A/N: Yay for chapter two! I'll warn you now that there's a brief description of a hurt animal, implied sexual assault, and graphic depictions of violence in this chapter.

Also, there's some canon dialogue (which is weird because it's usually a pet peeve of mine). There might be some more in future chapters, but not a lot. I'll only add it if I either think it's important to the relationship dynamic or if it helps explain stuff I'd otherwise have no idea how to explain. Hope you enjoy!

strike the match, strike the match now

we're a perfect match, perfect somehow

we were meant for one another

come a little closer

"What he has is pure empathy," Hannibal tells Jack when the agent calls the next day. "He can assume your point of view, or mine, and maybe some other point of view that scare him. It's an uncomfortable gift, Jack."

"But he's stable?"

"Yes."

"That's all I need. Thank you, doctor."

"Wait up, Graham!"

Head snapping in the direction of the voice, Will stops as he sees Beverly jogging towards him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, a little breathless. "I just finished for the day, I was wondering if you wanted to get something to eat."

"Oh," Will murmurs as he continues walking. "I've got plans, sorry."

"Don't worry about it," she shrugs, holding the door open for Will to leave the building first. "Dinner plans, huh?"

"Yeah."

"This a date?"

Will rolls his eyes as Beverly winks at him, a grin gracing her features as they walk side by side to their cars.

"More like my psychiatrist invited me to dinner."

"Isn't that breaking some kind of ethical code?"

"It would be, I guess, but he's not officially my ps—"

Will stops abruptly when a figure appears before them, red hair falling down her back and a recording device in her hands. The mostly relaxed state he'd been in disappears in an instant, his posture straightening as tension consumes his body. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Beverly's grin die to be replaced by a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

"What do you want?"

"How does it feel to be a killer, Graham?"

"Fuck off, Freddie."

"Good?"

"Go to—"

"Is that why you let the girl die?"

"I didn't let anyo—"

"Personally I'm surprised you're still allowed to wo—"

"Okay, that's enough," Beverly cuts in, grabbing Will's arm and pushing him around Freddie.

She continues to push him in the direction of his car, rolling her eyes as Freddie calls out behind them, the sound of her heels clanking against gavel as she rushes to follow.

"Do you feel proud for killing the Minnesota Shrike, Graham? Righteous?"

Will can see Beverly takes a deep breath before forcing a smile to her face and turning around, "Piss off and do something better with your time, yeah?"

"Can't speak for yourself, Graham? Nothing to say?"

"Goodbye," Will calls out when they finally reach his car. Opening the door, he turns to mutter a quick I'll see you tomorrow to Beverly before getting in and putting his belt on. He shuts his eyes for a moment, head resting against the worn fabric of his seat, before turning the car on.

Pulling away from the building, he suppresses the urge run the reporter over.

He's barely through the front door when Hannibal notices something's wrong.

"Are you alright, Will?"

Will nods as the older man leads him from the entryway to the kitchen, his eyes trailing over the refined décor of Hannibal's home. The aura of sophistication it radiates makes him feel out of place, almost as if he and his chaotic mind don't deserve to be there.

"You seem bothered by something."

"It's nothing," he assures him. "Just work."

"The shooting?"

"No."

"You can talk to me, Will. I listen to people's problems for a living, after all."

"One would think, after doing that all day, you'd want a break when you finally come home."

Hannibal smiles, "Wine?"

"Navarin D'Agneau," Hannibal murmurs, placing a dish in front of him that, to Will, just looks like a fancy version of meat and vegetables.

"Thank you," he says, fidgeting uncomfortably until Hannibal takes his own seat.

He waits for Hannibal to take a bite of his own food before picking up the knife and fork placed neatly next to his plate. He's careful of how he handles the cutlery, conscious of the fact that the doctor would expect adequate table manners. Bringing a forkful of meat to his mouth, he suppresses a moan as it falls apart, the flavours coating his taste buds.

He swallows before looking towards Hannibal, "This is good, better than anything I could make."

Hannibal's mouth tilts into a tiny smile, "A lot of time and practice, my good Will."

The endearment makes Will want to laugh, but he suspects that doing so could be considered rude, so he just takes another measured bite of what he assumes is lamb, his eyes fixed on the red of his wine.

"I spoke to Jack earlier today."

"Oh?"

"He asked my opinion of you."

"What did you say?"

"That you were stable," Hannibal tells him. "Fit for work."

"Do you think he views me as stable?"

"I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest china used only for special guests."

Will lets his fork drop to his plate as he laughs, the noise loud in the vast dining room. "How do you see me?"

"The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by."

Will's not exactly sure what to think of that, but he dutifully picks up his fork when Hannibal tells him to finish his food, their conversation turning to lighter topics.

"I read Freddie Lounds' article."

"Please tell me you don't usually read Tattle Crime, Doctor Lecter."

"Every now and then."

"Tasteless journalism."

"I'll agree with you on that. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes."

"The name 'Gunner Graham' doesn't bother you?"

"I didn't come here to discuss that."

"What did you come here to do, Will?"

"Enjoy a meal with someone who doesn't believe I'm a crazy psychopath."

"Very well."

"He's making angels," Will finds himself saying a few weeks later, back in Hannibal's office.

"Angels?"

"Skinning people," Will clarifies. "Hanging them as angels and making them act as guardians while he sleeps."

"That's…peculiar."

"He's scared."

"What is he scared of?"

"Mortality, he doesn't want to die in his sleep."

Hannibal watches as Will rubs tiredly at his cheek, fingers tracing against stubble as the profiler shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply.

"It's bothering you."

"Yes," Will tells him. "I'm sorry, I don't even know how much I can tell you. Jack—"

"Forget about Jack for the moment, Will. You may not officially be my patient, but I have no plans of mentioning anything that gets said inside this room to other people. I promise you."

"People break promises all the time."

"I can assure you I am not one of those people. If I make a promise, Will, I intend to keep it."

Will sighs, "He's hard to profile," he says eventually. "The brain tumour can easily change the way he thinks, it's…"

"Unnerving?" Hannibal supplies, continuing when the other man nods. "This doesn't happen very often, I take it."

"No," Will tells him. "I can usually profile anyone. The last killer I had serious trouble with was…"

Hannibal tilts his head to the side as Will trails off again. "Was…?" he prompts.

"The Chesapeake Ripper," he replies, eyes shutting as he leans forward, elbows resting above his knees.

Hannibal suppresses a smile as he crosses one leg over the other, his fingers linking together over one knee. "Why couldn't you profile the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"There isn't a set pattern," Will says. "Some killings are similar, but there isn't a pattern. He's an intelligent psychopath. They're always hard to profile."

"Do you think this angel maker is an intelligent psychopath?"

"No. He's just afraid."

"Does the Ripper still bother you, Will?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you think of him?"

The room is silent for a moment, the only audible noise coming from Will's deep breathing and the wind outside. Hannibal waits patiently, unwilling to rush this particular conversation.

"I can appreciate the beauty," Will finally murmurs, sighing deeply as he leans back in his chair again. "The…artistic skill, however horrific. There was a period of time where they thought the Shrike may have been him."

"But you thought otherwise?"

"The Shrike loved his victims; the Ripper views his as pigs. Nothing but meat to mutilate."

"You don't sound disgusted."

Will meets Hannibal's eyes then, a small smile on his face. "I said I could appreciate the beauty, the intelligence. If one found the works of serial killers impressive, the Ripper's victims would be notable," he tells the other man, pausing briefly before adding, "Of course, that's exactly what he wants."

"Of course, that's exactly what he wants."

"How so?"

"No one would spend that much time, that much effort, to display their victims if they didn't want people to marvel at their work. The Ripper risks getting caught by staying behind to make something that, in his opinion, was once ugly and unpleasant a masterpiece."

"Is that what you think he turns his victims into, Will? Masterpieces?"

"Don't you?"

Hannibal ignores the question, "You keep these thoughts from those you work with."

"I don't think agents of the FBI would appreciate me sympathising with the Chesapeake Ripper."

"But you believe I would?"

"I think you would appreciate many aspects of my mind's darker musings, Doctor Lecter. Not just my…immoral views on the works of serial killers."

Hannibal smiles again, amused, and Will finds himself returning the gesture.

"I hope you catch your angel maker, Will."

Looking up at the hanging man, their angel maker, Will shakes his head in an attempt to remove the remnants of his hallucination. He runs his hands through his unkempt curls, fingers tugging softly as he spares the mutilated body one more look.

He's angry. At the killer, at Jack, at himself. He feels wrong…off. Like there's something undefinable bubbling up inside of him that needs to come out, that he needs to let out.

Jack's parting words play in his head as he turns to leave, and Will thinks that perhaps he should quit. To spite the other man, if nothing else.

It's a long drive home, and his anger grows hotter and stronger with each passing mile.

The hues of the sky have just started to darken when Will pulls into his Wolf Trap home, the previously light blue turning to a darker, murkier kind of navy. It looks as if it's about to rain.

He slams the car door shut when he exits, more than ready for some whiskey and a hot shower. If he's lucky, he might even manage a few hours of decent sleep; God knows he needs it.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Will almost misses the low, pained whine of an animal. Almost.

He stops abruptly, his eyes snapping wildly around the entry of his home before he spots it. There's a small trail of blood against the faded, white paint of the floor, and his eyes follow it to land on one of his dogs, huddled near the front door and curled in on itself. He moves quickly, crouching down near the animal and touching it gently.

"Buster," he murmurs, frowning when the pup whines again. "What happened, buddy?"

He looks over the small animal and his frown intensifies as he spots a small cut, blood colouring the white fur surrounding it. He examines it carefully, relief swelling in his chest when he realises it's just a shallow surface wound.

He gives the dog a quick scratch behind his ears before standing, "I'll get some stuff to fix you."

His key is in the lock when he stops again.

He looks back towards Buster, and although he knows the dog won't be able to answer him, he still verbally asks, "Who let you outside, Buster?"

He gets another pitiful wine in response and sighs. Looking around the outside of his house, he spots an old, rusted crowbar resting neat the bottom of the stairs. Without much thought, he moves to pick it up, preferring to be safe than sorry.

Opening the door, he drops his keys on the bench and lets the bar slip into his right hand, ready for a fight if it presents itself. He doesn't bother closing the door as he walks further into his unlit home, his other dogs running first to him, and then out to the yard. He turns to watch the last one leave, barking happily as it runs after the rest of the pack.

For a brief moment, he thinks he's worried over nothing.

And then he sees him.

Propped up by an old armchair in the corner of his living room sits a man; the light from outside gleaming off of a shaved head, while still keeping his face hidden in shadows.

"Welcome home, detective."

Will narrows his eyes at the unfamiliar figure, he hadn't been a detective in a long time.

"You were very hard to find," the voice continues, traces of a northern accent evident. He doesn't recognise the voice.

"You seemed to have managed," he replies, voice even and eerily calm for the situation.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

The mystery man stands, eyes trained on Will's face as he moves closer.

"Can't say I do."

A haunting, humourless laugh fills the room, and Will tightens the grip on the crowbar.

"Michael Spencer," the voice says. "You put me away ten years ago."

Vague memories of an attempted murder flash in Will's mind, and he smiles. "You've been a good boy then, Mikey? To be let out already?"

Spencer steps closer, the action moving him into the light the open doorway offers. Immediately, Will can see the scarring; what used to be a pretty face has been disfigured, thick scar tissue running down the left side of his face, from his eyebrow down to his chin.

The laugh fills the room again, though Will can feel the hidden pain behind it.

"Do you have any idea what they did to me?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. "What you did to me, detective."

"Actually, the correct term is now agent," Will tells him. "And I did nothing to you."

"YES, YOU DID!" the voice yells, and Will's proud of himself when he doesn't react to the unexpected increase in volume. "It was your fault. All of it was your fault."

"If you didn't want to be tormented in prison, Mikey, then you shouldn't have tried to kill your girlfriend."

The other man lunges at him, an animalistic growl leaving his mouth, and Will sees the glint of a sharp blade just in time. He manages to duck, narrowly missing the first blow as the ex-con stumbles forward. Will manages a swift kick to the joint behind Spencer's left knee, and satisfaction blossoms in his chest when the other man grunts in pain. The satisfaction is short lived, though, and the anger from before resurfaces as Spencer manages to get a few good punches in. Will steps out of reach as Mikey tries to stab him again, his right arm rising above his head before bringing the crowbar down in a fluid motion. The curved ending connects with the other man's shoulder with a sickening crack, and Will yanks it out before repeating the motion.

He smiles as blood stains Mikey's white shirt, the crimson looking near black in the dim light. He lifts the bar to hit him again, but Spencer manages to jump away just in time. The ex-con uses Will's surprise as an advantage and ducks low before managing to stick the knife into Will's thigh, blood spurting out of the wound as he quickly pulls the knife out and does it again a few inches below.

The adrenalin cursing through Will's body stops him from feeling any pain, and he uses their positioning to wack Mikey in the back of the head with the blunt end of the bar. The man falls to the floor, blood still spilling from his shoulder, and he tries to grab Will, to clutch onto clothing and pull him to the ground as well.

Will manages to stumble out of reach, and he channels the thoughts and feelings of every killer he's ever profiled. He smiles as his mind's voice for the Chesapeake Ripper tells him to pierce the skin with the bar. He brings the crowbar down on Mikey's head a few more times, a sense of calm clarity replacing his anger with each crack of bone, before obeying the voice. He uses the sharp, cured end of the metal bar to dig into the flesh of the other man's neck, and pushes so it's lodged through.

Choking and gurgling noises leave Mikey's mouth as his throat rips open, blood spilling out of his body and all over Will's carpet at a rapid rate. Will watches, eyes wide with a manic smile on his face, as the other man bleeds to death on his floor.

The adrenalin slowly leaves his body as he watches, and he finds himself stumbling backwards, falling into one of his armchairs as the pain of his leg registers. He looks down, notices the gushing blood and the knife still stuck in the flesh, and touches his thigh gingerly. He's going to need a few stitches, at the very least.

Will doesn't think he'd be able to drive to the hospital with his leg like that, and, with a still bleeding body on his floor, there's no way he can call an ambulance.

So he does the only other option he has. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he calls Hannibal.