Chapter Text
Will carefully applied his jacket over his shoulders and back, gaze fixed ahead at a brick wall. The brick wall, which encased and captured him. The metal bars on one side of his new-room, which reminded him of his location.
Of his forced penance.
“This is very sudden,” Will states to a now-still Chilton. He glances down and pretends to be entirely enthralled by his action of buttoning up mentioned coat.
“The federal prosecutor dropped all charges… since you were not, convicted of killing anyone,” the man replies. Tone annoyed. Defeated. Embarrassed . He inhales. “The basis for your sentencing to this institution is null and void. The Chesapeake Ripper has set you free.” Chilton’s voice was now sarcastic, teasing. There was no remorse for his keeping and torturing of Will. Of an innocent man. Will understood, without even needing to turn and see , that Chilton didn’t feel guilt because he truly believed it wasn’t his fault. Will suspected he generally was right. He thought he was getting into the mind of a well-known, insane killer. Will’s (an innocent man’s) trauma was disregarded. As always. “Mazel Tov.”
Chilton glances over and away from Will—who, fairly enough, wasn’t looking at Chilton anyway. A buzzer sounds. A door unlocks. Will, ignoring the race of his heart, steps forward towards his bars. His hand reaches out. It pushes. The door swings open enthusiastically. A goodbye; a good-luck.
It had been forever since he’d seen the sun. Since he’d felt the pain of being outside in the snow. Gratitude swept his legs out from under him, and he plunged into thoughts about reliving his entire life again.
Will was reborn.
“I would love nothing more than to see you trade places with Dr. Lecter. I have no intention on ending up on his menu,” Chilton continues to a half-listening, half-day-dreaming Will.
Will takes a step. He was free. He was out. It was over.
“Well then confess, Frederick,” Will spits out. “Might be the only thing that saves your life.”
“Confess to what?” Chilton questions, offense and annoyance plaguing his voice.
Will was walking (f ree. Away. Out .).
“Confess to bonding to Hannibal Lecter over your shared practice of unorthodox therapies. Dr Lecter with me, you with Abel Gideon.”
Chilton follows behind Will, who was walking a little too fast for a man known to try and keep his cool. For keeping his emotions buried. For being smart, rather than reactive.
He recalled the needles. He remembered the way that Hannibal shoved Abigail’s ear down his throat. He remembered the agony of thinking he killed his daughter.
Not your daughter , his brain reminds him. Someone you decided-to-become-one with’s daughter.
“Gideon is playing his own game; was wheeled out of that hospital by the Chesapeake Ripper. Curious what bargain they struck,” Chilton hurries out. Already trying to use Will’s ‘remarkable,’ innocent mind.
Will slows against his better judgement, high on the confidence of knowing he would no longer be captured. No one would take his dormancy as a window to jump and throw him back into a cell. He was free.
He turns his head over his shoulder, “No, there’s no bargaining with the smoke.”
“No, Gideon’s dead.”
Will turns fully. “You’re next.”
“Unless I unburden myself?” Chilton quips quickly, somehow not affected at all by the fact that the most wanted killer in Illinois wanted him dead .
“Confession is good for the soul… shine a light on your relationship with Hannibal Lecter. He works in the shadows. Deny them to him,” Will replies, pauses, remembers where he is. Who Dr. Chilton is. What he, and everyone else had done. He inhales, turns, “tell Jack Crawford everything.”
“Are you suggesting I kill my career before Hannibal can kill me?”
Will begun shaking his head immediately in a defensive disagreement. Completely misunderstood. Stupid . “I’m suggesting you convince Jack Crawford however you can,” the profiler corrects, putting his glasses up and onto his eyes. Needing to be doing something. Needing to leave; to never look back. An inhale, and Will turns, smiling at Chilton with pretend amusement. “Like your life depends on it.”
He walks away. He knew his way out. Chilton didn’t follow this time, but called from behind him: “why did Hannibal not just kill you?”
Will turns. “Because he wants to be my friend,” he responds. He turns again, towards his escape.
He leaves.
-
On his way throughout the BSHCI, Will thought about his home. His dogs gave him hope, and he prayed that Alana had taken good care of them. He imagined Winston, nestled in Will’s arms, panting and satisfied and tired from jumping all over the owner he’d been without for so long. Tears stung in the back of his eyes, reminding him how good it’d feel to be home.
He’d have to go back to working for the FBI. He didn’t want to, but he would definitely be needing the money. Above all, Will hoped his house was okay and ready and waiting for him. He looked forward to catching up on bills. To doing regular, innocent adult things. To sitting on his bed, Winston by his side, in a house that was warm and toasty and—
“You need a ride?” Asks a leaning Jack Crawford, supported up by a stairwell.
Will slowed, stopping halfway to Jack. Hate gently caressed the soft ridges of his mind, tempting him. “Was gonna call a cab—“
“We found Miriam Lass. Alive.”
Will shuffled. Ignored the small tinge of fear when he realized he didn’t really care . He just got out of prison, and Jack wanted to immediately throw him back to work? As in literally right then and there ?
“Catch the Ripper?” Will deflects, because he doesn’t want to think about Lass. Or dead bodies. Or Hannibal; free, planning his next hunt.
Jack slowly shakes his head, amused smile on his lips.
Will reaches up, scratching a non-itchy forehead softly. Needing to fidget. The guilt finally comes back, and he realizes Jack had found his missing colleague who, like Will, got lead to her defeat pursing Jack’s win . “How is she? Miriam.”
Jack shifts and stands, arm resting on the stairwell still. It slides down, “traumatized.” He starts walking towards Will. “Miriam thanked me. After we found her. Thanked me for not giving up on her.”
And Will understood . Jack was guilty, too. Had put Will in prison. Of course Will knew this, but the guilt was unexpected. Jack was stubborn and a sore-loser, and because falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness went against that part of his personality—the one that didn’t feel that bad about Will’s imprisonment—he used Miriam as a metaphor.
He was right, too. He should have kept trying. Should have kept looking.
Should’ve investigated fucking Hannibal .
“But I had… I had given up on her and I gave up on you, too,” Jack finishes, three feet away from Will. Will blinked, hiding emotion. Wanting to run, go home, and see his fucking dogs. “I thought she was dead,” two feet. “I thought you were crazy. And I gave up on trying to find the both of you.”
Will straightens to appear more professional. Inhales. Forces himself to, if anything, give Jack a temporary forgiveness. He needed to put his hatred and anger aside, and focus on what mattered.
Catching the son of a bitch who put him in here.
He nods. Gives a small, amused smile. Pettiness seeps into his bones, and he walks around to lose the feel of Jack so up-close-and-personal. Approaches a cell. “You didn’t have to find me Jack,” he taps on the metal. He starts walking away, towards the stairwell which Jack leant upon minutes before. “Just had to listen to me.”
Dogs. Warmth. New clothes. Bills. Good food.
Jack doesn’t turn. He doesn’t follow. “I put Miriam Lass in a room with Hannibal Lecter; she stated definitively that he is not the Chesapeake Ripper.”
Will slows. Curses in his head for having to be stalled again . Looks over his shoulder and wonders if Jack was stupid. “That definitive enough for you?”
“No,” he answers immediately. “It wasn’t.”
Will’s shoulders relax; the headache he hadn’t even known was there dissipated.
Jack believed him.
He was finally listening .
Will turns fully. Nods at a Jack who isn’t looking at him. “Where’d you find Miriam, Jack?”
-
The drive to the Chesapeake Ripper’s private estate was long and quiet. Will glanced longingly out of the passenger seat of the car he was stationed in, dreaming of his dogs. Of his home.
God, he hoped his home was okay. He hoped that Alana took good care of his strays. They didn’t deserve to be parted with Will.
Eventually, the car rolls to a stop. Will, wishing he could be anywhere but here, pops open the passenger-side door. The cool air greets him harshly. Reluctantly, before he could beg to just go home, he crunches his boots into the snow below him. Jack had finished rounding the car as Will secured the passenger-side door shut.
“The property was condemned years ago. Apparently… the Ripper has been using it since that time,” Jack prompts.
Will glances around at the bright scene before him. The blanket of snow complimented the atmosphere angelically. It sat atop tree branches and watched Will innocently from the sidelines. It was everywhere.
He and Jack closed in on the building. It was kept tidy. Will knew then that Jack presumed the Ripper’s work starting here sooner rather than later was due to that fact. No house could stand so gracefully on its own.
Now in its basement, Will glanced around. There was next-to-no odor. The foundation was primarily wood, and well-kept wood, at that. The forensic team worked idly at certain aspects of the crime scene. Pictures were snapped every now and again, illuminating certain corners and crevices with white, only to darken yet again. Will ducked below hanging gadgets and metals, letting the scene further expand. He glanced down into a hole in the floor. Perfectly rectangular. There was a thin layer of water amongst the underground tunnel’s floor, and water dripping from the walls around it, too.
“Will,” Jack breaks Will out of his observation. He looks up and over at Jack, and yet again remembers that he is at a crime scene right after getting out of prison .
Jesus, he needed to grow a backbone.
“In here,” Jack finishes, head gently bucking behind him to indicate follow. Will indulged after a quick, final look around; committing image to memory.
The next room over was filled with surgical equipment. Will slows, surprise and non-surprise taking over his emotion.
Because it made sense, but he hadn’t thought about it before. Not like this.
He passes Jack, glancing over marked surgical tools for later investigation by the forensic team. A look to his right.
His heart plummets .
The glass which had supported different slivers of Beverly Katz’ body were held in the corner. Pots on pots of blood to its right. Will, already emotional and tense altogether, feels himself repress a shudder. Guilt washes over him.
Beverly died because of him. And yet, not because of him, too. She found Hannibal. Hannibal got caught . And he killed her.
Because Will led her to him.
“It’s Beverly Katz’s blood. He drained her before he froze her before he cut into her,” Jack clarifies from behind Will. Will feels himself starting to shake, overwhelmed and guilty . Jack begins walking towards Will, who was now slightly turned to see him. He didn’t meet his eyes; Jack wouldn’t need Will’s empathy to know what he was feeling. “Chesapeake Ripper’s latest victim. He was found in the other cistern. The water in his lungs is what led us here,” Jack finishes, passing over said-victims case. Will glances at the dead man before him, cut on the transverse plane of his body to only have an upper half; thoracic and abdominal cavities opened to home dozens of (toxic) flowers. He was spread along to look as though a tree was growing out from him. Or, no, that he was one with the tree. To show, too, that he birthed those flowers.
Jack takes the case file back from Will, then walking past him and up towards another hole in the floor. Will, following shortly behind, glances in as Jack shines his flash light into the hole.
“We found Miriam down there. She believed the Ripper brought her here to kill her. He was saving her to be his last victim. He knows… we’re close to catching him.”
“No—“ Will shakes his head, now crouched besides the (prison) hole. “He’s been caught before. Catch a fish once and it gets away…?” Will takes off his glasses, his right hand holding them and shaking them to articulate his words. He looks up longingly. Angrily . “It’s a lot harder to catch a second time.”
Now, to do what he came here to do and leave . He closes his eyes, allowing the pendulum to swing back and forth. No Jack. No police men.
When Will’s eyes open again, he’s alone. The equipment around him fades to nothing. On a table, polite and new, laid flowers. They blossomed and bloomed into beautiful yellows and blues and purples and reds. Will watched them.
When he blinked, he was in Hannibal Lecter’s office. The tree he’d grown, the man who now blossomed toxic flowers for him, stood proud before him. He was beautiful .
And he was planned.
Will’s hand rose, full of a beating heart. The heart was circled and hugged by blue flowers. Will approached the man. He reached up gently, placing the heart inside the man’s chest as though putting a crown atop his prince’s head.
“I sowed the seeds… and watched them grow. I cultivated… a long chain of events leading to this…” Will watches as the tree began to bloom with white flowers. As though fertilized by the heart. “All of this… has been my design.” Will’s arms raise, proud of his beautiful creation. Of the man he birthed and tweaked and let sprout.
He closes his eyes. Miriam looks back at him when he opens them once again, down in her hole.
“It’s theater,” Will states, locking her up and in.
This time, when Will blinks, he’s crouched yet again by an empty, Miriam-less hole.
He hadn’t created the tableau. He wasn’t Hannibal. He hadn’t grown a man into a toxic, flowering-growing tree.
“Every time the Ripper kills someone, it’s theater.”
Will’s hatred returns. “The Ripper didn’t bring Miriam here to kill her,” like he hadn’t meant to become Will’s friend. “He brought her here for you to find,” he only intended to shape him into Hannibal and get someone locked away for his crime.
Until he realized Will was beautiful. Until he saw that Will had a Darkness.
Will walked away from the hole. Jack’s eyes followed, no doubt questioning if Will intended on elaborating. Will’s not-so-neurotypical-ness prevents him from recognizing that he needs to. He glances around. He wishes to go .
“But the Ripper’s not self destructive. He doesn’t want to get caught,” Jack finally perks up, remembering Will’s difficulty with communication.
“He wants you to catch someone .” And it made sense. Hannibal had found something in Will, and had successfully gotten him out to throw someone else in, instead.
What did he want, next? A date? A kiss? Gratitude?
Will’s stomach churned.
“Like he wanted you to catch me,” Will continues bitterly. “Somewhere, in all of this evidence, you will find something that will lead you away from Hannibal Lecter.”
“Miriam Lass has already done that.”
“ Two years . That’s a long time to have Hannibal in your head. You can’t trust her, Jack,” Will’s voice almost plays on condescending, although meaning to convey pity. Jack felt Miriam deserved to be understood. He wanted her to be right, as to let such be his apology. For quitting. For stopping his search, assuming she was dead. “You can’t trust any of this to be what it seems,” Will finishes.
Jack glances around, exhaling.
-
Will’s magnificent, white house shown in the sunset sky. Will clicked the passenger-side door to Jack’s car shut, admiring the building. He removed his glasses. Jack begun driving away, allowing Will to approach his house. His dogs started barking.
Oh fuck, his dogs .
Tears threatened Will’s eyes. “Heh, hey!”He excitedly exclaimed to his rushing dogs, whom of which practically tackled Will thanks to their numbers. He whistles them impossibly closer, letting out another exclamation of happiness.
Their fur was impossibly soft in the rough of Will’s hands. Each bursting with joy to the sight of him; as was he for them. Their eyes glinted in a way that Will had missed sincerely. Innocent and loving. Loyal.
The snow ahead of him crunches after Alana Bloom had stepped off of his porch and into the yard. “Welcome home,” she greets, tone upbeat and warm despite the more neutral set of her face.
Will didn’t feel like calculating. He didn’t feel like becoming Alana to figure out what was going on in her head. All he wanted to do was be himself, for once. For one day.
So, he glances up. His smile is passionate and unwavering, even if it isn’t her presence which brightens it. “Thank you,” he practically whispers. It takes him no time to go back to his focus: Winston. He pet the dog, and the others around him throughly. Making sure to apologize for a long deprivation.
Silence blankets over Will’s land. It isn’t unwelcome, and allows Will to tune into his family. Some had ventured off slightly, safety and security giving them no doubt that Will will not disappear again.
And for that, Will gratefully states, “thank you for watching them. They seem happy.” His voice cracks in the slightest, almost unnoticeable way. Tears decide to push over his lower lids and track down his cheeks. The cold makes him want to stop; the warmth of his dogs does the opposite.
“Happy to see you,” Alana corrects, fidgeting.
An unrecognized dog approaches Will. Will encourages its head up to get a good look, curiously questioning: “who’s this?”
“Applesauce. She’s mine.”
Will gives her an enthusiastic pet. Applesauce .
“She likes applesauce,” Alana finishes, as though reading Will’s mind.
Alana begins towards Will then, leash in hand for her pup. Will smiles happily up at Alana, Applesauce on one of his bent knees and another sat at the opposite body part.
“I rescued her,” Alana adds.
Will glances up at Alana with question. Admiration.
Hate .
He shoves the latter emotion down.
“Picking up some of my bad habits?” He jokes, pushing himself to a stand. He smiles around at the dogs which remained at his feet.
“Picking up your good habits,” Alana corrects. Will looks over to her, settling on her nose instead of her eyes. “You challenged my entire framework of assumptions about the way you are. The way I think you are.”
“Well, the way you think I am… isn’t always a reliable guide to who I am.”
The hate was rising again. Will didn’t want to hate Alana. He supposed that none of his colleagues fighting for his innocence more-or-less just did that.
It wasn’t hard to redirect his hatred. He couldn’t blame the others for their resolves.
Because Hannibal framed him beautifully.
(In his design.)
“I was wrong about you,” Alana replies.
“Because you didn’t believe me? Or in me?” Will asks, majorly out of idle conversation and minority out of offense. His smile is contrived. “Because you… let me question my sanity, my sense of reality?”
“Because you tried to kill Hannibal.”
Oh.
Will’s shock is, no doubt, evident in his features.
Alana wasn’t guilty for letting ‘The Chesapeake Ripper’ lock away Will. Hell, she probably was still on the fence about whether or not Will actually was innocent. She only recognized Will for one thing: his attempt at murder.
His attempt to murder his captor .
He nods. He wants to be mean . To fight back, tooth and nail. To remind Alana that he was let out because he was innocent .
When he realizes it won’t come out without aggression, he leaves it there. A nod.
“You’re wrong about him, Will,” Alana continues (for whatever reason).
“No, you’re wrong about him, Alana. You see the best in him. I… don’t ,” Will replies. Winston, in the nick of time, yaps at his feet. Will gives a strained smile, gratitude and anger fighting for dominance inside of him. Debating which should take over.
“What was done to you doesn’t excuse what you did.”
Will looks up briefly, allowing all of his hate and anger and resentment to practically shine in his eyes. He pets the dogs around him to ground himself.
It was bad enough that Jack didn’t care to consider how awful Will’s time in jail was. To throw him back into the field an hour after he was released.
Now Alana wanted to tell him he wasn’t any better than the Chesapeake-fucking-Ripper?
“Are you going to try and hurt Hannibal again?” Alana questions (because, for some reason, Hannibal’s safety is more important than Will’s new-found freedom. For some reason, she couldn’t see that Will, who would have died before hurting someone else, had tried to kill someone for a reason ). “Is he safe?”
He looks up, recognizing stupidity and looking down upon the foolish woman before him.
This is how the Ripper views other people. Rude people. Not you. His mind idly reminds him.
“From me, or for you?” Will turns the question exceptionally.
Alana looks down. Bitter. Stubborn.
Will nods, angry and ready for a god damn nap.
Standing again, he continues: “He’s dangerous, Alana. I suggest you stay as far away from Hannibal Lecter as you can.”
With a final nod—no argument to be shoved in—he walks towards his house.
“Come on,” he pitches softly, whistling for his dogs to tag along.
When he enters his home—dogs zipping past his feet and into his ‘everything’ room—he lets out an exhale he hadn’t known he was containing. The door behind him swings on its hinges and shuts.
His home looked just as it had before he was torn from it. Except, his dishes weren’t piled in the sink. His trash, upon speculation, was empty. His fridge: stock-empty. His laundry was recently done. He knew without really having to question, that Alana had taken care of more than his dogs.
Gratitude and anger once again fought a battle inside him. He wanted to be mad at Alana, as he deserved to be. However, he knew that Hannibal was charming. He’d been charmed once, too.
So much so that Will questioned his sexuality after meeting Hannibal. After becoming his friend.
All in all, Alana took care of what she thought might make Will’s house less unbearable. The trash would stink up the house for his dogs, surely enough. The dishes with their old food on them would do the same. And if they were to be left in the dishwasher, they’d take up unnecessary space. His groceries expired and would also ruin the cleanliness of the house.
She didn’t know what to do with herself.
No, if that were the case, she’d do more than just clean everything for Will.
She’d break his house. Tear it down. Put his dogs in a pound to spite Will.
And there it was. Underneath all else, Will realized that Alana cleaned his house because, at first, she didn’t believe. She wanted Will to come home immediately, to a clean house as an apology. There was no ounce of her that trusted that Will was the Ripper.
She, no doubt, fought for Will’s innocence until the very end. Unlike anyone else.
Besides Beverly. Who’s dead. Thanks to Will.
Will’s hands covered his eyes. Everything hits him like a truck.
All of the sudden, he’s unsure whether or not he’s breathing. Hyperventilating, and dizzy, Will glances up through now-hazy eyes and locates his (made) bed. He clampers over to it, obnoxiously heaving on his way. He all of but tumbles into the soft plush, snowy shoes smearing dirt and wet onto the covers. His arms encircle his chest, head tucked down. His heart pounds and throbs and Will swears he’s dying.
His sobs are wrecked and intense. They roll out of him like waves crashing against the shore. He breaks and breaks until he’s practically comparable to grains of sand . His head already starts hurting, and he clutches over the middle of his chest.
Prison was impossible . He isn’t even allowed to express himself when he’s in his freedom. He can do whatever the fuck he wants, finally , and yet no one lets him.
He’ll never be free.
He’ll never get to just be again.
-
It took four hours for Will to awake from his oxygen-lacking nap. His head throbbed. His heart still did, too.
He pushed himself slowly to a sitting position, for once forgetting that he’d ever lived anywhere other than this home. Than this bed.
He exhaled, walking now from his bed to his bathroom upstairs. He shed his clothes along the way. He showered in a heat so intense that his skin was a soft pink upon exit.
With a towel wrapped around his waist, and fresh, clean skin, Will debated his next move. He returned to his bed, sighing with exhaustion. He swallowed, remembering that he was dehydrated. Will thought about the walk to his kitchen and back, and decided that dehydration was better than the excursion. He laid his head in his hands, which were propped up on his knees.
‘Miriam Lass stated definitively that Hannibal Lecter was not the Chesapeake Ripper.’
And, like a gift-wrapped present, he knew what he wanted to do.
-
Miriam lived in an admirable house. When Will knocked, she answered fairly quickly.
She was about his height, if not slightly shorter. Her hair was wrapped up in a ponytail, blonde and shiny. She seemed on-edge. Although, she turned and allowed Will to enter calmly enough.
Will walked past her, gazing around at the room before him. Nothing too notable, nothing too bland. He turned when Miriam asked: “Are you an FBI agent?”
“No,” he responds immediately. “Uh… I used to teach at the academy. And, uh, two days ago, I was an inmate at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Courtesy of the Chesapeake Ripper.”
Will looks down. The name tastes like poison on his tongue.
Miriam’s eyes had widened slightly, taken aback by Will’s lack of sugar coating for the name. For the man who kidnapped her. She nodded and walked past Will.
“Well, the Guru told me the only person who had any practical understanding of the Ripper was you. But he didn’t mention you were a victim.”
Will’s brows furrowed together slightly. “Guru?” He asks, genuine confusion lacing his tone.
“Jack Crawford.”
Ah . “Oh.”
“He has a peculiar cleverness.”
Will nods absently. He doesn’t add onto that.
“The Guru tells me… that you don’t remember much about what the Ripper did to you.” Will began walking around aimlessly— pacing— needing to be moving. “I couldn’t remember either,” he continues, the sun illuminating his shadow and circling his person. It warmed his back and praised him. It reminded him that he was free .
“Couldn’t?” Miriam questions, noticing the past tense.
“Oh, I remember now,” Will says cooly. He thinks of Hannibal. The rage splits him in half. “Uh… not all of it. Pieces. I was… under his influence,” Will meets Miriam’s eyes briefly, seeing horror. She didn’t want to talk about this. Will didn’t care; he pushed. “He used some kind of light to induce a seizure response in my brain. It created blackouts and lost time.”
“I remember the light.” Perfect . “He, uh, would stand in front of it. At a distance from me. Silhouetted. Very still. He would listen to chamber music,” Both he and Miriam had sat. “I still hear that. And his voice. Low and even, would pull me to him. Like a current.”
Silence drapes over them, though not uncomfortable. At least not for Will—Miriam seemed to be recalling whatever the Ripper used to say to her. Recalling his silhouette.
“You and I are part of his design. He wanted you to be free. He wanted me to be free, too…” Will shakes his head and looks down.
Thoughts of Hannibal, manipulating and testing Will out of curiosity course through his head. Thoughts of Hannibal crying and missing Will after he inevitably puts him in jail—like it’s better for both of them—and then deciding Will would be okay to leave.
He controlled everything.
He knew Will knew and he set him free; unlike Miriam.
Miriam was not going to get the FBI against Hannibal. Will was.
No matter what it took.
“Neither of us are really free,” Miriam states, breaking Will of his thoughts. “He’s not done.”
Will recalls his breakdown. The fear and relief and everything else which gripped and ripped and ate his heart. He thinks of Miriam, having similar breakdowns. Whenever she gets into an elevator—too tight. Whenever she walks alone—too vulnerable.
He nodded and stood. “Thank you for talking to me anyway, it’s good to have someone who… knows. Kind of.”
He begins towards the door. Miriam remains in her seat, but as he turns his head over his shoulder to say goodbye, she’s offering a small, knowing smile.
-
And Will no longer wanted to leave it to the FBI.
He broke into Hannibal’s house, gun clasped in hand. The home was dark; Will settled for the kitchen shadows.
It took two hours—Will assumed (he didn’t have a clock, but he used to be pretty familiar with Hannibal’s schedule)—for Hannibal to return to his home.
He shuffled around, maybe kicking the snow off of his shoes. Will watched his person appear in the hallway. It walked to its fridge, and paused.
Shit . Will held up his gun.
“The same unfortunate aftershave.”
Will stepped from the shadows. Hannibal’s soft, smooth articulation slightly threw him off. It didn’t quite wane his rage, nor clear the fog infecting his vision with red, but sent a familiar shiver down his spine.
“Too long in the bottle,” Hannibal opened his fridge, like any other evening. Although, he faced Will as he did so.
Not at all worried about the gun.
“Our last kitchen conversation was interrupted… by Jack Crawford. I’d like to pick up where we left off. If memory serves, you were asking me… if it would feel good to kill you.”
“You’ve given that some thought,” Hannibal points out, releasing the fridge and allowing it to close yet again. He folds his hands in front of him.
“You wanted me to embrace my nature, Doctor. I’m just following the urges I kept down for so long. Cultivating them as the inspirations they are.”
“You never answered my question.”
Will shook, whether from the cold or the way Hannibal was taking small steps toward him, he was unsure.
“How would killing me make you feel?”
“Righteous,” Will decides, adjusting to get ready to shoot. His finger found the trigger.
Hannibal flinched unexpectedly, yet forced out a hurried: “Aren’t you curious, Will? Why you?” His eyes darkened, glancing between the gun’s barrel and Will’s eyes.
Attraction .
Will meant to shoot. He meant to watch the brains of the Chesapeake Ripper splatter behind the dead corpse of said man. He meant to do it after death. Again and again, until Hannibal too was broken for good.
But fuck.
Yes .
“Why Miriam Lass?” Not as much; not as greatly. “What does the Chesapeake Ripper want with you?”
“No, you tell me,” Will rushes out. Desperation coated the rage. Closure became a bullet on his need-list. He flexed the gun in his hand, position faltering slightly. He reminded himself that it was his shield, and refocused the gun up again. “How did Miriam Lass find you? You made sure no one could find you that way again.”
“If I’m not the Ripper: you murder an innocent man,” Hannibal deflects. “You, better than anyone, know what it means to be wrongly accused. You were innocent and no one saw it.”
His tone almost sounded remorseful. Not guilty, but annoyed with himself for throwing Will in jail.
“No, I’m not innocent. You saw to that.”
“If I am the Ripper and you kill me, who will answer your questions?”
God fucking damn it.
Hannibal had to get out of his head.
“Don’t you want to know how this ends?”
Yes .
Will smirks slightly, scoffing with no real humor. His stance fades yet again.
With the quickness of a man in distress, he steps sideways and extends one arm out with his gun clutched in it. He aims it at Hannibal, who shuffles away but isn’t afraid .
Hannibal looks sideways. Will cocks the gun.
Hannibal waits.
Even closes his fucking eyes.
He has so much trust in Will to not do it.
And where Will loses so much trust in himself, he discovers his love for the feeling of Hannibal beneath him. Hannibal’s life in his hands. A life at his will. That he could end with a pull of a trigger.
He lowers the gun.
Will knew that Hannibal was the Ripper. Yet, curiosity flowed through his veins and turned him into his own kind of crazy.
He wondered what would happen if Hannibal lived. What would be the Ripper’s next move?
He tries to stride away, to give the fuck up and go home because he suddenly feels like shit . This wasn’t who he was. His empathy got so wrapped up in Hannibal that he became him.
This wasn’t Will. This wasn’t Will. This wasn’t Wi—
Hannibal grabs Will’s frame and tugs him back.
With an exclamation of pain, Will stumbles back into Hannibal’s own body. He writhes and kicks and sputters. Hannibal smacks the gun from Will’s hands effortlessly and pins either of his arms to his sides.
And Will realizes with fear—and attraction—how easily Hannibal could end his life.
The Ripper was out. Hannibal’s person-suit laid shiny along the floor.
Will was not going to let himself go like this. No—he had to do something. There had to be something he could do.
Get somewhere safe. Call someone? Call the FBI?
Only for them to show up, Hannibal sitting pristinely at his table, Will stressed and babbling about Hannibal’s ‘ real ’ self?
He planted his feet, then made a motion similar to a jump. The force caused Hannibal to stumble back, his lower half crashing into his island. His arms faltered, yet were still too strong to wiggle out of.
“ Beautiful , feral boy,” Hannibal purrs.
Will’s eyes widen, his brows furrowing. He swallows.
Huh ?
Hannibal takes Will’s slowing movements as a window. He spins them around gracefully, effectively bending Will over his island. Will feels himself flush when his ass is practically shoved against Hannibal’s groin.
Hannibal doesn’t stop there, though, because of course he doesn’t (was it not enough to just pin Will down?). He releases his hold around Will’s middle, grips his hips, and spins the smaller of the two around.
Will’s about to attack when Hannibal grips both of Will’s wrists and shoves . Will gasps in pain, glancing up at the ceiling as tears bead at his eyes. His hands pressed so harshly against the shiny counter of Hannibal’s island that he questioned if they were broken. Hannibal shuffles closer, redrawing Will’s focus. In the same motion, he pulls both of the other’s arms around himself, and uses one hand like a handcuff to keep Will’s arms there.
Will swallows. Time seems to slow, the two looking at each other.
When Will moves from Hannibal’s nose to his eyes; he catches the admiration.
The love .
“Do you not see it?” He asks.
Will’s brows furrow, swallowing yet again. His wrists and arms were already starting to burn from the stretch of being behind himself already.
Hannibal’s free hand reaches up, cupping Will’s face. Will swears he could see the red forming all over his body.
“So dark. So dangerous. Your potential is astounding and yet you choose to ignore it. You wanted me dead, but you wanted me in pain, too. You probably would’ve shot me until none of me remained, yes?”
“ Yes ,” Will hisses between his teeth, a facade of confidence shielding his own emotions.
To Will’s surprise, Hannibal groans. To Will’s deeper surprise, he liked the sound.
“So, so pretty ,” Hannibal coos, eyes softening.
Will finally gains his self-conscious, shoving his head in the opposite direction of Hannibal’s hand.
When Will slowly turns to Hannibal again, he meets a warm smile.
“I think you should go Will,” he glances down at Will’s lips, almost regretfully.
“Gladly,” Will says, voice quivering and breaking. He didn’t mean for it to sound that way—but Hannibal’s head lowered now and he could practically feel the Ripper’s breath ghosting his lips.
He ‘tsks’ and closes his eyes, breathing in. “I cannot wait to watch you Become, Will. You’ll know where to find me.”
Will’s brows furrow again. He had no idea what Hannibal was talking about.
And, hey, wasn’t he wanting to kill him earlier?
What the fuck is happening?
-
Will existed awkwardly for two days.
Although, it was nice, too.
He was able to get more into a stable lifestyle. He rose around seven every morning. He’d let his dogs out of the front door to do their business, and then he’d make a small breakfast for himself.
The funds from his previous job at the FBI as a profiler had him stable enough. Sure, he’d need to acquire a job soon, but Will wanted to wait.
He’d just gotten out of prison, he deserved it.
After breakfast, he watched TV or read. Sometimes he’d go shopping.
Then, after he was spent from doing nothing all day besides appreciating his freedom, he laid in bed. Winston joined him both nights. They cuddled.
Will had no nightmares.
He did, however, have two dreams of Hannibal.
One was a ‘casual’ date. Hannibal took him out to lunch. Will tried to convince him to not kill anymore, since it was inconvenient for Will and stupid .
He woke up after Hannibal tried to kill him in response.
He didn’t consider it a nightmare, since he didn’t wake in a sweat. His heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear.
And Will did not want to look into that.
In the second, Hannibal taught him how to kill. He explained how much he missed Will and why he got him out of prison.
Will woke in ‘happy’ tears and had to remind himself that he, as matter of fact, hated Hannibal.
Yet the man had made him feel so loved .
That was how Will realized that Hannibal had seen a murderer inside of him.
Already trying to ignore his attraction to the killer, he ignored that too.
Who cared!
On the third morning of crafting his routine, however, a bloody Chilton appeared clumsily at his door. Will had been letting his dogs out, per usual, when the man and (presumably) his belongings started towards him. Will’s dogs barked anxiously.
Will stopped, irritation and confusion spurring through him.
Because he knew Hannibal did this.
He fucking framed Chilton. Of course .
Hannibal had, no doubt, lined this up before he got Will out of prison. It was likely that he wanted Will as some kind of kill-partner (or, God forbid, murder-boyfriend), and because of that, he had to get someone else put into jail for his crimes.
Truthfully enough: he preferred Chilton in jail for the Ripper’s crimes as opposed to himself.
“May I use your shower, please?” Chilton asks, while being aggressively sniffed by Will’s pack. He was out of breath and shivering; either from the cold or the murders he was framed for.
Probably both.
-
After Chilton showered, Will gave him a handful of oversized clothes to wear. It wasn’t that Chilton was heavier, but Will definitely wasn’t the tallest male out there.
Will sat himself in his kitchen. It was a chair separate from the actual table, more towards a doorway which led back outside. The doorway across from him led to a back exit.
“I have the same profile as Hannibal Lecter,” Chilton said, fumbling around with one of his bags. “Same medical and psychological background. We are both doctors of note in our field.”
Will wished he would just fucking leave.
All of this talk about Hannibal was reminding Will of two nights ago. When Hannibal brushed his cheek and looked at him with so much love that Will felt he may overflow. When he excitedly, and almost subtly, confessed that he wanted Will to be his partner.
To ‘become,’ as he put it.
“Of course it would be me!” Chilton exclaims incredulously. His hands waved as he talked, overwhelmed. “Hannibal was never going to kill me. I’m his patsy! I… I have to leave the country. I am leaving the country!” He was so out of breath that Will questioned if he was hyperventilating. He was preparing to leave Will’s house ( thank God ); it would do him no good, though, to try and leave.
Will called Jack.
He didn’t know why, exactly, he was going along with Hannibal’s framing. Perhaps it was because he knew he’d no longer get sideways glances from his peers. No one would question if the Ripper was him anymore.
True, beautiful freedom.
Then, Will could deal with (his feelings for) Hannibal.
“No, if you run, you look guilty,” Will dissuades. He needed Chilton to not bolt, so as to make the arrest swift and easy.
“You did not run and you looked plenty guilty.”
Will wants to argue how different that was. Will was mentally unstable and too involved in the cases for the Ripper that it made sense as to him looking like said killer.
“Abel Gideon was half-eaten in my guest room.” Hannibal put human remains in his fishing lures. “I have corpses on my property.” Will disappeared with Abigail—while unstable. “You just threw up an ear.”
“There’s an APR on you right now. They’ve canceled credit cards, they’re tracing your phone…” and they’re coming.
“I have cash and I tossed my phone. Jack Crawford thinks I killed two agents— three agents. You know what tends to happen to people who do that?” He was talking so fast, and yet Will was getting bored . “Shoot on sight.”
“I’m going to prove Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper.”
“I know you will. Then, when you do, I will read about it from a secure location and I will reintroduce myself to society at that time.”
Will’s dogs started barking.
Will looked knowingly at Chilton and bit back a smile.
Chilton, bewildered, walked past Will’s chair to investigate. Through a window, Jack’s car drove up towards Will’s house.
“Will…” Chilton starts, backing up and into the room again. He’s voice shook, high and needy. “What have you done?”
“I called Jack Crawford.”
In the end, Will couldn’t switch to believing that Chilton was the Ripper. Not only would it look insanely suspicious—like he’s guarding Hannibal—but it could put him in danger again.
So, he’d continue to pin the blame to Hannibal, yes. Hannibal fucking deserved it, anyway.
However, to not have Chilton put in prison or murdered was too much of an opportunity to miss.
“No…” Chilton whispered. “No,” he repeats, somehow even softer. Tears tracked down his cheeks. “No,” he began fumbling for his gun. “No,” he aims it at Will.
Will did not feel fear, and he realizes—minus the love—that this was how Hannibal felt.
Chilton would never shoot him. However, given the correct conditioning that Will was, he could .
He thinks of the tree tableau—the man with a bunch of toxic flowers.
It was me , he realizes.
Hannibal planted his seeds and watched me…
Become.
“No,” he still sounded so desperate. He inhaled, face contorting with anger as Will rose from his seat. “No! No! No, stay there!” He pointed at Will frantically.
Will bitterly scoffs and whispers: “You’re not a killer, Frederick.”
But I will be. I am. His brain supplies with equal sourness.
Will walked out of the room. He needed to let Jack in. The anger and resentment he’d buried for Hannibal rose to the surface. Shoving open the screen door to his home, he steps onto his porch with fake amusement and sour energy coursing through his body.
“Why’d you come alone, Jack?” When Jack interrupts him with a “where is he?,” Will asks again: “Why’d you come alone?”
“ Where is he?! ”
“Hey-Hey! I told you. Everything is not what it seems. The Chesapeake Ripper is still playing with us. All of us,” Will being included in that ‘all’ brought a churn to his stomach. His heart felt as though it were breaking.
He let Hannibal in, something he never does. They had a child !
Why? Why ?
‘Aren’t you curious, Will? Why you?’ He recalls Hannibal asking.
All for curiosity. He wanted to see what Will would do.
Then, after locking him up, he realized how much Will was ‘becoming.’ He took him out and threw Chilton in instead.
An apology just as much as an ask for an apology in return. He wanted Will to join his side, after apologizing for blaming Hannibal so publicly. Hannibal admired the bite on Will, but wanted it aimed elsewhere. Wanted it on his side.
What- fucking- ever .
“The Chesapeake Ripper is not playing all of us. Will; he’s playing you.”
Will knew that Jack wasn’t meaning Hannibal. He knew he was referring Chilton. So he let it go.
Although, had he been talking about Hannibal, he’d still be correct.
Not that Will wasn’t playing back, now.
“Jack wait—“ Will shoves him back in front of him after Jack attempts on walking in past him. “I’ll bring him out. He’s got a gun.”
Will turns, but Jack follows.
“Good,” he walks past Will into the house.
Will turns and decides to wait on the porch.
Fine , he thinks.
Invade my home again .
-
Will ran a small towel over the top of his head, ruffling the curls forming. Removing the towel around his waist, he places both into his hamper. He opens his closet, tugging out a baggy t-shirt. After he fits it over his head, he walks to a dresser. Finds plaid pajama pants. Shuffles into them.
After Chilton’s arrest, Will felt light. Almost rejoiced. He thought of what his next move against Hannibal would be, as to deepen their game, and figured he’d came up with a good idea.
He returns to his closet, opening it with a smug smile on his face. Tomorrow, everything would work in his favor.
No move could be made again him.
He picks out a light red—not pink—button-down shirt. He folds it, places it on the desk which held his fishing lures, and returns yet again to his dresser. He fishes out a pair of dark pants and a black belt. Similarly, he folds and lays them upon his shirt.
Then, he went to bed.
-
Will turned off his car and popped open the door. The air was chilly and bitter, as opposed to what would come. His hair was styled and recently cut (by himself, granted). He shut the door, allowing the cold air to brush his warm cheeks.
Sure, Will was going to stunt Hannibal, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be nervous.
He walked up to Hannibal’s building. His car honked twice to indicate lock.
-
When Will got to Hannibal’s waiting room, he turned his back to it after knocking. To look more mysterious, maybe. (To swallow his nerves, most likely.)
He pretended to be appreciating the paintings upon the wall when Hannibal opened the door. Will could practically hear an intake of breath.
He turned slowly, almost as though not expecting Hannibal to be there.
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says, shocked.
Will takes in his face, appreciating Will and his form. Will had a suit jacket hung on one of his arms, feigning professionalism.
Will smiled .
“May I come in?” He asks.
Hannibal seemed to observe him more cautiously, now. He checked Will out.
Since Will was trying to charm him; he doesn’t hide his flush anymore. It accents his cheeks and ears.
“Do you intend to point a gun at me?” Hannibal asks, neither displeased nor pleased by the idea itself.
Will decides to take initiative. He steps towards and into Hannibal’s room.
“Not tonight,” he smirks.
The room looked no different than it had when Will used to go to therapy here. Or, well, have his ‘conversations’ with Hannibal.
The smell was the same, and Will cherished the relaxation it brought him.
Probably manipulated or groomed into him.
Whatever .
When Will realizes truly that Hannibal hasn’t left yet (he had half-hoped Hannibal wouldn’t have kept his appointments open, so Will wouldn’t have to be confident. Alas…), he asks: “expecting someone?”
Hannibal hesitates.
“Only you.”
Will’s glad Hannibal can’t see him—since he blushes and smiles slightly. He’s glad he can’t see Hannibal—because he doesn’t want to know what Hannibal looks like right now.
He doesn’t want to want .
“Kept my standing appointment open?” Will questions, reveling in the idea. Reveling in the thought of a desperate Hannibal. A missing-Will Hannibal.
“And you’re right on time.”
Will sighs. Shakes his head. “I have to deal with you.”
He swallows.
“And my… feelings about you.”
Hannibal stares holes into Will’s back.
“I think it’s best if I do that directly.”
Hannibal starts walking towards him. “First you have to grieve for what is lost. And what has changed.”
“I’ve changed,” Will says, bitterly. Yet, not truly upset.
Incapable .
“You changed me,” it comes out like an accusation.
“The friendship that we had is over.” In its place, a new relationship has formed . “The Chesapeake Ripper is over.”
Will scoffs. Shakes his head, again. “It had to be Miriam, didn’t it? She was compelled to take his life so she could take her own back,” Will remarks to a scenario he’d heard previously. Miriam shot Chilton.
Will, too, tried to use murder to take back his life.
“How will you take your life back?” Hannibal questions, picking up on this. He seems to understand that Will is admitting that he no longer feels compelled to kill Hannibal.
He wants to know what he’s compelled to do with Hannibal, now.
Will turns to him. Closes their distance a bit more with faux confidence. “I’d like to resume my therapy.”
Hannibal smiles softly. Will ignores the butterflies in his heart.
Hannibal steps closer.
Will flutters his lashes seductively, looking up at the Ripper. Letting him see.
Accepting his becoming.
“Where shall we begin?”