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Long thick streams of blood dripped from his fingertips.
A bloodied antler lay on the carpet, soaking the white fabric in the grotesque red that covered it.
He's imagined this many times.
Taking Hannibal's life.
More often than not those fantastical murder schemes were by gunfire. Something dignified and controlled.
He would pull the trigger, watch the doctor's brains coat the wall and then join him.
They would finally be able to meld each others brains in ways they'd found impossible to do in life.
But this time he didn't have a firearm.
His dutiful pistol was conveniently missing from it's usual home on his hip.
So he had turned to the closet thing.
A decorative mounted antler.
It was poetic, in all honesty, To kill the horned creature himself with a horn of his own kind.
At least he thought Hannibal was the horned thing that'd been stalking him.
Really it could've been any boogyman his insane mind had concocted. Maybe he had taken it a bit too far, Maybe Hannibal had been right about him having paranoid delusions.
He couldn't remember what caused him to kill the doctor. It was probably something to the vein of their usual arguments though.
Hannibal subtly calling Will unstable and dangerous and Will proving him right.
He felt a strange tug of grief that he'd never felt after killing before.
Remorse, Yes, but grief? Regret? Never.
He pushed the feelings down, raised a bloodied hand to tug his sweaty hair out of his face.
He knew he needed to act and fast, but the specifics were lost to him.
He'd seen plenty of crime scenes, stood in the minds of psychopathic killers and even been jailed for suspected murder charges himself. He should know exactly what to do and how to do it. For some reason, he didn't move.
He stayed where he was, half leaned against Hannibal's solid oak desk, piled with books, drawings and medical records.
His gaze shifted down, onto the scene in front of him.
His shoes were coated in a thick layer of red, as was the carpet and the floor.
Hannibal was lying on the rug face down, his suit also coated.
Will knew he hit him over the head with the antler but for some reason he couldn't quite see the details of the wound. If it were still gushing, if Hannibal were still breathing; He had no idea.
All he knew was that he was soaked. Sticky, thick and red liquid covered almost every part of him. It was on his hands, his button up, his shoes, his jeans, his hair and suddenly in places it hadn't been before. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror mounted above the fireplace with a gasp.
He was drenched. As if a bucket of Hannibal's blood had been dumped over his head and was still flowing.
His blood was in his mouth, then it was his flesh.
A cut of Hannibal's flesh was in his mouth.
He hadn't recalled cutting him up, let alone sticking anything into his mouth and yet, it was there. The disgustingly meaty truth.
He was no better than Hannibal.
Killing and eating his victims.
Well, at least he wasn't serving them to innocent people as Lecter did.
No, he was simply cannibalizing the poor doctor in the safe privacy of his office.
His office.. a client would be coming soon.
Maybe it would be that redhead, the one so calm at the idea of murder, at the idea that Hannibal was manipulating clients into murder.
Surely, she wouldn't run for the police. He actually doubted that many clients that stuck with Hannibal would call the cops.
For some reason, He seemed to draw in the most weak willed people with the darkest urges and Will couldn't exactly exclude himself from that category either.
Hannibal probably knew this would happen. Hell, he'd probably planned the whole damn thing.
Set that antler on his mantle as an offering, pushed Will just far enough so he'd snap.
Will swallowed the meat. It was tough and chewy and raw, but somehow he'd managed to choke it down and to his horror; he found it wasn't half bad.
Will eyes shot open, his body jolted with a start.
A thick coat of cold sweat laid upon his brow.
Next to him the heavy body shifted, turning in one motion to face him.
"Having another nightmare about killing me?"
Drawled the smooth accent.
Will sighed, running a hand over his tired eyes.
"I wouldn't exactly call them nightmares."
"Oh? So you enjoy these dreams."
The doctor hummed, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Go back to bed."
Will groaned, entirely not in the mood for these mind games; attractive as they were.
"And what will you be doing?"
"Attempting to do the same."
After a brief pause there came the reply.
"I don't enjoy you lying to me. It proves a deprecation of your moral standing."
"Hannibal-"
Will snapped exasperated.
The doctor stared at him in the darkness, his face dimly lit by the red numbering of their alarm clock shining the time; 4:24.
"Sleep."
Will finished, tugging the blankets up to his chin.
"I will try. If you stay."
"Of course, I'm staying."
"You hadn't intended on it."
"Well, now I do."
They dropped back into silence, laying side by side staring at each other.
"Do you promise?"
The doctor questioned, moving every so slightly closer to the other man.
"Yeah. I'm staying."
Will replied with a sideways glance.
"Yes, but do you promise?"
A bemused laugh came from Will.
"You want me to pinky promise? What are we?"
Hannibal responded with an entirely serious look and Will, of course, relented.
"Yes, Hannibal. I promise I will stay in bed with you all night."
"Thank you, Will."
Hannibal replied, very self satisfied.
"Yeah, yeah. Night, Hannibal."
Will grumbled as he rolled over, now facing the wall.
He felt the man behind him shift again, moving so he was pressed right against his back.
"Good night, Will."