A/N: The first season of Hannibal did such a great job with subtle tension and horror, so I've tried my hand here at recreating some of that atmosphere...only with things somewhat slanted. ;)

Warnings for graphic imagery and violence.

He hears it first off an abandoned road in Wolf Trap.

Hannibal pauses in loading the body of John Dunham into his Bentley. The headlights of the car half-driven off the road behind him, door askew and missing its owner, blind him from searching the darkened Virginia woods for a sign of its source.

He waits, but the howl has no encore, no echo. The forest is silent aside from the shifting of dead branches in the wind. There's an undercurrent of electricity in the air, like it might rain, but the sky is clear.

Hannibal hefts the ill-mannered lawyer into the trunk and shuts it. He has much to do, and little concern to pay over a wolf roaming the backwoods in the middle of the night. Adjusting his gloves and casting one last glance beyond the reach of his shadow, Hannibal considers seasonal recipes for heart.

Hannibal sends his 6:30 appointment off with a polite smile and an agreement to resume their discussion at the same time next week. Once Mrs. Marlow has thanked him with teary eyes and shut the door behind herself, he grimaces. He pulls the handkerchief from his front pocket and flicks the fabric open, eyeing the crumpled tissues on the side table. He deposits them in the trashcan beneath his desk and refolds the fabric, mindful to avoid touching the side reserved for cleaning up after his particularly weepy patients.

Hannibal places the linen square next to his appointment book and opens it to the current date. One final meeting for the day, later than he would usually book time with a client, but the man he had spoken with over the phone this morning had emphasized urgency. It was a plea he heard often given his popularity among Baltimore's elite, but he had felt compelled to agree to this request.

The voice had been quiet, inelegant in phrasing and palpably uncomfortable in responding to even the most basic questions Hannibal posed to all prospective patients. He had hesitated to provide a full name and avoided answering just why it was so important he see Hannibal, of all psychiatrists, as soon as possible. But it had been the home address the man provided, more than anything, that caught Hannibal's attention and kept it.

Wolf Trap, Virginia.

It was the day after a Mr. John Dunham had been reported missing by local Virginia police. His body had been found, devoid of brain and heart, in a Baltimore district courthouse last night.

Hannibal traces the name of his 7:30 appointment and checks the Rolex on his wrist.

7:28.

He straightens his tie, smooths the line of his suit, and walks to the door. When he turns the handle, it opens to the side profile of a man in the middle of his waiting room.

"Mr. Graham?"

The man turns from studying The Raft of the Medusa, smiles with more self-assurance than Hannibal was expecting, and adjusts the glasses across the bridge of his nose.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter."

"Please," Hannibal steps aside, returns the smile. "Come in."

Will walks into Hannibal's office with an even gait, head held high to take in the vastness of the space. He's dressed in a flannel button-down a size too large for him and his hair is curled in disarray, but Hannibal is instantly on alert. The visual appearance of the man before him is more or less what he'd anticipated; the countenance is not.

"Interesting choice of décor," Will remarks. He places his coat across the back of the patient chair and gravitates towards the bookshelves lining the room.

"I have been told it is as peculiar as it is striking," Hannibal replies. He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat, hoping it will compel the other man to do the same. Will ignores the gesture entirely.

"The painting in the waiting room," Will continues, running his eyes over the spines of Hannibal's collection. "Fairly controversial at the time. Géricault was both condemned and praised for depicting death so grotesquely. Though I think he still failed to capture the full horror of the story - what the survivors did to last until rescue."

Hannibal's jaw tightens. He measures his next words carefully, settles his face into one of disinterest.

"Cannibalism, you mean."

Will glances over at him, one hand paused over a 19th century copy of The Iliad. He gives Hannibal a lopsided grin before ducking his head.

"I'm sorry, I'm being rude."

Will withdraws from the text and pushes both hands into his pockets. He turns from the books with a slight hunch of his shoulders and walks back towards the center of the room.

"This is your hour," Hannibal clasps his hands over folded knees, watches Will sink into the chair opposite him. "We can spend it however you like. Though I doubt you're here to discuss the notable works of French Romanticism."

Will shifts back into his seat and spares one last look around the office before meeting Hannibal's eyes.

"Why are you here, Mr. Graham?"

"Will."

Hannibal tilts his head.

"Will is fine."

The brusqueness grates on him, but it reminds Hannibal of the awkward man he had spoken to over the phone. Nothing else about the man before him reminds him of the voice that had pleaded to see him as soon as possible, that refused to explain why.

"Why are you here, Will?"

Will scratches behind his ear and frowns.

"I've been seeing things."

Hannibal waits for him to continue, but Will remains quiet. He stares at the rug beneath their feet.

"Things?" Hannibal prompts, and watches as Will swallows, looks up.

"Hallucinations."

When no further information follows, Hannibal unclasps his hands. He runs a thumb under his bottom lip and glances towards the fireplace.

"Visual hallucinations can be symptomatic of a variety of conditions."

"They're not just visual."

Will is staring at him when his eyes swivel back. He's leaned forward with elbows on his knees and perched on the edge of his seat, a strange anticipatory quality to the lines of his body. Predatory, Hannibal's mind supplies.

"I hear them sometimes. Like an animal in the chimney, but when I look there's nothing there. Or a howl in the woods outside my house that my dogs don't even react to, when just the sound of footsteps on the porch usually sets them off."

Will blinks. Hannibal doesn't.

"Have you ever experienced anything like that, doctor?"

Hannibal shifts the slightest bit forward, raises his eyebrows.

"I can't say that I have."

Will watches him a moment longer, then nods. He takes his glasses off and rubs the space between his eyebrows.

"It started happening when I'd try to fall asleep. I would feel something watching me, waiting for me to lose consciousness. And I'd open my eyes again and sometimes there was nothing, but sometimes I'd see it there. Just a dark mass. Right outside my bedroom door. I thought it was one of my dogs at first."

Will shifts his palm down, across his stubble. He's still looking at Hannibal but his eyes are far away. Hannibal considers this, considers the worn tone of the other man's voice, but something still feels off.

"Hypnagogic hallucinations, those that appear at the onset of sleep, can have both visual and auditory components. They're more common in narcoleptics but can occur as a result of long-term sleep deprivation as well. Sometimes the brain retains these strange visions or noises and experiences them in waking hours. Do you have a history of sleep disorders, Will?"

The corner of the younger man's mouth tics up.

"This feels like something else."

"What does it feel like?"

Hannibal receives no answer. He allows the silence, tracks as the minutes tick by on his watch, but Will has nothing left to supply. He changes tactics.

"Why are you really here, Will?"

Hannibal leans the rest of the way forward, mirrors Will's posture with his own. His hackles are raised but he is not without curiosity.

"Why was it so important to see me?"

Will's smile grows and his vision refocuses. There's a secret in his eyes, but he does not share it.

When Will has left, Hannibal returns to the desk and retrieves his tablet from the top right drawer. In the minute it takes to turn on, he stares at the W. Graham written within his leather appointment book. The exercise, much like the man himself, answers none of his questions.

Hannibal opens a new tab and types the name in, narrowing his search to the Chesapeake Bay area. No notable news on any Will or William Graham is forthcoming, and a similar image search brings up no links to social media accounts matching the face of the man who'd just sat in his office for an hour and spoke for less than half it. It's not entirely surprising, given Will's apparent solitary tendencies, but Hannibal would have to be blind to ignore the coincidences. Or his instincts.

He instead flips the notebook to the patient address list and scans down to the newest addition. He types the text into a satellite search engine and stares at the result, unsurprised but discomfited all the same.

An empty property.

A howl in the woods outside my house.

Have you ever experienced something like that, doctor?

Will had turned around on his way out, as if sensing Hannibal's internal conflict about letting him leave the office at all, and thanked the doctor for his time.

Hannibal sneers, unthinkingly thumbs over the scalpel beside his drawing pencils. He does not appreciate being toyed with.