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Stretching as he left the jail for the final time, Will Graham blinked against the sunlight streaking down through the shattered clouds. He felt just as shattered inside, both in mind and spirit; broken by the people he had trusted the most. Or the person. And he knew just the right way to get back at him. If he was to exact revenge on Hannibal, it wouldn't be through getting him convicted right off the bat for his near-countless murders; the good doctor was too sly and well-connected for that. Will would break him like he had been broken... but specially tailored to the peeves of the psychiatrist.
Hannibal's most apparent annoyance was with perfectionism. Will had noticed that whenever he visited Dr. Lecter (he kept the name formal with himself; no familiarities now) on business or otherwise, the psychiatrist would always have something in his study to correct: a couple of pens slightly off-center on the desk, one tilted picture frame, a statue not parallel with the edge of the stand. Even in his... murders... he would always be artistic, if not clean and efficient.
As he walked quickly down the sidewalk, Will dug his fingers into his temples. Even if he had puzzled the Chesapeake Ripper out of his metaphorical hidey-hole, it was still something he had to force himself to believe sometimes. He knew nobody would listen to him, least of all Jack or the crew; Dr. Lecter had made good his "friendship" and business with them. But it was out in the open to Will and his cracked porcelain mind: even if he had to be a Cassandra for however long, he'd work around it and eventually drag Hannibal's true nature into the light.
Will sidled up to the psychiatrist's house, sneaking in through the back way with the hidden key he'd seen Hannibal use on one occasion. He knew that according to his schedule, Hannibal should be out of the house and "helping" Jack at the office; he had a maximum of four hours to complete his task.
He felt suddenly woozy and in the next instant he was already in the study, shifting the immaculate desk just a few inches to the left. He swore quietly under his breath; the time skips still hadn't gone away. Will glanced up at the sunlight glinting through the smallish windows: maybe twenty minutes had elapsed? He couldn't trust the clock on the desk; he knew his history with clocks now.
Still knowing what to do, however, he left the desk in its new position. Ruffling up some papers and opening one drawer, he nudged some pens out of place. He made the writing pad just the smallest bit crooked, rotating the pencilholder to it wasn't parallel to the pad.
Will straightened up, shaking some cracks out of his back as he perused his handiwork with a slight grin. He cast his eyes around the rest of the study: his mission was just starting.
~~~
A time skip and three hours later, all the furniture was now two inches to the left and Hannibal still hadn't come home. Books were out of alphabetical order, the soup ladles were residing in the knife drawer, and the salt was rubbing shoulders with the inside of the pepper shaker. Will finished messing up the velvet on the last chair cushion, stepping back and pulling the chair with him just a bit. His alterations to the furniture's placement were so slight that the overall effect would be extremely disorienting to anybody, but would certainly be painful for Dr. Lecter. Especially the hidden chaos he'd wrought in the kitchen; that would hurt him close to home.
Will thought he should leave before it got dangerous to hang around. He left the way he came in, putting the key in (obviously) an inch off from where it had been. He crawled into the shrubs right under the window Hannibal always kept open for a pleasant breeze: the dining room window. And not a moment too soon: the front door clicked and Will soon heard the doctor himself talking... with Jack. This would be interesting. Their voices drifted out almost lazily through the window.
"So, Jack, what do you think about Will's stability now?"
"I have no idea. Accusing you like that... he must not have a very strong grasp on reality anymore."
"Certainly. Whenever I visited him in the jail, I requested he do his drawing test; they kept getting worse." The sound of cupboards shifting open clinked through the gap in the window as Will snorted under his breath.
"They released him though, didn't they? They judged him ok enough to leave, what do you think about that? ...Dr. Lecter?" Jack's voice took on a different tone towards the end of his sentence.
"...My pardon, Jack, go on." Hannibal's tone was terse. Will heard the sound of plastic spoons being moved from drawer to drawer; he grinned.
"Well, in my opinion, they should have kept him longer to help his state of mind. You've done the most for him in that area, really." Will shook his head quietly to himself, mouthing the word "no" over and over.
"If you say so, Jack. Why don't you go sit down; I'll present our meal soon." Will shuddered, hearing the silverware drawer clink. The investigator moved over to the dining table and settled in one of the slightly-off chairs. Desperately wanting to yell at him to get out of the cannibal's dining room, Will forced his mouth closed to listen to any sign of--
"Jack, did you touch anything when you came in?"
"Nothing except the hanger when I put my coat up, why?"
"...It's probably nothing. But everything is misplaced. Or it... seems like it, in any case." Will could almost hear the frown in the psychiatrist's voice. "I've bumped my foot more than once against furniture I've placed myself. And the utensils were misplaced; I never do that. I take pride in my organization."
"Maybe you just forgot?"
"I don't 'just forget'." A door clicked. "A thousand pardons, Jack, I will have to postpone this dinner."
"That's fine. I have work to do at the office anyhow. Meet me tomorrow early to talk about the new case."
"Yes, yes." The click of footsteps receeding to the front door sounded through the window, and after a short time Jack walked out of the house and drove away. Hannibal stayed at the table, his back to Will. He peeped up over the sill cautiously, noting Dr. Lecter's body language; he was very stressed: bent over slightly, pressing one index finger to his temple... Even that was enough for Will to tell that what he'd done was very effective.
"But... I indexed all my drawers just a few days ago; they could not have become that disordered in that short a time. And the furniture, the furniture's been the same for years..." Murmuring to himself, he normally calm man was becoming quite frazzled. "All the picture frames are tilted, the seats aren't straight... What about in the study...?" Hannibal straightened up and strode to the door to said room while Will ducked back down under the sill. He waited with bated breath, until...
Will had never heard Hannibal scream before. Now he could say that he had. He smiled rather contentedly to himself as he picked himself out of the petunias, dusted himself off, and walked away quietly. Not one time skip disturbed him on the way home as the yells of Perfectionist Dr. Lecter faded into the darkening distance.