Carnivore, Won't You Come Digest Me?

Chapter 1

Hannibal does not like to think of himself as a particularly impatient man. He can and has sat for hours during a stake-out in his younger days as a city cop, watching the streets for his target with naught but his own thoughts and a static-filled radio station for company. Now, as an agent for the FBI Behavioral Science Unit, his days can and have been spent pouring over case studies, research papers, files, and documentation as he processes reports and hunts serial killers. He can be patient – after all, some of his best hunts have taken him weeks to complete, and the satisfaction of finding and dealing with killers, as well as his own hobbies, have honed his ability to wait and watch to a sharp point.

But he is not particularly patient today. He finds himself sitting, waiting, in the office of a man he has never met. He's a court-ordered psychiatrist, sanctioned by his boss, Jack Crawford, to perform a psychological evaluation before Hannibal is let back into the field. The man sitting across from him is the guardian at the door between freedom and captivity. The cage master, flaunting his iron keys.

The man's name is Will. Doctor Will Graham. He's younger than Hannibal, and monied in the way that means he earned it through his work and wasn't born into it. His office is nice enough, clean and bright and welcoming. The chairs are comfortable and thickly padded. There are couches for people to lie down on and wail their problems to the ceiling.

Will is a static presence, louder than the volume in Hannibal's old cruiser even when he hasn't yet said a word beyond the polite greeting. He sits comfortably but formally, relaxed in his chair, but not slouched. A plain pad of paper sits on one thigh, the leg raised so his ankle rests over his other knee.

He portrays a welcoming, calming presence. His expression is serene, like nothing in the world could bother him.

Hannibal watches him, and Will watches Hannibal. Finally, his expression cracks, and his smile widens. "I understand why you might be hesitant, having to sit here and talk to someone like me," he says, and Hannibal hums, pressing his lips together. He raises his chin in a show of challenge that Will doesn't rise to.

"Hesitant?" he repeats, and shakes his head. "No."

Will tilts his head to one side. He rests one elbow on the arm of his chair and props his head up with his hand. His pen sits along the line of his jaw, which is covered by a thin beard. Hannibal suspects he uses it to make him look older. "Agent Crawford tells me you're one of the top investigators he has," he says, and Hannibal doesn't respond. He won't let Will see his pride. "Highest closure rate in your entire department, so I've been told."

"Maybe," Hannibal replies, and allows himself a small smile. Will smiles back, showing the edges of his teeth. His voice is low, carefully cultivated to encourage sharing and intimacy. Hannibal doesn't like it, for the fact that he does. "Once you get a feel for the formula of a killer, it becomes routine."

Will's eyes flash. "You seem like the kind of person who enjoys their routines," he says quietly. His eyes drop to Hannibal's hands, which are loosely laced in front of him. Hannibal has his elbows on the armrests of his chair, making himself appear larger, in control.

"I am," Hannibal replies.

Will hums. "Does it bore you?" he asks.

"Why would you say that?" Hannibal says, cocking his head to one side.

Will smiles again, calmly. He doesn't hear the edge in Hannibal's voice, or he willfully ignores it. A dangerous mistake. He doesn't answer.

"I don't find my life boring, if that's what you're implying," Hannibal says.

"Of course not," Will replies, shaking his head. He drops his hand and curls his fingers around his pad of paper. It's blank, for now. "But if everything was normal, you wouldn't have been sent to me."