#behaviorisms

character headcanons. / accepting. / @behaviorisms

there had been a time when frank thought the only life he could possibly be predisposed to was a cop after he left the marines, if he ever did outside of a body bag. he even got his bachelor's degree in criminal justice half because of that reason - the other half was for quicker promotions and better MOSes. but he once thought he wanted to be a cop, but it was from the inspiration that drove him to be a marine. he didn’t have any aspirations of fixing the system he’s come to an understanding is inherently broken. he knows now his own complicity would’ve made a career as a cop a short-lived one. his own complicity in the war machine as a marine sends him reeling now, now that he has self-awareness that being worn to the bone in the marines did not fully grant. he’s always known his role has never been heroic, not as a marine, not now, and that he’s never been a good person - but now, he’s not a gun pointed by politicians. he works on his own agenda. 

    𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙾𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈 𝙳𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙴𝙳 𝙷𝙸𝙼, 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙸𝙱𝙰𝙻 𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙿 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙻𝙴𝙳𝙶𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙻 𝙾𝙵 𝙵𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶.  historically, his personal preference has skewed more toward hunting, towards trapping, but he has tried his hand at it before—knows the thrill that comes with a fish’s first tentative nibble at carefully selected bait, the sense of power and superiority that arises from convincing an animal of its safety only to pierce the fragile cartilage of its lip.  there is something equally exhilarating in reeling in a predator.  in doing so without pretense—in baring the hook, and watching an animal wrap its mouth around the barb all the same.

    “as with a wound on one’s own body, it is possible to develop an intimacy with the most disturbing of things,”    he says, holding will’s gaze.  he can see his own reflection in the glass—a constant reminder of his confinement and exhibition, but hannibal finds a perverse pleasure in the sight of his image superimposed upon will’s.  a visual representation of the blurring of boundaries, the exchange of self.  his influence has permeated the barriers between them and seeped into will’s skin like rainwater on rich soil.  what was it you saw in my face?  the light of your own face, the fire of your own presence?    “his transformation has granted him freedom.  glory.  this dragon has shed the skin of his old life and emerged powerful and glistening beneath a radiant sun.”

    as though punctuating his response, hannibal subtly inclines his chin; the specter of a smile hovers about his lips.  he can nearly smell will’s emotion, and basks in the meaning to which he dares not give voice.  between the two of them, hannibal may be the one imprisoned, but that does not mean will is free.  the shackles of his past are about his ankles still—hannibal drags heavy behind him, a weight of which he will never be free.  the notion pleases hannibal, for he has come to realize that he himself is equally ensnared.  there’s an undeniable poetry in that sort of reciprocity, however inconvenient it may be.

If he’s being honest with himself, he expected police presence.  He’d suspect Jack himself to be hiding somewhere among the brush and wilderness of Will’s cabin but he sees nothing, hears nothing, smells nothing -- nothing of any note.  He doesn’t knock -- doesn’t especially care if that’s rude.   Given the lack of attention to the place, he expects it to be empty ... imagine his surprise to find the door unlocked and someone still home. 

“good. i like it ---- that he likes me. he’s sweet.” 

he’s careful to let achilles sniff him properly before scratching him good behind the ears,down his back, until he stands at his full height to enter the house, setting the bag of food and bottle to start stripping from his coat. he’s got a sweater and jeans and boots on, teeth chattering from the cold by the time will hands him a finger of whiskey. he clinks his glass against will’s as he kicks it back with a grunt. a smile spreads over his features in return, feeling a tail whacking at his legs as a snout sniffs at his fingers. 

“I see that ‘poster boy for mutant inclusion in law enforcement’ thing you had going for you crashed and burned, Agent. The Registration Act lobbyists love you these days, and god knows that’s not a compliment to any of us.”

Will Graham—if he has a real name he doesn’t use it in public—hasn’t been FBI for more than a year, and he’s gone from hero to pariah back to hero and gotten unceremoniously dropped off at cautionary tale. Agent still slides off her smiling lips like a curse as she pours Will a glass of whiskey.

“I’d ask how you found me, but I’ve dealt with telepaths before. You’re subtle, I’ll give you that, but I’ve seen much better.” Mystique crosses long legs, eyeing Graham up and down with her currently-hazel eyes. “So I don’t have to tell you what I’ll do to you if you’re thinking of turning me in, do I?”

Her eyes flash yellow, but her smile doesn’t waver.

Will is far more tactile with his environment than he is with people, particularly when he’s agitated. Not only does he pace, he seems to feel compelled to reflect his own internal disarray on the space around him. This evening, just about everything on Hannibal’s desk has been left out of place as Will circles the area, staying within an acceptable distance for conversation to carry on without Hannibal needing to stand up while he picks things up and puts things down with no regard to each item’s careful placement, a palpable hum of irritation in his every movement.

Hannibal finds he doesn’t consider it rude.

Least of all when his irritation is pointed in a practical direction.

The crime scene had not been especially remarkable, and it certainly hadn’t been Hannibal’s work, but there were organs removed, albeit poorly. Jack was still desperate for leads on the Ripper after the unfortunate Mr. Silvestri had, of course, gotten them nowhere, the wound from his failure with Miriam Lass too recently reopened for him to be willing to let the matter lie despite the obvious signs that it was unrelated. He had called Hannibal, ironically expecting that his involvement with Silvestri’s capture would give him unique insight, and, of course, he had also called Will.

Will had seen the sloppy, amateurish work for the pale imitation it was instantly, and Hannibal had found himself making a conscious effort not to appear moved as Will launched into a defense of the Chesapeake Ripper’s—of his—artistic integrity with the passion of an appreciator of the Renaissance masters, while Jack—quite reasonably, Hannibal recognized, past his own personal bias—had been far from entertained. No one could blame him. With a dying wife, a supposedly dead trainee, his overwhelming guilt over both and a deep-seated personal grudge against the killer in question (even as he unknowingly dined with him a few times a month) the last thing he’d wanted to hear from his bloodhound was admiration.

I don’t want to hear another word about the Ripper out of you unless it’s about how to catch that freak. Will had hardly been chastened, but knew when to quit with Jack.

And now he’s making a mess of Hannibal’s office acting as though he’s not angry about it. The former is acceptable; the latter won’t do. Hannibal watches Will reposition the letter opener for the third time and quietly clears his throat.