Disclaimer: I don't own NBC's "Hannibal." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Part two to "The Right kind of Monster" series. Sequel to "The (right) kind of monster." I wanted to write a bit of pre-slash Preller where after Beverly was murdered, Hannibal came after Zeller next, only – unexpectedly - he bit off a bit more than he could chew and now the aftermath of that scenario is being carried on through Jimmy's point of view.
Disclaimer: vampires, vampirism, blood drinking, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, mild animal traits/behaviors, pre-slash, drama, angst.
Labascate (but never yield)
Chapter One
He was covered in blood, carpet fibers and more than his fair share of cuts and bruises when he caught sight of him from the car. Voice caught in his throat as Jack slammed on the brakes the same moment he started fumbling with his seat-belt. Heart already halfway to him before he'd even stepped out of the car.
He was alive.
Somehow, Brian was alive.
He felt more than heard the bite of gravel as it dug into the soles of his boots. Hating the picture the scene painted as Brian remained alone despite being surrounded by people. The hollows of his face lit up a sallow blue and red in the flashing lights as every micro-gesture showed off the blood air-drying into his stubble.
A muscle in his jaw clamped harshly. Preparing for it as Brian's eyes found his through the crush. Snapping so tight that it made the last few steps self-conscious and the way he grasped the man's shoulders even more so. Awkward with relief and whiskey-tinted grief as he tried and failed to steady his breathing. Trying to be the rock Brian needed to lean on rather than the weight that was going to drown him as he swallowed down the backwash.
He hadn't just fallen off the wagon this time.
He'd stolen it and crashed it into a god damned telephone pole.
He'd been a quarter bottle in with his phone charging at 15% by the time Jack called to say they'd found him. That he was alright. Alive. Breathing. That Hannibal was dead, Brian was alive and they'd found the Chesapeake Ripper all in the span of less than six hours. And honestly, he didn't know how to deal with that.
The good thing was he wasn't the only one.
Because Jack had been double-fisting the steering wheel the entire drive. Talking tersely with someone on the other end of the line as they turned this way then that, seemingly without reason. Driving deeper and deeper onto the bush as Brain's name beat a tired, screaming tempo inside his skull.
They didn't talk.
He figured he'd probably puke all over Jack's nice suit if he tried.
But there was something salvageable about the moment considering how wrecked Jack looked.
It didn't make him feel better, but at the end of the day he figured it was something.
"Bev's dead," Brian monotoned dully, when he finally pulled away. Muscles stiff and awkward as he realized how fucking long it'd been since he'd even tried to give someone a hug - and even longer since he'd actually meant it. Trying not to notice as the paramedic frowned and did a quick check of the man's vitals. Barely holding back from screaming at the nice lady just trying to do her job as her brisk movements left him unsettled and angry on Brian's behalf.
Like no one was allowed to touch Brian but him right now.
Or maybe ever.
Still, he swallowed the familiar bubble of grief that still came along with Beverly's name and nodded.
"I know, Brian," he returned quietly. Viciously clamping down on the part of him that wanted to take his trauma literally and tell him exactly how many weeks, days, hours, even minutes it'd been since the call came in.
The man was blinking too wide. Jaw ticking back and forth as his left knee jiggled restlessly. Seeming to look right through the cluster of FBI agents watching him with various degrees of awe and professional suspicion.
"Brian?"
For some reason it warmed him when the man looked up immediately. Realizing in the same moment that he had no idea what to say as Brian's mouth tried to tug upwards. Struggling through a smear of half-dried red slathered thick in the far corner of his cheek. Like even now, Brian knew exactly that he was thinking and had no problem taking the mickey out of him for it.
Asshole.
Unsurprisingly, he could admit he was more than a little in love.
Maybe he had been all this time and he was only just letting himself admit it.
Probably.
Definitely.
Christ.
He and important life decisions really had to stop meeting like this.
Brian's posture stiffened when Jack loomed suddenly over his shoulder. Flinching so sharply that the man's expression actually fell. Stance shifting into something that stooped his shoulders, temporarily softening all the authoritative lines as the Jack Crawford who spoke gently to grieving families, confused victims and young children made a surprise appearance.
Honestly, he didn't know Jack's voice could even get like that.
Especially for them.
"Zeller, I'm sorry to put you through anything more tonight- but we need a statement and we need to take you to processing. It's all a formality at this point, but you understand?"
Brian nodded numbly, wavering against the ambulance hitch.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Jack asked, hands loose at his sides but twitching with nerves. Clearly getting flashbacks to Beverly. Miriam Lass and every other person Jack had ever felt responsible for. "Anything you remember will be helpful. We have people at your apartment processing the scene. Anything we miss we can go through later at the office."
"Or it can all happen later," he negated cuttingly. Eyes darting from Jack to Brian and then back again. Noting the sweat starting to bead on his lower lip. The blanching grey pallor. The convulsive swallowing. The-
"I need an evidence tub, now!" he yelled.
He managed to jam the clear plastic tote into Brian's hands just in time for the man to start gagging. Throwing up a nightmare of blood and god knows what - far more than he figured there should ever be - as he kept his hands tight on Brian's shoulders. Trying to steady him as half-digested blood flecked foamy and thick across his filthy hands.
Neither of them were really listening when Jack started barking orders. Not even noticing the sudden absence of the medic who'd stumbled off to be quietly sick along with three or four others. Leaving him and Jack to watch the plastic container stain itself a thick, gory crimson. On and on until there was nothing left for Brian to give but dry heaves and whimpers.
It took a long time for anyone to even breathe loudly, after that.
"For a fancy guy, he sure tasted like shit," Brain commented into the horrified quiet when it was all over. Wiping vomit off his chin with the mash of tissues he passed him as someone in the background started retching again. Head still hanging low as the lumpy, congealing red sloshed depressingly in the basin.
He wasn't sure if the appropriate response was to laugh or cry, so he did a little of both.
Brian's hand was firm around his wrist. Almost fisting his jacket sleeve when Jack tried again. This time dragging along a green looking agent who looked like he'd rather be on the moon without a space suit and a no-nonsense woman with a silver-tinted French braid who was already looking at Brian a bit too apathetically for his liking.
The hand around his wrist only tightened when Jack sank down on his haunches in front of him. Grounding him firmly beside him as the younger agent fumbled with his camera. Trying to line up a shot for evidence that wouldn't have him somewhere in the frame.
Still, Brian refused to let go.
It happened sometimes at crime scenes where there were survivors. Sometimes a victim saw something familiar or just comforting in your face. Latching on to the first harmless looking person in the room for assurance as the worst day of their life turned out not to be a metaphor.
He was ashamed to admit that most of the time it was an annoyance. He knew it sounded heartless, but it was something that usually hindered an investigation than helped it. Forcing you to hand off your equipment to someone else and help that person work through everything from the crime scene to the ambulance, sometimes even all the way through evidence processing.
But it was different this time because it was Brian.
It was Brian with the shell-shocked eyes and bloody face.
Brian with the cuts and gouges littered down his torso and upper arms.
Brian with the day-glow bruises.
Brian with the stomach full of blood.
Brian with bits of the Chesapeake Ripper stuck between his teeth.
Brian with the burgeoning PTSD and vacant stare.
Brain with the-
"It won't take long, I promise," Jack told him almost gently. "You need to be processed for trace evidence. Everything has to be by the book. No mistakes."
"Can you stay?" Brain asked, ignoring Jack in favor of looking at him with a blank stare that didn't quite measure up to the open desperation behind the words. Knowing the cost of the feelings behind them as his cheeks flushed with discomfort on Brian's behalf.
"Yeah, of course," he answered immediately. Nodding for the two agents shadowing them to back off and take his kit to the car. Knowing it was better this way, regardless of the part of him that wanted to do this for Brian. To process the scene and just get this nightmare over with as soon as possible. But the longer he thought about it, the more he realized this was better. Brian needed him and there was honestly no where else in the world he'd rather be.
Come to think of it-
Hell, he could do better than just stay.
"I'll do it," he said hurriedly, half lifting Brian's hand as he twisted and stumbled back to his feet. Feeling like he'd aged thirty years between now and that last phone call. The one that'd sent him tripping over the stool in his kitchenette in his rush to fling his glass of whiskey into the sink and race his heartbeat to the car.
"You sure?" Jack asked. Blessedly not voicing what he already knew. That it was less about him being sure and more about his ability to be impartial and by the book when it came to the actual science.
"Absolutely," he answered, stepping a couple inches away - as short as his human leash with allow - before he continued. "I want to. He needs me to, Jack. And so do I."
Jack nodded, ignoring the blaring ring of his phone in favor of gesturing to a handful of milling agents to follow him deeper into the crime scene.
"Alright. Get it done. I want him checked out at the hospital before you do anything."
He nodded vigorously for the both of them, considering Brian wasn't listening.
In fact, the only reason he knew Brian was still awake was that the man looked up as they pulled away from the scene. Watching the fading crowds and flashing cameras until there was only muted light and the idle threat of darkness.
He didn't let go of Brian's hand until they pulled up in front of the hospital.
And even then, it was a near thing.
A/N: There will be one more chapter to this part of the series, play stay tuned. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.
Reference:
- Labascate: to begin to fall or slide.