Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Alana Bloom had noticed about Dr. Hannibal Lecter was his precision. Not just in his work, but in everything: the immaculate cut of his suits, the careful cadence of his speech, the deliberate way he arranged even the smallest details of his life. When they first met at Hopkins, she had been momentarily unsettled by the presence he commanded. Tall, refined, and profoundly unreadable. Over time, however, she had come to consider herself one of the rare few, at least in Baltimore, who could claim to truly know Hannibal Lecter.

Or so she had thought.

There were certain things about him that many people overlooked, small eccentricities hidden beneath his cultivated charm. His superstitions, for one. She would never say it aloud, but she found them almost endearing. The way he sidestepped cracks in the pavement with unconscious grace, or ensured his umbrella was fully closed before stepping inside. Some of his peculiarities seemed to stem from his childhood abroad, though he never elaborated on their origins. One unfortunate doctor had never quite recovered from the withering look Hannibal gave him for attempting to shake hands through a doorway, and woe betide anyone who presented him with an even number of flowers. Alana had witnessed more than one hapless admirer turned away, having unknowingly offended his cultural sensibilities.

Not that they would have stood a chance regardless.

Because the other thing Alana knew, the thing few others seemed to realize, was that Hannibal Lecter was a widower.

He never said it outright, of course. That wasn’t his way. No, Alana had pieced it together from the quiet, persistent echoes of another presence in his life.

First, there was the ring. Worn on his right hand which was enough to throw off the casual observer. At a glance, it seemed a plain silver band, but Alana had seen it up close in his kitchen, when he removed it before cooking. The engraving inside had caught her eye, and later, in the privacy of her car, a quick search translated the words from French. Mon âme. My soul. Not the sort of inscription a man, even one as particular as Hannibal, would commission for himself.

Then, there was the house.

The first time she visited, she had noticed small incongruities scattered throughout his otherwise impeccable home: a framed illustration of fishing lures, a book on entomology marked with annotations in truly horrendous handwriting, a pair of mismatched coffee mugs adorned with stag antlers, two well-worn leather armchairs positioned side by side in front of the fire. None of it fit with Hannibal Lecter as she knew him. Someone else had lived here once. Someone who had left their mark.

But it was two years ago that she found her final, undeniable proof.

She had been invited to one of Hannibal’s dinner parties for the first time, having spent the last few years traveling out of state. The guests were an impressive collection. Jack Crawford and his wife Bella, Frederick Chilton, and a handful of others she recognized by name or reputation. As they were called into the dining room, Alana noticed something strange.

There were more place settings than there were guests.

Before she could take the seat nearest to Hannibal, who at that time was still the only person in the room she knew well, Bella caught her gently by the wrist.

“Don’t sit there,” she murmured. “He always leaves that one empty.”

Alana hesitated, bemused, but did as instructed. And sure enough, as the other guests filtered into the room, not one of them took the seat to Hannibal’s immediate left. It was avoided with the sort of silent, practiced ease that suggested long-standing familiarity.

When Hannibal entered moments later, a bottle of wine in hand, his gaze flickered to the chair as if to confirm its vacancy before he turned his attention back to the guests.

“I selected this particular vintage upon my return from a most illuminating summer in France, where I had the pleasure of observing Dr. Henrí Morgan’s refinements in laparoscopic technique. A most delicate art, much like the appreciation of a fine bottle. I trust you will find it… agreeable.”

With a flourish, he uncorked the wine and poured it expertly. Alana might not have thought anything of it until she noticed the first pour went into the glass at the empty place setting.

Across the table, Bella met her gaze, her expression unreadable.

No one commented. No one reached to clear the glass away.

The dinner continued without disruption, and the untouched wine remained as it was.

Later, as the night wound down and the last of the guests departed, Alana lingered by the doorway. She had declined Hannibal’s offer to call her a cab, opting instead for the crisp winter air. Yet something compelled her to look back as she stepped outside.

Through the window, she could see the dining room as the hired staff cleared the table, moving with quiet efficiency. And there, just beyond them, stood Hannibal.

Alone.

He paused before the empty chair, his head bowing slightly almost as if in prayer before he lifted the glass and drank. The red of the wine as dark as blood.

With the dim glow of the chandelier casting shadows behind him, he looked, for a moment, like a saint taking communion. Devotional. Tragic. Lonely.

Alana had always wondered if Hannibal Lecter, so composed, so methodical, was even capable of love the way ordinary people were. She had even, briefly, entertained the notion that he might one day feel it for her.

But as she walked away from that grand, empty house, with its annotated books and vacant chairs, she realized how profoundly she had misunderstood him.

He wasn’t aloof because he considered himself above the people of Baltimore.

He was grieving.

That night, Hannibal had never seemed more human, or more alien, than he did in his solitude. A man marooned on an island of loss, surrounded by the remnants of someone who was no longer there.

In the years since, Alana had often wondered if Hannibal only threw these lavish gatherings as an excuse to sit with his wife again, even if only in spirit. Perhaps that was why he still set her place, why the seat remained open.

To pretend, just for an evening, that she had merely stepped out of the room and would return at any moment.

She wasn’t the only one who had come to this conclusion. A little while after that first dinner, over coffee with the Crawfords, the subject arose.

“The poor man,” Bella murmured, as her husband rather conspicuously took her hand under the table. “It must have been years ago, if you never met her while you were at Hopkins together.”

A silent agreement passed between them then. In quiet deference to their friend, they would ensure his unspoken ritual was respected. At each dinner, if a newcomer reached for the wrong chair, a subtle shake of the head or a gentle redirection was usually enough.

Because, after all—who would be so rude as to sit in a dead woman’s chair?

Chapter Text

As Jack Crawford examined the man slouched in the chair across from his desk he wondered, not for the first time, what the hell Will Graham’s deal was.

The man in question looked more like a sleep-deprived grad student than a respected academic. His plaid shirt was rumpled, jeans slightly creased, and the visitor’s pass was pinned haphazardly to the strap of his bag, which had been unceremoniously tossed into the corner upon his arrival. He hadn't so much as glanced at Jack since sitting down, his gaze fixed instead on the clock behind Jack’s head, tracking each passing second with a look of quiet resentment.

Jack had spent years evaluating people, reading them, predicting how they’d react before they even knew themselves. He was good at it. One of the best. But Will Graham was proving to be more difficult than most.

Jack had gone into this meeting with a plan: flatter the man, highlight his qualifications, and offer him something too compelling to turn down. A role that made use of his expertise while downplaying the very thing Jack actually wanted him for.

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Graham was an excellent forensic scientist. His work with evidence, his ability to reconstruct crime scenes, the way he saw things others missed—it was all invaluable. But it was his intuition, his unsettling knack for stepping into a killer’s mind and mapping their thoughts as if they were his own, that made him necessary. Jack needed someone like Graham on his team. He needed that insight.

Unfortunately, Graham seemed to know exactly what he was doing here.

Jack cleared his throat, shuffling the papers in front of him as he settled back into professionalism. “So… everything look good? The compensation package is—”

“I read it.” Will cut in, finally dragging his gaze from the clock to meet Jack’s. His voice was flat, bored. “Money’s fine. That’s not the question.” A beat. “What is, is why you want me. I’m a forensic scientist, not a psychiatrist. You’ve got plenty of those.” His eyes flicked to Jack’s framed diplomas. “So why am I supposed to pack up, leave my lab, move across the country? Only reason I’m here at all is because you sent your guys to corner me at a conference.”

Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes. Ambushed was a bit dramatic. All he’d done was send a couple of agents to invite Graham to a meeting...politely.

He licked his lips, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite trained out of himself. “We believe you can offer a… unique perspective on cases that a more traditional academic cannot. You’ve consulted before, and you were law enforcement once. You’re more than qualified to—”

“It’s not a question of qualification, though it should be,” Graham interrupted, voice edged with impatience. Jack was beginning to think this man had a supernatural ability to find his last nerve and press down on it with pinpoint accuracy. “It’s whether or not I want to leave my current role to become a glorified magic eight ball for murderers.” He rubbed a hand absently over his temple, an unconscious gesture that drew Jack’s attention back to the personnel file on his desk.

A year-long gap in employment. Untreated encephalitis that had nearly killed him. The reports from his colleagues painted a grim picture. Graham had become erratic, withdrawn, sometimes entirely disconnected from reality. He had stopped engaging with his work, had stopped showing up entirely. Before meeting him in person, Jack had wondered how no one had noticed he was suffering. Now, looking at the man across from him, Jack thought it was a miracle anyone had reported it at all.

“You don’t want to hire me as a scientist,” Graham continued, voice cold. “You want to hire me for the same reason I get upwards of twenty requests a year to be part of some study or experiment. I’m not a performing monkey, Agent Crawford.”

“And I don’t want you to be one,” Jack protested, realising perhaps too late that he was losing ground. “I’m recruiting a team of top experts in multiple fields to investigate the worst humanity has to offer. Your empathy is one part of you, but I want to use all of you.”

Probably not the best phrasing.

Graham’s mouth twitched, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—amusement? Malice? Whatever it was, it sent an uncomfortable chill down Jack’s spine. He mentally shook himself and pressed on.

“You’re not the only one we’re bringing in. Drs. Chilton and Bloom have already volunteered as psychological consultants. Our forensic team is top of the line, led by Dr. Beverly Katz.” He paused, watching for a reaction. “I believe you’re familiar with her.”

There. That got a response.

Graham didn’t move, but Jack caught the slight shift in his posture—the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers stopped fidgeting against the armrest.

Jack had done his research. Months ago, Beverly Katz had reached out to Graham for consultation on a particularly complicated case. The two had exchanged emails and late-night phone calls, bouncing theories back and forth across state lines. It had, apparently, continued beyond that single case, turning into something bordering on an actual friendship.

It was a rare thing, Jack had gathered, for Will Graham to maintain contact with anyone. Useful information.

“In fact,” Jack continued smoothly, “a few of us are going to dinner with a mutual friend tomorrow night. Why don’t you join us? Your conference ends tomorrow afternoon, doesn’t it? Meet the team before you make any decisions.”

Graham was silent for a moment, too long for Jack’s liking. Then, finally—

“All right,” he said gruffly. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Will your mutual friend mind? Not many people appreciate unexpected dinner guests.”

“Oh, not to worry,” Jack said, allowing himself a small, victorious smile. “Dr. Lecter loves a dinner party.”

Chapter Text

Dr Frederick Chilton had always considered himself uniquely perceptive. It was what made him such an outstanding psychiatrist. As head of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he had pioneered the treatment of society’s most dangerous, most depraved (and, if he were being honest, most interesting) patients. His expertise had earned him a coveted position as a senior FBI consultant for the Behavioural Analysis Unit, alongside Dr Alana Bloom, whom he had been graciously mentoring since her return to Baltimore. Under his guidance, she had flourished wonderfully, though Frederick did wish she would spend a little less time trying to win the respect of her old mentor, Dr Lecter.

It wasn’t that he had anything against Dr Lecter. Certainly not. He was a very civilised man. A touch gauche in his clothing choices, perhaps. Those three-piece suits were practically pleading for a more modern silhouette. His decor leaned towards the kitsch. All those antlers. And yet, overall, the man was a reasonably talented physician. Not to Frederick’s standards, of course, but then few were.

For example, it was only due to his keen insight that he had unravelled the little secret Hannibal Lecter had managed to conceal from everyone.

His wife had left him.

Not that Frederick could blame the poor mystery woman. Being married to a man that self-involved must have been insufferable. No, Frederick sent his deepest sympathies to her, wherever she was. Most likely, she had been some fresh-faced girl from the old country, barely speaking a word of English, who had bolted with the metaphorical candlesticks the moment the ink dried on her visa. Or perhaps she had been a well-bred socialite, drawn to prestige but finding more passion in the arms of the gardener than in her cold, detached husband.

Sometimes, when he had nothing better to do, Frederick found himself idly speculating on what kind of woman had wounded the good doctor so deeply that he now conducted his elaborate dinner rituals as if summoning her presence. He had always found Lecter peculiar, even before dining at his home. An evening of unidentifiable meats served under grotesque decor wasn’t exactly Frederick’s idea of fine dining. However, the guest list at such events more than made up for it. The last time he had secured an invitation, he had been seated next to the newest conductor at the Philharmonic.

No, Hannibal was an oddity, but one to be tolerated—for now.

Perhaps, once Frederick had published his newest research paper (which would, of course, inevitably lead to a lucrative book deal), he would be hosting his own elegant dinner parties. Ones that wouldn’t be desperate attempts to memorialise a misplaced wife.

The paper in question was one he had been itching to write for years: Extreme Empathy or Latent Psychopathy: A Neuropsychiatric Analysis of William Graham.

The man himself had been avoiding him for quite some time, no doubt wary of what an expert in the human condition might uncover about his so-called empathy disorder. But that particular game of cat and mouse was about to come to an end.

Frederick had overheard—entirely by accident, of course—Jack Crawford speaking to Alana about bringing Mr Graham to one of Hannibal’s little soirées under the pretense of introducing him to his potential new team. Apparently, Jack had decided that William’s so-called gifts would be of use to the FBI.

Frederick knew better, of course. But who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Frederick leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he considered his plan. This dinner was an opportunity, and he intended to seize it. William Graham had been an elusive subject for far too long, skirting around interviews, declining research studies, dodging even the most well-crafted invitations. But now, now, Jack Crawford had unknowingly done the hard work for him. Will would be seated right across the table, trapped in polite conversation, none the wiser to Frederick’s true intentions.

It would have to be done carefully, of course. Will Graham was, by all accounts, skittish. Prone to discomfort, reluctant to talk about himself, generally off-putting. Frederick had read the reports. Not good with eye contact, one former colleague had noted. Resistant to personal questions, prone to irritation when pressed.

Frederick, naturally, was not just going to press. He was going to excavate.

The key would be subtlety. A casual, well-timed question here, a keen observation there. Ease Graham into the conversation, let him feel like he was leading it. Stroke the ego a little. Make it seem as though Frederick was simply fascinated by his work, by his unique insights into the criminal mind. Appeal to his intellect.

And then?

Then, Frederick would gently guide the discussion towards what truly mattered. The fine line between empathy and psychopathy, the neurological anomalies that set William Graham apart from normal people. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The real question no one had yet answered.

Did Will Graham understand killers because he felt too much?

Or because he felt nothing at all?

Of course, there was one problem.

Alana and Hannibal.

Frederick had no doubt that both of them would have their own interests in Will Graham. Alana, with her tiresome moral streak, would likely try to protect him, keep him from feeling cornered. And Hannibal? That was a trickier matter.

Hannibal Lecter was a collector of interesting minds. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, understood. It was almost admirable, really, how effortlessly he got into people's heads. A cheap parlour trick, in Frederick’s esteemed opinion, but an effective one. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lecter had already marked Graham as a project, a curiosity to be studied over fine wine and unnecessarily elaborate cuisine.

Frederick would have to outmanoeuvre them both.

Alana might be distracted by her apparent concern for Graham’s well-being, but Hannibal? Hannibal would know exactly what Frederick was trying to do, because he would be planning to do the exact same thing.

Still, Frederick had an advantage. Hannibal Lecter played the long game—he would want to spend months, years drawing Graham in. Frederick, however, could be direct. A sharp question over dinner, a probing remark over dessert. Just enough to plant the seed.

By the time the evening was over, Will Graham would be left wondering—about himself, about how his mind worked, about what Frederick might have seen in him that no one else had.

And then?

Then, the real work would begin.

Chapter Text

If Beverly Katz knew one thing about her newest and strangest friend, it was that Will Graham would do pretty much anything to get out of talking to people.

They hadn’t known each other long. Beverly had first contacted him for advice on a case involving unusual insect activity on bodies recovered from a lake. Despite multiple warnings from colleagues that reaching out to Dr Graham was a surefire way to be called an idiot in three languages before he even opened his mouth, she’d done it anyway. After all, what self-respecting scientist could resist a mystery? To the shock of her team, Beverly had been right.

Graham’s response had been… curt, to say the least. His email had the tone of someone who deeply resented the interruption, but buried beneath his irritation was some of the most insightful forensic entomology analysis Beverly had ever read. He had not only identified the species in question—Cymatia coleoptrata, a semi-aquatic insect rarely found on corpses—but also suggested additional testing methods to confirm whether the bodies had been moved postmortem. It was brilliant work. And, to her surprise, when she followed up, he’d actually agreed to a video call to discuss it further.

What followed was months of back-and-forth conversations. At first, they were strictly professional—long talks about insect larvae, forensic taphonomy, and the differences in decomposition rates in freshwater versus saltwater. But over time, Beverly found that Will Graham, for all his reputation as a reclusive weirdo, was actually kind of funny. His humour was sharp, a little dry, a little cutting, but unmistakably there. The first time she laughed at one of his jokes — his scathing description of a former lab partner who routinely mislabelled samples—he had looked genuinely startled, as if no one had ever found him amusing before.

Slowly, she began to learn more about him.

Will had grown up all over the country, following his father from one job to the next, but he considered himself mostly from Louisiana. Occasionally when he was particularly frustrated or exhausted his speech would slip into French – quick, muttered curses that she had started keeping a mental tally of. He loved dogs, and more than once, their video calls had been interrupted by a wet nose or a wagging tail pushing into frame.

She also knew that he had originally been a police officer, before taking a bullet in the line of duty. The city’s payout had covered his forensic science degrees, setting him on a new path. Privately, Beverly questioned the timeline of his life. There were gaps that didn’t quite make sense, periods where there was no record of him working at all. And then there was his house.

For a man who seemed so determined to live as minimally as possible, Will Graham’s home was large. Too large, considering what she knew of forensic science salaries. She tried not to think too hard about how a guy who dressed exclusively in flannel and lived like a hermit could afford enough space to comfortably house six dogs while she was still squeezing her life into a cramped studio apartment.

The point was, Beverly could say with relative confidence that she and Will were friends. Friends enough to know that the idea of a formal dinner party with strangers would appeal to him about as much as a knife to the skull. So when Jack Crawford called her to let her know Will would be attending dinner at Dr Lecter’s, she had immediately questioned his sanity.

She had called Will herself, partly out of concern, partly out of curiosity. “You? At a dinner party?” she’d asked, sceptical.

To her absolute shock, Will had laughed. A real laugh, one she had never heard from him before.

“Mad cannibals couldn’t keep me away from this shitshow,” he had said, a turn of phrase so specific that she hadn’t quite known how to respond.

Beverly had offered to pick him up from his hotel, but apparently, Crawford had already claimed that privilege. Though probably so he could make sure Will didn’t attempt an escape out the back. Instead she arrived alone, wearing a borrowed deep purple cocktail dress from her neighbour. Unlike some of the other guests she was not a regular at Dr Lecter’s table and therefore didn’t have a wardrobe full of dinner-party-appropriate attire.

This whole event, as far as she was concerned, was just a glorified welcome party for Crawford’s latest mad idea—forming an elite murder-catching squad. Which, in her mind, always conjured the image of Crawford in a dramatic black trench coat and eyepatch, lurking in the shadows of scientists’ homes like a man assembling a special initiative.

Alana Bloom, she decided, was Black Widow. Or maybe Maria Hill.
Chilton? Iron Man. All the ego, none of the talent.
Beverly? Hawkeye, obviously—underrated, often overlooked.
Will? The Hulk. Brilliant scientist, prone to violent outbursts, and everyone was just a little bit afraid of him.

Which left Hannibal Lecter.

…Honestly, who knew? He was a snappily dressed, deeply enigmatic gay man with a love of gourmet meals—not exactly the type to run around in a one piece battling injustice.

As Beverly pulled up to Lecter’s house, she realised she wasn’t the first to arrive.

Alana Bloom’s car was already there. Of course, Beverly thought. She had probably arrived early to offer to help...or to flirt with the poor gay man she had a thing for. Beverly could only hope Alana would move on before Lecter had to reject her in a way that actually hurt.

Dr Chilton’s car was there too. Lovely. Beverly was just debating whether she could get away with waiting in her car a little longer to avoid an interaction with him when a fourth car pulled up.

Jack Crawford stepped out first, looking painfully formal in a dark suit and tie, his wife—Bella? Ella?—in an elegant dress that matched his colour scheme perfectly. And then, from the backseat, emerged Will.

Beverly had to bite back a very undignified laugh.

Will Graham, looking like a teenager being forced to spend the evening with his parents’ friends, was dressed in a suit and tie that did nothing for him. His scruffy beard remained very much intact, his curls were wild, and he had an expression like he was preparing to be executed.

If Hannibal Lecter had ever suffered a heart attack in his life, tonight might be the night.

Beverly stepped out of her car and made her way over. Will, who had been staring at the house like it was both a noose and a grizzly bear charging at him, turned at her approach.

“Katz,” he said, nodding in greeting. “Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” she replied. “Though I’m shocked they got you this far. Wanna make a break for it while I distract the guards?”

Will smiled, wry and resigned. “I don’t think I’m escaping alive tonight. Might as well make the best of it.”

Before she could question exactly what he meant, the doorbell rang. The Crawfords had clearly decided they didn’t want to linger in the cold air any longer than necessary.

The large blue door swung open, and their host appeared, framed in the warm glow of the hallway.

At first, Hannibal Lecter didn’t even notice Will and Beverly. His focus was entirely on greeting Jack and his wife.

“Thank you for having us,” Crawford said, his voice carrying easily across the driveway. “Especially on short notice.”

“Not at all,” Lecter replied, smooth as ever. “I had a last-minute cancellation from Miss Parvais, and I must admit, I am intrigued by this new scientist you wish to recruit.”

And then, finally, his eyes lifted.

Beverly saw it the exact moment Hannibal registered who the “new scientist” was.

He froze. Completely. Like a wind-up toy that had just stopped turning.

For a brief, glorious moment, Beverly considered checking his pulse.

Will, suddenly exuding nothing but confidence, strode forward, the tension of earlier vanishing from his shoulders.

“Dr Graham,” he said, extending his hand across the doorway.

Hannibal took it.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Phyllis Crawford thought to herself, your entire life could be upended by a single meeting.

For her, it had been in Italy. A young man with a charming smile and a dozen roses 'for Bella' delivered straight to her office. That encounter had changed everything: her trajectory, her career, even her name. Now, she was called Bella so often it may as well have been written on her birth certificate. Even in her own thoughts, she sometimes slipped up.

Now, standing in the doorway of Hannibal Lecter’s home, she recognised that same moment of upheaval on his face.

Hannibal Lecter was looking at Will Graham as if the very axis of his world had been wrenched off course.

Bella had seen that expression before. The first time she had met Hannibal, years ago at a benefit for police widows, he had stood out against a sea of black suits in an almost appalling magenta jacket. When introduced by dear Jack, he had smiled beatifically, taken her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—lingering just a moment too long at her wrist. At first, she’d thought he was just another man to avoid for the rest of the night, until he had murmured a compliment on her perfume. Later, she would realise that had been the moment he discovered she was not a well woman. And even later still, she would wonder if the sadness in his eyes had been for her, or for someone else.

They had run into each other many times over the years, mostly at parties. And it was at one such gathering that Bella had learned one of Hannibal Lecter’s most closely guarded secrets. Or rather, a secret so intrinsic to him that people mistook it for mere eccentricity.

It had been another benefit. This time it was for the police commissioner’s wife and her latest cause. Something to do with Malaysia. Jack had been called away on a case and Bella was just about to make her own excuses when she noticed a lonely figure on the balcony, half-hidden in the dark. Intrigued, she had stepped closer, only to find none other than Hannibal Lecter, leaning against the balustrade with a bottle of wine. His eyes were red. Another empty bottle sat discarded at his feet.

Bella had hesitated. It was so unlike him. Hannibal Lecter, always so composed and so controlled, standing there flushed with drink. Lost in some private grief. She hadn’t known whether to approach or slip away unseen. Before she could decide he had begun to speak.

At first she had thought he was addressing her but then she realised his words were not meant for anyone present.

"Has it not been long enough, Meilė? Must you stay gone so long? I thought you would have returned by now. I stayed here for you. Aš pasiilgau tavęs."

At the last, he had taken another long drink, shoulders shaking just slightly.

Bella had retreated without a word. She had never seen a man look so utterly wrecked. Whoever Mellie had been, she was gone, and she had clearly been everything to Hannibal Lecter. And so, Bella had done the only thing she could do. She had respected his grief and never told a soul what she had seen.

From then on, she deflected where she could. When Jack commented on the empty seat at Hannibal’s table, she had suggested it was a Lithuanian custom and changed the subject. When Alana Bloom entered their circle and her admiration for Hannibal veered toward something more, Bella had done her best to steer her elsewhere—though with less success.

And now, tonight, standing in Lecter’s grand doorway, she felt as though she were meeting him again for the first time.

His left hand had come to wrap around Will Graham’s as if he meant to cradle it. His expression was staggered, like a man struck by lightning. Hannibal Lecter, always so eloquent, so poised, was silent.

The three observers to this tableau: Bella, Jack, and Beverly—were struck by the feeling that they were interrupting something immensely private.

“Hannibal, who—?”

The voice of Alana Bloom rang down the hall as she rounded the corner, only to stop short at the sight before her. Her expression shifted between confusion and something else. Something protective. The same steel-edged indignation Bella had seen her use against that insufferable Dr Chilton.

“Will,” Alana said, her voice soft with quiet admonishment. “Let go of Hannibal. I’m sure you didn’t realise, but it’s bad luck to shake hands across a doorway in his culture. They believe—”

“That it breaks friendships,” Will interrupted, his gaze still locked with Hannibal’s, his hand still in his grip. “But seeing as Dr Lecter and I are not friends, I think we’re safe.”

And then he pulled away. Stepped past Hannibal, past Alana, and walked—unchallenged—straight into the house.

Bella blinked. The sitting room lay in that direction, though she doubted Graham knew that.

Hannibal turned immediately, following after him without a word, abandoning the rest of them in the cold.

Beverly let out a low whistle beside her. “Do you think Dr Lecter has a thing for brunettes?” she whispered conspiratorially.

Bella froze.

She remembered, suddenly, another time Hannibal had fallen silent mid-conversation years ago. A woman had walked past with a head of rich, dark curls, and for a moment, he had looked as though he’d seen a ghost. Then he had realised his mistake, and his shoulders had slumped slightly, the tension leaving him.

Mellie had curls too, then, Bella thought.

And so did Will Graham.

By the time they entered the sitting room, Chilton had already made himself comfortable, lounging on one of the settees with an expression of pure intrigue. Bella had missed his first sight of Graham, but judging by the look on his face now, she doubted he had managed to school his hungry expression any better than he currently was.

Alana had taken a seat on the opposite side, still watching Will reproachfully, though he was pointedly ignoring her. Instead, he had wandered to the bookshelves, feigning interest in the selection.

The conversation began stiltedly, as Jack attempted to lighten the mood.
The conversation had settled into something almost comfortable: Jack steering the discussion, Beverly throwing in the occasional quip, Chilton talking just enough to be irritating but not enough to get himself thrown out.

And then—

“Why do you have this?”

Will’s voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

He had turned to face them, holding a book in his hands. It had a green cover with illustrated insects decorating the front.

“I am, at heart, a scientist,” Hannibal replied smoothly. “I have an interest in all living things.”

Will scoffed. “Liar.”

Even Jack winced.

Hannibal only blinked.

“I have it because you wrote it,” he said, as if stating a fundamental fact of the universe.

Will huffed. “Should’ve come to New Orleans,” he muttered. “I’d have signed it for you.”

In this context, signed it sounded more like beaten you to death with a hardcover copy.

Hannibal merely smiled.

Once again struck by the feeling she was intruding, Phyllis was saved further discussion of the books in Hannibal's possession by an attractive young man appearing at the door wearing a white chef's apron. "Sir, dinner is almost finished" he said in a respectful voice.
Hannibal looked, for once, as though he would rather do anything else than leave the room, though he was likely the only person with that sentiment.

But after a pause, he nodded, barely concealing his reluctance. Before leaving he bid his guests go to the dining room. They did so, though Bella noticed the young staff member who had come in being glared at by Graham with almost the same level of intensity that Hannibal had recieved.

Jack said he was antisocial, she mused. But this much animosity toward strangers?

The dining room, as always, was stunning. Tall candlesticks casting shifting shadows, a centrepiece of elegant flora creating a dreamlike atmosphere. Like stepping into another realm.

As the guests settled into their preferred seats. Alana to Hannibal’s right, Jack beside her, Chilton across from him, and Bella opposite Beverly. That left Graham to choose to sit next to her or Katz.

He chose neither.

Instead, he dropped into that chair. The one left empty at every single one of Hannibal Lecter’s dinners. He sat like a king settling onto his throne. Graham stretched out comfortably, entirely unconcerned with the weighted silence that followed.

The air left the room.

Beverly, looking concerned for her friend's continued state of living, cleared her throat. “Hey, uh—why don’t you sit over here instead?” she suggested lightly, nodding toward the safer option beside her.

Graham slouched further into the seat. “Nah. I’m good.”

Alana tensed. “Will,” she said, carefully controlled. “Hannibal always leaves that seat empty.”

Graham quirked a brow, all faux-innocence. “That so?” He made a show of glancing around. “Looks like a perfectly good chair to me.”

Bella chose her words carefully. “It’s a matter of respect,” she said in a tone trying to convey the same solemnity of a war memorial or a cancer ward.

Graham gave a thoughtful nod as though considering the idea. Then:

“Is he worried someone’ll catch his bad side? ’Cause I’ve already seen that.”

Alana looked ready to drag him from the seat herself. Beverly shot her a look that clearly said 'not worth the bloodshed'.

Before any further argument could unfold their host returned with a bottle of wine in hand.

As Hannibal stepped into the room his eyes flickered over his guests before resting at last on Will.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said smoothly, though there was something too measured in his tone. His gaze lingered on the occupied chair.

“Shall we begin?”

Chapter Text

Alana Bloom had never so badly wanted to throttle a man as she did now, sitting across from William bloody Graham.

She couldn’t believe that, the first time they met, she had actually thought him handsome. Some brooding Byronic hero with dark curls and eyes that seemed to see through to her soul in the brief moments he allowed their gazes to meet.

It had been at a multidisciplinary conference on modern investigative techniques in police work. She had been presenting her research on rehabilitating violent offenders. He had been dragged along as part of a joint forensic team presentation on crime scene preservation.

Doctor Chilton had pointed him out to her with his usual air of smug superiority, leaning in as if to share some great secret.

"Now that," he had whispered, "is the white whale of clinical psychiatry. Will Graham. Heightened neural connectivity in areas associated with emotional processing, and—if you believe the stories—an almost pathological level of cognitive empathy."

His tone made it clear that he, Dr Frederick Chilton of the BCHC, did not believe such stories.

"My theory?" Chilton had continued, voice thick with self-satisfaction. "He's the perfect psychopath. Able to camouflage himself among anyone. Fool everyone. Imagine what must be happening in a brain like that. Makes you want to—" He had paused, barely resisting the urge to lick his lips. "—dissect it."

Alana had found Chilton’s glee unsettling, but his theory had been somewhat undermined by the fact that the so-called brilliant psychopath was, at that very moment, fast asleep against a wall in the back of the conference hall.

She had thought he looked thin. Almost unwell.

Two months later, she would learn that he had, in fact, been dying.

A rare brain disorder, misdiagnosed for months, had been slowly killing him. And yet, despite that, here he was. When Jack had told her he was inviting Will to join their task force, she had felt a flicker of pride that the man had not only survived but had recovered enough to return to work.

Now, she was wondering if it would have been better if he were still stuck in a hospital.

Doctor Graham was still sitting in The Chair.

He hadn’t even looked up when Hannibal entered, instead preoccupied with the elaborately folded napkin before him.

Alana risked a glance at Hannibal and felt her stomach sink.

That smile was still on his face. The one he had worn since first laying eyes on Graham in the doorway.

She had wondered before what would happen if someone ever broke the unspoken rule. If Hannibal’s rigid sense of decorum would override his personal wants.

Clearly, it had.

And as much as she admired him for his ability to prioritise the comfort of others over his own, she wished he had the courage to address his misbehaving guest.

Did he think the rest of them wouldn’t back him up?

Hannibal approached the table with his usual grace, still holding the bottle of wine.

"This vintage is from Sicily," he said, the warm lilt of his accent curling around the words. "From a small private vineyard of a dear friend. It will pair beautifully with our later courses; wild game with rosemary, black truffle, and a citrus reduction."

With the ease of long-standing habit, he turned to his left to pour.

Where the glass should have been empty.

Doctor Graham’s hand came up, covering the top of the glass.

"No."

Alana clenched her jaw so tightly she could feel it in her temples. If looks could kill, the man would be dead where he sat.

"Pardon?" Hannibal’s voice was light, polite, but curious.

"No. Non. Нет." Graham’s tone was mockingly patient. "Which language would you prefer? I don’t want to drink your wine."

There was a strange emphasis on your, and the aggression in his voice sent a shiver of unease through Alana.

This wasn’t just about the wine.

It wasn’t just about the seat.

Hannibal’s refined manner, his meticulous grooming, his artistic interests—his entire being—had led certain types of people to assume things about him. And Doctor Graham, who she knew from Jack’s files was a keen outdoorsman raised by a single father, was quite possibly one of those people.

She hated the idea that she had misjudged him so thoroughly.

For him to disrespect Hannibal in his own home—

Perhaps Chilton had been right all along.

Hannibal blinked slowly, like a cat watching something it couldn’t quite decide whether to pounce on or ignore.

"And what would you desire, my dear Will?" His voice was still perfectly measured, but Alana knew him well enough to sense the tension beneath it.

"Bourbon and takeout, if you’re offering," Doctor Graham replied, flashing a sharp smile, teeth bared like a challenge.

There was a long, charged pause.

"I will take you out later, but in the meantime, I can certainly manage a bourbon."

Alana barely suppressed a groan.

Hannibal must have been rattled, because he set the bottle down without serving anyone else and left the room without another word.

Bella was also watching the door, concern evident on her face.

Beverly, beside her, let out a low whistle. "Jesus. He’s not gonna kill him before dessert, is he?"

Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded like “at least wait until the coffee course”.

When Hannibal returned, he was carrying a crystal glass and an unmistakably expensive bottle of bourbon.

Doctor Graham graciously moved his hand aside to allow Hannibal to pour, lifting the drink with the air of a man expecting to be waited on.

He took a sip, appraising.

Then, with deliberate insolence—

"Good boy."

Alana froze.

Beverly choked on air.

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hannibal…

Hannibal didn’t react.

At least, not outwardly.

He merely turned back to the table, resuming the wine service with the same effortless poise as always.

The only sign of his distress was the slight flush high on his cheekbones.

By the time he returned to his seat, the dining room doors opened again, and his staff entered carrying the first course.

The table was arranged with meticulous precision. Each plate was a work of art. Porcelain edged with gold, silver cutlery polished to a mirror sheen.

Before Alana, a delicate amuse-bouche was placed.A single, exquisitely plated bite meant to awaken the palate.

A crisp tart shell, filled with foie gras mousse and topped with a sliver of candied fig. The wine Hannibal had chosen, a deep Nero d’Avola, would complement the richness beautifully.

And yet—

Alana barely tasted it.

Doctor Graham, across from her, took his first bite without ceremony.

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the clink of silver against china.

And then—

"So, Dr Chilton," Graham said suddenly, tone conversational, "how does it feel to be the second-most insufferable person at this table?"

Alana closed her eyes.

God help them all.

Chapter Text

So the games have begun, Frederick thought with satisfaction. He had wondered, when Mr. Graham arrived, how long it would take before the man sniffed out his greatest foe.

Unfortunately, Graham had made the first move, forcing Frederick to abandon his original strategy of slow vivisection.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Frederick demurred, dabbing his napkin against his lips with an air of exaggerated politeness. "I am not the one currently making a scene at the dinner table."

"Perhaps not. That would require you to be able to hold anyone’s attention for longer than a few moments," shot back Graham, before turning to Alana with an easy, almost lazy smile. "Could you pass the salt?"

A calculated move. Deflection. A feint to lure them into playing against each other, to stoke professional jealousy. It was the reason he had gone after Lecter first, of course—prodding at the man’s sense of order, his carefully curated image. Hannibal had been pitifully easy to unsettle. But Frederick was made of stronger stuff.

Before he could move his next piece, Alana spoke.

"Why are you purposely trying to upset people, Will? You were invited to this dinner to get to know your potential future colleagues, and all you've done so far is antagonize everyone."

Graham turned to her with an infuriatingly boyish smile, the kind that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed it. "I suppose it's in my nature. Laissez les bons temps rouler and all that."

Frederick barely had time to prepare his counter before Hannibal, ever the wildcard, responded with a gleam in his eye.

"Tu as un sourire éclatant. Ça me manquait de le voir."

Will didn’t even look at him as he stabbed rather viciously at his plate. "Sorry, I don’t speak French."

From down the table, Beverly Katz choked on her wine.

—

Once the commotion had died down and the next course had been served, Frederick saw his opening.

"So, Mr. Graham," he began, voice smooth as he positioned himself to regain control of the board. "It's nice to finally be in the same room as you. If I didn't know better, I’d say you were avoiding me."

"I wasn't aware you wanted so badly to take me to dinner, Mr. Chilton," Graham replied without missing a beat. "I was under the impression you wanted to label me a sociopath and lock me in that asylum of yours so you could electrocute me in peace."

At that, Frederick’s keen eyes caught Lecter gripping his fork just a fraction too tightly. Interesting. The good doctor did not appreciate Graham’s attention being diverted.

"I would never diagnose someone without examining them," Frederick countered, setting his trap with practiced ease. "Though I'm sure someone of your caliber would be able to beat most of the standard tests for clinical psychopathy."

A bold gambit. A knight throwing down the gauntlet.

Graham, however, did not take the bait. Instead, he turned to Jack Crawford, who had spent most of this exchange staring intently at his plate, pretending to be elsewhere.

"Do you often work with psychiatrists who think autism is the same as psychopathy?" Graham asked, tone deceptively light. "That seems like a clear inability to function at a professional level. Not to mention grounds for a lawsuit if he keeps making such accusations. There are laws about this kind of thing, you know."

Check.

Frederick felt a chill creep up his spine. Graham had come to play after all.

"Do you consider yourself autistic, then?" Chilton tried to rally, grasping at the fraying edges of his control. "I thought you claimed to be more special than that."

It was a weak move, but he had been forced into a defensive position, and Frederick Chilton was not a man who handled losing well.

Graham simply looked at him. Expression blank, utterly unimpressed, radiating the kind of quiet, crushing disappointment usually reserved for wayward children caught swearing in front of a priest.

"Well, that feels inappropriate," he said, flatly.

At this point, Katz decided to chime in. Chilton, in truth, had almost forgotten she was even there, aside from her apparent inability to drink from her glass without aspirating.

"It definitely is," she said, glaring at him as though he had been the one disturbing the meal the entire time.

And, somehow, he had become the villain of the evening.

At the head of the table, Lecter was also glaring at him, though his expression was more controlled, refined. Like a schoolteacher silently willing a disruptive student to evaporate.

It was absurd.

Graham had spent the entire dinner antagonizing everyone, breaking every possible social rule in rapid succession, and yet somehow, somehow, Chilton had become the one under scrutiny.

He had studied under some of the most brilliant minds in psychology, had sat in the same lecture halls as men whose names were etched into history. And yet, the moment he tried to make a groundbreaking observation, to push the field forward, he was met with nothing but derision.

Freud had his theories of the unconscious. Jung had his archetypes. Cleckley had The Mask of Sanity.

And what did he have?

Nothing, because no one would let him work.

If they had any sense at all, they would see that he, Frederick Chilton, had before him the most valuable psychological subject of the modern era. Will Graham was a living case study, a phenomenon, a mind that could revolutionize the field. If only people would stop getting so precious about the ethics of it all.

But no. Instead, the entire table had turned against him, as if he were the one who had spent the evening tearing apart the host’s carefully constructed decorum.

Graham hadn’t won because he was right.

He had won because he was infuriating.

Checkmate.

Chapter Text

Beverly could not believe she had considered skipping this dinner.

She had assumed it would be boring. Another stuffy, formal affair filled with polite conversation and overpriced wine.

Turns out, the missing ingredient for a truly great night was Will Graham acting like a massive bitch.

From the moment he and Dr. Lecter had met on the doorstep, she had been riveted. Hannibal had looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. Like he had never in his life seen a scruffy, disheveled bug man before. And Will? He had looked equally struck. She had never seen the man hold such direct eye contact with anyone.

Actually, wait.

Beverly glanced down the table at her friend, eyes narrowing.

He wasn’t wearing glasses.

For as long as she’d known him, Will had worn a pair of wire-framed spectacles. One night, after a long day of report writing, he had let slip that they didn’t actually have a prescription. He just wore them to avoid making direct eye contact with people.

And yet, the Will sitting at this table had abandoned his usual barriers entirely, staring straight into the souls of everyone around him.

Huh.

Did that mean something? Or had he just misplaced them?

Regardless, it wasn’t the most interesting thing happening at this dinner.

That title went to the way Dr. Lecter was eye-fucking her friend like the rest of them weren’t even there.

The only real question was who would break first—Hannibal, with his barely restrained urge to bend Will over the table, or Alana, with her very visible desire to strangle him.

Then again, maybe Hannibal wanted to do that too. Not her place to kink-shame.

The thing was, everyone else seemed to think Will was just causing chaos for the hell of it, some twisted revenge for being forced out of his lab.

But Beverly had noticed something.

Every time Will made a sharp comment—whether it was aimed at Chilton, Alana, or even Jack—he always, always, flicked his gaze back toward Lecter, checking for a reaction.

Was he trying to entertain him?

Was this some kind of game?

Because while Will was brilliant, he had managed to press every single one of Hannibal’s sensitive points and draw blood. And Hannibal—who, from Beverly’s sparse meetings with him, was the pompous, untouchable type—had let him do it.

Worse, he seemed to be enjoying it.

Beverly shook her head, trying to dislodge that particular train of thought.

She wasn’t exactly experienced in fine dining, but even she could tell that whatever was going on between Will and Lecter had completely derailed the tone of the evening. The tension at the table had settled into something thick and almost palpable, winding tighter with every glance exchanged between the two men.

Jack looked like he was mentally writing an incident report. Alana’s expression had shifted into something caught between concern and quiet, simmering fury. Bella, ever the composed one, wore the unreadable mask of someone who had seen many ridiculous things in her lifetime but was still debating whether this one took the crown.

And Chilton—well. Chilton looked like he was having the time of his life, the smug bastard.

Beverly flicked her gaze toward Will, who was absently tapping his fingers against his glass, not drinking from it, just turning it slightly, as if testing the weight. His shoulders were loose, almost relaxed, but there was something calculated in the way he leaned back in his chair. Like he was waiting. Anticipating.

Hannibal, on the other hand, had taken to quietly observing, his gaze lingering on Will with an intensity that was bordering on inappropriate for company. He wasn’t fidgeting, wasn’t betraying anything in his expression, but Beverly had the strange impression that if Will so much as twitched, he would move to match it.

Jesus.

What the hell was she even watching?

This wasn’t just tension. It was a game. And Beverly had no idea who was winning.

Dinner continued, the next course arriving in perfect synchrony.

The plates set before them were exquisite. A delicate arrangement of butter-poached lobster draped over a silky parsnip purée, garnished with saffron-infused foam. The scent alone was enough to make her mouth water, though she noted that Will barely glanced at his plate.

Alana, meanwhile, seemed to have taken it upon herself to steer the conversation back to something more civilized.

"I have tickets to see Tristan und Isolde performed by the Baltimore Operatic Society next Tuesday," she said, turning to Dr. Lecter. "Would you like to join me?"

Lecter, ever the refined gentleman, finished his bite with practiced ease, clearly about to offer some gracious reply.

But, of course, Will cut in first.

"Wagner is hardly worth going out for at the best of times," he said. "To subject someone to that racket of a performance seems almost cruel."

Alana stiffened.

"I wasn’t aware you knew opera, Will," she bit back. "Though perhaps the classics aren’t quite to your taste."

Damn.

Beverly hadn’t thought she had it in her.

"And what would you know of matters of taste, Dr. Bloom?"

Silence.

Up until now, Will had only really gone after Chilton, who everyone found insufferable, and Hannibal, who was clearly into it. But going after Alana? That was like kicking a puppy.

"William," Hannibal’s voice cut through the room, more reproach in his tone than his sparkling eyes suggested. If Beverly didn’t know better, she’d think he was enjoying the display.

Actually, scratch that. He definitely was.

Will abruptly pushed back from the table, standing in one sharp motion.

"Je ne m'excuserai pas auprès de cette chienne qui détruit les foyers," he muttered before striding toward the door.

Beverly didn’t catch the full translation, but she did catch the word chienne—and damn, was Alana about to throw hands?

Will was already gone before anyone could react.

Beverly made to rise and follow him, but Lecter was already standing.

He moved toward the door with purpose, but before he could leave, Alana’s voice cut through the air.

"Hannibal, leave him."

The room stilled.

"I don’t know what has possessed his behaviour tonight," she continued, tone measured but firm. "But even Jack can see that he wouldn’t be a good fit for the team. He's clearly disturbed."

Hannibal turned.

The warmth that had lingered in his eyes all evening was gone.

Beverly swore the temperature in the room dropped.

"I apologise for leaving dinner so abruptly," he said, voice cold, calculated. "But I need to check on my husband."

And with that, he left.

Leaving the dining room in chaos.

Beverly reached for the half-empty wine bottle, yanked it toward her, and took a long, long drink straight from the source.

Because what the hell had she just witnessed?

Chapter Text

Jack reached across the table and plucked the bottle of wine away from Katz, taking a long, steady swig.

Whatever evil thing he’d done in a past or present life to deserve this punishment, it had to have been particularly egregious.

The plan was simple.

Bring Graham to dinner. Show him he could be part of a team that did good in the world. Ensure a trusted friend was there to sing the praises of the program.

It shouldn’t have been difficult.

He had known Hannibal for years. Considered him a friend. A trusted colleague. Someone with a mind so refined, so methodical, that Jack had once entertained the idea that nothing could ever truly surprise the man.

Clearly, he had been wrong.

The look on Lecter’s face when Will had appeared at the door would haunt him for years. It had been too much. Too raw. Too open. Jack had seen people react with less emotion upon learning a long-lost loved one presumed dead had been found.

And Will?

Will had been worse.

From the first time Jack had met the man, he had known that Will Graham was complicated. A mind too sharp for its own good, an instinct that strayed too close to danger. He had expected pushback when he tried to recruit him, had anticipated the resistance, the verbal barbs, the pointed reminders that he didn’t want this job.

But this?

Jack had assumed he was dropping Will into a formal dinner. A potential job opportunity. Not into the middle of a goddamn Shakespearean tragedy.

Jack exhaled sharply and passed the bottle to Bella, who had barely spoken all evening. She took it without hesitation.

-

Frederick Chilton was steaming.

This—this—this affront was too far.

He had been so close. Graham had been within his grasp, ready to be molded into his crowning achievement, only to be cuckolded by Lecter.

Was he even Graham? Was he even Graham? Was even the name of his foe, his great white whale, a lie?

Frederick turned, scanning the table for an ally in his indignation, and settled on Alana.

"What do you make of this, Dr. Bloom?"

She gave no reaction. He pressed on.

"How on earth could they have met in the first place? It’s not like Graham is often seen dining at the Savoy… Say, do you think Graham was his patient?"

That would certainly explain a few things.

His train of thought was interrupted by Miss Katz, who seemed to have made it her mission tonight to cough, splutter, and choke her way through the meal.

"Or perhaps Dr. Graham is an incredibly well-respected research scientist who often collaborates with law enforcement across the country. The same way Dr. Lecter does. They could easily have met through their work."

Chilton opened his mouth to argue, but it was Alana who spoke next.

"Assuming they are married," she said. It was the first time she’d spoken since Hannibal left the room.

-

It would explain everything, Alana thought.

If this was some kind of twisted joke.

Hannibal wasn’t the type to play pranks. She was certain of that. But perhaps there was a moral lesson here. A warning about speaking too soon, about condemning a man she didn’t truly understand.

She had gone too far, calling Will disturbed. That wasn't a clinical diagnosis nor could she give such a diagnosis when her judgement was clearly clouded.

But married.

Married was different from widowed. It was even different from divorced.

Married meant partnership. It meant loyalty.

Hannibal considered himself married. A husband.

Perhaps that was why Will had looked like he wanted to murder her all night.

His empathy—his terrible, all-consuming empathy—would have laid bare her heart for him to pick at like carrion.

Was it better if this was a joke?

Was it better if Hannibal was playing along with the delusions of a troubled patient who had imprinted on him?

Or was it worse that he was truly bound to Will Graham and had been long enough to grieve his absence as part of himself?

-

Beverly Katz had never felt so much like she was in a badly written TV show in her life.

An elaborate dinner party. A strange collection of dinner guests. A shocking revelation just before dessert.

If a body dropped, this was officially an Agatha Christie novel, and she was going to be pissed, because she never guessed the ending right.

With her wine bottle rudely stolen by Jack, Beverly turned to the next best form of entertainment; watching Frederick Chilton have a full-on mental breakdown.

The man had taken to pacing the room, still muttering about how this was some grand conspiracy to ruin him. Beverly wasn’t sure she’d ever met someone so convinced he was the main character before. In Chilton’s mind, every action had to be part of some plot against him.

If she were a psychiatrist, she might be thinking words like delusions of grandeur or paranoia.

But she wasn’t a psychiatrist.

And frankly?

She just thought he was a dick.

Still, she spared a thought for poor Alana. The woman looked catatonic. Either the revelation that her former crush was married or the strong implication that he preferred men had short-circuited her completely.

Or maybe it was just the fact that Will had shown up looking like he’d been living in the woods for a month and had spent the entire dinner insulting everyone.

Beverly got feeling hurt. Alana had always been considered the closest to Hannibal, and finding out he’d never shared two fairly important life events had to sting.

Hell, she was a little put out that Will had never mentioned it to her.

And it wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to get to know him. It had taken months of bug talk just to get him to admit his favourite book—shockingly, Pride and Prejudice.

Then again, maybe there was something poetic about him empathising with an autistic man deeply in love but without the language to express it.

Or maybe—more likely—Will had lied to her, because, as she had definitively learned tonight, he was a massive troll.

Either way, he was still her friend.

And right now, her friend was most likely in the middle of a bilingual screaming match with his estranged husband.

Which meant it was her duty to stay in this unbearably awkward dinner until Will inevitably stormed all the way out of the house. Then she would follow him and act as his getaway driver, so he didn’t end up trapped in a car with the Crawfords. In the meantime, she reached across the table and took Will’s abandoned plate. Waste not, want not, and all that.

-

Phyllis felt like she had fallen asleep at her desk and woken up in Wonderland where everything is what it isn’t.

Will Graham. Married to Hannibal Lecter.

How.

Seeing the rest of the table locked in loud, desperate denial, she decided to see this through to the end.

She rose, and no one marked her exit.

Her first instinct was to check the front of the house. Some half-mad part of her thought Graham would hotwire a car and disappear into the night like a bandit.

But as she stepped into the hall, she caught the low murmur of voices carried by the night air.

Stepping quietly, she followed the sound, pausing just before the drawing-room window.

Outside, two figures sat together. Not far apart, but the distance between them felt like miles.

She stepped closer, stopping just before the slightly open window.

"I’m still angry."

Graham. Softer than she had ever heard him.

"I know, meilė."

Lecter. The words carrying the same ache as the first time she had heard them.

And it was in that moment that Phyllis realised she had misunderstood.

Meilė wasn’t Mellie. It wasn’t a woman’s name.

It was devotion. A promise. A vow.

She suddenly knew, with absolute certainty, that she was intruding. That they all were.

Phyllis turned, leaving as silently as she had come.

Back in the dining room, the argument continued, voices rising in disbelief.

She stepped beside Jack, reached for her coat, and said, with quiet finality:

"Let’s go home, love," in a way that sounded like she herself had called for meilė.

"The night is over."

Chapter Text

William sat on the low step leading to the garden, a cigarette dangling from his lips as a slow stream of smoke unspooled around him.

He had technically given up smoking years ago...or at least that’s what he told his Père. In reality, he liked to keep a few stashed around. Just in case.

This particular cigarette came from a packet that had been hidden away a lifetime ago, tucked behind a loose brick on the step where he now sat. Some cheap brand that had long since gone out of business.

He wasn’t alone.

Hannibal Lecter had stepped into the garden moments before, now standing sentinel against the door that led back inside. Whether he was keeping Will out or the rest of the world in, Will couldn’t be sure.

He took another slow drag.

"Come here often?"

Hannibal took it as an invitation, lowering himself onto the step beside him. They sat in silence, the cool night air settling around them, the only light coming from the window behind them and the burning embers in Will’s hand.

"Why are you here, Will?"

The fact that Hannibal had to ask made Will momentarily see red.

For a brief, visceral second, he considered putting out his cigarette in the man's eye socket, watching the ember sizzle against his skin before slitting his throat.

Instead, he reached into the bag resting beside him, the one he had retrieved from the drawing room before coming out here. From it, he pulled a set of official documents.

"Sign these."

He didn’t look at his husband. The other half of his soul.

A beat of silence.

"No."

Not the reply Will had expected.

When he had realized who the host of this dreadful dinner was, it had felt inevitable to bring the papers. In truth, he hadn’t expected them to be signed.

He had expected—hoped—for something else.

To end the night buried under the rosebush they had planted together, forever sharing a grave with the first man they had slaughtered side by side when Will had finally admitted he knew what his husband was.

To sleep. Perhaps to dream.

But in that sleep of death...what dreams may come?

That he was still here, still breathing, still being denied release by the pen or by the sword...it was almost more than he could bear.

"No?"

It came out more accusation than question.

No. Non. Нет.

"No, Will. I would kill for you. I would die for you. I would carve the moon from the sky for you."

Hannibal turned to him then, soft brown eyes nearly maroon in the dim light.

"But you cannot command me to leave you."

Will scoffed.

"You act like you haven’t already left."

He hadn’t meant to say that.

It came out less like a sharp retort and more like a petulant child whining for his mother.

Like he cared where Hannibal Lecter was.

The doctor regarded him impassively for a moment before reaching into his jacket pocket. For one wild second, Will thought he saw the flash of silver—a scalpel, maybe—but Hannibal merely pulled out a small brown notebook and held it out.

Will took it without thinking, lacking anything else to do with his hands.

Inside, he found lists.

Neat, precise, meticulous.

Locations where Will had lived. Friends he had begrudgingly made. Places he had traveled for work.

The most recent entry was about Beverly Katz. A cold notation after the official record—an observation about how easy it would be to kill her and frame Will for her death.

All just to stop him from running.

"You commanded me to leave," Hannibal said, quiet. "But I couldn’t. So I gave you the closest thing I could."

Will should have been horrified.

Appalled.

Instead, he found himself wondering if framing Chilton for Alana’s murder would be as simple as framing him for Beverly’s.

"I’m still angry."

"I know, meilė."

"I won’t forgive you."

"I know. But that’s alright." Hannibal exhaled slowly, watching the last ember of Will’s cigarette fade into the night. "I won’t forgive you either."