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Will works through the kinks of his escape from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane with almost no trouble.

It gets covered up as him finally leaving the place after the Chesapeake Ripper makes it clear that he was the copycat killer as well; it gets covered up as simply the unfortunate death of a few guards and a few pedestrians. Oh, what was that creature roaming the streets, heading toward Hannibal Lecter's consult like it is its home? Don't worry about it. For the most part, he avoids suspicion — except from Ms. Lounds, obviously, who is losing more and more credibility when she starts to claim that the wolflike creature roaming the streets must have been him. As much as she is right, no one likes a supernatural tale in a crime site.

The weirdest thing about the situation he has been put in is the fact he and Hannibal are almost friendly now.

Perhaps it is because he went directly toward him while stripped down to his most basic instincts, heading to him like he is home. Afterward, he had refused to talk to him, but as the days passed he's warmed up to the idea. Jack is trying to talk to him about the cases and about catching Hannibal, but he's not quite interested. He's dealing with lycanthropy here — he can save people later.

It dawns on him a while after, while in therapy with Hannibal. He guesses he's back here, talking to him about his problems, all of them with one obvious root issue that they try not to talk about. They run around in circles, trying not to talk about Hannibal's identity as the Ripper, trying not to talk about Hannibal not telling him he was sick, Hannibal framing him for murder.

He guesses they can run around circles for longer. He has all the time in the world.

"Why didn't that werewolf kill me?" he asks during one of his therapy sessions. "I…they should've killed me, by all means. But they simply put their fangs on me until I became one of their own." He looks up at Hannibal. "Are you a werewolf? Did you turn me before I was turned in?"

Hannibal, for a second, looks guilty. He almost wants to stand up, yell a-ha! like he's in a bad comedy, but he doesn't. Hannibal clears his throat. "I am not a werewolf, Will. But I do have certain… connections to a few groups of them."

"You wanted them to turn me!" he exclaims. He looks at him. "Why?" He can't help but let out a little laugh. "What, are you just playing out your Team Jacob fantasies on me? I'm not going to kiss you under the moonlight, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal has a faint blush on his face, but he tries to brush off Will's mocking words. "I simply believed you would come to terms with yourself faster if you were under this condition. Being monstrous once a month can help to come to terms with your psyche — or so I've heard."

"Of course," he replies.

He guesses Hannibal isn't wrong. With his desires for him to come to terms with his own self— with his so-called bloodlust, with the darkness inside his mind— he's become a beast, once every lunar month. He has killed people, now, although he can get off scot-free on behalf of it being while he's, well, a monster. Finally, his unconsciousness defense works out. But matter of fact is that he's killed people, now with certainty, and in situations that don't compare to Hobbs in the least. He has vague memories of bloodstains between his fangs, the way his wolflike mouth would curl up into a grotesque grin at the taste.

Okay, so Hannibal might be right. And it might be a bit easier when he loses control once a lunar month. But still.

"You came directly to me when you turned, last full moon. Do you want to talk about that?"

"I'm more interested on why I didn't attack you," he replies.

Hannibal tilts his head. "I suppose your subconscious is aware, even in that state, that you do not wish to hurt me."

Will grits his teeth. "Who said I don't want to hurt you?"

"Your actions."

Fair enough.

"I'm not — I don't know. I don't remember, but I know I roamed the streets right to your consult, like it was as home as my cabin is for me."

"It may be," he offers.

"It may as well be," he concedes.

Hannibal washed him afterward, when he turned back, a mess of blood, sweat and fur. They don't talk about that. They try their best not to talk about that.

"As much as I have hurt you, you still wish to return to me. Your subconscious stripped bare and made into a growling thing shows this to me, even if you will not admit it."

"Oh, so you admit you have hurt me?"

Hannibal stares him down, and he stares right back.

"I suppose it doesn't hurt to admit it now."

"Huh." He huffs. "Well, I suppose you're right. My conscious still hates your guts, though."

"You didn't refuse the bath when you came back to normal, though. That contradicts that."

Dammit.

"You are insufferable," he replies. "Do you have wine laying around?"

"I sure do. Would you like some?"

Will makes a vague noise of approval. "Sure."

"Red wine, for my closest friend," Hannibal says as he stands up to get the aforementioned red wine. Will hates how that makes his face turn red with interest, how he's so curious as he watches Hannibal go and then come back with two glasses of wine, giving one to him, keeping the other to take a long sip from it. "The light of friendship won't reach us for a million years, Will," he echoes his earlier words rather mockingly.

Will takes a short sip from his glass of wine. As always, Hannibal's taste in alcohol is superb. That is another thing he hates. Hannibal's great everything, apart from the murder and cannibalism, is nothing short of infuriating.

"Are you asking me if I reconsider that notion?"

"I am simply echoing your words," he replies. He takes another sip of wine.

If Hannibal keeps at this bullshit, he may break and just kiss him. He may just kiss him. He's certainly wanted to for a long while, even before all this shit happened between them. The first time he said some pretentious bullshit in his own home — the mongoose I want under the house or whatever — he was filled with the need to kiss him. It's only grown ever since. When he realized he had framed him for murder this was translated in his brain as another reason to kiss him.

Kill him, maybe. Kiss him? Definitely. He was filled with hatred but also some sort of admiration. Of being able to pull this off with no issue, of blending so well into the shadows no one noticed him pulling the strings until it was too late. Far too late.

"The light of friendship gets closer and closer to us everyday," Will replies. He finishes his glass of wine. If he does anything stupid, he can blame it on the wine; even though he's very much not a lightweight, Hannibal will be too polite to deny his claim of drunkenness.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"You do still think of killing me with your hands, though, do you not?"

Will swallows. His fantasies have shifted shape, ever since his werewolf form has become his second skin, something he has come to terms with. He imagines killing Hannibal with too-sharp teeth, the way they would pierce his skin with no issue at all. But when he's stripped down to his barest form, all fur and teeth and claws, he doesn't want to hurt Hannibal anymore. He doesn't understand it.

Instead of a direct answer, he says, "Friendship can sometimes involve a breach of individual separateness."

"If you killed me with your hands quick enough, perhaps no one would be able to tell where you ended and I began."

This sounds more like a sex metaphor than me killing you, Will can't help but think.

"That sounds more like a double entendre than anything else, Hannibal," Will tells him.

Hannibal raises a brow. "Does it, now?"

"Would you mind if it did?"

"Do you believe I did not choose the words with that intention, Will?"

Before Will can stop himself, he walks over to Hannibal's therapy couch— he puts his wine down, like to avoid spilling it while being kissed, the motherfucker— and he grabs him by his tie and kisses him.

Kissing Hannibal makes him feel, albeit briefly, that the world makes sense. That all of this has happened for a reason, that Hannibal getting him bit and turned into a werewolf has all been for this moment, for when their lips press together. He tastes of wine and blood, a sensation he's not sure if it's in his brain or if Hannibal's mouth is, in fact, full of bloodshed.

It may be both.

He grabs his face with both his hands, pulling him closer as he puts himself there, straddling him, kissing him like the world is going to end if he doesn't. This is all he's ever wanted between the two of them. He wanted to be in love and he happened to get in the way.

"There is something you need to know, Will," Hannibal starts, his hand cupping his cheek, looking up at him with adoration in his eyes. It's devotion, almost— like he is a creation, his sculpture, molded right how he likes him. Alive and bloodthirsty and monstrous. "I thought to keep it secret until it was the best moment to show you, but I believe the best way of you knowing is now."

"What is it?" he asks.

Hannibal looks at him, really looks at him. "Abigail is alive."

Will's eyes widen and he pulls him into another fervent kiss.

He can deal with all this, now. If Abigail is alive, just missing an ear. If he is a werewolf, if Hannibal is still human but still somehow worse off than him. Things make sense, now.

"You wanted to make a place on the world for the three of us," Will says, slowly, savoring the words. "For our family."

"Yes."

"You turned me into a werewolf with that express purpose?"

Hannibal smiles at him. It's all sharp teeth, a glint in his eye. "It seems to have worked."

It has.

They do not speak of the bath, but there's a silent promise between them that it may not be the last of its kind. They have plenty of time for domesticity, now. A werewolf and a cannibal and their daughter, far away from the FBI's trail — it sounds like a dream.

It is a dream, and Will is determined to make it into a reality.