Chapter Text
Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.
- William Shakespeare; The Tempest
There is a beauty in confliction. There is a serenity in the contrast of bright stars against a dark sky, a cool drink of water in the middle of a drought, a fire warming your body as it shivers. Polarity is necessary, for that is how we achieve perfection: through the perfect combination of both sides.
No one knew this better than the Devil. The antithesis of God's Light, both of them knew exactly how to manipulate each element. They created a homeostatic world, a world where everything came together in perfect harmony. With each element came an Angel, and with each Angel came a little help. The Creators needed it, for they had a lot to take care of.
The first rift in Heaven's perfection was when the Angels began to get hurt. It began with the interaction between Tranquility and Chaos, their mere presence around each other creating a burst of harmful energy that ended up traumatizing them both. It was then that the Creators learned that some elements just do not mix. They cannot.
Lucifer stayed with Tranquility for days until the Angel finally healed from his injuries, caring for him and protecting him from further damage. He brought Rain and Joy and Pleasure to sit with him, their musical laughter echoing in the sky. God did not do the same for His Angel Chaos.
Heaven moved along smoothly no matter the circumstances. When Angels began to get hurt, the Creators implemented rules for their safety. The Angels would do anything to protect each other; they loved each other, and the Creators loved them dearly. They were all equally vital to the world's beating heart.
The rift turned into a chasm with the creation of humans.
It was God's idea: to create a species similar to the Angels, just without the powers. They could have the capacity to worship, to idolize the Creators and carry on their sacred missions on Earth. Spread their love as far as the humans could take it. Strengthen their faith by giving them free will; if they have the ability to turn away from the Creators, and yet they refuse to, that would mean their faith was even more unwavering. Those, God said, were the kind of humans that would be valuable.
Lucifer wanted no part in it. His Angels were enough, he said. He was in love with all of his Angels; they were important to him. He didn't need anyone else's worship, as they were always going to be enough for him. Weren't God's Angels enough for Him? Or would He keep seeking?
God conceded, and Lucifer figured that the conversation was over. It wouldn't be brought up again.
Then one night, while watching Tranquility create something beautiful, the mirror to the world below reflected something completely new. Angels on the ground, on the Earth, Angels without wings and with darker skin.
Tranquility had gasped. "Angels," he'd whispered. "Why are they down there? Where are their wings?"
Lucifer, enraged, had shaken his head and walked away.
There was harmony-- up until one side decided they were better than the other.
Up until one side decided to take matters into his own hands.
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Doctor Hannibal Lecter sat in his office, legs crossed in his chair as the voice of one of his patients droned over his head. Franklyn cried, clearly in despair, but Hannibal's face remained smooth as stone. He wasn't paying any attention, but over the years he had learned how to expertly appear that way. He couldn't discuss anything with Franklyn, couldn't witness such gross displays of narcissism without wanting to scoff. How, he asked himself, could humans be so absorbed in themselves that they don't notice what's right in front of them? They were animals, plain and simple. Franklyn was pitiful, a kicked puppy, only much more disgusting.
He glanced down at his watch, watching the second hand tick over to the exact minute. Five o'clock. Perfect. Franklyn had devolved from words into just crocodile tears, so Hannibal didn't have to worry about interrupting him.
"Franklyn," he stood, "I think this week has been very productive. I want you to think about what you've told me. Convince yourself that this anxiety you feel has no power over you in the end."
It was just vague enough for Franklyn to agree. He wiped his eyes and stood, babbling on about some sort of small talk, but Hannibal again refused to listen. He walked Franklyn to the exit, ready to end this long day.
There was a dark-skinned man sitting on one of the couches of the lounge. At the sound of the door, he stood, slightly shorter than Hannibal with close cropped hair. He held out his hand to Franklyn, which Franklyn took with confusion.
"Doctor Lecter!" The man said, smiling slightly. He had a gap between his two front teeth. "Glad to--"
"I hate to be discourteous," Hannibal interjected, "but this is a private exit for my patients."
The man froze, embarrassment creeping up his face. Franklyn maintained his constantly nervous expression. "Oh, Doctor Lecter," the man chuckled, hiding his shame. "Sorry. Um.." He held up his credentials for Hannibal to see. "Special Agent Jack Crawford. May I come in?"
"You may wait in the waiting room." He turned to Franklyn. "I'll see you next week." Franklyn nodded, seemingly desperate to get out of there, until Hannibal stopped him. "Unless, of course, this is about him?" He wouldn't be surprised. Franklyn was unsettling at times.
Crawford paused. "No, no," he replied. "This is all about you."
Moments later, Hannibal quickly scanned his office for anything out of the ordinary. He usually kept his personal life very far from the workplace, so there wasn't much for him to fix. He glanced down at his sketches, rifling through the stack until he stopped at the sight of his Wound Man replica. He smirked to himself, leaving the drawing right near the top of the stack. How entertaining it would be for it to go unnoticed.
As an agent for the FBI, Jack Crawford was a rather high-profile man to be visiting Doctor Lecter. He figured that something must have been very wrong, that his image was under scrutiny. But that couldn't be-- there was no evidence against him. He would always be considered an innocent man, as far as he was concerned.
His nerves were also tampered down by Jack Crawford's already insufferable personality. He was loud, stubborn, and insistent. He seemed to be in his own world as he spoke with the doctor; Hannibal knew how to pick up on emotion quite well. Crawford was the one who was nervous. The realization made Hannibal smile triumphantly.
He opened the door to the waiting room, watching Crawford hop up from his chair. "Please," he said, knowing exactly how petty he was being. "Come in."
"Can I ask how this is all about me?" He asked, closing the door and masking the sound of the lock with his voice. Jack wasn't going to leave unless Hannibal wanted him to.
"You can, but I may have to ask you a few questions first." Crawford smiled, pointing towards him. He paused. "You expecting another patient?"
"We're all alone." And you're stuck. I could slit your disgusting throat right here and no one would be the wiser.
"Good." Crawford clearly didn't know how to pick up on tone. He paced, observing the room around him. He came to a stop at the small table with the stack of drawings, letting out a noise of approval as he stared at the top one. "These yours, Doctor?"
"Among the first." Right under your nose. Literally right there. Oh, you pig. He pointed to the drawing of the building. "My boarding school in Paris, when I was a boy."
"The amount of detail is incredible." Crawford seemed genuinely impressed, which softened Hannibal a miniscule amount. Still, he methodically picked up the wooden pencil and the scalpel, shaving the wood off of the tip.
"Very early on, I learned that a scalpel cuts better points than a pencil sharpener," he remarked.
"I can see why your drawings earned you an internship at Johns Hopkins."
Jack meandered off, moving onto the next thing, and Hannibal gripped the scalpel tightly in his hands. He'd gotten that internship simply because he'd wanted it, and the world would give him anything he wished for. He didn't appreciate Jack's nosy disposition: coming into the office, rifling through all of his things, dodging the reason that he was really here. He licked his lips as he imagined blood spilling from Crawford's insides, taking a bite of the lungs. Maybe then his breath would be used for something productive.
"I'm beginning to suspect that you're investigating me, Agent Crawford," he said, fiddling with the scalpel in his hands. The gleam of the metal was hypnotizing, oh so enticing.
"Hm? Oh, no, no." Jack's laughter caught Hannibal off guard, a rare occurrence. "No, you were referred to me by Doctor Alana Bloom. Psychology Department at Georgetown?"
Hannibal smiled softly at the memory. "Most psychology departments are filled with personality deficients. Doctor Bloom would be the exception." He set the scalpel back down in its place.
"Yes, she would," Jack chuckled. "She told me you were her mentor at Johns Hopkins."
"I learned as much from her as she did from me."
"She told me about your paper. Evolutionary..Evolutionary Origins of..Social Exclusion?" Hannibal nodded along. "Very interesting. Even for a layman." Crawford smirked.
"Layman?" Hannibal tilted his head, playing along. "So many hours roaming the halls of FBI Behavioral Science, and you consider yourself layman?" It was a ruse. Of course Jack was a layman. He was nothing compared to Hannibal-- Hannibal was better than him in every way and he knew it. He had a couple billion years of experience compared to him.
"I do when I'm in your company, Doctor."
And with that, Jack had him. Hannibal's expression softened, satisfied with the stroking of his ego. He knew exactly what Jack was playing at, but he figured it was best to follow along. Perhaps he had something interesting to offer. Something to entertain him on this boring earth for a little while. New people to meet, to test.
Jack's expression finally turned more serious. "I need you to help me with a psychological profile."