Memento Vivere

by dinononono

Summary:

Hannibal makes a mistake, acts too soon. Will spirals into accusations and madness quicker than intended. In other words, season one retold.

+++

"Do you want me to kill someone, Hannibal?"

Notes:

Wrote this all during school, listening to classical music. Unparalleled experience.

Have fun. I had fun, at least.

Chapter 1

1

Gift

 

Monday. 5:45pm.

 

“Season’s greetings.” Gently cradling a wrapped gift. Lithuanian accent wafting through cold air. Dotted in snow, a faint tinge of pink glow garnishing his cheeks and ears, offering a touch of humanity to a being who considered himself so otherworldly—so peacefully detached from the masses. “Season’s greetings, Will,” he continued.

“I don’t really celebrate Christmas.” The words spout, chalky, from Will’s mouth. His hands grip the doorframe, dogs woofing and circling his legs, eager to assess this stranger. 

“You don’t have to partake in typical Christmas traditions to receive gifts,” says Hannibal Lecter; unofficial therapist, professional psychoanalyzer. “I’ve brought you this one to show you my appreciation. Towards you, us, everything we’ve experienced in this past month.”

Seems like an excuse for more psychoanalyzing. Will’s lips twist into a strange faux smile. Not even a smile—a parted jaw, slightly curved lips. Some evil twin of laughter erupts, choppy like a helicopter, slicing through wind gusts. “Am I—Am I supposed to invite you in?”

“We can proceed however you’d like. I can simply hand you the gift and leave. Or you can invite me inside, as you’ve suggested.” He grins thinly. “I don’t bite.”

“Something tells me that’s a lie, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal remains grinning, which, in itself, is a confirmation. 

The elegantly-poised therapist enters Will’s home, still cradling the gift how he might cradle a small child. Abigail Hobbs immediately springs to Will’s mind, unwelcome, but unsurprising. She’s been taking up a nook of his brain, poking around in it, forcing his thoughts to redirect towards her. He’s imagined holding her protectively in his arms, shielding her from the terror she’d wrongfully endured. He’s imagined having something to love. To adore.

The door clicks shut behind Hannibal. He inhales, delicate. Forming opinions immediately. That damned sensitive nose of his. “Have you been worrying, Will?”

Will whirls around, dogs still scrambling around his feet. “Why? Does worrying carry a certain scent?” 

“An energy. It’s thick and metallic. Crushing. I’m surprised you aren’t weighed down by it everytime you return home.” Hannibal wipes his snowy shoes on the woven mat, drying the mess evenly. His middle name may as well be Neatness. Or Carefully Calculated. 

“I don’t worry,” Will huffs, half to himself. “I think. Everyone thinks.”

“But you think differently. You and I both.”

“You underestimate just how different we are, Dr. Lecter.” He lets his words settle and harden, before clearing his throat and continuing. “I’ll take my gift now. Would you prefer I open it in front of you? Be warned, my empathy disorder—” Bitter, biting. “Might cause you to feel unappreciated.”

“I see no problem with your empathy, Will. We all empathize in separate ways.” He lightly extends both arms, offering the gift. “Don’t feel obligated to open it in front of me. I respect the choices you make, as they are often beneficial towards those involved.”

“You respect all my choices?” Will asks. This is no longer regarding the gift.

“All of them.”

Will reaches to take the gift; lets it rest comfortably in his hands. He resists the urge to shake it, and instead scrutinizes the shape, creating a mental checkbox list of possibilities. Squarish. Could be a book. Or a box. A framed photograph. 

Hannibal blinks expectant eyes. “May we sit?” 

“Make yourself at home,” Will snarls. He’s always despised that phrase, given how it was near impossible to familiarize oneself in an unknown space. 

Soon, his therapist is seated pleasantly on his rotting couch. Though Hannibal is a man who relishes in spotlessness and clean-cut corners, the splayed, pigsty state of Will’s home does not seem to bother him. His eyes wander, first marveling, then assessing. Possibly constructing conversational points for their next unofficial session. 

Will collapses into a chair beside the couch, wrapped gift in his hands. He and Hannibal participate in a brief staring contest, before Will grows tired of it. “Unless you’d call this  impromptu therapy, I’m going to go ahead and open this.”

“I distinctly remember you telling me you avoided eyes.”

Will feels uncomfortable, suddenly. “Maybe something changed.” He switches his focus towards the gift, aggressively tearing open the paper in a manner Hannibal mostly likely would frown upon. A smooth, black box appears once the paper is peeled away. Will removes the top, and stares down into an unexpected sight. Ornate blades sitting in a velvety bed. “Knives,” he says, imagining it would arise as a question, surprised when it arises as a statement. A flat, strange tone. “You got me knives. For…self-defense?”

“They’re my knives. Were. Hand-crafted. There’s a story in these blades—but I suppose I’ll leave that for you to decide. I thought you should have them. What you use them for is entirely up to you.” 

Will gets directly to the point, seeing straight through the lovey-dovey guise his therapist has put up. “Do you want me to kill someone, Hannibal?”

An eerie silence. As if lightning were about to strike. 

Hannibal then exhales, tenting his hands. He leans forward. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended to plant those thoughts in your head. I’d wrongly assumed you’d see past the violence of my gift, and appreciate the beauty and care instead.” The dejection in his eyes is supposed to ensnare Will in a sticky puddle of guilt—this he instantly understands. 

“Cut the act, for the sake of us both.” Will’s fingers tense and tremble on the box. “Do you or do you not want me to kill someone else? Because we both know I’m perfectly capable of it.” In his mind flashes the fragmented images of Garret Jacob Hobbs slamming into the cabinets, chest penetrated by a storm of bullets, gaze bleak and haunting. See? 

“Will.”

“You want me to be a—a weapon—you want me to utilize my lack of empathy to catch bad people and rid them of the world. Isn’t that right, Dr. Lecter?” He’s leapt to his feet now, the knives abandoned on the chair. “You thought you could mold me into your desired shape. You thought I’d never see through you. You think you’re…impenetrable.”

“No one is impenetrable,” Hannibal says coldly. He rises, leveling with Will’s burning gaze. The ice balances with the fire, and fizzles out in a smoky plume. “You need to calm down, Will. You’ve jumped to nonsensical conclusions. My work as your therapist—”

“You aren’t my therapist,” Will hisses. “Not officially.”

“My work as your friend,” Hannibal continues, squaring his shoulders. “Is to help sort complicated feelings. Not to influence you to tread down a dark path. You don’t have to accept my gift, but the least I can do is explain my reasoning.”

Will sputters, fury pulsating in his brain, aching his head. Sweat beads on his shivering skin. Feverish. “That’s the thing. It isn’t a gift. It’s a reminder. You’re reminding me how to be a killer.” The word ‘killer’ tastes rotten on his tongue, rolling heavily; painstakingly from his mouth. “You claim you’re not influencing me, but Hannibal, that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

There is another crushing silence.

Hannibal is a masked individual. A being who spends the majority of his social interactions hidden behind a facade. But when the mask cracks—a thin, forking line—the veneer slipping for a split-second, Will takes notice. it is visible when Hannibal’s pupils dilate, when his facial muscles twitch, when his blink lasts too long. Micromovements. Ones so tiny, they would sail over the head of anyone considered ‘normal’. But Will pinpoints them, stores them away in his crowded brain under the file labeled ‘Hannibal’. And smiles.

“I’ll forgive you for now, Dr. Lecter,” he says through his teeth.

Hannibal nods, his mask reconstructing. “I respect your forgiveness.”

Will chuckles darkly. “Of course you do.”

Chapter 2

Notes:

Some dialogue is taken from the show. If you recognize, it's probably from the show.

2

Stagman

 

Tuesday. 2:15pm.

 

The Hobbs residence is still stained, despite being thoroughly cleaned. Abigail’s large blue eyes bore into him. Terror-struck. Glazed. A varicolored scarf conceals her scar, a new, permanent piece of her. “You do this all the time? Go to places and think about killing?”

 “Too often,” Will says. 

“So you pretended to be my dad?”

“And people like your dad.”

“What did that feel like?” Abigail steps closer, despite trembling limbs. “To be him?”

“It feels like I’m talking to his shadow suspended on dust.”

“You think you knew him?”

“I try to know him. I still try.”

 

+++

 

2:36pm.

 

They let Abigail scamper away outdoors, knowing the walls of her house—the murder scene—must be squeezing in on her. She won’t go far, though. She can’t. 

During unofficial therapy, Will and Hannibal have discussed the idea of Abigail’s involvement in her father’s crimes. Whether she was an accessory to the string of murdered young girls. Or a bystander. But it seemed impossible she couldn’t have known. Psychopaths may be experts at blending in with their surroundings, at masterfully manipulating the minds of those they love to secure claims of innocence. But the way Abigail had described her father’s behavior didn’t sit right with Will. He was loving right up until the second he wasn’t. 

Not even the most skilled at mind-bending can feign love.

Love is an untamable force. It cannot be controlled. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs did not love Abigail. And he did not work alone. 

Will and Hannibal walk beside each other, rhythms synchronized. Wind roars behind, shoving up against bare napes, sending a chill across skin. An odd thought crosses Will’s mind—he imagines if this were a date, he might offer Hannibal his jacket. Drape it across his broad shoulders, provide him warmth. Although his jacket might be a size too small. 

Romance and Hannibal Lecter fit comfortably in the same sentence. They were practically the same word. He is rose-tinted, smooth as glass, sweet as wine. 

Romance with Hannibal Lecter was a foreign territory. Will cannot even fathom it—a man who spoke in riddles, talked in tongues. A man who had denied influencing Will towards the dark, despite the both of them knowing damn well what he’d been doing. 

“Did I not clean up well this morning?”

Will blinks, exiting his stupor. “Hm?”

“You’ve been staring,” Hannibal says, almost teasingly. An unfamiliar tone. 

Will grumbles and ignores the accusation, fixating on Abigail in the distance. She’s talking inaudibly with another girl, similar in height and overall appearance. Skinny. Brown hair. Large eyes. Must be a friend, Will concludes, aware Abigail doesn’t have siblings.

Without warning, a redhead boy approaches the girls. Seeming troubled. Although his words are indecipherable from so far away, it’s evident he’s yelling. Abigail’s friend chucks a stone in his direction. It soars through the air, before striking him across the forehead. He skitters away, fuming, hand clamped on his injury. Disappearing into the woods. 

Will and Hannibal intrude on the commotion.

“Who was that?” Hannibal wonders, eerily calm. 

Abigail jumps a bit. “Somebody’s…brother. Nick Boyle.”

Will quickly recognizes the surname. “Related to Cassie Boyle?” Cassie Boyle being the teen who’d been artfully impaled by stag horns, lungs surgically removed by the Copycat Killer. 

“Yeah,” Abigail confirms, blankly. Staring into nothing. “He was…he was angry. Blaming me for things I didn’t do. Things I know I didn’t do.”

“I’m going. My mom’s here,” her friend says. Abigail bids her an expressionless goodbye. 

It’s Will’s turn to wonder. “And who was that?”

“Marissa Schuur. She’s my friend. Sorry.”

Subsequent to making a mental note of the name, Will dismisses her apology, irked by it. “Okay. And you’ve never seen that boy before? Nick Boyle?”

“Heard about. ‘Cause of Cassie’s death and all. Never seen. Have you?”

Hannibal shuffles leaves with his feet, as if trying to conceal something within them. Upon listening to the conversation, he jumps in, “We should report this, yes?”

“Yes,” Will says. Direct, sharp. 

 

+++

 

A mirage had begun visiting Will a while ago. The stag was far from dreamlike. Muggy clouds of snarling breath, heavy hooves clattering against ground. It would make appearances not only in his subconscious, but his conscious state as well, lurking behind trees as a constant warning. 

But there is a new one, a new apparition. He’d first considered it an anthropomorphic stag, black and bloodsucked. Ribs jutting out, every bone visible beneath thin, obsidian skin. But after a moment’s observation, he’d noted its uncanny similarity to that of a cannibalistic creature originating from North American folklore, flesheater of the forests. Will had studied its ghostly features and wasn’t surprised how much they’d resembled Hannibal’s. He’d taken a mental screenshot, prepared for it to arrive again. Soon. 

He’d been correct. Tonight, the stagman slips effortlessly into his dreamscape. It materializes between gauzy recollections of Garret Jacob Hobbs slamming into the cabinets, chest pockmarked with bullet holes. Will isn’t sure what feeling washes over him. Relief? Resentment? Stare unbreaking, the stagman rips its horns from its skull. Without a glimmer of pain or struggle. Offers them to Will.

Initially, Will suspects he means them as weapons. An offering of weapons. An influence towards violence. But Hannibal is never so straightforward. 

Part of him, Will realizes. He’s offering me part of him. 

His eyes flicker open into reality before he can decide whether or not to accept. 

 

+++

 

Wednesday, 7:02am.

 

Exhaling shakily, Will peels off a soaked shirt. Unlike others, he recalls every inch of his dreams in vivid detail. The question of whether or not this is an advantageous quality has often circled his mind. Yes, he usually decides. Dreams are splinters of memories and alternate realities. It’s important to tune into them. But due to his…ability, his special talent, most of these dreams end bloody. Murder in his head, and all. 

They’re visiting Garret Jacob Hobbs’ hunting cabin today. Searching for evidence, scraps left over, scattered puzzle pieces. Vaguely, Will can already feel the pendulum oscillating within him. Can already feel his brain turning back time, reassembling the crime scene, stepping into the murderer’s skin. Can already feel the wet blood coating his hands.

Upon exiting his house, an expensive rental car rolls into his driveway. He can see everyone is piled within it—Hannibal, Alana, Abigail. Hands shoved in coat pockets, he walks towards the car and catches Hannibal’s gaze. It penetrates through him, cold and shocking.

He yanks open the door and slides into a seat. Abigail is squeezed uncomfortably between the two men. But based on her situation, finding any smidge of comfort seems impossible. Her giant blue eyes flicker up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Will says, avoiding her face and instead finding the one who’d pervaded his subconscious. Feels his innards twist and sink. Resists the urge to ignore him. 

He settles on a neutral, “Dr. Lecter.”

“Good morning, Will.”

They ride, bathed in silence. Will’s eyes are glued to the window

Hannibal then speaks, voice silky; romantic. “Do you dream often, Will?”

Oh, come on. Save it for therapy, won’t you? Will hesitates, disliking the sudden invasive question. But he sees no reason to lie. It isn’t as if he’d be revealing a startling amount of personal information. Adjusting his position, he grumbles, “Every night.” 

“And you, Abigail? Do you dream?”

“I do now.” She swallows. Laboriously. Heaves a sigh. “Every night.”

From the rearview mirror, Alana chews her lower lip. As if debating whether or not her words will do well in the current atmosphere. “You both have been through immense trauma. Nightmares are normal,” she says eventually. Her usual soft, assuring tone. 

“No, I—I wouldn’t call them nightmares,” Will argues. “They’re…messages. They’re the parts of my brain I can’t access in the daylight. It’s me, the alternate version of me that exists in sleep, giving myself a message.” His tongue becomes leaden upon realizing the weight of his words. “You appeared, Dr. Lecter. Last night.”

Hannibal betrays no reaction on his face. “Did I?”

Will does not give him the satisfaction of his discomfort. He straightens, flattens his features, and mimics the lack of facial expression Hannibal practices so diligently. “I wonder what message I was trying to get across.”

They’ve arrived.

A blast of daylight blinds the four as they step outside, followed by a sharp gust of wind. Hair whipped forcefully. They’re flocked by officers, who respectfully leave them be as they proceed into the cabin. It’s towering. Dark. Swarming with untold tales and horrible secrets. 

Fully indoors. Shadowy, looming. It's completely spotless.

“He cleaned up everything. He said he was afraid of germs but I guess he was just afraid of getting caught.” Abigail says the words absently, as if they are entirely detached from her. 

Placing a tentative foot against creaky floorboards, Will wonders, “No one else ever came up here with your dad? Except you?” Off her ‘no’, another idea leaps to Will’s mind. Another idea among the trillions inhabiting his head. “Ever help him make plumbing putty?”

Fingers frailly tracing an expertly carved wooden table, Abigail whispers, “He made everything by himself.” She then clears her throat, voice strengthening: “Plumbing putty. Glue. Butter. He sold the pelts on ebay or in town. He made pillows. Carved knives out of leg bones. No parts went to waste. Otherwise it was murder.”

Every portion of his victims were utilized. Otherwise it was murder . What an incredible way of thinking. It revolves in Will’s mind, imprinting itself into his file labeled ‘Garret Jacob Hobbs’. This file buzzes, weak, in dim light. Files are different once the subject is dead. Ghost files, shrouded in cobwebs, haunting him all the more.

Abigail’s throat bobs. “He was feeding them to us, wasn’t he?”

The cabin plunges into silence.

“It’s…very likely,” Hannibal says. What he means is, of course.

Wood groans as their feet press weight, heading upstairs. There is a faint dripping noise. Reminiscent of a leaky faucet. Staccato. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The room they arrive in is the dictionary definition of unsettling. Pearly antlers poking out from every inch and angle of wall. Decorations. Intended to be decorations, but everyone here,  everyone standing among them knows they are remnants of murder. The drips are louder, echoing. Will and Hannibal proceed further into the antler room—

And skid to a complete stop.

A young woman. Stabbed straight through, blood pooling around thick antlers that protrude grotesquely through her chest and stomach. She’s naked; bare. Dripping fresh red blood. That was it. The ‘leaky faucet’. She’d been leaking, sluggishly. 

Scrambling for his phone—shouting a command—“I need ERT at the Hobbs cabin.” The naked, blood-soaked victim beckons him forward. Arm outstretched. Will gingerly lifts her chin—

Marissa. Marissa Schuur. 

Like metal screaming against stone, Abigail’s cry pierces gratingly. A noise that serves no purpose but to express pain in all its complex flavors. 

Will’s gaze veers to Hannibal. The stagman superimposes over him, shuttering into form before vanishing. 

Notes:

Nooo, don't hallucinate a cannibalistic monster hovering above your therapist, you're so sexy aha

Chapter 3

3

L’affolement

 

Thursday. 10:18pm.

 

Truck exhaust irritates Will’s throat. Pressure squeezes his sinuses, bludgeoning him with an awful headache. He selfishly wishes Alana could give him a turn with that ice pack.

Something has happened. Something he’d vaguely predicted, based on the interaction between Abigail and the furious redhead stranger. Somebody’s brother. Nick Boyle’s DNA was found in Marissa Schuur’s mouth—a telltale that he’d been her killer. That he’d impaled her; hung her from those antlers like a Christmas ornament. But apparently Nick, dead set on avenging his sister, wasn’t prepared to stop there. 

According to evidence, he’d intruded into the Hobbs residence, fiery and unannounced. Had ruthlessly attacked everyone there—knocked out Alana and Hannibal, threatened Abigail in her already shell-shocked state. Practically cemented himself as the same murderer who’d made a mess of the antler room in the Hobbs’ hunting cabin. But Will doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t buy the perfectly constructed tale, the perfectly placed stains and flecks. This has Hannibal’s mastermind scrawled all over it, and Will isn’t going to ignore his gut. He never has.

Seated in the back of an ambulance, Alana asks, “Where’s Abigail?” 

“Dr. Lecter took her back to the hotel,” Will mutters.

“Is he alright? Hannibal?”

No use caring for him. Who knows if he’ll impale your friend next to craft a meticulous crime scene. Who knows what lies he’s willing to embed in the heads of us all. Will avoids answering, drowned in his thoughts. 

Standing imposingly, arms folded, Jack Crawford huffs, “Abigail scratched Nicholas Boyle before he ran out the back door. Blood on her hands matches the tissue we pulled from Marissa Schuur’s mouth.”

Alana blanches. “He got away?”

“He won’t go to a hospital,” Will says pointedly. He’s mimicked Jack’s folded arms without knowledge, and unfolds them upon realizing. “He knows he’ll get caught if he does.”

Jack won’t settle for this. Typical. “We’ll get him one way or another.”

“What’s one way?” Alana wants to know.

Exhausted words tumble loosely from Will’s mouth. “We’ll find his body, bled out. He’s already lost a lot of blood.” 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m tired, Jack.” He storms far from the scene, finishing the sentence himself: “I want to go home.” His voice escapes in a plume of mist, and he shivers. 

 

+++

 

Friday. 9:05pm.

 

“How’s your head?” Will asks bitterly.  

For the briefest millisecond, Hannibal’s eyes flicker with confusion. But his calm returns once he subtly recalls what his unofficial patient is referring to. “Fine. Hard to damage.”

But they both know the interrogation isn’t finished. “D’you know what weapon he used?”

Pause. Hannibal’s lips part. 

“I suspect it was the fireplace poker.” Hannibal knows not to respond too quickly. Knows not to alert Will that he’s forging a lie into shape, knows that a response too quick would convey falseness. He does not provide any addition to his statement, aware that it would convolute the story. He is sharp, he is measured, he is prepared. As always. 

Will clasps his hands in his lap, relaxed. “You’re an educated man, Dr. Lecter. A skilled man. I trust you could have sensed a nineteen-year-old boy approaching you from behind—a nineteen-year-old boy of a considerably smaller stature than yourself. You’ve seen the size of him. You could have crushed him with your hands. But please. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I’d been trying to protect Abigail and Alana.” Hard-hitting, curt sentences. A perfect replica of how one telling the truth might speak. “I wasn’t out for long, but when I came to, the boy had fled.” An almost-grin flashes across his face, lips lifting slightly, before returning to its standard, camouflaging flat state. “This is your therapy, Will. Though I won’t avoid questions about me, I’d prefer we use this time to discuss the state of your head.”

“You want to know the state of my head?” A dry chuckle erupts from Will’s throat. “Sometimes at night, I leave the lights on in my little house and walk across the flat fields. When I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat at sea. It’s really the only time I feel safe.”

Hannibal plays along, smooth, a leaf traveling along a languid stream. “Far from shores that would breath the hull structure of your mind. What dark waters would they let in?”

“My mind has already been breached,” Will says sharply.

Another pause. Hannibal blows out a gentle sigh, and imitates Will’s clasped hands. “You view your mentality as grotesque but useful.” 

“Like a chair made of antlers.”

“How did you feel seeing Marissa Schuur impaled in his antler room?”

“Guilty,” Will whispers. 

“Because you felt like you killed her?”

“No, Dr. Lecter. Because I let her get too close to you.”

 

+++

 

Monday. 11:37am.

 

Clouds are heavy in Bangor. Fitting, given a child murderer is on the loose. 

Agents scour the house, a disturbing scene. Littered with bloodstained family portraits and scattered organ residue. Collecting fingerprints, snapping photos of evidence, assessing wound angles. Will stands rigidly beside Jack Crawford, eyes dark and heavy. Not only is it beyond tiring to step into a killer’s skin, to rebuild an act of terrible violence—it is emotionally damaging. Will can feel his brain tensing, spasming, begging for a break. Pent-up fury broiling in his core, a thousand iron fists ramming into his chest, hot coals sizzling against his heart.

“Karen and Roger Turner,” Jack is saying. “Childhood sweethearts. Owned a successful Real Estate business. Pillars of the community. Three children.”

“Minus one,” Will murmurs.

“A son, Jesse,” Jack goes on. “Disappeared last year. Last confirmed sighting had him boarding an RV at a rest area on route forty-seven. Possible runaway, probable abduction.”

“Or both.” Will’s words are coming short and sour today. Sweat coats his skin in a thin film. Fingers cramping and aching from the constant clench of his fists. Though he’s trying so hard to detach himself from the thought of his session on Friday, trying so hard to focus on the current story and not a sidequest, he can’t help swapping their places. Can’t help that Hannibal’s face is circumnavigating its way through his head, affecting everything he thinks about like a malicious disease. He’d ended the session early, barreling straight out.

“Hundreds of tips, but not a single one held up past lunchtime. When misery rains, she pours.” Jack grins, rueful, at a gold-framed portrait of the family. Tragic.

 

+++

2:02pm.

 

Despite the heat emanating from every wall in Hannibal Lecter’s office, still flushed from Friday’s words, Will allows himself to be tranquil. Rushing will do him no good. Rushing will end in his downfall, or more likely, demise. He’s told his therapist to forget their last session, to erase it from his memory— I was in a bad place. I was tired, traumatized.

“Tell me about your mother,” prompts Hannibal.

“That’s some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter,” Will criticizes, though there’s a smile on his face, softening the blow. “Low hanging fruit.”

“I suspect that fruit is on a high branch, very difficult to reach.”

“So’s my mother. I never knew her. And I still feel as though I hardly know you.”

Hannibal’s brows lift. “An interesting place to start.”

“Tell me about yourself—your mother, too. Let’s start there. Quid pro quo.” The latin slips purposefully between Will’s teeth. An invitation. He knows Hannibal is a man fond of languages, the vast intricacies of culture and the exotic. Will has never watched his own words and demeanor so carefully; it’s a constant exercise. Filtering each syllable before speaking it. 

“Both my parents died when I was very young,” Hannibal begins, catering to Will’s curiosity. “The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was sixteen. Abigail Hobbs and I have orphan in common.” 

“Sucked the words right from my mouth,” Will chuckles.

“I think we’ll discover you and have a great deal in common with Abigail. She’s already demonstrated an aptitude for the psychological.”

“And murder,” Will says. Jumping the gun. The urge had consumed him.

Deafening silence. 

“I’d love for you to explain that to me,” Hannibal drawls eventually.

Will is more than happy to, trying to ignore the frustration burrowing into his chest. He’d ruined the satisfying slow-burn he’d been trying at. Ruined it so soon. “That night. You, Abigail, and Alana. Something else happened. Something bloodier than a couple whacks to the head. And I think you saw it all, Dr. Lecter. You either did nothing about it, or you helped it proceed.”

“Tell me what you think happened.”

“I believe that Nick Boyle intruded without warning. I believe he was hostile—we’ve both witnessed him exhibit that behavior. I believe he was rough with Abigail. My trust ends there.” 

“And your doubts begin with my claim of incompetence,” Hannibal sighs. 

The pendulum. Swinging heavily. Fwum. Fwum. Fwum . Decriminalizing the crime scene, returning it to cleanliness. “Desperate, Nick came for Abigail. Scrambling to prove that he hadn’t mercilessly slaughtered Marissa. But he failed to bring evidence. Abigail was scared; he was scared—his desperation took control of him and he manhandled her. A mistake.” Will rises to his feet, blazing. “She’s been carrying around a blade, keeping it secret within her pocket, knowing that there were people who vilified her for her father’s crimes, people who would try and hurt her. Now her fear had come true. She rammed the knife into Nick’s sternum, gutting him as she would a deer. He bled, collapsed, dead. You and Alana saw Abigail’s bloody hands—you knocked Alana unconscious to muddy her memory. Abigail looked to you for help, you convinced her it was destiny, the scripture of her life, an unavoidable event given the monster she’d been raised by. Together, like two peas in a little murderous pod, you buried the body out in the snow. Let him freeze over. Let him rot.”

Clock ticking. Minutes floating away.  

He breathes, shudderingly. “I crawl into the minds of killers, Hannibal. You imagined I’d never crawl into yours.”

“Abigail killed Nick Boyle,” Hannibal says, placid. 

“You let it happen. Same difference.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Will. You’ve reconstructed it all. But the gutting of Nick Boyle was Abigail’s handiwork.” His tone, sickeningly prideful, makes it apparent that Hannibal isn’t at all disappointed in Abigail’s immediate resort to violence. 

Rage rumbles in Will’s body, an inner storm. A physical compulsion, one that races from his shoulders to his fingertips—a physical compulsion to drive his fist into Hannibal’s face. Let him taste blood that doesn’t belong to anyone else. He restrains himself. “Yes, but you murdered Cassie Boyle. Marissa Schuur, too. You’re the Copycat Killer.” Bomb released. 

“And everyone will think you’re spouting nonsense. No one will believe you.” There. The admission, the explosion. Like he’d mentioned earlier; absolutely no reason to keep quiet.

“Because you’ll have concocted some labyrinthine lie. You’ll have planted your seeds in everyone’s heads, seeds that bloom into twisted trees of manipulation.”

“It’d be a shame to lose your therapist,” Hannibal murmurs. Almost sweetly. 

Though Will’s body is intact, he feels his soul tumble somewhere far away. “Real shame, yes. I believe our hour is up. Goodbye, Dr. Lecter.” 

“You’ll come back,” Hannibal says. It’s not a question.

Notes:

He Will.

(Get it? It's a pun, because 'Will' is his name. Laugh.)

Chapter 4

4

Infiltration

 

Tuesday. 8:20am.  

 

No one will believe you. 

Facing a plethora of FBI trainees, a lesson cascades thoughtlessly from Will’s mouth. But he is not thoughtless. While his lesson occupies the air, the high-boned face of Hannibal Lecter occupies his mind. Neatly woven sentences. Sweetly jabbing Will’s sensitivities. The ashy color of his hair, a strand or two askew, specially for Will. His sharp cupid’s bow, dipping into flat pink lips. Signature enigmatic grin. It’d be a shame to lose your therapist. 

“Most of the time in sexual assaults, the bite mark has a livid spot in the center, a suck bruise,” he’s saying, hardly fact-checking himself. Eyes glued to the floor. “In certain cases, they do not. For some killers, biting may be a fighting pattern as much as sexual…behavior…”

You’ll come back.

Panicked breath snakes from his mouth. Will bounds from the classroom. 

 

+++

 

11:02am

 

The only thing available is sleep. Will melts into his sheets, sweat-soaked and quaking. Beneath squeezed-shut lids, his eyes scorch with tears. Betrayal pulverizes him from the inside out, scratching his innards into ribbons. Last night, he’d hardly been aware of the betrayal. Swimming in a furious haze, craving Hannibal’s admission of guilt like a lion deprived of supper. For an entire month, a cloth had been clamped over his eyes. Over everyone’s eyes. A cloth knit meticulously by Hannibal, his graceful fingers moving like a ballet. 

Sobbing, dampening his pillow so severely it transforms into a puddle, Will thinks of everyone still blinded by the cloth. All of Hannibal’s friends. No. Every one of Hannibal’s ‘friends’ is a prop in the orchestration of Will’s downfall. 

It is mid-morning. Will drowns out the clattering mental noise. Tries to.

It is mid-morning. WIll sleeps until the sun sinks.

 

+++

 

10:56pm

 

Breathing through mud. Sweltering, sticky mud. Pressing predatorily against his pores, plugging them, suffocating them. Will wheezes, but his panicked breath hardly weakens the thick compression preventing it— what’s happening, what’s happening, what’s happening—

The stagman, shuddering into focus. Gnarled ribs jabbing within black skin, bony arms extended; grabbing. Will tries to discard it as yet another dream, but he cannot breathe. There is a monster, flesheater of the forests, leaning above his bed. Waiting. Watching him. Constricting his breath. This is not a dream. This is not a dream. This is not a dream.

Something irregular clouding his senses. Not mud. Hannibal has injected some sort of sedative into his bloodstream, rendering his muscles immobile, his head stuffed with cotton. He cannot breathe because there is something lodged down his throat, something long and hard, and he can taste disgusting plastic on his tongue. Hannibal has shoved something down Will’s throat, deep into his esophagus, and it isn’t coming out anytime soon. It’s grievously uncomfortable to have something jammed into one’s throat. This is not a dream.

“I’ve got you, Will.” Hannibal’s silky voice fades in and out of focus.

No, you don’t. You’re choking me. You’re choking me. You’re choking me. Cold terror clamps onto Will’s chest, shooting tensely up his spine. His back is pressed, rigid, against a chair. He’s been removed from his bed—meaning Hannibal had invaded his house, intruded on his sleep, drugged him, and is now wedging hard plastic down his gullet. A tube. A tube meant to choke him, restrict his breath, or something entirely else. 

Will’s lids are unbelievably heavy, slipping shut then snapping open. His body is beyond his control, chin tipped up by a hand that doesn’t belong to him, hair adjusted by fingers not attached to his hands. He is a puppet, tugged by Hannibal’s carefully-woven strings. 

“It’ll go quickly. I need you to calm yourself for me.” The tube jams farther, activating Will’s gag reflex so hard that he nearly vomits. His hand spasms, but he doesn’t budge. Get out of me, get out of me, get out of me. Pained, uncomfortable tears pool and spill. He is in a cage, prisoner to Hannibal’s influence, and his therapist has swallowed the key. 

Tube deepening within his body, Will succumbs to unconsciousness. 

 

+++

 

3:22am

 

In the morning, he remembers it all. The poking plastic deep in his esophagus, Hannibal’s soft touch on his jaw, the words uttered in his haze. He lunges straight to his feet, nausea churning.  But he doesn’t get far. His stomach lurches—vomit spews immediately, splashing grotesquely onto his bedsheets. Within it, a glimmer of flesh.

An ear.

Notes:

Ohhhh shit.

+

I'll be updating this fic sporadically, but I don't plan to leave it hanging - so don't worry.

Chapter 5

5

Dissonance

 

3:23am

 

An ear. Small, almost cute. Sitting petitely within the mess of Will’s regurgitation. A pearl earring, now tarnished, adorns the severed appendage— a pearl earring. The recognition slams Will hard and swift, sucking air from his lungs. A pearl earring. 

Fragments of a certain brunette girl, face a smattering of freckles, eyes huge and blue. When her nimble hands would slide a strand behind—

Abigail.

There is a piece of Abigail in his bed. There had been a piece of Abigail forced inside him, one that he’d propelled from the depths of his digestive system and plunged into a pile of vomit. There is a piece of Abigail in his bed, and he hasn’t placed it there.

But there is no tangled mystery to solve. All the pieces are fresh in Will’s mind.

Full color.

 

+++

6:14am

 

Rushing will only mar his goal. He has to work calculatedly, put on Hannibal’s skin. Pushing down squirming disgust, Will scrambles for his phone; types in a number.

Wrapped in coats, Will and Alana Bloom trudge through the snow-dusted field. 

“If it wasn’t a coyote, the coyotes probably got it. Probably got it even if it was a coyote.”

“Will. This isn’t about an animal. Is it?” 

No, of course not. There is something hidden in my pocket. Will coughs out a scratchy laugh. “I would say you know me too well—but anyone could guess by the looks of me.”

“Sometimes, I don’t know you at all, Will. I thought I did. But you surprise me everytime I see you. Everytime you strip yourself bare before a crime scene. I feel as though you’re slipping farther away from yourself. And I worry for you.”

“There are plenty of people you think you know.”

She stops walking, boot carving a groove in the snow. “What is this about?”

There is something hidden within Will’s pocket. Wrapped securely in a plastic bag, rinsed with sinkwater, perfect and pleasant despite the torn, fleshy flaps that define it as a severed ear. Peering skyward, avoiding her inevitably petrified reaction, Will digs around for and yanks it out. Thrusts the bag in her direction. Braces himself.

Alana’s breath hitches. “Oh–-” Piercing inhale. “Will.”

He finally allows himself to look at her.

“Where…” She’s incredulous, eyes flickering from the ear to his gaze.

“Listen—”

“Where did you get this? Did you—did you…”

“No. Listen to me, Alana. You have to listen to me. The conclusions you’re leaping to, erase them. Forget them. They’re not true. When I tell you the truth, you’re going to dismiss it because you’re under the influence of someone you’d never begin to suspect. There is a—there’s a cloth wrapped around your eyes, a cloth you’re hardly aware of because it’s crafted so masterfully that it appears clear. See-through. But that’s just an illusion. And you need to trust me, because if you don’t, something terrible is going to happen to the people you love, and you’re going to hate yourself because you could have prevented it. Alright?” Sweat coats his skin, shirt oppressive and sticky. Bouncing restively on the balls of his feet. 

“That is Abigail’s ear,” Alana says. Calming down. Palms flat against air, taming him. “How do you have it, Will? Did you take it from her? Or did someone give it to you?”

Just listen, listen to me. “Forced upon me, not my choice. Hannibal Lecter. It was Hannibal Lecter—he shoved a tube down my throat and dropped in Abigail’s ear. Made me swallow it. Came right back up this morning. You’re the only person who knows—”

“And you didn’t…struggle? You didn’t cry out for help?” Skepticism flares in Alana’s eyes, foot hovering slightly, threatening to bolt. 

Will feels a scream perch beneath his chin. “No. He drugged me.”

“Even so, you didn’t try to get away?”

“Physically impossible. Do you even understand what I’m telling you right now? Abigail could be in danger. Even dead. Mostly likely dead. Dr. Lecter has her—there’s a chance she’s being held hostage. If we get there quickly, maybe we can save her.” His mind veers in a dark turn. “Or retrieve what’s left of her.”

Alana’s face mimics the shade of the snow. “Will—”

“Alana—” Exasperation shoots through him. 

“Where is Abigail?”

“I just told you.”

“Where is she?”

“Alana, please—”

Swift; she snatches the plastic bag from him, gripping it posessively, eyeing her car, readying an escape—

Like the ear, Will’s brain severs from his physical body. Invisible scissors snip the connecting wires, expunging every speck of common sense. He nails Alana into the snow. Smashing her skull. Blood spreads in a brilliant bloom, resembling that of a halo.

Killing must feel good to God.

Staggering back, hands dripping; shaking. 

He does it all the time.

Lugging her body. Dragging. Up each step. Careful not to stain his house with droplets of her blood; create traceable evidence. His basement door beckons him. 

And are we not created in his image?

+++

 

Saturday. 4:45pm.

 

He has been in hiding for three days. There is a dead woman in his basement. The fecal, flowery scent of rotting flesh is driving a drill of madness straight through his forehead. 

Preserved in place, Will’s spine is flat against the wall. In his blood-soaked fog, he’d scrubbed the house squeaky clean, unnaturally clean. Scrubbed every available inch until his hands cramped from constant use. No one has come for him. Moments after concealing Alana’s body within the walls of his basement, he’d called Jack and informed him off a sudden sickness he’d come down with. Some variation of pneumonia he’d caught from cold, being out in it far too long. Plummeting deeper into the lie, he’d announced he wouldn’t be in for several days. Maybe even weeks. But this won’t work as he’d imagined it to. Tomorrow, someone will come to check. A lighthearted check. Too say hi, bring some get well soon cards and a homemade meal. 

Immediately, upon entering Will’s house, they’ll be unnerved by the stench.

Immediately, upon entering Will’s house, they’ll see his bone-white, sweaty skin. 

Immediately, upon entering Will’s house, they’ll know something is terribly, unmistakably wrong. And if anyone enters Will’s house, it is the last place they will ever be.

 

+++

 

6:26pm.

 

Teeth broken; mouth agape. Head held upright by the neck of a violin jammed down his gullet. Throat open, cut horizontally below the Adam’s apple and vertically down the middle—splayed open as if for dissection. Flaps of flesh affixed to metal rings. Propped up. Ready to be played. 

At least those are the bits and pieces adhered to Will’s brain, pieces he’s plucked from his surroundings. There is still a dead woman in his basement. He’s escaped to the theater, where cameras flash and pencils scrawl, capturing theories and thoughts. The FBI will not see him because he is no longer human; he is an opalescent membrane, humming gently against air. His humanity is stranded in his house, along with the dead woman. Sitting with her. Waiting. 

A violin, a human violin. It’s horrid. Twisted. Wrong. But still artwork. This is someone worthy of Hannibal’s attention, someone similar to Hannibal in skill. But it is not Hannibal. 

I open the throat from the outside, Will recites. A second nature. Three incisions, one to bleed him, second to open the trachea, and a third to expose the vocal chords. I open the throat from inside with the neck of a violin. 

He is unable to keep it stored within his cranium. The words creep out, light and airy. “I wanted to play him. I wanted to create a sound. The sound wasn’t for you or from you. It was from me. My sound.” A shuddering exhale— “This is my design.”

 

+++

 

Tobias Budge works at the Chordophone String Shop. Will has a request for him. 

 

+++

 

The door gently clicks open. Will enters his therapist’s office. 

 

+++

 

11:52pm.

 

Hannibal looks a mess, hair damp and askew, streaming with blood and speckled with bruises. A small metal statue slips heavily from his hands, mashing into the floor—Hannibal’s eyes roll back and he plummets forward—

Into Will’s arms. 

“I’d expected…” His voice slides out in a foggy slur. “To see you dead.”

“Shh,” Will croons, fingers clasping onto Hannibal’s hair as he stumbles. “Shh. Quiet down now. Silence yourself so I can speak. Are you ready for me to speak?” He does not wait for an invitation to continue. “What amazes me, Hannibal, what really amazes me, is that you estimated my capacity for violence—you knew exactly what I was capable of before I did. When killing Garett Jacob Hobbs, I knew I’d opened a previously-sealed door, knew I’d entered an inescapable territory. But I could hardly imagine killing again, not so soon. My imagination failed me. But you predicted the future, Dr. Lecter. Sic infit.”

So it begins. 

“Who did you kill?” Hannibal croaks—

”Silence yourself so I can speak.” A scorching stab of derealization simmers Will’s skin as he clutches onto Hannibal’s with monstrous strength. Short breath slicing through air, he yanks Hannibal’s hair upward, lifting his limp head. “It’s sad, it really is. To watch your painting be shredded by the hand you’d imagined was under your control. But it’s not so sad for me. It’s delicious, actually. Almost as delicious as it must be to eat your victims, right? To watch their insides sizzle in a pan of oil.” 

Hannibal wheezes, blood flying. Choking, but unable to mold words into shape. Sour bile lurches up in Will’s throat, the rigid curves of Abigail’s ear echoing their past position, and he feels his eyes moisten with a film of strange tears. Is it real? Smoldering stag breath irritates his nape from behind. A cacophony of clattering hooves. Faint dripping of an unknown substance, the leaky faucet—Marissa Schuur leaking. Drip. Drip. Drip. 

“Are you real?” Will quivers, tears flooding. “Are you real? In front of me, now?”

Seeing through a fish-eye lens. Every sound and movement heightened; shimmering. Breath heaving, a dead weight in his chest. A sick churning in his stomach. Stag behind him.

“I am,” Hannibal whispers. 

The dripping is entirely real. A stream of blood cascading, almost beautifully, from a scarily deep stab wound in Hannibal’s torso. His therapist can no longer support himself on Will’s body—he teeters and slumps unconscious, staining Will’s shirt with yet another streak of dark, wet blood. 

Something heavy in Will’s grip. Heavy and sharp. He couldn’t recall grabbing it, but it was there. Clear as day, it was there. 

It was me. 

His brain had blotted it out, erased it momentarily. But upon barrelling into Hannibal’s office, upon seeing Hannibal not yet down, not yet defeated, his brain had made a decision unknown to his body. Hidden on the ground, scrambling quietly, he’d. Snuck, crept, quiet as night. The moment Hannibal had turned, he’d struck. Drove a shard of glass straight through the flesh of his therapist’s torso. Twisted it, dragged it, punctured vitalities. That rush of serotonin was one he’d never forget, one that had crazily raced through his veins.  

Killing bad people makes you feel good, doesn’t it?

In tears, Will sinks to the floor. 

Until you recall that killing bad people means taking their place. 

Notes:

..........

Chapter 6

6

Permanence

 

Wednesday, 4:02pm

 

Abigail. The first name that flickers into focus upon awakening. 

Constricting white sheets bind him, compressing his ribs. His bones feel pulverized; weak, and he cannot imagine the strength he’ll have to gather in order to sit upright. The worst of all is his head. Brain rattling within his skull. Pounding, tensing—it’s as if icy metal blades are puncturing miniature holes through its outer layer. He feels bare, laid out, exposed, and wonders how long it’s been since he’d held that bloody shard in his hands.

Four days, apparently. 

Will is suffering from encephalitis—swelling of the brain—and he’d fallen into a small seizure-induced coma. Some peculiar part of him is disappointed by the news; the diagnosis. Although it’d seemed incredibly unlikely, he’d almost hoped the hallucinatory stagman hadn’t been a figment of his sick imagination. That it had been at least semi-real, that he wouldn’t be labeled entirely insane. No matter what, it would never be fiction. Not for him. 

Abigail. Jolting through him at unwelcome periods of time. He’s been sliding in and out of sleep, and her name is always the one that pries his lids apart. Abigail, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from being blinded by the cloth. The sensation of her severed ear wedged into the spasming flaps of his throat is one he’ll be unable to escape from. One that will haunt him, a phantom in his esophagus, for as long as he lives. In another life, I could have taken you out to the lake. Grinned as the sun pierced through the pines. Showed you how to properly fix bait to the hook, how to reel your catch in. I could have told you stories, and you could have listened. 

The room is vacant when he becomes fully aware of it. Humming with artificial light, penetrating his sinuses with hospital stench. On quivering arms, he sits up. Surveys the empty room, the empty chairs, and can’t help but be reminded of Abigail again. 

An urge overwhelms him, one to rip the IV needle from his arm and bolt far away. Never come back. Never face his charges. Would he even be able to live with himself, knowing what he’d done? The answer comes without him asking for it, a shockingly quick answer, hard, swift, and definitive. Yes. Yes, he would be able to live with himself. Just fine. 

Hannibal had opened that door, and glued it open. There was no peeling back this glue. It glittered with permanence. 

It is not long before the real door clicks open, and a woman enters. Waves of dark hair, glassy blue eyes—porcelain skin and red lips. 

“Hi, Will.” 

Alana. Alana is alive. 

She is not in his basement, she is standing right here in front of him, alive and speaking and real. But there is a bandage wrapped around her head, indicating an attack. Will reconstructs it rapidly—he had attacked her. Crushed her against hard ice with intent to kill, but it hadn’t worked. She’d squirmed away, scrambled to her feet and ran before he could catch up. The encephalitis had wrecked his brain so terribly, he couldn’t distinguish reality from the fable his sickly mind had concocted. Vivid hallucinations of him dragging her body up the steps. Trapping the corpse in the basement. He’d even hallucinated the smell of rotting flesh. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he mutters. Voice raspy, shaky. 

“Don’t worry. I can find it in myself. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a week. Maybe tomorrow.” Her fist grinds into her palm—fidgeting; restless. “But not today.”

 

+++

 

Hannibal Lecter has been bleeding for four days. Laid peacefully on crisp sheets, hair tidied, eyes fluttering every now and then but never opening. Will wonders what he could be dreaming about. With a mind like Hannibal’s, a twisting cavern of a mind filled with riddles and analogies, he can only imagine his therapist’s dreams are unlike any other. Hannibal Lecter has been bleeding for four days. The doctors do not know if he will survive. 

Nobody knows it is Will who’s done this to him, and they don’t need to. 

Occasionally, he will slip into Hannibal’s room with a turntable and a record. Gently let the tonearm lower, let the music permeate through every particle of air. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata No. 14 in C-Sharp Minor. With each note that rings and pierces, Will feels a little lighter.

When Hannibal’s lids flutter in a dream, Will increases the volume.

Lets the music infiltrate his dreams.

Tonight, he wanders towards Hannibal’s resting place.

Whispers in his ear; “Memento Vivere.”

Remember to live. 

END

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Thanks so much to everyone that spent time reading! I really appreciate you taking time to read my work. This was a fun, short project I completed during school (when I wasn't supposed to) and I don't plan to give it a sequel -- but I do plan to write plenty more Hannibal fics.

Thanks again!!