Chapter Text
Not for the first time is Hannibal Lecter questioning his move to the United States. When one thrives in the Mediterranean heat and humidity of Italy or the south of France, it is hard to enjoy the crisp September rains that are somehow just as wretched as the frigid January storms that rise up from the Atlantic. In his twenty-eight years, he has never enjoyed the cold.
He’s aware of how petulant he sounds every time he internally complains, but after spending the last eighteen hours in the operating room overtop a very challenging emergency heart surgery for an eight–year–old girl and having to deal with that self-important, imbecilic Dr. Lloyd the entire time, Hannibal is exhausted, hungry, and he simply does not want to deal with the cold too.
He would also prefer to simply go home, but alas, he has documents that needed picking up from the crooked lawyer he has under his thumb who handles those particular falsifications. Unfortunately, his office is in a very inconvenient part of downtown, and Hannibal was forced to park several blocks away and walk through the rain to and from.
A large, invasive droplet splatters across the back of Hannibal’s bare neck and he flinches from the chill.
Two more blocks, he reminds himself. Then home.
Home.
It sounds like bliss.
Hannibal hunches his shoulders to block the rain and pushes himself to walk faster. He’s nearly there. He has leftovers from that irritating shop assistant at the butcher’s ready to reheat. Her kidneys were particularly delicious.
Hannibal carefully steps over a small lake of water and tries not to side-swipe the filthy brick wall as he does. A large gust of wind hits him directly, wafting the nauseating smell of rotting food from the nearby dumpsters, stale cigarette smoke, and…
Copper and iron.
Fresh.
Blood.
He stills, arches his neck toward the alleyway, and listens.
Hannibal hears the sound of not one but two fighting growls in different timbres, followed by the dense crunch of bone under flesh and a huff of lost breath. In this terrible part of town, fights are not uncommon, but Hannibal Lecter is nothing if not curious. Quick as an arrow, he saddles up to the filthy wall, careful his coat doesn’t touch the grime, then peers around the wall at the scene in front of him.
Two men are furiously struggling near the dumpster, but Hannibal can only see one. He is almost a hulking mass, taller than Hannibal by several inches, and built like an athlete. His clothing is dirty and he smells as if he hasn’t had access to a shower in several weeks. The odor alone brings tears to Hannibal’s eyes. He’s grappling with his opponent with scrappy, uncoordinated movements and hissing vulgarities under his breath, “you little whore, I’ll cut your fucking throat.”
The large man suddenly goes flying backward with a pained ‘oomph’ noise, staggering and finally falling on his backside into a puddle. A large switchblade, nearly as long and wide as a hunting knife, falls from his meaty hand onto the wet ground with a loud clatter.
Pleased with this new development, Hannibal turns to cast eyes on the adversary to see what force of life landed that powerful kick, and…
Mercy.
Humans are not meant to feel the turn of the Earth, nor the way the planet hurdles around the sun in a silent vacuum, but with one glance at him, Hannibal Lecter can feel the freefall through space beneath his feet. This angel can hardly be a day over twenty, with a delicate, seraphic face and a dusting of dark stubble framed by wet, unruly chestnut curls, and eyes the color of the sea during a raging storm. The jeans and flannel shirt may as well be wraps of silk and gold on his small frame.
Oh, but his eyes… Even at first glance, Hannibal knows this boy is brilliant. He senses a kindred spirit like a shark to blood. This boy, young as he is, has a mind like a labyrinth, an intricate maze of horror that he cannot run from. Horror that frightens him but leaves a stain behind. No doubt this angel feels tainted or defective in this life. Broken. Like a monster.
He’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing Hannibal has ever seen.
This young man smells of pine, blood, and fear, but his face is contorted into unrestrained fury. His lips are pulled back over sharp, vicious teeth, and Hannibal watches, transfixed, as a drop of blood trails from the corner of his mouth down the side of his chin. The young angel, slight and wiry as he is, stalks forward with slow, predatory steps toward his prey still lying prone on the ground, his eyes burning with a violence that awakens the monster beneath Hannibal’s skin with a hungry purr.
The swine (because what else could he be in the presence of this malevolent Demi-God), cries out in rage and moves to lunge for the boy’s legs, but the boy is faster. He sidesteps to the left and allows the swine to fumble, then his stormy eyes flicker down to the discarded blade on the ground.
Hannibal’s heartbeat quickens. Do it, he silently begs. Let me bear witness to your glory. Give me this gift, and I will give you anything you could ever want.
Unfortunately, the pig is undeterred, if not more aggravated at being bested a second time—he twists himself up to his feet and delivers a blow to the young man’s cheek, which sends him falling to his side on the dirty alleyway floor.
Protectiveness is not something Hannibal has felt in nearly two decades now, but it takes a hellish amount of self-control to stay where he is, to not lash out and take his angel’s kill. Hannibal will not let this swine destroy his new treasure. He will intervene if it gets too close, but this wild boy has a blade in his sights and murderous dread in his eyes, and Hannibal wants to see what he’ll do with it.
The young man coughs and spits out a mouthful of blood onto the pavement and scrambles to his right toward the blade. The swine intercepts him, grabbing him by the collar and trying to haul him up by the throat. His boy’s eyes go wide with terror, rapidly flickering all over the place, then he lets out a strangled noise. He claws at the hands around his throat while he blindly kicks outward and misses completely. His other hand searches for the knife almost frantically and closes around the handle just as the swine pulls him to his feet and slams him up against the alley wall.
“You gonna cry, bitch?” He slurs in the angel’s face, tightening his grip until the boy whimpers and a few tears begin to trickle down the side of his face. This makes the pig laugh. “You gonna cry real pretty when I carve my fuckin’ name into your back.” The pig draws back his fist and hits the boy so hard his head knocks back against the bricks with a loud thud that curdles Hannibal’s blood, then he tries to grapple for the knife in the boy’s weakening grip.
Something sharp and dangerous pierces Hannibal’s composure.
Abandoning his plan in an instant, Hannibal steps out of the shadows with his eyes fixed on his next meal.
The young man, ever the unpredictable force, throws his head forward for a solid headbutt to the pig’s nose, making him howl with rage and loosen his grip on the blade, which the angel is able to rip out of reach.
Then, before Hannibal’s eyes, his angel plunges the knife into the man’s stomach, lets out a loud, fierce sound that echoes with divine power and tears, forcing a smile into the pig's repulsive flesh.
The Devil himself nearly falls to his knees in worship.
The pig gasps and garbles while his blood falls in rivers down his front. He is staring down at the wild, victorious boy, who is staring back with horror at what he’s just done, overshadowed only by a spark of delightful savagery. Hannibal watches this boy and he wants. He wants more than he’s ever wanted anything before.
The pig releases him, staggers back, then falls. His stomach is slashed clean open, dripping steadily onto the pavement under him. He will die soon.
The boy is covered in blood and pressed up against the wall in shock. He takes in large, gasping breaths and his body begins to tremble when he looks at the blade in his hand. He promptly drops it like it’s burned him. His stormy eyes flicker up at Hannibal for the first time and widen considerably with pure dread.
Hannibal though, Hannibal catches that fierce gaze just once and an unfamiliar feeling blooms through his entire body. Unfamiliar and heavy and relentless in its resolute desire to know this boy, to covet him, keep him, dote upon him. There is nothing Hannibal wouldn’t give to keep him, to hide him away from anyone and everything in the world. He wants to be the only thing this boy ever knows. Hannibal wants to belong to this boy as much as this boy belongs to him, and there is no doubt in Hannibal’s mind that this angel, this beautiful, wild, formidable creature with the face of Adonis and the heart of a warrior belongs to him and him alone.
But there will be time for such things later. Right now, his boy is terrified and wounded, and if he does not engender a sense of dependency now, this angel could run from him.
Hannibal would follow, of course, but he wants this angel willingly. He will settle for nothing less.
“Don’t be frightened.” He says in a very tender voice.
The boy’s face shutters in confusion but he doesn’t speak.
“I’m a Doctor,” Hannibal offers, taking a careful step forward. The boy jerks like he wants to step away, but the wall prevents him from going anywhere. Hannibal holds up his hands to show he means no harm. “Are you hurt?”
Blue eyes blink in a rapid sequence, uncertain and afraid, then flicker down to the body on the ground. He lets out a shuddering breath. “I killed him.”
Lord, his voice. It’s soft and husky with a light Southern drawl that seems to be almost involuntary as if he spends a lot of time hiding it and now that gate has crumbled. He sounds impossibly young, so scared.
It gives Hannibal a sick sense of pleasure to see this creature so vulnerable.
The pig is absolutely dead, Hannibal knows this as fact, but he still crouches down and places his fingers on his thick throat, forcing down the smile that pulls at his lips when he feels no pulse. “Yes, you did.”
The young thing lets out a soft sound and collapses back against the wall, sliding down to the ground in a tiny ball, never once taking his frantic eyes off his victim as he stutters; “I don’t… But, he…” He looks to Hannibal almost pleadingly. “H-he attacked me. It was s-self defense.”
This makes Hannibal frown. Arguably, yes, he is correct, and with a respectable member of society like Hannibal to defend him, it is possible that the boy could get away with that in court, but the brutality of the kill alone, the near savage slash of the man’s abdomen does not scream preservation; it screams murder.
To Hannibal Lecter, who is already well on his way to clawing his heart right out from between his ribs just to offer it at this angel’s feet, it screams opportunity.
“This isn’t self-defense. You butchered him.” He explains calmly.
The boy shakes his head vehemently in denial. “I didn’t mean to.”
It’s a lie, Hannibal knows. Hannibal saw the intent clear as day in the boy’s eyes before he ripped this pig open, saw the way his eyes glittered with passion when the knife sunk in. Naturally, the boy isn’t going to say that out loud.
And it’s with startling clarity that Hannibal realizes the boy is not afraid of the violence—he’s afraid of how much he enjoyed it.
Beautiful, wicked boy.
It’s euphoria. Pure Heaven.
Careful not to betray his delight, Hannibal looks over the pig with a steady eye. He isn’t even disappointed that he won’t be taking anything from him. As long as this boy remains his, Hannibal will be perfectly satisfied.
He looks back at the young man, who is almost unnaturally silent. Shock, most likely. “If you choose to tell the police,” Hannibal says, “They will see what you’ve done, and they will arrest you for murder.”
“If I choose?” He echoes faintly without looking up.
“Tell me your name.”
“Will.”
Will.
He is a warrior after all.
“I can help you, Will, if you ask me to. At great risk to my career and my life.” He murmurs, keeping his voice calm as he would to a patient in the ER. “You can tell them you were defending yourself when you gutted this man, or we can hide the body.”
This time, the boy does look his way. His face is tight with shock but is otherwise vacant. He’s dissociating, retreating into that mind of his, somewhere unreachable. “How could I ever trust you?”
“Surely you cannot, not so soon. However, that is a risk you must be willing to take if you do not want to end up in prison.”
Will remains silent, watching with wide, distrustful eyes.
And as much as Hannibal would love to pry open his skull and crawl inside, they are on a filthy alleyway floor with a fresh corpse, and time is of the essence. He reaches out and puts a comforting hand on Will’s arm, curious about the way that he stiffens under the touch but seems to lean into it all the same. Even the violent shivers wrecking his small form seem to calm under Hannibal’s touch.
Murderous, starved for affection, and all mine.
“Shall we start small?” He gently inquires.
“Small?”
There is just a glimmer of hope in this boy’s tone, and Hannibal latches onto it like a snake to a field mouse. He offers a kind smile and squeezes Will’s bicep to solidify the beginning of their bond. “Give me one hour of your trust, Will. Could you do that?”
Several agonizingly long seconds go by and Will just keeps staring at him with that empty, calculating stare. Hannibal wonders how much this beautiful boy really sees when his stormy eyes burn holes into Hannibal’s skin. It goes on so long that the first inkling of doubt begins to settle like a stone in his stomach. He can’t read this boy as accurately as he can read others—he’s too complex. Below his surface, he holds so many secrets that it makes him unpredictable. It’s irritating. It’s vexing.
It’s glorious.
Just when Hannibal is about to cut in and remind him of their situation, the unthinkable happens.
Will’s bright blue eyes suddenly fill with tears, disarming him completely. “Okay.” He whispers.
Hannibal’s monster crows in triumph. “Yes?”
His boy nods, slowly at first, then frantically as if worried Hannibal may change his mind. A wounded, frightened sound escapes his throat. “Help me,” He begs, small, broken, and desperate for kindness. “Please help me.”
As if Hannibal could never say no when his boy begs so prettily.
“Will, for the next hour, you must do exactly what I say.”