Watch The End with Me

by Nyx1408

Summary:

Will Graham is a new profiler for the FBI and is at Hannibal Lecter's home, going over photos of the latest crimes scene when the entire city goes into lockdown.

Notes:

This is a storyline I was toying with. I like the idea, but not sure if I should continue it. Let me know what you all think :) Thank you for reading.

Chapter 1

The glass in Hannibal Lecter’s hand caught the firelight as he swirled his wine, the deep garnet hue reflecting against the mahogany of the desk like pooled blood. Across from him, Will Graham stood with a whiskey in hand—no ice, just the raw amber burn. His fingers twitched as they hovered over the crime scene photographs between them, each glossy print a carefully documented descent into madness. Will never made direct eye contact. He looked just slightly above Hannibal’s eyes when speaking, as if tracking an invisible threat.

Or maybe he fears what he’ll see if he looks directly into me.

Hannibal studied that face with quiet hunger. Will Graham: the profiler with perfect scores out of Quantico, whispered about in the Bureau before he ever stepped foot in their halls. The man who saw too much. The man who felt too much. The man who could think like a killer—no, feel like one. Who could slip into their skin without hesitation. Who used that gift not to indulge, but to stop others like him.

For now.

Hannibal had heard the name years ago—rumors trickling through academic corridors and forensic circles. He had read about Will’s record during a visit to New Orleans, and the words had clung like cobwebs. Seeing him now, however—wrists too thin, shoulders drawn tight, a face that twisted slightly after every word—this was more than intrigue.

This was fascination.

He watched how Will stared too long at the more gruesome photos, absorbing each detail like it whispered directly to him. After the worst of them, Will always took a long drink. A ritual. Or maybe a sedative.

He sees the pattern but can’t name it yet. He feels the intent but doesn’t yet understand the design. Not yet. But he will.

There was something delicious in the not-yet.

“This man—Gregory Jones,” Hannibal said, sipping his wine, “was a hedge fund CEO. I met him once. Insufferable. He spoke only of himself. A man who saw the rest of us as insects. And now, he stares at nothing, surrounded by broken reflections. Poetic, isn’t it?”

Will furrowed his brow. “Someone who hated how he saw the world. Or someone who hated how he looked in it.”

“A man punished by his own reflection,” Hannibal mused. “It reminds me of Narcissus.”

Will said nothing, just took another long drink. Then, both their phones chimed in unison.

Will read it aloud. “Mandatory stay-in-place order. Lockdown in effect. Armed enforcement active. Airborne viral outbreak confirmed. Do not attempt to leave your location. This is not a drill.”

Will turned sharply to the window and pulled back the curtain. An army jeep crept past, flanked by masked soldiers in full gear. One of them paused and glanced up, the glint of the visor catching the light. He held his breath.

“I just moved,” Will muttered. “My place is still back in Wolf Trap. All my things...”

“You can’t return tonight,” Hannibal said softly.

He switched on the television. The anchor’s voice trembled under a practiced calm.

“We are receiving reports of a viral outbreak, possibly airborne. Symptoms include violent hemorrhaging, paralysis, seizures, and in some cases, locked-in syndrome. Deaths are reported across multiple states. Martial law has been declared in Baltimore County and surrounding areas. The CDC is confident that a cure will be developed within the next twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours to develop a cure?” Hannibal echoed with a quiet scoff. “Unlikely. This is something else entirely.”

He watched Will instead of the screen. Will stood motionless, silhouette etched by flickering light, whiskey gripped tight in one hand.

So careful. So controlled. I wonder—when it finally breaks through, will he scream? Or will he tear someone open with his bare hands?

How long until the veneer of civilization crumbles? A week? Three days? A single night?

This is what I’ve waited for. The collapse. The unraveling. When man becomes monster and the sheep turn on each other. And I will watch it all from my throne of quiet order.

A coil wound too tight. A violin string at the edge of sound. Hannibal stepped forward.

“You’re safe here,” he said, low and steady. Will accepted the second glass of whiskey without looking.

Let the world fall apart. I have Will Graham. And he’s far more interesting than anything.

 

By morning, the house was cold. Hannibal had lowered the thermostat during the night.

The news reported record deaths. Overflow hospitals. Emergency personnel infected. Then static. Hannibal rose early. Breakfast was intentional: sourdough toast with cultured butter, orange juice hand-pressed, and his own spicy Italian sausage. Strong coffee, sharp and black. When Will shuffled in, eyes rimmed red, Hannibal handed him the mug with a gentle smile.

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“No. Gunshots.”

“Still pale,” Hannibal noted. “You’re cold. Sit in the study. I’ll bring breakfast to you. The sun is strongest there.” Will hesitated. Hannibal touched his shoulder, just long enough. Will moved. Jack called as Hannibal arranged the breakfast tray.

“Tell me Will’s with you,” Jack said, voice thin.

“He is.”

“Good. Quantico’s sealed. No communications. Death toll is three times what the public knows. Asia’s hit. London. Half of Paris. Every antiviral fails. It’s mutating.”

“A vaccine?”

“There won’t be one in time.”

“We are safe here,” Hannibal said. Then he ended the call.

The storm will consume them all. And I will be untouched.

 

Will stared blankly at the screen, a blanket now over his shoulders. Hannibal handed him the tray.

“Try to eat,” he said. Will was flushed. His hands shook.

“You don’t look well,” Hannibal said. “Are you warm?”

“Maybe it’s just... all this.” Hannibal touched his forehead.

“No fever. Likely stress.” Will didn’t meet his gaze.

“What if I am sick?” he whispered. “What if I die?”

Hannibal wrapped the blanket tighter. “You’re safe here. I’ll be the first to notice if anything changes.”

Illness anxiety. An easy string to pluck. Let him tremble. Let him need reassurance.

 

When Will went to shower, Hannibal moved. Will’s phone lay beside the bed. Hannibal picked it up, turned off the ringer, opened a streaming app, and let it drain. Then he slipped it into the drawer beside his own bed.

Later, Will searched. He checked cushions, coat pockets. Anywhere he could think of. 

“I think I lost my phone,” he said at last.

“Perhaps it’s in the laundry hamper,” Hannibal offered. “Or under the bed. Regardless, the signal is unreliable now. The news will only heighten your anxiety.” Will sat, silent.

“You’re better off here,” Hannibal added. “We both are.”

By Day Three, the CDC admitted defeat. No vaccine. No progress. Just death. Riots broke out. Helicopters circled overhead. Hannibal stayed calm. He wore softer clothes. Cardigans, linen, no tie. Left his hair loose. Stubble softened his face.

Approachable. Familiar. Safe.

Will watched the television religiously. He barely spoke. The clothes Hannibal lent him hung too loose. Hannibal cooked. He read aloud in the evenings. He lit the fireplace when the nights dropped colder. Always present. Always listening.

Let the world fall. Let the fear take root. Let him cling to the only still point he has left.

Me.

Chapter 2

Hannibal’s POV

Fourteen days is all it took for certainty to rot. The city wore smoke like a fever dream; sirens stitched the hours together when helicopters did not. From my kitchen window, the distant line of a “Protected Sector” flickered under floodlights—tents like bleached ribs, fencing strung taut, the promise of safety humming through loudspeakers that could not hide the coughing beneath. They called them Clean Corridors, then Protective Housing, then Safe Zones, as if renaming the pen would cauterize the throat. The reports said incubation was twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Of course the shelters became furnaces. Invite the asymptomatic in, stack their breathing, and wait.

I stirred oats with a wooden spoon, watching steam coil, watching Will’s reflection in the glass of the oven door behind me. He had not slept again. The night gave him back in pieces—shallow breathing, the soft thud of pacing, the muffled plea that ended before it could become a word. He stood now in my doorway like a stray that has learned the difference between a hand and a leash, blanket around his shoulders, eyes wrong from too much news and too little sleep.

“You’re up early,” I said.

“I wasn’t down,” he answered, voice raw.

“You’re pale.” I kept my tone clinical, almost bored by the observation. “And flushed. That combination is unkind to the head. Sit. Sugar and salt.”

He obeyed because obedience has momentum. I placed the bowl before him—steel-cut oats warmed with honey and cinnamon, a dash of salt for the nervous system—and set black coffee at his right hand, orange juice at his left. The thermostat had been lowered an hour before dawn; the house held a clean coolness that made the bowl’s heat an argument you could not refuse. He cupped it as a child would, and the small, practical relief that passed across his face produced a loosening under my sternum I did not authorize. I tasted my own annoyance and filed it.

The television stayed on mute. I had learned by the second day that sound turns fact into percussion; silence allows it to be shaped. Footage ran in a loop—airports at Christmas, bodies pressed along jetways under blinking wreaths, then a tidy infographic: clusters traced to travel and holiday gatherings. Families clasping hands across tables; men shouting in stadiums; a midnight kiss in a city square beneath fireworks that had already seeded a hundred future funerals. People cannot resist ritual even when it kills them. They will drown for a song.

Will glanced at the screen, then away. “They said the shelters were safe.”

“They said it often,” I replied, sliding a folded cardigan onto the arm of his chair as if it had always belonged there. “Repetition is its own kind of anesthesia.”

On the screen, the chyron cycled euphemisms while the B-roll betrayed them: a line of civilians funneled through a corridor of tape and rifles; a white tent sagging at the middle, stained with something that would not be water. I turned the volume up just enough to hear the anchorwoman’s frayed civility: “—new guidance acknowledges internal transmission within several Safe Zones due to the virus’s short incubation period. Officials stress these remain the best option for those at risk.” The director beside her blinked too slowly and said nothing. I lowered the sound again.

Will’s spoon paused. “So they’re not safe.”

“They are crucibles,” I said. “Everything inside takes the same temperature. Then it burns.”

Outside, a helicopter dragged its rotors across the neighborhood like dull knives. The light in the room was winter-thin; I let it be, then crossed and dimmed the sconces another fraction, trimming edges from the furniture until the room encouraged smallness. Routine is a leash you feed from your hand. “You coughed twice last night,” I added without looking at him. “If your throat feels tight, we will start steam and tea.”

His eyes flicked to me, then to the mug. “It’s fine. Just too much talking on the phone yesterday,” he lied, which told me he was keeping the panic quiet enough he could still hear it. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to eat,” I said, not as a suggestion. He ate.

The anchors pivoted to their new liturgy—graphs, arrows, euphemism, mercy. They spoke of supplies, not corpses; logistics, not graves; “temporary facilities,” not mass refrigeration. The truth leaked through anyway, as truth prefers to do. I watched the crawl, watched the footage, watched his breathing settle into the rhythm of my room.

“You are safer here than anywhere else,” I said, almost conversational. “The air in those tents is a hymn. Breathing in unison invites a particular sort of salvation.”

He stared at the mute screen as if speech might return to it. “You make it sound like they chose this.”

“They chose to be human,” I said. “Humanity is quite consistent under pressure.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly; people do not enjoy hearing that their species has a script. He set the spoon down. “Why aren’t you… why doesn’t this bother you?” He gestured toward the window—the smoke, the sirens, the suggestion of a world unthreading. “Any of it.”

“Because fear is poor hygiene,” I said. “And because order is contagious if administered correctly.” I let him see me look at the clock, then at the fire, then at the cardigan on the chair. He put it on without thinking. Good.

He leafed through a book I had left on the table—essays chosen for their structure, sentences that walked in straight lines. He pretended to read and I pretended not to notice. The stove whispered—water considering a boil. I turned it off before the whistle could think to sing.

He watched me move. He does that: cataloging placement, timing, where I keep things, how long the kettle tolerates neglect before protesting. He has the look of a man who cannot distinguish between observation and prayer. It is not weakness. It is devotion to data. I recognized it because I wear the same devotion with different tailoring. I stood behind him long enough to map the muscles moving along his neck when he swallowed.

“You present me your fracture,” I murmured, barely more than breath, “so I will underestimate the blade beneath. Good tactic.” His mouth twitched at the corner—neither smile nor denial—and he did not lift his eyes from the page he was not reading. The moment passed into the quiet between the house’s inhalations. If it is deliberate, I will enjoy discovering where it ends. If it is not, I will enjoy deciding where it ends.

By noon, the neighborhood announced itself with a new vocabulary: a bottle thrown; the flat slap of running; the barked orders of men who had slept in their boots. A car alarm began and forgot how to stop. The television picked up a live feed from a sector two miles away—its perimeter bowed under the weight of bodies. A guard fired into the air. The air did not care. Will stood before he knew he had moved, then froze at the edge of the carpet as if the fringe was a border he might not survive crossing. I muted the feed and lifted the blanket that had slipped from his shoulders, settling it again as one would for a feverish child. His shoulders were rigid under my hands. Then they weren’t.

“You don’t have to watch,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then don’t.”

He sat. He did not thank me, he did not need to. Gratitude makes a sound even when unvoiced. I turned the thermostat down another two degrees. Not enough to chill—enough to make the fire and the blankets and the chair’s particular hollow feel like choices that I provided. I plated lunch without comment—broth reduced to a gloss, onions sweated until they surrendered their bite, thyme bruised until it remembered its own fragrance—and placed it before him at the moment his throat had grown tired of pretending it did not want it. He ate like a man becoming a believer against his will.

“You make this feel survivable,” he said, displeased with himself for the admission.

“It is survivable,” I said, “for those who can follow instructions.”

“Whose instructions,” he asked, not quite a question.

“Whose do you think,” I answered, not quite a smile.

He looked down quickly, as if even an outline of a smile would be too generous a tithe. A helicopter shook the window. Somewhere, a scream tried to become a siren or a siren tried to become a scream. The day poured itself into evening. Routine moved its pieces: tea; reading; a walk along the upstairs hall to count the filters, the batteries, the redundancies I hoarded long before the government gave them better names. I left a drawer in the study “accidentally” ajar again—papers that looked like truth but were only props. Later, I heard the soft shudder as he opened it, the pause as his finger hovered, the closed click. He is careful. He is not meek. He tests without leaving teeth marks. You are cataloguing me too. Good. We should know the dimensions of the other’s cage.

The pacing began at two twelve. Six steps, turn, six back. A drawer, then another. The rhythm of an animal who wants to break and refuses. I stood in the hall long enough to become part of its darkness. Then I knocked once.

Silence, then his voice, too quiet. “Yeah?”

“Nightmares,” I said—not a question.

A breath, then: “Yeah.”

“What did they show you tonight?”

“Lines,” he said. “People in lines. And then there aren’t lines anymore.”

“Death is poor at choreography,” I said. “Tea.”

He did not argue. In the kitchen, I ground lemon peel against sugar with the back of a spoon and watched the oils go bright; I stirred honey into steaming water and carried it back before the whistle could speak my name. He took the cup in both hands and the steam softened his face. The same loosening happened in me as earlier, that unauthorized warmth. I set it beside irritation and pressed until both held still. “Sleep by the fire,” I said. “Sometimes the house is kinder on this floor.”

He hesitated, measuring me; then he nodded. I layered two blankets, then a third for the story they told. He settled, eyes tracking the flames until tracking became blinking and blinking became sleep. The news mouth moved without sound; a graphic spread red as frost across a map that no longer mattered. I turned the set off. The room exhaled.

I sat near the window where I could watch the street without the street seeing me. A shape moved three houses down; a second shape followed without a shadow. Later, a shout at the corner and a sharp percussion that was not fireworks. The world had learned its animal mouth quicker than even I had expected. Neighbors devoured neighbors; strangers made experiments of one another. The fences filled and were moved; the names changed; the numbers failed at arithmetic and became ritual. It was honest, finally—honest as hunger. Collapse is truthful. We only called the previous thing “order” because we liked the taste of our illusions.

Will turned in his sleep. The tension did not leave him even then; it coiled, economical, where other men stored dreams. I watched the flutter beneath his lids and felt the smallest treachery of wanting him to wake without panic. I corrected myself with professional efficiency: A living subject yields better data than a corpse. It satisfied nothing and therefore was true enough to keep.

The house had become an instrument. I played it gently: light lowered to a hush; temperature calibrated to make warmth a gift; scent—the ghost of rosemary tucked in the hinge of the room—just enough to suggest comfort without revealing its source. Order is contagious if administered correctly. Outside, the world embraced panic. Inside, he reached for the cup I placed in his hand when he surfaced, drank without asking what it held, and slept again. He had learned my script. He did not know I was learning his.

“You are fragile enough to disarm,” I thought, letting the words stroll through the quiet. “Clever enough to survive because of it.” He did not stir. Smoke paled against the window as dawn considered whether to enter. We waited for it together: the wolf at the edge of the firelight and the man who knew how to look like prey. 

The nation will devour itself. The fences will multiply. The math will fail. And in this room, I will count to four as he inhales and to six as he exhales and call it data while the other word I am not using waits at the edge of the firelight like a wolf that knows its time is coming.

Chapter 3

Hannibal's POV

Dawn arrived with a thin, clean light, the kind that pretends it has not seen the night before. I stood at the counter, forearms dusted with flour, my palms sinking into dough still warm from my hands. The yeast was alive—swelling, stretching, sighing with each fold. Rosemary broke under my fingers, the sharp green oil cutting through the heavier scent of proofing bread. Will’s steps came first, slow but decisive, a sound that told me he had been awake far longer than he wanted me to know. He appeared in the doorway—hair damp from a too-cold shower, cardigan clutched around him as if the room’s air had teeth.

“You bake,” he said, half a statement, half a question.

“I cook,” I replied, shaping the dough into its final coil. “Bread is simply another patient—one that rewards precision and punishes haste.”

His gaze lingered on my hands. “Looks… complicated.”

“Complication,” I said, “is only the name we give to unfamiliar order.” I dusted flour into his palms without asking. “Fold it over once, then press. Gently. Bread doesn’t forgive rough handling.”

He hesitated, then obeyed, his movements careful but unpracticed. Flour clung to the fine hair on his wrists; his fingertips pressed just enough to leave impressions in the smooth surface.

“You’ve done this before,” I observed.

“A long time ago.” His shoulders lifted faintly. “Grandmother. She baked everything from scratch. Even hamburger buns.”

“And now?”

“Now I buy the cheap kind in plastic bags,” he said, a ghost of a smile cutting briefly across his mouth.

The dough rested. I placed a coffee in his hands without comment. He leaned back against the counter, curling over the mug, breathing in the steam. The air was thick with rosemary and yeast, but beneath it I could smell the faint salt of his skin cooling after the shower.

“What’s your first memory of winter?” I asked.

He sipped, thinking. “Cold air that hurt your lungs if you breathed in too fast. And frost on the inside of the window. We didn’t turn the heat up much.”

“Practical,” I said.

“Or cheap,” he countered.

I allowed the corner of my mouth to move—barely. “And snow?”

“Too much of it. We’d dig tunnels through the drifts, play war. My brother would wait until I was halfway through and then collapse the tunnel.”

“Brothers can be educational,” I said.

He smirked faintly. “And you?”

I slid the loaf into the oven, the heat blooming against my face. “I remember the silence after snow. How it made every sound deliberate. The crunch of boots, the slow groan of branches. A clean violence.”

He tilted his head, studying me like he was deciding whether that was poetry or pathology. Before either of us spoke again, a sound cut the morning—a single gunshot, distant but unambiguous. Will’s eyes flicked to the window, narrowing at the edges. His shoulders rose a fraction.

“Could be a car backfiring,” he said without conviction.

“Could be,” I agreed. “But it wasn’t.”

I crossed to the sink, rinsing flour from my hands, watching him from the reflection in the steel. His knuckles whitened around the coffee mug.

“Eat when it’s ready,” I told him, voice even. “Bread is best warm. Comfort should be consumed before it cools.”

—---------------------------------

The oven’s hum filled the kitchen like a low, sustained note. Outside, the morning’s pale calm began to fracture—first in distant shouts that bent the air strangely, then in the staccato crack of hurried boots on frozen pavement.

I crossed to the window. Not directly—never directly. I stood beside it, my reflection layered over the glass so I could watch without offering the courtesy of my face to anyone who might be watching back. At the end of the block, two men moved quickly, their coats too thin for the cold and their hands too empty for the pace they kept. They did not look at the houses. They looked at each other, speaking in short bursts, like each word had to pass an invisible checkpoint before being released.

Will leaned on the counter, still cradling the mug, but his gaze had followed mine. “What are they doing?”

“Looking for opportunity,” I said. “It’s the same thing all scavengers do when winter arrives.”

He frowned, scanning the street again. “They’re not carrying bags. Or food.”

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

The bread’s crust began to crackle, a small domestic sound that did not belong to the street’s rhythm. I used it like punctuation, turning from the window to set the butter out on the counter. The room was warm enough now that it would soften in minutes.

“Stay inside,” I added, not raising my voice. “If you want to watch, watch from the study window. It’s narrower.”

“That a safety thing, or a paranoia thing?”

“Paranoia,” I said, “is simply foresight with better PR.”

He gave a short laugh that did not reach his eyes. “You always talk like that?”

“Yes,” I said, “but only when it’s true.”

The men on the street moved on, their shapes dissolving into the pale light. A dog barked twice from somewhere unseen, then stopped—cut off mid-breath. Will’s grip tightened on the mug, but he didn’t move from the counter. His cardigan had slipped from one shoulder; I stepped close enough to lift it back into place. He didn’t flinch, but he also didn’t meet my gaze.

The timer chimed and I opened the oven and the scent filled the room—warm yeast, rosemary, and the faint sweetness of honey I had folded into the dough. The steam rose and coiled between us.

“Sit,” I told him. “Bread loses a fraction of its soul for every minute it waits to be eaten.”

He obeyed, watching as I cut the first slice. The crust gave way under the blade, a small shatter, the interior pale and steaming. I set the plate in front of him with butter already melting into the surface.

He took a bite, closed his eyes briefly. “This… is ridiculous.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that makes you want to eat the whole thing, even if you know you shouldn’t.”

“Then eat the whole thing,” I said. “The world outside is losing its restraint. Why should we keep ours?”

He gave me a look—half a question, half something I couldn’t name yet.

A knock sounded then—three short raps, quick, close enough to the front door to vibrate faintly through the floorboards.

Will froze, the bread halfway to his mouth.

I set my knife down very gently. “Stay here,” I said.

The knock came again—three quick raps, then silence. Not the heavy, impatient pounding of someone desperate, but the kind of knock that announces I know you’re here .I moved toward the door without hurry, without sound, letting my steps fall exactly between the creaks of the  boards. Will set the bread down. His hands curled lightly around the edge of the table—not clenched, not loose, the tension of someone rehearsing stillness. The street beyond the frosted glass was a vague wash of pale and shadow. The figure on the porch stood slightly off-center, as if they wanted to see past me when the door opened.

“Stay seated,” I said over my shoulder.

“You’re just going to open it?”

“Not quite.”

I let my palm rest on the brass handle, not turning it. The grain of the wood carried the vibrations of the visitor’s weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“Dr. Lecter?” The voice was muffled but carried the strange clarity of someone speaking close to the door. Male. Mid-range. The vowels were careful—someone who knew how to soften them when he wanted to.

“I am,” I answered, my tone low enough to make him lean closer to hear.

“You’ve been marked as a residence with heat. My family…” A pause. “We need shelter. Just for the night.” I let the silence hold a beat too long. Will’s chair creaked faintly behind me.

“There are shelters in Sector Eight,” I said.

“They’re full. They’re sick.” The man’s voice cracked, just a fraction. “We won’t make it there anyway.” I watched the distortion of his face through the frosted glass. Just enough outline to know he was leaning forward, just enough blur to keep his eyes from being certain.

“And if I let you in,” I said, “what will you offer in return?”

A beat. “I’ll work. I’ll cook. We won’t be trouble.”

We . Not I . Interesting.

Will shifted again. “Hannibal—”

I turned my head slightly, enough to catch his eyes. “Stay in your seat.” The man outside shuffled—two steps back, one to the side. Enough to test the angle of the window. I had positioned myself so he saw only shadow.

“No one comes in without being invited,” I said. “That’s the only rule here.”

His breathing quickened. I could hear it now, faint and damp in the cold. He stood there for several seconds before muttering something too soft to catch. Then footsteps receded—quick, light, as though leaving was not yet final, only postponed. I waited until the sound dissolved into the ambient noise of the street before turning back. Will was watching me—not the door, not the empty porch.

“You weren’t going to let him in,” he said.

“No,” I agreed. “And you should be grateful for that.”

—--------------------

Hannibal let the curtain fall back into place, the street dissolving into a dim suggestion of shapes and light. His hands moved with slow precision, turning the lock until it clicked into place.

“Perimeter stays sealed,” he said, as if announcing the weather. “If someone truly means survival, they won’t knock—they’ll test the edges first.” He crossed to the side window, adjusting the latch with the same unhurried care. From the corner of his eye, he caught Will glancing toward the door again.

“I wasn’t worried,” Will said.

“You were calculating,” Hannibal replied, brushing a nonexistent speck from the sill. “That’s different.” Will’s mouth curved faintly, but not in amusement. “And what are you calculating?”

“Whether he’ll return,” Hannibal said simply. “And if so, with how many friends.”

He moved toward the back of the house, checking the bolt on the garden door. The quiet filled with small, frictionless sounds—the subtle grind of metal in a lock, the faint catch of leather as Hannibal’s gloves flexed. When Hannibal’s footsteps faded into the kitchen, Will stood. He crossed to the front door, fingers brushing the cold brass of the handle. A soft pressure against the lock, not enough to turn it, only enough to feel its set. He looked at the frosted glass, at the vague dark beyond. Then he stepped back, retracing his path with the same casual weight he’d left it. Hannibal returned moments later, pausing just long enough in the doorway for his eyes to find Will’s and hold them. The air between them carried the quiet knowledge of a move noted and filed.

“You’re not asking if I’ll open the door next time,” Hannibal said.

Will sat again, tearing off a piece of bread. “No,” he said. “I already know the answer.”

“And yet,” Hannibal murmured, pouring water into the kettle, “you checked the lock.”

“Just wanted to know how it felt.”

Hannibal’s smile was small, precise, and gone before the kettle began to hiss. “As do I, Will. As do I.”

The kettle released a soft sigh before Hannibal lifted it from the flame. He poured the water into two porcelain cups, steam curling between them in ghostly threads.

“Chamomile,” he said, setting one before Will. “For the nerves you claim you don’t have.”

Will smirked faintly but didn’t argue. He wrapped both hands around the cup, letting the heat soak into his fingers. Hannibal set down a plate of thin-sliced rye, pale butter, and smoked trout dressed with dill—minimal, deliberate.

“You could’ve just made tea,” Will said, watching Hannibal spread the butter with slow precision.

“I could have,” Hannibal agreed, handing him a piece, “but tea is a conversation. A meal is a statement.”

“And what’s this statement?”

“That you’re still alive enough to taste,” Hannibal replied, settling into the chair across from him. “And that I intend for it to stay that way.”

They ate in the muted glow of the fire. Outside, the wind scraped at the corners of the house, carrying with it the distant percussion of glass breaking somewhere two streets over. Will didn’t flinch; he chewed slowly, eyes lowered to the bread in his hand. Hannibal watched the way his shoulders eased just slightly with each swallow, how the color returned in faint measure to his cheeks. That unauthorized warmth from earlier coiled again in his chest.

“You know,” Will said after a moment, “I don’t think you check the locks just for me.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “No?”

“I think you like knowing where every hinge and latch is in this house. Like you’re mapping a living thing.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly. “It’s a habit,” he said. “And a courtesy. I wouldn’t invite you into a space I couldn’t defend.”

Will’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, as if measuring that statement’s weight. Then he took another piece of bread. “Fair enough.”

The fire popped softly. Hannibal leaned back, watching him. The street beyond the window faded further into shadow, and here, within these walls, the rhythm of the world was slower, measured, contained. Exactly as Hannibal intended.

Chapter 4

Hannibal’s POV

The study’s lamplight pooled in amber circles, soft against the dark edges of the room. Outside, wind moved the bare branches against the windowpane with a sound like low whispering. I sat in my chair, the stem of a wineglass turning between my fingers, while Will nursed a tumbler of whiskey beside the fire. The television murmured across from us—news anchors in thin smiles, reading numbers they could no longer disguise as progress. He watched with the steady, unblinking focus of someone who counted more than he listened. The fire’s glow caught the side of his face, warming it into something almost gentle. Almost. I took another sip of wine, the tannins dragging across my tongue in a way that should have woken me. Instead, a heaviness settled behind my eyes. Fatigue had been rare in these weeks—rarer still when I indulged in drink—but it was insistent tonight, curling like smoke through the edges of my mind.

“You’re tired,” Will said without turning from the screen.

“A temporary concession to the hour,” I replied, setting the glass aside. “I’ll retire before I start slurring my metaphors.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” he murmured, faintly amused.

I left him to his whiskey and the news, the fire throwing long shadows up the spines of the books. My bed took me quickly, the dark drawing close like a curtain. Sometime in the night, I surfaced—just enough to register the sound of movement. Bare feet on the hall’s old boards. A door easing open. My mind catalogued it and decided: another nightmare pacing him toward exhaustion. I let the thought sink, let the sound fade, and surrendered back to sleep. Morning came pale and thin, the house colder than I liked. I descended the stairs slowly, the air holding that distinct quiet that follows a night without intrusion.

The pantry door stood slightly ajar.

I paused. The hinges were silent as I pushed it open. Everything was in place: shelves ordered, jars aligned, the trapdoor in the floor hidden beneath the false boards exactly as I had left it. Only one thing was amiss—a box of crackers, its top folded back, a single corner soft from handling. I exhaled, a quiet sigh. A late-night indulgence, then. Not uncommon under stress. I closed the box, smoothed the cardboard, and returned it to the shelf. The latch clicked softly as I shut the door, the matter already filed away as harmless.

It was not. 

 

The kitchen was still cool from the night, its air faint with the memory of yeast and rosemary. I set the pan on low heat, letting butter slip into its surface and begin its slow, fragrant dissolve. Outside, the light was sharp but thin; a clear morning without warmth. Will entered like a shadow still deciding whether to commit to form—hair unbrushed, shoulders wrapped in his cardigan, his steps sluggish but unguarded. He looked as though the night had stolen more from him than it had given.

“Did you not sleep?” I asked, cracking two eggs into the pan.

He grunted, a sound halfway between confirmation and dismissal, and made his way to the island. The stool’s legs scraped faintly against the tile as he sat.

I allowed myself a small smirk. “A late-night craving, perhaps?”

Color rose faintly in his cheeks. He kept his head lowered, eyes on the grain of the countertop. “Yeah,” he murmured, the word almost swallowed.

I turned the eggs with a slow, unhurried motion. “Then I will endeavor to make dinner more substantial tonight. I’m pleased to see your appetite returning.”

He didn’t answer, only reached for the coffee I had already set within his reach. His fingers wrapped around the mug as if claiming something warm was an act of survival. The scent of crisping butter and the quiet clink of utensils filled the space between us. I plated his breakfast—eggs, a heel of bread from yesterday’s loaf, and thin slices of ham—and slid it toward him. He ate without haste, but without the reluctance that had marked his first days here. The day moved as close to normal as the seventeenth day of lockdown could allow. Outside, the wind carried no traffic noise, no human chatter, only the intermittent crack of something breaking two streets over.

By mid-afternoon, the news broke the monotony. A Canadian research facility had announced what they called “a promising intervention”—a modified antiviral designed to disrupt the replication sequence the virus used once inside a host’s cells. Early data, they cautioned, was based on lab cultures and a handful of non-human trials. The anchor’s voice worked to keep hope measured, but it was hope nonetheless.

Other countries were sealing themselves further—airspace frozen, ports silent, borders guarded with an urgency that suggested fear of something faster than policy. No planes in, no ships out. The camera cut between empty highways in France, grounded fleets in Singapore, and long lines outside shuttered government buildings in Buenos Aires. The anchor’s tone lingered in the air long after the broadcast cut to a muted panel of maps and infection tallies. Will’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, though I could tell he wasn’t reading the numbers—his focus was in the spaces between them, the quiet places where data could be made to tell a different story.

“Promising,” the anchor had called it. As though the word itself might coax molecules into obedience.

Hope is the cheapest currency. Governments mint it in press releases, the media prints it in headlines, and the public spends it before it can be verified. A treatment in a sealed lab thousands of miles away might as well be a fairytale for the people counting days in these rooms. And yet, the human mind takes comfort in even the faintest outline of a bridge—whether it leads anywhere or not. Outside, the wind rose, testing the seams of the house. The news cycled to footage of ports where container ships sat silent and heavy in their berths, gulls tracing slow arcs over water too still for commerce. Borders cinched tighter; planes stayed in hangars under tarps like shrouds.

Beside me, Will’s hand cradled the tumbler loosely, the amber within catching the firelight. He looked as he always did when absorbing something unpleasant—shoulders set, mouth neutral, eyes unreadable unless one knew where to look. I watched him over the rim of my glass, letting the wine linger on my tongue.

Breakthroughs, like storms, are best judged not by their first appearance, but by the shape of what follows in their wake. And this—this was still only wind on the horizon. I let my gaze drift to the fire, but my mind traced the lines of Will’s profile, the stillness in him that was never truly still. Somewhere between the flicker of the flames and the slow tick of the clock, the thought arrived uninvited: perhaps it was not the virus I should be most curious about surviving.

Chapter 5

Hannibal’s POV

The thirtieth day of lockdown began with the news flickering against the dim study walls, the only pulse of movement in an otherwise still room. Will sat forward in the armchair, his tumbler of whiskey balanced loosely in one hand, watching as the anchors leaned into the camera with tight, brittle smiles. Their clothes hung looser than they had weeks ago, hair unwashed, faces drawn tight from fatigue. Halfway through the broadcast, a noise cut through the careful cadence of their speech—a sharp bang just off-screen. One anchor froze; the other glanced sideways, eyes widening, before the sound came again, closer this time. Something fell, shattering. The camera jolted.

Then the picture lurched into chaos.

The lens swung wide enough to catch the far end of the studio as the doors buckled inward, a flood of bodies surging through. The anchors’ voices vanished under shouting. One of them was pulled from the desk—just gone—and the other tried to climb over the teleprompter stand before a man in a torn jacket caught her by the hair. The camera tipped, hit the floor, and gave the viewers nothing but skewed glimpses: feet trampling cables, a bright arc of blood across a white shoe, someone screaming so high it pierced the static. The last clear image before the feed cut was a hand slamming down over the lens.

The screen went black.

Will sat back slowly, his mouth tightening as though it confirmed something he had already suspected. When the next image appeared, it was not the familiar news channel he’d watched religiously—it was a local feed from another city, the kind of small outlet that survived on stubbornness more than infrastructure. The anchor’s voice trembled only once before steadying into the rhythm of the script. “Overnight, the body of James Sanderson—business magnate and city councilman—was found in Baltimore’s central square.” A pause, the faintest emphasis. “Authorities say he had been doused in an accelerant and set alight. Witnesses report the fire burned for over an hour before it was extinguished. The body was bound to a steel post with what appeared to be electrical cable.”

A grainy still flashed onto the screen: a tall man’s silhouette, blackened beyond recognition, head tilted at an unnatural angle.

“Sanderson was under federal investigation for multiple allegations,” the anchor continued, “including corruption, racketeering, and suspected involvement in human trafficking. He had denied all charges.”

The camera lingered on the image for a moment too long. I watched Will from the corner of my vision. He hadn’t moved, save for the way his fingers curled just slightly tighter around the tumbler. His gaze was fixed—not on the image itself, but through it, as if seeing something overlaid on the charred figure that no one else could. A flicker of satisfaction, almost imperceptible, passed through his expression before it smoothed into neutrality.

I said nothing.

The day wore on, and by night the house was quiet again. When I woke in the small hours, it was to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Bare, careful steps. The faintest creak of the floorboards near the study door. I let my mind assign it the shape of a restless night for Will, and sank back into sleep. 

Morning light brought the smell of cold wood and the faint tang of yesterday’s smoke from the fireplace. In the study, beside Will’s chair, a glass sat on the low table—half an inch of amber whiskey left in the bottom, the ice melted into cloudy water. He had not been drinking there when I’d retired. I let my fingertips rest on the glass for a moment, feeling the chill. Another restless night. Another small clue, harmless in isolation.

In the kitchen, I set about breakfast. Poached eggs, thin-sliced salmon, buttered rye. Food meant for repair, for building the day’s foundation. Will entered looking like the night had robbed him again—hair disheveled, cardigan slipping from one shoulder, eyes faintly red-rimmed.

“Did you not sleep?” I asked, plating the eggs.

He grunted, low, evasive, and moved to the island.

“You’ll need more protein,” I added, pouring his coffee. “Insomnia robs the body as thoroughly as hunger.”

He eyed the salmon. “And you’re going to fix that with breakfast?”

“With consistency,” I replied, “and with the comfort of knowing there is structure here.”

“Structure feels a lot like a cage if you’re in it long enough.”

“Only if you spend your time staring at the bars,” I said.

He smirked faintly. “Easy for you to say when you built the cage.”

“And yet,” I returned, “you’re still here.”

His eyes held mine for a beat before lowering again. I reached across the counter and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve where it had twisted at his wrist, letting my fingertips linger against his skin under the guise of care. “Eat,” I said quietly.

A small smile, quick and unguarded, crossed his face before he hid it in the steam of his coffee. I noticed, of course, the way his free hand flexed slightly against the counter’s edge, like someone grounding themselves with touch.

He thought I hadn’t seen.

—----------------------------------------

 

Hannibal remained still, letting the silence work through the walls, testing each beam and nail. The fire’s glow pooled in the low spaces of the room, turning the edges of Will’s profile into shadow. A brittle snap of glass broke the quiet. Not far now—two houses, perhaps one. It wasn’t the careless shatter of storm damage or accident. This was sharper, deliberate, a note in a sequence.

Will’s head lifted. “That was close.”

“Closer than I’d like,” Hannibal said evenly, his eyes already mapping the interior in reverse, measuring sightlines from each window, every door. He rose and slid the bolt into place on the garden door without looking away from the curtains.

“Should we—” Will began, but Hannibal’s hand lifted in a silencing gesture. “Quiet.”

The wind carried the muted thud of boots on pavement, then another pop of glass—louder, heavier, so near it could have been their own pane if not for the distance in the echo. Voices followed, hushed but hurried, their cadence more dangerous than their volume. Hannibal crossed to the front window, standing just enough to see without being seen. Two shadows moved across the streetlight’s beam—one quick, one deliberate.

“How many?” Will asked.

“Two that I can see,” Hannibal murmured, “and likely one more I cannot.” He lowered the fire so the light wouldn’t betray them. Then, another pane shattered, cleaner, wetter. Closer. The noise fell into the room like an insect through a gap in the screen. Hannibal tilted his head, reading the distance. “That’s next door,” Will said quietly.

Hannibal nodded once. The bootfalls were slower now, a predator’s gait. Gravel shifted; a gate creaked. “They’re testing,” Hannibal murmured. “Looking for fear.”

As he spoke, Will moved—not toward the window, but toward the low cabinet near the corner. His hand lingered there, hidden from Hannibal’s direct line of sight, before he straightened and adjusted his cardigan as though wrapping it tighter against the cold. Hannibal’s gaze flicked to the movement and dismissed it. Weeks of frayed nerves had given Will a small repertoire of restless tics. Harmless. The voices outside angled toward the porch. Hannibal checked his revolver, cylinder clicking softly, and stepped between Will and the door. He looked at him—hair shadowing his face, posture hunched in the fire’s glow—and felt that old, fierce thing unfurl in his chest.
You are a candle cupped in my hands, and the wind outside means to devour you. It will not.

“If they breach,” Hannibal said, voice low, “keep to my left. Never in front.”

The first shadow crossed the slit in the curtains. The second followed. Glass crunched underfoot on the porch. The handle turned. Once. Twice. Slow. Testing the lock. A prying crack of wood.

“Stay low,” Hannibal told him, smooth as a blade leaving its sheath.

The door burst inward. Three men spilled into the room, desperation in their eyes, weapons in their hands. Hannibal’s revolver barked once, a round punching into the lead man’s shoulder. He sidestepped, struck, fired again—precision, economy, calculation. But three bodies crowd space quickly; hunger makes them reckless. One knife slashed toward his throat. Hannibal caught the wrist mid-arc, tendons straining, the edge trembling a breath from his skin.

Then, a single, flat crack. The man’s head snapped back as blood misted the air. He dropped instantly, lifeless.

Hannibal turned

Will stood there, not trembling now, not prey. The Glock 19 in his hands was steady, its barrel still warm. His eyes were black glass, cold and endless.

“Well,” Will said, tone almost conversational, “that’s one.”

He let the Glock fall into a couch cushion with a muffled thud and smiled—slow, dangerous—as his gaze fixed on the second man. “Your turn.”

He closed the distance in three strides. His hands locked on the man’s throat like a steel trap. Thumbs drove into the windpipe; the man gagged, clawed, choked. Will leaned in, face spattered with blood, eyes alight with something feral. The choking turned to a wet gurgle before silence claimed him. Hannibal should have moved. Instead, he stood transfixed. This was Primavera in motion, violence and beauty stitched into one unbearable truth. The third intruder bolted, boots pounding into the night.

Will turned back toward him, that smile now intimate and sharp. “Will,” Hannibal breathed, tasting the name like a revelation. Will crossed the room, knelt before him, and pressed a blood-wet palm to his cheek. They held the moment in silence—heat, breath, the iron scent between them—until Will’s hand suddenly gripped the back of Hannibal’s head and slammed it into the wall. As white exploded behind his eyes and the dark closed over him, Hannibal’s last thought was of the candle cupped in his hands and the moment he realized it had never needed protecting at all.

Chapter 6

Notes:

This is it! Last chapter! Thank you for reading :)

The first thing I became aware of was the ache in my shoulders—a deep, steady pull that burned whenever I shifted my weight. My feet didn’t touch the floor. I hung suspended, wrists cinched in a grip of rope that bit into skin. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and iron; my basement, though not as I had left it. Cold sweat had dried along my spine, leaving a tacky chill beneath my shirt. The world swayed slightly, enough to tell me the suspension wasn’t for display—it was meant to exhaust. Somewhere behind me, faint footsteps moved, unhurried. A rhythm that said the one approaching had no need to rush. Will stepped into my view like a shadow peeling from the wall. His hair was mussed, his face still marked with drying flecks of someone else’s blood. The cardigan he always wore was gone. His eyes were black glass, reflective but not revealing.

“You’re awake,” he said, and the corners of his mouth turned upward—not warmly, but like the acknowledgment of a well-laid trap.

“I am,” I answered evenly, though my pulse had risen.

Will circled me once, a slow orbit, his gaze flicking over my position with clinical detachment. “You’ve been working so hard,” he said, almost conversational. “Adjusting the light, the temperature, the scent in the air. Every little thing calculated to see what I’d do. To see how far you could push before I’d push back.”

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the fine tremor of adrenaline still alive in his fingers. “You think I didn’t know?”

I held his gaze, not answering.

Will’s smile widened by a fraction. “Please. I knew who you were before I stepped through your door.”

The words landed with an unfamiliar weight in my chest. “Before?” I asked softly.

“I’ve been watching you longer than you’ve been watching me,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual, as though it cost him nothing to hand me this truth. “You move the same way in your kitchen as you do at a crime scene—measured, deliberate, like every step is already chosen. It’s easy to spot once you’ve studied it.”

I felt something coil in me—not anger, not entirely. Awe, perhaps. This was not prey speaking. This was a fellow predator showing his teeth.

“You thought you were mapping me,” Will continued, voice dropping to silk. “I was letting you think you were ahead.”

He took another step closer, the air between us heavy with the scent of iron from his clothes. “You tried to make yourself my anchor. But I don’t drift, Hannibal. I choose.”

I could feel my breath slow in deliberate control. “And tonight, you chose…”

He tilted his head, almost playful. “To see the look on your face when you realized you weren’t the only one keeping notes.”

Something in my chest shifted—the tectonic recognition that I was seeing him as he truly was for the first time. This was not the fragile creature I had been sheltering. This was Primavera unveiled, violence rendered in perfect lines, beauty so pure in its danger that it rewrote the air around it.

“You are…” The word stalled, and I let the silence carry what I could not articulate.

Will only smirked. “I am exactly what you’ve been looking for. You just didn’t expect me to already be looking back.”

He reached up, palm warm and blood-damp against my cheek. I didn’t flinch. The intimacy of the gesture cut deeper than the ropes biting into my wrists. Then his hand shifted, and my skull met the wall in a sharp burst of white. Darkness took me before I could decide whether the sound in my chest was laughter or something dangerously close to devotion.

 

When I surfaced again, the basement was silent save for the faint groan of rope under my weight. My neck ached from where my skull had struck the wall, each throb sending small bursts of white behind my eyes. The air down here was cooler than upstairs, touched with the mineral scent of stone and the faint, metallic tang of the tools lining the far bench. Will was gone.

My wrists burned as I twisted against the bindings. Whoever had tied these knots understood leverage—each movement only cinched them tighter. My mind, unwilling to concede, replayed the scene above: Will’s voice, confident and cutting, the black stillness of his eyes, the way he had looked at me not as quarry, but as an equal.

No—more than equal. For the first time in a very long life, I had been prey.

The ropes resisted until the fibers began to fray against the ceiling hook, my muscles burning with the effort. I flexed, twisted, allowed gravity to shift the angle until one loop slipped just enough for my wrist to grind through. The rest followed in a slow cascade of loosening tension until the last knot fell open and I dropped to the concrete with a low thud. I rose, rotating my shoulders, the skin at my wrists raw. The humiliation was not in the rope burns. It was in the precision of his absence—no mess, no chaos, nothing left undone. He had left me alive because he wanted me to feel this. The stairs creaked under my weight as I climbed into the kitchen. The room was warm, the air faint with the scent of rosemary from last night’s bread. And there, on the kitchen island, folded with surgical precision, was Will’s cardigan. The one he wore almost constantly, like a shield against the world.

Waiting for me.

I touched the wool, the faint residual warmth of his body still clinging to it. He had left this not as an accident, but as a message. A marker of his choosing. The kitchen was too quiet. The house was too still. In that stillness, I felt a loneliness so sharp it bordered on physical pain. Humiliation I could process, even admire in its artistry. But this—this hollow absence—was a wound I could not suture. Will Graham had taken something I did not know I had given. And worse—he had walked away with it.

I stood there, fingers on the folded cardigan, and understood with startling clarity that there was no one else in this world who would, or could, ever see me as he did.

And I would follow.