Work Text:
Translation in Russian now available, thanks to nyavka!
Will is ashamed to admit that at one point of his life, he had been quite familiar with the self-help section of literary establishments. Back then, the monsters in his head had lurked sulkily as Will ignored them and read such melodramatic bullshit as, Find your Inner Buddha and Ten Steps to a Better You. It turned out that Will didn't have a better him. He sure as hell tried to delude himself that he cared, though.
Will has long embraced his inner psychosis. He has recently also come to embrace a very real, very physical psychopath, which has brought its own slew of problems. Somehow, Will does not think he will find a self-help book on the topic. Perhaps he will write one, one day when he is old and wrinkly and unable to chase after murderers. Provided, of course, that he lives to reach old age. Or that he doesn't end up sharing a jail cell with Hannibal Lecter.
The idea does not bother him as much as it ought to.
Will whistles sharply. His pack rushes back toward him and the open door of Wolf Trap, tongues lolling with glee and paws filthy with mud. It's April, a rainy month. Cold, too. Will burrows further into his coat as he ushers the dogs around the house, then spends a few minutes carefully washing off the worst of the dirt from their coats. The dogs slobber all over his face in gratitude. Will laughs and wastes time petting each one. Winston pretty much climbs into his lap when Will crouches beside him, dragging watery mud over Will's coat. Will doesn't mind.
Eventually, everyone is safely inside and sprawled close to the crackling hearth. Will spends a moment simply looking, basking in the easy warmth of his home and pack. There is only one thing missing, and Will's world would be complete.
Will wanders into the kitchen and opens his fridge. Leftover chicken breast in pink-slicked plastic, an unopened bag of baby carrots, a thin bundle of green onions. There should be a few potatoes lying around somewhere. Likely sprouting roots by now, but still edible.
Will goes to find his phone.
Hannibal does not pick up the first time Will calls. Will frowns and dials again. This time, it takes only two rings, but Hannbial's "Will?" comes out a bit breathless. Will's eyes narrow.
"Where are you?"
There is a pause. "Running an errand."
Will pursues his lips. "Aha. And will this errand result in overtime for me tomorrow?"
"It might." There is a note of pleasure in Hannibal's voice, no doubt inspired by the image of Will delving into his mind over whatever grotesquely gorgeous scene he is painting at the moment.
Will feels a mighty need for a strong drink. "That is not very considerate, Hannibal." Shameless narcissist.
"Is there a problem, Will?"
"Yeah, there is a problem. I wanted to invite you over for dinner, but you are apparently too busy carving up some poor chump."
"I could still make dinner."
Will drags a hand through his hair, grips a fistful by the roots. "Maybe I no longer want you to."
There is a beat of silence. "You knew about this part of me before we begun our relationship." Hannibal's voice chills Will in a way the April wind had not. Will shivers and squares his shoulders.
"I did. I do. But I am getting sick of coming second place to people you find too offensive to live."
"They are not more important than you."
"But what you do with them is?" Hannibal swallows.
"Perhaps we should have this conversation later," he says, stalling for time to build up an appropriate defense. Which would translate in a scathing offensive at Will's expense. Will is not about to oblige.
"Would you give it up?" Will asks. "For me. Would you stop? Could you stop?"
"I could. I am not certain that I want to." Will grunts in anger and Hannibal speaks again, a bit of ire bleeding through his carefully neutral voice. "Will, your own career poses similar difficulties to me. I would not ask you to quit on my account."
Will freezes.
Hannibal had meant to unsettle him, of course. To draw a similarity between what Will does and what he fears becoming. The idea the words inspire in Will's head is of quite a different nature.
Will's face splits in a slow, dark grin. "You don't have to. I'm quitting."
"What?"
Will is certain there should be an exclamation point after that word, given the intensity of Hannibal's tone. He grins harder and wanders to sit beside the dogs. Zoe buts her head against his knee and he obediently scratches behind her ear. "I'm not going to consult for the FBI anymore. I'll call Jack as soon as we hang up."
"You - Will, are you thinking clearly?"
"Yes, and before you ask - yes, I did take my medication today. This is what I want. I've wanted it for a long time now, actually. Thanks for making me realize that."
Will can almost hear the thunder in Hannibal's thoughts, and it is glorious. He fights very, very hard not to let the laughter bubbling up his throat spill over the phone.
"If you are certain it is what you want," Hannibal says in the end.
"I am. Come by when you're done. I'm in a better mood now." Will would like to drive the point home before Hannibal has a chance to rationalize everything to fit his needs in his beautiful, twisted brain. "Bring wine."
"Will do," Hannibal says, sounding slightly vacant. "Until then."
"Have fun with your errand," Will says in parting and hangs up.
Several tails thump against Will's side. Will laughs and the dogs bark, feeling his joy and wanting to share it.
"Let's see how much he likes doing what he does without anyone smart enough to see his stupid designs," Will tells an attentive Buster. Buster licks Will's nose in doggy agreement.
Will would totally rock that self-help book business. It looks like he might even get a chance to write it - or at least reach old, wrinkly age with Hannibal Lecter at his side.