Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hannibal didn’t feel it often, so it takes him a moment to place the emotion. 

The swirl in his gut, the heat in his cheeks. The way his whole body warmed uncomfortably, the way his mind seemed to empty. The words briefly falling away like sand between fingers. He was embarrassed.

No, he was mortified. 

Will Graham was not as he expected. For the second time in a small manner of days, Will Graham had rendered him entirely speechless where he had an interaction planned perfectly. 

That very morning Hannibal had meticulously prepared a protein scramble for two—something made difficult by the subpar appliances in his hotel—and packed it away in his warming tote, hoping to feed the man. Food was the perfect bridge, homemade especially so, the easiest path to friendship. 

He’d carried the tote with him, the air in his car filling with the warm and spicy aroma, making his own stomach growl in hunger. And yet, it now grew cooler with each moment Hannibal was unable to collect himself. 

When he’d knocked on the man’s motel door, he’d hoped to find him disturbed and off-balance. The perfect opening for him to slot himself into. The man was a loner and he seemed to take poor care of himself, maybe he’d wake him up with his early intrusion, leaving his inhibitions lower. He’d expected no different, he had no reason to. In his mind, Will Graham was complicated in some ways, but painfully simple in others. 

It seems he was wrong in that regard. 

He’d waited a moment, and then another and another. So many that his mind briefly wandered to how Will’s curls might look first thing in the morning. Messy, he’d wager. Tousled by a night of twisting and turning. Will didn’t strike him as someone who had restful sleep. 

He wonders what the mans mood would be. Disoriented? Confused? Cantankerous? 

The door opened to a flustered Will Graham. His hair was a mess, not artfully tussled as Hannibal had thought, but mussed by fingers, curls broken carelessly. He was shirtless. He was.. muscled. He—

His skin was flushed, pinked with exertion and breath. He was panting lightly. He could see the way the mans chest rose and fell quicker than was natural.

Which is how the realization set in that he seemed to have intruded on a rather intimate moment. 

His eyes darted past the man searching for the source of his state. Hope still warmed his chest, eyes looking for curled sheets and tissues, simple evidence of self-pleasure. 

Instead, he found the last thing he’d expected. There was another person in the motel room. Another man. 

He looked…. good. Hannibal was remiss to admit that, but the man was attractive. He was in the bed, naked, with a sheet covering his bottom half. The top half of him was fit and lean, smooth looking skin and subtle musculature. His skin was pinked in the same way, a flush matching his lover. Hannibal’s hunger soured and his anticipation turned to dread.

It seems he’d severely underestimated Will Graham.

“Wha’d’ya want?” Will’s voice was a grumble, syllables garbled and spat out in haste. It would’ve been alluring in any other circumstance. 

But Will was hardly paying attention to Hannibal. He’s not sure the man even registered him beyond an interruption. Hannibal could feel the fiery tendrils of embarrassment clutching his stomach.

“Will,” he began, allowing the greeting to simmer in the air as he collected himself. That was not what he’d planned to say.

Will grunts, but before he can ask anything, Hannibal opens his mouth to speak. 

“Apologies, I came to tell you that Jack is deposed in court, it’ll be just us today.” Hannibal’s eyes dart to the other man while speaking, just a quick glance. Missed entirely by Will, who’d yet to make eye contact. His eyes remain fixed on Hannibal’s collar and then the sky behind him and then is chin. Flicking around and assessing. It reminded him almost of a snake.

“It’s a little early,” Will says, voice rough with impatience, his brows furrow as he speaks. “We were going to grab breakfast first,” his voice trails at the end of the sentence, eyes finally drifting up to Hannibal’s, finally acknowledging the uncomfortable situation. His eyes flash down, to the warming tote, and back up again. 

The look he gives Hannibal makes him feel like an imposition. A fly that had buzzed around the wrong room too many times. A pest.

Hannibal clears his throat, swallowing down his discomfort, “That’s not a problem, we can drive out in an hours time, if you are amenable?”

His voice sounds painfully earnest to his ears, but perhaps his mind is playing tricks. He feels restless. As if he couldn’t stand there for another moment receiving this cold regard from a man who doesn’t know him. 

Any anticipation he felt had soured and now tasted acrid in his throat. Who was this man—this scruffy man—to judge Hannibal? To look at him as if he was a pest that had trespassed. As if he was not coveted for his expertise, just as fervently as Will himself had been recruited?

The irritation was turning to anger in a way that he hadn’t quite experienced. There was indignation there and a tender sort of feeling that was closer to hurt. He did not like the implication.

Will nods once, in acknowledgement, and the door is closed promptly. The noise reverberates in Hannibal’s ears, such is the force of it. His hands squeeze into a fist, fingers beginning to tingle in discomfort. They ache with the need to hit and claw and cause violence, but instead they clench impotently at the fabric of his warming tote. 

As he turns to leave, he hears what can only be a laugh muffled through the wood. His face is fixed in a snarl, lip curled slightly as his brows twitch. 

When Hannibal sits back in his car, the weight of his dejection seems to finally settle. His posture lagged, spine softening in the facsimile of surrender. The smell of breakfast still filled the air and with a deep inhale Hannibal’s mind reviews the interaction. 

He’d intended to share a meal with the man, to learn more, to form the beginnings of friendship, a foundation to build on. As he sits in the car, the silence begins to feel heavy with his failure.

His mind flashed back to that man, Will’s boyfriend. The way he was almost artfully posed in their bed, a lover interrupted. Ruefully, his mind flashes to a piece he’d seen a while back — elegantly draped sheets, the ruddy cheeks, a satisfied glow in the eye — the details felt like a taunt. For what reason, he’s not sure. 

He had no intentions of pursuing Mr. Graham, not romantically, but he finds himself dwelling. The man’s skin had looked smooth, his chest hairless, and his stomach tight and muscular. 

Hannibal pulled his sun visor down, slid open the mirror, and stared back at his reflection. 

He looked handsome. His hair sat perfectly, his face was cleanly shaved, and his suit was perfectly pressed. His gaze flicked to his eyes, to the wrinkles that had formed, they’d always been deeper set, but now the wrinkles were more evident. 

That man had been younger than him. A decade at least. 

Hannibal did not give credence to these thoughts. He found that fears surrounding aging were pointless. There was privilege in the ability to grow older, to experience life, to exist, but that man had been younger. Porcelain skin, taut and likely soft. Was he prettier?

Hannibal closed the mirror, stowing the visor and his errant thoughts with it. There was nothing to be gained from them.

He took a breath to collect himself before turning the car on and driving away. He still needed to eat and perhaps the solitude would do him well. 

It was silent. A silence that was almost palpable in the small car. It lined his shoulders, pushing down on him as if willing him to disappear into the cheap leather seats. It coated his mouth, a sticky film that anchored his tongue in place. 

Hannibal had eaten breakfast in the quiet of his hotel room. The familiarity of it was grounding, it gave him opportunity to take pause and reevaluate his assumptions. Things were not as he’d seemed, but that meant very little. 

Perhaps Will had an outlet for his physical frustrations, but what was the likelihood that the man understood Will for what he was? What was the likelihood he even knew of Will’s gift?

In Hannibal’s eyes, Will Graham—regardless of his relationship status—was neglectful of his gift of vision. Of his ability to walk through the most wicked minds and find their beauty, to see them as they are, to understand. He could not be handled by just anybody, it was Hannibal’s responsibility to nurture him and bring him forward in his evolution. His potential was staggering.  

Hannibal had resolved himself to renew his efforts, unbothered by the pebble in his path. What was a pebble to a behemoth? 

But sitting now, in the swamp on tension that filled this space, Hannibal’s breakfast sat like a stone in his stomach. His fingers drummed lightly on his thigh, a slow rhythm, an unnoticed fidget as he built his resolve. 

He knew what to say, he’d drafted the perfect comment. He just needed a moment. 

Will’s voice cut through the air, before he could begin. His tone was hard, already angry before Hannibal could speak, “Listen, I’m not sure if you have some sort of issue with what you saw—”

Of course not, Hannibal wanted to interject. It would be rude, but he felt affronted at the implication alone. His mouth opened, if only to clear his name, before he was interrupted by Will, who went on without stuttering.

He spared Hannibal a single glance before he continued to speak, this time in a tone closer to mocking, “But at the look of you I’d assumed you wouldn’t.”

Hannibal’s mouth closed. Then opened and closed again, a noise leaving that he couldn’t quite identify. He could feel a heat rising, mortification and insult warring in his chest. He truly hoped it wasn’t visible on his skin.

Will tossed a tense look at Hannibal looking for his response, but now it was Hannibal that stared resolutely forward.

If the air was tense before, it felt cloying now. Hannibal could feel Will’s anger leeching out of his pores, hitting him in waves like a putrid odour. 

He’s sure that he was no better. 

To be misunderstood was a feeling that ached in Hannibal. It brought him back to days spent in the corner of the orphanage, ignored and unheard. The odd boy who’d touched such great violence and was forever considered broken. They didn’t know his strength then, didn’t know him at all, and he was scarcely able to speak in his own defence. 

And now.

To be misunderstood by Will Graham, the man who could supposedly understand even the most twisted, felt like a personal affront. Like Hannibal was a book that was read and discarded. Pages nosed through, read and committed to memory, understood and unloved despite that. 

He took a breath, a deep inhale that fills his chest and dilutes to rage that simmered, and with a whistling exhale he dispels it all. But that wasn’t true. Will Graham could not begin to understand the depths of Hannibal’s character, let alone pass judgment. 

Will had since turned back to the road, a facsimile of calm arranged on his face. His knuckles, however, were white on the steering wheel, aggressively placed on 10 and 2, and shaking minutely. Hannibal’s eyes met the side of Will’s face. 

“That was incredibly rude, but I’m sure that was your intent, Mr. Graham.” His voice was soft. Softer than the situation warranted, softer than he felt. He’d defaulted to how he’d treat his most recalcitrant patients, a gentle tone of disappointment that cut deeper than any cheap admonishment. He’d reverted to formality, a tangible manifestation of his insult. 

Will doesn’t respond, but his eye twitches minutely. The only sign the words had even reached him. The moment to lingers. In another beat he continues, “Lashing out is rather immature too, but I can understand your embarrassment. So, no, you have no worries from me. I wonder, though, what would have happened if it had been Jack,” his voice trails off in a hum. He turns away then, facing the road.

He hopes Will thinks about that. About the allegiance he was receiving, about the bridge Hannibal still allowed between them. It was generous, even for him.

The rest of the drive was silent. To Hannibal, it was comfortable, but Will’s knuckles still gripped the steering wheel as tightly as before. When they reach their destination, Will turned to him with his face arranged severely. He didn’t speak immediately, simply took Hannibal in, eyes roaming as they did. 

Hannibal could see the tension in his frame. The way his jaw clenched, leaving the muscle bulging obscenely. He was rather muscular, Hannibal noted, more than he’d realized. 

The image of a shirtless Will flashed again, heaving and flushed pink. 

Sweat had glistened, catching the sun behind them. It had lined the planes of his torso. Up the pectoral hill, and then gravity pulling the sweat over and down. One rowdy drop had gone between, dripping lower and lower, into a small stomach. There was muscle, sure, but a softness to him that made Hannibal’s teeth ache. He had to restrain himself from clenching down, ripping into his own lips just to taste the iron. 

“Listen, Jay wanted to turn this into a little trip and there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t care if you’re uncomfortable, it’s not your business.”

The image slips away instantly, falling flat in the face of reality. Jay? It was hardly a name.  

The little syllable that oozed fondness. How unprofessional. Will is exceptionally lucky that Hannibal is here because he cannot imagine that Jack Crawford would be so forgiving. 

Jay. A ridiculous name that too. How commonplace. How childish, it made the man he’d seen sound like a school boy. 

It was impersonal too. Hannibal could call out Jay into a crowd and any number of people could respond. Jacob? James?

It was ludicrous to find that Will’s partner could be so… plain. Beautiful sure but if his name was any indication he was boring. Jay was a boy who grew up and lived and died all in the same place. Who liked football and wrestling and drinking beer on Fridays. Jay was not someone who knew how to deal with Will Graham and his staggering mind. 

Perhaps it was a nickname. Jack? Johnathan?

The familiarity sat bitterly on his palate and it tasted close to disappointment.

“Okay,” he responds belatedly. His tone was clipped, even he could tell, but his mind was elsewhere now, travelling far away to find a reality where this made sense. 

It wasn’t meant to be like this. There shouldn’t be someone to contend with. Some Jayden or Jason character. 

Hannibal turns away from Will, opening the door and leaving the small car. It had become increasingly stuffy. The air felt like it came straight from Wills lips and into his lungs. Hannibal hums, considering the intimacy of shared space. What it would mean to grow comfortable with that closeness, casual and grimy alike. Jay would know that feeling. 

Hannibal’s eyes remain fixed on the building ahead. He corals his errant thoughts, keeping himself focused on the present, on his game. 

Nothing had changed, despite the frustration in the pit of his stomach. A man was bound to be familiar with his partner. It was only natural. There certainly was no need to parade it as Will seemed to, but perhaps that was a matter of taste.

Will steps out to join him finally, but continues walking past him. He walks straight into the office, with no glance backwards to acknowledge or track Hannibal.

Rude again, Hannibal thinks with a grimace, what’s to be done about that?

Chapter Text

As he crouched above the body of Abigail Hobbs watching Will shake he knew he made the right choice. With this hand clasped around her throat, Will looked at him with the gratitude of a father. He saw divinity in that look.

Hannibal’s hands were those of God, benevolent in their ability to change Will’s life, to save hers. He curled his fingers more, tightening down, feeling the rawness beneath. It was exhilarating to be back here. To play scarecrow to the Grim Reaper, robbing souls from God himself. And being haled as a saviour.

The iron in the air was rich, pulsing under his fingers like a siren call. He wished to watch. To peel his hand away and observe the body in its final throes. Blood would immediately leak out from the gash, violent and methodical. She would twitch and writhe. Her chest rising, rising, rising, gasping trying to catch a breath that won’t come. A relief that won’t come. Not without him. 

Hannibal snapped his attention away, back to Will whose gaze was fixed on those same fingers. His eyes seemed to track the blood, watching where some dribbled from the cradle of his flesh. Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder about his thoughts. Would they resonate his own? Would he eagerly watch life leak away, would he see the beauty in it?

Will was splattered with blood. Each stain looked curated. A vision of a man undone, pushed into the dark recesses of his own mind. He doesn’t know yet what he will become.

It reminded him of Pollock, of the network that he would create with seemingly careless splashes. Will, similarly, represented the perfect network of neuroses all converging onto an unknowing man. 

Hannibal finds himself smiling, it blooms on his face unbidden and unstoppable. This is how it should be. This is what he planned for. Not for Jay and his fingers reaching for Hannibal’s new fascination. 

Hannibal kept this thought with him as the remainder of the scene played out. The paramedic came, Will was led away, and he was at the centre of the chaos, but it was going as planned. 

Eventually, he made it out into the sun again, hand still attached to the girl’s neck. The blood had gone sticky on his fingers, clotted and stale. They felt tacky and he’s sure they’ve adhered to skin a little. It didn’t smell quite the same, but the sharpness sat at the top of his palate, he could almost taste it. When it was slightly coagulated like this it was perfect for a pudding or a sauce.

Hannibal sighed. 

As the stretcher crested the edge of the porch, the warmth of the day suffused into him. The physical warmth was a mere reflection of the warmth in his groin as he replayed the look on Will Graham’s face. Despairing, desolate, delicious. 

As lost as the man had looked, Hannibal could only see the predator that lurked beneath. The monster that had emptied a clip into Mr. Hobbs in attempt to avenge the girl. Protective instinct was one thing, but to seek retribution… there was potential there. 

Hannibal allowed himself to follow as the first responders pushed him along, going through their frantic motions. FBI filtered onto the scene much like leaking blood, first a trickle and then a flood, coating every crevice with evidence markers and yellow tape. 

Eventually, he stood at the mouth of an ambulance, hand firmly affixed to Abigail Hobbs. He didn’t spare her a glance, instead watching Will. He was still with shock, a vision of distress. He was still coated, now in a deeper red. Everyone seemed to move around him, allotting him a wide berth, unwilling to break his bubble of space and inquire. 

Hannibal wanted to smile. He was so perfectly isolated. His smile dipped away as he realized that he could not go to him. His eyes flickered to the girl before returning to Will. Suddenly the man wasn’t alone. He tightened his hand, drawing a half-breath from the prone girl. 

Whispered words, fingers combing slowly, petting, eyes shining with concern. And worse, Will’s form slackening, anxiety leaking away, eyes softening. Hannibal’s lip was curling, he could feel it, but he couldn’t smoothen it as he took in their embrace.

The snake of arousal that once tightened in his gut transformed into a weight, dropping to the bottom of his stomach. His eyes broke away, travelling the scene as he took a breath, before dropping back to the girl. 

Time passed, but his mind had retreated, back to strategizing. It took him a moment to recognize the shift in the air, the steps growing louder, and the disturbed stillness. 

He could begin to make out words between them as they came closer, but he kept his gaze lowered, pretending to watch the girls neck.

“We could do it.”

“—Matty.”

“—it’s fine.”

A beat. Then, a cough.

“How is she?”

It was a voice he’d been curious to hear, but detested immediately. It was not melodious, it didn’t form words delicately or strongly. It was slightly nasally and hit his ears like the exact opposite of commanding. Squirrelly. 

He looked up at the man with a smile. He was unremarkable close-up. Sandy hair, pale skin, freckles. Perhaps unassuming was a better word.

“She will survive, but it will scar horribly,” he responded softly, eyes dropping softly like a caress. He projected the concern of a parent as his other hand raised to brush away a few strands of hair. Slowly, his eyes return to the two—Will’s eyes are soft, the same cannot be said for his friend. The man nods in acknowledgement, a short bob of the head, over before it even began. 

“I wish we could’ve met in more favourable circumstance, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal grimaced exaggeratedly, stretching the silence. His eyes swept up and down, landing back on this face. The look in the man—Jay’s—eyes felt combative. Almost taunting. 

“Indeed.”

The man clears his throat, eyes fixed. They dilate ever so slightly, his own interest clear, or perhaps amusement. He had the gaze of a predator, a gnat in comparison, but the cruelty was evident. 

“Matthew Brown,” the man adds after a beat. “Does she have a place to stay? Will and I were talking—”

Will cuts in, “not now.” His tone is frustrated, but not hard. Soft in a way Hannibal hadn’t heard from him. 

Hannibal quirks a brow, confused again. He looks to Will and back to the man. 

“Matthew,” he says, feeling the word, letting it roll out of his mouth with an edge of kindness. His eyes flick to Will and back again. “She does not. I imagine that is a decision for the state and herself.” His voice flattens as he speaks, annoyed at the man’s gall. As if he hadn’t kept the girl alive for one reason alone. 

He squeezes his fingers again, eliciting another noise from the girl, and using this excuse he disengages. He’s seen enough. 

It happens exactly as he’d hoped.

Will ends up in the girls hospital room, cleaned off, and without the interloper. Hannibal feigns his sleep, hand clasped in hers, head bend uncomfortably into his own shoulder. He’d practiced the posture. 

Abigail doesn’t wake when Will sits, but Hannibal allows himself to be visibly disturbed. He makes a small show of stretching his neck before he finally drifts is attention to Will. 

He’s not looking. 

Irritation blooms in Hannibal’s chest and he cannot help but put the blame squarely with Will. Hannibal was meticulous, he planned all his interactions and set his expectations accordingly, but now it felt as if Will was purposefully disrespecting that effort. 

He massaged his neck again, uncaring for Will as he worked through the real soreness he felt. 

“How is she?”

Hannibal doesn’t respond immediately, giving himself time to settle himself before turning back to Will. He’s still not looking.

“She’s stable. The healing process will be arduous, but she’s shown remarkable spirit already.”

Will doesn’t make a sound. Hannibal continues to stare at the painting across from the girls bed. Neither move for a few silent moments. To Hannibal, the silence is stilted, clunky and awkward as his tongue has begun to feel around Will. 

“Matthew has been by,” he lies easily, hoping to sow discord. “He seems.. eager to aid Abigail in her recovery.”

Will sighs deeply, Hannibal almost feels the huff of frustrated air against his face. He mumbles something to himself and when Hannibal turns to looks he appears sheepish. Embarrassed, even. 

“Do you feel guilt Will?”

The man’s eyebrows scrunch quickly before relaxing. The tension, however, remains seated in his shoulders. Instinct warring with restraint even in the most basic decision, it was remarkable to watch. 

Hannibal wonders what the man wanted to do. Would be snap again? Wave his claws and fangs with no regard for their environment?

Hannibal feels warmth settle at the thought and as the scene unfolds in his mind, the warmth slips lower and lower. 

With a blink he tucks it away, focus returning to the man staring back at him. Hannibal follows his gaze and finds his hands clenching around the girl’s hand. He releases them slowly. 

Will’s eyes flick back to Hannibal’s face, voice amused when he responds, “For giving you a fake name?”

Hannibal maintains the eye contact for a brief second before turning away, face turned to the painting. He doesn’t truly take in any details, his mind blank and waiting. And so he waits, a moment, then another, and another. 

It stretches between them again as it always seems to. A battle of wills, but the man would soon find that Hannibal would always win in that regard. 

Will finally breaks the brittle silence with a tone hushed like a confession, “Of course I feel guilt, who wouldn’t?”

Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to respond, “Even though you may not have held the knife, you believe your intervention placed it in Mr. Hobbs’ hands.” His statement is innocent in many ways, he’s just seeking clarification, but Hannibal hopes that it twists the knife, that his words would wound Will, however minutely. 

Will scoffs instantly and Hannibal flicks his eyes over. He looks amused, “Not gonna tell me it’s not my fault? Don’t want your good will hunting moment?”

Hannibal doesn’t smile. “I happen to feel guilty myself, for the part I may have played,” he says.

It’s silent again. Will is like any other: unmoored by vulnerability. It is the easiest way to herd a person in the direction he wishes. Will’s posture softens, almost in defeat. 

“Jack wants me to start seeing you regularly.”

“And you find the thought of speaking to someone abhorrent?”

Will laughs then, brightly, as if caught surprised. Hannibal finds it endlessly endearing. Will cuts the sound off quickly enough, but his voice is friendlier then, “Exactly.” 

He pauses for a moment, smiles, then responds, “I don’t believe you need therapy, Will, you’re more or less sane.”

“That’s what I said,” Will agrees readily. The lines on his face had softened, opening his expression like a blooming flower. His eyes flicker around Hannibal rather than stare fixedly. “I’m no crazier than anyone else.” His voice is earnest then, but unsure. He poses the assertion like a question.

“However,” Hannibal counters, watching as a small furrow appears and Will flicks his eyes up to Hannibal’s brow. “What Jack asks of you is evidently quite taxing on your psyche. It may not be feasible to adopt every stray which comes your way.” 

Will laughs again, louder, and shakes his head in amusement. He smiles at Hannibal, eyes squinted conspiratorially, “Feasibility has never stopped me.”

Hannibal gets the feeling that there is a joke there he’s missing. He smiles despite that, accepting the hard-fought camaraderie. 

“I guess we’re just alike,” he muses, voice soft.

“Feeling paternal, Dr. Lecter?” Will’s voice is sarcastic then, joking, as they both drop their eyes to Hannibal’s hands, still clasped in the girls. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond immediately, allowing the scene to speak for itself. He wants to smile in that moment, knowing that Will had revealed himself more than he’d want. 

“I don’t believe therapy would work on you,” he deflects, hands detaching, and eyes skittering away. He's embarrassed again and even if his care for the girl is feigned, he still feels caught. The blush on his cheeks is involuntary but sells the image well, he supposes.

Slowly, he brings his attention back, finding Will’s eyes again,“What you need, rather, is a way back to yourself at the end of the day. A way to leave the voices behind.”

The silence creeps back in, a soft lull in which Will ponders the statement. It’s simple and in that simplicity it could hardly be refuted.

“I have Matthew,” Will posits. To Hannibal, it sounds as if he was trying to convince himself. His eyes wander again, a nervous tick. “We talk… he listens.”

“But would he understand?”

“I’m not that complicated,” Will counters, eyes flashing back to his brow. In another moment, they meet Hannibal’s. 

Inside them is a tempest of thoughts. Waves and waves that crash at the shore of consciousness, errant things that can’t be corralled. Hannibal can see the way Will denies himself certain truths, the way his inner gaze only strays to the East. He looks only at the light of sunrise, basking in the false safety.

Hannibal wanted to grab Will and point him West, point him towards the creeping darkness. He wanted to show him what he could be, what he really was. It was so close. 

“When you shot Garrett Jacob Hobbs, how did you feel?” he asks softly. He leans forward slightly, “Did it feel good to kill a man as bad as he?”

Will’s eyes broke away as if burned, “It was just.”

“How perfectly uncomplicated,” Hannibal remarks with a smile.

He stands then, reaching for his coat, and wearing it slowly. When he’s prepared to leave, he turns back to Will. He smiles softly and nods once before leaving the room and the hospital.

It’s a week later—Thursday—that Hannibal sees Will again. He’s waiting behind the door when Hannibal is poised to leave for the day. He appears like an answered desire, materializing just when Hannibal was at the end of his patience. 

He gives him a once over and finds he looks small. Or perhaps his mind is conjuring what he wishes to see. He’s dressed comfortable, a flannel button down, tucked neatly into slacks. Not a wrinkle in sight. Hannibal can recognize the familiar letterhead in his hands. He smiles politely, in anticipation, in greeting, and because he feels truly happy in this moment. 

Will’s eyes are on his collar. “A rubber stamp?” he grumbles, irritated, exasperated, but tired mostly.

Hannibal widens his smile, earnestly delighted at the mans gruffness, “You are totally functional and perfectly uncomplicated, as we agreed.” 

Hannibal wants to crow in victory as he watches Will’s brow furrow. He doesn’t have a moment before the man moves suddenly, walking past Hannibal into his office. 

Hannibal doesn’t move for a moment, basking in the moment, allowing the wicked glee to appear on his face briefly. After a breath, he closes the door and turns around, finding Will standing by his desk.

He’s looking away, head turned towards Hannibal’s impressive bookshelves. Hannibal’s eyes roam his form and find themselves fixed on his rear. They skate up the planes of his back to his shoulders, and then back down. He’s deceptively muscular, it’s barely noticeable as he kits himself in ill-fitting garb. 

Hannibal walks slowly back to his chair, choosing not to open his notebook as he would with any patient. He arranges himself slowly, hands brushing his slacks and drumming his thighs. 

It takes another minute of Will’s hands fidgeting around his desk before he turns his head to Hannibal and sighs. “Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs might have helped her dad.”

Hannibal tilts his head and squints at Will. The man looks frustrated, packed with energy and fidgeting. 

“And you do not believe that.”

Will frowns again, turning his full body to Hannibal. “It’s not what happened.”

Hannibal nods. “But do you believe it possible?”

“It’s crude, the idea that she would participate in that,” Will spits out as he walks to the opposite chair.

“Perhaps so,” he says. His voice is incredibly placid, with no real direction. Will pauses at that and slowly seats himself down. The energy thrumming in him seems to settle. 

Hannibal takes a moment to adjust his legs again, crossing them, and drawing Will’s gaze back to him. “You know, Will, Nietzsche believed that the moralization of our lives was insidious. A corruption of the psyche.”

Will’s lip quirks, wry amusement colouring his face, “He also said men were a disease on Earth.”

Hannibal laughs then, surprised and delighted, “I can’t exactly say I disagree.”

Will chuckles, nodding his agreement, and Hannibal can feel the warmth of happiness bubbling within him. It’s a bright feeling, like the sun cracking open, the light caressing him. Below this, he can still feel an uncertainty. Wings flapped in his stomach, following an unspoken beat. His fingers attempted to match the rhythm, drumming on his thigh, trying to expel the energy buzzing through him. 

This moment is one that he will keep in his mind palace, he stores the memory within a copy of Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil before replacing it on a bookshelf—the first time they discussed moral ethics, certainly something to be cherished. Will had come to him willingly, had sat across from him and discussed his opinions, had opened his mind and heart to Hannibal. It was beautiful.

The amusement wipes off Will’s face suddenly, an odd expression replacing it. “It’s not what happened,” he insists. “ At least not willingly.”

“Are you afraid that she might have enjoyed killing those girls as much as you enjoyed killing Hobbs?”

“I didn’t—,” Will starts, before cutting himself off. His jaw clenches visibly and he shakes his head in disagreement. “She seems nice.”

Hannibal watches the man for a moment, letting the silence extend. Will’s eyes eventually wander back, to his lapel then to his eyes. “You seem nice,” Hannibal says simply.

Will shakes his head again, harder this time, but Hannibal cuts him off. “In any case, Jack will ask her when she wakes, and we’ll find out soon enough. I suppose we can reserve our judgements till then.”