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Will finishes his lecture earlier than usual. The difference from his other lectures is, of course, negligibly small – just five minutes – but the students, who at this moment resemble seventh-graders more than anything, let out exaggerated sighs of 'exhaustion' and yell from the back rows, 'Mr. Graham, you've elevated yourself to godhood in our eyes!' Naive twenty-two-year-old kids have no idea they've got an essay to write tomorrow. Will gives a barely noticeable nod – from another angle you might think he just twitched – and goes back to his unhurried task: shoving documents into a beat-up briefcase, driven by a single desire to get the hell out of the classroom. Okay, not to his mother's, obviously, but to seven dogs, a warm dinner, and the boyfriend that comes with it.
That boyfriend who struts into the lecture hall with a lazy lion's gait, surveys the cheap equipment with the same grandeur, and gives each student a predatory once-over in their torn, probably deliberately dirty – the world, unfortunately, hasn't been saved from modern fashion – outfits.
Hannibal's eyes narrow as he finds Will in the crowd, and the 'I-knew-I'd-find-you-here-even-though-you-work-here' smile makes the psychiatrist's face slightly less stone-like and polished-shoe-esque. Will mirrors the expression involuntarily.
'I'm definitely glad about the bonus feature "summon your boyfriend anywhere in the world," but I'd love to know how and when it activates,' Will says as he takes off his glasses by the stems and, under Lecter's horrifying gaze, places them next to the swollen briefcase, which is barely holding its bursting papers together with its last buttons.
Hannibal silently steps closer and looms over the profiler with impermissible intimacy, despite the small but noticeable height difference.
'Much to my regret, Will, that feature is faulty, so it lives its own life and obeys only its own whims or strictly your commands.'
' "Commands" sounds way too oppressive,' Will snorts, looking away at the black suited silhouette in front of him.
The students crowded near the exit, trying to squeeze past their own classmates, stare shamelessly. Even too brazenly, craning their necks as far as possible for a better view. Will frowns, shooting the almost-adults an icy glare – the same one he gives misbehaving dogs or a pet serial killer. And while he's doing that, Hannibal manages to give his chapped, slightly parted lips a weightless peck.
Eyes wide either from surprise or sheer audacity, Graham, using every sign language to show his displeasure, tries to burn the utterly satisfied doctor to the ground. Not that Hannibal has never kissed him in public – at the opera or anywhere else where people know him – but not at the goddamn FBI facility. Where he shows up once and doesn't have more than two or three acquaintances.
Will feels an itching flutter somewhere under his ribs. Will starts to suspect.
'I believe you intended to leave,' Lecter prompts in an innocent, signature professional tone. 'Though my deductive skills aren't particularly sharp, your packed briefcase suggests as much.'
Will grins crookedly.
'Yeah, as soon as your fan club clears out,' he says loud enough that the students anxiously jostle and, huddling together, spill out of the room.
***
Will continues his silent investigation, and a small box of evidence hidden in the profiler's brain under 'Memories' gains new items at – oh my God – the second dinner party this month, but they slightly alter the fragile chain. Graham starts genuinely worrying about the guests' stomachs, the staff's hands, and directly Hannibal's reputation, because the gloomy FBI profiler definitely won't hold back from the slightest, even unnoticeable, jab at the respectable people.
Lecter creeps up behind him while Will melancholically sips whiskey, counts all the fake smiles in the room, and seems to have lost track. The doctor possessively wraps his arms around Will's waist – 'Which, by the way, could kill you at any moment' – and locks his hands somewhere around his toned hips, hidden under slightly-too-big classic trousers, after which Hannibal swore never to let his beloved shop alone again.
'Bored?' hot breath scorches Will's exposed neck, and Will slowly melts in his arms.
'More like trying to drop the chandelier on them by sheer willpower. It's entertaining, you should try it,' Graham tiredly leans back against the shoulder behind him, as Hannibal's chin settles on the exposed space of his shoulder. 'You know, the second you step away from the guests, they immediately start tearing you apart, right?'
'Yes,' Hannibal hums drawn out. 'So you're my undercover agent?'
'I don't think so. I just stand silently in the middle of the room. My funeral aura makes everyone recoil.'
'Nonsense,' Hannibal frowns. 'Many people adore you.'
'Did they tell you that?'
Will sweeps his gaze across the hall and unconsciously latches onto every hypocrite shamelessly staring at them as if seeing a gay couple for the first time. Though Graham is still sure of his heterosexuality – let's ignore the momentary sexuality crisis.
The uninvited feeling of nakedness in front of an audience, which had haunted him seemingly since birth, suddenly shifts into something else – a certain desire, similar to the flashes of teenage defiance at the slightest criticism, to loosen up just to spite the onlookers. When hot, burning venom spreads through his blood, races through his veins into every cell of his body, but especially into his lungs – so he can more easily spit out the rough yet pleasantly poisonous residue on his lips. As if he has the right to absolutely everything – because from the moment he moved into the house of the man who fed him, it became his home too. He really does have that right, and even if he came out naked to the guests, no one would likely file an open complaint, and the army of sycophants would gladly compliment his toned body. But. There's always a 'but.'
This is too un-Will-like. And just too much. And mostly unfamiliar – so, naturally, Will successfully suppresses these dubious impulses for the sake of his own psychological well-being. Maybe for Hannibal's well-being too, though he's sure the patron of all things unconventional would be all for it.
Will can't help but roll his eyes at all the stares and, turning his head, hides in Hannibal's neck.
'I feel like…' – understanding you? – 'an animal in a zoo.'
'Hopefully a lion?'
'Still a mongoose, Hannibal. Still a mongoose.'
'Then I suppose we'll have to picture everyone else as snakes,' Dr. Lecter says and demonstratively gives Will a wet kiss on the neck. Will just leans into the hot lips.
***
Maybe Will has understood this manifestation of complete control over others' gazes – like a signboard covering a naked protester's genitals, reading: 'Look at what I can do, and you can't do a thing to me!' And indeed, Hannibal – or rather, his alter egos the Chesapeake Ripper and El Monstro – has been wearing that sign for a very long time, practically dancing right in front of the FBI.
Maybe these displays don't bother Will at all. Maybe Will might even like them. And maybe Will wouldn't mind showing off his own grandeur – albeit in a slightly more modest form.
Unlike Hannibal, who prefers to pull off all his manipulations in front of a crowd of strangers or, conversely, his friends, Graham is more comfortable pulling such moves among a few acquaintances.
'You think the Ripper would be that shallow, baby?' Will, without taking his eyes off the eviscerated corpse, peels off his gloves with a wet rubbery snap and gives Hannibal an expressive look – the latter looming behind him as usual, though at least observing some basic decency. 'No, sweetheart, this is definitely not him.'
Agent Crawford – at the very least – hopes that address wasn't meant for him.
Jack, who's been grumbling about everything under the sun, only wraps his worn wool scarf tighter and clenches his plastic coffee cup. Another sharp gust of wind nearly rips the hot drink from his firm grip. Crawford waits a few seconds for the wind to die down and eyes Will distrustfully – Will has finally stopped hypnotizing the corpse but has moved on to flirting with his boyfriend. Which is infinitely more dangerous.
Jack clears his throat loudly.
'Why's that?' – the question is, of course, stupid, but Jack wants to pull Will as far from Hannibal as possible for everyone's safety. 'Organ removal, check. Organs missing, check. Eccentric display of the body, check. What's wrong?'
Will peels his lovesick gaze away from Dr. Lecter and turns his withering stare on his boss.
'The Seven Deadly Sins? Seriously? How trite,' Will snorts disdainfully, subtly finding Hannibal's hand. 'What makes the Chesapeake Ripper who he is is what sets him apart – something radically different from already known death penalties. Something more refined, perfect, flawless.'
He turns his amused eyes to – God, what? Is he human? – a flustered Hannibal, with blood slowly rising to his cheekbones. Though through the harsh veil, only a gradual shift from pale to pinkish shows.
'You can start getting jealous,' he adds.
'If I were you, Graham, I wouldn't leave a cook like that,' comes Beverly's voice as she pokes at the stiffened body. 'Who knows what dish you'd end up in.'
Will tenses. Then unexpectedly laughs and nods convulsively.
'And I'd lose stability, healthy sleep, and regular sex – which would be too big a loss,' Will pats Hannibal on the shoulder.
'What if the Chesapeake Ripper gives you more?' Lecter puts on a deliberately pitiful tone.
'What if the Ripper is some sweaty, wrinkled fat guy who plays video games all day? What's stopping him from committing perfect murders by night and gaming by day?' Will is fully aware he's rambling. 'Don't worry, baby, as long as you're useful and I'm not desperate, the sex will stay regular.'
'Graham, I will kick you off this crime scene.'
Jack finally drops his coffee, and a brown, nearly black, hot stain spreads under his – still – clean shoes.