Chapter Text
"Perhaps you should consider a vacation," Hannibal suggested.
It was a suggestion any decent therapist would have made. Nightmares, sleepwalking, hallucinations: it was post-traumatic stress if nothing else, but Hannibal had smelled sweet, feverish illness on the back of Will's neck. He was very curious to see what would develop of that, but he also wanted to see how Will would react to the idea of a vacation.
Will snorted. "A few days lying on a beach somewhere, a drink with a little umbrella in it?" He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "Nah."
Hannibal rearranged his face into into a polite and distant smile that he knew would infuriate Will. Sure enough, Will's fingers curled atop his armrests. "What I am suggesting is time away from work, participating in some recreation that you find pleasant and distracting. Time away from the dark places where Jack has been sending you. I believe that would do a great deal to relieve your mental tension." He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way, his fingers laced over his knee. "A vacation is in the eye of the beholder. Beaches and cocktails may appeal to some, but clearly not to you. What do you prefer?"
It took Will a few moments to reply. His eyes unfocused, turning inward; he took his gaze to a distant corner of the room, then the ceiling, and finally to his own fidgeting hand. He licked his lips. "I like." He took a breath and blew it out. "I like being with my dogs. I like fishing. But I can do that at home."
This did not surprise Hannibal. Will was a pragmatic man and a homebody at heart: he'd built his house up around him like a nest, lined with scraps that gave him comfort and security. His idea of rest was not having to give up his energies to anyone else. And yet-- "But if you spend your leisure time at home, Jack will surely interrupt. Drag you out."
Will sighed. "Yeah."
Hannibal knew that Will was imagining the all too likely future: at home, lost in the contemplative peace of constructing a fishing lure; the ring of the telephone; Will attempting to ignore it at first, but at last giving in; "I'm on vacation," he would say, attempting to draw a line, and Jack would reply, "Make an exception." And Will would fold, as he always did.
"When was the last time you took a vacation?" Hannibal queried.
"I have holidays off. Had. The entire winter, more or less. A lot of the summer, too. Anytime there isn't an FBI Academy or National Academy in session, that's my time."
"And did you spend that time how you wished?"
"More or less. Sometimes I did research."
"But now that time is no longer yours," Hannibal said. "Jack keeps you away from your classes and your leisure. You will have to learn how to set boundaries. Assert your time and your space, in order to remain whole."
Will swallowed. "I guess."
Hannibal smiled. This one he allowed to crease the corners of his eyes in a manner that he knew made him look older and more kindly. "You deserve a vacation, Will."
Will looked up and then away again. His back bent and his shoulders hunched.
"You did not expect that," Hannibal observed.
"No," Will admitted.
"You work very hard for Jack. Even he must acknowledge that."
"He does."
"And I'm sure that if you were to broach the topic of a vacation to him, he would grant it to you," Hannibal went on. "He might even encourage it. He might say that it's about time."
Will's lips twitched up. "He wouldn't say that." He shifted in his seat, his nails scratching over the leather. "When was the last time you took a vacation?"
This was how Will fought back when he was cornered: searching for hypocrisy sowed into common ground. Hannibal liked this about him; it allowed him to be honest with Will, which Will seemed to like and find disarming, and which Hannibal found in turn amusing and interesting.
"Last spring," Hannibal said, and after a moment's reflection, corrected that to, "No, I believe it was the year before that."
"That's over two years without a vacation; you work harder than I do."
Hannibal returned the acknowledgment with a wry tilt of his head. "A psychiatrist's work is never done."
Will resettled his weight in his chair. "Where did you go?"
"Venice." Hannibal tilted his head back and let the memory well up: the smell of the canals; the hush of the carless streets; the many bridges and plazas; church bells ringing in the Piazza San Marco. "Spring is the best time to visit: the canals are not quite as flooded as they are in the winter, the summer tourists have not yet descended on the city, and the weather is mild."
Will hummed, scratching his fingers over his scruff. "A long trip like that...I don't want to kennel my dogs, and I don't know that anyone would look after them for that long for me. It's a long drive."
"There's no reason you should be separated from them; they're a part of your mental well-being," Hannibal said. "But I believe you'll find a number of pet-friendly vacations. Many of them even include fishing." He drummed his fingers against his armrest, once. "May I offer you the use of my own vacation home? You are welcome to bring your dogs, so long as they don't cause extensive damage, which I know you would not allow."
"You have a vacation home?" Will blinked and his mouth gave a wry twist. "Of course you do. Where?"
"Montauk," Hannibal said, and at Will's raised eyebrows, added, "East Hampton."
"You have a vacation home in the Hamptons?" Will sounded almost disgusted, though at who, Hannibal was not certain.
"It was bequeathed to me by one of my wealthier patients," Hannibal said. "It doesn't see very much use. I rent it out, on occasion, and share it with a few colleagues. I would be pleased to lend it to you for a week."
"No. No way." Will shook his head.
"I hear the fishing is excellent," Hannibal went on. "More saltwater fishing records than any other port in the world."
Will let out a little laugh. "I see what you're doing there, and the answer's still no. I, I couldn't. It's too generous." He looked away.
Hannibal folded and unfolded his hands and contemplated his next tack. He could push, or he could acquiesce. In truth, the idea of Will going on vacation did not appeal to him; he would be unable to observe Will in Montauk, and Will might deteriorate to such an extent that someone would notice and procure medical care for him. That would not do at all. He'd suggested the idea merely to see how Will would react, and he'd seen it. That was enough.
However, in the silence, Will seemed to have come to some conclusions of his own. "Maybe on one condition."
"What is it?" Hannibal refocused his attention.
Will looked at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, as if this was the best compromise he could manage in regards to eye contact. "If you come too."
Hannibal let his lips part in surprise.
Will looked away. "It's your house," he muttered. "It only seems right you should get to use it, once in a while. And it's been years since you took a vacation, and you were attacked by a psychopath lately, so you could probably use a break. But it's," he shifted in his chair, "probably it's not really your idea of a vacation, having to spend it with me and a, a pack of strays."
"On the contrary," Hannibal said, anticipation unfurling warm and bubbly in his chest, "that sounds like a wonderful time."
-----
Two weeks later found them standing in front of Hannibal's vacation home, a Peter Blake-designed beach house on a grassy bluff above a narrow strip of private beach. It was a Blake-typical "upside-down" design, with the bedrooms on the first floor and the living and entertaining areas above, and a wraparound balcony with a magnificent view of the sea. The dogs bounded and rolled on the exuberant lawns, while Will stood and gaped. Hannibal picked up his suitcase and went inside.
The house's four bedrooms were identical save for color, each one with a queen-sized bed and a generous closet. After watching Will deposit his duffel bag in the blue room, Hannibal took the adjoining red room, so that they would share a bathroom. The dogs roamed hither and thither, their nails clicking against the immaculate hardwood floors. Clay poked her head into the room as Hannibal was hanging his clothes; he snapped his fingers and directed the dog out, and she left.
Emboldened by his successful staking of boundaries, Will had quickly listed out more: they would take Will's car (this was also a matter of simple logistics; Will's dogs would hardly fit in Hannibal's Bentley, and Hannibal did not want them to); neither of them were to bring any work (no case files or student papers for Will; no patient notes or work phone for Hannibal); Hannibal was not to feel as if he were "hosting" Will. That included cooking meals.
Hannibal had balked at this. Even without his secret delights, he regarded cooking as a primary form of relaxation and self-care, much as Will regarded fishing. Hannibal had very little idea of how he would occupy his time if not in the kitchen. He had said as much to Will, and at last Will had acquiesced: "You can cook for yourself, of course, but not for me."
"I would consider it incredibly rude," Hannibal had protested.
"I can help you cook, then, if you want to cook for me," Will had replied.
"This is your vacation as well. You should not feel obligated to assist me in the kitchen."
"I can handle peeling a few potatoes. No weird meat, though," Will had added. "I'm not eating liver on my vacation."
Ah, well. One couldn't have everything.
Hannibal found Will on the upper floor, standing on the deck, gazing out at the swimming pool and surrounded by a hot tub, a propane grill, teak lounge chairs, and Winston. Will did not belong here, with his Sears catalog shirts and his Dockers and his pack of stray dogs, any more than Hannibal belonged in the tiki bar down the road alongside the sand-bitten surfers. But it pleased Hannibal to see Will out of his element, to see what Will would do.
"Is it to your liking?" he asked.
Will turned to Hannibal with an astonished look. "Some lady just left you this house?"
"Yes. I believe she thought I needed to work less. Her children were quite displeased, but it was all legal." Hannibal put his hands in his pockets.
"Why the fuck is there a pool? The ocean is right there." Will gestured; they could, in fact, see the ocean from here, and the sign that said PRIVATE BEACH.
"The pool is heated."
Hannibal wondered if Will's class resentment would rear its head here: the poor Southern boy, standing in a beach house valued at $20 million that he would imagine Hannibal had gotten for free. But Will only pressed his lips together against whatever thoughts struggled to voice themselves. He turned back to the view of the ocean. Hannibal left him to it and went to check on the kitchen.
The property manager had stocked the refrigerator and pantry ahead of their arrival. There were rice, beans, pasta, olive oil, and a full complement of dried herbs and spices in the pantry; milk, eggs, butter, and half and half in the refrigerator. Hannibal unwrapped a stick of butter and set it on a dish on the counter to soften. He checked the freezer and found a couple of ribeye steaks dated last week, along with two swordfish steaks. He moved the ribeyes to the refrigerator to defrost.
The click of nails against the hardwood floor announced Winston's presence, and hence, Will's. Hannibal shut the refrigerator door and turned to find Will leaning against the counter.
"Planning dinner already?" Will asked.
It was not yet six o'clock. If Hannibal had wanted to cook dinner, he would be about to begin. But there was no produce in the house and Hannibal was not about to suggest a slab of meat for dinner, though Will would likely not have objected.
"I was planning on going out," Will said. "Or maybe ordering a pizza. If you want to join me."
"I'll join you, but not for pizza," Hannibal replied, letting his distaste for the notion show.
Will smiled, close-lipped but with a dash of mischief. Winston leaned against his legs. "You're on vacation; you could live a little."
"Any pizza that can be delivered is not pizza worth eating," Hannibal said. In truth, Hannibal had been hungry too often as a child to turn up his nose at much, even a too-greasy pizza with thin, too-sweet sauce and a flavorless crust. But Will wanted to poke at the image of the buttoned-up millionaire socialite, and Hannibal wanted to let him. It was an urge Hannibal could identify with.
But Will apparently decided to spare him for now. "Then is there a restaurant around here that lives up to your standards?"
"I'm sure we can find something."
-----
"I can't believe some lady just left you her beach house," Will said, once they were seated and had ordered their food.
"Clients have left me a lot of such things over the years. Art, money, box seats at the symphony. They're grateful for the peace of mind that I've helped them secure. Though this house is, perhaps, the single most valuable thing that has ever been bequeathed to me." Hannibal laced his fingers together on the table and leaned across the tablecloth just slightly; he lowered his voice, to give their conversation an air of gravity and intimacy. "This bothers you?"
Will looked away. "No."
Hannibal didn't move. He had watched Will taking in the other diners. No ties and jackets, no pearls, but cashmere sweaters and designer dresses: the casual attire of the casually wealthy. Hannibal knew that Will felt like a poor relation in his plaid button-down and his dog-walking boots, next to Hannibal's Armani shirts and his Patek Philippe watch.
"People don't just...give away something for nothing," Will said at last.
Hannibal had not received the beach house for nothing; he had listened to this woman's petty anxieties and neuroses for countless hours that he would never get back, and he had worked upon her mind until she loved Hannibal more dearly than her own children. But that was not what Will was talking about. "You're my friend, as well as my patient," Hannibal said. "I want to see you well. This costs me very little."
"Besides missing a week of work," Will pointed out.
Hannibal conceded that with a nod. "Although as you pointed out, I also deserve a vacation." He smiled. Will returned it with the barest twitch of his lips, an automatic gesture that failed to flower.
Their food came: a long-handled skillet heaped with mussels, clams, scallops, and shrimp in a pool of garlic and butter, with four sticks of bread sticking out of the sides; a square plate with slices of pork tenderloin circling a watercress salad and a mound of chutney, topped with delicate shreds of jamón serrano. The food here was served family-style, platters in the center of the table, with large spoons that the diners could use to dole out their own portions. Hannibal picked up his knife and fork and moved a piece of tenderloin to his plate, along with a forkful of salad and a few twists of the jamón.
"Did you take any time off after Budge attacked you?" Will asked, picking up his own cutlery and imitating Hannibal. "We had our appointment that week as usual."
"I canceled my appointments for the next day." Hannibal used the slotted spoon to move a few shells to his plate from the skillet. "I had an emergency appointment with my own therapist."
"That's all?" Will took a few shellfish as well.
"It was what I felt I needed, and I didn't wish for it to dominate my life." Hannibal sawed off a bite-sized piece of the tenderloin and used his knife to smear it with a bit of chutney. "You know that feeling well, I believe."
Will cut his tenderloin into four bites before replying. He kept his attention focused on his plate and did not look at Hannibal. "My father used to tell me that I had to get back on the horse."
"That was why you went to the shooting range," Hannibal said, after he had chewed and swallowed his initial bite. "I can't help but notice that you demonstrate considerably more concern for my mental well-being than your own."
"Maybe your mental well-being merits more consideration. You're a civilian, after all."
Hannibal smiled. "I am not a delicate flower."
"Neither am I," Will shot back.
Hannibal took a moment to enjoy his food. The chutney was too sweet, but the pork was good: tender and not overcooked, and a better breed of pig than one typically found at the supermarket. The shellfish were excellent: fresh and sweet, and the garlic was not overpowering. The breadsticks were adequate; Hannibal would not have been surprised if they had been from Olive Garden.
"Sorry," Will said, at last. "I know you mean well."
Hannibal swallowed his morsel of bread. "You believe that gifts must come with expectations."
"Don't they?" Will pushed an empty shell around on his plate. "People expect gifts to be returned. They're favors."
"Gifts are also non-verbal declarations of affection." Hannibal took the last scallop from the skillet. "Indications that someone was thinking of you, or cares about you."
"And then you have to get them a gift back," said Will. "Otherwise you feel bad. Guilty."
"Do you feel guilty, that you're here on vacation?"
Will ate the last slice of tenderloin before replying. "Maybe."
"Do you feel badly that this is a gift you cannot return, or that you are missing work?" Hannibal cut a bite off of his pork.
"A little of both, I guess, but more the first one. I can't say I feel too guilty about not looking at dead bodies. I feel bad that this is a favor I can't repay you." Will stuffed a forkful of watercress in his mouth.
"Perhaps you've already done me a favor," Hannibal said with a smile. "After all, I am on vacation as well." He ate his scallop. It was good.
-----
The dogs rushed them en masse as soon as Hannibal unlocked the door, bumping against Hannibal in their haste to get to Will and leaving a mélange of pale hairs on his pants. Hannibal had long resigned himself to this side effect of Will's acquaintance. He went to his room to change into loungewear, listening as the dogs followed Will to the lower deck, where he poured out kibble and scooped out canned food for them, all the while saying things like, "Sorry dinner's late today" and "Were you good while we were gone?" It was curious, the way people talked to their pets.
When Hannibal returned to the front foyer, the door was open, but they were not on the grounds. Down on the beach, probably. Hannibal shut the door against the wind and went to investigate Will's room.
Will's duffel bag was still on the bed, unzipped; his shirts were hung in the closet, but he had left his pants, socks, and underwear folded in the bag, along with a few cans of Eukanuba beef and vegetables stew. It was likely Will expected to live out of his bag for the duration of his stay. That was the type of travel Will was used to: short stays in motel rooms, barely sleeping, no one caring if your clothes were wrinkled or creased. Hannibal searched the pockets. A bottle of aspirin; a quart-sized ziploc bag of toiletries; an old boarding pass from a long-ago flight to Denver, Colorado; a few pens; a handful of faded receipts; an unmarked and anonymous key, probably for a lost padlock; a pouch of pepperoni-flavored dog treats. Hannibal left it all as it was and went looking for Will.
The grass felt good against his bare feet. Hannibal stood there on the lawn for a moment, letting his eyes adjust and admiring the stars, before feeling his way down the narrow wooden stairs to the private beach. Night had turned the sea into a dark, rolling mass whose fingers crept up onto the pale strip of sand, catching at Will's ankles and drenching the dogs' fur. Will craned his arm back and snapped it forward. Hannibal could not see the stick that Will had surely thrown, but he knew it was there from the way the dogs burst into motion, dashing parallel to the shore in hot pursuit.
"I hope I'm not intruding," Hannibal said, coming alongside Will.
Will looked at Hannibal over his shoulder and shook his head. The dogs came trotting back. Harvard, the large white one with the brown patch over his face, was in the lead, a driftwood stick dangling from his mouth. Will took it from him and hurled it again. The dogs took off, sand flying in their wake.
Hannibal did not know how Will spent his time, when he was not teaching or working on cases or sitting in Hannibal's office. He could guess; he had been in Will's home. He had seen the flies, the boat motor, the student papers strewn untidily about, the dogeared paperbacks with their broken spines, the bed in the living room despite the existence of a second floor. Will was master of a pack, but he was a solitary man with solitary pursuits.
"The dogs look as if they're having a good time," said Hannibal.
This time, Winston brought the stick back and dropped it at Will's feet. Will threw it again. "Dogs are easy. They're happy as long as they have a place to sleep and food to eat. They like a change of scenery and space to run now and then. They're easy to please."
"Compared to people," said Hannibal. "People lie. About their motivations, their desires, their crimes. They break their promises. Dogs do none of these things."
Will didn't reply. This time the victor was one of the small dogs, with curly hair and a severe underbite, that Hannibal recalled was named Mal. She dropped the stick at Will's feet and gazed up at him adoringly, tail wagging. This time, Will held the stick out to Hannibal. Hannibal took it; the wood was sandy and gritty beneath his fingers, and surely was coated in a thick layer of dog spittle. He drew his arm back and hurled it into the darkness. The dogs sped off, and Hannibal felt powerful, that the dogs had done his bidding.
-----
Will went to bed at the eminently reasonable hour of midnight, mumbling an awkward goodnight to Hannibal with the uneasy manner of a man who thinks it would be rude to not acknowledge his housemate at all, but is aware that they are not the usual sort of housemates. Hannibal acknowledged the ritual with a smile and a nod, bade Will sleep well, and went back to skimming his eyes over Marcus Aurelius' Meditations. After an hour, he set the book down and padded downstairs. The dogs had been given a bedroom of their own; the door was open, and Hannibal could see that some of them were sprawled on the bed while others dozed on the floor. A few of them raised their heads as Hannibal walked by, but none of them made a sound.
Will's door was open as well. Hannibal stood in the doorway, his hands at his sides, and took a deep breath. He wished there were more light to see by, that he could make out more than the dim outline of Will's twisted shape atop the sheets. Will had kicked off his blankets, so that his legs were bare. His breathing hissed between his teeth and caught in his larynx to force out a whimper alongside it. If Hannibal got closer, he would be able to see Will's eyelids twitch, but if he got too close then Will might wake.
What would happen, if Will woke?
Hannibal drew closer, until he was standing next to Will. He could smell Will's salty-sour sweat. Will's eyelashes fluttered, his eyelids trembling with the force of his eyes' rapid darting behind them. Hannibal wanted to press his hand against Will's chest to feel his rapid and irregular heartbeat. It was too dark to see if Will had an erection.
He stood there until Will came awake with a gasp, and it was beautiful. The sweat in his hair and on his brow was beautiful; the wide O his mouth made was beautiful; the fear in his eyes was beautiful. Will sat up, panting and trembling, and Hannibal wanted to gather him up in his arms and drink him down. Instead, he put a hand on Will's shoulder. His t-shirt was damp and clung to his body; Hannibal would have Will's sweat on his palm afterward.
Will jerked. He pressed his hands against his eyes. "Sorry, sorry. I'm not usually loud."
"I was not asleep," Hannibal said. "Are your nightmares often so violent?"
Will started to shake his head, then stopped and shrugged. He let his hands drop to his lap. "Sorry, I should have warned you."
"Not at all," said Hannibal. He slid his hand down to cup Will's elbow. "Come, let's change bedrooms. Your sheets are damp."
"No point, I'll just have another one. Just put some towels down, it'll be fine." Will shook off Hannibal's hand, dug his knuckles into the mattress, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Hannibal frowned. "You have nightmares with this frequency?"
"Yeah. Lately. It's fine. Where are the towels?" Will got to his feet and ran a hand through his damp hair.
"There's a linen cupboard in the bathroom. Do you remember your dream?"
Will shook his head, once, and then nodded. He did not attempt to make eye contact, and Hannibal did not press him for it.
"Then I have a technique that I believe may be helpful for you. Come, let's go elsewhere for this; you should not remain in a bedroom where you don't intend to sleep."
Hannibal touched Will's elbow again but did not take him by it to lead him out of the room. Winston, upon seeing that Will was awake and about, got to his feet and trotted after them. Will smiled and fondled the dog's ears, and left his hand atop the dog's head as they made their way to the upper deck. It was partially enclosed, so that they were sheltered from the worst of the wind, and not too cold. Nonetheless, Hannibal turned on the heat lamp between the two lounge chairs, took one, and invited Will to make himself comfortable in the other one. Will lowered himself warily, as if uncertain that the chair would bear his weight. Winston curled up between their chairs, next to the heat lamp.
"Tell me about your dream," Hannibal said.
Will folded his hands over his stomach and stared up at the slatted ceiling, where the moon hung over their heads like a sickle. "You're not supposed to be working."
"You're my friend," Hannibal said. "Friends use their skills for each other. Tell me about your dream."
Will swallowed; Hannibal could see the shadows of his throat move. "I dreamt about the Ripper."
Hannibal had to make an effort to control his expression, though it was dark, though Will was looking up at the sky and not at him. He took a deep breath in through his nose. "What did you see?"
"I couldn't see his face, but I knew it was him. He was behind me, always behind me, and I was alone in the dark, walking, and I couldn't look back."
"Why couldn't you look?"
"I don't know. I just couldn't. It made sense in the dream. And then, after a while, he gored me."
Hannibal blinked. "Gored you? Like a bull?"
"Yes. On his horns, but they were made of knives." Will took a deep, trembling breath that Hannibal wished he were close enough to feel. "I looked down and there were knives coming out of me. Branching knives, like antlers. That was when I woke up."
Hannibal nodded, though Will was still not looking at him. "Here's what I would like you to do. Imagine a new ending for your nightmare."
A brief, nonplussed pause. "What?"
"Think of a different way for this dream to end. Visualize it. Make it as real as your dream."
"What, like an ending where I don't die?" Will put his hand down. Winston nosed it, and Will combed his fingers through Winston's ears.
"That would be a good place to start, yes."
Will shifted in his chair. "Okay, so instead of goring me, the Chesapeake Ripper just...goes away."
"Don't stop there. Change other details in your dream," Hannibal suggested. "You said that it was dark. You can make it light."
Will closed his eyes. His eyelashes were dark smudges against his cheek. "I see something ahead of me," he murmured. "A light, growing. It repels the Chesapeake Ripper, and he turns away from it, but I can go on." He opened his eyes again. "This is stupid."
"On the contrary, it's an effective cognitive behavioral therapy technique," Hannibal said. "If it makes you more comfortable, you do not have to tell me how you've altered the ending. But it is imperative that you do. You regain control of the dream, control of your subconscious mind. Hold onto that new ending, and the next time you wake from a nightmare, give that one a new ending as well."
Will blinked up at the night sky. He did not say anything more. Hannibal wanted to crack open his skull and dip his fingers in.