Hannibal didn't ask for him to do this.
But every time that Will kissed the doctor, tasted the blood on lips, felt the heat in his veins, he couldn't help but want every part of his new lover. Hannibal was his personal crusade, the one he wanted to make him burn up, Hannibal was his burning desire.
So, Will did what he had to do, he started killing.
It was a message, a love note to his darling Hannibal that he wanted him in everyway, that he excepted the other man with all of his heart.
The victims were specially chosen, since it had to be personal and mean something.
So, Jack was first.
His death was a bit gruesome, blood sprayed everywhere as Will stabbed him straight through the heart; the arteries crushing under the weight of the steel and cold pressure of Will's resolve.
He didn't miss the way that Jack looked up at him, betrayed and angry, his death meaning nothing as he bleed to death on the drab cement of a barren warehouse.
Will understood the powerful feeling that all of the murderer's got now, the enticing power that was received when taking one's life.
Sadly though, after he murdered Jack he went and vomited in the alleyway, hands shaking as he gripped the knife closer, wishing for strong warm arms around him instead of his own scrawny limbs.
He wanted Hannibal.
But not yet, his work had to be completed first.
He skipped his and Hannibal's date the next day, blaming it on grading papers and whimpering pathetically on the phone while Hannibal's silky voice smoothed over him, accepting his apologies easily.
Once he hung up Will hung his head, panting as if was on the verge of a panic attack; then, he laughed.
His next victim was in mind as he stared down at the papers he was supposed to be grading.
She was next.
Alana Bloom could never have seen this coming, the maniac look in Will's eyes as he stood over her broken form, body paralyzed by the knife stuck in her spinal cord, preventing her from moving anything from the neck down.
"Why?" She breathed, tears beading in the corners of her eyes.
Will smiled serenely then, holding the blood crusted knife up, "because, I'm in love."
Ah, Alana thought as the knife plunged down into her chest, love is the most powerful motivator of all…
Hannibal was mildly surprised when Will arrived at his house late that night, his clothes covered with blood, in his hands a knife that was rust-colored and flicking flecks of blood everywhere.
Hannibal tsked at him, but pulled him into the house, hugging him close, enjoying the scent of his lover's hair. "Where have you been?" He asked evenly, sliding his hands down Will's stained jacket.
Will moved back a bit, smiling at him, glasses smudged with strips of blood, "I was hunting."
Hannibal chuckled, moving in to press a kiss to the other's lips, liking the primal taste of blood and adrenalin he found there.
"Will," he said a moment later, "who will turn up in the obituaries tomorrow?"
The professor looked sheepish, turning his gaze downward, fiddling with the knife still in his hand, "just…Alana and Jack. They'll probably be found soon."
Hannibal sighed, "I see. Well, I'm proud of you. But, let's go get washed up, I don't want to have to smell their blood on my sheets tonight."
Will's mood lifted again at those words; he took Hannibal's offered hand, not caring anymore about anything, not even caring if he made it out of this alive.
Because…
They were both madly in love with each other. Will was in love with a killer.
