Archive of Our Own

It starts when Hannibal goes to Will's house.

Will is out of town on a case, and his dogs need to be fed. To the surprise of them both, Hannibal was quick to volunteer. He told himself it was because he has plans for Will Graham, but that isn't true.

Will is unique. Special. Any nefarious intentions were thrown out the window when--when--

He isn't entirely sure when it happened, to be truthful. But he knows that he finds Will terribly interesting, likes him, even, and wants nothing but the best for him.

And if that means driving all the way out to Wolf Trap at the crack of dawn to feed his pack (without even the prize of seeing the man himself), so be it.

The dogs all bark at Hannibal upon his arrival, crowding at the door after a night left inside. He uses the key Will provided him to let them out, and they warm to him quickly after being fed sausage. 

He's somewhat disappointed that they're so quickly subdued by treats. What's the point of having so many dogs if they can't even guard the home?

Still, it serves Hannibal well, and he has no issue entering the house so he might begin his search. He didn't come here completely out of the goodness of his heart, after all, and he feels as though he should treat himself to an inspection of Will's home.

He finds nothing of much material value. But everything, Hannibal knows, bears some significance to Will, and that creates intrinsic value of a different variety. His perusal of Will's possessions provides an insight into a magnificent mind, and he relishes the opportunity.

(Mostly, however, he finds himself wondering if it's paranoia or laziness that drives Will to keep his bed in the front of the house.)

He saves the bookshelf for last, knowing that it will prove to be the most interesting of everything in the house. He's right, of course.

The top and bottom shelves are filled with books, unorganized as far as he can tell. He finds they are mostly related to fishing and botany, though there are titles he recognizes from his own psychology collection. A few classic pieces of fictional literature, as well as more contemporary novels he doesn't recognize.

Will isn't the kind of man to read poetry, he finds, and isn't surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.

The middle shelf is crammed tightly with vinyl records all enclosed in thin casing. They're stacked haphazardly, vertically and horizontally, with the sole intention of fitting as many as possible onto the shelf while leaving room for the record player pushed to the side of the shelf.

That, too, is buried underneath a pile of records. Will's collection is extensive.

Hannibal is intrigued (a familiar reaction when dealing with Will Graham). Without having to give much thought to the action, he removes the record player and sets it on a nearby, low-lying table. He can't in good conscience call it a coffee table, namely because it looks as though it's scarcely used for anything but housing untouched copies of Boaters Weekly and a withered house plant. There's no evidence that coffee has ever been in the vicinity of the table, judging by the coffee rings on the linoleum counter in the kitchen.

He picks out one of the vinyls and sets it on the player to listen to the first song.

Once he hits play, he regrets it and immediately cringes. The guitars sound like they're running, the vocals are screaming, and the drums don't match up in a pleasant way. He turns it off and has to take a moment to catch his breath. He passes it off as an anomaly, a bad pick. 

Will, his brilliant Will, would surely have better tastes than that. 

The next record, however, doesn't prove to be much better. The song he listens to is less aggressive and slightly more melodic, but the sound is repulsive and he doesn't think it's worth listening to. 

For his third pick, Hannibal is more choosy. He removes five records from random spots on the shelf, and then picks the one with the most innocuous cover art (a black and yellow geometric pattern).

He's disappointed, betrayed, even, when his ears are only met with twangy steel strings and too much distortion. An equally distorted voice wails over it all, and Hannibal stops that one, too.

He then proceeds to listen to a minute of every single album on the shelf, desperate to find something redeeming. He does that for hours, until his head aches and he might have to strangle something if he hears one more self-pitying chorus in A-minor. 

But he finds nothing. Will's choice in music is atrocious, and Hannibal feels wounded, surrounded in the wreckage that is the desperate scatter of vinyl records on the floor.

There is nothing lyrical, melodic, or even interesting about anything he heard in Will's collection. He doesn't understand. How could Will rot his ear drums with anything so grossly menial?

Will is special, Will is interesting. Will has potential, and thus Hannibal cannot sit back and let him destroy himself like this.

Something must be done, he decides. 

Some education is due.

Hannibal brings out his phonograph for his next session with Will. It sits on a table between their usual chairs, waiting. 

When Will enters the office, his gaze trains on it immediately.

"What's this?" he asks. He approaches his normal chair with stinted curiosity, settling into it and leaning forward to regard the device. 

"I thought we might indulge in some music for today's session," Hannibal answers, sweeping around the back of Will before settling in his own chair. "Music can have a tremendous effect on the brain. Would you care to explore that?"

Will nods absently, but he's still bent over to inspect the phonograph, his gaze intent. "This is old," he remarks. "Nice, though. Must be worth a lot. Guess you wouldn't want me to ask if I can tinker with it?" 

Hannibal's lips tighten slightly. "Another time," he says. "For now, I ask that you sit back and listen." As much as he would enjoy to see Will's more mechanical side, he has an intention for their time together.

"Sure." Will leans back into the chair, not looking particularly affected.

"Close your eyes," Hannibal instructs. "I want you to find a quiet place in your mind and focus entirely on the music."

Will does as asked, but his lips twitch in an amused smile. Hannibal almost tells him to take this seriously, but thinks better of it. Instead, he places the needle on the record and allows the music to begin playing.

"I want you to focus on the details of what you hear." Hannibal keeps his voice low and soothing, not wanting to overpower the music. "The way the orchestra rises and falls. The entrance and exit of the instruments. Savor it, experience everything."

He keeps his gaze trained on Will's face, wanting to see pleasure there. He wants Will to be able to appreciate fine music, and this will be the first step in teaching him to. An introduction. 

But one of Will's eyes peeks open, and his eyebrows are raised.

"This is Vivaldi's Four Seasons," he says. He sounds critical.

"It is," Hannibal confirms, pleased that Will can recognize it. That, at least, gives him hope. "Do you object?"

Will opens his other eye and shrugs, and Hannibal already knows that this particular try is a lost cause.

"It's just... kind of over done, you know? Every music teacher on the planet uses it as an introduction to music, classical or not." Will purses his lips and watches the needle go over the record.

Lips drawing tight again, threatening to form a frown, Hannibal crosses one leg over the other. "This is purely a listening exercise, Will."

"It's boring. Don't we have something more productive to do?"

Hannibal fights a sigh. This is going to take more work than he anticipated.

The next week, Hannibal takes a different approach.

It's towards the end of their session together. They discussed the conclusion of Will's latest case, and the conversation quickly shifted into an analysis of morality and death. 

How lovely it is, he thinks, to be able to so easily share his deep and dark thoughts with this man. 

It's simply a shame that Will's complexity and depth does not extend to his musical tastes. With Will facing the bookshelf, Hannibal allows himself a small scowl when he remembers Will's atrocious collection.

"I thought we might try another listening exercise," Hannibal says, breaking the comfortable silence that has bloomed in the space between them. 

Will turns to face him, his expression open. "We're running out of time," he says, "and I wouldn't want to end on a bland note. Classical music just isn't my thing."

The comment stings, and Hannibal fights a grimace. Instead, he keeps his face blank as he strides across the room to join Will at the bookshelf.

"Perhaps we've all heard a bit too much Vivaldi," he concedes, standing in front of him, "but I must argue that the genre goes far beyond any singular composer. It is the foundation of all modern music, and if I may inject my opinion, is far superior."

Will meets his eyes for a brief second. Amusement flashes there, and a smirk lines his lips.

"But that's just your opinion," he says. "Modern music certainly evolved from orchestral ballads and the like, but evolution implies improvement."

Hannibal frowns before he can help it. Will catches the expression before it's neutralized, and appears to be extremely satisfied.

"Domesticated animals differ from their wild counterparts in that they're easier to breed and consume," he counters, refusing to acknowledge Will's smug look. "Contemporary genres like pop and rock have been altered in a similar way. It's not evolution, dear Will, but simply degradation in order to make them more appealing for the masses."

Will smiles and crosses his arms. "You really are pretentious, you know that? Normal people liking something doesn't make it bad, Doctor Lecter."

"You know I prefer that you call me Hannibal," he says, finding his gaze drawn to that smile. Pink lips drawn over white teeth that could so easily be used to bite and mangle. "But," he continues, returning his gaze to Will's slightly averted eyes, "I must remind you that the masses rarely have good tastes. I had thought you different, Will."

"Maybe I'm boring after all," Will answers, but there's a twinkle in his eyes that suggests he knows Hannibal thinks differently.

He voices it anyway. "You certainly are not." He steps away to move to his desk, where a slip of paper lies. "Your mind is brilliant, but your tastes have been dulled by poor upbringing. Your palate simply needs to be refined, and it has the capability to be quite exquisite."

Will huffs, but follows him to the desk with a languid pace. "That's a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one."

"It's not at all backhanded," Hannibal returns. He takes the slip of paper and hands it to Will. "You have potential, Will. I would like to help you discover it."

His brow furrowing, Will stares down at the paper. "A concert?"

"Yes," he says. "I've a reservation for the event, and I thought you might join me. You might better enjoy your listening experience there."

Setting down the paper, Will gives Hannibal a perplexed look. "Social events aren't my thing any more than classical music is, Hannibal."

Despite the statement itself, Hannibal is enlivened by the usage of his first name. There's promise there.

"Humor me." He catches Will's gaze again, and the look on the other man's face says that he gleaned something from the eye contact. "I promise you, there will be no Vivaldi, or any other composer you've heard of. It will all be entirely original."

Hannibal wonders what he saw there. He certainly wasn't aware of revealing anything for Will to see, and he is very intentional about that sort of thing.

"Okay," Will replies, looking away quickly, the skin beneath his collar flushing pink as his lips twitch into a smile. "Sure. I will."

Unsure of what the reaction means, Hannibal decides to placate him with a smile. "Thank you," he says. "I can pick you up in Wolf Trap, if you'd prefer, or we can simply meet at the venue."

With something that looks like measured resolve, Will meets his eyes again briefly. "I'll drive myself," he says. "Even though I'll feel out of place with my car, if this is going to be as fancy as I think it is."

"It will be upscale," Hannibal admits. "You'll have to wear a suit--preferably other than the ones you wear when teaching. A better fit would be beneficial, I should think."

The thought of Will in a well-tailored suit warms Hannibal. He is, after all, an aesthete at heart.

"I'll get on that," Will says. He glances down at his watch. "But, ah, I should get going. Wouldn't want to waste any more of your time."

"My time is never wasted in your presence," Hannibal tells him. "But we have surpassed our hour. I will see you Saturday?"

"Yeah. See you."

Halfway out the door, Will looks over his shoulder and flashes a smile at Hannibal.

The gesture is unusual for him, but it leaves Hannibal standing at his desk for several minutes after Will is gone, a perplexed smile on his face.

Will is already at the venue when Hannibal arrives. He sees Will's vehicle parked out in front, and Will is just beyond it.

He looks stiff in the suit, which is untailored but fits him undeniably well. He stands with his hands in his pockets, illuminated by the lamppost he stands under. 

Hannibal parks next to Will's car. Will grins at him when he exits his Bentley, some of the stiffness washing away. It's unexpected, but Hannibal supposes it's only logical that Will would find him a source of comfort in a new environment.

"Hey," Will calls, waving. 

"Hello," Hannibal answers, striding over to join him. "Why aren't you inside? It's terribly cold, and you look uncomfortable."

Will simply shrugs. "I wanted to wait for you. Anticipation, I guess."

Hannibal doesn't raise his eyebrows; that would be rude. If he didn't know better, he might have thought Will's tone implied the good kind of anticipation.

"You have nothing to worry about," he promises. "You're under no obligation to interact with the other attendees. They're all extremely poor company, with few exceptions." 

"Okay," Will says. "Thanks."

Hannibal places a hand at the crook of Will's elbow, courtesy forever on his mind, and walks him to the entrance. They're allowed in immediately, of course; Hannibal is a well-recognized guest at these events.

There are a few spare glances thrown at Will, followed by questioning eyes meeting Hannibal's. He ignores them in favor of going immediately to their seats in the balcony.

The opening foyer is where most everyone is gathered, and the small balcony is empty. It won't be once the show begins, but Hannibal takes a moment to appreciate it.

"Are they usually all like that?" Will inquires, not bothering to keep his voice low now that they're alone.

"Yes," he admits, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Naturally, I socialize with them out of necessity; it's only polite. But I see no reason to waste my time with them when you are here."

Will swallows and keeps his gaze trained on the curtains of the stage below. "Do you usually bring dates with you?"

"Not for a long time." Hannibal laughs wryly. "I find most people to be terribly dull in close company."

"And I'm the exception?" Will asks, turning to look at him. His expression is flat, but his eyes are widened slightly, betraying an excitement.

Hannibal wonders the reason for it. Will has surely known that Hannibal finds him intriguing for some time now, and yet he only begun reacting to it recently.

He wonders what changed.

"Always," he confirms, and turns back to regard the empty stage. Behind the curtains, musicians will be shuffling and preparing themselves for the performance that they've been rehearsing for.

It begins ten minutes later. Will shifts in his seat, glancing over at Hannibal every once in a while. It's amusing at first, certainly strange, but it's no longer permissible when the music begins.

He returns the gaze when Will looks at him again. It makes Will freeze and look back at the stage.

Hannibal leans over then, to whisper in Will's ear. Several of the surrounding seats are full, and it would be impolite to speak loud enough to be overheard, so he gets very close.

"Close your eyes, Will," he orders, his lips brushing the shell of Will's ear. 

Will complies, and his eyes flutter shut. 

"Good." Hannibal smiles. "Now, listen. Focus entirely on the music. Let it overcome you. Don't let anything distract you."

Licking his lips, Will nods. He leans his head back in the seat and listens, his body gone still. His breathing is shallow, and he's far from relaxed.

Satisfied, Hannibal folds his hands in his lap and allows himself to enjoy the music. He was worried Will would be reluctant to pay attention, but it seems he is plenty willing to focus. Hannibal just hopes the music will be able to wash away whatever tension it is that has Will in its grasp.

After some time, too short of an amount of time, one of Will's eyes pops open. Hannibal notices it from the corner of his eye and sighs.

"Yes, Will?"

Will turns to look at him, both eyes open. "Aren't you going to distract me?" he asks.

Hannibal blinks at him. "Why on earth would I do that?" The whole point, after all, is to focus on the music.

"You told me not to get distracted. By anything."

"Yes," Hannibal says, beginning to wonder what Will Graham is thinking, and not in his normal reverent way. "Exactly. You're to listen to the music."

Will purses his lips and turns back to the music, but when he closes his eyes again, he doesn't seem as focused. Restless, really.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Hannibal can't imagine what Will was so confused by. He knows the man often doesn't follow directions, but that's usually out of spite or roguish humor.

He seemed genuinely perplexed by Hannibal's request.

It would appear, Hannibal thinks, that his quest is proving to be more difficult than expected. Will Graham is utterly clueless when it comes to music.

Hannibal takes some relief in the fact that he, at least, is not clueless. How embarrassing it would be to be so out of the loop.

No matter; he'll help Will get there eventually. 

At the end of the concert, Will is quiet. Hannibal assumes that he's likely tired from the event; it had run later than expected.

As they approach their respective vehicles, however, Will clears his throat. Hannibal pauses to regard him.

"I'm sorry this didn't go well," Will says, biting his bottom lip. "I really wanted it to go well."

Hannibal smiles, letting some fondness seep through. "It's perfectly all right, Will," he says. "There are always other opportunities for good music. Another listening exercise is not out of the picture."

Will grins at that, and his shoulders lose their hunch. "We should try again," he says, and the grin on his face is quite charming. "There's a concert Wednesday. One of my favorite bands, actually. We could go to that."

Infected by that grin, Hannibal smiles back. Will looks boyish, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, rocking on the balls of his feet. Because of that alone, Hannibal wants to agree.

But the entire issue stems from Will's taste in music, and so he is conflicted. He's been aiming to fine tune Will's ear so that he might enjoy more beautiful music. Accompanying Will to see one of his favorite bands would be like encouraging a relapse.

There would be some value, however, in joining him. By having Will pick out what he enjoys in the music, Hannibal could determine what he would like that closer aligns to his own tastes.

Or, upon aiding his analysis, he could perhaps convince Will that whatever pathetic excuse for music that fills his record shelf is absolute garbage.

It's worth a try, he decides.

"I would love that, Will," he answers, and he takes delight in the way that Will's face lights up in response.

"Good. I mean, thank you. I mean--agh. See you Wednesday, Hannibal."

And Will ducks into his car before Hannibal can say anything else.

Sunday night, Hannibal has Alana over. He enjoys her company, and her taste in music is acceptable.

She does not protest when he slips Vivaldi's Four Seasons onto the record player. She simply continues peeling potatoes, content to work and listen, a content smile on her face.

He tells himself that this is peaceful, and that he enjoys it. He tells himself he doesn't miss Will's banter, that Alana's mild company is just as pleasant. 

But as he has that thought, his phone rings. He recognizes it as the ringtone he set for Will's contact, and just about drops his spoon into the soup pot. Alana recognizes his uncharacteristic alarm, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

He ignores her and takes the phone from his pocket to answer.

"Hello?" he asks, and he sounds more rattled than he would have liked.

"Hey, Hannibal. Everything alright?"

A warmth immediately pools in his chest at the sound of Will's voice. He doesn't put too much thought into that.

"I'm perfectly fine," he assures him, setting the wooden spoon on the counter. "I'm assuming you're calling about Wednesday?"

"Yeah." Will clears his throat, and Hannibal can hear the faint wrinkling of paper. "Got my hands on a flyer. It's kind of a small deal; the band is just playing in a bar in downtown Baltimore. So, tone back on the sexy European model look, okay? Just dress... normally."

Hannibal would usually frown at the suggestion of dressing down for any event, but Will has given him a compliment, which he doesn't hand out freely.

"I'll bring us dinner," he offers, already planning the menu in his head. Simple fare would be best. Minimal utensils. A charcuterie board, perhaps? 

"I'm sure you would be loathe to eat anything prepared there," Will chuckles.

"Indeed." Hannibal stirs at the soup for a minute, making sure everything is still going smoothly in the pot. "We might have a picnic in a nearby park afterwards, don't you think? I can't imagine sticking around in a stuffy location like that for long."

Will is silent for a moment, but when he speaks, he sounds pleased. "I'd like that a lot."

"Excellent." Hannibal smiles, lost in thought for a moment until he remembers Alana. "And what time should I meet you there?" he asks shortly, ignoring Alana's intrigued smirk.

"I was actually wondering if you'd let me pick you up," Will admits, the words coming out quickly.

Hannibal only pauses for a moment. "If you'd like, yes," he answer, and he doesn't know why he's suddenly holding his breath. "Is there a particular reason?"

"Oh." Will is quiet for a moment. "You know. Your house is on the way, and, ah, carpooling. Carpooling is good. Less carbon emissions." 

"I didn't know you were an environmentalist," Hannibal remarks, amused and wondering what has caused him to sound so off-put. "But, yes, you can pick me up, Will."

Alana's eyebrows shoot up when she hears Will's name, and Hannibal wants to curse himself for the slip. But he recognizes that the reaction is foolish. What does he have to be ashamed of?

"Okay," Will says, and he sounds relieved. "Okay, yeah. I'll pick you up at six on Wednesday?"

"Six on Wednesday," Hannibal confirms. 

"See you, Hannibal."

"À plus tard, Will."

He thinks he hears Will snort before he hangs up, and smiles to himself, Alana forgotten. When he turns back to stir the soup, however, she clears her throat and he is reminded of her presence.

"Will, huh?" she asks. The peeler has been set down, and her arms are crossed over her chest.

"Yes," Hannibal answers, and he suddenly finds the color of the broth in the pot to be very interesting. "What about him?"

Alana shrugs. "That just sounded like a very personal conversation, Hannibal."

He stirs at the soup, and then goes to take the potatoes that Alana has peeled and sliced. "Will and I have a very personal relationship," he answers, pouring them into the pot.

"Do you?" Alana inquires. "No professional curiosity?"

Hannibal meets her eyes, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to rise. "Will has not been my patient since my first session with him. First and foremost, he is my friend." He keeps his tone mild but his gaze on her is cold. "I respect him for his unique qualities, and I admire his mind, but I have no desire to poke around in it." 

Huffing in disbelief, she leans against the counter. "Not even one little poke, Hannibal?" she asks him, her eyes still soft. 

"I do avoid Will in fear that I will mistreat him, Alana. I sense you cannot say the same of yourself."

He's riled her, he can tell, because she looks away and bunches her shoulders. It amuses him.

She returns to where she stood before, but there is nothing to idle her hands with, so she stares at the empty counter. "Will is fragile, Hannibal," she says. "You mean well, I can tell. But he doesn't--"

Hannibal cuts her off, not wanting to hear it. "Will is human, just like you and I," he reminds her, keeping his hard gaze fixated on her. "He is capable and deserving of friendship the same as everyone else. His empathy does not change that."

"I never said that," she replies, bristling. "I just don't think it's wise to engage him as you are."

"And how am I engaging him, Alana?" 

She purses her lips. "It looks like you're pursuing him romantically."

Were it not for the pool of rage building at the base of his spine, he might have sputtered. Instead, he swallows and turns back to the soup, trying to calm himself.

"The further this conversation goes," he says cooly, "the more convinced I am that you're projecting your own experiences onto me." 

It's Alana who splutters.

"What? No! Will and I--Hannibal--"

And Hannibal allows himself a small smirk, one that Alana cannot see. 

He's in control.

Completely.

Absolutely.

Not at all suddenly questioning the foundations he has built his relationship with Will on.

Will arrives ten minutes early, and Hannibal has already been waiting behind the door for a half an hour. 

He has planned everything thoroughly, from his outfit to the food. After a painful amount of thought, he has decided that there is a possibility that his interactions with Will have been romantic in nature. 

Having yet to determine whether or not he wants to pursue that avenue, or if Will has interpreted it to be so, he has gone for an overall neutral approach for the evening.

His outfit is casual, just as Will requested, but not lacking in taste or style. A black sweater to convey professionalism, but a red shirt underneath with the top two buttons undone to suggest playfulness. His usual slacks, of course; he isn't sinking down to khaki level, let alone blue jeans.

The dinner he has prepared is not so dual-natured, but forgivable if questioned. A charcuterie board featuring homemade heart-and-liver pâté (beef, but only if Will asks) among other creations, and an herb salad made colorful with rose petals. He feels hesitant about that addition, but he assures himself that it can be easily explained away.

The wine, of course, is forgone for whiskey. This is Will's night, after all.

That said, Hannibal feels perfectly prepared. This can be a normal night out as friends, and though it's highly unlikely that there's anything romantic stewing between them, that eventuality is covered as well.

Still, when Will knocks, nothing feels different. Hannibal feels very normal.

When he opens the door (a minute after Will knocked, just to be safe), some invisible force tries to make him greet Will with a kiss, and that isn't normal.

Instead, he swallows, takes in the sight of Will, wearing a cheap but likely soft flannel under a scratchy wool sweater, blue jeans, and muddy boots. He has his glasses on, and for some reason, Hannibal delights in that.

"Hey there," Will says, one eyebrow quirked. "You actually look... sort of casual."

"I believe that's what you requested, Will." He is suddenly pained with the restraint that it takes to not be outright flirtatious. He doesn't know what part of his brain decided to react this way, but he doesn't approve.

Will bites his bottom lip, and Hannibal would have thought it coquettish were it anyone else. But this is Will, and Will isn't--wouldn't--

"I believe I asked that you try not to look like a sexy European model. You failed."

Having been proven wrong before he could finish his thought, Hannibal is caught off guard and loses his better judgment. A flirtatious remark slides from his lips before he can stop it, and it's Will's fault anyway for teasing him.

"I'm afraid you're asking me to strip myself of my core identity," he sighs, "which is impossible. After all, Will, what would I be without my sex appeal and European flair?"

If his eyelashes flutter, it's because of a cool breeze drying his eyes, and not because of a sudden lack of self-control.

"A pompous chef that likes fucking with people's heads," Will supplies immediately, a hand on his hip. "But you could have at least worn jeans, you know."

"To what end? I think I could pull off a pair of Levis very well."

Will regards the fit of his slacks. "I'm sure you could, Hannibal."

The low tone of Will's voice is enough to make Hannibal's mouth dry, so he picks up the insulated bag at his feet. It contains their dinner for the night, and suddenly, he doesn't regret adding the rose petals to the salad.

"Shall we get going?" he inquires.

"If you're ready." 

"I am perfectly prepared, I assure you," he lies, suddenly realizing that clothes and food are likely not enough to handle a romantic encounter with Will Graham.

But he's thrown from his thoughts when Will smiles and, unexpectedly, takes Hannibal's arm. He opens the passenger door for him like a gentleman, and Hannibal is sure it's just Will being polite. 

Except Will Graham isn't polite. Hannibal watches and suppresses the writhing curiosity in his stomach. Will is always so surprising, but this is....

Hannibal doesn't know what this is. When Will gets into the driver's seat and flashes a grin at him before starting the car, he has to swallow down the desire to--to--

He keeps his gaze trained on the road ahead, busies his senses with feeling the seat beneath him. Dog hair is an interesting texture on his fingers, and the smell of it is somewhat overwhelming. The air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror does little to mask it, only blending to create obscene mixture of artificial pine and dog odor.

He does a double-take when he glances at said freshener. It's not shaped like a pine tree, as most are, but rather like an enormous, hairy hominid.

Hannibal doesn't live under a rock. He's aware of the folklore. 

Will has a Bigfoot air freshener, and he catches Hannibal staring.

"Beverly Katz," he says, smiling wryly. Without anymore explanation, he reaches over the console to turn a dial on the radio, and Hannibal immediately flinches.

The song comes on halfway through a chorus. It's not as abrasive as Hannibal was expecting, but he still finds himself biting his cheek as Will hums along with a grin on his face.

"You enjoy this?" Hannibal asks him. He moves his hands onto his lap as he tries not to wring them together.

Will glances at him, and his eyes twinkle with the street lights coming in through the car window. "I do, a lot," he says. "And you think it's trash." His voice is light as he switches on the turn signal to park the car off the main road. "Which is exactly what's going to make this night fun."

"Excuse me?" 

Already taking the keys out of the ignition, Will turns to give him what can only be described as a shit-eating grin. "You made me suffer through a night at the opera in a monkey suit. Now, you're going to join me in this dingy bar and listen to poorly-aged punk rockers jam while you sulk in that stupidly charming cashmere sweater."

His eyes seem to linger on Hannibal's torso, which makes him entirely unsure of what to do.

Luckily, Will steps out of the car before he can stutter in defense. He watches for a moment as Will doesn't open his door in favor of heading straight to the bar door, and then hurries after him, wondering if this is some sort of revenge.

"Don't."

Will's sharp hiss freezes Hannibal before he can pull the bottle of whiskey from his bag.

"Why not?" he demands. "I sincerely doubt they have anything worth drinking here."

"Because it's rude," Will reminds him. "And you abhor the rude."

With a grimace tight on his face, Hannibal re-zips the bag and leaves it at his feet. "I won't be drinking until we leave the establishment, then."

Satisfied, Will leans back against the booth. "All the better, then," he snickers. "You'll have to deal with the music entirely sober."

Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Unavoidably, he is flooded with the odor of the bar: sweat, alcohol, cheap cleaning supplies, and canola oil, mostly; the intermingling individual scents of each of the patrons mute each other out. 

"Perhaps, then, I should inquire about their selection."

Will snorts, and his leg brushes against Hannibal's as he elbows him. "I didn't find the champagne until the end of our night at the opera," he says. "You're going to suffer just as I did."

"Was listening to something above average truly so unbearable?" bemoans Hannibal.

The band has already begun setting up on the cramped stage in the corner of the bar. They all appear to be around Will's age, though they don't wear their years as gracefully. The bassist is already balding severely, and the guitarist bears the appearance of a weathered drug abuser. The vocalist appears to be half asleep.

Only the drummer, who is also the only woman in the group, actually seems to be put together. She wears the visage of a woman who would rather be at home with her children.

Will follows his gaze, and a frown forms on his face.

"They were a lot cooler fifteen years ago," he mutters. "I saw them for the first time when they were touring in New Orleans, back in '98. They were a big deal then."

"And what happened?"

"Life, probably," Will answers, his tone dry. "I'm not exactly the hot shot I was back then, either."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "You mean to say your quality of life has decreased?"

"No," Will scoffs, shaking his head. "I just mean that things are quieter, now. I'm exhausted from work more often than I am from a night out drinking."

As the band's singer begins speaking into an unplugged microphone, Hannibal tries to envision a wild and young Will. 

Did he have casual sex, or did he have a partner at the time? Did he go out with friends, or did he prefer more anonymity? 

Hannibal glances over at Will as the music begins playing, and wonders how he escaped from his empathy back then. He wonders if they would have taken interest in each other, had they met earlier along the line.

He decides that no matter the scenario in which they met, Hannibal would have inevitably realized the brilliance of Will's unique mind. 

It's easier to drown out the music with those kinds of thoughts, and he finds himself smiling.

They leave the bar after three songs, and Hannibal's ears are blessed with Will's rancorous muttering.

"There's no point in staying, not when you're off in your mind palace and I'm just thinking about how shitty they sound now."

Hannibal listens with a smile as Will continues to rant over the sound of his cell phone attempting to navigate them to the park. It's a short drive, and even though it's dark, the park is still open. 

"You're unbearable, you know," Will sighs, once they've found a place to settle.

There are only a few trees, so they sit out in the open, illuminated by moonlight.

Hannibal lays out the picnic blanket he brought with him on the wintered grass. "Because I've salvaged our evening?" 

"No," Will sighs. "Because I can't rile you up." He crosses his arms, watching. "You don't seem particularly affected by any of this. Anything, really."

"So you brought me here to antagonize me?" Hannibal asks, keeping his tone even. He begins removing the items for the charcuterie board from their separate containers to arrange them neatly on a wooden slab.

He wonders if Will's flirting had been purely because he had been searching for a reaction. The thought makes Hannibal's knuckles go white around the jar of purple sauerkraut.

"No." Will sits down on the picnic blanket and plants his hands on the ground, leaning back so he can look up at the sky. "I just wanted to see if you're ever not so... composed. I can't tell if you're just playing a part or you actually have--never mind." He sighs and shakes his head. "Forget I said anything. I can't read you like other people; I must have misinterpreted things."

"Will."

Hannibal is finished with the charcuterie board, and he's quick to plate the rose-petal salad. Will is still staring up at the burgeoning star-scape, and Hannibal takes the moment to determine his next move.

The sight of Will's bared neck, milky and pale in the dim light, stirs something in him, but he knows that there's more to the equation than that.

Will is enticing, between his empathy and his quick wit and his peculiar penchant for dogs. He is different from the rest of the world, with how he sees everything, with how he defends himself from it.

Even his propensity to argue against the logical beauty of classical music is appealing to Hannibal, when he thinks about it.

He sets the salad down next to Will, mind made up.

"I find it hard to believe you misinterpreted anything, when I scarcely understood my own intentions."

Will looks at him, then. "You're hardly the type of man not to know himself, Hannibal."

"I'm not," Hannibal agrees. He takes a rose petal from his own plate with his fingers, pressing it against his tongue, savoring its subtle sweetness before swallowing. "But it would appear this is an exception."

Eyes glittering in the light, Will takes a petal, too. He only examines it, then asking, "And what is this, exactly?"

Hannibal smiles. "A few weeks ago, I offered to care for your dogs while you were away."

"I recall," Will says, blinking. He rubs the petal between his index finger and thumb, and the delicate thing quickly turns to paste. He uses his teeth to scrape it into his mouth.

"I uncovered your record collection," Hannibal continues, "and I found myself upset by its contents. I thought it in your best interest to elevate your tastes, but I hadn't thought about why I would want that."

"You wanted me to enjoy what you do," Will suggests. "For there to be a common ground."

"Ah, but there's plenty of that between us, don't you think?" he counters, sighing. He considers Will's darkness, his complexity. Things he cannot yet bring to the surface. 

"Perhaps."

"Regardless," Hannibal says, food forgotten, "I believe I had simply taken it as an opportunity to spend time with you. Had I been wise enough to acknowledge your distaste for classical music, we might have avoided this uncomfortable situation."

"What?" Will asks. "The bar, or this now?"

"The bar, I should think," Hannibal replies. "This could be quite pleasant."

"Well." A hesitant smile forms on Will's face. "Is there anything you need me to do to make that happen?"

Flirtatious.

Thank god, Hannibal thinks.

"Yes, actually," he says, feeling quite devious. "If you could help me set up this speaker, there's a concerto I think--"

Will groans and cuts him off by grabbing his shirt and smashing their mouths together. 

Hannibal's hand somehow lands in the salad with the motion, but he doesn't mind. The kiss is everything he had wanted and more. 

Will breaks away a moment later, his eyes alight. 

"I swear to god," he whispers, "if we ever discuss music again, I might kill a man."

A terrible delight wells up in Hannibal. 

"Let's hope you have a better motive than that, Will."

He kisses him again, and he tastes the future on their tongues.

It's wonderfully dark, though he can't yet place the tune.