Chapter Text
A week prior, Will Graham had been extended an invitation to a dinner gathering hosted by his psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Despite his aversion to the clamor of large social events and the overwhelming nature of such occasions, Dr. Lecter insisted that stepping out of his comfort zone would be beneficial. While Hannibal clarified that attending was Will's choice, he framed it with encouragement, emphasizing the controlled environment: The fact that Will knew the host, the location, and many of the people. Reluctantly, Will prepared for the event, begrudgingly complying with the specified "Black-tie attire" mentioned in Hannibal's invitation. This departure from his usual preference for plaid shirts and jeans was met with much inner resistance. Will really didn’t like these sorts of things. He didn’t like the boring, overstimulating chatter of the sophisticated, upper-class. Events such as these always reminded Will of his low-income upbringing, and how scenes like this one were better suited for movies than real-life.
Upon arrival, Will quickly regretted his decision. Hannibal’s grand house was filled with a multitude of people, creating a cacophony of noise and movement. He attempted to engage in small talk, a task he found particularly challenging, while forcing smiles and feigned laughter. He hated eye-contact, engaging in pointless conversation, and not being totally sure what he was eating or drinking. Despite his reluctance, he forced himself to remember that socializing was a prescription from his doctor. However, an hour and a half into the event, he began to feel nauseous and light-headed. His discomfort was exacerbated by ill-fitting formal attire, stiff and scratchy fabric, and the unwelcome addition of a tie. Unable to locate Hannibal for most of the evening, he actively sought him out.
"Hello, Dr. Lecter," Will greeted, his voice betraying a hint of unease.
"Ah, Will, how are you finding the party? Have you sampled any of the refreshments?" Hannibal inquired.
"I—No. Actually, I was wondering if you—"
"Will, you appear a bit faint. Are you feeling alright?" Hannibal interrupted, expressing concern. The taller man gently lifted Will's chin with his fingers, tilting his head back slightly. To Will's relief, this wasn't an attempt to force eye contact but rather Hannibal inspecting his face more closely. Moving his hand to Will's forehead, Hannibal checked for a temperature. Will appeared unwell—sweaty, unusually pale (aside from slightly flushed cheeks), and visibly shaky. Hannibal clicked his tongue softly, letting out a soft “Oh” as in “Oh you poor thing”. He had always felt a natural sense of authority over Will; He wanted to be his protector, especially when Will was a guest at his party.
"I- I’m sorry, I was looking for you. I was going to see if there was a room here where I could get a few minutes alone. I’m overstimulated…" Will, sounding slightly exasperated, kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Certainly, Will. Let me take you to my office; it's much quieter there," Hannibal responded in his usual composed manner, as he was seemingly in control of every situation. Will couldn't help but envy Hannibal's calm, stoic demeanor. This admiration was not even stifled as Will grappled with suspicions about him being the Chesapeake Ripper. Will tried to hate him for this… wanting to deny the role that Hannibal played in his life, but he couldn’t. Every time that Will tried to be without Hannibal, he felt that gravity pushed the two back together.
The two men walked to a room at the end of the hallway. Hannibal used an eccentric skeleton key to unlock the door. ‘Of course he doesn’t use a normal key’ is what Will thought to himself softly, inwardly smiling and rolling his eyes. He was curious about it, but did not have room in his mind to think about it much longer. His physical and mental discomfort trumped anything else.
"Here we are. You can sit down there," Hannibal gently placed a hand on Will's shoulder, using the other hand to point to the couch. This was Hannibal's personal office, not his typical psychiatrist office.
Will, shaky but grateful, took a seat, rubbing his eyes and sniffling softly. "Thank you. You can leave me; I'll be alright. Go attend to your guests," he gestured towards the main party area. "The party is fantastic, Dr. Lecter," he added shakily, ensuring Hannibal didn't misinterpret his momentary withdrawal as rudeness.
Hannibal nodded and left the room gracefully. Will intended to spend only a couple of minutes there, but his thoughts caught up with him during the silence. His breath quickened, and he felt worse. Attempting to stay seated failed, and he began pacing, a combination of hand fidgeting and stimming providing no relief. Soon, he felt on the verge of a panic attack, unsure why his mood had shifted so dramatically.
A soft knock on the door interrupted his turmoil. Hannibal, concerned after fifteen minutes of silence, returned to check on Will. Overwhelmed, Will struggled to respond and felt trapped in his overstimulated state.
"Will, are you still in there? Is everything alright?" Hannibal's voice showed genuine concern.
Unable to articulate his feelings, Will froze. "Hannibal?" he replied, his voice unintentionally sounding more childlike than he intended. Tears welled in his eyes, and a small sob escaped him.
"Oh, Will..." Hannibal cracked open the door, then fully entered, displaying concern. "You're crying. What's going on? You can tell me," he said, placing a comforting hand on Will's shoulder, who flinched at the touch.
Unsure if touch was comforting or overwhelming, Will backed away slowly. However, a small part of him desired comfort. He cautiously moved closer to Hannibal, looking up with teary eyes.
"Hannibal?" he repeated softly, his voice hoarse.
"Yes, Will? I'm here," Hannibal reassured.
"Could you... could I hug you?" Will asked, his voice weaker this time.
Hannibal nodded, smiling warmly. "Of course," he replied softly, opening his arms. Will embraced him, seeking comfort in Hannibal's presence.