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It was three thirty five in the morning when the call came in. Neighbors had heard screaming, a broken window, an engine that wouldn't start, a foot too heavy on the gas pedal. It’d been a long time since Agent Crawford dealt with anything as minor as a break in, even longer since a case eluded him completely. This was no simple break in gone rogue, no. This had all the markings of being another art piece created by none other than the Chesapeake Ripper. He was determined not to slip up.
“I’m sending you both to New Jersey.” He says, scratching at the side of his tired face as his mouth works to catch up with his racing head. Eyes focused on the blood splatter on the floor, he makes no attempt at looking up at the two men who watch him silently. “John Doe’s been airlifted to Princeton Plainsboro in New Jersey. Follow up with the patient, if he survives, try and get any information you can out of him.”
The victim was 29 year old John Doe. Of course, nothing about this case seemed to want to give Jack a break. Oh, how easy it would have been to simply check the title of the house, ask neighbors for any information on who was living here. No, this house had sat abandoned for years, a frequent crashing point for junkies and vagrants. The previous owners? Deceased. Moved down to Florida twenty years ago. Snowbirds who decided they could only put up with the Free State when it was warm enough to drive with the convertible’s top down.
“Both of us?” Will Graham takes a step forward, his hands fidgeting slightly with the pockets of his cotton jacket, Hot air crossing his lips as he scoffs softly at the idea. “Medicine is hardly my area of expertise, Jack. I’d be better off staying here and reconstructing the crime scene.”
Jack sighs, clearly not thrilled at the pushback. “I’m worried the victim may have severe trauma. It would probably benefit him to have someone who can…relate, to him.”
“I am not traumatized.” Will snaps, dark sweat soaked curls spilling out over his tense forehead. The denial came too quick, too firm for it to be true. Even a man untrained in psychology could see it, yet both remained silent.
“All I”m saying is that you can understand, even if fractionally, how he’s feeling.” Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the younger man to understand. “The crime scene can wait. A man’s dying breath cannot.”
“May I ask why this John Doe has been airlifted to New Jersey?” Hannibal inquires, his eyebrow cocking as he takes a few careful steps around the scene, hands clamped behind his back politely. He moves gracefully, as if him simply being there disturbs the air of evidence surrounding him. “There are many hospitals right here in Maryland.”
Jack nods, one hand on his hip as he turns to look out the window. Heavy clouds hang over Baltimore, typical weather for this time of year. As the droplets start to patter against the shattered window, he can’t help but feel infected by the scene. The chase to find the Carolina Ripper has gone on long enough, and every day is another person at risk. “I enlisted the help of a specialist. He’s one of the best in the country.” Jack locks eyes with Hannibal. “I want no chances taken with the life of this victim. He has the answers we’re looking for.”
Hannibal nods curtly, turning toward the door. “I’ll prepare my effects.” He’s out the door after a few purposeful strides.
“Will-” Jack starts, but stops once he sees a hand raised, a silent white flag being raised in surrender. He too, follows in Hannibal’s footsteps.
***
Foreman frowns as he stares down at the patient file in front of him. Eyes skim over the material, desperate for something to get his boss off his back. “This kid has advanced Pneumonia. Think he’ll go for it?”
Chase sneers. “Yeah, definitely, Foreman. House loves to diagnose diseases that have already been diagnosed and written on a patient’s chart.”
“I honestly don’t know what he wants us to do.” Cameron pipes up, pushing her glasses further up her nose as she scrunches herself over a case file. After a few seconds she sighs and throws it onto a much larger stack. “We can’t just spawn a patient with a fun medical mystery.”
Throwing his feet up onto the glass conference table and crossing his feet in defeat, Chase groans. “If we don’t find something we’ll never hear the end of it. House is already in a pissy mood today.”
“House is always in a pissy mood.” With a smirk plastered on his face, Foreman slams a file into Chase’s chest, earning a grunt.
“He’s not wrong.” Cameron smirks, just before the door swings open.
House barrels through the door, looking over his shoulder a few times before grabbing his red mug and making a cup of coffee. “It’s been four hours. I’ve been kicked out of half the break rooms in the hospital trying to avoid Cuddy. Have you idiots found anything yet?”
“No.” The trio say, in unison.
He scoffs, shaking a sugar packet and tearing it open to pour into his steaming mug. “I need a case.”
House rarely begs for work. He's antsy, crawling out of his own skin. They know not to ask.
“Your wish is my command.” Cuddy cuts in, holding out a red file towards him. Where she appeared from, or how much she heard is anyone’s guess. “Twenty three year old male, low BP, shortness of breath, sweating-”
House takes a long slow sip of his coffee, peering at her from behind the rim of his cup. “Heart attacks in twenty three year olds, while incredibly sad, are treatable.”
She continues, unbothered by his quip. “-extreme fatigue, nausea, severe pain, and now he can’t speak. He came in an hour ago.” This earns a scathing look towards the team from the boss. How did they miss this? “-and has already been stabilized.”
“He’s in shock.” House mutters, halfheartedly. Coffee cup forgotten, his eyes skim the file, tuning out the world around him.
Sudden onset cardiac event in a twenty three year old male is rare to begin with. His inability to speak could be psychological. Either way, interesting enough to capture his attention.
“You’re taking this case.” She says, wagging a finger at him. “Whether you want to or not. I have two FBI consultants driving all the way up here from Baltimore just so you can cure him.”
House nearly chokes on his coffee.Very interesting. “FBI? He’s a criminal?”
Cuddy rolls her eyes, not sure herself of the answer. She hadn’t been told anything other beyond the medically relevant facts. “Just… go back to the clinic until they arrive.”
For once, House goes without complaint.
***
The windows are rolled down, just enough for the petrichor to flow through his nostrils. Every raindrop is a small messenger. Hannibal has always liked the rain, the cleanliness it brought with it. How quickly things could be washed away if only people had the patience to remain calm during storms. A quality he prides himself on.
Normally, Will would be here, sitting in the passenger seat hunched over with a million thoughts too loud to be kept secret. The very opposite of poise and control among storms. Now, he’s driving his own car, the Volvo that groans and creeks. Worn out tires too used to the backroads of Wolf Trap, Virginia, and not at all suited for interstate 95. Hannibal keeps his distance, gently pressing on the breaks of his 2003 Bentley Arnage. Will’s tires skid on the slick roads, and he has no desire of wrecking his car.
Hannibal Lecter is not worried. He rarely is, although the thrill of being caught does serve to be a motivator on occasion. No, everything always follows his order. An hour and a half in, just a little over an hour to go. He sits back, gently raising the volume on his radio- a beautiful piece by Bach trills out. He inhales deeply, and keeps driving.
***
Hannibal does not hate hospitals. On the contrary, he takes comfort in the septic smells of bleach, a thin veil blanketing the unmistakable smell of death. It's not just a saying, a line in a horror film: death's scent is unmistakable. Dying too. Death smells repulsive by nature, a little earthy like the mud we come from, like an old man's breath, hinging on tangy or loamy, depending on the cause. Dying is sour by contrast, lactonic; dying is the body expelling sweat and seminal fluid and excrement with urgency and little regard to social deficiency, an evolutionary need to get rid of everything at the cost of holding onto life. Dying smells human, death is the absence thereof. And hospitals…hospitals are a beautiful dance of death and dying and babies being peeled off placentas and salty tears and all of it; the rawness of it all, hiding beneath a transparent sheet of sterility and other placating scents like eucalyptus and pink play-doh-y hospital soap.
Hannibal tries to express a portion of this to Will, who only manages to mutter when they arrive, "I hate hospitals."
Will gets a pass. Will is sick.
They aren't greeted for sixteen minutes following their arrival, and Hannibal makes his annoyance known to Will. How rude to keep a guest waiting. "You're being a brat," Will grumbles in response, curled in on himself with his jacket pulled tight. Hannibal says nothing, and a beautiful woman emerges from the office they were instructed to wait outside of just twelve minutes earlier by an apologetic PA.
"Doctor Lecter, Agent Graham," she shakes their hands with apologetic zeal. Her hands are small and cold. Hannibal, momentarily forgetting his annoyance, lifts her hand to his lips, and kisses it. Her expression alone is evidence that this woman is not used to affection. He notes this. "I'm Dr. Cuddy, and this is truly an honor. I'm so sorry for the delay. I was on a call with donors. Well, I'm sure you of all people know how that goes, Dr. Lecter. They keep the IV fluids dripping, so they're entitled to random calls at all hours."
"I work for myself, actually," he says. He is not offended by the nature of the assumption; she is simply trying to schmooze both him and the donors. Faux aristocracy doesn’t suit her.
Cuddy is impressed. Her face flushes, sweat clinging to the curly short hairs that frame her forehead. She's asking Will about the drive. He responds in curt yes's and no's. Good boy.
There's a carefully crafted silence from Hannibal that is meant to be awkward. Then, Cuddy claps her hands together and says, "Well, you aren't here to see me," like she's getting ready to show off an award winning pumpkin at the County fair. "Let me introduce you to Doctor House. He should be around here somewhere, follow me."
Dr. House, House, House… House?
"Wouldn't it be easier to page him?" Will asks, exhausted at the thought of more walking. For how sick he is, he hides it well. Hannibal knows he is the only one clued in on the extent of his physical and cognitive decline, which he considers a personal achievement.
Cuddy laughs, the sound light and vibrant, thinking Will had been joking. "He doesn't answer those. Besides, he's easy to catch."
With that, ‘he doesn't answer those’—ah. Hannibal remembers why the name House had been so familiar. His first thought is relief; Hannibal hates being deprived of information by his own mind. There is nothing more terrifying than the thought of losing one’s own abilities. His second thought, he's made it this far? His third thought, of course he has.
They find Gregory House in the clinic with a patient, which Hannibal is told is a rare sight unseen. He is sitting on a swivel rolling chair, and the patient is a young girl exhibiting drug seeking behavior, requesting Codeine for a sprained ankle that is neither twisted nor swollen. When Cuddy knocks on the door, House shouts ‘Ocupado!’, which only serves to embarrass her in front of the guests. She asks if anyone inside is naked, which Hannibal laughs at, quite genuinely. When House says nothing, and the patient says nothing, she opens the door to a mildly annoyed House advising the patient to, "find another doctor. Preferably not one that'll steal your prescription, if you manage to convince anyone stupid enough to hand one over. Come one, at least jazz it up with some bruising, a little eyeshadow if you're scared of any real pain."
The patient clearly wishes her bangs were longer so she could hide behind them properly. Embarrassed, huffy, and in early stages of withdrawal, she grabs her purse and scurries past House, past Cuddy, whizzing by Hannibal and Will like a self-destructive tornado.
Cuddy rolls her eyes, but does not chide House. Instead, she clears her throat and smiles tight, "House, these are members of the investigative team from Maryland I told you about. They're here with a John Doe, who is…"
"In Emergency Medicine, confirming his vitals and safe arrival."
The first thing someone hears you say is paramount. Hannibal is glad that House hears him being acute, honed.
"Will Graham," Will juts an arm out, awkward and hesitant. He's silently wondering if his affliction is contagious; worried about spreading it to Cuddy, then to House. If he knew House like Hannibal does, he might show more disregard for his well-being.
"Hannibal Lecter," he says next, in his good nature, extending his own arm. Just like he'd suspected, House's eyes glow, then squint. Now, surely, they both recognize each other. Their hands linger; both men, intelligent, recognize how telling a handshake can be. House's hands are dry, calloused. Hannibal's soft, manicured. It's as good a time as any to reveal, "Dr. House and I went to Hopkins together." He speaks to Cuddy, or Will, but his gaze is set on House. Their fingers clasped, still collecting data. "Well, for a time."
House lets go after an inappropriate amount of seconds, wipes his hand on his jeans. He clears his throat. "What Hannibal means to say is: we went to Hopkins together, until I got kicked out. I was kicked out, Will, for cheating! I'm sure you remember, Dr. Cuddy? It's what led me to UMass, and if you think about it, what led us to having sex in your dorm—"
"Enough!" Cuddy shrieks, then, sarcastically, "Great, glad we're all acquainted." She rubs her forehead, recalibrating. "House, you're never gonna hear this from me again, but get out of the clinic and have one of your minions take Doe's history."
"We've come prepared with a complete medical history," Hannibal says. It isn't true, it's a response born out of panic. They don't even have his name, and the only medical history they have is based on the half-empty bottles of alcohol and half-full box of condoms discovered on scene. Hannibal recognizes that he’s resistant to House's help, for whatever reason, and composes himself accordingly.
No one seems to notice.
"Yeah, well. You'd be surprised what people lie about." House is peering through Hannibal's irises, snaking his way to his soul. He will not enjoy what he finds. "Our team's a bit more…persuasive."
***
"I don't…I don't remember," John Doe breathes. Cameron's hand is on the bed railing, offering the appropriate amount of clinical comfort.
John Doe's name is not John Doe. John Doe's name is Aziz Farhat, which is a far cry from John Doe. Misleadingly white alias, House calls it. Mr. Farhat is finally reactive, responsive enough to know that he is a ways away from home, which only adds to his budding anxiety. He glances around the room like he's seeing ghosts.
"It's okay, Aziz," Cameron's smile covers a world of hurt, but it's not nearly enough to put Mr. Farhat at ease. He's a mousy little man. "You don't need to think about the break-in now. Let's backtrack; have you been on any trips in the past five years? Domestic or international."
"It's not okay, actually."
"House," Cameron warns, shooting him a glare. "Get out."
House pays her no mind. Like an apex predator, he limps into the room, his vision zeroed in on the patient. The rest fades into sterile blur. "You have to remember. Think, man or woman? Tall or short? Was your attempted murderer wearing a tutu, did they smell like Winter rain? Come on, think!"
"I…I don't—"
"—remember, right. I heard."
"Can I continue my patient history now?" Cameron snaps back.
"His history is irrelevant. It was a stress-induced cardiac event. The stress is relevant."
The patient's eyes bounce between the two like following the world's more intense game of ping-pong.
"Aren't you the one always telling us to think zebras?"
House shakes his head a bit, as if weighing her words. "Vacations aren't zebras, they're…horses with stripes."
House pokes Mr. Farhat with the butt of his cane. "Think," he commands, like it changes anything.
Mr. Farhat doesn't look so hot. Cameron stands, eyeing him warily.
"I'm sorry…I…it's all a blur."
"Oh, you will be sorry. You're dying. I suggest you think harder."
"I'm what?! But…oh, oh God…I…my dog. My—"
"You're not dying," Cameron rushes out, shoving House away. But it's too late, "His BP is tanking," he announces, just as the machines begin to sing like police sirens. The choreographed dance begins; nurses rushing in, Cameron's stringing up a glucose bag, and House, grumbling Oh God, limping away from the fire he started.
***
Mr. Farhat is stable in time for lunch; no complaints from House, who plops down at the nearly empty table next to Wilson. He watches as the other man pokes at his overstuffed sandwich with a fork, trying to squeeze the arugula back into a neat pile. Wilson casts a sideways glance at House, shaking his head slightly. “Haven’t seen you at all today.”
“Been busy.” House mutters, grabbing the abandoned half of Wilson’s sandwich off his tray. “Got a new case.”
No words are exchanged about the stolen food, none need to be. Instead Wilson chews on his own half slowly, and sighs. “Last I heard your team was sweeping the entire hospital for an interesting patient. They actually found one?”
“Yes and no.” House picks the greenery off his food, dangling it over Wilson’s plate for a second before abandoning it. “Yes to finding a case, no to my team finding it. Cuddy brought it to me directly.”
“Cuddy?” Wilson’s eyebrow raises. Before he can continue with whatever snarky comment is about to leave his mouth, House strategically interrupts.
“It’s a case for the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Wilson chokes. “Suspect or victim?”
“Victim, I think.” House’s eyes dart up as a pristine, three piece suit glides through the cafeteria. It makes no attempt to join the ever growing lunch line, instead finding a free table by the window. “Haven’t paid much attention to the specifics.”
Wilson scoffs, placing his sandwich down next to the discarded arugula briefly. “You were begging for a case all morning but haven’t even seen the patient yet?”
“Nope. Been busy.” Blue eyes don’t move from the figure against the opposite wall. He squints ever so slightly as he takes in the way Hannibal swiftly unbuttons his suit-jacket and sits down.
“With?” Wilson asks. When he is met with no response from House, he too angles his body towards the man in the corner.
Hannibal adjusts his tie with careful fingers. He is aware of the stares that befall him from all corners of the room, but especially those coming from the table parallel to him. Gregory House has never been subtle, no matter how much he’d like to think so. He clears his throat, squares his shoulders, and pulls out the pocket square to unfurl it like a napkin across his lap. The legs of his pleated pants and stiff against his calves, one crossed over the other in an almost lazy, regal sort of way.
He slowly uncaps the Thermos, twisting it with a methodical pace. Steam hits him as the still-warm broth comes into view. He takes a deep, long inhale, peering down at the lunch he’d prepared for himself. Home made egg noodles; prepared with the finest sifted artisan flour and free range eggs, kneaded against the skin of his own palms and shaped by hand. Finely diced carrots, celery, onions, and parsnips simmered in a flavorful broth. The liquid is golden, not coated with oil like common soup may be. Notes of ginger, turmeric, garlic, a squeeze of lemon, thyme, and a rosemary sprig to top.
And the meat, well. Secret recipe.
House’s line of sight is broken as a sea of pink scrubs sits in the empty chair across from him. “House, just the man I was looking for.”
“Oh good.” House mumbles, shifting slightly under the guise of massaging his thigh so he can get a better look at Hannibal. “My favorite male nurse.”
“Rumor has it you and Doctor Mysterious over there go way back.”
House looks away from his former classmate, instead leaning back in his chair with a bored expression on his face. “Yep.”
Wilson sits up, his head cocking to the side as he arches a brow towards House. “What?”
Nurse Jeffrey shoots a look of disdain towards Wilson, before continuing. “Look. I know you and I aren’t on great terms.”
“Understatement of the century.”
“You think you could put in a good word to Doctor Lecter for me?” Jeffrey turns around, staring at Hannibal wistfully, one arm propping his head up against the back of the chair as he does. “What I wouldn’t give to take a bite out of some of his meat if you know what I mean.”
“Eugh.” Wilson frowns at the implication. “I’m trying to eat.”
“Oh, please.” Jeffrey snaps, before standing up abruptly. “We both know you rarely eat more than a few bites of whatever mediocre meal they’re serving up before House swipes it off your tray. Be thankful I distracted him so you could get a few more nibbles in.” He shoots one last wink at House, before purposely making a direct pass past Hannibal’s table, being sure to slow his footsteps just enough for the other doctor to look up.
“You didn’t tell me you knew Doctor Lecter.”
“Long story.” House grunts, tossing the crust of the sandwich back onto Wilson’s plate and grabbing his cane. He rises slowly, his eyes flicking over to Hannibal once more before refocusing on Wilson. “Fortunately for you, lunch is over.”
***
Hannibal walks through the emptying hallways of the hospital, offering a polite nod or soft hello to the few night nurses still making rounds. Sleek leather shoes cross the tile floor with purpose. He pauses for a moment outside the glass door, his eyes peering just past the inscription on the door: GREGORY HOUSE, MD.
Inside, House is hunched over his desk, a stack of papers beneath him. Hannibal’s eyes watch like a predator hiding behind foliage, silently assessing his prey with a razor sharp gaze. House’s one hand grips the red tennis ball, rhythmically squeezing and flexing his fingers against the object. His chest slowly rises and falls with each breath, his shoulders twitching slightly with each heavy breath.
He’d always found him interesting, even from the opposite side of a lecture hall. His general disregard for societal norms and standard conventions had always been… oddly captivating and more than slightly offputting to a man who couldn’t imagine showing up to class in anything less than a blazer. The thoughts had been overwhelming back then, still something he grappled with rather than pursued. He hadn’t taken a life until after graduation, but he’d ruminated it for years before. Gregory House had been one of his first daydreams.
At first he wasn’t sure if it was lust or loathing. Did he want to be with him or be rid of him? Gregory House has always been everything that Hannibal hated. With a swift push, he strides into the office. "Any leads?"
House, rarely startled, almost jumps at the sound. "God, you're just as creepy as I remember." The glare Hannibal receives from House tells him he is unwelcome, but he pays it no mind, instead allowing a small smirk to tug at his lips. Social conventions escaped both of them.
House glances back down at the stack of papers in front of him. He seems to get lost in his mind sometimes; common among geniuses. House looks around the room and finds that the windows display a much grayer sky than he recalled, he knows then that he’s been at this for hours. His team has gone home, so has Wilson. He's alone, unless you count Hannibal. Ball in his palm, he tunnel visions towards a diagnosis. Stress-induced cardiac event, no family history of cardiovascular disease. STM loss. Did he say he had a dog-?
Hannibal chuckles, pacing around the room quietly. "And you, just as insolent."
It must be late. The nurses that pass by have a pep in their step; they've likely just begun the evening rotation. His leg throbs, and House swallows a scowl. He hates running into people he knew PI: Pre-Infarction. It feels like showing up to a high school reunion with a missing tooth. He grumbles something about ‘keeping quiet unless you have something to add’ and returns to his ponderance.
"Your body has betrayed you," Not a question, but Hannibal can hardly allow his curiosity to go unspoken. His tongue swells with it, and he finds that House's response—a slight contraction in his masseter, the jaw muscle— confirms what he already knows.
House mutters, "Bodies tend to do that," tossing his ball to the side. His mind palace is being polluted by this pompous asshole.
Hannibal’s gaze drifts towards House, with hands clasped behind his back. He takes a few cautious steps before sitting down in the chair near the door of his office. It’s nothing like the proper chairs he keeps in his office, no. This awkward half lounge, dingy chair shifts awkwardly under his weight. He could have chosen the chair in front of his desk, the one much more suited to someone of his mannerisms, but he doesn’t. Instead he offers the illusion of space, and crosses his legs politely.
There’s something that Hannibal hates to admit; the two men are more alike, in some ways. Hannibal also is prone to deep thought with a hatred for being probed. The isolation that comes from planning and knowing one’s own potential. "In Candide, when death is the alternative, the women beg to be maimed. Bodies are…disposable."
House breathes a laugh. It sounds…genuine. "Your boy Voltaire was writing about cutting off women's asses to eat like flank steak. Maybe if I was a Turkish eunuch, I'd feel much better about missing half my thigh."
Hannibal smirks, the slight nod of his head oozes with impression. He doesn't say as much, but he wears a sly smirk like a cat. Maroon eyes track the subtle movements of the man in front of him. Subtle twitch of a finger as it passes over his lips while deep in thought, the way he lazily flips through case files as if it’ll show different words the hundredth read. His mind isn’t there, he’s distracted, even from this back and forth. It bothers Hannibal, to be the least interesting thing in the room.
Little does he know, House is the one being hunted. Not some stupid diagnosis for a poor dying boy. He is, no doubt, a brilliant man. With half his thigh missing, evidently.
"Scram. I'm trying to think."
House's eyes are profoundly sad. Hannibal can think of twelve potential drugs to bring the light back to them, three to dull them further. He considers their synergistic and antagonistic effects. He considers intravenously administering the perfect cocktail of medication to turn House into a limp little thing, vital, but with a shallow heartbeat. Laying his body on a bed of ice, a bluefin tuna with dilapidated scales, crippled and beautiful only in death.
Hannibal's eyes flicker down to House's thigh. He imagines the crevice. He pictures the skin as angry, red, taut, but…if the injury were older, browner, more calloused, scarred. If only…if only he could take a look. He would be sure to wear gloves.
Oh how easy it would be to corner him. Comically so. Wait for the halls to clear…and rise. The pinnacle of precision the entire time. Prey very rarely catch on until it's far too late. House is smart, maybe he’d catch on sooner than most. This would not alter his fate. Hannibal inhales steadily, his eyes fluttering shut at the tangy smell of oozing pain that cakes into the walls. Eyes flick down to House’s outstretched leg, and the hand that massages it. Lucky for Hannibal, he can’t run.
House is so used to being ten steps ahead of everyone. So used to looking behind he’d never bother to spot the beast waiting for him around the corner.
"How many more ways do you need me to tell you to leave? I can say it in…Spanish, German, and Japanese.
Hannibal chuckles, the sound deep and throaty. "How about French?" He adjusts his cufflinks, sitting up a bit more.
"Gross." House frowns, his eyes finally flicking up from the file.
Hannibal meets his gaze, his steady heart allowing a single quick beat. "Lithuanian?"
"Ar tu prostitutė?"
Hannibal laughs. "I'm sure that comes in handy."
House fights the subtle warmth that settles on his chest. "Some of my favorite hookers are Lithuanian. Now go away."
It feels wrong, in a way. Not cruel necessarily, because cruelty was not a concern. Remember, this man would deserve it, certainly. He’d lock the door, pull the blinds, and come up with some feeble excuse as to why the chase has begun. He would prowl around the office a few times, and House would be none the wiser. He’d still be in his own little world, unaware that he’s a sitting duck. A snide comment here, just to get on his good side. He could allow that just this once. A wolf in sheep’s clothing dawns many skins, no matter how uncivil. And yet… Hannibal remains seated. Why?
Playground rules, for one. Pick on somebody your own size. Or, of course, your level of ability.
He could offer a means to catch up, bribe him with buying him a few drinks at whatever local hole in the wall House frequents these days. People rarely change, and there wasn’t a day House didn’t show up to anatomy drunk. He’d buy him half a dozen drinks, slip a pill (or seven) into the amber liquid; just enough to make him dazed and ditzy. A polite offer to drive him home so he could rest; the car wouldn’t stop at Baker street.
He imagines House running, grunting, gripping onto his thigh, as he tries to fight back, hobbling through the nearby nature reserve just outside of the city. It would be unfair. Hannibal would be speed-walking, at best—a courtesy towards his prey. It would be unfair. Hannibal’s fingers slowly trail down towards his pants pocket, feeling the scalpel he’d nicked from the surgical department earlier. House would fight back, jabbing his cane at him or trying to tackle him to the ground. It would be unfair. House does have a few inches on him, but those inches mean nothing when he’s a wounded creature. It would be unfair. The battle would be over quickly, and House would succumb to his own inadequacy, collapsing onto the dried leaves and twigs of central Jersey. It would be unfair. The last thing he would feel is hatred for his own limitation.
That wouldn't do. That isn't right. In this scenario, Hannibal is forgotten entirely. He's simply…an animal. A plot device. No longer is he the maestro, simply a ruthless killer.
No. House should think only of him as the composed, pristine, commanding man he is. The Ripper, no, Hannibal could slowly close in, right here in this office. Each step, another one closer towards release. This kill wouldn’t be like his others. It would be personal. He could lean over his shoulder, pretend to be peering at the file on the desk in front of House. Gently reach his hand towards his shoulder. The gesture would be mistaken for a friendly touch of a begotten classmate. Feel his hot breath on his cheek, lean in closer; close enough that their lips were a breath away. House would turn his head away, reject him, and return to the file. Lower his guard once more, just enough for steady hands to wrap around his neck and snap it. There’d be no resistance, no fear or fight to taint his tender meat.
House is ignoring his presence now, fully enveloped in diagnosing. Hannibal licks his teeth.
It lacks…sophistication. Hannibal cringes a little as images of industrialized farming flash in his mind's eye. Cattle pressed so closely they stumble over their own hooves, bred to be fat and useless. When he thinks of the meat presented before him, it is so easy it's almost nauseating. Hannibal's hand finds the breast of his suit, brushing across his chest, pushing the bile back down.
Still…the dishes he could prepare with such a rude, deserving man would be nothing short of incredible. A tender tartar from his intestine, a roasted thigh braised over Chianti, minangkabau with his supple brains. His eyes flick up towards House and land on the pill bottle on his desk. He’d have to account for excess bitterness in his meat from the painkillers; of course—a vinegar soak. It would be doable, or would it?
And in his nausea, the same way all food becomes unappealing, he thinks of what's left of this meat. Clearanced, reduced. Not for Human Consumption. The hollowed thigh is likely no good. Gray, atrophied into tasteless rubber. The other, carrying the majority of House's weight, is spoiled as well, no doubt, tough with overuse, leathery. Not a steak, but a withered jerky.
That leaves him with…what? Organs- bitter with decay? His liver- yellowing, fatty with decades of alcohol consumption? Hannibal remembers House's reputation as far back as university. If there was free beer, there was Gregory House. No, it's likely all tainted now.
Hannibal’s mind is spinning. Kidneys- brown with waste. Lungs- ashen, shriveled like two raisins, from cigarette smoke; nicotine, tobacco, the true poison, coursing through his bloodstream and coating his vessels with its bitter tang. What a grotesque shame.
Ishmael teaches: ‘today the gazelle must die so the lion can eat. Tomorrow, the lion must starve so the gazelle can live.’
The lion would rejoice at an injured gazelle. But Hannibal knows better. Hannibal must know better.
A rattle brings Hannibal back to his senses, all five of them, heightened. Pills deposited, then administered, in practiced swiftness. They go down easier than his meat would, dry swallowed down into his gullet.
"To avoid pain is to deny your humanity," Hannibal says. It's condescending by nature.
House lobs the tennis ball at Hannibal with a pitcher's swing. It hits him in the crook of his shoulder.
And Hannibal. Hannibal sees a very injured deer, nibbling at the barrel of his gun. It's vile. The poor thing, fighting to its inevitable end. The bile rises again.
"Just reminding you of your humanity," House spits, turning his back on Hannibal- on the conversation. It's clear now that his attempts to get rid of him before were thinly veiled flirtations. This, now, was goodbye.
***
Doctor Lecter took it upon himself to visit the patient. The sight was not unexpected: unconscious, sedated, and hooked up to a multitude of various medical equipment. Mr. Farhat is skinnier; it’s an unappetizing sight. Still, the steady, rhythmic beeping lulls him into a trance-like state. It would be so easy to make a move now, to pull the plug and watch life seep from the center of his warm chest. The evidence would die along with him, not that it was a particular concern to him. The Chesapeake Ripper had nothing to do with the attack on this man.
House barrels into the room, sliding the door open with one hand while the other one carries his cane. He looks up, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he sees Hannibal bent over the patient in what he falsely interprets to be genuine regard for the patient’s well being. “Hands off, unless you plan on curing him by asking him about his relationship with his mother, in which case I’d love to see it.”
“I just wanted to get a sense of the illness with my own two eyes.” Hannibal smirks, taking a step back and tilting his chin upwards. He is not intimidated by the attacks House throws, simply amused. “I was a surgeon, once upon a time.”
House scoffs. “Well you know what they say about surgeons.” He moves around to the other side of the bed, leaning his cane against the side of the bed.
“I was under the impression you would rather remain in your office.” Hannibal offers his own attack, smoothed over and presented with a ribbon. He wouldn’t stoop down to his level, no. He would rise above it.
“Good to hear my reputation precedes me.” House snorts, grabbing a fistful of wires and ripping them from the wall. The steady beeps fade instantly and snap Hannibal out of his previous, relaxed daze. The machinery is no longer breathing for the patient. “Bossy, egotistical, not to mention competitive.” The shrill beeping of the dying machine rings out, undoubtedly alerting every nurse within the vicinity. “Or wait…that’s you.”
Hannibal cocks his head. His hands find their way onto the small of his back, clasping one another in an effort to physically restrain himself. He stares down at the prone patient, through him. The same dismal sight: unconscious and unmoving on the bed. “Giving up already?”
“Nope. Going to wake him up. The echocardiogram came back. It’s Takotsubo Syndrome.”
Hannibal’s brows furrow in genuine, academic interest. “Takotsubo syndrome is incredibly rare in young male patients.”
“I know. Hence the reason why I have these.” House holds up vials. “Beta blockers and ACE inhibitors should cure it right up. You can ask your questions, and we can all go back to never seeing each other again.” House quickly works to inject the patient with the two vials worth of medicine, not bothering to disinfect the patch of skin, discarding the needles afterwards. “And now we wait.”
Hannibal moves to take a seat in one of the two empty chairs near the door of the examination room. He swiftly unbuttons his jacket, crossing his legs in one smooth motion.
His gaze lands not on the patient, who still appears half dead and deceivingly lifeless, but on House. Hannibal can’t help but be drawn to the man; his faux abrasiveness, his intelligence. The way he pushes people away purposefully, never letting anyone see what’s truly beneath the surface. The two are alike in that sense. Hannibal has always been good at showing exactly what he wants to.
He wants to break the silence, say something, anything, but the patient gasps, shooting up, instantly reaching for the tube lodged down his throat.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” House jumps up, “One wrong turn and you’ll be puking. Much less mess if you let me take care of it.”
Thrashing against him, the patient groans as he claws at the tubes coming from his mouth. Still delirious from being put under and confused at where he even is. House grunts, trying to calm his flailing extremities. He flicks his eyes towards Hannibal, who sits crosslegged, unmoving, watching with interest. “Could use some help.”
Hannibal stands immediately, approaching the patient. With a firm grip, he grabs his wrists, holding them taut against the bed. House quickly maneuvers the intubation out of the patient, who gags and gasps a croaky thank you as it leaves his throat.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” “We put you in a medical induced coma a few days ago while we figured out what was wrong with you.”
“Did… did you figure it out?”
“Takotsubo syndrome: typically reserved for grieving widows, but I guess God made a special exception for an attempted murder victim. Completely treatable with a few pills.”
Mr. Farhat momentarily tenses up at the mention of the inciting incident. He seems otherwise relieved, eager to return to his mediocre life. “That’s great. So I can go home?”
“If it was up to me, I’d throw you out here myself! Unfortunately, my…colleague in suede has a few questions for you first.”
Hannibal nods, approaching the side of the bed. “Hello. I’m Doctor Lecter. I just have a few questions to ask you-“
House leaves the room, without a moment of hesitation. Hannibal finds himself staring at the doctor as he limps out, his face remaining a careful cold.
***
They leave the way they arrived: tired, quasi-strangers.
Cuddy is so, so sorry, but she can’t say her goodbyes at the door, she has a donor in her office that she's already kept waiting too long, but she is so honored to have had their presence and hopes to see them again soon. She wishes Will a swift recovery, reaching for his shoulder. He struggles not to flinch.
Hannibal thinks it's quite uncouth of her to put monetary gain ahead of properly seeing her guests off, even more so to reveal this to them. But then Cuddy, preening, reaches her hand out for Hannibal to shake and says, "Next time I'm in Maryland, you must show me the best spot for soft-shell crab!"
She's wondering if he's going to kiss her hand again. He obliges, pressing his lips to her wrist the appropriate amount of time (by European standards, anyway). She's earned it after all, played her role well. Polite, above all else– for the most part at least.
"The best spot is in my kitchen, of which you are most welcome."
Cuddy blushes, forgetting herself only momentarily. Hannibal respects that about her. Then, curtly, she nods twice. "Agent, Doctor," and strides to the office she first emerged from, swaying her hips excessively with each step.
She'll never take him up on the offer. They both know it.
Hannibal pats his breast pocket, feigning confusion. He turns to Will, smiling in a way he hopes is unreadable. "I left something important upstairs. You rest; I'll return shortly."
Will allows himself to be ushered by Hannibal onto a yellowing bench that sits in the hospital's entryway. He does not protest, nor inquire. Docile, beautiful.
***
Hannibal finds House exactly where he knew he'd be: sitting, no, perched on his old office chair, legs kicked up on the table, head lolled back in faux thought. To the untrained eye, he looks candid, uninhibited. To Hannibal, for Hannibal, he looks posed.
Indeed, House wanted Hannibal to come find him. It's poetic; the gazelle should crave the lion's kinship. The deer should yearn to rub its scent on the hunter's leg. The natural order is a cycle of trust and betrayal.
Hannibal creaks the door open, enters. House does not lift his head, nor acknowledge his presence in any real capacity.
Suddenly, all the things he wants to say feel juvenile. We're leaving. So, this is goodbye. I wish I could say this reunion was a pleasant one. It's all so very high school.
Surprisingly and before he has a chance to get the upper hand, it's House that breaks the silence. "Your little twink has encephalitis," he deadpans, and only now that it's safe, only now that the lion feels a momentarily jolt of adrenaline, does he lift his head, meeting Hannibal's impossibly measured gaze. "But you knew that."
Embarrassing as it is to admit, Hannibal did not consider this possibility before stepping in this colosseum of a room. It is a rare instance that he is caught off guard, even rarer to be left speechless. As a remedy to the latter and quite dumbly, he replies, "I am not a physician," as though to say, I had no idea.
It's a tantalizing thing, to be shocked. The body craves it, artificially inseminates it with rollercoasters and horror films. Typically, Hannibal prefers a more…hands on approach. This, though, is relatively new. He twitches with interest.
"Nope, just a pillpusher." House sounds incurious, and Hannibal takes it as an insult. He psychoanalyzes to cope.
The climax of euphoria from solving his case is waning. He is not quite back to his usual, anhedonic state, but it is certainly approaching. House still seems confident, ego inflated, but he is no longer buzzing. Hannibal tastes all of this in the air, stale and murky, though House would never believe it.
There's a short, strangely comfortable silence. Hannibal conjures up a relatively appropriate thing to say. "Even so…I had a suspicion the disease was inflammatory. I will inform Will of your diagnosis and order imaging studies as soon as we arrive home."
House scoffs. "No you won't."
All of Hannibal's instincts turn primal. Threat detected, threat detected, threat detected. House should be eliminated. House needs to be eliminated. He knows something, thinks he knows something, whatever it may be…he's a loose cannon, a loaded gun, he is the impending violence, the thorn in Hannibal's side. The perimeters of the room blur, leaving House sharpened, centered, vulnerable once again.
"Relax, Hanny," House swings his legs off the desk with little resistance nor strain. Evidently the case-solving high is being supplemented with opiods. "I won't either."
Hannibal thinks…Relax? What could possibly indicate that I'm panicking? But then he audits the muscles in his body and quickly finds that his jaw has tightened and his hands are balled into fists. He rolls his neck, washing it all away.
"You are a physician. You have a duty to inform Will of his diagnosis." Deflecting, he accuses House of the sins he is guilty of. It’s the Christian thing to do.
"Will is not my patient."
"If not a medical duty, a natural one, then." How quickly their conversations can turn into debates on natural order.
"I'm sort of an outlier there, too." House taps his leg for proof. Leaning in now, elbows perched on his desk, he continues, "I know you're hiding it from him. What I don't know is why? Did he piss in your cereal? Put Nair in your shampoo? My friend and I have a similar thing going, except we try to draw the line at avoidable, treatable death. You guys are totally hardcore."
Hannibal tucks his chin into his chest, smiling, enjoying the contrast of his pristine loafers against the filthy carpet. Soon, this miserable state will be behind him.
He feels a need to be honest. Not a need so much as an ability to be. In this spirit, he conjures up this: "Our interests are the same. I won't tell him because I take pleasure in observing his behavior in its most unadulterated state. To tell him would be to intervene in the natural order of life, to derive him of his fate. You will not for the same reason."
House has the audacity to look offended at this. Still, he speaks in an annoyingly nonchalant monotone, inflecting only to dig the knife of his feigned disinterest in Hannibal’s chest. "You know nothing about me. My puzzle is solved, both of them, 2 for 2. That's my motivation, I don't give a shit about your nutso mind games. Now go back to the hell from whence you came, you lunatic. Your big words are spoiling my high."
Something changes, then. A sinking realization, the shattering of glass. Hannibal looks back on the last few days of his life as a mirror into an exhilarating world he can never exist in. House and Hannibal's world. It is…uncompatible, evidently.
"You're a very rude man, Gregory House." Hannibal finds himself saying, although, of course, it goes without say. Something to fill the silence, maybe. He feels the walls closing in on him, feels his time here has come to an end. For a single, solitary moment, he feels completely out of control.
He thinks back to the moment in this very office, the thoughts he had then. Tries to decide if he regrets inaction. It is a question he will carry with him for months to follow. Is rudeness less important than intellect? It's as close to an identity crisis as he remembers feeling, and he commends House for crawling his way into his head, making a temporary home in the back corners with the spiderwebs and locked closets.
"And you're a weird one, Lecter. Out."
Hannibal obeys. It is the last time they ever see each other, indeed, the last time they ever speak.
The next time either man will be reminded of the others' existence will be in a news article or in an obituary. Both are sure of that fact. That is the natural order. Until then, Hannibal supposes, they're in a silent race to have their name land again on the other's desk. They race to be known, and they become worse for it.