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Hannibal Lecter was capable of extreme singular focus. He took great pride in this ability. Honed it. Perfected it. He imagined the goals he set as illuminated paths, carrying him forward, unobscured by doubt or hesitation. It was impossible for him to let go of such goals after having made them. They gnawed at him. Occupied nearly every corner of his mind. Seeded again and again until his thoughts were overgrown. The resulting obsession, the dogged pursuit of achieving this goal, was thus necessary to relieve the building tension and return to homeostasis. This ebb and flow of equilibrium brought clarity.
Hannibal Lecter had no choice. It was not no longer a question of if; but when.
Hannibal Lecter had to touch Will Graham’s ass.
The moment the thought materialized, gaining substance and weight, he needed to know what Will’s ass felt like. He had to touch it. Hannibal was helpless to resist. Knowledgeable of his own nature, he could do only one thing; f it took a lifetime he would do this.
****
“The killer drank from one of the beers,” Price said, holding a can up with a gloved hand.
“Applied the sunscreen with his bare hands,” Beveraly said from where she was leaning over the body.
“It’s March,” Zeller commented with an assumed rather than literal shrug.
The body had been found on the beach. A cold, still frozen, grey beach that had forgotten the year’s past summer. The killer had placed the body in a plastic chair, dressed the corpse in the expected accoutrement, and posed it in a way that suggested it was just a relaxing day at the beach. The crabs hadn’t known the difference or appreciated the irony.
“There’s still a tag on the shirt,” Will said from his position far across the room. Luckily his voice carried.
“Maybe we can return it,” Beverly said with a curl of her lip. The gaudy, neon pattern was not to her’s, or any decent human’s liking.
“Unless you want it, Will,” Zeller teased.
“Thanks but no.”
“Would be an improvement to your usual wardrobe,” Price said, snapping his face shield back down.
“This is a new shirt!” Will defended hotly.
Hannibal stood near Will, observing the tide pool of activity with great interest.
Will had just returned from the crime scene, seeming as if he was exhausted by the mental effort it had taken to enter yet another killer’s mind. Hannibal scented the air, smelling the body, sunscreen, sated crabs, cheap beer, and Will’s salty, purposeful detachment.
“It’s extremely theatrical,” Hannibal offered, “He’s painting a picture. Perhaps a memory.”
“A fond memory?” Beverly wondered.
“I loved going to the beach,” Price smiled, “I used to dissect jellyfish.”
“Your parents weren’t worried about you?” Zeller sneered.
“My parent’s displayed my science fair trophies on the mantel, thank you.”
Will stepped closer and Hannibal followed close behind. His shadow. Will wrapped his arms around himself and when he inhaled Hannibal felt as if the air in the whole room shifted. Hannibal let his eyes close, enjoying the silent influence Will had on his surroundings, letting himself be caught in the flavour and substance of it all. He imagined himself as porous, imagined Will seeping into every part of him. He imagined their joined shades and hues becoming something entirely new. Something extraordinary.
“A memory of happier times,” Will was saying, “He wanted his victim to remember when things were simpler. When joy was something you could reach out and touch,” Will’s eyelashes fluttered and Hannibal wanted to count every lash, “Because now he knows better.”
“He knew the victim?” Beverly wondered.
“Hate and mockery are often paired with the broken dreams of childhood,” Will answered moodily and seemed to sway, tremble, swoon, at Hannibal’s side. Immediately, Hannibal reached out to catch, ready to be the rock against which Will crashed, ready to seize any opportunity when so neatly presented to him. Hannibl’s hand met Will’s spine, the vertebrae that stacked together and formed the beautiful curve of Will’s back, the back that Hannibal could now feel. Will’s feet planted themselves quickly back under him but not before Hannibal swept his hands lower, seeking the summit of that curve, palm sliding over damp fabric, finger’s outstretched--
“I’m fine!” Will snapped and stepped forward, teeth biting the air as he ran his hands through the dark curls haloing his head. Hannibal dropped his arms and let the disappointment be a tightening of his jaw.
“Creepy uncle?” Beverly ventured.
The others began to nod.
“Creepy uncle,” they all echoed with understanding.
Will skalked away.
So elusive, Hannibal mused, committing the arch of Wil’s spine to memory, vowing to even try and formulate a mathematical equation worthy of it’s perfection.
****
“You didn’t strike me as someone that would get into the Halloween spirit, Doctor,” Beverly said with a smile.
“On the contrary. I enjoy Halloween very much,” Hannibal answered.
“Do I need to invite you in?” Beverly teased. Hannibal was dressed as a vampire. True, it was one of those least amount of effort costumes, especially when the beautiful suit he was wearing under the stunning velvet cape was likely one he already owned. And come to think of it, Beverly thought, those might be his real teeth, only visible now because he was allowing himself to grin.
“Only if you choose to, mortal,” Hannibal played along.
“Come in, you have the snacks. The rest of the ghouls and goblins are starving.”
Beverly was hosting a Halloween party. Workload had allowed them this chance at a reprieve and she’d jumped at the chance to revel in this kind of harmless, candy coated macabre aesthetic. Hannibal walked through her doorway and into a curious world of carefully orchestrated and charmingly innocuous scary things; orange lights and black garlands and hanging bones. It vaguely reminded Hannibal of home in that way.
“And you are dressed as?” Hannibal asked as they walked to the kitchen. She was wearing dirty, ripped clothes and had a bow slung over her back.
“I raid tombs.”
“A tomb raider?”
Beverly ignored his ignorance of basic pop culture, figuring that he was too European, too old, or too strange to know who Lara Croft was.
“Wow, that blood looks so real,” Beverly marveled at the trails of blood running down his chin as Hannibal set down the trays of snacks he’d brought onto the kitchen counter.
“Corn syrup,” he explained, licking the corners of his mouth. It was in fact, not corn syrup.
Hannibal had been delighted to accept the invitation. Any chance to ingratiate himself. And to see Will. He heard the voices of others from the FBI joined together in the living room, music playing in the background about a full moon rising, and yet didn’t hear Will. He smelled him though.
“Is Will here?” he asked as if unknowingly and only halfway interested.
“Should be,” she looked over her shoulders, “He wanted to fix one of my dining room chairs that was wobbly but I told him no,” she rolled her eyes then looked up to see Will wandering into the kitchen as if caught on a breeze.
Will. Oh Will. Hannibal’s eyes focused on him and him alone. Startling how sereal he could look in the orange light. Breathtaking how beautiful he was having not seen him for only a day. He was dressed as a devil. Sort of. Little red horns rose from his curls. A similar tail of bright red hung from the back of his belt. How curious.
Hannibal couldn’t help but smile, likcing at the blood on his lips as he did so, “Good evening, Will.”
The little devil had already drank one beverage and was on his second. It made his cheeks flush, “Hi,” Will said, the corner of his mouth quirked at Hannibal’s costume, “It suits you.”
“Thank you,” Hannibal said, “And yours as well.”
“It’s actually one of my dogs,” Will said, ignoring Beverly agape look of confusion and not intending to elaborate in any way.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” Hannibal said, remembering Will’s ardent declaration during their last session that he would not attend any party, especially a work one.
“I actually have to go,” Will said, eyes wandering from Hannbial’s to somewhere in Beverly’s general direction as he set down his drink.
“What? No!” she put a hand on her hip.
“I got here early.”
“Only so you could leave early.”
“I brought snacks,” Hannibal offered.
Will glanced at the trays of food Hannibal had put so much work into and quickly looked away, “Sorry, not feeling well,” his eyes flickered upward, “Thank you, though, Beverly, I had fun.”
Beverly accepted the inevitable and set about putting out the snacks as Will began to walk from the kitchen toward the front door. Hannibal followed, intending to walk him out. As Will walked Hannbial watched the small tail bounce merrily with the sway of his hips and then--the tail fell onto the ground.
Hannibal quickly scooped it up, “Here, let me,” he said and reached to reattach the tail onto Will’s belt. His fingertips brushed lightly over the leather of his belt before Will grabbed the tail from his hand.
“I got it,” he smiled a half smile, no teeth, and tucked the tail into his pocket, “Not meant for humans anyway.”
Hannibal swept his cape over his shoulders, defeated again but not deterred, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to navigate these types of parties either.”
“Really?” he laughed a little, “Aren’t you a social butterfly?”
“I’d rather the company of a friend.”
“I’d rather the company of my dogs.”
And he left. Well. Hannibal stayed until the impact of the door shutting stopped vibrating the frame and wondered about what types of devil tails were made for humans, mind wandering to several salacious images involving the younger man in various compromising positions that warmed his hurt ego at being left alone. Hmmm.
****
“No time, come on, pile in!” Jack shouted.
“Why is the kit riding shotgun!”
“Do I need to explain to you how expensive it is?”
“You go in back, Bev,” Zeller begged.
“I swear to god, Z, if you don’t go back there I’m never giving you back your Battlestar Galactica DVDs. Better yet, they’re frisbee practice.”
“Come on, Bev, you’re smaller than me,” Zeller’s arms dropped to his sides, shooting daggers at Price who had taken the only other solo seat apart from the three in the way way back of the van. Price sat in his seat like poured cement. Zeller made a show of how devastating it was, bouncing from foot to foot then, “Fine!” and with a hot huff of anger, climbed in back.
Hannibal and Will looked at each other. They were squishing in back too.
“I’ll,” Will sighed, “Sit in the middle.”
Hannibal slid into the back and secured himself, watching as Will followed and Beverly slid the door shut.
“Seat belts.” Jack bellowed.
“We’re in!” Zeller shouted.
“No you are not , the light is on!”
Several clicks were heard as Will continued searching for the end of his seat belt awkwardly, legs bumping into Zeller and Hannibal, head hitting the ceiling, “Where is it? Can you?”
“So I thought you said this was just teeth, is it not just teeth?” Price asked, oblivious, or just not caring about the fiasco happening in the back seat.
“Teeth and bones and tendons,” Jack listed.
“Where’s the rest?” Price wondered.
Will was near standing on the seat, “Dr. Lecter, I think you’re--”
“That was Tuesday, remember! The buckets! Keep up!” Jack was getting aggravated, “Now the weird thing about the tendons is--”
“I got it, I--no, there,” Hannibal offered, hands searching the seats on and around and under Will’s body.
“Is that they’re--” Jack attempted again.
“That’s the wrong one!” Will nearly cried.
“The weird thing about them is--” Jack was going to try one more time.
“It’s stuck!”
“Trouble?!” Jack roared.
Hannibal, not willing to anger Jack further and tired now of his failed attempts to make Will sit down and thus allow him to touch that beautiful, plump ass, pulled from under him the lost belt and Will took it, sat, and buckled it with a heave of relief.
He looked straight ahead, van suddenly silent as he asked straight faced, “The tendons are what, Jack?”
Hannibal, for his part, was content at least that Will’s leg was pressed against his leg.
“They’re boiled,” Jack, satisfied at finally finishing his sentence, put the car into drive.
“Boiled? Will questioned.
“Makes them more malleable,” Hannvial provided.
The entire car hushed and all eyes went to the doctor.
****
“It’s not my normal appointment time.”
“No.”
“My routine is all messed up,” Franklyn nervously chewed on the words after they’d left his mouth, “But I didn’t want to miss a week.”
“Disruption can be a good thing. Try and utilize some of the coping skills we talked about if your anxiety is heightened.”
“Oh I will,” Franklyn said, stepping out the door and into the waiting room.
Hannibal was surprised to see Will there. It was not their scheduled time.
Franklyn froze and Hannibal, not wanting any sort of blending of these two worlds, guided Franklyn with a light touch to his shoulder, “Please, I’ll see you next week, Franklyn.”
“Are you okay?” this was directed at Will who Franklyn was staring at.
Of course Will wasn’t. His eyes were slowly rolling back into this head. His shoulders fell as if under a great weight and his body, as if in slow motion, crumpled in kind to the floor.
Franklyn, moving much faster than Hannibal would have thought possible, guided by his own insatiable desire to be needed and loved, immediately dove forward.
No, no, don’t touch him , Hannibal thought, no--
Franklyn caught Will in his arms, dropped him slightly and more or less lowered him to the floor of Hannibal’s waiting room.
“Oh my god!” Franklyn cried, “He--” he looked up at Hannibal with wide wet eyes, “He just--” Will began to tremble slightly and a trail of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth, “He’s having a seizure, oh my god, oh my god!”
Franklyn pawed at Will as if he was trying to pull him onto a boat from a choppy sea, ineffectual and frantic. Hannibal couldn’t stand the sight of him touching Will. Of course Franklyn was not helping, Hannibal would rather have Will under his exclusive, private care, and most of all; this would have been a perfect opportunity for Hannibal to touch Will’s ass.
Hannibal put his hands on Franklyn’s shoulder. Correction, he pushed Franklyn away with enough force to throw the already off balanced man from his heels onto his own ass, then knelt on the floor next to Will.
“You may go, Franklyn,” Hannibal ordered.
“No, he’s going to bite his tongue off,” Franklyn continued with the same level of sweaty panic.
“ No , he will not.”
But Franklyn wasn’t listening; he was pulling his wallet from his pants. His wallet! He then, probably heroically in his eyes, lunged forward as if to push it into Will’s mouth.
Shocked, Hannibal deflected these movements too, barely able to contain himself to a point that would not be harmful to Franklyn’s bones. He threw himself between Franklyn and Will. Franklyn’s eyes didn’t focus until Hannibal shouted his name, “Franklyn!”
The tear filled eyes met Hannibal’s in breathless shock, “Yes?”
“Will is having a seizure yes but nothing should be placed in his mouth, he shouldn't be restrained, he should be kept safe and clear from any objects that could hurt him.”
“Wow, okay,” Franklyn breathed in final understanding, “Okay.”
“Besides,” Hannibal said, breaking eye contact long enough to cast his eyes to the angel lying on the floor, drawn even more so to his helplessness as if something rung out by celestial french horns, “It’s not that kind of seizure.”
“Not that kind of seizure?”
“No, there are many different types of sex--”
“What?!!”
“Seizures,” Hannibal quickly corrected himself, playing up his thick lisp-ed accent for a moment to hide the far too obvious Freudian slip, “He will be alright.”
Franklyn nodded and said okay a few times, then, “That was intense,” he laughed, “I mean--do you know him? Of course you know him, he was in your waiting room.”
“Franklyn,” Hannibal warned.
“I know I know. Privacy,” he finally stood up shakily, his hand over his mouth, “Wow, you really know your stuff, Doctor.”
“Thank you and,” Hannibal looked up at him, “Good night, Franklyn.”
“Good night. I’m,” he puffed his chest out, “Glad I could help.”
Franklyn left and Hannibal watched Will for a moment. His breathing was returning to normal, his eyes fluttering. God his lashes. His parted lips. Hannibal reached to touch the dampened face, pushing a sweaty lock of hair from Will’s tortured brow.
“Will,” he said softly, then again, “Will.”
Will’s eyes opened for only a moment, then closed, groaned, “What,” he exhaled and took a shuddering breath, “What happened?”
“You came to my office. You had a seizure in the waiting room.”
“A seizure?” he rolled his head to the side and tried to sit up.
“Take it slow,” Hannibal cautioned, supporting his shoulders when it was obvious he was going to sit up no matter what.
“I don’t feel good,” he said.
“I imagine not.”
“Can you,” he was exhausted, “Can you get me home?”
“You should go to the doctor.”
“No,” his voice was strong, if only in intent, and Will scrambled to get his legs under him. Hannibal parallel his body, letting Will use him as a support. This would have been the perfect time. Will was dazed. Helpless. Hannibal could have done it right then. Lowered his hand to the waiting perfection. But he didn’t. It would be a perfect ass but the moment wouldn’t be.
Hannibal helped him stand and steady himself and again felt comfort in the weight and feel of Will's body against his. Hannibal did have a conscience after all. For some things. But definitely standards. He would wait.
****
“Why can’t they just be friends?” Zeller demanded, setting his beer down on the table so violently liquid sloshed from the rim and peanut shells bounced from the tabletop to the floor.
“Is there a shortage of male friendships depicted in popular entertainment?” Price questioned with an equal, if less disruptive amount of fervour.
“But why does everything have to be gay somehow?”
“Everything? What world are you living in?” Beverly questioned.
“They’re friends. Best friends even. Why do people have to read into perfectly normal intimacy and make it something--”
“What? Grotesque?” Price interrupted.
Zeller glared at him, “Something it’s not.”
“Kirk and Spock were gay for eachother,” Beverly said with unshakable certainty, taking a sip of her beer, “If not textually, because duh, it was the sixties, subtextually it was written in the stars. Undeniable.”
The team, including Will and Hannibal, were out for drinks. Usually Will wouldn’t have come along. Not usually. Always. This time however, Hannibal had insisted, encouraging social interaction to help with the stressors of work. Will had only just agreed. To one beer. In and out.
Hannibal, sitting with the group in their high top chairs around a sticky table covered in peanut shells, was enjoying the conversation. Enjoying being out with Will. Enjoying being out in a normal setting. He felt it put him in a good light. Blending was important to him.
“Spock was gay,” Will joined in, making everyone stare in surprise, “Kirk was closeted bisexual and oblivious.”
“Thank you,” Price breathed, clapping Will on the back.
“It always struck me that Kirk had an unhealthy relationship with his sexauality,” Will continued, “Maybe stemming from some sort of abuse; he saw sex as a tool he could use to get what he needed for the mission. He made himself an object and perceived real, genuine love as something totally unattainable.”
“Wow, Graham,” Beverly smiled, “I didn’t know there was a latent Trekkie in you.”
“You have to respect the originals,” Will shrugged.
“Did they have Star Trek where you grew up, Dr. Lecter?” Beverly asked him.
“Please, call me Hannibal,” Hannibal replied, “And yes, I watched a few episodes, when and where I had a television.”
“You guys aren’t understanding me,” Zeller persisted, “You can love someone and not have it become a sex thing.”
“A sex thing?” Price questioned angrily.
“There’s a difference between loving someone deeply and wanting to stick your penis inside of them,” Zeller said flatly.
“And what exactly about sex destroys your idealistic vision of love?” Price insisted.
“Sex is basic. Sex is messy. Sex is just,” Zeller rolled his eyes, “Grunting and bodily fluids.”
“How Puritanical of you,” Beverly said.
“The Puritans, being the first group to establish themselves in America, set a very troubling tone for your country regarding the expression of sexuality and intimacy.”
“You live here too you know,” Zeller challenged bravely, considering the doctor far too European for his tastes.
“Sex is a way to express love and affection. Love is not a pious, hallowed thing; it’s origins are unknowable but our experience as humans more than proves it is a function of all things; mind, spirit, and body.”
“So Kirk and Spock suddenly getting down and dirty would make sense? How?”
“It’s not sudden!” Price groaned, “You being afraid it says way more about your sexuality than you think.”
“I’m fine with my sexuality,” Zeller said defensively.
“We still live in a assumed heterosexual culture,” Beveral said, draining the last of her beer, “We still other anything other than one hundred percent straight.”
“Very few people are one hundred percent hetrosexual,” Hannibal provided.
“Not to mention rampant bi-erasure,” Beverly pointed out and Price all but high fived her.
“Fine,” Zeller huffed, “Maybe I am a repressed Puritan then.”
Price put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly, “Awareness is the first step to change, friend.”
“Another round?” Beverly asked, standing up and looking around to her mates.
“Definitely,” Zeller said and Price nodded in agreement.
“I’ve gotta go,” Will said to the utter unamazement of the others.
“Hannibal?” Beverly asked.
“I’m afraid I have to go too.”
“Alright,” she shrugged, “Good seeing out. Come next week,” she smiled then leveled her gaze at Will, “ Both of you,” she turned and walked to the bar.
Will stood up and Hannbial followed suit.
“Bye guys!” Price said happily, crunching on a peanut or ten, “LIve long and prosper!”
“Did Puritans drink to excess?” Price wondered as Hannibal and Will waved and turned from the table.
As they left Price saw Hannibal’s hand press into Will’s back, lower, then softly cup the curve of Will’s ass. It lasted only an instant and then the two were off and out the door.
“Hannibal just grabbed Wil’s ass,” Price said, looking to Zeller.
“Saw that one coming,” Zeller said and they clinked their glasses and finished off their beers.
****
Hannibal Lecter is capable of extreme focus. He committed himself to the task of touching Will’s ass. And he didn’t need five tries. He did it in four. Hannibal Lecter had waited for the right moment, seized that moment, and been copiously rewarded. The touch, brief though it was, was as if he had reached up Accademia Gallery in Florence and touched the statue David himself. But instead of cool, dead marble, Will was alive, warm and achingly perfect. Hannibal realized that if he were to have the opportunity to touch Will’s ass ever again, it wouldn’t hold a flame to this first time, but, a man appreciative of singular and capricious joys in life, accepted this with a full heart.