Disclaimer: I don't own NBC's "Hannibal." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: 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 Two
"Somehow this isn't how I pictured it," Brian muttered later, when he was stripped down to his shorts. Surrounded by sterile stainless steel and about four dozen different evidence containers as the stream-lined curves of the lab echoed in spite of their best efforts. Tone flat, but somehow still playful. Allowing him to imagine how Brian's voice could've been damn near husky if it hadn't been wrecked from dry-heaving and tainted by the lingering aroma of watered-down vomit.
"Picture what?" he shot back without even thinking about it. Wiggling a suggestive brow. Trying so hard to be normal that he figured he was in danger of straining something. "That this would be how I finally got you naked?"
He completely ignored the lab-techs as he passed them the trace evidence to log and label. Too focused on Brian, the way he was still wavering unsteadily and getting this done the fastest way possible to care about any hurt feelings. Already well aware of the crowd lingering in the hall and the reporters lined up outside for a glimpse of the man who'd killed the Chesapeake ripper.
His expression pinched deep lines around his mouth when the agent at the door turned away yet another nosy-nancy. Glancing up when the hush of voices permeated their private bubble of trauma and dissociative PTSD. Probably some well-wishing colleague or just straight up pompous asshole that figured someone other than them was getting too much attention.
Ugh.
It made his skin crawl.
They'd barely been in the building two hours and the vultures were already circling.
"Keep it in your tighty-whiteys, Lothario," he sang instead. Knowing Brian well enough to apply just the right amount of humor without appearing coddling. There was a time and place for it and it certainly wasn't now. Right now Brian needed the familiar. He needed banter and over-done humor. He needed science puns and just a hint of the mild flirtation that made up their conversations lately. "Lets at least wait until you're cleaner and a bit less traumatized shall we? Give me some credit. I do have some scruples, you know. Worn as they are."
Brian's smile was tired, but still there when he looked over at him
And for now, that was enough.
"Who should I call?" he asked carefully as Brain pulled on one of the shirts from his go-bag in the locker room. Showing off a littered canvas of bruises and sutured cuts, but looking a hell of a lot more human with the worst of the blood and dirt washed off after they'd finished processing.
"You know there's no one," Brian answered flatly. One eyebrow arching tiredly as he patted the pockets of his jeans. Pulling a face when he found no keys, wallet, cell or even his badge.
God knows where they were, honestly.
Maybe on Hannibal's body.
Maybe in his apartment.
Maybe in custody.
They'd find out tomorrow.
Probably.
"Well, then come on," he said decisively, grabbing his jacket and keys before heading towards the underground parking lot with a single-minded sort of determination he barely recognized. "I'm taking you home."
"'Kay," Brian breathed behind him, soft and exhaustedly restless as he looked longingly at his leather jacket hung up beside the flume hood. Both of them knowing basically nothing he'd been wearing was even close to being salvageable.
"My home," he clarified, once they'd made it to his sedan. Hating that the man hadn't beat him to it like he usually did. "I think yours is still crawling with feds. Your neighbors called in a disturbance by the way, so you might want to send them a fruit basket or something. By the time it'd passed through the right channels and the deputies learned you were FBI, you and Hannibal were long gone. He left a few presents, enough for everything to get crazy. Either way, I don't think you're getting back in there anytime soon."
Brian's nod thunked his head against the glass of the passenger door. Making him wince and watch him worriedly out of the corner of his eye as he eased the car through the check-point gate and onto the road. Already so sick of the silence he could scream.
"It could have been you," Brian rasped. Nearly sending him right through the sunroof when they were stopped on a red a couple blocks from his house. "He could've gone after you before he came after me."
He swallowed hard, blunt nails digging into the steering wheel as he fought for words. And not just the right ones, either. At this point he'd take pretty much anything.
"I'm glad he didn't," Brian added after a pregnant pause. Still not looking at him as he leaned up against the window. The circles under his eyes lit up by the pallor of the changing light. "I'm glad it was me."
What did you even say to something like that?
He didn't fuck around. The moment they passed through the front door he was all business. Leaving Brian to watch the cat escape under the couch. Wavering unsteadily in the boot-room as he charged past him and turned on what felt like every light in his house. Making sure every square inch of the place glowed – radiating good intentions and warmth - before coming back through the kitchen to tow him down the hall.
The sad truth was he was too tired for anything more than Brian could handle. Which apparently involved bullying him into the shower with the better water pressure and then a spare pair of PJ pants that barely kissed his ankles. Crowding him politely but firmly into the guest room with vague promises of breakfast from their favorite place in the morning- holy god, it was ten am - before saying goodnight and leaving the hall light on.
Because romantic intentions aside, he was honestly getting too old for this shit.
Brian had just taken years off his life and he couldn't even be mad at him about it.
He was tired of messed up cases and even more messed up killers. He was tired of the late night phone calls and somber funerals. Tired of close calls and Brian still not answering his phone on the tenth ring. He was tired of Will Graham and his continuing orbit of crazy that seemed bound and determined to ruin everything it touched. He was tired of having to hold himself back from what he wanted – or more to the point – who. He was tired of Jack's voice telling him something had happened. With sobriety being just another word that'd ceased to have any sort of meaning when it came down to how he slept at night.
He was tired of being tired all the time and he had a feeling it was mutual.
Still, he wasn't exactly surprised when his bedroom door creaked open less than an hour later. Back-lighting him in a halo of energy efficient bulbs as Brian stood awkwardly in the hall. Blinking and quiet like a displaced child, but somehow a hundred times more wounded. Standing there awkwardly until he sighed and twitched the covers back in sleepy invitation. Watching through heavy lids as Brian climbed in with an open hum. Something significant settling in his chest the longer the moment lengthened. Proving itself not to be a dream in the best and worst of ways as Brian's bare feet chilled across the back of his ankles like an embarrassed ghost.
They adjusted quietly and with far little difficulty than he'd expected. Navigating the ratio of sheets versus comforter and the occasional brush of chilly toes against bed-warmed skin like they did this every day instead of never. Refusing to think too hard about if this was them moving too fast or in the wrong direction entirely, in favor of reminding himself that Brian was here. Alive.
He was almost asleep when Brian spoke again.
"I wanted to kill him," he admitted quietly. Whispering it raggedly – close enough that it might as well have been against his skin as the man huddled fractionally closer. Dropping bomb-shells into a dust-mote eco-system as the odd slat of sunshine made itself known through the gap in his blackout curtains. "I could've restrained him. I could've tried. But I didn't. Does that make me a monster?"
"No," he said decisively, keeping his back to him. Knowing he wouldn't be able to get it out if he could see his face. "You're here. That's what matters to me right now. It'll be the only thing that matters to me today, tomorrow, hell- probably twenty years into the future. People are dead, and I still mean it. Does that make me a bad person?"
He couldn't help but try and picture it.
How it'd all played out in that clearing.
Had there really been a moment where Brian could have brought Hannibal to heel?
And did he care if there had been?
The answer was surprisingly easy.
"But even of it does make you a monster, maybe you were the right kind," he said after a moment, gaining confidence as the shadows chased one other across the ceiling. Blinking away the after image of Brian sitting on the ambulance hitch, lost and small in a shock blanket. "The one that was needed to make things right. Maybe there was a reason it happened like it did. I don't know, maybe there was a purpose behind it. A reason why you were there. Because it had to stop. Before we lost anyone else. Before-"
The hot flush of humidity and salt-tears that followed went unmarked for both their sakes as sleep slowly eased its foothold firmly back where it belonged. Taking them down together until - for the first time since they'd lost her - Beverly started smiling in his dreams.
A/N: This story is now complete. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – Stay tuned for another part of this series, coming soon.