Rated T because of some mild slash scenes, an explicit murder scene, and milder mentions of violence. If you need more specific warnings, ask me in a private message to send those to you personally before you read the story.
Thanks so much to Jennyyu73 for the wonderful betawork.
Chapter 1: The First Cut
Before Hannibal Lecter carried out his manipulations, he had pondered every possible outcome. Will might timely realize what's happening to him, and he might break free. Or someone else might identify the symptoms – either the symptoms of the illness or the symptoms of the doctor's efforts to shape Will's mind according to his own desires. Maybe Jack Crawford. Or Alana Bloom. Or another expert psychiatrist Will might encounter on his trips with the FBI.
Hannibal tried to scheme applicable responses to any situation that might occur. He was sure that he was capable of handling any trouble that could try to spoil his perfect work of art. He counted every way and he felt that no matter what kind of difficulties might come, they all could lead to the creation of his final masterpiece.
The one thing he did not consider - and if someone had suggested it, he would have still eliminated it from the group of possibilities worth his time and thoughts – was his own mind betraying him.
No way.
He has never had any difficulties with controlling the slightest gestures he made. He could stay composed under the most surreal circumstances, and even while doing the most pleasurable things like killing his prey he could anytime decide with cold self-assurance if he wanted to go on or stop. The solidity of his own mental capacity has never been questioned by him; he could do whatever he wanted. He could pretend anything he felt like; he could fake human emotions he didn't have. He could reply to all kind of questions with self-confidence, creating proper lies in a split second. He could manipulate anything and anyone he needed to, and his personality never failed to serve him perfectly. He soon learnt to stop fearing that his mind could prove unstable in extreme situations or his own thoughts could deceive him. Because they never did. It was as sure as the sun rises in the morning – like the laws of physics. They don't need to be queried or recalculated, since they always work the way they should. Since there is no other way.
And now that's exactly what's happening to him. The laws of nature are falling apart... Everything's falling apart.
It starts on a Monday evening.
It's almost completely dark outside. Cold wind howls, carrying fractured tree-branches and dried, gray leaves. The night brings the bleak promise of the imminent winter.
The doorbell rings.
Hannibal is just about to loosen his tie and sit down in his study to draw the contours of a Venetian palace, but now, hearing the ringing, he neatens his suit jacket and walks towards the door with concinnous steps.
It's Will Graham who stands in the doorway. He is extremely pale like a corpse, his eyes reddening from delirium. He has a seizure or is just about to have one, shuddering with horror. Hannibal wonders how Will was capable of finding his way here, to the psychiatrist's private home in this state of mind.
"Come in," he says, unnecessarily. It's obvious that Will is unable to hear him right now.
As Hannibal steps aside, the younger man stumbles in. Hannibal helps him take his coat off, and then escorts him to the living room. Will cannot really control his actions. He collapses on the floor.
"I can't do this anymore," he wheezes, "I'll go insane... I don't know... I..."
He cannot utter another normal word, he just groans, hitting his head against the carpet. Hannibal calmly sits down on the couch, watching Will crawl on the floor. He enjoys the moment not because of sick sadism but because it shows how close he is to achieving his goals. Will is almost in ruins. He is right on the edge of falling to pieces...
Five minutes pass, and Hannibal decides it's time to give Will a slight hint of comfort. He plans the motion with care, as he always does. He should slowly reach out and pat the other man's left shoulder. He even feels the suitable strength in his fingertips he should use to be comforting enough but not too friendly. Will shouldn't get too much solace at this point. Will should subconsciously feel that he is not completely alone in the room, and that's all. Hannibal prepares for the gesture, leans forward and starts to move his hand by degrees...
And the next thing he recalls is kneeling on the floor next to Will's agonized, crumpled body and holding him in his arms. It's not a professional, reserved embrace. He clings to Will's shaking limbs as if he wanted to crush him. The grip is so tight that it's painful for Hannibal too. He feels the coolness of Will's clothes, Will's forehead pressed against his shoulder... Will's spasmodic breathing... The fluttering heartbeats... The sweet, heavy scent of illness filling his lungs...
When Hannibal realizes what he's doing, he abruptly lets the other man loose. It's not that it would be overmuch inappropriate for a psychiatrist to hug a patient to console him, or it would be inevitably a wrong decision to make, but what surprises him – and disturbs him – is that he did not mean to do it at all.
What happened?
His kneecaps hurt; he must have dropped to his knees without any restraint.
Maybe Will did it. He might have dragged Hannibal down onto the floor with a feverish, unconscious pull at the doctor's forearm. That sounds like a correct explanation.
But Hannibal knows that it's not the truth. Will keeps his arms around his own chest, trembling, eyes closed. He is not aware of anything happening around him, he did not react to the firm grip either. Will is locked among the nightmares in his head, and there's no way he could have apprehended Hannibal when he was about to pat his shoulder.
Hannibal does not like the idea that it was he himself who started the embrace, but there aren't any other reasonable explanations, so he has to accept it. He tries to put the recognition in the back of his mind, though. He helps Will up from the floor and lays him down on the couch. He brings a blanket from upstairs and - with decent accuracy - covers him.
Hannibal starts to prepare a dish for tomorrow because he feels unable to sleep. He's still mildly displeased with the fact that he did something unwittingly. It left a hint of insecurity in him. Was it a sign of some kind of illness? Does not seem so. He feels physically as strong and balanced as ever.
He puts a cutting board on the kitchen counter, and after cautiously washing a head of broccoli, he places the vegetable on the board. He chooses the appropriate knife and moves the blade to slice up the broccoli. The raw vegetable is massive, and the knife slips. Hannibal watches his left hand with disbelief, acute pain spreading in his muscles. He cut his palm.
For average people, these kinds of household accidents belong to everyday routine, but not for him. He always prepares his food with precision, with punctilious attention to details. During cooking, he has never cut his hand before.
When he was young, about sixteen or seventeen maybe, he had a recurring dream about cutting meat with a butterfly sword. He started cutting a chunk of red meat on a clean, pale kitchen top, and as he proceeded, he tried to cut thinner slices. Always a bit thinner, just a bit. And at some point, he realized that he had been slashing his own hand for a while. He looked down and saw his own flesh in a pool of blood. The blade of the butterfly sword did not stop, it continued cutting his hand into paper-thin slices... He often dreamt about it at that time. It was not really a nightmare, for he felt no pain, and it wasn't truly scary for him either. He could not figure out why he kept dreaming about it.
Now, as he watches the gash opening on his left palm and releasing hot, dark blood onto the kitchen counter, he remembers the dream and feels faint uneasiness about it.
He cannot stop the blood from spattering the cutting board and the green flowers of the broccoli. Red splashes on the kitchen top and even on the floor. It's annoying. He just cleaned the whole kitchen this evening, and now he has to start it all over again. Not to mention his expensive silk shirt – the left sleeve's getting smudged with the salty, incarnadine fluid.
Hannibal detects that there is too much blood running down on his arm. The cut must be deep. He decides that he'll go to the bathroom to obtain his medical kit. The incision needs to be stitched up.
Hannibal falls asleep in the armchair in his study, leaving the door open to the living room where Will rests. The doctor wakes up every twenty or thirty minutes just to quickly check on Will, and then he sleeps a bit again. His sleep never lasts long because as soon as Will starts moving, Hannibal wakes up too.
When the morning light creeps in through the gaps of the brocade curtains, Hannibal gets up from the armchair. He sees that the wound kept leaking throughout the night. Maybe the suture doesn't hold flawlessly. After all, he could use only his right hand for stitching. He has to replace the bandage soon.
Will sits up on the couch, movements uncertain like a drunkard's.
"Doctor Lecter?" He calls with hoarse, hazy words. "Are you there?"
Hannibal walks into the room, right up to the younger man.
"Good morning, Will," he says. He has already changed and adjusted his suit and looks as composed as ever. Will is the total opposite of the picture. His hair is disheveled; his skin is a mixture of glowing red and unhealthy yellowness, and cold sweat oozes on his neck. His light colored eyes seem dark with despair.
"I, I can't remember," he stammers.
"What's the last thing you are able to recall?" the doctor asks patiently.
Will's struggling to form a suitable answer, but suddenly his eyes find Hannibal's bandaged left hand, and he freezes.
"Oh, no," Will's voice trembles. "Did I hurt you?"
"Will," Hannibal pauses for a moment, realizing the opportunity his stupid accident has created, and then he adds softly, "It's alright. It's nothing serious."
"But, but, was it me? Did I hurt you?" Will demands to know, panic rising in his voice.
"Yes," the doctor tells the lie with no hesitation, making a slight gesture towards his study, his desk and the paper knife resting on top of a case filled with documents. Will shivers as he catches sight of the silvery knife. Hannibal continues, "But I assure you it's completely my fault. I understand your condition better than anyone else. I should have taken care to avoid an unfortunate situation like that..."
"What happened?"
"You were not aware of what you were doing. You had a seizure," he gives an evasive answer.
"But how did I injure you?"
"I made you lie down on the couch, and then I walked into my study to read before going upstairs to sleep. And suddenly you stood there by the bookshelves, and just grabbed the paper knife. I tried to take it away from you," Hannibal's voice trails off.
Will rubs his forehead with a nervous, quick motion. "Can you show me the wound?" he asks weakly. "Please?"
Hannibal finds the request odd, but the bandage needs changing anyway, so he nods. He pulls a chair next to the younger man, and puts his injured hand on the arm of the couch, taking care not to stain the drape with the leaking bandage. He starts to slowly move the soaked, reddish brown fabric away. Will gasps when the gash becomes visible.
"No, no," Will mumbles. He puts his fingers around Hannibal's wrist and pulls the doctor's hand in front of him so that he can have a better look at the wound. It's kind of discrepant. Will's hands are shaking violently, while the doctor's fingers are as calm and stable as if he were not a living creature but a statue of ice.
"I'm so sorry, Doctor Lecter," Will bursts out, staring at the huge, swollen wound all across the other man's palm with the black stitches. "I'm incredibly sorry. Should I fetch you some medicine or call an ambulance or...?"
"You don't need to worry about that," Hannibal replies with an indulgent half-smile. "It's really nothing I can't handle. I can take care of a wound."
"I almost cut your palm into two." Will moves backwards with repulsion, his eyes following the hand he's letting go of. "I'm truly dangerous. I should not go to public places. I should get locked up somewhere."
"Is that what you believe?"
"I, I don't know what to believe anymore. I could have killed you!" This last sentence seems to unbalance Will even more. He buries his face in his hands.
The doctor likes the echo of the word killing lingering in his mind while he's leaning back on the chair, keeping his eyes on Will.
He feels a glimpse of satisfaction. Last night was only a moment of derailment; it must have been temporary tiredness. Now he turned the pathetic accident into an advantageous situation. It's over then. He is going to continue the conception he drafted, and everything will be in place.