The Yuri on Ice Hannibal-ish AU

[pearwaldorf]

I honestly have no idea what the fuck this is. I started it as a writing exercise, I suppose, to see if you could make two incredibly tonally dissonant fandoms work together, and then I dusted it off after I finished Hannibal. I'm still not sure I succeeded, because Hannibal drags everything darker by necessity. Is this a version of Viktor Nikiforov I could believe exists? I suppose. I think I would probably have to do a lot of work on Yuri Katsuki, if this were a thing I wanted to continue. 

(To be honest, the thing that made me stop the first time was the realization Yuri Plisetsky would logically be Abigail Hobbs, and that just made my brain blue-screen. And then I realized this is my goddamn AU and I can pick and choose what I want from each canon. So Georgiana Plisetsky is a person who exists. 

It also occurred to me today JJ Leroy would make a perfectly good Frederick Chilton, and it made me laugh.)

Content notes: murder, brief description of gore, contemplation of the criminal mind

---

In the aftermath of a murder, there are a surprising number of people present at the crime scene. It’s always more than expected: the initial police response, crime scene technicians, detectives, the usual looky-loos, sometimes the media. Even with the crowd, it’s hard not to notice Viktor Nikiforov making his way towards the house. He is tall, dressed in a long dark coat. His hair is stark white despite an obvious lack of age, and his light blue eyes are sharp, taking in the gruesome scene in front of him. 

 

Mila, one of the CSIs, looks up from one of the bodies at his approach. It’s the wife, fallen next to the alarm console she desperately tried to reach as she was shot. There is blood spray on the wall. 

 

“The husband’s in there,” Mila jerks her head towards the kitchen, where a pool of blood coagulates on the tile. 

 

“Did he shoot himself?” Viktor asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

 

“Nope!” Sara, the other half of the usual CSI team, pops up from behind the granite counter. “You know Yakov wouldn’t have called you out here for a run of the mill spousal murder-suicide.”

 

“Indeed not.” Already he’s putting together details from what he’s observed. There’s just one last thing he needs put in place before he can report back to Yakov.

 

“A moment, ladies, if you would?” 

 

“Yeah, of course.” Mila beckons Sara over, and they leave the vicinity. 

 

It’s not that he couldn’t work with people there—he has before, but it’s easier by himself when he doesn’t feel like a circus bear doing tricks on command. He closes his eyes, focuses on his breath, the quiet whoosh of blood in his ears. 

 

He kicks the front door open. (Weak screws and flimsy jambs, he notices; his lip curling in a contemptuous sneer at his victims’ faith in the alarm system.) The wife actually rushes towards him, trying to hit the panic button on the alarm console. He shoots her in the chest, far enough away that he’s out of the spray zone. 

 

The husband is in the kitchen, still attempting to process what has just happened in front of him. He is frozen, pinned to the floor. Viktor pauses a moment before he shoots the husband, also in the chest. The impact knocks him back against the refrigerator, but he staggers, taking a step or two forward before falling prone. He reaches out an arm towards his wife before severe blood loss lapses his consciousness. 

 

“His last thought was of you,” he murmurs, before he slips out a side entrance. “Truly, until death do us part.” 

 

Viktor opens his eyes, back amongst the wreckage. Yakov Feltsman is standing near him, a paper cup of something hot in his hand. Viktor takes it gratefully and sips. It’s spiced tea, fragrant and sharp with a touch of honey. He looks over at Yakov in surprise.

 

“Lilia insisted,” Yakov says sheepishly. Viktor wasn’t aware they were in contact enough for Yakov’s ex-wife to know of his whereabouts, but the tea is very good. 

 

Yakov jerks his head towards the house. “What did you find out about our killer friend?”

 

“Impersonal, but deeply motivated by something in his past. Probably brought to his attention by a newspaper notice of some sort--a round number anniversary most likely.” 

 

“Huh.” Yakov taps on his phone, brings up the local newspaper website. He tilts the screen so Viktor can see the couple in the house during happier times. “30 years. I can tell you Lilia and I were lucky to make it half that.” 

 

“If it makes you feel any better, this leaves you both safely out of this killer’s path.” 

 

Yakov snorts. “Small blessings.” 

 

Somebody by the house calls Yakov’s name, and he sighs. “And here’s where my fun begins. Go get some rest, Vitya.” He produces a thermos from a pocket and hands it to him. “Drink the rest of that when you wake up, or Lilia will yell at me.” 

 

Viktor makes a noise: more than a huff, but not quite a laugh. “Even if it’s my fault, you probably deserve it.” 

 

He sets the thermos on the passenger seat after making sure the lid is secure. The drive back to his house in the country is quiet, uneventful. 

 

When he opens the door, Makkachin, his poodle, is waiting for him, staring expectantly. 

 

“Come on,” Viktor says, heading towards the bedroom. She bounds ahead, jumping on the mattress. When he gets into bed, she sniffs his face and hair curiously, making sure everything is as it should be. 

 

“Nothing strange, just the usual terrible cruelties of humanity.” He scratches her head and behind her ears and she sighs in contentment. Whatever else happens, this remains a constant. 

 

He turns off the light on the bedside table and burrows further under the covers, feeling Makkachin’s comforting weight at his back. He is too tired to dream, but wakes as the sun is coming up. 

 

The thermos sits on the kitchen counter, where he left it when he came inside. He takes a drink directly from the container. It is still warm from the night before.

 

--

 

Viktor looks up from his laptop when he hears a knock. Chris Giacometti leans in the doorway of Viktor’s loaner office, fond irritation on his face.

 

“Do you know what time it is?” Chris shoves his Apple Watch into Viktor’s face. It’s 45 minutes after Viktor said he’d meet Chris for lunch. 

 

“I’m sorry, I got all wrapped up in this report.” Viktor hits save on the file and shuts his laptop emphatically. “I’ll buy you lunch.” 

 

“Hell yes you will. You’re lucky I don’t start gnawing on you right now, I’m so hangry.” 

 

Viktor laughs. Chris is one of those assholes who eats like a black hole and never gains weight. 

 

--

 

The waiter takes their order, and Chris looks across the table. “So what was so engrossing about this case that you nearly stood me up?” 

 

“The contrast, mostly.” Chris gives him an uncomprehending eyebrow raise. “You’ve looked at the file. The victims were chosen at random, but the animus behind the murders runs deep. What happened in this guy’s past that would cause him to inflict such pain on strangers?” 

 

“Do you mean to tell me Viktor “Ice Queen” Nikiforov has an inkling about human connection?” Chris clutches his heart theatrically. 

 

“Fuck you,” Viktor replies easily. In the past, that might have been an actual snarl. But he and Chris have been friends and exes and friends long enough he understands it comes from a place of concern. 

 

Their soup and salad course arrives, and Viktor stabs at his greens with a little more force than necessary. “If anything, my tendency towards isolation gives me insight into why this guy would do this.” 

 

“It’s not method acting, Viktor. You don’t need to literally put yourself into the mindset of somebody like that to profile them.” Chris’s voice is gentle. 

 

“I don’t, you’re right. But it’s not something I’m doing deliberately. It just… ends up that way.” 

 

Chris scoffs. “To borrow a fishing metaphor, you can float with the current or you can act deliberately to get to a place you want to be. There’s no reason you have to live alone in a big drafty house in the back woods of Virginia.”

 

“I’m not alone. Makkachin’s there too.” 

 

“I love her, you know I do, but she’ll still eat you if you die and the kibble runs out.” 

 

“Then I will have served one last purpose for the being I love most in the world.” He smiles calmly, just to be a shit. 

 

Chris throws up his hands in defeat. “You’re a real morbid asshole, you know that?” 

 

“It’s not my fault the only palatable music in my foster home’s collection was Leonard Cohen and Elliott Smith.” 

 

“I wish somebody had shoved ABBA down your throat. Maybe you’d be more well-adjusted.” 

 

Viktor twirls his linguini around his fork. “Perhaps. Or maybe I’d just learn to hide it better.” 

 

Chris scowls and concentrates very hard on his primavera, but doesn’t rebut. Viktor will count that as a win, for now.