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Today was another tense session. More discussion of murder than was usually warranted in any of the other regular private practice sessions Hannibal had—but then again, Will Graham had been peculiar from the start.
Moments ago they sat across from each other, Hannibal’s true agenda hidden behind a sharp stare (as was Will’s.) It was hard to believe this was the man that tried to murder him only months ago. He had come into his true nature so beautifully. Hannibal couldn’t help but feel proud.
They talked a lot—about Alana Bloom and Margot and other needless distractions Will had in his life. He didn’t need this effeminate pity that was seemingly showered upon him by these women. He needed a guide, one with a similar mind. What Will needed was Hannibal. He would eventually realize this.
After the session, Will remarked that he’d run out of snacks for his dogs. All of his blabbering about Milkbones and Greenie Brushes made the killer’s mind wander back to the dry-aged meat he had stored in his fridge; with a little dehydration, he could make some delicious jerky. The recipe practically made itself in the killer’s mind. Fold a mix of sweet potatoes, spinach, and pumpkin into the ground pork of a long pig. Separate batter into scoops and mold into dog bones. Bake at 350 for one hour. Will would probably love them—he wouldn’t thank Hannibal, he never did. Will was always guarded. He always expected a catch. He was the one dog in his pack that never rolled over, never giving anyone the chance to claw at his sensitive underbelly.
If he provided that safety, maybe Will would submit to him then—the image of Will on his knees flickered in the back of Hannibal’s mind like a damaged tape on a reel-to-reel. But Hannibal didn’t want that. He wanted the image of Will standing by his side, doused in blood, truly and finally equals. The man who embodies empathy changed to be existence in its rawest form. An example of humanity.
If not submission, then perhaps Will just needed a gentle hand, one that offered unreturned kindness and stroked his fur. One that could take all of Will’s emotional frustration with a stone-cold gait, never wavering. The dog treats could be an olive branch between their waning gap. A sharp, unspoken truce to cut through the tension between them. He could make them for Will.
No, he would.
-
“What’s that?” Will asked, one week later on a Tuesday at seven-thirty in the evening—the moment Hannibal opened the door to his office for Will’s appointment.
Will stormed right through the door frame. He ignored Hannibal’s usual greeting in favor of investigating the brown paper bag on his therapist’s desk. If he wasn’t being drawn in by the odd sight, it would’ve definitely been from the smell. Sharp notes of salt, sweet potato, and meat already had Hannibal’s sensitive nose twitching. Will paused, standing stock still at the edge of Hannibal’s mahogany desk. His eyes never left the bag. Closing the door after a moment, Hannibal resigned to follow after him.
“Treats for your dogs. The pack has to stay strong, don’t you agree?”
Hannibal studied the man before him as he approached. Will was delicate in many of his features, but even the untrained eye could see the tempered embers within his gaze. The mind on fire behind his flitting-about eyes. He was disheveled today, clearly groggy from a lack of sleep and it also looked like Will had lost a pound or two. Hannibal made a mental note to suggest dinner this week. As he crossed the room, each step the doctor took made his dress shoes clack against the hardwood floor, the sound causing Will to visibly tense.
“Do you want them?” Hannibal tested, pausing just in front of the desk. His narrowed eyes held an emotion Will couldn’t recognize.
A suspicious pause.
A moment of deliberation.
Will’s anxious, calculating glare finally gave way to his curiosity. The ever-present need to know and discover that carves a one-way path in Will’s mind. It’s something Hannibal has always taken advantage of. The man’s brain was built for finding clues and investigating the truth—he would always want to know, even if it hurt him in the end.
Even if it killed him.
He took the homemade dog treats in his grasp. Snached would be a better adjective to use, but Hannibal was too focused on Will’s reaction to muddy his thoughts with anything other than the scene before him. He waited, watching in that eerily stalking way of his as Will turned the brown paper sack in his hands, studying it but not opening it just yet. The bag itself was vague and unassuming, but he was an (unofficial) FBI profiler, he could tell something was up.
“So, what is it? Beef, chicken, or some low-grade minimum wage worker you snatched off the street?”
Hannibal’s thin lips turned upwards in a dark, yet bemused smile. A ghost of barely-there emotion that he couldn’t suppress.
“You are insulting me, Will,” the killer stalked back into his office, gesturing to the seat opposite of him. The one Will always sat in.
“You of all people should know how selective I am with my ingredients.”
Will nearly laughed. “Yeah, yeah,” he drawled instead, leaning back into his chair just as he was leaning back into his role as patient zero. A silence fell between them as Will tapped his foot against the hardwood floor. Then he grimaced, like it took real effort to say what he said next.
“Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper. The word bounced off the bookshelves around the room and settled between the two of them, heavy with unsaid connotations.
The carnal smile did not leave Hannibal’s face. It might have stretched even wider, but Will wasn’t paying attention. He was preoccupied with a corner of the bag, folding and unfolding the sack in an anxious processing mannerism that Will was likely unaware he was even doing.
“Now, where shall we begin?”
-
It was nine-thirty in the evening and Hannibal was dressing down for bed. The true vision of a powerful stag as he slowly unbuttoned each part of his ensemble, removing his legitimate (and metaphorical) person-suit, you could say.
The picture: fine blonde hair falling across a predator’s eyes, his sense alluding him as he recedes into the recesses of his own mind.
He’s thinking of Will as he undoes every button.
Clad in a pair of plain gray boxers (except they could never be plain as Hannibal has everything tailored), the predator strides over to his crackling hearth—the warmth of the fireplace casting an ominous glow in the shrouded room.
Ding!
Hannibal’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, ever unusual for this hour. Perhaps it was Jack Crawford, contacting him with yet another detail of a crime scene that he created. The corner of Hannibal’s mouth ticked up ever-so-slightly in amusement. Might as well go and investigate.
Upon checking his phone, the other side of his smile joined in. He had just received a text from Will Graham; the same Will Graham that only texted him to ask about appointment times and if Hannibal wanted to carpool to a crime scene. Highly unusual but not unwelcome. Ever a visionary, Hannibal pre-constructed possible reasons for this message as he was opening it. The bright light of his phone illuminated his gaunt features, highlighting his jutting cheekbones and sharp jawline. Angular, dangerous, fit to kill. His eyes widened fractionally as he read what Will had to say.
Sent at 9:31 pm:
Winston is hogging them.
Attached was a photo of Winston, one of Graham’s wilder strays, mid tail-wag, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he stares up at the camera. The photo is “live” and Hannibal presses his finger against the screen to unravel the scene before him.
The photo comes to life—Will is laughing, bright and colorful behind the camera as he holds a treat above the pooch’s head. Much like his admission of gratitude earlier that day, the sound bounced off the walls of Hannibal's mind and echoed throughout his empty bedroom. The fireplace seemed to flicker in response, the destructive force responding in turn to such joy. The live continues and Winston whines before jumping up to grab the jerky out of his owner’s hand.
Hannibal plays it again.
He eventually goes to sleep with his phone in his hand.
The killer knows murderous intentions—manic desires and the meticulously chaotic order of his own mind.
And yet, he has no nightmares.
He dreams of laughter instead of icy stares. Gentle caresses instead of the blunt push of a blade. Domesticity: something foreign to the both of them. Hannibal craves the dark parts of Will, the ones he awakened that have blossomed so beautifully.
Does Will crave this as well?
The warmth of a body next to him at night—sharing his space, his bed, his home. The sound of forks tinking across dishware as they eat a morning meal together. The feeling of trust: a concept that hasn’t existed in either of their playbooks for so long.
Could he really have that? They weren’t God’s favorites. It was never in the cards.
But what if someone were to shuffle the deck?
-
“One…and you’re done.”
Will was a relatively simple man.
“Then, add another little twist here and you’re good to go.”
Despite his rapidly fluctuating mental state.
“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal nodded.
He merely watched Will with rapt attention as nimble hands spun around a fishing fly, tying all the materials together with layers of thin but strong fishing line. Feathers were added as he pulled it snug.
Hannibal was in awe of the lean musculature of Will’s nimble fingers. His tendons tensing and releasing as he controls every practiced movement—flexing, pushing, and pulling in a perfect craftsman’s display. It was inspiring; it made Hannibal want to cook. To put on his own version of this show for Will before feeding it to him, relishing in his expression of pleasure after every bite.
The hunter watches, reverent, as Will removes the fly from its clamp and places it into a rusty tackle box.
“Do allow me to return the favor. I picked up some local produce on my way for this very occasion,” Hannibal stated, his eyes tracing across the other man’s form. He was calculating his approach.
“I would love to prepare something for you,” Hannibal added, his face perfectly neutral.
“Don’t feel like you have to replay me,” Will scoffed, his head swiveling to the blonde before he averted his eyes, anxious. He cracked his knuckles. Winston perked up his head at foreign noise but Will gently shushed him back to sleep.
“I was the one who invited you over so I wouldn’t have to drive seventy miles to your office,” he said while stroking Winston’s fur. He didn’t want to meet Hannibal’s eyes; he didn’t want to feel Hannibal’s eventual judgment that would come from one look at his dingy kitchen. He didn’t even know if he had eggs or toast for breakfast tomorrow (which he wouldn’t eat anyway.) A steaming cup of black coffee aids him better than anything else, anyway.
“All the more reason why I should cook for you now, while the ingredients are fresh. Who knows if I’ll see you before your next appointment?” Hannibal challenged, his gaze locking with Will’s. Finally, something the profiler could understand. Kindness without a catch was something he would never grasp. Someone always wanted something from him—it was all the same. Jack Crawford, Alana Bloom, and even Freddie Lounds. They all wanted him because he was something remarkable. A mess worth studying under a microscope, apparently. But Will didn’t mind Hannibal’s scrutiny because it was familiar in a way he couldn’t explain without shifting around uncomfortably. But this? This predatory gaze, the open challenge—Hannibal was curious. He wanted to open Will up almost as much as Will wanted to open Hannibal and find the thing that makes him tick. A beat passed before Will broke into a genuine smile.
“Sure, the kitchen is all yours. Not going to argue when I haven’t had lunch yet.”
“Wonderful,” Hannibal replies, stone-faced as always, “It will only be a moment.”
Will finds that he likes that too. He likes that he can’t guess how Hannibal is feeling. He’s so used to soaking up everyone else’s emotions that when he’s with Hannibal, he realizes that’s when he is truly by himself. Alone in his own head with his own emotions for once. Hannibal gives him nothing except his sure presence, and it’s grounding in a way that again, Will cannot describe.
Hannibal crosses the small space, heading towards the kitchen as Will is left in the living room. He turns to his fly to continue his work; all six of his dogs are scattered around the living room, sleeping soundly and breathing in tandem. Either man is in his element.
Hannibal wrenches open the mildly dusty fridge. Upon inspection, it seems that Will has a fair amount of food—although whether or not he actually eats it is up for debate, given his lithe form and sunken features. Thankfully, he has procured some protein for Hannibal to use. Two smallmouth bass, smaller than most, lay sealed in a plastic bag on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. It doesn’t speak poorly on Will’s fishing skills, however, as Hannibal knows there is a hefty freezer outside with enough trout, dace, and striped bass to feed multiple families.
A whisper of bright pride curls in Hannibal’s chest as he holds the fish in his hands, turning it and inspecting the other man’s handiwork. There’s not a scratch on either of the fish—they’re still as beautiful as the moment Will lured them and yanked them out of the water. Hannibal can’t help but picture the scene as he lays one fish down on the cutting board and begins to butcher it. The broad shoulders of a trained fisherman and the tensing of trapezius muscles as he reels in a fresh catch. Hannibal feels like he’s watching the scene through a predator’s eyes—a bear perched at the end of the stream waiting for a stray salmon to fall from Will’s line. Before Hannibal realizes it, he has finished cleaning the bass. Perhaps he got a tad carried away.
Small, rhythmic chopping sounds echo out of the kitchen and towards the living room, where Will is sitting, curled up next to his dogs as his back leans against the foot of the couch. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, relishing this rare feeling of peace; his hair is splayed beautifully across the edge of the couch cushion. The only thing that gives away his tumultuous thoughts is the slight twitching of his fingers from where they lay at his side.
Is this alright?
Will’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
What do you see?
The sounds of the kitchen grow further away.
Tell me Will, do you enjoy this?
He opens his eyes. He’s no longer in Wolf Trap, Virginia. He’s no longer in his house. Will opens his eyes and realizes that he knows what time it is. It’s seven-thirty in the evening on a beautiful Tuesday night. He can hear the sounds of a thunderstorm raging outside. Will is in Hannibal’s office, facing directly across from him in the same black leather chair that’s assigned to him. To patients. To the sick.
I am the sick
and Hannibal is the depraved.
Will meets Hannibal’s eyes, tearing his anxious gaze away from inspecting the upholstery of the chair.
“Is this alright?”
Hannibal asks, reaching across the minimal space that their chairs had between them. His knuckles are large while his fingers are long and slender, and he doesn’t have calluses, unlike Will. Hannibal has long veins that dwindle in number as they lead down to his hands. The intricate lines bulge, carrying precious blood to his brilliant mind. The veins branch off, pumping under his skin the warm, beautiful—
Those gorgeous hands slowly lift up, reaching towards Will, eliminating the gap between them. A spindle of want stabs through his resolve as Hannibal’s mask stays firmly in place. Will wants to break it. He wants to watch him writhe and he longs to see the facial expression Hannibal would make after he spills fresh blood from the man’s veins. Would he be scared? Enraptured, maybe? Will that stubborn human facade finally fall to its knees at the sheer devotion he knows Hannibal has for him? The hands finally reach him; they start their slow descent as they trail down the edge of Will’s chin and towards the base of his collarbone.
He can’t help how he feels—the FBI profiler has to stifle a broken whine. He hasn’t been touched like this in forever. Chestnut curls drape across Will’s forehead as he lolls his head to the side, consciously giving Hannibal more access to his neck. Giving the predator easier access to his meal, a subtle display of submission and surrender. Hannibal groans, deep and low in his throat with a sound that Will wishes he could etch into the man’s skin with his own cracked fingernails.
Hannibal’s hand then skirts back up the column of Will’s neck. He gently pulls him in with a tightening of his fingers, their bodies reaching towards each other, closing the space between their chairs even more. Finally, Hannibal’s hands wrap around Will’s neck, holding him in place with a grip that’s as steady as it is threatening. His curls tremble as he shivers in the killer’s grasp.
“Will?” Hannibal asks from the opening of the living room. He’s observing, ever calculating, as he watches the man before him tremble. Will is in the same spot—on the floor, surrounded by his dogs, but he has now entered into one of his delusions. Hannibal would be more concerned, but he can’t help but pause at the sight Will makes. He’s sweating through his sleep shirt, spasming as he leans up against the couch with two white-knuckled hands wrapped around his throat.
“Will,” Hannibal says with more urgency while crossing the room in a few short strides. His hands are on the man below him, combing through his damp hair with gentle hands only a murderer could have. The kind of gentle that hides ulterior motives underneath.
Will finally opens his eyes, lashes fluttering, just as a bead of sweat falls from his forehead. It trails down his sunken cheeks and chases another falling droplet on its way down to his collarbone. Hannibal doesn’t let it show on his face, he never does, but he wants to taste it. He wants to breathe in the sheen of Will’s skin and feel his ridgid form. He wants to—
“Hannibal?”
Both men lock eyes with one another. Hannibal towering over Will as he has a hand in his hair, automatically feeling for a temperature as his doctoral training takes over; Will is below him, tense, beautifully flushed, and shivering. He looks confused but thankfully not frightened.
“Will, are you alright?” Hannibal asks, testing the waters.
Will doesn’t grab his pant leg, exactly, but he does take the end of Hannibal’s pants in his hand and runs his fingers across the inner seam. Will’s eyes are still glazed—he is not fully conscious quite yet. Even after his encephalitis was treated, Will has continued to have nightmares. Thankfully the bouts of madness have ceased, but it seems he could not escape the madness ever-present in his dreams.
These were the thoughts that ran through Hannibal’s mind as he captured the scene before him, mentally saving it so he could recreate it as a sketch in his office much later. Preferably after a good meal and a glass of wine. An urgent tug on his fabric made Hannibal glance back up from where he was staring steadily at Will’s hand on his pants.
“Hannibal—“ Will starts, his hand moving upwards.
“You look like a god,” he finishes, his cloudy, unblinking gaze tied to the man above him.
Hannibal said nothing, he only smirked in that stupidly polite way he did that made Will want to scream at him to have normal emotions for once. Will wanted to scream at him. He was also hungry. And then suddenly everything clicked—Will blinked a few times, eyes flickering as he regained his senses. It was lunch time, and Hannibal was making lunch for them both. Will was sitting against the couch, surrounded by his dogs, safe in his house in Wolf Trap, Virginia.
“Will, are you back?”
“Yeah,” Will said, shaking his head. “Why are you standing over me?”
Hannibal seemed to actually recoil at that, drawing his firm hand from Will’s forehead. The skin burned the second his touch left, as if trying to recreate the sensation as best it could. All he could feel was the ghost of Hannibal’s fingers brushing his temples in memories he didn’t quite have. The ones he did have were far too embarrassing to ask if they had actually occurred. Was it an episode or was it just a dream? When had he fallen asleep?
Hannibal offered his hand from above him and Will took it, hoisting himself up with surprising ease. Did Hannibal work out a lot? He seemed really strong.
“Shall we eat? I wouldn’t want your lunch getting cold.”
Right. He probably had to be strong to fight his more troublesome victims. To bend them into submission before he takes his fill. Before he slices out their organs. The thought didn’t bother Will as much as he wanted it to.
“Just heat it up in the microwave if you wanna be all pretentious about it.”
A small puff of air escaped through Hannibal’s nose, most likely an unsuccessfully stifled laugh. “And soil its quality? What do you take me for, Will?”
Hannibal didn’t hear Will’s whispered response as he walked into the kitchen. The syllables were hidden under his breath, the words barely brushing across his lips as they left his mouth and hung in the empty air.
“A beast.”