Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beaches, the Corinthian loved to contemplate, contained the whole scope of the human experience. Over there children playing, and some other children crying; a woman sunbathing and relaxed, a woman stressed over the looming possibility of sunburn and drowning her skin in sunscreen; a man reading as if he has all the time in the world and nothing could bother him, a man frantically checking emails before he’s even set his bag down by his towel; teenagers throwing a ball around and happy to call it beach volleyball, teenagers swimming and spraying themselves with the water, teenagers yelling profanities at each other with boiling affectionate tones, teenagers throwing lustful longing glances at each other. Elderly taking slow walks, seasoned salesmen threading between the umbrellas and the beach chairs offering shiny trinkets and sweets. And above all of them the glaring sun plastered on a blue sky without a single cloud in sight, the waves crashing against sand in a salty symphony that not even the nearby bars blasting music could silence.

Truly the pinnacle of existence, the Corinthian thought lazily. Especially with someone to share it with.

He didn’t actually remember the name of the man next to him. He rarely did bother with names because there were much more defining characteristics to remember humans by. This one in particular was bold and assertive to the point of brashness - he’d spotted the Corinthian at the bar last night and insisted on buying him a drink and then seeing him off to his hotel room, a game familiar and played and, of course, enjoyed every single time. And the eyes, of course, the Corinthian never forgot a set of eyes. The man lying in the sand next to him had dark eyes, a star squeezed free of all light and then folded into a tight ball and left to rot in the darkness, worked over by a capable carpenter who smoothed it out to a dull shine into two and slotted them right into this man’s skull.

His name was probably James. He looked a bit like a James, but the Corinthian preferred to remember him as the one star-eyed man who very insistently slammed him against the wall in his hotel room. His eyes and hands were currently tracing idle patterns over the Corinthian’s collarbone, taking maximum advantage of the latter’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt.

The Nightmare let him do it as he busied himself people-watching - the sensation felt good on his skin, and he was never one to turn down attention.

“You’ll burn,” the star-eyed man pointed out. “Pale bastard.”

The Corinthian laughed and raised his cocktail glass to his lips. He didn’t bother replying, instead busied himself with his phone and his drink. Possibly-James wasn’t all that invested in his skin’s health, as he let it be and continued his mindless exploration, pushing the other man’s shirt further away.

The Corinthian opened one of his numerous emails mostly out of habit and to have something to do with his hands. He was surprised to see something in the inbox.

Ah … so it was that time of the year already.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, to the displeasure of the star-eyed man who followed him with a frown. The Corinthian grabbed the back of his neck with one hand to pull him forward and kiss him, salty and biting and hot, before he pushed him away and stood up.

“Sorry, darling,” he purred as he stashed his phone in a pocket and buttoned his shirt up. “I know said I leave in the evening,” he threw an appreciative glance over Possibly-James’s nothing short of perfect body. “But I just remembered I have places to be.”

“Could I interest you in a trip?” Hannibal offered with one of his sly smiles, something lurking, hidden beneath.

Will threw him an exasperated look. This could be anything - a confession that his companion had killed someone too obviously and it was time for them to leave, a preposition for another extravagant get-away to some exotic corner of the Old Continent (although with them get-aways tended to be permanent, as they never settled in one place for long), or maybe just an attempt to distract him from the game.

They were playing sixty-six and Hannibal was currently losing 7 to 3. Although he had picked up the trump King from under the pile with his nine, so there was a chance he’d have a forty and win this round because Will did not have the trump Queen. He had the Ace, however, and the Jack, and was fairly confident he could push to 33 points even if his companion decided to close the round.

“What trip?” he finally asked as he threw a Jack from a non-trump suit on the table.

Hannibal took with a ten and reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Will waited patiently.

He was presented with a thick, textured envelope of obviously expensive paper, half of the broken wax seal still clinging to it. He raised an eyebrow - not many people save from his companion would bother with such officiality. Naturally, his curiosity pushed him towards flipping the envelope open, especially since Hannibal had obviously already read it, and lacking behind in information was dangerous even when he was fairly certain the two of them presented no threat to each other. Slacking would be rude, and he had absorbed some of his companion’s distaste towards rudeness.

It was an invitation, written by hand in elegant calligraphy and decorated with a stamped trim along the edge of the page.

“The Cereal Convention,” Will read aloud evenly, then threw his companion the most unimpressed look he could muster. “And here I thought chemicals offended your palette.”

“Do read to whom it happens to be addressed,” Hannibal smirked at him and that was never a good sign.

Will frowned and skimmed the invitation quickly, noting something about ‘giving the special address’ and ‘it would do us a great honour’, until he saw the name of the addressee at the very bottom - The Chesapeake Ripper.

His eyes widened as his head whipped up to stare at his companion, who was looking terribly smug.

“I receive an invitation every year,” he pointed out calmly. “Never felt an interest in attending.”

“Are you bored?” Will quirked an eyebrow.

“With you by my side? Never,” his companion denied as easily and sincerely as breathing. “However, it is an interesting opportunity. I find myself curious.”

“Cereal Convention …” Will repeated, twisting the paper in his hands this way and that.

“They call themselves Collectors,” Hannibal explained disinterestedly. “An understatement of art, but it serves the purpose.”

“It’s bold,” Will pointed out with a scoff.

“Talent may spring from the deepest darkest cavern and the poorest of lands.”

“So you are bored,” Will accused, his turn to be smug. “Looking for a new project to toy with?”

“I should like you to accompany me, if you are willing,” Hannibal ignored his remark. “Meeting peers could prove an enlightening experience.”

“Peers would imply us to be equal,” Will tilted his head to the side, assessing. “Do you nurse such hopes?”

“Nothing and nobody in this world could equal you or replace you, Will, but I do find himself wondering whether or not my continued rejection of this event would not lead me to miss anything.”

Will surveyed the thinly hidden innuendoes in the invitation, not least of which naming the event ‘The Cereal Convention’. It was tacky, in his opinion, and tastelessness was tantamount to rudeness. But they had been spending too much of their time holed up with only each other for company.

“Alright,” he shrugged, and that was that.

Hannibal won the game of sixty-six 12 to 8.

The Good Doctor strolled into their diner of choice with the smuggest grin any of the others had seen on her yet. She fixed her eyes on their table and took the distance in several smooth, long strides until she was sitting next to Fun Land.

“I have news,” she announced, her voice soft and rich like honey.

“So do I,” replied Nimrod. “And I believe yours cannot beat mine.”

“Let’s hear it,” The Good Doctor smirked, crossed her arms, and leaned back like a goddess allowing a lowly pilgrim to entertain her.

Nimrod did not take it personally - he brought his tongue out to wet his lips and then spoke with his fervent enthusiasm.

“I have received an answer … from the Corinthian,” he announced proudly. He didn’t notice how The Good Doctor’s smile faded, how she straightened immediately, tense as a plank of wood. “He’s agreed to attend the convention this year. And give the special address!”

“That’s amazing!” Fun Land exclaimed, eyes twinkling with excitement. He turned to the woman next to him. “Can you imagine? The Corinthian - in the flesh! Why, is it Christmas already?”

“It’s better than Christmas,” Nimrod chastised him but his words held no venom, only a near childish joy. “It’s once in a hundred years.”

“One hundred and thirty,” Fun Land nodded energetically.

“Boys,” The Good Doctor interrupted their celebrations, her voice ringing sharp and cold in the diner.

The two of them looked over at her with bewildered disbelief, apparently unable to comprehend how she could not be shaking with excitement like them.

“I also received a response,” she explained slowly, carefully. “By a special guest who agreed to give the address. The Chesapeake Ripper.”

Two sets of eyes widened before her. Fun Land and Nimrod exchanged glances, suddenly terrified and quiet.

“He … he too wants to come?” the older man chanced to clarify, his voice trembling just a little.

The Good Doctor nodded severely.

“Oh dear …”

“Yeah, that’s not good,” Fun Land agreed nervously. “I mean, they can’t both give the special address, right?”

“We cannot recede our invitation,” Nimrod pointed out reasonably.

“Maybe one of them will cancel,” The Good Doctor hummed thoughtfully. “Neither of them has ever attended. It seems unlikely both will this year.”

“Yeah …” Nimrod exhaled in relief. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Of course you’re right,” Fun Land nodded. “But in case you’re not …”

“Then our guests will be more than happy to meet both the Corinthian and the Chesapeake Ripper,” the woman announced sharply. “And we’ll figure something out for the address.”

“Looks like this is crisis averted,” Nimrod gave a small smile.

It did not at all feel like crisis averted.

Chapter Text

The hotel was in the Altstadt, overlooking the Salzach river. Salzburg in general was a rather sunny town in June, and the greenish water glistened in the mid-afternoon light. Ducks and ravens and various other birds lounged on the pebbled shores or swam along the current. Beyond the river, the newer, admittedly less pretty parts of the town were bursting with activity. Cars and bikes passed, and busses, and tourist groups were traversing every available bridge to see the castle and Mozart’s birthplace.

Having grown up and lived in the United States, Will viewed most cities in Europe as tiny. Salzburg, with its less than 150 000 population, was pretty much just a district to him, not an entire municipal town. It was jarring to think that some buildings less than five minutes of walking from their hotel were older than his entire country.

The hotel itself was plenty old, but recently renovated to suit the needs of rich guests and pretentious tourists. It lacked the seclusion he and Hannibal preferred, but it was also conveniently the stage of the Cereal Convention, due to begin in three days. If nothing else, the view was lovely.

Light, almost cat-like footsteps warned Will that his companion was joining him on the balcony. He spared him a glance as he sat down, then returned to his earlier observations. A duck he’d been studying, smaller and thinner than its brethren, was preening itself laboriously, but it was obvious that it suffered some disease or disability that prevented it from swimming properly. It was wounded, and it would die.

Even after years in Hannibal’s company, his proximity intense like the heat of the sun itself, a part of Will still wanted to reach out and help the bird. Nurse it back to health and watch it prosper. He never did anything to smother those instincts, rarely still acted on them. The duck would die, or it wouldn’t. He didn’t fancy himself the judge of that.

Usually Hannibal would engage in some form of conversation, but he was keeping quiet for the moment. Will could feel the other’s eyes on him, on his jaw and on his neck, and he let them stay there. Indulging both Hannibal and himself.

The air was cleaner in Europe as well. Even in major cities. They were greener too, and not just with parks. Boulevards were lined with large trees, centuries old, as if it was normal. Trees between the large apartment buildings, trees in children’s playgrounds. Despite the continent being so small, cities in Europe felt like they had space, whereas in Quantico one didn’t have the room necessary to put their other foot on the ground.

Will missed it and he didn’t.

Heavier feet thumped down on the floor and that got Will to smile - Sara exited the flat onto the balcony with her tongue out and her ears up and ready for exploration. She was a three-year-old German Shepherd they’d adopted from a shelter in Greece. She had a bit of hearing loss in her right ear, but that in no way tramped her enthusiasm to see the world and enjoy her life, nor the loyalty inherent to her breed.

Sara lied down onto the tiles and glanced down at the river between the bars of the railing. Will looked down upon her fondly, even though she was on Hannibal’s side and thus too far away to pet.

“I was last here to pay my respects to one of the greatest musicians of the millennium,” Hannibal opened with a reminiscing smile.

“Can’t have liked the tourists,” Will huffed.

“On the contrary. I found a pair of very agreeable delicatesses thanks to their intervention.”

The younger man rolled his eyes. He whistled softly and Sara stood up and patted over to him. He petted her energetically until he rested her head on his thigh as her tail thumped on the floor rhythmically like a metronome.

“And are you looking for directions now?” he sneaked a glance at his companion.

“Would you accompany me on a walk, Will?”

The Corinthian was in Salzburg early. He’d generally rarely left the States in his one hundred (almost, and counting) years in the waking world, as he believed to find the whole range of experiences humanity had to offer sandwiched between the Atlantic and the Pacific, but he’d indulged on the occasional trip to the Old World. Austria was a fascinating place, but he remembered the years when it had been dreadfully Catholic and immensely boring, no matter how grand the architecture. Humanity was like fine wine - it only got better with age.

That being said, he liked the odd loud/quiet combination which was Salzburg. It was a major business centre in Northern Austria, but also a university town with all the resulting romanticisms. There was a lot to do and a lot to see and so much to experience, to enjoy and to devour.

He was three days early, giving himself a chance to familiarize himself with the atmosphere before the Cereal Convention took all of his time. And to have some fun, of course.

It was a Wednesday, but the prospect of unbearable morning lectures the next day did nothing to dissuade the students from their evening adventures. The old town was home to many a restaurant and bar with student discounts that were visited more for the tradition than anything else. The real, modern clubs and discos on the other side of the river would probably be a better hunting ground, but the Corinthian was in an adventurous mood and preferred to stay over by the yellow sandstone, a movie set come to life.

He picked one of the finer establishments and strolled right in. The place was trying to imitate a British pub, complete with the nicotine smoke in the air and the darts set for hire, the high bar. Perfect.

It was mostly packed with groups of students, yelling and cheering each other into shots and beer and, somehow both surprisingly and not, challenging each other to trivia competitions. The Corinthian regarded them with a sort of fondness he reserved for humanity’s youth, much the same after more than a century. So much life in them, so much tenacity and confidence, even in the quiet ones.

Being around them lifted the Nightmare’s mood and he approached his chosen one merrily. The single lone guy at the bar who was nursing a glass of scotch. An odd choice for Wednesday evening before ten pm, and it was a bit too early for failed exams in the summer semester. He was wearing a dark blue hoodie and ripped jeans which did not at all go with his nearly military-short hair.

“Relationship trouble?” the Corinthian asked as he sat down right next to the man.

He received a shrewd look in response. He’d spoken in English even though his German was entirely passable (although the Austrian dialect would for certain challenge even the most seasoned of polyglots) to point to the fact that he was not from around here. To some people that granted him an air of mystery, of something unknown and therefore desirable, while some took it as a chance at quick, mindless fun when they knew he’d be gone soon enough to be forgotten.

He was in fact quite unforgettable, and everyone he met soon came to know that as well.

“Something like that,” the man responded curtly, but he did allow himself another glance at the Corinthian.

He had blue eyes, of the rather pale greyish variety, that looked downright colourless in the dim yellow light of the bar.

“Nursing a broken heart?” the Nightmare guessed as he waved the barman over.

“Are you?” Blue Eyes answered with a huff. He barely had any accent and his words flowed smoothly on a high voice.

He wasn’t the Corinthian’s typical choice - his usual type was excited and enthusiastic, but he was hunting tonight, not looking for the lowest hanging fruit.

“Maybe,” he replied mysteriously before turning to place his order in German. “So tell me, what nightmarish horror has broken your heart in the middle of the semester?”

“I’m not a student,” Blue Eyes denied and while his voice was disinterested he had angled his body towards the Corinthian.

“Pardon me, then,” the Corinthian leaned back easily. “Looks are deceiving.”

“Said the guy with sunglasses inside,” Blue Eyes scoffed.

The Nightmare accepted his drink and passed a twenty euro bill to the barman. He let the comment slide off without touching him.

“His second’s on me,” he nodded towards his new companion once the barman tried to give him his change.

If the barman was confused by the English order, he did not show it. Blue Eyes was looking at him with a raised eyebrow until a second glass of scotch was placed in front of him just as he was finishing the first.

“If you’re buying,” he shrugged and sipped the second drink.

“You didn’t answer my question,” the Corinthian prompted him charmingly.

Blue Eyes huffed, but it was humorous this time.

“Girlfriend ditched me,” he shrugged. “How’s the saying go - nothing new under the sun?”

“Quite unfortunate,” the Corinthian sipped his drink.

“What about you?” the man turned to him expectantly.

“I’m here for a short time and bored,” he replied honestly.

Blue Eyes looked at him for a second and then chuckled with a disbelieving shake of his head. He then took one long leisurely look over the Corinthian’s frame. He hummed to himself, the sound only audible to the Nightmare’s ears over the music, then wetted his lips purely on instinct.

“I can do that,” he decided.

The Corinthian reached over and plucked his glass from his grip. He downed it in one go before Blue Eyes had even had a chance to exclaim a loud ‘Hey!’. When his brain remembered to do that, the Corinthian was already rudely pulling him to his feet and towards the door.

He remembered to put another ten euro flat on the bar for convenience’s sake. Blue Eyes probably didn’t even notice.

Ten seconds later he had the not-student’s back pressed to the wall outside the bar, hidden in relative darkness a few metres from the street, and was kissing him, gripping his ridiculous hoodie with both hands.

“Willst du meinen Namen nicht wissen?”¹ Blue Eyes panted, taking several tries to finish the sentence before dipping his head down to kiss a trail along the Corinthian’s jaw.

“Ist mir egal,” ²he answered bluntly. He pulled on his current companion’s hair and if the guttural sound he let out was anything to go by, all questions about names were forgotten.

Ten minutes later the two were switching between briskly walking and stumbling through the empty cobbled streets. In June the sun set particularly late and at ten pm the sky was finally dark enough to gaze up and see stars, and in the limited light Blue Eyes’s eyes were dark bottomless pits of mineral water from an ancient spring in some faraway secluded mountain.

“What’s with the glasses?” he asked at their last stop, the alley between a souvenir shop and a bakery (and the Corinthian was noticing that alleys were a rare commodity around, with every old building pressed up next to its neighbours like they were in London) right across from the Corinthian’s hotel.

The Nightmare kissed him, and it was just punishing enough to ignite the human’s curiosity far enough for him to save his inquiries for later in some hope to outsmart his opponent and battle the answers out of him. Many had tried, none succeeded, but the Corinthian gladly let them all try anyway.

There was something invigorating about pulling Blue Eyes behind him, sneaking like teenagers. It wasn’t merely fun, it was taunting fate and that was better than any alcohol. It was feeling the old stones under their feet, hearing the passers-by and cockily choosing to ignore them. It was an experience to be thoroughly lived through, and the Corinthian was determined.

As he was dragging Blue Eyes towards the entrance of his hotel he ignored a pair of the passers-by a bit too much.

The collision wasn’t too bad as the two other men were more spatially aware than them and had tried to move out of the way. They barely bumped, not enough to send anyone falling to the unforgivingly hard ground, but sufficient to disrupt the Nightmare and his human from their trajectory and cause them to stop for a second.

“Tut mir leid!”³ Blue Eyes called out at the same time as the Corinthian laughed:

“Sorry!”

He was grinning quite brightly, holding Blue Eyes by the forearms but his gaze fixated on the pair they’d just collided with.

Those were two familiar faces. Not because he’d met them, but because news channels had not stopped showing their pictures for a few long months a couple of years back. Interpol, the FBI, and pretty much every law agency in the world was after these two. One dignified middle-aged gentleman of the Baltimore high society and a slightly younger, decidedly more rugged companion. They looked a bit different from the pictures, of course, for security’s sake, the younger one’s face strategically covered in facial hair to hide both his natural features and a few scars that the Corinthian noticed because he was not human.

They had a dog with them, because of course they did. She was observing the altercation carefully, ready to attack should her owners be threatened. That amused the Corinthian to no end as he was quite aware that the two unassuming but stylish men were far more dangerous than a mere German Shepherd.

Two pairs of judgemental eyes glared at him before the pair unanimously decided to continue on their way. The Corinthian never forgot eyes. He had to force himself to turn back to Blue Eyes, to give him a smile that was just a bit too fake, and kiss him to bring his mind back to the moment, to the experience he was living right now instead of the ones he might get to experience in the future.

After all, he could think of only one reason for Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham to be in Salzburg at this exact time, and that coincidence was full of promise.

Translations:

1. Willst du meinen Namen nicht wissen? ---> Don't you want to know my name? Back to text

2.Ist mir egal. ---> I don't care. Back to text

3.Tut mir leid! ---> Sorry! Back to text

Chapter Text

The convention started at 10 am Saturday and ended at 6 pm Sunday, with the special address being given at the closing of day one at 8 pm. That meant that at 9:30 (fashionably late to being early, as Hannibal would sarcastically call it), the lobby of the hotel was full of mostly American guests who were trying to check in and refresh themselves in their rooms before starting their attendance to the convention. An entire section of the hotel had been closed off for convention attendees only, and the entrance was guarded by two check-in tables that were impossible to sneak past.

Hannibal was finding this amusing, but Will was getting uncomfortable in the crowd. Attending as the Chesapeake Ripper, for one thing, was cocky and just asking for trouble. For another, he did not trust any of the convention guests not to try and take a swing at the ‘legend’ among them for the fame and glory. Not that he and his companion could not handle a wanna-be loser calling themselves ‘a collector’, but the thought itself was annoying him.

“Feeling any peers around,” he turned to the other man as they waited in line for their badges and entrance to the convention.

Hannibal sensed the irritated sarcasm in his voice and replied with an infuriatingly sardonic smile. They were surrounded by boring people - unremarkable safe for their hobbies, and their hobbies could not impress Will, who was an expert in the field with years of not only experience but excellence, working side by side with the most accomplished of them all. He saw these ‘collectors’ practicing their craft with pride and he felt at best condescending at them, who were smearing finger-paint on A4 sheets of printer paper and trying to present themselves as Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel.

They weren’t simply uninteresting (although that was a sin in and of itself), they were actively grating on his nerves with their undeserved confidence and their outright excitement to be in a place like this.

Hannibal took a cursory sweep of the lobby and then returned his eyes to Will.

“Judging books by their covers has never been your vice,” he pointed out smartly.

Will scoffed. He hardly needed to take too deep a look into these people, truly empathise with them, to form an adequate opinion, but he kept that thought to himself.

They attracted looks - people who’d studied their pictures religiously, who held them as idols or gods and who were staring with wide eyes and doing double takes to confirm that it was indeed their heroes standing before them. Their adoration toed the line into obnoxiousness, even though they reasonably took care not to be too obvious within ear and eyeshot from the hotel staff who were liable to call the police if they recognised the pair.

Will took a deep breath and bent down to scratch Sara behind the ears. She was dealing with the crowd a lot better than him, being curious and observant but not excited or afraid. His pride would never permit him to admit it, but Will had developed a bit of not exactly claustrophobia but crowd anxiety due to spending most of his time in the company of a single person. The fact that Hannibal was normally good company had disinclined him to socialise outside of the context of ‘hunting’ and he did not miss it. Besides, a little paranoia was healthy for a person in his position, who had thousands of people looking to stand him before justice, whatever that meant.

They reached the check-in table being manned by a brown-haired woman in a sharp business suit. She had her own badge which read The Good Doctor. She had a different aura from the others, a disposition which marked her as at least marginally interesting.

She blinked up at Will and Hannibal.

“You came,” she pointed out breathlessly, with unmistakable hunger in her eyes. Another fan then.

“The venue looks promising,” Hannibal returned softly. “I admit to being tempted.”

The Good Doctor smiled, that same light in her eyes, as she reached into her little badge basket to pass them theirs.

“I hope you enjoy the convention. We’re excited to hear your special address.”

“Is that so?” another voice, a vaguely familiar one, sounded from behind.

Will’s head snapped sharply to look over his shoulder while Hannibal turned slowly, politely and gracefully, losing a couple of precious seconds but positioning himself better to act if necessary. He soundlessly passed the two badges over to Will as he regarded the new person on the scene.

Tall, lean, and blond, the newcomer was admittedly handsome - he wore a pair of extravagant dark glasses, but even without eyes his face was plenty expressive. He was at ease yet overconfident, there was arrogance in his smirk, the casual way with which he carried himself. Dressed in a sensible pale suit jacket and matching trousers, he was the epitome of business casual made tasteful. There was a circle of personal space about him unbreeched by other convention goers who were maintaining an appropriate distance much like they were for the Chesapeake Ripper and his companion.

“Cause I thought I was giving that address,” the stranger continued once he was certain all eyes were on him - his teeth were brilliant, demanding attention to his mouth where he was showing them off almost savagely.

He, of all the people in the lobby, was the only one genuinely interesting. And he was clearly presenting a challenge to Hannibal.

Will slowly turned to face him as well, Sara’s lead clutched in one hand and the two badges, nearly forgotten, in the other. The dog was feeling his excitement and was observing the stranger fervently, quiet and dangerous, her ears not quite pulled back but ready to get there once she sensed any immediate danger. Will was feeling much the same, leaving his companion to handle the interaction for now, content to observe. Hannibal was truly magnificent when challenged, and by the looks of him the current challenger could bring a show to the table as well.

Hannibal decided to go for the throat straight away.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” he purred.

Everyone in the lobby clearly recognised the Chesapeake Ripper - yet until he’d spoken no one had paid any mind to the stranger.

Will actually remembered the peculiar glasses - he’d noticed them a couple of evenings prior, while he and his companion had been indulging themselves in a walk. On the way back they’d passed a hotel, and right by said hotel this exact man (at that moment with company) had bumped into them and barely apologised. Rude, very rude, and Hannibal was certainly remembering it and had not forgiven the accident.

“A shame, really,” the man with the glasses returned smoothly. He took the distance to them in two strides.

Will kept in place by sheer force of will, but gripped Sara’s lead tighter.

“The Corinthian, at your service,” a hand was offered.

Will, confident that his companion was grabbing all of the attention, allowed himself to blink in surprise. The Corinthian … a terror upon this world for over a century, a mantle obviously passed on man-to-man. Will had studied him during his time at the FBI, given lectures on him, had even had the chance to examine one of his crime scenes (and, obviously, not even he, the FBI’s finest, could catch him).

Truth be told, he felt a bit of that pathetic adoration everyone else felt for Hannibal, and a grudging respect for the works of another talent.

As if smelling his emotions like a shark catching a blood trail, the Corinthian glanced at him with a knowing smile just as Hannibal was shaking his hand.

“I believe no introductions to be necessary,” Hannibal returned softly.

Will glanced at the two tables for check-in - both of their attending organizers looked on anxiously. The Good Doctor in particular was following the scene like her baby was trapped between two lions engaged in battle, with her waiting in the sidelines hoping to rescue it but knowing her efforts to be futile.

“None indeed,” the Corinthian returned his eyes on the man he was shaking hands with, and his wide smile appeared oddly sincere, but in a weird way. He was not hiding his enjoyment, but the enjoyment in question was partly condescending, partly fuelled by cruelty, partly completely genuine, all in a complicated mix which made his face fascinating to look at. “It’s a pleasure.”

He was definitely very handsome, but Will did not like being ignored, so he refused to acknowledge that fact about the Corinthian.

“So what is that about the address?” the man in question turned to The Good Doctor for answers, sounding casual and cheerful but only a fool would not recognise the dangerous edge in his tone.

The woman swallowed before she answered.

“Scheduling conflict,” she explained like the perfect executive. “We did not expect both of you to agree.”

“Either, you mean,” the Corinthian threw her a condescending yet somehow comforting smile. “I’ve never joined in the convention and I believe mister Ripper here hasn’t as well.”

“Uh, we use full monikers here,” the man from the other table called out before Hannibal could respond, apparently named Fun Land if his badge was to be believed. “The Chesapeake Ripper, not just the Ripper. There is another Ripper.”

The Corinthian seemed amused at the correction.

“Of course,” he allowed graciously. “I believe the Chesapeake Ripper has never before been your guest of honour,” he clasped Hannibal on the shoulder.

Normally this would be the moment where Will would either yank the offending person back, or just stab them outright - whichever appeared more convenient. Hannibal, however, was apparently feeling very charitable, because his amused expression did not change with this unwanted invasion of his personal space. He glanced at Will, a clear signal to remain calm and stay back, and his companion followed it a bit reluctantly.

“I have not had the pleasure,” Hannibal confirmed smoothly. “Had I known I’d meet a pioneer among us, I would have.”

“Then it is fortunate that we should meet this way,” the Corinthian finally pulled his hand back. “Destiny, I’d call it.”

Hannibal merely smirked. He seemed to have eyes only for the Corinthian now, who, as unreadable as the position of his eyes was, appeared to be suffering the same affliction. Will was beginning to get very perplexed by the progression of events.

The Good Doctor cleared her throat.

“About the address …” she began.

“I believe I ought to concede it,” Hannibal interrupted her cheerfully in a move that truly baffled his companion. “By rite of seniority,” he added a bit more seriously but nowhere near dangerous registers.

“You’re too kind,” the Corinthian grinned. Was he leaning towards Hannibal? “I’d be a fool to pass that up.”

“Maybe next year?” The Good Doctor interjected again, directing her question at Hannibal in a clear attempt at platitude.

“Maybe,” he agreed with a tight smile.

“Well, isn’t this wonderful?” the Corinthian clapped his hands and reached in front of Will to pluck his badge from the basket, holding it by its blue string. “I look forward to seeing you around,” he told Hannibal, and there was the unmistakable ‘wink’ in his voice, something Will had, up until that point, thought impossible to convey with tone alone, but the Corinthian had somehow managed it.

Hannibal looked on after him as he wove his way through the crowd, most of whom were too baffled to move out of his way. He appeared deep in thought, but there was no anger in his frame, no agitation.

Will stepped aside to free the table and his companion followed him purely on instinct, eyes still far away.

“Since when do you give up the spotlight?” Will glared first at Hannibal suspiciously, then with a frown at the back of the retreating Corinthian. As he tried to bore holes into his flesh with just his eyes, he reached a conclusion. “You plan to kill him, don’t you?”

Hannibal merely gave him a fond look.

“Perhaps put this on,” he gently held Will’s wrist up to bring attention to the badges he was still clutching. “We want to be let in. And how else should our fellows know how to address us?”

Will frowned, remembering that he had never given a name for himself, never bothered with anything regarding the convention at all. That meant that, being clearly recognised as the Chesapeake Ripper’s partner, Hannibal had picked a moniker for him and supplied it to the convention organizers.

“Seriously?” he threw one very unimpressed look at his companion as he finally took a careful look at the badges.

Hannibal was looking too smug for his liking as he secured his Chesapeake Ripper one to his breast pocket. Will was left glaring daggers at him as he simply draped the string over his neck.

Apparently he was to be known as the Dragonslayer.

Chapter Text

Hannibal was a smoker. Occasionally. Less so than in his youth, by his own words, but he did share the occasional smoke with Will. Will himself only smoked in times of crises - or when he wanted a conversation to feel easier over passing the cigarette back and forth. He hadn’t smoked once for years before meeting Hannibal, and then only started up again after slaying the Great Red Dragon.

Hannibal was a smoker, yet Will mostly smoked alone these days. That was why he was making his way to one of the side areas in the section of the hotel reserved for the Cereal Convention - he could smell the nicotine smoke from miles away.

He expected to find people milling about, dropped buds and maybe some pigeons minding their own business. What he did not expect was to be intercepted by a familiar tall man in a pale suit before he’d even made it out the door into the open air.

“Ah,” the Corinthian paused, a pleased expression crossing his face as he took Will in fully without Hannibal there to distract him. “The Dragonslayer.”

He spoke the moniker with actual respect, but in his voice everything carried a note of humour. It was, Will had to admit, charming, but that did not at all mean that he himself was charmed.

“Will,” he corrected coldly.

“Oh, but you heard our gracious hosts,” the other man tsked disapprovingly, a playful tone sneaking into the words. “Only full monikers here. Tell me, have you slayed many dragons? Or just the one everyone knows about?”

He leaned against the wall casually, hands in his trouser pockets, the very definition of relaxed. Wearing that easy smile again - next to him Will felt like a storm cloud.

“What do you do with the eyes?” he returned without caring much for the teasing question.

The Corinthian changed his stance, stood up just a bit straighter before leaning towards Will not at all subtly.

“Why do you care?” he intoned softly, his face splitting into a grin.

Will was normally unnerved when he couldn’t see a person’s eyes, even if he wasn’t fond of maintaining eye-contact, but the Corinthian was expressive in so many other ways that it wasn’t even noticeable. There was a magnetic energy about him, a spirit of some sort that wasn’t just regular charisma, and it worked like a charm even on Will.

“I was an FBI profiler,” he shrugged, trying to reel himself in. He wasn’t the type to give in to people’s charm.

“Did you ever investigate my work?” the Corinthian sounded genuinely interested, and something about his ever-present charm had been toned down a bit. Like actually introducing an intriguing topic of conversation had diverted his attention from impressing to simply communicating.

Will preferred that version of him.

“You don’t know?” he returned sassily. “Nothing sweeter than watching them sink into the masterpiece. In my opinion.”

“I’m not the type to look back,” the other man shrugged. “Everything I do is in the moment. Then the moment is gone and so am I.”

“You’re one of the few I didn’t catch,” Will found it easy to admit, especially once the Corinthian wasn’t so insufferable.

“I love the honour,” the other man returned smugly, and in his mouth the word ‘love’ was painted in an obscene hue, it was teasing and juvenile and it caressed the ear with perfect diction and honey-coated tone.

Will pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He was deeply aware that he might start imitating the man’s speech patterns if the two talked for too long, something he had no control over and would prefer to avoid. A man like the Corinthian could talk like that and get away with it - Will would be frankly ridiculous.

“Why should I care-” the once-FBI-profiler enunciated very slowly and very clearly, a tactic he’d used to rile up and annoy his companion so many times he just sort of assumed it would work on everyone. “-what you do or don’t love?”

He lifted the smoke to his mouth and reached in his back pocket for a lighter, uncaring that he was inside in a no-smoking area. He was having trouble finishing it out and had to twist to give the task his full attention.

“Allow me,” the Corinthian’s smooth voice carried from much closer than it should have been if the distance between them had remained the same as before Will had averted his eyes in search for his lighter.

He snapped his head back and nearly knocked into the man, who was regarding him with a fake, open smile. Almost carrying an air of customer service, although with him almost every expression appeared genuine, as if he was wholly himself in all of his iterations. He was holding a lit matchstick quickly approaching its death.

Will raised an eyebrow but put the end of his smoke to the flame. He expected the Corinthian to move back after that, affronted at the grey exhaust whiffing right into his face, but of course, assumptions were always premature.

The man inhaled deeply, the expansion of his lungs nearly visible. He tiled his head back, as if to close his eyes and enjoy the moment, but Will couldn’t see his eyes, not even this close. All he had to go off of were the black glasses, endless in their depths and, in their own way, demanding and commanding attention with astonishing efficacy.

Will found himself forgetting to inhale the smoke from his own cigarette. Just for one embarrassing moment, but it seemed bigger somehow. It cost him the battle, and he was the one to take a step back instead of the other way around.

He had to admit, he’d been bested in this round. The loss came with a begrudging respect for his opponent, who was tilting his head back down and giving Will one of his faker smiles that was nevertheless incredibly pleasing to look at. He leaned against the wall again, putting the two of them at appropriate distance.

“You have good taste,” the Corinthian remarked generously, nodding down at Will’s cigarette.

The gesture put the man’s hidden eyes too obviously close to Will’s lips and for a moment that made the other man uncomfortable. That in and of itself was a new sensation - he’d never been unable to handle other people’s eyes before. It was an unnerving experience.

“You love these?” Will changed his inflection just a bit to mock the other, a defence mechanism more than anything else. He was posing a challenge after already being beaten, which was pathetic in a way, but in another it was bold, daring.

Would Hannibal approve if he were here? Will thought he would have. He would have done his thing, taken a step back to watch his partner play, to admire his moves and his passion, his viciousness in the action. Hannibal would have watched him like one would watch a hound tearing a rabbit apart, and loved him like one too.

The Corinthian didn’t seem the type to love like that, but he was provoking feelings in Will oddly reminiscent of the ones he already had for his companion. Not the love, obviously, but the … fondness. The infuriation, the frustration - the friction holding them together, the intrigue, the mystique. And the endearment as well, to a degree. Certainly the charm. Most peculiar indeed.

“No,” the man in question chuckled as he answered the ironic question. Will was noticing that he rarely gesticulated with his head - instead, his black glasses stayed glued to the object of his attention, and his body language and non-verbal signals picked up the slack. “But I’d love to share it.”

Will was a caught off guard by the suggestion. No, not a suggestion, an offer - the Corinthian was propositioning his own time and attention and, to a degree, intimacy, in a move the once-FBI-profiler had not predicted. He was not, however, about to let himself lose a second time.

He swiftly had the smoke in his hand, caught deftly between three fingers, and was passing it over.

The Corinthian looked oddly pleased as he accepted, like he’d actually wanted to share the cigarette with Will rather than just push his buttons for the principle of it. He took a drag long enough to put freestyle divers to shame for their lung capacity. He exhaled just as slowly, directing the smoke up and exposing his throat.

Will saw himself, suddenly, sinking his teeth in that slender neck and tearing a bite out of it like Hannibal had once done with the Great Red Dragon. He imagined the texture of the raw muscle, the spill of blood, he imagined tasting that so tempting voice and keeping it within himself forever. He imagined the warmth of it, that sculpted flesh carved from marble, and the stare of the black glasses, nevertheless offering no resistance. He imagined forcing his fingers inside that throat, pushing their way in slowly to close around a soft trachea and watch the resulting suffocation.

Then he accepted the cigarette back and the sharp punch of nicotine banished the odd thought from his head.

“Why are you here this time?” he asked on the second pass, wanting to start conversation before the Corinthian did to keep control of it.

“The Convention? I received my invitation two weeks ago,” to his surprise, the other man answered without a fight, his words accompanied with a shrug that was a rather artful roll of his shoulders, almost a show of his figure and the good fit of his suit. “I was away, creating my art, and I thought - I have never lived this. So many years of existence, and this is something my life has never touched.”

He actually seemed and sounded contemplative as he recalled the tale, which immediately granted him Will’s full attention. The man neglected the cigarette given back to him for several seconds as he listened intently.

“Life is to be lived,” the Corinthian continued philosophically. “I take what I can from it and am what I can in my absolute. To miss this is a waste, and life is not to be wasted.”

Will remembered to take a drag from the smoke.

“You?” the other man returned the question casually before his face slipped into one of his teasing smiles. “I was of the impression that the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer were above such banalities.”

It was Will’s turn to shrug, but he wasn’t awkward or caught off guard, or even bothered by the ironic remark. He had a ready answer to that question, and therefore control of the conversation was still his.

“Inspiration,” was his vague reason.

That, somehow, got the Corinthian to grin even wider. Will noted, with a sort of surprise, that the two of them were a lot closer than they should have been. That the Corinthian was learning towards him from his place at the wall and that Will was leaning towards the Corinthian in turn.

It was a dazzling realisation, as was the one that the cigarette was well and truly done. Will dropped it on the floor and stomped on it there, uncaring to find a trash bin. To an extend he was being rude simply to challenge the Universe to punish him - by having the one who punished rudeness above all else forever at his side and displaying his rudeness all the same, he was metaphorically showing fate the metaphorical middle finger.

It felt good. And watching the Corinthian through the lens of that powerful feeling, that was good too.

“I hope you find it,” the man offered with a pleased smile. He took a step towards Will, clearly intending to take his leave, but he leaned towards the other man before he did so, whispering right by his ear in a deep murmur that was almost fond. “I’ll see you around.”

It was a promise and a threat rolled up together in an appetizing hors d’oeuvre. Will felt shivers crawling up his spine as he disinterestedly glanced over his shoulder to watch the taller man leave.

So this was how it was going to be.

Chapter Text

The Corinthian wasn’t at all interested in any of the panels of the Convention. If he wanted to listen to enthusiastic defences of God’s murderous tendencies he’d just visit a Baptist church. As for the rest of them, well, the ladies probably had a thing or two to say about the stereotype of using sex appeal to lure their victims, but the Corinthian probably wasn’t the target demographic for that particular discussion.

That did not mean that he couldn’t have fun - he’d actually spotted a rather beautiful man stealing glances at him in the smoking area, and not just ‘oh mah gawd, I cannot believe the Corinthian is here’ glances, no. More the type ‘I’m currently contemplating different options to get the Corinthian in my bed’ glances.

Well, as his Creator would say, what was he but a servant to humanity?

A man had once accused him of being a people-pleaser, which the Corinthian considered a bit rich coming from a guy who’d practically grovelled at the opportunity to suck his dick, but to return to the point - he did not at all mind the descriptor ‘people-pleaser’ when it meant the satisfaction of his own desires. So if this tall, dark-skinned Adonis of a man wanted to give that to him, what could the Corinthian do but oblige him?

Hannibal was busy entertaining an audience in a small salon, every bit gracious host navigating the small crowd and entrancing them with his wit even though he was a guest just like they were. The Collectors were clumped in small gossiping circles, not dissimilar in their behaviour to the upper societal cliques Hannibal had entertained back in the States before walking down a new path. They wanted to present themselves as superior but graceful, wanted to control the narrative and to establish themselves among their peers.

But most of all they wanted to touch a legend - and they just so happened to have one on hand.

Hannibal searched them for anything promising - a hint of exceptionality, of creativity, of a drive and hunger similar to his own. Admittedly, he was unbelievably picky - after meeting Will Graham and being touched by his grace, he was completely convinced nothing and no one would be able to reach the same standard. Not even close. His companion wasn’t just exceptional, just creative or just driven - he was death itself taken the most fundamental of human shapes, equal parts divine and macabre, and laying eyes on him was a thrill and a privilege and Hannibal never forgot that. The thought that anyone in this room, this hotel, could even equal Will, nevermind replace him, didn’t even cross his mind.

Nevertheless, if he managed to procure a suitable subject, he and his companion could perhaps have a new experience together. Hannibal had, after all, had at several instances experienced the godhood of pushing a person to their becoming. Will had done so once, with much different results, using the Great Red Dragon as a means to his own ascension.

There could be no second Will, and Will would never do to somebody else what Hannibal had done to him, but the two of them could, perhaps, recreate a similar enough story purely for the new experience of it.

He wanted it to be a surprise, or rather a gift to his companion - to reveal to him yet another dimension of the world they inhabited together, just the two of them, yet another layer of depth to the things on offer on the table. Expanding their horizons, in a way. If Will was willing. Hannibal doubted the opposite.

Sadly, however, none of the attendees had captured Hannibal’s attention so far. Most of them were mediocre, and those who weren’t were too social. He and Will were solitary beasts, creatures which inhabited the bottom of the ocean and rarely encountered others. They could blend in at different settings, but not truly belong anywhere but with each other. These people belonged in their Cereal Convention, their little fanclubs, their aspirations for pathetic media glory.

Hannibal sighed his disappointment and left the bar with a drink to head for yet another small group of Collectors exchanging experiences of the past year (most of them seemed to be regulars at the event, which was in itself a bit disappointing).

They stopped talking as he approached. Made room for him in their circle. Banal. But polite. He could afford to give them a small smile in return.

“I believe I saw one of your tableaus on the news,” he turned to the only one marginally interesting, a woman with dyed red hair going by the name the Policeman.

“You yourself have been rather quiet,” she remarked evenly, eyeing Hannibal from above the rim of her wine glass.

It wasn’t even noon, but her evening gown suggested a certain style.

“Have I?” Hannibal smiled politely.

“Talent takes time,” the Policeman shrugged. “If I’d known you’d be here, I might have brought you ingredients. Rent the kitchen for an afternoon or something.”

“A feast takes more than an afternoon,” the man pointed out mostly on principle - the idea of having the space and capacity of an entire hotel kitchen was a tempting thought, but he was more of a local cooker these days, entertaining only one tongue, the only one that mattered to him.

“An evening soiree then,” she corrected herself with a hint of humour.

The rest of the group were showing clear signs of being uncomfortable with the subject matter, no doubt adverse to such forms of consumption. As much as Hannibal had loved being the only one in on the joke at such events, unsettling guests who were trying to be polite (or seem cool, as laughable as that was) presented its own amusement opportunities.

“Perhaps you’d have recommended a recipe?” he indulged the Collector a bit more.

“You’d have taken suggestions?” she countered wickedly.

Will was nowhere to be seen - out smoking somewhere while they were killing time until the opening event in the afternoon. Hannibal decided he might as well spend his time doing more than worthlessly scanning the crowd for possible experiments.

“Depends on the suggestion,” he replied, and it sounded almost like a secret being shared, conspiratorial and only for the initiated.

The rest of the Policeman’s group awkwardly drifted away. Hannibal took a small sip of his drink. He had time to kill, after all.

“I’ve heard you kill everyone who enters your bed,” the amber-eyed man pointed out as he calmly sipped his coffee.

The Corinthian grinned at him, one of his fakest, customer-service-type smiles. They were taking it slow - enjoying a coffee and a chat out on the porch of the hotel restaurant, listening to the Salzach gently drag its waters bellow, the sun caressing their faces. Nothing wrong with that, but the Nightmare usually lost interest quickly, and if the small talk continued much longer he’d get bored.

“Not everyone,” he teased, hoping they were finally getting to the interesting part. “Feeling lucky today?”

The man’s eyes were pretty much golden in the sun, glistening with moisture and deep with intelligence. The Corinthian hadn’t approached him wanting anything more than a bit of quick fun, but he found himself wanting those eyes. To stare at them in hand, to taste them, to taste the man they belonged to - his emotions, his memories, his being. A taste of that sweet humanity that stared at him like a brand, like temptation.

Maybe the Corinthian was the one feeling lucky.

Eleven minutes later, he had the amber-eyed man on a bed, staring up at him just as hungrily as the Corinthian was gazing down at him. Oh, one of them was definitely feeling lucky.

Will took only a cursory glance at Mozart’s birth house as he walked past it. It was a yellow, narrow building, sandwiched between two others. There was a supermarket on the ground floor, and a museum with a frankly outrageous entrance fee for a venue which had contained basically nothing of its past - it was renovated, the façade painted anew, most of the furniture inside either replicas or outright modern. There was nothing left of the house the great composer had been born in - merely the marketability.

In the heat of summer, Salzburg was swarming with tourists - they walked the steep cobble streets of the Altstadt, ducking into souvenir shops, boutiques, candy stores, they admired the magnolia trees and the old cathedrals, the statues and the squares. Noises, smells and movement everywhere, thumping each to their own rhythm, distorted in an orderly way that only humanity could evoke. The excitement in the air was contagious, the sun was shining, life was beautiful.

Sara was brimming with energy, eager to explore every new thing, but Will kept her on a short lead - with so many people about, especially children, it would be easy for her to knock someone down in her excitement, or tangle them in her leash. All of that would mean social interaction for Will, something he did not at all care for.

He made short work of ‘visiting’ all the important sights, not really entering any of them, before rounding back and returning to the Salzach. Students were lounging on the grass by the steep shores, or down by the pebbled beaches, reading, laughing, listening to music. There was time of the summer semester left, a little lull before worrying about the final dates of exams, and there were ice cream vendors practically every seven feet on the alley - no wonder everyone seemed so happy.

Will allowed Sara to go down to the water, scaring a bunch of ducks in the process, and walked with her against the current for a while, hands in his pockets and contemplating the faces about.

Climbing up wasn’t easy, and Will and Sara had to walk quite a bit to reach the next designated spot for that purpose, this one once again swarming with local young people. The dog cheerfully greeted them and accepted pets and coos and dutifully demonstrated how she could ‘shake hands’ with her paw and sit when told to sit.

Will took the opportunity to dust his rusty German off a bit by chatting with the students about their preferred restaurants, knowing fully well he could never convince his companion to even consider such a venue. Students liked either rowdy, loud places, or cheap, delicious-but-arteria-clogging junk food. It sounded appetising, in a way, because they described their garbage nutrition with such passion. Will was reminded of his own days of surviving on ramen noodles, pizza, and burgers (only around here people seemed to prefer doner wraps and burritos).

From there it was short walk back to the hotel. It was nearly time for the opening event of the Convention and most of the guests were slowly trickling into the hall where it was going to be held. Will took a similar route and found a spot in one of the middle rows, the very edge seat so Sara could comfortably sit next to him. Tired from her walk, she lied down on her belly, completely disinterested in the people around.

Will scratched behind her ears and waited for something to happen.

Eventually a set of footsteps, not louder than the others but familiar to him even in a crowd, slid up beside him. Will spared his companion a glance, then graciously stood up to allow Hannibal to sit next to him. He looked pleased, that odd look he got when he was interested in something, like a child with a new toy they knew was going to break.

“I take it you had fun,” Will opened neutrally, shifting his eyes between the numerous Convention goers.

He’d never really appreciated how many of them were attending, the true scales of the event. He felt unnerved by that many potential threats, people not only unbothered by killing but used to it, honed to it, craving it. Will found their desires tasteless, brash and unrefined, but a knife was a knife and a gun - a gun. Even one of these amateurs could dispatch him and his companion given the right circumstances.

Hannibal, of course, was not at all worried, at least not outwardly. His arrogance sure could be infuriating at times.

“I found ways to pass the time,” he agreed vaguely.

Will threw him an utterly unimpressed look.

At that point the stage was taken by a short, balding man. He was too far away for Will to read his nametag, and nothing about him seemed at all remarkable. He was actually rather boring, dressed in a vertically-stripped shirt (a terrible choice) with the sleeves rolled up (another terrible choice). The red curtains behind him pretty much dwarfed him. Just looking at him Will felt like yawning.

He seemed unhappy, however. Like a middle school teacher about to give the class an earful for misbehaving with the substitute.

“Hello?” the man wetted his lips before speaking, and his voice barely carried in the room full of murmurs and muted chats. “Hi?”

He had a bit of a stutter, nothing major, but he carried it ridiculously. Will rolled his eyes.

He felt Hannibal’s eyes on him, amused as always, fond. He shifted a little, and their elbows were brushing against each other. Will breathed out a small chuckle - so jovial, yet it endeared him to his companion.

By that point the man on the stage had gained the air of a very incensed racoon. His eyes were throwing daggers around, his frame shaking with suppressed aggression, and for a second he looked dangerous. That got Will to sober up a bit, and he wasn’t alone - silence settled into the room as attention shifted to their speaker.

Why so angry?, Will thought. Shouldn’t you be happy?

Instantly, he was on high alert. Next to him, Hannibal was too, and, of course, Sara, who began sniffing the air once she sensed the tension around.

“We have one very major rule,” the man at the stage began. “The first …”

Just as that moment one of the the doors, which had been very sensibly closed, opened very audibly. Not because the person entering had slammed them open, but because they were massive slabs of wood on metal hinges and the salon had descended into such silence it was possible to hear a pin dropping. So, naturally, every single head turned in that direction, hundreds of bodies twisting to glance back at the unassuming door at the back.

The Corinthian, pristine in his beige suit, glasses on his face, did not display any discomfort at being put in the spotlight - on the contrary, he gave a cheeky grin and slid into the room, sitting in one of the back rolls. He wasn’t obviously calling attention to himself, but he received it all the same, like a siren.

Will himself found it hard to look away from him.

The man at the front cleared his throat.

“Our first rule,” he repeated. “We do not shit where we eat,” he sounded very serious as he spoke. “No Collecting during the Convention - not in here, not in this city.”

Snickers sounded in the salon - a few lousy voices expressed their disappointment mockingly.

Will smirked. He and Hannibal had unknowingly broken that rule on their very first night. They’d gotten a bit peckish after the long railway travel.

“You may not like it,” the man continued with barely contained outrage. “But those are the rules. You agree to them when you confirm your attendance.”

He had to pause to take a deep breath, as his face had begun to grow red. He straightened his tie, fixed his shirt sleeves.

“In light of that,” he started again, much more composed this time. “Does anyone wish to confess to anything?”

And the silence was back with a vengeance - everyone in the room understood immediately what he meant. Alarmed glances were exchanged. Clothes rustled.

“Anyone?” the man out front demanded, suddenly way more commanding, as if he had actual control over the hundreds of Collectors in attendance. He waited, once again reminding Will of an impatient middle school teacher. “Nobody?”

He sighed, every bit the disappointed parent stereotype.

“I can assure you, me and The Good Doctor herself are looking into this,” he revealed, and his tone suggested that this was a big threat (for some reason). “We will get to the bottom of the case, and whoever is responsible shall suffer consequences.”

He paused again, his eyes roaming over the crowd as if expecting the rulebreaker to confess and accept divine retribution right there. Will exchanged glances with his companion - they both recognised the unlikeliness of the scenario.

The man at the stage let the silence hang a bit longer, let the tension build up and up. Then he blinked, the spell breaking, and put on a customer service smile.

“In the meantime, the Convention will proceed as usual - you’ll have a chance to attend all of our diverse panels, make new contacts, and listen to the special address from out very special guest; the man himself - the Corinthian,” he recited as if from a promotional flyer, but his enthusiasm turned real as he waved broadly in the direction of the special guest in question.

Will glanced over his shoulder as that slender figure rose from his chair, smiled charmingly at the crowd, and then sat back down as if he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Feeling worked-up for no apparent reason, he turned back towards his companion. To his surprise, Hannibal was focused, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk, stiff tension coiled in his frame. Instantly, Will was also on high alarm.

“I think,” his companion began slowly, contemplatively, and dangerously. “I may have an idea who among us suffered an unfortunate fate.”

Chapter Text

If it had been a civilian, the Convention organisers would have been displeased, ticked off even, and would have delivered a very stern verbal slap on the wrist. That is to say, they wouldn’t have given two shits about it, because they knew what Collecting was like - sometimes inspiration struck, and it was fate, like being possessed by a God with a divine vision, and the deed sort of did itself. Couldn’t be helped. They would have overlooked it in most cases.

If it had been a cop or otherwise law enforcement, or a prominent public figure, then they would have taken action. Located the perpetrator and forever banned them from attending the Convention, tried to publicly ostracise them from the community this event nurtured. They did not need the reckless behaviour of cocky opportunists to reveal them all to the world.

But a Convention attendee … The Good Doctor hadn’t even thought about that possibility. It had just never occurred to her that somebody would be so bold, so stupid, as to attack one of their own during their most important annual event.

It was downright disrespectful, that’s what it was. Disrespectful to the organisers, disrespectful to the Convention, disrespectful to the profession of Collecting itself.

So there was no way it was staying unpunished, and they weren’t talking a simple slap on the wrist this time.

The body had been left backstage - right where the opening speech of the Convention was supposed to take place, leaned against the wall in a dark corner behind a few wheeled shelves. The Good Doctor, Nimrod, and Fun Land had been in and out of there preparing the last details all afternoon - that left a pretty tight window for somebody to drag (or lure) the Policeman to this spot.

Her neck was snapped - clean, fast, utterly distasteful. Probably caught her from behind, cowardly. The Good Doctor did not like cowards. She usually dragged them to an autopsy table.

There was no clear calling card - their Collectors prided themselves on their unique styles, that little something that made their murders special. The missing eyes of the Corinthian’s victims had inspired them all to mark their territory, announce their victims to receive proper credit. Even legends like the Chesapeake Ripper, in another league of his own as he was, had a calling card in the name of his victims missing organs to be used in meals. Nobody would just leave a broken neck and call it done.

Which meant that their perpetrator realised the danger they were in - they knew they couldn’t just boast about breaking the one rule held most sacred. They didn’t want to be caught.

Looking at the Policeman’s body, The Good Doctor was trying to come up with names of potential suspects. Obviously the Convention organisers were out of the question, but the truth was, Collectors were naturally a cocky lot. Came with the job description. She could reasonably see nearly everybody in attendance pulling this insolence off.

She sighed.

“What should we do with the body?” Fun Land asked, sounding bored. He was rarely interested in anything that wasn’t little kids.

“The river could be an option?” Nimrod suggested thoughtfully.

“Too shallow,” The Good Doctor shook her head. She’d already tried that, on her first night in the city. She’d been struck by that divine vision, but nobody needed to know that.

“Garbage dump?” Fun Land offered.

“I don’t believe you’ll find one in a thirty-kilometre radius,” a new voice informed them from behind.

Now, it wasn’t often that The Good Doctor got caught by surprise. As she turned around she figured it fitting that it would be the Chesapeake Ripper himself who would pull it off flawlessly.

The Dragonslayer, she wasn’t so sure on. The fact that he had his dog with him was just insulting, but The Good Doctor had the self-preservation instincts of a champion and wouldn’t say a word in front of Hannibal Lecter.

“Nearest one is by Vienna,” Graham corrected Lecter drily. “It has mountain goats.”

The Good Doctor frowned, but chose to ignore the comment. She gallantly stepped to the side to hide the Policeman’s corpse - in her view, this wasn’t any of the attendees’ business. If they thought they could get away with stunts like these, bad. If they got scared and thought the Convention couldn’t guarantee their safety - also bad. So The Good Doctor’s philosophy on handling this matter was out of sight, out of mind - if they could forget about the whole affair quickly, then great.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” she addressed the two newcomers.

The Dragonslayer was frowning heavily, his grip on his dog’s lead tight - the animal itself seemed calm, but her eyes were attentive and she was a coiled wall of muscle.

“We’re offering our services,” the Chesapeake Ripper explained.

The woman paused.

“Pardon?”

“I had a chance to meet the unfortunate lady,” the man continued, unfazed by her attempts to shut him down. “I find what happened to her to be tastelessly rude.”

The Good Doctor wasn’t an idiot - if those two gods among them decided to hunt on Convention grounds, there was nothing she could do to stop them. Given that the matter seemed to be personal to Lecter, it would be foolish to even try. So her best bet was to negotiate.

“We welcome your help,” she put on her best business tone, giving them something to make them feel good before tacking on the conditions. “But I have to ask you to coordinate with Convention organisers. To make progress faster.”

Graham’s eyes were staring into her soul like lasers - she returned his stare head-on, unimpressed. Although maybe not of their league, she was a Collector of her own right, with her own successes to warrant respect. And she was one of the major hosts of the Convention - she wasn’t going to allow herself to be spoken down to.

For a second The Good Doctor feared they’d refuse, and wouldn’t that be a funny situation.

“I believe this is reasonable,” Lecter conceded just in time to ease her worry.

The Good Doctor did not release a deeply-held breath and sag in relief, but it was a close thing. She managed to restrict her reaction to a polite smile.

“Excellent. We’ll take care of the remains, and you can handle the investigation. Seeing as you have the FBI’s finest on your team.”

Graham nodded his acknowledgements, but the woman could tell he was a lot more interested in the corpse behind her than in her. Very well.

“You’re still free to enjoy the Convention, of course,” she tacked on before taking a step back to indicate she considered the conversation over.

“I need to see her,” the Dragonslayer perked up, authority in his voice and in his frame.

The Good Doctor cursed internally.

“Sure,” she shrugged.

Stepping to the side to allow Graham entrance, she could glance over and see her fellow organisers for the first time since greeting their two attendees. Fun Land looked a bit excited, undoubtedly due to some hero worship for the two legends in their midst. Nimrod was contemplative and a bit sceptical - he too, just like The Good Doctor, doubted the involvement of the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer would lead to anything good.

Their goal was to avoid a bigger scene or attention - subtlety wasn’t really these guys’ style.

The Good Doctor shrugged in Nimrod’s direction. What was there to do?

His resigned look her way told her he felt much the same.

Well, at least they could see the infamous Will Graham in action - that had to count for something. The Good Doctor stepped back and settled in to watch the show.

The Corinthian decided to visit the panel on God after all.

He himself had never met the Big Guy. Wasn’t even all that sure he existed, or just something Dream of the Endless had made up. In a way, it didn’t matter. In other ways, it did.

But the reason the Corinthian visited the panel wasn’t the Almighty. He didn’t give a damn about the creator of the universe. He did give one big damn about his own Creator, however.

He sat in the back, intentionally drawing as little attention to himself as possible (although, in such a setting, he always attracted at least some glances and murmurs and honestly? He enjoyed the attention). The room was dark, creating an ambient atmosphere as the speaker way out front was bathed in diluted white light, almost an angel descending from the heavens, hazy and unreal, pure and above all of them. The people were just shadows, passive listeners humbled before their faith and their art, each communicating with themselves and the force they believed in.

“We are carrying out the will of God!” the speaker was explaining passionately, holding out a pamphlet explaining his theology that was thick enough to count as a pocket-sized Bible.

The Corinthian watched him, longing for inspiration. For something, anything, to stir within him, to move him. He wanted so deeply, nearly ached wantonly, to feel some of that connection with his Creator. These people, these disciples of his faith, people who looked up to him, the Corinthian, the scourge of the Earth for nearly a hundred years, these people had seen him and become his apostles. And in doing so they’d found something else, something he himself lacked. They had purpose - and not the mundane sort that poets waxed dramatically about - they had the blind confidence that their lives and actions meant something, were getting them noticed, were being appreciated.

How lucky they were.

They knew their God. Knew their realities - lived securely in the knowledge that they mattered, that they’d been chosen. They had comfort to turn to, the soft bed of faith keeping them afloat, welcoming them after every harsh day. Their pain was sweet to them and it brought clarity in the form of their God.

The Corinthian felt empty. He wanted to see, like they did, how his Creator viewed the world. What he saw, what he believed, what he wanted. The Nightmare wanted to know him, to understand. All of these feelings that Dream of the Endless always talked about, the beauty of the sea of the collective subconscious of humanity - the Corinthian wanted to feel that. Wanted to float in those waters and be carried to the mesmerising depths of the human existence. The colours, the lights, the warmth and the terror, the imagination, the banality. All of it - no good, no bad, no judgement, purely experience in its raw form. But all he felt was boredom as Bible verses were being yelled at him.

He knew thrill. He knew ecstasy. He knew beauty, and he knew savagery, and he knew pain and obsession. So why couldn’t he be like them? Why couldn’t he have this?

“God sees us and God has chosen us to bring His message into this world!”

Eyes followed him as he hastily left the panel. He stormed down the hallways, only pausing once he realised he’d subconsciously headed for the smoker area, the very same exit into it where he’d encountered one Will Graham several short hours ago.

He wasn’t even a smoker.

The garden just up ahead beckoned him - it was still early in the evening, or at least early by summer standards, and the sunset came late. Very late. There was light out there, and a sweet breeze, there was quiet and, if he wanted it, conversation, companionship. The lull of nicotine, if it was drugs he craved. There was so much out there, and he wanted to see it all, taste it all, internalise it and make it a part of him, make it flow through him like blood, like saliva. But all he had were memories of black eyes with a single pinprick of light - just like humanity.

As he chose a random hallway to proceed down to, the Corinthian’s thoughts once again returned to his Creator.

“I hope you like it in your glass prison,” he purred, feeling satisfaction pump through his veins as he imagined Morpheus, the high and mighty Dream of the Endless, as he was now: helpless, small, naked and humiliated in a cage. “You’ll be there for a while still.”

The Collectors may have had their faith and their purpose. But the Corinthian had something more - a victory over his Creator.

Chapter Text

Will ignored the people in the room - all except Hannibal, whose eyes on his back were reassuring. Stepping up to the cooling body of a woman in a stylish evening gown, he tried to clean his mind of everything that made Will Graham Will Graham. He was a blank slate in that moment - a receptacle for something else, some one else.

He closed his eyes. Heard the pendulum swing. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then he opened his eyes.

The Policeman was pretty. There was no denying that - she was a beautiful woman, charming. Talented, driven in her Collecting. She selected her victims carefully, and her killer had selected her carefully as well.

But she didn’t matter. The killer didn’t really see her - didn’t appreciate her enough to kill her face to face, to preserve her carefully styled hair or to fix the back of her dress after leaving her backstage. They didn’t care to arrange her in a way befitting her beauty - they looked at her and saw a means to an end.

What was the end?

Am I looking for attention? Praise? Am I insulted?

There wasn’t overt cruelty - it had all happened fast, impersonal. Dismissing, nearly.

Am I hurting someone else?

Will opened his eyes and stepped away, calmly. He had walked several steps, circled to the front of the Policeman, her deep brown eyes staring at him lifelessly. There was the beginning of shock etched on her face, but not reaching its full form.

Will raised his head and met his companion’s eyes. Hannibal was patiently holding onto Sara and observing him, a small, almost invisible pleased smile curling his lips. As if he found pleasure from watching Will empathise with killers, as if he wasn’t bothered by Will knowing that.

“I’d suggest bringing her out to the mountains,” he told The Good Doctor, without looking at her, as he returned to his companion’s side. “Put her in hiking gear, make it look like an accident.”

“Too many tourists this time of year,” the older man, the one who’d very disappointedly announced the Policeman’s death at the opening speech, protested.

He had a badge like all of them, but Will felt too lazy to read it.

“You’ll figure it out,” he told the three organizers collectively and accepted Sara’s lead back.

“You’re capable Collectors,” his companion added politely. “Surely you could dispose of a corpse.”

He and Hannibal left the announcement hall and headed towards the outside. The Altstadt was buzzing with life, making it easy to slip into the crowds of tourists and blend in, carried by a sea of living mass until they were sure their conversations could remain reasonably private.

“What do you know about her?” Will asked his companion as the two of them passed through Mozartplatz.

“We had a little chat about cuisine,” Hannibal shared easily. “She seemed interested in Italian dishes.”

 “Not bothered by your palette, then?” the younger man raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed not. Rather enthusiastic, in fact.”

“And you found it charming … and a bit annoying,” Will contemplated, studying his companion. "You were endeared by her,” he concluded teasingly.

“I see no sense in denying it,” his companion shrugged gracefully. “The conversation was sufficiently stimulating. I considered inviting her for dinner.”

“You wanted her to meet me?”

“I wanted you to meet her,” Hannibal corrected with a subtly sad tone in his voice. That was a new one - Will couldn’t imagine his companion missing a person so soon after being introduced to them for the first time.

“Was she special?” he decided to keep an open mind on the matter.

“Not as far as I could tell,” Hannibal shook his head.

They were passing the Franzisskannergasse church, one of many in the immediate vicinity. This one was surrounded by university buildings, as indicated by the passing chatter of youthful voices, as well as laughing figures pushing bikes in small groups as they headed for their next lectures. They’d intentionally passed the Dom, deeming it too tourist-attractive and therefore crowded, and then turned into one of the narrower streets of the Altstadt.

“Then you were planning on killing her,” was Will’s conclusion on the matter of the Policeman.

Obviously, it meant that the two of them were to kill her together, take her life and absorb it. It made sense, if Hannibal was just a tiny bit fond of her - he was a shepherd who loved his sheep. He found a sheep that he liked, and he killed what he liked, and he ate what he liked. Being denied the pleasure of the experience of doing that would be enough for him to decide to punish the perpetrator.

“No,” to Will’s surprise, his companion denied.

Well that threw a bit of a wrench in the younger man’s contemplations. That was weird - he knew his companion as intimately as he knew himself, and as such rarely mistook his intentions.

“Then why are we doing this?” he asked, and felt dirty for doing so. Normally, he didn’t need to. Having to ask made him feel like his companion was hiding something from him, and secrets were dangerous. Threatening, and Will refused to let himself feel threatened by Hannibal.

“I do believe rudeness ought to be punished,” the man in question replied cryptically, as if Will didn’t already know that.

“Do not play deflection with me,” he warned drily. As amusing as Hannibal’s games were to observe from afar, being their target was far from acceptable in his book.

“I wasn’t trying to. Tell me, Will, what did your empathy tell you when you observed her remains?”

Not playing deflection my ass , Will thought snidely, but decided to entertain the game for the time being - that had always been a weakness of his, that terrible curiosity to see where things were headed. How they were going to end.

“The killer didn’t care for her,” he revealed. “Her death was a means to an end.”

“And what end would that be?”

“Nothing personal,” Will shrugged. He turned right, in the direction of the river, when he noticed they were heading outside of the Altstadt. “It wasn’t to keep secrets. Or revenge. Or pleasure.”

“We’re surrounded by people who take Collecting to be a pleasure,” Hannibal challenged him, always the sounding board to Will’s theories. He was calm as he did so, taking pleasure in the act of participation. “And are we not operating under the assumption that one such person is responsible?”

Will smirked softly - he knew that his partner had reached the same conclusion he had, and was just prolonging the conversation for the aesthetic value. After all, Will was doing the exact same thing.

“I think you have a fan,” he pointed out evenly.

“It is a rather effective way to get my attention,” Hannibal agreed, and his level tone carried a sharp edge. “Terribly rude, I’m afraid.”

“Manners maketh man,” Will drawled out as the finally found themselves on the riverside alley.

They started back up against the current towards their hotel. Cyclists passed them by, ringing their little bells constantly to alert the swaths of clueless tourists who were clumped on the bike track. The sun was only just heading towards sunset, a hint of deeper gold marring the horizon.

It was an idyllic sight. None of the hundreds of people around knew a corpse was being secretly moved just a few hundred metres away.

“Any candidates?” Will asked after a couple of minutes of their leisurely stroll.

“I did not notice anyone particularly eager to engage me,” Hannibal replied humbly. “It is possible to have slipped my notice.”

Now that was just bullshit, and Will knew it. His companion’s situational awareness was unparalleled - it someone was giving him untoward attention, even sneakily, he would notice. That meant that whoever it was had carefully kept their distance. Or maybe …

“There is someone who seems interested in you,” the younger man pointed out.

“It occurred to me,” Hannibal admitted. Of course it had - Will had been considering the possibility from the start. “But he seems to prefer the direct approach.”

Indeed, the Corinthian did not appear the type to leave covert threats, especially since he had the experience and talent necessary to carry them out at his discretion. Besides, Will couldn’t really tell if he was all that interested in the Chesapeake Ripper besides a professional rivalry, maybe a bit of curiosity. And, well, the Policeman still had her eyes - the Corinthian (that much Will knew from his FBI investigation into him) was way to prideful to leave his preferred trophy even when he was supposed to be subtle in his executions.

“Then we have a basis to start,” Will shruged to conclude.

“One name off the list,” Hannibal agreed with just a hint of amused optimism.

Silence settled as they turned into Goldgasse, a narrow alley that triggered something not unlike claustrophobia in Will - too many people, too many noises. Haggling like in an Istanbul market - almost comical, but without any teeth. The more time he spent in the company of his companion, the more the ex-FBI profiler realised that he despised banality. The performativity of it annoyed him, and he considered it a waste of his life to be annoyed. Such emotions were best dealt with by being transformed, forced to become something else - mostly a creative impulse.

The killing of the Policeman hadn’t been a creative impulse. That was tasteless, and Will didn’t appreciate it. And, of course, given that it was a message for Hannibal, it was personal. He couldn’t just let such blatant disrespect for his position at the Chesapeake Ripper’s side slide.

“Have you considered that someone might be courting you?”

“I should sincerely hope that they wouldn’t go about it quite as unimaginatively,” Hannibal returned drily. “A rather dull way to present a gift.”

Will had to admit a point on that one - leaving her backstage as is wasn’t anyone’s idea of romantic.

“Maybe it’s not for you,” he allowed for the possibility, but doubted it.

“Maybe,” Hannibal shrugged. “I do believe it may be time to go back. We wouldn’t want to miss the special address.”

Chapter Text

After spending most of his afternoon milling about most of the hotel reserved for the Convention, the Corinthian reached the rather disappointing conclusion that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham (or rather, the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer, apologies to the gracious hosts) had made themselves scarce. Simply put, they were nowhere to be seen, a fact which, while not relevant to the Nightmare, put him off his good mood nonetheless.

He'd been hoping for a round against Lecter - a bit of friendly competition, a hunt of sorts to get a measure of him. After all, no one on the collecting scene had even managed to leave an impression quite like the very first of them, the Corinthian. That is, no one but the Chesapeake Ripper, who had somehow managed it. It would be disrespectful of the Nightmare to not at least acknowledge the accomplishment and offer a challenge in return.

He'd even settle for getting a drink with Graham after their smoke - the man was mildly interesting company, which was more than could be said for the majority of Convention goers. But he too was gone from sight.

The Corinthian was in the most painful state he could imagine - boredom. Nothing quite caught his eye - not people, not foods or drinks or other delights the Waking World had to offer; no sights or smells or experiences piqued his curiosity. He felt imprisoned somehow, as if the sunny Salzburg and the hotel to his disposal were a containment field. He was not imprisoned. He was as free as he’d ever wished to be.

Yet he kept wandering the halls as if salvation from his thoughts would just hit him in the face.

Well, nothing hit him, exactly, but his salvation did come - in the form of The Good Doctor, who approached him very determinedly, eyes ablaze with that familiar hunger that collectors got around him. The hunger calling to them to worship him.

The Corinthian flashed her a carefully-curated customer-service smile. He was not at all feeling like entertaining a curious audience, yet rudeness was not his style.

“Hi,” he opened charmingly.

“Hi yourself,” the woman returned pristinely. “Just confirming that you’re still giving the special address.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he widened his smile, but it was still mostly fake. Even his voice fell a bit flat, something which The Good Doctor didn’t notice, but the Corinthian couldn’t overlook such an obvious failure in his performance.

“We’re expecting you in half an hour,” she replied with a smile.

Well, wasn’t that a nice reminder - people were hanging on his every word, listening to him as they would a preacher sermoning them about God. He was God’s disciple in their eyes - even the unbelievers found religion when they took him in, when their eyes landed on him and they saw his excellence, saw the potential his Creator had infused within him realised to the fullest. They were unknowingly reaching out to caress a piece of divinity, of the Endless, reaching blindly and devotedly.

That was the power the Corinthian craved - the power to take The Prince Of Stories’ essence, his intention for his Nightmare, and use it for himself. To claim a piece of his own life, his own existence, after too many a millennium - for himself, and his own desires, and his own capabilities. Not to serve the humans. Not to be a tool for someone else to face something about themselves, no. To be himself - fully, unequivocally and unapologetically.

Reinvigorated by thoughts of freedom, the Corinthian headed through the hotel hallways towards his destiny.

Two turns later he encountered the pair of men that had been occupying his mind all afternoon.

Think of the Devil, and he shall be late , the Nightmare contemplated half-jokingly, half-bitterly. He flashed the pair a bright smile as he strolled up to them, some small part of him aching to punish them for keeping him waiting and bored.

Lecter was observing him appraisingly, with appreciation in his gaze. What type exactly, the Corinthian wasn’t sure. Was this human looking at him like he would a cow whose prime ribs he’d serve with honey sauce? Was he a delicate musical instrument to let out precise gentle notes? Was he to be a challenge, an equal locked in battle of skill and resilience? Or was he merely entertainment, a performer up on stage to amuse him?

Those light eyes betrayed nothing, and that was rare for the Corinthian. He, who had spent so long amongst humans, in the dark of sleep and the light of day, rarely encountered an attitude he could not discern. Yet here the Chesapeake Ripper stood, one of the better accomplishments of his legacy, and the Nightmare felt the thrill of the mystery crawl up his spine like goosebumps. He wanted a taste of those eyes - but more than that, he wanted a run at that mind that was fuelling the light within them.

“Coming for the address?” he stopped in front of the Chesapeake Ripper and his companion, leaned against the wall, and offered his best predatory smile. As far as he was concerned, Lecter’s mannered frame was the highlight of his day as far as sights went. He wasn’t afraid of admitting he found the human interesting - but to be interesting to the Corinthian often equated with being prey.

“Would be rude to miss it,” Lecter agreed mildly, and the expression on his face gained a thoughtful shade as he regarded the Nightmare.

“You hate rudeness,” the Corinthian pointed out delightedly.

“That I do,” the man tilted his head to the side, once again appraising, measuring. “It’s a waste of life.”

The Corinthian wondered how the human saw himself next to the Nightmare, how he evaluated his own standing. Whatever his assessment, it would be wrong, of course, but the Corinthian was curious despite himself - seeing the world through the Chesapeake Ripper’s eyes was a temptation he could tease himself with, draw out the anticipation slow and steady until the Convention was over and he could indulge his own desires.

Until then, Lecter could entertain whatever delusions he had about being superior to a Nightmare. The Corinthian graciously allowed it.

“I think we’re similar in this regard,” he pointed out charmingly. “We don’t tolerate waste.”

A scoff, discreet but undeniably there, reminded the Nightmare that he and Lecter were not alone. He threw a look to the side, at the dignified figure of the Dragonslayer Will Graham, who was looking at him with an expression which was trying to be unimpressed but was, in fact, betraying how affected he felt. Outraged at being ignored, unnoticed, he had shadows in his beautiful eyes, shining multicoloured and defiant.

And jealous. Oh, was he jealous.

The Corinthian grinned, a predator smelling blood, and the atmosphere in their little group changed instantly from teasing camaraderie to dangerous tension. Graham schooled his features into neutrality and subtly adjusted his hold on his dog’s lead - the animal itself was staring at the Corinthian quietly, sitting down for now but undoubtedly one second from jumping for his throat.

Such a shame for the Chesapeake Ripper’s companion to keep a guard dog. Disappointing.

Yet, the Nightmare was deliciously aware that the owner was much more dangerous than the dog. And he was so obviously craving attention.

Rather cruelly, the Corinthian decided not to give him any.

“I’ll see you there,” he promised Lecter, and only Lecter, before separating from the pair on his way to the main hall.

He could nearly feel two sets of eyes boring into his back, the disdain in their depths. He licked his lips, a purely unintentional gesture as he paid attention to his hunger, his desire.

The Corinthian was going to enjoy playing with these two.

Will watched the smug form of the Corinthian disappear around the nearest corner. He turned to Hannibal.

“I’ll help you kill him.”

Hannibal was no stranger to hunting on his own - he’d done it for years before meeting his companion, and it had been years after that still until the two of them had first hunted together. Even with their current arrangement, Will preferred observing to participating, saving his own involvement for special occasions. Hannibal didn’t begrudge him this - Will was powerful, and thus it was only natural that his power shone through only in select moments. Like a solar eclipse, he could be blinding, and had to be observed in short bursts if one didn’t want to be destroyed by his radiance.

Even with all these facts accounted for, Hannibal enjoyed hunting with his companion. Profusely. Will’s own declaration that they were on the same page on this was undeniably pleasurable to him. He felt a bit like a metaphorical cat that had caught a metaphorical canary as the two of them entered the hall of the special address and searched for suitable seats.

The Corinthian sat in the very front row to ease his access to the stage for when he’d be invited to give his address. The hall was bursting at the seams, the Collectors gathered inside buzzing like a beehive, a symphony of voices. He could smell the excitement, taste it on his tongue. Even without looking, the world around him pulsed in a steady rhythm, washed over his body and swirled in a microcosm of sensations.

The Nightmare wondered, for a couple of seconds, why he’d never attended a Convention before. It was undeniably an experience.

And then the noise was dying down, and the shifting and murmuring were slowing to a minimum, and the Corinthian looked at the stage to see The Good Doctor, smiling as she waited patiently for the appropriate attention to land on her. Her eyes strayed, briefly, over the crowd, until she spotted the Corinthian and her gaze gained a hungry, nearly predatory shadow. One full of admiration even as she sized him up as an opponent. The Nightmare gifted her a customer-service smile as he waited for her to entertain him.

“First of all,” The Good Doctor started without preamble. “On behalf of all Convention organisers, I’d like to thank all you for coming. For the seventh year in a row we’re the biggest networking event for Collectors and we couldn’t be prouder.”

The Corinthian was hit by a sudden wave of amusement at this. He wondered who was keeping that statistic - were they going to ask him to fill out a flyer on his attendance to ‘networking events for Collectors’? It was a funny image in his mind - some poor chap going over statistical data about murderers, thinking it was about cereal. A college student in a tiny studio apartment somewhere.

It truly was entertaining to think about. And there was no way the Corinthian was going to participate in any type of survey.

His thoughts kept drifting to the imaginary college student inputting serial killer data into an excel spreadsheet in the middle of the night - what would their reddened, tired eyes taste like? What sort of life would have brought them here - middle class parents, good high school career but nothing special, landed their second preferred degree but oh well, it was good enough as well? What could they have seen that the Corinthian hadn’t, what sights and night skies and treehouses lurked in their mind that were inaccessible to the Nightmare?

He got so deep into his contemplations (and he wasn’t at all to blame because as charming as The Good Doctor was, not even a genius like her could deliver a speech like that and make it not boring), he almost missed his own invitation to get on stage and deliver his address.

The Corinthian did not let it show, of course. He stood, waved cheekily at the crowd to generous ovations. He walked the couple of steps up calmly and stood before the gathered Collectors. His creations, all of them, in a way. His legacy - his followers, inspired by his pioneering, wishing to rise to the same level as him. Longing, each in their own way, to touch something of him, something which defined him. They didn’t simply want to be like him, they wanted to be of him.

It wasn’t exactly pride that the Nightmare felt as he took the second to observe the hall, the diverse faces gazing up at him in anticipation. Pride he was familiar with - he wore it like a jacket, a well-fitting suit, because he was a prideful creature and his pride was obvious to everyone. No, he was feeling something else. Something much more intimate, much closer to him, much less available to those observing him. He felt … satisfied was not quite the right word, but it came close. It was a fulfilment of sorts, a sense of completeness, like a cavity in his being had been filled.

It was confusing, for the Corinthian had never wanted for anything, certainly not during his time in the Waking World. He’d never lacked anything, never felt anything missing. Yet, seeing seated before him the effect of his influence, he felt whole in a way he hadn’t in ages.

And then he dismissed the feeling like the useless, meaningless affectation it was, and grinned toothily at the audience as he corrected the microphone with a deft hand. All thoughts about feelings went out of his head as he focused on his emotions - vanity, hunger, arrogance. Those he weaved about himself like banners and put them into his smile, into his posture, into his voice as he spoke.

“Well then. It’s certainly an honour to speak …”

He didn’t get to finish. Because at that moment a wet slap sounded just to the right from him, a heavy thud which he knew intimately - the thud of a body hitting the ground.

Like everyone else, the Nightmare’s gaze was immediately locked onto said body, mostly in disbelief. No doubt - it was a corpse, alright. A right bloody one, leaking its crimson waste all over the stage as it lay there, useless and empty.

The Corinthian glanced up, at the ceiling directly above hiding from the audience behind a short curtain. He noted the torn ropes dangling, swaying gently from leftover inertia as their load had been disposed of.

“Huh,” the Nightmare murmured.

How curious. Because the Corinthian was pretty sure that the corpse lying face-down on the stage was the man who’d warmed his bed earlier that morning.

Alright, then. If that was how they were going to play. Looked like the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer had to wait - the Corinthian had new prey in his sights.

Chapter Text

Well this was …

The Good Doctor wanted to be angry. She should have felt indignation, she should have been fuming, she should have been insisting to the Universe itself that this was unacceptable, it was outrageous, it was not at all, under any circumstances, allowed.

Yet, a part of her had known it would happen. Had almost expected it, counted down the minutes ever since she learned both the Chesapeake Ripper and the Corinthian would attend this year’s Convention. Disaster had been bound to happen from the start, and she’d just been refusing to see it.

She hadn’t exactly expected The Disaster^TM to be soaking blood into hardwood floor, but the world was full of surprises. Unexpected twists.

Fun Land and Nimrod were clearing the hall of Collectors quietly, instructing them to be discrete, goddamnit, lest the hotel staff suspect something. Most of them were intrigued, unwilling to depart the scene of the drama, but the organisers were insistent.

Three of them, however, they could not chase away.

The Good Doctor cursed inwardly as the Corinthian reached for the body - he hadn’t even left the stage despite her many obvious clues that she’d like him to do so. He hadn’t outright ignored her, rather played dumb to get what he wanted.

A part of her thought that it was an appropriate look on his stupid face.

In fact, every single face she saw seemed incredibly moronic to her, because if a single intelligent person was present at the Convention they wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea to leave your calling card here?” she sighed as she watched the Corinthian brandish a pointed silver dagger from a torso holster hidden under his blazer.

“No,” he grinned at her, delightedly toothy, and his entire face was split into an image of hunger, of greed, partly of lust as he was bent over his victim, dagger in hand and itching to be used. “This one won’t be found.”

The Good Doctor averted her eyes, just for a second, and that was all the prompting the other Collector needed. She watched him pop the eyes clear of the skull with unmatched skill, the eyeballs completely whole and unharmed as they dangled almost comically on the corpse’s cheekbones.

With a single practised slash, the Corinthian severed first the right ocular nerve, then the left, ending up with two white eyeballs in his palm. They looked slightly bloody, unreal, almost like a TV prompt. He was looking at them with clear satisfaction in his frame, but also hunger, predation.

The Good Doctor took a hasty step away from the almost nightmarish mirage, and her heels clicked loudly in the empty hall. Oh, crap.

The Corinthian’s head snapped in her direction and his lips stretched into a smile that was more threatening than reassuring. He looked like he was delighted to have scared her, like putting her beneath him was a goal he’d set out for himself and relished in executing.

And then the smile changed, and so did his face, and so did his posture, they loosened and relaxed, shrank a bit into themselves until he was no longer larger than life, and he was the charming, arrogant man The Good Doctor knew, who was well-mannered although a bit sardonic, and who gave the impression of someone who could be harmless when he wanted to be.

The Collector swallowed at the whiplash, but it was hard to remain unaffected by that grin, the easy-going attitude in that frame. In just a few seconds of that almost boyish charm she’d neatly forgotten her fright completely.

“I’ll take care of that,” he promised like he was lifting a weight off of her shoulders.

In a way, he was, because The Good Doctor (and all Convention organisers, for that matter) did not at all feel like getting rid of another body.

So she crossed her arms and waited to see what he’d do.

He, in turn, wrapped the ocular nerves of the two eyes around each other, seemingly in no rush at all, before lifting his head to throw her a pointed look, clearly telegraphed even with the glasses.

The Good Doctor sighed and turned on her heels. She felt eyes on her the entire time she took to traverse the conference hall and take Fun Land and Nimrod away with her. Three sets of eyes, to be precise.

Leaving those three to sort themselves out seemed like the smartest option. In any case, The Good Doctor did not want to stay between them for whatever onslaught was about to come.

Hannibal approached the body like a critic. It was damaged from the fall, but the cause of death was obvious to his trained surgeon eye - broken neck. Just like the unfortunate Policeman.

Next to him, Will was observing the scene like a hawk. He was offended, his companion could tell, offended that someone would dare kill under his nose, when he’d vowed to catch the perpetrator. His indignation was palatable in the air, sharp but almost sweet, and Hannibal longed to taste it on blood - Will’s or someone else’s, he didn’t particularly care.

There was a suitable candidate nearby, but alas, they were a bit too busy for a big hunt. 

The Corinthian was in the process of cleaning his dagger with a white silk handkerchief - so focused was he on the ritual of it that he didn’t seem to have attention to spare for anything else. Rude.

Still, Hannibal knew his role in this - he took point, the diversion, creating the space and calm Will needed to work his empathy.

“Shame your address got interrupted,” he opened from a few paces away from the other killer with the subtle intention of drawing him away from the corpse.

“Mhm,” the Corinthian nodded absentmindedly, but stayed rooted to his spot.

“You don’t seem sorry,” Hannibal pointed out curiously.

“There’s always next year,” the other man replied philosophically, even adding a shrug for good measure. The white handkerchief disappeared into his inner pocket while he inspected his dagger for residual contamination.

When he lifted his head, he had a toothy smile on his face - it looked incredibly fake, plastered on to hide true bloodlust, and Hannibal was, for a moment, taken aback. The raw power in that stare, the pure threat that played right into his evolutionary fears, was a field in the air, tingling like static electricity. The Corinthian was not human in that moment - he was a hunter, a beast, a manifestation of comeuppance. For only the second time in his life, Hannibal felt in the presence of a true predator, and just like the first he was in awe, powerlessly attracted to that unique energy.

The only other true predator he knew was a few metres back, leaning over the eyesless body, and his presence snapped his companion from his reverie. Hannibal straightened, and took the Corinthian in anew - had that smile changed in the second that had passed? It must have, because the man’s usual charisma was back in full force, the easygoing, carefree demeanour he wore as his own special person-suit. Laid back and relaxed, he was inconspicuous, fitting into the crowd just like Will and Hannibal could.

“But then again,” the blond man added like he hadn’t interrupted his thought at all, like the moment hadn’t even happened. “Next year’s your year, right?” 

There was something predatory in his tone, but it was soft, gentle like a lover pushing a pin through the bleeding heart of their beloved, tame and considerate in a way few things could be. He was closer to Hannibal than when they’d started talking, barely an arm’s length apart even though neither had moved. 

For one confusing, infuriatingly compulsive second, Hannibal wanted to move even closer and pull that predator right out, tear the person-suit off of the Corinthian’s form and stalk what truly hid beneath. It was an odd compulsion - one he’d felt only once before in his life and it had subsequently consumed him. 

He’d considered a repeat performance impossible and decided to cling to that decision. He smiled, one of his own fake crowd-pleasing numbers, and the moment was broken - he knew it was when he saw the other man’s lips twitch, the barest betrayal of a frown, before they breathed in again and their breaths didn’t match.

“Afraid so,” Hannibal picked up the abandoned conversation and used it like a shield to push the other killer away. His thoughts returned to safer territory, about how he’d like to hunt this rival with his companion should the opportunity arise - those were the normal fantasies, the ones he knew how to channel into a productive direction, and Hannibal was very good and compartmentalising and focusing on what was important.

The Corinthian let out a little scoff, merely a huff of breath out through his nose, and his mouth curled in distaste. He seemed disappointed for some reason, like he disliked the outcome of the moment just like Hannibal had. 

“Pity,” he purred, the word tumbling out of his mouth with a spin on his southern drawl, and then he was taking a step to the side to leave the stage. “Don’t worry your heads about this, boys,” he remarked without even turning to look at the two other men. “I’ve got this one now.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow and glanced away to see his companion wearing a similar expression, if angrier. He seemed to have finished his examination, and so Hannibal decided to ignore the Corinthian (whose retreating footsteps echoed like thunder in the empty hall as he headed for the nearest exit) in favour of him.

When he moved to stand next to his companion, Will reached for him, grasped his elbow with a faint touch even as his entire body betrayed tension. Hannibal courteously stepped just that bit closer to make the contact easier.

“He doesn’t seem to be having a good Convention,” he pointed out humorously, eyes cast on the body beneath them.

It was rather ordinary, nothing a surgeon wouldn’t see after a serious traffic accident, or a fall from dangerous height. The mangling of the limbs, so beautiful in pushing the limits of the human body and yet so trivial, had nothing on the brutally empty eye sockets. It wasn’t just the red duvets of blood running down sculpted cheekbones; it wasn’t just the tiniest incision along the lower lid to get better traction on the eyeball. It was the glaringly obvious lack of one of the most human characteristics of all, the window to the soul, stolen, denied to the spirit making its way into the afterlife. It was this repossession of identity, of the human condition which left the corpse below not a person, but a thing, a carcass.

It was a familiar type of gall to dare do something like this - in the most deliriously pleasant way, Hannibal saw himself, his own essence, reflected in those dark cavities where the humanity had once hidden.

“Last time was just a message,” Will remarked, as if completely oblivious to his companion’s ruminations. “This is a show.”

“Escalation,” Hannibal supplied helpfully.

“Whoever this is, they want attention.”

“They want to challenge the big fish,” Hannibal smiled, a small and cruel thing. 

“Dangerous game,” Will pointed out vaguely.

The two of them exchanged a look that, to an outsider, betrayed nothing. They were just two men, their faces serious and unreadable, but to each other a whole world was opened through those gazes. Affection, first and foremost, for each other’s company in their games. Beneath that, bloodlust, the instinct of a hound chasing a rabbit, the primal urge to sink one’s teeth into soft flesh and feel bones crunch and blood pool over the tongue. The thrill of the hunt thrummed between them like a beat, putting their minds and their desires and even their breaths in sync. They were lone hunters, not pack animals, but each was the other’s ultimate exception - with just this other, they shared their prey.

The look ended once Will gently slipped his hand from his companion’s arm. Feeling a bit more collected, the two turned to the problem at hand once again.

“Our special guest did seem to take this one personally,” Hannibal inclined his head to the side. “More so than just the interruption of his speech.”

“You think he knew this one?” Will frowned at him.

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to ask him.”

The Corinthian considered his options, then swiftly moved to pull the blackout curtains in his hotel room shut. They were quality curtains - ceiling-to-floor, made to tuck a bit behind each other to create a double barrier where lesser curtains would have annoying gaps. The material was thick, heavy, drapey, felt good in his palms.

The darkness that submerged the room felt almost like home.

Although he didn’t physically need to, the Nightmare took a deep breath in through his nose and savoured it, held the air in his lungs to taste it, taste the small flecks of dust and the breeze from the river, the barely discernible hint of the detergent used to wipe the floor.

He didn’t normally do this - a reminder that he was in the Waking World felt pointless given that he could feel it in his bones, on his skin, the different energy of another plane. Yet he chose to do it this time because he needed to focus.

Unbothered by the darkness, the Corinthian took the two steps to his large bed with singular focus and hopped on it with the grace of a predator. He took his time settling into a cross-legged position, back straight, lungs expanding. 

The eyeballs in his pocket were calling to him, tempting his senses, teasing him. He wasn’t addicted to the feeling, not exactly - a Nightmare did not have the bodily and psychological functions necessary for true addiction - but he did long for the feeling similarly to how one might long for their fix. To feel humanity, those he had been made to serve, so intimately and completely, was a twisted pleasure. In a way, he made them serve him for once, in giving him bits and pieces of that unsolvable puzzle which was the human experience, the expression of their illusive humanity which was so powerful it spawned even his Creator into being.

In a way, it was about power. In another, it was about abandoning it, and following his design blindly. 

In a completely other way, the Corinthian never gave it that much thought and merely did it for the same reasons he drank alcohol, and had sex, and drove fast cars, and ate food - because it felt good. He needed no reason other than dear old Jeremy Bentham.

(None of Epicurus and his prudish details.)

But for this one he was technically doing a “work before pleasure” thing. After all, this wasn’t even his kill, and he normally wouldn’t bother with eyes he didn’t secure for himself. But there was a first time for everything.

Pulling his glasses off was a well-practised, confident action; producing the twin eyeballs, soft and shiny in his grasp - equally so. He took no time to admire them, as they weren’t his killing trophy, and merely pushed them between his teeth.

The emotions spilled over him like an avalanche and normally he’d let it happen, absorb it at whatever pace came naturally and ride it out, but this time he focused. He sifted through the regular memories, the childhood of chasing and killing animals, of fantasising about killing the other kids, then an adolescence of loneliness and self-isolation. The Nightmare, this time, wasn’t interested in that, although tasting serial killers was a rare experience even for him.

No, he pushed through the onslaught all the way to the very end, the last hours of these eyes. Normally he’d take the time to voyeur on himself a bit, given how often his victims ended up in his bed, and seeing himself through the eyes (literally) of others was flattering. But this time he pushed even that away, insistent in his determination to see the very end - those last few moments.

Come on , he thought, as he watched the amber-eyed man leave his room and return to the Convention, idly glancing at panels here or there. 

He stopped to talk to a few people, boring conversations, catching up, sharing tales of the past year. The Corinthian was getting impatient - he could feel it, an itch on the tips of his fingers, urging him to take his dagger in hand and secure himself a true meal.

And then the amber-eyed man made his way to one of the bathrooms, stood by a urinal, and pissed. The last thing he heard was footsteps behind him, and then hands gripped his head from behind, and before he’d even had a chance to let go of his penis, his gaze was being twisted sharply to the side and he was no more.

The Corinthian sighed deeply. He contemplated the unfortunate reality as he pulled his handkerchief to wipe the small trickles of blood from his eyes and cheeks. He considered the chances of a killer specifically hiding from his victim’s view like a coward, and they sadly seemed likely - every “victim” here was actually a victimizer, and going against them toe-to-toe was a risk. Taking such an approach did, admittedly, maximise chances of success.

But still, it was disappointing. The Nightmare had been gearing up for some good old-fashioned revenge.

Will and Hannibal were trying to track the latest victim’s last movements. Unlike the case with the Policeman, none of them had any insight into this unlucky fellow’s activities before he’d found himself on the wrong side of a neck-wringer. However, while most Convention goers were happy to talk to them, they remembered the Policeman from the morning all too well and seemed to think death followed the unusual pair at their gathering. Which, to be perfectly honest, was a fair assessment.

There was also the other side of things - these ‘collectors’ (and how Will hated that word …) had pride befitting serial killers, and each considered themselves prepared enough to handle an attack should one come. Welcomed it, even, for the glory of taking down the rogue who thought breaking Convention rules was acceptable. Such was the problem with the egos of serial killers, Will had known since his FBI days - each wanted the most attention, and they liked being the hero of the story if it would get them the reaction they craved, be it admiration or fear or both or neither.

So progress was tough. As the evening stretched on into the beginning of the night, the sky finally beginning to darken after the July sun thought to take its leave, Will was growing increasingly frustrated.

Sara, too, was tired from a whole day of activities, which had the three of them finding a secluded place in one of the gardens to catch a break, enjoy the pleasantly cool air after the heat of the day.

Will considered smoking, weighed the benefits now that he had a willing partner at his side, but ultimately decided against it. The silence suited him just then, the outside world matching the state of his mind, blessedly blank for once since receiving the stupid Cereal Convention invitation. He wanted to cherish that harmony for as long as it would last.

Which wasn’t to be a lot, all things considered.

It hadn’t even been half an hour when Sara lifted her head from where she’d been resting on Will’s knee, ears pulled back and her teeth bared, but not growling yet. The two men were instantly on high alert, Will automatically looking to their left while Hannibal took the right, covering the entirety of the (so far) empty garden around them.

They didn’t hear him at all - for someone who walked like he couldn’t care less how his actions influenced the world around him, the Corinthian was quieter than a mouse. A useful trait for a serial killer, but one that unnerved Will, as he didn’t hear the fellow predator approaching on the pebbled walkways between the bushes and flowerbeds.

Hands in his pockets, lips curled in a contemplative frown, the Corinthian did not appear threatening. Will knew better than anyone how looks could be deceiving.

“Boys,” the blond man greeted as he approached their bench purposefully, and was that a hint of bitterness in his voice? Displeasure, definitely, not even attempting to hide it.

Will stood up to put himself on an equal level with the other man. He clenched Sara’s lead, but made a gesture at her to stay back which had her sitting but not diverting her attention. 

Politely, the Corinthian stopped with a couple of metres still between them, hands still tucked in his trouser pockets. His charm was dialled down a bit, and he appeared less like an appealing media personality and more like a frustrated software engineer who’d spent the last three hours trying to get a program to work before finally giving in and coming to his team colleagues for advice.

Will did not trust his disposition for one second - that man was even better at putting on a performance than his companion, and that was saying something. The ex-FBI profiler was not about to be fooled by the easygoing demeanour.

“So … I suppose your investigation hasn’t gone anywhere,” the Corinthian opened a bit smugly, although that same betterness still snuck into his tone, like something had profoundly annoyed him and not even Will and Hannibal’s failure could fix his mood.

Rude , Will thought, and itched to do to the other killer what his companion normally did to rude people, but held himself back. He’d promised his companion they’d do it together, after all, and their hunts were special, so much more elevated than random bouts of violence in hotel gardens. Will killed only rarely, under special circumstances, and his standards were high - he was going to make this one just as special.

“Yet,” Hannibal chose that moment to also stand up, far more gracefully than Will had, wearing his calm like a weapon, a spiked cloak to wrap around the intruder and pierce his flesh until he bled out into the fabric.

The Corinthian was not at all bothered - if anything, he only looked a bit more annoyed.

“Neither has mine,” he admitted and ah. So that was where his distaste came from. “Unfortunately.”

Will tilted his head to the side. He had a clue, suddenly, where this was going. Judging by Hannibal’s smirk, so did he.

“So, what do you say, boys?” the Corinthian finally pulled one hand out of his pocket to make an elaborate gesture in the air, one that encapsulated the whole of Salzburg, or maybe just the hotel, or maybe just the garden. “Truce, for the time being? Until we deal with this,” he clarified with a flash of teeth, and the dangerous charm was back, pushed right back up to eleven.

Will was man enough to admit that he liked seeing it, just for a second there.

“Are you proposing cooperation?” Hannibal returned, voice undeniably pleased and a bit surprised as he contemplated the new possibility.

Hannibal was constantly changing, his plans remaining fluid and malleable depending on new circumstances. Will knew this intimately, yet he was still slightly appalled at his partner’s willingness to abandon their current idea of killing the Corinthian together, nevermind the new body. It felt offensive in a way, like his companion was choosing another over him.

“Why not?” the Corinthian flashed them another loaded grin, clearly in favour of the idea. His teeth held promises of threat in their glinting surfaces which pleased some aesthetic desires in Will - a pleasure he resolutely dismissed. “If you can keep up.”

That man couldn’t help but be a nuisance, couldn’t he? Will glared at him, but Hannibal was already replying before he could fully formulate the fantasy of how he’d snap the Corinthian’s spine vertebra for vertebra.

“It would be an enlightening experience, I’m sure,” his answer was smooth, dismissing the subtle threat in favour of assuring his own superiority. Will deemed it satisfactory and thus did not intervene.

The Corinthian grinned like he’d heard something particularly funny, then replaced his hand in his pocket. His everpresent dark sunglasses stared straight at Hannibal, yet Will felt like a cell observed under a microscope.

“So where do we start?”

Chapter Text

“I don’t suppose you have many enemies,” the Corinthian offered innocently, or about as innocently as a man could while grinning deviously. Truly, he was way more entertained than he should have been.

“The motive is clear,” Graham dismissed him, attempting to appear unbothered, but he was truly easy to rile up. The Corinthian did it on purpose - his anger was intoxicating, not exactly beautiful but definitely awe-inspiring.

In a small corner of his mind, the Nightmare could admit that he understood why Lecter, a being closer to the Devil than any who walked the mortal plane, was so infatuated with him. Despite the arrogant, downright rude demeanour, Graham came with his attractive traits.

“Share with the class?” the Corinthian leaned back in his chair, about as condescending as they came.

Out of the three of them, Graham looked the most uncomfortable in his skin. The Nightmare couldn’t begin to understand why - they had a gorgeous view of the very last dregs of the dying sunlight over the Salzach from their outdoor table in front of a chic little cafe on the northern side of the Altstadt. It was that pleasant moment in the day where the sun had retreated beneath the horizon, but some of its yellow halo still pushed up, refusing the night its true reign for a few prolonged minutes in the summer months.

Honestly, the fact that the cafe was even open was a miracle - a quick Internet search revealed a rather disturbing tendency of all manner of dining establishments to close ridiculously early even in the heart of the tourist season. With the exception of bars and discos, of course, but somehow the Corinthian had a feeling his two friends over here would mind those settings.

So really, they’d hit the jackpot with this spot - life was wonderful and bright and exciting now that they stood before the very real opportunity for quality entertainment. There was no reason for Mister DogLover to be brooding like a scorned teenager.

“Someone wants to occupy our attention,” Graham hissed, but leaned back in his chair with an artificial air of boredom around him, like he was trying to pretend that the whole ordeal was beneath him. To the Nightmare it was painfully obvious that he hated the idea of somebody else thinking themselves worthy of the Chesapeake Ripper’s attention.

Love, the Corinthian thought, was a cheap emotion. It started out alright, with the lust and the excitement of something new and that dreamy period of the pink glasses and the world finally being complete with the addition of another person (or several) into the mix. But then it died out into something smaller, a subtle glow in the everyday, lurked there and manifested into fondness and sweetness and escapism, and it was boring. The constant pressure of it, like a migraine, became annoying after experiencing it for the first time because it wasn’t anything as grand as people described it. Bland. Jealousy, on the other hand, selfishness - those were delicious, tempting, they were a burning fire worth allowing to skim over bone. There was danger, and thrill, and humanity as its truest - pushing for its own, demanding its share. Invigorating.

Seeing these two, the Corinthian was forced to reconsider his stance. The love Will Graham had for his companion was nothing short of selfishness, an entitled, possessive codependency which tasted like spices in the air, available only to the Nightmare’s inhuman senses. He was nearly overwhelmed with hunger, in that moment in the cafe by the Salzach, hunger for one set of those eyes - whichever was on offer, he didn’t even think to be picky. Because Lecter was just as unique - his love was religion in the most twisted sense, self-serving and stubborn, and it devoured the object of its affection slowly, suffocated it in its adoring snare bit by bit.

None of them suffered any illusions that the other held pure feelings for them. Yet their selfishness fit like the most fucked up jigsaw puzzle ever, slotting right into place, rotten desire to rotten desire.

Although he was used to satisfying his whims during his time in the Waking World, the Nightmare knew self-control. He had another goal for the evening, and bid himself to wait. He wasn’t worried - plenty of time was still open to him to catch a taste of those eyes.

Maybe he’d even indulge himself with both pairs, when the time came.

But that time was yet to come, and in the present the Corinthian had a chance to tease which would be a travesty to miss.

“ Our attention?” he rolled the first word on his tongue, drew it out languidly and mockingly. Graham might consider himself and Lecter a singular unit, but whoever was “collecting” their own kind probably didn’t. 

Graham threw him a look of disdain.

“It would be fitting for a guest of the convention to punch above their own weight,” Lecter intervened gracefully, with an ease that seemed too plastic to be true.

“Is this a challenge or a love letter?” the Corinthian countered just to be contrary. 

“Hardly winning you over by disposing of your entertainment,” Graham pointed out dismissively, but him switching to ‘you’ instead of ‘us’ was as big an admission of defeat as he would ever give.

Winning over him gave the Corinthian an inexplicable sense of smugness - inexplicable because he didn’t need any help to be smug. 

“Whoever this contender is,” the Nightmare reached across the table to avail himself of Graham’s drink because the other man did not seem inclined to drink it. “They’re a coward.”

“Killing their victims from behind,” Lecter agreed with a thoughtful nod, although his eyes followed the theft with displeasure. “And leaving no calling card to reveal their identity.”

“Pussy,” the Corinthian popped the ‘p’ with a philosophical air about him.

“Even the most unpalatable of characters have a place on this earth,” Lecter remarked with deceptive mildness.

“Until they don’t,” Graham scoffed dismissively.

“You’d know something about palettes, wouldn’t you?” the Nightmare jumped in at the first opportunity to ignore Mr DogLover. It was slowly becoming something of a hobby.

The Chesapeake Ripper, in all of his cannibal glory, seemed to find the admittedly cheap joke funny. If the small smirk curling the corner of his lips was any indication. Despite being unusually hard to read (for a human), the Nightmare was certain he was slowly but surely worming his way into his fellow killer’s respect.

“We need to smoke them out,” Graham tried to steer them back on course, the buzzkill. 

The Corinthian threw him a look with a put-on sigh of utmost boredom. Fine, if this was how these two wanted to play it.

“I may have a suggestion,” he offered casually.

Chapter Text

“Last time I was bait …” Will started, but didn’t finish. 

“It worked wonderfully,” Hannibal did it for him with too much casualness for the target of said bait.

“Too well,” Will grumbled quietly as he straightened his shirt.

He wasn’t ashamed of his actions - such stupid concerns had left him long ago - but he would admit to a certain … distaste thinking about his efforts to capture Hannibal. Ultimately, he’d do it all again. If only to teach his companion the lesson that he wasn’t a frail thing that was going to lie down and die after a single blow. But, several years having passed in the other man’s company, Will understood him better than he thought it was possible to understand anyone. And he empathised - and that meant he understood the hurt. The burn of the betrayal, his betrayal on the behest of the FBI. 

He didn’t regret it. He merely disagreed with the palatabless of it. 

This time he had no qualms about tricking a none-the-wiser target into revealing their card too soon. It was merely the method he objected to.

Well, not just the method. But mostly the method.

“However will my pride recover,” he remarked sourly as he checked his look in the mirror - if nothing else, then at least his looks were presentable.

“If it is any consolation,” his companion offered with a dark tilt to his tone that went straight into Will’s self-preservation instincts, getting the hairs on his arms to stand on edge as he smirked under the adrenaline thrill. “I have every intention of avenging your pride.”

Will could see how it would be easy to forget how dangerous Hannibal truly was. He himself had never made that mistake - when he looked at his companion, he saw the scalpels in his eyes and the flames of a flambé torch and the muscles that could carry fat human bodies easily. He saw all of that, and he chose to rise up to the challenge. Every time.

“We’ll see about that,” he returned evenly before leaving the room.

The hotel restaurant was reserved for the Convention. The organisers had really spared no expense, which played to their advantage. Every guest inside was a Collector, and their social hierarchies were making themselves apparent - the groups they formed, the new additions clumping together, comforted by shared inexperience and awkwardness in the face of their much more capable peers; the cool outsiders who lurked in the corners and considered themselves truly lone wolves, and, if not above everyone else, then at least on a separate scale, keeping them away from the more embarrassing aspects of collecting; the established old titles, those two divided into two groups of their own: the cocky and the confident. The cocky craved attention more than anything else and made sure everybody knew who they were, with their outfits and their poses and their disdainful looks about the venue they truly were above.

The Corinthian was one of the confident ones. Confident in the sense that he (and the rest of that small group) were so well established that they didn’t need to parade it around. They were quiet and casual, but still visible to everyone, they were certain of themselves, their fame, their reputations. Exactly that quiet sort of confidence put them apart from the others, the true legends and masters of the scene and their adoring following herd. 

Halfway through an espresso martini for dinner, the Nightmare occupied himself by looking bored at his table for four, completely alone. He attracted looks, wistful, frightful - all sorts. He wondered whether some brave soul would be stupid enough to approach him in his solitude without invitation, one of the clueless, newer collectors perhaps, trying their luck at networking with the wrong people.

Think of the Devil …

The man who approached his table wore a deep red shirt under a tasteful rich grey suit jacket with matching pants. His hair was combed back, his pocket square didn’t have a single crease, and the lead of his dog lead matched his Oxfords.

Will Graham undid the button on his jacket as he sat down - his German Shepherd situated herself by his chair, eyes on the crowd and not the table.

The Corinthian grinned. An amused voice in his head remarked that he’d just been served a full-course meal, and, even more amusingly, the meal had practically delivered itself to his table. 

The meal in question looked grumpy, his jaw set and his eyes stone-cold as he sported the most blank expression his facial features could produce. He regarded the Nightmare with slight disdain.

“Hello,” the Corinthian opened charmingly, his voice coming out a little breathy for no purpose other than to tease.

Graham noticed, and looked resentful as he adjusted his tie - an oddly impersonal gesture for someone meant to be putting on a show.

“ Relax ,” the Nightmare reminded him humorously, leaning forward on the table to melt the distance between the two of them. “You’re supposed to be happy to see me.”

That last one was, once again, just a tease, delivered in his most infuriating manner. The human refused the hook this time, choosing instead to take a deep breath and plaster a small smile on his face. The change was instantaneous - he had a rugged charm to him, and a regal aura, and for all intents and purposes the two should have contradicted but didn’t. In a way, the condescending, holier-than-thou look he was sporting suited him, it was oddly attractive.

For just a second, the Corinthian saw something of himself in that frame, and it both repulsed him like a magnet with the same charge, and drew him in like a lone beast finally recognising one of its own kind.

Like with most unintentional emotions, he ignored it, pushed it down until it was out of sight, and focused on the important things - the sensations, the experiences, the material. He flashed Graham a smile in return, one too wide and predatory, rehearsed to perfection.

For some reason that got the man to frown, genuine displeasure showing on his features. Confused, the Nightmare doubled down.

“The Dragonslayer,” he drew out the moniker, testing it on his tongue before chasing it down with a sip of his cocktail. “Who knew you’d clean up so well?”

And there it was - the man looked irritated again, which, for some reason, the Corinthian could tolerate better.

“Corinthian,” the other collector returned with a sort of socialite cold politeness. He fingered the menu disinterestedly. “Anything look good?”

“Nothing up to the standard of your usual company, I’m afraid,” the Nightmare responded with no small measure of amusement. 

Graham glanced up at him almost warningly, as if to remind him of the plan. They were playing a game, after all, putting on a show. Lecter was supposed to be out of the picture, at least for a moment.

Maybe bringing the Chesapeake Ripper up was bad for the plan, but the Corinthian had never been good at following a script. 

“Or have you forgotten how to enjoy a simple steak?” he teased and, slowly and pointedly, slipped the menu from Graham’s hand. He actually deigned to open it.

“Simplicity is a waste of life,” the human countered, the echo of the Corinthian’s own words curling in his ears pleasantly, much more so than he would have imagined.

He ignored it.

“Being too picky is a waste of opportunity,” he returned without any bite, idly scrolling through the menu.

Graham shrugged, the very essence of ‘Agree To Disagree’ written all over his posture as he slouched a bit in his chair and extended his legs under the table. His ankle brushed the Corinthian’s, who threw a face in the other man’s way and received no response. With a truly buddhist ‘it is what it is’ attitude, he shrugged and let it be. Maybe someone would notice and start the rumour mill, on the off chance that their target wasn’t in the restaurant to witness the show themselves.

Speaking of the show, Graham wasn’t looking nearly as enamoured with him as was needed to get the plan to work.

“Say, darling,” the Nightmare opened with an exaggerated drawl to get the man’s attention back on track. “How are you finding the Convention so far?”

Graham, thankfully, summoned his acting skills, because he leaned forward on the table easily and his eyes finally adopted that attention the Corinthian had been trying to provoke.

“Disinteresting. The collectors here are crude and shallow. Trapped in their own little worlds of killing and justification. They’re too meagre to see the true meaning of what they’re doing.”

He sounded sincere as he spoke, but not exactly disappointed - more so resigned to his fate. It occurred to the Nightmare then, that the human sitting opposite of him was truly a solitary beast, but for one exception.

“Staring at the shadows on the wall while the real thing is just outside of their perception?” he chuckled, pushing yet another useless feeling away. 

Graham looked thoughtful for a moment, a bit surprised as he obviously readjusted his previous assumptions.

“Didn’t take you for a platonian,” he pointed out.

The Corinthian scoffed, offended.

“I’m not.”

And not only because he knew of many more planes than simply the material world and the world of ideas. 

He’d actually met Plato, back in the day, while the old man was running his Academy. Funny fella - dreamt mostly of the spears of foreign armies piercing flesh while the impersonal eyes of wise but detached kings gazed down from above, unmovable as the God he believed in.

The Nightmare and Lord Morpheus had visited Athens, fascinated by its democratic ways, several times during and after the Persian wars. And while Pericles had been a man of interest at the time, the Dream lord had always been keenly interested in the knowledge of humans and had found time to visit the Academy. 

The Corinthian, for his part, found the whole thing increasingly boring - from the complicated athenian political system which couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a direct or representational democracy, to the blabberings of a philosopher who truly thought he knew everything, and insisted that his soul had opened the way to this world of ideas he was so obsessed with through his deep, thoughtful contemplations.

Bullshit, the whole lot of it, but it sounded fancy, and some of it remained in the Nightmare’s head thousands of years later - mostly as something to scoff at. 

And he had before himself another human who thought himself so much smarter, who didn’t know they were talking to an ancient being who’d seen things in the collective subconscious of humanity that they could never imagine. Only this time, through some mysterious workings of the Universe, the Corinthian thought that maybe, just maybe, this conversation could contain something worth listening to.

“What are they missing?” he asked without any pretence, no showy expression of superiority or intangibility - just plain curiosity.

“They call it collecting, for one thing,” Graham scoffed, dismissive in his verdict, but he too, was sharing openly. “Trying to categorise and structure something when they don’t fully understand it.”

“They do it just fine,” the Corinthian pointed out, for once not merely to be contrary, but to prompt the conversation to go further. 

“They don’t,” the human denied softly. He was staring straight at the Nightmare’s glasses as if intent on glancing beyond them, as if he could move them out of the way with just his mind. “They go through the motions of it, but it’s empty. They imitate what inspired them, hoping it would be the same, but it isn’t. It lacks the substance.”

“Does it need to have substance?” the Corinthian shrugged, broke the eye-contact to discreetly take the room in - oh yes, there were definitely eyes on their unlikely pair.

If nothing else, the plan was (probably) working, at least. Although, and the Nightmare was hard-pressed to admit this, there was definitely something else as well. He knew that because he didn’t want it (whatever it was) to end. Not just yet. Not unless the conclusion was satisfying.

Glancing back, he saw that Graham looked appalled at his suggestion, although he seemed to find things he did not agree with at least marginally interesting. Had to have had something with the empathy the Corinthian kept hearing about.

“Can it not be just an experience?” the Nightmare challenged once again. “Just a sensation.”

He and Graham were close - each leaning across the table, seemingly casually, but the distance between them couldn’t have been anything other than intentional on someone’s part. Not pulling away, in the Corinthian’s opinion, meant more than pushing forward. Experimentally, he pushed his leg up against the other man’s ankle, a bit up to his shin, and held it there. There was no reaction - positive or negative.

“Hedonistic,” Graham returned with an expression that was trying to be blank, but betrayed an interest.

“Yup.”

“Are you a hedonist?” one would assume that the human would have nothing against hedonism, given his taste for truly unconventional meals. Yet the prospect seemed to bother him somewhat, in the alluring way of something he was not allowed to have.

The Corinthian grinned.

“Down to the teeth.”

Another scoff, and the human finally leaned back a bit, until the two of them were a normal distance apart, but still too close for two people who didn’t want to be near each other. Graham was a passable actor, one ought to give him that.

“I worked on one of your kills,” he pointed out conversationally, but with an intention that told the Nightmare the human had questions and was going to use the opportunity to pursue them.

“Which one?” he sipped his drink casually, not bothered by the inquiry - he’d never been above bragging.

“Quantico. 2010. Right under the FBI’s nose,” Graham looked thoughtful there for a second, revisiting a past life that must have seemed so far away. “Assuming that was you, and not the previous Corinthian.”

“It was me,” the Nightmare nodded. “Two men, green-eyed. I took them to a movie and left them in the broom closet half-way through.”

“And then you took the boy working the popcorn stand to your hotel.”

“Deep brown eyes, like soil around the Nile,” the Corinthian smirked fondly. 

“You care about the eyes,” the human pointed out. 

“Eyes are more memorable than people,” the Nightmare shrugged. He was looking out into the restaurant, given that Graham had no such opportunity with his back to it, and subtly observed the guests. He saw a lot of curious eyes, but none quite as intense as what they were looking for.

Yet.

“You take them out with surgical precision. Often while the victim is still alive.”

“Most die from shock,” he agreed. “Or pain.”

“I couldn’t tell why. You don’t care about your victims - you don’t want to keep parts of them with you. You won’t miss their eyes on you once they’re gone - you’re not that vain.”

“I’m plenty vain,” the Corinthian turned to Graham with one of his more charming smiles.

“Why do you do it?” the human didn’t allow himself to be derailed - annoying really, but also …

The Nightmare considered telling him the truth - going to hell with the plan and luring Graham upstairs, or anywhere quiet, and showing him. No glasses, no barriers, just the naked truth. Would the human be disgusted? Merely terrified? Or would he see something more than himself and wish to come closer, touch that piece of divinity, of the Endless, that resided within the Corinthian? Maybe all of these, or maybe neither, but it would end in the same way - with the Dragonslayer’s eyes in the Corinthian’s palm, and his entire being stored safely within the Nightmare as a source of sensation, a little glimpse, just a taste of the raging humanity overtaking the Waking World.

It would be easy to indulge himself, but the Corinthian decided to hold off for the time being, to drag this moment on a bit more.

“Eyes are a window to the soul,” he threw something half-true, half-bullshit to the human, mostly to confuse him. “I like looking through it.”

Graham was obviously neither convinced, nor happy with the explanation but, as any good interrogator, knew how to pick his battles. When to abandon a topic, or pick a new line of questioning.

“Is this how one becomes the Corinthian?” he asked with fake casualness. “A fixation on eyes?”

“There’s only ever been one Corinthian,” the Nightmare told him with an indulgent, cat-like smirk. “Just me.”

Graham was back to his tired ‘I’m sick of your bullshit’ look.

“So you’re a hundred years old?” he pointed out sceptically.

“Give or take,” the Corinthian agreed, deciding to omit that it was somewhere closer to ten thousand.

The perceived dishonesty seemed to disappoint Graham, who, in a form of retribution, retracted his own sincerity. The warmth of his leg next to the Nightmare’s disappeared.

“I think I’ll have the lamb chop,” he decided without a single look at the menu.

The Corinthian shrugged, amenable. 

“Seems fitting for us to match,” he added, pushing the menu off to the side.

Graham signalled for a waiter and the table was silent as he relayed their matching order and inquired as to suitable wine. The Nightmare listened with only half an ear, most of his attention on the restaurant hall. Still nobody that struck him as particularly affected by the scene he and the Dragonslayer were putting on, but the night was still young.

The pause seemed to have restored his company’s benevolence, because after an appraising look Graham offered a metaphorical olive branch.

“When I was investigating you for the FBI,” he opened, not pretending to be casual, but detached in a way that made it absolutely clear that life was over. “Your kills seemed crude at first glance. Random victims, without common traits,  picked at all sorts of places. You even killed them in different ways, had sex with some, with others didn’t. The only thing in common was the eyes.”

The Corinthian gave a noncommittal hum - in truth, he didn’t need anyone to retell him his own style, but he was a proud thing, and a vain one, and listening to someone talk about him with the appreciation of a scholar was flattering. 

“The FBI,” the human reminisced with a small condescending smirk. “They entertained the hypothesis that there were multiple Corinthians operating at the same time. A sort of gang with a shared MO.”

The Nightmare bristled, offended.

“No wonder they never caught me,” he scoffed, wondered where their wine was, as his espresso martini was sadly but a distant memory on his taste buds.

“If you’re really the only Corinthian, you predate the FBI,” Graham pointed out drily.

The Corinthian nodded with a wicked grin. Graham let out a long-suffering sigh before continuing his line of thought.

“I was puzzled as well,” he admitted. “I knew you were a single person. Yet it all seemed,” he waved his hand in a gesture of genuine confusion with the Universe. “Random. Untidy. Like you were just satisfying a caprice.”

“I was,” the Nightmare pointed out with all of the arrogance earned through thousands of years of living. “I am.”

“I know,” Graham nodded, his eyes suddenly gravely serious. “Then I figured it was just a matter of finding out what it was.”

The Corinthian tilted his head to the side, found himself licking his lips, as if almost in anticipation of something, but mostly as a challenge. 

“Did you figure it out?”

The human looked so unimpressed for a second, so cold and distant, almost disappointed, that the Nightmare found himself longing to touch him, feel the warmth of his flesh and the motion of his breath, and shake him out of this godly grace into something more grounded, something more human. Something he could freely touch, and reach, something he could demand and have.

“I never caught you,” Graham deadpanned, and the moment was broken.

The Nightmare couldn’t help looking just a little smug.

“Nope,” he popped the p, his southern drawl shining through at full force. “You didn’t.”

Chapter Text

“I thought for a while,” Will decided to renew the conversation about twenty minutes later, after he and his company for the evening had secured their food and were making progress on the glasses of wine. “That you were insecure.”

The provocation worked like a wonder, as the other killer at the table threw the most outraged expression his way, indignation flashing across his features clearly even without access to his eyes. 

“Because of the eyes,” he clarified. “It’s the mark of someone who doesn’t want to be looked at.”

“Ah …” the Corinthian took some time to sit with that. His forehead wrinkled as he considered it. 

“Physical disfigurement, I figured. Low self-esteem, history of abuse,” the ex-FBI profiler continued. Not to be cruel, as he could see the other man did not match the profile and, even if he did, would not be affected by such an assessment, but merely to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Recipe for a serial killer,” the Corinthian pointed out teasingly.

“Something like that,” Will shrugged, unbothered by the attempt to delegitimize his argument. “When I first saw you this morning, I thought something similar.”   

“How so?” the other man leaned forward, clearly interested. It was so vain, only being interested in conversations about him, yet Will found it almost an indulgence, as he could finally get insight into one of the very few killers who’d slipped between his fingers.

“The glasses,” Will pointed out like it was obvious - mainly because it was. “You’re clearly not blind. But one can assume.”

“That there’s something very wrong with my eyes, and it makes me angry, and that’s why I take them from others?” the Corinthian finished with an even tone. He shrugged and sipped his wine.

He drank too much per mouthful, swallowed too quickly - he did not take the time to savour it and identify each individual spike of flavour like Will or Hannibal would do. It was a downright plebeian way to drink wine, one which Will would normally find cocky and annoying (and the Corinthian definitely fit his definition of cocky and annoying), but in this particular instance it reminded him of what the other man had said earlier in the evening. Simple experiences. Simple sensations. Much as he usually found meaning in the grand and complicated expressions of existence, Will could admit to understanding (through empathy if nothing else) the allure of simple indulgences. It was about squeezing the most out of life with the least amount of effort - a method that, although crude in a sense, was effective and highly enjoyable. It took a lot of gall, confidence (or maybe arrogance and stupidity) to live like that - it was a statement. Took character, and that was a thing to respect.

Will wouldn’t claim that he’d changed his morality for hedonism. But he understood.

“Makes sense,” he shrugged as an answer to the previous question, swirling the wine in his own glass and enjoying the reflections of the chandelier light overhead twinkling in it.

“Hm,” the Corinthian returned cryptically.

Will rolled his eyes before taking the bait.

“So is there?”

The other man smiled an indulgent grin before leaning across the table towards him, resting his chin on the back of his hand and facing Will like a cat about to jump a bird.

“Is there what, darling?” he drawled, showed teeth. 

In another person, Will would have considered the gesture threatening, but he’d seen the Corinthian when he’d truly meant to threaten, and this wasn’t it. This was him being playful.

“Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

“Depends on your definition of wrong?” the Corinthian shrugged, leaned back in his chair. He glanced discreetly to the side, his glasses obstructing where he was looking at precisely, but from his relaxed position in his chair he had pretty much the entire restaurant within view. Will knew what he was doing and left him to it, taking the time to eat quietly.

Honestly speaking, sitting with his back to a room full of collectors, one of which he was supposed to be baiting, didn’t feel all that great. That’s why he had Sara observing the room, watching for any immediate threat, while the other man was to handle the subtle social cues the dog wouldn't get.

The obvious problem with this arrangement - it required trust. That was something Will did not give easily. Not anymore. So he kept an eye open, and did not allow himself to relax too much in front of the other killer.

The Corinthian, for his part, was as relaxed as he ever was, and just as infuriating. Yet the glimpses of the sincerity which came to him so naturally (almost foolishly so) were addictive, because it was yet another mystery that Will, with all of his experience as a profiler and his exceptional empathy, could not solve. Being open was one thing - when wielded correctly it was its own type of shield, or distraction, or even weapon. And the other man did all of that with the finesse of a professional. But there was also the actual sincerity, that of a being imbued with curiosity and, deep down somewhere, passion for that aspect of life which spelled connection.

But, like most killers, the Corinthian was a solitary creature who did not form connections. He was cold, and calculated, and sadistic, and so arrogant and condescending that his very nature defied companionship. People were often contradictions, but not like this. It offended Will, being denied insight into a person that usually came to him naturally, and that offence drew him in with renewed vigour to just solve it.

In a way, he wanted to unravel the Corinthian, grab a thread of him and pull until there was no tapestry in front of him but mere strings of yarn, holding the memory of a once complicated existence but at present reduced to nothing. It wasn’t exactly a desire to destroy him, as that would remove all the fun, but to exercise power and unmake him.

At that point in his silent contemplation Will consciously chose to abandon the narrative of his imaginings, on the grounds that he’d been spending too much time with Hannibal. He was applying his companion’s philosophy that violence, when applied with permission (be it tacit), was the highest expression of love. Did Will not love him, when he allowed himself to be gutted in Hannibal’s kitchen? Did Hannibal not love him, when he surrendered his life and waited in a glass cage for three years?

Will wasn’t supposed to think along those lines about the Corinthian, because he wasn’t interested in the Corinthian. Wasn’t interested in anyone other than Hannibal, in fact.

Besides, the other killer didn’t seem the type to love like that. His love was cheaper, on the same shallower level as his pleasures. Will scoffed at it as incompatible with himself, and reminded himself that the both of them were just acting. Laying a trap, luring their prey.

“Knowing what I know about you, you shouldn’t be insecure,” he returned to the safer territory of his earlier contemplations.

“Thank you,” he was thrown a customer service smile for his efforts. 

“Yet there’s no other conclusion to reach.”

The Corinthian shrugged. Downed his wine in one large gulp.

“Have you considered, darling,” he leaned forward much more purposefully than Will had seen him do all night - all the way across the table, over their half-empty plates, right to where Will was leaning to him in turn. Lips almost brushed his hair as the other killer whispered to him. “That you’re the insecure one?”

It was such a stupid suggestion that it nearly broke Will out of his reverie - he nearly pulled back, nearly restored the distance, broke the moment, but he was stopped. Just the barest of touches on the back of his hand, fingers gently brushing his knuckles as the Corinthian turned his head slightly to talk directly into his ear.

“Put on your hunting pants, darling - we have someone.”

Will very pointedly did not allow himself to grow too tense - he slipped slowly back into his chair, just as the Corinthian was doing the same, letting the intimacy of their physical proximity linger in the air to sell the deal better. The other killer was nonchalant, as if what he’d done hadn’t been a bold and definitely showy move, as if it was natural between them, and Will upheld the lie. He very casually turned his hand, the Corinthian’s fingers still resting on it, to tangle their fingers lightly - not holding, not quite, but caressing, brushing against each other while both of them pretended to be so engaged in conversation as to not notice. 

Their legs were pressed together at the knees under the table and they ignored their food in favour of continuing to tease their prey as they chatter about mindless things. Will didn’t truly register the conversation, focused instead on his body language, on truly sealing the deal on him genuinely enjoying his time. He threw periodic glances at Sara as the dog continued to observe the hall - she was looking at a fixed point somewhere to the right, which gave Will an idea of the general position of his adversary, but he couldn’t turn and look. 

Trusting a dog and a serial killer to keep him safe while he was particularly vulnerable did not sit well with him. About ten minutes later he found himself itching to leave.

The Corinthian, of course, was noticing, much as Will refused to show weakness. He looked downright amused by his company’s suffering.

“Easy now,” he mocked, his fingers deceptively soft as he lightly rubbed over Will’s knuckles, the gesture deceptively comforting. He wasn’t looking at Will, rather over his shoulder to the right, if the angle of his head was any indication. “Oh yeah, that’s definitely it.”

Will released a long held breath. He pushed his chair a bit back, ready to finally be away.

“Shall we leave with a bang?” the Corinthian teased with a mischievous grin that had the other killer perfectly on edge.

Yet, for all that Will was distrustful, and for all that he longed for the fragile alliance between himself and the Corinthian to finally be over, he did nothing to free his hand.

“Don’t test my patience,” he did warn, but the threat held no bite.

The Corinthian noticed, because he grinned with the unmistakable energy of a cat that’d caught a bird. He rose casually and, by virtue of still loosely holding Will’s hand in his own, pulled him up as well. 

Will wasn’t at all surprised when he felt the weight of a hand on his waist, possessive for the show of it and heavy. He merely raised an eyebrow at it, secure in the knowledge that his expression was not available to anyone else but the Corinthian.

The Corinthian, who was still grinning at him and holding his hand.

“Say, darling - want a kiss?” the man offered cheekily.

Will scoffed, rolled his eyes, then took a step back.

“Keep them guessing,” he decided, before discreetly whistling for Sara to stand next to him. She did, her head still twisted to observe whatever threat she was perceiving. 

Only then did Will let go of the other man’s hand, just as he was turning to walk away.

On his way out of the restaurant he casually glanced to the left side. Just a group of collectors, most of them eating in small groups. None of them looked up or at him, as if his very person was sacred. 

Yet, once he was almost at the doors, he felt eyes on the back of his head.

Chapter Text

“Everything alright, I presume?” Hannibal glanced over his shoulder at the form of the approaching Corinthian.

He wasn’t looking much different than he normally did, having put no extra effort into his dinner date with Will, which Hannibal considered rude. It was that particular pointed brand of rudeness he’d normally associate with his companion, the type that seemed to scream at god, or the universe, that they were unapologetic. Fully in control of themselves, holding the reigns of their own destiny.

That was an interesting thought. Will was that way because it was a statement of his freedom - always he’d done it to either prove he wasn’t Hannibal’s puppet, or, later, to demonstrate that he was done letting societal norms dictate his pleasures and morality. To see that same defiance in someone else was endearing, but Hannibal was more focused on the question of what the Corinthian would have to prove his freedom from. 

Could it be that he and Will were more similar than Hannibal had initially supposed? The previous Corinthian, perhaps - a mentor whose shadow had to be escaped, at some point. Hannibal couldn’t imagine a scenario where the passing of such a mantle would go over smoothly, and certain rebellious behaviour was bound to carry over after such a transition. That was a plausible, but boring explanation - what sounded truly fascinating was the possibility of the Corinthian defying god much like Will did.

But those were contemplations for another time.

“Hook, line, you know the rest,” the Corinthian replied as he joined Hannibal on the bench. 

Funny that he should have picked a fishing metaphor. Hannibal chose not to comment on it, but it did bring a measure of warmth to life in his chest.

“Did you know they’re showing movies at this thing?” the other killer asked out of nowhere. “Like, movies they’ve made themselves. But not home video shit - actual movies with plots and stuff. Or at least that’s on the pamflet.”

Hannibal did not, in fact, know this, as the actual contents of the Convention did not interest him much, but he indulged the Corinthian with an encouraging look.

“So my question is - why not just put it out there?” the man concluded with a satisfied expression, as if he’d solved all the mysteries of the universe. He was slouched on the bench like a vagabond, facing the river straight ahead instead of the person he was talking to, and yet his presence felt more like a reward than an annoyance, inexplicably so. “People love serial killer movies. The more authentic, the better.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Hannibal offered mildly.

“Collectors love that,” the Corinthian scoffed with an almost carried-away expression. “Standing in the spotlight and remaining anonymous. Laughing at attempts to catch them.”

Hannibal was fairly certain the other killer was watching him, but, with the glasses being present, could not really tell. Still, he’d gotten this far by trusting his instincts. Being subjected to the Corinthian’s attention did not feel uncomfortable, although Hannibal felt the little tingle of danger warning him to play wisely. It had an almost attractive quality.

“Sometimes asking to be caught,” he remarked evenly before returning his attention to the water.

The Corinthian scoffed.

“Something wrong with these ones, isn’t there?” he remarked with a slightly contemptuous grin, maybe even a defensive one.

“Is there?” Hannibal returned mildly.

“You’re the psychiatrist,” the other man shrugged. “But would anyone sane give up on this?”

“This?”

“Life,” the Corinthian returned, slightly annoyed, with a hand gesture encompassing all of the known universe. “Cars. Food. Sex. The rest of it. Why’d you turn that down for a few minutes of prime time TV.”

On the one hand, Hannibal understood the sentiment - understood it perfectly. It was a sign of weak character to seek attention like that, to base one’s worth on it. On the other, it assumed great vanity - multiple motivations could lead to the same result, as he well knew, and in those cases the rationale behind those outcomes mattered.

“Not everyone is quite so shallow,” he offered.

“Oh yeah?” the other killer’s southern drawl made itself known particularly strongly as the Corinthian slouched further in his seat and spread his arms on the back of the bench.

“To end a life can be an art. It is only natural to want art displayed,” Hannibal explained patiently. 

“Observed and understood,” the other killer finished with a long-suffering sigh. “You put so much meaning into these things.”

It sounded like a complaint, which Hannibal would not ignore.

“Is there no meaning in them?” he challenged calmly.

Surprisingly enough, he found himself curious as to the answer he would receive.

The Corinthian’s forehead wrinkled as he thought, staring at the water ahead. He crossed his legs in a four and hummed. Light reflected off of his glasses.

“Nah,” was his brilliant analysis.

Hannibal only barely managed not to frown as anger flared up inside him. He felt insulted - his argument had been pushed aside without any effort, he was not being taken seriously. It was hard to think of a more serious slight against him than that.

“It’s just actions. Satisfying an impulse,” the Corinthian continued completely unperturbed. “Trying to tell yourself otherwise is a delusion, isn’t it?”

Hannibal decided not to rise to that bait - as the other killer himself had pointed out, he was the psychiatrist out of the two of them.

“If actions were meaningless, why would we perform them?” he returned calmly.

The Corinthian turned to glance at him, and as he grinned, the dark lenses of his glaces reminded Hannibal of shark eyes.

“Who was it that said that humans long to make their own meaning?” he teased with some odd delight, as if he appreciated a joke he himself was exempt from.

“Albert Camus,” Hannibal returned drily. Predictably, his answer was ignored.

“You think it’s shameful,” the Corinthian pointed out like he held the secrets to the universe. “Merely indulging yourself is not aesthetically agreeable, so you assign it meaning,” he uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way. “It’s rather sad.”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal ignored his final remark. “I am quite fond of indulgences.”

The other killer turned his head, unmistakeably to stare at him. His lips pressed into a line as he considered his answer.

“Ah, well,” he dismissed whatever thought had crossed his head as he returned to observing the river. “Pardon me. Perhaps I’ve gotten you and Graham confused.”

Although it was irrational, Hannibal felt an instinct to defend his companion.

“Will is quite amenable to indulgences. Under the right circumstances.”

The Corinthian scoffed, shook his head in slight disbelief, and offered no comment. Silence reigned for a few minutes, and although it wasn’t uncomfortable, Hannibal wasn’t quite satisfied with the conclusion to that conversation. He discreetly checked his watch.

“Shall we?”

He was met with a wolfish grin.

The spot was strategic - it was close enough to tourist tracks that stumbling into the unlight stretch of woods wouldn’t be all that suspicious, but also secluded enough that actual tourists were unlikely to show up. It was exactly the place an introverted man with a superiority complex would pick to find his solitude - aka exactly the spot any collector would prefer. 

Hopefully that would make their prey not spare too much thought as to why Will Graham would head out to such a spot after dinner.

The Corinthian took his place behind a tree and waited - they were high up, close to the castle, and while the trees were a natural barrier, the view to Salzburg below was still a sight to behold. The city twinkled with hundreds of little lights that reflected in the river in a facsimile of the night sky, man-made stars in the form of streetlights and apartments. The contrast with the dark shadows of the woods, the dirt on the ground and the ravens flying and cawing incessantly overhead was almost unsettling in a way that reminded the Nightmare of his own essence. 

All that to say, he was having a great time.

The human behind him seemed similarly at ease, a born hunter who, although usually in a stalking position, was no stranger to ambushing his prey. Now all they had to do was wait for the prey to be led to them.

The Corinthian normally wasn’t the patient type, and as the minutes stretched on he began feeling boredom push its claws into him. He twisted his dagger in one hand absentmindedly, imagining all the creative uses he would put it to on whoever deemed themselves good enough to challenge him.

“You know,” he opened conversationally as his patience began waning. “Your sweetheart is late.”

If Graham had followed the plan - milled around a bit, left the dog in their hotel to make himself easier prey, then taken a winded walk to get here, he’d still have arrived by this time. He sure was stalling. 

The thought that, without his guard dog, Graham could have been attacked and killed did cross his mind, but (even though it was hilarious) he dismissed it quickly. That much he could give to the human - he was capable, and, more importantly, not stupid. Knowing he would be attacked from behind gave him all the advantage he needed to prevent that from happening. Whatever his reasons for making them wait, they weren’t his untimely demise.

“He’ll be here,” Lecter replied philosophically, outwardly not at all bothered by this wrinkle in their plan.

“Say, why do you stick with him exactly?” finally the Corinthian had had enough of gazing at the city below and turned to face the other killer.

In the dark Lecter’s eyes had a sharper edge to them, his figure was stiffer and reminiscent more of a statue of a fallen angel than a being of flesh and blood. He had that same regal aura about him as his partner, only draped in a cloak of deceptive warmth, the heat slowly rising in the pot until the unassuming frog was cooked. His gaze was contemplative, not yet insulted by the Corinthian’s brashness and disrespect.

“I mean,” the Nightmare continued, more than eager to poke the metaphorical bear with a metaphorical stick. “He’s just some cop who can sympathise. Surely those aren’t that special.”

A little twitch in the other man’s eye told the Corinthian that he’d finally struck a nerve. He grinned.

“Empathy stems from the most monstrous part of human nature,” Lecter replied vaguely, his tone not exactly warning but holding an edge all the same. “It allows us to identify weakness with infallible accuracy.”

“So he’s your attack dog?” the Nightmare threw an unimpressed expression Lecter’s way. “Sniffing out your opponents' weak points?”

Sadly, Lecter wasn’t Graham, and therefore wasn’t as easily provoked. He merely smirked, that awfully posh air of superiority around him returning in full force as he pointedly returned his attention to the trail in front of them.

The Nightmare changed tactics.

“It’s not fun otherwise, is it?” he opened conversationally, leaving his intentional vagueness to do the job for him.

Lecter dignified him with merely a glance, but that was enough - his attention was enough.

Gratified, the Corinthian grinned, one of his truly predatory numbers. He leaned against the tree without a care in the world.

“When there’s no one to chase you,” he clarified, meaning to bring back the conversation they’d had earlier about serial killers and the spotlight. “No one for you to chase.”

Lecter allowed himself an indulgent smile, the usual edge of threat in his expression subtly softened. He seemed truly amused, and the condescension was meant to be demeaning, but the Nightmare had every intention of removing every hint of superiority from the human when the time was right. He allowed the display - the higher they are, the harder the fall, and oh how he loved watching them fall. Preferably through their own eyes.

“Turning the script,” the human allowed, although the slight tilt of his head suggested his thoughts were going in another direction.

“Control,” the Corinthian guessed with a casual shrug.

“Insight,” Lecter agreed. “The invisible presence of hiding in plain sight.”

“It’s amusing,” the Nightmare reasoned with new wicked intent. “You like being amused, don’t you?”

The human didn’t answer verbally, but his lack of denial was telling in and of itself. The Corinthian grinned at him. 

“Wouldn’t it be amusing,” he started, faux casually to watch the other killer stiffen. “If your attack dog is lying in a ditch somewhere right now?”

The cold in Lecter’s glare could have frozen the Niagara falls. The Nightmare felt merely delighted, almost thoughtlessly so, as he didn’t plan all that ahead. Now that he had the reaction, the anger he so dearly wanted, what was next? 

It was a rather depressing thought - what was next? Killing Lecter, then Graham? But then the fun would be over, and they still had a disrespectful little shit to punish.

The Corinthian hoped the disrespectful little shit got smoked out quickly, or else he’d be doomed to seemingly infinite boredom. 

Just as he was thinking that, steps came from the path.

Chapter Text

Will was feeling mostly frustration as he climbed up the narrow trail, squinting against the darkness. He was usually good at dismissing unproductive emotions, but failure was not something he tolerated, and the idea of failing to lure his prey was disappointing. 

But, the facts were the facts - nobody was following him. Not as he idled about the hotel, not as he took a short walk through the sleeping town, not as he headed to more deserted places - the fish had simply refused the hook. How rude. 

The trek up only increased his frustration, and that was saying something. 

He knew he’d reached the spot when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on attention - he gave his darkened surroundings a cursory glance, feeling eyes on him the entire time, before deciding it was time to admit defeat.

“Nothing,” was Will’s succinct report.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Corinthian’s irritated voice came from the left. Will watched the other killer approach with disinterest.

“No one followed me,” he clarified with a shrug.

“Interesting,” was Hannibal’s comment, who emerged from the right side.

There was nothing much to do but give a philosophical hum.

“Well then …” the Corinthian muttered and kicked a pebble meekly. He had his silver dagger in hand and was twirling it between his fingers, clearly deep in thought.

“Perhaps you didn’t see what you thought you did,” Will suggested, not only to be a little shit, but because the possibility had crossed his mind on the way there.

He received merely a grunt in response, which counted as a win in his book. He exchanged a look with his companion.

“Perhaps we did not allow for enough time for rumour to spread,” Will offered diplomatically, even though he too was disappointed to have wasted several hours of his life.

The Corinthian sat down, apparently uncaring for his suit trousers as his face was pointed ahead, between Will and Hannibal.

“We gave three hours,” he pointed out.

“Hm,” Will shrugged. Out of want for anything better to do, he also lowered himself to the ground, on the Corinthian’s right side, with respectable distance between them. He understood the urge to break decorum, to vent his emotions freely, even though he rarely indulged.

Hannibal, the traitor, seemed amused by their antics. He stood straight and proud like one of the pines surrounding them, and just as solid. His expression quickly morphed into thoughtfulness as silence settled and the three men reflected on their plan and its failings, their contemplations carried away by the gentle breeze.

The summer night was pleasantly cool without dripping into uncomfortable territory on either end of the spectrum, and the ravens which seemed so prominent throughout the entirety of Salzburg weren't wasting their time sleeping. Their shrill cries, normally associated with the macabre, were turned almost gentle by the fairytale-like quality of the scene, the town nestled between the hills below them, spanning both sides of the river and twinkling in the moonlight. It was almost peaceful and that annoyed Will, for he wanted to get the hunt over with in the messiest, bloodiest way possible, and leave the whole frustrating experience behind him. He should never have agreed to come.

Only that was neither here nor there - Hannibal had wanted to attend the Convention, and Will had always had a hard time denying him anything.

“It was a woman,” the Corinthian shook him out of his thoughts with his even voice - it sounded almost wrong, for him to vocalise so emotionlessly, and it brought chills to Will’s back. There was danger there, and not the type he typically associated with the other man - what he was hearing was much more sterile, artificial and inhuman. He nearly cringed away. “Sitting at a table alone. She seemed ready to murder someone.”

Given their occupation that remark was rather ironic, but the Corinthian did not seem in the mood for jokes.

“Maybe she figured out it was a trap,” Will shrugged, for some reason finding himself in the role of a placater, which disgusted him.

To his surprise, the Corinthian did not take the opportunity to tease him - he was focused to the point of outright unnerving Will, and Will was rarely unnerved.

“I believe we set the trap with the wrong intentions,” Hannibal spoke up, and his mediation seemed to snap something in the air, because directing his attention at him allowed Will to breathe again.

He sent a grateful look at his companion while next to him the Corinthian sighed disappointedly and pushed his dagger back into its holster. He too seemed more relaxed, his carefree person suit slipping on like a glove. Normally Will would have preferred to stand on equal grounds of authenticity, but he found himself relieved at the illusion, just a bit. Some old, long-buried evolutionary instinct was warning him that he did not want to see the other killer as he truly was, or (to put it more accurately) as he was truly made to be.

It was an odd sensation, one which both repelled Will as it was meant to, and pulled him in at the same time. He vowed to ignore it.

“And what would those be?” the Corinthian sighed, sounding both exasperated and tired, which nearly reflected how Will was feeling, but even so he objected to such treatment directed at his companion.

Before he could voice his objections, however, Hannibal was responding to the question.

“We assumed Will to be held in the same regard as our unfortunate company,” his voice was confident, with a hint of smugness and just a sliver of pride as he calmly relayed his hypothesis. 

Will remembered that - sitting in that cafe mere hours ago, enjoying the sunset, how he’d agreed with the Corinthian that their killer, whoever they were, were probably fighting to get his and Hannibal’s attention. In this plan, Will was just another obstacle, a hoarder of attention like the Policeman, and seeing him also warming up to the Corinthian as well as to the Chesapeake Ripper would surely push their killer into action to remove him as punishment for his greed. It had seemed solid, a plausible version of reality supported by an easily-executable plan.

But if the Dragonslayer wasn’t a distraction, but a goal in and of himself just like the Corinthian and the Chesapeake Ripper, well, then their plan was doomed from the start.

“I suppose if you had chosen to socialise, your company would have met a similarly unfortunate fate,” Hannibal continued, a mischievous glint twinkling in his eyes as he addressed his companion.

Will took a deep breath and rolled his eyes, the only expression of annoyance he would allow himself.

“Who’d’ve thought your friendly disposition wouldn’t invite hoards of admirers to your side,” the Corinthian added drily, but with a grin which betrayed his amusement.

He was looking more like himself, at least.

They were sitting close, Will had to note. Really close. Which was ridiculous because he’d purposefully left space between them as he’d sat down, but the reality was undeniable. He could almost see his own reflection in the other killer’s dark glasses. He contemplated that - how close exactly would he have to get to see the colour and shape of his own eyes, the little red veins in the sclera? If he leaned in enough, would the dark lenses capture the scars on his face, carefully hidden under facial hair but still visible to those that really looked? Was the Corinthian even looking at him then?

Not for the first time the old FBI profiler reared his head in the halls of Will’s mind palace. He wondered with clinical, borderline dehumanising academic curiosity, what deformity hid behind those glasses, what perversion of the human body awaited to be discovered to reveal the motivation behind this man’s becoming into a serial killer. Was it something all Corinthians did - a right of passage into the role, a mutilation passed down to fuel a generational hatred that kindled the flame of savagery? 

Will was smarter than his past self. His companion’s words rang in his head, confident and true and comforting.

Nothing happened to me. I happened .

The Corinthian had his agency. He was so much more than the sum of his parts (frustrating, insufferable parts though they were), much more than a mere trauma model could explain. Like Hannibal, like himself, he was a force of nature, and Will was convinced that, should he get a peak behind the dark glass, he’d see the same divinity that lurked within his companion every time he raised a fork of meat to his mouth.

He wouldn’t even begin to think what expression he must have exhibited on his face, but the darkness all around secured him from the scrutiny of recognition. He could only barely make out the Corinthian’s features, staring back at him resolutely, while Hannibal’s face was a skeletal facade cloaked in shadow. The dark felt safer, somehow, and Will did not feel the need to mask away that odd sensation of reverie he never imagined he’d feel for anyone but his companion.

The silence wasn’t absolute - the ravens were still cawing, and the wind was rustling the leaves. Yet Will found himself listening intently to a breath close to his. 

Then the Corinthian turned his head away and the moment was gone. Not shattered exactly, it wasn’t yanked from Will’s grasp rudely, rather laid gently down to rest as they naturally moved on to other things. In a way, it felt almost considerate, which confused Will since he wouldn’t associate that word with the other man.

“The Convention ends tomorrow,” the Corinthian pointed out way too evenly to be natural.

It was Will’s turn to be amused.

“You think we’ve wasted our chance?” he teased. He himself wasn’t worried - there wasn’t prey in this world he and Hannibal were not able to catch, and that hadn’t changed because of a simple fluke in their methodology.

“Low is the man who does not admit he’s fucked up,” the Corinthian pushed through clenched teeth, sounding very much like a man who did not want to admit that he’d fucked up.

“Which of us could claim to be made flawless?” Hannibal interjected with no small amount of amusement.

The Corinthian’s head snapped in his direction before a strange smile twisted his features. It was sharp and somewhat pained, and the lack of the usual danger which dripped from the killer’s toothy grins was glaring. Will frowned as he looked at him.

The expression was gone in an instant, replaced by one of serenity as the man leaned back , all the way down until he was lying on the forest floor, hands crossed under his head. The very picture of relaxation, way too overdone. The looseness of his limbs reminded more of limpness than of true rest.

“ I was made flawless,” he admitted, an odd bitterness to his tone that Will couldn’t even begin to decipher - his only option was to exchange looks with his companion over this sudden bizarre behaviour. “For my purposes.”

With a deep sigh, the Corinthian raised his hand to his face - his glasses were gone in one fluid motion. Behind them rested regular eyelids - closed as the killer tilted his head to catch the breeze on his face better. Ruffled by his fingers in his hair, a couple of stray blond locks separated to lie on his forehead, and the Corinthian released a breath of air to blow them away without opening his eyes, without even the tremble to suggest that he might. There were no scars, no signs of damage as far as Will could see, but then again, he had no access to the other man’s eyes. 

It seemed deliberate, this show of both carelessness (leaving himself blind with two murderers for company) and aloofness, yet at the same time Will recognised a genuineness in the gesture of removing the last artificial barrier between them. In a way, he didn’t ever care about the actual eyes of the Corinthian. He looked on, oddly fond, at the form lying prone next to him, exhibiting no fear at all but exuding some worn, frayed sadness in the air.

“I was made on a beach,” the man continued. “Black sand and dark waters as far as the eye could see. And for a long time, I knew nothing else,” there was a chuckle there, a sound devoid of any sort of humour or energy, empty and hollow like bones long ago dried and just waiting to crumble to dust. “I like it here better.”

Will glanced at Hannibal, who looked just as confused as he felt, only managed to hide it better. Neither of them was stranger to metaphors, to representing the truth in a creative way to achieve an effect, yet the script here felt unrefined. Whereas the two of them would use their words to tell a narrative, to provoke a certain emotional response like poets, the Corinthian’s tale was too murky, too unclear and untested to truly convey anything.

As usual in these situations, Hannibal with his more open mind took over.

“The circumstances of one’s becoming carry over with us into our ideal lives,” he tilted his head with curiosity even though the Corinthian was still lying with his eyes closed and couldn’t see him. “What did that water wash out on the shores of your mind?”

“Oh, it wasn’t actual water,” the Corinthian waved the hand holding the glasses dismissively. His head was inclined right at Hannibal, almost creating the illusion of maintaining eye-contact with him much like he could with the glasses on. He seemed casual, but Will understood the tiredness in his frame - the worn down, beaten exhaustion of someone going at it for far too long.

He felt the need to touch then - to reach out, to poke the other killer, to push him to some action laden with his usual grace and energy. Snap him out of this melancholy. It was an odd impulse, and more odd still, Will wanted to comfort. To soothe the pain away, banish it, and replace it with warmth, the merciful forgetfulness of affection. He’d long since considered himself cleansed of such mundane wishes, content to watch events unfold without interfering, but this time he did not want to. 

Will nearly acted on that wish, even, unwilling to deny himself. Nearly. The Corinthian moved first. He raised his head a little, made a face, then replaced his glasses in place. 

Oddly enough, Will didn’t feel a loss at that. Having seen the other killer’s entire face once, he was sufficiently reassured that some border between the two of them was gone, one that had put the Corinthian on a level above him due to his ability to hide his true identity. Now that it was gone, he felt more at ease, even with the dark lenses once again obstructing the view.

“It was more like …” the Corinthian paused abruptly, not because he wasn’t sure how to formulate his answer, but like he had suddenly decided he did not want to share something. “Doesn’t matter. Are we hunting today or what?”

Will sighed - he would have liked to explore this odd picture, the metaphors and the fantasies within it, but he knew how to take a hint. And respect boundaries, at certain times. So he let it go.

He stood up, then offered his hand to the Corinthian before he could think better of it. With a sly grin, the other killer took it, no doubt intending to use it as teasing material, which Will resolutely vowed not to let get to him.

The palm of the Corinthian felt familiar in his from their earlier dinner, a detail which should not have meant anything, but damn him - it did. Will may have squeezed his hand a little more than necessary to pull him up. Damn him for that too.

Hannibal, of course, did not miss that. He gave Will an indulgent look before lightly grasping his elbow.

“Evidently, we need a change of approach,” he pointed out.

The grin that the Corinthian sent his way was downright predatory.

“I think I have an idea.”

Chapter Text

Sleep was evading The Good Doctor. 

It wasn’t anything unusual - in fact, during Conventions sleep came with difficulty to most organisers. Only Fun Land seemed to fare as he usually did, although grumpy due to being denied his hunting, like most Collectors. The Good Doctor herself usually suffered no such issues, as her Collecting was normally infrequent and drawn out, pushed into elegance instead of accumulation. She controlled her impulses instead of the other way around.

However, nothing about this particular Convention was “usual”. With two of their guests meeting a violent end, the rest were justifiably dissatisfied with the organisers’ ability to keep them safe, a promise they had made, and with the added security precautions taken against hotel staff learning anything - precautions which disrupted the Convention program. Several panels had to be cancelled, and the screening of two of the movies had to be pushed for the second day, which was unfortunate because most Collectors usually left early.

The Good Doctor refused to shoulder any blame - she had done nothing besides ensuring the Convention kept going as smoothly as possible under the difficult circumstances, and whoever the delinquent was who thought they could get away with targeting their own, well, they had another thing coming. 

If they could catch them. Admittedly, The Good Doctor’s own investigation had taken a bit of a background position as she’d struggled to hold the event together, but she had to trust that three of their best could handle the task. It was one of those ultimatums - the alternative would be either missing their rogue Collector, or invoking the wrath of the Corinthian, the Chesapeake Ripper, and the Dragonslayer, who all alone would have been unpleasant to deal with, but together? An absolute apocalypse scenario. So, grudgingly given trust it was.

That did not make it any easier to sleep.

Looking for inspiration and peace, The Good Doctor found herself in a deserted lounge by the lobby, idly sketching autopsy scenes in her notebook and reminiscing about her recent kills. Working only by moonlight, with a dull pencil not allowing for precise strokes, she ensured that her focus was on the process, her own inner world, rather than attempting to produce a satisfying result. She refused the perfectionism inherent in all Collectors to haunt her private notebook.

“Now that looks like a fun time,” a voice sounded from behind.

The Good Doctor whipped around in her seat in an instant, her sharp eyes narrowing as she fought against the darkness to identify the insolent soul who sought to interrupt her solitude. She recognised the voice, of course - the man himself was the personification of insolence, when he wanted to be.

The Corinthian was casually leaning against her sofa, his dark glasses still in place even in the extremely limited light. He wore a thoughtful expression on his features which quickly morphed into a charming grin.

“You work in the States, right?” he opened without waiting for her to reply or invite his company in any way. “Gimme a call sometimes, I’d love to have a try at this .”

The Good Doctor glanced briefly down at her frankly simplistic drawing and pressed her lips in a thin line.

“I work solo.”

“Shame,” the Corinthian sighed before taking a stroll around the sofa to sprawl down next to her. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he subjected her to a million dollar smile.

Perhaps, had the offer been presented under different circumstances, The Good Doctor would have considered it. Stressed and irritated as she had been all day, it was an easy decision.

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” the other Collector shrugged. He spread his arms across the back of the sofa. “I also like my peace and quiet when I work.”

The Good Doctor hummed at the irony, turned her notebook away from him, and continued sketching.

“Shouldn’t you be elsewhere?” she remembered to ask, for a second hoping that perhaps he’d come to bring her news (preferably good ones), but that pathetic thing was quickly crushed.

“We’re working on it, no worries,” the Corinthian grinned, completely relaxed, and his vagueness did not reassure the Convention organiser at all. “Say, wanna go on a walk with me?”

“I’m busy,” The Good Doctor refused automatically before she remembered that she’d been idly thinking about the moon reflecting in the river before the other Collector had shown up.

“Just a quick stroll. I’m bored,” he pressed, as if his boredom was the single thing every human in the world would fight against with all of their strength.

With a defeated sigh, The Good Doctor stashed her pencil in her notebook and made to stand up. Ever the gentleman, the Corinthian did so first and waited for her. There was a sharper line to his frame that hadn’t been there when he’d simply lounged beside her which had the woman on high alert. It wasn’t anything dangerous, not to her at least, but she suspected ulterior motives and that did not sit well with her. Regardless, she knew how to pick her battles, and when an opponent stood opposite of her and would not reveal his secrets was not one of those times.

The two made their way through the hotel, passing by a few Collectors who, by nature, were mostly nocturnal. A few ‘hi-s’ were exchanged, but soon enough they were out in the open, instantly finding themselves by the river and walking slowly up the current. 

The Good Doctor had been right - the mood did reflect from the calm, still water rather beautifully. It wasn’t particularly large, and the streetlamps definitely left much more of an impression, but she found it charming. It added to the romantic atmosphere of the little university town that seemed to be the aesthetic of the Altstadt.

The Corinthian wasn’t inclined towards conversation, which The Good Doctor found weird but refused to comment on. She observed their surroundings carefully, noting that edge in the other Collector’s figure that never quite disappeared. It wasn’t tension exactly, but maybe purposefulness, which wasn’t at all reassuring. 

She cleared her throat after they’d mechanically covered a large section of the riverside alley before simply doing a 180 and proceeding back towards the hotel.

The Corinthian turned his head at her and waited.

“You aren’t using me as bait, are you?” she narrowed her eyes at him.

He grinned.

“Of course not.”

She didn’t believe him.

The Corinthian quickly slid away once they were inside the hotel, offering no goodbye nor any indication as to where he was going. The Good Doctor frowned at his retreating back, confused for a second, before deciding to remain on high alert and continue with her nightly routine without arousing suspicion.

She was on her way to her room when soft steps alerted her to another presence.

“Good evening,” the Chesapeake Ripper gave her a polite smile as he fell into step with her, seemingly with no intention of continuing on his way.

“Anything I can help with?” The Good Doctor clung to her professionalism as a Convention organiser while inwardly she wanted nothing more than to scream at him.

Just what games were he and the Corinthian playing? Where was the Dragonslayer, for that matter?

“I was hoping you’d be amenable to a visit to the garden. It would be a waste to miss seeing gentiana acaulis in its native habitat.”

“Is that a rare plant?” The Good Doctor raised an eyebrow.

“It is highly praised for the unusual vibrancy and depth of the blue colour of its flowers,” the Chesapeake Ripper evaded expertly. That was a no, then.

“Spare me the lecture,” she replied, utterly unimpressed. 

“It is worth seeing,” he insisted with deceptive mildness in his tone.

The Good Doctor considered the prospects of a nice bed, the window open to let the breeze in, maybe leaving the AC on for a while … it was a dream. But sadly, duty awaited.

They passed some Collectors on their way through the hotel, and at one point the Chesapeake Ripper engaged in conversation about the Gentianaceae family with the Botanist, whose name was rather descriptive in that sense. He used his victims for compost for his flowers, and apparently had also taken the opportunity from his Convention visit to admire the ridiculously blue flowers on native turf.

The Good Doctor used the pause to check her emails and answer some texts that had been waiting in her inbox for rather too long. Still, despite not being interested in the conversation at all, she could see something in the Chesapeake Ripper’s demeanour as he discussed cultivation with the Botanist. She couldn’t tell what it was exactly, but Lecter had that same edge to him that the Corinthian had had not more than an hour ago, and The Good Doctor did not like that any more than she’d liked it then.

As they continued down to one of the exits into the garden, she threw casually.

“So … bait then, huh?”

The other Collector gave her an indulgent look and did not answer. The Good Doctor clenched her jaw.

The flower was just that - a flower. Indeed a truly nice deep blue in colour, but a flower. The Good Doctor couldn’t resist thinking that she could have seen it in the morning, or maybe just googled it. She refrained from saying such things, letting the Chesapeake Ripper enjoy his time, and focused instead on her surroundings.

In the end it was an uneventful walk that ended with the Chesapeake Ripper giving his excuses to leave and the Good Doctor making a second attempt to make it to bed.

It was, of course, unsuccessful.

“Smoke?” the Dragonslayer called to her as she passed the door to one of the outdoor smoking areas, not five minutes after Lecter had departed her.

The Good Doctor closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She didn’t mind having a role to play - such things were integral to their chosen profession, after all, but any human being would object to being used, and she was feeling like a pawn pushed around across a chess board. It did not leave her in a good mood.

“I’m not a smoker,” she explained icily.

With a truly philosophical shrug, the Dragonslayer stashed his cigarette carton in a pocket and stepped by her side. 

“I heard you play chess,” he offered instead. 

“Where did you hear that?” The Good Doctor raised an eyebrow - not because it wasn’t true, but because in order to learn that information, her fellow Collector would have had to socialise.

“A lot of people were distressed at the cancellation of this year’s chess tournament,” he explained evenly, but there was just a hint of amusement in the tilt of his head. “I believe quite a few were looking for a rematch”.

“I didn’t bring a chess board,” she changed tactics.

She wasn’t even surprised when the Dragonslayer produced a travel-sized one from his jacket. With a deep sigh, The Good Doctor resigned herself to her fate.

An hour and a half later the two of them were still at it - The Good Doctor was evidently better at the game than him, but he was better at distracting his opponent. 

“How come the Convention is all the way over here?” he asked at one point, rather curious.

“Most of us are based in the States,” The Good Doctor explained as she pushed a pawn. “However, we do have European colleagues. For the sake of equality, we alternate - one year the convention will be in the US, the next - somewhere in Europe.”

“Fortunate,” the Dragonslayer pointed out. “We might not have attended otherwise.”

The Good Doctor knew, of course, who “we” was, and was torn between agreeing that it had indeed been fortunate, and cursing her luck.

“Why am I the bait?” she asked eventually, after yet another group of Collectors had passed them by, lingered, and refused to engage.

The other Collector did not appear surprised at the question.

“We tried another one,” he explained evenly. “Didn’t work.”

The Good Doctor wanted to press more, but knew it would get her nowhere. She focused on the game, but was getting tired. She’d spent her entire night playing into these little schemes, and as the sunset was rapidly approaching she was threatened by the possibility of no sleep at all, given that as an organiser, she’d have to supervise the closing of the Convention the upcoming morning.

“I’d have appreciated being asked first,” she pointed out.

Smug bastard as he was, the Dragonslayer sent her an amused smirk.

“No time,” was his pitiful attempt at an excuse. 

The urge to put him on her autopsy table was strong, but The Good Doctor’s sense of practicality won out. There was no use trying to get the three of them to quit now.

Without much fanfare, she checkmated her opponent.

“What now?” she demanded.

“Now …” the Dragonslayer began gathering up his small chess set, seemingly in no rush at all. “You go back to your room.”

“You’ll be following?” The Good Doctor guessed.

“You’ll be perfectly safe.”

Coming out of nowhere, that line was definitely not reassuring. 

“That doesn’t sound safe,” she made sure to let him know.

Another smirk, and the man was standing up and walking away without a single look back. The Good Doctor released a deep sigh.

The Good Doctor saw a queue in front of the elevator and wisely opted for the stairs instead. Nothing bothered her on the way to the fourth floor, and none of the glances she discreetly threw over her shoulder revealed anything. That did not mean that she relaxed her guard, however - quite the opposite. 

Walking down the hallway to her room, she heard the scuffling.

In the time it took her to whip around, it was already over - several metres behind, surrounded by an aura of bloodlust, the Corinthian was grinning ear to ear and holding another Collector in a chokehold. A Collector who, The Good Doctor was certain, had been about to wring her neck.

It was no one she could recognise in the dim light, especially with the Corinthian’s arm obscuring most of his face. Wisely, The Good Doctor decided she did not care all that much.

A bit behind, the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer were waiting. They each sent The Good Doctor a parting nod before approaching the Corinthian to help carry their now unconscious rule-breaker. The whole charade hadn’t caused a single loud noise.

Summoning her inner buddhist, The Good Doctor unlocked her room and decided to sleep on it all before casting judgement. From that point on it was well and truly out of her hands.

Chapter Text

“Well this is awkward,” the Corinthian grinned, sounding absolutely delighted and not the least bit awkward. In fact, his demeanour was more reminiscent of that of an energetic cat.

Hannibal eyed their unconscious victim with distaste. He knew, of course, what had gotten that reaction out of the other killer. It was indeed rather jarring. Tacky, his companion would call it.

“Seriously?” as if summoned by thoughts of him, Will glared down his nose at the Ripper with distaste. 

The name was a truly disturbing display of plagiarism given that the serial killer shoved unceremoniously to the floor of the Corinthian’s hotel room was much too young to have picked his name before the Chesapeake Ripper rose to fame. How he could bear walking around with that badge, Hannibal did not know. It spoke of a weak spirit - desperate for approval, for acknowledgement. It was pitiable, the type of ugly patheticness that usually had him mentally looking over a list of recipes, if only so he could grant that waste of human material some real purpose in life - being a meal.

He disliked rudeness out of principle, but tastelessness was its own category of sin he refused to tolerate.

“You have a true fan,” the Corinthian pointed out from Hannibal’s other side. He, of course, was not at all disturbed by the situation, nor offended by the implications of the scene. They didn’t affect him - he could laugh both at Hannibal and at Hannibal’s wanna-be protege to his heart’s content. Under other circumstances this would have angered Hannibal, but in this instance he had other thoughts on his mind.

The Ripper was perhaps the most unforgivable thing a serial killer could be - unremarkable. Somewhere around mid-thirties, he wore a bland plaid shirt and washed out jeans, like a teenager. His face was entirely forgettable, with nothing to distinguish him from any other brown-haired, soft-featured man. 

Perhaps that assessment was too uncharitable, given that the Ripper was currently unconscious and thus unable to offset the allegations through an argument to his personality. Hannibal was certainly not one to judge a book by its cover, but he had an inkling that in this case, the text wouldn’t turn out any more interesting than the colours it was wrapped in.

Will scoffed from Hannibal’s other side. Even without looking, Hannibal knew his companion was glaring at the other killer with them. 

“What do we do with him?” the Corinthian continued, undeterred. There was unmistakable bloodlust in his voice, sharp and pointed like an arrowhead and demanding. It sent not unpleasant shivers down Hannibal’s spine.

“Can’t be too bloody,” Will pointed out, taking in the other killer’s pristine hotel room. 

“Ah, don’t be like that,” the Corinthian beamed at him, the curve of his lips decidedly predatory. He seemed in high spirits, excited at the prospect of carrying out some violence without regard for possible discovery.

Will raised an eyebrow at him, deciding not to deign the comment with a response. He was right - they couldn’t afford a mess in there. Or noise. His objective correctness gave him a sort of smug superiority over his reckless counterpart.

Thinking back on the hunt, Hannibal was disappointed. He had expected more - a challenge to inspire him, to inspire his companion. Instead he had this. It wasn’t merely underwhelming - it was disrespectfully bland. And he had a no-tolerance policy for such things.

While Will and the Corinthian were busy arguing via exchanging glances and expressions each other’s way, Hannibal bent down and, in one smooth motion, got the job done. The telltale crunch of bone shut them both up, and he could feel their eyes on him as he straightened nonchalantly. 

For several seconds silence reigned. Hannibal looked at no one but his handiwork, precise as always to highlight his background as a surgeon.

“Well …” the Corinthian drawled out, his silver dagger flipping with faux carelessness between his fingers. He sounded tense, perhaps on the verge of becoming annoyed. “This is not what I was expecting.” 

That comment, more than anything, seemed to change Will’s opinion from annoyed himself to amused.

“It’s poetic,” he pointed out with irony clear in his voice, an open challenge to the other killer. 

The Ripper, the one who had broken the necks of others while they were unaware, got his neck snapped while he was unaware. It was only fair.

Hannibal was smug in his delivery of justice, the way he always was. And the quick method had the added benefit of removing the source of his disappointment with due haste - it was a rather effective method of working through his emotions. 

The Corinthian had obvious objections to the method, if his angry huff was any indication. Hannibal turned to glance at him.

Although the glasses were an ever-present barrier, he thought he understood something more of his fellow killer at this point. He was disappointed to be deprived of his play, and frustrated on top of that, and his frustration was making itself known. 

Hannibal wasn’t stupid - he and Will had thought of the Corinthian as their prey, so of course it was only natural to conclude that the other party, who was so like them in relevant ways, would think the same. With a new spark of thrill igniting, he considered the possibility that this was to be the moment for three hunting beasts to lock jaws in battle. 

Will seemed to reach the same conclusion - he straightened his back, squared his shoulders. The two of them unarmed on one side, the Corinthian with his dagger on the other. 

Only, none of them were attacking. They were waiting, seizing their opponents up, weighing the benefits and the chances. With each passing second that the Ripper business was being ignored and discarded, the tension was dissipating, flying away like mist in strong wind, being replaced by something else. Nobody was doing anything.

Until Will was doing something.

Normally, seeing his companion lunge forward like that, Hannibal would have followed. This time he hung back, watching as the Corinthian oddly pushed his hand away from his body, essentially rendering his dagger useless to defend him against the attack. Hannibal frowned at the display, the clear message that the other killer wasn’t going to hurt Will, even though any sane person’s survival instincts would have been activated at seeing a well-known serial killer bolt towards them like that. 

Will, cleverly, gripped the Corinthian’s wrist with one hand and his shoulder with the other, and pushed with all of his considerable strength until the other killer was stepping back, carried by the momentum. Hannibal was still frowning, not exactly puzzled but intrigued, because as far as he could see there was no resistance on behalf of the Corinthian. He watched with interest as Will pushed him all the way into the opposite wall, none too gently, with enough force, in fact, for the other killer’s head to loudly bang against it. Still, the Corinthian only hissed and snarled to show his displeasure, and made no effort to free himself.

Will pressed his forearm to his captive’s throat to keep him in place, still gripping the hand holding the dagger and flattening it against the wall away from the Corinthian. He was tense, a coiled snake waiting to strike.

The Corinthian grinned down at him, a perfectly sadistic, savage show of teeth filled with excitement and pleasure. 

“Come on, darling,” he purred, drawing the words quietly with a roll of his tongue, utterly still where Will had him at his mercy. “You know you want to.”

Will snarled, but Hannibal knew him - if he’d waited to attack long enough for his prey to be talking to him, he wasn’t planning on attacking at all.

Hannibal took a step forward just in time to get a better angle of Will grabbing a fistful of the Corinthian’s hair. He was met with no resistance as he rudely yanked the other killer’s head down to kiss him.

He was quite rough about it - nothing gentle in the way he kept pushing the Corinthian into the wall, not giving back even a millimetre. He still had the other killer’s arm rudely pinned away from his body at an awkward angle, but the Corinthian infuriatingly refused to pay attention to it. His one free hand was fisted into the back of Will’s suit jacket, his hold tight enough to leave his knuckles white. He gave just as savagely as he got.

Hannibal took two more steps forward, a strange feeling curling on the edges of his mind. He couldn’t entirely decipher it, found himself unwilling to expend the effort either, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He stopped just behind his companion.

Will, as if feeling his presence, pulled away to catch his breath, but stayed close, pinning the Corinthian to the wall still. The other killer, for his part, was leaning against it with no complaint. Crimson coloured his lips - apparently Will had drawn blood. No one was complaining.

“Told ya you wanted to,” the Corinthian muttered, although his teasing lacked its usual bite. He was slightly breathless under his usual sadistic smirk. His tongue came out to sweep the blood from his lower lip, curling unnecessarily obscenely. 

Will growled, but he too couldn’t put much resentment behind the sound.

“Having fun?” Hannibal teased in a deceptively mild tone, shamelessly letting his eyes roam over the enticing figure of his companion flushed with desire. He hummed with appreciation in the back of his throat.

His companion sighed against the Corinthian’s chest, letting his head fall until his forehead was pressed over a loudly beating heart. He released a deep breath and slowly pulled his fingers away from the other killer’s hair, leaving it messy and dishevelled. 

“Wanna join?” the latter shrugged, or rather tried to, but his movements were restricted by Will’s hold on him still.

Hannibal gave a thoughtful hum. He placed an affectionate hand on his companion’s shoulder as he leaned in to claim his own kiss from the Corinthian. The coppery tang of blood reminded him of so many nights spent with his companion, and he gave into the impulse to bring those memories into reality here.

He wasn’t one to do things in half - he demandingly crowded the other killer’s space, which had the unfortunate side effect of drawing Will away. Hannibal nearly forgot about it when a hand fisted in the back of his collar, just a hint of cold sharp metal pressing down between his shoulder blades. The threat was there, smooth and exhilarating and deadly, but Hannibal didn’t really feel in danger. He had his companion watching out for him, and a rather enthusiastic partner who, for all that he was famous for bedding his victims, wasn’t quite as shallow as to try something like this with two men of his own calibre. 

Hannibal liked to think that there was respect between them now as well, but he knew not to hope too futilely.

The Corinthian was very good at going with the flow. Losing his chance at playing with the Ripper for all the trouble the insolent junior Collector had caused him? He could work with that. Lecter and Graham looking quite ready to maul him down? He could work with that too. Lecter and Graham deciding to maul him down in a different way? He could definitely work with that.

Although the Nightmare’s tolerance had his limits - he definitely wasn’t going to let himself be pushed against a wall for too long. 

Once Lecter had released him with a satisfied, if playful look in his eyes, he artfully switched places with Graham, meeting only token resistance. Pressing him against the wall felt almost sweet on his tongue, crowding into his space - even more so. Graham ran warm, and the Corinthian could feel muscles working under his palm as he pressed his hand against the other killer’s chest to keep him in place. He noticed that Graham seemed far more wary of the dagger the Nightmare was still holding than Lecter, so out of pure altruism the Corinthian stashed it away as he bent down to trail hungry open mouthed kisses down the human’s neck. He went quickly, without much thought or care about it - this was a sensation he could devour, and he was impatient about it where his two current partners seemed to want to take their sweet time. How boring of them.

He let out a satisfied rumble when Graham gripped his hair and pulled none too gently. The human’s other hand was gripping his waist punishingly - his entire demeanour held that anger, like Graham intended to work out all of his frustration on the Corinthian. Whether as a punching bag or a warm body in bed, he didn’t seem to care too much, and the Nightmare was just fine with that. Simply knowing that he was the source of all that frustration, the catalyst behind those reactions and energy, was enticing him.

A warm hand dragged slowly down along the Corinthian’s spine - the joys of entertaining two partners at once. He let Lecter distract his companion while the Nightmare was busy working his shirt buttons open, the palm on his back pushing down slightly as if to encourage him.

The two humans were in no rush at all - although their hands were on him, the two of them were lost in their own world born of a long-standing companionship. The Corinthian glanced up to see them kiss languidly, the scene almost romantic. He nearly rolled his eyes before he gripped Graham by the waist and yanked him forward. His tolerance to being ignored was low indeed.

Graham wasn’t complaining, but the tenderness he had for his companion was notably absent when he turned his attention to the Nightmare - indeed, he was doing his best to get the Corinthian to bleed again. No one was complaining.

Lecter subtly, but firmly guided them away from the wall, in no way reserved with his affection. He petted the Nightmare down the back like a cat, and gripped his lapels when he felt too ignored. The Corinthian almost didn’t notice it when they trampled right over the Ripper’s body and sent it sprawling messily on the floor, but he couldn’t care less about that guy anymore. All the fun he needed was currently tumbling with him in bed.

Chapter Text

The Corinthian, by nature, wasn’t one to linger. He was always on the move, looking for the next interesting thing, the next sensation he could experience and then push aside before jumping right onto something new. He didn’t need sleep, and he never got tired, and he got bored awfully easily. All of these contributed to him not staying in bed after the fun was over.

He enjoyed observing his own post-coital state for several minutes before stretching, yawning loudly, and climbing off the bed in search of his clothes. In a rather ironic turn of events, it was technically his bed he was leaving. His lifestyle didn’t lend itself to many possessions, and this room was actually just rented for a few nights, but it was technically his room. It was amusing to think that he was playing the lover sneaking out when he had every right to banish Lecter and Graham - they weren’t even staying in the same hotel!

But the Corinthian had never been one to make too much noise about nothing - instinct from being an undiscovered serial killer for give or take a hundred years. Despite being a rather flashy personality, he rarely attracted actual attention to himself. So he let it go and examined the floor. He located his shirt first and tried to untangle it to a point where it was wearable.

The entire time, the Nightmare was aware of eyes on him. He didn’t know how well the humans could see - the sun was still a ways away from rising, and the blackout curtains were really good, leaving the room in total darkness. He himself had no problems related to sight, but he imagined even seasoned serial killers were subjected to the limitations of their species.

After all , the Corinthian ruminated with sharp, jagged cruelty aimed mostly at himself, we cannot choose who we are .

“Going somewhere?” an amused voice called out to him just as he flipped one sleeve of his shirt the right way.

The Corinthian glanced back at Lecter, who was lounging in the bed like a god (looked like one too, with his regal aura and control of his body). Despite the darkness, the human’s eyes were trained directly on him. 

Graham was also awake, the Nightmare was sure of that, but he was putting on quite the convincing show of dozing off next to his partner.

“Will you miss me?” the Corinthian deflected with a wide, shark-like grin, shirt momentarily forgotten.

“It is impolite to leave your guests without saying goodbye,” Lecter pointed out very reasonably.

The Nightmare laughed, a little disbelieving chuckle. There he was, completely naked, not exactly clean in the Catholic sense, chasing after his clothes in a dark room that had a corpse in it, but oh Maker almighty, how impolite of him not to announce his departure.

Speaking of that …

“Who says I’m leaving?” he scoffed. It was his hotel room after all - it wasn’t exactly like he had anywhere to go. It was late (or, perhaps, early) enough that even nightclubs were closed, and the idea of wandering around purposelessly wasn’t particularly appealing.

The fact that he’d been intending to do just that was irrelevant. He had a right to change his plans.

Lecter merely tilted his head, as if to concede the point, for some reason completely confident that the Corinthian would see him. An odd bird, that one. Not in a bad way.

“You don’t seem the clean freak type,” Graham, abandoning pretence for sleep but remaining relaxed with his eyes closed, pointed out conversationally. “But please, if tidying is what gets you going.”

Seeing an opportunity, the Corinthian took it.

“Darling, you know exactly what gets me going.”

“Apparently it’s sneaking out like a coward,” the human didn’t even miss a beat.

The Nightmare’s laughter was a lot more genuine this time. He normally didn’t like losing a battle of wits, but had to admit defeat. He did so by letting his shirt fall back to the floor. 

Graham, absolutely insufferable fucker that he was, scooted closer to Lecter as if making space on the bed. That had already had the Corinthian in it. The audacity. 

Such disrespect could only be punished, so the Nightmare set out to do just that as he navigated the sheets and tilted Graham’s head away to find a suitable place on his neck to bite none too gently on.

He was rather disappointed when the only reaction he got were rather encouraging fingers carding through his hair.

Freaks, the both of them , the Corinthian thought as he stopped and merely nosed at the pulse point under the other man’s chin instead. Rather inconsiderably, he rested his entire weight on Graham’s side. 

The only reaction that got him was a hand smoothing down his back agonisingly slowly. 

I’m going to miss them  

The thought was unexpected, unwelcome, and absolutely untrue. The Corinthian did not miss people, and he certainly wasn’t going to miss two as annoying as the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer. The Nightmare hadn’t lived for thousands of years, one hundred of which completely unsupervised and free, without knowing himself. So that was that on that.

A miniscule hairline fracture appeared on his resolve when a heavy hand somehow found his own. The Corinthian watched, almost dazed, as Lecter held his palm up as if he was inspecting it, twisting it this way and that in utmost concentration. It was ridiculous, because it was just a regular hand, for all intents and purposes perfectly human. Yet Lecter was staring at it like it required special attention. His fingers pleasantly pressed into the Nightmare’s flesh to the point of pain and the Corinthian allowed himself a soft exhale at the sensation.

Graham hummed thoughtfully under him. His fingers in the Nightmare’s hair stilled, but the hand on his back moved languidly over, until it was resting over the Corinthian’s spine. The human, quite methodically, began tracing each segment of the bone, finding the shape deftly with his fingers and caressing it softly.

The Nightmare sighed almost on instinct, but decided to endure it. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant. He allowed himself to completely relax into the human’s messy hold and idly traced patterns on Graham’s shoulder with the hand not claimed by the other human.

It did occur to him that these two were playing quite territorial with him, which was an amusing thought. He was a Nightmare, and for the first time in his existence did not belong to anyone. He wasn’t about to change that, not even for two humans he might, possibly, secretly miss just a little bit in the depth of the heart of hearts he did not have after this whole thing was over.

“Sleep,” Graham murmured grumpily into his hair. The Corinthian scoffed.

“Sure,” he allowed.

Nightmares didn’t sleep. The Corinthian wasn’t in the habit of watching humans do it either. But he was willing to make the exception. Just this once.

Will snapped back to consciousness out of nowhere. That was fine - he felt well-rested. He wasn’t sure exactly what woke him, but he could vaguely spot some light trying to filter in under the blackout curtains, so it was probably just his bioclock telling him it was time to get up.

That wasn’t the most prominent light in the room, however - just above him, sitting against the headboard, the Corinthian was idly scrolling on his phone with a truly bored expression, the screen brightness turned way down (how considerate) but still visible in the otherwise dim room. How he could see anything with his glasses firmly in place, Will had no idea.

The realisation that he’d been using the other killer’s thigh as a pillow wasn’t an unwelcome one, weirdly enough. 

Will glanced back over his shoulder - Hannibal was asleep. Must have happened a few minutes ago. Seeing him like that the first time had been a novelty, the usually composed and guarded Doctor Lecter stripped of all his protections. The instinct to hurt him, to free himself from the other, to free them both, was just as strong now as it had been back then; just like back then, Will resisted it.

Subtly, he shifted to stretch a bit. The Corinthian threw him a passing glance (if the way his head turned in Will’s direction was any indication anyway) before returning to his phone without another word.

Deciding to maintain the silence (things didn’t have to be real as long as they didn’t speak), Will joined the other killer at the headboard, allowing their sides to essentially press together from knee to shoulder, but his attention was on his companion. Without intending to rouse him, Will subtly carded his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, then down over his neck to rest on one broad shoulder. He let himself enjoy the moment. The Corinthian ran slightly warmer than either of them, which really just made him the obvious pillow choice.

Feeling bold, Will leaned over to rest his head on the other killer’s shoulder, glancing up. The Corinthian, seemingly without taking his attention away from his phone, obligingly shifted his arm both to drape across his back and to make the position more comfortable for the both of them. 

He was really quite liberal with his body - not merely accommodating (and that wasn’t a word Will would use in such a context anyway), but enthusiastic about seemingly everything. At no point during the night had he so much as implied, vocally or otherwise, that he found a touch unwelcome, even the ones that seemed uncomfortable, even the ones that left him with some pretty heavy bruises (not that the other two men weren’t sporting similar marks), even the ones that drew blood.

Thinking about that, Will idly traced a rib along the Corinthian’s side. He pressed down with two fingers on the spot where he felt the bone give way around his midsection, not attached to the breastbone. He wasn’t soft about it - he kept up the pressure until the other man hissed softly and finally turned his head to indicate he’d given his attention. Despite the sound, he was relaxed, and made no move to stop the pain, nothing on his face indicated that he was against it, even if he was a bit annoyed that his activities had been interrupted.

Pain is a sensation , Will thought out of nowhere. He likes sensations . 

Feeling oddly bold, Will reached out and lightly grasped the other killer’s glasses.

Immediately, a hand was closed around his wrist. Not punishing, not dragging him away, the touch light enough to barely even be there, but it was definitely a warning. Will ignored it, for several seconds, staring at the dark lenses in challenge, refusing to relent. He was met with nothing, not even a different expression on the Corinthian’s face as he calmly turned his phone off and set it on the nightstand without even looking.

Eventually the Corinthian’s thumb found his pulse point and pressed on it, nowhere near painfully, more a polite demand - a last warning. With a light scoff, Will released his hold.

To his surprise, he was rewarded - the Corinthian turned his hand, his grip still deceptively soft, and tilted his head to press a kiss to the inside of Will’s wrist. Then another one. Unhurried and gentle, almost an apology. 

Will pulled his hand away - something about that touch didn’t sit right with him.

An amused smirk settled on the Corinthian’s face and he shrugged philosophically, as if almost to say ‘Have it your way’. He glanced away to retrieve his phone.

Feeling like he’d somehow fallen into a trap he didn’t even see, Will settled back against the headboard and took a deep breath, kept his eyes closed for a few seconds. Finally he turned to look at the other killer, who didn’t even have the manners to regard him back.

“Did you sleep?” he finally asked, curious despite himself.

Did you trust us enough to sleep , he didn’t ask. He and Hannibal had taken shifts - demanding anything else would have been hypocritical.

“I don’t sleep,” was the answer, delivered perfectly evenly.

Will bristled - he figured that after all of this, he deserved the truth, at least. Apparently not. It annoyed him, how the other man insisted on presenting these obvious lies, almost disrespectful in nature. Did he expect Will and Hannibal to buy it - to not question it and politely pretend they weren’t being rudely lied to? To just let it slide and allow themselves to be walked over like doormats?

He refused to cave in. Deftly, he slipped out of the bed and approached the windows. He got no reaction as he opened the curtains, safe for his own wincing against the bright July sun because (unlike some people) he did not wear sunglasses inside. 

That did manage to wake Hannibal, however, and he observed the scene with unfairly aware eyes for someone who had been sound asleep three seconds prior.

Naturally, he immediately noticed Will’s tension and the quickly souring atmosphere. Will interrupted him before he could either try to mediate or ask for more details.

“I have to walk Sara.”

Will you be alright alone , he didn’t ask, but he thought it. He’d left Sara in their hotel room perfectly settled to stay alone for a whole day if she had to (having anticipated a much longer hunt and hunt aftermath, so to speak), so if Hannibal for some unfathomable reason did not trust himself capable of handling the Corinthian alone, he would stay with his companion. But otherwise, he was out. He felt like a smoke. 

Hannibal gave him one of his infinitely knowing looks that had once reassured Will, then infuriated him to the point of actually considering murder, and these days achieved a mixture of the two. He got dressed quickly once his companion gave him a nod, then he was out the door.

Hannibal considered following his companion, but ultimately decided against it. He was well aware that Will needed his space sometimes, and was willing to provide it whenever necessary. 

He was still curious, however, as to what had happened to cause the outburst. The Corinthian wasn’t exactly volunteering information - he was staring at his phone like a zombified teenager. If zombified teenagers were rather prone to keeping their dark glasses on even when completely naked.

Obviously getting fed up with being stared at, the Corinthian scoffed.

“If you have something to say …”

“I was under the impression that you and Will were getting along,” Hannibal prompted, unbothered.

“As if,” the other man huffed, but something in his tone was almost wistful.

“What did he say?” Hannibal was completely aware that likely the opposite had happened, but didn’t want to antagonise the Corinthian unnecessarily.

“I told him I don’t sleep,” the other killer shrugged and put his phone away. The angle of his head as he sagged against the headboard suggested he might have been looking up at the ceiling, but Hannibal had no idea whether his eyes were open or not.

“Will values honesty.”

“That’s ironic.”

He frowned, not exactly sure how to interpret that last comment. He waited for some other clue, or maybe another topic to present itself.

After several long seconds of silence, the Corinthian released a long-suffering sigh.

“I was being honest,” he turned to the other killer as if gearing up for a fight.

Hannibal had always had a rather buddhist approach to such matters.

“I’m open to the unorthodox,” he offered.

Although without the eyes available it was difficult to judge expression, he was absolutely certain that was disbelief on the other man’s face. Slowly, the Corinthian grinned his shark-like smile.

“What if I told you I’m the only Corinthian there ever was?” he challenged, sounding absolutely delighted.

Hannibal quirked an eyebrow, teasing his own soft amusement.

“Then I’d say you must have a pretty good skincare routine.”

The other man threw his head back to laugh. In a way, that was enough.

“I’m being an asshole,” Will admitted with a sigh. 

Sara was giving him a confused look, like she couldn’t understand how he could be anything other than happy while exploring the river. The numerous birds and oddly-shaped rocks were probably pretty exciting for the German Shepherd, but the human was battling some conflicting emotions.

The Corinthian was never uncomfortable. He was never unsettled, never nervous. Will took all of that as an act - any person was uncomfortable sometimes, and unsettled, and nervous. Even those who toed the line into not-human like Hannibal. Even if it took a man crawling out of the stitched abdominal cavity of a dead horse to do it. So naturally, being curious by nature, Will had tried to push the cocky killer into his uncomfortable zones, partly by retribution because the Corinthian could do so to him.

Sitting on the glass and listening to the Salzach lazily drift forward, he had to question whether or not he was being fair. Whether he had a right to push as far as he had. It was undeniable that the other man had indulged him far more than Will ever had.

It all seemed random. Untidy. Like you were just satisfying a caprice

I was. I am

He likes sensations

Will turned to pet Sara.

“I’m really being an asshole,” he confided in her again, before standing up. He wasn’t the type to run away from his battles.

The both of them were on the balcony when he returned with Sara in tow. Will told the dog to sit and leaned against the open door, Hannibal and the Corinthian looking out towards the city. They knew he was there, and were only omitting to acknowledge him because he hadn’t asked them to.

In his hand, the Corinthian was idly twirling a pair of eyeballs. The Ripper’s corpse was nowhere to be seen.

The two were in the middle of some conversation.

“Too bad for the special address,” the Corinthian remarked, sounding, as per usual, not bothered at all.

“There’s always next year,” Hannibal replied philosophically.

“Ah, but that’s your year,” there seemed to be some joke Will wasn’t privy to - wasn’t that a depressing thought?

Hannibal let the comment hang good-naturedly. For several seconds the only sounds washing over their idyllic scene were the river and the traffic below.

“May I ask - what do you do with the eyes?” his companion asked conversationally.

From the Corinthian’s side profile, Will could see the other killer’s toothy grin. He slouched back in his chair like a man without a care in the world.

“I eat them,” he told cheekily.

Will scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Hm,” Hannibal looked back out, the tilt of his head suggesting that he was deep in thought. “In a gravy with some guajillo chiles, perhaps? Garling and turmeric?”

The Corinthian cushioned his head on one closed fist with clear amusement.

“Raw,” he let the word roll off his tongue, sweet like honey.

“Must everything be an innuendo with you?” Will sighed as he finally stepped onto the balcony, glad for the breeze in his hair. As there was no third chair, he leaned against the railing, staring at the Corinthian and demanding his answer.

His answer turned out to be an even cheekier grin.

“With me, darling?” he tilted his head, the very picture of innocence. “Or with you?”

Will scoffed, but it was soft, dare he admit it - fond. 

I have figured you out , he wanted to say. I know what your caprice is . 

He didn’t. It didn’t feel like the right moment. Next time , he promised himself, and instead crossed his arms in front of his chest to pretend to be annoyed.

After the Corinthian had laughed to his heart’s content, Will lightly tapped his companion on the shoulder. It was time to go - they had to vacate their room by eleven. Besides, Sara was getting impatient to finally move on - the three of them weren’t in the habit of staying any place for this long.

The Corinthian seemed to catch up to what was happening as Hannibal stood up. He gifted them one last carefree, black-lensed smile.

“See you around, gentlemen,” he offered, remaining rudely slouched in his chair and not even offering to see them off.

Will didn’t even roll his eyes this time. He simply grasped his companion lightly by the wrist, and the two of them made their way out together. 

He only paused by the open door, getting one last glance at the silhouette of the Corinthian just barely visible through the open balcony door.

“Next time we see him we’ll kill him, right?” he turned to Hannibal.

“Of course,” his companion gave him an indulgent look full of fondness as he reached out to close the door.

The Convention was over. It was time for them to leave Salzburg.

They thought he couldn’t hear them, and to be fair - a human wouldn’t have. But the Corinthian wasn’t a human.

Next time, then , he grinned, lazily recalling the highlights of his previous night. Next time, indeed.

The Nightmare watched the river for some time. As pretty as it was, he was getting a bit homesick. Perhaps that wasn’t the right word, but he felt an ache in his teeth for the States - the endless open expanse of pure opportunity, the tangy film of animosity and desperation and mindless fun. Drugs, cars, and sex. 

And blood. The Corinthian glanced down at his price - two mahogany-coloured orbs ready to be devoured. He carefully tucked the pleasant, but already fading memories of the Chesapeake Ripper and the Dragonslayer away to the back of his mind, where he could revisit them if he so chose. Until next time.

In one smooth motion, the glasses were off. The Corinthian popped the first eye between his teeth.