Chapter Text
Breath fogging against the glass, picturing a house like a lighthouse in the Moorish waters of a darkened night. There is no light house, no lights but the buzzing fluorescent street markers throwing shadows on the car park below. Two cars, one out of place because it’s a truck. Will’s car is in the shop currently getting a new cam belt so he’d taken the red American metal lunch box out of the shed and made it run again. Beside it is the coal coloured Bentley Hannibal drives looking like a streak of darkness among friends. Odd acquaintances, Will muses, and nods absently as Hannibal reaches around to shove a steaming cup of coffee in front of his face.
“The most I could do with the equipment on hand” Hannibal says mildly. Will turns, “thankyou” and sniffs deeply. The coffee is rich and aromatic and definitely imported from gods knows where. Right now though it’s the only think keeping him awake enough to concentrate. He’s so close, to what he doesn’t realise. But he can taste it like a word on the tip of his tongue, can feel the shape and sound of it. The coffee is hot and bitter, how he prefers to it compared to Hannibal’s sugar and cream approach. Looking over at the Lithuanian he can see the overtime and long nights have taken effect on the good doctor as well. The suit jacket of his ensemble lies folded over a chair, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up and his tie folded loosely in his jacket pocket probably. There are bags under his eyes, the effect of little sleep and high stress. The missing pieces murder is getting to everyone, even their psychiatrist it seems. Hannibal catches Will looking at him and raises one eyebrow in a questions. It isn’t often will is able to meet the eyes of anyone but Hannibal isn’t just anyone anymore. He’s a friend Will tells himself, burying the niggling feeling at the back of his mind.
“You want to call it a night. I think I’m dead on my feet.”
“As your doctor” Hannibal says smiling, “I believe I’m more qualified to decide that” Will huffs a laugh that’s a mix of humour and exhaustion. His coat is hanging near the door and he grabs it, turning to find Hannibal standing close. Uncomfortably close. By now, he realises what’s going to happen before Hannibal asks “may I?” and helps him into the great brown parka but it still makes him feel a little awkward being helped into his clothes like he’s five.
“And this”, Hannibal says pulling out a blue scarf and looping it around Will’s protesting neck. It’s Marino wool, warm and comfortable. Will could list a hundred reasons why he wouldn’t, shouldn’t, isn’t going to accept this but it’s cold and the wear of the case is weighing on him as well. Instead he mutters something about having it cleaned and returned and Hannibal smiles one of his rare toothy genuine smiles which means he’s been successful in his schemes. They store the evidence they were analysing, put away the charts and flick off the lights. There’s a killer on the loose but they won’t catch him if they’re both swaying on their feet.
Hannibal stops in the doorway, “one moment William,” and darts back into the evidence room quickly. He’s back in a trice, holding his blue silver fish tie in one hand and Will nods into a yawn. His keys are already in his hand, his mind on his dogs. He doesn’t notice the slight bulge in Hannibal’s pocket and later when they’re looking through the petri dishes they’ll put it down to a filing error.