Chapter Text
Willoughby Graham has never been to Baltimore.
The city is louder than he imagined.
Too many people.
Too many buildings.
Too much noise.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the passenger-side window as his father's pickup truck crawls through downtown traffic.
His hands are folded neatly in his lap.
He learned years ago that fidgeting invited questions.
Questions invited disappointment.
"You listening?"
"Yes, sir."
His father doesn't look at him.
"When we get in there, you let the doctor do the talking."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't embarrass me."
Will swallows.
"...I won't."
The truck falls silent again.
Will watches strangers walk along the sidewalks.
Some laugh.
Some hold hands.
One young man kisses another on the cheek before they disappear into a café.
Will tears his eyes away so quickly it almost hurts.
His father notices anyway.
The sigh that follows is heavy with exhaustion.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want another apology."
"...Yes, sir."
"You think apologizing fixes everything."
"No, sir."
"You think too much."
Will lowers his head.
"...Yes, sir."
The brass plaque outside the office reads:
DR. HANNIBAL LECTER, M.D. Psychiatry
The building smells faintly of polished wood and old books.
Will wipes his boots carefully on the mat before stepping inside.
The receptionist smiles.
"Good morning."
Will almost apologizes for tracking in a few drops of mud.
He catches himself just in time.
"...Morning."
His father fills out paperwork while Will sits quietly in the waiting room.
He counts the books on the shelves.
Thirty-eight.
A painting hangs opposite him.
He spends nearly ten minutes studying the brushstrokes.
Anything to avoid thinking about why he's here.
"Mr. Graham?"
Will stands so quickly he nearly knocks over the side table.
"Sorry."
The receptionist smiles gently.
"It's all right.
There it is again.
Sorry.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office is nothing like Will expected.
No cold white walls.
No glaring fluorescent lights.
Just books.
Dark wood.
Music playing softly somewhere out of sight.
It feels...
Safe.
That thought alone makes Will suspicious.
A man rises from behind the desk.
Perfectly tailored suit.
Impeccable posture.
Kind eyes that seem to notice everything at once.
Nothing about him is intimidating.
Which somehow makes Will even more nervous.
"Good morning."
Hannibal offers his hand first to Will's father.
Then to Will.
Will shakes it carefully.
His hands are rough with old calluses.
Hannibal notices.
Interesting.
"Please."
The two Grahams sit.
Hannibal doesn't immediately reach for a notebook.
Instead, he studies them quietly.
Father.
Son.
The distance between them.
The way Will sits perfectly still.
The way his eyes flick toward his father before doing almost anything.
"So," Hannibal begins.
"What seems to be the concern?"
Will inhales.
His father answers before he can.
"My boy's got a problem."
"I see."
"He thinks he's..."
The older man lowers his voice.
"...Homosexual."
Silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Simply thoughtful.
Hannibal nods once.
"And how old is your son?"
"Twenty-three."
"I see."
He folds his hands neatly.
"Mr. Graham, before I discuss anything further, I'd like to speak with your son privately."
Will's father's expression hardens.
"Why?"
"It is standard practice."
"He ain't crazy."
"I didn't suggest he was."
"He don't keep secrets from me."
"Even so."
Hannibal's tone never changes.
"My patient is your son."
The older man lets out a short laugh.
"I paid for this appointment."
"You did."
"And I drove him here."
"You did."
"So I stay."
Hannibal holds his gaze calmly.
"I'm afraid I can't proceed unless I have the opportunity to assess Mr. Graham individually."
The room grows quiet.
Will stares fixedly at the carpet.
His father mutters something under his breath.
Finally—
"Fine."
He pushes himself out of the chair.
"I'll be outside."
He points a finger toward Will.
"And don't go filling your head with nonsense."
"...Yes, sir."
The door closes.
Only then does the room become... quiet.
Truly quiet.
Neither man speaks for several seconds.
Hannibal waits.
He has found silence to be remarkably generous.
Eventually, Will breaks first.
"...I'm sorry."
Hannibal blinks.
"For what?"
"...For all this."
"You've apologized before saying anything else."
Will looks down.
"...Habit."
"I see."
Another pause.
"What should I call you?"
Will frowns slightly.
"...Will."
"And your full name?"
"Willoughby Graham."
"You dislike it."
Will looks up, surprised.
"...How'd you know?"
"You answered with your nickname."
"...Oh."
He hadn't even noticed.
A small smile touches Hannibal's lips.
"May I call you Will?"
"...Yes, sir."
"There it is again."
Will blinks.
"What?"
"'Sir.'"
His cheeks flush.
"...Sorry."
"And again."
Will presses his lips together.
For the first time since entering the office, Hannibal hears something unexpected.
A tiny, embarrassed laugh.
"I don't know how to stop."
"I wasn't asking you to."
He leans back in his chair.
"I was merely observing."
Will relaxes—just a fraction.
The tension in his shoulders eases.
Hannibal notices that too.
Then, after a thoughtful silence, he asks the question that matters.
"Will..."
"When your father said you were homosexual..."
He keeps his voice gentle.
"...How did that make you feel?"
Will's fingers tighten around the brim of his hat.
He stares at it for a very long time.
When he finally answers, his voice is almost too quiet to hear.
"...Ashamed."
Hannibal doesn't interrupt.
Will continues staring at his hands.
"...I figured that's probably the right way to feel."
Hannibal studies the young man across from him.
Twenty-three years old.
Strong enough to work a farm.
Soft-spoken enough to ask permission with every breath.
He doesn't see a young man who needs fixing.
He sees one who has never been allowed to exist on his own terms.
And, for reasons he cannot yet name...
Hannibal finds himself wanting to hear everything Will has never been allowed to say.
Hannibal doesn't reach for his notebook.
He has found that people often speak more freely when they don't feel they are being documented.
Instead, he pours two cups of tea.
He places one in front of Will.
Will immediately wraps both hands around the warm porcelain.
"...Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Another silence settles between them.
Not awkward.
Simply... waiting.
"So," Hannibal says gently.
"Tell me about yourself."
Will looks almost startled.
"...Me?"
"Yes."
"I..."
He frowns.
"What do you mean?"
"Anything."
"What you enjoy."
"What your days look like."
"The people you care about."
Will stares into his tea.
"...Nobody's ever asked me that before."
"I suspected as much."
Will is quiet for a while.
Then—
"We have a farm."
"What kind?"
"Cattle."
"And dogs."
His face softens ever so slightly.
"I like the dogs better."
Hannibal notices the change immediately.
"You smiled."
Will looks confused.
"I did?"
"You did."
"...Huh."
Another tiny smile appears.
"I guess I did."
"Tell me about your dogs."
That question is easier.
"So..."
Will rubs the back of his neck.
"We've got this old mutt named Duke."
"He thinks he's a lapdog."
"He ain't."
A little laugh escapes him.
"He weighs almost as much as I do."
"And yet he persists?"
"Oh, every day."
"He'll just..."
Will demonstrates with his hands.
"...Throw himself on top of you."
"If you're sitting outside, he'll climb into your lap like he's still a puppy."
Hannibal smiles quietly.
"And do you mind?"
"No."
The answer comes immediately.
"I never mind."
"You sound fond of him."
"I am."
Will glances up for just a second.
"He doesn't expect much."
"What does he expect?"
"...Just for me to be there."
Something about the simplicity of the answer lingers between them.
---
"And your mother?"
Will's smile disappears.
"She died."
"I'm sorry."
"I was little."
"Do you remember her?"
"Not much."
He thinks for a moment.
"...She used to hum while cooking."
"That's about it."
"And your father raised you alone."
"Yes, sir."
"There it is again."
Will flushes.
"...Sorry."
Hannibal's expression remains warm.
"I've begun to think apologizing is your native language."
Will laughs despite himself.
"...Maybe."
---
"What was school like?"
Will shrugs.
"I wasn't very good with people."
"Were they unkind?"
"Sometimes."
"And when they were?"
"I stayed quiet."
"Why?"
Will genuinely seems to consider the question.
"...Talking back usually made things worse."
"So silence became safer."
"...I guess."
---
Hannibal watches him for a moment.
Then asks very carefully,
"When did you first realize you were attracted to men?"
Will immediately goes crimson.
"Oh."
"We don't have to discuss it today."
"No, I..."
He fidgets with the sleeve of his flannel.
"I was..."
Another pause.
"...Fourteen."
"What happened?"
"There was this boy."
A nervous laugh.
"He smiled at me once."
"And?"
"I thought about it for..."
He looks embarrassed.
"...Weeks."
"Weeks?"
"He had freckles."
Will hides his face behind his teacup.
"I know how stupid that sounds."
"It doesn't."
"I'd make excuses to walk past his locker."
"You never spoke to him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"...Because boys aren't supposed to like boys."
The sentence comes out automatically.
As though it has been rehearsed hundreds of times.
Hannibal doesn't challenge it.
Not yet.
Instead he asks,
"Who taught you that?"
Will opens his mouth.
Stops.
His father.
Church.
Neighbors.
Teachers.
Television.
Almost everyone.
"...I don't know."
"You do."
Will's eyes slowly fill.
"...Everybody."
The room falls quiet again.
Hannibal lets the silence breathe.
Will wipes at one eye before a tear can fall.
"...This is embarrassing."
"What is?"
"Crying."
"I've cried before."
Will looks up in surprise.
"You have?"
"Yes."
"I thought psychiatrists..."
"...Were made of marble?"
That earns Hannibal the biggest smile yet.
"...Something like that."
"I'm afraid we're disappointingly human."
Will chuckles softly.
"I guess that's... nice."
Hannibal notices something then.
For nearly ten minutes...
Will hasn't apologized once.
Hannibal waits until the silence settles again.
He has learned that rushing people rarely helps them.
Especially people like Will.
"May I tell you what I think?"
Will nods almost immediately.
"...Yes."
"I think you've spent a great deal of your life hearing what other people believe about you."
Will lowers his eyes.
"...Probably."
"And after hearing the same message often enough..."
Hannibal folds his hands.
"...it can begin to sound like your own voice."
Will frowns.
"I don't understand."
"When you told me, 'Boys aren't supposed to like boys'..."
Hannibal's tone remains gentle.
"You didn't sound as though you were telling me what you believed."
He pauses.
"You sounded as though you were repeating something you had been taught."
Will doesn't answer.
His thumb rubs nervously over the rim of his teacup.
Hannibal continues.
"Sometimes, when people grow up hearing that a part of them is shameful, they begin to believe it themselves."
"They may dislike that part of themselves even though they never chose it."
Will whispers,
"...Is there a name for that?"
"There is."
Hannibal meets his eyes.
"It's called internalized homophobia."
The words hang quietly in the room.
Will mouths them to himself.
"...Internalized..."
"As in, something that began outside of you but gradually found a place inside."
Will stares into his tea.
"So..."
He swallows.
"...I'm doing this to myself?"
"No."
Hannibal answers immediately.
"You are living with the effects of what was done around you."
"There is an important difference."
Will is quiet for a long time.
"...I don't think I've ever thought about it like that."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"You've had very little opportunity to."
A tear slips down Will's cheek before he notices it.
"I keep wishing I could just..."
He makes a small, helpless gesture toward himself.
"...be normal."
Hannibal hands him a box of tissues.
Will takes one with an embarrassed smile.
"...Thank you."
"What does 'normal' look like to you?"
Will shrugs.
"A wife."
"A farm."
"Kids."
"My dad being proud of me."
"And if you imagined all of that..."
Hannibal asks softly.
"...would you be happy?"
Will's answer comes almost before the question is finished.
"...No."
He freezes.
As though he hadn't expected to say it aloud.
His eyes widen.
"...I..."
Hannibal doesn't interrupt.
Will covers his mouth with one hand.
"I've never admitted that."
"I know."
"I thought if I kept trying..."
His voice cracks.
"...maybe one day I'd wake up different."
He laughs once, bitterly.
"I kept waiting."
"And?"
"...It never happened."
Hannibal nods.
"No."
Another silence.
Not heavy.
Just honest.
Finally, Hannibal speaks again.
"Will."
"I don't intend to force you to accept yourself overnight."
"I don't believe that would be realistic."
Will looks up.
"So... what do we do?"
A faint smile appears on Hannibal's face.
"We become curious."
"...Curious?"
"Whenever you hear that harsh voice telling you that you're wrong or broken..."
He taps lightly over his own chest.
"...I want you to ask yourself a question."
"'Whose voice is this?'"
Will thinks about it.
"My father's."
"Sometimes."
"The pastor's."
"Sometimes."
"The boys at school."
"Yes."
Hannibal nods.
"And perhaps, eventually..."
"We'll discover what your voice sounds like."
Will's eyes begin to fill again.
"...I don't know if I have one."
"I believe you do."
Hannibal's expression is warm, unwavering.
"I simply don't think you've been given permission to use it."
For the first time since entering the office that morning, Will sits back against the chair instead of perching on its edge.
The movement is so small that most people would never notice it.
Hannibal does.
"So..."
Will says after a moment, almost shyly.
"...You don't think I'm broken?"
Hannibal answers without hesitation.
"No."
"Not for loving men."
Will's breathing catches.
"You have been hurt."
"You have been frightened."
"You have been taught things about yourself that have caused you pain."
He pauses.
"But those are wounds."
"They are not your identity."
Will presses the tissue between his fingers.
A slow, uncertain smile appears through his tears.
"...I think..."
He lets out a watery laugh.
"...that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
Hannibal returns the smile.
"Then I hope, in time, you will be able to say it to yourself."
For the first time in many years, Will leaves a conversation not wondering how to become someone else—
but quietly wondering whether the person he already is might deserve a little kindness.
The office grows quiet.
Neither of them seems eager to end the conversation.
Hannibal glances briefly at the clock.
"I'm afraid our time is up for today."
Will blinks, almost surprised.
"...Already?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Oh."
He looks down at the empty teacup in his hands.
"...Thank you."
"What for?"
"For..."
Will searches for the words.
"...Listening, I guess."
"It was my pleasure."
Will stands, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his flannel shirt.
He hesitates.
"So... I come back next week?"
"If you would like to."
Will catches himself before looking toward the door, where his father is waiting somewhere beyond it.
This time, he answers for himself.
"...I'd like that."
A small smile touches Hannibal's face.
"Then I'll see you next week, Will."
Will returns the smile—shy, uncertain, but genuine.
"I'll try not to say 'sorry' so much."
"I don't expect perfection."
"Good."
"...'Cause I'd probably apologize for failing."
That earns a quiet laugh from Hannibal.
"I suspected as much."
Will reaches for the doorknob.
Then pauses.
"...Dr. Lecter?"
"Yes?"
"I..."
His fingers tighten around the brass handle.
"...What you said."
"'There is nothing to cure.'"
He swallows.
"...Nobody's ever said that to me before."
For a moment, Hannibal says nothing.
Then he inclines his head.
"I'm glad someone finally did."
Will nods once.
He opens the door.
Just before he steps into the hallway, Hannibal speaks again.
"Will."
He turns.
"Take care driving home."
Something about the ordinary concern catches him off guard.
He smiles—a little more easily this time.
"I will."
As Will leaves, Hannibal offers a brief, professional handshake at the doorway.
Will accepts it.
His rough, calloused hand disappears inside Hannibal's for only a moment.
"Until next week."
"...Until next week, Doctor."
The handshake lasts no longer than courtesy requires.
Yet as Will walks down the corridor, he realizes it is the first touch he can remember receiving that asked nothing of him, demanded nothing from him, and expected nothing in return.
For reasons he cannot explain, he thinks about that all the way home.
The drive begins in silence.
The kind that always makes Will uneasy.
His father only goes quiet when he's deciding whether to yell.
Rain patters softly against the windshield.
Will watches it race across the glass.
"You like him?"
The question comes out of nowhere.
Will turns his head.
"...Sir?"
"The doctor."
"Oh."
He looks back out the window.
"...He seemed nice."
His father scoffs.
"Nice."
Another mile passes.
"I didn't ask if he was nice."
Will waits.
"I asked if you believed what he said."
Will feels his stomach tighten.
"...I don't know."
"Liar."
"I really don't."
"You looked mighty comfortable in there."
"I was just talking."
"Talking about what?"
Will shrugs.
"...Dogs."
His father actually laughs.
"Dogs?"
"...Yes, sir."
"The hell kind of psychiatrist talks about dogs?"
"I... I think he was just trying to get to know me."
His father grips the steering wheel harder.
"He ain't supposed to 'get to know you.'"
Will says nothing.
"He filled your head with nonsense."
"...He didn't."
The words leave Will's mouth before he can stop them.
Silence.
Heavy.
His father slowly turns to look at him while the truck waits at a red light.
"...What'd you say?"
Will's heart begins pounding.
"I..."
He swallows.
"...Nothing."
"No."
His father's voice is low now.
"I heard you."
Will looks down at his hands.
"...I said..."
His throat feels tight.
"...He didn't fill my head with anything."
The light turns green.
The truck lurches forward.
For several minutes, neither of them speaks.
Then
"You're going back next week."
Will blinks.
"I am?"
"I already paid for four sessions."
Relief blooms inside him so suddenly that he almost smiles.
He hides it before his father notices.
"...Okay."
"But don't expect me to keep paying if all he does is tell you what you want to hear."
Will nods.
"...Yes, sir."
---
They pull into the farm just before sunset.
The familiar smell of damp earth and hay greets them.
Duke comes barreling across the yard, tail wagging so hard his whole body sways with it.
Will kneels automatically.
"There you are."
The old dog immediately shoves his nose beneath Will's hand.
"You missed me?"
Duke answers by nearly knocking him over.
A tiny laugh escapes Will.
Behind him, his father is unloading feed from the truck.
"You done babying that mutt?"
"...Just a second."
"You got chores."
"Yes, sir."
Will gives Duke one last scratch behind the ears before standing.
As he walks toward the barn, something occurs to him.
Dr. Lecter had asked about the dogs.
Not because he cared about cattle.
Not because it was part of a diagnosis.
Because
He had noticed Will smiled when he mentioned them.
No one had ever noticed something like that before.
Will pauses beside the barn door.
His reflection stares back at him from the dusty window.
He hears Hannibal's voice as clearly as if the man were standing beside him.
"You smiled."
Such a simple observation.
And yet...
Will cannot remember the last time anyone had seemed happy to see him smile.
He reaches for the barn door.
For reasons he doesn't fully understand, next Tuesday suddenly feels very far away.