Chapter Text
Hannibal considers himself a very good parent.
His daughter, Abigail, is a cheerful, intelligent, and socially-adequate five year old. She is healthy in body and in mind thanks to Hannibal's attentive care, and he intends for her to stay that way.
In the three and a half years since he's adopted her, he has never let anyone else care for her without his close supervision. He has been her sole guardian and caretaker; he simply doesn't trust anyone else to treat her as well as he does.
Hannibal has a set way for things to be handled, and he simply prefers for his daughter's lifestyle to remain consistent.
Now that Abigail has become slightly more independent, he continues to work as a psychiatrist. He only sees a few patients, and they all come to his home instead of his old office in the city. He will leave Abigail to nap or play on her own for the handful of hours per week that he's busy.
When he's not working, he does his best to keep their lives enriched and busy. He reads to her, teaches her about music, shows her how to paint, and teaches her every language he knows. They go for walks and travel and socialize with the other children and their families.
That being said, it should be a simple fact that Hannibal does not hire caretakers.
Unfortunately, that might just have to change.
"Are you sure there's absolutely no one else you can ask to consult?" Hannibal all but groans, his shoulders already beginning to tense up.
He's on the phone with Jack Crawford, a high-profile FBI agent. Hannibal has worked with him in the past, before parenthood, and he knows his chances of dissuading the man are low.
Crawford is an infinitely determined human being, and no amount of Hannibal's charm can change that.
"There are people we can ask, yes," Crawford replies, his tone clipped. "But none of them are as good as you, Hannibal. We need the best for this one."
Hannibal sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is not good.
"I can't spend all that time away from Abigail, Jack," he says, shooting one last time for a way out. "She's five years old, and I—"
"You can hire a sitter," Crawford tells him, clearly losing his patience. "I won't take no for an answer, Hannibal. Meet me at Quantico, tomorrow at ten to look at the body. We have crime scene photos. No negotiating your way out of this; you're lucky I don't demand you get down here now. Just hire a goddamned sitter and bring your brains with you."
Before Hannibal can even agree or protest, Crawford hangs up, leaving Hannibal with a bitter taste in his mouth. He's never liked the haughty FBI agent; he has little respect for the personal needs of others.
But he knows he can't decline. He owes Crawford; the man was the reason he was able to adopt Abigail in the first place.
Hannibal had been the man to track down Garret Jacob Hobbs, Abigail's biological father. He had murdered over a dozen teenage girls, and had just killed his own wife when Crawford's team caught and arrested him.
Hannibal had sympathized strongly with Abigail, despite her being only a few months old at the time. He imagined the life that she would have had if he had not apprehended her father and saved her, and felt obligated to ensure that she got the beautiful life that she deserved.
Jack Crawford had been very influential in the adoption process, being the one to convince the agency that he was the best guardian for her.
He supposes he can't deny the man a favor now.
That raises the issue, however, of procuring a sitter in such a short period of time. It will be very difficult to find someone he can trust with his daughter. He does, after all, have extremely high standards.
Luckily, he knows several wonderful parents that should be able to provide guidance.
His first thought is to call Alana and Margot, his two closest friends besides Bedelia (who doesn't know a single thing about children or parenting). He dials their house number without wasting another second.
He doubts that Abigail will mind the extra time left playing with her toys before their reading lesson.
Margot picks up, her voice heavy with sleep.
"Hannibal?" she yawns, sounding only mildly agitated. "It's eight AM, and it's a Saturday. This better be important."
Hannibal cuts straight to the point. "I'm having a crisis," he says. "I need your assistance."
Margot laughs, sounding more alert. "Oh, Hannibal, I knew this day would come. Everyone hits their midlife crisis eventually, even upstanding citizens such as—"
Hannibal is not in the mood to jest, and interrupts her.
"Margot. Jack Crawford called, and due to the nature of his demands, I'll need to hire a sitter for Abigail."
That stifles her amusement.
"Oh." He hears her shuffle some, getting out of bed. "This is beyond my expertise. Let me get Alana for you." She lets out a long sigh. "She's up already; it's her weekend to make breakfast."
There's a few moments of silence as Margot crosses the house to find Alana in the kitchen. Hannibal waits patiently, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.
"Lana, love, Hannibal's on the phone."
He hears one of the twins (likely Heather, given her excitable personality) let out an excited cry at the sound of his name. Alana answers the phone, the sounds of oil sizzling crackling through the speaker on Hannibal's end.
"Hey there," she says. "Need help prepping dinner for Tuesday?"
Hannibal sighs. He'd nearly forgotten what week it was. Every month, he goes out of his way to host a dinner party for all of his friends with children. They all get to enjoy gourmet food, and the children get to have their own party either in the back garden or in the secondary dining room, with one of the teenagers in charge.
He won't have time for it, now.
"No," he sighs. "I'll have to let the others know." He supposes a cancellation email will do, and he can send apology cards if he has the time later.
"Oh." He hears Alana stir whatever she's cooking, and Margot talks to their children in the background. "What's the deal?"
"Jack Crawford," he answers, and he feels heavy just saying it. "He needs me to consult on a case, and the work won't exactly be quick or child-appropriate."
Alana pauses. He can imagine her brow furrowing in quiet consideration.
"Did you tell him you can't do it?" she asks.
"Yes," he says. "But no isn't in his vocabulary. You know that."
She laughs. "And that was to your advantage, once."
"Indeed. It's that precise debt that requires me to aid him now."
"I know," she answers, sympathy leaking into her voice. He's so used to hearing it from her, but it is so rarely directed at him.
"He needs me there tomorrow," he replies, keeping his tone neutral, "and likely to remain at his disposal for further investigation. I will not be able to stay with Abigail."
As dreadful as he feels about the entire situation, the last thing he wants is for Alana to try and coddle him. As much as he appreciates her innocent and gentle nature, he does not require her attention.
"So, you need someone to watch her, Hannibal?" Alana presses. She speaks slowly, with concern.
"Yes." It comes out as a groan, and he rests his head in a hand, rubbing at his temple.
"You know Margot and I would if we didn't have work," she replies. "Maybe we can take her in the afternoon, when Gabe and Heather are out of school and we're home anyway. There's a good daycare near the school—"
Hannibal groans again.
"Okay, okay," Alana sighs. "Sorry I mentioned it."
"Daycares are cesspools," he reminds her. "Not to mention the punitive nature of most—"
"Our kids liked it," she says, cutting him off. "And neither of them ended up with staff infections or anything."
"I'm not putting Abigail into daycare."
"It would only be for a few days, at most, Hannibal."
He exhales sharply through his nose. "The most suitable option for my scenario would be an in-house sitter. I was hoping you had recommendations."
"Ah." The lack of confidence in her voice is not promising. "Margot and I haven't used a babysitter since the kids were toddlers... But I'll see if I can figure something out."
"Thank you, Alana."
"No problem. You've done more for us on even shorter notice."
She pauses a moment, and Hannibal is about ready to say goodbye and hang up, but she continues before he can.
"I'm proud of you, Hannibal. Just so you know. I realize it's not easy for you to even consider letting someone else take care of her. This is good, though."
He bites the inside of his cheek. This was the exact thing he was afraid she would do.
"Thank you, Alana," he mutters, "but I would prefer that we keep work-language out of our relationship."
She snorts. "It's not 'work language.' It's me being supportive."
"I appreciate that," he replies, and his tone is more clipped than he means it to be. "I'll speak with you soon."
"Mmhmm. Take care, Hannibal."
He sighs one last time and ends the call. He considers writing the necessary cancellation emails now, but decides against it.
He gets up to join Abigail and begin their reading lesson.
Will jumps when his phone rings.
He doesn't get many calls—especially not on Saturday mornings, because that's when the only people who call him anymore are doing their best to sleep in.
He fumbles to get it out of his jacket pocket, his fingers slightly numb from the cold.
The early October chill has set in, and already, the grass at the park has withered away to a golden brown. Winston rolls around in a pile of yellow leaves.
Will answers without checking the caller ID; he's taken too long in answering already.
"Hello?"
"Will! You picked up. I'm impressed."
Immediately, Will's eyebrows are raised. Brian Zeller is never up this early on the weekends; he's usually exhausted after the long week of operating Hubble or whatever the hell he does at the Space Telescope Science Institute.
So, this probably isn't good.
"Hey, Zeller," he answers, doing his best to keep the disgruntlement from his voice. "Something I can do for you?"
"Yeah, actually!" Brian says, his voice still chipper. "Remember when you babysat Chloe a few months back?"
Will does, and his shoulders draw back in reflex for a sharp exhale. Chloe is Brian and Jimmy's daughter, and there is no mistaking that. The seven-year-old has wit sharper than a knife, and a mischievous side that outdoes both of her fathers combined.
For her main prank, the little girl had taken advantage of Will when he accidentally fell asleep after lunch. She painted Winston's claws with a chartreuse nail polish, and had gotten halfway done with Will's when he woke up from the resulting nose bleed.
He wouldn't have had an issue with the stunt (because gender roles be damned) if the polish hadn't been so alarmingly chemical. With what it had done to Will, he couldn't imagine how poor Winston dealt with it, considering his sensitive canine nose.
"I remember," Will replies, hesitant. "Do you need someone to watch her again? Because if so, I'm gonna have to ask that everything in the house is non-toxic."
A short laugh. "We did replace most of our stuff with more natural alternatives, so thanks for that tip," Brian says. "But I'm actually calling on the behalf of a friend."
Will stills, taking a moment to whistle for Winston to come back. He's managed to wander off a little too far into the other side of the park, and there's a small old woman with a Pomeranian that likely doesn't want to be disturbed by his muddy mutt.
"Oh, really?" he asks, crouching down as Winston trots closer over the cold ground.
Brian hums in confirmation. "You were so good with Chloe that Jimmy and I didn't hesitate to recommend you."
"To whom?"
That's the defining question, after all. Will doesn't mind kids so much; they're basically two-legged dogs. Give them food they like, and they'll eat it. Keep them engaged, and they won't act up. Speak kindly, and they'll listen. And if you need a break, just tire them out so everyone can take a nap.
It's the parents that he takes issue with. Adults in general, really, but mainly the ones that take it upon themselves to tell him how to be more "normal."
"A friend of Doctor Bloom's," Brian answers. "She speaks highly of him; they're really close, apparently."
Will frowns as he scratches at Winston's ears, thinking. He hasn't seen Alana Bloom since the whole Matthew Brown incident, and as kind as the woman was, their sessions didn't do anything to soothe him of the trauma. Even now, over three years later, he doesn't like thinking about it.
"Why didn't she call me herself?" he wonders, his frown only deepening. Winston lays down, and Will sits on the ground to give him more attention, scratching the good spot under his chin.
"Will," Brian sighs, with an acceptable mix of sympathy and exasperation, "you know why. She was your psychiatrist, and she legally can't reach out to you unless you do so first."
"Ah." Will understands, even though he's still a little bitter. The two of them never spoke after Will stopped going to sessions; a friendship, after everything, would have been inappropriate, and undesired. She saw him as a pitiful, broken thing, no matter what he did to prove her wrong, and he didn't need to deal with that. Doesn't. "So, who's this friend?"
"A guy named Doctor Lecter," replies Brian. "One of her shrink friends, I guess. He has a daughter named Abigail that he for some reason can't stand to leave alone."
"And does Doctor Bloom know that you're recommending one of her former, 'unstable' patients to watch over her friend's child?"
Brian sighs at that. "Look, Will," he says, "anyone who knows you well enough can tell you're a perfectly stable guy. What Brown did to you doesn't matter—he's rotting in prison and you're back on your feet, doing what you love."
Will smiles. For a moment, he considers arguing that he's too busy doing what he loves to be babysitting, but he decides against it. He only has classes a few days a week this time of year, anyway, so it's not exactly an excuse.
"How do you know Doctor Bloom, anyway?" he inquires.
"Her kids are in the same year as Chloe. They come over to our place a lot, and vice versa." He pauses a moment, and chuckles. "It has nothing to do with your therapy, worry not."
Embarrassed that Brian thought he implied that, Will bites his lip. "Oh, of course," he responds, a nervous chuckle bleeding out.
He doesn't understand parents and their social lives. Jimmy and Brian are his only friends with kids, and he forgets that there are whole social circles built around that. It sounds like too many people to him.
"So, will you do it?"
Will glances down at Winston, who's put his head in his lap. "That depends," he says. He pats the dog's side and gets an appreciative whuff in response. "Can Winston help?"
Brian laughs. "We'll see. I'll give you the address; Alana said you'd have to stop by and talk to him beforehand, anyway."
Hannibal gets a phone call at noon, in which Alana informs him that a potential sitter is headed his way.
"Some friends recommended him," she says. "They said he did a great job with their daughter, and let me tell you--that's no small feat. The Zellers run a tight ship, and Chloe's hard to deal with."
"And who is this sitter?" Hannibal presses.
"Didn't give me his name," she replies. "But you'll meet him soon enough. Good luck."
She hangs up quickly, allowing Hannibal to return to his preparations. There's much to do if he's going to be gone, after all.
An small, green car pulls into Hannibal's driveway just past one o'clock. It's well worn vehicle, but still practical—one he could imagine having bicycles corded to the rack on top and fishing gear packed into the back. He watches from the window of his study, where Abigail is practicing scales on the piano, singing along as she does so.
The car stops in front of the doorway, and a moment later, a man with dark hair steps out of it. A brindle dog climbs out behind him, and Hannibal bites his tongue for just a moment.
Abigail sings an off-key b-note, and Hannibal steps away from his place at the window.
"Abigail," he says, placing a hand on her shoulder, "someone is here to see us."
Her hands drop into her lap immediately, and she looks up at him with wide eyes. "But you didn't make tea," she protests, her bottom lip sticking out in a confused pout.
He smiles at her, forever fond. She knows their routine well by now. "Our new friend surprised me," he tells her, taking her hand.
"Rude," she sighs, and looks up at him with a sour expression she surely stole from his own arsenal. Truly, a girl after his own heart.
"It's not his fault," he points out.
She scoffs, and if he didn't know her so well, the sound would have been alien, coming from one so young.
"He won't get any tea," she says decisively, and jumps to her feet. "Or cake."
"Oh, mažute."
Stifling a laugh, Hannibal takes her downstairs. The doorbell rings halfway down, and they answer it a moment later.
The man behind the door looks slightly younger than Hannibal. Unkempt curls frame a face that bears a serious expression, and the man's blue eyes flicker over Hannibal, taking in information. When he looks at Abigail, he breaks into a smile.
"Hello," he says to her, and then looks back up at Hannibal—just barely meeting his eyes.
The dog stands a few feet behind, waiting for permission to greet them as well.
"Hello," Hannibal replies. "You must be—"
"Will," the man supplies immediately. "Will Graham."
Hannibal nods. "A pleasure," he says, offering his hand. "Hannibal Lecter. And this is my daughter, Abigail."
Abigail beams up at Will, her head tilted. "Can I pet your dog?"
Will blinks at her for just a second, and then smiles again. "If your father says yes." He meets Hannibal's eyes this time, eyebrows raised.
Glancing between his daughter's pleading gaze and the comparatively large (but clearly well trained) dog, Hannibal sighs in concession and nods at Will.
"Great." He smiles and whistles, and the dog trots over. He sniffs Hannibal's hand before it is offered, and then stands before Abigail, tail wagging.
Both men watch as Abigail tentatively reaches out a hand for the dog to sniff. When it begins licking at it, she lets out a squeal of laughter and ducks away before quickly returning to pet him again.
Hannibal can't help but grin. The only dog she's ever spent time with is Alana and Margot's dog, Applesauce. This one is much more mellow, and she clearly enjoys it.
"What's its name?" Hannibal inquires, watching closely as Abigail lets out a peal of giggles before burying her face in the fur of its neck.
"Winston," Will replies. He's watching them, too, smiling openly.
"An interesting choice."
"Not really," he says. His gaze returns to Hannibal, and the fact that he doesn't quite meet his eyes does not go unnoticed. "So, ah, I was told you were gonna interview me or something?"
"Of course," Hannibal returns. "You are, I presume, here because of Alana's friends?"
That seems to give the man a moment of pause. "Yes," he says. "Brian and Jimmy Zeller."
The names aren't familiar, but Hannibal nods all the same. "Please," he says, "come inside."
"Um." Will's lips drop into a frown as he glances at Winston and then over Hannibal's shoulder, into the house. "Winston too?"
Looking up at Hannibal, Abigail says, "Please? We can give him treats."
Hannibal doesn't think that the distribution of dog hair all over his furniture warrants treats, but between her pleading eyes and the quiet discomfort of the handsome man in front of him, he can't exactly say no.
"Winston, too," he yields, stepping to the side so that he can hold open the door.
Abigail takes the dog by the collar and immediately begins pulling him towards the sitting room. Will crosses the threshold carefully, skimming over the interior without seeming phased by the paintings on the walls or exquisite new flooring.
Hannibal wants to take offense, but given Will's scruffy appearance, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. His wardrobe speaks to practicality: worn steel-toed boots, a blue vest over a long sleeved shirt with what appears to be mud on the cuffs.
"I have to admit," he mutters, glancing at Hannibal from the corner of one glinting blue eye, "I wasn't expecting a mansion."
"Technically," Hannibal says, "it's a villa, if you'd note the Tuscan architecture."
"Ah." Will sweeps his gaze over the foyer one last time before turning to Hannibal again. "Where'd the little ones go?"
Hannibal isn't sure if Will is demoting Abigail or elevating Winston by referring to them both as 'little ones.' Judging by the adoring expressions he gave the both of them, Hannibal decides it's likely neither.
"I assume Abigail has taken your dog to the kitchen by now in search of treats," he answers.
Will's eyes dart over to the closed kitchen door. "That doesn't sound good."
"Nonsense. Abigail is very well behaved." Hannibal leads Will further into the house, through the child-proofed living room. "Besides," he adds, once they approach the push-door into the kitchen, "everything is kept above her reach."
He holds the door open for Will, and only has a second to question the amused grin that plasters the man's cheeks before he sees that Abigail has used one of the stools to climb onto the countertop. He nearly gasps, but clenches his jaw and hurries into action. Before she can reach into the cabinet with the baking supplies, Hannibal hurries over to hoist her into his arms.
Clutching the back of her head, he says, "Don't go so high up, sweetest. You could fall."
Abigail squirms and he sets her down. She looks up at him with pursed lips and puppy-dog eyes, one of her little hands gripping at the loose fabric on his calf. "Winston wanted chocolate, teti."
He shakes his head and grips her hand firmly. "You can't climb around like that," he tells her.
Clearing his throat, Will cuts in, crouching down to meet her eyes. "And dogs can't eat chocolate, Abigail. It would make him sick."
"Oh." Abigail frowns and looks at her feet, which are pointed together at the toes. "I wanted the chocolate," she confesses.
With a reassuring smile, Hannibal lifts her chin. "Not now, Abigail. Why don't we take Winston and Mister Graham to the backyard? You can show them your sunflowers."
This immediately cheers the girl up, and looks to Will first, who is still close to the ground. "Do you like flowers, Mister?" she asks, her smile toothy and wide.
"I do, very much," he answers, his tone even. It's not the mocking lilt that many people use with Abigail. "And Winston does, too, but you'll have to be careful. He actually just likes to dig them up."
Unlike many adults, his attention towards her is not false or condescending. He must be able to see the intelligence behind her eyes, just as Hannibal can.
Abigail appreciates that, clearly, because she takes his hand to lead him to the garden, emboldened like Hannibal has never seen her with strangers. "He won't dig my flowers," she assures him, sounding charmingly matter-of-fact. "He's a good boy."
Will looks over his shoulder at Hannibal. His eyebrows are raised, but his smile is bright, and Hannibal decides that he likes this man.
When Abigail shows him the greenhouse, Will pays close attention to everything she says, answering her questions and asking some in return. Hannibal watches, quietly.
He doesn't need to interview him; Abigail does that for him.
The questions she asks him are nothing Hannibal would have thought of, but the manner in which Will answers them is telling enough.
Hannibal learns that Will's favorite color is 'green, like river moss,' that he 'saved Winston from a winter roadside,' that, 'no, he doesn't really listen to Mozart,' and that he is a natural with children.
Or, with Abigail, at least.
After a half hour in the greenhouse, Will confesses that he has a class to teach soon. Without thinking to ask what he teaches, Hannibal excuses him, telling him that they will meet at eight o'clock sharp the next morning.
As they watch him slip through the gate, to the front yard and his car, Abigail tugs at her father's hand.
"Teti," she whispers, "I'm sorry I called him rude. We should have given him tea." She lets out a dramatic sigh. "And cake."
Hannibal nods, a nearly-forgotten warmth stirring in his chest. "We should have, yes," he agrees, taking a hold of her small and precious hand. "Another time, Abigail."
He finds himself wishing that he could be there while Will takes care of Abigail, and not entirely because he's concerned about leaving her in someone else's hands.
Will Graham, he decides, is an interesting man.