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“Although, I may be, is it safe to assume you’re not sleepwalking now?”

The question makes Will grit his teeth, sullen with the reminder that he should’ve definitely waited longer before throwing on a jacket and pants and dashing out of his house and driving an hour in the breaking dawn to see Hannibal. He should’ve waited for a session but he’s frankly petrified feeling the edges of his sanity slip away slowly. Walking miles asleep in the middle of the road was not a problem one often had.

Hannibal, for his part, is thoroughly understanding and accommodating, even offering him coffee.

Will feels softer around the edges when he calls them friends. He likes being reminded Hannibal isn’t just an ankle monitor by the FBI to keep his sanity in check, they’re so much more than just patient and therapist, there's a depth of understanding.

There’s a totality to the way Hannibal understands him - the way no one else has - that makes Will so porous and pliable to him. With only a trickle of defensiveness occasionally and that spoke volumes alone.

Hannibal speaks of bodily responses, psychological traumas and loss of control as regards his newly developed sleepwalking and Will sips his coffee and tries not to fall apart at the seams, gritting out responses. If he thinks too much about it, it would feel even more debilitating.

Will knows he’s only here at Hannibal’s for a desperately-needed reassurance that he wasn’t losing his mind and another unvoiced reason - comfort.

It’s too difficult to accept that Will has himself so far deep in, that every sense of control and cognizance was slowly leaving him. He doesn’t want to believe that the one good thing he can do - saving lives - to assuage that rot festering endlessly in the core of his being is the cause of his… insanity. There has to be some underlying cause, there needs to be one.

“Sleepwalkers demonstrate a difficulty handling aggression. Are you experiencing difficulty with aggressive feelings?”

When Hannibal asks after a swig of his coffee, Will has to resist the urge to fold in as he thinks long and hard about it. It’s one of those questions that makes Will wonder if Hannibal truly has lodged himself in Will’s brain. If he lives within the confines of his mind, learning Will thoroughly - in a way no one else can do.

A response is forming on the tip of his tongue when a sound cuts him off and he allows his eyes to drift to follow the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. Soft, casual footsteps. Too casual.

A wave of confusion washes over Will, watching a man - around his age or perhaps older - with a lithe but impressive build traipse in barefoot, groggy and shirtless - in just drawstring pajama pants and wearing bedhead like a halo. He doesn’t even seem to notice Will at first, doesn’t even look up.

His state of undress is what bristles Will. Of course, he’s aware Hannibal has other friends and that maybe he might not even regard him with as much dependence as Will does him. But the thought of one being so informal and discourteous with him, comfortable in his kitchen and sleeping over? It was unusual.

Strange seems too little an adjective because he knows Hannibal only keeps a select few close. That’s why it's so alarming when the man simply rounds the counter with ease and familiarity, walks right into Hannibal’s space and leans over his shoulder, eyes falling close as he hums a raspy, “G’morning.” Something eerie turns in Will’s stomach while watching the scene unfold.

Hannibal doesn’t flinch, doesn’t lean further to return any gestures but the fact that he doesn’t react says enough. Like this was normal, like it wasn’t the first time. Will hasn’t even seen Hannibal elicit a touch more intentional than a hand on the shoulder - which was extremely rare even.

A ball of unease curls up in his stomach because then it’s too obvious to pretend Will doesn’t know what this might be. Especially not when Hannibal returns an acknowledging hum and says, “Morning. You’re up awfully early.” Like he was thoroughly aware of the sleeping habits of this strange man. His voice is softer, almost fond. Will feels sick. He’s almost embarrassed with how bothered the scene makes him. He feels like an outsider watching something intimate he isn’t supposed to be privy to.

“Heard noises.” His… companion mutters out, too familiar and at ease. Will thinks he could throw up the coffee he just drank.

It’s almost an awkward instinctive action when Will clears his throat but it does the job, returning Hannibal’s focus to him again. It’s disconcerting to look at him now, with another man leaning on him, almost entirely wrapped around him. Will feels like a ticking bomb in a playground. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt out of place around Hannibal. It throws him off balance.

Thankfully, Hannibal spares him an embarrassing fumble for words and speaks first, tone bordering on apologetic. “Will, my partner, Antony. Antony, Will.” A simple introduction, confirmatory words dished out so calmly and quietly, like they didn’t tilt the edge of Will’s world entirely.

Antony for his part doesn’t do much to regard Will. He only opens his eyes for a few seconds to acknowledge Will’s presence along with a hum and then nothing. Irritation creeps up Will’s spine, itches him to the bone and he has to grit his teeth within his mouth. Then to Hannibal, Antony leans to mutter words into his neck. Will hears them anyway, “Work so early?” with an atrocious accent that Will can conclusively say he hates now.

“Will is a friend.” Hannibal says without wavering his gaze from a folding Will. He scarves down the rest of his coffee, desperate to be swallowed whole, anything to escape this - whatever this was. Then, to Antony, Hannibal adds, “Excuse us.” with an affectionate hand on the shoulder. Something partners did with one another. It should be normal but Will still feels peculiarly sick to his stomach watching it happen.

Antony leaves with a reluctance like he wants to drag Hannibal right into bed with him.

A thought unbidden crosses Will’s mind. Not ‘right’ into bed but ‘back’ into bed… because that was something people in a relationship did. And Hannibal was a person, his own person who could give and receive affection - not just a cascade of warmth and comfort that Will could draw from, not just his anchor, paddle. His skin itches.

When they’re alone again, Hannibal merely sips his coffee and says, “He can be particularly uncouth. Habit. Where were we?” It’s a roundabout apology if he’s heard anyway and he supposes his stomach shouldn’t sink deeper. It does anyway. Will fumbles for words that wouldn’t make this any more awkward than it was already. For him alone, Hannibal doesn’t even seem mildly tense or bristled. Entirely unbothered.

His coffee is dreadfully exhausted and Will can no longer hide behind the cup. Unfortunately for him, his lips seem to move of their accord when he moves to place the mug on the counter. “That’s new.” Will wants to die immediately after, if mortification doesn't kill him, something else will soon.

Hannibal, on his part, only tilts his head to the side like a bird, unearthed in his bathrobe standing in his kitchen and Will thinks he looks so human in this moment. He can't meet Hannibal's eyes, gauging his expression from the corner of his eyes.

There's lingering amusement in his features and he perfunctorily examines his coffee mug before saying, “One could argue private. Keeping my personal life from my professional life is something I prioritize too much, I'm afraid.” He isn't apologizing, he certainly didn't need to. He's not even explaining himself either, just laying out words. They're having just another conversation to him.

Will feels that sunken hollowness carving out low in his stomach and he knows Hannibal is right. It's not a big deal per say but a large part of him is bothered by the fact that Hannibal has an entire part of himself Will has no access to and the other part is just irritated by the fact that someone so casually gets Hannibal's affection, unravelled of his usual stoicism. It seems thoroughly unfair. How much had the so-called Antony even done to earn it?

And worse… another part of Will is concerned at something else entirely. Something more surprising and difficult to take in. Or well, unexpected was a better word.

He breathes through his nose, mentally scolding himself for being so crass, even just in his head. He tries to fiddle with the edges of the marble countertop, not chipped like the one in Will's little house. And really his mouth is really not on his side today because his lips are forming around words before he even makes the decision to voice them. “Keeping affairs then, doctor?”

The sound of Hannibal's mug hitting the counter echoes in the silence of the room after he exhausts his own drink. Then Will chances a glance up to see the scrutinizing expression on Hannibal's face.

He doesn't seem upset even if Will thinks he should be. The words had just spilled out, Will's subconscious eager and craving an explanation to downplay whatever it is Hannibal had with… that guy. The thought of him, the memory of him touching Hannibal so casually like that makes Will tick and itch and buzz.

A hum. And then, “That would be quite reductive.”

It shouldn't be so disappointing to hear that. One's friend should be pleased at things as such. Will is just sleep derived and impractical and feeling ambushed with this news at the moment. Hannibal having a serious partner was inconsequential to their relationship. They had their own thing, whatever it was with his partner was different. Two parallel lines.

It's the other thing that he seemingly can't wrap his head around. Perhaps some more sleep would've helped him, made him refrain from muttering, “I just- It hadn't occurred to me that you veered towards that… playing field.”

Now Hannibal's face does something it hasn't done before. It must be the most expressive Will has ever seen him. And granted, well earned. He's still cringing at his choice of words. He's not in the best frame of mind at the moment but he doubts that would sell as a formidable excuse.

Hannibal takes both their empty mugs to the sink, breaking the tense air between them. He looks disappointed and Will feels sick.

“I'm compelled to trust you don't mean to sound so conversative.” is what he eventually says when he's toweling the glasses and Will is looking at his feet waiting desperately for the concrete to part so he can be swallowed 6 feet deep within. He's saved from parting his lips around difficultly worded apologies when Hannibal proceeds, “My ‘playing field’ is equal, I suppose. Why discriminate? The constraints and limitations to concepts such as gender eludes me. My mind is vast, as are my proclivities.”

Not that he owes Will an explanation because hearing it makes him feel like an even worse piece of shit. Terribly rude. He sighs, “Of course. That was brash, I'm sorry.”

Hannibal is ever so polite and forgiving. “No ill will borne, merely a miswording. Bridge under the water.” Will makes a sound between a scoff and a snort, mostly at himself.

“I suppose I have a lot of bridges to cross then.”

It's a mutter, mostly to himself. He doesn't wait for Hannibal to acknowledge and respond, instead taking the opening to veer the topic to their original conversation before the… interruption. “You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. I'm starting to feel more like an old mug.” Thankfully, Hannibal doesn't call him out, perhaps as uncomfortable as Will currently is.

“You entered a devil's bargain with Jack Crawford. Takes a toll.”

Will thinks about it the entire Angel maker case. It's always nudging at the back of his head waiting to be spurred out with one single thought and spiralling downward in a cascade of whats, how's and why's.

The Angel maker kills almost without breaks of any kind and Will is dreading having to schedule a session with Hannibal after every mutilated body he sees. He doesn't need it, but it's routine at this point. Not just for his mental stability but for the fact that Hannibal was admirably brilliant and his insight on cases along with Will's is exactly what they need to solve cases.

Will needs Hannibal. It's starting to occur to him that Hannibal must not need him as much. Regardless of their affiliation, the power dynamics of therapist and patient still flounder over their heads like a dark cloud.

At night, when he's alone with his thoughts afraid to fall asleep, it's the only thing on the top of his mind. That morning plays over and over again in his head like a scene from a movie, only it torments it. He doesn't know why he's so obsessed with this.

When he sees Hannibal in sessions, he wonders. Had Hannibal been with his… partner before seeing Will? Did they fall asleep together the previous night? Live together or do they merely fall asleep together when it's too late for him to leave. Will doesn't think beyond that. He doesn't know that he can manage it without throwing up.

Hannibal having a partner, Hannibal having a male partner. It changes everything. And it bothers him in a way that's concerning because he doesn't even know why exactly it's bothering him.

Despite his conservative Southern upbringing, Will does not holster that thinking saddle. He isn't homophobic, he is certain of that to some extent at least. But whenever he pictures Hannibal with another man, kissing, touching him, he always ends up retching. Will supposes he shouldn't be thinking about it in the first place. He's being completely weird about it.

The disappointed look on Hannibal's face haunts him. It's not the fact Hannibal is attracted to men, Will tells himself over and over again. It really isn't. Even if it was thoroughly unexpected… and the thought of it makes his stomach twist up in knots.

But it's hard to justify his weeklong obsession over this fact with anything else. Sure, a part of him feels… abandoned. Some corner of his brain is trying to convince him that he would be anyway. Eventually. Hannibal is the only grip to sanity Will has. He and Abigail are the most normal aspects of Will's life and even they are slightly tainted with the grime and the rot.

Factoring someone else into the equation throws Will out of balance. And he knows it's borderline insane to want to be one of the only things that matter to Hannibal, to receive his intellectuality and lowered barricades at the same time or at the very least, just something they would share that he couldn't have with anyone else. It's terribly selfish but then again, Will has little to no experience with healthy friendships.

He doesn't feel like he wants to share, not with the escalated heights he's already placed Hannibal in. Not with the rare way they understand each other, the way he hears his thoughts in the cadence of Hannibal's voice sometimes. Did Hannibal's partner even know him to that extent? Did they have conversations like he did with Will? Where did the lengths of their connection extend to? What was it about it?

And a man, for that matter. Maybe Will would be less ticked off about it if it was a woman and he feels worse for the thought alone but it really was the case. She would feel less like competition.

Maybe then he'd be able to see Hannibal and not think: What was it that Antony had that made Hannibal attracted to him? Another man. He couldn't have been that special. He seemed painfully simple and without depth. Slightly irritating and largely discourteous. And it couldn't be the looks because now that he thinks about it, he doesn't look that much different from Will. They should be about the same age, same height, same weight, similar physical features and proportions.

An unbidden thought crosses his mind. It makes his stomach turn with a wave of nausea. Why not Will? If they weren't so different externally, why not Will?

Hannibal didn't exactly deny it when he asked if it was new. He wonders if they met before or after he met Will. What could it have been that attracted Hannibal to Antony and not Will. The man prides himself on his affiliation with sophistication, gratuitous in everything he does and owns. Even then, that couldn't be it. Hannibal wasn't that vain to base attraction on something so surface level.

But then again, the topic of Hannibal as regards attraction and sexuality had never crossed his kind even once before this. And that's to say a lot because Will finds himself thinking about Hannibal an awful lot. He's a constant. But this, this is new uncharted territory.

It's one thing to acknowledge sexuality and its varieties and disparities but it's another to truly understand the depths of it. Could Hannibal be attracted to him? The thought has his stomach curling up almost painfully. Was he within that radar or miles beneath it? It had to be the latter because why else would it be someone else if Will was right there.

Not that he wanted Hannibal to be attracted to him, he was unabashedly heterosexual. But it still stirs him up that he was never an option. Hannibal means much more to him than he can admit out loud. He's gotten dependent too fast, that must be why he's spiraling. Not because the thought of Hannibal with a man disgusts him. 

Even if it really really does. 

He rolls over to his side on the bed to see Winston curled up asleep on the floor as close to the bed as possible and a fleeting smile crosses his lips. His eyes drift to the clock. 2am. It's not so much his wandering thoughts but the fear of falling asleep and waking up in a lethal situation that keeps him awake.

At least, he knows he wouldn't be called in for any more of Buddish’s murders as his body was found earlier in the day. Will hopes another killer wouldn't spawn within the span of a week at least.

He doesn't have a session with Hannibal until their usually scheduled sessions at the end of the week and he would like it to remain that way for a little longer. The last thing he needs is to step in and wonder if Hannibal opens doors for his Antony too, if his large fingers skim his body meticulously because Will can't be sure he'd manage that without throwing up this time.

Maybe he should invest in a straitjacket. 

Kissing Alana feels desperate and there's something burning up and bubbling over in like a fountain, an unending well crawling deep and deep into a chasm and an abyss. He's trembling when she walks out his door and he doesn't have fate in himself not to try to wade through an entire bottle of whiskey.

He doesn't wait to second guess it when the thought comes to mind, instead grabs his jacket and locks the houses before rushing into his car.

There, he takes a deep breath and considers how pathetic it is that he's this dependent on Hannibal. That Will's first instinct is to go to him the second something goes mildly wrong for him. It's not enough self-deprecation to wallow over the mess of overwhelming emotions he's dealing with at the moment.

Roughly 58 minutes later, he's stepping out of his car and walking to Hannibal's doorstep, buzzing with adrenaline spilling into his nerves. He's on the fucking edge.

He rings the doorbell once and doesn't think before pushing the door open and letting himself in. Hannibal never locked his doors anyway. Hannibal meets him in the corridor while he's taking off his jacket and Will just blirts out, “I kissed Alana Bloom.” without preamble or meeting his eyes.

And because he has a perceptible fear of confrontation, he moves past Hannibal and makes a beeline to the kitchen, only barely hearing Hannibal's surprised, “Well, come in.” He wants an air of familiarity and a glass of wine if they're going to have this conversation. There's a three place setting on the dining and he pauses to observe the half eaten food on one end and the empty plates on the others. He frowns before steadily taking steps into the kitchen.

There's Antony again, pouring himself a glass of possibly the finest white wine. He looks up the second Will enters and his lips quirk up in a smile of recognition. Will bristles with the urge to either bolt or tell him to fuck off. He's hanging off hinges and the last thing he needs is seeing the face that's only lived in his memory for weeks until now.

So they're definitely still seeing each other then. The disappointment is monumental in Will.

Somehow he reins it in but he doesn't suppose his expression is any cooperative. Still, Antony smiles at him, cocking the wine bottle. “Will, is it? Pleasure to meet you awake this time.”

It wouldn't be socially acceptable to bare his teeth at a man he's never had a conversation with but that's the first instinct he has. Somehow he reels it in, fingers only twitching erratically at his sides. He bites down on his lips, reining in the urge to grit out that the pleasure certainly was not returned but that would be rude. And ideally, Will knows Hannibal is not far behind him. It's unfair to treat his partner that way because of the things he's made up in his head.

“Likewise.” Will forces out.

“And always at unconventional hours.” His accent is atrocious and Will's face must do something it hasn't done before. Will wonders where he's from, where Hannibal even met him, what Hannibal sees in him.

Hannibal's hand on his shoulder - just a light warmth, a graze - jolts him and he whips around to look at him. Contradictorily, he feels a sense of calm that allows him to shed the nerves he's been aching with since he kissed Alana.

“Let’s take a nightcap in the study. I have dessert for three.” He says as a form of placation and Will feels like a petulant child.

Antony interrupts - rather rudely too, “I was going to see myself out. My flight has been scheduled for earlier.”

Hannibal hums and suddenly Will no longer has his attention and there's that knot in his chest and sunken feeling in his stomach. Hannibal walks towards Antony and Will wonders if he rips off his skin now, if he'd earn that attention back. “Shame. I was looking forward to enjoying your company.” Will wants to throw up. They should get a room, it feels indecent to watch, nauseating. He's outside looking in.

It's exceptionally worse today when Alana aired it out that Will was too unstable to ever have this. This… connection and intimacy and warmth, he could go lifetimes craving it or not craving it and the outcomes would remain the same.

Hannibal offers to walk Antony out and Will pours himself a glass while he broods on the stool, waiting for Hannibal. He's tilting the glass from side to side watching the amber liquid slouch from one end to the other when he finally hears footsteps re-entering the kitchen.

“Is he going to be here everytime?” There's unintentional spite laced in his voice that he really hopes Hannibal misses when he asks. Hannibal for his part doesn't react, doesn't even stop, walking over to arrange dessert.

And because he can never be straightforward, he completely swerves away from the question. Will supposes he deserves it. He had no right to ask. “I'm afraid I can't assure you privacy outside of office hours.” Will twitches, eyes trained on the liquid in his glass, toes curling in his shoes and he gives into the urge to ask.

“How long have you been seeing him?”

There's a pause then. No movement. And then a stern, “Will.” He looks up to Hannibal holding off arranging two plates. There's a slight furrow in his expression when he plainly states, “You're avoiding the topic.”

That layer of defensiveness creeps up his spine. “I'm curious.” He winces at his own tone.

Hannibal resumes whisking whipped cream and tosses a dollop on two ramekins with overflowing bread pudding. Will thinks he wouldn't be offering any response until he simply replies, “For a while.” It's vague, irritating to Will because he needs to know - if Antony was before or after him even if it really wasn't that important.

He doesn't get to argue because Hannibal takes the opportunity to flip the lead of the conversation. “Tell me, what was Alana's reaction?”

Will sighs, the memory of earlier this night fleeting back to the forefront of his mind. He's been accustomed to the fact that what he felt for Alana wasn't truly real but he'd needed it to be. He needed it and the refusal has left him reeling, falling without a breach.

“She said she wouldn't be good for me and I wouldn't be good for her.”

Food slides across the counter to Will's line of sight. He wants to refuse because he feels sick to the stomach for multiple reasons but he doesn't want to be rude. He reluctantly picks at it with a fork. Hannibal only hums, “I don't disagree.”

Will scoffs almost on instinct. “I bet you don't.” Hannibal tilts his head to the side, looking almost amused at Will's snipe. He's volatile and it's near embarrassing to be regarded like a prickly child. He takes a breath to steady himself and gain some control of his bearings.

“What is it like for you then?” His lips form around words without much second thought. “Do you feel the compulsions to pick apart the mind of your partner, do the lines often blur?”

Hannibal doesn't seem to be bothered by the question as though he expects it even. He slips a forked piece past his lips before responding. “I observe, but I have limitations, I assure you. That wouldn't be the case for you and Alana.”

Will takes the opening. “How did you meet him?”

“At the opera. We went for dinner afterwards and discovered a fair share of like-minded interests. He travels often for work.” Will is taken by surprise by how much Hannibal gives him in one sentence. But then again, he supposes he's trying to get Will to focus on his therapy - if they could call it that - rather than Hannibal himself.

That much is obvious when he continues, “I'm wondering then, why you kissed Alana and felt compelled to drive an hour in the snow to tell me if you don't want me to address it.”

Will considers it, the shrugs. “I don't know. You seem to be able to make sense of everything.”

The response pleases Hannibal. Will earns a full lipped smile and his stomach does that thing. Like he's won.

“Why do you think you kissed her?” He asks, conversationally.

He doesn't waste a second to think, huffing to himself. “I've always wanted to. She's very kissable.”

“Hm, I agree.” Hannibal smiles, amused and Will bristles and raises a brow.

He knows Hannibal is attracted to women as well. He said that much but it's not exactly a breath of fresh air to know he could potentially be attracted to their mutual friend - and still not him, a voice in his head echoes. More words in the air bring him out of his head. “But that would suggest you waited a long time, implying there's another reason you kissed her in addition to wanting to.”

Will tells him about the animal trapped in his chimney, trying to free it, the look on Alana's face, the spontaneous way he just wanted to not see the pity and remorse in her eyes. Hannibal listens with a keenness, there's not a trace of pity or sympathy even when Will breathes out, “I feel unstable.” He doesn't add that the only time he doesn't feel that way is with Hannibal. Hannibal, who treats him like he's normal regardless of everything he learns about Will. It's why Will needs him this much.

“A clutch for balance then, that's why you kissed her.”

Will takes a ragged breath, gripping the counter, still bated with how easy it is for him to be open before Hannibal. He can only mutter, “Because I'm slowly losing mine.”

They circle back to Will's job being the cause but unfortunately Will is good for it. Thankfully, they drift back to the case at hand. After a beat, Hannibal offers him vital information - a suspect - for the symphony murder. Will sighs in relief, making plans to inform Jack to arrange an interview.

After dessert, Will offers to clean up with Hannibal and they work with a companionable silence. When he's toweling the glasses, his mind drifts back to the lips that wrapped around one. He wonders how Hannibal kisses Antony. He can't be that much of a good kisser if Hannibal doesn't want to talk about him like a partner should. Or how Will supposes a partner should.

Hannibal offers to walk him out after Will declines staying over in the guest room. He's sober enough and he doesn't want the evidence of an untouched well made guest room to prove that Antony cozied up in Hannibal's bed at nights when he slept over.

Will shrugging his raincoat off the coat hanger when Hannibal speaks. “Will.” He looks up on instinct to the thin smile on Hannibal's face. It's all he has the right to after all. Not when there's someone else in the picture. “Perhaps you can satisfy your curiosities over dinner.” He offers and Will blinks up at him almost imperceptibly.

He doesn't miss the underlying request regardless. Dinner with Antony, both of them, Will almost gurgles at the thought of sitting opposite someone so outwardly pretentious. But then again Hannibal was pretentious but it's admirable, not exasperating. Will has said precisely two words to him but he's not quite sure he can stand an entire dinner with him - even with Hannibal as a buffer.

But then again, Will is thoroughly curious. About the both of them, their relationship. How some strange man can travel across the Atlantic and just sweep Hannibal off his feet. He's always so steady, a wedge for Will to lodge himself in, not for anyone else.

“That's not a bad idea.” Will settles on after a minute of contemplating. Hannibal hums with an expression of approval and Will finds himself cataloguing the lines on Hannibal's face more than usual. Shaking himself out of it, they exchange goodnights and he heads over to his care. 

Dinner is thankfully postponed long enough with Hannibal almost becoming a victim to a serial killer. Will was desperate while Jack had been driving to his office and he quickened his steps a little more as they entered just for the confirmation that Hannibal was alive.

He looked so human and soft, blooming with bruises and blood trickling the side of his face that Will grabbed some gauze to dab away. His fingers twitched with the urge to slide under Hannibal's jaw and tilt his face up. He didn't need to, Hannibal didn't take his eyes off Will when they spoke in silent whispers.

That was… intimate on some level. As much intimacy that could exist in a healthy friendship because it truly wasn't enough. Somehow, Will doesn't know how but he thinks of Antony in Hannibal's life and all he can fathom is that he would always be below him to Hannibal. He hates it.

Will considers calling to cancel when the scheduled dinner finally arrives. Apparently the elusive boyfriend is back from his work trip. He tries to swallow all his disdain for this man he knows next to nothing about when he's standing before Hannibal's door. Perhaps if he started with a clean slate, he could have a better impression of him.

After all that must be what Hannibal wants, to reconcile his friend and partner on good terms. Will wonders if any other one of his friends or acquaintances know about his elusive partner. Do they lose their minds about it like Will currently has been?

He meets Antony in the dining room after Hannibal answers the door and leads him in. “Hello.”

Antony smiles and Will doesn't know why his first thought is stuffing one of the cutleries lying idly on the table in the side of his neck. He shakes himself out of it and forces a smile back. He takes his seat as Antony returns his greeting. They're sitting directly opposite one another, the head of the table vacant for Hannibal who currently makes his way to the kitchen to serve them.

It's hard to not feel competitive.

“So, Will, Graham, right? I've read about you in the papers. Impressive work, you do.”

Will huffs, tapping his fingers on the table near the place mat. He doesn't meet his eyes, he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to know what he's thinking. “That's a superstition.”

“Not one for compliments then.”

“I can't always be the centre of speculations and topics. I appreciate reciprocity. What do you do?”

“I’ve been many things, a conservator and a registrar. Recently upstaging a displaced curator.” Will thumbs the hilt of the butter knife on the place mat, listening to the haught in his grating accented voice.

If Hannibal doesn't arrive with their first course soon, Will doesn't know that he wouldn't do something he would grow to regret. There would be no clean slate and Will doubts this dinner wouldn't be hellish if he was already fed up with Antony now.

“Impressive.” Will parrots back tightly.

Antony hums, whether or not he can gauge Will's honestly, vague to him. Then he adds, “He talks about you often. More often than anyone else.” Will doesn't know how to respond to that.

Thankfully they are saved from the awkward tension by Hannibal rolling in three plates. He doesn't seem to find anything off, smiling, thoroughly pleased and amused for some reason. He announces the name of the dish as their plates align with their line of sights.

Hannibal mitigates the conversation from then on but Antony carries the brunt of the conversation. He's a conversationalist or better put, a talkative and everything he says ticks Will off and he knows his expression can only hide so much.

He speaks about Greek gods and Dante and early aged art and Will feels worse at the evidence that yes, he did seem to share an obnoxious amount of interests with Hannibal. No matter how educated Will is, he doesn't quite share the passion and that seems to unnerve him even more. That thread of connection he shares with Hannibal feels shaky and loose with his presence. He doesn't understand what Hannibal even sees in him.

By the third course, Will doesn't bother with responses unless a question is personally directed at him. The salad is positively tasteless with the bile on the top of his tongue. He might actually throw up.

And because Will has never quite had good luck, his head starts aching, threadbare auditory illusions gnawing at him. Even his mind isn't even safe to retract into.

The sound of his chair scraping the floor interrupts Antony's muted rant. He feels eyes heavy on him questioningly but all he can manage is, “I need aspirin.”

Wordlessly Hannibal stands to offer Will his hand. Will hesitates and looks up at the practiced concern etched in Hannibal's expression before accepting his hand and allowing himself to be pulled up. Will can't help but feel an air of superiority at coveting all of Hannibal's attention as he's led away to his medicine cabinet in the kitchen.

He offers Will water after making him sit. His fingers graze over the skin of Will's forehead, pushing aside his bangs after handing him some tablets. “How frequent have the headaches been?”

“More frequent than usual.” Will rasps out.

Hannibal hums, clinical in his assessment. “You might be developing a fever.” Will scoffs in response. He's pretty sure the headache was a side effect of Antony's grating voice today. There's no way to simply voice that without being outright disrespectful.

He swallows. “That seems like an overstatement.”

Hannibal looks at him, amused, quirking up the edges of his lips - lips that Antony has probably kissed despite how undeserving and lacking of depth he was. Sad to see. Hannibal deserves so much better and Will doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He doesn't know why the thought of them together makes him want to retch.

“I like to think myself proficient in my field. I can't in good faith allow you to drive home in this condition. Perhaps you can use the guest room.” There's that offer again that makes Will stiffen. Perhaps if it were any other day, he would've been inclined to accept but Will isn't sure he can sleep knowing the both of them are in room together steps away doing things Will can't imagine.

It's hard for him to even find sleep at the thought far away in Wolf Trap.

Because Will is particularly volatile at the moment, frailing with a possible sickness and the disaster of this night, there's no way to sweeten his words. He scoffs. “I wouldn't like to intrude in you and your partner's… whatever it is you do.”

Hannibal gives him a look and Will grips the glass harder, eyes drifting to the counter so he doesn't have to look up at Hannibal.

After a moment’s pause, he says, “You tend to be sharper on the tongue when vulnerable.”

Will is not so responsive or appreciative about his prying at the moment. It prickles him and makes him sharper around the edges. “Don't psychoanalyze me, doctor. I'm not feeling very friendly today.” And before he loses the opening, he adds while gesturing to the dining room, “And besides, I think you tolerate a fair amount more frequently, I'm sure you can stand me for one dinner.”

Hannibal doesn't miss the underlying message if his silence is anything to go by.

He prods, “Words are as much an expression as they are a hideaway, thoroughly void of honesty. Hiding behind flimsy truths is beneath you, Will.”

Say what is on your mind truly, Hannibal basically says and it makes Will huff out a chuckle. Hannibal would be thoroughly taken aback if he knew even half of the thoughts crowding Will's head at the moment, none of them relatively sane. But then again, Hannibal must know there's nothing normal about him.

For lack of a better wording, he burrows his gaze on the marble and mutters, “Just what do you see in him?”

The question doesn't even seem to surprise Hannibal, like he knew Will would eventually cave and ask. Because clearly there was no way he couldn't tell how much Will disliked his boyfriend. He's pretty sure Antony is well aware as well.

And because Hannibal must make everything difficult, he turns the question back on Will. “Is that the source of your acridity at the table then?”

Acridity is such a strong word, he wants to defend himself. But it's easier to point out instead, “He's uncouth, it's distasteful.”

“So are you.”

Will blinks surreptitiously and then drifts his gaze back to the look of barely laced amusement in Hannibal's expression as he stares down at Will where he sits.

The frown on Will's brow creases deeper and he snipes, “I suppose you have a type then.”

Not giving Hannibal the opportunity to respond to that - whether to retract or to accept it - Will quickly adds with the right amount of confusion he feels infused in his tone. “But surely there must be something else deep within the treasure trove of malefits he's infested with that you find so alluring.” Will knows he's being outright rude and petty but he truly can not fathom how Hannibal lives two seconds in that man's presence.

“He’s quite easy on the eye.” Hannibal answers. 

Will scoffs, feeling more irritated than he has concerning Hannibal's attraction in the past weeks. “Never thought you to be so vain, doctor.”

Hannibal tilts his head to the side, the edges of his lips twitching. Then without any actual disappointment, states, “So you disapprove of him.”

“It's not as though you need my approval. You might find it caustic but I'm sure you would appreciate the honesty when I say he's insufferable, superlicious, rude.”

Will could list on and on but he's forced to stop and look away when he hears his voice pitching higher. He's getting worked up over this like it's any of his concern but hell, he's so infuriated.

And again, Hannibal dives that angle that makes his stomach turn. He's calm and collected as he points out, “You can be too. I find that certain traits can be endearing with perception.”

Without any real cognizance, Will blurts out, “Then why him and not me?” His eyes widen a fraction after that because he's not sure he's even allowed this thought to slip through the cracks of his mind, more or less stumble out of his lips as a reflex. Will feels deathily mortified.

Unfortunately for him, the floors couldn't cave open and inhabit him so he does the next best thing. He curses under his breath. “That was out of line. I need to go.” He rushes out and bolts without looking back, any arguments Hannibal offers lost to the distance between them.

Will only breathes when he's back in the safety of his car. He leans back on the headrest, catching his breaths, circulation returning to normal. He knew dinner would be an awful idea. 

Will avoids Hannibal for weeks, skips sessions and the man doesn't try to reach out in any other way, which both makes him feel better and worse.

It's not until he's looking at the totem pole of bodies in Grafton that Will knows not talking about this could psychologically wreck him and fling him over the edge. He would have to persevere and find a way to face Hannibal with no acknowledgement of that night whatsoever. Coming out of the killer's mind takes too much from him and he's taking shaky breaths for reasons other than the cold.

He's staring up at the body, feeling the phantom touch of blood dripping on his face and his eyelids fall shut in a slow blink.

When Will opens his eyes again, he's no longer in an open snow filled beach. He looks around, a stave of panic flooding him instantly because he recognizes the wall piece he's staring at. He knows the colors of these walls. No, no, no, he can't be.

It's a hallucination, Will is so certain as he blinks around, scared to reach out and touch. And then the door.

Will whips around at the surprised sound of his name.

“This is a surprise. I haven't been expecting you in a while.” Hannibal says simply because surely he is real and Will is here in Hannibal's office for some reason. A trembling breath escapes him even as the door is opened widely and he walks in with unsure steps still hoping he might be dreaming.

Hannibal must attribute his panicked expression to their last departure because he doesn't ask and Will feels obligated to finally voice it out. “I don't know how I got here.”

“Your car is outside so we know you drove. Safely, it would seem.”

Now, Will is pacing back and forth when he realizes he's not in fact hallucinating and he just drove almost 4 hours from a crime scene straight to Hannibal's office, somewhere he hasn't been in weeks and for some reason he has no memory of it. Will assures him that he wasn't asleep, he was on a Grafton beach and he blinked to find himself in the waiting room.

Hannibal doesn't seem to be perturbed, perhaps to keep Will's sanity in check. “Grafton is three and half hours from here. You lost time, your subconscious was seeking out safety after whatever gruesome display you were met with there.”

And it is true, that unnerves him the most, makes him panic. It would be less terrifying if he ended up in his own house. But he's found a relief, a shred of stability only within these walls.

When Hannibal suggests he's abused, Will gets defensive. He doesn't want to be regarded as a victim. He's well aware of his choices, he chose to do this, to be here. Even if his brain seems to be shielding the memory of that. Will's voice is shaky when he asks, “What? you… you want me to quit?”

That is, of course, always Hannibal's angle and Will knows he's right. He knows it so well but he can't do it. He needs this, he can't live with himself otherwise. It's one of the only things giving him a sense of purpose, a good purpose not the corrupting thing lodged in him.

He has to take a seat on the chaise and bury his face in his hands when Hannibal blatantly points out how his life is separating from reality.

Will suggests a brain scan. Hannibal is concerned that Will is escaping again and all he can do is fold in on himself. Hannibal is worried about him, god, he can relate to that. He doesn't know that he deserves all that concern. He's been nothing but a mess.

“You empathize so completely with the killers Jack Crawford has your mind wrapped around that you lose yourself to them. What if you lose time and hurt yourself or someone else? I don’t want you to wake up and see a totem of your own making.”

Will has nothing to say to that so he curls back into the safety of his arms. 

He's almost grateful for the circumstances for which they started talking again if it weren't so fucked up. But then again, things fairly go back to normal. Hannibal doesn't push and prod for answers as regards that night from Will like he expects him to and he's more relieved than words could truly express.

Their sessions return to normal, they visit Abigail, they learn about Freddie's book. Hannibal's hand lingers on his shoulder outside the psychiatric hospital to remind him that it would be okay. They would have a talk about boundaries with Freddie Lounds herself and Will feels grateful, warmer.

And then, he learns about what Abigail has done only a few nights later and Hannibal once again holds him from retreating into himself. Will might want to do the right thing and tell Jack but he can't give up the only two things that make sense to him. It coils an ugly sensation in his gut to hold the secret but a part of his brain nudges at him that it's predominantly the fear that Hannibal and Abigail are not as untainted as he needs them to be.

There's so much happening that Will forgets that night to some extent. He's finally shoved the thought of Antony so far behind the back of his skull that only lingering thoughts penetrate to the surface on occasion. The most persistent one being, if Hannibal was currently still seeing him. Will hopes not, the thought of it alone is relieving for reasons he can't even place.

Now when he looks at Hannibal, his predominant thought is if Hannibal could take a life without being under duress. Will supposes the answer is the affirmative. He wonders if Hannibal even knows what he's capable of. He wonders if Hannibal ever revealed an inch of his honest self to Antony. These days, Will's mind is suffocating with thoughts.

Unfortunately for him, not just that. He loses time more, he's waking up trembling and sweaty and burning up, the hallucinations are more vivid and sometimes he's convinced he's dying. He has to be.

When Will blinks and wakes up on his knees in a pool of blood spreading and pooling and pooling, with his fingers deep into the jagged slashed lacerations of a woman's face, Will thinks this is it. He's finally done it, killed someone in a trance, he's lost time and hurt someone and he's shaking with panic and horror, scuffling away from her body.

He shakes and slips and trembles with What have I done? What have I done? until he swings the door opening and meets surprised looks in the hallway.

There's tinges of relief lacing with the barely wading panic when he realizes he must be at a crime scene. He must've been in the middle of a reconstruction when he woke up. The concern pouring from everyone in the room is overwhelming and he's still shaken. Even when Jack corners him, he still hasn't recovered enough to sound sane.

Hours later, when he's in Hannibal's office, he's reliving it again and it's too much. This can't be Will's natural state. He knows he's not quite sane but not this insane. He voices that much to Hannibal and he gets a skeptical look in return.

“You'll be disappointed if it isn't physiological and it turns out what you're struggling with is mental illness.”

Will is too shaken by the response to push further. He's petrified of the idea that he might really be losing his mind. That perhaps doing this really has driven him to the brink. What would be left of him if there's no pieces of his mind to mend together even?

The next night Will finds himself in Delaware, standing above the large stain of Beth LeBeau’s blood, flashlight tight in his grip.

“It's 10.36pm. I'm in Greenwood, Delaware. My name is Will Graham.”

There's a hallucination beneath the bed, he thinks at first, a piercing pair of jaundiced eyes. But it turns out she might be real and after he grabs dead skin off her forearm like a glove, he wakes up missing several hours again. It's 1.17am when he checks the time.

Will has the clarity to contemplate one sane thing. He calls Beverly.

He recounts the event when she shows up, reassuring himself more and more that it was real even if it still felt like the threadbare edges of a vivid dream. No circulation and dead skin tissue coincides with the evidence on Beth's body. It had to be real then.

Beverly asks him what he did with the glove arm and he's stunned into silence. She knows not to prod, only offering a, “You don't remember?”

For a brief moment, he imagines telling her everything. The hallucinations, lost time, that he's fraying out of his hinges, falling apart and going crazy.

They have this mutual thing. He's less stiff and unsettling, slightly more conversational and open with her and she treats him like he's normal. Which is the bare minimum both ways but it's not quite his experience with other people. Beverly is his friend, he can say that. But Alana is also his friend and he knows it's not on purpose but she looks at him like he'll break and she doesn't even know everything wrong with him yet. Will can't lose his autonomy with Beverly too. He doesn't want her to think he can't handle it.

He remembers vividly the genuineness in her voice when she told him weeks ago that she'd tell him if something was wrong and asked him to return the favor. Will just doesn't know how to keep up that end.

She seems to accept his silence and suggests a staphylococcal infection in reference to the killer. Will appreciates it but he knows deep down it's the wrong choice to wall her out. When Will suggests that the killer came here to convince herself that she didn't kill her friend, Beverly tentatively asks, “Is that why you came back too?”

He sucks in a breath. “Just to be clear on the issue, I know I didn't kill Beth LeBeau.” Beverly crosses her arms in the periphery of his adjusted sight. She seems to contemplate her response for a moment before seemingly deciding to go all in.

“But you thought you did, for a second there, I saw the panic. You don't have to agree but you don't have to disagree either.” Will bristles at being called out, bordering on the defensive. He's not crazy, he wants to say but Will isn't even certain of that.

Beverly continues, regardless of his silence. “You know, you're the subject of a lot of speculation at the bureau.”

That wasn't news, Will is well aware. He huffs almost self-deprecating at himself and turns to face her. “What are they speculating?”

“That Jack pushed you right up to the edge and now you’re pushing yourself over.”

Words taste bitter on the tip of his tongue as he muses over a response that would convince her to drop it. He wasn't a fragile piece of glass that would break, he was doing this because he wanted to. She does something with her face like realization hits her and she intercepts him before he can respond. “And hold on, I know what you're going to say. You feel sane, as okay as the rest of us are, sure. But you should know it's okay not to be.”

Will clicks his tongue and turns the flashlight towards the wall, peering daggers into it. He feels laid out for examination like one of the bodies being poked and prodded.

“Some might argue.” is all he says back.

Beverly hums. “Then there is something then.” Silence douses the room for a good minute. Will knows she's coming from a healthy place of concern and she doesn't deserve his brittleness so he worries his lower lip with his teeth and contemplates how best to assure her that he is in fact sane and okay.

“If you can't say yes, don't. Just don't deflect.” And that's it. She gestures towards the door. “Let's report this, yeah?”

They have an over 3 hour drive back to Quantico and it's almost 5am already. He's exhausted, emotionally and physically. His first thought is how relieving it would be to talk to Hannibal. He wishes he could just turn up at his house but the thought of running into said person is enough to dampen that thought till it's soggy and disposed of. If swivels back into that rabbit hole, he'll never resurface.

Halfway into the ride after a companionable silence where he's almost sure Beverly has fallen asleep, she turns to him in the driver's seat. “Wanna switch?”

Will can't trust himself to sleep in such a confined space so he shakes his head. She nods. “Okay. Want to talk then?”

“I don't know what to say.”

Beverly sits up, “Could start by telling me how you are, how you're feeling? I personally feel like shit, I haven't had good sleep in days.” Will huffs out a chuckle, feeling more relaxed than hackled and nods, “Yeah, I could identify with that.”

“Tell me more?”

He really wants to. Will really really wants to. He just doesn't know that he would be able to handle the aftermath. He doesn't know that it wouldn't make things worse in his head.

“Don't go silent on me.” She implores and Will's lips part around silent words before closing again in defeat. She seems to understand to some extent that it's not reluctance as much as it's truly just a difficult task.

“I know something's wrong, more than usual. I won't force you to tell me anything. But I want you to, it might help. Hell, it might not but it certainly will feel better than carrying it alone.”

Will thinks of Hannibal and says, “I'm not alone.”

She considers him for a while then he sees her nod from the corner of his eyes. “But you're lonely, or at least you feel lonely. You don't have to be.” He truly admires her resilience, it at least makes him feel more human. To know he wasn't entirely broken in the way that he was something other than human now.

Will sighs. “You'll look at me differently. I would resent you for it.”

“I've always looked at you differently and that's because you are. But not necessarily in the negative sense.” She answers with that familiar tinge of fondness.

“Well, this is quite negative. Pathological.”

A scoff. “Unless you're actually murdering people that I don't know of, I'm sure I can handle one pathological condition in the midst of the hundreds we deal with. Literally.”

Will huffs out a chuckle, unbidden this time and taps his foot on the footrug, focusing on the road ahead. He appreciates that she doesn't treat him like fragile glassware. It's one of the things he likes about being around her.

For a good moment, there's only the silence of the night and the car engine and the wheels on the road before he finally mutters, “I think there's something wrong with me.”

“No shit.”

Contradictorily, her bluntness gives him the push he needs to find the words to say even if it takes another good moment. His mouth closes and opens a few times before he finally voices the words he despises to admit to himself. “I’m experiencing hallucinations, I'm losing time, sleepwalking. My headaches are worse and consistent. I feel like I'm going… crazy.”

Beverly on her part doesn't do more than take the information with a hum. Clinical, like she would a case. No sympathy, pity, no apologies. And Will suddenly doesn't know why he was ever worried.

He blinks back surprise as she offers her suggestions. “Well, visual and auditory misfirings and lost time are usually neurological. I can help you book an appointment with a neurologist. Discreetly, if that's what you want.” A flare of appreciation buzzes under his skin but it's dampened with the reminder that he might really just be losing his sanity, and there was no underlying pathology. He can't voice that out.

“Dr. Lecter suggested it might not be physiological.” He says instead.

Beverly considers this. “Hmm… not to argue with the experienced doctor but lost time is almost always associated with a neurological problem. There could be seizures if it gets worse, it's worth a shot. Just a brain scan to cross it out.”

“I don't want to be disappointed when it's not.”

“Then I'll come with you. We'll be disappointed together.” She says without missing a single beat. Will gives her a fleeting smile. 

Will lays out his symptoms he's noticed for the past few months to the woman sitting opposite him and she nods, occasionally tapping her fingers on the table.

Dr. Sonal has been thoroughly accommodating since he walked in with Beverly only minutes before and that's relieving enough to make this feel less daunting. Georgia Madchen was hospitalized a few days ago after following Will to his home and hiding under his bed, thankfully just in time for the appointment Beverly secured him.

“I don't want to alarm you. I can't be sure but I think it might be an infection, an enteroviral infection maybe. It's more common to experience neurological symptoms like these if your body is producing antibodies against the self antigens in your brain. But then again we could be looking at a tumor, or chronic necrosis. Other than that, we'll need an MRI to be truly certain. If you'll excuse me, I'll get a request form.” Sonal says as she rises from her chair and leaves them both in the office.

Beverly whistles when she steps out. Will's first thought is that she's making pity sounds but when he turns to her, the look on her face says it's not that at all. A flutter of a fond smile ghosts his lips.

“Is it bad that I find your doctor insanely attractive?”

Will can't argue but he wasn't particularly looking. His attraction isn't entirely perceptive on looks, quite the contrary. He leans back on the chair. “She's quite easy on the eye.”

It's funny in his head to quote Hannibal's words about Antony but then again, it brings the thought of them to the forefront of his mind again. Will feels like he might be developing a fever just remembering them within a proximity of each other.

Beverly's faux dramatic voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Easy on the eye? Did the infection affect your eyes too?”

“Might be a tumor.” Will muses, relieved that she's somehow managed to take his mind off this entire tumultuous situation. It says enough that they can joke about without her folding with pity and remorse, he's never been more grateful he decided to tell her.

“If it gets me to see your doctor often, I'm not complaining. You think I could get her number?” Will has a spontaneous realization that he didn't get the first time when she says that. He must do something with his face because Beverly raises a brow and clicks her tongue. “Oh wait, I know that look. You didn't know?”

“That you're attracted to women? Not until this very moment.”

“Strictly, yes. It's not a secret but I'm not yelling it out at the bureau either. I mean how exactly would sexuality come up when we're talking about dead bodies. Thought you could tell either way.”

Will notes distinctly how the knowledge of that doesn't as much as muster up a reaction in him. He's neither surprised nor disappointed like she told him about the weather. Will supposes this was how it should be. He's not sure why he was having - is still having - his world tilt at the rim because Hannibal had a partner who was a man.

To sate his curiosity, he simply asks, “How did you figure it out?”

Beverly makes a snort that lengthens into a small chuckle. “Yeah, I don't think it was particularly hard for fifteen year me to tell that boys looked like shapes to me, plain and uninteresting and women were divine angels.” She raises a brow and leans towards him with interest to tease. “Why'd you ask? Curious about yourself?”

Will sputters - that would be the only way to describe. “No, no, no, no, no, not that.” That's definitely a thought…one he hasn't let himself consider. The possibility of it seemed vague. He's never looked at a man like that. But then again, hardly has he looked at a woman longer than necessary. Attraction is complex to him.

She narrows her eyes with suspicion. “An awful lot of defensiveness there, Graham.”

“No, not that way.” Will isn't attracted to men, surely he would've known in the almost four decades he's spent alive. He shakes his head and she only gives him an expectant look to give more clarity.

Will sucks in a breath, contemplating how much he can share. He wants to, he's been tormented by this for too long and he has a willing ear to let it out to some extent. “I'm just- curious. A… friend of mine recently got a partner and it's been an… uncomfortable adjustment.” He cringes at the wording almost instantly.

That earns him a really confused look from Beverly. She leans back. “You're not homophobic, are you?”

Will instantly breathes out another plethora of no’s. Because no, that was not it at all, not even close. He's been weird about Hannibal being with a man but he doesn't think it's the fact in itself that bothered him so much. “It's-” He cuts himself off, wishing the doctor would return and free him from ever having to voice this out. Unfortunately not.

“No matter how I word this, it would sound bad.”

Her interest is piqued again. “It's already pretty bad. Couldn't be any worse.”

Will chuckles mostly to himself and running his fingers over his face into his bangs, he considers for a moment. He's started the domino, he might as well see it through to the end. He tries to cherry pick the words but somehow colossally fails. “The thought of them together… irritates me.”

Beverly makes a sound from her throat. “Okay, that's officially worse.”

He quickly rushes in to rephrase. “No, not in that way. It's, uh, complicated. This friend and I were - are - close and this new person feels like… an intruder, if that makes any sense. He doesn't deserve him, he's too different from what worked between the two of us. And he's not exactly the nicest person. He's quite exasperating even, I can't fathom what he would see in him.”

Conclusively, that's the theory his brain has decided on because he doesn't have a problem with sexuality, he's barely ever had religious beliefs. This was the plausible explanation. Hannibal deserved a better person. That's why seeing them together makes him sick to the stomach.

Beverly for her part, looks like she's on the verge of bursting a vein trying to contain her laughter. Will wants to ask what's so funny but she's already spiralling into a fit of chuckles. She mutters something like ‘this is so good’ in between and Will doesn't particularly feel like he's being laughed at but he's also not privy to what exactly was so hilarious.

He doesn't need to ask, Beverly leans on the arm of her chair, fully facing him with glee in her expression.

“Will Graham has a crush. That's worth the news.” She finally breathes out and Will only blinks in confusion, missing exactly where she got that notion from in his response. His expression must have asked the, “What?”

And then in a single swoop, she rips the rug beneath his foot with her words and Will feels like he's falling into an endless depth, thrashing for some anchor.

“Uh huh. So… what you're saying is, Dr. Lecter got a boyfriend and now you're jealous and realizing things about yourself you're too scared to admit.”

Will holds his breath and tries not to react but he must do something with his face that takes away his opportunity to deny that. Not just her assumption, which was… entirely wrong, but the ease with which she figured out his vagaries. He supposes he should've expected it from a detective of her standard.

Beverly laughs, thoroughly pleased with herself. “Honestly, I just guessed because he's your only close friend, I'm aware of but your face right now is gold.” Before he can make any arguments, the door is swinging open and Dr. Sonal is traipsing in her elegant suit with a file in her hand.

“Okay, the MRI is ready for you. Lucky for you, the department is quite a scant today. Let's open a file for you.”

Beverly winks at him and gestured to the documents laid out in front of him to fill, ever so casually like she didn't just tilt his world view. 

Will sits up on the platform after the scan catching his breath from the vivid hallucinations. He doesn't get two more minutes because Dr. Sonal is stepping in with her protective clothing and spontaneously saying, “We're going to have to admit you.”

He doesn't know whether he feels relieved or panicked - at the fact there is a neurological problem but he doesn't know just how severe or lethal it might be yet.

Beverly gives him a supportive thumbs up on the other end of the glass. The doctor leads him out of the room to get him hospitalized apparently and she briefs him on what he's been dying to know.

“Anti NMDA receptor autoimmune encephalitis. It's quite rare but we often have cases where enteroviruses can penetrate the blood brain barrier in an vulnerable immune system, it's just rare to release an anti NMDA antigen before the infection manifests in some other way. The inflammation is a response to the infection, it's supposed to clear it out but the brain is tender and it's only become more severe. I suppose the tamest way I can say this is; your brain is currently on fire.”

Will takes it in as someone who was expecting worse, inflammation can be reversed despite severity and that's enough to placate him. She takes her cue to continue when he nods, unphased by his nonreaction.

“I'm surprised you aren't delirious with fever. Your interleukin release should be off the charts.”

“Aspirin. It's an NSAID, it would do the trick.”

She nods, impressed. “Not enough to put off the entire flame unfortunately. We'll dose you up with an antagonist just to avoid complications when you put you on steroids and immunotherapy. We'll run some more tests, check for tumor markers, granulomas, your CSF. I'm giving you a non detailed rundown because there's a probability we might induce a coma.”

Will doesn't get to react to that because she leaves him to the dressing room and then he's redressed and settled in a ward in minutes.

They infuse something in him that must knock him out at some point because he blinks and the ceiling is suddenly blurry and the sounds are vague but far away. He's in a groggy dream state and the next time he blinks and his vision is slightly clearer, there's a nurse connecting him to IV fluids.

A beat. A blink and then his eyes are drifting over the entire room before they find Beverly on the chair next to his bed. She perks up when she realizes he's awake and pulls the chair closer.

“You feeling okay?” Her voice seems far away and he squeezes his eyes shut to gain his bearings before reopening and meeting the concern on her face.

His throat is raspy and dry from disuse when he speaks, “Was I asleep?”

Her voice is much closer and she's standing by him now. “Not particularly, your eyes have been open but you seemed somewhere far away. Your hot doctor said the fever’s hitting hard so you might be out of it for a long while.”

Will nods as much as he can move. He feels paralyzed with pain and he's never felt so out of his body before. He mutters, “How long-”

Beverly cuts him off before he can continue. “Don't waste all your energy talking, you're gonna be on fluids for a long time.” Will sighs and blinks up at the ceiling. He hasn't quite processed anything and his brain is working light years slower than normal.

“I'm just happy you're cognizant now. It's only been a few hours. I think Jack must be losing his mind by now. I'm sure you don't want me to tell him but I can only buy you time, not convince him his best profiler is on vacation for a month, sorry.”

Will wants to chuckle but his throat is too dry and it comes out as a voiceless huff. She must get the sentiment because her smile widens. She waits a beat then adds, “I have to tell Dr. Lecter though.”

There's a teasing edge to her voice and Will can barely form more than a sound from his throat. He remembers fragments of their conversation from earlier even if it feels like he's sinking under again.

“Don't look at me like that, we're going to continue that conversation later. Just prepping you because he might show up.”

Will sighs in relief almost instinctively and when he blinks, Beverly is gone. He can't tell if he's losing time or dissociating or if it was just the fever.

He stares up at the ceiling for two whole minutes before the door is pushing open slowly. His vision blurs out and his eyelids struggle to stay open to see his visitor. They don't say anything so he can't make out their voice either but he hears distant sounds of clicking open and shut. His eyes drift to the side of his bed and he's sure the figure he sees crouched over placing flasks on the side table is Hannibal.

Will wants to call out to him but his lips don't really cooperate so he's almost - more - delirious with the relief he feels when Hannibal turns to face him finally. Will can't make out the expression on his face but he's so aware of how faraway he is.

“Close.” Is the best he can manage in a garbled dry sound. It does the trick because Hannibal instantly walks closer to slightly lean over him. “Will, can you hear me? Do you need something?”

Will's hand moves at his command much easier than he expects so he moves his hand to graze over Hannibal's. He must understand the gesture because he takes Will's hand in a firm hold, avoiding the clipping.

It's the first time they're truly holding hands like this, his fever-addled brain registers first. He's trembling and burning hot but the touch almost centers him. He must smile dopily, he thinks he does. He would be warmer if he wasn't already burning. Hannibal's hands are cold as snow, they fit so right with his.

Will sucks in a breath, blinking to steady his vision so he can really look at Hannibal's face. He's not close enough. Perhaps it's only been a few hours but he misses looking at him. He tugs weakly at Hannibal's hand.

A thin smile forms on his lips and he complies, leaning a little more over Will's face. His other hand reaches up to rest on Will's forehead, pushing aside his bangs and feeling over the skin of his face. Will shivers at the touch.

“Do you feel within your body?” He asks quietly, probably to ensure that Will was cognizant enough to speak to him. He nods or manages to, with as much movement he can make.

“That's good, the doctor has assured me that your fine motor skills are fully functional. You should make a full recovery.” Hannibal assures him in that clinical voice of his. Will doesn't do much to argue, only allows his heavy lids fall shut, relaxed at the familiar presence of Hannibal grounding him.

He waits a beat before speaking again. “I feel a huge responsibility towards your condition. I regret that I couldn't detect it sooner, you could've been lost to us.” The words are disjointed, his brain filling out the rest and all Will can do is shake his head.

Frankly, Will doesn't care. Not at the moment at least. Maybe he will when he's much more cognizant and aware but he likes this. Likes having Hannibal's full fledged attention like this. His voice feels much more clearer and coherent. “S’good. You're good.”

Hannibal smiles and his fingers rest on the side of Will's face. They're so big and Will thinks it's unfair that Hannibal hasn't held him like this before. His eyes skim over Hannibal's face trying to internalize as much as he can before he goes under again.

And then there are his lips, very hard to miss. They're right there and Will allows his eyes to linger, feeling the phantom touch of Hannibal's thumb caressing his skin.

Why haven't they kissed before is the first unbidden thought that flitters to his mind. Perhaps because he hasn't asked? He's about to ask when Hannibal speaks up, leaning back from his crouched position.

“Are you up to eat anything?”

Will detests the distance but there's little he can do to remedy it. He scoffs as much as his voice allows, merely a quick breath. “Is it you?” And when there's an open smile on Hannibal's face with radiant amusement, Will feels fulfilled.

Tentatively, Hannibal states, “They've given you something.”

Yeah, no shit.

“Mhmm. Something like that.”

Hannibal turns to pull the chair close and take a seat all without dropping Will's hand which is very much appreciated. “Miss Katz only informed me hours ago. I should've been here yesterday.” It's been an entire day then or thereabout, he registers for later.

Will allows his eyes to flutter close and he sighs in relief, taking in the relief and safety from just having Hannibal around. There's usually a filter from his brain to mouth but the fever must've dissolved it because he doesn't hesitate to say, “Maybe you should be with me all the time.” He's well aware his voice must be hoarse and unflattering at the moment.

Their entwined fingers lay on the edge of the mattress and Will's eyes flit to them. Hannibal follows his gaze with a hum. “That's a full time commitment.”

“I know. I want you all to myself.”

Hannibal doesn't react, like Will just states the weather and casually responds, “That's pretty selfish.” He meets the crinkle around Hannibal's eyes and feels endeared.

God, Will must really be losing it indeed. He smiles and hums, “Mhmm.”

They have a few moments of rich silence that feels heavy with unsaid words where they just look at each other. His higher functions aren't finetuned enough for him to really consider what this would mean for me that he likes looking at Hannibal this much, feels this sated at his presence alone. If Beverly was right or wrong, Will can't think right now, he just wants to exist in this moment longer.

Quietly, Hannibal reoffers. “They'll put you in a coma in a few hours. May I feed you before then? The infusion fluids may not be as diverse nutritionally.”

“Please.” Will begs with a strong rasp.

Unfortunately for him, Hannibal has to part their fingers to retrieve whatever food he brought along with him. Will doesn't actually think he can ingest anything but the thought of Hannibal feeding him felt too good for his muddled brain to pass up.

“I've brought you silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the 7th century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates and star anise.” Hannibal points out, tentatively, clicking open the flask.

Will only catches bits of it, but he doesn't need higher functioning to know what chicken in a broth is. That dopey smile is etched on his lips now. “Chicken soup.” He mutters.

Hannibal blinks up at him with slight mortification at Will's audacity even on a hospital bed. Decisively brushing it off, he parrots back, “Yes, Will. Chicken soup.” Will huffs and allows his lips to part when Hannibal brings a spoon close to his lips.

The soup is tasteless but the heat is appreciated on the back of his throat, thawing the mucus clogged there. He feels clearer by time he's more than a few spoons in. He almost starts to feel coddled but he knows he's been craving Hannibal's attention completely monopolized - just for him - like this and he loves it.

Will hopes Antony is wherever he is, unhappy and longing for his boyfriend - if they still were seeing each other - while Hannibal is hand feeding him and thumbing his lips when the fluid trickles down. Because Will matters to Hannibal like he matters to Will. And they have something so fragile yet encompassing in his chest like a flower blooming that no other two people in the world could have.

He shakes his head when he can't manage anymore again and Hannibal commends him for taking that much, clicking shut the flask. Will feels much softer and more longing after. He reaches out to brush his fingers along Hannibal's knee when he's standing next to the bed, aching for some form of contact.

Hannibal's eyes linger on the point of contact before taking his hand with a silent understanding.

“Closer. Come closer.” Will manages, trying to tug him closer and thankfully, Hannibal complies and leans over Will.

“Good?”

Will shakes his head and his chest tightens when Hannibal humors him and leans even closer until their faces aren't so apart anymore. He would close the gap if he had the energy to make that sudden of a movement and hold himself up.

“More.” He whispers.

Hannibal's small patterned breaths hit his skin when he leans in closer and Will registers how hot his breaths are compared to the temperature of his skin. His free hand rests on the side of Will's face.

He's so certain that Hannibal would finally kiss him without him needing to ask but all he does is ask, “Close enough?”

Will can hear his heartbeat in his ears and his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. He didn't realize how badly he wanted to kiss Hannibal until now, with his lips merely inches away from Will's. “Not yet.” He breathes back and finally, finally Hannibal inches closer. Will allows his eyes to fall close on instant.

So perhaps the reason the thought of Hannibal kissing someone else was so irritating was because Will wanted to be the only person to kiss him. That's the most he can comprehend in the moment and he wishes with everything in him that he remembers this after.

He waits and waits but the pressure on his lips don't come even if he feels Hannibal's steady breaths heating his skin even more.

And then it comes. In the wrong position. Hannibal's lips press a kiss to his forehead, chaste and soft and quick. His lips are soft. Will has to suppress a whine of disappointment. He nudges upwards until his nose is lodged with Hannibal's.

Hannibal's positioning should start to hurt now, crouched Will's supine form like this, Will can process that much but he's too selfish to allow this moment pass when he's so close to being sure.

That's enough to push him to lean upwards by an inch allowing their lips to brush. When his head drops back on the pillow, Hannibal's lips follow him like a bee chasing honey. He presses their lips together in a tight-lipped kiss and Will parts his mouth after moments to feel their lips slot in together.

There's a rush of heat crowding his stomach like the inflammation is there and he's burning under his skin as well as outwardly.

Hannibal swallows a low rumble he makes into the kiss and his fingers tickle the sensitive skin of Will's face. He can feel all of his nerves, nociceptors and touch sensors leaning up to Hannibal's cold touch like the way plants bend towards the sun in spring. He mumbles something incoherent even to himself when Hannibal parts their lips and bumps their noses against each other.

Will sighs relieved when Hannibal only changes the angle and presses their lips together again. He feels a tremble bubble in the core of his body, trying to catch up and respond to Hannibal's kiss. He kisses like he does everything else, calculated and tentative, with grace. He's being gentle and tender on purpose but it's hard for Will to feel fragile instead of treasured.

Soon enough he can't do more than allow Hannibal to pop Will's lower lip between his, tasting him like he was food. What a way to go.

Hannibal parts their lips, pressing a parting kiss to the corner of his mouth. For a moment, Will doesn't reopen his eyes, lips parted with unsteady breaths, catching up to reality. When he finally opens his eyes, Hannibal has leaned away completely, standing upright again. He looks dazed for a moment like he truly didn't know how to react - or didn't even intend to do that - and Will feels a buzz of pride flood his veins.

Will's tongue peeks out to taste the remnants of Hannibal on his lips, filing it away in his brain so he has to remember it no matter what.

Without a word, Hannibal lowers himself back into the chair. Will gets a closer view of his face to appreciate his dilated pupils already feeling the edges of somnolence poke at him. He wants Hannibal to touch him and kiss him some more but he doesn't think he can actively do much reciprocity.

“You might be upset I took advantage of you when the fever has cleared.” Hannibal points out when they've looked at each other so much that Will's lids are heavy and occasionally fluttering close. Sweat is beading thicker on his forehead and his stomach turns with warmth. The sheets beneath him feel drenched.

He wets his lips again and hopes his throat is still working fine. Will has too much to say and so little cognizance to grasp more than one thought at a time.

One is irrevocably clear though. He voices it easily, “Unlikely. Wanted to. I really wanted to, for a long time.”

Hannibal hums, seemingly taking that in. “You waited an awfully long time then.”

Will feels a fleeting amusement at the callback. He's burning up hotter again in the way that his joints are starting to hurt but he wants so badly to stay awake until he's put in a coma - where he doubts Hannibal could be with him.

He really thinks about it, as much as he can manage anyway. He always knew he felt something much deeper for Hannibal, he just wasn't aware it might've been considered anything other than platonic. He sucks in a breath, fighting his drooping lids to mutter, “Didn’t know it was an option.”

A moment of quiet. Then, “It's likely you might forget all of this. Cruel of you to be this honest only now.” Hannibal answers with a genuine furrow that looks damn near hurt.

Hannibal talking about cruelty is quite rich considering Will has walked through every circle of hell in his mind the past months just because Hannibal was with someone that wasn't him. At least now he knows it definitely wasn't an exaggeration.

He whispers, “Seeing someone else is cruel.”

There's the ghost, the quirk of a smile on Hannibal's lips now. He states as a matter of fact, “We both assumed wrongly that you didn't want me then.”

Will blinks at him taking in the information. If Hannibal had kissed him moments much earlier in their relationship, tasting like this, Will would not have suffered a sexuality crisis at the middle of his life. He would've figured it out in a second.

That smile tugs more at the edges of Hannibal's lips when he continues, “But I must admit, I did savour the effervescent smell of your jealousy.”

The confession leaves Will surprised for a moment but then again, he supposes if it was that obvious to Beverly second hand, Hannibal must have noticed, being on the receiving end of Will's ‘jealousy’. It sounds so crass to reduce it to just that. It's not particularly wrong to think one's friend deserves better.

“You knew.” Will says accusingly but without much sway.

Hannibal smiles because he must be difficult and impossible and endearing at the same time. “It became impossibly hard to miss, yes. And rather petty too.” Will scoffs, wishing they were on a level playing field now just so he could grab Hannibal by the collars of his expensive shirt and asphyxiate him just for a second.

Because there's apparently nothing but raw honesty from him in his fevered state, he mutters, “I only thought about killing him once.” like it's a defense.

Will doesn't expect Hannibal to be put off by that. He's cultivated some of the darkest of Will's thoughts he'd long buried away. He seemed to be an expert at unravelling Will down to the depths and hidden parts of him.

If anything, Hannibal seems thoroughly pleased to hear that. “It would be ambitious of me to expect more.”

Will huffs out a tight chuckle and finds Hannibal's amused smile morphing to something more genuine amidst his slowly fading vision.

Much more quietly, Hannibal starts, “I found it entirely unbelievable as well. As though any one else could hold a candle to you.” Will holds his breath, chest tight like he's being suffocated. Hannibal doesn't seem to be done though.

“As though just anyone could ever displace the space you hold in my memory palace, where you walk the halls like you constructed them yourself. As though I could smell the lingering scent of anyone but you in the spaces you accommodate like molecules attached to skin. As though I could want to live in another's mind as I want to inhabit yours. As though I've ever wanted to be seen as much as I want you to see me.”

Will makes a noise from the back of his throat and squeezes his eyes shut at the rawness of it all. The monitor spikes in a way it hasn't since he's been awake. Hannibal doesn't stop.

“I crave your presence between the crevices in my home, in my mind. I find myself tremendously taken by you, by the way you breathe, the way you tilt your head back and sigh when you're frustrated, the furrow between your brows when you think, the twitch of your lips when you're upset. I want to exist in the spaces between your cells. I hope you understand, Will, you have no reason to feel jealous.”

Will turns his head on the pillow, dampening the covers with his sweat when he buries his face in the softness. His eyes peek open, and his head throbs, feeling the flood of Hannibal's feelings hit him with a suddenness when Will finds his eyes. He's so painfully honest. If Will would forget everything else, this in particular he wouldn't be able to.

With a muffled mumble, he manages, “I think I like you a bit more than I thought.” The words feel comparably insufficient compared to Hannibal's but it's really all Will can manage at the moment. He feels eaten and chewed out from the inside, exposed, with his viscera on display like he's been opened up for surgery and left that way. Cleaved.

It's enough anyway because Hannibal only repeats an amused, “A bit?”

Will hums, allowing his heavy lids to fall shut with a sort of finality when he mutters, “A lot, maybe.”

“Quite selfish of me to hope you remember every second of this moment. A taste of your affection and losing it to your denial once again would be quite difficult to bear.” Hannibal's voice seems far away but he hears the words. There's an easy remedy to that and his brain comes up with it quite easily.

“Kiss me again then, so I can remember how good it feels.”

Hannibal lifts his burning sweaty hand to his lips and places a tender kiss there. Will feels the phantom of his smile when he sinks under.