Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The corpse was not, at a first glance, particularly interesting.  It was not particularly interesting at a second glance either.  Will took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and opened them again.  Nope.  Still not interesting.  What was the excuse Jack had given for forcing him to drive over an hour in the ungodly hours of the morning to look at this perfectly average corpse that was the result of a run-of-the mill homicide?  And why had he agreed, with his head pounding as aggressively as it was?

“…Will?  Are you even listening?”

Jack’s annoyed tone and slightly concerned expression suggested that he’d been trying to get Will’s attention for a while.  Well, if he’d wanted Will to have any sort of productive conversation with him and the rest of the team, maybe he shouldn’t have forced him to travel to the middle of nowhere at fuck o’clock in the morning to look at this crime scene (which, by the way, was clearly not the work of the Alleyway Killer, no matter what Jack thought).

Will sighed internally and turned to face Jack Crawford.  

“Sorry.  What were you saying, again?”

“I was asking if you think that this homicide could be the work of the Alleyway Killer?”

Will made what he considered to be a valiant effort to avoid letting too much of his irritation seep into his response as he replied.

“The only connection between this murder and those of the Alleyway Killer is the fact that it happened in an alleyway.  There’s no post-mortem mutilation of the body.  All of this” —he gestured towards the lacerations on the victim’s body—  “happened before time of death, when the victim was still fighting back.”

He looked to Zeller for confirmation, who nodded.

“This is an argument gone deadly, not the work of a fledgling serial killer,” Will stated with certainty.  “Now can I go back to my house, or do you have anything else to bother me with, Jack?”

Jack gave Will a sharp look, on the verge of giving him a lecture on respect and professionalism, but something in Will’s expression stopped him.

“No, you can head back,” Jack responded simply.

“Great,” said Will, turning on his heels and stalking off in the direction of his car.  If traffic wasn’t bad, which it really shouldn’t be at five o’clock in the morning, he should be able to feed his pack breakfast on time.  Winston, still unused to the certainty of having meals at regular intervals, would undoubtedly be anxious if breakfast came later than usual.

Quickly staggering over to where he’d parked it, Will practically collapsed into the driver’s seat of his car.  His head was still pounding incessantly, but he did his best to ignore it as he set off back home with grim determination.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon arriving back home, Will immediately started preparing a meal for the dogs.  Only after ensuring his pack was adequately fed (and feeling on the verge of a full-on migraine), did Will make himself a meager breakfast out of Wonder Bread and almost-expired peanut butter.  Will nearly groaned out loud at the thought that he would have to add grocery shopping to his ever-increasing list of tasks to complete by Monday.  Did he really need food, anyway?

Will spent most of the rest of his day indoors making lures and grading his students’ mediocre essays whilst swallowing down more than the recommended dose of ibuprofen in a futile attempt to stave off the worst of his headache.  He had wanted to go fishing, but the day was bright and sunny and stepping out proved too painful to be worthwhile.  He found himself cursing (for the upteenth time) the “uncommon” side effects of heat suppressants.

Morning blurred into afternoon which blurred into evening, and, after a quick trip to the store to buy enough food to last the week, Will took another dose of ibuprofen before heading to bed and slowly drifting off to sleep.

Miraculously, the rest of his weekend passed by without any further frantic four o’clock calls from Jack Crawford, and Will had the rare privilege of being able to get enough sleep to cosplay as a functional human being come Monday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Monday afternoon, and Will was only on his second cup of coffee.  The day had been going pretty well, all things considered, and Will was finishing up giving his last lecture of the day to a group of largely unenthusiastic students when he saw Jack surreptitiously slip into the lecture hall— probably so he could corner Will about something or other before he disappeared from the building.

Sure enough, the second he concluded his lecture, before he even had time to ask his students if they had any questions (they never did), Jack strode up alongside him.

“Hey, Will.  Would you mind coming to my office with me?  There’s something we need to discuss.”

Will wondered if he was in trouble for his behavior towards Jack on Saturday.  It wasn’t like Jack could remove him from his unofficial profiling position unless he wanted his percentage of solved cases to drop dramatically, so Will figured he was in for a futile lecture on respect and cordiality toward his boss and colleagues.  Jack had to know that he wouldn’t change his behavior in the field.  Will wondered why he even bothered trying.

“Yeah, sure,” Will replied outwardly, already preparing to tune out whatever reprimand was about to come his way.

He trailed unenthusiastically behind Jack to his office.  To Will’s surprise, there was already a man sitting patiently in the office upon their arrival.  He was dressed in an expensive and elaborate-looking suit, which in Will’s experience meant that he was probably a wealthy bastard.  Great.  His broad shoulders and confident stature were typical of an alpha, but he didn’t give off that characteristic alpha scent.  A beta then.  Interesting.

Will continued to stare at the man silently, foregoing actual eye contact in favor of observing his cheekbones.  They looked almost unnaturally sharp, as though the skeleton inside the man was on the verge of ripping its way out of the flimsy layers of skin and muscle keeping it confined.

Given the disturbing comparison he had inspired, Will probably should not have found the man quite as attractive as he did.  But there was no denying the fact that the striking feature worked on him (whereas on Will, it would probably just make him look even more like a corpse than he already did).

The man was staring back, staring back directly into Will’s eyes.  Will could feel it, though he refused to give the man the satisfaction of making eye contact to confirm it.

Jack, perhaps sensing that this silent confrontation had the potential to continue on indefinitely, broke the silence first.

“Will, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Baltimore’s most renowned psychiatrist.”

Jack paused to give Will a chance to introduce himself.  When Will did no such thing, Jack sighed and continued.  “Dr. Lecter is here to support you and monitor your mental health because some… concerns have been raised about your capacity to handle a return to field work.  If you agree to attend regular sessions with him and allow him to inform me of your continued capacity to handle working in the field, you will not be made to take the official screening test for field agents.”  

The implied “which you failed the last time” went unsaid.

From Jack’s apparent annoyance at the situation, Will surmised that his supervisors had gotten onto his back about allowing an “unstable” agent to get directly involved in active cases, and that the situation he was about to be forced into with “Dr. Lecter” was the best compromise that he had been able to wrangle out of them.

A lot of words crossed Will’s mind, most of them expletives, but what ended up coming out of his mouth after passing through quite a few filters was “I don’t like psychiatrists.”

At that declaration, the corners of Dr. Lecter’s mouth twitched ever so slightly up, forming an expression that was almost a smile — but not quite.

“Have you had negative experiences with psychiatrists in the past, Will?” Dr. Lecter inquired, clearly already knowing the answer.  He had an accent, Will noted.  Frustratingly, he couldn’t identify it, beyond recognizing it as European.

“Yesss,” Will replied irritably, already annoyed by the doctor’s near-condescending amusement at his predicament.  He was probably a conceited bastard, like every other male psychiatrist that Will had the misfortune of meeting.  That ridiculous suit spoke for itself, really.  Who wears plaid and paisley together?

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dr. Lecter replied, sounding annoyingly genuine.

“Uh-huh.” Will replied, skeptical.

Dr. Lecter smiled enigmatically, but did not attempt to continue the conversation.

Jack, sensing another period of silence incoming, opted to skip to the only question that really mattered.  Looking directly at Will, he asked “So, are you willing to meet regularly with Dr. Lecter, or do I have to suspend you from field work for the time being?”

Will seriously considered refusing, but the thought of the lives he could save, the lives that had already been saved by his inclusion on active investigations, forced his hand.

“Fine.”  Will conceded through gritted teeth.

“Great!” exclaimed Jack, visibly relieved.

Will groaned internally, but he turned to again face the doctor.  “So, Dr. Lecter , when’s our first session?”

Dr. Lecter replied congenially, seemingly unphased by Will’s lack of enthusiasm.  “I have an opening on Mondays at 7:00 in the evening, if that works with your schedule?”

Will flashed Dr. Lecter an expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace.  “My schedule’s wiiiide open.”

“In that case, I’ll see you at my practice at 7:00 tonight.  I’m sure Agent Crawford will supply you with the address and my contact information.  It was nice meeting you, Will.”

With that, Dr. Lecter turned and strode out of the office.

Jack attempted to explain the doctor’s abrupt departure (like Will cared why he left so suddenly — good riddance).  “He has more patients to see today, I’m sure.”

“Good for him,” Will replied sardonically.  His headache was starting up again, so he took a handful of ibuprofens out of the bottle in his pocket and swallowed them dry.  Jack looked on in alarm and Will, sensing that he was about to make some sort of comment on his health, walked out of the office and hid in the decided to use the restroom before heading to his car.  It would be awkward to accidentally run into the doctor on his way out, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 4:00 by the time Will arrived back home, so he had about two hours to spare before driving to his (stupid, unnecessary) appointment.  

He spent the first of those two hours internally seething about his situation.  If it wasn’t for his fucking suppressants giving him constant headaches and migraines, nobody would be questioning his fitness for fieldwork and he wouldn’t have to waste three hours of his time visiting a pretentious psychiatrist every week.  He hoped Jack and his superiors were happy now, because he sure wasn’t.

Once his boiling anger had gone down to a simmer, Will started making dinner for everyone.  Today both he and his pack were going to have plain chicken and rice because he couldn’t be bothered to make something different for himself this time. 

At least his headache had died down for the time being.  Small mercies.

With half an hour before he had to leave, Will led his dogs outside to relieve themselves and enjoy the snow-free ground before winter came in full force.  Most of the trees near the farmhouse had already lost all their leaves, but the few stragglers remaining dotted the area with patches of orange and red.  Will exhaled, and a cloud of moisture formed from his breath.  He was going to have to start carrying gloves with him if he didn’t want his hands to freeze.

Once the chill started seeping into his bones, Will whistled sharply and all the dogs except for Winston immediately started running back towards the house.  Winston followed a few moments later, not wanting to be away from the rest of the pack.

Now back inside, Will checked the time and grabbed his keys and wallet from where he had left them on the kitchen counter.  He would probably arrive a few minutes early, but he was too restless to wait around any longer.  Besides, he might encounter traffic on his way and the doctor seemed the type to pitch a fit if he arrived a few minutes late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The drive turned out to be mostly traffic-free, and Will arrived at the address a bit earlier than he would have liked.  He parked his car directly in front of the three-story building, and walked up to the imposing wooden door.  The only indication that he was at the correct address was a small metal plaque proclaiming the building as the office of “Hannibal Lecter, MD, PsyD”.  Of course he had both titles.  And he had been too distracted to take note of it during their introduction, but what kind of a name was Hannibal?  A European one probably, considering the doctor’s accent, but still.  Hannibal?

Will tentatively tried opening the door, half-expecting it to be locked, but it opened smoothly and near-silently.  He gently closed it behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible.  He didn’t know exactly why — maybe it was the building’s old world grandeur, or the mildly intimidating interior decorating, or the lack of a secretary — but he felt as though he was a prey animal entering the territory of a big cat, like a tiger or panther.

He mentally reminded himself that Dr. Lecter was just a psychiatrist.  He was making this appointment out to be a bigger deal than it was, he was much more likely to get bored and annoyed than eaten.  He slowly ascended the wooden staircase to the second floor, stopping at the landing to stare incredulously at a very expensive-looking oil painting of “Saturn Eating His Son,” according to the fine-print caption.  Weren’t psychiatrists supposed to make a welcoming environment for patients?  That painting did not look particularly welcoming.  Perhaps this appointment wouldn’t be quite as boring as he had feared, Will thought to himself.  At least the man had… interesting taste in art.

The second floor, unlike the first, actually had some seating and a couple small tables, enough to reasonably be considered a waiting room.  The usual National Geographic and tabloid magazines ubiquitous to waiting rooms nationwide were absent.  In their place were a smattering of paperback books — mostly classics — and a large coffee-table-book of paintings from the Italian renaissance.  Despite the fact that the room contained a comfortable-looking couch, Will opted to sit in one of the wooden chairs as he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.  At 7:00 on the dot, the door opened and Dr. Lecter walked a few steps into the waiting room.  Holding the door open, he addressed the younger man. 

“Will.  Please, do come in.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Lecter’s office was no less intimidating than the first floor and waiting room had been, with high ceilings and a narrow loft filled to the brim with books.  The red curtains in front of the windows were mostly drawn, letting just a bit of the natural evening light in.  The majority of the room was instead illuminated by lamplight, bathing everything in a soft warm glow and making the room seem more compact than it truly was.  At least this room didn’t have a creepy oil painting, Will supposed. 

Not wanting to start a conversation with the psychiatrist just yet, Will walked over to a dark mahogany desk which appeared to be covered in sketches.  On the top of the pile was a sketch of an old and ornate enclosed bridge crossing over a canal, connecting two stone brick buildings.  A few empty boats could be seen floating in the canal, but it was clear that the bridge was meant to be the subject of the piece.  The conspicuous absence of any living being gave the sketch an empty, almost melancholic feel despite the meticulous and lovingly rendered pencil strokes.  The “H. Lecter” in the bottom corner marked the sketch as the doctor’s own work, and Will found himself mildly impressed by the talent required to create such a detailed drawing.

“The Bridge of Sighs, located in Venice, Italy,” said a voice right behind Will.

Will practically jumped out of his skin, nearly crashing his knees into the front of the desk. 

“Jesus Christ!  Would it kill you to make a bit of noise when you move around?”

“Quite possibly,”  Hannibal responded, with no small amount of amusement.

Will wondered if the man always spoke like he knew a joke that nobody else was in on.  He was beginning to think so.

“Newly sentenced convicts were made to walk through the bridge as they were escorted to prison.  For many, it was the last glimpse they would ever get of the city, and their last taste of daylight,” Hannibal continued, undeterred by Will’s outburst.  “It became quite notorious after a fashion.”

“Sounds like it would be right at home next to ‘Saturn Eating His Son’ on the stairway,” Will replied sardonically. 

“Would it surprise you to know that you are the first to comment on that particular painting?” Hannibal asked, moving to stand beside Will and joining him in staring at the sketch.

“Depends.  How long has the painting been there?”  Will gently moved aside the sketch of the bridge to see what was behind it.  The next drawing was of a gothic-era church that Will could not identify, but which he was sure that the doctor knew the name of, along with a dozen facts about its construction and history.

“Almost three years,” Hannibal answered.

Will looked up from the church sketch to stare at Hannibal(’s forehead) in disbelief.  “You must have some very unobservant patients.”

“Most people stumble blindly through the world, oblivious to anything that is not right in front of their faces,” Hannibal replied.  “My patients are no exception.”

“You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of humanity,” Will noted.

“I do not,” Hannibal agreed.

“Neither do I.”

The two men lapsed into silence, and Will began to pace around the room.  He was half-expecting the doctor to ask him to sit down, or at least stop moving around, but no such admonishments came.

Curious as to how much generally impolite behavior the doctor would let him get away with, Will walked over to the ladder and climbed up to the mezzanine.  His eyes roved over the bookshelves and he noted at least three different languages in the collection, not including English.

“How many languages do you speak?” Will asked incredulously.

“Five fluently, and another two well enough to carry a basic conversation,” Hannibal answered.

“Jesus Christ,” Will muttered under his breath.  He took one of the English books off the shelf at random and looked at the front cover.  It turned out to be a medical textbook detailing common emergency surgeries and when to perform them.  Will put it back in its place and, upon realizing that he was rapidly running out of ways to avoid talking about himself, picked it back up and commented “I wasn’t aware psychiatrists had to know how to perform emergency surgeries.”

“I was a surgeon before I became a psychiatrist,” Hannibal replied concisely.  Being a fucking psychiatrist, he continued by commenting “Our appointment started almost ten minutes ago, and other than your comment on humanity, you’ve yet to say a single word about yourself or your reason for being here, not even to complain about it.  I find that quite interesting.  Most of my patients are all too happy to talk about themselves, and those that aren’t find themselves doing so just to fill the silence.”  

Will opted not to respond.

“You seem to be largely immune to that particular pressure,” Hannibal continued, sounding almost appreciative.

Will was starting to get the sense that Hannibal was not very fond of most of his patients, and that he was willing to indirectly say as much to Will for some reason.  Was this another sneaky psychiatrist trick for getting an uncooperative patient to open up?  Give the patient the illusion of a special camaraderie with their psychiatrist so that they’d be more willing to express vulnerability?  Will supposed he had to appreciate the doctor’s audacity, if nothing else.

Will placed the surgery book back onto the shelf and picked up another at random.  This one turned out to be a thin hardcover book written in a language that used the cyrillic alphabet, maybe Russian?  Will flipped through the pages and, although he couldn’t read a single word, the formatting alone suggested it was likely a collection of poetry.

Will picked up and looked at a couple more books before reluctantly making his way back down the ladder and onto the ground, where Hannibal was waiting patiently for him.  Sighing in annoyance, he asked “So, doctor, what do I have to do to convince you that I’m stable enough to work on active investigations without losing my mind?”

Hannibal smiled at him and handed him a document with his signature on it.  “This paper is an official confirmation of my belief that you are mentally competent and more or less sane.  Congratulations.”

Will looked at the paper bemusedly.  “Did you just rubber stamp me?”

“Would you prefer that I make you answer an exhaustive list of questions, most of which have little or no relevance to your ability to handle active investigation work?”

“No, definitely not,” Will replied.

“Well, in that case, I believe we are done with our appointment for today.  I look forward to seeing you next week, Will Graham.”

“Okay, great,” Will replied as he made for the door, nonplussed but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hannibal somehow managed to reach the door before him despite Will’s head start, and held it open for him as Will walked out.

Will felt the psychiatrist’s eyes on him as he made his way down the stairs, a feeling that didn’t entirely fade until he walked out of the building and into the twilight haze of the city.

Chapter Text

Will didn’t present as an omega until after his dad died.  

He felt bad for thinking it, but he was glad that Beau Graham never lived to find out that his son was an omega.  He and his father had been poor throughout all of his childhood and he knew that the man would have been tempted by the eye-catching price that male omegas could sell for.  

He wouldn’t have done it out of malice or disregard for his son—he would have felt that selling Will off to a wealthy alpha was unfortunate, but necessary for Will’s own well-being.  Omegas were barred from most jobs and had a similar legal status to that of children—arranging a marriage for his son would have been the only way Beau Graham could see to keep Will clothed, fed, and housed.  

It never would have occurred to him to do what Will did in his absence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will was a late bloomer.  By the time he presented as an omega, he had already graduated high school and been accepted into New Orleans University with a partial scholarship.  He spent his first heat terrified, holed up inside his house and wondering if his life as he knew it was over, feeling all his hopes and dreams shatter into a thousand tiny shards as they brutally collided with an unyielding floor.  

Then, once the worst of his heat passed and he was able to think coherently again, he began researching.  

Where there’s a will there’s a way, the saying goes, and Will was nothing if not determined.  He refused to let this unexpected and unwelcome secondary gender get in the way of his independence and career ambitions, not when they were just starting to come into fruition!

By the third day after his first heat, Will had found a contact in New Orleans willing to sell him heat suppressants under the counter, and he had put his father’s house up for sale to pay for college and the costly medication.  A month after that and Will was in New Orleans, moving into student housing and washing down his first dose of suppressants with black coffee.

Will knew the risk he was taking with his long-term use of heat suppressants.  The only legal, on-label use for the medication was as a temporary means of ensuring that mated omegas didn’t have to suffer through a heat alone while their alpha was unavailable, or ensuring the same for recently widowed omegas who had not yet taken a new mate.  Because of this, the suppressants had only ever been tested for short-term usage and the potential negative side effects of long-term usage were unknown to science.

But they were not unknown to Will, not anymore.  By this point Will had been taking heat suppressants continuously for over a decade, and the original side-effects he had felt—consisting of occasional headaches and hot flashes—had progressed to chronic headaches with occasional migraines, and frequent night sweats that soaked his sheets and left him tired and sleep-deprived.  

Will didn’t know if his reactions to the suppressants were common with long-term use or just part of his unfortunate genetic makeup—it’s not like he had anyone else to compare his experiences with.  Not that it really mattered whether or not he was having an unusually bad experience—the price of stopping his suppressants and revealing himself as an omega was simply too much to pay, no matter how these side-effects continued to progress.  Will had already decided that he would rather die than give up his freedom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was in the middle of one of these aforementioned night sweats that Will was woken up on Friday night (technically Saturday morning) by the ringing of his cell phone.  There was only one person with Will’s phone number who frequently called in the middle of the night, so Will picked up the phone from where it had been tossed onto his nightstand earlier that evening and groggily answered it without bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Will!” Jack practically shouted into the phone.  “I need you here as soon as possible.  A displayed body was just reported, and first impressions indicate that it might be the work of a new killer.  I’ve already texted you the address.”

Will groaned and checked his phone.  The address was about an hour away, but there was no way he was going anywhere without showering and putting his sheets in the wash first.

“I can be there in just under two hours,” Will replied.

“Two hours!” Jack exclaimed, sounding irritated.

“I think two hours is pretty generous for a 12:30 wakeup call, Jack,” Will shot back grumpily.  It’s not like he was getting paid to be on-call 24/7.  Honestly, Jack should be grateful he was willing to come that night at all.

Jack started talking again, something about an apartment and chains, but Will cut him off.

“See you in two hours, Jack,” he interrupted, hanging up immediately afterwards.

Already in a bad mood, Will stood up and stripped the sheets from his bed before undressing.  He proceeded to unceremoniously dump the sweat-soaked sheets and clothes into the washing machine and powered it on at the highest setting.  Then, he went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Will decided to take a cold shower in the hopes that it would wake him up enough to not be a danger on the road.  And sure enough, by the time he was walking out the front door—only just remembering to grab his phone in his rush to get this over with—he was wide awake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack was outside the apartment complex talking to a local police officer (who looked a bit green in the face) when Will pulled up.  As soon as Will stepped out of his car and into the red-and-blue-tinted chaos of the late-night crime scene, Jack beckoned him over. 

Not wanting to waste time, Will strode up to him and looked at him expectantly.

Jack greeted Will genially, perhaps chastised by Will’s unsubtle reminder over the phone that he was not getting paid enough for this shit.  

“Will, thank you so much for coming at this late hour!  The crime scene is on the third floor, let me show you over.” 

As they walked together to the grimy stairwell, Jack started to fill Will in on the investigation. 

“The local PD has actually done their job for once, and managed to keep the scene uncontaminated.  Everything is exactly how it was when it was first called in, so hopefully you’ll be able to make something of it.  We thought it might be the Ripper at first, with how the body was posed, but there were no organs taken and the stabbing was much sloppier than his usual style,” he explained.

Will nodded along, but didn’t contribute anything in response.  It was way too late (or way too early) to be talking any more than necessary.

At last, after three flights of stairs, they arrived at the crime scene.  Beverly, Zeller, and Price were already there, taking photographs and collecting samples.

“Hi Will!” Beverly greeted as she photographed a particularly nasty blood spatter on the right wall, sounding much too chipper for 2:00 in the morning.

“Hey, Beverly,” Will replied halfheartedly, his attention focused on examining the scene.

The door to the apartment opened straight into the combined living room and kitchen, where the body had been positioned next to the far wall, facing the front entrance.  It was blocking a doorway to what Will presumed was the bedroom, given the small size of the apartment.  

The victim was a young man, no older than thirty, who looked as though he had been in good health before he had been killed, with muscular arms and a sturdy build.  His body had been forced into a kneeling position, with two metal chains wrapped around each of his shoulders and connected to the doorframe to keep his upper body upright.  His head was bent downward with vacant eyes staring at the floor in front of him, as though submitting to something greater than himself.  He was completely naked, though his hands were placed over his groin in some strange caricature of modesty.  His wrists were also chained, this time to the ground, as well as to each other.  

Although Will would have to wait for the autopsy to determine an official cause of death, he was willing to bet that it was probably from the multitude of stab wounds on and around the man’s chest.  He understood now why Jack had described them as sloppy—the stab wounds were scattered all around the chest area, and many of them appeared to be shallow.  It had likely taken the victim a while to die from blood loss.

“The victim has been identified as  Lance Wheeler, a 28 year old white male alpha,” Jack contributed as Will continued his silent investigation.  “His girlfriend had plans to spend the night with him, and it was she who first alerted the police after letting herself in, having noticed that the door was unlocked.  The lock shows signs of having been picked, so we believe that is how the perpetrator gained entry.”

“Do you have anything to confirm her innocence?” asked Will.

“She has an alibi—her roommate backs up her story of having been at her own apartment up until thirty minutes before she made the 911 call.  It would have taken her at least ten minutes to travel here, and it would be very hard to get all of this done in just twenty minutes.  We’ll be able to know for certain once we have an official time of death, but all signs point to him having died hours before she could have possibly gotten here,” Jack responded.

Will nodded in acknowledgement, and stepped up closer to the corpse.  He wanted to get a better look into the bedroom, but the chains prevented him from getting through the doorway.  As he approached the body from the side, he noticed a savage bite mark on the nape of the victim’s neck, clotted with dried blood.  It was in the exact spot where an alpha would bite their omega to claim ownership and establish a bond.  Will was sure that this detail was going to end up being a key aspect of the case, and he grimaced at the thought—he especially hated working on cases that revolved around secondary gender.

Overall, the display felt vindictive to Will—as though it was meant to be a punishment for some perceived sin.  Figuring out what sin this man was being punished for would be the key to finding his killer, Will was certain.  But in order to get a better idea of what exactly this man had done to earn his killer’s ire, he would have to go deeper.

“I need everyone to clear the room,” Will stated softly, but it was loud enough for Jack to hear.

In response, Jack clapped his hands and yelled “Everybody Out!” 

There was a bit of commotion as all the agents and officers tried to exit through the single narrow doorway, but within a minute Will was left alone in the room, mentally readying his forts for yet another journey into the mind of a killer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will stepped back a few paces, closed his eyes, and when he opened them the room was lit not by the overhead lights and red-and-blue rave outside, but by the soft glow of evening sunshine coming in through the side window.  The body was gone from the doorway, and the bloodstains were gone from the walls.  He moved softly through the apartment, setting down his bag of supplies just outside the door to the bedroom.  He would need both hands for what was to come next.

The door was already slightly ajar, and the soft sound it made as it was gently pushed open wasn’t registered by the human animal inside until it was too late.  The beast turned its head to the doorway, but before it had any chance to act, Will launched himself across the room and stabbed a knife into its chest with all the strength he could muster.  The beast was physically stronger than him, he knew, but it did not have a weapon.  It began screaming now, so Will shoved a rag into its mouth and the screams became muffled.  He stabbed the beast again and again and again, until he was certain it was dead.  Then, he dragged it through the doorway and grabbed the chains from his bag.  He did have a message to deliver, after all.

Will shook his head rapidly to bring himself back to reality, and abruptly sat down on the floor as a feeling of dizziness overtook him, accompanied by a black fuzziness blocking out the edges of his vision.  He hadn’t been able grasp onto as much of the killer’s motivations as he’d have liked—beyond the fact that the killer saw their victim as some sort of savage beast to be eradicated, he hadn’t learned anything useful.

Will heard Jack reenter the room, take a few steps, and stop.

“You good?” he asked brusquely—more out of obligation than anything else, Will thought.

“Fine,” Will answered curtly.

And he was fine—the room had stopped spinning, and the fuzzy blackness at the edges of his vision was starting to recede.

Wanting to avoid any more awkward comments on his well-being, Will launched straight into giving Jack his assessment of the crime scene and the killer.

“This killing was meant as both a punishment for some perceived transgression of the victim, and a message to others who have done the same—‘this is what you deserve, this is what’s coming for you.’  The victim was not a full human to the killer, but some savage beast that needed to be put down.  Whatever they did was, in the killer’s mind, enough to revoke their humanity and their right to life.”

“And what was this transgression?” Jack asked.

Will huffed in annoyance.  “I’m an empathizer, not a mind-reader, Jack.”

Sensing Jack’s frustration with that answer, he continued.  “The bite mark is the most telling aspect of this display—I’m sure you’ve noted the significance of its placement.”

Jack nodded.

“Well, my best guess at the moment is that it’s meant as some sort of humiliation.  The killer thought that this man wasn’t worthy of being an alpha, for whatever reason, and opted to show that by putting his body in a submissive position and giving him a marking characteristic of omegas, implying that he was just as weak and helpless as they are perceived to be.”  Will had to force himself to set aside his anger at that particular belief.

Jack nodded with satisfaction at Will’s theory.  “That’s what I was thinking as well, especially with the addition of the chains—the whole thing screams of a display of power and superiority.”

While the theory made sense, and Will knew that it was the most logical conclusion to arrive at with the evidence at hand, something about it didn’t sit quite right with him.  He decided to set that nagging doubt aside for the moment, though.  He really just wanted to be back at his house with his dogs and his bed, and trying to communicate his vague uncertainties to Jack would only serve to prolong his time spent here for no good reason.

Will tried to stand back up and the dizziness and black fuzziness returned with a vengeance.  His sense of balance failed him as his vision blacked out entirely, and he fell to the ground with an undignified thump.  Jack was saying something to him, he could tell, but the words turned into an incomprehensible static in his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  By the time his vision and hearing came back online, Jack, Beverly, Price, and Zeller were crouched in a circle around him, their faces expressing varying levels of concern.  Will felt a palm press against his forehead and he weakly swatted it away.

“You’re burning up, Will,” Beverly said.  Apparently it had been her palm encroaching on his personal space.

Will lifted his head off of the floor to glare in her general direction and was rewarded for his efforts with a sudden stabbing pain in his head.  Now sitting upright, he fumbled around in his pockets for his bottle of ibuprofen—though he doubted that it would be of much help at this point—and found nothing but his phone and car keys.

“I’m fine ,” he told Beverly, belatedly and rather unconvincingly.

“Uh huh,” Beverly responded doubtfully, though she still reached out a hand to help Will to his feet.

“You were passed out for almost two minutes,” Zeller informed Will, much to his displeasure.  “Jimmy and I were about ten seconds from dumping his thermos full of ice water onto your head.”

Will turned to look at Price and, sure enough, he was holding a metal thermos with the top screwed off.

“Why are you carrying around ice water?” Will asked bemusedly.  “It’s fifty degrees outside!”

“Because it tastes better ,” Price replied in a tone which suggested that he’d had to defend this decision many times before.

Before Will could start an argument with Price about ideal drinking water temperatures, Beverly led him over to a bench and stared at him menacingly until he sat down.  The pain in his head had changed from stabbing to pounding in nature, which he supposed could be considered an improvement by some standards, though it was still too incessant for him to think clearly.

Jack followed Will over to the bench and told him, in a tone which Will thought was meant to be reassuring but came off more as ominous, “He should be here in about fifteen minutes to drive you home.”

“...He?” Will asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Dr. Lecter,” Jack informed, pretending to be oblivious to Will’s grimace at that admission.  Sometimes Will wondered if Jack, being an alpha, could somehow sense Will’s secondary gender on a subconscious level—he was never this overbearing with any of the other agents.

“Who’s Dr. Lecter?” Beverly asked curiously.

“My psychiatrist,” Will replied, with great misery.

Will then put his head in his hands and ignored all other attempts at conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later Dr. Hannibal Lecter appeared out of the stairwell, dressed in a fancy-looking peacoat and looking far too put-together for this late into the night.

“You actually came here,” Will said flatly—he’d kind of been hoping that his conversation with Jack had been some sort of weird hallucination caused by a lack of blood to the head, and that he could actually leave this disaster with some fragment of his dignity intact.

“Whyever wouldn’t I?” Dr. Lecter asked quizzically.  Once again, Will could feel amusement radiating off of him like light beams out of a particularly annoying sun.

“You agreed to be my unofficial psychiatrist, not my fucking chauffeur .  Especially not at two in the morning.”  

“You fainted, and remained unconscious for over a minute afterward.  From a medical standpoint, that is concerning.”

Will scoffed and moved to stand up, but another wave of dizziness overtook him.  Before he could topple over once again, Dr. Lecter strode to his side and caught him, keeping him upright even as Will was forced to rest most of his weight on the man.  Will felt like some sort of fragile fainting maiden from a fucking fairy tale, bound by stereotype to be rescued from her predicament by the valiant and chivalrous prince.  

For fuck’s sake.

Will gave the doctor the harshest, most withering glare he could muster up, but he had a terrible hunch that it came off less as intimidating, and more like how Buster had looked at Will while he was tending to a cut the terrier had gotten after losing a fight to a particularly vicious squirrel.

Judging by the absolutely patronizing smile Hannibal sent his way, Will was probably right about that.

At that point, Will gave up on defiance and allowed Hannibal to walk him down the flights of stairs and over to his car.  Which was a Bentley—of course it was.  Will took great delight in placing his mud-and-slush-laden boots onto the spotless floor of the vehicle, but the doctor didn’t so much as sigh in response.  He felt cheated.

Before starting the engine, Hannibal handed Will a water bottle and demanded suggested that he drink as much of it as he could.  Will considered refusing on principle, but he knew that this was the one thing short of prescription medication that might actually help with his headache, so he reluctantly took a few sips.  The water tasted fancy, somehow.  Maybe it was collected by hand from an ephemeral spring in the Alps, or something.  He wouldn’t put it past the doctor, what with the Bentley and the suits and all.

Will rested his forehead against the window, the coolness of the glass finally doing something to soothe his headache (or maybe that was the expensive Alps water).  He soon found himself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the rumbling of the engine and the soft classical music playing through the car stereo as Hannibal navigated out of the city and onto the highway that would take them to Wolf Trap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will was awoken from his slumber by Hannibal gently shaking his shoulder, softly informing him that they had arrived at his home.  He blinked blearily, his mind reluctant to return to full alertness.

Will managed to get out of the car and up to his front door without assistance, though Hannibal trailed closely behind him in case his sense of balance decided to fail him once again.  He had a moment of indecision at the door—the polite thing to do would probably be to let Hannibal in, maybe offer him a drink, but Will really just wanted to go back to sleep.  He unlocked his door and started to swing it open, still not sure how to navigate the situation.

His dogs, apparently, shared none of his misgivings as all seven of them proceeded to swarm him and Hannibal as soon as the door opened wide enough for them to get through.  If Hannibal was surprised by the amount of dogs he did not show it, instead opting to pet Zoe and Buster, who seemed especially eager to make his acquaintance.

“Sorry about that, they don’t get to meet many guests,” Will said.

“No need to apologize,” Hannibal replied with a smile.  “What are their names?”

“Buster, Zoe, Ellie, Max, Jack, Winston, and Harley,” Will replied, pointing out each dog as he went through the names.  His dogs were one of the few things he was always willing to talk about, even while in a bad mood.

Hannibal greeted the dogs, and indulged Buster and Zoe with a few more pets, but it was clear to Will that he was trying his best to avoid getting any dog hairs on his clothing.

The corners of Will’s mouth twitched up at that observation—Hannibal was fighting a losing battle there, especially if he was planning on coming inside.

But Hannibal lingered only long enough to encourage Will to see a doctor, and to sigh softly when Will emphatically refused.  Will had heard stories of omegas living as betas getting caught out by blood tests or MRIs, and he would not risk becoming yet another cautionary tale just because of a little fainting spell.

By the time Will realized that he should probably thank the doctor for going over an hour out of his way to drive Will home—even if his help was unneeded and unwanted—he was already gone, headlights fading into the darkness of the forest road.

Chapter Text

Will’s students seemed more distracted than usual, even for a Monday.  Will was reasonably certain that it wasn’t because of the topic of his lecture—the fighting patterns of organized vs. unorganized killers was typically riveting enough to capture the attention of even the most distracted students, especially with the accompanying photos.  Even so, his students seemed to be more interested in checking their phones and not-so-surreptitiously whispering to each other than they were in paying attention to his slideshow.

He decided to ignore his student’s quite frankly rude behavior for the time being, and finished up his lecture without acknowledging it.  He was, in fact, just about to step off of the podium and head to his desk to begin his usual routine of seeming busy and unapproachable, when a student raised their hand—actually raised their hand!  Will had been using a combination of subtle manipulations and intimidation tactics to discourage his students from asking questions since the beginning of the semester—it had been weeks since anyone had raised their hand during his class.  At least this student (he never bothered with remembering any of their names) had the decency to look absolutely petrified about it, he supposed.

“What is it?” Will asked, pointedly refusing to conceal the annoyance in his tone.

“Are you doing okay?”  The student managed to sound both genuinely concerned and like they were severely regretting their decision to open their mouth.

“...Yes?” Will replied with confusion.  He didn’t think he looked any worse for wear than usual, in fact he was feeling better than expected for a Monday.

The student scampered off after that puzzling exchange, along with the rest of the class.  Once the lecture hall was clear of students, Will headed for the door, with plans to go down to the morgue and take another look at the corpse from Friday.

He peered out into the hallway to check that it was clear of any lingering students and spotted Alana walking towards his lecture hall, looking a bit agitated.  Accepting that it was too late to disappear without her spotting him, he waved her over.

“Hey Will, did you see—”

“The new Tattlecrime article?” Will interjected, putting two and two together.

“So you’ve read it then?” Alana asked for confirmation, sounding relieved.

“No I haven’t, actually.  How bad is it?” Will asked in turn, already exasperated by this new development.  Would it really kill Freddie Lounds to mind her own business for two fucking seconds?

“It’s all a bunch of speculation about your… collapse on Friday, about how it’s yet another sign of your ‘obvious instability’ and ‘impending psychological collapse’.  Lord knows how she managed to find out about that.” 

She paused for a moment, as though collecting her thoughts.  

“That was quite a way to find out that my friend lost consciousness at a crime scene, by the way,” she added pointedly, hands on her hips.

Were they friends, Will wondered.  He was pretty sure he didn’t have any friends.

“I didn’t think it worth mentioning,” he responded, which did absolutely nothing to quell the waves of hurt and irritation coming off Alana.

“You should probably read it, just to know what it might cause people to think.  It’s gone a bit viral.”

“I figured,” Will said dryly.

There was no better time than the present to get this over with, Will supposed, so he fished his phone out of his pocket and typed into the search bar, with great reluctance, “Tattlecrime.com.”

Sure enough, an article titled “Will Graham, Unstable Profiler, Collapses at Crime Scene” was the first thing to come up, right on the top of the webpage.  Beneath it was another article: “New Killer on the Loose? Gruesome Scene on Butcher’s Hill Says Yes!”  Apparently Freddie’s informant, whoever they were, had also given her pictures of the crime scene.  Jack was going to be apoplectic about that, Will was certain.

Will tapped on the headline about him and opened up the rest of the article.

Will Graham, Unstable Profiler, Collapses at Crime Scene

In the early hours of the night on Saturday morning, Special Agent Will Graham appeared to collapse onto the ground while surveying the gruesome murder that occurred earlier that night.  According to a source who wishes to remain anonymous, “He just fainted out of nowhere, it was crazy!  I always knew he was a bit strange, but this is on a whole new level.”  Upon being asked what actions the FBI and local police took in response to this event, my source reports “One of the agents called a ‘Hannibal,’ who’s apparently Will’s psychiatrist.  Yeah, he came and picked him up after a few minutes.  I thought that was kind of weird—I mean, fainting like that seems more of a medical doctor situation than a psychiatrist one, but what do I know?”  Further research by yours truly found that this “Hannibal” is none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a Baltimore-based psychiatrist and socialite.  Has the FBI finally reached the point where it can no longer ignore the obvious instability and impending psychological collapse of its favorite pet profiler?  If even Dr. Lecter, one of Baltimore’s most well-respected and sought-after psychiatric professionals, cannot cure Agent Graham's crazy, I think it’s safe to say that no one can.  Let us hope, for all our sakes, that Dr. Lecter is actually the kind of miracle worker that the FBI seems to think he is…

Will stopped reading after that, having gotten the gist of Freddie’s angle and unwilling to subject himself to a word more of her prattling than was necessary.  He looked up to see that Alana was gazing at him with sympathy that was verging on pity.  He was in no mood to soothe her concerns (he rarely was), so he simply huffed and began his walk to the morgue—at a brisk pace, to discourage anyone from trying to keep up.

Unfortunately, Alana was not so easily deterred and started speedwalking after him, catching up to him quickly despite her rather impractical high-heeled shoes.

“Will, if you ever want to talk about anything, just know that I’m there for you, okay?”

Will felt a twinge of guilt at Alana’s kindness in spite of his abrasiveness, but it wasn’t enough to motivate him into reassuring her.

“I know.  Thanks, Alana.”  He continued his brisk walk to the morgue, and Alana didn’t bother with trying to catch up to him this time.

After walking through half a dozen hallways and down three flights of stairs (the stairwells were always much less crowded than the elevators), Will arrived at the morgue to the sight of Beverly, Price, and Zeller staring with intense concentration at an examination table.

The victim of Friday’s killing was laid onto a different table, so Will was a bit curious as to what they were looking at.  He quietly approached the group and joined them in their staring at what appeared to be a soggy bright-blue feather.

Beverly was the first to notice his presence.

“We found this stuffed down the victim’s throat.  We think it's from some sort of parrot, but we’re going to run genetic testing and bring in an ornithologist to be certain.”  Beverly paused, and continued.  “Got any ideas about why our perp would do this?  Because I, quite frankly, am lost.”

“Not at the moment,” Will responded, knowing that Beverly wasn’t really expecting a specific answer.  “Maybe it will be more obvious once we pinpoint the species.”

Beverly huffed in frustration. “We don’t have anything else to go on at the moment—trying to get DNA from the bite mark was a total bust.  You can look through the report if you want, but it’s all stuff we already knew or suspected.”

Will nodded and grabbed the autopsy report Beverly handed to him.  It was disappointingly short and only took a few minutes to read through.  Beverly had been right—nothing new to Will was in the report, besides a mention of the feather. 

Will thought it was likely that they would not make much progress on this case until the next murder.  And there would be a next murder—the killer was not yet done with delivering and refining their message.

Will hung around in the morgue for a few more minutes and promptly regretted that decision when Beverly took that as an opportunity to ask him about the article that everyone and their grandma, apparently, had seen.

“Can you believe the nerve of that woman?” (Will could, unfortunately.)

He gave a noncommittal grunt in response, and Beverly took that as permission to continue.

“Jack’s been in contact with the local law enforcement, he thinks he’s close to sniffing out her new informant, whoever they are.  Hopefully that will put a damper on her inflammatory reporting for a while.”

That was new information to Will, but not surprising—anyone willing to be one of Freddie’s informants was not going to be the best and brightest of law enforcement. 

Receiving no response from Will, Beverly turned back to Price and Zeller and allowed herself to be roped into an argument about whether or not mayonnaise was an “abomination.”

Will took that as his cue to leave and headed up to his office where he spent the better part of an hour comparing this new killer to other cases, looking for similarities.  Finding nothing useful and beginning to grow frustrated, he was almost grateful when 5:30 came around and he had to depart for his appointment with Dr. Lecter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will arrived at Dr. Lecter’s office early once again, staring at Saturn and his Son blankly for a few minutes until it became nothing but a multicolored blur in his vision.  He wondered if Dr. Lecter had read the Tattlecrime article like everyone else, though he seemed much too elegant and refined to spend his spare time browsing true crime tabloids.

The soft sound of a door opening drew Will’s attention, and he looked over to see Dr. Lecter staring at him with an inscrutable expression.  He was wearing another patterned suit, Will noted, this one equally as atrocious as the first.

“Will,” Dr. Lecter greeted, breaking the silence.  “Please come in, we have much to talk about.”

Will wasn’t too sure about that, but he followed the doctor into his office with all the despondency of a prisoner walking to his execution regardless.

Will once again avoided all the seating the room had to offer, instead leaning against the ladder to the mezzanine in some half-baked act of defiance against the doctor, the FBI, and society in general.

“Do you have a history of fainting spells, Will?” the doctor asked, getting straight to the point.

“No,” Will replied succinctly, because he didn’t.  However, if whatever had happened to him that night had anything to do with the heat suppressants he was taking—which it likely did—Will could probably look forward to a “history of fainting spells” in his future.  “I have a history of chronic headaches and migraines, but not fainting,” Will added, hoping that this extra honesty would prevent Dr. Lecter from thinking that he was hiding any part of his medical history.

“Interesting,” the doctor replied, though Will couldn't fathom why any of this would be remotely interesting to him at all.  “Is there anything in particular you’d like to discuss today?” he continued, his tone a very convincing facsimile of ‘innocent’ that would have fooled anyone else.

“You read the Tattlecrime article, didn’t you?”

“Indeed.  It did feature myself, after all.”

Will huffed in annoyance—that damn article was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now, but everyone else seemed intent on bringing it up.  “Freddie Lounds is the scum on the bottom of the septic tank of journalistic reporting.  Take everything she says with a large grain of salt.”

“Of course,” Dr. Lecter replied, sounding a bit miffed at Will’s insinuation that he would do anything less.  “Sadly, the general public appears to be much less discerning when it comes to from where they get their information.”

Will snorted.  “I’ve noticed,” he stated dryly. 

Will felt Dr. Lecter begin to study him intently and got a horrible feeling that he was about to reintroduce the subject of Will’s physical health once again.  To avoid this, he blurted out “They found a feather in the throat of Friday’s victim.  Bright blue.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at this.  “There’s not terribly many birds with bright blue plumage.  Has the species been identified?”

“Not yet, but they’re working on it,” Will told him.  “There was no luck with retrieving DNA from the body or the crime scene, so the feather is the best lead we have at the moment.”

“Unfortunate,” Hannibal replied, not sounding particularly invested.  “Have you built up a profile for this killer—do you have any insights into their motivations?”

“Yes,” Will replied, starting to pace around the room.  “This killer is motivated by justice, revenge, and retribution.  The victim did something , or at least the killer thought he did something, that reduced his position in his killer’s eyes to something—something base and subhuman.  I’m not sure what exactly he did, when I get more information about his background I may have more specifics.”

“Many killers dehumanize their victims—it reduces the level of guilt that would otherwise be associated with their actions,” Hannibal commented lightly.

“Whatever level of guilt this killer may or may not feel about their actions, it’s not going to be enough to prevent them from killing again,” Will responded distractedly, never having stopped his pacing around the office.

“They are going to reoffend,” Hannibal stated, no question in his intonation.

“Their murder was a message, but they aren’t satisfied with how they got their point across.  They’re going to want to… emphasize it.  That will require another display.”

“Do you have any theories about this killer’s demographics?”  Hannibal asked, sounding intrigued from Will’s previous comments.

“They likely knew the victim—they interacted with him, or at least were around him enough to determine that he was deserving of punishment.  I don’t think they were close enough to be a friend, maybe not even an acquaintance, but the victim likely would have at least recognized their face.  They’re probably similar in age to the victim—in their twenties, early thirties at most.  Everything else is still up in the air.”

Halfway through this speech, Will realized that Hannibal probably didn’t have clearance to know the details of this case.  But he hadn’t really had any clearance to enter an active crime scene on Friday and Jack had still invited him over, so did it really matter?

Will paused his pacing to stare at a tastefully arranged vase of white lilies on a small side table.  He wondered if Hannibal’s morbid fixation affected his home’s interior decorating as much as it affected his office—he was willing to bet that it did.

“Is this killer the only one occupying your mind, Will?” Hannibal asked after a minute of silence.

“No,” Will replied.  “There’s the Alleyway Killer, a very tedious case.  He kills his victims in alleyways, always in the DC area—that’s almost certainly where he lives—and makes haphazard cuts on their bodies after they’re dead.  I think he just does it because he likes to see the blood.  He’s impulsive and messy.  It’s only a matter of time before he makes a mistake that will lead us right to him.”

Hannibal nodded slightly in acknowledgement, his concentrated gaze encouraging Will to continue.

“There’s also the Chesapeake Ripper, of course.  He’s been dormant for almost two years, but he will strike again eventually.  He’s just waiting for inspiration.  He sees his displays as works of art—every tableau is planned out meticulously, down to the very last detail.  It is my belief that he has still been killing during this “dormant” period, but he does not display the bodies and so nobody knows to attribute those disappearances to him.  He is well-educated—his surgical removal of organs demonstrates a professional level of skill—and cultured, with many of his tableaux referencing classical myths and literature.  He never leaves any traceable evidence behind, and will be nearly impossible to catch, even with all of the FBI’s finest working on the case.”

“Nearly impossible?” Hannibal echoed questioningly.

“Well, we have to have some hope, don’t we?”  Will replied, almost sarcastically.  “Everybody is capable of making mistakes, even highly intelligent serial killers, and it would only take one to bring him down.”

Before Hannibal could ask any more probing questions, Will’s phone started ringing from inside his jacket pocket.  Will quickly took it out to look at the caller ID and, sure enough, it was Jack Crawford calling.

Hannibal moved from his desk to behind Will to look over his shoulder at the caller ID himself.

“He knows that you have an appointment with me during this time period.  Awfully rude of him to call you when he knows you have another commitment, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, probably,” Will replied distractedly, already tapping to accept the call.

“Hello, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal greeted before anyone else could get a word in.  Will sighed in silent annoyance at the both of them.

“What brings you to call at this hour?” Hannibal continued.  “I’m certain it must be terribly urgent, to necessitate the interruption of Will’s appointment,” he added with amusement (again with the amusement!).

“Um, yes.  Terribly sorry about that, Dr. Lecter,” Jack replied, sounding a bit contrite—if only Will could have that effect on him, he was certain he’d get far fewer 5AM calls.

“It’s about the Alleyway Killer.  A body was just discovered that fits his MO, but time of death is estimated to be just a few hours ago which would mean the victim was killed in the daytime, something that he’s never done before.  We’ve already got a couple potential eyewitnesses, I need Will to meet me at the scene of the crime to verify that this is actually his work, and not just a regular homicide.”

Will wondered if, at some point, one of them would remember whose phone they were talking through. He wasn’t holding out hope.

“Well that certainly does sound urgent,” Hannibal replied (with more amusement).

“Look, I know that I’m interrupting your session—why don’t you come as well in case he needs support after… Friday.”

Oh, great.  More babysitting.

“I’d be delighted,” Hannibal agreed, sounding way too happy about this development.

“Great!  I’ll message Will the address,” Jack said before hanging up.

Well, at least he hadn’t had to go through the painful ordeal of talking to Jack himself, Will supposed.  

“We’re going in my car,” Will said, for revenge.

“Very well then,” Hannibal acquiesced easily, probably because he hadn’t seen the car yet.

(The poor trainee who’d been assigned to drive Will’s car from the crime scene back to Will’s home didn’t know how to use a stick shift, and had to call in a friend.  Unfortunately, that friend was allergic to dogs, so a second friend had to be called.  Will found this anecdote to be extremely funny, the tearful trainee at his doorstep had not.)

Hannibal led Will out of the building through the patient exit (one of the few things Will appreciated about Dr. Lecter’s office), and Will in turn led Hannibal to the back lot where he’d parked his car.  The car, a sad-looking SUV, was well over a decade old and had nearly completed its transition from “functional” to “technically functional” in its duties as a vehicle.

Will graciously opened the passenger-side door, and Hannibal only hesitated for a second before getting in.  The interior of the car was in a worse state than usual today in terms of dog hair, mainly because he’d had to drive a few of the dogs to his local vet on Sunday and had yet to get around to vacuuming the seats.

Will got in on the other side and input the address Jack had given him into the GPS, before pulling out of the small parking lot and into the streets of Baltimore.  He and Hannibal spent the car ride in silence, with Will concentrated on driving and Hannibal alternating between typing on his phone reading what looked to be some sort of medical journal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took just over an hour to travel to the crime scene, and they arrived at the location just as the last of the sun’s light was vanishing from view.

The local police had done a good job of securing the area from potential contaminants (i.e. bystanders), but there was still a fairly large crowd surrounding the alleyway just outside of the police tape.  Hannibal parted the crowd with ease, getting the both of them through the mass of bystanders quickly, which Will was reluctantly grateful for.

An officer led them to the body, where Beverly, Price, Zeller, and a few others were gathered.  The body was sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, face-up, and Will determined that this was in fact the work of the Alleyway Killer within moments.  The careless positioning of the corpse, the erratic cuts made on the victim’s face and chest (their shirt had been cut open), and the location (alleyway), were, combined, a dead giveaway.

While Will was in the midst of his deductions, Jack strode over to him with purpose.  Impatiently, he asked Will, “Well, is it him?”

“It is,” Will replied succinctly.  “He’s growing more reckless.  He was always impulsive, but he at least had enough control to avoid killing during the day, when there is a greater risk of being seen.  Now… he’s spiraling.  He will kill again very soon, if he’s not apprehended.”

“How soon?” Jack questioned, concerned.

“Within a week or two, I believe,” Will responded.

“Well, then we—” Jack started, but was interrupted by Beverly shouting from the other end of the alleyway.

“I think I have something,” she exclaimed, crouched next to a few garbage bins.

Jack rushed over to her side immediately, leaving Hannibal and Will together next to the corpse.

“Completely banal and uninspired,” Hannibal commented, looking at the body with derision.

Will, who was feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, just nodded in agreement.  Had the police siren lights always been this bright?  And was that metallic clanging sound real, or just in his head?

He must have zoned out for a moment, because he blinked and Jack was back next to Hannibal, both men looking at Will with concern.

“What?” Will asked, defensively.

“Agent Katz has found a footprint, likely the killer’s because it has traces of blood on it.  Additionally, interviews with all the potential eyewitnesses have been arranged.  Agent Crawford is hopeful that, with all of this new information, we will be able to get a description of the killer,” Hannibal informed him.

“Oh, okay, that’s good,” Will responded, finding it hard to concentrate.

“When was the last time you ate, Will?” Hannibal asked out of nowhere.

Will blinked at the non-sequitur.  When was the last time he had eaten?  He’d had breakfast in the morning, but he didn’t remember getting anything for lunch except for coffee and water—not even a granola bar.  And now it was—Will checked his watch—about an hour after his usual dinner time.  Huh.

“Breakfast,” Will admitted reluctantly, just knowing that Hannibal was about to make a fuss out of this.

Sure enough, Hannibal immediately began chiding him for skipping lunch.  “Will, I’m sure you are aware that skipping meals can cause a drop in blood sugar, which in turn exacerbates fatigue and lightheadedness.  With your…”

Will began tuning Hannibal out at this point.  He’d barely known the man for a week, and he was already acting like a nagging mother.  Will was pretty lightheaded though, maybe he should find somewhere to sit down, or at least a wall to lean on…

“...is that suitable?” Hannibal finished, looking expectantly at Will.

“Uh huh, yeah,” Will agreed absentmindedly, still looking for somewhere he could sit without contaminating the crime scene.  His headache had begun in full force, prompting him to choke down a few ibuprofens and pretend he couldn’t feel Hannibal watching him critically.

“Excellent.  Do you feel well enough to drive your car, or shall I?”  Hannibal asked him, sounding  suspiciously pleased.

Wait, what exactly had he just agreed to?

“I can drive,” Will said defensively, already starting to walk back towards his vehicle.  The sooner he got out of this place, the better.  He’d had enough of people for the day—living or dead.

Hannibal looked at Will doubtfully, but followed him back to the car and got into the passenger seat without complaint.

“Back to the office, right?” Will inquired.  Hannibal’s stupid, pretentious little car was still there, after all.

“Yes.  I will give you my address, so you can follow me to my house from there.”

“...Your house?” Will questioned, giving up on pretending that he’d been listening to Hannibal’s healthy-eating spiel. 

“My house,” Hannibal confirmed wryly, “for dinner.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Will said hurriedly, desperately trying to think of any way to get out of dinner with Hannibal without being extremely rude.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal easily brushed off Will’s attempt at backpedaling.  “I already have the ingredients prepared, it will take no time at all.  And you will get a chance to eat real food, for once.”

“I eat real food!” Will protested, offended.  “You don’t know my eating habits.”

“I inferred,” Hannibal replied.

In lieu of a verbal response, Will put the car into drive and hurtled them back out onto the city streets.

Well, at least he’d get to find out if he was right about the doctor’s interior decorating.