Too Sweet

by dogs_make_good_friends

Summary:

Matthew Brown hasn't been able to feel something else than malicious happiness and cruel anger for a while. Trapped in a copious routine, feeling like his life is emotionless, everything seems to turn around when Will Graham, the Chesapeake Ripper, gets caught and imprisioned in the mental facility Matthew himself works at.

From that moment on, their fates are sealed.

 

Or, what if Matthew had approached Will gently before commiting the murders? What if he had shown Will another alternative to solve his problems?

Notes:

I know this is said very easily in some of the best fanfics in this platform, but I do not speak english neither as my first nor second language, so get ready for a trip through trying to understand whatever I wanted to write. If you still want to read this, thanks! And If you find any grammatical mistake, please let me know in the comments

Chapter 1

Matthew doesn’t have permission to supervise the ward for the most dangerous criminals. Chilton wouldn’t allow any nurse under thirty and without sociopathic traits to handle the cells farthest from his office. That being said, Chilton doesn’t have the authority to order anyone around.

His manager, a low-cognitive-activity brute with broad muscles and a surname starting with “S” or something similar, led the team of nurses and guards with the arrogance of someone who believes they’re indispensable. Matthew couldn’t be bothered to feel disdain for the man and his bully moves, a person who peaked in high school.

Matthew has this habit. He observes. He sees beyond people. He is cautious, though not shy. He enjoys deciphering other people’s lives through introverted silences, curious, genuine, innocent glances. What could Matthew want? He’s just bored. He’s a child, at least by the standard of the idiots around him, and children are like that. Incapable of taking things seriously, of understanding the importance of this job.

But the boss likes him. Men like that get a considerable ego boost just from a few questions and exclamations of admiration. Matthew figures the man now believes that Matt sees him as a role model or something. He’s not about to correct him—not until he gets what he wants.

It starts slowly. He begins asking questions about the high-security ward, about the precautions to take, the schedules, the meals. He expresses admiration for his boss’s bravery whenever he hears fabricated stories about former inmates attacking and threatening staff. He voices his disgust for despicable criminals and shares how he would deal with them if it were his job. Some of the older guards laugh, the chatter in the break room animated by his questions.

“If only you knew, kid.” One of them slapped his knee and chuckled, his whole body hunching forward. Matthew wondered what someone like that—a vulnerable target for any lunatic with a disposable plastic knife—was doing in this job. “Eventually, it becomes old news. Really boring. The crazies never react the way they should, you know?”

“But how? What do they do?”

The manager shrugged. “There are all kinds of crazies. There’s this one, the Ripper. Or the one they say is the Ripper, this time.”

Bingo. The topic Matthew was waiting for. He hadn’t even had to bring it up himself. He bit his lip to contain his excitement.

“Even if he’s not the Ripper,” a nurse chimed in, frowning as he set a can of Coke on the table. Matthew couldn’t help but think about the man’s health, considering he drank Coke every single day. “That bastard is creepy. Seriously.”

“Is he one of those who spits and pees everywhere?” Matthew had seen enough in the general wards. It would dampen his enthusiasm a bit if the guy turned out to be one of those.

The nurse shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve never even seen him open his mouth.”

“He doesn’t talk, doesn’t yell, doesn’t cry,” the manager joined in, and Matthew shifted his attention toward him, knowing he’d have the most information. “He doesn’t ask for anything, not even when Chilton comes down to talk to him. Hell, he stopped eating recently.”

“He just stares at you. Sometimes, I doubt he even sleeps. Really, he’s creepy. He’s not a maniac like the last suspect, Gideon. He’s just… unsettling.”

Of course, Matthew knew all of this and more.

Will Graham. Thirty-seven years old. Lives in Wolf Trap, Virginia, and teaches at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Formerly a police officer but discharged due to his inability to pull the trigger. Currently—or, well, before his incarceration—a consultant for the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. Matthew knew everything and had read enough to infer even more than what was explicit.

He had newspaper clippings and prints from websites, mostly Tattlecrime, but also from other amateur blogs that shared an overwhelming curiosity about the professor.

He could assume the man slept poorly, and God knew he’d zoomed in on those dark circles from his phone more than once. He guessed the encephalitis had begun sometime last year, judging by the increased sweating, the disorientation in his eyes, and the tremors visible in short YouTube clips of Will.

If this man was the Chesapeake Ripper, Matthew could believe it and follow him to the ends of the earth. If this man wasn’t the Chesapeake Ripper, Matthew could still believe it and do the same.

Honestly, it was hard to pinpoint when Matthew had become so attached, but he figured it was in his nature. Not that he was complaining.

Just a few weeks into the wild frenzy of gathering information about Will Graham, Matthew felt more alive than ever. A break from a merciless routine could do wonders, he supposed. Not that he was adopting healthier habits, though. But, at his core, he was changing.

Sleepless nights once filled with thoughts of finally killing, of how it would feel to plunge the knife in, of how he’d escape after the crime, had turned into nights spent browsing forums about Will Graham. Afternoons, apathetic after work due to a lack of stimulation, once bursting with violent impulses and dark thoughts, were now afternoons of field research. He knew Will Graham’s house inside and out and had secured a pass to see some of the confiscated dogs at the shelter. Others were with a woman named Alana Bloom. Matthew didn’t like her already, just based on the sound of her name.

The point was, Will Graham had become a central thought in his daily life, a beacon for his darkened mind. Matthew was growing tired of images on the internet. He wanted to meet the man.

Finally, the day came. And Matthew didn’t even have to intervene much.

Honestly, it was as if someone up there also wanted him to meet William. He never believed in deities or religions, but now he could allow himself to do so: the only way the world could have behaved in such way that he's meeting the epicenter of his life like this was with planning.

His boss was tired. He mentioned his shift was almost over, but he still needed to escort Graham to a meeting with Chilton, wait for him, bring him back to his cell, and give him his meal. Generously, Matthew offered to take care of it.

Things turned out extraordinarily lucky by sheer coincidence. Matthew’s tedious, long-term plan didn’t involve speaking to or even seeing Graham until the trial began. Not even a sideways glance. Matthew had taken it upon himself to offer books in case Graham ever spoke up to request one, but nothing had happened yet, and he wasn't optimistic about it.

He had to take a few deep breaths before approaching the cell. His palms were sweaty, and he felt ecstatic about everything. Will Graham, right in front of him, lying on a bed and staring at the wall. Did no one interest this man? That was fine; it would be fine if he just looked at Matthew for one second. He would savor it, use it, absorb it all.

Matthew smiled, even though Will wasn’t looking at him.

“Mr. Graham,” he called softly. The man barely gave a movement of acknowledgment, just enough to make Matthew suppress a shiver. “Dr. Chilton has requested a meeting with you, sir. Would you like to attend?”

Protocol dictated that nurses and guards escorting inmates ask these questions, especially in the psychiatric hospital, where the boundaries of legality were much thinner, and judicial intervention was always one misstep away. But exceptions were made for high-security prisoners. After all, they were more prisoners than patients.

Graham didn’t answer. Matthew fought the urge to rest his arms on the bars and stand there, staring at the object of his obsession. Such a unique demeanor. Matthew wanted to hear him speak.

“Mr. Graham, I’m going to enter the cell now.” He definitely shouldn’t be doing this. Without a response, he should call his boss and follow some intimidation or threat procedure. Entering the cell of someone as dangerous as Will—this time, he couldn’t suppress the shiver.

He placed the key in the door, about to turn it when Graham shifted and sat up. He looked at him—God, he looked at him—with those stormy blue eyes, those furrowed brows, those slightly parted lips. His hair was disheveled, his jumpsuit wrinkled.

'How would you look wearing something else, Will?' Matthew thought.

“You can’t come in if I’m still on the bed,” Graham said, his voice likely deepened by lack of use.

“Sorry,” Matthew replied, key still in the door, and thought that if Graham asked, he would unlock it right now and let him escape. “I don’t usually handle this kind of thing.”

Will got up slowly and moved to the back of his cell, leaning against the wall, turning his face to press his cheek against it. Matthew absolutely did not think about the implications of that position at another time because he was a good, decent man—not a hormonal teenager.

He repeated that affirmation to himself as he walked over, placed the cuffs on him, and brushed against the warm skin of his hands.

It was so easy. He was so close. Will had looked at him. Gently, he pushed him forward to lead the way, and Will let himself be guided.

Matthew couldn’t help but think how tragic it was that other people, without his own admiration, had the right to be in this god’s presence. Because Will was a god—Matthew decided in that moment. No one, staring into his eyes, living under his attention, could argue otherwise. Will was simply divine.

He left him in the meeting room, in his cage. There was something both bizarre and thrilling about seeing him there, trapped, yet feeling his most important strength still free. Like putting handcuffs on a snake, Matthew thought. Chilton was already on his way. He wanted to speak, to converse, to say something.

But the words escaped him.
Chilton made him wait outside. Begrudgingly, Matthew obeyed. When they were done, he resumed his task. Once again, he brushed against his hands, enamored with the sensation. If Graham noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Later, during the night shift, Matthew was almost done and was changing in the lockers when his boss, fully dressed, walked by and gave him a pat on the back.

Matthew couldn't avoid the slight jump and annoyed glance at the unwanted contact. His boss chuckled a little, then said: "Good job with Graham today, Brown. I thought he'd have you suffering for a longer time. He never listens to me. Maybe I'll send you more often to deal with him, what do you think?"

Controlling the impulse to nod frantically, Matthew shrugged: "I don't mind, man."

The man nodded approvingly at the behavior, and Matthew held back his smile until he managed to leave the Hospital.

•°•°•°•°•°•

This new guard was strange. Will, although spending most of his days submerged in a mental palace that was not very effective, was not that disconnected from reality.

Usually, the head of the security unit was the one who handled his transfers.

Will never heard the man arrive, deeply immersed in his mind and disinterested in the rough interaction. If the man was especially in a bad mood, he would put a muzzle on him. If not, he’d put the handcuffs on and drag him through the hallway. He was an aggressive, surly man. He hardly showed any interest in any part of life that didn't involve harshness. He always had tough days.

All he wanted, from time to time, was to get angry without a reason, hit things, do his act of being a superior and angry man.

But he wasn’t a monster. He didn’t have the heart to inflict real harm. Will didn’t know what he hated more: the empathy he couldn't stop feeling, or the cliché personality of the stupid bastard.

This new guard, on the other hand, was subtle. Something that Will hadn’t been able to figure out fully was brutally catching his attention.

Black hair, slightly big ears, small, dark, serpentine eyes. He had the build of a young adult, around 25 or a little older.

He wore a nurse's uniform, but it was obvious, from the roughness of his movements and the tasks he handled, that he didn’t have formal training.

Cheap labor, Will assumed, that Chilton had acquired with little thought.

Although the job didn’t usually appeal to psychopaths and sociopaths, being a nurse was a good choice for a functional cynic who wants power over someone but prefers to remain unnoticed. Will knew this; he had studied cases of nurse and doctor killers in the past. Hannibal, for instance, was a surgeon. He had more prestige, more admiration, but beyond the ego stroke, both jobs were similar: control over others' health.

Still, something about this man didn’t quite add up.

The chocolate bar that accompanied his lunch the next day was an unexpected surprise. Will could guess who the giver was with a sidelong glance, yet the guard didn’t linger on him more than two seconds.

He left it on the tray, distrustful. He could never quite believe in his luck. The guard could very well be a friend or relative of one of the Ripper's victims, trying to poison him. He figured it didn’t matter much anyway: it would be easier to poison the water. But, still, it sent a message. He didn’t like sweets.

When the guard passed by, he stopped at Will’s cell. The steady, fast pace he had been maintaining suddenly halted as he bent down to grab the tray and looked at it for a few seconds. Soon, Will heard him leave, while he stared at the wall.

He only turned around when he heard the hallway door close. He turned back and found the chocolate bar still there.

"Gideon," he called, trying to see if his neighbor was there.

"Mr. Graham," the man’s voice, deep, haughty, irritating, sounded in the hallway. Will could almost hear his raised eyebrows: "Was there something you wanted? I mean, since you finally deign to speak."

"Do you want my dessert?" Without ceremony, Will stretched out his hand through the bars and pushed the little package onto the floor.

Five seconds of silence before Abel's voice returned: "Chilton gives you dessert? He didn’t even give me a pillow when he thought I was the Ripper!"

Will shrugged, without responding. Enough interaction for one day. If there was one good thing about prison, it was not having to interact with other people.

This didn't discourage Gideon, who continued: "By the way, Graham! I don’t take your silence personally, of course, but it’s getting a little exhausting, you know? I’ve been without company for a while. I wouldn’t mind a good chat. They’ve told me you're an excellent conversationalist."

"Go screw yourself, Gideon."

"Ah, the sound of your voice is refreshing! I don’t usually get visitors. Chilton is, unfortunately, the only one I can interact with. You know what that does to your brain?"

Will sighed and rubbed his eyes. Gideon kept talking: "I was never a fan of psychiatrists. I imagine you’re not either, after all. Do you also have interviews with Chilton?"

Will stood up and dropped heavily onto the ground by his bed. He hated the texture of the sheets and god knew he wasn't getting any sleep that night.

Gideon kept babbling: "Well, well, go back to your perpetual silence. As you wish. Do me a favor, don’t scream when you have nightmares, Graham! And I’ll still be here tomorrow, in case Chilton keeps giving you dessert!"

Of course, Frederick wasn’t giving him desserts. But Abel Gideon didn’t need to know that. The only thing that bastard cynic would benefit from was shutting up.

From time to time, Will wondered if Hannibal’s plan was to keep him locked up for the rest of his life. That way, he assumed, he could switch alter egos and keep killing. It was an unconventional plan for someone so focused on getting all the credit and fame, but Will assumed Hannibal would find a way to make it work and look good in the process.

The prospect depressed him enormously. The rest of his life, trapped in a cell. He didn’t care about his reputation or his past. He wasn’t interested in the gossip or the articles Freddie Lounds was surely writing, the ones that were probably giving him fame everywhere. What mattered to him were his dogs and the decision he still hadn’t made: if he had to do it all again, would he still try to catch Hannibal, or would he choose a different life? Maybe married, with kids, living far away from here, denying those dark parts of himself.

Was Hannibal doing this for a reason? Will was smart, he used to see intentions behind every man with just a glance, a touch, a word. He had never fully understood Hannibal because he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to be understood. He hid so many secrets, so many emotions so deeply inside himself that the slips Will caught were exhilarating. His relationship with the man kept him on edge, in a constant test. Will had always thought he was the kind of man who would prefer a peaceful life. Could it be that he was wrong?

Dr. Lecter still hadn’t visited him. Jack had gone, Alana had gone. Both had been told the same things, his thoughts, his concerns. Both occasions had been returned with worried looks, furrowed brows. He remembered his university days, performing experiments on rats. Those same looks were what he gave the little animals.

Those same looks appeared on Hannibal’s face, in his dreams, nightmares, some strange combination.

Is this what he wanted? He felt like he had two big decisions in front of him. Like one of them was to follow Hannibal’s path, and the other was to spend the rest of his days in that prison, locked up, praying that someone would listen to him for once. Was this all it had come down to, the respectable professor of the FBI Academy, with a stupid master’s degree and a damn house? Come on, he couldn’t fool himself. He had never been respectable, after all, right? Otherwise, no one would have allowed Will Graham to end up here.

But it was a ticking time bomb. In everyone’s eyes, at least, he had always been doomed. He could almost hear the anecdotes, "Yeah, I was in one of his classes. He was a weird guy. He’d lose focus, tremble, never answered questions. We always knew something was wrong with him."

At two in the morning, he was still awake. Something about that dessert and Gideon’s comments was bothering him, and, anyway, he had never had a good sleep schedule. Sitting, with his back against the wall, hugging his legs, in front of his bed, Will felt the cold floor on his feet. A squeak sounded from the door, and though he heard it, he didn’t react. Light steps in the wide hallway echoed.

The nurse peeked into his cell. Will looked at him, squinting. The swirling lights around him looked like wide, strong wings. The man extended a hand, looking like a raptor’s claw.

His outstretched hand held something. Will reached out his own hand and took it. The contact left his fingers trembling. The guard smiled. When he took a step, his wings disappeared. Slowly, he walked back to the exit and left.

Will looked at what they had left him. Benadryl. He took a pill from the tablet and swallowed it without water. He got up, feeling his body creak, his legs trembling.

He laid down on the bed and covered himself with the blanket.

Chapter 2

Benadryl doesn't magically start appearing in his tray of food every day. So, evidently, this guard just hates him, or he’s actually worried about Will having an addiction, getting sick or something.

Will doesn't really know which one is worse.

It helps, tho. It’s enough to get him tired and sleepy, actually staying in the bed. And the sleep is kinda dreamless, more peace that he’s had in months.

It stops him from some wild impulses he has, every once in a while. What if he calls Hannibal? What if he tries to talk to him, find out why? Sometimes he wants to shut Frederick up by telling him to fuck off and bring the only psychiatrist that's ever made him feel heard. Even if it had to be like this.

Sometimes he still wonders what the heck happened to him. Obviously, he knows what encephalitis is, he’s not stupid, and he’s been working in the field for decades, but it still doesn't quite fit. What kind of encephalitis? He guesses it’s autoimmune, but it could be viral. Was his body attacking his brain for a reason? Is this just a poetic sickness, hiting him sarcasticly?

He doesn't quite know the long term effects encephalitis may have. Shortening his lifespan, if his PhD on Forensic Science has taught him anything regarding neurological diseases, it’s a big possibility, almost sure. But there's more, he knows there is. He almost feels it, vibrating in the back of his mind, the ghost stiffness of his neck he feels like he’ll never be able to let go.

The pain on his shoulder. The excruciating stab of realization.

“When did you last see Abigail?” ringing in his mind, echoing somewhere dark.

‘I don't know, Hannibal. Do you?’

“Lunch is here, Mr. Graham”. Just on time.

Matthew B., as the name on the tag says, is there, on the door, standing with the trolley by his side. He opens the little door through which he’s been fed for the last few weeks. Will can't avoid thinking about those kinds of doors being used for dogs, and his dogs, his little ones, all alone, who knows where. What if they had been given away? What if they had been put down? He’s been asking about them, but he hasn't gotten any answers. He can only ask Frederick, so the man probably doesn't even know. Jack would never leave them alone, right? Alana, Hannibal?

Fuck, were the dogs safe with Hannibal?

“Mr. Graham?”

‘Right’ Will came back to earth. Matthew B. was still standing there.

He looked confused. The dark blond smiled softly, repeated his words: “There’s people who want to visit you today, Mr. Graham. It's scheduled for 5 p.m.”

‘Yeah, glad you told me cause I’ll be really busy at that time, running some errands.’ Will wants to say.

“Who?” He asks, instead.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Matthew Brown made sure to look at Will closely. The way his jaw tightened, the way his hand became a fist. Did Will wanted to see the man?

“Can I say no?” he asked.

Matthew smiled. “Sorry” he said, looking sideways for cameras and other guards, sighing. “He’s requested a visit as a psychiatrist, and as you aren't being currently helped by Dr. Chilton, we are legally required to take you there unless you are sick or in isolation.”

He didn't say anything else. He walked out, pushing his trolly. Will sighed, holding his head on his hands.

When he decided to look at the tray, he saw the food. Gravy with beans and a piece of unrecognizable meat. There hasn't been any sweet treats since the last time, for Gideon's dissapointment. At least he knows Hannibal didn't cook that.

On the corner of the tray, however, there's something new. Under the plastic cup, a note, folded.

He reads it.

•°•°•°•°•°•

“I want to see Will.”

“I feel like this betrays the extent of the effect that his manipulation has had on you, Hannibal.” Bedelia has her legs crossed, her hands on her lap, softly relaxed yet dangerously attentive.

“I miss him.”

“Does he miss you?”

The question makes Hannibal sit back and breathe deeply. Part of himself wants to open up completely, reveal his most personal self. Bedelia knows most of it at this point, has met the worst of him and has been exposed to it. Lived it first hand, just like Alana has, how Will is. The test, the transformation.

Most of his experiments are disappointing. He doesn't hate them, he doesn't feel anything but a soft appreciation for them, what they represent. But they get boring. He knows they always end up like that.

Bedelia, for example. She has been transformed, and she, a smart woman she is, can infer most things. And still.

She’s there, mostly because of how scared she is of imaginary consequences. She’ll obey, be loyal, and be charming. She’ll follow the game he wants her to, she’ll play the part he tells her to. Extremely beautiful and boring in equal parts. That's how most people make him feel.

And then, Will.

“Frederick says he does.” Frederick also says the dumbest things ever, that's it. That man is truly a creature driven almost exclusively by resentment and pure determination. If only he wasn't so pathetic, it would be memorable.

“Do you think Will misses you? After all, he’s been damaging your reputation.”

Hannibal likes to think Bedelia is saying these things, whatever they are, because she has a bone of compassion inside of her. Because these years of being so close to him have been enough to transform her into another form of herself, a more human one. Noble. Maybe, she wants Will to be free of this torment.

He almost wishes he was ignorant enough to believe this.

However, if he hadn't been as smart as he was, he would’ve never been able to do everything he’s done.

“My reputation is intact.”

“For the time being.”

So predictable. That's how he’d describe them all. He’s going mad and it’s just been a couple weeks without Will.

“Will is my friend.” Even saying it makes him feel like another person. He wants it to be more than true. It’s unpredictable, surprising. He has to be careful because this could turn as boring as every other one has been, if he's not patient, if he doesn't prepare the process correctly. He could end up creating one Will Graham that he won't like and then all his work would be useless.

“Why? Why is he your friend?”

‘Are you my friend?’ is what she wants to say. It’s almost funny. He really wants to hear Will say that. Or something else.

He doesn't wanna say the truth, so he doesn't. He just talks. He talks about Will, about himself, the way he is his most honest self, how he behaves. He sometimes wishes to have that same beauty, that natural charm. People may not see it, but he can. Will’s potential, Will’s form.

He could pretend to be someone else. He knows that. Will knows that too. New clothes, a haircut and a little bit of effort would get him right on people’s hearts, the highest kind of respect. But he wants to behave freely, to be in peace, and so he does. He contains himself openly, he wishes to help, but there’s something else, deep inside of him, there’s a rage and a violence he wants to see. A kind of aggression that would mean the world for him.

He’s ready, dressed up and carrying a container with food exactly at five p.m. Standing tall out of the big building, waiting for the always-late Dr. Frederick Chilton to come outside and babble about how uncooperative and despicable Will has been. To talk about how ridiculous it would be if Hannibal actually were a psychopath.

But minutes kept running and Hannibal had to contain the vulgar impulse to hit the ground impatiently with his feet. He’s a gentleman, so he’ll be understanding to poor Frederick that has been through hell, (and has another one waiting for him unless he comes down in the next five minutes), but he can't stop himself from feeling impatient, anxious.

He knew it was a big possibility that Will wouldn't call him. It made more sense like that. Still, he had hoped Will would react, that the man would have tried to reach out.

When Frederick finally appears, he doesn't come from the stairs. Instead, he has a nurse by his side, and it’s giving her directions.

“... Don't leave him unlocked. Never. Make sure he’s always looked on and, please, for the love of God, tell the guards to shut Abel Gideon up.”

That sounds interesting. Hannibal smiles peacefully, greeting the man, and, instead, he is given a look full of an unexplainable emotion.

“Dr. Chilton, hello. It’s good to see you.”

“Hannibal! Hi, hi, hello, how are you doing? Have you been waiting for a while?” Frederick looks weird. More anxious than usual. Not only does that make Hannibal feel something’s wrong, but it makes him feel something dark.

Murderous.

“I’m well. I haven’t been here that much, no, Frederick. Are you alright?”

“I’m so sorry, Hannibal, for the time you had to wait. And I swear I’ll make things up for your visit today.”

“Make things up?”

Frederick opened his eyes greatly and looked around. Suddenly, all of the nurses and guards that were following him were gone, and he was alone, standing in front of Hannibal Lecter.

“Oh my, I thought someone had told you. Sorry. Uh, well, there was a situation, sorry, again, obviously we weren't planning that today and-”

“Frederick, what happened?”

Chilton smiled and, with a high pitch voice, said: “Mr. Graham had an incident.”

“Incident?” The cold tone could have freezed the entire building.

“There was a fight. Mr. Graham didn’t start it, but he responded violently to Mr. Gideon´s… provocations.” Frederick looked as if he was struggling to reformulate his thoughts, and he had to stop ten or fifteen seconds to open and close his mouth as if he was a goldfish. Hannibal raised his eyebrow. “Abel Gideon is in the nursery and Mr. Graham is being placed in isolation.”

Hannibal wasn’t sure how to respond to any of that. He had never expected violent acting. Then again, Will used to surprise him in those ways all the time. He had to contain a smile to that thought. Suddenly, he felt a little better.

“That is a shame, Frederick. May I ask if both of them are as good as they might be, given the circumstances?”

Frederick frowned. “I believe you don’t have a reason to care about Abel Gideon’s state of wellbeing, but he is alright, just a concussion and a couple bruises. Will Graham, on the other hand, has a black eye and a cut lip.”

Hannibal’s good mood dropped immediately. “And he is being placed in isolation because?”

“It’s for precaution. Obviously we’ll take the respective measures with Mr. Gideon.”

“Is there any specific reason, Dr. Chilton?” Or do you just want to study him?

“He was declared in the middle of a manic episode.” Frederick babbled, excusing himself quickly. “The guards kept shouting at him. But after Gideon hit him in the head, he looked frantic.”

“Then, he should be receiving psychiatric support” Hannibal stepped up, defending his case.

Frederick sighed and pressed his lips. “Please, Hannibal, if I let Will receive any kind of intervention in his current state, the board will be on me in no time. He has regular meetings with his lawyer. If it was up to me, I’d let you in, no doubt. But I’m in a special situation right now.” He explained, begging. “I swear I’ll make it up to you as soon as possible.”

Frederick wasn’t better than using the board and human rights as an excuse to keep the objects of his studies all to himself. However, if Hannibal put everything he knew about the bioethics specialists on revision, what he was claiming sounded legitimate enough.

“And when would that be?” He resigned.

“Uhh” Frederick doubted, looking desperate again. A feeling of something dark and murderous was starting to rise in the Chesapeake Ripper. “About… two weeks, maybe?”

Hannibal looked at him, pure silence. The message was transmitted when Frederick started babbling again “But I can probably make an exception for you, since it’s your patient and all.”

Lecter nodded and he let the rest of the conversation develop, boringly predictable, and quick enough. While he automatically invited Frederick to dinner at his house, his thoughts were centered on something else: the blue eyes, the curls, the factions. Everything that made Will, Will. And everything that made him be so close yet terribly far away from him.

 

When Will wakes up, he’s not in his cell. And his confused, tired and at least still a little bit sick brain tricks him into thinking, just for a second, that the last two weeks have been a febril dream. A nightmare. A thought and a fear that usually walked through his mind, but that he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting to them. Nor entertaining.

As a child, he had thought about it enough time. Back when he couldn’t understand nor accept what was wrong with him, he used to be thinking about ending up in a Psychiatric Ward all the time.

He’ll watch criminals on TV and have vivid dreams about committing those same crimes himself. He’ll see the kids at school bullying others and he’ll dream in both of their perspectives: he was either a cruel bastard or an impotent kid.

Sometimes he’ll completely imagine crime scenes for totally new, non existent crimes. Meet a neighbor and imagine a dog dead or a wife beaten up.

Sometimes those pictures will turn to life.

Sadly, meeting new people all the time during his childhood didn’t help. Will wouldn’t be caught dead blaming his father for any of it: the man, as vulgar as he was, did everything in his power to protect him. He thought a change of environment would help Will every single time he did something to scare all the kids and adults in the neighborhood. But the empathy is untreatable, incurable, and, as Will discovered in the later years of his life, meeting new people is a good way of triggering it.

Therapists wouldn’t even cure it if they could. Another thing Will learnt as soon as he put one foot away from his childhood home, (the one they kept the last two years of it, at least): when his dad refused to take him to therapy he had a point, over being a conservative man. It didn’t help at all and it just made him more angry at himself. Eventually, he turned all the anger towards psychiatrists who loved to play god.

So, yeah, Will supposed he was always meant to end in a mental facility. One way or another he was gonna be caught, trapped and studied, for all every single therapist he met was a man in love with feeling powerful. But still, not a hundred nightmares could have prepared him for the developments.

He noticed it was not his house because the ceiling should have been brown and not gray. His dogs would have been sniffing around him, trying to wake him up. And because he didn’t have transparent walls in his house.

When he got up, he had to breathe deeply and close his eyes. The world was spinning around him, and he had a strong headache. A ringing in his ear became suddenly loud, and he put his hands around his head for a second. The pressure seemed to calm it down.

He remembered. Abel Gideon, the showers, the fight. Why did the goddamn man hit him? The orderal planned part of the whole thing, yes, but he hadn’t done anything to the fucking convict to be beaten up like that.

When he calmed down, he looked around. The new room was something unexpected. He had thought Isolation would be more devastating. Not seemingly the same, except that he had a transparent wall, (glass? plastic? both of those were, honestly, horrible decisions for a supposed serial killer), with some holes on the front. It made him feel more like a rat, yes, but, other than that, it wasn’t intimidating at all.

Suddenly, he heard a loud noise of metal. He stood up and tried to look around. He was on a closed room, with no halls. The door to enter was in front of him, on a corner. The nob started moving. And the ringing on his left ear was still very invasive.

Matthew Brown entered the room and smiled at him. He closed the door behind him and sighed. Then, he started walking around the cell.

He covered his mouth with the dorse of his hand and opened his eyes comically. Will couldn’t stop himself from thinking, ‘An admirer of the Ripper?’

Then, Matthew smiled. “Will Graham. I finally get to talk to you in private.”

This young man had something dark. Will could sense it in the air. But the way his eyes looked at him, the way his smile shined and the way his hands trembled. He wouldn’t have dared to commit any kind of crime without the proper objective. Not until now. “You are?”

“I’m Matthew Brown. At your service, Mr. Graham.” 

Chapter 3

Will has a lot of questions.

For starters, he wants to know who this man is. And he doesn't mean his name. He knows his name, he's heard it, he's seen the tag on his uniform. Matthew Brown is a nurse, possibly a psychopath or a high-functioning sociopath.

He moves like he's dancing. Every step he takes in his direction has an underlying pleasure of someone who knows he's being carried along and has nowhere to be. Back straight, chin high, smile and glances from under his lashes, Matthew Brown is a normal man. A grown up theater kid, but a normal man at the end of the day.

Except he's not.

Will would be lying if he said Matthew is the first person he has trouble reading. It would be an insult to Garret Jacob Hobbs and Hannibal, to the numerous anxiety attacks he's had to endure at crime scenes, to his entire childhood dealing with an empathy that, while some perceive as spectacular, he drags on like a curse.

But there is something about Matthew Brown that sets him apart in a way Will doesn't think he can explain out loud.

Later, he'll reflect. And with more insight, he'll be able to say that Matthew Brown has a darkness in his soul that he wears on his sleeve.

He's openly creepy. He's a man who embraces his worst flaws and smiles at them and treats them gently. He sees his violent impulses and throws himself at them. Maybe he doesn't wish to harm anyone else, maybe he does; the truth is that it makes no difference. In the grand scheme of things, Matthew Brown finds the hint of madness that makes him inherently unfit for society to make him beautiful.

That's probably why he falls in love with Will the way he does.

But Will doesn't see love as soon as he meets him. He doesn't understand that expression of adoration. So when he sees the orderly approach his cell and place a hand on the clear glass, he hesitates to respond.

Hypotheses race through his mind. His common sense screams at him that it's a no-brainer: Matthew believes Will Graham is the Ripper, just like everyone else.

Will stands still and watches Matthew. The nurse's smile doesn't waver for a second, his eyes lingering on every aspect of Will.

"At my... service?" Will finds the language a little too polite to be addressed to him. It reminds him faintly of the cordial way Hannibal would address everyone, which, in retrospect, was pure condescension.

"Someone like you, Mr. Graham, is not found anywhere." Matthew approaches the cell and Will can't help but take a step back. He knows he's safe, if there's one thing this situation has given him it's safety from the influence of others, but still he doesn't allow himself to relax.

Matthew doesn't take the act personally, or at least he doesn't show offense. Instead, he explains, “I’ve been waiting a while for the chance to meet you, Mr. Graham. Men like you, who understand people like me, well, I’m sure I don’t need to explain how rare they are.”

Will raises his eyebrows. Everything in him tells him to slow his words. To tone them down. But he can’t find it in himself to do so when he thinks about how his instincts didn’t help with Hannibal.

“I’m not who you think I am. The Cheasepeake Ripper, I mean. I’m not.”

“Oh, you’re not a killer, Mr. Graham?” Matthew continues to smile. Will is beginning to wonder if his face is simply impervious to flexed muscles.

He takes a deep breath and thinks of Garret Jacob Hobbs and Abigail as he speaks, “I never said that.” He has a man on his mind, but a doubt has been gnawing at him since the day he was imprisoned. It could be two people.

Matthew watches her lost expression. He devours her. He will keep this memory alive, no matter what it takes.

He clears his throat. This is not the time for his petty desires, not now. Not in front of Will, much less. He will have to learn to control himself if he does not want Graham to resent him.

“While there is nothing in the world I would wish more than to stay here, Mr. Graham, Dr. Chilton has ordered that you are placed in deep isolation.”

A little late, Will asks, “Are there no cameras…?”

Matthew laughs. It is a melody loaded with meaning, but simply bold. “Oh, Mr. Graham, it would be easier to count the rooms in this building that do not have cameras or microphones. But you don't need to worry. The doctor delegates these tasks to his orderlies.”

He walks over to a corner of the room. Will wants to ask him several questions. How does he know that Will won't go to Chilton without hesitation and tell him that there's a sociopath working for him? What stops Will from taking advantage of this kindness and using it as a hook to reduce his sentence, to lessen his guilt?

A very clear answer in his mind, an empathy that doesn't stop.

Matthew simply doesn't care if Will wants to use him.

He will accept Graham's chosen fate without a second thought. He will be grateful for it.

He crouches down and looks like he is connecting a wire that was hidden under a broken, hollow slab. He assumes it is the microphone.

He looks up one last time and, looking at Will, says: “A word of advice, cooperate with Chilton. The guy is absolutely partial to anyone who offers him a modicum of respect.”

Will raises an eyebrow, but Matthew connects a wire, looks up and puts a finger to his lips in a sign of silence.

•°•°•°•°•°•

Frederick Chilton is a man who has suffered a lot throughout his life.

He has a very annoying problem hanging around him, reminding him of his mistakes constantly, called Hannibal Lecter. That must be one of the first major sufferings of his life. He will ignore his troubled childhood and the sense of loneliness that always weighs on his chest. He will give priority to Hannibal this time.

Just like everyone else, all their lives, really.

Every time Frederick accomplishes something, Hannibal does something ten times bigger to overshadow it. And while he may have dismissed these situations as harmless competitiveness in the past, now, as an adult, Frederick feels he's in a position to hold a grudge.

Frederick lands a position for a master's degree, Hannibal earns multiple full scholarships for his post-doctoral studies. Frederick publishes an article in a psychiatric journal, Hannibal makes the cover for an op-ed that's purely based on another psychiatrist's research.

Frederick begins managing Baltimore Hospital, and Hannibal accidentally reveals that the position was originally offered to him.

Frederick shows romantic interest in Dr. Bloom, and Hannibal begins a relationship with the woman.

Frederick is afraid to buy a car and discover the next day that Hannibal has been sent a rare collector's version for his impeccable work as a doctor. Of course, everyone talks about what a great surgeon Dr. Lecter is, and no one talks about the fact that he had to leave his post at the hospital where he worked.

And when Frederick tried to sneak around on the events that would have triggered his defection, all he learned was that he had colleagues who respected him like a God.

So Frederick is on cloud nine when Hannibal Lecter's patient, a complete and utter failure, if the crimes he is accused of have even a tenth of a grain of truth, is admitted to his hospital under his absolute care.

Only to be greatly disappointed when he barely gets to be alone with the man and really interact with him.

He has to give Lecter credit: Graham's presence drains him of all his energy. The sarcastic, ill-mannered little man plays with his patience like he's jumping the rope. One second he's quiet and cooperative, the next, he's a careless sociopath.

He doesn't care that Abel Gideon says the term isn't used. By the time he finishes writing the article he has planned for this bastard, the term will be popular again and gain a new meaning.

What if he has to make up half the facts that lead him to write the article? Fine. So be it. Will Graham deserves it. Even if he wasn't the Ripper, he's awfully rude.

He tells the guards to escort them to the small cells they use for visits with dangerous prisoners. Of course he knows Will isn't dangerous. But the fact that he can put him in uncomfortable positions is enough to make him feel powerful.

He's in control. Will can refuse to talk and keep mentioning Lecter, but Frederick Chilton is the director of the Hospital and Will is his patient.

Whether he wants it or not.

A single guard in the room watches him. Chilton doesn't like his "therapy sessions" being overheard, but he knows they won't discuss anything serious with Graham. He's just doing his duty and will try to push him to talk. When Graham verbally refuses, he's free to walk away.

So he leans back in his chair, bored. “Mr. Graham. How has your solitary confinement been?”

Will sighs. He has to do this right, damn it. “Hello, Dr. Chilton. Well, I’m not complaining.”

Frederick raises an eyebrow. Doctor. God, what a self-centered guy, Will thinks.

“Oh, yeah? Do you prefer it over socializing, perhaps?”

Will shrugs. He remembers to be polite. He does his best to say, “In solitary confinement I don’t have to listen to Abel Gideon screaming in the middle of the night.”

Oh. Wrong thing to say. Chilton looks like he just threatened to remove his remaining kidney.

Will tries to save it. “Thank you. For your hospitality, I mean. The cell is much more peaceful.”

Chilton raises an eyebrow. “It was a method of punishment in response to your aggression towards Gideon. Although I understand that he started the attack. So I’m glad you like it. I guess that doesn’t mean anything, anyway. You won’t cooperate, right?”

Now Will has to be nice. Give this man what he wants, even if he finds him despicable and self-centered. But… God, acting all nice won’t work either, right?

He must be, at least, a little bit himself.

He’ll allow himself to be self-indulgent this time. He suppresses a smile as he says, “Do you feel like I’m wasting your time, Frederick?”

Chilton’s expression falls. “Indeed, Mr. Graham. And it’s frustrating.”

“Frustrating why?”

“Frustrating because I could be doing productive things.”

“Oh, do you have any dates pending, Dr. Chilton?”

‘Dates’p has, of course, a mocking connotation, referring to Will’s knowledge that Chilton doesn’t have patients, but prisoners at the Hospital, and that no one in their right mind would choose Chilton as a psychiatrist.

Only Will understands this reference.

Matthew raises an eyebrow, from the corner of the room, stunned. Will Graham is a box of surprises and he knew it, but he thought he could expect a certain behavior. Manipulating Chilton as a patient.

He didn’t think he’d see Will flirt with Chilton.

Chilton didn’t expect it either, of course. He stood there, babbling, staring at Will, his cheeks flushed and his brow furrowed.

Will hesitated, now feeling watched like an insect. He tried to steer the subject away: “I wouldn’t exactly refuse a session right now, Dr. Chilton. But I thought your style was more… private.”

Matthew has to disguise his laughter with a cough into his elbow. He never thought he’d see an expression like that on Frederick Chilton’s face, but there it was: cheeks all red and eyes wide open. Will looked confused and adorable, which surely only added to Chilton’s embarrassment.

Maybe Matthew should feel a little jealous that his God looked so spectacular in the eyes of another man. However, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel such a thing: instead he was fascinated by Graham’s beauty.

“Mr. Graham,” Chilton regained his ability to speak, and tried to ignore his own earlier reactions. “Surely you’re not offering to be cooperative with your therapy sessions in exchange for staying in solitary confinement?”

Will’s eyes glittered. He wasn’t offering that, but he wasn’t going to refuse. “If that’s not an exchange you’re willing to make, Dr. Chilton, I’ll understand.”

Frederick thought about it. Surely somewhere in the rules it said this was wrong. Still, he was tempted. Will Graham is a psychiatric phenomenon. Whatever disorders he suffers from, they’ll get him one of the most acclaimed articles of the last decade if he can just get a couple of honest sessions, a real talk with Graham.

He nods to himself. The decision he’s about to make is purely administrative and relates only to his academic potential.

Nodding, Frederick stands up. “Very well. I will arrange for your stay in solitary confinement for an indeterminate period of time. In exchange, I want two weekly therapy sessions in which you, Mr. Graham, will speak to me.”

What torture. Will told himself that he wouldn’t wish that on even the worst of criminals, not even Hannibal. Still: “Gladly, Dr. Chilton. It’s a pleasure to make this arrangement.”

Frederick is blushing again. He clears his throat and uses his cane to hurry out of the room, vaguely motioning for the guard to take the prisoner to his cell and deactivate the microphone.

Matthew takes the liberty of reversing the order and diligently deactivates the microphone on the floor before he starts laughing out loud.

Will wonders if this man really was a madman at the end of the day.

“Matthew? What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, delighted and unable to stop laughing. Will frowns as a headache shoots through his skull, from temple to temple.

He takes a deep breath. He came and went as quickly as he came.

Matthew notices something. He looks up at him, from the floor he’s kneeling on, and thinks that there must be no more beautiful man in the whole world.

“I didn’t know you were going to flirt with the doctor, Mr. Graham.” He says, oblivious to his own words.

Will raises an eyebrow. So this man really is crazy. He’s about to make that remark back when the pain comes back, and this time it’s worse.

Like a needle being stabbed deep into his right eardrum, Will grabs his head and gasps as he bends over as much as the tight space of the cell will allow.

Matthew doesn’t hesitate a second before standing up and opening the cell. Will walks out, holding his ear, taking a deep breath, feeling a dull pain run down the line of his jaw to his throat, feeling one whole side of his face hurt like hell.

Then, he’s gone as quickly as he came.

He tentatively gasps for a couple more seconds. The air goes in and out fine, the ear hears as normal. The pain seems to have never been there in the first place, and Will feels He thinks like an idiot: Is he going crazy? Is this the ultimate test? He doesn't want to be crazy. He thought he wasn't, just a moment ago. But if the kind of madness that awaits him is that of fleeting pain then he wouldn't mind being dead.

Matthew's hand on his wrist pulls him out of the spiral of despair he's falling into. The orderly speaks softly: "I'll take you to your cell, Mr. Graham, before Chilton comes back for that private session."

Will blushes. Ah. That connotation had escaped him.

Matthew watches him. He's content to distract him, for now. But it seems he'll have to keep a special eye on Will Graham.

•°•°•°•°•°•

Hannibal drums his fingers on the desk and glances at the clock. Five thirty. A few weeks ago, Will would have knocked on his door. His disheveled curls and unshaven beard, with that expression of genuine exhaustion, would have walked straight to his office, to his palace.

Hannibal sinks further into his chair as he remembers the time Will sat in it.

He's not feeling melancholy about this. Actually, an underlying emotion runs beneath his skin. Will, in his cell, alone, thinking about him. Thinking about him and only him, because what else would he think about? Only Hannibal occupies his thoughts and that's how it was always meant to be.

There's something sad about the fact that he can't see him thinking about him. Moments like these made him wish he'd taken the position as Hospital Director when it was offered to him.

He sighs, thinking about his original plans and the steps he plans to take now. He really wants Will to be with him. He won't be able to leave him in the prison permanently. It doesn't really matter; he's never minded changing his plans for Will. The rewards are a thousand times greater than the difficulties.

He looks at the tall bookshelves, looks at his desk, imagines Will in every corner, remembers what Will looked like in every corner.

He sighs. He closes a desk drawer and stands up from his chair, grabbing his jacket from the back of it.

He'll have to move some plans forward. It's not a problem, nor is it an impulse. Hannibal isn't anxious. He just... really wants to be seen again.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay for this chapter! I plan to update every week at least once,, but in my defense I did graduate High School a few weeks ago so i was kinda bussy
Enjoy!