A/N: Greetings! This idea came to me at four am and wouldn't leave me alone so this sort of happened. The title is from Sia's song Fire Meet Gasoline (listen to it while thinking of hannigram).

I would just like to warn you all that my writing tends to be fluff or angst or a weird combination of both, and I've never really written action/violence so bear with me if it's not the best - everyone has to start somewhere

Feel free to yell at me on here or over on tumblr (snaxo) if this starts to look too much like a retell or people are too OOC.

WARNINGS for: graphic violence, explicit sex, kind of major character death, cannibalism, minor homophobia, and erotic murder based dirty talk when we reach that part

Disclaimer: I don't own NBC Hannibal.

flame you came to me

fire meet gasoline

fire meet gasoline

i'm burning alive

The door opens with a loud bang, the sound reverberating throughout the empty hallway. It goes unnoticed; the adrenaline pumping in your veins, the too loud sound of your heartbeat in your ears, drowns everything else out. You follow his movements and travel swiftly to the kitchen, stopping dead when you see him; knife to a whimpering girl's throat, an all too familiar gleam in his eyes.

Your hands are, in the literal sense, already covered in blood. They tremble as you point the gun, silently pleading with him to, at the very least, spare the girl.

It's almost as if he smiles at you, mocks you, when he pulls the knife across her throat with an expert's ease.

You don't wait for him to do any more damage. You pull the trigger; once, twice, ten times. The sound of the gun can't be ignored, each shot shocks through your body from head to toe, and you can't help but feel—

Will wakes with a start at the annoying buzz of a phone vibrating against wood, at the series of bings, loud in his otherwise silent bedroom, indicating a phone call. Groaning, he reaches blindly for the rectangular device, fingers curling around it and bringing it to his ear.

"Will Graham."

"Special Agent Jack Crawford, FBI. May I come in?"

Hannibal's eyes flash over the identification card, the badge, and he nods, forcing a polite smile to his face. He pushes the door inwards and allows Jack to enter before him, watching as the other man takes in his office décor.

"May I ask what this is about?"

"Alana didn't tell you?" Jack asks, but doesn't wait for a reply. "Dr. Bloom showed me some of you work, it's very impressive. She recommended I get your assistance with one of my employees. Will Graham," he says, as if the name is supposed to mean anything to Hannibal.

"How would I be of assistance?"

"I need your help with a psychological profile. Will has a," he pauses, contemplating. "Unique skill. He can get inside the heads of serial killers, empathise with them."

Hannibal's interest peaks and he tilts his head to the side slightly, "You're worried for his wellbeing."

Jack nods, "He just killed a man. Shot him ten times. He's been a bit off since then, and he won't speak with anyone. I was hoping you'd be able to talk to him."

"You want me to determine his stability?"

"If you would."

Hannibal smiles softly, "I'm free seven-thirty tomorrow evening. If he agrees, I'll see him then."

The man who paces his waiting room at seven thirty the next day is not what Hannibal had expected.

Unlike the pristine suits Hannibal had grown to associate with federal agents, the man is dressed in ill-fitting red flannel, tucked haphazardly into dark beige pants. There are black framed glasses pressed to his face, and while it may be a trick of the light, Hannibal thinks the man's hands are shaking.

The gun holstered to the man's right hip does not go unnoticed.

"Will Graham?"

The body halts, head snapping in his direction. There is no smile, just a stoic face of indifference.

"Yes."

"Please, come in."

Will stares at him for a moment before entering the room, eyes flicking from wall to wall. "Do you usually have patients this late, doctor?"

"Not usually, no," Hannibal answers, hands clasped neatly behind his back while he watches the other man. "Is that what you are? A patient?"

"Would I be here if I weren't?"

"I was under the impression that we were merely going to have a conversation?"

"Were you?"

"Yes," Hannibal replies, standing perfectly still while the other man paces the length of the room. "Those were the instructions."

"I told Jack not to have me psychoanalysed."

"Why don't you tell me what happened, Will."

The shorter man stops his movements and looks at him again, making eye contact for a split second before looking away, contemplating. He's silent for a short while, and Hannibal waits, patiently, for Will to set the pace.

"Okay," he says quietly, moving to sit in one of the two chairs. He presses against the back cushion as Hannibal takes the other seat, head tilting back slightly as he closes his eyes, remembering.

…six, seven, eight. The body drops to the floor, chest covered in holes sweeping warm, sickly crimson. Holes you put there, with your hands stained in blood; now both literally and figuratively.

A burst of pleasure blossoms in your chest as you watch the other man gasp silently for air, the feeling only disappearing when the girl chokes, body curving in on itself. You drop to the floor next to her—

The small smile that had appeared on Will's face vanishes as quick as it came, and he opens his eyes, posture righting itself so he's looking in the general direction of the doctor.

"I'm sure you know I killed a man, Dr. Lecter."

"Indeed, I do."

"Then what else is there to know?"

"Circumstance."

"Circumstance?" Will asks, laughing humourlessly. "A murder is a murder," he says, and Hannibal can hear the sardonic tone; as if Will's repeating words once uttered to a past version of himself.

"Not always," he murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. "I hear this man was a serial killer. That he killed someone in front of you?"

"Two people," Will corrects, grimacing. "His wife and their daughter. Slit their throats."

Hannibal pays special attention to the way Will answers, looks for any showing of emotion, for a lack of it. He'd known the answers; Jack had told him as much.

"How did it make you feel?"

The humourless chuckle fills the room again, and Hannibal suppresses a smirk.

"Is that the best you've got, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal does smirk at that, eyes never leaving the other man's face. "Did the atrocities Garrett Jacob Hobbs commit make killing him feel good? Righteous?"

Hannibal allows himself to feel triumphant at the shocked expression he gets in return; the slight widening of eyes and parting of lips as Will stumbles for an answer.

"Did it please you?" Hannibal continues, voice so quiet it barely carries to where Will sits. "Did it become more pleasurable with each shot, Will? Is that why you pulled the trigger so many times?"

The man before him exhales a shuddering breath, one hand moving to rub at the dusting of stubble whilst the other holds the seat's arm rest, fingers digging into the cushion. Will's eyes close shut again, and Hannibal sees the smile emerge once more.

Pleasure. Yes, you remember the pleasure. The jittery excitement that caused your hands to tremble.

"Righteous?" Will repeats, the word rolling over his tongue as his eyes open to meet Hannibal's. "You could say that, yes."

"Agent Crawford believes you've been damaged," Hannibal tells him, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward in his chair. "That you're unstable."

"I'm not."

A small, knowing smile graces Hannibal's features when he replies; "I believe you."