Carnivore, Won't You Come Digest Me?

Chapter 13

It's very late when Hannibal returns to his apartment. He resists the urge to rush straight over to Will's house – he's likely asleep, and wouldn't appreciate Hannibal banging down his door and interrogating him as to Randall's whereabouts, or informing him that Franklyn is, in fact, dead.

He wonders if Will knows. If he'll read about Franklyn's death on TattleCrime and come to the same conclusions Hannibal did. If he'll be afraid.

Hannibal sighs, sitting at his table again, his eyes on his notebook where Will's translations sit. He's abruptly very tired, in a way he seldom lets himself get. Sleep is important, and Hannibal has never required much, but it's not sleep his body craves – merely rest. He wants to lie down and close his eyes and let the quiet of his blessedly thick apartment walls lull him into calmness and clarity.

He opens the notebook, reading over what he has managed to translate so far. It's not terribly interesting, really, as Will hasn't gotten to the meat of his conversations with the Ripper. Most of it is about cases, which Hannibal already knows back to front.

They interviewed Tobias the day after the cello man murder. From there, another day passed before the Opera, and one more before the dinner with Tobias. That's the day that the article Freddie Lounds wrote about them made it to the news, and the day that Franklyn died. It's been several days since then, since Will killed Tobias and Hannibal disposed of the body. Randall would have had time to come to Baltimore, to find Will. To watch him.

His fingers curl and he stifles a low growl, unable to stop the swell of that same fierce, possessive need in his gut. He stands by his observations, though they were denied – Will is in love with the Ripper, and through that love, would not let himself be killed by anyone else. It's a strange devotion, one Hannibal has rarely seen, and he likes it.

He wonders what Will would do if he knew who the Ripper was. What he'd do when he figured it out.

If, he reminds himself. He shouldn't be entertaining these kinds of thoughts. It is still imperative to his livelihood and his nature to remain hidden, and to not get caught. Everything ends when he's caught – he would have to leave, and sever all ties like he did in Italy.

He wonders if Will would chase him.

The idea makes him smile.

Dawn arrives bright and early, before seven in the morning, and Hannibal has filled those hours with rest and sleep. He gathers his notebooks and stores them in his bedroom, not wanting to have to do so if he finds himself in Will's company again, at his house.

Then, he waits another hour, dresses and feeds himself, ready to rush to Will's side when he delivers the news that his patient is dead, and that Randall is most likely the one who mutilated his body post-mortem.

He goes back to his dining room table and calls Will.

"Hello?"

"Will," Hannibal begins. "You might have already read about this. Franklyn is dead."

There's a pause at the other end of the line. Then, Will says softly; "I'm sorry, I'm not interested in any work on my house."

Hannibal frowns, and though it's a needless urge, he checks the caller ID. But that is definitely Will on the other end of the line – Hannibal would know his voice anywhere. He sounds calm. Very calm, in fact. And while the fact that he is awake so early is not a strange occurrence in and of itself, Hannibal called him at his house phone, which means he's home. He would expect Will, in his sleepless hours, to be at his psychiatric office.

And his response had nothing to do with what Hannibal said. Meaning he's not alone.

He clears his throat. "He's there, isn't he?" he asks.