Chapter Text
It had been awhile since I've been in a room this dark.
There was a sizable desk in the middle of the room, adorned with little to nothing, leaving little to interpret. Will Graham was known for his inability to be perceived, his personal life left to the wayside as he provided imagery for the worst of the worst. It had been only a mere four months since I had graduated from the academy in Quantico, and I'd already been tossed off the deep end.
“Garret Jacob Hobbs, otherwise known as ‘The Minnesota Shrike’ killed for the last time less than three weeks ago.” Will Graham spoke as he flashed the photo of GJH’s last victim. I swallowed. She hung impaled on a deer antler as blood dripped from her abdomen to the wooden floor. Her eyes, facing the floor, were wide open. She knew who killed her.
“This young girl, only seventeen years of age, was one of his daughters best friends. As many of you may have figured out by now, Garret only killed girls that looked like his daughter.” A photo flashed then of Abigail Hobbs. She had been nearly killed by her father before Will had saved her life. However, rumors were floating that he had at some great cost to himself. I listened as he continued to talk, enthralled to say the least. It was hard not to listen to him, given the conviction of which he spoke. He knew things that none of us did, and we all knew it.
My heels clicked on the tiled floor as I left Will's classroom. He had continued to talk about Garret Jacob Hobbs for the rest of the lecture, and I couldn't stop thinking about the state in which he left his victims. A hand brushed my hip as the owner came to match pace by my side.
‘Slacks? I thought women were expected to wear skirts.”
I resisted the ache to slam this man into a wall. The nagging voice belonged to a trainee that had ceased to leave me alone since the beginning of my training. He stood taller than I, which was surely the source of his superiority complex he so obviously carried. His comments had needless to say progressed from friendly attempts to ‘get coffee’.
“Not anymore as it seems.” I retorted, turning to look at him.
He smiled as we continued to walk down the empty hallway. I needed to get back to my apartment.
“That's alright, they hug your legs quite well.”
Rage. Pure waves of it.
“I'm flattered” I forced out, smiling the best I could. “Say, what is your name? I don't think Ive ever asked, given all of our ever present interactions”
I paused in the hallway, and he turned to face me. I wasn't a generally meek figure, I was tall, nearly six feet, with dark hair and brown eyes. I was fit, I kept myself in the best shape possible, and it had rewarded me well with a lot of past partners. None of this intimidated this man however. He stood with bright blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked like an idiot.
“Adam” he answered, he leaned down, and I reflexively dropped back a step. If this man seriously thought he was going to kiss me…
“Well Adam” I let my voice take on the girlish tone I observed many other female trainees use when conversing with their fellow male counterparts. “Why don't you tell me where you live, and maybe I'll take you up on that ‘coffee’ offer. Hmm?”
He grinned. “I seriously thought you’d never take me up on that” he all but groaned, and I was nauseated. However, I returned the lewd eyes he gave me as he told me his address. “I live on Watercrest and 64th, Apartment 84. What do you say to ten?” I all but laughed. I shrugged, and left him. I turned towards the door leading outside, but walked the opposite way of my apartment.
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Hot blood rolled down my face as I yanked the knife out of Adams throat. I could taste the iron rich liquid as it rolled off my lips into my mouth, and I watched in amusement as those eyes once filled with such lust just now grew fogged. That was my favorite part of death, watching the life leak from their orifices, their blood leaking from them as their limbs stiffened, growing heavy.
I took off my leather gloves and tossed them to the side. I felt hot with power as I sliced the knife into the skin of his chest with ease. I sharpened the knife this evening in order to be precise. This was my favorite method after all. The handle was heavy, and the wooden handle was stained with blood. I carved through skin and muscle, stopping when the knife hit bone. With somewhat of an effort, I ripped off the muscle. It tore like veal. In the middle of his chest lay a perfect star. You could see his heart and lungs through his ribs - I reached in, and sliced his heart out. The knife slid through the tissue like butter, a faint sound mirroring fabric fraying accompanying the sawing of the knife. Hot liquid hit my chest. Fuck. I had forgotten that even after death, arterial spray remains just as strong.
Feeling around fourteen different kinds of stupid, I stood and set the organ on the dinner plate he had set out for me. The blood seeped into the salad, and I felt amused as it spread just like a dressing. Finally, using the sleeve of my jacket, I grabbed a steak knife from his knife block and stabbed it into the middle.
Heartless.
My boots thudded on the hardwood floor as I bent to grab my gloves before leaving the way I came less than ten minutes before, right through the unlocked front door.
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Cold was seeping into my bones as I stood in the forensic lab. Perfectly clean stainless steel tables sat in even rows in front of me, glittering in the fluorescents. Unfortunately, I’d had to pick two locks to get in here, however I was sure to be careful. I took off my boots when I entered the academy, and placed within them my dripping gloves. I hadn't anticipated the bastard to bleed so goddamn much. I've done this before, of course. I came to this lab the last time I lacked my normal ability to remain ‘clean’. This lab had the chemicals I needed to remove all traces of blood from my garments without stripping the material or having it smell of bleach.
All was silent in the room except for the beat of my own heart and the steady hum of the lights. Peeling off my jacket, the memory of the fight proceeding my most gracious arc of the knife falls back into center focus. Adam had noticed as I turned to fill a glass of champagne that I had black leather gloves in the back pocket of my jeans. He asked why I had them, given it was nearly seventy degrees outside in the Virginia humidity, and I explained I was a germaphobe as I bent over to grab the knife out of my boot under the guise of having dropped the cork. I knew I had lost him, but it's needless to say I didn't expect an ice pick to my shoulder blade.
Oh well. I'm sure he didn't expect a knife to the larynx.
The back of the T-shirt I wore stuck to my back with blood from the wound in my shoulder. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, I knew it would, given he only struck my shoulder bone, never going between the ribs as I'm sure he hoped to have done. However, sweat had kept the old blood wet, and I could feel it drip down my spine. I set the jacket on the table and turned to the glass cabinet. My shoulder ached, but there was nothing isopropyl alcohol and gauze couldn't fix. I grabbed the glass decanter labeled ‘IA - 70%’ and set it behind me.
Click. Needles poked at my back. Something was off. Someone is here. I stood, motionless behind the protection of the glass door.
Footsteps.
The light switch clicked down as my hand swatted before grabbing a scalpel out of a jar. Grateful I had taken off my boots, I padded across the room and slid under a table just as the door clicked open.
Oh my God. Whoever it was had to have been at the end of the hallway when I shut off the light, they wouldn't have seen it. I hope. I held my breath as I watched footsteps progress into the room. Black dress shoes.
It felt like all my nerves had been sliced. Only one man that worked near this lab consistently wore dress shoes. A man who prioritized professionalism over anything else. I'd never once seen him with a crease in his suit, a wrinkle in his dress shirt, let alone a tie out of place. Short, pained breaths made their way through me as I considered my options.
I don't know much about Hannibal Lecter, but I would be stupid to think he wouldn't turn me in straight to Jack Crawford himself. I'd be out of the academy. Everything -
“I find it quite necessary to let you know that medical grade Isopropyl alcohol will not get you drunk. In fact, I think it very well could kill you” a slightly accented voice spoke.
I couldn't move. He hadn't seen me yet, I knew as much for sure. His back remained to me. He knew somebody was here, but there was no way-
“Although, under the table? I'd like to have more confidence in our youth. Especially ones who are skilled enough to pick two FBI-grade locks” He continued.
The scalpel rotated in my hand. Moonlight from the window outside glinted off the sharp blade. If I could just…I slid out from under the table. My shoulder ached as I stood, and I became aware of the fact I was covered in dried blood. If he saw me he’d know. He’d know what I had done, and being out of the academy would be the least of my worries. The room was dark, however. He was probably around ten feet away from me, would that be enough to obscure my face?
Acting before I could think, I raised the scalpel-
“I wouldn't advise that to be fairly transparent. It might not end well for either of us”
I'm an idiot. He stood in front of the glass cabinet, and he had shut the door. He could see me in the reflection on the glass. Hannibal turned. His suit was pressed, his hair combed. He radiated calm and control. A cornered animal, that's all that I was. He was the predator, and I was the prey.
I watched in fear as he reached for the light switch, flipping it up. His eyebrows tilted up, but he didn't falter.
“Well. That's quite a surprise to say the least.” He spoke and stepped forward. My legs burned to back up, but I stood my ground. I still have the upper ground. I’m armed.
“I know you..” He continued, his eyes roaming over my face and my body. It felt like I had been lit on fire then thrown onto ice.
“No you don't” I bit out. It was a weak excuse, a really childish response, and he knew it. He smiled as he picked up my gloves from the table in front of me. He squeezed them, and I winced. Blood dripped onto his palm.
“What have you done?” He asked, but it struck me that he wasn't alarmed in any sense of the word. He was almost curious. I remained silent. I knew better than to answer that.
“I should've known not to ask you that.” He said, setting my things down. “I can't help but wonder though. It must've been…engaging for lack of a better word”. I felt my muscles tighten. Why wasn't he concerned? Why hasn't he tried to leave? Maybe call somebody, probably the police, and have me held under suspicion of murder?
“Why do you-” I trailed off. I shouldn't be here. I should leave. If he won't say anything, try to stop me, why am I still here? “I find it intriguing to catch somebody after such events,” he continued. “Although, It's quite rare. In many cases, especially this one, the individual is very easy to read”
Before I could reply, he turned around again. He went over to the shelves and grabbed the ammonia concentration I needed. “You need to get better at keeping yourself removed. If you keep coming here to clean your things, It's going to get gradually more and more difficult.”
I watched, in nothing really but awe, as he grabbed latex gloves and pulled them on. He poured the mixture onto a white cloth, and he spread out my jacket before delicately scrubbing at the bloodstain near the collar. I didn't really think as I set down the scalpel, and grabbed my own pair of gloves.
It felt like my mind was moving at an inhuman pace as the two of us worked in silence to remove the blood from my gloves, boots, and jacket. What the hell? There's no way that he doesn't know I've either killed somebody or very seriously injured them. I’ve interacted with him before, we’ve talked, but it was nothing past small talk. He has no reason to help me, so why is he? I set down the rag.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked, watching him.
He smiled a little, and once he finished scrubbing the last of the blood off, he answered me.“I have not much else to be doing on a Thursday evening”
“You’re a Psychiatrist. You work with the best of the best in the FBI. You work with Will Graham. I'm a trainee, a forensic one at that. You have no cause to interact with me or place yourself within an issue that I have caused. Why are you here?”
He walked around to stand by my side. I tensed. “You’re hurt.” He muttered.
“I'm fine.”
“You aren't, as it seems. It's still bleeding.”
I froze. I thought it was-
“Whoever it was, they tore through the muscle of your shoulder, I would expect that to keep bleeding until you have nothing left to bleed.”
“I thought-”
“May I?” he asked curtly. He wanted to look at the wound. There was something about the way he asked that made me feel as if I had no choice. I nodded, resting my fists on the table. I heard him grab a new pair of gloves before delicately pulling down the shoulder of my shirt. I bit my tongue as his fingers prodded around the wound, sending fresh shots of pain down my spine.
“The wound is weeping. What was it that he stabbed you with?”
“An ice pick”
He paused a moment before backing away.
“It's going to get infected if it's not cleaned and stitched. Would you like me to take you to a hospital?”
He was putting me between a rock and a hard place. He undoubtedly knows that I can't go to the hospital. Once they find Adam's body and the bloodied pick, they won't take long for them to look in the local hospitals.
“No”. I grunted. I pulled myself away from his hands and turned to clean up my things. A gloved hand grabbed me by my elbow, stopping me. I froze, turning to look at him.
Something foreign to me flickered across his face before he relaxed his grip a little and took on a neutral expression.
“What is your name?” he asked.
I shook the fog that had come over me and thought of what he was asking.
“Because I have any inclination to tell you?” I responded, trying to keep my cold facade.
He merely stared at me. His face didn't give me any hints as to what he was expecting from me. I froze inside. I didn't like this.
“Vanessa.”
I regretted it as soon as the word passed my lips. As much as I could claim in my head that I knew this man, I knew deep down that I didn't. My arm slipped out of his grip as he smiled.
“Thank you. I hope you know I have no intention of turning you in, as I'm sure you’re worried about. I just find it common courtesy to know the name of the person you are choosing to help”. We stood there for a moment.
“Well, I appreciate it. Thank you Dr. Lecter” again, I tried to grab my things from the table, but he stopped me once more.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, a smile working at his lips.
“Well yes, naturally. I can't stay in a forensic lab for the rest of my life, as much as I would love to.”
His eyes glinted before speaking again.
“You are wounded”.
“I can manage”.
“Vanessa, a wound on your back?”
Frustration was working its way up my throat. It felt as if I was being toyed with, and the sound of my name from his lips was disgusting, worming its way through me like a disease. With less than grace I grabbed my coat and boots from the stainless steel table in front of me. This time he didn't stop me.
“I'm sure I’ll see you around, Dr. Lecter.”