Vertigo

Summary: After nearly dying during the apprehension of a serial killer who poses victims in famous scenes from Hitchcock films, Will Graham takes time off from the FBI. But when a former colleague requests a private favor (spying on her psychiatrist husband) Will becomes obsessed with a man named Hannibal and his secrets. AU, potential slash.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Hannibal, Vertigo, or any other Hitchcock film…darn.

Warning: Violence and gore.

Chapter 1

Will Graham peers into the abyss and sees himself.

He races across the rooftop of a six-story apartment building in pursuit of a man wearing a black jacket and wool cap. The man's name is Thomas Duff, and he is wanted for the deaths of three people.

It is 11:37 at night in Baltimore. Beneath them, streetlights blink like sleepy stars, separating and organizing the shuffle of cars on busy streets: slick streaks of color from a foggy distance. The echo of horns like a far-away memory. None of the people below could possibly comprehend what is going on above them.

And maybe that's for the best.

Will hears the woosh of air leave his lungs and the stomp stomp stomp of feet on pavement. A cop, Sumeet, flanks him, matching his strides and surpassing them. Legs pump up and down. Will's lungs burn. He can't recall the last time he ran for a sustained period of time. Fishing was more his speed. For a mind that runs too fast on a regular basis, it's pleasant to enjoy a sport that requires two feet firmly planted and hardly any movement.

He's getting away, Will thinks of the killer, clenching his teeth. Don't let him go.

As if reading his mind, Sumeet sprints ahead. For a man in his mid-sixties, Duff is remarkably agile. Just when Will is about to yell at the man to stand down because they have reached the edge of the complex's roof, the suspected serial killer leaps from the roof to another building several feet away. Duff clings to a fire escape ladder before climbing up to adjacent building's roof, one story higher. Sumeet is seconds behind and quickly follows the ousted professor, shimmying up another ladder that runs parallel to the one Duff is using.

Will shouts into his radio. "Jack—he's moved to another roof—headed south. Hurry!"

Duff knocks the gun from Sumeet's grasp as the man fumbles for the roof ledge.

Will's hands move to position on his own weapon. Wait for the right shot. Steady. Steady.

But the right shot doesn't present itself.

Cold sweat and panic. The two men in front and above Graham are grey shadows blending and becoming one, birds pecking at each other. Will cannot take a shot because there is too much of a risk of hitting the police officer.

So he steps onto the ledge, wavering in the biting wind that rolls off the rooftop and gusts across his body, making the ends of his jacket whip back and forth. He holsters his gun and gauges the distance between buildings. They are nearly touching.

Graham looks behind, hoping he might see Jack Crawford there with his team and heavily-armed members of the Maryland S.W.A.T. team and everything would be okay. Once again, Will Graham lets his imagination run away from him. There is no Crawford. There is no S.W.A.T. team. There is only the wind and the two men struggling above him, and himself, indecisive and introspective when he should be taking action.

Despite the frigid temperature, Will wipes sweat from his palms on his jeans and steps backward a few paces. Then he makes a running leap and (thank God) successfully grabs hold of the ladder Duff leapt on. Will pulls himself towards the thin bars, rusty yet holding, and slams his mouth on the grimy metal. He tastes the salty copper of blood in his mouth, but he doesn't mind because he made it. Will clings to the bars for a split-second and then begins to climb, forcing his shaking arms and legs to work properly, convincing himself that it's no more difficult than climbing his favorite jungle gym back in elementary school.

The first indication that something is wrong is when Will hears the grating screech of metal in his ears, and he finds himself sliding down. The flimsy ladder is collapsing from overuse and breaking its bolts from the side of the building. Will cries out and scrambles for purchase, his hands barely reaching the edge of the rooftop before the entire ladder collapses and falls, a dull thud beneath him.

"Sumeet! Help!" Will screams, but the other man is too preoccupied with Thomas Duff. Both of them are clambering for the cop's gun.

Graham grunts and attempts to pull himself up, but it's no use. His arms begin to ache from the strain of holding on. Heart hammering in his chest, he chances a look down and instantly regrets the decision. The street beneath him de-focuses and begins to spin. Sweat drips from his brow into the chasm beneath him, an un-named animal sitting in wait on the street below with its jaws wide open in a hideous grin.

Will swallows his nausea and fear, forcing his head to jerk upright, nose peeking over the edge of the building. He tries not to think how much his hands scrape against the concrete. He tries not to think about how much his hands are sweating, losing their grip. Any moment now, he will fall. Any moment now…

Then, a heart-stopping cry from above. Graham barely has a moment to realize what is happening until a shadow swoops down and falls beside him. He feels the rush of wind in his ears, the man's scream trailing from his body. Then there is the impact. The sound of bone on concrete.

Sumeet. That was Sumeet. Oh God…

Will closes his eyes as a fresh wave of vertigo washes over him, but it doesn't stop the image of the police officer plunging to his death from re-playing before him, swallowed by a dark animal's eager maw.

When the empath opens his eyes, he is staring into the black eyes of Thomas Duff. The retired professor runs a hand over the white stubble on his face, examines the gun he is now holding, and leers at Will.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

"A cliché." Graham's voice is shaking. His voice is shaking because he knows what Duff wants to do. It's what he has planned from the beginning.

That stops Duff for a moment, and that's all Will is hoping for.

"A cliché?" repeats the professor. He cocks his head to the side. "But how can what is happening to you be a cliché?"

Will's voice grows louder, more confident. "This scene is reminiscent of every classic suspense film ever made. Hero suspended from high place at the end of the movie. The villain threatens him with a plunge to his death."

The killer removes his wool cap and rubs his bald head, pondering Graham's theory. His words emit puffs of air like steam rising as his nostrils flare.

"Just like your policeman friend."

Will squirms. Feet dangling, sweat dripping, arms straining, breath quickening.

The empath's eyes bore into Duff's as if he can hypnotize the other man. Take the bait. Take the bait. Take it.

"Ah, but you're wrong about two things, Mr. Graham," says Duff, his mouth curling up in a smile, thoroughly enjoying this. "You're not the hero of this story. And this isn't the end."

Then the toe of one of Duff's boots slides over Will's right hand and presses down. Graham whimpers, and his knuckles crack. He can't hold on. He can't hold on. He feels his grip slipping—

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!"

Agent Crawford's voice rings like a justice bell. From his angle, Will can only see Jack's gun blocking his countenance in a firm firing stance. He is backed by a dozen other officers, also wielding weapons.

Duff smiles softly. "Not so cliché after all."

"PUT YOUR GUN DOWN, AND STEP AWAY!"

Duff removes his boot from Will's hand and the empath gasps at the release of pressure. The professor slowly raises his hands and gets down on his knees, setting the gun down.

"Jack!" Will cries. His abused hands can no longer support him, and he slips…

For a moment, Graham views the swirl of concrete beneath him as if it is rushing up to meet him in an embrace. His vision spins like a carnival ride out of control, and he can taste Sumeet's fear as his own. In a matter of seconds, he knows what it was like to be Sumeet—hurtling towards one's fate. Like a penny thrown in a fountain.

Will's hands give way until another hand catches his right arm and he stops abruptly in mid-air. Dizzy, he looks up into Jack Crawford's wide eyes.

He's terrified.

"I got you, Will. I got you."

Other officers surround Jack, and he is being pulled out of the abyss and onto the flat pavement of the rooftop. His legs immediately sink as if he is placed on quicksand, and he can hear Crawford's voice humming in his head.

"Will, breathe. Breathe…"

TBC

A/N: I just started watching this show and can't get enough of it. It. Is. Just. Beautiful. The idea of this fic (basically mixing the plot of Hitchcock's Vertigo with the characters in Hannibal) came to me suddenly, and I couldn't not write it out. Hope you all enjoy the wild ride to come! Reviews are always welcome. Lots of Will angst and h/c too! Thanks for reading!

~Ista ^_^