Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The next time he wakes everything is bright, so bright and noisy, a constant beeping and the thrum of machines. Had James moved him? There are tangles of lines attached to him, choking him, and he pulls at them, tries to pry them off, hears people-

-removing the-

-sedate-

“No,” he tries to croak, and nothing comes out, and then he’s sinking back into unconsciousness.

He only finds out later that he spent the better part of a week like this, incoherent, fading in and out as he fought a dangerously high fever while he was already weak and malnourished. All he remembers is an endless nightmare and then one day, suddenly, he wakes up.

It’s still too bright. The beeping and hums are familiar now, sounds he’s heard many times visiting victims, and he realizes he’s in the hospital.

He’s too exhausted to cry with relief, but he wants to.

Will tries to sit up. Someone helps him, a firm grip, and for a second all he can think is Hannibal, it’s Hannibal, he’s here, he saved me-

He turns his head and sees Jack.

“Can you hear me?”

Something in his behavior must have changed because Jack helps him sit up without a second of hesitation. “Hannibal,” he rasps. It feels like every ounce of strength he possessed has been drained from his body.

“It’s Jack.”

He must have been pretty delirious if that’s the reaction he’s getting. “I know. Where is he?” Hannibal would be here with him, he should be here, it makes no sense that he isn’t, unless. Unless.

Jack looks away and Will feels like his stomach is splitting open. “You can’t see Hannibal.”

“No,” Will whispers. He remembers the fight but not how it ended, had James gotten him with the gun after all, there had been so much blood-

When Jack looks back he immediately curses. “Will, no, I didn’t- fuck, I’m sorry. He’s fine. You just can’t see him because he’s under house arrest, and because of the upcoming trial.”

Will closes his eyes and lets reality sort itself out, breathing a huge sigh of relief. But the questions soon flood him. “What trial?”

“Do you remember anything from when you were rescued?” Jack winces. “I’m not here as part of my job. I’m not questioning you.”

Looking down, Will shakes his head. “Not much, and I was hallucinating during it. There was a fight. It has to have been Hannibal but I didn’t… see him.”

Jack nods. It takes him a while to answer. “The day we found you… We were looking at cabins in Washington and Jefferson. Hannibal became extremely agitated sometime in the afternoon, then ran off hours later. Only reason we found him was because he sent me the coordinates before breaking in himself.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. “When we got there… there was so much blood, and the way he was holding you- we thought you were dead.”

Will looks down at his arms. There is still bruising on them, from the last time James had gone down to the basement. “I take it the blood came from neither of us.”

“Some of it was yours. We had to sedate him to separate you. Later, when he had calmed down, he told me you had had a seizure.”

Hands tighten in the scratchy hospital sheets. “A seizure,” Will repeats, numbly.

“You had some sort of brain inflammation.” Jack leans back in his chair and rubs his forehead, clearly exhausted. “It’s been treated, and you shouldn’t have any other lasting effects. They want you to stay in the hospital for a while.”

The thought of being trapped here makes his skin crawl. “I want to go home.”

“I know you do.” Jack meets his gaze, and the look in his eyes makes Will realize he’s not getting out of this. “They want to make sure you gain back the weight safely, and that there are no complications because of the drugs you were forced to take.”

That’s not all of it. It’s not even most of it. Both of those things could be done as an outpatient. “What’s the real reason, Jack?”

They’ve worked together long enough that Jack knows better than to try to lie to Will, and also knows telling him the truth is usually the best way to get him to cooperate anyways. So he tells him all of it. “Hannibal brutalized the man who took you. He’s going to be on trial for murder. We barely got him to agree to house arrest, and only because you’re safe here. In the hospital. If you went home he’d immediately break out to get to you and it’d make things much worse for him.”

Will blinks. “Murder? He saved me.”

“He also used violence far beyond the point of need.”

His mind is racing. “Defending a mate is a common way to dodge a murder charge. He has a history of violent instinctual behavior. Why is he being charged?”

Jack looks at him like he can’t believe Will is making him say it out loud. “Because you’re a Beta, Will. You may be mates but none of the instinctual behavior that comes from mating applies here. The best he could swing is crime of passion, and even that carries jail time.”

With a sinking feeling, Will realizes Jack is right. For the first time in his life, Will regrets that he’s a Beta. “I don’t-” He grits his teeth. “This is ridiculous. I want to see him, Jack. I need to see him. It’s- It’s considered inhumane to separate mates, right?”

“It’s considered inhumane because of the mental bond formed when Alphas and Omegas mate with each other. You know that doesn’t apply here.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“What we think doesn't change the law. Look.” He sighs. Strangely, Jack then glances around the room, checking to make sure they’re alone. “Will, listen to me.”

It gives Will pause. “What.”

“If you go to see him, unsupervised, every single thing you say will be thrown out in court. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

To anyone else the comment would seem patronizing, but Will knows Jack is trying to get him to look deeper at his words. If crime of passion was truly being argued then his testimony wouldn’t amount to much so it would be irrelevant. There is a similar argument that could be made; something activated Hannibal’s Alpha instincts, like a potential threat. Another Alpha. What they’re going to argue finally slots into place. Though his captor had been a Beta, he acted like an Alpha, and it may have been enough to make Hannibal lose control in this specific situation.

He really fucking hates this, but he’d hate it more if Hannibal went to jail.

Will reroutes the conversation, confirmation enough that he got what Jack was alluding to. “You said… unsupervised.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Jack quickly adds. “It won’t be private.”

“I don’t care,” Will says quietly. “I just need to see him.”

Stands, Jack nods. “Understood. I’ll make it happen, but it might take a bit. I’ll let the nurses know you’re awake.” Though he walks to the hospital room door, he pauses at the exit. “Will, I… I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You only met him because-”

“No,” Will interrupts, voice firm. “It’s not your fault. The only person that should be blamed is dead.”

For a long moment, Jack is silent, his back to Will. He finally glances backwards. “Alright. Take care, Will.”

With that, he leaves.

There’s too much to process so Will closes his eyes and lets his thoughts sink away, picturing the steady current of the riv-

He thinks of the ocean. It’s been a while since he’s seen it but he can still clearly picture the sand, the cries of the seabirds, and the sharp scent of salt. It’s overcast in his mind, a white, muted fog, everything so drained of color that it’s hard to believe it’s all real.

It’s what he needs right now.

He watches the ocean until he hears someone enter his room and he opens his eyes, turning his head to see a nurse approaching warily. When he doesn’t attack on sight they seem to relax, even brighten. “How are you feeling?”

Terrible, Will doesn’t say, because that won’t be helpful. “Overwhelmed.”

That doesn’t really help either.

They nod, sympathetic. “I’m just going to do a quick check-up and then I’ll fetch the doctor. Are you in any physical pain?”

He allows the nurse to maneuver him, taking his blood pressure, his temperature, all the basics. “Yes, but nothing severe.”

They nod. “More just aches and soreness? Your temperature has gone back to normal, which is a relief.”

After a moment, he nods. “How long have I been here?”

“Let me see…” The nurse leans back, putting away the supplies. “Today is the… I believe three, maybe four days? Your physical injuries weren’t terrible, thankfully, but we’re more worried about your illness and malnutrition. It looks like we can cross one of those things off the list. We’ll have to run more tests to be sure.” They enter some information into the computer and then slide the station away. “Doctor Cho should be free, so she’ll probably be in pretty quickly. Anything you want in the meantime?”

“Nothing you can provide,” Will says before he can stop himself. “No,” he corrects. “I’m okay.”

There’s a flicker of pain in the nurse’s eyes, soon replaced by a polite smile. “Of course. If you need anything just hit that button there and we’ll come right away.” They point out the call button before exiting the room.

This pity, this sympathy… it’s hitting Will that he’s going to be experiencing a lot of it, and it’s not something he’s looking forward to.

True to the nurse’s word, barely five minutes later a short woman with long dark hair and a white coat comes into the room, and this time she shuts the door behind her. “Mr Graham, hello. It’s good to see you awake and not attacking any of our nurses.”

Will flinches. “I attacked someone?”

“Water under the bridge. Your fever was, frankly, astonishing, and you clearly didn’t understand where you were.” She works at the computer for a second, making a satisfied noise when she looks at the new information, before pulling up a chair and wheeling it to the side of his bed. “I’m Veronica Cho, your main doctor for your stay. How is your head? Any headaches?”

His hand flies up to his head, like he could physically feel the presence of a headache. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Just barely, she frowns. “I’m not a fan of you having chronic headaches either but it sounds like we might be out of the woods. You had Encephalitis, an inflammation of the brain. It was causing the high fevers and I’m sure a whole slew of cognitive symptoms. Have you experienced anything unusual in recent memory?”

“Um.” A brain inflammation? “Hallucinations, mainly. Sleepwalking when I don’t normally. Confusion, disorientation.”

The frown deepens. “Why didn’t you seek medical treatment?”

That’s definitely not something he can share, not if he ever wants to see Hannibal again. “I thought- I thought it was just because of the high fever.”

“Well, I suppose the seizure would have clued you in eventually.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “I’m not going to call it mild but we caught it before it did any irreversible damage. It may be a slow process, but you should make a full recovery.”

“Good,” Will says quietly, staring at the sheets. It feels hollow, for some reason.

The chair wheels away, taking his doctor with it. She’s back on the computer. “We’re going to get you a nutritionist to help you safely gain back the weight you lost. I’m setting you up with a therapist as well.”

“I refuse to see a therapist.”

Hands on the keyboard stop and when the doctor peers around it, she looks irritated. “You’ve been through an extremely traumatic experience. There’s no shame in it.”

“It’s not that.” The sheets wrinkle under his hands, digging into the mattress. “I’ve been to quite a few therapists over the course of my life. Every single experience has been worse than the last.”

“This isn’t negotiable.” She vanishes behind the computer once more and he hears more typing, clicking around, and then- “Ah. I see.”

Will doesn’t have to see the screen to know exactly what she’s seen. This is why he hates hospitals. And doctors, especially of the psychiatric kind.

A pang of longing hits him. Hates most of them, he corrects.

With a start he realizes she’s standing at the foot of his bed now, watching him with a considering look. “I get why you’re resistant. You went through multiple horrific experiences, and you need someone to help. I can do my best to find someone I think would be a good fit for you.”

“Multiple?” There was the act of being abducted, he supposes, and the serious illness, though he doesn’t think that would be necessarily considered traumatic, but shouldn’t all of that just be lumped together? What could multiple mean?

Ice slowly spreads throughout his body as he realizes. Of course the hospital would know. “Does anyone else know?” he says, whisper quiet.

“Of course not. We don’t go around divulging private medical details to anyone we come across, you know.” Her expression softens. “You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to. Not even the therapist.” A beat of silence. “Might find it helpful to tell your mate’s lawyer, though.”

Will, incredulously, laughs. “His lawyer.”

“Sorry, that was insensitive.”

Insensitive but correct. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine though, is it?”

Her gaze is sharp, and Will can’t find it in himself to lie. Slowly, hesitantly, he shakes his head.

“Right. I’ll get you set up with someone. For now, all you have to do is rest. How do you feel about visitors?”

“I…” Will closes his mouth, considers. All he wants right now is quiet. “No more for today.”

“Got it. Oh, I almost forgot.” She looks around the room. “Damn. Got no clue where it is. I’ll get the nurse to find it for you.”

Before Will can even ask what she’s referring to, she’s gone,and he can only wonder.

The same nurse ducks back in the room to pull something out of the closet. A heavy bag, full of books from his house, and also- “Hannibal,” he says, hands gripping the plastic bag the items rest in. He must have given Jack a list with his own stack. “Thank you.”

“Your phone is in there as well, though we ask that you keep the calls to a minimum.”

He doesn’t think he’ll be calling anyone. He can’t even muster the courage to turn it on, afraid to see hundreds of missed calls and texts.

He leaves the phone in the bag, forgotten, and tries to read.

The next week feels like it plays out in slow motion.

Someone from the BAU comes to interview him. It’s someone he barely knows, maybe has seen them once or twice at a holiday party, and Will silently thanks Jack for the small kindness. They keep very calm despite the simmering anger beneath the surface, clearly furious at what had happened to Will. It’s almost illogical. They’re strangers. Still, he knows very well that humans are far from logical creatures.

The nutritionist meets with him and he starts eating real meals, packed with calories. A physical therapist helps him start to slowly gain his muscle back, mostly building up his stamina again. Someone asks him if there’s anything specific that he wants, other than the obvious, and he says no at first until his hair falls in front of his face, covering his eyes.

James had liked how his hair was growing longer. He asks for a barber.

They cut his hair short, barely long enough to curl, shorter than it’s ever been since he met Hannibal. There’s no hiding the mating bite on the back of his neck, now. He lets his beard grow in, past stubble, until it’s thick along his jaw. It will be harder to take care of than stubble ever had been but he doesn’t think he can handle having his face bare anymore. 

It’s both a surprise and a bit of an annoyance when he’s sent to see a therapist and finds, against all odds, that this might actually work out.

She’s gentle and very deliberately non-threatening, long brown hair and blue eyes, office warm and comforting. It’s all neutral tones and bland artwork on the walls, the chairs plush and comfortable. Her role is mostly passive, allowing Will full control over the conversation, but she does not by any means let him take advantage. While she won’t force him to say anything she also won’t let him deflect and distract, gently peeling away at layers of resistance.

It works because she doesn’t feel like a therapist, which is probably the entire point. Will is still extremely hesitant but at the very least, he’s willing to give it a shot.

Then, almost exactly a week from when he had woken up, Jack visits to tell him that he can finally see Hannibal.

Everything seems just the tiniest bit more bearable after that.

Bringing him to Hannibal’s home would be unwise so they bring Hannibal to him. Will sits in a chair at the table in his room, foot tapping impatiently, unable to focus on anything other than the man’s imminent arrival. He can’t even bring himself to pretend to read a book while he’s waiting. If the FBI agent standing by the door thinks he’s pathetic, well, he can’t really bring himself to care. 

He hears footsteps right outside and he perks up, eyes glued to the door. The agent looks to the side, listening to something over his earpiece, then he turns to the door and opens it, and Will’s world narrows down to that doorway as Hannibal comes into view.

Will stands, the chair screeching backwards on the floor. “Hannibal,” he says weakly, taking a step forward, and then Hannibal is on him so quickly he barely even sees the man move, crushing Will against his body, head pressed against his neck.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is raspy, thick with emotion. “I thought I might lose you.”

“You didn’t,” Will whispers, his words sticking in his throat. “I’m here. I’m okay. You saved me.” 

Hannibal is inhaling deeply at his neck, breathing in his scent. Will’s arms are wrapped around the other man just as tightly and he can’t quite pinpoint when that happened. All he’s sure of is that if anyone tried to make him let go right now he’d probably try to assault them. On cue, the agent that had come with Hannibal clears his throat, and Will prickles, ready to give them a piece of his mind, but when he looks up they look apologetic and not offended.

Oh. Everything they say needs to be clearly audible so Will’s integrity isn’t compromised for the upcoming trial.

Despite that his hands tighten, and it’s Hannibal that has to pull away, but only far enough to tilt Will’s head towards his and then they’re kissing. It might not be accurate to call it chaste but it’s not particularly scandalous either, and when they separate Hannibal’s hand runs through his beard, his eyes moving up to Will’s hair. “Sorry,” Will says, irrationally.

Almost immediately Hannibal looks perplexed. “Why apologize?” He’s speaking louder now, enough that the agents can hear them. “I quite like it, regardless. Though I suppose I would like anything you chose to do.”

This is what he missed so terribly. The unconditional acceptance. The obvious love, the affection, the way that Hannibal sees him as a person, an equal, not some decoration. The safety. He hadn’t realized how badly he had craved it until it had been torn from his grasp.

It’s easy to forget it’s coming from a man who had ripped someone to shreds just a few weeks prior.

The smell hits him now, an alluring aroma of roasted meats and eggs, and he notices the satchel over Hannibal’s shoulder. “Did you bring food?”

“Of course.” Hannibal steps away from him now and it’s extremely difficult to stop himself from reaching back out to catch the man and pull him back in. “I’ve been in contact with the doctor in charge of your diet so I can assure you that it is safe to eat.”

“I’ve missed your cooking,” Will admits softly, a tiny smile growing on his face. “I’ve missed… all of you.”

Hannibal’s hand clenches and unclenches and he forcefully turns towards the table. “Let us eat,” he says, and Will can tell he’s fighting the same urge. Will sits, and so does Hannibal, who sets the package on the table and pulls out two warm tupperwares, a thermos, and cutlery.

Will watches, disbelieving, as Hannibal pulls off the top and sets out silverware. “This is…”

“A protein scramble,” Hannibal confirms.

It was the first thing Hannibal had ever made for him, back after they had first met, when Will was still guarded and hostile. Hannibal had showed up at his hotel room during a case with food in hand and talked his way inside. That was the first of many things that chipped away at Will’s walls. He closes his eyes and inhales the smell of the food. “It smells just as amazing as it did back then.”

“I’m afraid it’s more meat than eggs this time around.”

He’s not wrong. It doesn’t make it any less delicious, and at the first bite Will feels like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten in his life. If he could only pick one thing to eat until he died it would be this. “Tastes even better.”

“You were less generous with the compliments before.”

Will laughs. It’s quiet, quick. “I never could figure out why you did it.”

Hannibal’s smile is barely there. “Is that not obvious, now?”

“Huh.” Will hadn’t really thought of it again, but it does seem obvious in retrospect. “I guess it is.” He eats more of his meal, savoring the taste. When he speaks again it’s soft. “You helped keep me sane down there, you know.”

“You spoke to me.” Strangely, Hannibal looks like something has just become clearer for him. Almost thoughtful. He doesn’t bother to hide the expression.

Will disregards that, instead nodding. “It feels… dismissive, almost, to say this. But there was so much silence. So much time alone, tr-” He cuts himself off. “Alone in a room with nothing to do.”

Hannibal’s hands tighten on his silverware. “A songbird in a cage.”

“I don’t like being alone with my thoughts.”

“Did you speak to others?”

“At first.” Will’s gaze is downcast, focused on his food. “It became more difficult to imagine others as time went by. It felt like they were… fading. Only you remained clear.”

“I see.” There, that expression Will recognizes- Hannibal’s figured something out. “What did we talk about?”

“Everything. You gave me the courage to act.”

A beat too late, Hannibal’s face darkens. “What you did was very dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees. “But it worked.”

“Hey,” one of the agents interrupts. They’re getting into dangerous water. “Careful what you talk about.”

Hannibal, as expected, looks furious at being interrupted. But that makes something occur to Will and he looks to the agent. “Um, can I ask about the witness?”

The agents look at each other, exchanging hushed words. “The one who recanted the alibi? That should be fine.”

He turns back to Hannibal. “That’s the one thing I can’t wrap my head around. It doesn’t make sense. Why suddenly come clean after so long?”

While Hannibal answers, Will eats. “Serendipity. One of the men who had been paid off to supply fake alibis happened to have been an acquaintance of mine.”

The words feel off. This isn’t what happened. He listens closely, trying to find the true answer beneath the lies.

“We ran into each other by chance, and they could tell how poorly I was doing. When they asked about my health I was honest. It seems that they connected the dots and were so overwhelmed with guilt that they contacted the FBI the following day.”

Hannibal doesn’t leave things up to chance. Whether or not the person was actually an acquaintance is irrelevant. Hannibal found them and possibly threatened them, though he would have stuck to good old fashioned manipulation if he could have. It took so long because it was either difficult to track them down or difficult to make it look like coincidence. “It all came down to chance.”

“Many things often do.”

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Everything that happened, all the pain and suffering, it was just a path formed by a series of coincidences and chance encounters. It’s a frightening thing to think about, how little control you have over life.

Maybe that’s why he’s so drawn to Hannibal. If anyone could find a way to control the uncontrollable, it would be him.

“Starting to see why Determinism can be such an attractive philosophy.” 

It’s mostly a joke, and Hannibal pulls an unexpectedly displeased expression. “Attractive, yet utterly foul.”

The obvious hatred startles Will, and he laughs. “I can’t say I’m a fan myself.”

“Some aspects of it can be admittedly enticing,” Hannibal admits.

“Oh?”

“There are times I feel as if I was born to meet you.”

“Oh,” Will repeats, utterly lost as to how to respond. He’d almost forgotten the sheer intensity of Hannibal’s feelings for him.

“To be perfectly honest, I am not sure what would have happened to me if you had never been found.”

It feels less like Hannibal would have been consumed with sorrow and more like this would have culminated in a bloody rampage ending with suicide by police. “I’d say the same, but I guess in this scenario how I felt wouldn’t really be relevant anymore, would it?” Even the distant thought of losing Hannibal makes his stomach twist. He can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like to live with that feeling, possibly worse, for months on end.

“Stop,” Hannibal tells him, and Will looks up in confusion. “You get a very particular expression on your face when you are diminishing your own experiences.”

A small smile, void of joy. “You really have me figured out, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Hannibal tells him, a smile on his own face. “And I never will.” 

One of the agents clears their throat. Their time is up. It had felt like so little, not enough, never enough. “I-” Will stops himself, since admitting to Hannibal that he doesn’t want him to leave would only make things harder on them both. “Thank you,” he says instead. “For everything.”

Hannibal looks at him like he heard the aborted statement anyways. “I do not want to leave you,” he says, for the both of them.

“I know,” Will says softly. “I don’t- you have to. We can’t afford to.” He stops, restarts. “It’s only for a while. This time, you know exactly where I am.”

“I’ll never lose you again.”

It’s hard to tell if that’s a threat or a promise. Hannibal kisses him goodbye and it lingers, far beyond the time it should, fingers curled tightly around his jaw.

It gets both easier and harder after that. Seeing Hannibal again put a lot of fears and anxiety to rest he hadn’t even realized he had, but at the same time it felt like getting the first taste of a drug he was addicted to. The brief reminder of what he’d been deprived of only makes him feel the loss all the more keenly. It’s only temporary, he tells himself, and it’s voluntary. If you really wanted to you could walk out of here and ruin everything just to see him again. It would be a bad idea, sure, but it’s still a choice you can make. You’re not trapped anymore.

It doesn’t stop him from waking some nights in a panic, thinking he’s never going to see Hannibal again. That the one connection he finally made, the one person who understands him, will vanish without him being able to do a single thing about it.

He throws himself into his recovery to distract himself. Other people visit him. Beverly visits exactly once before being banned for sneaking Buster into the hospital to see him, somehow. The staff quickly makes it clear that he’s free to have his dogs brought to the nearby park and spend some time with them, which becomes a daily part of his routine. Beverly has Buster and Harley while, unexpectedly, Zeller had taken the rest. He looks haggard and worn out but determined to hold onto them for as long as needed.

One meal a day is suddenly and suspiciously much higher quality than the rest, and the nurses are quite open about the fact that it’s Hannibal that’s cooking them. That little piece of him is a large part of what helps him get through all these endless days. Bit by bit, Will starts to get his stamina back, starts doing basic exercises, and the direction of this path is clear before him. At least physically, he’ll be able to get back to normal.

Mentally is a different story. His therapist helps but it’s still a slow, tortuous process. Will had never liked physical contact but he rejects it even more harshly now, something that had caught him by surprise considering how readily he had accepted it from Hannibal. Maybe he had been overwhelmed by the moment itself, their reunion. He nearly punched a nurse trying to draw blood from him on reflex. She seemed startled but understanding. Still, he’s not ready to talk about it. The therapist never presses him, never rushes. Every so often she reiterates that whenever he is comfortable, she will listen.

She also tells him that he might never feel comfortable talking about it, and that’s okay too.

The main way he keeps track of the approaching trial is when Hannibal’s lawyer comes to speak with him. It’s never done without his therapist present. Based on the questions, many about his captor’s behavior and Alpha-like mannerisms, it’s easy to figure out the argument they’re going to use is exactly what Jack had alluded to. Despite being a Beta, if James had postured enough, it may have triggered Hannibal’s instincts anyways and made him lose control. He’s asked the exact date of their bonding, about Hannibal’s violent tendencies when he loses control, about his overprotectiveness and aggression. 

The most frustrating part of it all is that if Will had simply been an Omega, none of this would have mattered. An Alpha kills someone who was an imminent threat to their mate and walks away with a slap on the wrist. May as well consider it self defense. But legally, Will could not be considered a mate.

They talk about that in therapy too. It never really quells the fiery rage inside of him.

As expected, he’s asked to testify at the trial. The day arrives before Will can even begin to prepare himself for it.

He hates having to wear a fucking suit. It’s stuffy and the tie feels like it’s choking him, in a way that isn’t pleasant.

“I’m asking you again,” the man repeats, in a crisp suit of his own. Hannibal’s defense attorney. He’s tall, well built, has an air of confidence around him, likely an Alpha. Will never asked because it’s irrelevant. If he’s an Alpha, he’s not an obnoxious one.

Except for right now. Will can’t be mad at him, he’s actually being incredibly considerate, and it doesn’t seem like it’s just because Hannibal asked him to. That’s actually probably why he’s so irritated. There’s nowhere to direct it. “Yes. Of course I’m going to testify.”

“Okay.” He nods, faintly relieved. Though the man would have had a backup if Will had bowed out at the last minute it would have weakened the case considerably. “If it gets to be too much-”

“It won’t.” Will sighs. “I get it.”

It’s not the first time he’s been in court. If anyone from their team ends up having to testify as an expert witness, the person that goes varies depending on the need, but it usually ends up being Will. Still, despite the familiar setting, the circumstances are horrifically unique. He’s seated in the crowd, in between his therapist and Jack, who will be testifying earlier than him. Hannibal sits next to his attorney in a crisp, dark blue suit, tie a deep maroon. Will tries not to look at him because he’s not really sure he could ever stop.

Across the aisle the prosecution is a middle-aged woman, small in stature but holding herself with a strength that shouldn’t be underestimated. Her papers are neatly organized, a briefcase set on the table presumably holding more within. Will, irrationally, hates her.

He barely listens to the opening statements. It’s exactly what he thought they’d be. The defense is arguing that Hannibal was defending his mate, that instincts took over, while the prosecution argues that that simply couldn’t have happened. Witnesses parade through the courtroom, all revolving around that same disagreement, and Will has to distance himself from the procession or else he’s going to scream, and he might never stop. Jack testifies about the killer’s profile, something that normally would have been Will’s job, and Price testifies about the bodies. Scientists come up to testify about their secondary genders, a sociologist comes to discuss Alpha/Beta mating pairs, character witnesses, all of it is a hazy blur until Jack is saying his name and he looks up to see the judge staring at him.

His turn.

He stands, adjusts his tie nervously, and takes the stand.

“Will you be alright to testify, Mr Graham?” the judge asks him, kindly. How humiliating.

“Yes.” He makes sure his voice is firm.

“Very well.” He’s sworn in.

The first question he’s asked isn’t unexpected, but it’s not what he thought he’d get first. “Tell me about Doctor Lecter.”

Will blinks. “You’re going to have to be more specific or else we’ll be here all day.”

There’s no laughter, not in this deadly serious trial, but he can feel the room warm towards him. Smart. “As a mate.”

“Right. Sure.” He has to say this carefully. “Most of the time, he’s kind. Extremely protective, supernaturally considerate. He’d probably lay his jacket over puddles to let me walk on if I let him.”

“And what do you mean by ‘most of the time’?”

“Well.” His fingers tap on the underside of the podium in front of him. “He can lose control. It’s always when instincts take over, like during a rut. He can get violent.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re in danger?”

Yes, Will absolutely cannot under any circumstances say. That’s the fun part. “No. I was aware of this going into the relationship, and we take measures to protect ourselves.”

“In your opinion, do you think he would be capable of killing someone in that state?”

This is as far as they’re pushing this line of questioning. “If they were a danger to me? Absolutely.”

“Thank you.” The defense shuffles some papers around, and now they’re getting into the important parts. “I’m going to ask you some questions about James Smith.”

Will nods, more sharply than he intended. “Go ahead.”

“You are aware that the man was a Beta, correct?”

“I am.”

“Did he behave like one?”

“Not at all.”

“Please elaborate.”

“He... knew he was a Beta, but he believed he had all of the abilities an Alpha had. He would call himself special, like he was the next step in evolution. He tried to scent me a lot, thought he had a Voice, and acted exactly like what he believed an Alpha would.”

“How deep would you say these delusions ran?”

“Very. He was convinced I was an Omega and that he could smell my pheromones. Not even basic, easily disprovable factors could convince him otherwise.”

“At the point in the case where you were when you were kidnapped, everyone believed the killer was an Alpha, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“So when Doctor Lecter entered the cabin, he would have encountered a man everyone believed to be an Alpha, who was acting and posturing as one.”

“Correct.”

“Do you think it could have been enough to trigger his instincts and make him lose control?”

Will swallows. “Easily.”

“And, as you testified before, you think he was capable of killing a man in this frame of mind.”

“Every single previous victim of the killer had turned up murdered, and most were missing for less time than I was. It would have been more surprising if he hadn’t killed him.” He can hear murmurs in the courtroom, soft and brief.

“Thank you, Will.”

The defense sits and the prosecution stands. This is the part he’s not prepared for, and the anxiety starts to take root. “Mr Graham,” she begins, cool and calm. “How well do you know Hannibal Lecter?”

“Intimately.” The word comes out slowly, every syllable a harsh pop of noise. He needs to calm himself down.

“Do you think he would be just as capable of killing someone now, when he’s perfectly in control?”

“No,” Will lies. If this ever comes back to haunt them they’ll have much bigger issues than perjury to deal with.

“You are a Beta, are you not?”

“I am.”

“So even after mating, you cannot feel his emotions, and his mood does not influence yours.”

Just barely, Will halts his hand before his fingers start tapping along the edge of his thigh. “Not in that sense.”

“You do not share the same mental bond that other mated pairs do.”

“We can’t. ” 

“Everything you said was something that felt correct but could not concretely be proved. Would you agree with that statement?”

Will’s jaw clenches. “I’d call it reductive, but in the general sense, yes.”

“Why would you call it reductive?”

“Because actions have made him lose control before.”

“Are you referring to the rut you induced in him, before you had mated?”

Just how much information did these people have? He looks at Hannibal, briefly, and all he sees is trust, encouragement. “No.”

“Why did you look at Lecter just now?”

“Because it’s- embarrassing,” he mumbles.

“I would advise you not to lie under oath simply to save you some embarrassment,” the judge reminds him.

“Right. Sorry.” Will takes a deep breath; he can’t exactly back out of this admission now. “It’s not the same… emotion. But pretty soon after we mated, in the office. Something fell behind a desk and I had to. Bend over. To get it. Hannibal had to leave the room.”

After a beat of silence, the prosecutor clears her throat. “And how recently had you mated before you were kidnapped?”

“Only a couple of weeks.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

He’s dismissed, and it feels like it was all far too short. Had he helped the case? Had he said enough? Hannibal’s entire freedom rides on this, and he can’t shake the smothering fear that he’s fucked it up somehow.

Then Hannibal himself takes the stand, and Will can’t make himself look away.

The questions start out boring, predictable. Asking how long he’s had violent tendencies. If he’s lost control before Will. About their relationship. The search for him. Then, finally, the day he was rescued.

He knows how this will go. Jack’s told him the details before. Hannibal had gotten restless and struck out on his own, and at some point during that he caught Will’s scent on the wind and found him. Saved him. “Let’s talk about the day Will was rescued.” More papers are moved around before the defense continues. “As Mr Crawford testified earlier, sometime in the early afternoon, you became agitated and quickly left despite his protests. What were you doing between then and the time you found Mr Graham?”

“Looking for him.”

“Aimlessly?”

“I’m afraid so. Until he cut himself and I could track him more accurately, I only had a general sense of where he was.”

Will frowns, and he can tell the defense lawyer wasn’t expecting this sort of response either. “You could sense where he was?”

“Not directly, and not before this moment.”

“I... see. Can you still do so now?” Hannibal looks into the crowd, as if to say I don’t really need to, do I? “After he was rescued,” the lawyer adds.

“It seems so.”

The prosecution is frantically sifting through her own notes. It seems Hannibal has sprung this on them all. But it doesn’t make sense. Typical mated pairs have a similar ability, but not… “So you seem to have developed this ability in a time of crisis. Can you think of any reason why?”

“I’ve likely had it since we mated and simply not noticed, as I always knew where he was. It only became clear because of the intense distress I was experiencing.”

“Did it feel like time was running out?”

“Our distress,” Hannibal clarifies. “I felt Will’s as if it was mine.” There’s a pervasive chattering throughout the room, because none of what he’s saying makes sense. The entire argument hinges on Hannibal not biologically being able to have the abilities he’s claiming to have. He would never do something as reckless as blatantly lying on the stand, not in a way that could be very easily disproved, so what the hell is he doing?

“Had you before?”

“No. This was far more intense.”

“If you couldn’t sense it before, how could you know that this was more severe?”

“Because my mate was being raped,” Hannibal answers, adjusting his tie, and the entire courtroom falls dead silent.

Bile rises in his throat and Will grips the back of the bench in front of him. Jack notices, he can hear quick conversation and something is being shoved into his hand and then he’s vomiting into a tiny plastic trash can, emptying out all the pain and suffering that had been ripped back open like a healing wound. “Order,” the judge barks out, and Will dimly realizes the noise of the courtroom around him, countless conversations and whispers. “Order!”

The silence returns. Will stares at his vomit in the trash can. “Is this true?” the judge asks.

“It-” Hannibal’s lawyer knows and can answer for him. They’d decided it was irrelevant to the case and not worth the pain it would bring Will. “It is true, but he shouldn’t have known. He hasn’t been told. No one has.”

“He clearly does.”

The prosecution steps up. “I’d like to request we take a recess while we examine this new information.”

“I think that would be wise. We’ll break for one hour, and when we return we will discuss what to do with the case going forward.”

“Thank you, your honor.”

Will is dimly aware of activity all around him, Jack trying to say something, people moving in and out of the room. He keeps his head down, refuses to look up, because if he doesn’t he’s going to have to confront the fact that everyone knows, he didn’t even get to make the choice himself and now everyone knows, the water is rising, he can see it flooding the room, surging-

“Will.” He looks up. The room is empty other than himself, his therapist, and the prosecution. He has no idea when everyone else even left.

His therapist looks angry, but she’s trying to ignore it. “Let me take that.” Gently, she pulls the trash can out of his hands and passes it to the prosecutor, who sets it down off to the side. “We’re going to leave soon, okay?”

That sounds fantastic. He wants to be anywhere but here right now. Preferably somewhere with no people whatsoever, even fucking Hannibal. Shakily, he nods. Tries to speak. “Why-” It comes out hoarse, cracking, and he swallows and stops talking.

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now,” the prosecutor says to him, and her voice is so calm and reassuring. Nothing like before. 

“You’re not Hannibal, so not dead last.”

He hadn’t even realized his therapist’s hand had been on his shoulder until it tightens. “I’ll be speaking to him later,” she promises, more of a threat. He’d never consciously considered it but it makes sense that they’d know each other, professionally. 

“I can’t say I blame you right now. But we need you to do one thing first, if you can.”

“If you can’t you can say no,” his therapist assures him, and the prosecution nods.

“It doesn’t have to be exact. When… it happened. Could you tell us the time of day? An estimation is fine.”

They’re comparing answers. Hannibal is gone because he’s being asked the same question, and Jack is there to verify. If their answers match then Hannibal is telling the truth and the entire case will probably get thrown out. “Why are you helping?” Will says instead.

She sighs. “If what he’s claiming is true, then legally, he did nothing wrong. I’m not interested in trying to send someone to jail that didn’t break any laws.”

She has her own moral code, one that rigidly aligns with the legal system. Will understands and hates it all the same.

He needs to do this. Be honest, and trust Hannibal, even if the thought of seeing the man right now makes him want to hurl again. “When I woke up, it was late afternoon. It’s hard to remember but when I heard him coming down I looked outside. From the shadows it was probably between noon and one.”

“Thank you.” The prosecutor stands. “Go ahead and get him out of here, if you don’t mind. He doesn’t need to be here any longer.”

In another context, the words may have been cruel. He recognizes the kindness for what it is.

They leave and never look back.

Will doesn’t remember that next few days. He remembers fragments of them; his therapist’s fury, Jack’s tears, and the feeling of the current tugging at his legs.

He finds out later that both his and Hannibal answers had been sealed in separate envelopes and given to the judge to open. They matched. Hannibal knew everything, from when it started to when Will passed out and later woke. The case is suspended indefinitely while extensive testing is run. Will has to sit in the hospital while every part of his biology is poked and prodded and sampled and stolen. Everything, consistently, comes back normal.

Apparently, the same couldn’t be said for Hannibal.

“There’s an unknown element here,” some scientist is telling him. “And it wasn’t here before.”

I don’t fucking care, Will wants to say, but he knows it’s not even true. He’ll never really forgive Hannibal, that much he is certain of. Forgiveness isn’t even a factor in their relationship. Time will pass, the wound will age, and it’ll be just another bump in the road. He understands why Hannibal did it. The claim would have sounded insane and likely been ignored so he presented it in the most unignorable fashion possible and forced everyone to listen. Wasted all their time on a trial that was all just a setup for the punchline.

Will doesn’t feel like laughing. Not now, not ever.

“We can’t say for sure this is the cause or even connected to his claimed abilities,” the scientist continues. “We can’t say what it is, on any level. The fact that there’s an unknown like this present is enough to warrant more hands on testing.”

Testing of their bond. “Right.”

“It will start simple. For a week, we’ll be asking you to give the other’s whereabouts at a specific time each day.”

Will fails this test, spectacularly. Apparently Hannibal aces it. When the scientists return they simply look confused, and a little bit irritated.

Hey, maybe Hannibal had been eight hundred meters underwater at noon last Wednesday. Will had about as much confidence in that guess as all of the others.

“This is… unusual,” they tell him, like that isn’t the most obvious thing in the whole fucking world. “We’ll try the maze next.”

Despite his doubts, Will had not in fact misheard them and a few days later, he’s taken to a large facility near the capital. Apparently it’s used in researching the bonds between mates. The presence of what is apparently a large modifiable maze inside makes it seem more like a theme park than a research institute.

This is the first time he sees Hannibal since the trial. Through the glass, from an observation room above the maze. He’s asked to plot a course through the maze and then told to guide Hannibal through it. If Hannibal runs into a wall at any point he will be given a mild electric shock.

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing here,” he informs the researchers. He hasn’t spontaneously developed telepathy.

“You aren’t giving him literal word instructions,” a woman tells him. “You’re meant to sort of urge him in the right direction. Some people find it easier to take it slow, telling them yes or no, walk forwards, and so on.”

He looks back down at Hannibal. He’s blindfolded and wearing noise canceling headphones. “I’ll… try.”

They gave him a paper copy of the current setup to draw a path through. Based on the starting location, Hannibal will need to turn left and walk forwards until he gets to the next fork. Turn, he tries to urge, and he sees Hannibal incline his head up towards the observation room. He thinks it, more abstract, imagines the world spinning, rotating, and feels absolutely ridiculous doing so.

But then Hannibal, slowly, starts to turn.

Stop, Will thinks, and the world halts, and so does Hannibal. Good. Forwards. A car driving along a road, straight. Hannibal steps forwards, runs into a wall, and his entire body jolts as he’s shocked.

Will starts laughing. “I know you are angry with me, Will,” Hannibal says to him, a mic sending his words up to speakers in their room. “Please just do as the researchers ask.”

“Sorry,” he tells them. “Couldn’t resist.”

One of them sighs. “Please refrain from giving him incorrect directions on purpose. It defeats the point of the entire experiment.”

Will plays nice. The car imagery seems to work better and though it’s slow, he manages to guide Hannibal through the maze with no more errors. Around him, the researchers seem absolutely blown away. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” one of them says to herself.

“What’s next?”

Someone else produces another blindfold and set of headphones, and Will’s spirit drops as he realizes exactly what’s next.

They change the maze before he’s dropped into it. No matter what he tries he can’t hear or feel shit from Hannibal and bumps around randomly before finally ripping off the headphones and throwing them into the ground. “This clearly isn’t working! I’m sick of being shocked!”

He peels off the blindfold and when he looks up at the observation room he can see a flurry of activity, researchers speaking and gesturing to each other and in the middle, looking down, he sees Hannibal.

The urge to get up in that observation room with the Alpha is strong, but he can’t really pinpoint what exactly he wants to do once he’s up there.

That’s something he mentions next time he’s with his therapist. They spend a lot of time in silence, Will staring at framed paintings of landscapes and flower fields. The first time he had come here they had been forests, rivers. An unfortunate coincidence. They had changed the next time he had seen her and neither of them directly acknowledged it.

“You’re angry with him,” she points out, drawing attention to the glaringly obvious. “But you still care for him.” Despite her gentle nature she has a keen insight and had figured out almost immediately that ‘love’ wasn’t quite the right word to describe Will’s emotions. He’d expected her to talk about it, but surprisingly, she never did.

“Of course I’m still angry.”

“It’s not the anger I want you to talk about.”

He sighs. “He saved my life.”

“But that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

“I…” Will’s hands tighten on his knees and his gaze drops. It’s hard to walk the line here, to be honest with his own feelings and not let slip too much about Hannibal’s. “No. It hasn’t changed how I feel.”

“And neither has your anger.”

“If my anger could change my feelings for him we never would have gotten together in the first place.”

“Yet this time, it’s different.”

“I can’t… be angry at him.” It had taken him far too long to realize that. “I can walk through his thought process, see the path that led to his solution. In his eyes, there was no other option.”

“There were plenty of other options.”

“Not to him. Nothing else had a higher chance of success.” His hands ball into fists. “It’s in his nature. Take the road that leads to victory, consequences be damned. I can’t be angry at being collateral damage.”

“Of course you can,” she says, softly. 

“It’s futile. I know what he’s like. I accept it.”

“You can accept him for who he is and still be angry about it.”

“That’s-” He grinds his teeth. “Illogical.”

“We’re not logical, Will.” He finally looks up, into her face. “We’re human.”

Sometimes, he finds himself wishing that wasn’t the case.

“Do you want to talk about your river?” That question means the session is nearing its end. She always asks here, so he has an easy escape, one he always takes.

Even now, he still feels the bone-deep chill of water at his ankles, crushed around them like a shackle. “No,” he tells her. “I don’t.”

She does not press the matter.

Unbelievably, he’s in a forest. “This is insane,” he mutters to himself, perched up in the branches of a tree and hidden from the ground below.

“This will be the last test,” the researcher higher up assures him, and once again Will has to remind himself that no, he is not dreaming. He has been asked to climb a tree for very scientific reasons and the man in camouflage patterned clothing, holding a clipboard, is in fact a very serious scientist and this is a very serious experiment. 

“Forgive me for not jumping for joy.”

The researcher sighs. This is the fifth time they’ve shoved him up a tree and it’s been a different researcher every time, possibly because one test is as long as any of them can tolerate him. “His scent tracking abilities have exceeded our expectations already. If he is able to locate you even now, it would be impressive even if you had been a traditional mated pair, with pheromones.”

“Bloodhounds can track scents much further, so it can’t be that impressive.”

“Humans are not dogs,” The researcher tells him, sighing again, and it’s hard to tell if the joke was ignored intentionally or not. “I don’t think you understand how incredible it would be if he is able to find you despite the presence of powerful pheromones masking your scent. It would imply that pheromones actually have very little to do with scents themselves and the way scents are affected by mating bonds. It has the potential to upend everything we believed to be true about the subject.”

“Congratulations,” Will says dryly.

“It will be the only thing my students write about for their theses for the next couple decades,” the researcher grumbles, which is actually pretty funny, and Will makes himself not laugh.

It’s easy when something else distracts him. “Wait, hold on. You said something about masking my scent with pheromones?”

“Yes. They should be here shortly.”

“With a person? Do we even have the room up here?”

They shrug. “It will be tight, but we will fit. Save your pity for whoever got stuck up a tree with raw meat.”

Will counts his blessings. It's unclear what alluring scent the raw meat is supposed to provide but hey, he’s not the scientist here.

It’s still light out but not for long, so at the very least he’s going to be stuck up a tree with two total strangers he doesn’t have to look at. He hears footsteps, but the ground is still obscured by branches. The ladder that thunks against the trunk is less obscured and both he and the researcher help secure it as an unseen person ascends it, slowly. Arms pop into view and they help the visitor up, a slender, beautiful Omega, a hand curling protectively over their stomach as they awkwardly settle into place on a branch opposite Will, kicking their feet up and leaning back against the trunk. He looks at Will, and Will looks at him, and both of them open their mouths at the same time. The Omega finishes a sentence first.

“Wait-”

“It’s you! Will, right?” It’s said with a smile, one that soon withers. “Oh,” he repeats, much more somber. “That means it’s you.”

“They told you,” Will realizes, and that unexpectedly hurts. He can hear the clatter of the ladder being retracted, distant. The Omega- Ricky, his mind supplies- they were barely acquaintances, but that short conversation they shared at the bar had helped Will a lot. It feels awful to have it sullied like this. “Why did they-”

“We did no such thing,” the researcher interjects. “What possible reason would we have had to do so?”

“No, sorry,” the Omega rushes out. “But it’s all over the news and when I learned what I’d be doing it wasn’t… hard to figure out.” He winces. “Sorry if that’s… invasive.”

The only invasive part is learning that it’s apparently all over the news to begin with. Will isn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean he is happy to hear about it. “It’s fine.”

“I feel like it’s pretty fucking not fine,” Ricky frowns. “But that’s fine, I’ll just sit here and ooze pheromones until your Alpha finds you anyways and then the whole case can waste away into nothing and then it’ll be a little bit fine.”

Pheromones, again. The strongest would be from an Omega in heat but there are countless ethical reasons they’re not going to shove that up a tree in the middle of a forest, so the next most obvious solution would be… Ricky’s hand, curved below his stomach, where Will can see the swell starting to form. “You’re pregnant.”

“Yup! Our second child.” Ricky looks up at the researcher. “Er, is it okay if we talk?”

They nod. “You’ll need to be silent when he’s near, but until then you should be fine.”

“Nice. Anyways, yeah, second child. First just turned a year old last month.” His expression falls a bit. “You probably think I’m a shitty parent, abandoning an infant to go sulk at a bar.”

“Not shitty,” Will responds. “Just scared.”

“Ugh.” Ricky lets his head fall back against the tree. “I’m lucky Jess’s parents put up with me. I’m done running away, though.”

“I’m sure Jess is happy about that.”

“You can’t even imagine,” Ricky laughs. He seems happier, no trace of the fear and insecurity he’d seen vibrating under his skin at the bar to be found. 

“What made you stop?”

Ricky looks at him, considering. It’s an odd question, after all. “Well, one day, at a bar I met this gorgeous, depressed looking Beta-” Will groans and Ricky stops, laughing. “I don’t know if I could pinpoint it, honestly. Bit by bit it just… stopped being scary. I stopped wanting to run away on the off chance something went wrong and started wanting to focus on making sure it never did.”

Will could probably learn a thing or two from that. Stop worrying all the time about what could go wrong and put that energy somewhere more constructive instead. The context is vastly different but at its core, the problem is the same. “You must really love her.”

“Of course I do,” Ricky sniffs. “Why else would someone intentionally subject themselves to two young children running around and destroying everything?”

It draws a small smile out of Will. “Some people like kids.”

“I like mine,” the Omega mutters. “Ours,” he corrects. “We decided to have one each way. That’s why I got wrapped up into this, actually.” He points up at the researcher who is engrossed in something on their tablet, balanced on top of the clipboard. Probably a map of where Hannibal is at the moment. “Female Alpha and Male Omega couples are actually pretty rare, and even then most don’t decide to try and get the Alpha pregnant. Took a long fuckin’ time, lemme tell ya.”

“So you’re also involved in research here.”

“Pretty sweet setup, honestly. We get most of the baby-related items you need to raise a kid paid for. We showed up for a check-up and one of them pulled me aside and went ‘hey, are you free next Saturday?’ And here we are.”

“In a tree,” Will adds.

“Sometimes it’s nice to climb a tree.” Ricky shifts on his branch. “So, hey, the Alpha that’s part of this… is it the one you were talking about? At the bar.”

“He- yeah. It is.”

“So? How did it go?”

“It. Uh.” Will scratches the side of his jaw. “I told him I wanted to be there for his rut pretty much the next day and it just kind of. Snowballed from there.”

Silence hangs in the air, and Will can tell that even the researcher is briefly paying attention to their conversation. “You’re insane, ” Ricky finally tells him.

“A bit,” Will admits. Saying it out loud like that really puts the series of events into perspective. Maybe he should apologize to Jack.

“Sounds like it worked out though.”

“I… guess.”

“Or not?” Ricky taps his chin, thinking. “I guess things aren’t gonna be that simple for a long time, are they?”

Possibly not ever. “Probably not.”

“Gotta trust the good to outweigh the bad, huh?” He pauses. “Or the mad.”

“I’m not mad at him,” Will lies.

“You should be.” Though the sun has finally set and the world is dark around them, the moon illuminates the area enough that Will can see the scowl on Ricky’s face. “If Jess did something like that to me I’m not sure what I’d do.”

He’s talking about the trial. “I’m not mad at him,” he lies again. “He didn’t mean to hurt me like that.”

“Can’t that be why you’re mad? What he did hurt you, severely, and it wasn’t even the reason why he did it. It was just a… side effect.”

And just like that, everything settles into place. Almost certainly not the way Ricky had intended, but it stands out all the same. “I… never thought of it like that.”

“Sorry if I seem intense about this. I can’t even begin to understand most of what you went through but I do understand a part of it.” The moon peeks through the leaves and he sees a deep, raw pain in Ricky’s eyes, old and unhealed, buried. It’s gone just as quickly as it came. “You can talk to me about it, you know. If you ever feel like you want to.”

“I…” He certainly doesn’t mean now, in the tree, with an audience. “Maybe someday.”

“You know how to find me.”

Will pauses. “I… do?”

Ricky elbows the researcher above them. “Hm? Ah, yes, I’ll pass along your email address when we’re done here.”

“No pressure,” Ricky tells him.

The consideration is welcome. “Thank you,” Will says, honest for once. “I mean it.”

“Hush,” the scientist tells them, and they both look up to him. “He’s approaching.”

They all fall silent, waiting with baited breath as the rumble of a car can be heard off in the distance, followed by an engine turning off and the opening and closing of a car door. Footsteps approach, flashlights lighting up the forest beneath them, until plain as day, Hannibal is standing at the base of the tree and looking up.

“Incredible,” the researcher gasps. “He came straight here from the start.”

“Did you marry a German Shepherd?” Ricky teases

“We’re not married,” Will corrects, and then all of a sudden he looks down to see Hannibal climbing up the tree while another researcher frantically tries to stop him from the ground. As always, all efforts to dissuade Hannibal are fruitless.

He pops up into the part of the tree everyone is sitting in, still managing to startle Will despite him watching the entire process occur. Hannibal’s nose wrinkles and he turns to Ricky, briefly. “Congratulations.” With that he grabs Will by the collar and throws him over his shoulder before nimbly climbing back down the tree.

“It was nice seeing you!” Ricky shouts down, clearly amused, waving as Hannibal carries Will away like a sack of potatoes, towards the car he arrived in.

“Let me down.”

“You stink of him,” Hannibal growls, very obviously displeased.

“We’re about to stink of dirt after I knock you on your ass if you don’t put me down.”

Hannibal puts him down. “He was not a stranger to you.”

With a sigh, Will adjusts his clothes. Knowing the source of his anger feels freeing, like he can finally talk to Hannibal normally again. “Before you get all prissy about that you should know that I have met him exactly once before this and he’s about thirty percent of the reason I ever ended up fucking you in the first place.”

“He seemed nice,” Hannibal says next, such an abrupt pivot from before that Will actually laughs. For the first time in a long time, Will sees Hannibal smile.

The researcher urges them into the car before anything else can happen.

Will finds out the results of everything when one day, Hannibal comes to the hospital and picks him up and he’s simply discharged into his custody without any fuss.

It also makes him realize a part of this he hadn’t thought of, and his stomach sinks at the thought.

“The case was dismissed,” Hannibal tells him, as they drive somewhere that is clearly not going to be Wolf Trap. “Our circumstances are rare. They have decided that we are closer to a true mated pair than unlike one, and therefore are to be legally considered as such.”

“So you killing him was legal. Good for you. Where are we going?” They way he was almost signed over like property is rankling him, and Will’s fingers tap restlessly on the seatbelt.

“Dale City.” The rut house. “Your dogs are there,” Hannibal adds.

“They better fucking be.”

“Are you unhappy with this result?”

“No,” Will replies, instant. “Of course not. I don’t know how I feel about the… implications of it.”

“You don’t want to be treated differently.”

“I don’t want to be treated like anything .” 

“What would you like for dinner?”

“Hannibal, stop, ” Will says, sharply. “We can’t just pretend that nothing happened. That nothing’s changed.”

“I don’t plan to.”

“Then what are you planning?”

“Right now, I am simply trying to plan dinner.”

Will closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. Don’t fight. Not here, not now. “I want the unhealthiest thing you’re allowed to make me.”

“Very well,” Hannibal murmurs, and the rest of the drive is done in a suffocating silence.

Will doesn’t even make it in the house. When Hannibal opens the front door his dogs explode out of it and swarm him, and outside they stay until the chill becomes too much to bear and Hannibal drags them all inside. Dinner is rich, decadent, probably far outside his meal plan but Will truly does not give a fuck. He’s been steadily putting on weight and while it has yet to translate back into muscle, he at least no longer looks like he’s been starved. Bit by bit, things are stitching back together.

“Where would you like to live?” Hannibal asks him, over dessert, like it's just more casual conversation.

Will nearly drops his fork. “Excuse me?”

“I am asking where you would like to live.”

“I have a home,” Will points out. 

“Yes, Wolf Trap is an option. I am simply pointing out that there are several options to be had.”

Will sets his fork down as realization sets in. The click of metal on the plate sounds deafening. “You mean with you.”

“Of course. Mated pairs live together.”

Anxiety winds up his spine, tangles in his lungs. “Not always.”

“That is true. Our circumstances are unique, and as my freedom hinges on that very thing, it would be wise not to test it.”

He can hear the iron bars clanging shut around him, stealing away his freedom yet again. “You motherfucker,” he hisses. “Was this your plan this whole time? Was everything for this?”

“No,” Hannibal bites out, and the look in his eyes is so icy it makes Will shiver. “No plan of mine would ever deliver you into the hands of another.”

In his gut, he knows Hannibal is right. Elaborate machinations will never win out over pure, simple jealousy. Possessiveness. “So you’re just taking advantage of the circumstance.”

“I fail to see why I should not do so.”

It’s making Will furious, mostly because Hannibal is right. There’s no way out of this one. He’s trapped, pure and simple. “How’d you cheat through the tests? I couldn’t figure out why you’d go to such lengths at first. It sure makes sense now.”

“I altered nothing.”

For a moment, Will hears nothing, like his ears are stuffed with cotton. “What?”

“Some things are beyond even me.”

“But you.” His brain is slowing to a crawl. “That’s not possible.”

“It is, Will.” Hannibal calmly eats his dessert. “What we share is a true mating bond.”

“Then why can’t I feel anything?”

“Because you are a Beta. Only I, as an Alpha, can take advantage of it.”

It takes a moment for the implications of that to truly sink in. When it does, Will finally smiles, a sick sense of glee washing over him. “Options, you said?” He says it gently, calming himself, soothing.

“Indeed.” Hannibal stands, places his silverware on the now empty plate. “Wolf Trap, Dale City, and my home in Baltimore. It need not be permanent, if you wish to find a place that suits both of us.” The tension seems to be leaving Hannibal as well, some of that ever-present guard slipping away.

Will’s not sure he ever wants to go back to Wolf Trap, and for a moment his calmness slips. It’s contaminated, unsafe, freezing rivers and grasping hands. At the same time, he wants very little less than to move into Hannibal’s perfectly curated space in Baltimore. They need somewhere that is equally both of them. “Here, for now. We should find a new place. Maybe something near the ocean.” Near a dog beach. That’s something he can talk Hannibal into later. "No cameras," he quietly adds, and Hannibal freezes in place, a flash of absolute blind fury in his eyes-

He didn't know. How could he have known? Will hasn't even told his therapist about that particular violation, and it hadn't come up in the investigation or trial so clearly James had gotten rid of the files. At least he's dead. Small victories.

It takes a while, Hannibal standing there with his eyes closed, calming himself down, just as Will is doing. "No cameras," he agrees. "Never again." The promise rings with finality.

Their torpor ends. “I figured that would be your answer.” Hannibal walks towards Will, stacks their plates together, and smiles so gently Will searches desperately for the lie. But there is none.

It’s odd to see Hannibal this calm and find it isn’t manufactured. Though the man always exudes a sense of self-assurance, of control, it’s always with an undercurrent of alertness. The ability to react on a moment’s notice. Will thinks about the possibility of living together, the domesticity, the normalcy, and he sees Hannibal’s shoulders slacken, sees that alertness fade under the weight of contentment. Of trust. Of safety. Will feels relaxed, and so does Hannibal.

Will’s hand shoots out and grabs Hannibal by the tie, yanking his head down level with where Will is seated. Hannibal lets himself be manhandled, watching with glittering eyes. He’s not angry at the deception. He’s excited by it.

“Never hurt me like that again unless I ask you to,” he whispers, voice low and threatening. “Understood?” He jerks the tie again, just to make Hannibal tense up. Reflexively, Hannibal growls, and Will places a hand behind his neck and slams his head onto the table, onto the dishes and cutlery. A fork cuts into his cheek. “Do you understand me, Hannibal?”

“As you wish,” the Alpha murmurs, and only then does Will release him. He stands up, an incoherent mixture of fury, desire, and pride in his eyes, blood and chocolate smeared across his face.

It’s as ugly as it is beautiful.

Intimacy is difficult.

No, Will corrects himself. It’s impossible.

Living with Hannibal is fine. Sure, he’s unhappy about being forced into it, but the actual act of living together with the other man is perfectly fine. Hannibal corners Will into a healthier lifestyle, making sure he eats three meals a day and goes to sleep at a reasonable hour. They fall into cohabitation like they’ve been married for decades. All of that is fine.

What’s not fine is the way that every time Hannibal tries to touch Will, he flinches.

It almost makes Hannibal look angry. Not at Will, never at Will, but at a long dead phantom that inflicted this on him. It irritates Will because he doesn’t want to make Hannibal mad, at least not like this, and he thought they would be fine. Hannibal had touched him at their reunion without issue, so why here? Why now? He misses the closeness, the warm touches and gestures. None of that stops him from faintly trembling when a hand lands heavy on his waist, or from jerking away when Hannibal leans in to scent him.

Hannibal is patient. He shouldn’t have to be.

“Just do it anyways,” Will finally tells him, after pivoting away from Hannibal’s outstretched hand. “It’s the only way I’ll get used to it again.”

“Desensitization is not a proper solution.”

“I don’t want to wait for a proper solution,” Will bites out. From the living room, he hears one of his dogs whine. 

“We cannot be reckless here, Will.”

It feels like he’s living in a house with a photo of Hannibal. Everything looks the same but the connection is smothered, underwater. “I don’t want you to be gentle.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” It’s laughable, so blatantly false that it makes Will want to peel away Hannibal’s skin just to get at what’s underneath.

“I want you to.”

Hannibal looks at him. There’s no hesitation, no second guessing, not a sliver of doubt. “Very well. Give me a week.”

Will doesn’t want to wait a week. He wants Hannibal’s hand around his throat, clamping down, squeezing the life out of him. He wants a knife at his throat. He wants his flesh split open, torn between sharp teeth, blood running down his arms. He wants what only Hannibal can give him. “Fine. A week.”

He lets Hannibal handle everything. Will plays with his dogs, takes them for walks, has conversations with Hannibal that feel frustratingly pedestrian. It’s almost like the Alpha is going out of his way to be as normal as possible, and he can’t tell if he’s doing it intentionally to irritate Will or for some other, nebulous reason. 

Hannibal leaves for hours at a time every couple of days and Will spends that time in anticipation of what may be to come.

Roughly a week later, in the evening, they board Will’s dogs for the night. When they drive back it’s not to Dale City, but to Baltimore.

This house has always been imposing. It’s every bit the personality Hannibal wears like an accessory, strange paintings and sculptures surrounded by dark wood and a cold, unfriendly interior. The only place that had ever felt like it fit was the kitchen, gleaming, polished appliances and countertops, rows of sharp knives on the walls. This is where he’s led. It’s astonishing the lack of fear he feels when they enter the pantry considering their history with pantries. Instead, he’s focused on how Hannibal crouches down, touches something on the floor, and with a click a trapdoor opens from the wood, revealing a set of stairs into darkness.

Wary, Will descends the steps behind Hannibal. He trusts Hannibal, on most levels, but some part of his brain, automatic and primal, sends goosebumps raising across his skin. Fear crackles at the edge of his mind. This is different, and the same. It’s a trapdoor, not a regular door. Instead of being open and exposed to the basement the staircase is bordered by walls, claustrophobic. It’s not a regular basement, it’s a-

The lights click on and for a moment, Will forgets how to breathe. He already knew, he was already aware, so this shouldn’t bother him, right? The stone walls, the smooth floor, the sterile environment with a metal mortuary table in the center. It’s huge, spanning what’s likely the entire length of the house, and there are tray tables with operating implements scattered around the room, large cabinets and empty spaces on the floor where things have obviously been recently removed. There are anchors for chains and ropes on the ceiling, grates on the floor for easy draining, taps around the room for quick access to water, to ease the process of washing away blood and grime. This is the kind of room that would raise suspicion even in the house of an avid hunter.

Hannibal is not a hunter. Not of most animals, anyways.

The hooks on the ceiling are spaced far enough apart that they could be used to hang large cuts of meat. Some of the empty spots can easily be filled with refrigerators and freezers and there are outlets near them, a door is opening in his mind and realization is creeping through-

He slams the door shut. This is not a realization he can afford to have, not right now.

“Is everything alright, Will?” Hannibal asks him, and it hits him that he hasn’t even left the bottom of the stairs yet.

“Sorry. Basements.” He forces himself to step down and forwards, slowly looking around the room much more obviously. “This is a very… specific setup.”

“Somewhere easy to clean is important for what we will be doing.”

Hannibal’s not… actually going to kill him, is he? Will immediately dismisses the thought as ridiculous. Even as he watches Hannibal extract several lengths of a blood-red rope, the fear starts to ebb. He knows Hannibal is a monster, but it's a monster he can trust.

Hannibal places the ropes to Will’s throat, comparing the color. “These will do nicely. Please undress. You can leave your clothes on the table.”

There should be something that bothers him about undressing and neatly folding his clothes to set them down on a surface that Hannibal has unquestionably dissected human beings on. “Everything?”

“Everything you do not wish to be destroyed.”

They can do that later. Will strips naked and leaves his clothes on the table, running a hand through his hair nervously. It’s much harder with it shorter; it’s not really long enough to get a solid grip on anymore. The basement is cold and he shivers. Maybe that’s intentional, too.

“Will you be okay with me tying you up?”

Will looks at the rope. It looks soft, slender, miles away from biting metal cuffs with a pitiful attempt at padding. “I… think so. Can you avoid my ankles?”

A nod. “I shall.” Then, he pauses, looks at Will, down his arms, then back up at the ceiling. “Though a modification is in order, I believe.”

There’s no way he hadn’t planned for this eventuality and sure enough, from the same cabinet Hannibal got the rope, he’s removing a pair of what look like very oddly designed gloves, dark leather and red straps and red fur lining the inside. “Give me your hands.”

Will does, and Hannibal slides the cuffs on, tightening them in place. They’re soft, wrapping mostly around Will’s wrists and extending upwards over his palm, ending in large metal rings. Suspension cuffs. He can easily wrap his hands around the fur and leather on his palms to bear most of the weight. “Just these?” Will asks, even though he can see Hannibal unwinding the rope as well.

“No. Keep your wrists together and hold your arms out.” The color of the rope matches the red on the cuffs perfectly, and Will watches Hannibal wind it around his forearms in a ladder pattern, tying them together but leaving his upper arms apart. “Above your head.” As Will lifts his arms Hannibal steps back to the wall, to a pulley system, lowering a hook large enough to hang a rack for curing m-

For hanging something. Wordlessly, Hannibal loops the metal rings on the cuffs to the hook then cranks the hook back up, lifting Will off the ground, hanging him in the air. He grips the cuffs and pushes his head through his arms until they’re behind him, an uncomfortable strain but a manageable one. “Tell me if you start to lose feeling in your arms.”

Will tries to nod and finds he doesn’t quite have the room. It doesn’t feel like the ropes are tight enough to cut off circulation, or pinched against any nerves. “I will.”

Metal scrapes on stone as Hannibal drags out what can only be described as a giant pail, wide enough to catch anything falling off the man and deep enough that it can hold a great deal of liquid. It’s for blood, Will realizes, a shiver running through him. Why would Hannibal want to save his blood? Why wouldn’t he? Is it sterile? Meals fly through his mind, soups and stews and sausages and puddings, has he eaten any, has Hannibal fed him-

“Remember, Will,” Hannibal tells him. He hadn’t even realized he was starting to panic. “You can end this at any time with one word.”

“Um. Yeah.” Will swallows thickly. “Sorry. Not used to this.”

“I imagine not.” There’s a clattering as a tray table is rolled over and he watches as Hannibal, back to him, pulls on a pair of surgical gloves. Only now does it really hit him that Hannibal is dressed in light clothing, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khaki colored pants, none of his usual suits to be found. He steps aside and turns, revealing a tray of scalpels and needles and gauze, and Will’s heart stutters in his chest. “The word, Will.”

It takes Will a moment to realize what Hannibal is asking for. “Alabama,” he whispers, and it sounds ridiculous. Maybe he should have put more thought into it the first time.

“Very good. Let us begin.”

As Hannibal approaches with a scalpel in hand, Will is struck with the urge to back away, prey fleeing from a predator. He can’t do much suspended as he is. Normally Hannibal is an inch or so taller but like this, he has to look up into Will’s face as he raises the scalpel, placing the tip just between his collarbones. “There is a great deal more I would like to do with the rope,” Hannibal admits, digging the point of the blade in shallowly, and Will flinches. “I could tie you up thoroughly enough to hang you with that alone.”

“Sorry,” Will mutters, and Hannibal just frowns.

“Do not apologize. We have our whole lives ahead of us. Besides,” Hannibal says, digging the blade deeper, and blood wells up from the wound and starts to drip down Will’s chest. “There are other ways of dressing your body in red.”

The scalpel cuts downwards diagonally, slicing until it reaches the top of Will’s chest, at which point it turns sharply and cuts closer to horizontal, leaving a red line in its wake. It stings, makes Will hiss at the pain, deep enough to make blood bloom like rubies, held frozen in place. When Hannibal mirrors the cut on the other side of Will’s chest it's just as shallow. More than anything, it simply stings. It burns as Hannibal finishes the bottom half of the diamond and more diamonds beneath it, lines stretching out from the points, covering the span of Will’s torso. “I guess I don’t need to ask how you’re planning on tying me up later,” he laughs, breathless, his body warming beneath the bite of the blade.

“You do not.” The scalpel returns to the first point and without warning it traces the first line again, deeper, sharper, and Will can’t help but cry out at the pain. Blood flows from the wound, weeping streaks across his body. “Surely you did not think it would be over with that.”

“No, but.” Will’s jaw clenches and he closes his eyes as another line is deepened. It hurts in a way he’s missed, blood running hot down his body. “Didn’t think you were just doing the template either.” His hands tighten around the cuffs, anchoring him, diverting his focus as Hannibal parts his flesh. He wields the scalpel like an extension of his own body, cuts steady and sure, penetrating into Will, painting red patterns as it dances. Sharp angles, ropes from his own flesh and blood, binding him without an inch of fiber. They capture him just as well.

The cuts are careful further down, over his stomach, pushing in further as they skirt around the edges of his body, away from organs and arteries. It feels like the scalpel leaves fire in its wake as it travels, every cut lighting up all of Will’s nerves, sending sparks behind his eyes. Only when Hannibal steps back does he open his eyes once more.

The scalpel drips with blood and it stains the blue surgical gloves as well. He can hear the plink of his blood falling into the pail below him and he can’t help but drop his head down, seeing his torso lined with trails of blood, winding down his legs and feet. They mostly originate from the corners of the pattern, where the scalpel turned and changed direction, running down his body like stars shooting past the night sky.

His heart is beating faster. His throat feels dry. It’s more effort than it should have been to look back up and he sees Hannibal, staring at his blood-streaked chest, eyes are clouded as Will’s mind feels. “You enjoy this,” Hannibal states, stepping towards Will. The back of the blade, squared and dull, presses up against his cock, hard and curving up into the blood. “You’re in this state from this alone. Exquisite.”

The cold metal against him makes Will twitch and shiver, gasping at the contact. All Hannibal has to do is flick the blade upwards, invert it, and the threat both makes Will cringe and curl his toes. It’s not a typical sort of pleasure, embers sparking all across his body, his body tensing up in anticipation of a mutilation that may never come. Surely Hannibal wouldn’t do something that reckless, would he? It doesn’t stop his pulse from racing, the flush dusting across his cheeks and under half-lidded eyes, and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine- 

The Alpha blinks and steps back quickly, like he narrowly avoided doing something he would have regretted. He drops the scalpel on the tray and takes off his gloves, puts on a new pair, then picks up a clean scalpel and returns. “How does it feel?” he asks, like he doesn’t know.

“Almost painless,” Will tells him, and his voice sounds strained, faded. “The cuts don’t hurt anymore.” The scalpel licks across his chest, the bare skin there, deep, blood flowing freely. Will groans. “It feels-”

“-scorching,” Hannibal finishes, as he cuts into the other side of Will’s chest. “Ablaze.”

“Like my fears are draining away. Everything.”

“You will look beautiful scarred.” The scalpel raises, presses a kiss to his cheek with the flat of the blade. “Even more so here.”

“We can’t.” There is no possible way they would be able to explain that, not to anyone.

“I know.” Hannibal removes the blade, fury in his gaze. “A fantasy and nothing more.”

“I’d let you,” Will whispers, before he can think better of it, and then he cries out as the blade cuts into his arm, lines radiating out from his shoulder. It can’t be easy to draw blood along his skin with the position he’s in but despite that, there is no second pass this time. The scalpel slides deep from the start, lines fanning outwards. Each touch excises another useless thought from his mind, another worry cast away, replaced with simply feeling. 

“You cannot tempt me like this, Will.” Hannibal is behind him now, scalpel sinking into his back, and the contact makes him arch, the cuts on his front pulling and dripping more blood with his movement. He feels lines carved into him, stretching out along his shoulder like wings, wax melting down his back as he approaches the sun. His skin feels cold, hands clammy and sweating, his grip on the cuffs harder and harder to maintain. Steel kisses down his spine, shallow, dipping deeper as it fragments outwards, smooths arcs and swirling patterns in his skin. That heat envelops his back and curls around, up and over his other arm, a slick sensation dripping down his body, and when Hannibal steps back around to his front he has to blink several times to focus his gaze on the man.

It’s like looking at him through a hazy curtain. He can’t tell if that same look is in the other’s eyes or if it’s just suffusing out into the entire world around them. “Will,” Hannibal calls out, a hand on his chin tilting his head up. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, Will answers, or thinks he does, only realizing he hadn’t when Hannibal repeats the question. “Yes,” he manages to say. He can’t hear blood impacting against metal anymore, just the steady drip drip drip of water into a puddle. It has more weight to it. 

“Where are we right now?”

“Baltimore?” He thought they were in Baltimore. Had they moved at some point? The world seems nebulous, malleable, something he can change at any moment. Ethereal. Wonderful.

“Good.” Hannibal stands up on his toes and kisses Will on the forehead, hand leaving blood smeared across his cheek and beard before retreating. “You’re doing so well, Will.”

“I feel strange,” Will tells him. Up close, he can see the faded look in Hannibal’s eyes was not imagined. 

“A pleasant strange,” Hannibal answers, not a question. There’s no need for it to be a question when they both feel the same thing. “We are almost done. Relax, Will.”

Will doesn’t think he could move a single muscle in his body if he tried. Distantly, he can tell that his hands are still locked around the cuffs, but even that ironclad grip will eventually fail. He can barely feel the ropes around his forearms anymore. His head hangs down, eyes looking down his chest, blood running down his chest and past his soft cock, spiraling around his legs. Hannibal has fresh gloves, a fresh scalpel, and then he’s leaning down, back to the tortoiseshell pattern, continuing it downwards, across hips and down his thighs. With every new caress Will feels himself splinter, drain away, all his worries falling into the pail of blood. He’s freezing, the blood so hot it’s almost burning, cycling back around to pain, underwater. “It’s cold,” he murmurs, eyes closing, despite the fire razing him to nothing. The polarity of the sensations envelops him like a blanket, smothering, crushing away his consciousness, draining the life out of his body. He’s dying, he’s being killed, his life leeching into the pail below him, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt in the world.

Dimly, he feels the pressure of something on his other leg, then a clang of metal falling into metal. He thinks his leg may be being moved. Far away, he hears his name being called, insistent, and he reluctantly opens his eyes.

Hannibal kneels below him, a wild look in his eyes, Will’s leg in his hands. “Look at me,” the Alpha growls, then teeth fit around his ankle, parting flesh like butter. A soft whimper escapes his lips. There’s so much blood, on his body, out of his body, in the pail, in the world, on Hannibal, on his clothes, his other leg is moving, teeth catch on flesh, every thought and sensation in his brain combining and erupting-

With a sigh, Will closes his eyes and lets it end.

When Will wakes, he can’t move.

Panic hurries what should have been a slow awakening. He can’t move, he’s trapped, his limbs aren’t responding and his eyes aren’t opening and-

He sinks deeper.

There are no dreams here. One moment he’s falling, deeper through the waves, into darkness, then he’s surfacing with a gasp, the cold air harsh on his face.

Everything hurts.

“Careful,” someone tells him, and pain lances through his head. When he tries to press his hands against his temples those hurt too, his arms hurt, his chest hurts, every single inch of his body hurts. “Do not reopen your wounds.”

“Then help me,” he hisses, eyes still screwed shut. A hand on his back carefully helps him up, against soft pillows, and finally, he opens his eyes.

It’s bright. He’s in a bed, not the hospital, so large and opulent it must be Hannibal’s. The sheets are a cream color, mottled with an abstract red pattern-

It’s blood.

“I did not want to risk moving you to change the sheets.”

Will closes his eyes and counts to ten. “Try again.”

“It was aesthetically pleasing.”

He opens his eyes once more and turns to face the monster. “You sedated me.”

“Through the worst of it.” Hannibal certainly looks put together now . “Most should heal with minimal scarring.”

“I thought you wanted me scarred.”

“What I want does not necessarily align with reality.”

Will tips his head back against the headboard. He’s not… upset. He had asked Hannibal to hurt him and had a great many opportunities to back out of this. Still, he finds himself almost… amazed at the grandeur of it all. The savagery. “How much blood did I lose?”

“You gave me a great deal.” Hannibal, behind the mask, looks pleased. “A prompt transfusion assured no lasting damage had occurred.”

“A transfusion?” Will frowns. “Do you just have extra blood laying around?”

Even as he asks, the answer reaches him. Not quickly enough to stop Hannibal from saying it himself. “I have told you before, Will. We share the same blood type.”

He looks down at his arms. The forearms are bare, untouched because of the rope that had wound around them. They look the same. He can’t see Hannibal’s blood running through his veins, if it even is anymore. Maybe by now his heart has cycled it all out, changed it to his own. “Did you need a week to get enough of your own blood drawn in preparation?”

“Among other things.” A hand drapes across his forehead and Will closes his eyes. He doesn’t flinch this time. “No fever.”

“Did I have one?”

“You did not.” Hannibal is telling the truth, best as Will can tell. “The worst of your wounds may take some time to heal.”

He can trace the pain, notice how it gets more severe the further down his body he gets. His ankles hurt the most. If he had been given painkillers at any point he certainly doesn’t have them now. “Got a little excited, did we?”

“As did you,” Hannibal sniffs. Trying to pin the blame on him.

He's not really wrong.

Hannibal continues. “None of your wounds require stitches as long as you behave.”

“Subtle.”

“I’ve found it’s far too dangerous to offer you subtlety.”

Will laughs, and it makes him wince. “Fair. Come here.”

The other man leans further in, drawn like a moth to flame. He falls still when Will grabs his wrists, places Hannibal’s hand over his heart. “Touch me,” he asks, with a cruel smile.

Hannibal wouldn’t risk reopening the wounds and his lips curl into a snarl, not appreciating the weaponized invitation. He moves his hands, cupping Will’s jaw, and yet again, Will does not flinch. He doesn’t flinch as Hannibal smooths his hands down his arms, runs them down his torso, slips them under his shirt and over bandages. Instead of his skin crawling at the slightest touch he feels blood running down his body, blooming beneath Hannibal’s fingertips. They descend, down his hips, onto his thighs-

And Will’s hands grab Hannibal’s wrists, ripping his hands away, eyes wide. “S-Sorry,” he stumbles over, surprised by his own actions.

“Progress all the same,” Hannibal murmurs, taking back his hands. “You are healing.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Will says quietly, and soon large hands curl around his neck. Hannibal doesn’t squeeze, just lets them sit there, and it’s soothing, comforting.

“This was supposed to be an alternative,” Hannibal muses, and Will almost laughs again.

“Congratulations on finding an alternative several magnitudes less viable than the original concept.”

Just barely, the hands start to squeeze, and Will smiles.

Hannibal spends a great deal of time in the bedroom Will is more or less stuck in as he’s healing, possibly because he knows if Will gets bored he’ll stand up and leave, which is almost guaranteed to reopen many of his injuries. Since the savage bites on his ankles are the deepest, Will can’t walk without assistance for several weeks, Hannibal carrying him through the house like an oversized pet in the interim. It’s driving him a little bit insane, mostly because of how god damn pleased with himself Hannibal looks to be ferrying him around. His dogs had been brought over at some point and most are allowed inside the room though Buster in particular is swiftly banned. It’s simple, almost domestic, and Will had always thought he’d absolutely hate that sort of peaceful normalcy.

He’s surprised to discover that he doesn’t.

As soon as they are able, they return to their home in Dale City. Life goes on. Hannibal keeps seeing patients and Will lounges around the house, playing with the dogs and leafing through Hannibal’s belongings to try and find something to do. It doesn’t bore him, not really. It’s empty in a way that doesn’t bother him. After so much unwelcome excitement in his life, he finds that he has a newfound appreciation for boring. 

Maybe he’d always been okay with it because he knew, deep down, it had a time limit. He wakes up one day to a voicemail from Jack.

They end up meeting at the park again. Will doesn’t really want to go anywhere near Quantico for the time being, and it seems that Jack feels much the same way.

“How are you doing?” is the first thing Jack asks him, and Will wants to decompose back into the dirt.

Instead, he looks out at his dogs, running to and fro in the park. “I don’t know,” he answers, honestly.

Jack makes a vague grunt of agreement. “We should talk about work,” he sighs. Never one to waste time on small talk.

It’s appreciated, now. Like ripping off the world’s largest and most painful bandaid. “I don’t think I want to come back to the BAU.”

“Then thank god for that, since I wasn’t planning on asking you to.”

Will turns to Jack in surprise. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about?”

Jack sighs, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a long coat to keep the chill away. The sky is overcast, cloudy, and it's supposed to snow soon. “Will, after everything that happened, I don’t really want you anywhere near field work. You’ve been through more than enough shit to last the rest of your life without making you look into the brains of the worst sort of people in the world for a living.”

It’s bittersweet. He’d always sort of known that Jack was aware of the toll case work took on Will, and there were plenty of moments when Jack had protected him from things, shielded him from the worst of it. But there were just as many, if not more, moments where he’d been shoved right into the fires, pushed harder than he could handle just to catch another killer. Hearing it admitted to so openly simultaneously enrages him and fills him with a strange sense of relief. “So then what’s there to talk about?”

“I don’t want to kick you out into the cold. There are other things you can do for the FBI. I know that you teach classes sometimes. You could do that full time.”

It’s not the worst job he can think of. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to make a decision now. You don’t even have to make a decision soon.” Jack shifts on the bench. “If you want to leave and never look back, I wouldn’t blame you. I might even give you the first push myself. But I know you, Will. I know you want to help people, and that’s a way you can keep doing it without being directly involved.”

Jack is right. Will can feel the idea latching onto his brain, putting down roots. He knows, eventually, he’ll say yes.

But he needs more time. “Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.”

Jack seems to deflate and finally, he turns and looks at Will. “I’m here for you, Will. We all are. Just make sure you remember that.”

I have Hannibal, Will manages not to say. Instead, slowly, he nods. “How is the rest of the team doing?”

A much more irritated sigh. “Okay. Beverly keeps complaining about how quiet it is now. Price punched a hole in the wall.”

“ Price?”

“I didn’t believe it either when they told me.” Jack settles back on the bench, facing forwards again. “We’ll be fine.”

“Are you still going to ask Hannibal for help?” There’s no real reason why they shouldn’t, other than optics, which he knows Jack doesn’t give a shit about.

Except suddenly Jack goes still and the air grows tense. Will feels himself go cold, colder than the air around them. What does Jack know? How could he know? “I don’t want to see Dr Lecter anywhere near any sort of criminal investigation for the rest of his life.”

His mouth goes dry. Futilely, he tries to swallow, get some moisture. “Why not?”

“You weren’t there to see his behavior once you had gone missing. I saw a side of him that I’ve seen in others, in the kind of people we hunt down and arrest.” He looks back to Will, his gaze piercing, and Will feels pinned in place. “And I know you well enough to know that you are fully aware of that part of him as well.”

“Jack, I-”

“Don’t say anything.” Will’s mouth slams shut. “He intimidated a witness so we could get an arrest warrant. And you know what? I didn’t stop him, because I wanted to find you too. We all knew who was behind it. But we can’t do our jobs based on what we think we know.”

“He never would have fabricated evidence in any other circumstance,” Will says hurriedly.

“Trust me, I know now. I had to spend hours and hours pouring over every other case he’s touched to make sure everything was still above board.”

Will looks down, at the bench between his knees. He hears a dog trotting up to him- Winston, and soon the furry head is placed on his lap. “Does anyone else know?”

“No one.” Jack pulls his hands out of the jacket, pulling on his gloves. “I need to believe- I have to believe that the only reason he did it was because you were involved. That’s a risk I can’t afford to take going forward.”

“You still trust me.”

Jack stands. “I do, because you have the moral compass Lecter lacks.”

This is a warning. Jack might not trust Hannibal any longer, but he trusts Will enough to come to him if anything truly terrible happens. He’s walking through the forest, led astray by a broken compass. It makes Will want to puke. He should warn Hannibal, except he can't, because that puts Jack in danger. “I’m not spying on him for you.”

“And I’m not asking you to.” Jack turns towards Will. “He’d do anything for you, Will. I need to know that you can make sure that he won’t. Can I trust you to do that?”

How many cases had Hannibal influenced? Will knows he’s a murderer, probably a serial killer. Had they worked on any of his own crimes? Had all of this started as a way to cover his own tracks before careening off the rails? He’s not just killing them either, he’s fucking eating them, because that door got blown off its hinges some time in those days where he sat in a bed at Baltimore and realized that when Hannibal opens his mouth he can see blood on his teeth. Hell, he’s probably fucking feeding it to all of them. A predator, a good old fashioned monster, the boogeyman parents warn their children about to scare them to sleep at night. He doesn’t see it as cannibalism because they're beneath him. Hannibal, fundamentally, is uncontrollable.

Will’s not even sure he’d ever want to try. The monster is what trapped him. He looks up to Jack, petting Winston’s head, and wonders just when it was that Hannibal managed to crush Will's compass beneath his heel without him even noticing. 

Snow starts to fall from the sky and Will holds out his hand, catching a snowflake and watching it melt into nothing. “Yes,” he lies, “You can.”