Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

General overview of the fic & things to keep in mind:

Will is 22 years old and a graduate student at George Washington University, where he is two years into his Forensic Science degree.

Hannibal is 32 years old and finishing up his residency at John Hopkins. He's not quite yet a seasoned cannibal and is using his time spent as a resident to learn how to effectively and quickly kill and butcher people for consumption (there will eventually be cannibalism...but not straight away).

Hannibal's backstory is almost identical to that in Red Dragon and Hannibal Rising, with a few minor tweaks that honestly don't matter very much rn...BUT WHEN THEY DO!!! I will alert the media...

Ermmmmmm if I think of anything else I'll update this section yayyyyyy

Ok first chapter right around the corner...

Chapter Text

"And that's all we have time for today. Please remember to bring a physical copy of your thesis to class next week. I will not accept any digital submissions, no matter how inconvenient it may be to use the library printers."

The class rose with a cacophony of groans and mumbled profanities. The printers had a reputation for being finicky, even though they should be state-of-the-art, considering it cost students 10 cents for a single sheet of paper—not counting color or "extravagant" fonts (e.g., Times New Roman, but not Arial). Will shoved his notebook into his bag, tucking his ballpoint pen into the side pocket. It wasn't so much that he found the printers inconvenient, but that it was easier to sort his thoughts out on paper. Computers were bulky and annoying, but a notepad allowed for any fleeting thought to be jotted down for later use- a memo pad could easily fit in a back pocket or messenger bag, whereas a computer could barely fit on the small desk in Will's flat. He threw his bag over his shoulder, nudged his glasses up with the back of his wrist, and started down the steps of the lecture hall, head down, shoulders hunched. He'd never been much of a confident person, even after starting grad school.

"Graham. Come speak to me before you sneak out."

Will lifted his head, glancing in the general direction of his professor. "Of course, sir." He was sure there wasn't anything wrong- Will was a devoted student, always present (although silent), punctual, and invested in the material. Despite knowing that his class standing was more than ok, a bit of worry still began to gnaw at his stomach. He approached the desk of his professor- an older gentleman with well-kept salt and pepper hair, striking blue eyes, a heavy dusting of sunspots, and a frighteningly charming personality. He was the type of professor who insisted he be called "Doc" rather than "Professor" or "Mr.", wore jeans to teach, and often used profanity in his lectures. Will hadn't liked him much at first but found that over the course of the last year, he'd started to grow fond of the man, looking up at him like a boy would with an uncle or much older cousin. Will set his bag down, now standing a couple of feet from Doc's podium. He wouldn't be the first to speak; that would feel akin to talking back or prying information from his professor, so he stood silently, head still bowed, arms hanging loosely at his sides.

"Surely you remember at the beginning of the year I mentioned that, if an opportunity arose, I would handpick three of my grad students to shadow me while I worked a case, yes?"

Will nodded slightly, raising his head to glance at Doc's chin. He could see his face twitch as he held back a smile, the corners of his mouth starting to perk up. "I do remember that. You were talking about past cases you'd done with students, most recently the one in New York. You had the TA teach your materials for three weeks." The twitching on Doc's face turned into a wide-toothed grin. "Will! Always so clever. What a memory you have up there." He tapped on his temple twice. "That brain of yours will bring you far in life, I'm sure. But back to the topic at hand- unfortunately- fortunately for us, but…" he trailed off, a dejected expression washing over him. Doc did this often. He would take the longest route possible to reach a simple conclusion or ask one question, usually repeating himself multiple times while trying to circle back to his point. "Anyways, unfortunately, there's been a murder- terrible, really, it's quite tragic…but it's up in Baltimore, the man was, and they've called us to come up and lend a hand. I will warn you, Will, it's not a pretty one. They sent over the first wave of released photos, and good God, are they rough. Since you haven't seen a real up-close-and-personal death yet, I was hesitant to call upon you…but you prove to have too much potential to overlook. Too much! All of this to say, Will, that I want you and two of your classmates to accompany me when I travel to Baltimore this weekend. The hotel is paid for, yes, and I don't want you worrying about transportation either."

Doc's mouth was still parted a bit, as if he had something else to add, but stopped himself, waving a hand at Will. "What do you think, Will? Will you join me?" He chuckled at his joke, placing a hand tenderly over his heart. It would be stupid to deny the offer to accompany Doc- in-field experience was hard to come across in general and even harder to find for brutal cases (essentially, anything other than natural causes was usually off-limits to students). Will raised his head, looking up at Doc through his glasses. "Yes, I'll join you. Thank you for considering me, sir."

Doc grabbed one of Will's hands, clasping it in both of his. "Wonderful, Will! I was hoping you'd agree to this. I can see the potential in you… it's visible behind your eyes, yes! We leave this Friday, which gives you…three…no! Two! Days to prepare for this…I promise you; it will be worth every second you spend up in beautiful Baltimore! I've reached out to your other classmates already, but none of you know who the other students are…a bit of a mystery to keep you on your toes until Friday. I'll forward you an email outlining everything you need to know." Will gently shook his hand from Doc's, putting them both in his pockets. "Always keeping us guessing, sir. I'll make sure I'm ready by Friday. Thank you, again." Will's bluntness never seemed to bother Doc, who had enough personality for the both of them. With this, Will grabbed his messenger bag, gave a final parting nod, and saw himself out of the lecture hall.

Despite his lack of an enthusiastic response, Will looked forward to working the case with Doc and his two mystery classmates. He'd not done anything aside from mock cases that were explicitly created for graduate students who hoped to one day work in forensics, and the exercises done in his classes were far from what a real crime scene would feel like. Will craved the adrenaline rush of stepping into a house and being face-fucked by the pungent smell of decay- he wanted coppery, clotted blood to gather in the folds of powdery latex gloves, and he dreamt of sitting in on an autopsy, asking for a closer look at someone's mangled remains with the slight of his hand. These gruesome desires were often shoved into the back of Will's mind- he already felt ostracized from his peers- imagine how much worse it would be if they could hear the thoughts that plagued his psyche. It was hard for Will to tear his mind away from the case that he'd be working on come Friday- his fantasies of diving headfirst into an active scene were brushing his fingertips- no longer were they the wet dreams of an undergraduate student with a zest for true crime. Will neared his bus stop, digging around his pocket for spare change to pay the bus fee. He was eager to get home and boot up his computer, already forming a mental image of what Doc's email may look like.

The thick fog that so often hung around this time in the afternoon sat heavily by Will's feet, restricting his vision to about a quarter mile in any direction. D.C. autumns were seldom sunny and bright and were often characterized by long periods of overcast weather sprinkled with one or two clear, warm days that pulled everyone out of their brownstones and out into the sunlight that shone through nearly naked trees, lighting up the mounds of leaves that littered the streets. Today was not one of those gloriously sunny days, so Will had to squint his eyes in the general direction of the road his bus came down, looking past the sheet of fog in a feeble attempt to catch a glimpse of muted yellow headlights. The cold hadn't yet begun to penetrate Will's thick fleece-lined leather jacket, but it had left a rosy flush on his cheeks and nose, the wind whistling through his hair, tousling it slightly. Finally, the bus's lights began to cut through the fog, illuminating the damp asphalt and pulling Will from the depths of his mind. With a screech, the bus came to a stop, its doors opening with a squeal. Will stepped in, dropped his seventy-five cents into the payment box, and sat in the back, leaning against the cool window as he flipped through today's lecture notes. The ride back to Will's brownstone was a solid twenty minutes, and he usually spent it going over school material or reading whatever book had caught his eye that particular week. Something stood out from his scribbled cursive- on occasion, when he was in class, he'd take notes on autopilot, letting his thoughts wander elsewhere for just a few minutes as a break from whatever was happening. As a result, a line written in his notepad would sometimes be unfamiliar, and he'd go back to it, reading it as if it was the first time he'd heard it. This bullet point, in particular, was in reference to the current unit of Doc's class- "Abnormal Features of Serial Killers." They'd been discussing the different ways serial killers separated themselves from the rest of the murdery pack, whether it be a "signature" (Black Dahlia), a kink or fetish (Albert Fish), or some other thing, like taking trophies (Charles Albright) or, as this note mentioned, consuming their flesh and/or organs. Cannibalism had always interested Will- what boundaries must one overstep to become comfortable with the thought of eating the flesh of another human? Do you detach yourself completely or attach yourself to the person to make it feel more intimate? Does it feel like butchering an animal, or rather like making sure nothing goes to waste? What even compels a person to take a slice of human meat and sink their human teeth into it? Will was confident no two cannibals – seasoned or casual – would have the same answer.

Chapter Text

Will drug himself through the next two days- Friday felt as though it was eons away. He'd been given no additional information about the case- Doc had only provided him with the address to Washington Union Station, where they'd be taking a short train ride up to Baltimore, and a packing list. The lack of information irritated Will slightly, and Doc's aloof attitude towards the subject was no help. Fortunately, a young undergraduate student who gave no personal information other than being based out of Maine had recently started publishing on a site called "TattleCrime", where they described in brutal detail the must-know true crime factoids that must have had every stay-at-home mom on the East Coast squirming in their panties. Will was embarrassed to admit that he'd been occasionally checking this website that must be breaking some privacy law (the photos they posted were often those unreleased to the public, and looked an awful lot like they'd been taken by an amateur photographer), but it was a helpful website nonetheless. Due to Doc's lack of help, there was no other choice but to give in once more and use TattleCrime for information. Will clicked through the most recent articles, skimming over cases from Maine, New Jersey, Vermont…and finally, Maryland. Only one post had been published about the "Baltimore Brute," and it was…lackluster.

Compared to the countless other articles, this one, dated four days ago, was but a skeleton- it hadn't been fleshed out in the slightest. One image sat dead center- a low-resolution snapshot of a man whose chest had been hacked open from below his chin to right above his groin. The wound was messy and torn- it looked as though the killer had been wielding a dull cleaver and gone to town, not worrying too much about aesthetics, but the end result. The photo cut off right above the man's nose, but the beginning of another wound started at the skin between his eyebrows and ran vertically. His arms and legs were also out of frame, but the author had noted that the "Brute hacked him up in a way that seemed careless but was really quite smart- he attempted to amputate him at each major artery located on a limb." The "Brute," as he'd been appropriately nicknamed, must have been afraid his victim would fight back even after crudely carving up his torso like a poor Cornish hen. Will shut off his computer, leaning back in his office chair as he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. With a groan, he forced himself up, shuffling over to bed, where he promptly flopped back down. The image of the Brute's victim shone brightly beneath his eyelids, consuming his thoughts as he lay face down, attempting to fall asleep. He was itching to see the body in person, even though he kept reminding himself that it was wrong to be looking forward to seeing the lifeless, butchered body of someone's now-deceased loved one. Will hated that he wanted to see the body, hated that he wanted to be in the middle of the chaos surrounding the case, and hated that he found himself walking through what the Brute would have, or could have done, step by step.

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Will awoke groggy from an incredibly restless sleep, his dreams a loop of the image of the victim. He was drenched in sweat, his grey T-shirt now almost charcoal black. He was no stranger to nightmares, but the excessive sweating was new—a bit of a sheen across his forehead, sure, but waking up in a damp puddle?
Begrudgingly, Will moved towards the bathroom, shucking off his t-shirt and boxers. He turned the water in the shower on, not waiting for it to warm up before sticking himself under the cold droplets that pelted his skin like needles. He stood under the stream of water, sure that, to an outsider, he probably resembled a wet dog stuck in a rainstorm. With this thought in mind, Will shook his head, flinging the hair from his face.

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Will emerged from the shower, much less sweaty than he had been, pleased with the faint rosemary and sage smell that clung to his damp skin. He wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror, meeting his half-lidded blue eyes. God. The lack of restful sleep certainly had not been kind to the ever-growing dark circles that had appeared earlier in the semester. Will ran a hand over his chin- he'd gone longer than usual without shaving. Although the stubble made him look rugged (or so he thought), wearing out his overgrown five o'clock shadow felt inappropriate to work alongside some of the biggest names in the forensic field. With a featherlight hand and an unnecessary amount of shaving cream, Will slowly and meticulously went about shaving his face, careful around his nose and mouth. Despite his efforts in his routine, he always nicked a cheek or part of his neck. By the time he'd finished, his face was covered in teeny pieces of toilet paper. Not incredibly professional, but better than before. Will sped through the rest of his morning routine absentmindedly, going through the motions without giving any of them much thought. He hurriedly threw a duffel bag of clothing together, grabbing whatever clothing he touched first from each drawer. Even though it wasn't apparent on the outside, Will was itching to get out of his flat and onto the train. His scroll through TattleCrime had ignited a flame beneath his feet- he'd been nervously awaiting the moment a chance to get his hands dirty arose, and now that it was right at his fingertips, the time couldn't come sooner.

Will slung his duffle bag over one shoulder, gripping the handle of his messenger bag in his free hand. With a bit more pep in his step than usual, he made his way out of his brownstone and onto the already bustling streets of D.C. As if it knew Will was in a rush, the bus sat idle at the stop, a thick grey plume of smoke steadily pouring from the exhaust pipe. He scrambled on, dropping in three quarters and situating himself in the back row of seats. Will popped a preliminary three aspirin into his mouth, taking a swig of lukewarm coffee from his thermos. Keeping a careful eye on street signs, he took the bus up to Washington Union Station, where he would meet with Doc and his peers. When the bus finally stopped at the station, he scurried out of the crowded vehicle and thrust himself into the crowd, searching for Doc's familiar head of white, almost cloud-like hair. His search proved futile- there were far too many people, and he was just a hair too short to look over the crowd. For a moment, he stood, gnawing at his lower lip, wondering if he'd end up missing the train and not making it up to Baltimore. Doc had given him very poor instructions- why couldn't he have provided Will with a specific meeting place, or better yet, the terminal they were leaving from? He rummaged around in his bag for a moment, pulling out his cell. He'd splurged and bought the Nokia 5110 last summer because a guy he hung around with talked him into it, telling him it was "necessary" if he wanted to make any connections with "anybody of sustenance." Will had since decided that the phone was more inconvenient than anything, but he couldn't lie- it had moments where he was grateful to have it. He was about halfway through an attempted text to Doc when a hand clasped his shoulder. Will whipped around, eyes widening, ripping himself from the hand.

"Woah, Will. Cool it. It's just me."

One of his classmates, Pete, stood in front of him with his hands up. Beside him stood another familiar face, Rosie, and then Doc, who was absentmindedly wandering around a few paces from the rest of the group.

"Sorry, Pete. I startle easily."

He attempted to give him a half-smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Will disliked small talk and desperately hoped it could be avoided. Rosie seemed to recognize Will's aversion to chitchat, acknowledging him with the wave of her hand and a slight nod, but Pete continued on, droning about something sports-related. Doc had gone to grab a trolly for everyone's bags (or so it seemed- he'd just gone off in that general direction), and Rosie nodded along to Pete and his incessant rambling. The station was stuffy, crowded, and smelled a bit like mildew- Will began to feel suffocated by the tile floors and florescent lighting that made him squint when he tried to look up at the departure/arrival board. He silently urged Doc to return so they could get on the train and out of this tiled prison. As if the Lord himself heard Will's silent cries, the white cloud of Doc's hair bobbed up and down in the distance, rapidly approaching everyone. He held a soft pretzel in one hand, his bags in the other, an Arizona iced tea tucked under his left arm, and a slightly soggy newspaper.

"Ready to rumble, gang?"

He had a giddy smile plastered across his face- you'd think they were headed to the carnival and not a morgue to see the tattered remains of a murder victim. With a cheerful "hurrah," Doc beckoned them to follow his lead to their terminal.

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Will had spent the majority of the train ride with his head pressed against the cool window, staring at a droplet of rain that clung to the edge of the glass despite the speed of the vehicle it had attached itself to. Much to his enjoyment, Doc had reserved a ticket in the row ahead of him and his peers, claiming that "the other seat was booked," but he knew that it had been done on purpose so that Will may have some time alone before being thrown into the midst of an active case. It was a quick thirty-five minutes to Baltimore, with the train pulling into Pennsylvania Station at exactly 12:15- not a second past schedule. A cab had been arranged to pick the group up, its once-bright yellow exterior now dull from years of heavy rain and snow. The group piled into the car, Doc sitting up front near the cabbie. He glanced back at his students, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, with one very uncomfortable Will sandwiched in the middle.

"It's a ten-minute drive to Hopkins, yes! Get ready, all of you…this may be the single best part of your graduate experience!"

The ten minutes in the cab felt like an eternity. Being squished between his classmates wasn't how he envisioned the beginning of the day he'd been anxiously awaiting, and the combined scents of Pete's aftershave and Rosie's hairspray weren't any help. He squirmed uncomfortably whenever they turned a corner and slid together, trying to force his body as small as possible so that he could sit untouched. When they pulled under the portico, Will had to restrain himself from forcing his way out of the backseat. He took a deep breath of crisp, cool autumn air, wiping the sweat from his brow. He hadn't noticed how sweaty the car ride had made him, embarrassed at how his hair stuck to his forehead. If anybody noticed, they so graciously didn't point it out. Doc instructed the cabbie where to drop the luggage off, handing him a wad of bills that had certainly seen better days.

Rosie and Pete stood by the large sliding doors chatting about something, often shooting a glance at Will, then quickly looking away. He knew how many of his classmates felt about him. But stopped letting it be a bother back as an undergraduate when he realized how useless it was to allow others' perception of him as "odd" to hinder gaining a higher education. Maybe he cared too little now. Perhaps that was why Will struggled so much with maintaining relationships.

Doc beckoned for Will to join the rest of the group, leading them into the brightly lit hospital lobby. A young receptionist scurried to greet them, his badge decorated with various pins and buttons.

"You must be Doctor-"

Doc cut him off with a wave. "Please, I want to be called Doc, as outlined in my email."

The receptionist's cheeks flushed a deep red.

"I apologize, sir. Uhm, anyways, Doc, I'll let the team know you've arrived. If you could just have your students fill out these papers," he held up a handful of intake sheets, "it would be appreciated. I'll grab your visitor badges as well."

The sheets were passed around, along with a handful of pens. Will skimmed the first page- a bunch of legal stuff saying they wouldn't disclose any information to the public, wouldn't interfere with the victim's medical condition, would keep his identity protected, etc. Leaning against a wall, he flipped through the stack, sloppily signing his name at the bottom of each sheet. Although he knew it was necessary to put such precautions in place with paperwork, it was tedious nonetheless. It was just another step between Will and finally working on a real case. He handed the stack to Doc, who slid it, along with everyone else's, into a file folder.

"I'll be back in a moment, team, yes! I have to run this folder to the office…if I can find it…"

With that, he took off down a hallway, white hair bobbing up and down as he went.

"Gee, guys, does he seem more frazzled than usual, or am I just like, really judgy today?" Pete asked, gnawing at a hangnail. Rosie shrugged, looking off in the general direction of where Doc vanished. "Seems fine. Probably hyped up on coffee or something. He always seems like he's in his own mind."

Will didn't enjoy publicly picking on the lone professor who envisioned a solid future for him, so he remained silent, throwing his hands up when Rosie and Pete turned to him for input. From the corner of his eye, Will saw a set of doors slide open, and a man wearing a white lab coat emerge. He turned to face the figure, who walked towards the group, hands resting in his pockets. Rosie and Pete had moved to stand beside Will, both raptly watching the man approach. He stopped a few feet before the group, outstretching a hand in Will's direction.

Pete snatched it up before Will could gather his bearings, rapidly shaking his hand. "You must be the lead doctor, sir; what a pleasure to meet you! I'm so excited to work on this case, really, like, so excited you don't-"

The man cleared his throat, taking his hand back.

"I'm not the lead doctor, but his resident."

He spoke with an accent that Will didn't recognize, probably somewhere in Eastern Europe, he guessed. A handful of visitor badges were pulled from his side pocket, which he held out for the group to grab. Will avoided making eye contact with the resident, fixed his gaze on the hem of his scrubs, and didn't change this even as he grabbed the badge and clipped it onto the front pocket of his shirt.

"I'm Rosie; thanks for coming out to grab us. These two are Pete and Will. Don't pay them too much attention, especially Pete." Will glanced up at Rosie. Low blow from her- he'd thought they were on good terms, at least publicly. She'd clasped one of the man's hands between two of hers, giving him a painfully bright smile.

"Doctor Lecter, surgical resident. It is my pleasure to assist with the case."

Now that he could give the man a name, he looked up. Dr. Lecter had premature greys sprinkled through his deep brown hair, a strong bone structure, and striking hazel eyes that stared intently at Rosie. He twitched his mouth up into a smile, lips pressed firmly together. His left hand moved to cover Rosie's, a sixth finger placed between what would've been his middle and ring fingers. Will wondered if he wore custom-made gloves or if he'd found a way to make normal ones work. Giving Rosie a slight squeeze, he took his hands back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Will, is it?"

Will snapped his head up, still looking to the side.

"Will Graham, yes."

"You were mentioned by name in Doc's message to us. He said you had much promise in this field. I've been eagerly awaiting your arrival, specifically."

"Don't flatter me, Doctor. Not in front of my peers."
Will tried to come off as sarcastic, but his tone probably read more bitchy than anything. He usually would've apologized or felt the familiar flush of red to his cheeks after embarrassing himself, but Dr. Lecter held his attention so much that he couldn't have cared less about what Rosie or Pete felt.

"Please, Will, call me Hannibal."