Chapter Text
Three days had passed since the fountain murder. Three days of quiet meals in the submerged room, of Hannibal’s hands mapping Will’s body with the same precision he applied to the Graham collection. Three days of Will pretending he didn’t notice how the murders echoed the art they examined each morning.
The rain had stopped. Sunlight cut through the tall windows of the west wing as Will led Hannibal past the last of the Renaissance paintings. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor.
“We’ve covered everything on this level,” Will said, not looking back. “There’s one more room. The east corridor, end of the hall. I’ve been avoiding it.”
Hannibal’s presence behind him was a warm pressure. “Why?”
Will stopped in front of a heavy oak door, brass handle tarnished with age. A red velvet rope hung across it, and a small sign read: Private. Authorized Personnel Only.
“Because it was my father’s office.” Will’s hand hovered over the rope. “He sealed it before he died. Jack gave me the key three years ago. I’ve never used it.”
“Until now.”
Will turned. Hannibal’s face was unreadable, but his eyes, those dark, bottomless eyes, held something Will had learned to recognize: hunger. Not for food.
“Until now,” Will echoed.
He unhooked the rope, pulled a brass key from his pocket, and unlocked the door. The hinges groaned like a wounded animal.
---x---
The office was a mausoleum of ambition.
Dust motes floated in the slivers of light that escaped the heavy velvet curtains. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with leather-bound volumes on demonology, the occult, and medieval torture methods. A massive oak desk dominated the center, its surface cluttered with yellowed papers, a silver letter opener shaped like a dagger, and a crystal decanter of amber liquid that had probably turned to vinegar.
But Will’s gaze went to the far wall.
Behind the desk, illuminated by a single brass lamp that still burned, impossible, unless someone had been here recently, hung a painting.
It was large, perhaps six feet by four, framed in black wood that seemed to drink the light. The image was stark: a figure kneeling in a desert, naked and gaunt, a crown of thorns on its head. Before it stood a demon with the body of a man and the face of a goat, cloven hooves planted in the sand. In one hand, the demon held a scroll; in the other, a crimson cloak.
“Azazel,” Will said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hannibal stepped past him, drawn to the painting like a shark to blood. “The scapegoat demon. Leviticus chapter sixteen. One goat for the Lord, sacrificed. The other for Azazel, sent into the wilderness bearing the sins of the people.”
“My father’s favorite.” Will walked to the desk, running a finger through the dust. “He used to say that Azazel taught men how to make weapons of war, swords, knives, shields. And women how to paint their faces and adorn their bodies. The corruption of innocence.”
Hannibal tilted his head. “The demon of desolation. Of transference.”
“Yes.” Will turned to face him. “The ritual of the scapegoat. Place your sins onto something innocent, then cast it out. Destroy it, if you have to. My father believed Azazel was the first psychiatrist.”
A small, sharp laugh escaped Hannibal. “A generous interpretation.”
“He kept this painting hidden because even he knew it was too dangerous. The things he did to me…” Will paused, jaw tightening. “He used to bring me here. Make me kneel in front of it. Tell me I was the goat. That everything wrong in his life was my fault, and I had to carry it away.”
Hannibal said nothing. He simply walked closer to the painting, studying the brushstrokes, the way Azazel’s eyes seemed to follow the viewer.
“No one knows about this room,” Will continued. “After he died, Jack and I sealed it. I never told anyone. Not Beverly, not the staff. Only Jack and I have keys.”
Hannibal turned, his expression soft, almost tender. “And now you’ve shown me.”
Will met his gaze. “Why did I?”
“Because you trust me.” Hannibal took a step closer. “Or because you want to see what I’ll do with the knowledge.”
Will’s breath caught. The air between them thickened, charged with something that had nothing to do with art.
“Both,” Will admitted.
Hannibal closed the distance. His hand came up to cup Will’s jaw, thumb brushing over his lower lip. “Then let me show you what I do with trust, Will.”
---x---
The kiss was not gentle.
Hannibal pushed Will back against the edge of the oak desk, one hand fisting in his hair, the other pressing against his chest. Will gasped into the kiss, and Hannibal swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against Will’s with possessive precision.
“You’ve been in control for three days,” Hannibal murmured against his mouth. “Now it’s my turn.”
Will’s protest died in his throat as Hannibal spun him around, bending him over the desk. Papers scattered. The decanter tipped, spilling its contents in a dark stain across a sheaf of yellowed documents.
“Your father’s desk,” Hannibal whispered, lips brushing Will’s ear. “Where he made you kneel. Where he told you that you were the goat. Do you want me to stop?”
Will’s fingers curled into the wood. His heart hammered against his ribs. Every instinct screamed no, but another voice, deeper, darker, whispered yes.
“No,” Will said. “Don’t stop.”
Hannibal’s hands were already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced efficiency. The fabric of Will’s trousers pooled around his ankles, and then he felt Hannibal’s palm on the small of his back, pressing him down.
“Stay.”
The command was soft, almost gentle, but it rooted Will to the spot. He heard Hannibal’s belt unbuckle, the rustle of clothing, and then the heat of his body, the weight of him as he leaned over Will’s back.
“I’ve wanted to take you here,” Hannibal said, “since the first moment I saw this room. To take you on your father’s desk while Azazel watches. To make you feel something other than shame.”
Will’s fingers dug into the wood. “Then do it.”
Hannibal’s fingers, slick with something, oil, probably, the man was always prepared, pressed into him with deliberate slowness. Will groaned, his forehead dropping to the cool surface of the desk. Hannibal worked him open with patience that bordered on cruelty, stretching and curling his fingers until Will was gasping, pushing back against his hand.
“Please,” Will breathed.
“Please what?”
“Fuck me, Hannibal. Now.”
Hannibal withdrew his fingers, and then the head of his cock was pressing against Will’s entrance, not pushing, just resting there. A promise. A threat.
“Ask me again.”
Will turned his head, cheek pressed to the wood, and looked up at Azazel’s painted eyes. The demon stared down at him, impassive, eternal.
“Fuck me like I’m the scapegoat,” Will said. “Take all your sins and put them inside me.”
Hannibal thrust.
The sound Will made was not a cry or a groan but something in between, a surrender. Hannibal filled him completely, stretching him, claiming him. His hands gripped Will’s hips hard enough to bruise, and he set a rhythm that was brutal, relentless, each snap of his hips driving Will into the desk.
The wood creaked. Papers fluttered to the floor. Will’s glasses slipped down his nose, and he didn’t care.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Hannibal’s voice was ragged, stripped of its usual elegance. “The darkness. The hunger. It’s been in you all along, Will. Your father just gave it a name.”
Will’s response was a moan, wordless and raw. Hannibal angled his hips, and suddenly the pleasure spiked, blinding white, as he hit that spot inside him with every thrust.
“That’s it,” Hannibal hissed. “Let go. Let me have all of it.”
He reached around and wrapped his hand around Will’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much, Will’s orgasm ripped through him without warning, his body clenching around Hannibal, his cry echoing off the dusty bookshelves.
Hannibal followed moments later, a low growl escaping his lips as he buried himself deep, spilling inside Will with a shudder that seemed to shake the room.
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Hannibal withdrew, slow and careful, and Will felt the wet heat drip down his thigh. He stayed bent over the desk, breathing hard, staring at Azazel.
“He’s still watching,” Will said.
Hannibal pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Let him.”
---x---
They cleaned up in silence, using a half-empty bottle of water Will found in the desk drawer. Hannibal adjusted his tie as if he hadn’t just fucked the heir to the Graham fortune over his dead father’s desk. Will pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt, avoiding his own reflection in the dark window glass.
“We should go,” Will said. “Jack will be looking for us.”
Hannibal nodded, but his eyes lingered on the painting one last time. “The scapegoat ritual. When your father performed it on you, did he use a physical animal?”
Will frowned. “No. Just words. And sometimes his belt.”
“Interesting.” Hannibal walked to the door. “Because the original ritual required a goat. The high priest would lay his hands on the goat’s head, confess the sins of Israel, and then send it into the wilderness to die.”
“What’s your point?”
Hannibal turned, silhouetted against the doorway. “Only that some rituals are incomplete without a sacrifice. And some sins cannot be transferred to a willing participant. They must be placed onto something unwilling.”
Will’s stomach turned cold. “You’re saying my father didn’t really believe I could carry his sins.”
“I’m saying he was a coward. He needed an animal. A true scapegoat.” Hannibal smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Fortunately for you, Will, you are not a goat. You are something else entirely.”
He left the room. Will stood alone with Azazel, the demon’s painted eyes still watching.
---x---
That night, Will ate dinner alone in the submerged room. Hannibal had excused himself, citing a headache. Jack brought the tray, roasted lamb with rosemary, a glass of deep red wine.
“You look tired, Will,” Jack said, setting down the tray.
“I’m fine.” Will didn’t look up from his laptop. “Have you seen the news today?”
“No, sir. Should I have?”
Will clicked on Tattle Crime. The headline made his blood run cold.
SCAPEGOAT KILLING: BALTIMORE SOCIALITE FOUND POSED WITH GOAT SKULL, RITUALISTIC CARVINGS
Below the headline, a photograph. A woman in her forties, naked, posed on her knees in a vacant lot on the outskirts of the city. A crown of thorns on her head. A goat’s skull placed beside her.
Will’s hand trembled. He set down the wine glass.
“Jack,” he said, his voice steady despite the ice in his veins. “The painting in my father’s office. The one of Azazel. Who knew about it?”
Jack frowned. “Only you and I, Will. Your father made sure of that. Even the staff didn’t know. He had me seal the room myself after he… after he passed.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. Why?”
Will closed the laptop. His mind raced, piecing together fragments. The fountain murder, imitated from Gaap, a piece visible to all dinner guests. But this new murder, Azazel, only two people knew of that painting. Himself, and Jack.
And Hannibal.
But Hannibal had only seen it today. The murder had already happened, the article was dated yesterday. Which meant either Hannibal had staged the murder before seeing the painting, impossible, or someone else had access.
Or Hannibal had seen the painting before.
Will stood abruptly. “I need to make a phone call.”
Jack nodded and left, closing the heavy door behind him.
Will stared at the fireplace, flames reflecting in his eyes. Someone was feeding him information. Someone wanted him to suspect Jack. And someone had just made a mistake.
Only two people knew about Azazel.
He dialed Beverly.
“Bev. The new murder. I need you to find out if Jack was seen anywhere near that vacant lot yesterday.”
“Will, what are you talking about? Why would Jack...“
“Please, Bev. Just do it.”
He hung up and sat back down, the taste of lamb turning to ash in his mouth.
Outside, the rain began to fall again.
---x---
Hannibal stood in his guest room, phone pressed to his ear. On the other end of the line, a voice crackled with static.
“The body was found,” the voice said. “As instructed. The carvings were exact.”
“Good.” Hannibal swirled the wine in his glass. “And the police?”
“They’re looking into the mordomo. An anonymous tip led them to his financial records. Several large withdrawals in the past month. Untraceable, but suspicious enough.”
“Excellent.” Hannibal took a sip. “One more piece, then we move to the final stage.”
“The final stage?”
Hannibal smiled, his eyes reflecting the storm outside the window. “Jack Crawford, is dying. Cancer. He has perhaps two months left. When he dies, the only person who can place me at the crime scenes will be Will.”
“And Will?”
“Will will have already made his choice.” Hannibal set down the glass. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
He ended the call and walked to the window. Rain streamed down the glass, blurring the garden into a watercolor of shadows.
Only two people knew about Azazel, Will had said. But that wasn’t true, was it? Hannibal had known about the painting long before he set foot in the Graham mansion. He had seen it in Robert Graham’s private collection catalog, a copy of which he’d acquired from an art dealer in Prague after Jack's first visit.
He had been planning this for longer than Will could imagine.
But now, watching the rain, Hannibal felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Not guilt. Not regret. Something closer to anticipation and beneath it, a flicker of real affection.
He did not want to frame Will anymore.
Jack would serve. Jack was already dying. And Will... Will was becoming something magnificent.
Hannibal smiled and turned from the window.
The hunt was only beginning.