On the Mend (Hannibal Fanfiction)

Piece I

Will Graham stood in the waiting room, steeling himself to enter Hannibal Lecter's office. To say that it had been one hell of a month would be the understatement of the century. Newly exonerated and released from the BSHCI, Will had had no time to breathe before being accosted, yet again, by Jack Crawford. Jack hadn't even given him a chance to leave the damn building. This time, he was ready to believe Will about the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper. Part of Will wanted to throw it in his face, tell him, it's too goddamn late, Jack, you missed your chance, anything other than agreeing to work with him again.

But he couldn't. Not now. Not now that someone was finally listening to him.

The funny thing was, having someone listen to him didn't seem to have made his life any easier. If anything, it had made it even more difficult.

Will wasn't sure what was worse: when he had been worried that he was going crazy and murdering people without any memory of his actions, or now, when he was presumably sound of mind and still having vivid murder fantasies.

A mere two days after his release, he'd pointed a gun at Hannibal's head in the darkness of his kitchen and fantasized about splattering his brain matter all over the pristine fridge. The next day, he'd scraped together enough money to enhance his wardrobe and control his unruly curls, imagining Hannibal's heated gaze on him and wondering if he would step close enough to be strangled. Two days later, he'd shown up at Hannibal's office at seven-thirty sharp, secretly pleased to find that his appointment time had been left open. When Hannibal had asked if Will was going to point a gun at him again, a thrill had travelled down his spine. If only, he'd thought. "Not tonight," he'd said.

So sue him if he hadn't told Jack about his plan to lure Hannibal into revealing himself until after he had already put the plan into motion. What Jack didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Unfortunately, active murder fantasies were currently the least of Will's problems. His real problems involved actual murder.

Self-defense, he told himself, but every time he said it, it sounded feebler. Sure, it had been self-defense when Randall Tier had come crashing through his picture window in a deadly cave bear suit. Slightly less so when Will had opted to throw away his shotgun and beat Tier with his bare hands. Less again when he had brutalized Tier before snapping his neck, and less still when he had taken the body to Hannibal instead of calling the cops.

And when he'd dismembered the corpse, broken into the museum in the dead of night, and mounted Tier on a cave bear skeleton...

Okay, so maybe pleading self-defense was a bit of a stretch. But at least Jack knew about this one, and while he didn't actively condone it, he was doing a damn good job of looking the other way.

There was just one other problem...well, okay, more than one.

Will had enjoyed the kill. And goddamnit, the warm look in Hannibal's eyes and the gentle way that he had tended to his wounds had rattled him more than he wanted to admit.

Will wanted to hate Hannibal so badly. He should hate Hannibal — he had encouraged his seizures and blackouts, covered up his encephalitis, isolated him from his friends and colleagues, framed him for his crimes, shoved a goddamn ear down his throat, and murdered Beverly and Abigail. Not to mention he was still sleeping with Alana; the very idea made Will want to bash his skull in. But his biggest sin was killing their adoptive daughter and convincing Will that he was the one who had killed her. He wasn't sure if he could ever forgive Hannibal for it.

He shouldn't forgive Hannibal for it. He shouldn't even consider forgiving Hannibal for it.

He should hate Hannibal...and that was the problem. Will wanted to strangle him and watch the life leave his eyes, but he didn't hate him. He wouldn't be able to explain it if somebody put a gun to his head. He tried not to think about it; it went in the same box that I enjoyed killing Randall Tier and I think I might still consider Hannibal a friend went in. The box was getting rather full. He also didn't think about that.