Will is falling, tumbling, clutching Hannibal as close as he possibly can, the black waters of the sea rushing up to greet them.

He closes his eyes, and gasps awake in his house in Wolf Trap. His shirt is stuck to his back, sweat making him clammy and he clutches his shoulder, the knife wound missing, his cheek intact, and there's nothing for him to do but breath and breath as he tries to shake off the reality of his extremely vivid dream.

He fumbles for his phone, checks the date.

Oh fuck. It's the day it all started: the day Will met Hannibal Lecter.

How could this be?

Surely it must have been a dream. There's no such person as Hannibal, no Molly, no Dolarhyde, Will's over active imagination is playing tricks on him, the whole horrible, fucked up debacle just a figment of his wild imagination.

No Hannibal. Will's breath catches in his throat.

He scrambles for his laptop. Hannibal Lecter, he types. A picture of Hannibal appears, a website linking to his psychiatric practise. Will gulps a breath of air, holds it into himself, clutches himself so tightly it hurts.

Oh god. He can't do it all again.

Will's phone rings. He stares at it, contemplates throwing it out the window, packing his bags, hustling his dogs into the car and driving until he reaches the coast, getting into a boat and sailing away, as far as he can go.

He doesn't. He stands, picks up the phone. It's not Jack: of course it's not, Jack doesn't know him yet, has only just asked him to consult on the case of the Minnesota Shrike. It's his alarm going off. Will huffs a laugh. He can only imagine what Hannibal would say to that.

Will's heart drops out through is stomach.

Hannibal.

Hannibal won't remember him. Will chokes on a sob. Hannibal was in his heart, his mind, his very soul, for so long that Will had never managed to shake free of him. And now Will knows; he doesn't want to.

Will's head aches, and he nearly dismisses it until he remembers the last time he dismissed his symptoms; in the future, or the past that never happened, Will had encephalitis.

Never again.

Will calls up Quantico, cancels his week of teaching, and in a move that even amazes himself, walks into a hospital, complaining of migraines, sleep walking and hallucinations. While he's in a waiting room he organises care for his dogs, and then he just closes his eyes, thinks about when and where and who he is.

He needs to get his mind sorted before he goes anywhere near Jack, or Hannibal, or Alana.

When Will leaves the hospital, he feels better than he can remember ever feeling. He's physically fit, his mind is clear, his thoughts are calm. He doesn't even mind when Jack ambushes him with details of the mushroom farmer's case; they'd already caught Hobbs while Will was in hospital; Abigail and her mother survive this time around. Will supposes that Hannibal wasn't interested enough to interfere: after all, everything he did he did for Will, no matter how depraved.

"This is Doctor Lecter," Jack introduces him and Will feasts his eyes on Hannibal. Please remember, he silently begs, I can't do this alone. But Hannibal inspects him with an affected disinterest, although Will knows that he's fascinated by Will's empathy, and Will's heart breaks just a little.

Right now, all he is to Hannibal is a pig with an intriguing talent.

He's going to change that.

The events with the mushroom farmer play out the same as before, except this time Will kills Stammet when he catches him and Abigail's not involved this time. He hopes she never catches Hannibal's interest, hopes that Jack doesn't delve further into his theories that Abigail assisted her father in catching his victims, hopes that he never sees Abigail again. He can't stand the blank look on Abigail's face when she sees him, reminiscent of so many others: she doesn't know him, doesn't remember, and it's burning Will up from the inside.

But Will has killed, and Jack is concerned about his delicate little teacup, and so he's assigned a therapy session with Hannibal, and Will has to hide his smile. They have been reunited.

Will's got an excellent memory, bordering upon eidetic, and later than evening he sits down and begins writing a list of dates and events that happened, putting them in order; names of killers and victims, natural disasters, poignant memories; anything and everything.

There's one person who sticks out in Will's mind who caused innumerable amounts of trouble for him, one person even before Hannibal's influence he knew he'd like to wrap his hands around her throat, one person with porcelain skin and dark red ringlets that's going to get what's coming to her, sooner rather than later.

Will plays the long game, making himself bland, boring, saying nothing outrageous, doing his best not to catch her attention. He doesn't want to be the obvious suspect when she's murdered. So, Will plans and waits and sits in Hannibal's therapy sessions and wonders how he never saw before how much Hannibal had been manipulating him.

Will doesn't mind. He's had his becoming, he's emerged from his chrysalis, he knows who he is.

Then Abigail knocks on his door one day, turning up out of the blue.

"Will," she breathes, when before all she called him was 'Mr Graham'.

"Abigail?" he responds, desperate and hoping.

"I'm alive," she says with wonder. "We're alive." He pulls her close, hugs her.

"You remember?"

"Everything." She grimaces. "Did you forgive him?"

"How could I not," Will says. "And you?"

Abigail smiles and it lights up her face.

"It was inevitable. I wasn't surprised,"

Will supposes that's true. Everything about Hannibal feels inevitable.

They chat, discuss the future, discuss her time while she was pretending to be dead. They plot and plan and Abigail catches a glimpse of the Tattlecrime article Will's been reading.

"Oh," she breathes. She clutches his hand. "Can I help?"

Hannibal inspects the crime scene before him, Will Graham knelt beside him, swinging the metaphorical pendulum to recreate the killer's design.

Freddie Lounds was forced to suffocate on her own foot, chopped off at the ankle. She is posed hanging from the ceiling, wires used to hold her in place, her hands in front of her face as if to fend off unwanted attention and a camera is mounted as if an overeager photographer is desperate for a photo.

"A literal case of foot in mouth," Hannibal states, a morbid joke that no one finds amusing apart from Will, whose mouth quirks and then flattens so quickly Hannibal would have doubted that a smile had ever appeared did he not trust each of his senses implicitly. He's seen the darkness inside Will, knows he is undaunted by this relatively bloodless kill, and he can't wait to coax it out of him.

"He's bitter about Freddie, has a personal vendetta," Will says, sounding tired. "He wants her to feel how he feels; persecuted and run down. Look into her stories; is there anyone in particular she's been harrying after?"

Hannibal can't say he's upset by Freddie's death, only disappointed he never got the opportunity to kill her himself. She was unspeakably rude the few times he's met her, and had an unnatural obsession with Will that he's only seen surface a few times, but lingered in the glances she gave him, the way her hands hovered over her camera, desperate for Will to make enough of a spectacle of himself for her to twist it into some eye catching headline.

One could argue that Will fits the killer's profile, or would do if Freddie had ever gotten her story. Will's lucky she didn't.

"Who's next?" Abigail says as they sift through the crime scene photos of Freddie's body, admiring their handiwork.

"Chilton?" Will suggests. "Or Gideon?"

Abigail shivers. "Chilton. Definitely," she says. Will nods. He's never liked Chilton, can't think of one redeeming quality, and didn't feel guilty the first time around that the man was attacked.

Chilton no longer works at BSHCI. Most peculiar. He's unemployed, has recently quit, and his eyes go wide with horror when he finds Will waiting in his lounge.

"Oh no," he says, backing toward the door.

"You remember as well?" Will asks, unbothered. Chilton makes a run for it but he doesn't get far; Abigail trips him as he rounds a corner.

"Yes, yes, please, I haven't said anything, I won't say anything, please don't kill me," Chilton whinges around snot and tears as they tie him up and knock him out.

The murderer of Freddie Lounds has become serial, Frederick Chilton their latest victim, and Hannibal is utterly fascinated. Chilton is seated in the office chair he lately vacated; he was previously Chief of Staff at the BSHCI. His mouth is filled with cow manure, his eyes removed and replaced with pyrite, and he's been gutted.

"He's a coward, gutless, literally," Will says. "Cow manure – he speaks bullshit, and this is pyrite, informally knowns as fool's gold. Our killer is desperate for us to know how much of a fool Chilton was, a greedy, cowardly fool. It's personal. He hates Chilton, and this is how he justifies it."

It's brilliant, if clumsy. Brutally poetic and striking, Hannibal loves it. What he could give to get his hands on this murderer, find out how he ticks, what drives him. His gaze settles on Will, who's looking at the tableau with awe, remnants of his killer's mindset no doubt, ones that Hannibal wishes to cultivate.

He wants Will to look like that when he sees Hannibal's design.

Margot appears at Will's door. She takes one look at him and nods, a sly smile slipping onto her face. "Want to help me murder my brother again?" she offers. Abigail perks up at that.

Will shoots Abigail a look. The girl's been spending far too much time with him, probably ought to spend some more with her grieving mother, and he doesn't want her anywhere near Mason Verger.

"I will. Abigail won't."

Abigail pouts, but she doesn't bother to complain. She knows of their history with Mason, knows that both Will and Hannibal came far too close to death at his hands for Will to ever want to risk her.

He drops Abigail off, drives to Muskrat farm and meets Margot in the stables where Mason is breeding his people-eating pigs.

"So, you're pregnant?" he asks casually. She smiles, less sly, just joyful.

"Three months. He's not guessed a single thing, not without Hannibal whispering in his ear," she says. "I suppose Hannibal hasn't remembered then?"

Will shakes his head.

"Neither has Alana," Margot whispers. "But I have to believe that she will."

It's surprisingly easy to force several martinis down Mason's throat and then push him into the pig pen. Will does it all himself, sends Margot away to give her a stone-cold alibi, just in case. He checks Mason is dead – he doesn't want a repeat of last time – and drives home.

He gets a call just as he arrives; Abel Gideon has killed a nurse, and is claiming to be the Chesapeake Ripper. Even without Chilton's final push, Gideon has still tried to become that which he is not.

Will lets events play out as before, letting Jack taunt Hannibal with a trashy news article, and in turn Hannibal taunts Jack through a series of phone calls, ending up with Miriam Lass' arm in the observatory.

But Will's there when Gideon escapes the BSHCI. The man might not remember the truth right now, but there's a chance he will sooner or later, and that's a chance he's not willing to take.

Abel Gideon's been strung up like a puppet, complete with the strings and wooden cross holding them up above his head, his tongue removed and placed in his hands like an offering.

Hannibal is satisfied, although he would have liked to have killed and eaten Gideon himself.

But this – this is a present. Whomever murdered Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton doesn't believe Gideon is the Ripper, has offered Gideon to Hannibal like a cat dragging in a mouse.

Will is called in to profile the scene, but Hannibal thinks it's easy enough to read. Gideon, the puppet, with his very own puppet master. Will seems… distracted. He's been glancing at Jack more often than usual, then Alana, and then to Hannibal.

He wonders how he can use this to his advantage.

"What are we going to do when someone like Jack, or Alana remembers?" Will asks Abigail. They're watching the stars from his yard, the dogs piled up around them.

"Who knows?" Abigail says. "Who says they will?"

Will huffs a laugh. "With my luck, they already remember and are plotting our demise."

Abigail punches him in the side. "Don't think like that. Plan instead. Hannibal had an escape plan: you need one too."

Will begins fixing up a boat, the cabin just big enough for three. He stockpiles supplies, and he makes careful inquiries into forging them passports.

While he does that, he also investigates Francis Dolarhyde. Will debates, and waits, and hopes for Hannibal, but every day he waits is a day that Francis has the potential to remember too. Will doesn't know how far this strange time travel extends. Is it happening all over the world? It can't be, else Hannibal would be in custody already.

Although Will's tempted to take his time with Francis, he's not physically strong enough to bring him down alone. He doesn't want to do it alone, anyway. And there's a strange kind of pity Will feels for him; he's incredibly delusional, entirely detached from the world.

Eventually Will goes to his home, shoots him, and leaves. He's left no prints, no evidence and no one will think to connect it to Will's other, far more gruesome, murders.

Beverly Katz knocks on his door. Hannibal eyes her with surprise. There's something dark in her eyes, something fierce and feral.

"Please, come in," he says cautiously. She does, shutting the door behind her, and then she goes for her gun.

It's only instinct that allows him to dive out of the way, the bullet grazing his arm as he tumbles to the floor. She keeps shooting, spends her cartridge, and Hannibal dives for a knife while she reloads.

"I remember!" she screams. "I remember, how could you think I wouldn't remember?"

He has absolutely no clue what she's on about, but she's deadly serious about killing him so he doesn't dwell on it. They pace around the house, stalking one another, and they grapple in the kitchen, his knife sinking into her side while she gets another bullet in his leg before he knocks her gun to the floor. They roll away from each other, diving for their respective weapons.

"Hannibal?" It's Will's voice, and Hannibal cringes. He's not ready for this, Will's not ready for his metamorphous, there's no way Will will allow Hannibal to kill Beverly, if he even stops whatever Beverly is here to do in the first place.

"Will," Beverly hisses. "He's the Chesapeake Ripper." Will stands between them, an odd look in his eye.

"You remember?" he asks.

"You do too?" Beverly says and she smiles. But the smile quickly fades as she glances between Hannibal and Will.

Hannibal has never been more confused in his life.

"How long have you remembered for?" Will asks. "Just today, I'm guessing."

Will slides a hand slowly down to his gun. Hannibal keeps his focus on that; Beverly is emotional, tired, injured, less of a threat than a rational Will. Beverly's gun is now swaying between Hannibal and Will, and she looks almost as confused as he is.

"Will?"

"If you can't beat them, join them," Will jokes, and understanding flashes across Beverly's face.

"Oh god. Chilton. Freddie. Gideon," she whispers.

Someone launches themselves from behind Beverly, and wrestles her to the floor. Will tackles Hannibal as the gun goes off, bullets hitting the wall behind where Hannibal had been standing.

"Alright?" Will asks, and Hannibal nods, uncertain where this is going. Will rolls off Hannibal and helps Abigail Hobbs, of all people, to her feet. On the floor is Beverly, a stricken expression upon her face, and blood gushing from her carotid artery.

"Alana knows too," Abigail says. Knows what? There's something Hannibal missing here. "She came to my home. She's in the trunk now."

"Dead?"

Abigail shakes her head. "I know that he'll want revenge," she said, and gestures to Hannibal.

"On Alana?" Hannibal asks, as that seems to be the place to start. Will snorts.

"You'll understand later. For now, assume everyone in the FBI knows you're the Chesapeake Ripper. Grab whatever you need, we're going."

"I see," Hannibal says. "And that is not a problem for you?"

Will looks at him then, and there's so much in that gaze that it's dazzling. Affection, hatred, adoration, loathing, all wrapped together tying him closer to Hannibal than he'd ever wished for in his wildest dreams.

"Hannibal," Will breathes. Will closes his eyes, and when he opens them they're clear again. "Let's go."

Jack rings Will as they drive toward where Will's boat is docked.

"What have you done?" Jack says, voice low.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Will says. He tosses the phone out of the window and hits the pedal.

"Jack remembers. Who's left?"

"That's it," Abigail says. "Apart from Hannibal, obviously."

Hannibal's sitting pliantly in the passenger seat, but turns and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You always were a difficult bastard," Will mutters.

"I take it some event has occurred that everyone but I seems to have memory of?"

"Not an event. Four years."

Hannibal wakes up, and he remembers. He walks out the cabin of the boat, leans against the mast as he watches Will haul on the jib.

Will looks beautiful. He's become something that even Hannibal was unable to anticipate, Hannibal's unpredictable Will. Hannibal wants to devour him.

"Will," he calls. Will looks up, their eyes meet.

"Oh," Will says. Suddenly he's right before Hannibal, holding him close, as tight as the time Will tumbled them off the cliff. Hannibal pulls back just slightly, and dares to brush his lips against Will's. Will presses back.

"I'm glad you're here." Will strokes Hannibal's side, his hair, his cheeks, Hannibal returns the favour.

"We are here together," Hannibal says. "A family."