Chapter Text
In truth, they've had many opportunities to hear each other's voices, see each other's faces, and even meet in person. They could have given each other their phone numbers, exchanged emails, hell, they could even have Skyped.
But they never did.
They were both hopeless romantics, drunk on novels from forgotten times. Will believed any other connection apart from the letters would ruin the magic they had with each other. Hannibal did not mind as much, but he found it hard to disagree with his dear friend. However, the Alpha soon began to seek more, to colour his words with promises and requests, all of which Will shot down.
When Hannibal loved, he loved deeply.
His love was an all-consuming force of nature, a swarm of insects crawling on one's skin, leaving bites and marks and scratches in their wake. To be loved by Hannibal meant to be the recipient of humanity's every aspect - the good and the bad. To be loved by Hannibal, meant to be alive. In the ugliest, and most beautiful sense of the word.
When Will loved, he loved in denial, in fear. The last thing Hannibal would do was to call any attention to said love. He would rather enjoy it in silence, in the glimpses of encrypted confessions between sheets of paper, in the innocent doodles of flowers and dogs in the corners.
Still, that never stopped Hannibal from running his usual schemes. Years ago, before he’d realised just how deep his love for his friend ran, he began scenting every letter, "accidentally" rubbing his wrist at the bottom. Curiously, Will had never commented on it. Hannibal wondered if the scent was lost during the delivery process. It brought a slight frown to his features, yet he never stopped doing it since. He would conjure, on occasion, a picture of Will in his mind palace, hunched over his desk, nose pressed to the paper bearing the Alpha’s words. The frown would soon fade away after he did so.
19XX
Will had no one he was willing to admit it to, but the scent of Hannibal's letters was so comforting.
He wondered if it was on purpose, if it was a sudden thing, or if he just hadn't noticed it before. But each time he opened a letter, he would be greeted by the now familiar scent he assumed was Hannibal’s own. It smelled warm, had a bite to it. Smelled human. Like no human Will had ever scented. Each time he finished reading the letter, he would tentatively bring it to his nose, with a deep inhale, and imagine Hannibal were there with him.
He would put it down after, and ignore the heat spreading to his cheeks and ears.
Will felt the phantom bugs crawling on his skin from time to time, sometimes he woke up with the vivid thought of himself covered in welts. He only needed to strip in front of the mirror, and he would see them there. He felt it all, and he ignored it. Much like life had taught him to. Much like he ignored the comfort that it brought him.
Will was thirty-five now, just as single as he had been five years ago, when he'd admitted to his disappointment about it to Hannibal.
He'd tried courtship with Alana, he really had. She treated him well, but it just wasn't… working. He supposed his resentment towards her had started growing as soon as she'd begun treating him like an Omega. When she first scented his heat on him.
She hadn't done it on purpose, she probably wasn't even aware of it, and Will never commented on it. All her gentle, condescending comments, her acts of service, they were all normal for an Alpha who was interested in courtship. They came from a place of interest, of curiosity. Of norms one had learned in their childhood and had not properly stopped to question. He supposed it was new for both of them. The romance beyond casual flirting. But they'd both failed, because they'd both relied on preconceived notions about each other, and about love. They'd both had different things in mind.
After Hobbs, Will had expected her behaviour to change for the worse. He’d expected more doting, more coaxing his feelings out of thin air, and he’d braced himself for it. When he’d gotten back to work from weeks spent in the hospital, however, Alana had not mentioned a thing. He could feel her anger, could see it shimmering in her eyes every time she looked at him, but he knew it was never aimed at him. He was eternally grateful she never voiced it. It comforted him in a way she had never managed before.
Hannibal knew everything about his relationship with her, except the aftermath of Will’s incident. Will had asked him for advice, even had philosophical debates with the man on secondary genders and his never ending disdain for his own. The expectations, the assumptions, the people. They had all been too much.
Five months into the courtship with Alana, Will had realised he'd only stuck around because he liked discussing it with Hannibal. The realisation had left him speechless. He'd had a long conversation with Alana about it, trying desperately to form an excuse without giving away his secret pen pal. But there was no way to salvage that. He had wasted time and effort from both sides. And by extension, had ruined their tentative friendship. They greeted each other in the academy, now, but it was never more than idle small-talk. It was awkward.
When Will had broken things off with Alana, Hannibal had sent him a sketch of himself and Will, seated on a bench in the Uffizi. He had been out of Italy for nearly two years now, yet Will was sure it was a perfect likeness. Hannibal's memory had always been incredible. He'd drawn Will with a small smile on his face, and himself with a besotted expression. They were both looking at something beyond the paper. Will pretended it was a photograph, and it cheered him up. He sent him a picture of himself holding Buster in exchange.
He could not let this go. No matter what. In the curved paths of his life experiences, in the corners of all his past failed relationships, lay the constant presence of Hannibal's words, Hannibal's sketches, Hannibal's face.
The notebook labelled "Hannibal" had now grown into five full notebooks and three folders. Will could never bring himself to throw any letter out, or any drawing. Almost half of the horse sketches, the flowers and the dogs, he had left for his dad, when he moved out years ago. He had no idea where they were now, but he had looked at each one long enough to remember them.
He never managed to write to Hannibal about Garret Jacob Hobbs. He never found the words. Before he managed, he had already decided to stop writing altogether. His last letter to Hannibal had had the undertones of a goodbye, but he had not dared to declare that that was it. He’d left Hannibal to find out for himself.
And now, here they were, brought back together again, like a stubborn teacup that Will himself had thrown against the wall.
They confirmed Hannibal would be keeping his post for the remainder of the school year. He had apparently made his plans clear with his employer at Johns Hopkins, and had been given the green light. This was news to most of the staff at Quantico, to all except Bella Crawford, who had arranged the position for him. Jack was overjoyed with the new addition, already thinking of ways to advertise this to potential trainees. He’d rung Emily at admin, who kept the academy website up to date, and shared those plans with her. Both seemed determined to milk every opportunity the new Alpha lecturer would present for Quantico’s future.
This begged the question, which a lot of people seemed confident enough to ask: what was Hannibal Lecter doing in Quantico? Why give up the prestige of Johns Hopkins, not to mention the salary at Johns Hopkins, for a position that was lower in every aspect?
The Alpha seemed to be caught with this question on more than one occasion, and on every single one, he had the same answer. Conveniently, always within earshot for Will to hear.
“I had something calling to me here, in Baltimore. I’ve come to find it.”
The way he said something caught midway on his tongue, as if he meant to say some one , and stopped himself only for the theatrics of it. Everyone caught on it, and Will assumed that was the purpose. It was such a typical Alpha gesture that he could not even get annoyed by it. He just huffed and carried on walking to wherever his destination at the time was.
Hannibal, to his credit, did not bother him all too much. The man seemed content to just be in the vicinity of wherever Will found himself. He would walk past him in the corridors with a pleasant greeting and a warm smile. Will could not help but smile back, the feeling of Hannibal being another part of himself not quite having left his psyche, despite the Alpha no longer existing only in the letters Will read with his own voice.
Soon, Will grew used to Hannibal’s presence at his workplace. The Alpha wasted no time in familiarising himself with everyone around him, and soon his course on First Response Emergency Care - Intermediate, or FRECI, held its first lecture . He quickly became popular with the trainees, both for his charms and his practical way of teaching, and his course’s title was shortened in conversation as the freaky class. Beverly and Jimmy seemed to find that hilarious when Will told them.
Will and Hannibal never held a conversation for more than two minutes, after their encounter in the staff meeting. It almost seemed as if Hannibal were avoiding him, but that term didn’t quite fit in Will’s mind. It was more like Hannibal was doing it in Will’s favour, to ease him into this new chapter of their lives. Will could not help but draw comparison to courtship. Even the word itself made him blush. He found comfort in his predicament, however, and he did nothing to challenge it. Just as Hannibal seemed content to only see him around the building, Will found similar pleasure in catching glimpses of him, and of his scent.
He began to hope anew, that their relationship could be rekindled, and that no incident would sabotage it this time. He was determined to let it grow at its own pace, and not stump it as he was usually fond of doing.
It was raining outside.
It was one of those long rains, those that last for days and days, making you forget what it feels like to look at the clear sky. It was depressing, just as it was reassuring.
Will sat hunched over his desk in his office at Quantico, internally cursing every god he knew for not letting him be at home, snuggling with his dogs. He wanted to spend some more time with Winston, the pack's newest member. The dog was quiet and intelligent, Will had not heard him bark once since he brought him home. He sighed at the thought of his little family waiting for him at home, and gathered his notes. The lecture hall was dark and looming when he entered. It made Will feel as if the entire building was in deep slumber, unbothered by the pattering of rain on its roof.
It was refreshing to go back to the classroom after a few days of absence. Will had gone part-time this year, driven by some misplaced desire to seek a life outside of the workplace. He reckoned he’d be back to full-time by the next academic year, but for now he enjoyed the time spent with his dogs at home. He had enough savings, thanks to the settlement he’d reluctantly agreed on with the FBI. His story with Hobbs never made it to the tabloids thanks to it, and it saved the Bureau a lot of unnecessary trouble.
The early risers began to fill up the lecture hall, each of them familiar enough with their professor as to not approach him with any curious enquiries. Will was a good teacher, so long as he was the one doing the talking. He lacked the passion many others had, who insisted on having the entire classroom participate. He left that passion to his students to find for themselves. All he could give them was insight, and tasks.
There was an air of peace around the Quantico halls, quickly disturbed by the stormy entrance of Jack Crawford, trailed by two officers Will could not recognise.
“Will, I need to talk to you,” the head of the BAU said, leaving no time for introductions. Will just raised his eyebrows and glanced at the rest of the room, trying to hint at his approaching lecture. Much as he expected, Jack turned to the group of trainees scattered across seats, and his voice boomed in the heightened acoustics of the hall. “Class dismissed, go to Alana’s Prevention and Radicalisation next door.”
The lecture hall began to lose the few students that had wandered in, and Will made a mental note to get the material from Alana when the day was done. He would have to edit some assignments later, the headache of it was already beginning to form.
“What is it, Jack?” he finally asked, when they were alone at his desk. The officers had made themselves comfortable and were sitting in the front row, murmuring to each other in low tones. Jack pretended they were not there.
“You know you have helped me in the past, Will, and I am immensely grateful for your help,” the Alpha began, his voice having the grace of portraying just a hint of regret. “And I vowed to not ask you again, given the circumstances that followed.”
“And yet here you are.” Anger began bubbling up in Will’s throat, intermingling with the pulsing headache that made him wish to crush his glasses on the desk. He had guessed immediately the reason behind Jack’s visit. It was not every day the head of the Behavioural Science Unit came to disturb your work and have a chat. “I’m sure you have a great explanation for this, Jack, but my stance is still the same. Hobbs was the first and the last. I am not made for field work.”
“Will, believe me when I tell you this, I would not be coming to you if I weren’t desperate,” Jack sighed, his age suddenly becoming apparent. “This case is nothing like we’ve seen before, not even close to the Shrike. The police are in an uproar, the FBI has been scrambling for any loose ends and there are none. Every department is waiting for it to hit the news, the tabloids are probably writing about it as we speak.”
“And you want to make the FBI’s incompetence my problem?” Will asked, his expression blank. “The last time I helped you, Jack, my brain caught on fire. And I know you like to make the argument it was coincidental, but the fact of the matter is this. I cannot allow the same level of stress into my life again. I’m not the same I was before it all happened, I have to actively make decisions that benefit my health now. Because it’s been fucked over too many times. I cannot help you, Jack, not if I don’t want history to repeat itself.”
The statement had finality to it, enough that Will could almost see Jack walking away and not bothering him again. It was, however, Jack Crawford he was talking to. The man had come so far in life not because he made compromises, but because he got around them.
“I promise you, Will, what happened with Garret Jacob Hobbs will not happen again. And I can make that promise, because I am confident in keeping it,” he employed that persuasive Alpha voice of his, that left little room for argument. It worked its magic no matter the situation, and Will could already feel the dread building up in his gut, because he knew he would listen. “All I ask of you, all I ask for is a second opinion. Not extra field work, not any report or any interviews or any sociable task you dread so much. I’m just asking you to take one look, one , and tell me what you see. I will let you go afterward. That’s all I ask.”
They both knew that wasn’t true. The glint of Jack’s eye betrayed his intentions, and Will was Will. The exact reason Jack was here, asking him for this, in the first place, also made him see through the facade of the small favour he was about to grant him.
He knew where this led, and yet, he could not say no. Jack knew this as much as he did. At least saving lives had a much more noble ring to it than living did.
When Will reluctantly nodded, Jack had the grace to hold himself back from smiling triumphantly. The Alpha merely nodded back to him, the frown on his face ever-present, trying desperately to hide the satisfaction of a conquered argument.
Dear Hannibal,
Last night a thought came to me, unbidden. I had a conversation with my Dad that almost left me in tears, as usual. I keep trying to give him chances, to help him understand me and my biology. I love him so dearly, I’m constantly blinded by the potential I see in him that had only existed when I was just a toddler and didn’t know any better. He was perfect to me then, my hero. The only parent I have, the only role model I needed.
The thought was this - I think I was created for violence. I think I was bred for it, I belong to it. Part of me thinks I’m also hopelessly attracted to it. The violence of my father, the violence I extend to myself. Everywhere I go I seem to be surrounded by it, as if I call to it, or it calls to me. If there were a God, and if I believed in Him, I think He made me for violence. My fate is tied to it. It’s a comforting thought, it gives me a sense of purpose, oddly enough.
I am writing this at a very late hour, nearly three in the morning. I assume the words will read quite differently in the light of day, but I will trap it in the letter before then.
I wonder, what do you feel your purpose is, if you ever think of such a thing. Something noble, I bet. Is it your future in the medical field, or your passion for the arts? Knowing you, it must be something beautiful.
Do you believe, Hannibal, that I am misinterpreting my fate? Maybe you could be my voice of reason and tell me I’m wrong. That violence is just a byproduct of life and we all experience it, and that it has nothing to do with me, no more meaning than I myself give to it.
I would love to be proven wrong someday, I feel you of all people could actually manage it.
It’s three o’clock now. Two minutes past, to be exact. Did you know they call this the devil’s hour? It’s when all supernatural beings roam free. Perhaps the devil is lurking behind my door, patiently waiting to take me away. Maybe that is my true fate. Who knows.
To end on a positive note, as I suddenly feel guilty for boring you with all my nightly thoughts, I am moving out in two weeks. As you already know, I was accepted into the police academy. It was why I was arguing with my father. He doesn’t see the job as fit for an Omega. I think part of him wanted me to marry instead of work. He’s too afraid of seeing him become like him, and suffer to make ends meet. But I think the academy will save me from that fate. I’ve worked so hard and I will surely reap the benefits. I’ve always wanted to help people. I feel like I am now once step closer to that goal. How very Omegan of me.
I’ll be sharing a dorm with a Beta. His name is Matthew, we met each other at the open-day. His family was very kind. He seemed a little odd, but he was easy to talk to.
I cannot wait to go, but my heart is also hurting. Saying goodbye to family is the most bittersweet thing in the world. I don’t know how to feel about leaving my father alone, but I cannot stay by his side forever. Life calls, as they say.
I hope your studies are not stressing you too much. But knowing you, you probably enjoy it.
All my love,
Will
Will had always been convinced Buster was secretly a supernatural being. The small dog somehow always sensed a phone call seconds before it would come through. Every time, without fail, he would start barking right before the phone rang, which would then prompt Will to take the call outside on the porch if he wanted to hear anything from the other side. When Will had shared this information with Jack, the other man had laughed and said something about computer speakers and old telephones.
The pastel blue clock on the wall read six forty-six in the afternoon. It had been a gift from Will’s students a few years back, during a time when he had consistently failed to show up to his own classes on time. Despite it being the idea of one or two students who’d tried to be funny, Will still always thought of the present with warmth in his heart. Back then he’d used tiredness as an excuse, but most everyone knew it was a bigger monster eating at his heart. Now at least, that time was over, and he always had the time readily available to him in his kitchen.
The chopping of a slightly dulled knife from overuse mixed with the sound of the clock’s subtle ticking. The more Will looked at the little pieces of carrots, the redder and redder they seemed. If he remained unblinking for another minute or two, they would eventually melt into a pool of warm blood and seep from the countertop down to the floorboards. If he squinted his eyes ever so slightly, each piece was almost identical to the chopped up fingers of Abigail Hobbs. They were pointing at him, pointing and accusing.
Buster’s bark sharply echoed through the air, making Will almost drop the knife on his own fingers. There would be an irony in that, he thought before he made his way to his mobile, which lay on the coffee table in the other room. As if on cue, the default-setting ringtone sounded just as he picked it up. That was all expected, all rehearsed by the universe and by Will himself. What was not expected however, was the unknown number on the other line.
“Graham,” Will answered gruffly, old habits from working for Jack never quite leaving his day-to-day.
“Good evening, Mr Graham,” the voice from the receiver spoke with an undertone of amusement. Will’s heart clenched.
“Hannibal,” he breathed. “Hi.”
“Hello, Will. Are you well?”
“Very well, thank you. Did you need anything?” He hated hearing his voice tremble, he knew Hannibal heard it, too. “Help with assignments, perhaps?” He threw in a joke to mask his nerves, though there was no fooling either of the pair, and he knew it.
“Not at all,” the Alpha’s laugh rumbled, mixed with some static from Will’s old phone. “I admit I don’t really need anything. I only wanted to hear your voice, and ask you about your evening.”
“Oh,” Will took a deep breath, feeling a shiver run down his spine. Only Hannibal could so casually mention something so romantic, like he was remarking on the weather. It was a stark comparison to the way they acted around each other at work, as if they were no more than acquaintances. Will could not stop his perception from telling him that Hannibal was doing that for him. For his freedom at work, for his wishes to remain unnoticed. “Thanks for being honest, then,” he finally said, too affected to muster up a proper reply. “My evening is going well, as well as it could.” His voice trailed at the end, giving way to his thoughts of his conversation with Jack yesterday.
“You don’t sound convinced,” Hannibal prodded, concern painting his words. “Is something the matter?”
Will sighed. In all his attempts throughout the years, he could never lie to Hannibal. He could only omit, much like the Alpha himself often did. It was their intimate dance, they’d practised the choreography for as long as they knew each other.
“Nothing’s exactly the matter, it’s just…” he looked up at the clock in his kitchen, trying to root himself into the visual reminder of the passing seconds. Hannibal waited patiently on the other line. “I think I’ve taken up something that will hurt me in the long run,” he finally admitted. It was as much as he would give away. He knew he could not really discuss it with anyone, much less his friend who could read him like a book.
“Ah,” Hannibal’s voice came along with his understanding. “You are quite fond of things that hurt you, if I remember correctly.”
“Yeah, it would seem so. That much hasn’t changed.”
“I do hope you will find some beauty in that hurt, Will,” Hannibal said, making Will frown just slightly. “Don’t let the hurt consume you, whatever it is you’ve taken on. Focus on what it can do for you, instead.”
Will sighed. “I’ll try to remember that, thanks. Though I’m not sure how applicable it is in my current situation,” he chuckled, no real mirth in his voice.
“You may well be surprised. Just remember my words, Will. That’s all I ask.”
It sounded oddly ominous, though nothing out of character for Hannibal Lecter. The absurdity of it made Will smile, and all he could do was thank his friend and accept his advice, cryptic as it was.
It was Hannibal who hung up, after bidding him a good evening, and Will needed at least thirty seconds before he could put his phone down and get back to his dinner preparations. The carrots looked orange and completely normal now, the image of Abigail Hobbs retreating back to the depths of his mind. He always imagined her so vividly, despite never meeting her in person. Not while she was intact, at least.
The whirring of the car engine was an ambience Will didn’t know he needed. Three hours had gone by since he left the house, the only constant of the trip being the car’s consistent breathing. Sixteen hours had gone by since Hannibal’s unexpected phone call. He wished he had told him, he wanted so desperately to have a reason to call him after this. The thought made him shrink inside himself. He drove on.
When he’d arrived at the destination his GPS was set on, he took a moment to breathe. This was it. His last remaining minutes of freedom, before he’d descend to madness all over again. He killed the engine. Jack was waiting patiently outside.
The first thing that Will noticed upon entering the gallery, was the smell. It was so overwhelming to his senses that he had to hold his sleeve against his nose. He could quickly tell which people were Betas, as they walked around undisturbed. Jack walked to his left, mirroring Will and shielding his face with a mildly disgusted expression.
“He’s been in here at least a week, Price says,” Jack’s muffled voice came through his sleeve. “Gallery’s closed for the season, the gardeners who come every Monday noticed a smell near the entrance and called the cops.”
The next thing Will noticed, as they walked further into the building, was the noise.
“Bet they didn’t expect that,” said Will, finally reaching the room where the body supposedly was. The noise was concentrated there, obvious now where the source was. It was an overwhelming sound of static, as if coming from a broken radio. There was a group of people at the door, blocking his view. Some of them were taking pictures, other were writing things down on notepads and tablets.
“No, they didn’t,” Jack grunted in agreement. “Bet they thought it was a critter.”
“They always do.”
The critter turned out to be an Alpha male. Will did not need anyone to confirm that for him, for he recognised him immediately, much to his dismay. The same face he had looked at on the bulky prison computers all these years ago, during his internship, now looked back at him, this time with its eyes closed, and an apple in its mouth. The rest of the body was hidden behind a massive TV screen, only the head poking through a hole impressively cut out in the middle. The screen was miraculously turned on, displaying only static and the occasional splash of colour between the cracks. Similarly, around the room were numerous broken screens, all turned on, all contributing to the eerie white noise that made everyone in the room wish to put their hands to their ears.
“George Henderson,” Jack began. “He was a-”
News anchor in the early nineties, Will’s mind supplied. He did not share the knowledge aloud, for he had no time to explain himself. He just nodded along to Jack’s explanations, and listened as the Alpha listed all the visible wounds on the victim’s body. He was dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit him, a tie that was too tight on his neck it could have choked him, were he still alive, and the most notable bit - his hands were sewn into his body, holding his ribs.
While he listened and catalogued the information, Will couldn’t help but think of the past, and he remembered glimpses of a letter he had written, the contents almost forgotten to him as he’d only read it once before sending it.
Dear Hannibal,
I dread to write about it, but I must come to terms with my disappointment in my career.
As you remember, I was so eager to start in the force, when I finally graduated from the academy. My father even managed to get over his disapproval of my choices, when he heard my voice on the phone. He congratulated me, and wished me all the best. It meant so much to hear from him, from the man who rejected the future I had planned for myself. It took a load off my shoulders. But not for long.
Last summer, as I told you before, I did a placement in a state prison, in the mental health department. I was interviewing people who had just come into prison, doing general assessments and helping with paperwork and admin. General stuff they make students do. But when you work in an establishment, no matter how small the role, you start hearing things.
I learned so much more in that prison than I did at the academy, Hannibal. And, fool as I was, I suppressed it all and pretended it wasn’t there. I was so eager to believe in justice, so eager to trust the cause I was about to be a part of as an officer, I turned a blind eye every time an inmate made a comment, or I witnessed the faults of the justice system myself.
Let me explain.
There was a man I interviewed, homeless, who stole from a department store, and was sentenced to two years in prison. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and had suffered brain damage as a child.
There was another man, a news anchor, quite famous but fallen from grace, who had two hundred images and videos of child pornography on his computer. He was sentenced to six months and subsequently got a suspended sentence. He was “bullied” as a child.
The first man was never mentioned on the news, no case was made in his favour, he was forgotten to the world. The second man had articles written about him, about his trauma and his inability to think straight, and people pitied his tragic past.
I forgot all about these men, until my placement was over, until I finished my last year and graduated. Until I started the job I dreamed of, and saw the pattern of the people we were going after and arresting.
It makes me sick, Hannibal, my profession makes me sick. I know if I leave, I will do it no good. The culture already exists, and ensures the good ones don’t stay long enough to change things. I really want to change things, but I feel so powerless. All my colleagues see is a helpless Omega, despite all I’ve shown and proven to be. If they see an ounce of empathy or emotion from me, of compassion for another person, they’ll root me out of the system and have a field day.
I realise now, Hannibal, passion and good intentions can only do so much. I feel the same sense of powerlessness in this field that I feel when I look at my own body in the mirror, when I notice people’s perception of me.
How does one deal with such a loss of direction? Tell me what to do, Hannibal, for I am hopelessly lost.
Yours,
Will
The sensation of George Henderson’s death hit the news hard and fast, and left the public eye just as quick as it had come. The tabloids, much like Jack had guessed, had their fair share of fame covering the murder, and then moved past onto the anchor’s dark history. But the moment the justice system came under scrutiny, suddenly no one seemed to be interested in either writing or reading about him. Henderson was once and for all forgotten, much like his crimes.
Not to Will. He could hardly forget the man, especially now that he had to profile his killer.
When he stood in the room, absorbing he static and the smell, he attempted to glimpse at their killer’s psyche. What he saw reminded him too strongly of his own reaction to seeing the horrible man at first, but then, beneath the first layer, he finally saw him.
A man, Alpha most likely, but not necessarily. Middle aged, elite, intelligent. Meticulous. The killer saw his victim as a means to an end at worst, a pest at best. He had used him as a medium, eager to create a memorable piece out of an individual who was so willing to both be remembered for his greatness and forgotten for his sins. He had made him beautiful. It was no coincidence the killer had picked a gallery to display his first piece. And it was his first piece, at least in this area, of that Will was sure. This man, this artist, would not hide his art from the world deliberately. He may have killed before, but this was more than a kill.
“There will be no connection,” he told Jack, the surety of his statement surprising the Alpha. “You will waste your time looking at friends and relatives.”
He also relayed his initial observations with Jack, though he saved some details about how he felt about the piece . It was not enough, by Jack’s standards, but it was all he could do. Jack soon acquiesced.
“They call him the News Slasher, you know,” Jimmy joined them, soon after he and Beverly were done at the scene.
“Not very memorable,” Will murmured, thoughtfully. “It will change, the next time he kills.”
“He will kill again?” Jack questioned, a line of stress appearing at his forehead.
“Oh, absolutely.”
And he did.
The next few months came with a few peaceful days of proper lectures, and two very disruptive visits from Jack himself into the lecture hall.
After the third kill, the public had called him The Ripper. A name coined by a tabloid reporter, whose article was lucky enough to popularise it.
The other two kills, compared to the first, were not as ostentatious, in Will’s opinion. But one thing brought them all together. Each one of them reminded Will of a letter he had sent, years or nearly a decade ago. So far back in his memory, that he was convinced he was just forging memories whenever he saw a body.
It made his blood run cold, but he did not know how to face that thought. It made him think of the same uncertainty he had after Hobbs, right before he was hospitalised. He hoped very dearly his brain was not again catching on fire. He could not bear it a second time.
It had been more than a fortnight after the third body was found. Jack was seemingly happy with Will’s insights, though he was no closer to catching his Ripper. Will suspected it would turn into a game of cat and mouse between his boss and the killer. It could last for years, for all he knew and cared. This Ripper was more than capable of playing the long game, of that Will was sure. It frightened him just a little, but most of all, it excited him. It was an ugly excitement, one that came from years of suppressed morbid curiosity. He wondered if the killer would ever get caught, and if Will would be there to see it.
He hoped there would be no new body to bother him for a while, though, as he desperately needed to catch up with his work, lest he feel like he was drowning in it. He had just given his first full lecture since the last scene Jack had brought him to, and was beginning to prepare his students for an upcoming assignment that would make them hate him. He’d taken a lot of material from Alana, as his students had attended more of her lectures than his own. He would have to repay her in some way, soon. Now, he only focused on walking back to his office, where he hoped he would be undisturbed for the evening.
When he walked in, he noticed one thing out of place.
It was an envelope, laying inconspicuously on the edge of his desk, looking as if it came right out of Victorian times. It was sealed with red wax, a dried flower trapped between the seal and the paper, beckoning Will to touch it. The envelope itself was tied on the side with a dark-purple silky ribbon, draping down the edge of his desk, as if trying to jump and hide from him.
He knew exactly who the sender of this letter was, and it filled him with the same giddy anticipation he would always feel as a child.
He could still smell him in the room, his scent unfurling around where his hands had no doubt touched the wooden surface of the desk. It waited there for him, like a silent promise. Will moved to sit on his chair. With gentle fingers, slightly trembling, from fatigue or excitement, he removed the seal and opened it.
There, folded in a creamy sheet of paper, lay Hannibal Lecter’s beautiful, unforgettable writing.
My dear Will,
In case of accidentally scaring you away again, I have deigned to employ the medium you are most familiar with, in hope it eases you into accepting my proposal.
It would be a true honour and privilege to have you over for dinner at my house in Baltimore this Friday. At six-thirty, if it suits.
Yours,
Hannibal
All Will could do was stare at the letter, and think. Hannibal’s address was written in the same loopy cursive at the bottom of the paper.
The Omegan part of him was jumping around in excitement at the sight of the elegant offer. It felt as if he’d been waiting for it his entire life.
Courtship.
The rational part of him, the Will Graham part, reminded him to be afraid. He could easily find an excuse, tell Hannibal he was sick, feeling unwell, that he could not make it. And then, he’d go back to normal. To routine. To glances in the halls, to phone calls in the evening. To the easy interactions that removed him as a participant. Back to the miserable life of Will Graham that had no ounce of Will Graham in it.
He smiled ruefully at the letter, and made up his mind.
He said nothing to Hannibal, when he saw him in the gardens, nor did he leave a note for him. The Alpha made no move to approach him, only challenged his gaze whenever he sensed it. The letter with the scribbled address was burning a hole in his pocket. His fingers itched to grab a pen in turn. Will went home, and waited for Friday to come.
Will smelled him before he heard or saw him.
Dropping his keys onto the kitchen counter, Will noted his dogs seemed calm, but stood away in the corner, not greeting him. They were smarter than him in that regard, they knew when to retreat.
He poured himself two fingers of whiskey by habit and leaned his elbows on the counter, taking a long, bitter sip. Seconds later, he felt a breath on his neck, followed by a kiss.
“Hi, Matthew,” he said, propping his head up in his free hand. Matthew Brown, his ex, purred into his throat and kept kissing it. When his tongue darted to lick at where a mating bite would be, Will pulled away. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s been months, I’ve told you to leave me alone.”
“I came to see you.” His voice hadn’t changed a bit. It made Will angry, for some reason. Repulsed was a better word. “I missed you,” Matthew whispered, “I missed this.”
Will did his best to keep his composure. “There is no this. I left you two years ago, Matthew, whatever this is in your head, it ended then.” He took another sip, pretending his throat wasn’t closing up.
“Tell me to go away, then,” Matthew challenged, his voice losing any air of romance he’d previously put on. “Tell me to go, and I will.” He took a step closer to Will, the latter frozen in place.
He could tell him to go away, he wanted to tell him to go away. His tongue was lead in his mouth, his limbs refusing to follow his mind’s instructions to move, to shove, to run into the other room and lock the door. All he could do instead, was swipe his thumb at the rim of the glass, and pray that by some miracle it would cut him.
He hated himself for not moving away. He also hated himself for weeping at the warmth that engulfed him when Matthew Brown held him in his arms. He did not reciprocate, but it was enough. It was enough.
“There, there, my Omega,” Matthew shushed. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“I’m not your Omega.”
“I know.”
Ever since Will broke things off, Matthew would do this every once in a while. He would always act like Will had a choice to push him away, like it was Will’s decision that let him show up and do as he pleased. He had tried before to tell him to go, but Matthew just twisted his words and stayed anyway. He’d given up eventually, and just let him carry on until he left again. Will could not admit it to anyone, but he enjoyed it when the Beta came to hold him. Sometimes he would just close his eyes and pretend it was natural, that he wanted it and that the warmth didn’t just come from his body’s desperation to be touched.
“To answer your question earlier,” Matthew began, cutting his statement off by nuzzling Will’s neck. “I was running from someone.”
“The cops?”
“Something like that.”
“You can’t keep doing this, Matthew.”
“My flight was never meant to be long. Though I’ve barely begun to ascend.”
Will swallowed, the movement of his Adam’s apple prompting Matthew to put a hand on his throat. Gently. When another tear rolled down Will’s cheek, the Beta licked it and smiled.