Before Will could watch how Hannibal meant to transport his ill-gotten gains from the basement to his kitchen, he fled up the stairs with Winston brushing at his legs every step of the way. He took every step in the house until he found himself in the attic.

He scoffed. Even here the touch of Hannibal's OCD interior design scheme was obvious. Gone were the normal rafters, open insulation, and boxes of random stuff that normal people had in their normal unfinished attics. In their place were hardwood floors and wainscoting that dripped with wealth that complemented equally as expensive furniture, as if Hannibal had planned to entertain the Queen here too. It had the tell-tale sign of Hannibal's (now bloodied) fingers all over it, and none of the neglected charm Will had cultivated.

He kicked at the moulding, only to curse when his foot disappeared through the wall as numbness prickled up his leg.

"That—goddamn… cannibal!" Will grabbed at his hair, feeling the phantom pull at the roots. It did nothing to express the white hot hand of rage that twisted his insides.

He groaned and sank to the floor, refusing to sit on the high back chair next to him. He let Winston nuzzle at his head where he rested it against the wood. It was luxurious against his cheek, and Will hated Hannibal even more.

"What're we gonna do about this, Winston?" Will assumed Winston agreed that their only course of action was to haunt Hannibal into madness. Or into selling the house. Or maybe, if Will was really lucky, Hannibal would just abandon it all together, freeing Will to live in the house without feeling guilt over his murderous roommate. Just him and Winston. It would be almost like old times.

Will sighed. That wouldn't happen. Someone like Hannibal wouldn't just up and leave, letting his now valuable piece of real estate go to waste. No, he'd put it up for sale, which meant Will would have to endure another new family and their idiocy. Before he knew it, another set of Ghost Questers would be bothering him again, and he'd have to face their intrusive charlatanism. Only to start the whole thing over again when they found nothing to back up their claims. Then, maybe for a few weeks – or maybe even months if he were lucky – he'd be alone while the house changed hands again.

He should have felt joy at the prospect, but he only sensed something akin to a sinking disappointment.

Oh.

What once was his stomach curdled with realization.

He liked Hannibal. He actually enjoyed his company and the thought of Hannibal disappearing from Wolf Trap was a dark one.

And it wasn't just because through him he got to see Alana. He'd miss the way he'd fill the empty spaces of the house with soft sounds of cooking, or how he always closed his eyes while listening to the opera. Will would miss seeing the fastidious way he made espresso to go along with his full breakfast every morning, how he aligned all of his belongings at right corners, and how the man sometimes fell asleep reading next to the fire, despite being in a starched collar and three piece suit. Or how, that one time Will accidentally followed him into the bedroom, he got to see all of the sharp planes of muscle Hannibal hid underneath all of those yards of plaid.

He grit his teeth at the memory. He didn't think it was possible but he was even more furious. Had he still a beating heart, his cheeks would be enflamed with the indignity of it all.

He was mad not because Hannibal had killed a man, but that he had killed a man in their basement – that his actions just jeopardized their entire bid at cohabitation – that even with blood painting his hands red, Hannibal was still the best roommate he'd ever had, pre- and post-death. In fact, wrist-deep in the dead man's torso, he was the most interesting man Will had ever met. He was mad because he wasn't mad enough.

This, he knew, didn't reflect well on himself.

Winston licked at his chin.

"I'm in trouble Winston," Will said, grabbing at the dog's fur.

Will opted to stay in the attic for the remainder of the evening.

Under the bright morning sunshine that leaked through the kitchen window, his emotional revelation was bared in exacting detail. Luckily, he had missed Hannibal, so he didn't have to muse on his thoughts on the man with him in the room. That would be one humiliation too far.

The doctor was now wherever he usually was during a workday. Probably at some ostentatious office filled with ridiculously expensive furniture.

But the harsh realities of day didn't mean that his feelings were any less complicated – or more easily understood. It just revealed the magnitude of emotion he had for the man. It was like a long chain of knots. Just as he loosened one, he revealed three more in its place. Curiosity, fondness, and a not-too welcomed lust.

As he was examining that particular loop, he was again led back to the primary feeling of rage.

He growled and braced himself against the door of one of the ovens. It turned on to broil in response.

He looked up at the temperature display and grinned. If there was a slight manic tilt to his lips, no one but Winston saw.

Hannibal never entered the kitchen right away. Even after a long day at work, he always took the time to wash his hands in the bathroom before sipping at a glass of wine while reading from his tablet. Will knew this. He also knew that the wine probably cost a disgusting amount, and that Hannibal would be checking that shit website, .

Most nights, Will didn't mind the doctor's ritual. He took the opportunity to doze (as much as he could) with Winston by the fire. But not tonight. Tonight he was too keyed up by the anxiety of anticipation.

While usually he sat bemused as Hannibal sniffed, closed-eyed at his wine with his thumb hovering over the touchscreen, Will chose to lay in wait in what he realized amounted to lurking in the kitchen – alone and in the dark.

He didn't have to wait for long before Hannibal joined him. The doctor moved swiftly through the familiar space, picking up the cloth apron and wrapping it tightly around his waist. Still knotting the ties, he moved before the fridge. Hannibal pulled out one vacuum-sealed piece of meat from the shelf and placed it on the counter. He then pre-heated the oven.

325°F flashed in a bright, digital red before the display read 0°F. Confident that his equipment was in working order, Hannibal didn't watch this as Will did, nor did he see how the display began to climb its way to the temperature he wanted. Instead, he turned around to select a cast iron skillet from his collection of pots and pans.

While his back was turned, Will touched the display, focusing his energy only slightly. The number then blinked 500°F before resuming its ascent through degrees. By the time Hannibal returned to the oven, it was only at 180°F.

In death, Will had an affinity for electronics. It wasn't like the skill he had with motors, as that particular aptitude was hard earned. Whereas it took the better part of his childhood and teen years before Will could get his head around major mechanical systems, it took all but a day to realize he could play around with anything that had a plug or a battery. And while it would take him hours of physical labour to repair an engine, all it took for him to make an appliance sing was a simple touch.

He was glad he had no one to explain it to because he couldn't even if he tried. It was one of the few upsides of being dead (and having no one to talk to), he supposed, the other being his ability to interfere with Hannibal's precious equipment.

Next on his list was the element that Hannibal chose to place his skillet on top of. It was set to 8, but Will thought it would be better if it were only at 2. Without moving the dial, Will made the appropriate changes, ensuring each of the elements could not rise above 2 no matter what it was set to.

Now that he was on a roll, he thought the fridge could do with a slight change, too. Perhaps the fruits, vegetables, and human flesh would be better suited by a temperature of 65 degrees.

Moving his attention back to Hannibal, he saw that oil was already in the pan. The man in question was dredging the meat in a mixture of what Will could only describe as flour and herbs – nothing more specific. Not that it mattered. Will couldn't eat it. Wouldn't eat it, he reminded himself, even if he could because it was human. And soon, neither would Hannibal.

When Hannibal stopped and placed a hand over the pan, the right corner of Will's mouth curled up. When Hannibal tilted his head in confusion at the lack of heat, the centre of his lips pushed up against his teeth. When Hannibal frowned and fiddled with the dial of the element, the left side of Will's mouth joined the other, completing what he knew was a deranged sneer of self-satisfaction.

It continued to twist his face as Hannibal tried out the remaining elements, only to realize they refused to go as high he needed to sear his cut of meat. But it fell quickly when he realized, despite the slight furrow of his brows, Hannibal wasn't too fazed by it all. In fact, he barely seemed irritated as he placed the skillet in the oven.

In retaliation, Will turned on the blender.

The sound of the whirring blades cut through the silence. Winston barked once, but Will was robbed of seeing Hannibal jump at the disturbance, as the man only startled into stillness at the sound. Probably instincts bred from years of killing people, Will thought.

The doctor stared at the blender for a moment from the corner of his eye while he straightened his back from the very base of his spine to the top of his head. At the slow, nearly liquid movement, Will had a dawning of realisation. He was in the room with a predator. Will watched as Hannibal flared his nostrils, as if he were scenting the air like Winston. What else did he share with Winston? If he pulled back his lips would he have sharp canines too?

"Getting scared, Doctor Lecter?" Will taunted, despite now feeling wary of the man – even more than when Hannibal killing a man. He then immediately felt embarrassed about it, cringing at the thought of talking to someone who couldn't hear him. It was like people who yelled at TV screens.

Of course he didn't get a response. But whatever Hannibal smelled made him relax, and he quickly moved to turn off the droning machine. The ensuing silence boxed at Will's ears, making them ring slightly in lack.

Without any elaborate examination of his blender, Hannibal turned to open the oven and placed the prepared meat into the skillet. The oil crackled and sparked as soon as the flesh hit the pan, and Hannibal was quick to shut the door on it.

If he noticed that the fridge was slightly warmer than usual, he didn't let on as he gathered a basket of mushrooms. In fact, Hannibal barely showed any annoyance, considering Will had delayed his already late dinner by a full 30 minutes. It was damn near impossible to get a rise out of Hannibal – the eternally cool doctor who came into people's homes and renovated them completely before murdering strangers in their basement so that he could cook up their organs. The very same doctor that tricked his unsuspecting roommate into liking him. Meanwhile, all he had to do was kill a man to completely unravel Will. Lots of people have killed a man. Hell, most of the FBI has. Hannibal wasn't special.

Will turned on the coffee grinder and the steamer.

It wasn't fair.

Setting the microwave for 'potato', Will barely let it ding before turning to the second oven and engaged its self-cleaning mode. As the door's lock clicked shut, Will slammed down the toaster buttons and triggered the upright mixer so that its beaters began to rotate at their highest setting.

By now Hannibal had frozen next to the first oven, watching his kitchen come to life with only a somewhat stunned expression. His lack of eyebrows made it worse, and the lines on his forehead were the only things to betray his shock. Mouth still relaxed and eyes only widened by the pull of his brows. Not the awe Will expected, nor the terror, it wasn't enough. Will demanded something from the doctor, and he would have his reaction if it killed him… again.

By now, Winston was beside him. It was obvious by his raised heckles that he was the only one disturbed by what was going on in the kitchen.

Will curved his attention inside of himself, directing his mind's eye into the core of his being. When his chest began to heat and crackle like a false hearth, Winston began to growl. Low and even, it was a warning, as if the dog knew how much this took out of Will the last time. As if he, better than Will, knew how this was such a monumentally bad idea. Oh, but Will knew. He just chose to ignore it. Soon enough, those cautioning rumbles were lost to the whirlwind that was trapped inside of Will. It was all that he could to hold on, as the storm grew riotous within.

Around and around and around the energy circled, crackling with power at every rotation, so fast Will was dizzy with it.

He stumbled on the tile, but forced himself to turn to all of the cupboards and swing them open with one swipe of his hand. They were still ricocheting off the walls and themselves as Will turned to the sink. Two powerful jets of hot water sprayed from the taps with enough force behind them to make a resounding, thunderous noise at the bottom of the basin.

He blinked at the greying world around him. Far off was a shrill beeping that barely made it through the haze. He fell to his knees and collapsed into Winston. The dog, now snarling in earnest, took most of his weight with little complaint. With his cheek resting against the warm, vibrating fur, he watched as Hannibal opened the oven door. A heavy, black cloud of smoke billowed out from the oven.

As Hannibal's face finally crumpled into a full-fledged frown, Will smiled. Toothy and lopsided.

Then he knew nothing.