Beverly is driving one of the FBI SUVs that are caravanning down to Will Graham's home. Jimmy's riding shotgun, and Brian's in the back. With Jack driving the van in the lead, the forensics team has a chance to talk without Jack's stormy mood hanging over them. Jimmy and Brian take the opportunity to catch Beverly up on Will's dramatic exit the previous day.

"And he just left?" Beverly asks, incredulous. Will Graham's just earned a couple of gold stars in her book.

"Just walked right out without looking back – I thought Jack's head was going to start spinning; you should have seen him!" Jimmy says with unmasked glee.

"If any of us had tried that, we'd be searching through the classifieds right about now," Brian says, a little bitterly, from the back of the SUV.

Jimmy quirks an eyebrow, "Jealous, Brian?"

"Of Graham? Please," Brian retorts, "I just hate seeing him waltz into our crime scenes, do his mind mumbo-jumbo, and then get all the credit while we do all the real work." Brian fiddles with the clasps on the camera case he has seated next to him, "And then all he has to do is pull that sad puppy-dog face and everyone feels sorry for him." When Beverly shoots him a disapproving glance in the rearview mirror, Brian pulls his features into a mocking, exaggerated pout.

"Come on, Brian, you know doing this field work is hard on him," Beverly rebukes.

"So he's got problems," Brian snorts, "We've all got problems! I've got problems! You don't see anyone agonizing over me!"

Jimmy laughs, "The only problem you have is trying to figure out if you're pissing in the toilet or the garbage can when you're too blasted to see straight."

Brian leans forward between the two front seats and punches Jimmy in the arm. Jimmy makes a big show of clutching the assaulted limb and mouthing a pained Ow! in Brian's direction. Beverly just rolls her eyes and follows the line of cars as they turn off the narrow backwoods thoroughfare onto the dirt path that leads to Will's Graham's desolate home.

The three car convoy is parking in the grass outside of the renovated farmhouse when the front door opens and Will Graham steps outside. He's wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, and his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. As she parks and turns off the car, Beverly takes a moment to study Will through the SUV's spotty windshield. He looks tired, and with all the horrors that Will keeps locked up in his mind, it's not hard to comprehend why.

Will is silent as Jack ascends the few wooden steps to the porch, and he averts his eyes when Jack walks up to him with poorly disguised smugness.

"Well, Will," Jack says, and he nods meaningfully at the heart on the porch, "It looks like you've got something new to work with."

Will shrugs his shoulders minutely; he seems disconnected from what's happening around him, as if he's only half-hearing Jack and the scene before him is shrouded in a fog. Jack either doesn't notice or decides that his investigation is more important than whatever mental crisis Will Graham might be experiencing right now.

"Do I need to tell the team to hold off for a few minutes?" Jack asks, "Or have you already . . . ?"

Will is silent for a moment, then he shakes his head, "No, I haven't reconstructed it yet. I was . . . waiting for you to get here." His voice is flat and small.

Beverly, approaching the porch with Brian and Jimmy trailing behind her, takes a hard look at Will when she hears that. He didn't want to do it while he was alone, she realizes.

"Alright, guys, back it up," Jack says, batting back some of the more superfluous agents, giving Will a wide radius of space to work with.

Will doesn't have the strength to object, doesn't have the willpower in that moment to say it's getting to be too much; I'm reaching my breaking point. The Ripper is toying with him, leaving him tokens of carnage in front of his own home, the one place where he should be safe. Well, all illusions of safety are shattered now. Removing his glasses and placing them in his shirt pocket, Will takes a deep breath to restore some semblance of calm and control to his mind. He stands on the steps in front of the porch, goes still, and clears his thoughts.

The pendulum swings. The porch and the yard are clear of people; he is the only one here. The pendulum swings. The vans are gone, and it is night. There are no lights on in the house, and everything is quiet except for the high shrieking of the wind. A storm is coming. The pendulum swings. He is walking down the dirt path. His car, headlights off and engine silent, is back on the road, parked a quarter mile back so the occupants of the house would not hear his arrival. He carries with him a small cooler.

"The heart is the most important organ in the body. The man I took this from did not deserve it, and I will put it to greater use than its previous owner would have."

He moves slowly, taking extreme care so that he approaches in total silence. Even the dogs do not hear him coming, though much of the noise of his advance is masked by the howling wind and the creaking and rustling of the twisting trees and shrubbery outside of the home.

"I do not fear being caught. For years I have eluded all pursuers, and even Will Graham, who may come closer than any other to finding me, will not be successful in the end."

He mounts the steps of the porch just as the rain begins to fall from the sky. It is the downpour of one of the last summer storms. The clattering of the raindrops on the roof of the home and the foliage eliminate any danger of his movements being heard by the home's slumbering occupants. He kneels and opens the cooler to pull out the heart from atop a thin layer of ice.

"This heart, a sample of my work, is an acknowledgement of Graham as an equal, one worthy of the pursuit he engages in. It is also a warning. A reminder that he has much more to fear from me than I have to fear from him. Should he get too close, I will not hesitate to . . . to . . ."

In that moment, real, primal fear descends upon him, and Will snaps out of the reconstruction to find that he is breathing in rapid, shallow gasps as he kneels over the dark red organ. He stands quickly, stumbling backwards towards the front door of his home and overcome with the need to run, to escape the feeling of dread that is quickly pressing in from all sides. His chest tightens, and it is suddenly very hard to breathe. Sweat begins to bead itself on his brow.

Jack is approaching him, and Will retreats farther, pressing his back against the front door of his home.

"Will, hey, snap out of it."

Will puts up a hand to stop Jack's advance, choking out, "I can't do this – I can't do this anymore." His breathing is rapid and shallow.

Jimmy's voice is calling from somewhere in Will's front yard, "He's having a panic attack, Jack."

And then Beverly, having carefully sidestepped Jack, is hovering beside Will. She tries to calm him,

"You're alright, Will. Just take deep breaths; I'm going to take you inside, okay?"

He at first flinches away from the hand that tries to steady him, but she offers soothing words and her grip is persuasive on his arm. His gasping is causing him to hyperventilate, and he's shaking. As Beverly guides him into his home, he feels a crushing weight descend upon his chest. It's a real, physical pain that causes his panic to rise even more. He runs a clammy hand over his face to dispel the dizziness and vertigo. The room is spinning around him like gravity's lost its hold on him. He knows it's only a panic attack, but it feels like he's dying.

"I can't do this anymore," he gasps, his voice strained.

Beverly leads him to an armchair by the door, and he complies with numb obedience when she tells him to sit. His breathing is still heavy, ragged. The muscles in his hands and legs are strangely weak, and he's suddenly glad that he is sitting down. Beverly kneels next to Will, close enough so that he knows she's there but not so close that he feels like she's invading his personal space.

"I need you to take slow, deep breaths, Will," she says.

He tries to control his breathing, but it's hard with the way his heart is beating too fast a rhythm in his chest. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. He can feel the invisible hands of the Ripper closing around his throat.

"Come on, Will, breathe in –"

Will takes a slow, shaky breath and holds it.

" – and breathe out."

He expels the air rapidly and begins to breathe too quickly again, "Beverly, I can't – I can't . . ." He's shaking and he has a hand placed over his chest like it will lessen the awful, crushing pressure he feels there.

"It's okay, Will; you're safe. I just need you to breathe for me."

Beverly leads him through breathing exercises, and eventually his breathing begins to slow and even out. It takes only a few minutes for him to stop hyperventilating. As sudden as the panic attack has come on, it begins to dissipate. With his breathing under control, the panic recedes, and his heart rate slows; the pressure constricting his chest lifts. The episode leaves him tired and despondent. He has no strength left in his body, and his mind wrapped in a thick wad of cotton. The fear is replaced with an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, and he's fighting back tears for the second time that morning.

Will's pain is written clearly on his face, and Beverly reaches out to rest a hand on Will's knee as a sign of comfort. Will jerks away from her.

"Please don't touch me," he mumbles. He can see the worry in her eyes. And the pity. He doesn't want that, though, doesn't want her pity.

Will draws his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead on his knees so he doesn't have to look at Beverly. He looks like a petulant child, but he doesn't care because he doesn't want Beverly to see the tears that are sliding down his cheeks. The sounds of shifting fabric and receding footsteps tell of Beverly's departure, and Will hears the front door open and shut as Beverly rejoins the team outside.

When Beverly emerges from the house, Jack makes a move like he's going to go in, but Beverly stops him.

"You probably shouldn't try to talk to him just yet, Jack. He's not in the best mental state right now, and drilling him with questions is only going to make it worse. "

"I didn't realize you had a degree in psychology, Beverly," Jack snaps.

Beverly just shrugs her shoulders, "I'm just saying, maybe give him a break for once."

Jack looks infinitely displeased but doesn't go for the front door.

"Someone needs to call Dr. Lecter and get him down here," he growls.

Will hears another car pull up in front of the house. The engine cuts out, and a car door opens and closes. Muffled voices filter inside as someone is greeted and things are explained and other things are demanded. Then the front door opens and heavy footsteps enter Will's home. Will is still curled up on the armchair, his arms clasped around his drawn up legs and his chin pressed into his chest. He does not look up when the footsteps stop in front of him.

"Hello, Will." Hannibal's voice is soft.

When Will refuses to respond, he hears wood scraping against the floor as Hannibal moves an ottoman in front of the chair that Will occupies. He hears the piece of furniture creak as Hannibal sits down.

"Will, please look at me." Despite the wording, there's nothing in Hannibal's voice that demands Will's compliance, and it is this that coaxes Will to lift his head.

Will's eyes are red and bleary, unfocused as they avoid looking into Hannibal's face. When Hannibal swipes his palm over Will's forehead, brushing back the untamed curls, Will feels his chest tighten, and his throat constricts with a hot sob he swallows down.

The edges of Hannibal's eyes crinkle slightly. "Jack is demanding that I find out what you saw when you reconstructed the scene." Hannibal brings his other hand up to Will's face and rubs soothing circles with his thumbs on the pressure points at the sides of Will's forehead. Hot moisture collects in the corners of Will's eyes.

"However, acting as both your therapist and your friend, I do not often find myself compelled to listen to the whims of Jack Crawford."

Will tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choking noise from the back of his throat. When he blinks, a tear runs unhindered down his cheek. The gentle pressure of Hannibal's hands on his face is destroying whatever remaining shreds of composure Will has. After so many years of avoiding physical contact – too afraid to get too close only to have to endure rejection– he had forgotten the power a simple touch has to comfort and soothe.

When Hannibal removes his hands from Will's face, a small sob bubbles out of Will.

"Hannibal . . ." Will's tone is pleading, desperate to feel cared for, loved. Streams of tears seep from the corners of his eyes.

"Shh, Will, it's okay; I'm here."

Hannibal scoots forward so he is perched on the edge of the ottoman. He wraps his arms around Will, and Will, still curled up tightly with his arms around his legs, tips forward so that his head rests against Hannibal's shoulder. Will presses his nose into the fabric of Hannibal's shirt and breathes deeply. Hannibal's scent fills him and flushes out the bitter residue of his receded panic, and Will does not see Hannibal's small smile at Will's ready acceptance of this small comfort. Running his hands along Will's back, Hannibal rubs slow patterns into the shaking plane of Will's body.

"Hannibal . . ." Will can't stop murmuring the name, an invocation on his lips to the man before him.

"I'm here, Will." Hannibal presses his lips against Will's curls. "I will always be here for you."

Wrapped in Hannibal's arms, Will finds the sense of safety that had earlier been ripped from him. It is small and fragile and new, hidden here at the juncture of Hannibal's neck and shoulder, but it is there, and Will holds onto it like it's the lighthouse guiding him home on a rough sea.

It is as everyone is packing up and preparing to leave the scene that Hannibal finally emerges from the house. Jack, who had been pacing the length of the porch impatiently, immediately approaches Hannibal and demands answers.

"Jack, Will is in a fragile state right now, and I don't want unnecessary questioning to put further strain on him."

"I would hardly call it unnecessary questioning, Dr. Lecter," Jack bristles.

"You're right, of course," Hannibal concedes, "But it will have to wait until tomorrow. I will see to it myself that Will speaks with you then about this incident. For now, however, I must insist that he is left alone in order to deal with the shock of the event."

Jack huffs but acquiesces. "You see to it that he gets his ass down to Quantico tomorrow, then," Jack says, and then marches over to the large FBI van.

"You have my word, Jack," Hannibal says, and watches Jack wrench open the van door and settle in the driver's seat like a displeased bear.

In a few minutes, the line of SUVs is making its way back up the dirt driveway to the main road, and in her rearview mirror, Beverly glances back at Will's receding house. She sees Hannibal on the porch, hovering over the now empty spot where the heart once lay, his head inclined downward, and his hands clasped rigidly behind his back.

Hannibal remains with Will for the rest of the day, providing company for the shaken man. Though Will is mostly reticent about the events of the morning, Hannibal attempts simple small-talk, nudging Will to think of other things. But Will's mind is too consumed by the Ripper's unnerving invasion to process much else. Several times throughout the day, loud creaks cause Will to jump and look nervously out the window, but it's just the sound of the old farmhouse settling into the earth.

Using Will's meagerly stocked pantry, Hannibal prepares lunch and dinner for them both, and Will thanks him urgently, saying that he shouldn't feel obliged to stick around like this. Hannibal assures him that it's no trouble and that he couldn't even entertain the idea of leaving his friend at such a time. Will is silently glad for that.

When evening comes, Hannibal insists on spending the night as well. Although Will protests half-heartedly, it is clear that he is nervous about being alone in what has become a suddenly hostile house. When Hannibal, much to Will's relief, makes it clear that he has no problem staying with his friend for the night, Will digs a set of sheets out from a closet and makes up the couch for Hannibal. Will gives Hannibal several more chances to leave, but Hannibal is resolute. Soon night has fallen, and it is too late for Hannibal to comfortably make the hour drive back to Baltimore. At eleven o'clock, after several hours of stretched silence, Will says an awkward good night to Hannibal and retreats into his bedroom for the night.

Despite Hannibal's welcome presence, Will finds it difficult to sleep. He tosses and turns, thoughts running unchecked through his mind. Whatever walls he had built up as protection in his mind are gone now, whittled away in the past few months by stress and anxiety. The shock of today had demolished the remaining shaky foundations.

Will gazes at the ceiling and there is Elise Nichols suspended overhead, her body hung to bleed out on a set of bone-white antlers. When he blinks the vision away and looks instead to the foot of his bed, there are the two of Elliot Buddish's angels praying over him, their backs slayed open, and their gory wings fluttering in a non-existent wind. Will shuts his eyes tight to keep out the images, but behind his eyelids the unknown face of the Ripper mocks him. He opens his eyes and turns on his side.

Eventually fatigue overcomes him, and he falls into a restless sleep, slipping in and out of a half-dreaming state. The periods of sleep that steal over him are brief and peppered with nightmares, and he wakes from them with horrible afterimages superimposed in the darkness of his bedroom.

The sound of his own strangled yell jerks him awake from a dream and into half-consciousness. In the shadows behind his half-closed bedroom door, he sees a jeering face, then the glint of a blade – a spurt of crimson blood that paints the floor in wide strokes. He lies still for a moment, his eyes snapped open as he stares into the darkness. He has to convince himself that there is no one there, that it is just his tired mind playing tricks on him, conjuring up sinister images of the Ripper hiding in the shadows. When the vision does not reappear, Will settles onto his back and examines the ceiling, searching it for clues to sleep.

From the living room, Will hears the squeaky springs of the couch, then the heavy pad of bare feet against the wooden floor. Had his yell woken Hannibal? When his bedroom door is pushed open, Will closes his eyes, feeling like he's eight years old again, pretending to be sleeping while his father comes to check on him in the middle of the night. For a long minute, there is silence, and Will can feel Hannibal's eyes on him. Then, the sound of shuffling feet walk around to the far side of Will's bed. The covers shift, and the mattress dips.

Will is wide awake now, aware of the presence and warmth of the man next to him even with his eyes shut. It has been a long time since he has shared a bed with another person, and he has to fight to keep his calm, even breathing of mimicked sleep as his heart rate rises. The sheets shift again, and Will suppresses the instinct to jerk away when he feels Hannibal's hand rest against his chest. The heat of the hand soaks through Will's thin shirt, and the fingers curl and uncurl slowly, bunching and then smoothing the fabric against Will's skin. The feeling is not unpleasant.

Will knows that Hannibal is not fooled by his pretense of sleep, for surely Hannibal can feel the too rapid beating of his heart, but even so, Will does not open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge Hannibal's presence. For now, it's easier to pretend: to pretend that he isn't awake, that he isn't threatened by the heart the Ripper left on his front porch, that he isn't haunted by the workings of his mind in his sleep, and that he isn't falling in love with the man comforting him in the darkness. For now, as his heart calms under the weight of Hannibal's hand, it's easier to pretend.

With Hannibal so close, the demons in Will's mind recede, bated back by the comforting presence. For the first time that night, Will finds himself falling into a deep, undisturbed sleep, but before he slips into the unconsciousness of dreamless slumber, Hannibal whispers something beside him. But it is whispered too softly for Will's mind to catch and decipher, and Will floats into sleep without knowing the contents of those hushed words.

In the morning, Will wakes alone in his bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he remembers the previous night and wonders if he had imagined Hannibal coming into his bedroom and slipping into his bed. He looks at the other side of his bed, the sheets slightly rumpled. From the bathroom Will hears the sound of water running, splashing from the spigot into the sink. The water turns off, and Hannibal walks into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. He is wearing only his boxers, and his hair is partially tamed, slightly dampened bangs pushed to one side and out of his face. Seeing that Will is awake, he smiles.

"Good morning, Will," he says and goes to sit on the edge of Will's bed.

Will pulls his legs out from under the covers and swings them over the edge so that the two of them are sitting side by side on the mattress. Hannibal reaches over and places a hand on Will's knee.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Hannibal asks.

Will laces his fingers together in his lap and stares at them.

"Fine," he says, his answer terse because he's thinking about other things. He feels like there's an elephant in the room, but he can't tell if he's the only one that sees it. He takes a deep breath before plunging forward.

"Hannibal, what is . . . this? What are we? Are we just friends because. . . this doesn't feel like just friendship to me." It's the first time he's saying it out loud, and as scary as it is to acknowledge, it feels good to get it out in the open.

Hannibal takes a moment before responding.

"Will. You are, of course, a very dear friend to me, and I care for you very deeply," he squeezes Will's knee for emphasis before withdrawing his hand. "When you joined me for dinner the other night, it seemed to me that you too felt the possibility of a more amorous relationship, though I understand why you may be having some misgivings about it."

"It's just . . . new to me," Will admits.

Hannibal nods in understanding, "If you don't want this, Will, I can return to simply being your therapist. I do not wish to impose myself on you in a way you are not comfortable with."

Will shakes his head. He can't imagine returning to their semi-professional relationship, and that's not what he wants, anyway.

"No, I . . . I want this." Will untangles his fingers and places a hand, awkwardly but decisively, on Hannibal's knee. Hannibal chuckles and places his hand over Will's.

"I'm glad to hear that, Will," Hannibal says, and he places a kiss on Will's clothed shoulder.

Will smiles.

Maybe it's because he's seeking safety in Hannibal, or maybe it's just because he hasn't felt this close to someone in years, but whatever the reason, the precipice looming before him seems much less terrifying with Hannibal standing beside him.

A/N: Finished this chapter at 3 in the morning. I apologize for any glaring grammatical errors and/or poor writing.

One more chapter to go! I'm hoping to finish this up by this weekend since I'm heading back for my senior year of college on Saturday. Thanks to everyone who's been following, and a special thanks to everyone who has left a comment - I love reading what you have to say!