Chapter Text
As Will Graham stands to take his leave, Dr. Lecter can sense the other man's mind is even more clouded than when their session began. He prides himself on his skill at subtle manipulation, yet Will remains an infuriatingly complex puzzle. Even his best efforts to guide Will towards independence from Jack Crawford have left some vital pieces of the man obscured from view. 'No matter,' Hannibal thinks to himself. Patience is key in all his pursuits.
"Our time is up for today, but please do think about what we discussed," Hannibal smiles politely, rising to see Will to the door.
As Will merely nods distractedly and exits without another word, Hannibal is struck by a sudden, piercing pain lancing through the left side of his head. It's sharp enough to cause his vision to swim before his eyes. Gritting his teeth against the agony, Hannibal steadies himself against the back of the nearest chair. After several deep breaths, the pain begins to ebb, though an ache still throbs insistently at his temple. Curiouser and curiouser, Hannibal muses. He lowers himself slowly into the chaise, probing at the mystery ailment as the minutes tick by. Something tells him the answers lay with his elusive patient, Will Graham. Hannibal's keen mind will not rest until he finds out.
Eventually, an hour later, the migraine subsides, and darkness envelops the weary psychiatrist as he slips into a fitful sleep in his study. At first, oblivion takes hold. But soon, fragments of images begin to intrude upon the blank canvas of his mind. He stands in one of the fields near his old Lithuanian family home, the tall grass swaying in a breathless wind. All is peaceful like his childhood, daisies dancing around him... until he catches a glimpse of a figure emerging from the gloom - Will Graham, wraithlike in the gathering dusk. But something is wrong with Will. His eyes burn with a feverish light and his hands are clasped behind his back, concealing something. Hannibal opens his mouth to call out the younger man's name when his windpipe is cut off.
Will lunges at him with unnatural speed, pinning him to the ground. They struggle, but Will clearly has the upper hand. His face morphs into a feral mask, mere inches from Hannibal's own. Gathering all of his natural strength, Hannibal throws him off and rises to his feet, only to freeze. He's lost all control of his autonomy. Scratches are drawing blood all across Will's arms and hands, but there is power in those eyes. Nails sharpen, but Hannibal is unable to move from his spot. He's unable to speak as agony explodes through his body. He can feel his organs detaching themselves, bottoming out. Looking down, he sees the manifestation of Will's becoming: an excruciating reality as his own flesh begins to scrape away from the bones. He's being disemboweled by Will's silent order. By the flash in his eyes. Will breaks the silence with a deranged cackle, and blackness swallows Hannibal. The last thing he sees are those chilling blue eyes regarding him without mercy.
Hannibal startles awake with a hoarse gasp, pulse racing. The pain in his head has vanished, but lingering dread and confusion still cling to his mind. The dream was viscerally realistic, from the agonizing sensations to Will's uncharacteristic violence. But what disturbs Hannibal most is the indistinct feeling that the dream was not merely been a product of his unconscious, but rather a window into something far more obscure and unknowable at play.
Will and Hannibal are called the next morning to Cleveland, Ohio. A murdered body is hanging from a scaffolding in a downtown alley, the flesh of its back displayed like wings. Will arrives amidst the hubbub, sinking at once into a careful study of the display before him. His mind works quickly, noticing details that elude others. And as he puzzles over the supposed "angel" motif, a seed of disquiet takes root within. Keeping his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets rather than pulling on latex gloves, Will turns to face Jack and delivers his explanation.
Down the street, Hannibal's cab zips through the morning traffic. Lost in thought, he's caught off guard when a sudden sharp pain blooms in his gut, stealing the breath from his lungs. The attack comes and fades as quickly as his dream agony, though it leaves him no less perturbed. He inhales shallowly through his nose, feeling the lingering sting in his core. Years of withstanding far greater torments have fortified his endurance, however, and after a few steadying breaths, the pain dulls to a distant ache. As the cab rolls to a halt, he takes a final moment to school his features into their usual composed mask before exiting with lithe poise. The other attendees at the ghastly scene will witness no signs that anything is amiss. Only the faintest crease between his brows hints at the unsolved enigma still troubling his thoughts.
"... obsession with angels isn't biblical - since the angels in scripture don't have wings. His mind has turned against him and there's no one there to help." Will arrives at the finale of his report just as Hannibal makes his entrance.
Their carefully constructed facades begin to crumble already. At the mere sight of the doctor, Will bites back some visceral urge, while Hannibal unwittingly falls prey to an agony twisting through his form. The first cracks in their charade have the potential to shatter everything. With wary eyes flickering between the mysterious adversaries, how long before the others piece together what's transpiring beyond sight? On the outside, Hannibal appears every bit as unflappable as ever. Within, however, a cold flame of curiosity has been kindled. Will controls himself enough not to lash out at Jack, just biting out that he'll meet them back in forensics. He avoids eye contact with everyone but purposely lets a little darkness bleed into his gaze when he and Hannibal catch gazes for a split second. Hannibal opens his mouth to greet the younger man, but Will's fingers curl in his jacket. And Hannibal uncontrollably falls to his knees from an immense pain in his spine as Will leaves the scene.