Authors note: This is a second version of this chapter. Um. This is my first time writing Fanfiction, please be kind. But honest. This will become Hannigraham, and probably non-canon compliant as I have noticed that as S2 progressed, it is becoming increasingly hard to justify my ship - they are sinking it, and sinking it well. Which is unfortunate because the -show- demonstrates that the two are very compatible. I'm rambling...um. I hope you enjoy it.

Emotions are intangible, irrational, and non-complacent to an individual's desires. Hannibal continuously found himself perplexed at the concept. Emotions were something so simple and mundane, and yet they could control the people around him, as though commanded by them - God's of an individual's actions to dictate and rule over them, for them to obey mindlessly like sheep. That was not to say Hannibal was without emotions, no, yet he was also not a sheep within the flock. He was the shepherd. He was lead by more than something so simplistic as fundamental human emotion, 'feelings' as he found himself considering every action with deliberation. Each movement of his, everything he did was precise and controlled, dictated by cold, rational logic. Whether or not the logic, or the reasoning was to be shared by those around him did not bother him in the slightest. Foundations are different for all, after all. However, it did sometimes lead to complications, such as when the FBI agent Jack Crawford intruded into his home, and attempted to introduce himself to a patient - Franklyn of all people. Franklyn, who had not the sense of mind to realize that used napkins did not go onto the table top.

Hannibal found himself both wary and irritated, looking Crawford up and down, and in his irritation, told him to go to the waiting room. While it was the respectful, decent thing to do, Hannibal was far from decent, and as he entered his office again, he poured himself a new glass of wine, and savoured it knowing that agent Jack Crawford was outside, twiddling his thumbs in wait. Toying with people was a habit Hannibal could not help - even as he glanced at his watch, and realized that a reasonable amount of time had passed, before proceeding to take another sip of his wine and sit down. Petty though it may be, Hannibal felt as though it was more than justified - someone like Franklyn who couldn't tell peasants from posies was not to be gifted, even briefly, with his name.

Hannibal finished his wine, and finally ventured to invite Crawford in. It was borderline rude to keep someone waiting for too long. However, he immediately regretted his acquiescence of letting Crawford in when the man responded to his inquiry with his own. Knowing why the FBI agent, he felt, was fundamental to the conversation, and he did not care to answer any questions prior to knowing the man's intent. Nonetheless, Hannibal responded, only to find himself more irate in prescience for the upcoming conversation, wariness ebbed away by a great deal of annoyance. The man seemed to think that this was social hour, and just because Hannibal was not anticipating another client did not mean that he had better things to do than discuss his secretary, his drawing of his boarding school (which lay atop a medical drawing that Hannibal was tempted to show him. He had long ago considered hiding it after a young trainee had found it, and he had been forced to make her...indisposed. Yet, he had not for instances like this, in which someone like Crawford would see it, and he would be able to end the nuisance, or swat a fly.)

Nevertheless, Hannibal listened with rapt attention. This conversation, after all, was 'all about him.' Hannibal. The Chesapeake Ripper. Not that he had broadcasted the information, but a certain amount of attention ought to be given to agents that investigated that sort of thing. However, Crawford, as it seemed was a disappointment. He seemed far too delighted in mind-numbing chit chat rather than anything of any real significance or value. Not that Hannibal was particularly shocked, after all, Crawford had been dim-witted enough to believe that Franklyn was he. He was still so acutely aware of his own disgust at the concept. Yet, when Crawford refers to himself as a layman, Hannibal, unable to be rude, offers praise - hoping only to feed the foolish man's ego. Hannibal was frustrated, but he was careful not to be too overt with his comments. It was one thing to bait, but another to ensnare.

Crawford, at the end of his display of an almost disturbing need for communication, revealed his intentions: he needed a psychological profile of a murderer. Dangerous, mundane, and boring as it was, Hannibal found himself unable to refuse. After all, an opportunity had presented itself to 'peek behind the curtain' if you will. Only wounded prey were foolish enough to seek aid from a predator. They were leading the lion right to the nest, and Hannibal found that enthralling in ideology. He was simply a valuable psychiatrist, and yet, he was so much more than that. He was more profound a presence than that. He had taken from Crawford his peace of mind, his trust in himself after he had taken that trainee, and soon, he would take so much more than hat.

That was what lead him to Crawford's office. The desire to see the thinking of the other side of the chessboard, and yet, it was not what made him stay. While it was a fun game to see how the mice on the other side of the wall scrambled, desperate for scraps, he was more interested in the company he was soon in. A man named Will Graham. Initially, he was far from interesting, rugged, tired, drained, and seeming to stand precariously on the brink between logical rationality and implicit insanity. Yet, within those eyes lay in waiting a mind poisoned and elevated by pure empathy. These eyes refused to meet his own, and even as Hannibal engaged him in conversation, those eyes never wavered from staring fixedly not in his direction. The man's thoughts were "often not tasty," and yet, Hannibal wanted to know them. He wanted to tear that mind open and hear how it sounded. Hannibal was so much more than intrigued - he was excited by the very concept. The potential that this man had was unique, and although the man held it to be a burden, it was a challenge and a goal for Hannibal. This man was so far from ordinary sheep, yet taxed with their expectations. He wanted him to see into his eyes, and prove that he could understand. Hannibal wanted Will Graham to see him.

"Not fond of eye contact, are you?" Hannibal found himself asking, attempting to get him to just look.

"Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don't see enough. And -" The man stuttered, "And it's hard to focus when you're thinking, um," he paused, and Hannibal tried to suppress a smile at Will's struggle to communicate efficiently as he rambled, apparently not strong in social capacities: "'Oh, those whites are really white,' or 'He must have hepatitis,' or "Oh, is that a burst vein?' So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible." He turned his attention away from Hannibal again, apparently considering the conversation over, and disregarding Hannibal. "Jack?" He asked.

And immediately after Jack responded with a crisp "Yes?" Hannibal found himself again frustrated. This man had so much potential to see, but he did not, if he merely looked, he would be able understand Hannibal. This blatant lack of consideration on Will's part baited Hannibal into forcing Will to speak, he wanted to say something, anything to get the other to look at him. "I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams." And that, quite simply, was what Hannibal had to fix. "No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love." He knew this man, Hannibal did, and the shock on his face made him smirk briefly. See? Hannibal thought. See? Hannibal would get this man to understand, and now he had his attention. Everything he had said was true. Hannibal understood, to some extent Will Graham.

Unfortunately, though, for his efforts, Will stormed out shortly after, infuriated and seething in self-fueling rage inspired by the truth of Hannibal's words. And Hannibal was immediately chastised by Crawford, and yet, he had achieved what he had wanted. He now had the man's attention. Now, all he had to do was make him look more. Look at him, and who he was. Hannibal would help him see the face of others, of Hannibal, and the truth of himself. "I think I can help good Will see his face."

Hannibal found her quickly enough, pretentious as she was, gliding through the streets condescending in her nature. Hannibal did not mind arrogance, but naive rudeness was beyond excusable. She had practically offered himself to him, bumping into him on the street and then having the nerve to bait the beast with edible words, as she shouted "Watch your step, old man!" He was far from old, and she was far from polite, and as he looked at her auburn hair, her eyes, her height, her skin, he couldn't help the smile that found it's way on his lips. She had been exactly what he looking for, and here she was, practically begging him to take her life. It did not take long for him to stalk her, a predator used to the hunt, drug her, and steal from another household a stags head to impale her upon. The planning was simple enough.

Still, when she lay there, in the cold room, he considered briefly which organ to take as she shuddered out desperate pleas, naked, scared, crying. He wanted her to be silent, to take from her the ability to speak, and along with it her last breath. He cut open her chest with that recognition, and tore out her lungs, surgically, sure, but brutally nonetheless. It had been satisfying watching as her inability to breathe, much less enticing to watch as her horrified consciousness slip from those features into a wonderful blankness that only death could provide. She would now, and always, be silent. She had simply been a part of the game he was playing with Will, nevertheless, he would not lower himself to not perform, to not procure his art and display it with righteousness. She deserved this - this humiliation was hers. Regardless of what he did, the FBI would not have the capacity to comprehend more than simple algebra, much less piece together two pieces of evidence, oblivious sheep that flock like half-dead ravens to the nest of the predatory. It was amusing, but also immensely disappointing. How could they not have the capacity to see? They were a disgrace - a mockery to God himself, if there was such a thing, flightless birds going nowhere but blindly to death.

Not that any of that mattered. This was quite simply a gift from himself to Will. And now, all he had to do was wait.

Hannibal found himself at Will's house just three days later. It was a strange little house, in the middle of, as far as Hannibal was concerned, no where, although it was a nice retreat from reality, from the pawns and dullness of reality. Such a separation and detachment was an unsurprising aspect of Will, though, and he was not altogether shocked. Merely in humour that he had anticipated as such. Hannibal knocked on the door, and weary headed, suspicious Will peeked out from behind the door. "Good morning, Will," Hannibal greeted, amused at the other man's state of disarray. "May I come in?"

"Where's Jack?" The other man queried, looking profoundly vexed by the situation, reluctant, and resigned.

"Deposed in court." Hannibal responded, smiling at the man's misconception and lack of understanding of the situation. Hannibal found himself here, unable to avoid the man that intrigued him as such. "The adventure will be yours and mine today."

Will looked thoroughly nonplussed, and Hannibal, starting to becoming impatient with Will's uncomprehending enervated state as he did not respond. repeated: "May I come in?" And Will, wordlessly, opened the door, and entered the house, allowing Hannibal to follow behind him without actually initiating any sort of invitation of itself - which spoke volumes of Will's personality. He let other people in, regardless of his sense of self. Intriguing. Hannibal offered him breakfast, eggs, sausage, tomatoes and various other vegetables. Simple, yet he was still pleased to see Will eat it, unknowing of what, precisely, he was putting into his body, when Hannibal was so conscious of his own.

Hannibal wanted this man to see him as a friend, and as such, he was acutely aware that he had to make an omission that he did not entirely desire: "I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that eventually, so, I have to consider using apologies sparingly." And perhaps, when he truly means them. This was not an instance as such, and therefore, his lack of actual apology was intentional. He would not submit himself to issuing something false such as that. Lying was one thing, but pretending to regret what he had said, when he did not, and meant every word of it? Inexcusable.

"Just keep it professional," Will retorted.

"Or we could socialize like adults," Hannibal quipped, feeling annoyed by Will's lack of participation or consideration of him. "God forbid we become friendly."

"I don't find you that interesting." That, in and of itself caught Hannibal's attention and aggravation. He wasn't looking.

"You will," He responded. And in that was a promise, he would force Will to look - to see him. Just as he needed Will to see him, as well as himself. To see how alike they were, and how alike they had the potential to be. In his mind, this man was a possibility, a flower that he would shower and allow to grow to become what was rightfully his to expect. Of that, Hannibal was certain.

Briefly, he attempted to avert the attention to the girl he had left in the field to see if Will had actually understood the intent of the present, if he had achieved his comprehension that he had lacked. A knack for the monsters, he said, using the words, knowing that Will had the ability to understand. Monsters, the word seemed to echo in the room, or perhaps it was just in Hannibal's own ears. He disregarded it as Will ventured onto a stream of explanation as though he was personally invested in the situation, talking about negatives and positives as though they were pro's and con's, like his had been the bad, and the rest were good. Did this man not understand? Murder was simply that: murder. The end of the life. In Will's mind, Hannibal could tell was enough decency to dictate wrong from right, yet it also screamed at him that all murder was wrong. How dare he compare them, like photographs, like good and evil? Such juvenile concepts were beyond the grays of reality. There was no white, and there was no black - just grey. But even as Hannibal found himself deviating from the conversation, from the intention of Will's words, he found himself entranced as the man continued. Imputing comments about fantasies and problems, curious as to Will's reactions. "You ever have any problems, Will?" He questioned.

Will hesitated, and then in an almost disenchanted and drained and yet sarcastic tone. "No."

Hannibal clutched to that. "You and I are just the same - problem free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about." You just need to see it, Will. After a pause, Hannibal added: "You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little tea cup." His use of the word 'uncle' had been intentional - the attachment Jack had on this man was unnatural, and Hannibal disliked it immensely, he hoped that Will would hear the word usage, and that it might, in some strange way, alienate him from the man. He disliked Jack Crawford. He looked at Will in the eyes, "The finest china, used only for special guests."

What surprised him, though, was that Will laughed, catching Hannibal completely off-guard for a moment. The laugh was both amused and hollow, as though he understood it, and some detached part of him honestly found the disgusting situation amusing. Hannibal laughed too, but he was far from amused at the concept. "How do you see me?" He asked Hannibal, and Hannibal considered the question seriously.

In an absolute display of honesty, he responded: The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by." He watched the smile leave from Will as he looked stricken and confused, as though he only understood slightly what Hannibal's intention was, and yet, couldn't bring himself to fully comprehend. "Eat your breakfast," Hannibal commanded after a short pause, in which Will seemed to mull it over. He wanted Will to understand the words, but it was far too early for him to understand them now.

Hannibal accompanied Will on his venture to collect files on, as far as Hannibal was concerned, very little evidence, and far too many suspects. Will told him to look for anything suspicious, and yet, all of it seemed terribly droll before Will opened a file, and said: "Garrett Jacob Hobbs?" Interrupting, and not answering the annoying woman who had been bitching, vulgarity aside, in this instance the word was appropriate, at some one on the other end of the phone about their presence. It had been starting to grate on Hannibal's nerves, and yet, at the same time, he couldn't be bothered with the woman. Vexed by Will's explanation, yet decidedly curious, he half-hazardly threw a box in the general direction of the woman, or, in appearance, had it slip out of his fingers, on 'accident,' as he went in and dialed Hobb's number. Curiosity, and questioning of Will, brought him to warn the man on the other edge of the phone. What, he wondered, will happen?

Apparently, a great deal of blood, and headless chickens, as Hobb's through his dying wife in Will's direction to offer up a distraction from his daughter. Hannibal glanced at the woman as he walked by; this is what would happen. He felt a strange sort of disgust for the woman, lying there, blind and never being able to see what had laid beside her at night, and now put her down, without a metaphorical head as her neck bled her life from her open skin. She was beyond saving - evidently always had been if she was lead to this point. He heard the gunshots begin before he entered the room, watching as a panicked Will fired, beyond a state of fear into the Hobb's man. He, too, was beyond saving in the wreck of devastation that lay here. Will, in his blind emotion turned his attention to the daughter, bleeding out, having her life slip away from her. Hannibal briefly debated whether or not he should save her, help Will, and he, in the realization that she could, and would be beneficial in so many ways, moved Will's hands out of the way to make room for his own to actually provide help as he applied pressed to minimize the bleeding. And as he left Will there, he considered how fortuitous a profit a phone call would make. This game - no, this performance, was turning into something more spectacular than he had initially envisioned.

He would make Will Graham see.