Chapter Text
Will’s fingers flexed against the dark grey leather armrests of the chair he slouched comfortably on. His hands were dirty, lightly pink with the remnants of his unsanitary work, clearly he hadn’t spent long cleaning the blood off his hands before he drove here. Will didn’t sense any discomfort from Hannibal because of it, not even when they examined his possessions, he only caught a glimpse of fascination.
Jack had set him up with the doctor a while ago, and at first he saw Hannibal’s curiosity as pestering or inconvenient, but the more they talked one on one the more he appreciated the unusual interest. The reason Will likes his company can be as simple as Hannibal not treating him like he’s some psychopath who solves his own murders. On the non simple route, he finds himself attracted to the way Hannibal can get close to him on his own accord. It gives him some sort of grounding, a paddle, both gsomeone to lean on and someone to look out for him. Finally.
He’d arrived at Hannibal’s office around ten minutes ago, bringing the smell of old blood through the door with him. He analyzed the way Hannibal’s jaw clenched as his nose chased the scent on his jacket. Musty, cheap aftershave and the undeniable odor of a crime scene. The aftershave certainly isn’t too pleasant for Hannibal, but over time he’d grown attracted to the cheap fragrance, because to him, it resembled Will.
A heavy sigh. Will lifts his hand up to his face to scrub the sleepiness from his eyes and shifts in his seat. He’s silent and observing the room until something comes to mind.
“I don't want to accuse you of anything Hannibal.” Will catches the slight raise in Hannibal’s brow and tilts his head down in avoidance. “But you keep… appearing in my dreams– not anything normal, like you're covered in blood, or with some weapon in hand.” Will frowns slightly, gaining confidence to look Hannibal in the eyes again. He nodded for him to go on.
“But the weapon, it was beautiful. It’s just how you’d like.” Hannibal’s lips twitched almost to smile, but he simply kept listening. Will continued. “Intricate and with some expensive design engraved on the handle, sharpened… one hand tightly gripped around it.” Will would’ve missed the hitch in Hannibal’s breath if he wasn't listening for it. He leaned forward in his chair, a quiet indicator for the Doctor to listen if he wasn’t already.
“Sometimes it’s just this stag, or victims, or sometimes even Abigail– but something always connects back to you. Often I can… I can smell you, or feel the expensive linen of your suits on my fingertips, or hear your voice. Always your damn voice.” His voice trailed off hesitantly as he ended the sentence, turning away and clenching his jaw. Hannibal tipped his head and kept his words to himself— he knew Will had something to admit.
“I think you’re causing my nightmares.”
The accusation was meant to strike Hannibal, and it did. Not all with hurt, or shock, but with relief. Will doesn’t realize he is unstable. He’s so easily manipulated. Fortunately for him, the Doctor knows to draw a line somewhere. Hannibal also knows half of him adores the dominant side of Will. Taking control of a person lends an awful amount of power into his hands, and Will has blindly stepped into his trap. Or, realistically, pushed and pulled into it.
But he can admit something, he loves him. Whether platonic or romantic, spiritually, emotionally— he loves him. Nobody could understand how much mercy Will had earned from Hannibal every time he heard the very rasp of his voice or saw the purpose in his stride. He loves the way he throws away responsibilities to be on time, he loves the way he, without hesitance, silences any distractions for their appointments. He loves the way his brain works ahead of itself. He loves how he drives hours to his house, spending so much unnecessary time to simply talk, even with his number on his phone. Hannibal finally spoke.
“And yet, you call me in the middle of the night.” He clicked his tongue. “Tell me Will, is my voice comforting? Do you call me because you are frightened that what I am in your dreams might be reality?”
Will’s eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. Yes, exactly. “I guess it’s some form of comforting. It’s not quite the right word, though.” He thought for a second and Hannibal let his mind work in the silence. “Stabilizing, maybe. You’re my paddle, right? I hope it isn't creepy to find your therapist’s voice grounding.” He turned away as if ashamed.
Hannibal almost instantly went to speak as he leaned forward. “Im your friend, Will. Not just someone to diagnose you, or listen to those thoughts of yours. I could do so in and out of this very office. Truthfully, no one is forbidding us from becoming friendly except you.”
Will took it as a question. Hannibal craves reassurance, but he wouldn’t dare to admit that. He wants to know everything, but sometimes he doesn't need to ask, at times he can simply search for it.
Will noticed an unexpected warmth rise in his face. “I-I wouldn’t forbid it, Hannibal.” He confirmed. “Do my calls.. Annoy you? I try to control how much I call you, but when I wake up you’re the first thing I think of.”
“They do not at all, Will, your struggles are not inconvenient to me. I've never seen them as burdens. I see them as opportunities.”
“Opportunities.” He scoffed. “To what?”
“Opportunity to see how you’d react. To test you, or simply avert your perspective on tragedy to something more open. Ethics usually forbid psychology, but I have my ways to surpass it.”
Hannibal beamed faintly. Devilishly, almost.
“Wind him up, and watch him go.” The empath said slowly, pursing his lips together, appearing slightly bothered by his approach.
A long pause before Hannibal requested one thing.
“Will, I want you to try something for me. Have you considered changing where you sleep?” His words dropped in a lighter tone than before. Will tipped his head up, staring at him and listening intently. He cleared his throat.
“No. But I'd be open to the idea, I just.. Where’d I go?”
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