Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Ripper is all Will can think about. The killer fills his mind, permeating every thought. Everything yet nothing reminds Will of him. Will gets into his car in the morning and wonders if the killer does the same. He must transport his kills in his car. The thought of the skilled killer placing a corpse into his own car and driving to the spot he's deemed worthy of his art sends a strange thrill up Will's spine. A task so mundane knighted something exciting by the presence of death. Will's brain is a sponge, dripping in oversaturation, too full to contain what's pouring inside. He can't even sleep to escape the killer's clutches.

The dreams are often worse than reality. Will's unconscious mind is less guarded, forced ethics slipping away. He becomes less of the entranced observer held in place by societal norms like he is in reality and more susceptible to his primal urges in sleep. He sees the Ripper in the magnificent form of a Wendigo, alluring him—tempting him—with bloody claws and teeth. Death is the Ripper's paintbrush in his morbid pieces of art. Nothing has ever been more profound than his works.

Will wants to watch it happen in real time.

Will wants to participate.

The Ripper's set his mind on fire. Death and its beauty have overtaken Will's thoughts. He keeps losing time at work, usually after staring at whatever new corpse Jack shoves in his face. In the morning (more and more often in the afternoon), he keeps waking up in different areas of his house. After he woke up holding one of his hunting knives and a sharpening block, he's begun to handcuff himself to the bed with one hand chained to the flimsy headboard when he goes to sleep. His other hand is free and in reach of the key on his nightstand. The handcuffs haven't failed him yet, but they leave an angry red mark around his wrist.

Will tells Dr. Lecter some of this. Not all of it like the lost time or the handcuffs. He mentions poor sleep and sometimes describes his nightmares. Will doesn't think he can handle the disgusted reaction from the one person he's really beginning to like if he told Lecter everything that goes on inside his mind. Especially recently.

Will dry-swallowed a couple Tylenol nearly half an hour ago, but he still has a raging headache. He feels feverish, but his thermometer won't turn on, so he doesn't know if he's actually sick or just a little warm. He decides it doesn't really matter.

It's late, so Will goes through with his nightly routine, including the newest addition of handcuffing himself to the bed. He really should switch hands to prevent his right wrist from rubbing raw, but he only has a nightstand on one side of the bed and can't be bothered to move it every night.

He's still thinking about Lecter as he stares up at the ceiling when his thoughts inevitably drift to the Ripper. Lecter is so particular it borders on OCD, and Will snorts at the idea that he'd get along with the Ripper. His kills are so methodical, every detail planned and with purpose, just like Lecter is with literally everything from his gelled hair to his decadent dinners. Surely, the doctor must appreciate the orderliness to the kills. Will should ask him in their next session. He can already picture the amused glint in Lecter's eye.

Actually…the Ripper is a surgeon just like Lecter was. If anyone could appreciate the Ripper's skills most, it'd be the doctor. They're quite similar, really. The profile Will's been able to piece together from the kills says the Ripper is methodical, skilled, observant, and detached. A bit like Lecter gets when he finds a thread about Will that Will had hoped to keep hidden. The Ripper is cultured as seen in the symbolism and artistry of the kills like Lecter is. But, the Ripper would be an outcast. At the end of the day he's a sociopathic killer, so he wouldn't have any real close friends or family; most serial killers don't. And…well… Will supposes Lecter doesn't have anyone like that either. He's not married. Currently single. He never mentions his family, and Will's never seen them around. Lecter's sort of the eccentric bachelor: whimsical and desirable yet out of reach like Jay Gatsby.

A strange similarity between the serial killer and Will's therapist.

Stranger still that there are multiple similarities between them.

But that would be impossible.

Will shakes his head. It's late. He's tired. He's obsessed with the Ripper and is honestly probably not in the headspace he needs to be in to be looking at dead bodies all the time. He's making connections and assumptions that have no basis.

But…

The profile fits. Like…exactly.

And if it is true (an idea Will is allowing himself to entertain just for tonight), then that would mean Lecter has been stringing Will along, playing him like he plays the theremin. A game. Another pig. Nothing more. Will isn't special, despite Lecter saying he is in therapy. The only value Will has to him is entertainment.

How had Will allowed himself to believe he was worth something just because Lecter insisted he was?

Despite himself, Will's heart sinks like a stone in a cold lake. He swallows. Squeezes his eyes shut. Has Lecter been playing him this whole time? There's no way this connection between him and the Ripper can be true.

But it has to be. Every inconsistency and quirk about Lecter is easily explainable if he is the Ripper. His fixation on the macabre, his eagerness to entertain morally gray discussion, his need for constant control, his flawless appearance, his physique. The puzzle pieces seamlessly fit together.

Will opens his eyes. The ceiling stares down at him.

Lecter has been trying to endear himself to Will with flattery and secret smiles. And…maybe he had been flirting with Will after all—just enough to blind Will from his inconsistencies. From his lies.

From the betrayal.

Of course this brilliant, tasteful, wonderful man doesn't actually have any interest in Will. Oh, Will has been so stupid.

And here comes the rage.

Because Will may be stupid, but he had been correctly reading the signals Lecter had (falsely) been giving him. How dare Lecter take this from him? This friendship. This solace. Will's only safe haven. The one thing that truly made him happy. The doctor had claimed to be Will's paddle, but he'd been the storm Will had been rowing against this entire time.

It hurts even worse now knowing he won't have that friendship again. He's never had anything like it before, and now he must return to the cold. To the loneliness and empty aching. To the crushing sadness and painful yearning. He must return to himself and his thoughts. All alone. Yet again. He really should've known better.

He wishes he could forget this all. Ignorance really is bliss.

Will's so upset his hands shake as he unlocks the handcuffs. He blindly grabs a pair of discarded jeans on the floor. He doesn't even bother to put on a belt and is zipping up his pants by the time he reaches his small gun safe. He easily punches in the numbers, grabs the magazine, and slams it into his gun. He puts the gun in his waistband and throws a jacket on over. The gun is unnoticeable.

Will hastily fills the pack's bowls with what he hopes will be enough food and water, grabs his keys, and rushes out the door. The door slams behind him as he walks into the cold night air. His breath leaves his lips in a tiny cloud like a small phantom floating up to escape to Heaven.

He thinks his rage will carry him through this all, but his adrenaline wears off twenty minutes into the drive to Lecter's. The rest of the ride is a battle to keep his eyes open. He shouldn't be driving, but Lecter shouldn't be killing people, so who's really in the wrong here?

He's barely awake by the time he parks in front of Lecter's house. Lecter had (foolishly) given Will a key, and Will pretends he doesn't feel the sharp, sudden twinge of nostalgia at the sight of it. That's all over now. It hadn't even been real in the first place.

But that somehow doesn't make the memories less sweet.

As he's unlocking the serial killer's door, Will is distantly aware he should be angrier. He should feel this betrayal like lightning in his veins. It should make his heart thump in anger and his hands shake in adrenaline. And Will supposed it did when he had first come to the realization laying down in his bed over an hour ago.

Why can't he feel even a drop of that anger now?

Will knows he has no chance in Hell of sneaking up on the Chesapeake Ripper, so he doesn't even try. He flicks the light on after he shuts the front door.

"Dr. Lecter?"

It's silent.

Will doesn't bother taking his shoes off and keeps his coat on to conceal his gun. He wanders through the house, flicking lights on in every room he visits. He starts in familiar areas like the foyer, the kitchen, and the lounge. It's all empty. He makes his way up the carpeted stairs and finds an office with a stately wooden desk. If he wasn't already on the warpath, he'd take the time to snoop. There's a guest room. Will knows it's a guest room because it's modestly bland like a hotel room. It's boring and disappointing.

But then he finds Lecter's room. There's an empty king-sized bed, silk sheets, and a giant walk-in closet filled to the brim with his ridiculous suits. Fondness helplessly bubbles up in Will's chest. It quickly transforms into something aching and hopeless, and Will forces himself to turn away. It also doesn't help that the bedroom smells like him, and an onslaught of good memories flood into Will's mind. His exhaustion makes his emotions slippery and difficult to control. They pour out of him like water leaking out of a squeezed fist. He can't reign in his feelings, despite his best efforts.

His vision is blurred with tears as he looks inside the bathroom. There's a shower, a toilet, and a gigantic tub. And, before he can stop it, the vision of Hannibal sitting in the tub filled with bubbles in his perfectly styled hair pops into Will's mind, and he can't help the tired smile that tugs at his lips. Will internally scolds himself for feeling anything sentimental about the killer and turns back to the bedroom.

His eyes land on the blackout curtains. Because of course. Lecter is a creature of the darkness. Of the night. Of horrible, poisonous thoughts, infecting everyone he can touch. He's the one that makes Will think these horrible, murderous thoughts.

It's a lie, but Will can't take any more truths today.

It's plainly obvious that Lecter isn't home, and it's also obvious what he's doing if he isn't here at this hour. It's that thought that cements Will's resolve. The Ripper must die. Tonight.

Will is going to have to wait for him to return. He plops down on Lecter's bed in his shoes and his jacket and waits propped up on the (frankly absurd) amount of pillows on the bed.

And so he waits.

And he waits.

And he waits on the cushy pillows. He waits on the silk sheets. He waits in the quiet dark. He waits as his eyelids grow heavier and heavier. But he is determined, so he keeps on waiting.

"Will." It's said so softly. So fondly. And it's accompanied by the gentle caress of fingertips ghosting down his cheek.

Will slowly blinks his eyes open. And Hannibal is there. Right in front of him. Inches away. And he's staring down at Will like he found a pearl in a clam. As if Will is a treasure he didn't expect to see.

Will smiles. "Hi."

Hannibal can't seem to help himself, and he gently strokes Will's cheek again. "Although I am glad for this surprise visit, I am a bit concerned to find you here."

The rush of memories is as abrupt as a teacup shattering onto the floor.

The betrayal stings as badly as it did the first time. And Will is fucking pissed.

Hannibal is still close, so it's easy for Will to firmly plant his palms on Hannibal's chest and shove. It catches the killer by surprise, and he stumbles backwards several steps. Confidence strikes through Will's core, empowering him. He smoothly slips off the bed while pulling the gun from his waistband and pointing it in the Ripper's direction.

"Will." Hannibal is slightly breathless. He slowly moves his arms, so his palms are facing Will. Peaceful. Placating. Like Will is some sort of rabid dog. "You're not thinking clearly. You have a fever. I need to take you to a hospital."

It's all wrong. The words sound rehearsed. Expected. Hannibal is composed. Calm. Still in control.

It's like a blade being twisted inside him before being yanked out.

Will laughs bitterly, and it sounds delirious. "Oh my god. You knew. You fucking knew I was sick!" He laughs again. "Is there anything you wouldn't do to me?"

"Will—"

"It's over, Hannibal." It's the first time he's called the killer by his first name. "I know."

They share a breath in air so thick with tension Will is nearly convinced he can feel the weight of the individual molecules piling onto him.

And then Hannibal is moving, and he is fucking fast. His hand is around Will's throat in one second, and in the next Will is thrown to the ground onto his back, the wind knocked out of him, and his gun falling from his hand on impact.

As he helplessly gasps, Will realizes he is fucked. Maybe on a good day he could outmatch the Ripper in a fight. If he was completely prepared on neutral territory. But this is the Ripper's literal home turf. And Will is sleep deprived. And sick. So sick that Hannibal had suggested the hospital. Maybe he should've been more honest about his symptoms in his therapy sessions after all.

Then Hannibal is on him again. He straddles Will's waist before sitting on him. He definitely uses more weight than necessary, restricting Will's breathing.

He's doing it on purpose.

Some sort of feral sound between a growl and a snarl escapes Will's lips, and he lunges, only to have something strong yank at his hair, pulling him back down against the floor.

Hannibal towers over him, sitting at the edge of Will's diaphragm, with a fistful of Will's hair in one hand. He tugs Will's hair once more, baring his neck to the killer. Will immediately begins to run his hand along the floor, desperately searching for his gun.

A hand on his throat. It squeezes only for a second, but it leaves Will gulping for air.

"Be still."

Will stills.

"Will. Look at me."

It's only then that Will realizes his eyes are shut. But Hannibal has taken all of his autonomy so far. He will not let him have this.

"No."

"Very well."

For a few moments, neither of them move. Will keeps his eyes clamped shut, but he can feel Hannibal's gaze on him like a physical weight. His breaths are still shallow from where Hannibal presses down on him, restricting his movement, but it begins to feel less like being caught and more like being held in place.

The hand fisted in Will's hair slowly loosens. Hannibal's hand stays there, but his touch turns soft and rhythmic. Almost soothing. Will is in danger of falling asleep like this.

Will's voice is rougher than he'd like it to be when he says, "Are you…petting my hair?"

Unashamedly, "Yes."

"You're so weird."

"Yet you let me continue."

And Will does. He tells himself it's because he'll most likely die soon, so why not enjoy the last few seconds of softness he will ever experience?

Hannibal keeps running a calming hand through Will's curls, blunt nails scratching his scalp just right. His other hand makes itself known when Hannibal places it on Will's neck. His warm fingers curl around his throat, but he doesn't apply any pressure. At least not yet.

A foreign urgency overtakes Will. It's as if his brain has caught up with the situation, and he realizes he doesn't have much time left. He has so much left he wants to say. So much left he needs to tell Hannibal.

"What you do is beautiful," Will blurts. It's rushed, and he's desperate to say it before he can't.

There's a pause before a puzzled, "My therapy?"

Will almost laughs and grins despite himself. He's pinned to the floor by the man who's going to kill him, yet he can't help the swell of endearment that fills his chest. He's hopeless—a lost cause. He supposes it's time he accepts that. His eyes flutter open.

Hannibal is staring down at Will with dark eyes, pupils blown wide, completely transfixed on the man beneath him. Hannibal's mask is completely off; the person-suit has been discarded. And he is glorious.

Hannibal is beautiful in the way the Devil is. Forbidden and awful, yet alluring and divine all the same. He's irresistible. Inevitable. He is the snake in the garden, and Will is Eve.

Both of Hannibal's hands have come to gently cradle Will's face, and Will's never felt more adored in his life. He's never known a touch so reverent. It's pathetic. It's revolutionary. It means everything, yet it means nothing.

Will speaks, "The…kills. The way you use death as a medium for art. It…it really is beautiful, Hannibal." Unstoppable tears spill from his eyes and drip down the sides of his face, a few slipping into his ears. "You're something special."

"Will."

"There will never be anything like you again, and I just—" His voice cracks and more tears well up, distorting his vision. "I'm just happy to have seen it."

"Will."

"You'll turn me into something beautiful too, won't you?"

"Oh, Will, you sweet, perfect thing. Don't you see it's your beauty that has caught my eye? That it's your uniqueness that's grabbed my attention? I am as helpless as a fly in a spider's web when it comes to you."

A hysterical laugh bubbles out from Will. "That's a bit hard to believe given the current situation."

"Ask anything of me, and I will do it."

Will studies him, but Hannibal's expression remains the same. Intense. Completely focused. Earnest. There's a shine to his eyes that Will belatedly realizes are tears.

Will says, "Let me go."

Hannibal suddenly looks wistful, a sad smile tugs on his lips, and tears streak down his cheeks. And, Jesus Christ, he's even beautiful when he cries. He strokes Will's cheeks with his thumbs with a gentle sweetness that makes Will ache for something unnameable.

"Okay," Hannibal simply agrees. And then he's moving. Shifting off of Will and standing. Hannibal looms over him now, staring at Will like he always is.

A cold, disbelieving wariness seeps into Will's bones. He slowly stands up, keeping his eyes trained on Hannibal, ready for another betrayal. He snatches his gun on his way up, and nearly sways on his feet at the sudden lightheadedness from standing so quickly. He's tense, but Hannibal isn't. He stands in front of Will completely lax. He isn't coiled for another attack.

Will could kill him now.

Will puts his gun back into the waistband of his jeans while maintaining eye-contact with Hannibal. His heart is thumping loudly, and his mouth is dry. He moves to pass Hannibal, but freezes when he hears,

"Will."

He waits in tense silence, but Hannibal says nothing else.

"What?" Will prompts, his patience thin and his anxiety high.

"You have encephalitis. You need to go to a hospital and get an MRI."

"And how long have you known about this?"

Hannibal's following silence is answer enough.

Will takes a couple more steps away from Hannibal and then stops.

Because he can picture it. He can picture driving to the hospital right now in the dark. He's still exhausted. His headache is beginning to come back with a vengeance. He's sweaty and cold and feverish. He imagines sitting in the waiting room filling out the paperwork all by himself in this state. He envisions shivering in nothing but a gown during the MRI, trapped in the claustrophobic tube with nothing but his thoughts for far too long. He sees himself sitting in a hospital bed with an IV, downing whatever pills they want to give him. And then he thinks about pulling out his phone and wondering if he should call Alana or Jack or maybe Beverly when the one person he really wants there isn't.

Will knows he's being stupid and impulsive and driven by his fever and the dark madness dwelling deep within him when he says, "Promise to never lie to me again."

Immediately, "I promise."

"I mean it, Hannibal."

Will hears Hannibal move behind him. His movements are slow and purposeful. Predictable. He's trying not to spook Will. A firm hand on Will's shoulder gently tugs, wanting him to turn around. Will allows it.

Hannibal is silently crying, and it's not fair. Will knows he's killed dozens, probably more, but in this moment he looks like nothing more than a heartbroken man. "I promise, Will. I…" He swallows, and he's uncertain. It's a strange look on him, stranger still that Will is the reason for it. "This is new to me. But I will try my best. I promise." It sounds like a plea.

He's begging.

It takes everything in Will not to kiss him. "Then take me to the hospital and don't leave my side until I'm well again."

Hannibal's eyes widen in surprise, then awe, then joy.

"But, Hannibal," Will says with a sternness he isn't feeling, "you try anything like this again, and I will kill you."

"Yes," he breathlessly agrees. He seems to enjoy the idea of Will killing him, and Will has no idea how to feel about that. But he has no time to dwell on it before Hannibal is cupping his cheek with a warm palm and saying, "I am going to take good care of you, Will."

It feels indefinite.

Like a promise.

Like a vow.

And it's everything Will's ever wanted.