Chapter Text
"Do you wanna get out of here?"
The guy that's been talking to Will all night—Jacob, he recalls from their introduction hours earlier—leans closer, practically falling off his stool. His hands are still wrapped around his second beer of the night, and this one he's been nursing for the past two hours. It's flat, and in the bluish light of the bar, looks far from a normal amber color.
It would be an overstatement to say that Will wants to "get out of here"—just not with this guy.
It would also be an overstatement to say that Will knows what he wants in the first place, but that's a general issue.
Will came to the bar to get drunk, but hasn't really been able to, with this sleazeball talking him up all night. He hasn't been able to chase him off, and there's not exactly many people in the world who'd think to jump to the rescue of a mean-looking young man like Will.
He'd like someone to come to the rescue; despite his resting bitch-face and general rude demeanor, it turns out he's not great at fending off weirdos like this. He's all nervous, frozen. He feels like he has to play along with the game—the whole banter-and-sex game, the former of which he's only ever been comfortable with.
He shrugs at Jacob and looks down at his empty glass. He's only had a few fingers of whiskey tonight; again, he's had to watch his consumption, with Jacob practically hanging off of him and all.
Jacob is clearly trying to stay sober, and Will wouldn't want to give him that advantage.
But Jacob notices Will's wistful glance at the glass and takes it for something other than what it is. He grins, and says, "Well, we can loosen you up before we go, then."
He raises a hand to get the bartender's attention—a different one than the girl that's been serving all night. Will isn't sure when there was a shift change, but he's guessing it was recent.
He's been a little too jittery for the past hour to pick up on anything but Jacob's sly touches and seamy remarks, and the intrusive thoughts jumping in between those have been pretty damn distracting.
He can't help those thoughts, and usually he'd try to block them out, but right now they're serving as a coping mechanism.
If he can't actually get Jacob to leave him alone, he can at least intermittently calm himself with a fantasy where he digs into the creep's chest with a carving knife.
The bartender raises his eyebrows at them, still in the middle of making someone else's drink.
"More whiskey for this one," Jacob says, and winks at Will.
Will smiles nervously at the bartender, and hopes that he can see the plead behind his eyes, hopes that he'll take sympathy and realize that Will does not want to live in a reality where he has to go home with this other man.
But the bartender just blinks, nods, and finishes making the other person's drink.
Before he gets started on pouring a new glass of whiskey, Will's hands start shaking for the third time that night. He stuffs them in his pockets and glances up at Jacob.
"I'm gonna run to the bathroom," he says.
Jacob smirks. "You freshen up, sweetcheeks."
Will slides off the stool and tries to fight the shiver riding up his spine. He hasn't used the bathroom all night, partially for safety purposes, but now he's doing so because it might provide a means of escape.
As he hurries to the men's room, he glances over the rest of the bar. It's not exactly crowded enough for him to slip out unnoticed, despite the hour, and he can feel Jacob's eyes boring into his back.
He swallows, the corners of his eyes stinging a little, and enters the bathroom. He knows that there's no window there he can climb out of, but as he splashes water on his face, he tells himself that there is.
He could use the comfort of that thought, to tell himself that he's going back in there by choice, that he wants to go home with Jacob. If he can convince himself of that, this whole deal would be so much easier.
He wishes he could just leave, just walk out the door, but he can see in the way that Jacob's been watching him all night that he doesn't intend to let Will go home without him.
He wishes to god that his friends weren't out of town on spring break, that he hadn't been stupid and lonely enough to decide to go to a bar in the first place.
But he knows he couldn't have anticipated this. It's never happened before, not really, and he knows that this bar isn't exactly a seedy place. There just happened to be one perv in the crowd, and he latched onto the socially-inept and emotionally disadvantaged Will Graham.
He rubs at his face with the coarse paper towel, realizing too late that it'll only make his face look red and splotchy.
Does he really want to look weaker than he already is?
He re-enters the bar, and Jacob is watching him with hungry eyes. There's no way in hell Will could go for the front door without Jacob going after him.
It's easier to play along. Safer.
Will returns to his stool and takes the glass of whiskey. His hands are still shaking, but maybe the whiskey will help. If this is all inevitable, maybe it'll be easier if he's got some alcohol numbing him.
He takes a quick swig. It tastes off, burns a little, but he swallows it anyway. He sets it down, and it hits the surface of the bar with more force than he was expecting.
Jacob raises his eyebrows and looks between Will and the glass. That only makes him more uncomfortable.
"You good, hotcakes?" Jacob asks, tilting his head.
Will nods. "Fine," he says. "Just peachy."
The sarcasm is either lost on Jacob, or he simply doesn't care. Either way, Will figures it doesn't matter how he's feeling about the situation.
They sit in silence for another moment, and Will is painfully aware of Jacob's leering. The sensation crawls over him like millipedes on the bottom of a dead log: repulsive, but natural. Unavoidable.
Briefly, he pictures Jacob's body dead on the forest floor, rotting like a fallen log. Thousands of leggy critters crawl from his eyes and mouth as his flesh disintegrates into the earth, and Will stands over him, mimicking the unsettling stare.
He raises the glass to his lips a second time in an attempt to flush away the vision, but before he can drink from it, someone's gripping his wrist.
Will looks up quickly. It's the bartender, who makes direct eye contact with him. He can't look away.
From what sounds like very far away, Jacob's voice raises, but Will can't make out what he's saying. He feels frozen, and he's still locking eyes with the bartender.
It's probably just the already-weird lighting of the bar, but he swears the guy's irises are tinted maroon.
The barkeep forces Will to set down the glass and lets go of his wrist, and it all feels kind of foggy and unfocused. Will processes Jacob's angry voice next to him.
"What the hell?" he demands. "Let the guy have his drink, for fuck's sake."
Will finds himself staring down at the glass, and he realizes (quite absently) that he's been drugged. Judging by how quickly it got to him, he's guessing it's ketamine.
He should be more disappointed in himself, but everything feels too surreal for him to process it.
"Ordinarily, I would," the bartender says, "but you've altered it, and I can't let him drink any more of it in good conscience."
Will wants to laugh at how proper he sounds. His accent, rich and European, is more surreal than anything else. He's reminded of distant lunches on lavishly manicured lawns with his mother, listening to posh voices like that.
He feels Jacob's hand on his arm, rough and demanding.
"I didn't put jack in his drink," he snarls, and then turns to Will. "Right, sugar?"
Will can't answer, and he wouldn't even if he could. The sugar coming from Jacob's lips is grossly saccharine, like the kisses from girls of spoiled southern lineage he remembers from his preteen years. Entitled, expectant, wanting, and inconsiderate.
They always wanted their hands on Will back then.
Will Graham, the blue collar country boy turned nobility, turned novelty. Something to toy with, to tease.
He warded them off soon enough, with a lack of civility that bordered on threatening rather than cute. He remembers sitting through their company just as he sat through Jacob's: imagining their skin rotting away, with bones as exposed as their ugly nature.
The barkeep crosses his arms, and Will doesn't see him without his flesh. "We have security cameras," he says pointedly. "I won't tell anyone to look into the footage if you leave immediately."
A strong wave of heat and anger bursts from Jacob, but he gets off the stool anyway. "Fuck you," he growls, and makes his way for the door.
Will doesn't watch him go, but doesn't bury himself in his thoughts, either. Without his noticing, his head is somehow now in his hands, and he's no longer shaking.
He might throw up, though. He's not sure if it's from the relief or the drug, but either way, he has no actual grip on reality right now.
He barely notices as the bartender takes his drink away and hands him a tall glass of water.
"Stay here, okay?" he asks, and his voice is softer than when he spoke to Jacob. "Wait until the drug wears off, and then we'll see about getting you home."
A sound comes from Will's throat, and he nods. "Ketamine," he says, unbidden. "Should be gone in a half hour. I'll be fine."
It probably doesn't sound as convincing or as stable to the barkeep as it does in his head, but the other man smiles at him regardless. His head cocked to the side, he asks, "Do you get drugged often?"
Will figures he should tell him that, no, this is a first, he just knows a lot about chemicals and the body from school, but he just takes a gulp of water instead.
The bartender continues working, keeping an eye on Will.
Will is too busy imagining—seeing?—Jacob's face rotting away into the forest soil to care.
Not long after, things start to feel normal for Will. He notices that his limbs are suddenly much easier to control, and sounds are much less muted.
Reality slides back to him, and he's grateful for it.
He blinks and looks up, realizing that the bartender is just across from him, watching intently as he cleans out a glass.
"Hi," says Will. It's not an entirely appropriate thing to say, but it's not harmful, either.
"Hello." The bartender looks idly amused, which probably isn't an appropriate reaction, either, but Will lets it slide.
"I'm feeling more like myself again," he says, and pushes the empty glass of water away. "Thanks for saving me back there. I'd been suffering all night."
A headache is beginning to pulse at the back of his skull, but at least he's ridden out most of the effects of the drug. He does feel much better now.
"Suffering is an understatement," the bartender returns, pursing his lips. "I would have done something sooner, but I was busy with a patron. I didn't notice that he had spiked your drink before it was too late."
Will nods and lifts a hand to rub at his temple. Grimacing at the tension there, he says, "How'd you know, anyway? I couldn't tell."
"You didn't seem entirely coherent in the first place." The bartender sets down the glass he's been working with a cloth and takes the empty one that Will had drank water from. Hesitating for a moment, leaning against the bar, he adds, "But, to answer your question--I smelled it."
Despite his eyebrows raising, Will doesn't question it.
"Well, thanks." He offers a weak smile, exhaustion pulling at him. "But I should head home, now that it's safe to scram." He gets off the stool and tries to ignore the fact that he's still pretty damn shaky.
The bartender blinks.
"Your assailant could be waiting for you outside."
Will frowns and glances over his shoulder, tries to subtlety stable himself by placing a hand on the stool. "Still?"
Shrugging, the barkeep says, "I'm familiar with men like him. They don't give up easily—especially when angered."
"Really?" Will asks, thinking of all the cases he's had to study in criminal psychology classes. "I wouldn't think they'd have that much integrity."
The bartender smirks, an expression that's barely even there. "Do bears have integrity?" he counters. "I would personally consider them intellectually incapable of such a thing, and yet they will kill a man if provoked. It is their nature."
"You think I've provoked a dumb, angry man?"
"I think that I have," the bartender corrects him, "and I feel responsible for your safety because of it."
Will wants to sigh, wants to protest, wants to act like he's strong enough to take care of himself, but he's actually grateful. It's been a long, stressful, even scary night, and the thought of someone looking out for him isn't that bad.
"You're still working, though," he notes. As shaky as he is, he can't make the only barkeep in the joint abandon post.
"I can inform my superior of the situation." He glances around the rest of the room before his gaze falls on Will again, scrutinizing. "Besides," he adds, "things are quiet."
Will turns his head and notices that the entire place is empty, save for a lone man by the dart board and a pair of women slumped over half-empty pints of beer. He hadn't noticed the place clearing out when he was recuperating, he supposes.
"You sure?"
The bartender nods, his eyes focused on Will with an earnest expression. "I fell inclined to prioritize your well being."
Will feels his cheeks heat up and turns away. He's not used to random strangers caring so much, but it's nice.
He just hopes there aren't any strings attached.
The barkeep starts to clean up, and the remaining customers seem to notice. The man quietly slides out the door, and the women bring their drinks back to the bar.
"Closing up?" the one with the darker hair asks.
"Yes," the bartender replies, taking her mug. "Do you mind? Margot and yourself usually aren't here so late."
The other girl—Margot, presumably—slings an arm around the first. "We're allowed to have fun, Hannibal. Don't judge."
Will somehow isn't surprised that the bartender would have a name as weird as 'Hannibal,' given his posh dialect and posture. He wonders why a guy like him is doing serving drinks at a mediocre bar like this.
He does look young enough to be a student, so he might just be working to pay off loans, but still...
Hannibal, the barkeep, smiles at them. "Have fun somewhere else, then. I have to take this one home." He nods over at Will.
The darker-haired girl gives him a curious look, but it's Margot that speaks, her voice a stage-whisper.
"You gonna get some, buddy?" she asks him, waggling her eyebrows.
The other girl elbows her. "Come on," she sighs. "You're drunk. Let's get going."
"But Alana," she whines, leaning her face close to her companion's. "Hanni never tells us if he ever gets laid. Don't you want to find out?"
Alana rolls her eyes. "You know not to call him that." She glances back at Hannibal. "And I know for a fact that he never gets laid, so let's go." She grins at him. "Good night, Hannibal."
Hannibal takes the (albeit friendly) verbal abuse in stride and smiles fondly as he wishes them a good night. As they leave, he double checks the bar and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket.
"Thank you for enduring them," he says, approaching the door. "I just have to lock up here. Bedelia will take care of the rest."
Will yawns, and doesn't bother asking who Bedelia is. He follows Hannibal out, watches with drooping eyelids as he locks the door.
Damn, he's tired. He checks his phone and realizes that it's approaching one in the morning.
Hannibal finishes with the door and addresses Will.
"Did you come here in your own vehicle?"
Will shakes his head. He took the bus, as always. He doesn't have a car.
Not because he can't afford one, but because he doesn't feel comfortable spending that much of his mother's tainted money. He does his best to support himself.
"I thought not," Hannibal replies. "We can take mine. Do you mind?"
"Not really," Will answers. "You're all I've got at the moment, pal."
Hannibal smiles, and Will would have thought it sheepish if not for the man's confidence. "Fair enough," he says. "Come with me."
He leads Will a little further down the street, where a black car, half-lit by the orange-tinted street, light waits for them. Will doesn't pay attention to the make or model, but as soon as he climbs into the passenger seat and feels the plush leather, he can't help but think it's a luxury vehicle.
When Hannibal turns they key in the ignition, Will doesn't have to feel the leather to know. He knows cars, and this one sounds like a very expensive engine.
"Where to?" Hannibal inquires.
Will scratches at the back of his neck nervously, suddenly self conscious. He has a crappy apartment at the edge of the university district. He usually doesn't care about what people think, let alone what people with money think, but he realizes he doesn't want to find out that Hannibal is one of those rich assholes that looks down his nose at poor people.
He forces himself to stop worrying and get over it.
"I live on Barclave Street," he says, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.
Hannibal simply enters the destination into the GPS system built into the car, and they begin driving.
It's silent for nearly half of the ride. Will doesn't mind it; it's refreshing, after what he endured for the earlier majority of the night.
But as much as he enjoys not talking, he's at least sort of intrigued by this good samaritan, if not slightly worried about his motives. He asks his question while continuing to stare out the window.
"What's your deal, anyway?"
He doesn't sense any strong reactions, and he doesn't bother looking over to check.
"What do you mean?" Hannibal asks, his voice steady. "Are you asking why I'm helping you?"
Will shrugs and then looks at him. "Sure," he says. He's kind of wondering what Hannibal's deal is in general, with the car and the accent and everything, but that might be rude to say.
"I'm obligated to assist my patrons."
Will huffs at that. "Most people in the service industry would beg to differ."
And Hannibal laughs, and it's as subtle as his smile (less of a laugh and more of an amused hum), but he doesn't respond to the remark.
Still not wanting the conversation to be over, however, Will keeps staring at him. "It's Hannibal, right?" he asks, though it's completely rhetorical. He hasn't forgotten.
Somehow, that earns a smile. "That would be my name, yes," he answers. "Though, I haven't picked up on yours—and I'm assuming it isn't any of the pet names your scum companion assigned to you."
The disdain in his voice simultaneously frightens and pleases Will.
"My name's Will," he says, and turns to look ahead of them.
He catches Hannibal glancing over at him, smiling, from the corner of his eye.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Will."
The rest of the ride is shared in silence. Will tells him which way to turn on Barclave, and instructs him to stop when they pass in front of his building.
Hannibal takes the keys out of the ignition, and the engine stops. He opens his own door, and Will freezes.
"Oh—you don't have to—"
Halfway out of the car, Hannibal stoops to look at him, eyebrows raised. Without responding, he gets out, shuts his own door, and crosses in front to Will's side.
All the while, Will's heart is hammering, and he feels frozen. A small, unhelpful voice in the back of his head whispers, Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Maybe Hannibal's motives for rescuing him from Jacob weren't so noble.
Maybe he's just another entitled shit, here to poke at strange little Will.
He takes a deep breath as Hannibal opens his door for him, and he can't help but appreciate that at least he's a gentleman. Getting out of the car, he glances anxiously towards the building.
"Thanks," he says, keeping his voice steady.
"You're welcome." Hannibal gives him a smooth smile. "Would you like me to walk you to your apartment?"
Will's stomach sinks. This is what he had been afraid of.
"No, thank you," he says, and he's surprised that he's even able to say it. After everything he had put up with Jacob, he can't believe that he's able to say no so easily.
Still, he expects Hannibal to insist, to follow him up anyway, to pin him against a wall and have his way, but he doesn't.
The smile persists, still warm and charming.
"Have a good night, Will. And be more careful next time; I wouldn't want this happening to you again."
Will smiles, a relieved and shaky exhale escaping him.
"I'll try my best."
Hannibal nods, and Will hurries into his building. He glances over his shoulder as he waits for the elevator and sees Hannibal driving away.
His throat goes dry as he realizes that Hannibal drives a fucking Bentley.