Disclaimer: I don't own NBC's "Hannibal" or Jerry Bruckheimer's "King Arthur," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an AU/reincarnation fiction involving "Hannibal" and the movie "King Arthur," specially revolving around a romantic relationship between Hannibal (who is the reincarnation of Tristan) and Will Graham (who is the reincarnation of Galahad). This story was made possible by a prompt on the Hannibal kinkmeme. Please see original chapter for complete information regarding the specifics of this prompt.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for the movie, and just to be safe, all of Hannibal, season one, adult language, canon appropriate violence, sexytimes, gore, murder, emotional manipulation, implied cannibalism and mature content.
Rinascere
Chapter Twenty-one
Will was already waiting for him by the time he finished with one of his more difficult clients, an overworked powerhouse of a CEO with deeply seeded feelings of inadequacy despite her many accomplishments and budding social life. Most of these perceived failings stemmed from abandonment issues suffered in her early childhood by an emotionally absent mother and an overbearing father. Who, coupled together, would have likely given even the popularly termed 'helicopter parents' of today a significant run for their money.
She was his last regular client of the day and despite the last minute nature of Will's arrival, he welcomed his visit. He only had one other client after him, Miss. Kimbel, a potential new patient who had been very insistent about her appointment time. It was a facet that was hardly unusual when it came to personality disorders. People who felt as though they had little control of the world around them often compensated by applying rigorous, and uncompromisingly strict control over their personal lives.
Will placed the letter containing his psychological assessment on the desk. "I think this may have been premature," the man greeted, keeping his distance as he crossed the room to join him. Still, he believed it to be an improvement from their last session where the man had haunted the loft for the majority of their appointment.
He reached forward on reflex, fingers tracing the elegant loops of his signature as he considered his reply before voicing it.
"What did you see? Out in the field?" he asked, recognizing the mania that lurked underneath the surface of the man's words, the stench of uncertainty and fear was pervasive. Almost overwhelming.
"…Hobbs," the man admitted quietly. His body language was understated and almost childish as his chin seemed to tuck into his chest for a long moment, seeking comfort from within but correcting the behavior before he could glean anything from it.
"An association?" he suggested. It wouldn't be uncommon after all, especially considering the man's empathy disorder.
"No, a hallucination. I saw him lying there, in someone else's grave!" Will replied, shaking his head.
"Did you tell Jack what you saw?" he asked, already well aware of the answer.
The man's face twisted, hands curling into fists as he started to pace. "No."
"It's stress," he assured, looking down at the piece of paper with a surety that the other man probably hadn't felt since Jack had put him back in the field. But for once, it wasn't an exaggeration. In all likelihood it was stress. Pulling the trigger and ending a life was a traumatic experience no matter a person's occupation or prior experience. Though, he suspected the event had caused deeper issues in the man's psyche than even Will himself was aware of - ruptures that would eat away at him as memories he didn't recognize slowly bubbled up from the cracks. Which, of course, served his purpose quite nicely.
"Not worth reporting," he added, watching calmly as the man circled the room, rubbing at his neck in agitation.
Could the man feel it? The slow loss of control? Inevitable and close. The growing realization that was lurking just underneath the surface? …Waiting.
"You displaced the victim of another killer's crime with what could arguably be considered your victim," he cautioned, one hand finding its way to his trouser pocket as he considered the man's position.
"I don't consider Hobbs my victim," Will replied, tone unquestionably firm as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A frown flirted with the downturn of his lips, clearly not willing to continue unless he was prompted.
"What do you consider him?"
"Dead," Will grunted. The bluntness took him aback, if only for a moment. He sensed that there was something more there, something that the man didn't want to acknowledge. Something important.
He decided to risk it.
"Is it harder imagining the thrill someone else feels killing, now that you've done it yourself?" he asked, gaze carefully blank, yet open as he met the man's stare from across the close distance.
The pause was cryptic, tense. Will seemed to be looking right at him, blinking owlishly. Shock and surprise were written across his face like paint splashed half-hazardly across a canvas. Messy, yet still beautiful.
Another moment passed and the suspense seemed almost sensual, erotic. Like a lover pressing soft kisses down the length of a thigh, growing noticeably teasing as they neared the groin.
A lesser man might have even held their breath.
But when Will finally nodded, despite the brevity of the moment, it felt a lot like a puzzle piece locking into place, like he was that much closer to having Galahad back and-
He forced himself to take a step back, mentally and physically. He couldn't risk overwhelming the man, not yet.
Still, he almost caught his breath at the man's omission. His gaze lingering on the way the man's expression crumpled as he admitted it. The younger man looked half shocked at his own daring as he eased him through it – his gaze bland and accepting as Will's resistance slowly gave way, opening up, if only marginally, as his admittance flowed through the air above their heads like a tantalizing perfume.
And despite the uncertainty of the moment, he couldn't help but feel as though this was a significant step forward.
"The arms, why did he leave them exposed?" he asked, changing the subject back to the case in Elk Neck forest in the guise of a peace offering, a reward for good behavior as he approached the younger man from around the desk. He smiled internally as Will nearly fell over himself in relief - clearly pleased with the change of topics.
"To hold their hands?" he theorized. "To feel the life leaving their bodies?" he asked, watching as Will leaned up against one of the columns, inching away subtly as he approached.
The man hissed in a breath through his teeth in a sharp negative. "No, that's too esoteric for someone who took the time to bury his victims in straight lines. He is more practical," the younger man explained, limbs restless as he neared the desk.
He considered what he'd heard on the news in comparison to Will's insights. "He was cultivating them."
"He was keeping them alive, he was feeding them intravenously," Will agreed.
"But your farmer let his crops die. Save for the one that didn't," he pointed out, getting drawn into the discussion as the man opened up. The flow of ideas was almost effortless as they bandied theories back and forth.
"Well, and the one that didn't, died on the way to the hospital," Will retorted, body language wounded as he pushed on. "But they weren't the crops, they were the fertilizer. Their bodies were covered in fungus," he clarified, giving voice to something he'd been suspecting as the conversation wore on.
It was not the killing that satisfied this predator, but the result. The creation. It was a mindset to which he could relate. Only this killer craved a different sort of end game. It was the connection his victims forged with the forest around them that he cared about. The killer envied their ability to connect, and in a sense was searching for a connection of his own.
"The structure of a fungus mirrors that of a human brain," he allowed, choosing his words carefully, "an intricate web of connections."
Will's agreement was clear. "Maybe he admires their ability to connect. The way human minds can't," the profiler mused, rubbing a hand across his face as he straightened.
"Yours can," he pointed out, leaning over the desk and fixing the man with a significant look.
Will's laughter was infectious.
"Yeah, well, not physically," the younger man chuckled, the humor dying in his throat in a way that made him long for a different outcome.
He straightened. "Is that what your farmer is looking for?" he asked, "some sort of connection?"
The man struggled, noncommittal but distracted, as if he were turning the words over and over in his head, considering. The man remained that way for almost the rest of the appointment, his thoughts internal and guarded.
It had been a joy to watch. One intellectual to another.
In many ways, Will Graham was a cage, a cage both from and against the world. Against the truth – the truth about who he was. His gifts, his ability to empathize regardless of the situation or person only worsened the disassociation. After all, wouldn't it make it harder to come back to yourself when you weren't exactly sure of who you were in the first the place? When everything from your life, to your memories and dreams, could easily be compared to trying on an ill-fitting shoe?
The man was complex but charming. A blended palate of dominant and submissive traits, shaky and unstable despite the strong mask he wore. He was ripe, ripe for the plucking and already half broken. All he needed was a push, a push and the assurance that he wasn't alone, that he would never be alone again, and the man would ready.
And he had every intention of being the person to do it.
In fact, he insisted.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up soon!
"The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted." - Thomas Harris