yielded nothing but a bland report, the fruitless police interviews that revealed no new leads, still no identification of the third victim, and absolutely no new clues in the Lecter case... everyone was running on empty.
She tried not to think about it, but when sheer willpower fell short, Clarice sought to distract herself some other way. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she opened the website for Freddie .
She never imagined she would find herself here, but it was the kind of diversion her mind desperately needed.
It was strange how this gossip crime website had become such a crucial player in the investigation into Hannibal Lecter. But, she had to admit, it had a surprising amount of information about him—about him and... Will. The tricky part was figuring out what was true and what was pure fiction.
She started with Will's article and it was... interesting to say the least. There was a clear intent to provoke Hannibal Lecter, to bait him, to get under his skin.
And perhaps she should have stopped there, satisfied her curiosity with just that one piece, but her eyes were drawn to the sidebar, where a list of highlighted content seemed to call out to her, almost beckoning her to click.
The website was a maze of sensationalized headlines—some darker than others. And yet, one in particular caught her attention: 'Murder Husbands: The Unholy Bond Between Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.'
Her stomach churned at the headline, but she clicked anyway, as if drawn by an invisible force.
She wasn't quite sure what to expect. She knew that Will and Hannibal shared a bond—something deep and complex. However, she doubted it was what Freddie Lounds' headline seemed to suggest, at least not on Will's part. Still, her finger hovered over the mouse as she leaned in and began to read.
''Murder Husbands: The Unholy Matrimony Between Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.' By Freddie Lounds, .
We've all heard the tales, the rumours, now it's time for the truth: Hannibal Lecter—the celebrated psychiatrist—and Will Graham—the brilliant but troubled profiler—went from patient and doctor to something far darker. Call it what you will—an obsession, a twisted romance, or simply the result of two damaged souls finding each other. But the truth is far more sinister than any story we could concoct. The slow-burn transformation of Will and Hannibal's relationship is as horrifying as it is fascinating. What started as a professional connection between therapist and patient spiralled into something far more perilous and perverse: a symbiotic, deadly bond between two men who found solace in violence, murder, and each other. But how did they get here? How did the empathetic, guilt-ridden Will Graham—someone who felt too much—become trapped in a bond with a man who saw human life as little more than a buffet of opportunity?'
Clarice felt bile rising in her throat. She bit her lip, but she couldn't stop reading further:
''The Shift: From Therapy to Something Darker.'
It didn't take long for Hannibal to realize that Will wasn't just another broken mind to "fix." Hannibal Lecter saw in Will Graham the potential for something far more terrifying—a partner in crime. As their interactions deepened, so did the complexity of their connection. In his most manipulative moments, Hannibal offered Will a taste of freedom from his own tortured mind. He helped him understand his visions, his thoughts, and the empathy that often crippled him. But it wasn't true help—it was a gentle, insidious manipulation, designed to lead Will down a path where murder was not just acceptable but inevitable. Will, in turn, became increasingly dependent on Hannibal, not just for emotional support, but for validation. His empathy, once a gift, had turned into a curse—one that Hannibal expertly nurtured. The boundaries between right and wrong began to dissolve. They found a rhythm in each other—one that led them closer and closer to the abyss of shared violence.'
Clarice swallowed hard, the words making her skin crawl. They twisted in her mind. She didn't want to think about Will this way, not in these terms. A partner in crime? No. She couldn't see it. Will wasn't some... murderer. He had been broken, yes, but he wasn't Hannibal Lecter. He wasn't this... thing they were describing. She could feel her palms begin to sweat as she scrolled further down the page.
''Murder Husbands: The Rise of the Twisted Duo'
The term Murder Husbands may seem sensational, but it is, in fact, a fitting label for the evolution of their relationship. What started as a professional relationship between doctor and patient transformed into a twisted marriage of sorts—a partnership based on a shared appetite for death.
To outsiders, it might seem incomprehensible that Will, a man who had once been a stronghold of empathy, would willingly descend into madness with a man as dangerous as Hannibal Lecter. But the truth is that Will was never as removed from the darkness as he seemed. The line between hero and villain has always been thin, and Hannibal Lecter was the mirror through which Will saw himself reflected..."
Clarice shut her eyes, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. What the hell even was that? The bile threatened to rise again as she leaned back from the screen.
It was shocking how disturbingly creative people could be when it came to weaving such tales about real people. She shook her head, trying to shake off the haunting images the article had conjured. Will definitely had a connection with Hannibal—a strange, deep bond—but this... this wasn't it. It wasn't this dark, romanticized murderous relationship.
No wonder Will seemed so resentful towards Freddie Lounds... which did beg the question of why he reached out to her in the first place...?
Clarice rubbed her temples, trying to rid herself of the lingering unease.
She glanced back at the website, clicking hastily away from the Murder Husbands article. Her fingers scrolled rapidly, trying to dodge the onslaught of headlines about Will and Lecter. She didn't want to face them, yet they were everywhere—her eyes darting over the words without truly registering them, until one particular title caught her attention: 'Dr. Alana Bloom: The Therapist With More Secrets Than Her Patients?'
Clarice blinked. This couldn't be just a coincidence. Alana Bloom. Alana—the name popped into her head. The mutual friend of Crawford and Will? The third woman linked to Lecter's funeral wreath?
And wasn't Dr. Bloom affiliated with the FBI? Clarice could remember coming across her name once or twice during her studies...
With her lips pressed together, she clicked on the article. The opening lines painted Dr. Bloom as the epitome of composure—calm, collected, and as sharp as a scalpel in both intellect and understanding of others. But then the article took a turn...
"Dr. Bloom's emotional attachment to Hannibal Lecter quickly surpassed professional boundaries..."
Clarice felt a tightness in her stomach, but she couldn't stop herself from reading. She had to keep reading...
'Dr. Alana Bloom's name once evoked images of a brilliant, empathetic psychiatrist with a deep understanding of the human mind. But over the years, that image has crumbled, revealing a far darker, far more dangerous side of the woman who once championed the art. Dr. Alana Bloom's relationship with Hannibal Lecter—once thought to be purely professional—was the catalyst for her transformation into a cold, calculating killer. Bloom's crimes were not just about murder; they were about securing a future for herself and the woman she loved—a woman who, like Bloom, was drawn into the dangerous allure of Hannibal's world. Together, they formed a twisted partnership, fuelled by greed, manipulation, and ambition..."
With a swift motion, Clarice slammed the laptop shut, her hands shaking. What the hell was this website? What the hell was Hannibal Lecter doing to people...No, that's just a gossip site. Not real!
A part of her pushed to dismiss it, to convince herself it was nothing more than sensationalism, a collection of lies crafted for clicks. She'd met Freddie Lounds, after all, and that encounter proved that the woman was nothing but manipulative. Will had warned her about Lounds too; everything she said or did was a trap. Clarice had seen it, even in their brief interaction.
Still, her mind wouldn't let go of the seeds of doubt that had been planted. Setting the laptop aside, she ran her fingers through her hair.
It was a gossip website... but there was some kernel of truth in it, wasn't there? Hannibal Lecter was undeniably real, his relationship with Will undeniably complex... and Lecter was targeting a woman named Alana...
Perhaps there was some truth to it all, but if so...
How was it that Hannibal Lecter could burrow into the minds of so many brilliant, talented individuals? Even if she couldn't tell how much of the articles were true, she could at least recognize that he had profoundly impacted Bedelia du Maurier, and he certainly left a mark on Will, no matter how much Will tried to persuade her that Lecter had no influence on him.
Then there was Dr. Alana Bloom. An intelligent, competent woman—rational, calculated. Yet it seemed even she hadn't been immune. Lecter was sending veiled threats through morbid funeral wreaths directed at her.
Clarice leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her face in her hands as she tried to piece it together.
How had he done it to Will? How could someone like Will Graham, who could see the darkest parts of human nature, be blind to the man standing right in front of him?
Clarice stood up, restless, and walked to the window. The cold glass of the window chilled her fingers as she looked outside, but the sight of the people on the street only made her feel more detached, more isolated. They seemed so distant, so unreachable...
She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the cool glass, trying to ground herself in that moment.
What exactly was Hannibal Lecter?
How could one man—one individual—wield such power over others, especially those who should have seen through him?
A shiver ran down her spine. Maybe Hannibal Lecter truly was the devil.
Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her thoughts so suddenly that she jumped, a cold shiver running down her spine again. Could it be possible... that speaking of the devil...
She half expected the worst, but then a wave of relief washed over her as she saw it was just a message. From the familiar number, no less. Jimmy.
Her fingers moved quickly, tapping the screen. As her eyes scanned the words, her heart leapt not with fear or dread, but with pure excitement.
'Hey, I've got something to cheer you up. I heard there's been a major breakthrough in the Phantom case. Word is, they finally have a suspect. They are like 99% sure it's the right guy! One silver lining in all this mess, huh?'
Will sank deeper into the worn armchair by the window, the faint sound of his dogs' steady breathing in their sleep the only comfort in the silence. His three companions sprawled around him on the floor, quiet but reassuring in their presence.
He glanced around the room, noting how his belongings lay scattered—clothes, bags, random items, all piled up without any real order. He didn't know what to pack, didn't even know where he was going.
As his eyes moved over the clutter, he realized that there wasn't a single item he felt he couldn't live without. Nothing called to him, nothing felt essential.
Except for them.
His heart softened as his gaze settled on his dogs—loyal and oblivious. In everything that was happening, they were his only concern. The only thing he would want to pack into his bags. Except, they were the one thing he couldn't take with him...
A long, tired sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping. They needed a place—he needed to find them a place.
He reached for the glass of whiskey on the table. The amber liquid was cool against his warm fingers. He didn't know why he was drinking—probably just because he could, or maybe because it was the only thing that felt like it could settle the restlessness inside him. He tipped the glass back, feeling the burn slide down his throat. It didn't help.
The shrill ring of his phone shattered the silence. He glanced at the screen; a private number blinked back at him.
Will let out an irritated huff, draining the last of his whiskey in a single, defiant gulp. The sharp sting lingered in his throat as he grabbed the phone, his fingers tense with a mix of annoyance and anticipation.
"What?!" he snapped, not bothering with pleasantries.
The silence on the other end stretched, thick and heavy. Will couldn't tell if Hannibal was savouring the tension or merely holding back the urge to correct his rude greeting—or maybe it was both.
Finally, Hannibal's voice came through, smooth and composed, as if nothing had ever happened between them.
"Did you know it was me, or is that simply how you answer your calls these days?" Hannibal's tone was almost amused.
Will tightened his grip on the glass, wishing there was something left to drink. He cursed himself for how quickly his heart raced at the sound of Hannibal's voice; knowing the bastard could probably hear it.
"I knew you'd call. Eventually. Apparently, this was the only way to get your attention," Will replied bitterly, his voice thin with sarcasm, but underneath, there was something raw—a flicker of something deeper, something he couldn't quite shake, "Don't I feel special?"
Hannibal sighed dramatically, almost like a martyr in a tragedy. Will felt a surge of irritation at the sound, his hand tightening around the phone as if it could anchor him.
"You're still angry," Hannibal observed calmly. "Though, after everything that's transpired, I'd argue I have more reason to be angered than you."
Will couldn't help but snort, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Oh, we haven't even begun to tip the scales."
"Is that why you decided to cooperate with Miss Lounds? Was that pure anger, or something more?" Hannibal inquired; his tone oddly contemplative.
"You know exactly what it was," Will shot back. "You wouldn't have reacted the way you did if you didn't."
"Was that the response you were hoping for?"
"Well, you finally called, didn't you?" Will snapped.
"If that was your only desire, Will, there really was no need for all that pettiness." Hannibal replied, his calmness unnerving.
"I disagree," Will retorted. "And it's not like you haven't engaged in the same games with me in the past. I showed you the negative so you could see the positive. You've done the exact same thing for me."
"Done for you, not done to you," Hannibal's voice was careful, too careful.
Will's chest tightened, and despite the anger, despite the frustration roiling inside him, the corners of his mouth twitched. Of course, that's where Hannibal would focus his attention; he always did.
"Are you finally willing to acknowledge the clarity between us?" Will rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion. The words were edged with a strange, almost painful hope.
"Is it clarity?"
"As long as you stop muddying it," Will snapped. "You just couldn't resist the Trapper's Tilt, could you?"
Hannibal's tone shifted to one of cool detachment. "Did you not enjoy it? I thought you'd appreciate the irony."
"I can't enjoy what isn't mine," Will replied icily. "That scene wasn't meant for me, and we both know it."
"Ah, but the real question is: does she know it?"
Will felt anger tightening his hand. That old surge of protectiveness rising within him, "I'm serious, Hannibal. Leave her out of it."
"I've told you, Will," Hannibal's tone sharpened, becoming more measured. "Your protectiveness works against your goal. I must say, I don't appreciate you letting someone else into your mind when I've so graciously given you space. I've even wondered," he lowered his voice, each word deliberate, "what prevents you from walking away completely? Is it guilt? Or something else?"
The question settled heavily on Will's chest—unexpected yet oddly welcome. Hannibal just had to keep pushing, making things complicated, always asking his questions...
Will exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before leaning back in his chair. "Whatever values or meanings I hold, I have to be willing to let them go when necessary," he stated, bitterness thick in his voice. "That's what you want, isn't it? But I see it clearly, Hannibal. I don't need your psychoanalysis."
"I wouldn't dream of psychoanalysing you, Will," Hannibal replied smoothly. "Not when you so politely asked me not to do that long ago." There was an edge to his tone that made Will suppress a laugh despite the bitter taste of that memory. "However, I will share an observation: your words don't align with your actions. I don't want the concept of you, Will; I want the true self."
Frustration twisted Will's mouth into a tight line. "Ah yes, the alignment of authenticity and morality—just another piece of your treasured philosophy. But we've been here before, Hannibal. We both know what you really want."
Hannibal's voice softened, though the commanding undertone remained clear. "I crave equality between us. And in order to achieve that, you need to take ownership of who you truly are..."
"Oh, but I thought it was yearning that I was lacking?"
"I never claimed your lack was singular in its source," Hannibal replied, cool as ever.
"What about you?" Will spat, "You're not lacking anything? You consider yourself the picture of fulfillment?"
"I am lacking many things at the moment," Hannibal said, a mournful note creeping into his tone. "But I believe I can find them all in you, Will. Your freedom will grant me mine."
A sharp twist of longing pierced Will's chest, but he swallowed it, grounding himself with each measured breath. He hated how Hannibal could twist his mind, taking Will's very own words and bending them back toward him. He hated it—and yet felt a dangerous excitement so vivid it nearly consumed him.
"The mutual recognition of two freedoms, where neither sacrifices transcendence…" Will muttered, his voice trailing off as he pondered the words.
Hannibal's voice deepened, becoming almost a growl. "And with this acceptance comes the willingness to act despite ambiguity. To take responsibility for wherever these actions might lead."
Will exhaled slowly, each door of possibility closing behind him in his mind, leaving just one ajar. "I have no issue with that recognition."
The silence between them seemed to stretch infinitely, and for a moment, Will thought Hannibal might not respond at all.
"...Are you prepared to shoulder that responsibility, Will?" Hannibal finally asked, his voice laced with quiet anticipation.
Will tightened his grip on the phone, his pulse racing. He had never been more certain of anything.
"I've already set the wheels in motion for just that purpose," he replied, his voice steady yet heavy with intent.
There was silence on the other end of the line. Will let it linger, savouring the stillness. For once, it was Hannibal who didn't know the next move. For once, he was the one in the dark. For once, Will could imagine Hannibal on the other end of the phone; confused...uncertain.
"What have you done, Will?" Hannibal asked, the question sliding into the space between them, casual, but Will could hear the subtle crack in it.
And that—just that—was all it took.
Will didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood up, his heart thundering in his chest. The room felt empty, stripped of meaning despite the clutter; nothing here was worth holding onto.
He glanced at his dogs, sleeping soundly and blissfully unaware. He would ensure they found a good home, perhaps even better than the one he had provided. And after that...
He made up his mind, his grip on the phone grew firmer. "This isn't sustainable. Phone calls are too impersonal," he said, his voice resolute, punctuated with finality. "I want to see you."
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
When Hannibal spoke again, his voice was warmer, tinged with something deeper. "I thought you were more comfortable the less personal we are."
"Things have changed... Let's meet, Hannibal."