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“‘Oui?’ I must say, the pronunciation of your French is simply ghastly, Will.”
“Hannibal. Just—no.”
There’s an exasperated huff as Will, not-so-gently, passes a bandaged hand down his face. It’s a sobering reminder that the tumble they took over the cliff did quite the number on them both—not including being stabbed, shot, and thrown around like rag dolls by Dolarhyde. The young ex-profiler suffered a fractured rib, two broken fingers on his non-dominant hand, multiple lacerations that required stitches, and now—crippling boredom.
“No. A “Wii.” It’s a game console.”
Hannibal was standing in the cramped kitchen of their safehouse, a space entirely too small and outdated for his tastes, unloading bland, mediocre groceries onto the counter when Will ambushed him from the living room to make this strange request.
A quirked brow, “You want a game console? Is there something wrong with the books?” Hannibal inquires as he pulls a bouquet of semi-decent parsley from the brown grocery bag, although he fights the urge to wrinkle his nose at this sad excuse for fresh produce. There was only one market in the town they were staying in and it was truly lacking, but it’s something they would just have to deal with for now. Well, it was mainly Hannibal that was lamenting their culinary purgatory, but he never complained out loud.
It was just going to be until the risk of capture died down and they were able to flee overseas with false documents. They only had to suffer a little while longer of tedious disguises and subpar meal ingredients.
Will shuffles impatiently from one foot to the other, “There’s—There’s nothing wrong with the books,” he mutters, gratitude softening the bite of his tone as he watches Hannibal unload the bag. As if emerging from a daze he blinks rapidly and moves forward to help put things away, “They’re nice books, and I appreciate you getting them for me.”
“You’ve never struck me as the type to play video games, Will,” the other man comments evenly, releasing a soft hum as he passes Will an underwhelming mass-produced baguette to store away in their tiny pantry.
“I’ve played video games before,” His companion defends lightly, sliding the packaged loaf on a shelf before collecting several glass jars of premade tomato sauce. It had wounded Hannibal to touch, let alone purchase them.
“—and anyways,” Will continues as he roots around in one of the grocery bags, “being stuck here with minimal stimulation and no way to burn off all of this excess energy is driving me mad, Hannibal. I’ve read all of the books—twice—and wandered about these four walls like some caged animal.”
He empties the bag and carefully stores the rest of its contents away before crushing it with his good hand, “I need a way to exercise, if I can’t leave the safe house.”
Hannibal pauses his action of opening the dingy grey refrigerator to place a cellophane-sealed package of asparagus on the shelf to turn a quizzical expression on his companion.
“You’re going to exercise your thumbs?”
A frustrated, drawn-out exhale responds to his legitimate, confused question, but the psychiatrist simply holds his ground, waiting for the other man to answer him.
“You don’t know much about new gaming technology, do you?”
“I know next-to-nothing about gaming, Will, aside from the fact that the individuals that partake of it normally vegetate in front of a screen for hours on end—ruining their vision whilst eating vile, junk food that contain empty calories; consuming fizzy, sugar-laden beverages that carry no actual nutrition—all while their brain cells slowly fester and rot away. How on earth could that possibly be stimulating?”
Another sigh, but this time he’s gifted one of those rare smiles that secretly steals his breath away, and Hannibal finds himself like a moth to the flame, helplessly being drawn in to burn.
“Can you do this for me, Hannibal? Please?” Will finally asks, his vibrant sea foam eyes scanning the other’s with no small amount of hope and desperation—and oh, how the doctor wouldn’t mind getting lost in them forever.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
*
The accursed gaming console was acquired via the internet—online shopping, with a doctored credit card, and Will’s help, of course—and within two weeks Hannibal donned his usual disguise to pick it up from a P.O. Box registered under a pseudo-name, one that he’s had for ages. His disguise consists of a full, natural beard, colored contact lenses, thick spectacles and an inconspicuous wardrobe—so far it’s been working.
Traveling outside the safe house always carries a risk of being recognized, or worse—caught, and Hannibal takes every possible precaution when he has to wander past the safety of its four walls; making sure that he isn’t followed, keeping his head low and minding his own business.
The less attention he attracts, the better, for both himself and Will.
Thankfully the parcel wasn’t too large and didn’t require him to interact with any of the postal workers, so all Hannibal had to do was go to his box, collect the package, and leave without being examined by suspicious gazes.
When he returns to the safe house with the console in hand, he’s pulled into a hug that startles him to the point that he nearly drops the box, though he manages to prevent that, as well as keep his expression clear of any surprise. Will only embraces him briefly before quickly stepping back, clearing his throat awkwardly as he plucks at the bandages on his hand.
“I—uh, thanks again for doing this for me, Hannibal,” he murmurs, offering the doctor a weak smile, “I really appreciate it.”
Hannibal hums softly as he presses the parcel into Will’s empty hands, “Of course—but please, don’t allow it to rot that magnificent mind of yours,” he teases.”
The man smiles to himself as he exits the living room, leaving behind a bewildered ex-profiler that followed his every move with a gentle quirk of his lip.
*
Every day, Hannibal ventured from the safety of their house to meet with shady individuals to work on his and Will’s travel plans; acquiring the proper falsified documents, passports, photo identifications, social security cards, fake birth certificates and such—everything they would need to get them out of the country and onto foreign soil. This, of course, left poor Will anxious, alone and bored out of his mind, but at least now with the Wii he would have something to distract him, and that was the main reason that Hannibal agreed to get it.
He wasn’t sure what the other man did with the gaming console, exactly, but he had sat down on the old, worn sofa and watched with amusement as Will set it up and attempted to explain how it worked.
“This is the remote,” he stated that night, showing Hannibal the white controller as he fastened the strap around his good wrist, “It’s wireless, so you have a free range of movement to play.”
“No thumb exercises?” Hannibal replied with one of his barely-there smiles.
“Not exclusively,” Will chuckled, “Different types of games offer different ways to play.”
The doctor hummed softly and picked up one of several plastic cases sitting on the coffee table in front of him, turning it over in his hands with mild curiosity. He was unable to mask the surprise in his voice as he read the title and studied the vibrant art on the cover, “Just Dance?”
Will ducked his head and nodded as he fiddled with the controller he was holding, eyes low and refusing to meet the other’s as his cheeks flushed.
“Yeah, it’s uh—you dance, just as the title says.”
Intrigued, Hannibal flipped the case over to scan the back before glancing up, “Do you dance much, Will?”
“Do you, Doctor?”
*
They’ve been lying low in the safe house for several months when Hannibal comes home early one afternoon from one of his daily outings. He enters as quietly as he normally does after ensuring that he wasn’t followed, removing his coat and scarf as he goes, and pauses in the kitchen when he hears music playing from the living room. It’s loud, generic, and he finds a frown slowly creeping onto his face at the strange electronic instrumentals. It’s a perky, upbeat tune with the occasional ping and swoosh of what he assumes to be gameplay, and it slowly begins to grate at his nerves.
With a soft sigh, Hannibal places his keys on the kitchen counter before making his way on silent feet to the arch separating the two rooms, an annoyed retort at the ready on his lips to scold Will for such terrible music, when he comes to a screeching halt at the image laid out before him, the words on the tip of his tongue dying in an instant.
Will is standing in front of the television, white game controller in hand, and he’s dancing in perfect synchronization with the tiny character on screen, though the doctor pays it little mind. His attention is locked entirely onto the ex-profiler as he quickly moves his body along to the music, something akin to a possessed tribal dance that has Hannibal hot under the collar. Something as simple as dancing along to a video game shouldn’t be getting him so worked up, but it is, and suddenly he has nothing to say. He stands paralyzed as the other man dips and dives to the beat, arms moving wildly and legs gyrating in such a manner that floors Hannibal, as he never expected to see this side of his companion.
The psychiatrist is torn between informing Will that he really shouldn’t be pushing his still-healing body like this, while the rest of him is frozen in place, ensnared by the delicious display of physical finesse playing out in front of him, with absolutely no desire of stopping it.
When Will had said that he wanted to exercise, Hannibal really hadn’t the slightest inkling of what that entailed. He had imagined that the man would simply sit on the couch and play that silly bowling game, and instead he’s moving so swiftly and with such enthusiasm and precision that it shocks the Lithuanian.
The visuals create an experience so raw and so familiar that Hannibal is curiously reminded of that fated night witnessing Will finally embrace his darkness. It’s a wild and animalistic poetry and it brings about a war of charged, conflicting emotions in him. There’s a thunderous drumming in his ears that he soon comes to realize is his heart frantically trying to burst free from his chest.
As the ex-profiler pounds through what can only be considered the chorus of the song, Hannibal carefully draws back enough from his trance to slip away from the arch he had been hovering under to quietly sit on the edge of the sofa behind Will and watch the scene with rapt fascination.
Who knew that quiet, anxious Will could move this way?—and with such perfection, if the climbing score on screen is anything to go by.
The song progresses and Will blows through the motions like a champion, twisting and turning, attention so focused on the ritualistic choreography that he doesn’t even notice the audience he’s acquired. Hannibal doesn’t want it to end, so when it inevitably does, he’s loathe to find himself pouting. He wants more.
Will drops his arms and his chest rises and falls quickly as if he’s just run a marathon. Hannibal can’t see his face yet, but he’s certain that its flushed and damp with sweat, possibly causing those lovely dark curls to stick to his forehead.
When the ex-profiler finally turns around, hair indeed plastered to his face and skin a delectably ruddy shade, he stares at Hannibal with wide, startled eyes, breath hitching faintly amidst soft pants.
“Been there long?” The man eventually blurts out into the heavy silence with a hoarse voice before licking his lips and, oh...
Oh
The psychiatrist blinks rapidly before clearing his throat to fight off the sudden dryness attempting to take over.
“If I were to say that I have, would you ignore my presence and continue to dance?”
An embarrassed chuckle leaves Will’s throat while he scans Hannibal’s face, wearing a peculiar expression on his own, one which causes his stomach to flip and flutter like a carnival ride.
“Only if you agree to try one dance.”
Hannibal stares up at the beautiful, flustered man standing in front of him—all rosy cheeks and and short, panting breaths—and like a man possessed, he asks: “How do the controls work?.”
*
END