Authors Note: This being my first story, constructive criticism is very welcomed and even encouraged. Also, oh my god, if you go on Hannibal wiki on Will Graham's page, it labels Hannibal as a love interest. Likewise for Hannibal's page. By the way, in the huge Psychological handbook, Folie à deux does translate to 'folly of two', and not 'madness of two.' That was a rough translation that shortened a long story. Btw I made it not an omegaverse... where I'm going with this story, it fits better if it isn't. Pun intended with taste in men.

Disclaimer: I don't own these unfortunate, borrowed puppets. Not now, not ever.

The air was polluted, absolutely tainted with cheap aftershave, dried blood, rotting corpses, and an open box of cheap Chinese food, from which a coroner consumed kung pao chicken. "Jimmy!" a voice said sharply, and the coroner excused himself to set down his food in his vehicle.

Hannibal was both amused and curious; who had bad taste in scents, and why in the name of Jack Crawford would someone eat in front of decimated bodies? However, as a connoisseur of human meat, Hannibal didn't have much to say. However, one should have enough respect

The psychologist turned to the Bureau's director of behavioral sciences. "I'm very interested to see the special agent you spoke of, Jack." The other man dipped his head in assent. "This latest project has been hell for us. Will hasn't been sleeping lately. His... thing he does is harsh on him. Dr. Bloom called his ability 'Folie à deux.' What does that translate to?"

Hannibal grinned; it was an interesting and very specific term, very fitting for someone as empathetic as Will. "Folly of two, or you could call it shared psychotic disorder," said Dr. Lecter. As they approached the door, the smell of pine was stronger. "Do you smell something?" Hannibal inquired, eyeing the director curiously. "If you mean the victims, yes, I smell them," Jack replied, opening the door.

Two bodies lay side by side on the blue polyester carpet, blood painted across the walls. Their ribs were cut and angled upwards, dried blood and possibly other former liquids encrusted about them, and the 'wings' punctured a black lung on either side.

Hannibal's maroon eyes lingered upon the victims a moment before spying the man kneeling before the corpses on a plastic sheet so as not to disturb the evidence. Because of how the bodies lay, their feet facing the door and Will at their head, he faced Hannibal and Jack.

His eyes were closed, and his eyes were moving restlessly beneath them. His eyelashes were long, cheekbones defined with a tamed scruff of beard over them, and his luscious, chapped lips were partially open and silently moving. His hands, gloved, were held aloft, and occasionally, he swept a gloved hand through his wild and dark curls. His head turned minutely in Hannibal's direction and his nostrils flared.

Dr. Lecter grinned at this; initial attraction between him and a person who could empathize for him was the best thing he could ever ask for; a present that Jack Crawford unwittingly wrapped with an elegant bow.

Cheap pine aftershave overwhelmed him; Will smelt like a disappointing brand of soap. The gears turned in his mind; so this was Will, the tormented FBI special agent who needed psychological aid? Hannibal's taste in men was impeccable; perhaps Will was enough like him that he could be worked, not manipulated, into supporting Hannibal's cause. Well, Hannibal mused, it's time someone rid him of his nightmares.

Will's eyes opened, immediately trained on Hannibal, but not meeting his eyes. His irises were a Caribbean blue, with a ring of clover green right around the pupil, which was suspiciously dilated. "I'd prefer you not interrupt me," Will said politely, yet with a hint of bite. If someone interrupted the golden pendulum in his mind, he was afraid he would harm them or lose the images.

"I was done anyway, but try not to do that. These were smokers and prostitutes that he paid for; there was no struggle because he knocked them out. He sees this as doing the world a favor; I think he's an asthmatic and probably an orphan. He has killed before; have you seen anything like this before, Jack?"

Hannibal eyed Crawford with interest. "I have seen something like this before in Little Rock. A crack addict had his heart and liver impaled on his ribs, splayed like these," said Crawford. "The parts most affected by the cocaine," Hannibal commented. Will nodded. "Will, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Bloom said you can't go into the field without a lifeline, and here he is," Crawford said, gesturing towards the other man.

"Why impale someone addicted to crack if it doesn't relate to him?" asked Hannibal. Will focused his gaze on the bridge of Hannibal's nose so as not to be rude and not look in his unnerving maroon eyes. "Someone he knew could've overdosed on it, or he could still just see it as doing the world a favor," the special agent decided.

"Welcome to the field; it'll make even the sanest seek help," said Will with a sort of sad attempt at humor. "Though I don't think I classify," Will added after a moment. "If it helps, I myself have a psychiatrist," said Hannibal, lips quirking upward in a friendly smile.

Surprise dawned on Will's face, but he said nothing. "Do I have to be psychoanalyzed before I do another case? You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed," Will said, standing. He fixed his gaze onto Hannibal's shoes. "Why is it that you don't meet eyes?" Hannibal inquired, fascinated.

"Eyes are… distracting. They see too much and not enough," Will opined, and Hannibal politely left it at that. "An interesting observation. Whether or not you are psychoanalyzed is entirely up to you and your superior," Hannibal remarked. "I think you should be analyzed. I'll have my people search for an asthmatic orphan. How old d'you think he is, Will?" Jack asked on his way out, turning his head back to look at Will. "I'd say he's not too old; in his teens or twenties. This pattern would have emerged earlier if he was older."

Crawford left, leaving the door ajar. Hannibal and Will walked together. "I will try to curb my curiosities; it's terribly rude to probe someone like you," said Dr. Lecter. Will started to grin, and chuckled. "Oh? What am I, then?" "You're like fine china; only reserved for special guests," the psychologist observed.

Will laughed, eyes twinkling. "Ah, I like that. You're different than other psychoanalyzers." Dr. Lecter watched Graham a moment, bemusedly amused. "I like to think so," he said. "It's never beneficial to treat a patient as though they are a bug under a microscope." Will nodded in assent, and they walked over to Crawford's vehicle.

"Oh, and one more thing before Crawford hears, Will," said Hannibal. Will's eyes met Hannibal's maroon ones, and the empath shuddered. "Buy a different aftershave. It smells like something that has a ship on the bottle," said Hannibal, and he ducked into the vehicle. Will, stunned, stood still for about a minute, but upon hearing Crawford yell at him to get into the damned car, he quickly got in.

Will watched the coroners amble about the morgue as the two bodies lay face up on the gurneys. He could feel the killer from behind his eyes, like a murderer wearing a finely tailored person suit. This was why he couldn't sleep at night; he could still feel Hobbs doing the same, and even poking at the Chesapeake Ripper caused dreams of a raven stag.

He watched as the corpses were swabbed, opened up, sewn back up, and poked at a bit more. "They look like they were disgusted with him," said Jimmy, the same coroner with the Chinese food.

"No, they were frightened. They could see him a moment before he knocked them out. Their faces are assuming their last expression before death," said Will.

No matter how many killers he caught, he couldn't repair what he had done to his own brain and to the Hobbses. Abigail had died in his arms, with Garret whispering, 'see?' The room suddenly went dark, and everyone but the bodies disappeared.

The two corpses sat up, identical scars fading. The taller of the two's face morphed into the face of the Minnesota Shrike, and the shorter became his daughter. A gash appeared across Abigail's neck, and her glazed eyes were surrounded by rings of purple.

She was whimpering, and blood poured out of her purple lips. Garret sat beside his daughter, endless bullet wounds appearing, and blood trickling out of each. "See?" said the Shrike. "See?" It was difficult to read Abigail's bloodstained lips, but he could make out, 'I don't want to die like this.' The blood soaked the table, and a piercing mechanical wail brought Will back to the morgue with the living.

Dr. Alana Bloom followed Hannibal through his house, commenting on various fascinating decorations. Dr. Lecter made an occasional noise of agreement, but mostly stared at her curiously. Did she have romantic intentions for Will? "So, I've noticed that you actively yet subtly avoid being alone in a room with Will since I've known him."

She blinked, surprised. He'd probably been wanting to ask that for a long time. "Yes. He doesn't remember you, Hannibal."

He followed her into the dining room, two place mats set with some sort of golden poultry atop fine china plates. "It was dark, and there was a lot of blood. The death of Abigail Hobbs wasn't his fault. Anyway, try not to steer away from the question. I'd like to hear the answer before I forget." "I don't want to poke at him," she responded carefully, as he pulled out her chair and gestured for her to sit. His maroon eyes took in her stiff posture; she was made uncomfortable.

"Apologies. I see that I've made you uncomfortable," said Dr. Lecter. She looked up at him quickly, cerulean eyes startled. "Oh, no, it's just... I don't want to get romantically involved with Will Graham. He wouldn't be good for me." Hannibal stifled his primitive urge to growl at her. "But you are interested?" he inquired.

She sighed. "Yes... but I'm his friend. At the risk of sounding cliché, I don't want to ruin what we have now. In a relationship, I'd be too tempted to analyze him anyway." Hannibal seated himself near her. "He most definitely would not enjoy that." So she wouldn't interfere with Hannibal's plan. "Moving on, I have prepared Marzipan Ortolans. We will not partake in the usual rituals that come with consuming such, which involves veiling your head with a napkin to shield yourself from God, and consuming the bird whole. Bon Appétit."