WRATH: A Hannigram Fanfiction

1- Rendez-vous

     That evening, as the sun was sinking into the ground and the moon was quickly approaching, Hannibal sat to himself and played his harpsichord. He had been playing since he was a boy. His hands were nimble and experienced, moving quickly along the keys to create a beautiful melody. It was his own creation, a song that he had pieced together in his spare time, and it was finally coming together. Music was something so pure to him, something that could capture and create so much emotion in mere seconds.
     He reached the emotional climax of the piece, increasing in volume as the minor chords rang through his big and empty home. It was cold inside, just the way he liked it, and that combined with the music sent chills up his arms.
     This piece was lonely. It was empty and heartbroken. He closed his eyes and let the vision of the past overtake his memory. The music continued; he didn't need to see to play perfectly.
     The sky was ripping apart from under him, and he was falling. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this heaviness, and he found himself unable to flap his wings and catch himself. He wasn't sure where he was going to land, as he had never caught a real glimpse of anything below their Paradise.
     The feeling of Tranquility's skin lingered on his own. Where was he? Where were any of the Angels? Were they falling, too? The thought devastated him. This wasn't their fault!
     He felt something sharp piercing the top of his head, and inky black blood poured down his face as his scalp ripped open. Branches, antlers, a collection of blades-- whatever it was emerging from him, it was painful and heavy. He felt the weight of his sins bearing down upon him, and the realization struck that that was the intention. He was cursed to live with his discretions for eternity. He was stuck this way.
     He felt so much weight on him now. It was unbearable to a creature that had only ever felt like a feather. His own blood, something that he had never seen and didn't even know existed, coated his pale skin. He reached up and pulled at the things coming out of his head, but they were so sturdy. They wouldn't budge without massive jolts of pain. He screamed in agony.
     He hit solid ground with a massive crack and slept for years.
     Hannibal opened his eyes, gasping faintly. The final chord of the song had finished ringing out a long time ago.
     It was cold inside the house. Big and empty. Just the way he liked it.
     He sat on the bench with his head buried in his hands, silent and unmoving for a long while.
     Later, he awoke from slumber with a harsh knock on his front door. It was desperate, hurried, as if the person on the other side was trying to escape something. Confused, he slipped out of bed, put away his wings, and pulled on some clothes. He smoothed the wrinkles in his sweatpants, knowing that he looked horrible. He wished he had the time to freshen up.
     The foyer was dark and chilly, and the front door was cool against his palms. With one peek through the peephole, Hannibal saw an unknown man outside, shivering as heavy snow fell behind him. He had tan skin and dark, curly hair, and he was wearing glasses that were speckled with frost. Tears were running down his face.
     What the hell?
     Hannibal quickly opened the door. "Hello? What are you doing here? What's your name?"
     "Hannibal," the man said softly, trembling. "Help me."
     Hannibal felt dread in his stomach, a feeling that was extremely unfamiliar. Nothing about this felt right. "How did you find my address? How do you know who I am?"
     "Help me, Hannibal." He took a step backwards, off the porch and into the snow. His skin was as pale as the moonlight. "Help me."
     "Okay, okay, I'll help you. Why don't you come inside? Come out of the cold?" It was then that he realized that the man was wearing boxers and a T-shirt; there was nothing to protect him from the harsh weather outside. He peeked around the corner, finding the driveway empty. "Where's your car? Did you walk here?"
     His face only grew more frantic. "I'm trapped. I can't come in. I can't."
     "You're trapped out here?"
     "You have to get me out of here!"
     "Out of where? Where are you?" This person, whoever he was, must have been having some kind of psychotic episode.
     "Please, Hannibal! Please!" He cried, collapsing onto his knees in the snow. "Please!"
Never before had he heard someone so terrified. The only solution Hannibal could think of was to approach him, somehow coax him inside. Ignoring the cold seeping into his bones, he stepped sock-footed into the yard. Ice crept up his nerves, into his blood.
     "Hey, it's okay, I'm going to help you. Please come inside."
     He stopped in his tracks as the man began to retch, his shoulders hunching forwards. He let out a rattling cough, and a thick black substance dribbled out of his mouth. It was like ink, Hannibal thought, but then the memory came back to him and the snow morphed into clouds, the liquid into blood, so much like the blood that had leaked from his Angel's wounded wing.
     "Oh, my God." Hannibal ran to him. "Hey, what's wrong? Is that blood?"
     "Help me. Lucifer, please."
     The sound of the man's voice sent him staggering. It had changed into something new, something so familiar. It was ripples on a lake, wind chimes singing, and he morphed from English into a language that Hannibal hadn't heard in nearly half a million years: the language of the stars.
     "Help me, Lucifer! Help me!"
     Hannibal crouched next to him on the ground. Wet snow seeped into his clothes.
     "What did you call me?" No one on Earth called him that name. No one would know to.
     "Please, Lucifer. I'm scared." The man reached blindly for him, whimpering. "It's me. Don't you recognize me?"
     Hannibal tensed up. He couldn't believe his ears. 
     "...Angel?" He whispered tentatively, tears pricking at his eyes. It was the only plausible option.
     The man's head snapped up, but before he could speak he let out a loud cry of pain. His back arched, and Hannibal watched the white skin blister and bulge until it burst open. More dark liquid spilled out, and through the open wounds came two gray wings, saturated with black pus.
Both of them screamed.
     He pulled his Angel into his arms and held him tight, ignoring the substance that drenched him. There were screams right by his ear. They were both sobbing.
     "I've got you, Angel," Hannibal cried. "I'll help you. I've got you. I've got you."
     "Fix me, Lucifer!"
     "I will. I promise. Oh, my Angel.
     "I love you," Hannibal tried to say, but right as the promise left his mouth the world fell eerily silent. His arms were empty. The man was gone, the snow blank like he'd never been there at all.
"No," he breathed. "No. Angel? Angel!
     "Tranquility!" Hannibal cried as he opened his eyes, sitting up in his bed. The bedroom was the same as when he'd gone to sleep, the dream slowly dissipating as he recognized it for what it was. He was still in his boxers, his wings tasting fresh air, the sweatpants and T-shirt he thought he'd donned nowhere to be found. He jumped out of bed and ran to the front door, flinging it open to see if there was someone waiting for him outside.
     There was no trace of the man in the snow. Hannibal sank against the door frame, devastated.
     "Tranquility?"
     There was no answer. He was alone once more.
     Softly, he began to cry. The cold wind dried his tears within seconds, but he made no move to return inside. He felt like he needed the sting of the frozen air, the clarity that came with being wide awake and shivering. He inhaled deeply with each sob, letting the icy feeling seep into his lungs.
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     Hannibal woke up to the news that Jack Crawford wanted him there today.
     He wasn't surprised by Jack's sudden change in schedule. Humans were fickle, changing their minds whenever they thought appropriate. Hannibal had learned long ago to be ready for that. It honestly excited him— he liked it when things went out of their normal cycle. So many possibilities.
     He sat in the office and waited by himself, preparing to meet his latest patient. Jack had expressed interest in Hannibal's skills, warning him that this profile would possibly be a difficult one. The man in question, Will Graham, was not a suspect or any sort of criminal man. There was not a drop of evil in him, Jack had said. The only thing he was guilty of was being a very good profiler, which had taken a large toll on his mental health. Jack wanted Hannibal to talk to him, get a feel for what kind of treatment he would need in order to continue on the job. If Hannibal could help, then the situation would be all the better; they'd carry on from there.
     He sensed the man's presence moments before he appeared in the doorway.
     "So, you must be the man who's going to fix my crazy."
     Hannibal turned around in his chair to catch a glimpse, and he couldn't hold back the shocked gasp that escaped his lips. He coughed to cover it up.
     It was him.
     It was the man from his dream, standing right in front of his eyes. The same curls, the same glasses, the same blue eyes that pierced into him. There was no mistaking him. 
     He tried his hardest to contain his terror. He'd never seen this man in his life, and yet he had appeared in his dream the night before. Like a vision, a sign from the Universe.
     "And I know, crazy is a bad word," Will continued, entering the room was a slightly limped gait. Hannibal wondered the story behind that. "But there's no other word for what I have."
     "...A person can always broaden their vocabulary. I— I hope to help you find the proper words." He held out his hand. "Doctor Hannibal Lecter."
     Will shook it. His grip was tentative and fearful. "..Will Graham." His eyes were hard to see behind the reflection of the glasses, but Hannibal could see them darting around the room. Searching for an exit. For Jack, perhaps?
     "Jack ran out for a second. He'll be right back."
     Will nodded, clearly distracted. "He..he wants you to make me all better." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I think it's a bit insulting. You ever do any profiling before?"
     "I profile every one of my patients, technically." He studied Will closely, taking in all of his features. Slight trembling in his hands, likely a constant issue. Wandering eyes, always looking for something else to talk about other than himself. Scabbed fingers, scars that were continuously torn open as a tic. Excoriation disorder— although Will probably had no idea what that even meant. "For example, I can tell that you have an anxiety issue."
     Will didn't look impressed. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Too easy. And that wasn't an invitation to start psychoanalyzing me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."
     "Just doing my job."
     "Yeah, well, you're not on the clock yet. This isn't my session— it's me analyzing you, more than anything." He looked at the clock, a hint of discomfort in his face.
     "You're not fond of eye contact," Hannibal remarked, composing himself.
     "Eyes are distracting," Will sighed before doing exactly what Hannibal had wanted him to do: looking him straight in the eyes. His were a light blue, glassy and haunted. He had rings of purple underneath them, exhaustion creeping into his very being.
     "See too much, don't see enough." He rolled his eyes. "It's hard to focus when you're so concentrated on other things."
     "Good time for you to start therapy, then." Jack's voice boomed from the doorway as he ambled over to his desk, oblivious to the tension, and waited for the other men to sit. Will hunched even more when he sat, fiddling with his hands and letting his gaze wander anywhere but the other people in the room. Every move he made was so interesting. Every move made sense. Hannibal could practically see his soul begging to be freed.
     The dream had meant something. The Universe would never give him a sign so obvious without really meaning it. Hundreds of thousands of years, searching and searching for someone that he thought he'd never find, and here he was. His Angel.
     Oh, he was so beautiful. He was a miracle. The only thing that Hannibal had ever cared for on this earth. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
     You're in a horrible prison, Will Graham, he thought, and I'm going to save you.
     You are going to be amazing.