Chapter Text
Will learned three important things about the killer positioning a corpse just off a well used trail adjacent to Will’s own property.
First, this wasn’t the man’s first or even fifth kill. Experienced hands positioned the kneeling body with skill and concentration as a master in his trade. Will wouldn’t be surprised to learn the man had killed more people than Will had been alive.
Next, appearances were stupidly important to the killer. Even now, when it would be more practical to wear cargo shorts or, hell, jeans even, this man was out in the middle of Louisiana mud in slacks. They were under a clear, protective jumpsuit, but they were there all the same. His light colored hair was perfectly combed, despite dragging a body a minimum of two miles from the closest road. The park closed at dusk, so the gates would have been chained up hours ago.
Last, but most importantly, this psychopath - and he was indeed a psychopath - would kill Will if they came to blows. Not in the sense that the man lacked the morals necessary to let him go, but between the obvious level of skill and physical characteristics of the killer, he would have no issues overtaking Will’s smaller stature. They only lacked a few inches in height, but the man was well built where Will was still scrawny despite his own night time activities. Unless he stashed a comb and a towel in the jumpsuit, the man hadn’t broken a sweat transporting almost two-hundred pounds of dead weight.
Oh, there was a fourth thing as well. His craft was beautiful.
There was no fumbling. Every position was intentional, and the way it interacted with the scenery around it, more so. Will couldn’t pick up the message quite yet, but the man was easy to read based on the treatment of the corpse. Whatever led to these events, it was a punishment, pure humiliation. The person had slighted the killer in some way to make them lesser in his eyes. This was not human violence. This was a necessary slaughtering, similar to a pig being picked out from the lot.
Because this pig had no respect for the beautiful things in life, and this was the least it could do.
He blinked as the feeling went away and tried to wash the other man from his mind. With a clear head, Will realized he was probably intruding, and the last thing he needed was for the man to think he was being rude. The thought of leaving left an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He wanted to see the end. There was no guarantee he’d get the case after the first hiker stumbled upon it.
“May I watch?” The words were out of Will’s mouth before he had made the decision to ask. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I try to make a point to know who works in my area. Are you new or just passing through?”
The older man paused in surprise and turned slowly towards Will’s voice. The moon provided plenty of light for those whose vision had adapted to the night. The killer had rightfully assumed there wouldn’t be anyone else out in the park. The most he could come across would be drunk teenagers, and those could be heard a thousand yards away. It was supposed to just be him and the wilderness. Unfortunately for the taller man, the wilderness is what tipped off his location.
Summer was fast approaching, so the unnatural silence alerted Will when he arrived home from work that there was something going on. He probably could have left it alone. However, if that something was out for him, he didn’t want his dogs caught in the crossfire. If it wasn’t, his shift was all paperwork, and he had energy to spare.
Either way, nothing good crawled around in the dark of night.
A softly accented voice carried through the humidity. “Forgive me, but I don’t see why you need permission. You could’ve watched the whole night without me knowing.” Instead of wariness or anger, there was only amusement and curiosity.
“It’s rude to look upon an artist’s work before they’re ready to show it.” Will waited to be rejected or attacked as the foreigner looked over him with dark eyes, checking his own intentions.
His response surprised the curly haired man, “You may stay.” He turned back to the corpse, and Will sat cross legged on the ground to watch. Blue eyes found themselves unexpectedly trained on the living rather than the dead. He has never been overly interested in people. They were irritating and easily dismissable.
However, this man, strange attire and all, drew him in dangerously.
Will wondered what the man learned about him from his short gander upon his person. The younger man would never trust another killer to turn his back on them. Either this man was stupid (which he heavily doubted, those eyes saw way too much) or he believed that all Will wanted was to watch.
The younger man was used to being underestimated after one glance at the softness still prevalent in his face and distrusted with one insight to his mind. His peers’ disrespect was always at an all time high whenever he was clean shaven as is technically required dress code for a detective. Not that the other officers followed that rule, but his superiors enjoyed writing him up at the slightest provocation.
It wasn’t a secret that Will was disliked, and his transfer to detective was considered bullshit. No one believed Will deserved his title due to the lack of information that surrounded the case leading to his promotion and transfer. The morgue probably hated him most after a first look at his - admittedly - poor bedside manner. Carter refused to be in the same room as him anymore. There was no one in his life that trusted Will.
Except, apparently, this stranger in front of him. The man’s shoulders were relaxed like he was doing something as mundane as packing for a picnic or straightening his book shelves.
The tableau was completed almost fifteen minutes later, but Will hadn’t looked at the pig- man- corpse-turned-art once during that time. Most of the work must have been done prior to his arrival. The foreigner took a step back to give it a last look before turning to Will.
If he hadn’t been so focused on the man in front of him, he honestly might have missed the sliver of insecurity that peaked out from behind practiced confidence. The killer knew his work was flawless, but that wouldn’t stop the world from belittling it anyways. He wanted to know what Will thought of the art, wanted to see if he was smart enough to pick up the message he painted, so Will turned his head to the completed work.
Shock blindsided him. What had previously been a middle aged man kneeled next to a sapling as if he were planting it. There must have been a coating added to the skin bringing out all the critters to make their home in it. It was seemingly a snapshot in time, the body in mid-motion. It was beautiful and achingly elegant, but that wasn’t what stopped Will.
He had to catch his breath as his mind pulled a signature he knew as well as his own from the display: Il Mostro.
Experience had sharpened his pencil, but his style was prevalent. The jagged edges Will picked up in his pieces in Italy were well concealed here unless you knew where to look for them. The stranger in front of him wasn’t a man nor was he a stranger. He was a god; a broken god but a god all the same. The man was obviously trying to hide the connection between his work in the states and his work in Italy. His name, his titles, his history were unknown to Will, but his craft had been intimately reviewed by the detective for years.
“What do you see?” Il Mostro asked from right next to Will. He jumped up on instinct, teeth bared. His mind had been so swamped at the realization, he temporarily lost his hold on reality. He was lucky the man hadn’t decided to kill him after all. Will tried to force himself to settle when there was only amusement in the man’s face. There was no obvious ill intent, “Well?”
“What was the question?” Will’s tone was shorter than it needed to be, but he wasn’t a fan of surprises.
The closed lip smile widened slightly, “What do you see?” Il Mostro’s tone was much more pleasant than Will’s had been. It was casual as if asking about the weather.
He hesitated for less than a second. “Florence.”
The change was instantaneous. Amusement sharpened into something more fitting for the wilderness around them. If Will was being honest with himself, he shouldn’t find the violence that crept up the man’s shoulders so attractive.
“Interesting. Please elaborate.”
“No.” Will debated running, but they didn’t need to be leaving tracks in the mud right next to what would be a crime scene come morning. “I will, however, be happy to walk you to your car.”
Hannibal was coming off a twelve hour shift at the emergency room when the whirlwind burst through the entryway. Dr. Horne was his relief and clocked in right as two ambulances and a line of police cars sped into the drop off bay. A small child - male, caucasian, around seven years old - was immediately unloaded from the first ambulance and given to Dr. Horne for surgery.
The traveling surgeon didn’t have a high opinion of the boy’s chances as his eyes took in the blood dripping from the gurney onto the floor. The second gurney flew in shortly behind and held an older individual - male, caucasion, around forty years old - groaning with a hand to his shoulder and an EMT leaning over him, holding his stomach closed. His chances were much higher than the boy’s but only if someone with surgical skills stepped in right now.
The nurses were actively preparing to take him to the operating room while Hannibal debated if it were worth stepping in. He had just got out of surgery thirty minutes prior. Even he had a limit on how much he could do in one day. He was reaching that limit physically, especially after the late night he had previously. The only other surgeon available was currently being paged, and Hannibal had last seen him reviewing a case file in the break room. There was a resident staring paralized at the man who had started to scream hoarsely from the jostling.
Hannibal had made the decision to step in right as the universe decided he shouldn’t. A bloody police officer - based on his attire and the badge around his neck - stormed in, directing uniforms to provide a protection detail on the child.
He was as gorgeous as Hannibal thought he’d be covered in blood.
His wild curls created a halo around him, and violently blue eyes locked onto the patient in the gurney with righteous fury. It was obvious he was the one who inflicted the wounds on the man. By the set of his shoulders and the flex in his jaw, the officer wished he had finished the job properly. The hand pressing into his side clenched down hard in anger despite the digging of fingers drawing out more blood to soak into the man’s clothes.
Unlike the other officers milling into the emergency room, he was the only one not wearing a kevlar vest. It was most likely a graze since the wound wasn’t pouring blood. There was no way to differentiate if all the blood on the man - his hands, side, and front of his chest were coated - belonged to him, but he wasn’t any paler than he’d been a week ago. There were streaks on his face that looked like he tried to wipe blood from his mouth.
In the time the Lithuanian had taken to observe the man, the other doctor flew in and took over the patient. Hannibal determined this was fine, because while he would love to be on the other end of that unhinged look, he’d rather it not be at saving a pig’s life. The officer decided that the man on the gurney should die. The surgeon had no issues making it so.
A frazzled EMT had followed the man in and proceeded to plead with him, “Detective, please let one of the doctors take a look.” They gestured to the resident that had been hiding from the patient on the gurney. Said resident became pathetically more terrified at being saddled with the pissed off police officer.
“I’ll take him.” Hannibal allowed his voice to travel over to the trio. While he would usually enjoy watching the idiot squirm, his curiosity had a more ferocious thirst than his sadism did - in that moment anyways.
The medical personnel stared at him surprised, not having realized he’d been there the whole time. The officer on the other hand didn’t respond until the doors closed behind Dr. Conway and the man he had tried to kill. His eyes shot over to Hannibal with the same vicious glare and said, “No sedatives. No narcotics.” The man didn’t seem surprised to see Hannibal which only piqued his curiosity further.
He was in real danger of becoming interesting.
The surgeon gave him an apathetic smile. “Cross my heart.” The uncouth snort he received was noted with pride on Hannibal’s part. Gesturing to the curtained cubical the resident had been hiding in, he asked, “Would this suffice or would you prefer a room? That is a nasty wound.”
“Here is fine.” The adrenaline was starting to wear off. The officer winced as he brought his shoulders up and he walked with a limp he hadn’t exhibited when he stormed in. The resident ran off to find somewhere else to be while the EMT hesitated. When the radio on her shoulder went off, she just left with a sigh.
Hannibal closed the curtain behind him and instructed the man to remove his shirt. “We weren’t properly introduced. I’m Dr. Lecter. I am a surgeon here.”
He pulled his shirt off like a bandaid and breathed through his teeth. “Will Graham, Detective.” Will tossed his ruined shirt into the biohazard bin and leaned against the bed to catch his breath. The bleeding was sluggish which meant, thankfully, it was clotting. It was a nasty graze that tore through the soft meat of his side.
Dr. Lecter directed him to sit on the bed and pulled up a chair in front of the man to begin cleaning the wound. Neither of the men spoke as the blood was slowly cleared away, and Hannibal had to restrain himself from tasting the red substance. The day had been long, and Hannibal was tired; that was his justification for his thoughts. He prided himself on his self control, especially after the work he put into himself after almost getting caught in Florence.
The young man before him - Will Graham - tested that self control with every twitch and flinch of the cotton.
To distract his mind, he made an inquiry, “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”
Mr. Graham removed his blood splattered glasses to press his fingers into his eyes. He looked ready to pass out right there, “Eyes are distracting. They see too much, don’t see enough.” He put his glasses back on with a grimace, “I try to avoid them whenever possible.”
The surgeon taped a clean gauze over the wound then took the detective’s hands in his and started to clean them. This was the line the other man drew on being taken care of. Mr. Graham pulled away, “I can wash my own hands, thanks.”
Hannibal wasn’t offended by the refusal. “That’s your choice. Diseases are easily transferred through cuts and scrapes. Since I doubt all that blood is yours, you would benefit from washing sooner rather than later. I am also going to order you a tetanus shot to be safe.” Mr. Graham didn’t look at him as he nodded. Lethargy was starting to make the man shake.
“Are there any other injuries you would like me to look over?” Hannibal gestured to the man’s leg.
“No, he just kicked on his way down. I should’ve expected it.” Will went to stand and realized that put him right between the doctor’s legs. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the man who kindly patched him up. Hannibal let out a small burst of air that betrayed his amusement and pushed the chair back. He took one step forward and his legs buckled.
Hannibal caught him easily, having predicted the fall. Hands tightened around his waist as the doctor crowded him back against the bed. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, and your adrenaline is gone. Is there someone to drive you home?” The detective’s grip on his arms were weak but strong enough to keep from putting all his weight onto the other man. He cursed to himself as he leaned back against the bed. He was likely too light headed to notice he still held on to the doctor’s shirt, and there were hands still on his waist. “I am off work, I can drive you home.”
That caught the smaller man’s attention. “Not supposed to get in strangers' cars. They might be a serial killer.”
“I can assure you, you’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Thank you kindly, but first, your hands.” The man in his arms groaned petulantly.
Will woke up disgruntled in an unfamiliar bed wrapped in the softest sheets known to man. Well, probably not, but they were softer than any Will had owned or slept in growing up. This didn’t immediately alarm him as snippets of the last twenty four hours flipped through his head like someone was fastforwarding through a movie: the follow up interview with the family of the victim, the sound of a gunshot, the uniform collapsing, the sound of a child crying. That was what made the detective jump to his feet and almost straight to his knees as the sheets tangled around his legs and a searing pain scorched his side. He remembered the fall out of that visit too: helping the EMT get the kid into an ambulance, arriving at the emergency room, then-
“Will?”
Il Mostro walked through the now open doorway. He approached slowly as to not give the detective a reason to attack him. The shout he let out must have let him know he was awake. Vague memories of the hospital kept him from biting the man, instead grabbing the hand that was offered.
Will needed to get back to the hospital. “The boy?”
Il- no, Dr. Lecter frowned, “He didn’t make it I’m afraid. They called it an hour ago.” Will felt his forehead scrunch in confusion, “You’ve only been asleep for a few hours. I’m honestly surprised you’re awake right now.”
“Never sleep well. And the father?” His grip tightened on the man as his worry turned into anger.
Dr. Lecter gently led him back to sit on the bed, “If you’re referring to the man you gutted, he is still in surgery.”
Will’s anger evolved into cold rage.
Fuck. He couldn’t go back to the hospital. One, his car was still at the station. He had rode with the uniform - Conner? Carter? Whatever his name was - to interview the brother of Dr. Lecter’s victim after holes in his story started showing up. Two, the man would be immediately arrested for killing the police officer after he was released from the doctors, so there was no chance to kill him. Three, he wasn’t wearing pants.
His hands had finally relaxed as he breathed through the pain enough to let them fall into his lap. He had no recollection of removing them nor did he notice them after a general glance around the room. To be completely honest, he didn’t remember much of anything after being helped to the man’s car. “Did you take my pants?” Will’s voice was more aggressive than it needed to be, but right now, all he wanted was to drown the bastard in his own blood. What kind of parent uses their child as a shield? He actually didn’t have to think too hard on that one.
“They are in the dryer. I had to soak them to get the blood out.” The man in front of him answered apathetically. Unfortunately for him, the eyes that bored into Will’s face - despite Will not meeting his gaze - betrayed his curiosity. Psychopath. The younger man barely picked up anything from him when they first met or at the hospital, but with them being so close now, it was impossible to miss.
“I can grab you some clothes if that would make you more comfortable.”
“I would appreciate it, thank you.” Hannibal nodded and stepped out. With the possible threat gone, Will took a mental review of his condition. His head hurt. Between the blood loss, pain, and stress, a headache pulsed along with the beat of his heart, almost blinding him. The graze was still bandaged, and it didn’t look like he had bled anywhere. He did notice a small circle bandaid on the meat of his thigh above the boot shaped print that hadn’t been there previously either.
“What did you give me?” Will asked as the doctor came back in. He had to gesture at the bandaid when the man gave him a false puzzled look.
“Ah. Tetanus shot. I did tell you you needed one.” He handed over gray lounge pants and a white undershirt, “Clothes.”
The detective didn’t even bother lecturing the man on consent or question why he just had hospital grade medicine in his house. “Believe it or not, most people don’t like being mostly naked in a murderer’s house.” He stood gently from the bed and pulled on the shirt first.
Dr. Lecter let out a soft laugh, “Most people don’t patch up murderers and bring them home.” He kept his hands loose at his sides in case the smaller man started to tople as he put on the lounge pants.
“I didn’t ask you to bring me home.” The words were gasped out as if Will had run a marathon. The wound fucking hurt, but he was pretty sure it hasn’t started bleeding again. That was a positive. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“I have something a little stronger if you think you can eat first.”
“Have you slept? No offense, but you look tired.”
The older man shrugged slightly as he gestured for Will to walk with him out the door, “I am used to long days. Besides, I had just finished cooking when I heard you get up.” As they moved down the hall, Will noticed it was actually a townhouse, the furnishings were way above his own paygrade. He wouldn’t be surprised if the painting over the staircase cost more than the entire house he was currently renting.
They reached the overly fancy kitchen, and Will had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. At least the missing organs made sense now. Dr. Lecter gave him a politely curious glance that Will ignored. The outer layer the man wore was nice. Actually, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the usual monsoon of emotions and information of regular people. He could obviously pick up whatever the man wanted the world to see, but everything underneath was his and his alone. It was impressive. His work on the other hand.
“I saw your painting again. Have you ever seen your work in the daylight? Gorgeous.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure, but thank you.” The man seemed genuinely pleased about the compliment. It was probably the first time someone had commented about his work to him while knowing he was the artist. He helped Will onto the bar stool and went around the island to where a baking sheet was sitting on the stove. It smelled amazing.
“Were they flaunting the body out for everyone to see?”
Will smirked. Il Mostro didn’t believe someone as young as him would be called out to a kill as intricate and disturbing as his. “You have a high opinion of yourself.” His smirk almost faltered at the teasing lilt his own words took on watching the man prepare two plates. The man wasn’t teasing him, so Will couldn’t blame the slip on mimicry. When was the last time Will intentionally flirted with someone? Never.
“I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Dr. Lecter sat the plate in front of him with a fork, a fancy cloth napkin, and a tall glass of water. He noticed the other man was drinking wine.
One taste and Will knew he was right. He couldn’t place the meat. Without thinking, he met the other man’s gaze and asked. “Is the meat from Mr. Harrison or a painting we haven’t found yet?”
The persona around the man flexed as he leaned onto his forearms, matching Will’s gaze, the monster underneath barely contained for a moment. “Tu drąsus, mangustuk.” The words weren’t in a language he knew. He was also unfamiliar with the feeling that washed over him, a mix between possessive want and deep amusement. Will had never felt anything like it before, and it made his hair raise and muscles tense to run (to flee or chase, he wasn’t sure). At that moment, the doctor wasn’t Il Mostro.
He was something much more dangerous.
The feeling passed, and the younger man could breathe again. He ignored the heat under his shirt as the man spoke again, English this time. “You have pure empathy. You can assume anyone’s point of view. You’ll have to be careful with it; otherwise, you will find that perception is pointed at both ends.”
“I know what I have. Doctors have been trying to lock me in a cage since I could rub two thoughts together.”
“And you refused to be caged?”
“How would you feel stuck behind a piece of glass for your mind to be poked and prodded and split right open like a pistachio?” He had to cover his eyes. “Speaking of split open, I think my head is about to do that.”
“I would feel very unforgiving.” Dr. Lecter said as he stood and walked away. His footsteps couldn’t be heard over the pounding in Will’s head, but he did feel the man come back and set something next to his plate. “You may take them now, but you will need to finish everything on your plate and that glass of water.”
Will didn’t even look as he popped them in his mouth and swallowed them dry. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter.”
“Please call me Hannibal, and you don’t have to thank me for every little thing.”
Pure apathy. The differences were dizzying.
Will couldn’t help smiling as he ate. “Better safe than sorry. I’d rather not get eaten.”
Hannibal laughed, “Don’t worry. I never kill anyone the next day.”
“How long ago was it since Mr. Harrison did whatever it was to condemn himself?”
The question was for self-preservation purposes, but it occurred to him after that he might know something about the missing bastard who’d fled yesterday. When they had arrived at the house, there were two men out front arguing: the father Will gutted - Keaton Harrison - and an unknown man. The unknown man looked related to the father and had used the wounded child as leverage to get away. He was the reason his injuries, which the boy might have recovered from, turned fatal.
The other man paused before answering. “Are you asking as a detective?”
“No. Honestly, I have no desire to catch you. I would however love to know if you know anything about a man who ran during the altercation at the Harrison house.” Will had finished his plate and started on finishing his water. He was growing extremely tired again, but still needed to check in with the station before he passed back out. “Also, where’s my phone?”
“It was on the table next to your glasses that you seem to be doing just fine without.” The curiosity was back. “I know that Peter Harrison had family in the area, but the man you brought in was not the one he had been visiting with the past few days.” He picked up the empty plates and took them to the sink.
So he stalks his prey first. “5’6? Buzzed hair? Drives a silver Honda?”
Hannibal turned to face him and leaned against the sink with a smirk, “Are you going hunting, dear Will?”
It was then that he realized he was also in black lounge pants and a red t-shirt. The color scheme looked good on him, but how anyone thought he was anything other than dangerous was beyond him. At the hospital, there wasn’t a single alarm bell going off in his head other than the general knowledge he already knew about the man. In public, this man was just a man.
Right now, in this kitchen, he was the highest on the food chain.
“I don’t hunt.” Will pushed his empty glass to the edge closest to Hannibal, “I fish.”