HAH. Chapter 2 in the same night! Take THAT laziness!

Okay. I find this one a little sketchy right now- but it's midnight, and I need sleep.

I will definitely be revisiting this.


Hannibal was a tall, clean cut, well kept man of stature. He possessed neat, smooth blond hair that was always combed away from his face- and it only added to this chaotic image that reminded Will of a painting he saw of Lucifer being cast into hell. Hannibal's eyes were a dark red- turning garnet at times when the lighting was right. It was a smooth color- much like tempered glass. Will found himself making unwavering eye contact with the doctor, despite how exposed he felt. It was like a battle between light and dark. Blue versus red. Classic rivalry, if not cliché. Dr. Lecter always seemed to untouchable, dressed in his dark suits that made him seem like that devil in the painting. It was as if he were ready for anything life threw at him- unlike Will, who was often left in an anxious mess after viewing the scene of a crime. That was something Will envied about Hannibal- the emotionless exterior that feigned humanity. It was probably Hannibal's greatest weapon. Especially for a psychiatrist.

"Good evening Will- I trust you had no problems arriving?" Hannibal could have been referring to anything- traffic, weather conditions- but he seemed to already know that Will had been in a rush. As if he could read the emotions under Will's skin like a book.

"No, not really…" He didn't feel like starting a conversation about his problems with punctuality. It seemed like a bad idea to get very close to the doctor.

"Hm. Please, have a seat." Hannibal didn't seem to like being dismissed. Jeez- was everyone just judging him today? Will forced himself not to grit his teeth, and slowly made his way over to the two chairs that faced each other. He felt stiff, as if he were wearing a prosthetic leg- even more so after turning to look at Hannibal and witness him practically float across the carpet toward him. Christ he felt so inferior…

After sitting down, Hannibal crossed his legs, looking up at Will with the smallest of smiles on his face. The doctor had become accustomed to the anxious nature of Will- finally coming to terms with the fact that the man simply could not sit still. It was no longer awkward to have the shorter man stand while he was speaking to Hannibal. Dr. Lecter didn't mind. William remained still behind the leather seat, his hands splayed across the top of the chair in order to brace his weight. "So. I heard you visited another crime scene today..?" Hannibal prompted, patiently waiting to hear about any episode Will might have had.

"Ch. Yeah. Some sick bastard has cut an 'X' into the face of a motel concierge." There was that word again. Concierge. The killer's word, not his. "He was the closest thing to a copycat of the Chesapeake Ripper we've ever had- and this guy wasn't even trying." Will blinked hard, feeling the black, tarlike shadow of the killer standing right behind him. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of hooves upon the ground; a chuff of breath, a shake of the head. He blinked again, trying to get the presence out of his mind without letting Hannibal notice.

Hannibal had, in fact, noticed- but only partially. He was still stuck on the word 'copycat'. Of course, Will hadn't noticed Hannibal's sudden distress. Copycat… imitation was the lowest form of flattery, you know. And Hannibal hated it. It was so incredibly…

"Rude." Will's voice spoke up like a light flickering on, snapping Hannibal out of his reverie. It was astounding, how much their two minds were in sync- Hannibal could never get over it. I mean, what were the odds that they could think exactly the same thing at exactly the same time? "Rude," Will's voice again, and Hannibal listened intently, very interested, now. "The concierge was being incredibly rude, and our killer had decided enough was enough…" Will's expression had remained hard, as if he were thinking about multiple things at once.

Hannibal knew the feeling. "So you're suggesting that our new killer is an actual copycat of the Chesapeake Ripper?" His voice- the soothing tenor, the mild tone- was impressively level. Acting skills worthy of an Oscar. The maroon irises, however- they seemed to glower; to glow with a barely contained ballistic rage. If there was ever chaos in a bottle, Hannibal was the spitting image of it.

"No- nonono." Will shook his head again, that same thought-filled expression on his features. "His mind… his mind was almost identical to the Ripper's…" Will reached up to massage his forehead with his thumb and index finger, his skin wrinkling around the areas where the pads of his fingers pressed. Hannibal observed this carefully, trying to calm his own mind down with the observation of another. "He hadn't even planned to kill the guy for Chrissake…"

"Listen, William, if our conversation is making you uncomfortable, we will move on to better, more relaxing things." Because Hannibal really didn't want to discuss this right now; he could even lash out and take poor Will's heart for tomorrow's dinner. But, Hannibal didn't let his rage control him that way. "How have you been sleeping?"

Will let out a nervous chuckle, taking off his glasses and beginning to rub the lenses clean with the hem of his shirt. "Sleep has been…fleeting." The nightmares had progressed into his days- reoccurring images of gore and Hobbs and that Godforsaken stag. He remained awake for most nights. It left him feeling zombie-like.

"And your eating habits?

"Inconsistent. I'm pretty sure I've lost weight." He could feel his stomach clench at the thought of food, and he figured he could stop by a Wendy's or something to get something to eat.

"Well. Did you eat anything today?"

"A PB&J. That's it." There was humor within Hannibal's eyes as he stared at Will, his lips pulling up just the slightest bit, as if feigning a smile.

"You are more than welcome to request my services as a chef, Mr. Graham." Hannibal's voice sounded on the verge of laughter, and the corners of his red eyes were crinkling as he gazed fondly at his friend. He knew full well that the extent of Will's cooking expertise was a grilled cheese sandwich- and even those were iffy. "Trying to make a routine for yourself should help relax your mind. Perhaps we could discuss some solutions." But, Hannibal was mostly thinking of one thing- and the word was flashing across his brain like a strobe light. Copycat.


After Will had gone for the evening, Hannibal was left alone. Today's session had revealed plenty of things- both good and bad. Good- Will had figured out a routine that could bring him back into the scheme of normal life (but Hannibal doubted it.) Bad- someone was out there, making a mockery of everything he stood for. He wanted to throw something.

But, he kept all of that carefully hidden- the 'person suit' Bedelia was talking about assuming its role. He wasn't feeling very hungry or murderous (surprising, I know), so he decided a stroll was the best thing for a mind that needed quiet.

The walk itself was peaceful- dark,

shadowy,

fraught with peril!

No, seriously- it was nice. The air was cool against the skin of his face, a slight breeze curling its fingers through his blond, silky hair. And, he didn't have to worry about creepy men coming to seize him. Because 1. He would eat their liver, and 2. He would eat their liver.

He continued to contemplate this new mystery man, his eyebrows drawn low over the (once again) garnet eyes in deep concentration. Will had said the man was almost identical. Not completely. And, if Hannibal knew anything, this man wasn't out there trying to make himself known- he was trying to keep under the radar.

But the concierge had definitely set him off.

Hannibal was still within this frame of mind when someone large bumped into his shoulder, pushing the doctor backward a few steps. The form stopped, turning toward him and immediately reaching out to grasp Hannibal by the shoulders in order to steady him.

"Ah, Goddammit! I'm sorry! It's dark, and I wasn't looking…" He was rambling on and on about darkness and sight impairment, practically panicking, Hannibal could already tell. High anxiety levels. The thought ran smooth over his brain like an ice skater in the Olympics.

Like Will. Shut up brain, not now. "Oh, don't even worry." Hannibal gave a polite smile, straightening his coat. The man helped him out a bit by taking his palms off his shoulders. Now that Hannibal studied him a little closer, he thought about how a man could grow so impossibly tall. He had to be closer to seven feet than six. But, Hannibal wasn't going to say anything- it would be rude.

"Ah, Jesus- now I feel like an idiot…" He gave a slight smile, hesitating a bit before holding out a hand. Hannibal saw it as if he were contemplating whether or not it was appropriate. "I'm Elijah Evans. My friends call me Brutal. I hope I didn't break anything." Hannibal smiled back, genuinely I might add, and took the other's hand in his own. Elijah's palm enveloped Hannibal's entirely.

"Hannibal Lecter. It's a pleasure." The handshake was firm- trustworthy. Although, both of them knew that their interiors were anything but.


Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The stag was breathing heavily in Will's ear, and it made the hairs on the back of his throat tingle and Goosebumps rise on his flesh. He was standing barefoot in the center of a snowy field- trees… they were so green… and they were everywhere. All around, surrounding Will and the stag like an audience. Fog danced across Will's face as the stag breathed, and he could feel his eyes getting heavy. He could hear snowflakes falling on the ground, sparking with the light of the moon.

He was staring into the trees, looking for something… anything. The trees revealed no secrets to him, and Will felt helpless. He felt like crying. He was so alone in the snow… and he was searching for anything that was remotely human.

And, as if announced, something began to walk toward him from the blackness of the trees. It was tall, black, and wonderful. Will felt so happy for just a moment- just a spark of happiness at the illusion that things were going to be okay. The being- it seemed to glide across the white field of snow- it was elegant, so beautiful…

When it got close, the being reached out his hand and pulled Will into a tender hug, as if it were a mother looking after her child. Will hugged back tightly, breathing in the rusty scent of the being. He didn't care. He knew who this was. He knew the scent, the movements, the silhouette… he knew who it was. And, just as he thought the face was going to be revealed to him-

Will woke up. Soaked in sweat. He could still feel the hot, arid breath of the stag on his face, and he trembled, not wanting to turn around and search for the impending hallucination. Instead, he focused on looking at the alarm clock at the side of his bed. 3:13. Well. Slowly, ever so slowly, did he step out of bed. He felt sticky, wet, and unnerved.

What the hell had that dream meant? He peeled the shirt from his back, tossing it into the hamper and pulling another from one of the drawers in his dresser. His dogs were waking one by one, lifting their heads to watch as their master calmed from whatever anxious dream he was having. You see- that's why Will liked dogs so much. They lived in the now- anything that has happened has happened, and they could let go of it almost instantly. Unlike him. Hobbs was a constant voice in his ear, and Will despised it.

In a way, he envied the dogs, too- because dogs knew how to live life. Will only knew how to be useless.

He grit his teeth against the thought, closing his eyes and trying to think about anything he should do before the acceptable time to wake up.

He supposed his dogs needed food.