Chapter Text
“May I ask you something that you may choose not to answer?”
Will looks up from where he’s been fiddling with the bronze letter opener Hannibal keeps on his desk, having gravitated toward it after bursting into the office. Inquisitive, suspicious eyes skate over Hannibal’s features, analyzing.
“So long as I can choose not to answer.”
Hannibal rises from the wheeled chair, slipping his hands into the pockets of his suit pants while he moves closer to Will, and glides to a pause a length of generous steps away. The physical space is there to offset the potential delicacy of the questions he wants to ask, the first one in particular.
The letter opener is still in Will’s hands, and Hannibal wonders if he’s entirely conscious of how the end of his thumb lingers only a hair’s breadth from one of the sharpened edges.
Given that Will was upset when he arrived, his being drawn to a tool that could double as a weapon is cause for no small amount of amusement.
Returning the opener to its rightful place, Will positions it so it lies as it did before he picked it up. Always diligently respectful of Hannibal’s yen for neat, organized surroundings. After he turns around to cross his arms over his chest, perching on the edge of the desk behind him, he says, "Ask away, Doctor Lecter." He looks to be no less suspicious, but he isn’t rigid with apprehension - a good sign in itself.
A moment to finalize the words, and then: “I’ve observed you utilizing self-soothing techniques during our conversations. Are you averse to administration by hands other than your own, or is it better to tend to yourself?”
Will’s brows furrow and raise simultaneously as if to ask, “Seriously?”
Hannibal inclines his head minutely in confirmation. He’ll reiterate that an answer isn’t expected if he has to.
Lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, Will glances away. “It’s uncomfortable sometimes when people touch me.”
After considering that, Hannibal supplements his initial query. “Does it arouse unpleasant physical sensations? Pain, nausea?”
“No. It can be… overwhelming.”
“Do you sequester yourself to avoid that feeling? Or to avoid possible negative reactions to your sensitivity?”
Will looks at him again, eyes narrowed. Then, softening somewhat, he mutters, “Both," the word leaving him like it hurts to say. After a couple beats of silence, he straightens, squaring his shoulders. “That's more than one 'something.' I don’t see how this is related to anything I’m here for."
Hannibal hears the undertone of the porcupine readying to lift its quills. He takes care with his phrasing, but he doesn’t avoid anything that might push another button.
“You chose to answer, so I chose to continue to ask. Humans are made to be social creatures, Will. Without sufficient interaction and contact, we begin to deteriorate. We suffer most when we are chronically alone - by choice, or by force of circumstance.”
Mouth twisting into a smiling grimace of irritation - an expression that grows more endearing with every occurrence - Will bites out, “I’m not suffering, Doctor.”
It’s not enough to deter. Hannibal positions himself as something sturdy that can’t be pushed away. “I don’t believe I said that.”
"What are you saying, then?”
“It's a reminder of the stark reality that loneliness and being alone can affect us in more ways than we know. Or, more ways than we might care to admit.”
Hannibal squints thoughtfully, focused on Will’s face. His cognition and its accompanying emotions are often so visible, it’s difficult not to marvel the way he would at a favorite painting or sculpture.
Will Graham is moving, living art: a veritable feast for Hannibal’s less conventional proclivities. Fear and discomfort reverberate through the echo chambers of his psyche and body like the all-encompassing sound of rushing water. They fill the container of his form and make a home for themselves there, fermenting into the finest of wines. He’s beautiful in distress, though a mind doesn’t fare well when it dwells in that state for long durations. That is to Hannibal’s advantage, but Will perhaps deserves some respite - something that the world refuses to grant him and he refuses to grant himself.
To live in his secular variety of near asceticism is inconceivable.
There's no response, so Hannibal relocates to sit in his usual session chair. Folding his hands atop his uppermost knee, he muses, “Trust is fragile as the fleeting perfection of freshly fallen snow. Difficult to earn, very easy to lose… Do you trust that I can help you, Will?”
The way Will settles when he takes the other chair should signal openness, but all Hannibal sees is tension: one hand is a fist on the corresponding armrest, the other pressing flat to his thigh.
Will frowns briefly before his shoulders drop and he bends forward, tipping his head down to cover his face with both hands. His elbows rest on his thighs to keep him partially upright. He stays hunched, peering through the shield of his fingers, and then he sighs, sitting back up.
“You’re supposed to be my paddle.”
It’s stated like it’s irrefutable. Hannibal can’t help but be pleased by that.
Trust isn’t something Will gives easily, that was evident in their first unsupervised interactions. They’ve made much progress since that fateful day, and Hannibal’s been allowed a deeper view into Will’s inner workings than anyone ever has.
During their meetings in the office, his overarching machinations whirring in the background are naught but a frame for each time Will lets him in a little further, pouring him a little more of that wine to taste and savor.
The vulnerability and the pain are equally lovely.
“I am. There is something I would like to try, if you’re open to it.”
Will's chin lifts, his face pinching in disdain as he pointedly stares at the air above Hannibal’s head. “Whatever it is, it's old hat. So is anything else you might have in your bag of tricks.”
The words, thrown like knives, bounce off the brick wall of Hannibal’s composure.
“Nothing so banal. Therapeutic touch. It may help to ground you in the present and quiet the bustling corridors of your mind.”
The silent blinks he receives in answer indicate that Will didn’t anticipate that. He fidgets in his seat before flashing a guarded grin that's reminiscent of an uncertain, cornered dog trained to resist instinct and keep itself from biting.
“Have you ever made that suggestion before? Kind of nontraditional for a psychiatric practice.”
Hannibal eyes him steadily.
“We are just having conversations, aren’t we? It could be argued that breaking from tradition is how some of the best things have happened throughout history. I can’t think of a reason not to do so myself when I deem it to be necessary.”
Will picks at a single thread escaping the knee of his pants. Considering the options of fight, flight, or acquiescence, if Hannibal had to guess. His tone is unidentifiable when he asks, “And do you often deem it necessary to break from tradition, Doctor Lecter?”
The question of it being something Hannibal has done with any other patrons of his practice went unanswered. Will wants an answer. Rather than attempting to venture down another intriguing rabbit hole, he placidly replies, “Not in this specific context.”
The buzz of anxious energy doesn’t dissipate.
Hannibal takes a folded posture similar to the one Will had assumed, palms pressed together between his spread thighs, and keeps his sights on him, prepared for whatever reaction he might provoke.
“Humanity withers in the absence of contact, and it fares poorly in the desolate plains of self-denial. In simple terms, I’m proposing this in order to re-introduce a vital facet of well-being that you withhold from yourself.”
He gives that a few beats to process, then steps back from the formal. It can be highly effective language, but it's likely that Will won't be receptive if he continues. This desire to assure the comfort of another human being, beyond the principle niceties he affords to most, is…novel.
What he says next is tailored to test Will’s resolve. If it’s too personal, then so it will be. That hinges on Will.
“You don’t have to stay at arm’s length, Will. Not with me.”
Will’s mouth shapes into a tight line. He stares holes into Hannibal's pupils, saying nothing.
Hannibal imagines looking in on the clockworks of that fascinating mind ticking it over, witnessing the infinitesimal sparks of countless neurons firing amidst spinning cogs.
Eventually, Will nods. It’s hesitant, but it’s an agreement.
After leaving his chair, Hannibal beckons Will to follow as he relocates to the padded bench by the door. “This should suffice for our purposes. Please, sit.”
The obstinate Will Graham of not ten minutes before appears to have gone on the lam, and the Will Graham of the current moment does what Hannibal has asked, sinking down by his side.
Will’s line of sight drifts to the floor, fixed on a point a few feet from the toes of his boots. His bearing gains more tension than it already held. He speaks before Hannibal can, wiping damp palms on his pants.
“This, uh. Isn’t something I’m used to.”
There’s unease. A tinge of apology, even.
In an individual compartment of thought, blazing a trail of its own, Hannibal ponders what Will’s past intimate encounters were like. How many people responded poorly to his differences before he stopped caring to seek them out? How much has Will denied himself through the years due to the ineptitude and indecency of others?
Out of pure curiosity, he prompts, “It’s been some time for you, then.”
The response is a mildly annoyed riposte: “That’s called ‘prying,’ Doctor. Most people find it rude.”
Hannibal lets himself smile at that, properly. Nervous as he is, Will hasn’t lost his teeth.
“Most people do, indeed… Shall we begin with your hands?”
The breath Will takes isn’t quite steady. He angles his body in Hannibal’s direction and offers his hands, palms down. He’s stiff, clearly prepared to flinch when Hannibal wraps his own around them, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, his gaze is glued to the sight like he needs to be certain that it’s real. The next exhale isn’t steady, either. His fingers twitch inward so subtly that a less keen eye would miss it.
Hannibal gives him some silence, rubbing his thumbs along the backs of his hands. He keeps the rhythm consistent, his hold firm yet light, applying an even amount of pressure.
Will continues to watch, static as a statue, and the silence stretches until he softly urges, “It’s all right to relax, Will.”
Huffing out a clipped, quiet laugh, Will counters, “Easy for you to say.”
“Is this uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable? No.”
Hannibal waits. He doesn’t let go of Will’s hands, since he’s given nothing to communicate that he should - verbally or otherwise.
Soon enough: “Yes.”
“Would you like me to stop?”
Another short span of waiting. His patience is rewarded with a halting mumble of, “…No.”
Their introduction floats to the surface of Hannibal's mind: Will’s icy demeanor; his warning against psychoanalysis; the weary irritation behind his little diatribe on eye contact that spoke to how many times he’s explained away his avoidance. He meant to ward Hannibal off with it, dragging it out.
It had the opposite, unintended effect: interest.
What stands out most is his reaction to the accuracy of Hannibal’s initial assessment, the clear split second of shock that crossed his face before he speedily covered it up. The glasses he wore then haven’t made an appearance during their appointments due to the acceptance of their ineffectiveness as a barrier here - or, more probable still, the willful surrendering of that barrier.
How would he have reacted if Jack Crawford were unavailable to play the role of mediator? Maybe that chain of events spooled out elsewhere, in some parallel universe.
Or maybe, in this universe, they would never have met at all.
Hannibal abandons that blip of irrationality, leaving it to burn out and disappear. His attentions stayed on Will in the meantime, the lack of relaxation still present.
A second after he thinks of trying another verbal prompt, whatever was holding Will back breaks. He melts, permitting himself to slump over. His temple makes contact an inch below the line of Hannibal's shoulder.
If Hannibal turned his head, he could rest his chin on the crown of Will’s.
Somehow there aren’t words for it, and he distantly recognizes how long it’s been since he’s engaged in physical contact for reasons other than manipulation or courtesy. That brings an unfamiliar dull ache to life, somewhere inside. He regards it from the sideline, then pushes it out of the spotlight. Examining it isn’t an urgent matter.
Will tenses when he slows in his ministrations. Quick to soothe, he chances extracting his left hand and lifting it to Will's hair, the touch careful until Will nudges into it to allow him to begin smoothing over unruly curls. He drapes his other arm around Will's back, keeping him close as he re-positions to recline against the backrest.
Will doesn't follow at first, like he isn't sure if it's allowed. And then he melts even further, gradually leaning in unsteady increments. The side of his head comes to rest on Hannibal's shoulder again.
Their placement isn't ideal, but Will already struggled to let himself have this. Hannibal isn’t about to suggest moving to remedy it.
Neither of them has spoken since Will wordlessly gave in to his glaring unfulfilled hunger.
He isn’t reciprocating, just letting himself be held. In all likelihood, he's so starved that doing anything more than this might be too much. The malnourished require replenishment in slow increments to stave off any ill effects of the process.
Hannibal does have unofficial responsibility for Will's care, he has to know where he is. Wants to know. To prevent disruption of the nebulous intimacy, he keeps his voice low.
“How do you feel?”
Will takes his time to respond. He stays in place when he does.
“…Like I can see myself behind all the ghosts. Both the living and the dead.”
Centering on the slide of his fingers through Will’s hair, Hannibal asks, “And how were you when you arrived? Aside from the obvious.”
“Don’t have to tell you if you know.”
“I suppose not.”
He goes quiet for long enough that Hannibal doesn’t expect him to talk anymore, but he has an interesting habit of subverting expectations.
“Point taken.”
“Was there one?”
“You asked me to compare how I felt then to how I feel now because you want me to admit the difference to myself. Point taken.”
Again, Hannibal finds himself smiling.
They sit there for a while, sharing space and oxygen. He isn’t sure of the time when Will stirs like he wants to pull away. It’s another surprise when he doesn’t, the scent of him morphing into the familiar odor partnered with uncertainty - beneath the remnants of cheap aftershave, of course.
He tentatively says, “Should probably go home.”
Convincing him not to wouldn’t take much effort. It could be that he’s asking to be convinced. Either way, it’s effort Hannibal isn’t in the mood to expend. He stops petting over Will's scalp, though, in case he decides to get up.
“Do you want to?”
“I do. And I don’t.”
“Your dogs were fed before you came here, I presume?”
“They were, at the usual time.”
Maybe Hannibal resumes tracing through Will’s hair in a bid to solve his indecision, and maybe he shifts his arm around him to call attention to it. Maybe he does those things. Who’s to say, really. It’s all for Will’s benefit, not his own.
“So I should stay” doesn't sound like even half of a question.
“If you want to.”
“Seems like it.”
Hannibal tucks an errant curl behind Will's ear, leaving his hand there. “You may do as you please.”
“Maybe I don’t have to leave just yet.”