Chapter Text
Will Graham had always hated the walk to Hannibal Lecter’s office.
He wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, not to Jack, not to himself, but the corridor felt like a long throat, polished and warm and waiting to swallow him whole. Each step toward that heavy door made his skin crawl. He felt watched, even before Hannibal opened it. As if the very walls held their breath for him.
He paused outside the office, hand raised to knock, already regretting every choice that had led him here. He could smell something—cedar, spice, something darker beneath. It irritated him that even the damn scent felt deliberate.
Will knocked before he could talk himself out of it.
“Come in.” Hannibal’s voice called, smooth and low, as if he’d been expecting him for hours.
Will pushed the door open. The office felt too warm, too full: the books, the heavy rug, the art on the walls, that twisted, beautiful sculpture behind the desk. It all pressed in on Will, like a hand on the back of his neck.
And then there was Hannibal, standing beside his desk, sleeves rolled up slightly, as if he were in the middle of something intimate. His eyes lifted to Will with that same unreadable calm that had always made Will want to bolt.
“Will.” Hannibal greeted. “You look tired.”
“I am tired...” Will muttered. He stepped inside, closing the door not because he wanted to, but because Hannibal would comment if he didn’t. Everything with Hannibal felt like a test—one he hadn’t agreed to take.
“Please.” Hannibal gestured toward the familiar chair. “Sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
“You say that every time.”
“And yet you keep asking.”
“Only because you keep refusing.”
“Which should tell you something, shouldn’t it?”
Hannibal smiled faintly, as if Will’s irritation amused him. Will wanted to bare his teeth like a dog.
Instead, he moved toward the window, keeping distance. The afternoon light broke through the glass in narrow golden bars, striping the floor. He stayed outside of them, where the shadows were cooler.
“Tell me about the case.” Hannibal said gently.
Will bristled. “You already know about the case.”
“I’d like to hear your perspective.”
“You want to hear me unravel.”
“That’s not—”
“It is that.” Will stared at him, jaw tight. “That’s always what you want.”
Hannibal didn’t flinch. “I want to understand you.”
“You don’t.” Will said. “You pretend to. You guess. You prod. But you don’t understand me.”
“I try.” Hannibal said softly.
“But not for me.” Will’s voice dropped. “You don’t try for me.”
Their eyes locked, Hannibal’s impossibly still, Will’s vibrating with something like fury, or fear. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
Hannibal took a step closer. Will felt the shift of air between them and hated how sensitive he was to it.
“You are disturbed by what you see in others.” Hannibal said. “And what you see in yourself.”
Will exhaled sharply, a humorless laugh. “Thank you for the psychological fortune cookie.”
“You deflect.”
“Yeah.” Will snapped. “Because if I don’t deflect, you’ll pry deeper. That’s what you do. You dig.”
“I explore.” Hannibal corrected.
“You invade.”
Silence thickened. Not empty, but charged.
Will looked away first, his pulse thudding hard in his throat. He felt overheated, trapped in clothing suddenly too tight. He wanted out—of the office, of the conversation, of the twisting knot of awareness that Hannibal’s attention always scraped raw.
Hannibal studied him with that surgical calm. “The killer in this case—”
“Don’t.” Will warned. “Don’t do that thing where you shift the topic just enough to make me wonder if I imagined the tension.”
Hannibal tilted his head. “You think there is tension?”
Will’s mouth dried immediately. He hated Hannibal for catching it, hated himself for reacting. “There’s always tension when someone feels hunted.”
“Hunted?” Hannibal echoed softly.
“Yes.” Will said. “You make me feel hunted.”
Hannibal’s gaze lowered to Will’s shoulders, then traced the line of his spine without touching. Will felt the imagined contact anyway, a ghost heat that irritated him more than anything else.
“I never intend to make you uncomfortable.” Hannibal said.
“That’s the problem.” Will muttered. “You don’t have to intend it.”
Another silence stretched, molten and slow.
“Will,” Hannibal said finally, “you are safe here.”
“No, I’m not.”
The certainty in Will’s voice made Hannibal blink just once, but Will noticed.
Hannibal stepped closer again, like someone fascinated by a wild animal on the brink of bolting.
“Tell me why you believe that.” Hannibal murmured.
Will swallowed. “Because you look at me like you’re waiting for something. And because I don’t know what the hell it is.”
Hannibal’s gaze flicked briefly down to Will’s mouth and then back up. Will’s breath caught—God, he wanted to shove him, or walk out, or… something worse.
Hannibal seemed to read all of it. “I am waiting.” he said quietly.
Will’s pulse tripped. “For what?”
“For you.” Hannibal said simply.
Will jerked back a step, as if struck.
“No.” Will said, voice rough. “No, see—this. This is exactly what I mean.”
“What troubles you about it?”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s honest.”
“No, it’s... you’re—” Will ran a hand through his hair hard enough to sting. He felt unmoored, unguarded. “You keep pulling me into these conversations where everything feels twisted and heavy, and then you act like you’re doing me a favor.”
“I want you to understand yourself better.” Hannibal said.
“You want to take me apart.”
“Only to see how you work.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
Hannibal smiled again, faint, maddening. “Sit, Will.”
“No.”
“Then at least breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Not well.”
Will glared at him. Hannibal only watched, serene as always. Will hated that composure. Hated that nothing he said dented it.
“I don’t like you.” Will said suddenly.
Hannibal didn’t even blink. “I’m aware.”
“You get under my skin.”
“I do nothing you don’t invite.”
“That’s—” Will stopped, chest tightening. “God, that’s the worst part. You always make me question myself.”
“Is that not the mark of good therapy?”
“No. It’s the mark of someone who knows exactly which nerves to press.”
Hannibal took another step forward, close enough now that Will could feel the heat of him.
“I unsettle you.” Hannibal said softly.
“Yes.” Will said. “And you know that.”
“And does it make you want to leave,” Hannibal asked, “or stay?”
Will stared at him, breath shaking, stunned by the question. The truth rose before he could stop it: both. It made no sense, but then nothing about Hannibal ever made sense.
“I don’t want to be here.” Will said. “But I’m here anyway.”
“Because of Jack.” Hannibal supplied.
“Because of the case.” Will added.
“And perhaps,” Hannibal said, eyes lowering again to Will’s mouth, “for reasons you would prefer not to name.”
Will stepped back so abruptly he hit the edge of a bookshelf. Books rattled. He cursed under his breath.
Hannibal didn’t move to help him. He didn’t need to. Will already felt his presence like a hand on his chest.
“You see?” Will said. “This is why I don’t like you.”
“But you don’t walk away.”
“I’m going to walk away now.”
“No.” Hannibal said quietly. “You aren’t.”
Will hated how right he was.
He stood there, caught in something he didn’t have language for—anger, fear, fascination, all braided too tightly to separate.
Hannibal finally turned from him, giving him a sliver of space. Will’s lungs opened slightly.
“Tell me about what you felt at the crime scene.” Hannibal said, moving back toward his chair.
Will clenched his jaw. “Are you serious?”
“I am always serious.”
“You think we can just go back to talking about the case, like nothing happened?”
“Nothing did.” Hannibal said. “You reacted. I observed.”
Will wanted to throw something.
Instead, he moved toward the desk and dropped heavily into the chair—finally sitting, not because Hannibal asked, but because his legs felt unsteady.
Hannibal watched him with a small, victorious glimmer behind his eyes.
Will saw it.
Hated it.
Hated how his own body betrayed him—how he sat there breathing too fast, hands trembling just once before he forced them still.
He looked away, staring at a painting on the wall.
Hannibal’s voice gentled. “Will. What did you feel at the scene?”
Will swallowed. “I felt… invaded.”
“By the killer?”
“By myself.” Will whispered.
“And you believe that disturbs me?”
“No.” Will looked up at him, gaze sharp. “I believe you enjoy it.”
Hannibal’s eyes warmed. Subtle, dangerous.
“I enjoy understanding you.”
“You enjoy watching me lose control.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is.” Will said. “You watch me like you’re waiting for me to fall apart. Like you want it.”
Hannibal’s expression shifted barely. A slight tightening near the eyes. Almost too small to notice.
“That is your projection.” Hannibal said.
“It’s my warning.”
Another silence. Heavy again.
Will felt his throat constrict with the weight of everything left unspoken between them.
“You don’t have to fear me.” Hannibal said quietly.
“I don’t fear you.” Will lied.
“You fear what you see reflected in me.”
Will opened his mouth and closed it.
Hannibal leaned forward faintly. “You fear that I understand you.”
Will’s pulse roared in his ears. “You don’t.” he said, voice raw. “You don’t understand me.”
“I understand your loneliness.” Hannibal murmured. “Your hunger. Your desire to be known, even if being known terrifies you.”
Will froze.
Every word felt like Hannibal’s fingers sliding into his ribs, peeling him open.
“Stop.” Will whispered.
Hannibal obeyed. Will would have preferred if he hadn’t.
Because Hannibal’s silence was worse.
Will pushed abruptly to his feet. “We’re done for today.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
He headed for the door, breathing too fast, too shallow, every nerve alight with something awful and electric. He grabbed the doorknob.
“Will,” Hannibal said behind him, “you dislike me because I see you.”
Will squeezed his eyes shut.
“No.” he said. “I dislike you because you like it.”
Then he walked out before Hannibal could answer.
He didn’t see Hannibal’s expression.
He didn’t see the small, dark smile.
He didn’t see the way Hannibal’s eyes followed him even after the door closed.
He only felt the echo of those words burning under his skin, long after he’d left the building.
He thought he was.
He’d convinced himself that the uncomfortable, electrified tension of their last session had been a fluke—a moment of weakness, too much caffeine, not enough sleep, the fragility of empathy fatigue. He’d told himself he could compartmentalize it, box it away, pretend none of it had happened.
But the second the door to Hannibal’s office swung open, Will knew he’d lied to himself.
Hannibal stood there with a calm, collected poise that made Will’s stomach knot. The faintest smile—barely there, but definitely there—curved the edges of his mouth, and Will’s hands curled into fists before he could stop them.
“Will.” Hannibal greeted. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” Will muttered, stepping inside.
There was no warmth in his voice, but Hannibal received the words as if they’d been scented praise. He closed the door behind Will with a quiet click that felt more like a lock sliding into place.
Will’s pulse jumped.
He hated that.
“Jack was insistent that we speak again.” Hannibal said lightly. “He believes these sessions are beneficial.”
“Jack believes you’re harmless.” Will said, moving past him. “He’s wrong.”
Hannibal let out a soft breath. Not laughter, not quite. Will couldn’t categorize it. He hated that, too.
“Please.” Hannibal said, gesturing toward the familiar chair. “Sit.”
Will ignored him. He walked to the far corner of the room, where the shadows pooled thickest. Hannibal tracked him like he always did—eyes following every shift of his weight, every small movement, as though Will were a rare animal whose behavior he studied not for safety, but for pleasure.
Will leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll stand.”
“For now.” Hannibal said.
Will glared. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That tone. That… smug psychoanalyst omniscient thing you do.”
Hannibal’s lips curved slightly. “That is an… unorthodox description of professionalism.”
“It’s accurate.”
Hannibal didn’t argue. That irritated Will more.
A long silence stretched between them. Hannibal was good at that, using quiet as a scalpel. Will resisted the urge to fidget, to pace, to scratch the itch under his skin that always grew when Hannibal watched him.
“I understand you’ve been troubled by sleep.” Hannibal finally said.
Will stiffened. “Jack told you that?”
“No.” Hannibal said. “Your face did.”
Will’s jaw clenched. He looked away.
Hannibal stepped closer. Not too close, but close enough that Will felt the gravitational pull of him. “Nightmares?”
“No.”
“Visions.”
“No.”
“Guilt.”
“Stop.”
Hannibal did. But only for a beat.
“You haunt yourself, Will.”
“You don’t get to say that.”
“It’s true.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to say it.”
Hannibal tilted his head slightly, studying Will’s breathing, the tightening of his shoulders. “You’ve built an identity around understanding the darkest parts of others. But when it comes to yourself—”
Will cut him off sharply. “Don’t.”
“—you see only fragments.”
“I said don’t.”
Hannibal paused, then softened his voice. “Very well.”
Will exhaled, shaky. He hated how easily Hannibal could find the fractures inside him. He hated how it felt like letting someone stand on thin ice and hearing it crack.
Hannibal stepped back—not a retreat, simply a calibration. He moved toward his desk, pouring tea for himself with a deliberate, fluid grace. Everything Hannibal did looked intentional. Everything he touched seemed to carry meaning.
Will hated that, too.
“You seem agitated.” Hannibal observed calmly.
“Gee...” Will snapped. “I wonder why.”
Hannibal handed him a teacup without asking. Will looked at it like it was a weapon. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Keep it.” Hannibal said. “Perhaps you will be.”
Will took it because refusing felt like losing. The warmth of the porcelain bled into his palm, grounding and irritating all at once.
Hannibal sat across from him, hands steepled loosely. Will stayed standing.
“You left abruptly last time.” Hannibal said.
“Yes. I had things to do.”
“Such as?”
“Not be here.”
“And yet you returned.”
“Because Jack told me to.”
“You could have refused.”
“No.” Will said sharply. “I couldn’t.”
“And why is that?”
“Because...” Will said, voice roughening, “you’re in my head.”
Silence dropped again, colder this time.
Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but Will saw something flicker behind his eyes—interest, hunger, something delicate and dangerous.
“You believe I intrude upon your thoughts?” Hannibal asked.
“I know you do.”
“How?”
“Because I think about our sessions when I’m not here.”
“That’s natural.”
“It’s not.” Will paced, agitated. “I don’t think about anyone like that. I don’t want to.”
Hannibal’s gaze followed him in small, smooth increments. “Does it trouble you?”
“It pisses me off.”
“And yet you’re still thinking of me.”
Will froze mid-step. His breath hitched, but he masked it by turning his back.
“See?” Will said, voice low. “You twist everything.”
“I reflect everything.”
“You make me feel like I’m losing control.”
Hannibal’s voice softened, almost fond. “You fight very hard to keep yourself intact.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means the boundaries you cling to are fraying.”
“I’m fine.”
“You aren’t.”
Will’s nails bit into his palms. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you talk to me like you’re peeling skin off. Like you’re… cutting.”
Hannibal’s eyes softened in a way that made Will’s stomach twist. “You are very perceptive.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“No.” Hannibal agreed. “You’re extraordinary.”
Will’s chest tightened. The words hit him too directly, too honestly.
He wasn’t used to compliments he couldn’t deflect.
“Don’t.” Will whispered. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what you mean by them.”
Hannibal stood.
Will’s breath caught. Not fear. Not exactly.
Hannibal approached slowly, giving Will time to bolt, but no space to breathe.
Will pushed harder into the wall, feeling the cool plaster against his back.
Hannibal stopped a measured distance away, close enough that Will felt cornered, far enough that he could pretend he wasn’t.
“I mean,” Hannibal said softly, “that you are unlike anyone I have ever known.”
Will’s throat worked around a swallow. “I don’t care.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“You push.” Hannibal murmured. “You resist. You claw. And all of that tells me how deeply you feel.”
“Shut up.” Will said, voice trembling.
“You dislike me because I see you.” Hannibal said, echoing Will’s parting words from their last session. “And because part of you desires to be seen.”
Will flinched.
“That’s not—”
Hannibal waited.
Will’s heart hammered painfully. His breath shook. The room felt hot and small and full of Hannibal.
“You don’t know me.” Will said. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
“Then enlighten me.” Hannibal said. “Tell me who you are.”
“No.”
“Because you don’t know.” Hannibal murmured.
Will shoved him.
It surprised both of them.
Will’s hands hit Hannibal’s shoulders hard, pushing him back a step. Not enough to hurt—enough to shock.
Hannibal didn’t retaliate. Didn’t raise a hand. Didn’t even blink.
He simply looked at Will with a sharpened attention that made Will’s skin prickle.
“Interesting.” Hannibal said softly.
“Don’t call it interesting.”
“You touched me.”
“I pushed you.”
“Yes.” Hannibal murmured. “You initiated contact.”
Will’s stomach lurched. “Don’t twist that.”
“I’m not twisting anything.” Hannibal stepped forward again, closing the distance Will had tried to create. “I’m observing.”
Will’s fists shook at his sides. “I don’t want you near me.”
“And yet you haven’t left.” Hannibal said.
Will looked at the door. One step. Two. He could be out. Free. Breathing again.
But he didn’t move.
Not because he wanted to stay. Because he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to turn his back on Hannibal right now.
“I don’t like you.” Will said again, but it sounded thinner now. More raw.
“I know.” Hannibal said gently.
“You infuriate me.”
“I know.”
“You make me uncomfortable.”
“I know.”
“You make me—” Will stopped, breath fractured.
Hannibal waited. Of course he waited.
Will bit the inside of his cheek hard, grounding himself in the sting.
“You make me feel… exposed.” he said at last.
Hannibal’s eyes warmed dangerously.
“That is not discomfort.” Hannibal said softly. “That is recognition.”
Will shook his head. “You think you can name everything I feel. You think you know every shadow.”
“I know many.” Hannibal said. “Not because I created them, but because you show them to me.”
Will choked on a bitter laugh. “I don’t show you anything intentionally.”
“No.” Hannibal said. “Your unconscious does.”
“Great.” Will snapped. “So now I’m confessing things to you without even knowing it?”
“Not confessing.” Hannibal murmured. “Revealing.”
“That’s worse.”
Hannibal stepped closer—close enough that Will could feel his breath, warm against his cheek.
“Yes.” Hannibal said softly. “It is.”
Will’s whole body went rigid.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
“You should go.” Hannibal whispered.
Will blinked. “What?”
“Before you say something you fear.”
Will’s chest tightened painfully. His palms were damp. His pulse was erratic and humiliating.
“What do you think I’m going to say?” he asked, voice cracking on the edges.
Hannibal didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Will felt it anyway—like Hannibal had reached inside him and touched the truth with surgical precision.
“I’m not…” Will swallowed hard. “I don’t…”
“It’s all right.” Hannibal said softly.
“It’s not.”
“No.” Hannibal agreed. “It isn’t.”
Will shoved past him—less forcefully this time, more like stumbling through water—and grabbed the doorknob with shaking fingers.
“Will...” Hannibal said behind him.
Will didn’t turn.
“You don’t hate me.”
Will closed his eyes.
“I do.” he said. “I really, really do.”
He walked out before he betrayed the truth.
That hatred wasn’t the whole story.
Not anymore.
Will didn’t go back to Hannibal’s office for a week.
Jack called twice. E-mailed once. Cornered him in the lab with a tone that suggested Will’s reluctance was personally offensive.
“You need these sessions.” Jack said.
“I need sleep.” Will snapped.
“That’s exactly why you need them.”
Will nearly walked out mid-conversation.
He didn’t. Because that would’ve been admitting something—fear, avoidance, something worse.
Something Hannibal would see without Will ever saying a word.
So on Thursday afternoon, Will found himself standing outside that heavy, suffocating door once again, hand hovering over it, heart beating too loudly inside his ribs.
He hated this door.
He hated the corridor.
He hated the scent of cedar and spice that always leaked from the cracks like the room itself was breathing.
He hated how much he thought about it.
Will knocked before he lost his nerve.
“Come in.” Hannibal called.
Will opened the door with more force than necessary, as if violence could create distance.
Hannibal stood near his desk, buttoning the cuff of his shirt with meticulous care. He looked up the moment Will entered. His expression didn’t brighten—Hannibal wasn’t the type—but something in his eyes sharpened. Focused.
Like Will’s presence changed the air chemistry.
“Will.” Hannibal said. “You’ve been absent.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
The directness knocked the wind out of Will’s lungs. He crossed his arms. “I’m here now.”
“Yes.” Hannibal murmured. “You are.”
Will didn’t sit. Didn’t move farther into the room. He stayed near the door like he might change his mind and walk out any second.
Hannibal observed this silently, then gestured with a small tilt of his head. “If you prefer, we can stand.”
“I’m not doing this long.” Will said.
“That depends on what ‘this’ is.”
“Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“That game you play. Where you twist everything I say and then look at me like I’m the one who’s unhinged.”
Hannibal’s eyebrow rose delicately. “Are you feeling unhinged today?”
Will’s fists clenched. “Stop.”
Hannibal nodded once, almost politely. “Very well. Then tell me why you stayed away.”
Will looked anywhere but at him. The painting. The sculpture. The rug. His own hands.
Anything to avoid those eyes.
“I needed space.” he said.
“You need space from me.”
“Yes.”
“And yet,” Hannibal said gently, “you’ve been thinking about our last session. A great deal.”
Will’s breath hitched.
He hated how easily Hannibal could see things Will didn’t want seen.
“Don’t pretend you know what I think.”
Hannibal stepped closer—not predatory, but with purpose. “Then correct me.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll assume I’m right.”
Will glared at him. “You’re impossible.”
“And you are agitated.”
“Maybe stop talking like you’re observing a lab rat.”
Hannibal’s lips twitched. “You are not a rat.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I meant it as flattery.”
“That’s worse.”
A silence stretched. Will shifted his weight, discomfort prickling down his spine.
Hannibal’s gaze dipped briefly to Will’s hands—tense, restless—then returned to his eyes.
“You’re angry with me.” Hannibal said.
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
Will laughed, short and sharp. “You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
Will took a step forward, emotions flaring hot. “You corner me. You push and push until I feel like I’m coming apart, and then you sit there like you didn’t cause it.”
“You believe I cause your discomfort.”
“I know you do.”
Hannibal considered him carefully. “Your reactions are your own.”
“Don’t do that.” Will snapped. “Don’t pretend neutrality. You’re not neutral. You enjoy this.”
Hannibal’s silence was telling.
“You like getting into people’s heads.” Will continued. “Cutting them open without a scalpel.”
“I don’t cut you.”
“You dissect me.”
“You reveal yourself.”
“I don’t want to reveal anything to you.” Will said, voice trembling with the strain of holding himself together.
Hannibal stepped forward again. Will tensed but didn’t retreat.
“I believe you.” Hannibal said quietly. “You don’t want to reveal anything. And yet you do.”
Will’s throat constricted. “Stop.”
“You came back today,” Hannibal continued, “because part of you needs answers.”
“I need less of you.”
Hannibal’s eyes warmed. Not kind—interested.
“You dislike how much I occupy your thoughts.”
“I hate it.”
“And yet...” Hannibal said softly, “I am there.”
Will’s heart stumbled painfully. “Get out of my head.”
“I’m not in your head.”
“The hell you aren’t.”
“If I were,” Hannibal murmured, “you wouldn’t be fighting so hard.”
Will’s breath shook. He felt exposed again, flayed. Hannibal always did this. Always found the softest place inside him and pressed.
“I’m leaving.” Will said, voice rough.
Hannibal didn’t block him. Didn’t move. Just watched him with surgical stillness.
“Go, if you wish.” he said. “But it won’t change anything.”
Will froze at the door, fingers brushing the knob. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Hannibal said, “that distance will not silence the thoughts you are already having.”
Will spun around, furious. “I’m not having thoughts.”
A blatant lie. Hannibal knew it.
Will knew Hannibal knew it.
That made everything worse.
Hannibal approached again, slow and controlled.
“Your dreams have been worsening.” he said.
Will’s breath caught. “How do you know that?”
“You come here looking…” Hannibal’s gaze traveled over him with painful precision. “…shaken.”
“I sleep fine.”
“You sleep poorly.”
“You think you know everything.”
“Not everything.” Hannibal said. “But more about you than most.”
Will’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want Hannibal peeling him open with words alone.
“I don’t need your help.” Will said.
“You need understanding.”
“Not from you.”
Hannibal considered him, head tilted. “Then who?”
Will opened his mouth and nothing came out.
The silence was answer enough.
Hannibal stepped closer until Will felt the faint heat of his body.
“You isolate yourself.” Hannibal said. “Even from those who care about you.”
“People don’t care about me.” Will muttered.
“I do.”
Will’s breath stopped.
“No.” he said immediately. “No, you don’t get to say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s genuine.”
Will shook his head. “I don’t want your… interest. Whatever it is.”
“You don’t want it,” Hannibal said softly, “and yet you react to it.”
Will’s chest constricted, anger and something else, something he refused to name, colliding inside him.
“You’re twisting this.” Will said.
“You’re denying it.”
“I don’t—” Will swallowed hard. “I don’t want any of this tension.”
“Tension.” Hannibal repeated, voice a low murmur. “Is that what you feel?”
Will’s silence betrayed him.
Hannibal stepped closer.
Will didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“You mistake recognition for threat.” Hannibal whispered.
“It is a threat.”
“Only to the part of you that fears being seen.”
Will’s throat worked around a swallow. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything.” Hannibal said. “I’m witnessing.”
“That’s worse.”
Hannibal’s gaze softened. “Come here.”
Will’s heart lurched violently. “I’m not a dog.”
“No.” Hannibal agreed. “You’re far more complex.”
Will didn’t move.
Hannibal didn’t repeat the request. He simply waited, the patience of a predator confident in the inevitability of the moment.
Will hated him for that patience.
Hated himself for stepping closer.
Only half a step, but enough.
Hannibal exhaled quietly, approval almost imperceptible.
“Why am I like this around you?” Will whispered, not meaning to say it aloud.
Hannibal’s eyes warmed. “Because you know I see you.”
Will shook his head. “You keep saying that. You act like it’s a gift.”
“It is.”
“It’s invasive.”
“Truth often is.”
Will’s lips parted, breath uneven. “I don’t want this connection.”
“And yet you feel it.” Hannibal murmured.
Will squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want to feel anything with you.”
“You already do.”
Will opened his eyes, fury and fear burning so hot they were indistinguishable. “I hate you.”
“You hate the part of you that responds to me.”
Will shoved him.
Hard.
Books shook on the shelf. Hannibal staggered—not much, but enough to show Will had caught him off guard.
Hannibal’s breath left him in a soft exhale. He straightened slowly.
“Violence,” Hannibal said gently, “is not rejection.”
“Stay away from me.” Will said, voice cracking.
Hannibal stepped forward.
Will’s pulse spiked.
“Will.” Hannibal murmured, “this hatred you cling to—it is the last barrier before understanding.”
“I don’t want to understand you.”
“But you do.”
Will’s breath trembled.
“I’m done.” he whispered. “This time I mean it.”
Hannibal didn’t stop him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Just watched him walk to the door like a man walking toward an inevitable cliff edge.
Will paused with his hand on the knob.
“You’re in my head.” he whispered. “And I hate it.”
Hannibal’s voice followed softly.
“I know.”
Will walked out and slammed the door behind him.
He didn’t see Hannibal close his eyes, just for a moment—like someone savoring the exquisite pain of wanting something they weren’t allowed to touch.
He didn’t see the way Hannibal exhaled, slow and controlled.
He didn’t know that, for the first time, Hannibal’s composure had cracked.
He only knew that hatred was no longer the whole story.
Not even close.