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For as long as Will Graham could remember, people had been falling in love with him.
As a child, his father had not been above wielding his son’s solemn eyes and dark curls for his own purposes. “Oh aren’t you a darling! ” his dad’s girlfriends would coo when they laid eyes on him. This was inevitably followed by a pinch of the cheek, or a hug that would leave a gust of cheap perfume and bourbon in its wake, while his dad grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Will squirmed and bore these onslaughts, because he could hear his father’s loneliness in his head, and given the amount of times Will had woken him with night terrors, the man deserved some use out of his son. Never once had his father complained, even when Will’s screams had dragged him from his bed multiple times a night. He had merely sat by Will’s side, quietly explaining the best way to tie a blood knot, or how to repair a leaky transmission, and Will would drift off, grateful that there were no awkward questions to answer, no impossible explanations to concoct.
As a teenager, Will had spent hours staring in the mirror, trying to see what it was exactly that the girls in his class liked so much. He couldn’t see anything remarkable-skinny, brown hair, skin not too bad-nothing that separated him from the herd of horny teenage boys at his school. The combination of empathy and hormones had been a devastating one, and while Will was not averse to sex, it was difficult to enjoy with the other person's feelings flooding into his consciousness. After a few disastrous attempts at dating, he had slunk off to hang with the goth crowd, who accepted his weirdness and moody silences without a second thought. His dad had raised his eyebrows the first time he had seen Will wearing eyeliner and a Joy Division shirt, but had said nothing, turning back to the bottle that was by now his constant companion. Unfortunately it hadn’t stopped the attention-the cheerleaders continued to courageously venture into the library and the darkest corners of the quadrangle to try and talk him into their dads’ pick-ups. Occasionally they had even succeeded.
By the time Will was teaching at Quantico, he was well used to the attention, and mostly able to ignore it. He grew accustomed to the flirtation of the women and the baffled hostility of the men, and he was able to forge friendly workplace relations despite it. Alana drifted into his classroom regularly on a number of flimsy pretexts, her scent warm and inviting, confident in her belief that she could fend off the darkness that surrounded him. And Will was tempted-of course he was-but Alana was one of his very few friends, and he was not sure their friendship would survive once she realised he far he was beyond saving. Will had pondered for some time on how much of her attraction was to him and how much was merely her saviour complex taking hold, but in the end dismissed these speculations as irrelevant, sticking instead to the undemanding comfort of his dogs and the odd one night stand.
Will dealt with his students far more brusquely, letting a succession of TA’s handle everything but the most complex questions and keeping his eyes well down at the end of a lecture till the bolder ones got the message and left him alone. There were a couple of particularly persistent ones though, including-what was her name? Angela something? who had left a particularly fine bottle of whiskey on his desk one afternoon. Will had stared at the bottle longingly for a full twenty seconds before calling her in, and as kindly as he could explained that he could accept neither the whiskey, nor the implied offer that went with it. Angela had smiled demurely at him from under her lashes, apologised for the misunderstanding, and had run off giggling with her friends as though they were middle school students and not in a prestigious post graduate program. He had been about to make a remark along these lines to Rachel, his TA, when he noticed her looking at him with shining eyes, and cursed inwardly.
The very next day, Jack Crawford had barged into his classroom and bullied him back into the field, but Will wonders if he might have put up more of a fight if he hadn’t been so anxious to get away from his lovesick class. Really, if anyone could be blamed for the events that followed, it was not himself, or Jack, or even Hannibal that was at fault
It was Angela.
Will had worked with Zeller and Price before, but Katz was new to him. He had liked her almost immediately, the way she had kept Zee and Jimmy in line like a big sister. She had taken Will under her wing too, and Will had had the unusual experience of not feeling any attraction emanating from a person who was being nice to him. It had been a relief beyond words, to finally meet someone who liked Will for his weirdness, and not for his azure coloured eyes, or his coal black hair or whatever bullshit someone had posted in the discussion forums that week. Will thanked God, if He existed, that he had managed to spot and delete that one fairly quickly. He had asked Rachel to monitor the forums, but he rapidly coming to the suspicion that she was, if not responsible for, then at least enabling the endless poetry and speculation on his sexual preferences.
Will sighed and rounded the corner towards Jack’s office. Maybe Alana would fire her for him? He really didn’t think he could cope with any more drama for the day. Not for the first time, he wished his face would stop getting him into trouble.
“Will, take a seat. This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, he’s helping us out on the profile. Doctor, this is Will Graham, one of the FBI's most valued profilers.”
Will threw himself into a chair, barely acknowledging the man looking at the pictures of the missing girls in favour of chugging down his third coffee of the morning. He knew it was a mistake, all the caffeine was making him punchy, but it was a bad night, and the day was looking even worse.
Most valued profiler? Why do you need a fucking shrink to help out then? Why am I even in this office right now?
And then the man-Dr Lecter- turned around to look at him and did a double take, eyes widening almost imperceptibly.
Oh, for fucks sake.
The meeting had gone badly, and Will had been rude even by his own standards, but he figured it was for the best. He didn’t have time for another psychiatrist trying to get inside his head, and he certainly didn’t have time for another lust stricken coworker. A combination of the two sounded like his worst nightmare, no matter how nice their cheekbones might be. Will went back into his office and very deliberately did not think about the bottle in the third draw of his desk, picking up the phone instead.
“Will. It wasn’t me, I swear it.” Rachel looked on the verge of tears and Will wished he had enlisted Alana’s help after all. He had barely gotten started on his well-practiced spiel for getting-rid-of-TAs-who-had-fallen-in-love-with-him, and now this. “I would never embarrass you that way! I swear to you, the first I knew of it was on my way here from the cafeteria.”
A cold hand gripped Will’s heart. “Knew of what? What are you talking about?” But even before she pulled the folded sheet out of her bag, he knew. He just knew.
The poem.
Fucking Beverly .
Back in the safety of Wolf Trap, where no one had ever written poems about him, much less posted them to noticeboards on every floor, Will very deliberately and calmly took the dogs out, letting them run around and throwing sticks for a good half hour. Winston was still clingy, but that was to be expected; it was difficult to fit into a new pack, and his previous owners had left him tied up alone for hours a day. The poem in Will’s bag was burning a hole in the back of his head, but he let it wait several hours, while he ate dinner and drank several fingers of whiskey much faster than was sensible. Eventually though, he couldn’t put it off any longer.
His class is my favourite
But I don’t learn a lot
When he talks about biting
He makes me feel hot.
Clearly another drink was in order. Or perhaps another bottle. Buster whined pitifully at Will and pushed a wet nose into his hand.
“Had a bad day, boy?” Will scratched his head. “You have no idea.”
His glasses are sexy
His hair is so lush
I just can’t stop staring
I’ve got such a crush.
His students obviously had far too much time on their hands, Will thought viciously. That was certainly something he could take care of.
His eyes are azure
His ass is so firm
And all I can think of
Is making him squirm.
There was more, but Will didn’t think he’d survive the amount of alcohol needed to read it. He finished his drink and crawled into bed, wishing he was someone else, someone normal, someone not cursed with horrific dreams and a face that inspired rapture.
In the morning, Will was aware of two, no, three, things. 1) He was profoundly grateful that he was an only child, if this was the sort of thing siblings did to each other. 2) He was incredibly hungover, and this was not helped by 3) Jack fucking Crawford ringing him at the ass crack of dawn, to report that another body had been found and to get his ass to the airport. At least he wouldn’t have to face his students today.
The good thing about this murder, Will thought on his drive back to the motel, insofar as there could ever be a good thing about a murder, was that the forensics team had been so horrified at the elegant cruelty of the copycat that not one of them had mentioned the previous day’s events. Zeller had even looked like he was going to be sick, which made Will like him a little more. Will also suspected, from the chastened way the team acted around him, that Jack had bawled them out about the prank. Fearful lest his delicate star profiler be damaged . The thought enraged Will. Well that, and the news that Hannibal Lecter would be joining them in Minnesota. Will settled in for a night of terrible television and added forts and cheekbones to the long list of things he was trying very hard not to think about.
“Where’s Crawford?”
“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.”
Jack had abandoned him then, left him alone to the predatory wiles of this psychiatrist who was looking at him as hungrily as Angela ever had, although with somewhat more subtlety. This is what happens when you answer the door in your shorts, Graham. Put some goddamn clothes on and stop staring at his mouth.
Dr Lecter had brought breakfast and coffee and although Will could and did subsist on a diet of bland cafeteria food and whatever he could throw together at home with the least amount of trouble, he had to admit that this was far more enjoyable. Taste buds he had thought long dead were sparking back into life with each bite. Hannibal (honestly, who called their child Hannibal? It was asking for trouble) was unbearably bright and cheerful for that hour of the morning, but then again he had probably not dreamed of feathered stags all night.
“Just keep it professional” Will said through a mouthful of sausage when Hannibal at last stopped talking, not sure whether he was referring to the psychoanalysing or the glances Hannibal kept throwing his way. Or were they perhaps the same thing? Shit .
The conversation went on and Will found himself unwillingly drawn in. It was such a relief to have another adult to talk to after all the bullshit of the last few days. Maybe he could let himself relax for a few minutes of conversation over a good meal. Maybe that would be ok.
“You know Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest china only used for special guests.”
This ridiculous and highly accurate picture of Jack carefully unwrapping Will only for the rarefied murders before just as carefully placing him back into the classroom made Will laugh for the first time in-when? He couldn't remember. It sounded strange to him after all this time.
“How do you see me?” Will asked, feeling more himself than he had in weeks.
“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”
Oh my god, this guy is weirder than I am. And he doesn’t even care. This is fantastic.
“Eat your breakfast” Hannibal chided gently, and Will did, wondering how long it would be before he managed to drive this one away.