Chapter Text
Jeremy Morgan was an average guy. Plain, mild-mannered, hard-working and quite devoted to his wife and two kids. At least, that was how most of his friends and colleagues saw him. Behind closed doors, he was another person entirely. His wife- a timid woman who was far too dependent on her husband- never had the courage to stop him. All she did was try to protect the children from their father and even then, she failed miserably.
Jeremy, who was a plumber, also had an unfortunate tendency to leave muddy boot prints on the expensive rugs of his clients’ homes.
*
Will Graham had never been a social person. But even now, he couldn’t quite pinpoint when he went from being antisocial to being a homicidal sociopath. He blamed a part of it on his childhood obsession with murder mysteries and his empathy. Even as a child, he had been more interested in the crime, the way it was committed and the perpetrator, than the other aspects of it. Most of the ‘heroes’ of such stories had bored him. As he grew older and his empathy got stronger, he found he could get inside the killers’ head- see and feel the crime from their perspective- all too easily.
He understood their reasons. He could feel their passion. He could appreciate their methods. And more importantly, he could learn from their mistakes. To him, the minds of killers were a nice retreat from his father’s abuse. The man had blamed his mother’s death on him. And he had suffered quite a bit for it.
It wasn’t really much of a surprise when he ended up killing his father.
As for his… fascination with blood, he blamed that entirely on the way his father’s blood sprayed hot and wet across his lips when Will slashed his throat. The taste had stayed with him long after.
Of course, he knew he was a monster. Accepted and embraced it. Reveled in the sense of power it gave him.
But he was a monster who chose his victims carefully. Molestors, rapists, robbers, pedophiles… the list went on, but he did have quite a soft spot for child-abusers, thanks to his own history.
So, naturally, he had quite grand plans for Jeremy Morgan.
*
It was quite rare for Hannibal to have his chosen prey slip from his grasp. A few times, he’d had to remove names from his rolodex because his quarry had died or gone abroad before he could end their undeserving existence. Such incidents were rare and far in between.
So he was understandably surprised when he arrived at Jeremy Morgan’s little cabin in the woods- how convenient- only to see the man strung from the ceiling on fishing hooks, no less. His torso was covered in several lacerations- some deep, some shallow- that were evidently made by someone who knew what they were doing. They bled sluggishly and there was a suspiciously low amount of blood on the wooden floor beneath the man. Morgan was dead, though only recently it seemed.
All of this flitted through his mind in a matter of seconds and was filed away for later contemplation. The other presence in the cabin definitely required more attention.
The first thing that struck Hannibal was how immaculately clean he was. The only indication that he was responsible for Morgan’s demise- and he most certainly was- was the splatter of blood drops on gloved hands. He looked harmless enough, with tamed brown curls and a boyishly handsome face that screamed prey instead of predator. An excellent ruse.
He felt whatever ire he’d felt at this new development be drained away only to be replaced by curiosity.
The other was intently gazing at Morgan but there was a stillness to him that suggested Hannibal’s presence had not gone unnoticed. Finally, he turned, startling blue eyes-specked with some grey- meeting Hannibal’s gaze.
“I suppose you’re a bit miffed I got here first.”
Hannibal kept his amusement to himself when he replied, “I’m not pleased my time was wasted, no.” And the meat. Good thing his freezer wasn’t completely empty just yet. The stranger grinned cheekily at him, taking a few steps forward, intently studying his face. Something in that stare seemed to penetrate deep into him. He usually had no problem with eye contact, others seeing only what he wanted them to, but he had the strangest feeling that this one saw a lot more than he intended. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling.
“May I ask your reason for this late night visit to dear departed Mr. Morgan here?” he asked Hannibal, mockingly drawling the dead man’s name, his distaste for him all too evident.
He contemplated on his reply for a second before deciding to go with honesty. Something about this killer intrigued him, which was rare.
“He was rather rude.”
“Rude? I see.”
“And what brought you here?” Hannibal inquired, certain that no one else shared his rather unusual method of choosing his victims. And this man didn’t seem like one to choose randomly.
He received a non committal shrug in response as the other turned to gaze at Morgan’s limp body once more. “I think our society can do quite well without child-abusers and wife-beaters.”
“A vigilante, then.” He stated, allowing some of his mirth to leak into his voice.
Beautiful blue eyes locked on to him once again with that observation, seeming decidedly un-amused. “No,” their owner replied, “Just a different breed of monster.”
*
Will didn’t know why he allowed himself to be dragged into this mess. A serial killer teaching in the FBI was risky enough, but doing field work was simply reckless and just bad news all around.
Then again, he’d never been able to tame his impulse to flirt with danger.
Besides, he had long since perfected the art of playing the ‘broken, unstable little Will Graham’. It not only provided him with a perfect excuse to avoid socializing but also stopped others from looking at him too closely. He usually shunned human company because he found most others dull and transparent. Exceptions were rare and most bored him after a while anyway. Besides, the most recent person who interested him had been a fellow predator he’d ‘met’ in Jeremy Morgan’s cabin nearly a year ago. His chances of running into him again were fairly slim.
It was with his façade firmly in place that he entered Jack’s office and it took every ounce of self-restraint he’d ever possessed not to let it drop when he saw who was waiting for him inside.
*
It took him longer than usual to ascertain that William Graham was indeed none other than the man who’d stolen Morgan from him months ago. This scruffy, tense, shifty-eyed mess of a man seemed nothing like the graceful hunter who’d looked right at home in the midst of restrained violence.
Their introduction was… intense, the tension so thick you could cut into it with a knife. And Jack Crawford seemed to attribute it to Graham’s anti-social tendencies. Foolish man.
Hannibal couldn’t entirely contain the thrill he felt about Graham’s empathy. Such a lovely gift…
Manipulation was a play at subtlety and being a master himself, he could see and truly appreciate how easily Graham worked Crawford and how the head of BAU was blind to it all. He could see how every single detail of this version of Will Graham, from the slouched posture to the absolute avoidance of eye-contact- was a carefully constructed farce meant to trick others into viewing him as nothing more than a socially awkward but harmless teacher with a unique mind.
“Tasteless,” he muttered, eyes narrowed in annoyance at the mention of the article on Tattlecrime, and Hannibal gladly took the opening provided.
“Do you have trouble with taste?”
“My thoughts are often not tasty.” Perhaps to most others, but he was certain that the profiler’s thoughts would be very interesting.
“Nor mine. No effective barriers.”
“I build forts.”
“Associations come quickly.”
“So do forts.”
Jack looked back and forth between them, obviously befuddled by their exchange. Hannibal fought back a smile. He owed Crawford for this delightful opportunity.
“Not fond of eye-contact, are you?” he asked, unable to resist poking the lion a little. Though he’d have loved to do it in private so that he could see its claws and bring out his own.
“Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking ‘those whites are really white or they must have hepatitis or is that a burst vein’. So I try to avoid eyes-” He suddenly locked gazes with Hannibal, a clear answer to the veiled challenge and continued, “- whenever possible.”
Hannibal knew that that was not all Graham would see in another’s eyes. He knew that a single glance would be enough to bare one’s soul to the empath. A heavy burden and a useful tool at the same time. For a second, he let the monster inside of him peek out, curious to see the reaction that’d elicit. He wasn’t disappointed when the blue eyes boring into his own darkened until they were similar to what he’d seen that day at the cabin. The whole exchange passed in mere seconds with Jack none the wiser.
Idly, he wondered how this would be like if the two of them were alone.
“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone area of your skull for the things you love.”
To his credit, Will did not so much as bat an eyelash at the ridiculous assertions though the urge to laugh must have been there. Instead, adopting an expression of extreme irritation, Will said, “Whose profile are you working on?” then, to Jack, “Whose profile is he working on?”
Hannibal answered before the other could, “I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off anymore than you can shut yours off.”
“Please don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” He doubted that very much and watched with a minute smile as the younger man rushed out of the room after mumbling something about a lecture.
Fascinating.
He couldn’t wait to meet him alone.
Will didn’t stop until he reached his empty classroom. He hadn’t been lying about the lecture, but he had a few minutes before the students arrived. Once inside, he began laughing, replaying the events in Jack’s office.
Dr Hannibal Lecter was quite… interesting.
*
The first word that crossed Will Graham’s mind as he stared at the body on the field was ‘Beautiful.’
And it was. Gorgeous. A gift. For him.
It was oddly flattering.
It was almost a struggle to fake being upset as he told jack this was a different killer. It truly was a lovely gift. How very thoughtful of the doctor. The opportunity to drink in such a beautiful display was priceless, especially after his rather long absence from the field.
It was with great difficulty that he wrenched his eyes and mind away from the scene to focus on Jack, who was being irritatingly impatient once again. It was like he expected Will to take one look at the scene and magically know who the killer was (which he did in this case, but he had no intention whatsoever of revealing that).
His tone was deliberately suggestive as he told jack to get Lecter to write up a profile. He wanted the doctor involved in this and he was quite sure that the man wanted the same.
He didn’t stay longer than necessary at the scene. Jack probably thought he was disturbed by the morbid display, but Will just really needed to be alone in his mind. He couldn’t wait to get back to his room and relive the scene- really appreciate it for the exquisite piece of art it was- without any interference whatsoever.
That night, Will’s dreams featured the torn body of Cassie Boyle, only it was his fingers that cut her open and ripped out her lungs from the still warm body, his lips that tasted the hot nectar that was her blood, his teeth that tore into her flesh and devoured.
He woke up in a pool of sweat, panting, exhilarated and so very hard.
*
He opened the door fully expecting to see Jack there, but was pleasantly surprised to find Lecter instead. Not that he was complaining, especially not with the tingling pleasure from yesterday’s field kabuki and his own dream still in his system.
He didn’t bother pretending to be anything but what he was once the door was closed behind the psychiatrist. What was the point? So he allowed what he knew to a slightly disconcerting (to normal people) smile to grace his features as he watched the man. He so rarely got to be himself amongst others- at least among those who were not soon-to-be corpses- and the feeling was surprisingly refreshing.
Then, he did something that generally avoided like the plague. He looked straight into Lecter’s eyes. To both his disappointment and delight, they were completely blank. Lecter was regarding him with an amused smile of his own.
“That was quite the gift, Dr Lecter. I’m flattered.” He told the older man, eyes curiously flicking to the container he held in his hands. Had he brought breakfast?
“Please Will, call me Hannibal. I don’t see the need for such petty formalities between us. And I’m quite glad you liked it,” he replied casually, as if they weren’t referring to the brutal murder of a young girl. “I’ve brought breakfast.”
“Trying to convert me?” Will shot back, as Hannibal arranged the food on the table, knowing full well what type of meat he was being served. It didn’t take a genius to guess, really. But he couldn’t really fault the man for his proclivities. Will’s own were hardly natural.
The only response he received was another smile. To his credit, the food really was amazing and Will told him as much between mouthfuls of egg and Cassie Boyle.
“Never thought human flesh would taste this good.” Pity they weren’t at his house. He had just the thing to go with this and he was quite certain Hannibal would appreciate it as well.
Hannibal inclined his head modestly at the praise but not before Will caught the flash of pride in his eyes. Silence reigned between them as Will ate his fill, the older man’s eyes focused almost obscenely on him the entire time. Will had to resist putting on a show; he could broadcast his not so platonic interest in the man later. For now, he had more important things to ascertain. Like what precisely the fellow sociopath wanted from him.
He was, however, surprised when Hannibal abruptly dragged Jack into the conversation. “Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup that is only brought out for special guests.”
Will snorted though it was a quite accurate description of how Jack viewed him. He wondered if Hannibal was pleased at being such a ‘special guest’. Probably.
“I see no harm in letting Jack have his pretty little delusions. Tell me though, how do you see me?”
“The mongoose I want under the house when the snake slithers by.” He replied and Will raised an eyebrow at the strange comparison. A mongoose? “Finish your breakfast, Will.”
And so he did, keeping his eyes locked with Hannibal’s the entire time.
*
He didn’t quite know what about Garret Jacob Hobbs stood out, but neither did he care. He had long since learned to trust his instincts, strange as they often were. Logic had little to do with his ‘gift’.
He was also pretty damn sure that Hannibal wasn’t actually that clumsy, but he said nothing as the man went back inside and returned rather quickly. There was something off here, but he didn’t quite know what. He had a feeling he’d find out soon enough.
And he did, the second he saw Mrs. Hobbs- and it had to be Mrs. Hobbs- stumble out of the house, her hands clutching her torn throat. Hannibal had warned Hobbs. Why he did that, Will didn’t know and he didn’t have the time to find out just then, but the two of them would be having a nice little conversation on the subject in the near future.
He walked past the woman, barely paying any attention to her, and made his way inside, gun drawn, with the doctor close on his heels. Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ emotions slammed into him as he stepped into the kitchen where the man held a teenage girl with a knife pressed to her throat.
Daughter. Mine. Love. Mine. Can’t lose her. Mine. Mine. Mine.
It was heady and intoxicating, an all consuming, obsessive love that defied all reason. It made his hands shake as he shot the man over and over, though not in time to prevent him from slashing the girl’s throat.
It took him a few more seconds to completely shove away Hobbs’ feelings and get to the injured girl. He cradled the girl in his hands, looking into her large blue eyes, wide with fear and a new hope.
Will held her with care, gently brushing her hair away from her face in a strangely paternal gesture as the life drained out of her. He watched with a tender smile as the hope in her eyes flickered out only to be replaced by despair and resignation as she realized that he was not going to save her, that he wasn’t even trying to staunch the bleeding.
When she was gone, he simply closed her eyes and carefully lowered her limp body to the floor, as if she were made of glass. He felt an echo of regret- Hobbs’, not his- as he took in her lifeless form, but he paid it no mind.
He’d long since learned to absorb only what he wanted from others, especially murderers. And Hobbs had little to offer him. Will didn’t love his victims and most certainly didn’t want to.
But for some reason, he kept feeling flashes of affection tinged with grief that weren’t his own each time he looked at the fallen girl. It seemed like Hobbs had a very forceful personality.
He stood up and turned around, coming face to face with Hannibal who was watching the scene with undisguised curiosity in those exotic eyes. Will gave the man a slow, deliberate nod which he acknowledged with a slight twist of his head.
They would talk about all this. Soon.