Chapter Text
- 45 days prior to possession -
From a dingy alleyway, Hannibal Lecter crept out of the shadows and into the busy bustle of midday Baltimore. Humans obliviously passed him whilst their dogs cowered and whined worriedly, pawning at their owner’s legs. Hannibal smirked, eyes bleeding black as he adjusted to the daylight and his skin began to itch uncomfortably. It wasn’t painful, per se, it was more of a mild irritation. Demons such as himself were creatures of the dark. Sunlight was too bright and made them, for lack of better word, quite pissy. Hannibal, like most other demons, made a point of avoiding daytime strolls unless it was an absolute necessity.
Today was an absolute necessity.
A rude businessman shoved past an elderly old woman in front of Hannibal. The demon appraised him for a moment. Broad shouldered, strong, well suited for the job but no, he wouldn’t do. Much too rude. Hannibal stopped walking and stared at the steaming cup in the businessman’s hand. It exploded and hot coffee spilled down his pristine suit. There was a gasp of pain. A loud swear. Hannibal titled his head slightly, eyes flashing. The businessman tripped over a fire hydrant and fell directly into the line of traffic. There was a screeching sound as a car attempted to suddenly break and a loud thud as it failed to do so in time. Hannibal smirked, continuing on his merry way. He had no need to be discreet, after all. These paltry humans couldn’t see him unless he chose to reveal himself. Even then, he would only appear as a shadow in their peripheral vision, a flash of a face in the reflection of their mirror or, his personal favorite, a nightmarish creature haunting their dreams. Though Hannibal much preferred frightening them by moving objects or wreaking havoc in their minds, there were times when his tastes became a little more singular. It was all good fun manipulating objects and creating many “tragic accidents” but it could never quite compare to the splendor of murdering a human up close and personal, having them stare into your eyes as the life bled out of them, having them know it was you who did this to them.
Truth be told, Hannibal just wanted to be seen.
Unfortunately, for him to commit that kind of intimate murder, he would have to possess a body. It was a delicate affair. First, Hannibal would need to find a body weak enough that he could infiltrate. The sick, elderly and physically frail were the easier options. However, Hannibal would then have the limitations of having a less durable body to deal with or the frustration of having to keep up appearances of being weak. He couldn’t start sprinting after people in the body of an eighty-year old man, for instance. That left vessels sound of body but not of mind.
He passed a great deal of people, some even fitting his profile, but they didn’t tempt Hannibal, didn’t make him ache to be inside them puppeting their bodies. There would be no fun in snaring them.
Hannibal’s upper lip twitched. He was growing increasingly frustrated. Of course, he made sure to maintain a façade of cool collectiveness. It was important that he was not perceived as weak by any other demons who were looking for a fight. Not that Hannibal wouldn’t annihilate them, he was just rather fond of the suit he was wearing.
Oh, it had been years since his last proper killing spree. Such a shame that Francis Dolarhyde was caught. It had been so amusing creating hallucinations of a dragon controlling his actions and the mirrors Hannibal had left on the corpses were so beautifully symbolic. He had outdone himself, really! But he had pushed Dolarhyde too far and he’d self-destructed. He should have left the woman alone, shouldn’t have turned her, shouldn’t have let Dolarhyde see him turn her. All that was left of his beloved vessel now was a building raised to the ground and a pair of dentures. Hannibal would be careful not to do the same a second time. He wanted a vessel, a home, he could return to.
As though his wishes were heard by Satan himself, a crime scene materialized in front of him. Instantly intrigued by the promise of gore and violence that awaited him, Hannibal walked through the yellow police tape. That’s when he saw him with the faint sweet-smelling scent of slowly developing encephalitis pouring off his mind in enticing waves. He was not the perpetrator, oh no, yet he was not part of the milling FBI agents. It was clear in the way he stood, a little apart. Curiouser and curioser.
The man, who was not FBI, was standing over a headless corpse slumped against a swing set. He seemed to be ignoring the head which was posed above a slide, eyes and mouth open in a garish smile: the kind of Jacko lantern Hannibal could get behind. The body that was being scrutinized in such detail was also nude. There was scratches and cuts on the skin where the attacker had become a little too rough in the disrobement. Hannibal licked his lips, appetite whetted.
“I know you. Know what you do to young children,” the man spoke, voice devoid of emotion. “I see you lead them away by their hands to the bushes while their parents aren’t looking. I will take away your head, your leering eyes and separate it from your greatest weapon, your body. I will leave you here, the place you love oh so much so everyone will know your secret and they will all be disgusted. I have done society a favour. They will thank me.”
The man’s eyes flickered open after his spiel was finished. A profiler then with such perception, such a knack for the monsters. Hannibal knew in that instant that this man would be the one. This human would bridge the gap between the demonic and the human world for Hannibal. Already he tettered on the brink of both worlds. He would be the perfect vessel.
The man blinked and groaned loudly, clutching at his forehead.
“Are you okay, Will?” a deep voice demanded.
“Yeah.” His human, who apparently went by the name of Will, smiled weakly. “Nothing but a small headache, Jack. I just need some aspirin.”
Will’s superior clapped him on the back and gave him a nod. Dismissed, he stumbled towards his car, rubbing his eyes tiredly. His back was slouched. The dark circles under his eyes showcased his fatigue to the world. His sickness was heady and hung around him like a cloud. A drug to Hannibal’s senses.
Silently following, Hannibal climbed into the passenger seat of Will’s car, doing a quick assessment. Around forty, well built, emotionally drained, suffering from sleep deprivation and his brain was burning. Oh yes, he was magnificent, absolutely perfect for Hannibal’s devious purposes. All Hannibal would have to do is wait until he’d had become a little weaker and the connection between them had formed before striking on his already tattered immune system with a possession. The demon should slide into his vessel quite nicely then. Gently, like a warm bath.
Hannibal settled more comfortably into his seat, content.
Will turned on the ignition and drove home, completely unaware of the uninvited guest in his car.
----:----
Will fitfully slept, muttering under his breath, his body shaking as sweat beaded on his brow and rolled down his temple. He was suffering tremendously. It was beautiful. Hannibal could have stood there all night watching him but there were things that needed to be done. A great many things, in fact, starting with making Will’s body accommodating for Hannibal’s demonic energy. Otherwise, there was a possibility that his body would reject the demon. Just like alcohol, if too much of Hannibal entered Will’s body at a time and his body became aware of the unhealthy intrusion, it would work hard to dispel it. And much like a hangover, the results would not be pretty. However, if Hannibal slowly introduced himself bit by bit through his blood, the vessel’s body wouldn’t notice the initial and slowly increasing amount of demon, allowing Will’s tolerance to build up until he could take Hannibal fully.
Hannibal crouched down beside Will, waiting until he’d rolled onto his back into the perfect position. Will didn’t disappoint and a moment later he did exactly that. His mouth parted on a snore as more garbled nonsense left his mouth. Hannibal slit his wrist with his claw like fingertips and held his bleeding arm over Will. The blood fell steadily from the wound and landed on Will’s plump pink lips. It looked rather fetching on Will. Skin made to be painted with blood. Will flinched in his sleep. Hannibal murmured some words under his breath. Instantly, the black essence began to crawl past Will’s lips and into his mouth. Coughing and spluttering, Will writhed around. His hands rose to his face subconsciously, clawing at his neck, trying to expel the thick liquid but the blood had a mind of its own and moved with determination down his throat. Will was gasping heavily now, body spasming as Hannibal’s blood began to enter his body and taint his insides. Work complete, Hannibal leaned back, crossing his legs as he intently watched the suffering man.
Humans had television to entertain themselves. Demons had this.
Will screamed, eyes flashing open as he suddenly became very conscious. He ran for the toilet, stumbling blindly in the dark, stubbing his foot in the process and cursing loudly. A terrible sick feeling made him desperately want to vomit. Hannibal’s blood would not allow his feeble human body to reject it though. Instead, the black substance began its reshaping and accommodating. Will toppled over as another wave of agony made his vision whiten. He crawled the rest of the way to the toilet with trembling arms.
“Oh God,” Will gagged, head hanging low as he moaned hoarsely. Will was not a religious man but he would gladly convert to any religion if it meant stopping this hellish pain. Had he eaten something bad? Was this a terrible case of food poisoning? He jerked as his insides began to contract and squeeze. Bile began to rise in his throat and he began to retch but nothing came out. This must be what dying feels like. Like your seams are splitting apart.
Something moved. Will tensed as he felt his stomach. It bulged and compressed. Something had bloody well shifted inside of him. A burning sensation started that engulfed every cell in his body and suddenly his stomach was the least of his concerns. Will could take a lot, had taken a lot, but that was the final straw. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed in a faint.
Hannibal caught Will and then gently lowered him down to the cool tile floor, coddling him in his arms as though he were a precious thing. Feeling rather impressed all the while. Will had maintained consciousness longer than most humans did during their first injection of demon blood. His Will seemed to be full of surprises. Oh yes, he’d chosen wisely. Hannibal’s heart began to race as the first tendrils of excitement began to bloom in his chest. It had been so very long since someone had surprised Hannibal, better yet a human. There was only Mischa and it ached to think about her.
Kneeling beside Will’s convulsing body, Hannibal pressed his hand against Will’s sweaty forehead and stroked at his hair the way one would a dog that had performed well for its owner.
“Rest now, good Will,” Hannibal purred. “You’ll need your strength.”