Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been an unexpectedly easy choice to make.

Hannibal often deliberated at great length over his options, weighing the needs of the restaurants against the potential entertainment value they would bring. It was paramount that the right balance was struck; after all, though he put every effort into aiding these failing eateries, he certainly was not running a charity. When the key detail that made your show stand out from similar programs was the length of time spent at the location in question, it was not a decision to be made lightly.

This was why Jack Crawford was watching him with suspicion. He accepts the file back and flips it open. “ Café Eloise ,” he reads aloud. “You better have a damn good reason for not even looking at half the options. Usually you’re taking these home to deliberate over them for more than a week.”

“I’ve eaten there quite some time ago.” Jack continues to look unimpressed and fixes him with a blank expression. Hannibal smothers a sigh and elaborates. “It made quite the impression, to the point where I would consider its failure a great loss for the culinary scene of Baltimore.”

“You just want to know what happened.”

“Is there a problem with my choice?”

Alana Bloom smoothly enters the conversation, scooping up the other files and sliding them into a drawer. “Of course not,” she says soothingly. Hannibal likely would have been offended by the fact that she thought he needed to be ‘soothed’ if he didn’t know that she was directing it at Jack. He was a smart man and an immensely talented director, but he also had a bit of an ego and a stubborn streak to rival Hannibal’s own. “ Café Eloise it is. I’ll have the staff contact the restaurant to see when we can start. In the meantime…?” She trails off with a gesture towards the file Jack still has pinned to the table under his hands. The director sighs, flips it closed and slides it back to Hannibal.

When he returns to his temporary home, file in hand, he’s feeling nostalgic. Something simple would do the trick for dinner. In the fridge, he finds leftover couscous and a couple nice sea bass filets. Those, along with the rest of the ingredients required, are pulled out and chopped in short order. He starts with heating the pan, throwing in a dash of oil before laying in the slices of eggplants. The sizzle of them frying fills the air. As they cook he grates some lemon zest over the vegetables, cooking them until they brown nicely and soften, the sharp scent of citrus cutting through everything else. 

Once done, the eggplants are set aside on a towel, another dash of oil is added, and in go the shallots and garlic. One after the other, he adds the white wine, sun dried tomatoes, chilies, tomato puree and vegetable stock to thicken, ending with fresh oregano, olives, and yet more tomatoes, creating an appetizing aroma as they cook. Some more oil and lemon zest finishes the sauce and he pulls it off the heat to wait for the fish to be cooked. The fish is nothing special, a simple searing. To plate, the couscous forms the base, sauce poured carefully on top, and the filets placed on top, forming a sharp ‘X’. He takes it to the table, paired with a nice Pinot Gris, and sits to read through the file.

The dinner is excellent, of course. But it’s not the best he’s ever had.

The employee profiles are where he starts. Frederick Chilton, owner, 45. Bought the place five years ago after the tragic death of the founders and former owners. Two of the employees seem to be stayovers from that time; Jimmy Price, 49, host and customer service manager, who has been there an impressive 23 years. The other was the head chef, a 35 year old Will Graham, who has worked there going on 15. Other notable persons included Beverly Katz, 32, the sous chef, and Brain Zeller, 34, the head bartender. These would likely be the ones he spent the most time with, as they held the most power over the fate of the restaurant itself. He scans through busboys and servers and cooks, memorizing them all before he gets to the real meat of the issue.

Anyone applying to be on the show must submit a statement as to why they think they are in need of his assistance, and this one is somewhat remarkable in the fact that the owner seems wholly unwilling to admit as to why. The owner goes on and on about how he thinks the death of the previous owners is driving customers away and that he wants a chance to ‘reinvent’ the business and make it his own. Meaningless drivel, of course, but that was why they had the staff anonymously submit statements too. Often, that was where the truth lies, and this time was no different.

I’m sure Chilton’s told you a bunch of well-worded crap, but don’t be fooled. No one’s eating here because the quality took a hell of a nosedive. Cheapest man I’ve ever worked for.

Chilton wouldn’t know good managing if it hit him in the face. 

He takes half of our tips :(

Sometimes I’m not even sure Chilton understands what ‘food’ is.

And Hannibal’s personal favorite- Chilton is the kind of man who would cut off his own nose the second he got a cold just so he wouldn’t have to spend money on a box of tissues.

Clearly, they’re dealing with an incompetent owner actively running the business into the ground. In some ways, that made his job easier, as the source of the problem was obvious. Unfortunately, that often meant that the source of the problem would be highly resistant to any sort of change for the better.

Hannibal flips shut the folder, standing to take his empty plate back into the kitchen to clean. This season was shaping up to be an interesting one. After all, he had never been one to back down from a challenge.

On the next season of Restaurant Surgery…

An award winning eatery in the heart of beautiful Baltimore with a pulse that’s quickly weakening. The voiceover plays over shots of the exterior, a two story affair with a brick exterior nestled between its neighbors. The front entrance is mostly large windows, bisected by a door, all of which have curtains that are either tied back when the place is open or drawn when it’s closed. It's intercut with old photos of the previous owners, identified only as Eloise and Howard. Once one of the hottest places to eat and packed to the brim, now it struggles to fill the dining room on a Saturday night. Photos, at least a decade old, showing the interior filled with people. The dining room is narrow but extends backwards a fair amount. Small tables are artfully arranged with crisp white tablecloths until halfway down the room, at which point the right side moves against the wall and transforms into much larger tables and several booths. On the left is a full bar with polished wooden countertops. Frederick Chilton, the current owner, bought the business following the tragic deaths of the previous owners. But to him, it feels like the restaurant died with them.

“I don’t know what happened,” Chilton tells the camera. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into this place and gotten nothing in return.” 

The loyal clientele is slowly slipping away and the restaurant is on life support. 

“Sometimes I just feel like…” Chilton trails off, like it’s hard for him to admit. The acting is painfully bad. “I feel like I’m fighting, not just against the shadows of a tragedy, but against the staff as well.” It changes to another shot, one of Chilton sitting down at the bar, feigning exhaustion, unaware of the fact that Zeller behind him quietly scoots to the opposite side to be as far away from his boss as possible. The camera zooms in on the faint look of irritation and disgust on his face. A man battling with a failing restaurant, worried that his own staff doesn’t respect him.

“Probably because we don’t respect him,” a dark-haired woman tells the camera. “You have to earn that. He seems to think he just bought it along with the rest of the restaurant.”

“Forty years this place has existed- thrived, even.” It’s Price now, looking resigned. “Chilton’s torn it down in five.”

With an inexperienced manager and an unsupportive staff, chances of survival seem low. Will Chef Lecter- it’s footage of him now, snippets of cooking and from earlier seasons flashing by in an instant- be able to save them? Tune in to find out, on the next season of- Restaurant Surgery!

Jack lets the theme song play out before turning off the television and then turning back towards Hannibal. “Well?”

“It seems… short.”

Jack nods. “We’re going to pad it out with b-roll, but this will be the core of it. I can send you the final product if you want.”

“No, that will not be necessary. I must ask… have you not spoken to the head chef?” The omission of who could easily be the main focus of the season was glaring, the sort of error his crew did not make.

“We did.” The man does not look pleased when he says it. “Would have been a nice counterbalance too, since he actually defended Chilton. But when we played it back for him he suddenly asked us not to use it and clammed up.”

Interesting. “And we do not wish to get on his bad side quite so early on,” Hannibal elaborates, and Jack nods. “Do you still have the footage? I’d like to see it even if it won’t be used.”

“Yeah, give me a second- alright, here it is.” He turns the television back on, now showing a paused video of the head chef sitting in a chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

“He’s just dealing with a difficult situation,” Will insists to the camera. “This is a tough business. Not everyone can just hit the ground running.” It sounds sympathetic, but Will’s hands are tight around his forearms and his tone is a bit too even and perfectly controlled. Like he’s rehearsed this. Like it’s fake. “I’ll be here for Café Eloise no matter what.”

And then, for the briefest flash of a moment, Will looks absolutely furious. There is a great deal of resentment there, and it runs deep. For whatever reason Will does not feel as if he can truly speak his mind. Perhaps that is why he asked them to shelve the clip; he saw how close his honest emotions were to slipping out, and was too afraid that someone else would see it too.

There must be something else going on here, beyond simply having a terrible boss. Maybe he can look into it in his own time. “What a shame,” is all he says to Jack. “It would have fit in nicely. Nothing to be done for it, I suppose.”

The man across from him leans back in his chair. “You’ll be flying out Sunday, and Monday will be your first day at the restaurant. Just make sure to keep me updated as usual, alright?”

“I think it’ll go quite well.”

“Sure hope it does,” Jack grumbles, and Hannibal once more fights the urge to sigh.

~~~

“Beautiful building,” Hannibal comments, and the camera turns to pan over it. It’s a clear, sunny day and Hannibal is clad in one of his signature suits, a dark navy pinstripe with a white shirt and maroon tie. “Fantastic location as well, right in the heart of downtown Baltimore. Let us go inside.”

Hannibal opens the door and enters the restaurant, camera crew following behind. He visibly pauses when he sees the interior. Camera pans again, revealing an interior that does not remotely match the beautiful brick exterior- cheap wooden chairs, tables that look like they were bought second-hand from a diner, pale yellow walls. “Not what I had expected or remembered,” Hannibal murmurs back to the crew, low enough that it’s likely it won’t be overheard.

A man is on him in seconds- the owner, not the host, and his name and position is superimposed beneath him for several seconds. He’s dressed in a nice enough suit and serves as yet another strange contrast to the environment. “Chef Lecter!” he greets, smiling broadly. “Good to see you!”

“You are Frederick Chilton, correct?” Hannibal takes the man’s offered hand and shakes it. “It is nice to finally meet you.”

“Come, sit down!” Chilton beckons Hannibal in, but the chef notices something sitting on the host station and hangs back to examine it. A statue of a winged woman, almost angelic, a sword held out in her hands, gaze turned up towards the sky. “Ah, beautiful, isn’t it?”

“An unusual choice in decor.”

“Yes, well, the previous owners were devout Catholics. It’s of Saint Lidwina, patron saint of restaurants and eateries. I always thought she deserved to remain, out of respect.”

Camera zooms in on Hannibal’s face, to show his raised eyebrows. “Is it now?”

The footage cuts to a man- Jimmy Price, head host, the text identifies him- speaking to the camera. He's positioned against an empty section of the dining room wall, a pale yellow backdrop behind him. “Yeah, it’s a statue of Nemesis. Eloise always liked to put her there and say she’d go after people who stiffed us on the tips. What did he tell you it was?” He leans forward as someone off camera can be heard faintly telling him the answer. Immediately he leans back, laughing uproariously.

It cuts again, this time to Beverly Katz, sous chef, sitting in the same spot. “My source- confidential, by the way- says that it was supposed to have been a joke, except Chilton immediately accepted it.”

Yet another cut- and now we’re on Hannibal. “Saint Lidwina is the patron saint of ice skaters.”

Back to the previous scene. Hannibal sets the statue down carefully and follows Chilton into the dining room.

~~~

The menu was quite inconsistent and generic, which is disappointing, if not surprising. He remembers Eloise as an elegant Mediterranean restaurant, though it had never been afraid to venture outside of the box it resided in. The waitress- Abigail, she had introduced herself as- smiles pleasantly. She’s wearing slim black pants with a crisp white button-up, the apparent uniform of the waitstaff. “To start with, I’d like to try the crabcakes, and the chopped salad. Then I would like the spinach and ricotta ravioli, along with the steak tartare. The fifth dish I would like to be at the discretion of the chef.”

She keeps up with his order easily, jotting it down on her notepad. “Got it. I’ll bring them out as they’re ready.” With another smile, she gathers up his menu and departs back into the kitchen.

Each dish manages to be progressively more and more disappointing as he goes through them. The lettuce in the chopped salad is browning at the edges, indicating it was pre-cut and freshness was not maintained. The crabcakes were quite obviously frozen, as was the ravioli. The steak tartare- while not poor enough to make him worry for his health, the meat used was clearly of the cheapest quality possible, making the dish borderline inedible. 

And then, of course, the finale. “Our current special- Chili con Carne, with fresh cornbread.”

Hannibal takes exactly one bite of each before setting them aside with the rest, which he requested be left at the table. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, folds it neatly and sets it back onto the table, and motions to the cameras. One by one, he points at the dishes. The salad- “This likely came from a bag, and an old one at that.” The crabcakes- “Frozen, clearly, and no matter how well you heat them back up it cannot be hidden.” The ravioli- “Also frozen, and I suspect the sauce is from a jar.” Steak tartare- “I imagine they got quite the bargain on the ground beef.” Finally, the chili. “For a special, this is quite a pathetic offering. I’m not sure I’ve ever, in my entire life, eaten something with less spices in it. The bag salad had more flavor.” He picks up a piece of the cornbread. “This was quite good, surprisingly. I suppose they can at least do one thing right. Or at least they’ve found the right box mix for it.” 

The waitress materializes as he finishes. Remarkably perceptive, it seems. “May I take your plates?”

In reply, Hannibal gives her a short nod. “Is the cook in the kitchen?”

“Through there,” she answers, pointing him to the back of the dining room, where the door to the kitchen waits. He thanks her and makes his way to it.

This, at least, seems unchanged from how the place used to be; the kitchen is entirely hidden from the dining area, not even a small opening looking into it as is common in many other eateries. It’s a risky design choice, and while the previous owners had earned the trust of their clientele and had nothing to hide, Chilton likely used it as a shield. Just beyond the doors the kitchen is laid out horizontally, a pair of low saloon doors leading almost immediately into the area the chefs reside. Several stovetops and ovens sit against the wall and opposite them is the line itself with plenty of room to hold dishes. A space to walk through cuts through the kitchen there, and beyond that is the prep station, with the dishwasher even further back. This area doesn't match the length of the line and instead turns into what appears to be the walk-in fridge and then the freezer. If you follow the walkway further down it terminates into stairs leading up to the second floor and opposite that, the door to the alley behind the building.

When Hannibal first pushes through the doors into the kitchen, the chef looks oddly startled. Not as if he had been entirely taken by surprise- he had been made fully aware that Hannibal would be coming back here today, there was no way he hadn’t been- but as if he hadn’t heard them coming. Both the head chef and his sous are wearing classic chef’s coats with wide aprons over their pants, while the rest of the kitchen staff is less formally dressed. A quick glance reveals a tidy and organized kitchen. There is a microwave, but it’s towards the back, in a place far too inconvenient to see regular use. 

The man glances at Hannibal and looks away just as quickly. “She made the cornbread,” he says, pointing at his sous chef, who looks somewhat upset at the immediate diversion, but allows him to push past her and further into the kitchen.

Hannibal pauses, and then turns to her. “Hannibal Lecter,” he introduces, because it would be the polite thing to do. “It was very good.”

“Damn, thank you. Oops. Is swearing okay?”

“We can bleep it if we need to,” a tech calls back.

“Got it. Can’t believe I got a compliment from the esteemed Chef Lecter himself. Beverly Katz, by the way.”

They shake hands, make some small talk, and when Hannibal pulls away, she steps out of both the frame and the kitchen so as not to be in the way.

Hannibal approaches the head chef with the distinct feeling that he’s advancing on a cornered animal. “You must be Will Graham.”

“Yup,” the chef answers, not even looking at him. Hannibal, irritated, remains silent, until the chef closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and seems to steady himself. “Yes. Sorry. It’s nice to meet you.”

Everything in his tone is perfectly fake and manufactured just as the clip from the promo had been. He’s looking up now, not quite into Hannibal’s eyes, but close enough for the cameras to think he is. When he holds out his hand to shake it’s with obvious reluctance and so Hannibal takes pity on him, making it quick. “Forgive me for asking, but you pointed me away from you quite quickly.”

“Yeah, uh.” Will’s hand raises, like he’s going to run it through his hair, but retreats. A nervous gesture not entirely conquered. “Sorry. Again. You liked the cornbread and I got the feeling you’d ask. I realize now that probably seemed rude. Was rude.”

An interesting answer, all things considered. Despite having no real way of knowing Hannibal had liked it, the man’s intuition was entirely correct. Maybe he simply has a very thorough understanding of what their food tastes like and knew it was the only thing worth eating. “Apology accepted. Let us talk about the food.”

It’s missable, but Will winces. “Sure.”

“The salad, was it-”

“From a bag mix, yeah.”

“The ravioli and crab cakes-”

“Both frozen.”

The way the man is interrupting him is quickly becoming irritating. “Are you proud of serving food like this?”

It’s an uncomfortable question, one most people respond poorly to. Will, as many before him, falls silent. Just when Hannibal thinks he’s going to ignore the question entirely, he opens his mouth and speaks. “Everything I serve is up to Chilton’s standards.”

A deflection, nothing more. It is evident that it is going to be difficult to get Will to be honest with them. “Why did you choose the special?”

Will’s mouth opens, and then closes. Finally he speaks. “It’s a dish that really captures the essence of the menu.”

The man appears to be frightfully unaware of the state of his cooking, or perhaps he understands far too well. “Would you eat it?”

“No,” Will answers immediately, and then backpedals furiously. “It’s not the sort of thing I personally enjoy.”

“Then why did you think it was acceptable to serve it to me?”

Will blinks, and for the briefest instant, makes genuine eye contact before looking back away. “Because it’s the special.”

Something clicks. “I see. Where would Frederick be, at this moment?”

“Um. In his office, I guess? Upstairs.”

“Through there?” Once Will confirms the directions, he thanks the man and departs.

At the top of the stairs is a hallway with many doors leading off of it. The obnoxiously large nameplate on the closest door identifies the office easily, and Hannibal knocks. When Chilton opens the door he seems caught off guard. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you up here today.”

“May I come in?”

“Filming?” Chilton asks.

“Yes.”

“Give me a second, then.” The door closes, and after some shuffling and banging, reopens fully. “Come on in.”

The office looks very much like it was frantically cleaned if the haphazard pile of papers on the desk is anything to go by, though Hannibal does not call attention to it. It's a smaller office, painted the same pale yellow as the dining room. The desk Chilton sits at is an elegant antique, dark wood with brass accents. Likely inherited from the previous owner. The far end of the room appears to be cabinets and bookshelves, with a sturdy looking safe off to the side. He takes a seat across the desk, in one of the worn-out matching chairs, folding his hands over his knee. “You are aware of the fact that when I first eat at a restaurant for this show, I ask the chef to serve a dish of their own choosing, correct?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Tell me, Chilton. Are you the chef?”

The man looks taken aback. “No, I’m not.”

“Then why did you see fit as to decide what dish the chef would choose ahead of time?”

Chilton can’t hide the shock on his face. Part of Hannibal is surprised his mouth stays closed instead of falling open in outrage. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re implying. If you seem to think I told our chef what dish to serve you, I must assure you that it was entirely his choice. I had no hand in it.”

If he is many things, a good liar isn’t one of them. As satisfying as it may be to push the man and watch him squirm as he’s caught in the lie, it was far too early on in the shooting to already be stirring the pot. Scaring him should be more than enough. “Of course.” Hannibal motions to the camera crew and they halt the recording. “I think we are done for the day. Tomorrow, we will be here early to take a closer look at the kitchen.” He stands. “This will be a long and hard road, Frederick. I must make sure you are ready for it and willing to be fully transparent.”

“I know what this show entails.” It’s said rather sharply.

“Indeed. Tomorrow, then. We shall see ourselves out.”

This may require… a different approach.

That evening, Hannibal takes a bottle of wine and drives to the outskirts of Baltimore.

Chilton’s house is large and ostentatious, in a small neighborhood pretending to be much nicer than it actually is. The houses are far apart and surrounded by walls that give a great deal of privacy, bordering on isolation. While there is a gate at the front there is no code or intercom and it opens automatically as you approach. There are cameras pointed all around the property though they appear to all be props and not actually functional, a visual deterrent and nothing more. After all, a proper security system would have cost a great deal of money for a house like this.

Hannibal parks his Bentley and approaches the front door of the two-story home, a generic affair painted a bland cream color. He can see Chilton’s Mercedes parked in front of the garage instead of inside of it, meaning the room is likely being used for storage instead of its intended purpose. How Chilton has managed to run out of rooms living in a single-family home by himself will remain a mystery. He knocks briskly on the dark wooden door, ignoring the tarnished brass knocker that clearly has not been cleaned in years.

It does not take long for Chilton to answer the door, still clad in his cheap suit, clearly surprised to see Hannibal. “Chef Lecter,” he greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I do believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Hannibal responds. “Please accept this as an apology.” He holds out the bottle of wine, which Chilton takes.

“Oh, how kind of you!” He spins the bottle of bordeaux in his hand to look at the date. “‘94. A good year!”

It had, in fact, been a terrible year for bordeauxs, which was why Hannibal had chosen it. He had been correct to guess Chilton would not know the difference and would pretend that he actually did. “We will be working together very closely going forwards, and I wanted to ensure that things did not sour from the start. I am here to help you, Chilton.”

“Of course,” Chilton agrees. He steps back into the house to set the bottle on some object Hannibal cannot see, likely a small table by the door, before taking his previous place. “I should have warned you about Will as well, so that one is my own fault.”

“Warned me about Will?” A twitch of irritation crosses Chilton’s face when he hears the man’s name.

“Yes. Be careful about what he says. It’s not uncommon for the man to lie to avoid taking responsibility for his own mistakes.”

Though Hannibal was not particularly impressed with the man himself, Will had been quite reluctant to let slip that Chilton had chosen the final dish ahead of time, forcing Hannibal to trick the information out of him in the first place. It’s a far cry from what Chilton seems to have assumed happened. “Does he make many mistakes?”

That makes Chilton outright frown. “More mistakes than correct actions, I’d estimate.”

If Chilton is being honest this is a dire situation indeed. “I see. While we are here, may I ask you a question, Chilton?”

“That would depend on the question.”

“Nothing nefarious, I assure you. I try to speak to each owner about this near the beginning of our show. What drove you to apply for our show in the first place?”

That gives Chilton pause, and the frown turns into one of concentration. “Well, the restaurant is failing, obviously. We need help.”

“What made you choose my show out of the countless similar?” It’s entirely possible Chilton had applied to them all, as that was quite commonly done, and owners that did so tended to be forthright with him.

When Chilton answers, for once, he appears to be genuine. “You have a great track record, but if I had to pick a single reason… it would be the way you get through to people.”

A somewhat unexpected answer. “Oh?”

“You excel at dealing with difficult staff and know when trying to improve them is a lost cause and they should simply be cut loose. I suppose that’s a problem I’m struggling with myself at the moment.”

“You have a specific person in mind, it seems.”

“I do,” Chilton sighs. “You’ll find them soon enough, if you haven’t already.”

“I am assuming it is not someone you could easily fire.”

Chilton shakes his head. “No, it’s far more complicated than that, unfortunately. There are a great many problems with the restaurant and many of them can be traced back to this single point.”

Hannibal gets the distinct feeling that while what Chilton is saying may be correct, he may be tracing them back to the wrong point of origin altogether. It is far too soon to tell. “Whatever the problem is, I assure you that we will find it and deal with it. If necessary, we will remove it entirely.”

In response, Chilton gives a relieved smile. “Thank you, truly. I do believe that with your help we can lift Eloise out of the slump it’s sadly fallen into.”

“As do I. Thank you for sparing me a moment of your time, Chilton.”

“Thank you for the wine! I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Hannibal nods, and Chilton steps back into the house. “Have a good rest of your night.” Chilton returns the sentiment and closes the door.

Once Hannibal turns away from the house, he remains standing on the steps for a moment. The street is entirely hidden from here and the nearby houses are barely visible. As is, the house is very vulnerable, and if something happened here no one would notice for quite some time.

He descends the steps, enters his car, and returns to the staff house to retire for the night.

Most days, the crew arrives at the restaurant early to set up and check on their equipment. The day of the kitchen inspection might be the only exception.

It’s shot entirely on handycams- something about the less polished look makes it seem more authentic to the viewers. While Hannibal cannot speak for similar shows, his own has never faked this, but in the end you cannot force anyone to believe something, not even the truth. So the smaller crew slips inside without much of a fuss, Hannibal at the lead once they’ve been given the go ahead to start filming.

He hears voices just beyond the kitchen doors and holds up a hand to halt the crew. “-of course he did,” he hears the head chef grumble, an irritation he has never outright seen coloring his tones. The hand held up motions backwards so that the crew backs up and nothing is in danger of being caught on the audio. It isn’t fit for the tone of the show, but whatever he may overhear could prove quite interesting nonetheless.

“Who the hell told him?” This voice belongs to the sous chef. Beverly, her name had been.

“Honestly? Probably no one. I think he just figured it out. Not much we can do about that.”

“You were up there for an hour, Will!”

“I’ve learned to tune him out.”

“You shouldn’t have to take his shit. It’s not fair. If that la-”

“Beverly, stop. Can’t fix the past. Right now, I’m more concerned about our nosey little guest.”

Hannibal ignores the twinge of irritation in favor of continuing to listen. “What, did you think the team coming to reinvent the entire restaurant wouldn’t be poking around in our business?”

“Did you forget that I was against it in the first place?”

“Good point. I mean, if it does get out, what’s the worst that could happen?” There is a heated silence. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s fine. I’ll just have to get better at playing Chilton’s little lapdog.”

“Can’t say I blame you for not even being able to fake it. Speaking of sucking up to Chilton, what color is this week?”

“Oh, um, purple.”

Hannibal steps back. He’ll wait a moment, let the conversation drift further from dangerous waters so they won’t suspect he may have overheard.

The chefs are obviously hiding something, and from the sound of it it’s something significant. A plot to overthrow the owner, perhaps? Will had more than confirmed his suspicions that the two were closer to enemies than coworkers and he was simply lying for the camera. It would be far from the first time that someone had to lie about liking their boss.

It wasn’t that simple, though. Whatever else was going on here, it had caught Hannibal’s curiosity, and he was more than capable of unearthing it.

When they open the doors to the kitchen, Will and Beverly look up to meet them. “Kitchen inspection?” Will asks casually.

“Is this a good time?” Hannibal has no intentions of postponing it, but it never hurts to be polite.

Will shrugs. “Don’t really think you’re supposed to ask ahead of time, but yeah. Go ahead.” He pauses, eyes tracking up and down Hannibal’s body, obviously looking at his clothes.

“Is there a problem?” Hannibal asks him.

That seems to snap Will out of it. “No, sorry. Just weird seeing you dressed like that.”

While the vast majority of the time Hannibal is clad in either suits or a chef’s uniform, the day of the kitchen inspections tend to be the sole exception. He’s wearing khakis and a white shirt in anticipation of a lot of hard work cleaning the place, partly so they can point to his filthy clothes after the fact as a very visible indicator of just how dirty the place had been. “It would not be wise to wear anything I don’t want ruined.”

“Right obviously.” And then Will simply gets back to work prepping for the day.

Feeling oddly scorned, Hannibal moves on. It’s not uncommon for the staff to stay out of the way, and in the years he’s been doing this, Hannibal has found three main reasons for a chef to be so flippant about it. Total apathy is always a possible cause, though from the conversation he overheard it seems unlikely. Confidence is another option, always misplaced. The most common reason tends to be that the staff simply knows how bad it is and has already braced for the worst.

He goes through the kitchen slowly and carefully, examining grease traps and pulling away tables and appliances to check areas often missed. In the walk-in, he does similar, reaching behind the metal shelving and searching for built-up grime. After cleaning off his hands he checks the food, seeing if it has been properly dated and rotated, nothing kept past expiration. Out of date items have been affixed with a red sticker to be thrown out together at the end of the day. An odd practice, but not unheard of. There are items nearing their end, mostly wilted produce and meats beginning to take on an ugly sheen, the sort of thing he would never serve at his own establishments but that cheaper owners tend to stretch as far as they can go. It’s the only real negative he can find.

But then, as he examines a bag of sad lettuce, something catches his eye. In the corner, a small, purple sticker.

He sets the lettuce down and goes back to all of the food he had seen just barely past its prime, things he wouldn’t want to serve himself. More thorough inspection reveals a purple sticker on every one.

Interesting.

“Will,” he calls out, after exiting the walk-in and closing it behind them, once he’s sure the cameraman is out as well. “Could I speak to you?”

The chef looks a touch worried when he raises his head, again not entirely meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “Uh, yeah? Sure. Over there?”

“Over here.”

Will approaches like a wary animal, even now avoiding eye contact. He’s quite good at faking it for the camera in a way that could only have come from a lifetime of practice. The temptation to let the other man stew in his own anxiety is overpowering.

He only indulges it a little bit.

“In all the years I have been in this industry,” Hannibal begins, dragging it out, speaking slowly. It actually makes the other man flinch, and isn’t that satisfying? “I must say; this is one of the cleanest kitchens I have ever seen.”

“Oh,” Will says, oddly soft and relieved. Like he knew very well how clean his kitchen was but was still expecting to be scolded for it. “Um. Thank you.” It’s faint, but he pinkens, just a touch.

Yet another interesting reaction- not for how out of character it seems, but for the fact that it exists at all. It shows that he’s not just obsessed with cleanliness- the compliment affects him because he’s proud of his kitchen.

Quite a contradiction to the quality of the food it puts out.

“I must admit, I’m at something of a loss as to what to do with the rest of our day. Typically the rest of the day is spent deep cleaning the kitchen, but that is obviously not necessary.” Will is shifting away from him, like even being near the words he’s saying makes the man uncomfortable, and Hannibal feels that twitch of irritation once more. Hannibal nods at him dismissively and the chef scurries back over to where he had been chopping up vegetables.

“We could talk to Chilton?” Abel Gideon, the lead editor, suggests. He’s often on site during filming to get the full context of what they capture. “Get a more in depth history of the place.”

“We can stay down here and get more B-roll footage,” Matthew Brown, the man leading the audio crew, casually adds. If he’s trying to play innocent he’s doing a remarkably bad job of it. From the moment he had first seen the irritable chef he had been very obviously smitten.

“No, that is not necessary,” Hannibal cuts in sharply. “We will speak to Chilton.” Brown does not object, though he also doesn’t look particularly pleased.

Chilton, as always, is in his office. It’s much cleaner this time- properly. “Chef Lecter,” he greets as he opens the door for them. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Yes, well, the kitchen was quite spotless, so I’m afraid there is little for us to do today. Would you be amenable to an interview instead?” 

Predictably, Chilton puffs up at the suggestion. “Of course! Here, please sit.”

The crew sets up the smaller cameras on tripods. Not quite the normal quality, but more than enough, and Matthew always carries lapel mics on his person just in case. Soon enough they are set up for the impromptu interview. 

“I know much of this already, from your submission. Would you tell us about the history of Café Eloise under your ownership?”

Chilton sighs and looks away, looking so falsely troubled that it’s almost amusing. “Yes, well. The previous owners- wonderful people, as you know- it was a terrible accident. I, like many others, couldn’t bear to see the place go under. It seemed like the perfect investment. So many of the old staff stayed with us, at first.”

“And then?”

Again, Chilton sighs. “They started leaving. I often feel as if I was trying to measure up to giants. As the staff left, so did the regulars, and it spiraled until we got to this point.”

“Two of them have remained- Price and Graham. Could you tell me more about them?”

“Jimmy is outgoing, very friendly. Very organized, quite good at his job. I’m lucky to have him.”

“And Will?”

“Will was… a disappointment, speaking honestly.” Chilton’s fingers are tapping along the desk in irritation. “I had high hopes for a chef who had worked alongside Eloise, and bless him, he’s trying. He just can’t keep up.”

How cruel. “In what way?”

“He always seems… distracted. He’ll make mistakes with discarding product, send out the wrong orders to the wrong tables, cook things wrong- we get so many dishes coming back it’s a wonder I’m making any money at all.”

Hannibal is about to make the same suggestion he always does- that maybe, just because the chef has been around so long, it doesn’t mean they belong there. But something floats through the back of his mind. Subpar product, carefully marked with a purple sticker. It’s best to change track entirely. “Tell me about your history, Chilton.”

Now that, the man has no trouble talking about.

Saturday arrives and Hannibal is at the restaurant to observe a dinner service. The kitchen seems to be operating smoothly, Beverly keeping everything in order and directing people as needed.

And it is Beverly, because the head chef, Will, isn’t even present.

When he had asked her where the man was, she simply told him he wasn’t coming in today. Unacceptably negligent. Despite Chilton’s personality, he may simply be correct that the chef is a source of many problems for the establishment. There isn’t much to comment on until the man in question walks in.

Beverly hurries over to him. “Will, I told you a thousand times you didn’t have to come in today.”

“It’s Saturday,” he says simply. “Of course I’m coming in.”

“You’re making me look like a liar to all the TV cameras we have wedged in here, dude.”

Will just shrugs. “Where are we at?”

“You really don’t listen. Well, since you’re here, how’d it go? Can I call you-”

“Later,” Will cuts in, weirdly sharp. “What still needs to be done?”

Will slots into the process smoothly and everyone in the kitchen has no issue following his lead. If Hannibal had just walked into this kitchen, everything would seem to be functioning perfectly.

But he cannot let the absence slide. “Will,” he calls out. “I’d like to speak with you.”

Will seems to have been expecting it because he motions Beverly over and she takes over his work so easily she may as well have been doing it in the first place. Hannibal guides them towards the back of the kitchen, somewhere a bit more private. “You came in very late today.”

“Yup.” Will is bristling. It could not be more clear that this is a conversation he does not want to have.

“Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“School.”

“School,” Hannibal repeats back. Far be it from him to disparage someone trying to reclaim the education they never received, but his behavior had bordered on irresponsible. “Head chef is a great deal of responsibility, Will. If you are not fully committed to the position there is no shame in relinquishing it.”

And Will, for a split second, looks at him in a way so unexpected that it actually manages to catch Hannibal off guard. Fury, that much is clear, but underneath it there is bitter resignation, like he’s expected it to be seen this way. Expectations aside, he clearly was not ready for it, because along with the rest he sees a deep, all-encompassing hurt.

Will doesn’t say anything, just turns and walks back into the kitchen. It seems wisest to allow the man to go. 

As orders start to come in once the restaurant opens, the kitchen moves seamlessly from prep to cooking. The group works like a well-oiled machine, none of the mistakes Chilton had claimed cropping up in any capacity. The only thing remotely of note is that Beverly keeps pestering Will with vague questions- ‘well’s and ‘how was it’s and the like- until he scowls at her, gives her a thumbs up, and then throws a towel at her when she opens her mouth to continue speaking. It’s all quite boring and would make for terrible television.

All of this changes not an hour in when Chilton comes walking through the door. “Things are picking up,” he announces. “I’m here to help.”

Beverly very clearly smothers a curse. “Thank you, sir,” Will drawls, so void of actual emotion that it may as well have come from a robot.

“Try to do better tonight, okay?” Chilton stage whispers to the chef.

Will smiles, as empty as his words had been. “Yes, sir.”

It does not take very long for things to fall apart from here. Chilton will take dishes seemingly at random, sending them out with the waitresses without more than a second glance. If someone orders a burger, they get the first one Chilton sees, regardless of if it’s cooked correctly or even has the right sides. Dishes start coming back in waves. 

Hannibal watches closely, motioning Francis Dolarhyde, the man in charge of the camera crew, over. “Stay on Will,” he murmurs to him. “I want at least one camera on him at all times.”

“Understood,” Francis answers with a grunt. He moves back to pass the order on to all the cameras and they move to follow it.

He sees it happening, Will silently correcting all of Chilton’s mistakes, but he’ll need to watch the footage more closely to see the scope of it. When Chilton grabs the wrong dish, Will notices immediately and keeps track of what goes where, what will most likely need to be cooked anew, and what dishes tables are now missing. On more than one occasion he bypasses Chilton entirely when the man’s back is turned, handing food directly to a waitress. Abigail, the girl who had waited on him the first day, seems to most commonly be on the receiving end of this. Beverly’s contribution is a reordering of tickets to the point where they no longer make chronological sense, but instead trick Chilton into bringing out the right dishes. 

In any other kitchen, it would be utter chaos. Here, the moment Chilton arrived, Will took full control of the kitchen. Not one thing is done unless Will asks it to be. It’s not how he would prefer to run his kitchen- that much was obvious from the way it had functioned before disaster struck. It’s simply what they are forced to do to mitigate the damage. 

What an eye-opening dinner service this turned out to be.

They do short interviews with some of the staff after, Hannibal choosing the people he would like to speak to. Abigail is up first.

“I noticed, throughout dinner service, the chef would often hand you dishes directly instead of going through the expo. Is that normal?”

“He just does it if it’s something that needs to be remade,” Abigail answers. Provably false. “Just makes it faster.”

Next up is Jimmy, who had worked at the host station. “Is this typical for a Saturday night?”

“Of course!” Price answers cheerfully. The man had had a busy night of placating angry guests and stopping walk-outs. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Chilton, unsurprisingly, does not have much to say. “He’s always like that,” he mutters, clearly irritated. “Will. Ruling that kitchen with an iron fist. I can’t imagine the rest of the staff enjoy it.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows raise. He cannot help but agree.

When he goes back into the kitchen- he’d like to speak to, if not Will, at least Beverly- she’s heckling him, as usual. “I’m going to get it framed for you.”

“No, you’re not,” Will grits out through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to get it framed and it’s going up right there, above the dishwasher.”

“You’re definitely not.”

“Do you already have it? I’ll break into your house to steal it and get it framed if I have to.”

“No, they don’t just hand it to you then and there, I still technically have to graduate before-” Will notices Hannibal and cuts himself off abruptly. “Chef Lecter.” 

“I can talk,” Beverly cuts in immediately. “Either one of us is fine, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Hannibal confirms.

Will shoots her a grateful look. “I’ll take out the trash.” And he goes.

They move into the dining room to talk. “As far as a weekend dinner service goes, was this normal?”

“Business as usual,” Beverly answers with a sly smile. 

“The kitchen worked very well together, with one exception.”

She laughs. “I mean, that’s one way of putting it.”

“How would you put it?”

“He just.” She looks frustrated, and suddenly so tired. “He micromanages. Needs to put his little hands in everything. It wouldn’t be a problem if he could actually do it right, but, well. You saw it.”

“Once things started going wrong, Will seemed to take much tighter control of the kitchen. Does that bother you?”

“Well…” She trails off and looks away. “Yeah. But only in the sense that it shouldn’t have to happen in the first place. Will doesn’t like doing it either, but, well. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Thank you for your time.” Hannibal, for a moment, pauses. If he’s to get to the bottom of this, Beverly could be a powerful ally to have. He motions for the cameras to cut. “This is not something I would normally say.”

Her eyes sharpen. “If it’s a secret, I can keep it. Probably.”

“Not entirely. I simply want to make one thing clear; the first episode may not necessarily reflect the goal of the series going forward.”

“Wow, I think you could have made that a bit vaguer if you really tried. Noted.”

The crew wraps up and returns to the house to discuss how the episode should play out. All of them have noticed the tension in the restaurant and have been operating under the assumption that it will be a major focus of the season, particularly the thorny relationship between the owner and the head chef. None of them are particularly impressed with Chilton at the moment, though Will is more of an unknown than anything else. Gideon presents several options for the path of the episode and the one Hannibal chooses draws an irritated noise out of Brown.

“If we were always going to go this angle, why did you have us get all that footage?”

“So we can pivot later,” Margo Verger muses. She had originally joined the production to head the redesign segment, and once their old social media manager stepped down it seemed like a perfect fit. She balances both jobs with ease. “The twist is more exciting.”

“We must use footage that not only highlights the unrest in the staff and chaos in the kitchen, but can later be expanded upon to show the truth of the matter later.” Hannibal’s attention is split between his laptop and the conversation. It shouldn’t take much longer to find. “If anything, the audience should feel sorry for poor Chilton and the way he’s treated.”

“It’s dishonest,” Alana frowns. “Particularly if we’re considering turning this back around on Chilton later on.”

Gideon, on the other hand, looks elated. “I love it!”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. It’s verging on slander.”

“Would it soothe your conscience if I told you that I overheard the chefs talking in the kitchen about how, after I approached him about deciding the menu for my visit ahead of time, he hurled abuse at our Will for nearly an hour?”

“Him deserving it doesn’t make it any less dishonest.”

Margo chimes in. “It does make good television.”  

“I suppose it does,” Alana sighs, leaning back in her chair. “You’re already quite certain about where you want this to go, Hannibal. Do you have a reason why?”

“One moment, please.” He’s nearly there- and then he has it. “Do you remember the excuse Will gave me when I inquired as to the reason for his lateness?”

“School,” Matthew groans. “Has to be a lie, right? No effort put into it.”

“Not a lie, as it turns out. Simply an understatement.” He turns the computer towards Alana and as she scans the screen, her eyes go wide. 

“Hannibal, how did you even get this information?”

“How indeed?” He turns the computer back towards himself. “He was at Rutgers, defending a dissertation for his doctorate. Successfully, I might add. Accepted with no revisions.”

Everyone at the table falls totally silent. Matthew’s mouth even falls open in shock. It’s only broken by a low whistle from Gideon.

“He what? ” Matthew manages, after closing his mouth.

“If you were looking for easy prey, Matthew, you may wish to look elsewhere. There is no telling what else the man is hiding.”

“How do we know for sure that it’s him?” Margo points out, quite reasonably.

“Beverly nearly called him something, but she cut him off,” Alana thinks out loud. “It could have been ‘doctor’.”

“She spoke of framing something later on, and he informed her that he still had to graduate to receive it. That aligns with the process of receiving a Phd.”

“So, what is this? An academic moonlighting as a chef?” Matthew crosses his arms in front of his chest. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Does him being a chef who got a doctorate on the side make any more?” Margo counters. 

Gideon laughs. “Oh, this is getting quite interesting, isn’t it?”

“You know, our goal here is still to help the restaurant.” Alana is rubbing at her brow as she speaks. “He could be a superhero's secret identity and that wouldn’t change anything.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal agrees. “What I mean to point out is this- he is undeniably keeping secrets, and from what I’ve seen and learned, it is not unreasonable to assume the core problem of the restaurant is one of them.”

Francis finally decides to speak. “He has worked there fifteen years, but Price has worked there even longer. Despite this, only Graham is mistreated.”

“Is he directly involved?”

“Margo, could you find someone to look deeper into how Chilton came to be owner of Café Eloise ?”

“Of course.” She stands. “I hope you’re not implying he had a hand in the deaths of the previous owners.”

“That would be ludicrous,” Hannibal answers smoothly. “Do let us know if you uncover anything.”

She departs, and Alana straightens up. “So, just to make sure we’re all on the same page. We’re narrowing our focus from here on out.”

Hannibal finishes her statement. “The focus of the next episode, and perhaps the season going forward, will now be our mysterious Will Graham.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal has made very little headway with Will. The man seems to have noticed their new focus almost immediately and has clammed up in a rather impressive manner. It’s gotten to the point where the food that he puts out is so impressively mediocre that Hannibal, despite himself, can’t bring himself to trust his own intuition.

Eloise had been a very highly respected chef, and no one that worked alongside her could be truly talentless. Though the scope of his abilities was unclear at best Hannibal knows Will must be capable of more than he is seeing. 

He has been biding his time, though, and the day he’s been waiting for has finally arrived. Will isn’t working today, and Hannibal will be in the kitchen with Beverly. It will be far easier to ask questions when the man himself is not present to miraculously halt them from even being spoken aloud. The pair of them are in the kitchen, working side by side, Beverly in her chef’s uniform and Hannibal in a more stylized version of the same.

“I nearly had to force him to stay home, you know,” Beverly sighs. She’s so forthright with Hannibal that it may be entirely to make up for Will’s closed-off nature. “Dude would probably sleep here if he was allowed to.”

“Is he that dedicated?” It has likely intensified, once Will caught on to his intentions.

Nothing they are working on is terribly complex; Beverly is simply walking him through the daily prep routine, ostensibly so he can check for small errors that may be affecting service further in the night. “This is his life. I know you probably have doubts about that, but you’ll just have to trust me on this one, alright? If the building caught fire he’d be here throwing buckets of water on the flames.”

“You need more than simple passion to succeed.”

Beverly’s hand tightens on the knife and when she cuts into the carrots, it’s far more forceful than is necessary.

Hannibal watches her cut the carrots into uneven chunks. “I apologize if my words have offended you.”

She turns away from the cameras and speaks quietly, so the audio will be borderline unusable. “I want to tell you. I really, really do.”

“But you cannot,” Hannibal extrapolates, equally quiet. “What if I find out without being told?”

“Hannibal,” Brown calls out. “You’re too quiet. Speak up.”

“Yes, of course,” he answers, raising his voice to a normal volume. “And after the carrots?”

“Potatoes.” The chunks of vegetables are slid off the cutting board into a plastic container, handed off to someone else to seal and date. She picks up the bag of carrots and takes them back to the walk-in, emerging with a cardboard box filled with said potatoes. “Hey, are you allowed to tell me something?”

“It does not hurt to ask.” Hannibal reaches over, pulling out some of the vegetables to wash. “If I cannot tell you, I will simply say as much.”

“Why’d you choose this place?” As Hannibal hands off the potatoes, she begins peeling them. “Not that we don’t have plenty of issues on our own, but we don’t seem half as bad as most of the dumps you end up in.”

It hadn’t made it into the first episode, though they had planned on putting it in somewhere. After the decision they had come to about the course of the show it made more sense to save it for when things started changing track. “I’ve eaten here, almost a decade ago. It was one of the best meals I have had eating out, truthfully. Enough to make an impression. I’d quite like to hire the chef myself, if I knew where they resided.”

“Ask Jimmy. He’s got a good memory. That way you can at least get a new employee out of this.”

“You do not seem optimistic that I can help your restaurant.”

Beverly shoots him a crooked smile. “Maybe you should find out why.”

Once he’s seen enough of the prep work, Hannibal excuses himself from the kitchen and out to the dining room. Jimmy Price is, luckily, both already at work and done with whatever he needs to sort out before the place opens, so he is seated at the bar and talking with the bartender. Talking at him may be more accurate, as Zeller seems to be hard at work cleaning the area while Price just sips at a drink.

“May I sit?” Hannibal asks the man.

“Bartender, another round for my friend!” Price calls out, earning him a fondly irritated look from the man in question.

“He’s drinking a Shirley Temple, you know,” Zeller explains. He looks ready to make the drink, just in case.

“I will have to pass.” When he sits, Hannibal leaves a stool between them, both to give them both space and to better fill the frame when they are filming. “Beverly tells me you have a good memory.”

“Second best in the building.”

“Who has the first?”

“Will, obviously,” Price huffs. “Feels like he remembers stuff from before he even worked here, sometimes.”

Despite his prickly exterior, the head chef seems very well liked outside of the one obvious exception. Pity that said exception also happens to be the one running the business. “My question is quite specific, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not senile yet! If we’re talking who was working on a specific night twenty years ago, you’re gonna have to call that one a loss.”

“What about ten?”

Price throws back his head and laughs. “Is that seriously the question? Oh, dang.” Zeller wordlessly hands him a tissue, which he uses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Classic. Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. No chance I’ll remember, but Will probably would.”

“The man is not what I would call open with me.”

“Wait, I’ve got this. I’ll give you my three step program for getting antisocial, intensely private chefs to be honest with you. Ready?” He waits for Hannibal to nod before continuing. “First off, get someone else to ask him the questions. Someone he’s never met, if you can arrange that. He’ll be less closed off with someone he hasn’t looked at before, especially if you’re just fact checking something. Second. If you wanna talk to him yourself, ambush him right when he gets here. Before he remembers Chilton exists. Finally- ask him to cook for you.”

The first thing Jimmy had said was phrased in a way that piqued Hannibal's interest. Someone he hasn’t looked at yet. Could there be a far less obvious answer for the reason he avoids eye contact so diligently?

If he opened up the man’s skull, what would he find inside? His brain, glossy and reflective like a mirror?

“He has cooked for me, if you recall.” 

Jimmy claps Hannibal on the shoulder. “Three steps. You’ll catch him off guard by the time it’s over if you move quickly.”

“Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

For a moment, Jimmy’s cheerful disposition sombers. “Beverly isn’t the only one hoping for a change.”

All Hannibal can do in response is nod. Jimmy spins back towards the bar and slaps the counter. “Vodka tonic, barkeep!”

“I have work to do, you know,” Zeller grumbles, refilling the soda.

“Work I offered to help you with, if you recall.” Jimmy’s voice fades out as Hannibal makes his way back to the kitchen, turning over Price’s words in his mind.

That night, Alana does not seem happy.

“We can’t use any of this, Hannibal.” She’s scrubbing through the footage, nursing a drink. “As b-roll, maybe. This is just you colluding with the staff. If this is going somewhere, it better get there fast.”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

She doesn’t look like she entirely believes him. “I’m choosing to trust you on this, Hannibal. Don’t waste that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, if you wouldn’t mind- could you point me in the direction of Margo?”

~~~

The camera follows Hannibal as he walks into the restaurant, clad in a dark red suit with matching tie over a crisp white shirt. His voice speaks over the footage.

There is a reason that, out of all the restaurants crying for help, I chose Café Eloise. A desire to help- that has not changed. But here, there is something more.

Hannibal enters the kitchen and a camera zooms in on Will, just putting on his apron for the day. He looks startled.

A decade ago, I ate here. The meal was beyond excellent. To this day, I still consider it the best of it’s kind, and I have always regretted not saying as much.

“Will, good day. May I ask a favor of you?”

“Uh.” The man is glancing between all the cameras warily. “Yeah?”

“Would you cook me a meal?”

The chef now looks both confused and irritated. “I guess? What do you want? Something off the menu?”

“No.” Hannibal steps closer, with the line still between them. “I want you to cook me something you would serve to me. Not what Chilton tells you to.”

Will falls silent, staring at the counter, before finally, slowly, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, soft and resigned. “Alright. I will.”

The footage cuts further forward, to when Will has acquired the ingredients he needs. Currently, he is seasoning a beautifully fresh filet, trout, while oil heats up in a skillet behind him.

Foil-wrapped fish is a dish of contradictions. It is popular for its simplicity and ease, though while it is simple to cook well, it is nearly impossible to cook perfectly. If it is even offered, most restaurants will simply unwrap the dish before sending it to table to be sure it is cooked correctly. 

Quickly and carefully, Will sets the filet in the pan, skin side up. As it cooks he moves through the kitchen, putting away things he has finished with them and pulling out what he will need next. Minutes later, he flips the fish in the pan with a spatula. It sizzles as it hits the pan. Not once does he look at the time and he barely gives the fish a second glance.

Café Eloise was not most restaurants. The meal I received was still fully sealed, the steam pouring forth once the foil had been opened more than enough proof of such. Inside the cavity of the fish, the fennel, capers and lemons were arranged precisely, almost artistically, and not so much as a single leaf had been moved out of place in its journey to my plate. The flesh separated from the bone effortlessly.

It cuts ahead again, to a covered pan on the stove. Will removes the lid, glances down at the fish, and sets the lid aside. Using the spatula once more he eases the filet out of the pan, peeling it away from the skin and onto a plate. The skin is scraped out and discarded. 

It was too perfectly done to have been a fluke. I think of the dish, every so often; a rare moment when I felt like a child again, inexperienced and awed before a master.

The heat is turned down but not off, diced garlic tossed into the pan along with white wine and some lemon juice Will has just squeezed. It simmers and is then removed. Still hot, he adds parsley and butter, stirring the sauce until it is creamy and yellow. With a large spoon, he ladles the mixture over the fish and finally brings it to Hannibal, waiting at the small table in the kitchen the staff often eats at.

Will stands nearby as Hannibal picks up his fork, cuts off a piece of trout, and brings it to his mouth. He chews slowly, savouring the taste as his eyes close.

Imagine my surprise when I found that this very chef has been under my nose this entire time.

It cuts to footage taken earlier, an interview with Will. “Oh, uh, foil-wrapped fish? Sea bass with fennel and capers, right?” A short cut, where Margo asking another question has been edited out. “That was my special. If it went out, it was made by me.”

Back to the kitchen, where Hannibal has cleaned his plate. “My compliments to the chef. The sea bass was exquisite.”

Will frowns, confused. “That was trout.”

“Foil-wrapped, I believe?”

And then it clicks, and Will’s eyes widen just before he turns away from the camera. The shot zooms in just enough to show the back of his neck turning red.

~~~

“Thanks,” Will mutters, far too quiet for the mics to pick up. “I should probably be mad about being tricked like that, but just. Thanks.”

“This trout was fresh.”

“Yeah, um.” Will still won’t face him. “Chilton doesn’t buy fresh, says it’s a waste of money. Got it out of a river near where I live.” He pauses, and starts to turn. “Caught it. With a fishing pole. I made it sound like I climbed into the river and caught it with my bare hands.”

Then Will is facing him, and for a moment Hannibal doesn’t even recognize the man. There’s still a faint blush on his cheeks, and though he looks uncomfortable and just as surly as before, he can see what lies beneath it. What he’s been hiding. A great deal of intelligence, sharp wit, and immeasurable talent.

All irritation towards the man vanishes, now that Hannibal knows who he truly is. He’s looking at an equal, at the very least.

He finds himself now more acutely aware of… other aspects of the man, as well. “Oh, dear. Have I eaten your dinner?”

“It’s fine,” Will answers, shrugging. “Wouldn’t have cooked it if I minded.”

“No, I must insist. Allow me to-”

There is a conspicuously loud cough from somewhere in the kitchen- Gideon, most likely. Hannibal fights back a surge of anger at being interrupted. “I would like to speak to you. In private.”

Suspicion is clear across Will’s features. “As in no cameras?”

“I promise not to murder you.”

Unexpectedly, Will lets out a sharp bark of laughter, so sudden even he looks like he hadn't expected it. “Yeah, all right. Guess you’ve got too much to lose. Do you mean… right now?”

“Could the kitchen spare you?”

“Um.” Will turns, catching the attention of another chef- Beverly isn’t working today, it seems. “Think you can handle things for a while?”

“Sure,” the chef calls back. “Should be a slow night, anyways.” Will thanks them, and heads back to put his apron away.

Hannibal takes the opportunity to wave over Gideon, who looks quite delighted at the situation unfolding before him. “Until I return, you may catch up with the staff. Talk to them about their feelings so far.”

“Planning on being gone for a while, hm?” When Hannibal doesn’t respond, Gideon looks very much like he wants to roll his eyes. “Got it, boss.”

Will returns. “Where to?”

Hannibal leads him out of the building, ignoring the curious looks from the restaurant and filming staff alike. When it becomes clear they are approaching a car Will slows but does not stop entirely. He climbs in without protest and seems to be muttering to himself. 

“Is there something you would like to say, Will?” Hannibal buckles himself in and watches for Will to do the same before starting the car. 

“Bentley,” Will says, louder this time. “Of course it’s a Bentley. You know, I expected something more along the lines of talking outside of the restaurant, not to be carted away in a car worth more than I am.”

It seems like Will has given up entirely on maintaining his timid persona, something Hannibal is grateful for. This version is far more interesting already. “Self-deprecation is not an attractive trait, Will.”

“Meant that literally. Doesn’t cost that much to buy a person, you know. Costs even less to end one. You planning on telling me why we’re driving off?”

What must it be like, in that mind of his? Will must hide himself often to fit in. That’s seeming more and more like a terrible waste. “You will likely feel more comfortable if we are not nearby your place of employment.”

“Near Chilton,” Will clarifies. “I’d feel ‘more comfortable’ if he was under six feet of dirt. You better not be planning on slipping any of this into the show.”

“You have my word.” 

The rest of the drive is mostly silent. Hannibal takes them to a more traditional café, a place with coffee and pastries, a meager selection of breakfast sandwiches leftover from the morning. It’s small and colorful, bright tile flooring and wide windows filling the place with sunlight. It had mostly been a hunch- Will seemed the type to forget to eat, or skip meals simply because he couldn’t be bothered to do so- and it was proven correct when the man sits down at a small table with one in hand.

Hannibal, of course, has just eaten, so he had ordered an americano and nothing else. “They’re very good, are they not?” he muses, nodding towards the sandwich in Will’s grip.

The man, in response, raises his eyebrows, but he also nods. “Don’t really seem like the type.”

“You believe me to consider myself above sandwiches?”

Will just shrugs. “Logically, I know the idea is ridiculous, but when all anyone sees of you is nice suits and fine dining it becomes a bit of a struggle to picture you holding a turkey club.” He takes a bite, waits to finish chewing before continuing. “It is. Good. Of course it would be, since you come here.”

“What makes you think I’ve been here before?”

“That’s not going to work, you know.” Will is starting to look irritated. “If you’re trying to tease something out of me, I can tell you straight away all you’ll achieve is pissing me off.”

It had been rather clumsy, all things considered. Always worth an attempt. “I will keep that in mind. Congratulations are in order, I believe?”

The chef is so startled by it that he bites down more violently than he likely intended, ending with a sizable chunk of the sandwich broken away and in his mouth. He brings a hand up to cover his mouth while he rectifies the problem. When he’s finished, he sets the rest of his meal down, leans back in his chair, and really looks at Hannibal.

He allows the silence for several long moments before forcing himself to break it. For a man who seems to avoid eye contact so strongly, his gaze is quite piercing. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Reevaluating you.” Will doesn’t care to elaborate. “You’re going to be more trouble than I already thought you were.”

“Is that how you see me?” Hannibal shifts, crossing his leg over the other at the knee. “As trouble?”

“You’re like a spotlight.” Interestingly, Will shifts as well, mirroring Hannibal’s posture. “Illuminating all the little corners that should have stayed dark.”

“You talk as if the idea of change is frightening.”

“It’s not change I’m afraid of.” The words are spoken sharply, as if they pain the man they’re coming from. “It’s loss.”

Pushing the man at this stage will only be detrimental and the words are as good a confirmation as any. “Aren’t you going to ask how I knew?”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Will mutters, picking his food back up to finish it off. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Your cooking, of course.”

“Yeah,” Will sighs. Food eaten, he wipes off his hands and immediately puts one on his chin, fingers drumming along his jaw. “Thought so. Safe to assume that’s all gonna be going in the show?” Hannibal doesn’t dignify such an obvious question with a response. “Great. Awesome.” Will grimaces and turns away. 

“Is there a problem?”

“No. None. I’ve been- of course not.” Will turns back, but his eyes are focused on Hannibal’s ear and not his face. “You had questions.”

Hannibal had assumed- hoped, maybe- that the fact that Will was talking to him more meant that he was opening up, but if anything it seems to be the opposite. “I’m having difficulty reconciling the food you have cooked for me with the food you are serving to your customers.”

“It’s Chilton,” Will answers immediately. Perhaps he is more open in some ways after all. “I don’t think he’s ever been told he’s wrong before. Any time I try to correct him or give any kind of advice he gets offended.”

“So you are simply allowing him to walk all over you to the point where your customers are the ones suffering for it?”

Will tenses, the hand on his chin tightening to the point that when he finally removes it, there are red crescent marks left behind by his nails. “If that’s the way you want to see it.” It’s said calmly, like a placid surface hiding turbulent waters underneath.

There is a serious danger of scaring Will off for good if the conversation continues like this, so Hannibal changes track. “May I ask you about something I saw in the walk-in?”

It works, and Will seems almost thrown out of his anger. “The walk-in?”

“Some of the marked product, specifically.”

This time, when Will tenses, it’s like he’s waiting to be struck. “I can only tell you if you can assure me, with 100% certainty, that it won’t end up on air.”

How curious. It’s a small concession, one that will go a long way towards gaining the other man’s trust. “I see no reason why it needs to be aired at this time.”

The other man’s hands fall to the table where they resume their incessant tapping. It’s quite annoying, and Hannibal finds he has to fight the urge to slam his own hands down on top of the others to halt it. “Red sticker means toss, obviously. The. Other color. It changes, supposed to mean reaching the end of its shelf life. Those ones, I ‘accidentally’ throw away.”

Hannibal tilts his head, considering. “Who marks them?”

“I gave that job to Beverly.” Will suddenly smiles, small and amused. It’s a very fetching expression on the man. “Chilton thinks I’m colorblind.”

For a moment, Hannibal is silent. “You’re playing the fool.”

“Already tried meeting him head on. Didn’t work.”

“Surely he knows you are capable, considering your position before he bought the restaurant.”

Will stops tapping on the table and snatches up the wrapper the sandwich had been in instead, ripping tiny pieces off of it. He’s making no effort to conceal how uncomfortable and jittery he feels- perhaps he’s not even aware of how obviously he’s displaying it. “At this point, he likely thinks I was given the job out of pity.”

“Did they have reason to pity you?”

“In Chilton’s eyes, maybe. Typical snobby academic. Get one little piece of paper and suddenly everyone else is beneath you.”

“Yet you are, at the very least, on equal standing, are you not?”

With the wrapper shredded, Will is now absentmindedly moving the tatters around on the table. “ He doesn’t know that.”

“Does he know you are attending classes?”

That smile again, now conspiratorial. “Never asked for what. Kind of hoping he’d try to throw me a patronizing ‘congratulations on your GED’ party just to see how long Beverly could keep a straight face through it.”

It’s cruel, even childish. The way Will says it makes it sound like there’s a real possibility of it happening. “He is… bullying you.”

Will snorts. “Doing his best to, at least. Doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it wrong.”

“How so?”

At those words, Will looks up, and for a brief moment their eyes meet. Will’s gaze is calculating and defensive. “Bullying doesn’t work if the victim values your opinion somewhere below that of the maggots and flies in the dumpster.”

It’s an interesting comparison. Hannibal glances down at the table- Will hadn’t been arranging the bits of paper randomly, apparently, because they have assembled themselves into the shape of a dragonfly. Will looks down as well, sighs, and with one movement gathers all the pieces together in a pile. “May I ask what your field of study was?”

Will watches him, searching for something- whatever it is, he seems to find it. When he speaks, the words are said cautiously, every syllable carefully enunciated. “Forensic Entomology.”

Not remotely what Hannibal would have guessed. It’s enough of a surprise that he knows he’s remained silent for too long. “Apologies. It was, admittedly, not an answer I expected.”

“Can’t blame you. Pretty far off from my current job.”

“Would you be willing to share the reason why you chose the field?”

The chef leans back in his chair, arms crossing across his chest, head tilting to the side. It seems that he can tell Hannibal holds genuine interest and is being remarkably honest because of it. “Always liked insects, can’t really spare the time to do a lot of field research. With this, it’s not something I can collect my own data on often, so most of my time is spent pouring through the work of others and building off of that. I had bugs, a while ago, at Rutgers; you can only get so far using dead animals and the college wasn’t exactly pleased when I asked for human cadavers.” Will says it in a joking manner, but the thread of truth lies buried underneath.

“And the applications?”

“Time of death, mostly. You get a body too far gone for the medical examiner to pinpoint it so you use the bugs instead.”

Hannibal smiles, faint and fleeting. “At least the maggots and flies in the dumpster can tell how long the food’s been rotting.”

The smile that grows on Will’s face to match is crooked and pleased. It changes the way he looks at Hannibal. Before, his gaze had been cautious, but now, it is appraising, and satisfied with the result. 

“What are your plans for it going forwards?”

Will, finally, runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the curls even further then they naturally were. “Honestly? Not really sure. Probably focus more on literature- it’s not exactly a high-demand job. Make the information accessible for as many to use as possible. Probably consult, if they keep asking me to.”

“Have you consulted for the police already?”

Will stiffens, noticing the slip. His face closes off, not out of self-preservation, but necessity. It’s not that he doesn’t want Hannibal to know- he simply cannot discuss it. “I’m not entirely sure that’s relevant.”

“Of course. I simply find myself to be curious and apologize if I overstepped.”

That earns him a shrug. “I kept talking about it too. You know how us weird bug people are, the second someone shows a sliver of interest in our field we launch into an hour long speech about it.”

“Has no one asked before?” The idea that no one has shown interest or a willingness to listen to Will seems like a terrible injustice. Hannibal is starting to think he could listen to, and watch, Will for hours on end. 

Likely not the healthiest idea to have, particularly when even just earlier this day Hannibal still viewed Will as a mild annoyance at best. The change had been swift and devastating. And entirely justified, Hannibal adds as Will continues talking. “Tends to kill the mood when someone asks what you study and you have to tell them most of the hands-on work you do is picking bugs out of corpses.”

Something Hannibal has personal experience with, unfortunately. “Sounds quite difficult.” The man sitting across from him is remarkably perceptive and until he works out the extent of it it would be best to avoid such subjects entirely. “I must say, I am very interested in your field of study and would like to hear more.”

Will blinks, cocks his head. Always watching. “But.”

“If we veer any further off course you may be returning dangerously close to the start of dinner service.

The man’s eyes widen, like he hadn’t even considered that, and then he does something unexpected- he laughs. It lights up his face, makes him look so utterly delighted that Hannibal finds his hands twitching towards the table, looking for a charcoal pencil that is not there. “Christ. I nearly forgot. So, what is it? Do you have some grand plan?”

Hannibal thinks he may, in fact, have one slowly taking shape. “A small start, perhaps. The menu.”

Will nods. “I expected a menu change, yeah. Can’t say I’m particularly attached to what we have. If you’re planning on doing it now, we don’t exactly have the time.” Looking at him, Will’s face falls. “I’m not going to like this, am I.”

“I would like you and Chilton to work together to create a new menu. With my assistance, of course.”

The man’s head falls backwards, stretching his neck in a pleasing arc. One hand is brought up to rub at his temples. It continues to do so as Will rights himself. “Pretty sure I already told you he won’t listen to me. Plus, do you even want his input?”

“As the owner, his input is important to the business.” Will spots the avoidance of the question and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

“Still doesn’t mean he’ll listen to me.”

“He’s far more hesitant to badmouth you in front of the cameras. It is likely that he will be far more willing to compromise when his behavior will be broadcast to millions, and I will be present to ensure things remain fair. I realize this may sound patronizing, but they could seat me next to you to bolster the weight of your opinion in his eyes.”

“And make him think we’ve been conspiring?” Will waves a hand dismissively. “Absolutely not.”

“Arguably, even the idea that I have seen fit to conspire with you may force him to face the fact that you are far more competent then he has convinced himself.”

“He’ll probably just think I slept with you. It’s been a while since he’s used that one and I’m sure he’s itching to dust it off.”

Hannibal can’t respond to that, not at first. It had been said so casually that Will certainly hadn’t meant anything deeper by it, but innocent or not, it’s seeded something deeply into his brain, a slowly growing idea that cannot be curtailed or removed. He spins the silence into shock followed by disbelief, frowning deeply. “Will, that’s-”

“A pretty pathetic lie, honestly. He really thinks I’m fucking all these restaurant critics just to what, sabatoge his reputation? He’s doing a pretty good job of that all on his own. Maybe you can teach him about Occam’s Razor while you’re at it.”

There is a clock behind Will but Hannibal pulls out his phone to check the time nonetheless. Quite a few missed calls from Alana- he had put it on silent before he began driving, anticipating that she would not be pleased that he had absconded with the eatery’s head chef without even consulting her first. “We should be returning to your restaurant.”

“Yeah, sounds good. I don’t like it, but I’ll do the menu thing. Make sure there are as many witnesses as possible.”

Witnesses to what, Hannibal wants to ask, but he lets the matter drop. 

While the silence in the drive there had felt awkward and isolating, on the drive back it simply feels companionable. They’re about halfway back when Will finally breaks it, speaking softly.

“It won’t change anything,” he murmurs.

Hannibal keeps his eyes on the road, sparing no more than a glance towards the man in the passenger seat. “We would be foolish not to even try.”

“I know, but it won’t work. That’s the other reason I didn’t want you here. Chilton is squeezing the life out of Eloise and there’s not a single thing that would make him change his behavior. You’re tilting at windmills.”

“If you are so convinced that nothing can be done to save your restaurant, why are you putting so much energy into trying to do that very thing?”

He never receives an answer.

Alana at least waits until filming is done for the day before cornering Hannibal.

When he had returned to the restaurant with Will in tow she had given him a look so scathing that he almost believed she would go for him right then and there. If Alana was a less composed person, she may have. Instead, when they return to the house, before he’s even stepped in the door she asks to speak to him in her office.

They had all been allowed to claim their own room in the house though Hannibal got to choose first, picking the master bedroom that had been half converted into an office. It’s upstairs as well, overlooking the garden, an ivy-covered trellis leading up to one of the windows. Alana gets the unique distinction of getting both a bedroom and an entirely separate office as she is essentially in charge of the entire show, at least on-site. It seems to double as a library, the walls filled with bookshelves, a window looking out into the garden forming a comfy reading nook. Her desk is simple and sturdy, beautiful cuts of maple, a row of drawers on one side. It’s kept clean and organized. Right now, her laptop is closed and pushed off to the side, allowing her all the room she needs to glower at Hannibal.

Unlike Jack, Alana knows better than to try and intimidate Hannibal with loaded silences and gets straight to the point. “Hannibal, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Playing dumb won’t do him any favors now. “I felt that Will would not be honest with me if Chilton was nearby, and to a lesser degree the restaurant itself.”

“So you thought abducting him without any prior warning was a viable solution to this problem?”

“He came quite willingly,” Hannibal points out.

“This doesn’t…” Alana sighs, massaging at her temples. A rare gesture from her. “This doesn’t look good, Hannibal. At the absolute best it looks like you’re giving him preferential treatment. You’re lucky no one saw you leaving.”

“And I suppose that the worst is that a gossip columnist catches us eating together and the integrity of the entire show is compromised.” Truthfully, he couldn't care less if something along those lines occurred, but he knows it would devastate the production.

“Leaving out the worst case scenarios, yes.”

“Is what I do in my private life truly so important?” He says it mostly to see the flash of total panic go through Alana’s eyes, and she does not disappoint. 

“Hannibal, you didn’t actually-”

“Of course not,” he reassures her. What he may be planning for the future is irrelevant. “The truth of the matter is simply that I believed he would be more open to conversation elsewhere.”

The look she gives him is dry, like she sees his deeper intentions but trusts him to put them on the backburner for now. Margo must be rubbing off on her. “Can I at least trust you to wait until production has ended before pursuing this, if you’re planning on doing so?”

“You know that I am a consummate professional, Alana.”

All that seems to accomplish is making her look tired. “Don’t do it again. If you want to have therapeutic one on one chats with their head chef, at least do me the service of clearing it with me first. Is it safe to assume that he would not be open to having them be filmed?”

“The chances are vanishingly low.”

“You realize that everything he tells you is just… hearsay, then. We can’t work with rumors we can’t even film.”

“I am aware,” Hannibal answers tightly. “With the change in his behavior that I observed I find myself believing what he says. Chilton is outright abusive to him, at times.”

Alana falls silent for a moment, considering. “That’s a heavy accusation to make.”

“He does not seem terribly affected by it and would likely not describe it as such.”

“So you’re inclined to believe him because he’s not trying to leverage it to his advantage?”

Hannibal nods. “There is nothing for him to gain from telling me, off the record, that Chilton regularly accuses him of sleeping with critics in exchange for favorable reviews.”

That does it. Alana looks shocked but smooths it out quickly. “That is a level of animosity that takes a great deal of time to achieve.”

“Indeed.”

“How certain are you that he’s not simply appealing to you directly?”

The thought, truthfully, hadn’t even crossed his mind, and the realization of how quickly he had trusted the man who is nearly a stranger to him gives him pause. “While I cannot say for certain,” he says slowly, “it seems unlikely. He appears to shrug off the charade quite quickly if he is found out.”

“Not the type to lie,” Alana simplifies. “At least for his own gain.”

“I would like to believe so.”

When Alana looks at him, her gaze is sharp. If she wasn’t concerned about ulterior motives from Hannibal she certainly will be now. “Will any of this change the direction of the show?”

“Will would not take kindly to us revealing the sordid details of this feud to millions of viewers. Though I do believe it would be beneficial for us to know the greater context, I do not think it will alter our current trajectory.” 

Alana looks like she doesn’t entirely believe him but won’t bother with trying to stop him, either. “Just promise me you won’t spirit away any more employees of the restaurant in the middle of filming.”

“You have my word,” Hannibal lies.

On the way out, he finds Margo. “I’m still working on it,” is how she greets him. “The dearth of information about it is alarming enough on its own.”

Hannibal pauses. “That is not what I have come for, though it does sound quite suspicious. Likely to have been intentionally kept out of the media.”

Margo crosses her arms across her chest with a frown. “You have something else you want me to look into, don’t you. Need I remind you that this isn’t my job?”

“It will be much simpler,” Hannibal assures her with an apologetic expression.

“Yes, well. What is it?”

Everyone in the crew is aware of how he absconded with Will earlier so there is no point in trying to disguise where this information came from. “Will mentioned off-hand that the café would receive reviews where he himself was singled out. I would like to see as many of these as possible.”

“May I ask what you will be doing in your free time while I research this for you?”

“Figuring out how best to preemptively prevent a war.”

She waves him away. “Best of luck with the menu issue. I’ll forward you what I can find later.”

“Thank you, Margo. It is much appreciated.” With that, he takes his leave.

It’s not Will that he is worried about, truthfully. The man is more than capable of pretending to get along with Chilton. In the end, he decides that the best route to take is seating them together so the camera is on them both at all times. Will will not be pleased but he is likely expecting something along these lines.

Before retiring for the night he checks his email, pleased to find that Margo has already sent him the information he had asked for. Reading through the reviews reveals a common thread throughout. All of them are from critics who visited the restaurant before the ownership changed and all of them, without exception, are acutely aware of Will’s true talents. Instead of assuming incompetence in the kitchen they express disbelief that such a great chef could be reduced to this state. Some even get dangerously close to the truth, blaming Chilton for the sharp decline in quality. One goes as far as to admit that Will appears to be doing the best he can with what he has been given. It is easy to see how reviews such as these would have enraged Chilton so.

More interestingly, that same review writes that they understand why Will is trapped here, and how what happened with the change in ownership was truly tragic. At a glance, they could easily be referring to the tragic deaths of the former owners, but it feels like there is something deeper. Some second tragedy that no one appears to know of or acknowledge; a tragedy of justice.

All he can do now is wait for the truth to unfold.

He’s filming a segment with Will similar to the one he filmed with Beverly much earlier, something Will himself points out. “Didn’t you already go over this stuff with Beverly?”

“We did,” Hannibal agrees. They’re chopping vegetables as part of the prep for the day, standing side by side at the prep table. Hannibal is peeling and cutting carrots into chunks, while Will is quartering small potatoes. “This time, I am focusing on another aspect; the food itself. The fastest way to gain a working understanding of the quality of your ingredients is to work with them myself.”

“Mmhmm,” Will responds. “I’m assuming you’re thoroughly unimpressed.”

“It is fresh enough, I suppose.”

“That sounds about right.” 

“What dishes use these particular ingredients?”

Will looks down at his potatoes and over at the carrots Hannibal is hard at work on. “Um, a pot roast.”

“Is that a popular menu item?”

In response, Will shrugs. “It does well enough. Don’t think anyone ever orders it twice, but we don’t exactly get much repeat business in the first place.”

“A pot roast must occupy the oven for some time.”

He nods. “We don’t sell enough of it to make it fresh every day, so Chilton has us save and reheat the leftovers. It’s kind of a crapshoot if you’re gonna get the fresh stuff or the… less than fresh.”

A very common practice, though not necessarily a beneficial one. “How does it keep?”

“Well…” Will trails off, his hands stilling. “It’s not like it’s great in the first place since the meat is so cheap, but it’s definitely not improved by sitting in the fridge for several days.”

“How do you feel about the pot roast?”

“I don’t even think it should be on the menu,” Will responds quickly. He resumes cutting the potatoes. “Um. It’s time consuming and we’re not even doing it well. Then again, pretty sure you could say that about a lot of things on the menu. At least this one actually gets ordered.”

“It would likely be ordered more frequently if there were less options to choose from in the first place.”

“Yeah,” Will sighs. “Yeah, it would.”

The menu is something they will be addressing very soon, likely the next week. The size of it is far from the only problem but it’s one of the most immediately relevant. “These knives are quite dull,” Hannibal comments.

“Yup,” Will agrees. It takes some effort for him to cut through his vegetables. “They’re very old, getting harder and harder to sharpen. It’s also pretty hard to get them sharpened when Chilton refuses to pay for it.”

“Are you able to sharpen them yourself?”

“I could,” Will sighs again. “Chilton doesn’t want me trying it, says I might ruin them. Nevermind the fact that I’d sharpen them back before he owned the place and nothing disastrous happened.”

“So you’re left with dull knives that are likely in need of replacement.” Will nods. “Dull knives are a danger. Chilton may not realize how badly you can cut yourself on one.”

“Not sure he’d even care,” Will mutters. “After all, he’s not the one using them.”

Before he can respond, Hannibal hears footsteps descending the staircase, something Will does not seem to notice. He continues his work but does not speak, waiting for Chilton to make his appearance, and finally the man appears at the bottom of the stairs. “Graham, I need to speak-”

Will clearly had not noticed Chilton in any fashion because at the sound of his voice he flinches. The movement makes the dull knife slip, cutting inwards towards his hand instead, biting deep into the flesh of his palm like Hannibal had spoken the accident into existence moments earlier. “Shit,” Will hisses, dropping the knife down onto the cutting board and pulling his injured hand close to his body, leaving a trail of blood from the counter to the floor. “I think that’s deep.”

The moment Will had cut himself Hannibal had looked around the kitchen, quickly locating a clean towel and collecting it. He gently reaches for Will’s hand and pulls it away from his chest, noting the blood welling up before pressing the towel onto the wound. “Keep pressure on it,” Hannibal tells him. “Sit and keep your hand as high as possible.” Will exits the kitchen, heading to the little break table to sit down and do as Hannibal asked. “Fetch the first aid kit, if you will,” Hannibal tells one of the techs on site. “There should be a larger one for my own use. If you cannot find it, ask Gideon, and he will get it for you.” The tech nods, seemingly a bit shaken by the blood, and scurries off to do as he was asked.

Chilton is still standing at the base of the stairs like he can’t quite tell what to make of the situation. Hannibal spares him nothing more than a disapproving glance before joining Will at the table. There is more blood soaking into the towel than he would have liked, though it does not seem to be enough to indicate a vein was cut into. Will is keeping pressure on it while holding it just above his head. “Let me see it,” Hannibal coaxes, taking the hand and towel in his own when Will allows him to.

“Right,” Will murmurs. “Doctor.”

He only briefly lifts up the towel to look at the wound as it is still bleeding. It starts at the junction between thumb and pointer finger, curving downwards and following the curve of Will’s palm, terminating before it reaches the veins at the base of the hand. It appears to get deeper the further down his hand it goes. He replaces the towel and applies pressure himself to stop the bleeding. 

It’s at this point that Chilton seems to realize there’s nothing he can do here and he returns upstairs. Notably, not once does he ask how Will is doing.

“Do you cut yourself often?” Hannibal asks Will, once Chilton has left. It earns him a withering look.

“Rarely,” Will answers. “This might be the worst I’ve ever done.”

Hannibal presses down harder, eliciting a hiss of pain from Will. “Apologies. Once the bleeding has stopped I can treat the wound myself, though I would understand and not be offended in any way if you would rather see a currently practicing doctor.”

“I...” He seems reluctant to accept the help, but practicality wins out. “If it’s not. Too much trouble.

“It is not,” Hannibal responds. “Forgive me for my pointed question earlier. You seem to be a very careful person, so I was somewhat surprised to see you cut yourself. Did Chilton startle you?”

“I don’t really know, honestly.” It’s very clearly a lie, which is intriguing. It’s such a minor thing to lie about but Will did not even hesitate to do so. In the scant few times Hannibal has seen Will be startled, he knows that the man seems to lock into place in response, so losing control of the knife for that particular reason seems highly unlikely.

Hannibal, notably, has not yet seen how Will responds to fear. It’s seeming more and more likely that he has just witnessed that very thing.

The tech runs back into the kitchen, holding a large white box in his hands. “On the table,” Hannibal tells him, nodding towards the table Will is seated at. The tech sets it down and then backs away to give them space. Hannibal lifts the towel again, seeing that the wound is thankfully only bleeding sluggishly, and then removes it altogether. “We need to wash this before we do anything else.”

Will stands and allows Hannibal to lead him to the dishwashing station, where he uses warm water and soap to gently wash the wound. For his part, Will does nothing more than flinch when Hannibal handles the injury. Likely has a high pain tolerance, which will make the next step easier. Though the wound is still bleeding it is not nearly enough to obscure it or interrupt further treatment. That finished, he guides Will back into the chair and opens the kit, pulling out a gauze pad. “Continue putting pressure on it for now,” Hannibal tells him, returning to the sink to wash his hands and arms in preparation. When he returns he puts on surgical gloves and grabs a pair of forceps.

He quickly confirms that no veins were cut into, though down in the meat of Will’s palm the wound is deeper and gapes. “This will need some stitches,” Hannibal tells the chef. “You did not sever anything important.”

“Oh,” Will sighs. “Should I…” He trails off when he sees Hannibal pulling out a suture kit. “Surgeon. You’d know how to stitch wounds up. Right.”

“Former surgeon,” Hannibal clarifies. “I have a great deal of practice closing wounds.” It’s said with a sardonic ghost of a grin. “Unfortunately, I do not have any sort of topical analgesic for the pain.” The anaesthetics are in the bottom of the kit, tucked away where Will cannot see them.

“Sure,” Will shrugs. “That’s fine.”

“Try to hold very still.” He threads the needle loader and after patting away the blood, he begins stitching the wound closed. Simple interrupted sutures are what he uses, keeping an eye on Will’s reactions for what will likely be interpreted as an effort to make sure he is not hurting the man too badly. He quickly closes the wound and ties off the last stitch, setting the needle holder and scissors off to the side. “Very good, Will.”

Will looks down at the wound, trying to flex his hand and immediately cursing as the pain sets in.

“Please do not do that,” Hannibal chastises. He pulls out some topical antibiotics, applying them to the wound, and then finally bandages the man’s hand. “Reopening the wound will only delay the healing process.”

“How am I supposed to cut things with this?”

“You won’t,” Hannibal tells him honestly. “As far as the prep goes, Miss Katz should be arriving soon enough. Perhaps we should have you try your hand at the expo until your hand heals?”

“Guess I’ll have to,” Will grumbles. He seems more upset by the fact that he can’t cook than the actual pain and damage inflicted by the cut. Then, suddenly, a flash of dread passes across his face, settling quickly into something more resigned. “I need to go talk to Chilton anyways, see what he wanted earlier. I’ll let him know.” Will stands.

“Perhaps you can leverage this to encourage him to buy new tools for the kitchen.”

Will now looks a great deal closer to disgusted. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I want Chilton buying us new knives. I’m afraid of what he’d find.”

“Then at the very least allow you to sharpen them.”

“Maybe,” Will murmurs. From his tone he’s clearly not going to bring it up to Chilton at all. Before leaving, he looks back down at his hand. “Thank you,” he tells Hannibal. “For fixing it.”

“No thanks needed. Keep it covered for at least twenty-four hours, and I will monitor the injury and remove the stitches when needed.” 

Will nods, and then he’s ascending the stairs and vanishes from Hannibal’s sights.

Hannibal has just finished cleaning his tools and putting the kit back together when Beverly enters the kitchen, halting immediately at the sight of the large white box. It’s not long before she notices the blood on the cutting board and floor in the kitchen, and of course the towel soaked with it. “What the hell happened here?”

“Will cut himself during prep.”

She frowns. “That’s a first. He okay?”

“I treated it. He has gone upstairs to speak with Chilton.”

In response, Beverly scowls. “Well,” she finally says. “Guess I’ll go clean up all this blood and then we can get back to prepping, huh?”

Hannibal nods, and moves to help.

Since they are now short a person Hannibal helps the kitchen get ready for the day, though Beverly works so quickly they may not even need it in the first place. She works like a person who is very much used to doing the work of two in the time it takes to do the work of one. He knows that Will is far from inconsiderate or negligent, so it seems somewhat unusual that his sous chef is so used to doing his work on top of her own. At first, he thinks it may be because of the one day per week that Will himself does not work, but as time goes by and Will remains upstairs he can’t help but think there may be another reason for it.

It’s nearly an hour and a half later when Will finally comes back down the stairs. He looks dazed, unfocused, like he’s not entirely sure of where he is at the moment. It’s only briefly, as he soon looks up to see Beverly and Hannibal hard at work and seems to snap out of it. “Oh,” he says, his voice oddly soft. Like he’s afraid to raise it. As he speaks, his voice returns to normal. “You’re helping Bev. Thank you.”

“Are you okay?” Beverly asks the chef, a deep frown etched onto her face. She seems to already realize the answer is no.

Will approaches them, looking down at his bandaged hand. “Yeah. I mean, I guess not?” He waves the injured hand around. “Okay enough.”

This is where Hannibal enters the conversation. “You were up there for quite some time.”

“Had a lot to talk about.” It’s said far more carefully than a person being honest would have. “He, uh. You’re gonna have to talk to him about the expo thing yourself, sorry.”

“Chilton was not fond of the idea.”

Beside him, a sharp bark of laughter escapes Beverly despite her best efforts to conceal it. “Sorry,” she says quickly, once Hannibal turns to look at her. “Ignore me.”

He turns back to Will. “You’re more than capable of the task, and arguably both you and Katz take that responsibility upon yourselves nightly when Chilton arrives to make the task much more difficult.”

“Sure,” Will shrugs. “Doesn’t mean Chilton is willing to give it up.”

There is clearly a great deal going unsaid here, though Hannibal has far too little information to piece it together. The shape of the issue is starting to form and it’s only a matter of time until the details follow. “Then I shall put him in a position where he has no choice but to do so,” Hannibal replies, and when Beverly laughs beside him it’s far more intentional than before.

Will helps them as best as he can with only one hand, wrapping containers of prepped food and dating them before putting them away. He often gets them boxes of produce and meats and cheeses from the walk-in, a task Hannibal is ready to dismiss him from up until he sees the man easily carrying to objects with no more than one hand and a hip to brace them on. Apparently he’s much stronger than he looks. As other staff members trickle in, every single one of them stops to ask Will what happened to his hand and if he’s okay. Most notably, without exception, every single one of them appears to be expressing genuine concern, down to the teenage dishwasher.

At some point Hannibal steps away to call Alana, who both approves his decision and sets it in motion. Once the staff has all arrived for the night Hannibal organizes a meeting, including Chilton, and starts the cameras rolling.

“As you all are aware, Will hurt himself earlier today and will not be able to perform his usual duties for some time.”

“I could make it work,” Will protests, only to be silenced by a stern look from Hannibal.

“He will not be cooking due to the risk of infection and of the wound reopening. Therefore, he will be taking over expo duties until he has healed, though do feel free to consult him on anything you may be unsure of as normal.”

Everyone is silent and very deliberately not looking at Chilton, who finally speaks up. “Typically, I am the one who does the expo.”

Hannibal nods. “Indeed. We need to try to switch things up in this kitchen to find what is causing it to fall apart the way it sometimes does and this is the perfect opportunity to do so.”

“Graham is-” Interestingly, Chilton shuts his mouth and restarts his sentence. “Graham does not have any experience with the job.”

“If he struggles, I will be there to assist him. I assume that there is plenty of other work you must have to do when you are freed from this duty.”

Anger flashes through Chilton’s eyes as he realizes he can’t get out of this one. “I suppose so,” he says, quite reluctantly. 

“Very good.” Hannibal returns to addressing the group at large. “In addition to this, working with your knives hands on has made it very clear how dearly they need to be replaced. Blunt knives are far more dangerous than sharp ones. When Will cut himself, it was because the dull knife slipped off what he was cutting and slid into his hand instead. Knives are a significant expense but I do not think it is wise nor safe to wait to address this particular issue, and as such we will be outfitting the kitchen with a brand new selection of knives from my own line.”

That sets off a lot of excited murmuring through the staff and when Hannibal glances over at Will, he sees naked shock on the man’s face. He fights back the smile and continues talking. “You will also be given a year’s worth of services from a local knife sharpening service free of charge. The quality of the knife means nothing if it is not cared for properly. Since this decision was made rather quickly, you will not have the knives tonight, but they should arrive by the end of the week. Please do be careful with them while you are getting used to the new set.”

The cameras all turn towards and focus on Will, who notices and is clearly uncomfortable with it. Despite that, he recognizes that, as the head chef, he is expected to respond to this gift. “Um.” His uninjured hand tucks behind his neck, scratching at the back of his head. “I’m not sure what to say. Thank you, obviously, but this is a pretty big gift? It’s going to make our job a whole lot easier, that’s for sure.”

“I’m excited!” Beverly chimes in, the cameras sliding to her as she rescues Will. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve gotten to work with a good set of knives.” The cameras zoom out to catch Will nodding beside her.

Hannibal can only indulge himself for so long, and he motions for the cameras to move off of the increasingly uncomfortable man. “It is truly the very least I can do for you. Now, does everyone understand what will be happening tonight?”

Everyone does, even Chilton.

Unsurprisingly, dinner service is smooth sailing with Chilton removed from the picture. The only time dishes come back is when the customer is upset with the quality of the food, something no one in the kitchen can quite fault them for. Addressing the menu will have to be delayed a bit until Will’s hand heals and then it should hopefully start to improve.

Though Will clearly dislikes not being able to use both hands or actually cook in the kitchen, he still does as Hannibal had asked of him and as a result the cut on his hand heals nicely. Hannibal removes the stitches himself when they are ready to be removed and later approves Will to return back to his usual job.

When the new knives arrive there is a week where the younger and clumsier kitchen staff, the ones used to the dull knives and nothing more, cut themselves on the sharp tools. It’s never anything serious and eventually they readjust and the injuries cease altogether.

Every so often he catches Will looking at his knives, emblazoned with Hannibal’s own name, like he’s holding something precious. It brings forth an emotion in Hannibal that he does not care to examine more deeply or dwell on.

He gets the distinct feeling that that is a luxury he may not have for much longer.

Chapter Text

The shot is framed against the backdrop of the restaurant, a longer table pushed into place with the occupants sitting closer to the corners than the edges proper. On one side, Chilton and Will bracket one corner, with Will facing the longer end. There is an empty chair on the far side, facing the same edge as Will. For now, the center is mostly empty space, but it will be filled with plates of food soon enough.

Since the cameras haven’t started rolling yet when Hannibal sits down, Will doesn’t stop himself from sending him a dark look from where he’s seated next to Chilton. It makes the corner of his mouth twitch up in the remains of a smothered smile. Chilton, for his part, is sitting like there’s nothing to his right but air.

And then they start rolling. Hannibal gives a short introduction before diving straight into the issue. “The menu is a problem,” he says matter-of-factly. “It is far too large and varied. Overreaching in this regard tends to lead to a great deal of waste. Most restaurants will offer dishes that can be built with ingredients nearing the end of their lifespans with no real negative impact, something that seems entirely absent here.”

“The customers deserve the best and freshest ingredients for their meals,” Chilton declares, and next to him Will tenses in what Hannibal recognizes as an attempt to fight back laughter.

“There is a difference between conscientious and being wasteful, Chilton. The simplest solution would be to offer soups. Wilting vegetables can be used to make stock, and-”

Chilton cuts him off at this point, which sends a spike of anger through him. “With all due respect, nobody eats out to buy soup. I will not have this establishment turn into a soup kitchen.” Will tenses further.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at the vehement rejection of his suggestion. Earlier, Beverly had warned him that Chilton would be resistant to the idea of soups and stews, but he still was not expecting such a strong reaction. “Then I will not press the matter, and we shall move on.” He pauses so the editor can easily cut out what he says next. “Though admittedly I do not understand your passionate hatred for one of the oldest forms of cooking in existence. How do you feel about sandwiches?”

By now, Will’s entire body is so tense that it seems as if there is a real danger of him snapping a piece of the table off entirely. “Tell us about sandwiches,” is all he manages to say, clearly worried about laughter slipping out if he contributed anything more complex.

“Hot sandwiches, such as paninis, are unexpectedly difficult to find.” He motions to the crew, who begin bringing out plates filled with various examples of said food. “I must ask that you sample the results before making your decision.”

Will coughs into his elbow, very poorly smothering a laugh. Chilton glares at him in response. “Of course,” Chilton agrees. “It would be foolish not to.”

“Every one of these was made with ingredients from your kitchen that were less than ideal for their original intended purpose. Though this is not a perfect solution as the pool of produce we have to work with will be much narrower, it is a great way to utilize proteins that may not be selling quickly enough to consume what stock you may have.” One by one, Hannibal gestures to each of the dishes. “Here we have a panini inspired by caprese, a reuben utilizing the corned beef instead of pastrami, a standard BLT, and last but not least, the classic turkey club.”

Will’s eyes have been locked on the turkey club since it had been revealed, seemingly contemplating if it’s mere existence is his fault or not. In the end that’s the one he picks up first. “Basically, the only new thing we’d need to worry about is getting the bread.”

“Precisely,” Hannibal answers. “It can help you decide specials moving forward, placing a focus on ingredients that can be utilized in multiple ways. The corned beef is a convenient example of such.”

Next to Will, Chilton looks like he’s very grudgingly enjoying the sandwiches. “I could see this being successful,” he admits.

Everyone samples the food, triggering lots and ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over the quality despite the ingredients used. When the tasting is finished the plates are swept away and the more difficult issue is brought to the forefront. Hannibal, dramatically, hauls up one of the giant menus and drops it on the table from high enough to make an impressive thud when it lands. “Now we must address the elephant in the room. I must ask, Chilton, what happened that left the menu in the state it is today?”

“The menu is on the larger side so there is a little something for everyone,” Chilton protests.

Hannibal turns his gaze towards Will. “Tell me, Will. How much of this menu do you rarely see ordered?”

“Easily at least three quarters of it,” Will replies. “There are items on there I’m not sure I’ve ever seen come through the kitchen.”

Hannibal nods. “Though desiring to please everyone is an understandable goal to have, it is simply not realistic. It would be far more beneficial for you to find a specific sort of cooking and focus on the quality of that. I would like you, together with Will and myself, to create an entirely new menu from the ground up.” 

Delightfully, Chilton looks tormented by the very concept of having to work closely with Will for any amount of time. Even Will looks more amused by it than anything else. “Yes,” Chilton grinds out, unable to hide his displeasure. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Most of this planning is going to be done off camera, though they work through some simpler ideas to start with now. By the end of it Chilton seems as if he’s going to vanish upstairs and scream into a bag. Predictably, he does so.

Will, however, leaves with a route that takes him past Hannibal, where he pauses. “If you keep needling him like that,” he says softly, “I might be okay with you being here after all.” He exits with a lazy wave.

Things seem to be going better than Hannibal could have hoped for.

It doesn’t seem entirely accurate to say that Will is being friendly. He doesn’t go out of his way to talk to Hannibal but if they cross paths and the cameras are off it’s not uncommon for a short conversation to occur. Most importantly, the man seems to be relaxing around him. If there’s a route out of a room that brings him near Hannibal he will often take it, and even when they’re filming the man is a lot less stiff if Hannibal is on camera as well. Inch by inch, the man seems to be beginning to trust Hannibal.

Naturally, it only takes a week to flush all this progress down the drain. 

Filming has wrapped up for the day and Hannibal has just finished speaking with Chilton regarding the progress with the menu when he descends the stairs, continues into the kitchen, and finds Matthew Brown having a very one-sided conversation with a disinterested Will Graham. The chef seems to only barely be listening, cleaning up the kitchen along with everyone else and putting unused ingredients away while Matthew leans on the line and flirts with him. Beverly is not working today, that’s likely why Matthew decided to strike in the first place, and the other coworkers seem to keep their distance for varying reasons.

Matthew could not be making it more obvious what his intentions are and Hannibal would not be surprised if that is what caused Will to tune out so quickly. “It’s not every day we get a chef that Chef Lecter seems to think so highly of, you know. Impressive.”

Will just sort of makes a noise of affirmation as he’s wiping down the prep table. The lack of engagement does nothing to stop Matthew from speaking.

“I hear you’re a whiz when it comes to cooking fish in particular. I’d love to learn a few tricks from you sometime.”

Hannibal makes his presence known. “If it is advice regarding cooking you require, I fail to see why you would ask anyone other than your famously talented boss for such.” The words come out clipped and terse, enough to make Matthew look his way in surprise. When the man looks back towards his target he stiffens and makes a very abrupt exit. Hannibal watches him leave with satisfaction before turning to Will and immediately realizing his misstep.

The look Will is giving him is so cold that he can feel the chill in his bones. In his desire to drive away the source of discomfort Hannibal has forgotten that Will is a man that sees all. He takes a step forward only to be cut off by Will. “If you’re done filming, I’d appreciate you leaving so I can finish cleaning my kitchen.”

Hannibal steps back, nods, and does as he was asked.

Brown is smart enough to know to avoid Hannibal for a while. Rightfully so- this is entirely his fault, and Hannibal would not have kind words for him if their paths crossed. He’s not the only one avoiding Hannibal, though. Will is giving him an impressively cold shoulder. With time, he is bound to thaw.

But perhaps Hannibal has simply underestimated Will’s scorn. Two weeks go by with signs of improvement, to the point where Alana actually takes Hannibal aside and asks him if he’s done something to upset Will. They’ll soon finish creating the new menu, which means Hannibal will need to spend a lot of time working with Will to learn the dishes, and the prospect of wasting this time that should have helped them grow more comfortable with each other leads him to do something drastic. Well, that and one other thing. 

It’s been getting rather hot lately, and it’s not uncommon to see members of the kitchen staff stripping off layers once dinner service has ended and they’re simply cleaning up. Will is no exception, loosening his collar and unbuttoning the jacket, at times removing it entirely, leaving him in a sweat-soaked undershirt that clings to his unexpectedly sculpted body. It draws Hannibal’s attention and he’s found himself letting his gaze linger for far longer than is likely appropriate. Gideon will often elbow him out of the trance, while Brown much less helpfully seems to join him in it. He’s elbowed for what feels like the fifth time today when he suddenly realizes the silence between them is unacceptable and he approaches Will with little in the way of a plan in mind.

“Will, may I speak to you for a moment?”

The look the other man gives him makes it seem like he’d really like to just say ‘no’ and be done with it. “Sure,” is what he says instead. “Is this about the menu?”

Despite his ire, Will follows Hannibal off to the side of the kitchen, where it is marginally quieter. “Not entirely,” he admits, the larger picture rapidly forming in his mind. “What I would like to ask of you is mostly a favor.”

Will looks irritated that Hannibal could even have the gall to ask right now but underneath it, he sees a curiosity. Trying to piece Hannibal together like a puzzle. “A favor,” he repeats, rolling the words around his mouth like he’s tasting them.

“Indeed.” The lie comes easily, like it had been worked through ahead of time instead of created on the fly. “Once a week, I like to prepare dinner for the crew. The episode we are currently developing will contain the segment where I had you cook for me. The editing team seems to be having difficulty putting the scene together and I believe that having a better understanding of your real talents would aid them in this regard.”

“So you want me to come cook them dinner instead,” Will finishes. Though he looks unimpressed, he doesn’t look angry. 

“You would be compensated, of course, and I will be available to assist you in any capacity you may desire.”

“You sure they won’t regret missing out on a meal from their famously talented boss?”

And there it is. Hannibal makes himself hesitate before speaking. “Will, I must apologize for my poor choice of words before. Matthew seemed to be bothering you and I simply wanted to spare you.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Will counters, voice tight with irritation. “It was pretty obvious you wanted to get him away from me but that’s not the only reason you said what you did. Deep down in that brain of yours the thought that he thought someone was better at you than something- even if it was just as the flimsiest pretense imaginable- it ruffled your feathers.” His quiet fury is just as striking as his state of undress.

“Have I not made it more than clear that I place your talents on part with mine, if not higher in certain areas?”

“You can tell that to your brain all you want, and maybe you do logically believe that. But part of you, the same part that led you down this path in the first place, it hates losing. Can’t stand it, actually, can’t even come to terms with the fact that it’s possible.”

“Are you implying that I am arrogant?”

That draws out a wry smile. “Of course you’re arrogant,” Will murmurs. “You wouldn’t have decided to become a celebrity chef otherwise.” Though his words are harsh his tone is not judgemental. He’s stating a fact, not leveling an accusation. Will, impossibly, sees him for who he is, not who he pretends to be.

“Dinner.” Hannibal jumps back to his earlier request before it can escape him in a far less professional package. “I would truly love for you to cook us dinner.”

Will tilts his head, watching like a predator waiting for the right moment to ambush. He knows what Hannibal had wanted to offer but doesn’t seem particularly interested in drawing attention to the fact. “What day?”

“Friday evening.”

“So tomorrow.”

“Indeed.”

“Sure,” Will shrugs. “Not like I’ve got anything else going on.”

Hannibal, as always, is victorious.

~~~

The kitchen is bustling, food running out at a respectable pace. Hannibal watches from a distance, monitoring the dishes as they come out and making sure everything is running smoothly. “We’re trying Beverly on expo,” he tells the camera, gesturing towards the dark-haired woman tearing tickets off the machine and calling out the orders to the kitchen. “It seems to be going smoothly so far.”

Another ticket prints and something on it makes Beverly scowl. “Aw, shit,” she mutters. “Will, sorry in advance?”

“Complicated orders aren’t a problem,” he calls back over his shoulder, cooking several pans of food on the stovetop. 

“No, not the problem.”

Will pauses. “You don’t-”

She interrupts him to read out the order. “Burger, medium rare with fries, two of the special, as is, and a Chef Chilton.”

There is a moment of silence as the entire kitchen crew stops what they are doing in shock before resuming. At the stove, Will sighs deeply. “Grab me the vase.”

Hannibal turns back to the camera. “A vase?” he repeats. “This should be interesting.”

Cut to Beverly, being interviewed. “Ugh. It was Chilton’s idea, obviously.”

Cut back to the kitchen, focused on Will, someone else finishing his dishes on the stove from before. He’s at the salad bar with a tall glass vase next to him, wide mouthed but curvy. He puts a layer of romaine lettuce on the bottom and as he works, Beverly’s voice continues to narrate. “It takes way too long to make for a salad and it’s just. Awful.” Will carefully adds a layer of chopped tomatoes, then potatoes, hard boiled egg, bacon, and blue cheese. Another layer of lettuce, then he’s chopping up lunch meat and sliced cheese into squares. “I’m not even really sure he knows what a chef salad is, you know? It’s closer to a cobb.” On the top, Will artfully arranges a pattern of sliced cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. He pours out a portion of dressing into a ramekin and finally places the salad on the expo line, backing away from it like he’s afraid it might hurt him if he doesn’t leave quickly enough. Hannibal has the crew step forwards and get a nice long shot of the salad.

“Offensively impractical,” Hannibal comments.

Cut to the server taking out the order, zooming in on the look of shock on the customer’s face when they receive it. The table is clearly discussing the odd dish. “The thing is absolutely impossible to eat,” Beverly’s voice adds, and it jumps to the customer trying to shove their fork inside the vase to eat the salad. They fail to assemble anything resembling a proper bite of food.

Cut to Will being interviewed, though he doesn’t say anything. The now empty vase sits beside him. Wordlessly, he picks up a fork, dropping it into the vase with a clatter. When he tries to reach his hand inside to retrieve it the mouth of the vase is too small to allow him to do so. All he does is gesture to his hand stuck in the vase and stare at the camera.

Cut back to the kitchen, where a server pokes her head in the doors. “Table 14 would like a-”

Will has handed her a wide plate before she even finishes speaking.

~~~

Filming on Friday doesn’t take long. Will did not work today and so most of the time was spent conducting short interviews with the staff, asking how they felt about the progress of the restaurant so far and if they had any hopes for the future. The mood was largely optimistic.

Hannibal had gone over the details with Will the day previous; how many people he would be feeding, when and where, asking if he needed any specific ingredients or tools. The chef had shrugged and asked for pasta. “As long as you have enough of that I can make just about anything,” he had told Hannibal.

At 4pm on the dot, after the core crew has returned to the accommodations and the locals have returned to their homes, Will arrives.

Hannibal makes sure that he is the one to greet the man. Things would not go smoothly if someone from his production team or, god forbid, Alana was there to answer the door and reacted poorly. “Will,” Hannibal greets warmly. “It is good to see you.”

The fog had never quite burned off that day, cooling the air and depositing a fine mist onto every surface it touched. Standing on the stoop, Will is regarding him with that searching look again, head tipped slightly to the side. The dampness is starting to make his curls fray. When not dressed for work the man appears to dress casually, clad in khaki pants and a well-loved flannel. The simple clothes, while not to Hannibal’s personal taste, certainly look at home on the man currently wearing him. “Right,” Will nods. “Kitchen?”

Pleasantries are apparently out of the question. Hannibal will have ample time for them later, as they cook together. “This way.” As he speaks, Hannibal steps back to usher the man inside, closing the front door behind them. 

The kitchen is easy to reach, the first door on the right of the large hallway that stretches out from the front door. It’s very large- a previous owner had run a small catering service out of this home before outgrowing the space and moving somewhere else. Even Will raises an eyebrow at the size of it when he enters. “Safe to assume this is part of your criteria for choosing accommodations?”

“Indeed,” Hannibal confirms. “As I said before, I like to cook for my crew whenever possible. A large kitchen is paramount.”

“Mmhmm,” Will hums, taking in the room. There are chairs near the edges of the room and he sets his messenger bag down on a free one. “How many people am I cooking for again?”

“Seven.”

The eyebrow raises again. “Seems pretty small for a film crew.”

“It would be,” Hannibal agrees. “There are core members of the crew that remain across seasons but the majority of the crew are hired locals.”

“Including the editing crew?”

“The head editor is here.” An answer, not to the exact question Will had vocalized, but the one hidden behind the words. “He is the one that sends instructions to the off-site editing team and the one having the difficulties I mentioned earlier.”

“Sure,” Will shrugs. “Let’s go with that. Where do you keep everything?”

It’s remarkable how Will both easily susses out lies and then continues on as if he had never done so in the first place. For the most part he seems content to let others lead and follow alongside them, though it would be a gross oversimplification to call him passive or submissive. He wants you to know that he recognizes you are lying but would have helped you regardless. Perhaps it would be easier to cut through the false pleasantries and simply be honest with the man.

To an extent, at least. Hannibal shows Will around the kitchen. Most of the space is laid out horizontally, a sizable island stretched out to match the length of the entire room. Behind it there is a large oven and range, a brief portion of the counter cutting it off on the left before ending and leaving space for the large refrigerator. On the right side of the stove the counter stretches out until it hits the far edge of the room and turns sharply, following the wall. The sink is just before that corner and while the rest of the counter beyond it was obviously designed for drying dishes, Hannibal tends to use it for setting out clean dishware in advance of plating meals. There are very few wall cabinets, only hanging above the small section of counter to the left and the area for dishes on the right, most of the storage space instead being attached to the ground.

“Oh!” The man makes a pleased noise when the fridge is opened, scanning the shelves and halting his gaze on one package in particular. “Shrimp, that’s perfect. Uh, does anyone I’m cooking for have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

“Fortunately not. Would you like me to assist you?”

When Will replies it’s somewhat muffled from where he’s rooting around in the fridge. “I don’t really need help but I know it would defeat the purpose of you asking me to cook here if you weren’t also present for it. You guys have white wine somewhere?”

“The purpose was simply to feed us, if you recall.”

Will extracts himself from the refrigerator and closes the door. Based on his expression he’s grown tired of pretending to believe the lie and that’s all the response Hannibal receives.

“Well then,” Hannibal begins. “If that was in truth a lie, what do you believe my genuine purpose to be?”

Will leans back against the small section of counter between the stove and the fridge. “It’s not really accurate to say you’re testing me,” he muses, “since you are well aware of what I’m capable of. You just want to… see what I can make when given adequate resources.” He tips his head to the side, watching. “You wanted to see what I would do.”

It’s a novel feeling, being seen like this. There are members of his production crew, even people in his personal life who have seen the general shape of him, but not one person has been able to see through him so entirely and quickly. “I do have wine,” Hannibal answers abruptly. “Would you like a glass?”

Will waves him away with a snort. “Not for drinking, sorry.”

“Another time,” Hannibal murmurs, and if Will has heard him he gives no indication of such.

The wine is kept elsewhere and when Hannibal returns with it, Will seems to have pulled out almost all of the tools he requires. A step that would not be necessary in a more familiar kitchen, one where Will knew where he could grab anything at a moment’s notice. He sets the bottle down on the counter between the fridge and large stove where Will had been leaning earlier. 

Will has only grabbed almost all of the things he needs because he seems to have been distracted by the knives. He’s holding the large chef’s knife in his hands, examining the blade, running his fingers along the smooth handle, peering at it intently. When he hears Hannibal return he does not turn to face him but does begin speaking. “You know, when you told me you would provide the knives, I wasn’t expecting them to be your personal set.”

“Why do you believe them to be my personal set?”

There’s a HL on the blade of every knife, but he trusts Will not to take the easy way out. “The damascus, for starters.”

“Not a terribly unusual pattern to find on knives nowadays.”

“It is when it’s genuine.” He shifts his grip on the knife, holding it like he’s about to start chopping imaginary vegetables with it. “Perfectly balanced and wickedly sharp. The knife block is very well made as well, and I’m sure you’ve got a full sharpening kit around here somewhere.”

Hannibal steps closer to Will, reaching over and extracting one of the steak knives himself. They always fit perfectly in his hands, like they belong there. “None of those things mean they have to be my own.”

“They’re beautiful, flashy, and incredibly high quality. Made to order, from the looks of it. Exactly the sort of thing you’d purchase.” Will slides the knife he’s holding back into the block. “Who else would they belong to?”

“I suppose you have me there.” Hannibal returns his own knife to the block. “Now, what would you like me to do?”

“Shrimp,” Will answers, now heading back around the island and pulling something out of his bag- an apron. “Needs to be peeled and deveined.”

Hannibal had retrieved his own apron when he had gone to collect the wine and puts it on now. While Will is washing his hands in the sink, Hannibal pulls the shrimp out of the fridge and brings it to the island, where the necessary tools await him. Once Will is finished he uses the sink himself. For his part, Will has taken over a portion of the counter, his back to Hannibal. It is unclear if this was intentional or otherwise.

Peeling the shrimp is a thankless task, both precise and somewhat annoying. It is no wonder Will chose to gift him this duty. While they work, Will grating zest from lemons and juicing the remains, Hannibal attempts to make conversation. “May I ask how you got into cooking?” 

He can hear Will shrug more than actually see it, the movement rustling the man’s clothes. “It’s not some grand, inspirational story if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“I assure you, I am fishing for nothing more than the truth.”

“Hm.” There is a crisp chopping noise as Will cuts the zested lemons in half, followed by a squelching as he juices them, intensifying the scent of citrus. “I got into cooking because I had no other choice.”

“Oh?” 

“We were always pretty poor growing up, just me and my dad.” The clink of a bowl being moved, more chopping trailed by the familiar smell of tomatoes. “He got really sick when I was younger. The kind you don’t recover from, but it takes its time dragging you into the grave. Tried to balance school and home for a while; I’d catch up fish and forage or steal the rest. Can’t forage electricity, though.”

When Will speaks of his dire circumstances it sounds casual enough. Perhaps with time the wound has been softened. “It sounds as if you had a difficult childhood.”

Surprisingly, Will scoffs at that. “Come on. It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park but I still had it much better than plenty others.”

“The suffering of others does not negate your own, Will.”

For a long moment, Will is silent, and when he continues talking he’s picking up his story like he had never stopped telling it. “When the money ran out I dropped out of school and started working. Washed dishes at a local joint and once I was old enough, started bussing tables. The cooks would teach me in their spare time and eventually I moved to cooking.”

“This was in Baltimore?”

“Naw,” Will shakes his head. “Louisiana. Pops finally kicked the bucket when I was twenty and I moved up north.”

Truthfully, the accent gave him away, but it was nice to have Will tell him directly. It has almost entirely vanished and no trace of it remains when Will is speaking carefully though times when he is more relaxed can allow it to start slipping through. Most people would likely never even notice it in the first place. “I imagine this is when you found Eloise ?”

“Got it in one,” Will confirms. “Applied at every restaurant I could find. Didn’t even really look at how nice they were, to be honest- doubt I would have gone for it otherwise. Worked out in the end. How are the shrimp coming along?” He briefly rinses the knife in the sink before drying it and dicing up the shallots.

“Nearly finished,” Hannibal answers. He works quickly despite the slick residue the shrimp have gradually left and has made a conscious effort to finish alongside Will’s own prep. “Forgive me if this is out of line but I must say, I was not entirely expecting you to be so forthright with me.”

Will glances back over at Hannibal’s work, judging where he is with it and seems to be satisfied with the result. He grabs two large saute pans and puts them on medium heat, oiling the pans first. “You’re on pasta duty next.”

As Hannibal finishes with the last shrimp, he nods. “Al dente, I presume?”

“Yup.” There is a moment, when Hannibal turns from the island, that they make eye contact. Will is looking at him like he can’t really believe he said what he did and it certainly doesn’t seem to be related to the food. Before he continues speaking he turns away. “I don’t mind telling you because even if I didn’t, you’d just go and find out anyways. At that point I’d rather you hear it straight from me. Not like I’m ashamed of it or anything.”

“And you have no reason to be.” There is a pot more than large enough to hold all of the pasta that needs to be cooked and based on the larger portions Will is making, it should be more than able to boil in time. He puts it on the largest burner, salting the water and covering it with a lid to encourage the water to heat.

“Hannibal,” a voice calls to him, calm. He turns just enough to see Alana leaning in the doorway, smiling gently. Every inch of her body screams ‘I’m not angry’, which is an obvious sign that she is. “Could I have a quick word with you about the next episode? If Will can spare you, of course.”

As always, Will is watching the situation curiously. “Water still needs to boil,” he says in his carefully even tone. “You can take him for a bit, I’ll be fine.”

“Thank you. I promise I will bring him right back. Hannibal?” Alana gestures for the chef to follow. With a nod to Will, he does so.

They walk quietly to the room Alana is using as an office and she closes the door behind them. Before speaking, she takes a long, deep breath. “Hannibal, what on earth do you think you are doing?”

“Cooking.”

“You brought him here? ”

“Is there a problem?”

“I asked you, very clearly, to at the very least do me the favor of informing me ahead of time.”

“You did,” Hannibal agrees. 

Alana stares at him. “So why didn’t you?”

“Because you would have stopped me.”

“Yes,” she sighs, “I would have. You don’t get the moral high ground by admitting you knew what you were doing was wrong.”

What he got out of it was Will downstairs, cooking in the closest thing to Hannibal’s kitchen he may ever be in. “I suppose not.”

Again, Alana sighs. “If you’re going to keep doing this, please at least tell me you know how to handle it. Someone will find out, sooner or later.”

“It is a common part of every season that I work closely and directly with the head chef. With Eloise , the situation is a touch more complex. Will cannot relax there and cook to his full potential.”

She seems to consider the suggestion. “Most people will believe that. We can work with it.”

“Now, if you will excuse me.” Hannibal stands. “The water should be near boiling.”

“Before you go. Can you at least promise me that you’ll keep things professional?”

“I would not dream of otherwise,” Hannibal replies. At the very least, he is a patient man. Alana nods and waves him out.

When he returns to the kitchen he can tell that Will is well on his way to completing the sauce based on scent alone. “Apologies,” Hannibal offers, taking his place at the pot of water once more. When he pulls off the lid it seems as if the water is just beginning to boil. “There are many moving pieces involved in the production of a television show.”

As he adds in the pasta, Will is watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Surprising the production crew by showing up at your lodgings with the restaurant’s head chef in tow must throw a wrench in things, I imagine.”

“You still came,” Hannibal points out. He is careful as he cooks the pasta, ensuring none of it sticks together.

Will has also had the time to season the shrimp and is carefully yet quickly placing them in the simmering pans of sauce. “Maybe I just wanted to see what would happen.”

That makes Hannibal pause. “Did you expect anything other than cooking?”

“Not really,” Will shrugs. “But nothing is off the table with you.”

Hannibal is distracted by the pasta needing to be strained before he can formulate a response to that comment. At that point, as Will pours the drained noodles into the pans and starts tossing them, he must busy himself with dishware and utensils and wine. Will serves the finished product in seven equal portions, grating parmesan cheese over the shrimp scampi as Hannibal takes out the wine and silverware. There is no official call to dinner but the smell draws people to the table. “Would you help me take the dishes out?” Will gracefully balances four plates along his arms and follows Hannibal out to the dining room.

Alana has clearly warned people of Will’s presence in the house as none of them are visibly confused upon seeing him. One one side of the table sits Alana, Margo and Gideon, with the opposite side seating Matthew, Francis, Hannibal, and finally an empty setting on his right, at the end of the table. Will tilts his head slightly as he looks at it. “Someone running late?”

“We are all here,” Hannibal corrects, and the look of shock and panic on Will’s face as he realizes that he is not only expected to dine with them but also far too late to excuse himself from the situation is one he will remember fondly for some time to come.

The episode airs, and the response is largely positive. 

It, predictably, directs a lot of media attention towards Will, who could not possibly want it less. In the process it also drives up business for the café and they get plenty of customers to try the beginnings of the new menu, as the sandwich offerings are well under way. That, too, is well-received. As the next episode will simply be a follow up as to how the menu and restaurant itself are doing, it’s a somewhat relaxed week for the crew.

On Wednesday, Margo finds something for Hannibal.

The first thing she does is cut off protests before they even begin. “Most of the reason this took so long was because I was exhausting all other options. It’s this or nothing.”

Hannibal blinks, long and slow. “And what, pray tell, is ‘this’?”

“Freddie Lounds,” Margo answers, and Hannibal cannot entirely hide the way his mouth twitches down in displeasure. “You were correct in assuming something had been swept under the rug. She’s the only one willing to talk.”

Lounds is, ostensibly, a food critic. In reality she was closer to a gossip columnist. If she wrote an article about your restaurant it was never something positive. Perhaps her worst trait is the fact that if she couldn’t find drama, she’d create it on her own. “She was paid enough to remove her articles but not enough to keep her mouth shut, I assume.”

“I’m not certain the second is possible,” Margo sighs. “You know she’s going to want something in return.”

“Naturally. Am I correct in expecting that she wishes to speak to me personally?”

Margo nods. “You should really let Alana know about this first.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She can’t help the little smile. “Just don’t drag us into this.”

“I can safely say that none of you will become involved. Thank you for your hard work, Margo.”

“Let us know what you find out, okay?”

Hannibal stands, smoothing down the lines of his suit. “Of course,” he replies. “I intend to.”

Freddie Lounds is quick to set up a meeting with Hannibal and in the end, they agree to talk that coming Friday. A part of Hannibal is irritated that his plans to requisition Will on a weekly basis have been interrupted but waiting a week to introduce the idea of a recurring appointment will not harm anything. If anything, it may make Will less hesitant to accept said offer. Not that Will’s hesitation has any bearing on the plan’s success; it is an undeniable fact that he always works closely with the head chef and Will being uncomfortable in his own restaurant is more than enough of an excuse to extract him out of it. Dinner may be a harder sell if last week’s awkward meal was anything to go by.

He lets Freddie choose the venue, largely because he knows she will not choose any place that he normally frequents. This isn’t a dinner, simply a meeting over coffee, and she picks a café that is so close to being up to Hannibal’s standards while still falling short that it can be nothing but intentional. The chairs are plastic, the tables are cheap wood; everything is carefully chosen to appear high quality without actually being so. If it’s supposed to get to him he will not let it. “Miss Lounds,” he greets, making his way through the bustling café until he reaches her table in the back. “Thank you for allowing me some of your time.”

The journalist is dressed snappily, a loud red overcoat and neat black pants, a contrast to Hannibal’s more subdued charcoal gray houndstooth suit. She’s brought a larger purse with her which can only mean that she has something physical to give him if the meeting goes well. “Happy to help, chef,” she replies, all false sweetness and civility. “I take it I’ll still find myself banned from all of your establishments?”

“Indeed.” Hannibal has gotten nothing more than an americano, something simple and difficult to make a mistake in creating. It is serviceable if the smell is any indication. “A ban I may consider lifting depending on the outcome of this conversation.”

“You can keep it.” Freddie seems terribly unbothered by it all. Hannibal had expected this alone would not be enough to sway her but it would certainly have made things simpler if she had had a change of heart. “I already know that I’ll find nothing to write about at any place you own, so what’s the point? It’s a waste of both our time. Has anything… interesting happened in your life lately?”

She’s never made an effort to disguise her goals, something most people consider a personality deficit. Though Hannibal dislikes how rude it makes her he does find himself appreciating the refreshing directness of it.

Now, however, he’s found a much more pleasant source of it, and Freddie is lowered to nothing more than a means to an end.

What she’s digging for is quite obvious, with the episode revealing his high regard for Will having just aired. The information he is about to give her is more than she necessarily has earned but Hannibal finds that he is curious what reactions it will provoke. “I’ve found myself dwelling on the idea of hiring a personal chef.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow. “A famous chef hiring his own chef. Seems redundant, doesn’t it?”

“As you are aware, I am a very busy man. There are times, particularly during filming, that I scarcely have the energy to cook dinner, much less the other meals of the day. It would be a burden lifted off my shoulders.”

“Right,” Freddie shrugs. “Any offers yet?”

“While I have not reached out to anyone, it would be incorrect to say I do not have preferred candidates in mind.”

He sees it then, the light of understanding in her eyes as she makes the connection of what went unsaid. “Interesting. If I find anyone, I’ll send them your way.” It’s less of an offer and more of a threat, truthfully. “Now, I’ve heard that you’re interested in learning more about the history of Café Eloise ?”

“Indeed. I cannot help but see the shape of some great injustice that has transpired and the effects that linger even today. It is odd how little coverage there seems to be of the tragic deaths of the previous owners and the changing of hands of the business.”

“Well, you’re right.” Freddie leans forward in her chair, voice lowering. “The coverage existed until all of us were paid off.”

“By whom?”

“Various sources. Chilton was one, in fact.”

Chilton being a player in this was a possibility Hannibal had considered but not pursued. If he is, it may be much easier to move things along. “Tell me, then. What happened?”

Freddie leans back before continuing. “The deaths themselves were suspicious at best, but nothing was ever conclusively proven. What I can tell you for certain is that Chilton had no hand in them, or anything that happened after. He just took advantage of the chaos it caused to purchase the restaurant before things were resolved.”

“A scavenger,” Hannibal muses, and Freddie nods.

“This family, they were quite wealthy. Partly from the restaurant and partly from inherited riches. They had kids of their own- four of them, in fact- but relationships were strained, to say the least. All of them live far away and rarely spoke to their parents.”

“Are you aware of what transpired?”

Freddie shrugs. “No idea. Doesn’t matter, though. The important part is that they may have well as adopted a fifth.”

And that’s all it takes for the pieces to snap together. A man who has lost his own family, one that remains in the restaurant even now, enduring abuse just so he can remain. He’s attached so fiercely to the place because it’s the closest thing he’s had to a home. “Will,” Hannibal murmurs.

“That’s the one. The real kids couldn’t have given less of a shit, obviously, and Will has the skill to justify him being the center of their attention. So they die prematurely on the lake and all the kids come back into town to unseal the will. All of them are left substantial assets but what everyone wants is the crown jewel; the restaurant. And that was left to Will.”

It’s easy to imagine what comes next. “They contested it.”

“Of course they did. The four of them worked together, hired a fancy lawyer with all their money, while Will could barely scrape himself together after the owners had died. It was overturned and they got the restaurant split between them and immediately sold it at a price so high Will could never hope to buy it. And he tried.”

No wonder the man holds so much rage towards Chilton. “A terribly underhanded move, to put it mildly. I imagine there must have been public outcry at the resolution?” The restaurant was well loved and so was Will himself, if the reviews Hannibal had read earlier were anything to go by.

“There would have been, if anything had ever gone to print. The kids paid off most of the reporters and had them all sign NDAs. Luckily, I got paid by Chilton, who just didn’t want the bad publicity. Didn’t have to sign a single thing.”

“Lucky indeed,” Hannibal agrees. As he had predicted, Freddie reaches into her purse and pulls out a manila folder, sliding it across the table to him. He flips it open and sees what has to be her unpublished article on the top, with other papers underneath. “Is this proof?”

“What I have of it,” Freddie nods. “You’ll also find the contact information for each of the four kids, but I can’t guarantee it’ll still be accurate. I’m not sure I’d recommend talking to them but if you decide to go for it, you’ll find the youngest sister the most sympathetic.”

He closes the folder and slides it under his arm. “This has been most enlightening. I must thank you for your enthusiastic cooperation.”

Freddie smiles at him again, snake-like. “What can I say? I hold a grudge. Pleasure doing business with you.”

With a nod, Hannibal departs, folder tucked safely under his arm, americano left untouched on the table.

It’s been several weeks since they had first addressed the menu, and it’s now time to regroup and begin planning something more concrete. The day after the first segment had been filmed the crew placed an anonymous suggestion box in the kitchen for any staff members to contribute their own ideas, and that box sits between them now as they take their same places at the table. “We will be going through these first,” Hannibal tells the two men on the other side of the table, “and then we will discuss our own ideas.” He pulls the key to the box out of his burgundy and cream suit’s pocket with a flourish, opening the box and emptying the contents until a pile of folded papers forms on the table in front of him. He would have liked to have the three of them split the job of reading through the suggestions but he does not entirely trust Chilton to be truthful about what he is reading, so he will do it all himself.

Hannibal plucks one piece of paper out of the pile and unfolds it, scanning the words penned onto the scrap. “Fish and chips,” he reads off.

Will responds first. “I think that one’s more of a matter of if we want to start dealing with fried food in the first place. If we do, that’s an easy inclusion.”

“We do not,” Chilton says tightly. “This is not a fast food restaurant.”

That makes Will sigh, like he knows the rest of the meeting is going to play out in a similar manner.

Hannibal sets the paper down off to the side and grabs another. “Salads,” he reads off. “A broad suggestion, but not a poor one by any means.”

“We have salads,” Chilton protests.

“We…” Will trails off, reconsidering his words. “They probably want a larger variety, or more options for entrees? Most of what we have are side salads.”

“We have salads,” Chilton repeats, speaking slowly, like he’s talking to a child. He is looking at Will as he does so, who’s mouth curves down into a frown.

“Put this in the ‘yes’ pile for now,” Hannibal tells Will, sliding the piece of paper over. Will begins the ‘yes’ pile very close to his own body, like he’s ready to defend it from Chilton at a moment’s notice.

“Ah, here is something more specific- pan fried scallops with an apple salad.”

Will is already holding out his hand to add the paper to his own pile when Chilton pipes up. “Scallops? We can’t afford scallops. ”

“We’re the ones who get to decide how much to charge for it, you know.” Will accepts the paper and adds it to his pile.

“This is a good location for acquiring fresh scallops,” Hannibal adds. “I would certainly recommend you take advantage of your local specialties when building a new menu.”

Chilton huffs, but he quiets once Hannibal has also supported the idea.

They continue through the pile, most of the ideas landing in the ‘no’ pile, many shot down for increasingly asinine reasons on Chilton’s part. Will is very obviously growing more and more irritated with the owner, his fingers starting to tap an uneven rhythm on the wooden table. It’s rather entertaining to watch develop, all things considered.

He opens another piece of paper and pauses. “This one appears to be a crude drawing of male genitalia.”  

“What?” Chilton roars, clearly outraged, which also manages to cover up the way Will coughs into his elbow to hide a laugh. “Who did that? I’ll speak with them later!”

“You may remember this exercise was to be entirely anonymous,” Hannibal points out.

“It’s unacceptable!”

“It’s a harmless prank.” Hannibal slides the offending paper into his suit pocket, mostly to ensure Chilton does not take it and try his hardest to track down the offender and punish them. “Some of the members of staff are quite young, and we should not punish them for having a bit of fun. Now, moving on.” He doesn’t give Chilton time to continue talking, opening one of the few pieces left. “Ah, another interesting suggestion- tray baked chicken. They’ve suggested a recipe with butter beans, leeks and spinach, though you have a great deal of flexibility with a meal like this.”

“The vegetables could change depending on what we’ve got excess of,” Will muses. “A permanent menu item where the details vary.”

“No,” Chilton spits, clearly still upset. “It takes too long to cook.”

“We’d do it ahead of time,” Will sighs. “It’d be ready for dinner service.”

“If we don’t sell any it’s a waste of all those ingredients!”

“Then we tell the servers to push it,” Will retorts, holding out his hand. Hannibal hands him the paper as always.

“I said no,” Chilton bites back. “Give me that paper.”

Chilton tries to reach over Will’s arm to take and dispose of the suggestion, only for the man to slam his hands down over the pile and cover it entirely. Silence hangs in the air, accompanied by tension, as the two men glare at each other over the corner of the table. “Graham,” Chilton grinds out, face beginning to contort with rage. “You are out of line.”

“He is not,” Hannibal interjects, voice hard. “We are not making any final decisions at this moment. Your repeated resistance to even trying new ideas is beginning to make me reconsider if you truly want my help in the first place.”

Chilton looks like he’s been slapped, while Will beside him looks somewhat taken aback. Hannibal simply unfolds the last piece of paper, scans it, and quietly folds it back up and puts that one in his jacket pocket as well. “Another penis,” he explains, and Will finally breaks down laughing.

“Okay, everyone take a break and calm down,” Gideon calls out. “We can salvage most of that.”

“Sorry,” Will manages to get out. “Sorry, this whole thing is just bizarre.”

“I am not surprised that you find something so juvenile amusing,” Chilton sneers beside him. They take this opportunity to retrieve the pile of approved ideas from Will and put it somewhere safely out of Chilton’s grasp. It’s not long before Will is able to collect himself, and they move on to the second part of the segment.

“Now, we will discuss our own ideas for the menu. Will, I imagine that as the head chef, you have a great deal of ideas for how to change things. Would you like to begin?”

“Um, sure,” Will replies, looking a little bit like he hadn’t been expecting to be chosen first. “I figured most people would be thinking specifics, so I was considering the broader menu. Like you said, we’re right on the ocean, so there’s a ton of fantastic seafood around town. We should be taking advantage of that. We’ve already started incorporating more fish into the menu, but there’s still a lot we could be doing with shellfish. Pasta, for example-”

A loud scoff from Chilton interrupts Will, who falls silent. Even Hannibal finds himself growing irritated with the man. “Do you have something to say, Chilton?”

“That’s your big idea?” Chilton says, tone impressively condescending. “Pasta? After all this time, all you came up with was pasta? ”

Chilton had never been kind to Will, but the sudden outright malice is unexpected. Beside him, Will’s gaze falls to the table, hands curling into fists. He looks, not angry, but resigned. Like he’s used to this.

Before Hannibal has a chance to step in, a phone rings. It appears to be Chilton’s and the man slides his phone out of his pocket. “Apologies,” he says, “this is important. I need to take this.”

Hannibal nods and the owner steps away, walking into the kitchen and presumably upstairs to his office. Once he leaves the crew starts to talk amongst themselves as they pause filming. Despite the chatter, Will remains silent, gaze downcast.

“Will,” Hannibal calls out, voice soft. It seems to snap the man out of his daze and he looks up, briefly meeting Hannibal’s eyes before sliding to his ears. “Is anything the matter?”

“Huh?” He blinks. “Um, no, I’m fine. I knew this would happen anyways.”

“You knew he would reject your suggestion regardless of its content.”

Will nods. “Yup.”

“Truthfully, I had expected to see some suggestions from you inside the box. I would be lying if I said that wasn’t part of the reason we put it up in the first place.”

Will smiles sadly. “Nope, sorry. Seemed a bit like cheating. It’s fine, I’m honestly okay with whatever direction we go in with the menu as long as it’s not what we have.”

Hannibal regards the man for a moment, thinking. “Would you allow me to try something?”

The smile fades away, Will watching Hannibal with a curious gaze. “Sure,” he ends up saying. “You can try whatever you want.”

A dangerous thing to offer Hannibal, though there is very little he could do with an entire film crew watching them. Chilton has yet to return so Hannibal strikes up a conversation. “How familiar are you with the local seafood?”

“Intimately,” Will replies, without hesitation. “I was in charge of pretty much everything related to seafood before…” he trails off, eyes dropping to the table. “That included purchasing it.”

“So you would know exactly where to find the best balance of cost and quality in the product.”

Eyes still downcast, Will nods. “That’s the easy part.”

“And the hard part?”

Finally, Will looks back up, with a grimace. “Convincing Chilton to stop buying frozen.”

Hannibal offers Will a conspiratorial smile. “I can be remarkably persuasive.”

Will is watching Hannibal now, like he knows Hannibal isn’t quite talking about the seafood anymore, and can’t figure out what he’s actually trying to say. “Hmm,” he eventually says. “Well, I don’t doubt that. It’s just…” He sighs. “It’ll go better if I’m not involved.”

That piques Hannibal’s interest and he wants to press the matter, but naturally this is when Chilton comes walking back into the dining room. “Apologies,” he tells Hannibal. He says nothing to Will.

It doesn’t take long to restart the filming and Hannibal begins speaking. “I have my own suggestions for the menu, of course,” he tells the two men. Chilton is watching him with incredibly forced interest, while Will’s is much more subdued but genuine.

“I would love to hear what an experienced chef such as yourself would come up with,” Chilton responds. He’s laying it on pretty thick.

“As I said earlier, in Baltimore we have access to an abundance of fresh seafood, and it’s foolish to not take advantage of it. I’ve commented before on the fact that you choose to use frozen in order to save money. When we pare down the menu, it should reduce your food budget significantly, and thus free up funds to buy fresh.”

“I suppose so,” Chilton grumbles.

“When it comes to cuts of fish, the menu will likely need to change based on what is currently obtainable. Catch of the day, if you will. A much more reliable type of seafood would be shellfish. If we build dishes around those, they will be able to remain on the menu permanently, or at the very least seasonally.”

Will has caught on to what Hannibal is doing and is now looking at the man with his eyebrows raised. Thankfully, Chilton is only looking at Hannibal. “I see what you’re getting at. What sort of dishes did you have in mind?”

“Shellfish is commonly paired with pastas, and the pasta itself is quite affordable. The sauces and the shellfish can easily carry the dish regardless of the quality of the actual pasta. In addition, there is a great variety of things you can create in this area. By pairing the shellfish with pasta in this manner you will be able to purchase it in smaller amounts, as the portions will be largely comprised of the noodles and not the shellfish.”

“Oh, that’s a fantastic idea!” Chilton declares. Beside him, Will slowly closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens them again. “It will allow us to buy fresh seafood without breaking the budget. I’m all for pasta!”

Hannibal glances at Will, who nods at him in thanks. “Then pasta it is,” he murmurs.

The segment doesn’t last much longer, since Chilton had thought of very little. They’re wrapping up and moving the dining room back to prepare for lunch when Will pauses by Hannibal on his way back into the kitchen. “Thank you,” he says softly, and then he goes.

Hannibal’s gaze lingers on the doors to the kitchen as they swing shut. They remain there until he notices someone standing next to him- Gideon. “What the hell was that?”

“Which part are you referring to?”

“Chilton, I suppose.” Gideon waves his hands in the air in a dismissive gesture. “You’d think Will pissed in his drink with the way he was talking to him.”

“The behavior was... worrying.”

“Eh. I’m sure we can edit it into something passable. Poor Will misses out on the credit for his spectacular idea.”

“Perhaps only for now,” Hannibal muses, and Gideon’s face lights up. “Keep the footage handy, if you will. We may make use of it at a later date.”

“Brilliant!” Gideon looks ecstatic at the possibility of throwing Chilton under the bus somewhere down the road. “Business as usual in the meantime, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Just give the word, boss,” Gideon sing-songs. 

At this point, it’s more a matter of when than if, but Hannibal doesn’t need to tell anyone that yet. Things need to progress to the point where the matter is serious enough to warrant drastic action as opposed to acting out of, mostly, spite. The sooner Will opens up to him, the better.

Though maybe there would be a faster method. Will is highly unlikely to actually tell Hannibal anything of this magnitude, and Chilton is clearly not particularly adept at hiding his emotions. It may be far faster to break Chilton than gain Will’s trust.

And if he’s careful enough, there is no reason he cannot do both.

Chapter Text

Freddie writes the article in two days and it goes up the following Monday, or perhaps late Sunday night. Hannibal is not in the habit of keeping tabs on her website and knows well enough that the people around him will alert him to its presence soon enough. That happens as expected, though he had not particularly expected the first person to approach him about it to be Matthew.

The man has kept his distance ever since Hannibal had interrupted him with Will. Brown is enough of a professional to have no issues working with Hannibal in that capacity but when work is done for the day the man backs off. While the man being the first to know is somewhat of a surprise, the man approaching him about it altogether is far from one. “So,” Matthew begins, noticeably keeping his distance from where they have crossed paths in the home’s dining room. “Saw an interesting article recently.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal pretends he has no possible idea what the man may be going on about. “About what, pray tell?”

“Heard you’re in the market for a personal chef and have a certain someone in mind.”

“And who may this certain someone be?”

“I think you can guess.” Matthew leans up against the door frame, arms crossed. “Is it true?”

Something catches his eye behind Matthew- Alana, approaching him with a look of calm fury in her eyes. “Not in the way I suspect you are hoping, unfortunately. Now, Alana, how may I assist you?”

Matthew nearly jumps at the mention of Alana, quickly scuttling away. Though he can be quite foolhardy, Matthew is far from stupid. “Hannibal, we need to talk.”

He nods. “I imagine we do if what Matthew has just told me is correct. Shall we?”

Alana turns on her heel without another word, walking them both into her office and closing the door behind them. She takes her seat behind the desk and Hannibal takes his at the front. “You better have a damn good explanation for this, Hannibal.” While she is normally quite calm and benevolent, Alana has learned how to channel Jack quite brilliantly when the circumstances call for it. Her laptop sits nearby, open to the article in question, a fact that is revealed when she turns it to face Hannibal.

The headline reads Is Chef Lecter Intending To Buy Will Graham?, which is such a masterful twist of the situation while still being technically correct that a part of Hannibal finds himself impressed. He scans the first few sentences as well. We all know that Chef Lecter has taken a special interest in the head chef from the current season based on the episode that has just aired. But is it possible that this interest runs deeper? In a conversation, the chef has told me that he is considering hiring a personal chef, and that he has a few candidates in mind. It should be no surprise that Will Graham is at the top of that list. “She seems to have taken the facts and used them to arrive at a logical conclusion. Incorrect, but still logical.”

“Then walk me through the facts.”

Hannibal crosses his leg over his knee. “It is true that I spoke with Ms Lounds and informed her that I was considering the possibility of hiring a personal chef, and that I had candidates in mind. It is untrue that I am considering Will for the position and in fact did not mention him in any way.”

Alana’s brow is furrowed. “I’m not entirely sure I can believe that you don’t want him for this. Not when I can’t even fully trust your reasonings for making this very sudden decision now of all times.”

“Ah, I never did say I would not want him to fill that position. Quite the contrary. I simply recognize that it is not a realistic option, particularly after learning what I have from Ms Lounds herself. Will is tied far too strongly to Café Eloise .”

Alana takes the laptop back and shuts it. “What exactly did you learn?”

As Hannibal recounts his discoveries, the furrow in her brow deepens. “She has given me proof of these claims as well and I am more than happy to share this with you.”

“That does explain the animosity between Will and Chilton,” Alana muses. “Forgive me for asking, but what exactly are we supposed to do with this information?”

“For now? Nothing. Simply understanding the situation itself should aid us in our goals.”

“I can’t help but notice that you said ‘for now’.”

Hannibal smiles, catlike. “Consider it a trump card.”

That only makes Alana look more irritated. “I’m not going to consider it anything. You’ll need to put out some sort of response, you know.”

He nods. “Tonight, I think. We had best be getting to the restaurant.”

“Alright,” Alana sighs. Both of them stand. “No more going rogue, okay? If it’s even tangentially related to the show you need to tell me ahead of time.”

That makes Hannibal pause at the doorway, in the middle of readjusting his coat. “Then I suppose I should inform you that I have every intention of performing any cooking sessions here as opposed to at the restaurant.”

“Hannibal-”

“Will is far too tense to learn properly at Eloise while Chilton is there and Chilton will not leave the building while Will remains inside of it.”

“Do you really think Will even needs your guidance?”

Hannibal considers his words carefully before replying. “I believe that we have filmed this aspect of the show for every other season and it would be unwise to stop now.”

“Just leave,” Alana mutters, and Hannibal takes the escape he has been given.

There is still one more lecture Hannibal is expecting to get and he can’t help anticipating this one with something like excitement. Sure enough, the moment the crew steps inside the kitchen, Will makes a beeline for him. “Outside,” is all he says, voice low and tense. He already looks tired and irritated. With a nod to his crew, Hannibal follows Will out the back door and into the alley.

It’s dim in the alley, the morning sun not quite high enough in the sky to illuminate it properly. Will leans against the far wall, fingers tapping on his elbows where he has his arms crossed. Though it’s obvious the man is not in a good mood, interestingly, he doesn’t seem to be directing any of that ire towards Hannibal for the moment. “Mind telling me why the hell Chilton just decided to chew me out for being a traitor with no loyalty, as he put it?”

It seems that Will has not seen the article himself, which is an interesting factor to consider. Briefly, Hannibal considers telling him a much grander story before settling on the truth. Lying does not seem to result in favorable outcomes when it comes to Will. “There is a piece on the internet that asserts that I am trying to headhunt you, in short.”

Will’s eyes widen, not with shock but disbelief. “You- are you? Normally I’d assume the first person to know about that would be me but you don’t exactly do things the usual way.”

“While I would certainly love for you to become my personal chef, I understand fully that you have no wishes to leave your current position. It was a conclusion the author came to on their own, erroneously.”

Somewhat unexpectedly, Will’s cheeks go a little pink at that. An interesting reaction, to say the least. “Personal- well that explains the shit he was accusing me of, at least.”

Their conversation in the other café comes to mind. “How many times did he accuse you of sleeping with me?”

Will groans. “At least four. Probably more, but I tuned out after the fourth.”

“He seems quite eager to use that excuse.”

“Guess that’s the only thing he thinks is worthwhile about me,” Will shrugs. Notably, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit upset that his boss now believes him to be sleeping with Hannibal. Is he simply used to the accusation or is the idea something he truly has no opposition to? “Who exactly wrote this article?”

“Freddie Lounds,” Hannibal tells him, and then he watches as the man puts the pieces together faster than should be humanly possible and goes as stiff as a board.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and furious, arms dropping to his side and hands curling into fists. “You motherfucker,” he growls. “How much do you know, now? All of it?” He pushes himself upright, off the wall.

“All that Lounds knows, I expect.” This reaction is both far more intense and far more aggressive than Hannibal had anticipated. It seems like it’s always one step forward and two steps back with Will.

“This? This is why I didn’t want you people here. All you care about is your stupid show.”

“Should I not care about my own production?”

“Don’t try to weasel your way out of this,” Will spits. “The bottom line is all you care about and you don’t give a damn about the lives you ruin along the way.”

The accusation stings, both because it’s largely true and because this is the one time that it’s not the case. “Forgive me, Will, but I’m failing to see how obtaining this knowledge is going to ruin your life.”

“It’s not obtaining it. It’s when you use it. You should know, now, why this place is so important to me. You should also know just how badly Chilton doesn’t want that information to get out. As long as he lets me stay here, I’m not going to go shouting it from the hilltops. If it gets out anyways? I’ll be out the door the next day.”

“Chilton would not dare fire you in the middle of filming, especially not after this information comes to light.”

“No,” Will laughs, joyless. “He won’t. But then filming ends and everyone leaves and a few months later, everyone’s moved on. That’s when I’ll lose everything.”

Bristling, Hannibal’s words become more pointed. “A chef of your caliber should have no problems finding employment elsewhere.”

Will bares his teeth. “If money was the issue do you really think I’d still be here? I can barely fucking afford my rent with the shit Chilton pays me. You come here, and you just fucking. Ruin everything.”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that I may be trying to help?”

“I never asked for your help,” Will snarls, his arms starting to raise, like he’s seriously considering hitting Hannibal. “I don’t need it.”

“I would advise you,” Hannibal says, icily calm, “to learn the difference between wanting help and needing it.”

Will flinches, and Hannibal knows the words hit home. "I'm done talking to you." He pushes past Hannibal, intending to escape back into the restaurant, only to be stopped by Hannibal's hand on his shoulder.

"Trust me, Will."

When Will speaks, he won't meet Hannibal's eyes, won't even turn his head to pretend. "I can't," he says simply, and this time when he tries to leave, Hannibal lets him go.

Hannibal remains, closing his eyes and taking slow, deep breaths to calm himself. If Will cannot bring himself to trust him, then Hannibal will just have to force him to, and he knows just who to talk to to make that happen.

Unsurprisingly, Will avoids Hannibal for the rest of the day and well into the next one. He’s still in the process of formulating just how to approach next when someone beats him to it.

Beverly Katz isn’t exactly waiting at the bottom of the stairs but she reaches him quickly enough once he has descended them. “Hey, uh.” As she’s speaking, she’s glancing back into the kitchen, where Will is not currently in sight. “Can I talk to you for a sec? Off camera?”

Hannibal’s intention had always been to speak to Beverly next so her approaching him instead is a pleasant surprise. “Of course,” Hannibal answers. “Outside?”

She nods and they make their way to the side door, managing to slip outside before Will reappears and notices. It would be quite the amusing incident if Will was not clearly visible because he himself was already outside, though Beverly likely would not have taken him out here if that was the case. The alleyway is, thankfully, empty. “What may I help you with, Ms Katz?”

“Okay, look.” Her arms are crossed across her chest as she speaks. “This isn’t an accusation but… what the hell did you say to Will?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t think you meant to upset him or anything but you guys seemed to be getting along really well and…” At what Hannibal can only imagine is an incredulous look on his end, she trails off. “The bar for that is a lot lower for Will. He would voluntarily speak to you sometimes so he clearly liked you to some degree.” Interesting, though the fact that she’s speaking in past tense is not promising. “Then that article thing happened, he spoke to you about it yesterday and ever since he’s been moping around like someone killed all his dogs.”

As usual, Hannibal forgoes the important for the interesting. Will does not carry the scent of canines on him and his clothes are free of hair. “Will has dogs?”

“Great,” Beverly mutters. “You both do that. No wonder you get along. He, uh, well they’re technically not his dogs, but this is getting off track.”

“What do we both do?” Hannibal continues to pry but Beverly looks like she’s considering the consequences of slapping him, so he refocuses. “Apologies. You think our conversation has affected him?”

“I know it did,” Beverly huffs. “Will hardly reacts like that to anything, because he reacts like that when he actually cares about what went down. Which is almost never, nowadays.”

“You think I’ve hurt him.”

“What I think is that I need to chew one of you out and Will sure isn’t going to help me find out which of you to go for.”

Hannibal, briefly, considers the situation. Beverly is clearly quite protective of Will, and that seems to extend to keeping things around that make him happy. When happy is so difficult to find, she settles for things that make him react in the first place. Has he always been this numb, or is it a side effect of Chilton’s abuse? “I have learned some information that he does not seem to have wanted me to learn.”

For a brief moment, Beverly looks aghast, like she hadn’t even considered this outcome. “About what happened when the owners died?” In response, Hannibal nods. “Freddie must have told you,” she muses. “That’s why that article got written. Quid Pro Quo.”

It seems that Beverly is sharper than he had given her credit for. “That is correct, though she took some… creative liberties with how she interpreted that information.”

“You-” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Nevermind. So are you going to use that information in the show, or…?”

“Potentially. Not anytime soon. Will has said that he is afraid that once the information gets out, Chilton will have no reason to keep him here.”

Beverly sighs dramatically. “So I’m chewing out Will, then. I feel like I don’t need to tell you to be careful with that information.”

“You do not.”

“Alright.” She unfolds her arms but does not leave. “Thanks for clearing that up. Oh, and the dogs thing? It’s a pack of strays he feeds. Not here, but by where he lives. If you’ve ever caught him cooking up scraps that’s what it’s for.”

Something Hannibal needs to catch on camera, of course. The segment is already forming in his mind as they return to the restaurant. 

Beverly is working on Will for a day and a half, and when the man approaches Hannibal on Thursday he looks reluctant at best. Even so, he speaks. “Hey, uh, Hannibal. I need to. Apologize.”

There is a moment where Hannibal cannot properly focus enough to respond. If Will has ever addressed him before, it has always been ‘Chef Lecter’ or something less direct. Never before has he heard his first name in the other man’s tongue and it is frightening to confront how at home it sounds there. He regains himself. “For what, Will?”

That earns him a dirty look, as he knows precisely what Will is apologizing for and Will is very much aware of that fact. If he wants to apologize, Will will have to work for it. “You know- hold on. Start over.” Will closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath before reopening them. “I’m bad at this.”

“Apologizing?”

“Being wrong,” Will corrects, and Hannibal’s mouth twitches up into a smile. “The thought of losing this place, it scares me more than I ever thought possible. You guys are just… trying to help.”

“Are we?” Hannibal teases, but Will considers it seriously.

The words he answers with come slow, carefully chosen. “I fail to see how any other outcome would benefit you.”

It’s far closer to the truth than Will realizes. The blind spot he seems to have does not seem likely to be overcome anytime soon. “You must trust that we are here for the benefit of the restaurant and everyone inside of it.”

“I’m trying,” Will grumbles. “Bad at that too. Or so I’ve been told. You didn’t have to sic Beverly on me, by the way.”

“Beverly sicced herself on you.”

“Makes sense. Can you just.” Will shuffles in place, almost as if his entire body is rejecting the way he is presumably about to ask for something for his own benefit. “If… no, when. When that is all about to go public, can you at least… warn me beforehand?”

“Of course,” Hannibal promises, and he finds that this is far less false than others he has made.

Will looks relieved. “Thank you.”

Since he is here and no longer angry, this is the perfect time to bring another manner up. “While you are here. We need to begin practicing the menu soon.”

“Uh, yeah.” Will glances around the kitchen. “Sure. It’s always pretty slow, so whenever is fine.”

“You misunderstand me.” Will’s expression instantly becomes guarded. “Considering the unique circumstances, I would like for these sessions to occur off-site. Our current lodgings would be the obvious solution but I am not opposed to finding a new location altogether.”

“Wait, hold on.” Will puts his hands up. “You want me to come back to that house you guys are staying in for the cooking lessons?”

“Indeed.”

Will makes a displeased face. “Can’t you just email me the recipes or something? I can figure it out.”

“You can,” Hannibal agrees, “but there will be quite the hole in our footage as a result.”

“Are people not going to wonder why it’s being filmed somewhere other than the restaurant like it has been every other season?”

“They will, and eventually they will learn why.”

That punches a sigh out of Will. “I’m not getting out of this, am I.”

“Unlikely.”

“Let me guess. Next I ask when, and that’s when you tell me every Friday including tomorrow?”

Hannibal supposes that that conclusion would have been quite easy to come to, even for someone who was not Will. “You would be correct in your assessment.”

“Lucky for you, I have no life outside of work right now,” Will mutters. “Just let me know when. And tell your producer beforehand, this time.”

“You will be happy to know that she has already agreed to it.”

“Naturally.” Will looks significantly more relaxed than before, despite the anxiety that always seems to keep him stiff. “Well, I have to get back to work. Thanks for.” He pauses, like he wasn’t sure how to end this sentence when he started it.

“For forgiving you?” Hannibal suggests.

Will laughs. “Sure, Let’s go with that. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hannibal.”

When Will heads back into the kitchen, the implication that he knew Hannibal had never been angry with him and still wanted to apologize anyways rings through the air like the clear chime of a bell.

Since the teaching segments are being done off-site the crew never even goes to the restaurant the next day, instead setting up in the kitchen of the rented house. The size of it makes the process far easier than it likely would have been elsewhere. Will and Hannibal occupy the space between the island and the counter while the cameras and crew fill the room beyond.

Will, since he was aware that this will be filmed, has dressed in what is likely the nicest clothes he owns unless he happens to be hiding a suit somewhere. It’s simply a nice dark blue button-up with black slacks. The color goes beautifully with that of Will’s eyes, a fact that Hannibal laments not being able to inform the man of due to the small army of a production crew waiting patiently to film them. Hannibal is in a matching white button-up, rolled up at the sleeves so it does not get in the way, and he can’t help but watch the way Will notices that and rolls up his own sleeves to match with something close to fondness.

The island is filled, partly with cuts of beef but mostly with decorations. The three cuts are each framed with decorative herbs, placed on wood cutting boards that are tipped forward enough to give the camera a good view of them. When Will seems situated they begin the filming. “Today, I thought we’d try something a little different. Our chef beside me is something of a master when it comes to fish, so naturally we should try to bring him out of his comfort zone and try something new. Here we have three cuts of beef-” as he names them, Hannibal gestures to each one. “Rib eye, sirloin, and flank, otherwise known as bavette. We will be making three different recipes to showcase both the cuts themselves and the range of applications of beef. How are you feeling, Will?”

Will seems to feel like he wasn’t expecting to have to speak during this portion, but he pulls something together. “A little nervous, honestly. I tend to undercook red meat so I’m hoping you can help me out there.”

“A much easier problem to solve than the opposite, fortunately. Now, let’s get started.” The cameras cut here, the crew moving in to clear off the island as Hannibal and Will retrieve the beef. “We will be jumping back and forth between recipes as we cook. Edited, it will seem more linear, and I trust you can follow my pace.”

“Yup,” Will nods. “Shouldn’t be an issue. What are we starting with?”

In response, Hannibal puts all but the rib eye back in the fridge, pulling out a roasting tray, oil, and salt and pepper. “Ready?” Francis calls out, island now free of any clutter save what they will be actively using. When both men confirm, he calls action.

“To start with-” Hannibal is cut off by the oven beeping behind him, causing Will to snicker. “Apologies,” Hannibal murmurs, turning to silence the alarm. “I haven’t quite gotten the timing of this one down.” They don’t cut, simply reset and Hannibal begins again. “To start with, a roast beef carpaccio. The first part of this, naturally, will be roasting the beef. This starter looks impressive and the beef can be used for sandwiches as well. While the version I will teach you is garnished by frisee, chives and truffles, anything can be used at the discretion of the chef.”

Will’s eyebrows have shot up into his hairline and an audible sigh can be heard from off camera. “Truffles?” Will asks, aware that the shot has already been blown. “You think Chilton is going to buy truffles?”

The smile feels inevitable, but Hannibal tempers it down to more of a smirk. “Try to react less, Will.”

“No promises,” Will shrugs, with a crooked smile of his own.

Hannibal repeats the final part of his explanation and this time Will simply nods in understanding. They brush the oil on the rib eye, season it, and then it’s sliding into the oven to be cooked. As they work the island is cleaned behind them, new items placed down by the techs. “Handy,” Will comments. “Wish I could get this at Eloise .”

“I feel as if Ms Katz would object to her new assignment.”

Will, wonderfully, laughs at that. “I’d probably be the one doing this for her.”

“This will be the last thing that needs a great deal of time beforehand. After this, our pace will be much more leisurely.”

“Right,” Will nods. “Let’s go.”

The cameras start rolling again. “Next we will be making a steak & rosemary chimichurri, using the bavette steak. The first step of this will, of course, be to make the sauce. While this is traditionally made with a mortar and pestle we will be chopping the herbs ourselves and allowing them time to infuse for simplicity’s sake. Here we have parsley, oregano, rosemary, garlic and a red chili.” Without even being asked, Will reaches for the garlic and chili, which leaves Hannibal with the herbs. “Not fond of chopping herbs, Will?”

“No, I, um.” Will glances at the camera and back to Hannibal. “If this isn’t well known already, sorry. You have a very keen sense of smell, so I figured I’d take the pungent stuff, make it a little bit easier on you?”

The room falls silent. While the core crew was aware of Hannibal’s impossibly sensitive nose it wasn’t exactly common knowledge and certainly not anything Will would have been told about. “That is very kind of you,” Hannibal finally answers, and it sounds almost as if the room is letting out the breath it had been holding in. “The pepper will need to be deseeded and the garlic simply crushed.” He watches for a moment, seeing Will put the cloves under the flat of his knife and pushing down on it until they break free from their peel, before moving on to his own task.

“Is everything we say going to go on camera?” Will asks, crushing more of the garlic beneath his blade.

“Not entirely,” Hannibal assures him. “Though it will all be up for consideration the bulk of it will most likely be left out.”

“Good.” Will retrieves the chili and slices it open down the middle. “Ask.”

“How did you know of my enhanced sense of smell?”

“Just something I noticed,” Will answers with a shrug. “You seem like you always smell a dish before eating it. Lucky guess.”

Hannibal lowers his voice to the point where the audio will be, at best, poor quality. “Will, if you want me to be honest with you, I must ask that you be honest with me in return.”

His hands falter where they are pulling the seeds out of the chili. When he speaks, his voice is just as low as Hannibal’s had been. “You always seem to know who is going to walk in the door before it happens, even in a noisy kitchen. Can’t be hearing with that much noise going on. Finally put it together that it’s because you can smell them coming.”

Briefly, Hannibal pauses, resuming chopping by the time he speaks. “Remarkably perceptive of you.”

“What's actually remarkable here is the fact that you can pick out individual scents in a place full of food being cooked. Anyways, that’s a much nicer response than I usually get,” Will fires back with a wry grin.

“Any time you guys wanna stop mumbling,” Matthew calls out, obviously irritated.

“Apologies,” Hannibal replies at a much more reasonable volume. “Now, we need our oil and vinegar. Mix all the ingredients together and leave it to infuse for two hours.”

Once that is taken care of, the oven alerts them to their roast being ready, though the alluring scent had given them advance notice. A quick check confirms that it has been cooked to the desirable level. They carefully put it into the fridge to cool for several hours.

“What’s next?” Will asks him, arms crossed across his chest. “Seems like we have time to kill.”

“We do,” Hannibal agrees. “There is one more recipe that we can complete in its entirety while we are waiting on the others. This one has the advantage of being quite versatile; while we will be making the salad with sirloin, other meats work just as well, particularly fish.”

“Convenient,” Will murmurs in response. 

“First, we must cook the meat.” Hannibal has Will do this, everything from seasoning the steaks to putting oil in the pan for frying. As he cooks them he watches them closely, waiting for Hannibal to give him the okay to flip and eventually remove the meat from the heat to be placed aside to rest. After some more handwashing they move on to the salad itself.

When Hannibal pulls out the garlic and chili that he has already ground into a paste, Will’s eyebrows raise. “Looks a lot like you already used a mortar for that.”

“Admittedly, I have. A mortar and pestle presents… unique challenges for the audio crew, so I have simply prepared it ahead of time.”

“Uh huh. You know, they don’t have to be made of granite.”

Hannibal’s mouth twitches upwards in a smile. “Guilty as charged. Now, for the rest of the dressing, we will be adding our sugar, fish sauce and lime juice to taste. If you would juice the limes, Will?”

He does. Though the powerful scent of citrus does not actually bother Hannibal, he sees no reason not to take advantage of the help Will had so kindly offered him. When everything is mixed together Hannibal tastes it, offering it to Will when he finds it satisfactory. “Oh,” Will says, once he’s sampled the dressing. “That’s nice. It has a good amount of heat to it.”

“Spicy but not enough to overwhelm,” Hannibal continues. “The salad itself is next. How are you with a peeler?”

“I usually make Bev do that.”

“Then I will take that particular job upon myself. If you would see to the other vegetables?”

As Will chops the radishes, shallots and spring onions, Hannibal peels the carrots into ribbons, both of them dumping their results into a large bowl that sits between them. Next Hannibal halves the cherry tomatoes while Will slices the cucumber, finally finishing with the lettuce itself. Hannibal tosses the vegetables together to mix them before adding the dressing. “Leave a small amount of the dressing to the side and pour the rest in here, to toss with the salad. Then you must toast the peanuts and cut the steak.” He pauses here, allowing Will to pour in the dressing for him to toss before continuing. “Cut the steak at an angle, in thick slices.” While they are working the island is cleared around them, leaving four wide salad bowls in their place. Hannibal serves the salad evenly and they film the rest right up close on the bowl, getting an unobstructed view of them adding the steak and peanuts before finally drizzling the rest of the dressing. “Here we have a spicy, Thai-inspired salad.”

“Looks good. I’m sure it tastes great too.”

“I assure you that it does, though you will form your own opinions on the dish momentarily.” He turns to look off camera. “The Riesling, if you will?”

The appearance of the wine and wine glasses seems to startle Will, though he does not show it outwardly. “Aren’t you supposed to pair reds with red meat?”

“That is often the case,” Hannibal agrees. He pours two glasses and sets the bottle perfectly in between, framed by them. “Since the dish is a spicy one, something a bit sweeter makes an excellent pairing. Here, we have an older Von Hovel Oberemmeler Hutte Riesling Spätlese.”

They were given forks along with the bowls, and both of them carefully collect as much of the variety of ingredients as is possible to sample. They take the bites together. “This is fantastic,” Will decides, once he has swallowed. In response, Hannibal lifts his glass, offering a toast, and once they clink them together they take a drink. As always, Hannibal takes in the aroma first, and though Will goes straight to taking a drink it’s a small one, considering the taste. “You’re right about the wine, too. Not that I thought you wouldn’t be.”

“I am right about many things,” Hannibal tells him, and it makes Will give him a crooked grin.

The cameras don’t stop rolling but the formality drains out of the situation. Two of the bowls are taken away to be distributed among the crew, with the remaining two being left for Will and Hannibal. “Are they…” Will jerks his head towards the cameras. “We have at least an hour to do nothing, right? You just gonna film an hour of nothing?”

“We have an hour to eat,” Hannibal corrects, “and talk. Though it is not a proper segment of the show it is a good opportunity for them to obtain B-roll.”

Will looks intensely skeptical of the situation, which he is correct to be as this is not something they would normally do. Hannibal has specifically asked them to continue filming and no one had really complained about the waste of footage it would be. “Do I need to be careful about our conversation?” Interesting, that Will is not concerned that he is essentially being forced to hold a conversation with Hannibal for what will likely be over an hour, instead concerned only about what may be caught on camera. Promising, Hannibal corrects.

“Though the likelihood that our conversation will make it into the show proper is low, I cannot deny that it remains a possibility.”

“Noted.”

They are provided with tall stools to sit on, ones that keep them in mostly the same frame they occupied before. For a while they speak of nothing of substance, talking about the show itself and how things are going. Hannibal is careful to always keep the wine flowing, never letting the glasses remain empty for more than a moment. Whether due to nervousness or otherwise, Will drinks far more quickly than Hannibal himself. “I’ve always regretted not asking for your card.”

It takes a second for Will to parse where the conversation is going, but nothing more. “Ten years ago? I wouldn’t have anything to give you, you know.” He pauses. “Don’t have business cards now, either, but I definitely wouldn’t have back then.”

“I make a habit of acquiring a means to contact any chefs I have been impressed by.”

“Uh-huh.” Will finishes the last of his wine and Hannibal refills both of their glasses. “And how many of these chefs happen to be working at your restaurants now?”

“Trade secret,” Hannibal whispers conspiratorially, and Will cracks half a grin. “It is not like me to forget things but I must admit to being terribly distracted that night.”

“Oh?” Will’s eyes are sharp in the way Hannibal has come to learn they become when they’re looking deeper, piecing things together. “An emergency.” 

“A fire at one of my restaurants,” Hannibal confirms. “Though there was no loss of life, the building was mostly destroyed. Once that had passed it seemed like the opportunity had gone with it.”

Will takes a drink of his wine. “That was ten years ago, wasn’t it? Nice rebranding, by the way. Real gutsy to turn a place that had just burned to the ground into a Benihana-style restaurant with open flames all over the place.”

“I’ve been told I’m tempting fate.” 

“More like you’re challenging it,” Will corrects. As always, he is right. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you you had no chance of poaching me back then?”

Importantly, Will had specifically said he had no chance back then. Almost as if now, he has a chance of doing so. “You will find I am a remarkably patient man.”

Will picks up on what went unsaid, that Hannibal would have waited, possibly forever, just for the chance to obtain him. Briefly, his eyes widen, and he covers it up with a large gulp of his drink.

“Wine is meant to be savored, Will,” Hannibal admonishes, after taking a drink of his own.

“More of a whiskey drinker anyways.”

“Most drinks are meant to be savored.”

It hadn’t been a challenge but Will meets him with one anyways. “Yeah? You like savoring Keystone?”

Even Hannibal’s composure can stop the shiver of disgust that runs through him at the name, and Will laughs. “Point well made. Perhaps I should have specified ‘drinks worth drinking’.”

“It grows on you,” Will lies. “You end up becoming fond of how awful cheap beer tastes.”

“I do believe I could do without that particular fondness.”

“People grow fond of things others consider disgusting all the time.”

The segue is offered so perfectly that Hannibal cannot help but take it. “In that vein… tell me more about how you became interested in insects, Will.”

A glimmer of amusement is obvious in Will’s eyes. He seems willing to play along and talk around the fact that he’s pursuing said interest professionally. “Insects aren’t disgusting.”

“I agree,” Hannibal replies, “though I also recognize that we are the minority.”

Will nods, conceding the point. “It’s pretty cliche, just to warn you.”

“That does not mean I am not interested.”

That makes Will shrug, and as he tells the story, Hannibal enjoys more of his wine. “Well, back in Louisiana, we lived near the swamps. I loved to watch the fireflies at night when they were out. Always thought they were the stars come down to earth for the night. Kiddy stuff.”

“Imagination is not a childish thing, Will.”

The way Will looks at him is unreadable, like there’s far more to that particular thread of conversation than can be spoken of now. Eventually he moves on. “My Pa got so sick of me talking about it that he told me they were bugs. Think he assumed it’d gross me out but it had the opposite effect.”

“Now the stars are alive.”

“Yup,” Will nods. “I’d stay in the library for hours trying to read up on fireflies. Think I actually stole a book on them at one point. Uh, don’t air that part.” There’s a smattering of laughter from the crew, momentarily reminding them that they have an audience, but they fade into the background again so quickly it’s almost as if they were never there at all. “When I ran out of stuff to read on fireflies I started reading about insects in general and it all kind of spiraled from there.”

“A childhood fascination carried through to adulthood.”

“Essentially,” Will nods.

“Would it be too pedestrian of me to ask if you have a favorite insect?”

Will laughs softly. “I get that question a lot. Do you want the real answer or the polite answer?”

“Shall we start with the polite one?”

“It changes, depending on who’s asking.” He takes a drink of wine and regards Hannibal. “Different people like different bugs. Some like the fragile, beautiful sort, like moths and butterflies. Others like ones people tend to think are stronger, like beetles.”

Fractionally, Hannibal leans forwards. “And what would you tell me?”

For a moment, Will pauses, eyes fixed on Hannibal’s “Death’s-head hawkmoth. Acherontia atropos to be specific.”

“A striking specimen. Care to elaborate?”

 “You appreciate beauty,” Will says slowly, “and are drawn to the macabre. Atropos is the flashiest of the death’s-heads. They’re large, unmistakable, and particularly memorable. It’s a well known insect and has every right to be so well-regarded.”

“Are we still talking about moths?”

“‘course,” Will laughs, a lovely hint of a drawl creeping through. “Any resemblance to a certain famous chef is purely coincidental, I assure you.”

The wine, yet again, has emptied, and Hannibal pours them each another glass. “What is the real answer?”

“It ain’t a pretty one, I’ll tell you that.” Ever so slightly, the drawl is becoming more noticeable. Any further and it may be obvious on camera when they film the latter half of the cooking segment. Naturally, Alana chooses this moment to approach the island and smoothly retrieve the bottle of wine. Will barely spares her a glance.

“I trust you will explain it beautifully nonetheless.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Botflies.”

An interesting choice. Hannibal wishes he could ask if it was due to some connection to his field of study but truthfully, it cannot be. Botflies are attracted to the warmth of mammals and so a cold corpse would be a poor host indeed. “I see the need for a polite answer, now.”

The chef shoots him a cocksure grin. “I did warn you.”

“What is it about botflies that captures your attention?”

“The specialization. There are a great many varieties, most of which have a very specific preference in host. And despite how horrific an infection may seem, they are true parasites. Since they are attracted to the warmth of their mammalian host it would be against their best interest if said host perished. Any damage they do is a byproduct of their struggle to live and in no way malicious.”

It’s quite unusual that Will, somehow, seems to be sympathetic to a parasite. “Most people would be afraid of them.”

“I can’t say it’s an overreaction,” Will admits. “Anything that leaves a series of open wounds on your body is inherently dangerous. Even so, I can’t help but marvel at them.” Will crosses his arms across his chest. “The list of insect life that prefers to parasitize humans is vanishingly small. They’re smart about it, too- they’ve learned that humans will avoid them and will often vector their eggs.”

“A mosquito bite is unpleasant enough without having to worry about additional passengers.”

“Precisely.” He sighs. “You know, if the wound they create does become infected, they die too. The best outcome for them is harmlessly dropping out of their burrows and into the soil when they are ready to pupate.”

“You have a curious definition of the word ‘harmless’.”

Again, Will laughs. “I’ll concede that point.”

“Have you ever met someone who would be told the true answer without prompting?”

“Without prompting?” Will thinks. “Not yet, and it’s difficult to imagine that scenario. Maybe another entomologist specializing in parasites. Even then, it’s not a particularly well loved creature.”

A slip-up, minor enough that no one is likely to notice. After all, Hannibal is the only one here who knows that Will himself is an entomologist alongside being a chef. More than anything else it’s a sign that Will has grown comfortable enough to forget their audience; something the alcohol has surely aided. “I find your answer fascinating, personally.”

“That’s a kind way to say disgusting.”

“Both things can be true.” He pauses. “What happens once they leave the host?”

Will looks almost startled, like he’s shocked that Hannibal is continuing this train of thought on his own. “They, uh. They burrow into the ground to pupate, takes a few weeks, though if it’s cold enough they can pause development to wait out the winter. Then the fly pops out. As is relatively common with holometabolous insects, the imago cannot eat, and exists solely to mate before dying.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “Kind of a shitty way to end your life, if you really think about it. All that work to mature into something that only lives for a couple weeks.”

“Some may consider that romantic.”

“Maybe not in relation to botflies.”

“Maybe not in relation to botflies,” Hannibal agrees. “Think of it in abstract. Your life exists only to ensure your true imago emerges from the chrysalis. It can be quite comforting.”

The look on Will’s face indicates he is not, in fact, a fan of this particular viewpoint. “Well, I guess I can credit you with leaving out the part where the imago’s goal is to reproduce as quickly as possible.”

“I take it you’ve heard this idea before and aren’t quite taken with it.”

“It’s reductive,” Will sighs, “and misunderstands how holometabolism works in the first place. People seem to think the insect breaks down into nothing inside the pupa; it’s a common misconception, so they can’t be faulted for it. There are groups of cells called imaginal discs that essentially break down certain tissues to reform them into the body of the imago. But there are other parts of the body that are left entirely untouched. It’s the same insect, just in a different form.”

“While the outwards appearance differs, the core nature of the insect remains the same.”

“Exactly,” Will smiles, coy. “The imago was there all along. Just because it couldn’t be seen, it doesn’t make it any less real.”

“Some value beauty above all else.”

“Those types of people usually aren’t fascinated by botflies.”

“And some value traits such as beauty just as highly as an unusual fascination with parasitic insects, particularly when the latter comes alongside the former.”

There is a resounding silence throughout the room, quiet enough that Hannibal imagines he can hear Alana’s anger building. An impossibility, naturally. He’s more distracted by the way Will is very visibly trying not to react to his words and not entirely succeeding. Will’s face is too red to blame it on the wine, and he’s veered too far into ensuring he shows no reaction, leaving his perfectly neutral face a more unusual response than the outright shock he’s likely masking. Eventually, the man opens his mouth-

And the timer goes off, signaling the end of their conversation and the signal to resume cooking.

The crew stirs into life first, calling back the rest of the filming crew from the other rooms and repositioning cameras. "I do believe we have some dishes to finish," Hannibal tells Will.

The man recovers quickly and stands with a sharp nod. "What do we do with…" the question trails off as it becomes unnecessary as the crew clears away the dishes and cleans the island. While the rest of the ingredients are laid out for them, both men wash their hands in the sink.

They stand much closer than before out of necessity. The majority of this dish will be finished on the stove and to film it appropriately a camera has been rolled up in front of the fridge, blocking them in on the left. Will will be the focus of the shot and Hannibal will be visible behind him, guiding. "We'll be finishing the bavette steak dish first. The griddle must be put over high heat. As it warms, brush each side of the steak with the remaining oil." Out of context the instructions are vague and he has had chefs have trouble following before, but when it is cut together further elaboration will seem pointless and redundant. Will seems to have no such trouble. "When the griddle is sufficiently hot you may fry the steak. Each side will take approximately four minutes; our aim is not to cook the steak thoroughly."

"Got it." Will adds the steak to the pan with care, not sparing a glance to check the time before flipping it. He's done this before with the fish but seeing it again while cooking an unfamiliar meat confirms that the man is able to precisely measure lengths of time in his head with no assistance. An unusual talent, and one that requires a great deal of focus and practice.

Hannibal measures out and tears a piece of foil, gesturing to it when Will has finished with the steak. "Wrap the steak in foil to rest as we finish the rest." This much he does himself, the foil crinkling as he wraps the meat. "Now cook the mushrooms and tomatoes in the same pan."

The camera on the left sticks around long enough to get shots of Will cooking both vegetables before pulling away. The island is set up for them, a large cutting board in the center flanked on one side by a large plate and a small bowl that the chimichurri sauce has been placed in, minus the remainder that will be poured onto the dish directly, which sits on the opposite side. As they turn they bring the food with them, Hannibal unwrapping the steak and placing it on the cutting board. "So how am I cutting this?" 

Hannibal gestures with the knife, following along the grain of the meat. "Against the grain in thin, long strips. When you are finished it is time to plate the meal."

The other chef does as was asked of him.  He glances at the materials and places the small bowl at the center of the plate, fanning the meat around it in a curving pattern, placing the mushrooms and tomatoes as additional decorations. Without being prompted he takes the extra sauce and drizzles it over the meat in a spiral. Finally, he adds the garnishes of watercress. "Bavette steak with rosemary chimichurri," Hannibal tells the camera, stepping back to allow a close up shot of the dish. Will follows. "Artistic plating," Hannibal tells him, voice low.

Will shrugs. "Gotta make it flashy for the camera, right?"

"Speak up," Matthew calls out, irritation coloring his tone. "You can murmur to each other later if it's really that important to you."

A twinge of anger hits Hannibal, but he's far more interested in how Will looks oddly sheepish at the accusation.

They sample the dish and talk of the flavors, the way the milder rosemary balances out the cut of garlic and chili, how it pairs with the wonderfully cooked meat. "You're a fast learner," Hannibal compliments, this time loud enough for the mics. 

"What can I say," Will grins at him. "I've got a good teacher."

It doesn't take long to reset the kitchen and then they're on the final dish. "Cooking the roast was the main focus here, as you can make a great deal of dishes with roast beef as the base. Even so, I would be remiss to not teach you even one."

"Of course," Will agrees. "What are we making, again?"

"Something Chilton may never allow you to serve, I'm afraid."

"Inappropriate?"

"For his wallet, perhaps."

Will laughs. "Time to see where the truffles go."

One by one, Hannibal points out ingredients. "Trompette mushrooms, which we have sautéed and finely chopped ahead of time. Crème fraîche, olive oil, truffle oil, and finally a sherry vinegar. Have you much experience with a whisk, Will?"

"Stiff peaks and all that?"

A smattering of laughter and a sly grin from Will. "We are not making a meringue, Will, and unfortunately there are no eggs involved. Blending the ingredients together will suffice."

"Guess I should watch less baking shows." Will adds the ingredients into a mixing bowl and starts whisking them together. He whisks it gently, so the metallic clack of the whisk against the bowl won't overwhelm the audio.

"Are you a baker as well?"

"God no. Absolutely awful at it. This good?" He tips the bowl forwards for Hannibal to inspect.

"Perfect. Now, simply add in salt and pepper to taste." 

"Your taste, since I have no idea what this is supposed to taste like. Here." With the seasoning mixed in Will bangs the whisk against the side of the bowl to knock the excess dressing off before holding the implement out to Hannibal. He swipes a bit of the dressing off the tool and brings it to his mouth to sample. "That should suffice."

They move to the roast next. "Slice the meat as thinly as you can manage." Will focuses on that, the first few coming out a touch too thick, so he keeps going until he's got it. He watches Hannibal as he continues to slice. "Apply the dressing directly to the plate." Hannibal takes a spoonful of the dressing and expertly applies it, a large dollop in the center spiraling outwards, mimicking Will's pattern with the sauce in the last dish. "The meat will sit on top." He fits four of the spirals on the plate and begins to add the meat, folding it in waves. "The amount of the roast you require will vary depending on how thin you are able to cut it. With these, I would use five slices per serving." Will seems to have finished with the meat and sets the knife to the side. "The garnishes, if you will?"

"The cress and the truffle shavings?" Will collects them before waiting for an answer.

"Indeed." The meat is nestled atop the dressing like flowers. Hannibal adds the cress throughout, finishing it off with sprinkling the truffle shavings over each bloom. "One of the many variations of a roast beef carpaccio. Would you like to try it?"

"Of course," Will answers, but he's thrown off guard when Hannibal gathers a portion on his fork and offers it to the other man, prongs first. More importantly, Will seems very much like he's about to lean forward and accept what Hannibal is trying to feed him. 

But that could never actually happen, of course, and Alana interrupts them. "Will has two functioning arms, Hannibal."

Laughter from the crew and Will straightens up. "Of course," Hannibal murmurs, turning the fork around and offering the handle instead. When Will takes it their fingers brush.

The rest of the shoot is largely uninteresting. They film a short outro and the crew finally breaks down the set while Hannibal and Will make their way to the front door. "I appreciate your willingness to come here on your days off."

"Days? Are there more than one of these things?"

"There may be, going forwards."

Will, surprisingly, just shrugs. "I wouldn’t be opposed to it."

"I am glad I was able to entertain you."

"Not like that," Will mutters, blushing faintly. "I… miss learning from Eloise. It's been a while since I've had someone to teach me."

"A void I find myself more than willing to fill." Hannibal pauses, watching as Will scratches the back of his head. "Will you be okay driving home?"

That makes him frown. "We didn't drink that much." 

"Yes, but I must ask nonetheless."

"I'm fine," Will says softly. "Really. Thanks, Hannibal."

And the man departs with a smile and a wave.

For a moment, Hannibal simply stands in the entryway, marveling at how well it had gone. Matthew snaps him out of it.

"Laying it on thick, aren't you?" He's passing through, carrying a bundle of wires in his arms.

"I suppose so." Hannibal turns back around to face Matthew. "Some may consider the behavior inappropriate should it get out."

Matthew stops, head tipped to the side, studying Hannibal. "Then it's a good thing your crew is so trustworthy."

"Indeed. I know I can rely on you to do exactly what I ask of you."

The other man stays silent, eventually nodding before returning to his original path at a much slower pace. He knows Matthew understood his intentions.

With that taken care of, there is one last thing to do. Hannibal finds Francis still in the kitchen, directing his crew as they pack away the cameras. "A moment, Francis?"

The giant of a man nods and approaches Hannibal. "Need something, sir?"

"Yes, in fact. When you have time, I need you to give me a copy of today's footage."

Even Francis won't stay silent at the odd request. "What for?"

"It's somewhat difficult to get footage of our Will so relaxed and personable. When we need to paint him in a much more sympathetic light later some of what we've caught today may serve our purpose and I'd like to examine it for such a use."

"Hmm." The man seems to accept that excuse. "All of the cameras?"

"The one that followed Will should do. I can mark the times for if we need the wider shots."

"Understood. I'll get the footage to you as quickly as possible."

"Thank you, Francis. Now if you will excuse me, I believe I am about to be scolded somewhat terribly."

The man’s eyes flick towards Alana's approaching form before he goes back to his crew. Hannibal turns to meet her and face the storm head on. 

~~~

The camera follows Hannibal as he descends the stairs from Chilton’s office, clad in a forest green pinstripe suit. At the door to the kitchen, he pauses, and motions for the cameras to follow him silently. They pass through and Hannibal makes a beeline to the stove. “Will. What are you making?”

The chef jumps at the sound of Hannibal’s voice but when he turns to face them, his expression is neutral. “I’m cooking up some of the food scraps. Really hate to see good food go to waste, you know.”

Camera zooms in on the stove, which is occupied by several pans currently cooking bits and pieces of meat and vegetables that could barely be considered edible. It zooms back out to the two men. “For… yourself?”

“Yep.”

“You are going to eat this.”

“Yep.” Will reaches into a pan and pulls out what appears to be gristle. He puts it in his mouth and chews it, expression never changing. The camera zooms in to linger on his face as he chews it for a great deal of time.

Cut to Jimmy Price, being interviewed in the dining room. “He ate it? ” He starts laughing hysterically. Another cut, to when he’s calmed down. “God, that’s good. Yeah, Chilton doesn’t care he does it because it’d all be garbage otherwise. He just bags it up and takes it home. No clue what he does with it, unfortunately.” A pause. “Bev would probably know.”

Back to Will, still chewing. Finally, he swallows, and can’t hide the wince. “Delicious,” he says. It sounds strained.

Cut to Beverly Katz, being interviewed in the dining room. “Yeah, he’s feeding strays. Not near the restaurant or anything; he knows better.” The shot changes to footage of someone clearly tailing Will without his knowledge. Beverly’s voice continues playing in the background. “There’s an alley close by where he lives that has basically become stray dogs of Baltimore HQ at this point.” Will holds several large bags of the scraps he cooked up earlier as he walks down the street, checking to make sure no one is watching before ducking down a dark alleyway. The camera loses him in the darkness and moves closer. When it finally focuses on him again and adjusts to the lighting Will is kneeling on the ground, barely visible in a swarm of excited dogs. “He feeds them nearly every day, as far as I know. And man do they love him. Honestly? He managed to train a bunch of them, too. No clue how he did it.” Will stands now, opening the bags and dumping them out into something obscured by the sea of canines. While they’re eating he moves around the alleyway, picking up unidentifiable garbage and putting it in the now empty bags. “He’ll get them help if they’re sick or injured, too. I think he’s slowly getting them spayed and neutered, to help curb the problem in the first place. He’s definitely found some of them homes through the diners. It kinda feels like if you were looking for literally any type of dog, Will would have one ready for you in a day.” Some of the dogs that are finished eating are following Will around the alleyway now, and he plays with them for quite some time. All the while, a huge smile is plastered on his face. “He’s like the king of all the dogs around here.”

A final cut, to Will Graham being interviewed in the dining room. He won’t make eye contact with the camera and is silent for a long time. Finally, he speaks. “I’m not allowed to have pets at the apartment.”

~~~

Chapter Text

Though Hannibal does not discover the results for quite some time, Matthew had done his job wonderfully. 

Nothing happens until the episode with the segment in question airs. The time before then is calm and enjoyable. Will is warming further and further to Hannibal, and while Chilton doesn’t seem particularly pleased with the fact, he doesn’t start any trouble either. The new menu is finally fully rolled out to roaring success. Every Friday Will comes to the house, either to cook with Hannibal on camera or simply to cook with him for the sake of it. Those days are the ones he finds he enjoys the most.

Two days after the episode with the first teaching segment airs, Alana asks to speak with Hannibal in her office.

He shuts the door behind him before sitting down. Alana looks exhausted. “I’m not mad,” is the first thing she says.

Hannibal cocks his head. “Something’s happened.”

“Yes,” she sighs. “I know you’re getting close with Will, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, outside the context of the show.”

“Are we behaving inappropriately on camera?”

“You came close to it, once.”

“And none of that footage made it into the episode.”

“Which is why this isn’t your fault,” Alana says gently. “But we need to handle this. An anonymous crew member leaked the details of that shooting session right after it happened. No one paid it any mind and we weren’t even aware of it until now, when the episode finally aired.”

“Ah.” Hannibal leans back in his chair. “I assume they included some small details about the session that have now been proven true with the airing of the episode.”

She nods. “Lounds got ahold of it. She hasn’t written anything and has been careful to categorize them as nothing more than rumors, but she gave it exposure and it took off online.”

“How are we going to handle this?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Alana admits. “So if you have any ideas feel free to share them. Either way, you needed to know.”

“Is Will aware?”

“Only if he’s active on social media.”

“Unlikely.”

Again, she nods. “I’ll talk to the crew myself before sending them to the restaurant. I assumed you’d want to tell him yourself.”

She assumed correctly, which indicates that she is becoming more accepting of his intentions. A pleasing development. “I think I will head to Eloise now, if you do not need me for anything further.”

“That’s fine. I’ll give you a heads up when the crew is on their way.” 

He takes his exit and departs.

The staff are surprised to see him at Eloise so early, and without any cameras following him around. Abigail comes up to him when she spots him, bundles of rolled silverware in her hands. “Looking for Will?”

“Word travels fast.”

“He’s in the back, with Beverly.”

He thanks her and slips into the kitchen.

Will and Beverly are, in fact, working together, prepping food for the day and holding what appears to be an interesting conversation. Both of them tense up at the sight of Hannibal but immediately relax when he’s not followed by a cameraman. “Am I interrupting?”

Beverly replies first. “No, wait, come over here, actually. This involves you.”

“It does?” Will looks puzzled, a sure sign he yet again has no idea what’s going on.

“Yeah. I was just getting into telling Will about the wild rumors going around about you two.”

Hannibal stands on the other side of the island. “What rumors may you be referring to?”

She continues. “Some forum post about a shooting session you guys had. Got ignored when it was first posted but they got lucky predicting a few things about the episode that just aired so now everyone’s taking their actions as gospel.”

“What episode just aired?” Will asks.

“The one including the first time I taught you recipes at the house.”

Will’s knife stops, but Beverly doesn’t seem to have noticed. “They’re really spinning some wild stuff, talking about how the two of you were flirting nonstop talking about botflies and imagos. Even said Hannibal tried to feed you at one point. It’s like a bad romance novel.” Will, attractively, has gone bright red, and Beverly finally spots it. “Woah, dude, you okay?”

Hannibal steps in. “Those rumors have merit.”

“All of that was true,” Will mutters, eyes suddenly glued to the cutting board. He refuses to look up.

Beside him, Beverly freezes in place. She sets her knife down on her own cutting board. “Okay. I’m going to go stand in the walk-in for five minutes and try to wake myself up, since this is clearly all a dream I’m having. If I come back and it’s all real, Will, you’re going to hate me for the rest of the day. Got it?”

“Got it,” Will says weakly, and Beverly leaves for the walk-in. He takes a deep breath and finally looks back up at Hannibal. “So… what happens now?”

Hannibal had, in all honesty, expected anger from the man, and the lack of it gives him pause while he recalculates. “You are not upset.”

“Why would I be?” Will frowns. “You’re the public figure here. If anyone should be worried about their reputation it’d be you.”

“Associating with you would only improve it.”

“Stop that,” Will chastises, a small smile on his face. “That just got us into this situation in the first place.”

He relents. “This does not change anything, truthfully. There has been no misconduct or special treatment so there is no scandal to speak of.”

“If anything I’ve gotten the opposite, with having to drive out to the house for the cooking segments,” Will elaborates, and Hannibal nods.

“The only potential issue is that the choice of venue must look quite suspicious under the circumstances. We may need to be transparent with our reasoning far earlier than we intended to.”

“If it’s not a big deal why take the time to come give me a heads up?”

“This will still generate a great deal of gossip, and there is one person in particular who will likely ignore the lack of evidence pointing to wrongdoing.”

“Chilton doesn’t know yet,” Will huffs, brushing off the concern. On the other side of the kitchen, the door to the walk-in clicks open. “That was only three and a half minutes!” Will calls back.

“Shit’s cold!” Beverly shouts back, closing the door behind her. Soon enough she rejoins them.

“How can you be certain Chilton remains unaware?” Hannibal asks.

It’s Beverly who answers. “Easy,” she begins, only to be immediately interrupted by a voice booming down from the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Graham!” Chilton screams, and Will flinches. “My office, now!”

“Now he knows,” Beverly helpfully explains. “Dude, don’t go up there.”

Will had already turned to leave, but he remains in place. “Gotta get it out of the way eventually.”

“You really don’t.” Beverly looks angry in a way Hannibal has never seen before. “You don’t have to go up there and get screamed at.”

“I do if we ever want the place to open,” Will argues, and from his tone this is an argument they have had many times over, with the same resolution every time. “You know how to finish everything up. It’ll be fine.”

“I have to agree with Beverly,” Hannibal interjects. Will glances at him before beginning to leave, only to be stopped by the man’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s the same thing every time,” Will sighs. “Just let me go.”

“It will not be the same this time,” Hannibal insists, “because I am here.”

For a long moment, Will just looks at Hannibal, and then he slowly picks up his knife and goes back to prepping for the day.

Beverly looks utterly shocked, but it’s not long before she has resumed her work as well. They make friendly conversation that is periodically interrupted by a voice screaming down the stairs. The rest of the kitchen staff start snickering.

Eventually the screaming changes to stomping as Chilton comes down the stairs himself. “Graham, you cannot just ignore me and-” When he reaches the bottom he freezes in place, eyes wide with shock. “C-Chef Lecter,” he stammers, red in the face. It quickly turns to annoyance. “You are supposed to notify me ahead of time if you are beginning filming early.”

Hannibal gestures to the kitchen, free from filming equipment. “Despite what you seem to believe, I must assure you that our crew is not invisible. They are simply not present.”

Someone on the far side of the kitchen starts aggressively watching dishes, presumably to hide laughter. Chilton’s face only gets redder. “Then why are you here?” He gestures, quite violently, towards Will. “Is it to-” He cuts himself off. “I fail to see the reason for you to be here.”

“We are likely here for the same reason.”

“I need to talk to Chef Graham.” The tone brokers no argument.

“As I am equally involved in this matter, if you speak to Will, you will speak to the both of us.”

The room goes silent, almost as if it’s holding its breath in. Will is watching the scene carefully. At the foot of the stairs Chilton is attempting to hold his ground, glowering at Hannibal, hands balled into fists.

But Hannibal does not break. Chilton yields. “It can wait,” he mutters, finally stomping his way back up the stairs, and the room stirs to life back around them.

“Damn,” Beverly whispers. “He almost said something he shouldn’t have.”

“That may have been unwise,” Hannibal admits. “Will, you may pay dearly for that later, and I must apologize for such.”

For his part, Will just looks impressed. “That was worth it. I’ve never seen him scurry away like that before.”

“He’s not used to people talking back to him,” Beverly adds. “Doesn’t spend a lot of time around people he can’t fire.”

“A bully,” Hannibal extrapolates. “His behavior was quite childlike. Similar to an angry toddler.”

This time, Will laughs, and Beverly is looking at him with alarm, like she’s never heard him make that noise before. “I, uh.” He looks at Hannibal, making eye contact. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Hannibal replies, and he means every word of it.

“You’re famous, right? Do they make life size cardboard cutouts of you?” The question from Beverly is sudden. “Think we could get one to put at the bottom of the stairs?”

“He’d never be able to leave his office,” Will contributes. “Just keep getting scared back up the stairs.”

Hannibal nearly smiles. “I will see what I can arrange.”

The next week is difficult. Chilton, obviously, simply waited for a day Hannibal was not around to berate Will, and the chef looks more tired by the day. While Hannibal finds he has countless ideas for how to rectify this problem it takes some time to frame one as a segment they can film and even longer to convince Chilton to agree to it. The owner’s hatred of his head chef only seems to grow to the point where he’s getting snappy with Will even on camera, though the chef keeps his reactions neutral. In the end it’s likely that Chilton agrees to it partly because it gets Will out of the restaurant where he doesn’t have to be near the man.

Hannibal has a great deal of solutions to separate them more permanently but none are appropriate and he can almost hear Alana’s disapproval hovering around his head at all times. For now, more elaborate plans are put on the backburner.

Will himself has clearly noticed the uptick in abuse, but he neither mentions nor acknowledges as much. When Hannibal attempts to explain the plan for the day he gets no further than ‘filming off-site’ before Will cuts him off and asks what car to get into. Naturally, the answer is the same one Hannibal himself will be chauffeured in.

When they are safely on the road Hannibal attempts to restart the conversation. “Would you like to know what we will be doing today?” He glances towards the cameraman sitting in the passenger seat. They had intended to film the intro on the road but that will likely need to be postponed to outside of the market itself.

“Right, sure.” Will is terse, though every moment he spends outside of Chilton’s sphere of influence he calms fractionally. 

“You have told us that before Chilton took over, when you were in charge of seafood dishes, you were responsible for the acquisition of said seafood as well.”

“Oh?” That’s all it takes to brighten the man’s expression. “Yeah, I went to one of the markets daily before work to pick up stuff for the day. We gonna be doing something similar?”

“We are,” Hannibal confirms. “Chilton needs to relinquish part of his control over the day to day runnings of the restaurant. This is a good starting point, as it is a task you carried out regularly to great success.” He waits for Will to finish laughing before continuing. “The current trajectory of Café Eloise is unsustainable. Nothing will be truly repaired if he continues to be unable to trust his staff.”

“You teaching rocks to fly next?”

“Will,” Hannibal chastises, no real disapproval in his tone. “Though it admittedly pains me to see he trusts a relative stranger over his best employee, even Chilton cannot ignore visible results. He has already changed his stance on the new menu as it has increased business and decreased complaints.”

“So you talked him into letting me do something you know I’m good at to trick him into giving me more control,” Will finishes. 

“That is correct.”

He looks out the window, watching their surroundings change to discern where they are headed. “Lexington’s?”

“Indeed. How often would you come here?”

“Most days. Safe to assume we’re not going to be operating with the same budget?”

Hannibal nods. “Though I am unfamiliar with the budget Eloise gave you, I would find it hard to believe it matches what Chilton has grudgingly allowed you.”

“I’ll make it work,” Will sighs. “That’s what I’m good at, after all.”

Before entering the market proper they film the intro, summarizing what they discussed in the car in a much more professional manner. They need to reshoot only once, when Hannibal finally tells Will his budget and the man can’t quite hide the laughter that wants to burst out of him in time. Then, they enter the market.

For the first time in his life, Hannibal briefly regrets his fame. They cannot possibly shut down the entire market for filming, nor would they ever ask for such, so they draw stares and whispered comments as they travel through the building. Will tries his best to ignore it but the man is clearly uncomfortable. Large crowds already seemed to unsettle the man so when the focus of their attention is drawn to him, even simply through association, his hands twitch in and out of fists as he walks, eyes flicking back and forth as he searches for something. Though watching this unsettled version of Will is satisfying in its own way Hannibal finds he greatly prefers when the man is comfortable and confident.

There is one clear upside; in his anxiety, Will sticks close to Hannibal, his shelter in a storm.

All of the seafood vendors thankfully agreed to be filmed. Will is clearly searching for some he knew, many of which are no longer at the market, and as such their path is irregular and jagged, full of sharp turns and reversals accompanied by irritated muttering. Hannibal had anticipated as much and it’s Francis, quiet and calm, who travels with them. The audio tech is a temp worker. Finally, Will finds a place he recognizes, and a relieved smile blossoms on his face.

He addresses the man running the stall by name and is recognized in turn. “Will! It’s been a while!” He reaches over the stall to shake hands, something Will, surprisingly, accepts. “I was starting to think you only went outside twice a year.”

The closeness irritates Hannibal. “Has Chilton allowed you to shop here on occasion?”

“No, uh.” Will shakes his head jerkily. “I stop by every once in a while, just to get something for myself. Usually stuff out of the ocean.”

“It is more difficult for you to make time to fish from the sea, I take it.”

“Yeah,” Will sighs. “Plus, these guys are professionals. They can pull up much better catches than I ever could.” It’s said with an echo of a smile, teasingly. Yet again, that expression being directed at another makes Hannibal unexpectedly annoyed. 

“We’re not fish whisperers!” the man working the stall laughs. “What can I get for you today?”

“Um, sea bass,” Will answers. “Just one. I need to hit up all the vendors so I can get a feel of the quality and prices.”

“Right this way!” Both Will and the vendor walk around a corner to another part of the stall, where rows of sea bass rest on ice. They go back and forth for a while, examining the fish closely, talking about when and where they were caught and other increasingly specific details. While Hannibal enjoys listening to Will speak on topics he can justifiably claim to be an expert on, this conversation will probably be used as silent background footage during a voiceover, as their audience will be markedly less enthusiastic about hearing two men talk about water salinity and how the warming of the oceans has disrupted sea life in the area. 

A fish is eventually chosen. “Need me to clean this up for you?”

“No,” Will answers. “I can get a bit more if I pass on that step and can do it myself at Eloise .”

The fish is wrapped and bagged. “It’s only one fish,” the vendor points out. “Not gonna charge extra for that.” 

Will reaches out and accepts the bag as it is handed to him. “I won’t normally be buying one fish from eight different stalls, you know.”

“Good point!” The man laughs. “Good seeing you, Will, and hope to see you again.”

“Same to you.” Fish in hand, they slip back into the bustle of the larger market.

On the way to their next destination, Hannibal brings up Will’s comment. “You plan to stretch the thin budget by buying whole fish.”

“Yup.” Again, Will stays close to Hannibal, taking care not to bump into anyone in the crowd. “It’ll make the trip faster, too, and depending on the special I might need a whole fish to start with anyways. Chilton will probably appreciate not wasting money on useless labor, as he’d put it.”

“Appealing to his cheaper nature.”

“It sounds terrible when you put it like that.”

“On the contrary- I find it quite clever.”

“Sure,” Will muses. “Clever.”

The rest of the trip through the market is mostly the same, though less casual with vendors Will does not recognize. When they emerge it’s with many bags of sea bass hanging off Will’s arms. Before leaving, they film an outro, and in the car ride back to the restaurant Will seems pleased with how it went.

Upon return, it takes surprisingly little time for Chilton to ruin it.

Will is showing Chilton the fish and going over what was spent when Chilton roughly grabs one bag, one where the fish was wrapped with semi-translucent paper, and lifts it up. “What the hell is this?”

Will stops mid sentence, looking at the fish with a frown. “...sea bass?”

“It’s whole.”

“Yes,” Will responds patiently. “As I was saying, when buying larger amounts vendors will charge a small fee to butcher and clean it. We save money if I just buy them whole and do it myself here.”

“What are we supposed to do with whole fish?”

“I just told you-”

“People aren’t going to want to eat whole fish. ”

Will’s irritation is growing. “They won’t be, ” he grinds out. “We’ll clean them here as part of prep for the day.”

“And who do you expect to do that, Will? Who here knows how to do that?”

“Me?” His jaw tightens. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I was-”

Chilton cuts him off. “So you’re going to, what, figure it out as you go along? I doubt you can do this.”

“I bring fish I catch and clean myself multiple times a week. They’re not coming out of the fucking river filleted.”

That immediately makes Chilton even angrier. “So then what about when you’re not here? Who’s going to take care of the special then?”

“Beverly. I can teach her how to do it, and until she feels comfortable I can come in briefly on my day off to do it myself.”

“What, so you can get overtime?”

“Off the clock.” The words barely make it past Will’s teeth.

Chilton scoffs at him. “I’m disappointed in you, Will. I thought you’d do better than this.”

“Right,” Will bites out. “Sorry for not living up to your lofty expectations.”

The other man drops the bag onto the counter carelessly. “Hopefully you can salvage this for dinner tonight.” And just like that, Chilton storms back upstairs.

The kitchen is dead silent and tense, Beverly in particular looking on with a horrified expression. Most importantly- “We got that,” Francis tells Hannibal. “The cameras were rolling the whole time.”

“Excellent work,” Hannibal murmurs back. "Cut for now." He approaches Will.

The chef's entire body is tense and rigid, his jaw set in a firm line. His breathing is even and controlled. Eyes, once closed, open when Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder and speaks to him. "Will, are you alright?"

Will blinks, unclenching his hands. "Me? Uh, yeah, sorry. It just… caught me off guard. He's never been like that down here before. Shouldn't have snapped at him."

Just barely, Hannibal is able to school his angry scowl into a concerned frown, pulling his hand away as well. "If you think you've done anything wrong here I feel obligated to inform you that you are incorrect."

That just makes Will shrug. "It's fine, really. Aggravating but fine." He turns away, towards Beverly, who has made no effort to conceal her anger. "Beverly, come over here. I need to teach you how to clean and debone a fish." 

"Is step one to pretend the fish is Chilton’s neck?" 

"Step one is they're probably going to film this so keep your comments to yourself," Will mutters. He catches Hannibal's gaze and nods.

Hannibal retreats. "Will is correct," he informs Francis. "Film this. In addition, please make sure Alana sees that footage, if you would."

"Understood."

Filming goes smoothly. They have great footage of Will patiently showing Beverly how to cut and debone the fish, something that easily slides into teaching her the special. She picks up both things quickly. Dinner service goes as is typical, though Will bristles more than usual when Chilton is nearby. As a result he's anxious and high-strung by the time service ends, clattering about in the kitchen and making more of a mess than he's cleaning, up until Beverly kicks him out. 

Naturally, he instead goes out to help the front of house staff clean up for the night, and this is where he runs into Hannibal.

"You're far from home," Hannibal greets, teasing.

"Got kicked out of the kitchen after I dropped one too many pans."

"You are still unsettled."

As always, Will shrugs. "When am I not?"

"You no longer feel safe in your own kitchen."

Will shoots him an exasperated look. "That's overdramatic."

"But not untrue."

"I really need a drink," Will mutters.

An opening so perfect it must have been left intentionally. "Though admittedly I would love to take you for one, it may be frowned upon considering our circumstances."

It's always impossible to predict how Will will react to advances. Some times he will grow shy and embarrassed, and others, such as now, he will stop what he is doing and watch Hannibal so carefully that any move feels like it will shatter the peace between them. Will is thinking, truly thinking about the offer, taking it seriously instead of simply deflecting. This is the reaction Hannibal greatly prefers.

Will's expression changes- he's thought of something. "It's not uncommon for coworkers to get drinks after work."

"Generally in groups."

"Three people is a group."

"Miss Katz," Hannibal muses. "I have no objections if she is willing."

"She'd probably pay money to come after everything that's happened," Will says under his breath. "How long until you're wrapped up here?"

"Not long."

"Time to see how quickly she can clean the kitchen."

The answer turns out to be very quickly.

Hannibal volunteers to drive, as he wasn’t planning on drinking much to begin with. Since he had not driven to the restaurant he must return to the house and come back with his car to pick the other two up. Naturally, this is where Alana finds him.

“Plans for the night?” She’s not prying for information, just genuinely making conversation.

“Drinks with our two chefs.”

The frown lines on Alana’s face deepen. As time had passed, she had gone from trying to reduce the amount of time Hannibal spent with Will to simply urging him to take care. It’s unclear if she has noticed that he appears to be serious and no longer feels comfortable trying to stop it or just given up on talking him out of it entirely. “Just make sure you behave.”

“I suppose I will have to change our venue from the strip club to follow your advice.”

The frown changes into a tired smile. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here.”

Back at Eloise , Will and Beverly are standing out front, clearly finished with work and chatting. Hannibal parks his car and exits to join them, catching the end of their conversation.

“...we go?” is the tail end of Will’s question.

“I dunno, the usual place?”

Will jerks his head towards Hannibal. “You wanna take him to the usual place.”

Based on the face she makes, that is a factor Beverly has not considered. “Eugh. No, you’re right.”

“May I ask what the usual place is?”

It’s Will that answers. “Dive bar. Smells awful, loud, rowdy, but cheap as hell. It’s where you go when you just wanna get blackout drunk for the night. Pretty sure you’d get a brand new scandal under your belt if you were spotted there.”

“I know a place,” Hannibal says. “The both of you should find it quite satisfactory.”

Will looks intrigued, while Beverly mostly looks like she’s just glad the choice has finally been made.

The bar is one Hannibal frequents, not often, but regularly. It’s tucked out of the way on the edges of Baltimore. The quality of the drinks are good without making things prohibitively expensive, the bar is small, elegant and clean, and most of all, the staff are discreet. While they are not the majority of their clientele by any stretch Hannibal knows he is far from the only famous figure to visit them. On the right sits the bar proper, while booths line the left side, curtains tied up neatly on the edges should privacy be a requirement. When they enter the bartender, a brunette he recognizes named Maria greets him by name, politely casual. “Welcome back, chef.” Her eyes glance over the rest of the group. “Chefs,” she corrects. “What can I get for you?”

“They have a wonderful selection of whiskeys,” Hannibal informs Will before turning back to the bartender. “My usual, if you will, and whatever my companions desire. We will take one of your booths tonight.”

“Got it.” She focuses on the two newcomers. “Menu’s pretty much limited just by what I’ve heard of, and I’m willing to experiment if you know how to make something new. I can answer any questions about the drinks you may have.” Notably, her gaze lingers on Beverly for a fraction longer than it does on Will. “I’m happy to be of help.”

The two order simple drinks to start, following Hannibal as he guides them to a vacant booth in the far corner of the building. “This place is nice,” Will comments, taking in their surroundings. “Never knew it existed.”

“It is something of a well kept secret.” Hannibal sits on one side of the booth while Will and Beverly claim the other.

Maria is by with a bottle of wine and three wine glasses shortly. “How many glasses do you need?”

Beverly looks at the bottle with surprise. “Wine? You really do everything, huh.”

“Everything,” the bartender repeats with a smile, and Beverly’s gaze sharpens.

“After last time we drank wine together, I think I’ll pass,” Will mutters.

“Just the one,” Hannibal tells her, as Beverly doesn’t seem interested in the drink either. The bottle and glass are left beside him as the woman retreats to her bar.

“I like this place,” Beverly declares. “This is a nice bar.”

“You can say the whole word, you know. Not fooling anyone.” Will’s voice is low and secretive as he teases her. 

“Yeah?” Her tone makes it clear that Will is not getting out of this conversation unscathed. “Which of us invited me out for drinks as a pretense?” 

“You’re worse than Chilton sometimes.”

At the mention of the man’s name, the mood instantly sours. Hannibal breaks the silence. “His behavior today was unacceptable.”

“Honestly? That was pretty tame by his standards.” Will’s face falls as he realizes what he’s just let slip. “No, hold on-”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Beverly growls, hand tightening on her glass. “Like, I knew he wasn’t up there showering you in compliments for an hour, but actually seeing it like that makes it so much worse.”

“He was taking credit for the special as well,” Hannibal adds. “Abigail told me. He would stop by tables and ask them if they were enjoying his special.”

“I don’t really care if he takes credit for it,” Will shrugs. “As long as people are enjoying it I’m happy.”

Years ago, when Hannibal had eaten at Eloise in its prime, he had noticed another guest ask to give their compliments to the chef, and how the waiter apologized for not being able to bring the chef out but promised to pass along their words. “You dislike attention.”

A bark of laughter escapes Beverly before she can smother it. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “I’m pretty sure Will would be happiest with a setup where he’s isolated underground and sends the dishes up on a dumbwaiter. We could just shout down the orders to him.”

“Hate attention,” Hannibal corrects. “Do you hate being seen, or do you hate what you may see in return?”

“What I hate is this conversation,” Will says tersely. Not quite close enough to bring it up, apparently.

However, Beverly seems unwilling to let it go quite so easily. "Damn Will, does he have dirt on you or something?"

"Excuse me?"

"I've seen you give people the cold shoulder for months for prying into that. Lecter asks and all you do is politely ask him to change the subject?"

"That wasn't polite."

"It was relatively polite," Hannibal counters.

"How did this turn into a conversation about my manners?"

"When you suddenly remembered to have them," Beverly answers. 

"Sometimes I wish I had gotten the chance to give you the cold shoulder for months too."

Beverly is remarkably good at tricking Will into revealing things, and Hannibal finds he is more than happy to take advantage of the openings. "You make it sound as if she uncovered this secret by mistake."

"I did," she confirms. "Price knows, and one night we were out drinking with him and Zeller and he casually brought it up in conversation, assuming we already knew. He was pretty horrified that he did so, actually. "

"You're making it sound like I have some deep dark secret."

"You're the one who won't talk about it!"

Hannibal savors his wine as he watches the two friends bicker. Whatever secret Will is hiding, he seems dead set on keeping it that way for the time being. “You two have known each other for some time, have you not?”

The pair across from him stop. “It’s been, what… three years?”

“Just about,” Will nods.

“Shorter than I had assumed. Did you only meet through working at Eloise? ”

“...sort of,” Will slowly admits. 

Beverly is far more helpful. “We met at a bar, actually. I was out drinking because my last restaurant had just closed down and I found myself suddenly unemployed. Will had just had his fourth sous chef quit in a little over a year.”

“None of them could deal with Chilton,” Will continues. “And. I was a lot more… combative, back then. There was a lot of unrest in the kitchen.”

“Chilton,” Beverly sighs. “You know, Will spent like an hour trying to convince me not to go for the job. He wasn’t even exaggerating what he told me, either. It was pretty rough at first.” She looks down into her drink. “But, you know. Will caught it way worse than the rest of us. I kinda figured if he can take it, so can I.”

“That’s a dangerous way of thinking,” Will points out.

“Yeah, but it worked!” She looks back up, at Will. “It can be pretty difficult to find a chef to work under that’s not an egomaniac or just straight up insane. So I thought, hey, the chef’s a nice guy-” She’s interrupted by a snort of laughter from Will, which she valiantly ignores. “May as well stick it out and see if things get better.”

From her words, it’s obvious how highly Beverly thinks of Will. There seems to be a recurring pattern where people who manage to go beyond the walls Will hides himself behind end up coming out the other side quite attached. “And did things get better?”

“God no,” Beverly laughs. “But it was too late to get rid of me by that point.”

“Has Chilton’s behavior gotten worse as time has passed?”

It looks like Will is ready to answer, but Beverly throws a hand in front of his face to stop him. “Will’s going to say no, and he’s wrong. It’s absolutely gotten worse.”

“I can speak for myself,” Will mutters.

“You can also be wrong,” Beverly shoots back.

“The kitchen is much quieter.”

“Because he’s learned to contain it!”

“Will,” Hannibal calls, and the man stops and turns to look at him. “Chilton’s outburst today. Would you say that behavior is typical, with only the location being unusual?”

Slowly, Will nods. “What he was yelling was pretty in line with the kind of crap he normally gives me, yeah.”

Hannibal makes himself frown. “So his behavior is not necessarily worsening; he is simply unable to control it any longer.”

Beverly considers that. “Could be because he knows he can’t pull Will away for so long without arousing suspicion, what with the camera crew in the kitchen.”

That gives Hannibal pause. “Does he often pull Will away at inopportune times?”

“It’s maddening,” Will answers. “He’s pulled me away during dinner service before. Which, ironically, probably made it go smoother.”

The situation is severe indeed if Chilton is prioritizing berating his head chef over actually running his restaurant, even to the extent of actively harming it. “I must admit, this is one of the bleakest situations we have ever handled.”

“Really? We’re worse than the place that had the kitchen team sharing their space with a family of raccoons?”

Briefly, Hannibal wonders if Will has always watched his show, or if he had done so to prepare for being on it himself. “While the problem is certainly less dramatic in appearance, it is always much more difficult when the source of the restaurant’s troubles lies with the management rather than the much more literal vermin in the walls.”

“It’s like the hydra,” Will muses. “Doesn’t matter how many heads you cut off. If one of them remains, they’ll all grow back in time.”

“Are we doing unflattering comparisons now?” Beverly thinks for a moment. “He’s like those really stupid birds that try to fight their own reflections.”

Will chokes on the drink he had been in the process of taking, so Hannibal is the one who responds. “Peacocks are known to do that.”

“I like that one! Peacock is a fitting bird for him. Flashy and self-absorbed to the point where it actually makes his life harder.”

By this point, Will seems to have recovered, but when he speaks his voice is somewhat hoarse. “That’s less of a comparison and more of a flat out insult.”

“Uh, Hannibal straight up called him vermin, and you’re going after my bird thing?”

“Hannibal does it more elegantly,” Will argues. “It takes a second for you to even realize what he just said. That’s how he gets away with half the shit that goes on air.” He seems to realize what he’s just said. “Um. Sorry, that was rude, wasn’t it?”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal assures him with utter sincerity. “Do feel free to talk about how elegant I am at great length.”

Will colors slightly, which sets off Beverly. “Man, part of me really wishes I was there to see what led to those rumors.”

“We do possess the footage.”

“Don’t you dare,” Will warns. “I’m the one that actually has to work with her.”

“Fair enough.” 

“Can we go back to shitting on Chilton?” Beverly asks.

“Please,” Hannibal offers, “shit away.”

As the night goes on, the drinks keep coming, the majority of which go to Will. He is rapidly becoming intoxicated but, delightfully, instead of becoming incoherent, he instead simply stops holding back the many thoughts running through his mind. “It’d be so easy,” Will sighs wistfully. “Just have someone hide upstairs and give him a little nudge when he’s at the top.”

Beverly looks a combination of horrified and amused. “What is with you and the murder plots?”

“Does he normally get like this?” Hannibal asks.

“He wouldn’t necessarily die,” Will argues, and Beverly gravely nods her head. “Okay. I need to. I’ll be right back.” He stands, quite steady, and wanders off in the direction of the bathroom.

Almost immediately, Beverly sobers, fingers tapping along the side of her glass. “Can I, uh, say something to you?”

“Of course.”

“I guess just… thanks.”

A curious thing to say. “For what, may I ask?”

“You just…” she sighs. “I don’t know why, but whatever is going on between you two, it’s helping him. Not once have I ever gotten him to so much as acknowledge that he’s being mistreated, and suddenly he seems like he’s starting to take it seriously.”

“Does that upset you?” Beverly’s fingers stop. “That he listens to me where he did not listen to you.”

“I guess there’s probably a tiny part of me that is,” she admits. “But it’s massively dwarfed by the part of me that’s just so glad that it’s finally happening.”

A beat of silence. “I must admit, I cannot say with confidence that I can help Eloise . Even if I cannot, at the very least I promise that I will help Will.”

“Honestly?” Again, she sighs. “You could accidentally burn down the building and I wouldn’t be too mad if it somehow helped Will.”

“I will do my best to avoid relying on arson unless the circumstances become most dire.”

“Great,” she laughs. “I’ll make sure to remember that for the cops later on.”

This is when Will returns. He walks back, not to the booth holding Beverly, but to Hannibal. “Scoot.”

Hannibal scoots, and Will sits down beside him. He exchanges a look with Beverly, who seems like she’s trying very hard not to comment on it.

"So the stairs plan-"

"Will," Beverly interrupts. "Why don't we talk about something else?"

"Why? You're always on board. Remember the-"

"We usually don't have company," Beverly hisses.

This causes Will to focus on Hannibal instead, studying him intently. "You'd help me kill Chilton, right?"

Very narrowly, Hannibal does not react. It's impossible to tell if this is an innocent question or if Will looked deeper and saw the true answer. "An admittedly tempting idea, but not entirely practical or moral."

"Morality is overrated," Will mutters, and Hannibal’s hand tightens on the stem of his wine glass.

"Do you find you often fantasize about killing people?"

"Chilton," Will corrects.

"And other people?"

Will cocks his head, like he can't quite tell why Hannibal’s asking that. Whatever mysterious powers he holds seem to be dulled by the haze of intoxication. "What, like Beverly? Why would I kill Beverly? I like her."

"That's reassuring," Beverly cuts in, voice hard. "I'm glad that he doesn't want to kill me because I'm a great friend who doesn't take advantage of the fact that someone is drunk to ask them questions they wouldn't normally answer."

The warning could not be more obvious. Though he is grateful that her presence allowed them to go out in the first place, in this moment Hannibal dearly wishes Beverly was elsewhere. With a nod of understanding, he backs off.

Beverly masterfully steers the conversation away from discussions of murder plots and Chilton entirely, into safer ground. Will is surprisingly open and animated, all but confirming the man to be a very different person when not weighed down by anxiety and his normally guarded nature. It’s easy to track Will’s gradual behavior changes around Hannibal out on a trajectory that takes them to this point without the aid of alcohol. In some ways, it feels like a glimpse of the future, or at least the one that Hannibal is striving for. 

Now that Will has shifted sides, every time Maria stops by the booth she lingers, talking to Beverly, which leaves Will’s attention on Hannibal and Hannibal alone. “Wine,” he says, gesturing towards the bottle. “You got a thing for wine, don’t you?”

“I do enjoy the art form, yes.”

“Do you love it because you’re a chef or did you become a chef for an excuse to dive deeper?”

“Neither,” Hannibal answers. “My love for the drink is entirely separate from my love for the culinary arts, though admittedly each has helped the other grow.”

“Is it because-” Will pauses and taps his nose. “Your sense of taste must be powerful as well, considering your sense of smell. I imagine it enhances the experience.”

“You imagine correctly.”

Will’s fingers drum on the table as he thinks. “If this is prying too much, you don’t have to answer. Does it ever overwhelm you?” A pause. “Smells, I mean.”

“It can,” Hannibal admits. “I have grown used to it and am able to tolerate simply foul odors. When too many powerful and contrasting scents have mixed together, it can become quite unpleasant.”

That gets him a small and crooked smile, like Will understands that in a way most people would not. “I bet you hate candle stores.”

“I cannot say I enjoy spending my time in them, no.”

“Don’t let Chilton hear you saying that or you’ll arrive at Eloise only to find it littered with scented candles.”

“A childish reaction I cannot say I would not expect out of the man.” Hannibal could truly not care less if Chilton dislikes him, but he supposes most in his position would. “If Chilton dislikes me, it will make my job much more difficult.”

“No, he.” Will waves his hand dismissively. “He, um, probably doesn’t have anything against you personally but since I like you, he, by extension, dislikes you.”

He considers that for a moment. “Does he dislike Beverly?”

The bartender has departed, and it is Beverly herself who answers. “Absolutely. He doesn’t like, antagonize me like he does with Will, but he thinks I’m… I think he called me biased once?”

“Biased?”

“Because I vocally take Will’s side instead of secretly doing so like most everyone else.”

“That is worrying,” Hannibal muses. “If he takes every criticism as an attack against his character, he may be well beyond our help.”

“It’s… weird to hear you of all people saying someone is beyond help,” Will comments.

“Being realistic with your expectations is a very important part of deciding to help others.”

“Still,” he protests. “You put a great deal of effort into what you do, and you’re not one to give up.”

“Ease up, Will,” Beverly sighs. “Lecter is right. If you just go about it with the aimless goal of helping people you’re gonna end up wasting all your energy on something you can’t actually help in any way.”

“You probably shouldn’t be trying to talk him out of helping us, you know.”

Beverly shrugs. “I never said I didn’t want him helping us.”

Tipping his head to the side, Will examines Hannibal. “You… were a surgeon before this, right? I imagine it’s a skill you learned the hard way.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal responds. “I would be lying if I said it was not a factor in why I moved on to become a chef instead.”

“Different knife skills,” Will murmurs, and Hannibal gives him a small smile.

Talk of knives is a quick shortcut to plots of murder, so Beverly steers them away. “So,” she starts, gesturing towards Hannibal. “If you’ve got super tastebuds, is there anything you won’t eat? Will has that thing where cilantro tastes like soap to him so if we ever use it, I have to be the one to taste test it.”

“I am of the mindset that if a flavor is disagreeable, you simply have not found the right manner to present it yet.”

Will makes a face at that. “I’m pretty sure if I designed a dish around the soapy flavor it would taste, at best, bizarre to most people.”

“Cilantro is something of an outlier,” Hannibal aquisces, “as the issue is genetic and not preferential. Most chefs do not find themselves in a situation where they must balance the flavor around the bitter aftertaste of soap.” 

“Try floating that one to Chilton,” Will mutters. “A soap special.”

“You could double up!” Beverly adds with a grin. “Soap sopa. Then he’ll really love it.”

“Maybe I should start suggesting the weirdest things I can think of. It’s not like he’ll be any more or less likely to approve of them.”

“Nothing you do pleases him,” Hannibal slides in. 

Will shrugs. “Can’t please someone who’s looking for an excuse to be upset.”

“Yet you still try.”

“It…” Will leans back in the booth, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s not like I want his approval or anything. I just keep falling into the trap where I think something is so obviously correct that even Chilton won’t be able to find a reason to be mad about it.”

“Chilton is a man of very little brain,” Hannibal somberly replies, and Will immediately doubles over because of how hard he is laughing. Across the booth, he can hear Beverly muttering something about a ‘lack of elegance’ under her breath.

Will doesn’t stop drinking, but it never quite seems to impair his thoughts beyond this state. Instead he grows bolder, going as far as to initiate physical contact with Hannibal, like clapping a hand on his shoulder after a particularly barbed insult. It’s not much, but from a man so touch averse as Will, it’s a monumental change. 

Eventually, the end of the night arrives. Will stands after sliding out of the booth and all at once his inebriated state becomes more evident as he stumbles, though he is able to safely steady himself on a nearby chair. “I think I drank too much,” he says, quite confidently.

Beverly opens her mouth to say something but evidently decides against it. Instead, she simply shakes her head and turns to Hannibal. “Do you think you could take him home?”

There is a shared moment of silence where they both acknowledge the poor word choice and agree to simply move beyond it. Hannibal stands, fixing the line of his blazer as he does so. “I was prepared to ferry the both of you to your residences from the moment we sat down.”

“Yeah, I…” She hesitates. “I don’t need a lift, actually. Thanks, though.”

Hannibal does not actually look up at the bartender but Will does, and when he opens his mouth to speak Hannibal halts him with a hand on his arm. “In that case, we will be on our way. You have my thanks for accompanying us tonight.” He ushers Will out of the bar while the man looks back towards their table, brows furrowed.

“Aren’t we supposed to pay at some point?”

“It has been taken care of.”

“Of course it has,” Will sighs. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“As it was my invitation, it is only fair that I pay as well.” He opens the car door for Will.

As he climbs into the front seat, Will mumbles “I wouldn’t have drunk as much if I’d have known.”

“And that is precisely why I did not tell you.” He closes the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and gets in.

“Trying to get me drunk?”

“I simply did not want you to restrain yourself on my behalf.”

“Sure,” Will says. He is silent for a moment. “Good for Beverly.”

Hannibal starts the car and begins driving. “Is this unusual for her?”

“Sort of.” Will lets his head fall against the window. “She’s nearly as focused on Eloise as I am. It’s nice to see her finally thinking about her personal life for once.”

Hannibal refrains from pointing out that their night could have a very similar ending. He can sense it will likely not be well-received, and should Will surprise him by being receptive, he would be utterly unable to stop himself from acting on it. Should that happen, the both of them could land in some very hot water down the line. “What is your address?”

“You’re already driving,” Will points out.

“I am aware of the general direction in which your home exists based on where you go when leaving work, but nothing beyond that.”

“Right,” Will hums, “of course.”

Will ends up living in an apartment complex not very far from the restaurant. It’s close enough that it can be reasonably walked to if the need arises, but far enough that it is usually wiser to drive. They speak honestly on the drive over, of nothing of consequence, but Will is relaxed and content and does not temper his reactions. When they arrive, Will thanks him for the ride, for the night, and leaves him with a small but genuine smile.

There is a security guard manning the front entrance, Hannibal notes, and a desk in the lobby where a receptionist sits. If they are here at this late hour they must be staffed 24/7. He files that piece of information away, in a room with many others, and returns to the crew house for the night.

~~~

Chilton and Will are having a conversation in the kitchen while the rest of the crew watches off to the side. Will’s arms are crossed in front of his chest, fingers tightening around his elbows, his voice carefully even. “Chilton, I don’t know how to bake bread.”

“Nonsense,” Chilton scoffs. “Surely a genius chef such as yourself can do something this simple.”

“Chef,” Will replies, “the key word there is ‘chef’. I’m not a baker.”

“It’s just a different type of cooking, how much harder could it be?”

Will’s mouth twitches down. “Incredibly. I’ve tried to bake before. Didn’t go well.”

“If you baked the bread for us we could save money and use it as a selling point.”

“Not if it’s inedible. ”

“Well,” Chilton begins, clapping Will on the shoulder. “Someone as highly regarded as yourself can figure it out, I’m sure. The ingredients will be in the next shipment.” He leaves, and as he goes Will’s hands tighten around his elbows even further.

Hannibal smoothly enters the shot. “What are you thinking, Will?”

“Thinking about how that means he probably didn’t order any bread for the next week and now I’m going to have to either find a way to sneak it in the order or pick some up at the grocery store myself.”

“You’re not confident in your ability to make bread.”

Will’s arms loosen and he gives Hannibal a tired look. “You’ll find out why, trust me.”

The footage cuts to Hannibal and Chilton speaking near the back of the dining room before the restaurant is open for the day. In the bottom left corner, an overlay reads One week later. They appear to be talking about the decor. “Well, you see, the chairs are nice and sturdy.” Chilton rattles one to prove his point.

Next to him, Hannibal pulls one out for the camera to focus on. It’s a plain wooden chair with a plastic cushion on top, yellow with a green floral pattern. “We have gotten numerous complaints about the chairs being both uncomfortable to sit in and to look at. I assure you, my team is more than capable of finding furniture that is both sturdy and appealing.”

Chilton opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by the door to the kitchen opening behind them and Will leaning out. “Hey, Chilton?” he calls out, and his boss turns towards him. “Catch.”

Some sort of object is tossed with considerable force towards Chilton, who catches it in the stomach with an audible ‘oof’ and grimace of pain. “Graham-” he starts, but he pauses, and looks down at the object in his arms. “What is this?”

“Your bread,” Will informs him before vanishing back into the kitchen.

Chilton’s expression turns into a scowl. Beside him, Hannibal reaches for the bread, which Chilton automatically passes to him before stomping into the kitchen. Finally in view of the camera, Hannibal holds up a vaguely loaf-shaped boulder of bread. It’s larger than normal despite barely having risen and from the sharp noise created when Hannibal raps against it with his knuckles, it appears to be quite dense. “An impressive result, though not for culinary reasons.”

Raised voices bleed through from the kitchen though the conversation itself is inaudible. Hannibal holds out the bread and the camera zooms in to focus on it, lovingly filming the atrocity in great detail. “It appears there is something our Will is not good at after all.”

Another cut, to a short interview with Will. It starts with him seated in one of the dining chairs with his hands covering his face. “The bread,” he says, nearly inaudible.

“Could you repeat that?” Margo asks from off camera.

“Right.” He takes away his hands, the faint blush on his face revealing that despite his cavalier attitude he’s quite embarrassed by his results. As always, he does not look straight at the camera, but slightly off-set, towards the person who is asking him questions. “Sorry. The bread. I did warn Chilton it would end badly.”

A short cut where a question is edited out, straight to Will’s answer. “Cooking is a lot more… loose, I guess I’d say. You can sort of just wing it with ingredients, go with your instinct instead of closely following a recipe. That’s how I cook. You try that with baking and you end up with a five pound paperweight.” He pauses. “That’s not to say that you can’t improvise with baking, you just have to know a lot more about what you’re doing. Which I obviously do not.”

Again, a short cut, and when it ends Will has a faintly confused frown on his face. “What? No, of course I could get to that point. I just have very little experience with baking and no real desire to change that. No one-” He interrupts with a sigh before continuing. “Look, I know people like to throw around labels like ‘natural born genius’, but that’s all a bunch of [bleep]. Oops. Anyways, getting good at something is about 95% hard work and practice. If anyone watching these shows is ever thinking that they could never be on H- on Chef Lecter’s level, stop. He’s as good as he is because he’s put in an unbelievable amount of hard work to get there. So, uh.” He scratches the back of his head. “If you want to be a baker, don’t let the paperweights discourage you.” One more short cut, to Will laughing. “Me? I don’t want to be a baker.”

Though the interview has clearly ended there is one final cut, to Will looking off to the side. His expression is somber and exhaustion is obvious in his face. It hangs here for a good twenty seconds, every passing moment making it more and more obvious how deep the emotions run. Margo finally speaks from off screen. “Will?”

He snaps out of it, turning back towards his interviewer, looking nearly surprised to find himself where he is. “Sorry,” he says quietly, a hand lifting up to rub across his eyes. “I’m just…” he trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s barely audible. “Tired.”

Cut to black as the episode ends.

~~~

Chapter Text

Friday comes as usual, with one thing different- after filming has ended, Alana stays behind at the restaurant to speak with Chilton. She will return in time for dinner so nothing has changed for Will and Hannibal as they cook for the crew.

It might not be accurate to say Will has grown to enjoy the weekly dinners. Though he certainly does not hate them, the actual dinner portion continues to discomfort him, and he’s obviously accepting it as the expected price for getting to cook with Hannibal. There are a great many people who would jump at the chance to work with a chef of Hannibal’s stature but it’s clear that Will has other motivations. He respects Hannibal, both as a chef and a person, and simply enjoys working with him.

The rest of the crew is a different story. Watching Will’s relationship- if it can even be called that- with the rest of his coworkers develop has been a point of interest for Hannibal for some time. Gideon and Brown both unsettle Will but for very different reasons. He is polite and respectful towards Dolarhyde, but keeps his distance, as if he is afraid of what may happen if he oversteps his bounds. Verger is often the one who rescues him from the awkward conversations Brown ropes him into, and for that he is grateful for her presence, and would likely aid her in turn. With Bloom, their conversations are never more than polite and professionally distant, though it is easy to see that the two of them would genuinely get along should they be given the opportunity to socialize informally. It is for this reason that Alana always sits diagonally across from Will, as far away as possible.

Alana looks tired but does arrive in time for dinner. Will notices but knows better than to bring it up, only looking at her a second longer than normal, gaze questioning. There is nothing exceptional about dinner and Will leaves in moderately good spirits as always.

Hannibal finds Alana in the kitchen long after everything has been cleaned, nursing a beer. “It went poorly,” Hannibal surmises.

His answer is an uncharacteristically long sigh. “That has to be one of the most frustrating conversations I’ve had in my entire life.”

“He is not an easy man to talk to.” Alana looks quite irritated. “Was he hostile?”

“Unbelievably condescending, which may actually have been worse.” She sets the bottle down on the countertop. “More worryingly, he clearly believes that his behavior is both warranted and justified.”

“Towards Will.”

She nods. “He essentially told me that Will deserves it, and when I objected to that he told me I was ‘too sensitive’.”

It is almost remarkable how Chilton manages to continuously fall below their lowest expectations. “Perhaps sending you to speak to him was a mistake.”

“No,” Alana muses. “I think it’s done well to hammer home how serious this situation is. A part of me had been holding out some semblance of hope that Chilton could be reasoned with.” She frowns. “I certainly don’t feel that way any longer.”

Sending Alana to speak with Chilton had panned out beautifully. She was always the type to see the best in people, at least until provided with evidence to the contrary. The rest of the crew would be interested in his plan for a variety of reasons and Alana had always been the biggest roadblock. “We cannot sit back and allow this to continue any longer.”

She is silent for a long moment. “I know I’ve always said that we should involve ourselves in the interpersonal matters of the restaurant staff as little as possible. It’s not our business. But here, I’m not sure I can idly stand by and let this keep happening for ethical reasons.”  Suddenly, she laughs, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “A reality TV producer talking about ethics. I’m sure there’s a joke somewhere in here.”

Hannibal simply moves past the comment. “I would like to propose something to you.”

Immediately, she looks both cautious and faintly alarmed. “You’ve been thinking about this for a long time, haven’t you.” She holds up a hand to halt his reply. “Whatever this is, you need to be certain you’re remaining impartial. Are you capable of that?”

He could simply lie, of course, but a different approach would work far better. “I cannot promise that I would be. Because of that, I will be directly involved as little as possible. We will need Jack’s approval as well, of course.”

“An episode,” Alana works out. “You want to air the dirty laundry to the world.”

“That is correct.”

“I don’t like it,” Alana replies, folding her arms across her chest. Her brow is furrowed.

He watches her expression, the conflict in it obvious. “But,” Hannibal prompts.

“But I like what’s happening now even less.” She picks the beer back up and takes a drink. “Let’s see what the rest of the crew says before anything else.”

Hannibal nods, pleased.

As he had predicted, the rest of the leads are easy enough to convince. They hold a private meeting in Alana’s office to work out the details and to minimize the risk of being overheard by any lingering temps.

“So we’re not going to be on site at the restaurant anymore,” Matthew clarifies. He’s clearly unhappy with this development, though not enough to back out.

“That is correct. We will continue filming as usual with the hired crew, with the understanding that most of it will never be used. I want everyone to be focused on the creation of this episode and as little else as possible. You’ve been skimming through the recordings, correct?”

“The hidden mic ones?” Hannibal nods. “Yeah. They’re something else.”

“Find the most shocking one for us to use. Margo, how is public opinion right now?”

“Of Will? He’s remarkably popular. There’s a good chance the majority of the people watching the show are doing it because of him. Ratings have never been higher. Public opinion of Chilton is… poor.” Her fingers tap on the arm of the chair she sits in. “In fact, when we were forced to come clean about why Will is filmed cooking here and not at Eloise , it led to a great variety of theories. We were vague, but there is a nontrivial amount of people who are assuming things are going on that are, unfortunately, true.”

“You’ve spent the most time speaking to the staff. Do you believe they would be willing to assist us?”

“Absolutely,” Margo answers. “I’ve already got a short list of people to approach.”

“Good.” His attention falls on Gideon. “Able. You are going to be the one in charge of this project. Francis should have a great deal of footage for you to choose from. However you wish to frame this, the choice is yours.” Gideon has quite the dramatic flair, and Hannibal knows he can trust the man not to let him down with this. “Take as much time as you need to perfect this. We have several weeks worth of episodes that have not yet aired.”

“What if we’re not done by then?” Brown asks.

“We will skip a week or two airing new episodes if we are forced to.”

“That could help,” Margo murmurs. “Gets people talking about what might be going on.”

Francis nods in agreement. “I anticipated something like this happening, so I’ve been flagging relevant footage for a while now.”

“Excellent. I will continue to visit the restaurant as usual so as not to arouse suspicion. Ah, Margo.” He turns to her. “If you have free time, begin planning for the remodel segment.”

That makes Brown frown. “Are we even gonna be able to finish out the season after this?”

“That is unfortunately unclear,” Hannibal admits. “We are taking a great professional risk in doing this. If anyone wishes not to be involved, do tell me.” No one speaks up.

“I still don’t like that we’re keeping this from Will,” Alana interjects. “It’s underhanded.”

It is, but there is no other choice. “Will would not give us his permission. He is under the impression that his situation is unremarkable despite a great deal of evidence to the contrary.”

“That doesn’t give us the right to disregard his agency.”

“I recognize that this is a difficult choice to make. I firmly believe that this is for the better. Though Will believes nothing is wrong, that does not mean it is acceptable for Chilton to call him things like…” He gestures towards Matthew, encouraging him to finish the sentence.

“Like ‘a cock-sucking trophy wife’,” Matthew helpfully supplies. 

Alana winces. “We may have made the problem worse ourselves.”

“We have,” Hannibal tells her, honestly. “So it is our responsibility to fix the mess that we have inadvertently made.”

“Alright,” she says softly. “I’ll talk to Jack. The rest of you, get to work.”

~~~

Dinner service is well under way, the cameras focused on the bustle of the kitchen. Things seem to be going smoothly, shots cut together of the cooks hard at work on the stoves, the waitstaff running out trays of food, the expo calling out orders as they come in. A familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Why aren’t you using this lettuce?” Chilton asks, far more loudly than is necessary. The camera turns to catch him emerging from the walk-in, a box of lettuce in his arms. It appears to be wrapped in clear bags more than usual, as if to contain something. The owner marches over to the small sandwich station where the young cook putting together sandwiches has halted their work, eyes wide. Chilton sets the box down on the top of the sandwich station. “This lettuce is the oldest and needs to be used first.

A quick cut to another angle, on Will, who looks over. “You’ve got to be-” He cuts himself off, saying something too faint to hear properly to Beverly beside him, and she takes over what he’s in the process of cooking. Will wipes his hands off on a towel hanging out of his apron before exiting the kitchen, cutting back around to head towards the sandwich area and Chilton.

The chef picks up the box and moves it away from the food prep area. As the camera zooms in, brown liquid can be seen sloshing around in the bags sealing the lettuce in. “Chilton, the lettuce went bad early. We can’t use it.”

“If it went bad, why didn’t you throw it away?”

Will just stares at Chilton for a moment before replying. “You’ve told me, many times, not to throw anything away until the end of the night so you can inspect it.”

Chilton scoffs. “It’s not like you do what I tell you to anyways.”

“You-” Will stops, and takes a deep breath. “Okay, look.” He opens the flaps on top of the box, allowing Chilton to see the lettuce inside. “It’s bad. See?”

Chilton reaches in and pulls out a leaf of lettuce, damp and browning. It flops over immediately in his hand. “This isn’t bad.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

“Chilton, it’s dripping on your hand right this second.” A camera zooms in on the lettuce in Chilton’s hand, showing a drop of brown liquid running down his curled fist.

“It’s for sandwiches. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! We’re not serving this!”

Chilton seems to be gearing up for a sharp retort when Hannibal arrives, entering the frame from what appears to be the direction of the dining room. “Is there a problem?”

“Chilton wants to use the lettuce that turned,” Will says quickly, before Chilton has a chance to butt in.

“In this box here?” Will nods, handing the box over when Hannibal reaches for it. “This certainly has turned,” Hannibal agrees, peering down into the box of lettuce.

“It’s fine,” Chilton spits, throwing the piece he’s been holding back into the box. Hannibal stiffens.

“Will,” he tells the man beside him. “You may return to your duty. Allow me to handle this.” Will nods and walks out of frame. Once he has left, Hannibal turns back towards Chilton. “Would you eat this, Chilton?”

“W-Well,” Chilton fumbles. “No, not personally, but I recognize that my standards are unusually high.”

“So you are saying that you would serve something to your paying customers that you yourself would refuse to eat.”

“I didn’t-”

“Do you think that is fair, Chilton?” Hannibal interrupts. 

“It’s just for a sandwich,” Chilton protests. “They wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh?” Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Then let us find out, shall we?”

He turns on his heel and marches out of the kitchen, through the doors and into the dining room. There is a quick cut back to a dumbfounded Chilton, still locked in place by the sandwich prep table, before it cuts back to Hannibal in the dining room. He scans the room before finding a guest with a sandwich and approaching them.

“Apologies for interrupting your meal,” Hannibal tells the woman, who seems taken aback. “I see you have ordered a sandwich tonight. Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes,” she responds. “It’s really very good.”

“That is wonderful to hear. Now, would you still enjoy it if the lettuce had come from this box?” He tilts the box forwards so everyone seated at the table can see, and the reaction from all is immediate disgust.

The woman is looking between the box and her sandwich with a panicked look. “Did it-”

“It did not,” Hannibal reassures the guest. “I can assure you that the head chef has exceedingly high standards for quality control. The owner, however, seems to think this would be fine to serve.”

“It’s nasty,” someone else at the table says. “I wouldn’t want that lettuce anywhere near my food.”

Everyone around the table has a similar opinion. Once they have all spoken, Hannibal straightens the box and closes the flaps. “Thank you all for your comments. I will be sure to pass them along to the owner on your behalf.” With a small bow, Hannibal turns and walks back through the dining room and into the kitchen. The camera follows him, briefly turning back towards the table and zooming in on the woman with the sandwich peeling the bread back, visibly sighing with relief when her lettuce is revealed to be fresh.

Hannibal returns to Chilton and hands him the box. “Your customers seem to disagree,” he tells the man before turning and leaving once more. The camera lingers on Chilton, filming until his hands tighten around the box, finally taking the box out back into the alley and throwing it into the dumpster.

~~~

Getting Jack on board with the plan was always going to be the most difficult part of this, something Hannibal had been unsure if he himself would be capable of. Both of them are far too stubborn and it’s quite easy for their disagreements to escalate into arguments no matter how calm both of them remain. It’s for that reason that convincing Alana had been paramount, for she is far better at dealing with the production director than Hannibal is. Convincing the man that Will needs to be removed from this situation is easy, but convincing him of their particular approach to doing so is anything but.

As Alana works on Jack the rest of the crew leads move forward as if they’ve already gotten the green light. Matthew is the first person to finish combing through their footage and they hold a meeting to go over his results.

Even Matthew looks somewhat concerned, which is a sure sign he’s found something serious. “It was pretty easy to narrow down the times Will was up there talking to Chilton alone, since he never went up there otherwise. I still wasn’t really expecting the scope of it, though.”

“What do you mean?” Alana’s brow is furrowed, concern evident on her face.

Matthew frowns. “It was equally easy to sort out every time Chilton was being abusive because it was every single time he spoke to Will. We’re talking near daily occurrences here. If Will went up to speak to Chilton, Chilton was up there reaming him out the whole time.”

The mood at the table darkens and Gideon lets out a low whistle. “That’s serious.”

Hannibal steps in. “How does Will react to it?”

“Most of the time? He doesn’t.” Matthew shrugs. “Which is probably the right call, because when he does try to defend himself or talk some sense into Chilton he just doubles down and it gets worse.”

“How does it usually play out?”

“Will goes up there and Chilton finds a reason to get mad at him. If anything has gone the slightest bit wrong with the restaurant he’ll blame it on Will and if nothing went wrong in the first place, he’ll just make something up. Chilton is so disconnected from reality that it’s actually kind of scary.”

“That is in line with what we witnessed upon returning from Lexington’s,” Hannibal adds. 

“Oh, I did notice something, though.” Matthew perks up. “The later into the recordings I got, the more often Will would defend himself or try to reason with Chilton. He’s definitely listening to what you’ve been telling him, Hannibal.”

“But based on what you’ve said, that in turn would have made his treatment worse,” Francis points out. Matthew nods.

“That would explain why the both of them have been getting more and more exhausted and stressed recently,” Alana reasons. “Will deals with it a lot better, clearly, but Chilton is starting to slip.”

Margo is the one who comes up with the plan. “We can take advantage of that. We should interview Chilton, something that seems normal but will actually be pushing him into telling us lies on camera that we can pretty easily disprove.”

It’s a plan Hannibal would have been proud to call his own. “An excellent idea, Margo. That could serve as the first segment of the episode.”

Gideon seems to agree and is nodding enthusiastically. “That’ll be great! Any common threads through what Chilton likes to throw at Will?”

Matthew groans. “It’s nothing but common threads. I can see why Will just tunes it out. Pretty typical stuff, calling Will stupid, a failure, he’ll never amount to anything, he should be happy that Chilton is willing to give him a second chance- the usual. He’s also convinced that every single time anyone says something positive about Will, it’s because Will fucked them.”

There is silence around the table as that soaks in. Hannibal and Alana have already been aware of this- though not necessarily the extent- but to the rest of the crew it’s novel. “When you say every single time, are you exaggerating?” Margo asks, to clarify.

“Nope. If Chilton brings it up, that’s where he’s going with it. It popped up so often that it’s gotta be very close to every time the man gets so much as a passing compliment if not literally every single time. And don’t worry! Since Chilton has decided Will is sleeping with every single person he’s ever met, he then turns around and rips into him for being a slut too. The delusion of this guy is off the charts.”

“This could get dicey,” Alana murmurs. “Are any of us involved in that particular delusion?”

Matthew, unsurprisingly, points at Hannibal. “I mean Hannibal, absolutely, but no one else. He’s really homed in on you, by the way. It pretty clearly drives him up the wall that someone as well respected as you favors Will. The cognitive dissonance just makes him dig his heels in even harder.”

“I expect I don’t have to ask you if you’ve actually slept with Will,” Alana sighs.

“Of course not,” Hannibal answers primly. “Abel, I know you’ve been waiting for some more concrete information before solidifying how you want the episode to be arranged. Any ideas from this?”

“Plenty,” Gideon grins. “Chilton being so delusional makes our jobs a hell of a lot easier. We can simply focus on offering proof that everything he says is a load of crock.” The smile lessens, becomes more thoughtful. “We can focus on that to start, then take a break to focus on Will and showing how good a person he is. Good ol’ appeal to emotion and all that. We can probably intertwine them, too.”

Alana and Hannibal share a look, and it’s Alana who speaks. “There is a pretty sad story behind how Chilton ended up with the restaurant in the first place, instead of Will. If we can manage to talk to one of the previous owner’s children and get them to agree to an interview, that story would be great for this.”

“Perfect!” Gideon declares. “Once we get that out of the way, people will be primed to really be on Will’s side in this. More than normal, anyways. Then we can just throw all the abuse right at them to horrify the audience. Brown, was there any bit of audio that stood out as being a lot worse than the others?”

“It was all pretty bad, but there is one particular thing that comes to mind.”

“We can end the episode on that, just let it play out. End the episode on a strong note.”

“The two staff members that are already willing to work with us,” Margo interjects, “Katz and Price. We should share some of this with them while we’re interviewing them. They deserve to know, and it may help them think of other things to tell us.”

Hannibal nods. “I agree. Katz in particular is very protective of Will.”

“Most of the staff seems to be,” Alana adds. “Even if they don’t have the slightest hint of what is going on, they all think very highly of him. It would be worth trying to speak to as many of them as possible, see what we can find.”

“Something isn’t making sense to me,” Margo frowns. “If Chilton hates Will to this degree, why not simply fire him?”

“Abusers aren’t generally eager to lose the person they’re abusing,” Alana points out.

“Yes, of course. But it feels like there has to be more to it than that. Is this related to what happened when the previous owners died?”

“It is indeed,” Hannibal confirms. “What happened was kept out of the media and covered up. Will is one of the few people who knows what happened, and if Chilton fires him, he no longer has anything to lose and would likely go public with the information. Though Chilton’s role in the matter is minor and merely opportunistic it would still paint him in a very bad light.”

“So if we go public with that very information, what’s to stop Chilton from firing Will immediately in response?”

“Us,” Francis says. “If he fires Will as a result of what we tell the audience, the backlash would destroy him.”

“Exactly,” Alana nods. “Will is so well loved that even if he was fired for no reason before we put any of this out, the response would still do serious damage to Chilton’s reputation. Doing so after the abuse has been exposed would not be something he can recover from.”

“Then we can’t afford to mess this up.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “No, we cannot. We must make our point and make it well. Francis, work with Abel and Matthew to find the moments we can easily counter. Margo, I will leave the interview with Chilton to you. Once we have that footage we should be able to complete that particular part of this. Alana, I trust I can leave following up on the past to you?”

“Jack is nearly on board,” she answers. “Once that’s out of the way I’ll see about contacting who I can.”

“Excellent. I will be focusing on the restaurant, as we cannot let Will catch wind of what we are doing. If he finds out it will all have been for nothing.”

Everyone seems to agree with that. “If you need help making up fake segments to film just let me know,” Gideon supplies. “I’ve got a binder full of them.”

Not the most surprising thing in the world to learn. “I may ask for your assistance in that matter later. For now, focus on this.”

“Got it, boss.”

The meeting ends, and most everyone leaves to begin their tasks. Francis, Abel and Matthew all stay at the table to continue discussing their own contributions.

It doesn’t take Alana much longer to finish convincing Jack and then everything is finally official. She shifts into contacting people outside of Eloise who may be willing to help them, and that ends up being the largest factor into how long this project will take them to finish in the first place.

Hannibal’s role in this, along with helping out where needed, is to keep pretending to film as usual. While at Eloise he often picks up leads to point the rest of the crew towards, but mostly he spends as much time there as possible to try and limit the opportunities Chilton has to abuse Will. From how the chef’s exhaustion only seems to grow exponentially Chilton had simply taken to doing it in the evenings instead.

One of the most enjoyable parts of this for Hannibal is how they continue to film segments with no intention of the footage ever seeing the light of day, allowing him to say and do things he never would have otherwise. That is what they are currently doing now. After the menu had been finished, the box they had used for the staff to submit recipe ideas was moved into the dining area, repurposed as an anonymous comment box. Hannibal and Chilton are seated at a table where Hannibal has created two stacks of those comment cards. His suit is black with bright red accents, something harsh and intimidating next to Chilton’s faded tweed. “Chilton,” Hannibal begins, “we need to talk about expediting.”

“Ah, yes,” Chilton replies. “I imagine changing the person doing it all the time is terribly confusing for the staff. It would be best it-”

“Incorrect,” Hannibal cuts him off, Chilton’s eyes widening with shock. “The staff has no issue with the expo changing. What is causing issues is when someone attempts to fill the role that is not particularly good at it.”

“Graham,” Chilton sighs.

“No,” Hannibal counters, shaking his head. “Though there are other reasons we should not be having the head chef run expo, his ability to do so is not among them. I am talking about you, Chilton.”

“What-” the man sputters. “How dare you! I am good at my job!”

“There is no shame in not being good at this one thing. The position requires attention to detail, situational awareness, and a high proficiency in multi-tasking. Exactly none of those things have any direct impact on your general intelligence or level of competence. Certain people are simply not good at them, myself among them,” Hannibal lies. “Regardless, I expected a great deal of pushback, which is why I’ve waited until we had these before approaching you about this matter.” He pats the piles of papers on the table.

Across from him Chilton is obviously seething and trying very hard to hold it in. “Fine,” he spits out. “What are those? Comment cards?”

“Exactly.” Hannibal lifts his hands off the piles and points to each one in turn. “These are from nights when you were handling expo, and these are from nights when you did not. We are going to read through them until my point is made.”

“So I'm just going to sit here and be humiliated?”

“We have tried to talk to you on this matter before,” Hannibal responds, voice hard. “You have refused to listen. That is why we have resorted to more drastic measures.”

“I don’t appreciate being treated like a child.”

“Yes, well.” Hannibal plucks a card from the Chilton pile. “Then perhaps you should stop acting like one. Here we are. ‘Every single dish me and my friends got was wrong. When we sent them back, half of us ended up with the wrong dishes the second time too, so we just gave up and ate what we had. Honestly, the food wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t what I ordered either.’”

“It’s not my fault the waitstaff can’t do their jobs,” Chilton snaps.

“If you are expediting, it is quite literally your job to ensure they are given the right dishes. Here, this one is relevant; ‘It was really busy and we got given the wrong dish FOUR TIMES! After the first one it never even got set down, the waitress (who was very kind and apologetic throughout this) would get to our table, look at the dish in her hand, sigh, and apologize. She was attentive but whoever was handing her the dishes in the kitchen was clearly NOT!!!”

“Give me that.” Chilton snatches the card out of Hannibal’s hand, like he’s expecting it to be blank. He silently reads what Hannibal has already read aloud while the chef finds a related pair of cards to share. “The kitchen is just making the dishes wrong.”

He sets down the cards he was planning on reading and finds a bundle paperclipped together instead, laying them out on the table in two columns. “This was from a night where the special had mushrooms in it. These are the people who were allergic and kept being given food with mushrooms in it, and these were the people who received the special and it was missing the mushrooms. The kitchen staff was making the dishes correctly, they were simply being sent out erroneously.”

“Fine then. Read some from the pile where the great masters were expediting instead.”

Hannibal nods, and pulls one from the non-Chilton pile. “My dish was sent out wrong-” Chilton laughs, but Hannibal continues reading. “-but it was fixed pretty quickly, and came back right the second time. It’s busy, things happen, so I’m not upset by it.” 

Chilton falls silent as Hannibal reads out more cards. “Good food! I heard the table next to me send back a dish for being made wrong, but once the waitress left the person admitted to the rest of the table that they forgot to ask for the modification in the first place. What is wrong with people? Just admit you made a mistake and ask for the right thing!”

“Food arrived quickly and was hot and delicious. Much better than last time I ate here, when it came slowly, cold and disgusting.”

“There was a mix-up where someone who ordered after our table got the last servings of the special, which a few of us had ordered. We were disappointed but the waitress helped us pick similar things from off the regular menu with some advice directly from the chef, and it was all very good! Still bummed about the special but they went above and beyond to fix the issue.”

“You’re cherry-picking,” Chilton accuses.

“I assure you that we are not.”

“You left out all the bad ones about Graham so you wouldn’t make him look bad since he’s so popular.”

Hannibal tilts his head. Despite his delusions, Chilton still seems to have no issue accepting the fact that Will is extremely well liked among the viewers. “We did in fact leave out the cards from the few times Will himself has run expo,” Hannibal admits, “though it was done purely because of your strained relationship with the man. We did not want to risk you accusing us of bias, though apparently that was a futile effort on our parts.”

“Let me see them.”

“Very well.” Hannibal sets down his cards and motions a tech over, who scrambles to collect the removed comment cards and brings them back to Hannibal. “Here you are.” He hands them to Chilton.

The owner reads through the cards, face growing redder and redder by the moment, until he finally throws the cards onto the table, stands abruptly, and storms off. Hannibal picks one up and begins reading. “Food was fast, no mistakes, very good!”

“I’m amazed at how they managed to bring everything out to us at exactly the same time. We had pretty much the full range of the menu. How’d they time it so well?”

“I have a very restrictive diet due to food allergies and other illnesses, so I’m unfortunately used to sending things back. It was very surprising to get something done right the first time!”

“Ah,” Hannibal pauses. “We appear to have forgotten to remove yet another drawing of genitalia, and this one seems to be named ‘Chilton’. Quite realistic. Kudos to the artist.”

“Should we stop filming?” A tech nervously asks.

“I believe that would be wise.”

After that, Chilton does not return to expediting.

It’s some weeks later, late in the evening, and the production of the episode has hit somewhat of a wall.

Francis, Matthew, Abel, and Hannibal himself are all trying to find a solution to their problem, hunched over the dining table covered in laptops and paperwork. Alana has flown out to speak to one of the previous owner’s children and Margo is planning ahead for what should be done assuming that goes well. The men at the table, however, are trying to plan for the worst case scenario, where none of what Alana finds is useable and they have to abandon the idea entirely.

“Honestly, we’re just fucked if this goes wrong,” Matthew sighs, leaning back in his chair. “The part about losing the restaurant is central to the episode, and if that goes up in flames it’s taking the surrounding parts with it as well.”

“We’d have to rewrite a large portion of the episode,” Gideon agrees. “Which we can do, but we’re already behind schedule as is. How many finished episodes do we have ready to air?”

“Only one,” Hannibal answers. “Even if things proceed as expected we will be missing a minimum of one week’s worth of airing time.”

Matthew groans, but it’s Gideon who speaks. “Can we piece together more with some of the nonsense we’ve been filming?”

Everyone is silent, because all of them have seen the footage of Hannibal subtly tormenting Chilton and they know that they cannot. “We can still use most of the plan we currently have,” Francis suggests. “It would just need to be reframed.”

“Are people not gonna wonder why we randomly decided to go interview a bunch of local chefs?”

It clicks with Gideon, and his eyes light up. “That works in our favor! If we get asked about it, we can hint that there was some larger story we were unfortunately unable to share. Get people looking into it. I’m sure some spunky reporter will fish the story up in no time.”

“A less desirable outcome but a beneficial one nonetheless.” Hannibal is about to continue speaking when they are interrupted by a phone ringing. Francis pulls out his cell phone, frowns at the number, and quietly excuses himself from the table.

“That didn’t look good,” Gideon murmurs, eyebrows raised.

It’s not long before Francis returns. “I need to stop by Eloise ,” he tells them. “One of the techs forgot to turn off a camera and plug it in.”

“Will anyone even be there this late?”

“I need to at least check.”

“Allow me.” Hannibal stands from the table. “You three have more important things to do here.”

Francis nods in thanks and sits back down. Before Hannibal is able to leave, Matthew speaks up. “Are you sure we can’t bring up anything about Graham’s degree? It’d help us fill the holes a lot.”

“You may not,” Hannibal answers. “I gave him my word that we would not spread that information and I intend to keep my promise.”

Though Matthew sighs, he does not continue to push the matter.

The sun has long since set and the moon is high in the sky as Hannibal drives to Eloise. It’s a cloudless night, what stars are visible through the light pollution of the city twinkling brightly, and as he gets closer to the normally bustling downtown area those too gradually vanish.

Brown had been right- the chances of anyone still being at the restaurant this late are slim, but not impossible. If anyone remains it is likely because something unfortunate is occuring, a thought that is confirmed when Hannibal pulls around the back and sees Will and Chilton’s vehicles both still there. He approaches the back door and listens carefully, hearing no noise from the kitchen. Hannibal lifts a hand and knocks sharply on the door.

Unsurprisingly, there is no response, and Hannibal ponders what to do. Calling one of them is the best option, though if Will is truly being yelled at upstairs doing so could potentially worsen his treatment. Chilton would accept his call quickly and come let him in, freeing Will at the same time.

Hannibal takes out his cell phone and dials Will’s number. It rings until it goes to voicemail.

He leans closer to the door, still unable to hear any activity within. Part of him wants to simply break in but it would be difficult to justify not also attempting to call Chilton when his car is here as well. He compromises and waits several minutes before calling Chilton.

The owner does not answer quickly, but he does pick up. “Chef Lecter,” Chilton greets, voice strained. “I’m surprised to see you calling so late.”

“My apologies. I am at Eloise right now. One of the cameras was left on and it needs to be turned off.”

A stretch of silence. “Left filming?”

“Simply on,” Hannibal corrects. He can hear someone descending the stairs, though they continue past the door and back into the kitchen. It must be Will. “It will only take a moment to rectify.”

“Of course,” Chilton replies. “I’ll come let you in momentarily.”

Hannibal hangs up. He considers knocking on the door since Will is clearly downstairs and can open it for him, but he waits for Chilton. Soon enough the door is opened and he is let into the kitchen. “I’m quite surprised to see you both here at this hour,” Hannibal tells the man, stepping into the kitchen. “Though I am thankful that you are here.”

“Yes, well.” Chilton waves a hand dismissively. “Graham still needs to make the lasagna and it’s kept us both here for much longer than it needed to.”

“Oh?” Will had briefly nodded at Hannibal as he entered, but is now busying himself with pulling things out of the walk-in. As he does this, Hannibal locates the camera that needs to be turned off and does so, grabbing the charging cable to plug it in as well. “Surely you do not both need to be here for that.”

That stalls Chilton, and Hannibal turns back towards the man and waits for him to speak. “I want to make sure everything goes well,” Chilton eventually comes up with.

“You look tired,” Hannibal replies, and he hears Will pause what he’s doing in the kitchen. “I can oversee it if you are that worried about the matter, though I expect Will is more than capable of doing this without supervision.”

For a brief moment, Chilton’s expression sours. He collects himself. “I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.”

“No.” Hannibal steps forward. “I insist.”

Chilton very obviously cannot find a way to deny the offer that would not rouse suspicion, an effort he does not realize is futile as Hannibal is well aware of the abuse he is trying to hide. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that.” The owner is trying to sound grateful and not quite nailing it. He takes his time packing up and leaving, and all throughout it Hannibal does nothing more than watch.

Once Chilton has finally closed the door behind him and left Will lets out an audible sigh. Immediately, Hannibal turns towards the kitchen, speaking through the expo window. “Are you all right, Will?”

“Huh?” Will pauses what he’s doing to turn towards Hannibal himself. He looks puzzled, like he can’t quite figure out why Hannibal may be asking that. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“I would not expect you to be preparing the lasagna close to midnight if everything had been entirely fine.”

He shrugs. “It was a busy night. Since I’d be staying late anyways I let the rest of the kitchen leave on time, finished the cleaning myself. Then Chilton wanted to talk before I could get started on this.”

“And what did you talk about?”

Will, only barely, flinches. “Um. You know. Just how things are going.”

Though Will is normally very quick-witted, it appears that the abuse he so steadfastly claims is both not abuse and not something that bothers him affects him after all, as that is an absolutely atrocious lie. It’s poor enough that Hannibal, in a fleeting moment of empathy, decides to let the matter slide. The matter will be resolved soon enough. “Things. I see. Would you like a hand with the lasagna?”

“I know you just said you’d help to make Chilton leave, but you don’t actually have to. This will take an hour max.”

“Yes, or I could assist you and cut that time in half.”

Will sighs again, this time because he can tell Hannibal won’t back down on this either. “I guess it would also be faster if we skipped over the part where I keep doing the conversational equivalent of ramming my head into a brick wall when you have zero intention of actually leaving.”

A small smile. “You know me well.”

The chef turns part way back into the kitchen, looking at what he’s collected so far and determining what he hasn’t. “You wanna do the ricotta?”

“Anything you’d like me to do.”

Will nods and turns fully towards the stove, turning on the burners. While Hannibal is washing up and pulling the rest of the materials out of the walk-in Will begins frying the meat, the crackling of fat filling the air, followed by the alluring aroma of the italian sausage cooking. By the time Hannibal joins Will in the kitchen he’s filled the burners with skillets of meat. He leans forward to allow Hannibal the room to move past him, further into the kitchen where there is more room to work. Their bodies brush together, only briefly.

The sound of so much meat cooking is quite loud, so as Will focuses on that Hannibal cracks the eggs into a bowl and lightly beats them, adding in the ricotta, pepper, and dried parsley after. This was a recipe he himself gave the restaurant so he knows it well. As he’s mixing the ingredients together, Will seems to finish the meat and begins draining off the fat. As the crackling dies down Hannibal begins to speak. “How are things going with the restaurant?”

“Better,” Will answers, his eyes focused on the skillets. “Chilton is as bad as ever but everything else is going well.”

“As well as it can with the roadblock in the way,” Hannibal extrapolates.

It takes a moment for Will to reply. “...yeah,” he eventually agrees. “Kind of seems like that’s a roadblock you guys have hit too if the nonsense you’ve been filming is any indication.”

A convenient excuse, though the fact that Will trusts them enough to involve him in any major upheavals to the show means the episode itself will hurt him even more. Hannibal trusts his ability to win the man back over to his side. “Regrettably, that is correct. It is a problem we are hard at work addressing.”

“Can’t really fix delusions just by trying hard,” Will mutters.

“No,” Hannibal replies. “I suppose not.”

Once all the meat has been drained, Will dumps it into a large metal bowl and uses a large spatula to start mixing in the marinara and pizza sauces. It’s slow going due to the sheer volume of what he’s making. “Maybe I should just do this with my hands,” Will grumbles.

A vision of Will flits through Hannibal’s mind, of the man with hands stained red. He forces the idea away. “You made both sauces yourself, did you not?”

“Yep.” Disappointingly, Will continues to use the utensil to mix the meat sauce. “Only real concession I could get to change up the recipe.”

“Does using such a basic recipe bother you?”

“Not really.” Will shakes his head. “Basic doesn’t mean bad. Besides, we needed something Chilton would actually buy the ingredients for, so this was perfect.”

With the ricotta mixture finished, Hannibal starts preparing the baking dishes Will has lined up on the sandwich station. “Adding all the sauce at once may actually make it easier to mix,” he points out, greasing the pans as he speaks.

Will stops what he is doing, looking between the mixture in the bowl and the containers of the sauces. “I’m an idiot,” he mutters, dumping in all the rest of the sauce. With that greasing the way he is able to finish the mixture much faster.

“You are far from an idiot,” Hannibal tells him, “though I imagine you must be exhausted.”

“Guess so,” Will huffs. After the pans have been greased Hannibal slides them over so they rest between the two of them, ready for the lasagna to be assembled. Will grabs a ladle and adds a thin layer of the meat sauce to the bottom of each pan, Hannibal following him to layer on the noodles.

“Have you been sleeping well?” The answer is clearly no, but he’s interested to see if Will admits to such.

He almost does. “I’ve always had sleeping issues.”

“Insomnia?” Hannibal adds the ricotta mixture on top of the noodles, and Will adds more meat sauce on top of that.

“To put it mildly. You could name any part of the sleep cycle and I could tell you how I’ve had problems with it.”

“It seems safe to assume you’ve tried to treat it.”

“Sometimes with things I’m sure you wouldn’t approve of. Where’d you put the mozzarella?”

“Here.” Hannibal hands him the package, and Will sprinkles it on top of the sauce. “I would like to hope that at the very least you are speaking of alcohol and not, say, ketamine.”

Abruptly, Will laughs. “No, god, I haven’t gotten there quite yet.”

“You’d be far from the first chef to abuse drugs, though I expect that particular variety would be less common.” Hannibal adds the second and final layer of noodles, and this time Will adds the ricotta on top. “Have you ever had an issue with that with your fellow chefs? It can be quite a problem in certain kitchens.”

“Nothing serious.” Once the last of the ricotta is added, Hannibal doles out the rest of the meat sauce. “Don’t really care what they do on their own time as long as they don’t come to work on it.”

“Some people are remarkably functional even under the influence.”

“No, I.” Will’s hands stutter where he’s sprinkling on the last of the mozzarella. “I can tell. Immediately.”

“Oh?”

Will shakes his head, clearly not wanting to talk about it. “Never had anyone slip anything by for long, and when they did it’s because they were smart enough to only do it when I wasn’t working. Beverly is sharp and picks up on it eventually even then.”

“Interesting. I suppose you’d make a killing as a drug tester.”

In response, Will shoots him a wry smile. “I’d make a killing doing a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I want to do them.”

“Of course. Where is your foil?”

Will pulls out the aluminum foil from where it’s stashed underneath the prep table, and Hannibal covers all the trays of assembled lasagna while Will starts cleaning the area. “I cleared off a spot for them in the walk-in already, should be pretty obvious where they go.”

It is, and Hannibal takes them one-by-one and stores them in the refrigerator to chill overnight. Will makes startlingly quick work of the dishes and by the time Hannibal is finished he is already wiping down the counters, nearly done with the cleaning. “Is there anything else you need to do before leaving?”

“Um.” Will looks around. “Not really, I did finish everything else before Chilton called me up. Double checking the front door is locked, I guess.”

Hannibal nods, and does that particular job himself, flipping on the dining room lights as he goes. The curtains on the windows do a good job blocking out the light and stopping anyone from peering in. On his way back he stops to look up at the ceiling. The building is older, and there are beams that cross it, strong and sturdy. He continues back into the kitchen, turning the lights back off behind him. “There is no alarm to set?”

Will laughs. “Chilton won’t even pay for a security system for his own house. You really think he’d pay for one here?”

“Fair enough.”

As the other chef finishes the last of the cleaning, Hannibal turns to exit through the back, allowing Will to lock up behind him. He’s surprised to find himself stopped by a hand on his shoulder and he turns to face Will, body going still at what he sees.

For a fleeting moment, Will looks scared. The owner had obviously been interrupted mid-abuse and it would naturally follow that he would resume said abuse once Will had been left unguarded. Hannibal had very deliberately spent as much time around Will as possible in an effort to protect him from this and has clearly been successful if this reaction is anything to go by. Though Chilton has long since left the building Will, subconsciously, is still expecting to be subjected to this treatment the second Hannibal leaves, and is desperately reaching for the only safety he still has.

If Hannibal had still harbored any hesitations about their plan, this would have obliterated them in an instant.

Once the moment passes Will is very obviously scrambling for a justification for his actions, and it is Hannibal that speaks first, careful to let concern seep into his tone. “What is it, Will?”

“Where do you even find a lavender suit?” Will blurts out, convincing neither of them.

That doesn’t mean Hannibal is not willing to play along. “I have a very talented tailor. Has the color caught your eye?”

Will finally takes his hand off Hannibal’s shoulder and looks down at his own clothes, wincing as he imagines himself in a similar suit. “Um. It’s just unusual, is all. Never seen something like it before.”

“I find myself drawn to unusual things.”

The flirtation does not go unnoticed and Will looks away, unexpectedly demure. “Right. Of course. Let me just. Lock up.”

It is difficult, but Hannibal smothers the urge to reach for the man, instead heading for the door. This time he waits until Will is following him to exit and Will locks the door behind them. “I cannot help but notice that despite all his mistrust, Chilton still allows you to have a key to the restaurant.

“Yeah, because we simply couldn’t function if I didn’t. He’s not willing to get up early enough to deal with the shipments, do inventory, all that stuff.”

“You’re here quite long every day. I assume you are being paid overtime in accordance with the law?”

“Thank you for helping me tonight,” Will immediately deflects. If all else fails, getting Chilton thrown in jail for willful violation of labor laws is always an option. “Definitely sped up the process.”

“It was my pleasure.”

With a nod Will heads to his car and leaves. Hannibal stands there for a moment, ensuring the man has departed, before turning back to the locked door.

He jiggles the handle. The lock seems sturdy, and he crouches down to examine it more closely. There is no deadbolt and though the lock is in good condition the mechanism itself seems quite simple. If he tried with all his strength, he could likely break the door down entirely, should it come to that.

His hand brushes over where the lock picks sit in an inner pocket. It shouldn’t come to that. Hannibal looks up, at the sliver of night sky peeking in from the top of the alley, and reminds himself to be patient.

Alana’s interview with the former owner’s daughter goes even better than expected, and Margo is quick to follow up with all the parties she had been in contact with and set up interviews. The episode, finally, is coming together in its final form.

They have to miss a week, of course, and Margo puts out a carefully crafted statement as to the reason why. This is not something they have ever had to do so it is hardly a surprise when social media stirs to life, churning out guess after guess as to the reason behind the delay. Some fear the worst, while some seem to be more interested in coming up with the most unlikely scenarios possible.

It’s close but Gideon and his crew manage to finish the episode in time. It’s sent off to be approved for broadcasting, Jack pulling some strings on his end to get it looked at sooner rather than later. It gets approved and the day before it would be finalized to be aired, Jack has everyone get together to watch the episode. He joins them remotely to watch it with them.

“This is really ramping up my anxiety,” Matthew mutters, leg jumping as he speaks.

“It’s just another episode,” Francis tells him.

“It’s really not.”

“I would agree with Matthew here,” Alana chimes in. “We’ve put a lot of work into this and it could have lasting consequences.”

“Arguably, we are hoping that it will have as much.” Hannibal turns to the laptop, where Jack sits in on the video call. “We are ready to start, I believe.”

Around the table everyone murmurs their agreement.

“Well,” Jack says. “Here we go.”

The episode begins.

Chapter Text

~~~

There is no opening theme. The episode fades in from black, on Chilton being interviewed. His office is recognizable as the backdrop. The question asked of him is clearly audible. “Why did you apply to be on Restaurant Surgery? ”

“Well, we need the help, obviously.” He sighs. “I’ll admit now that I may be a bit out of my depth, though I struggle to see how it got to this point. I’ve been losing money for a very long time.”

“So you needed the help that only Chef Lecter could provide?”

Chilton answers slowly. “I… suppose so.”

“Was there anything specific you were hoping he would do?”

“He’s known for not being afraid to tell it like it is. I knew he would not hesitate to point out every last thing that has been done wrong.”

“And are you satisfied with his help so far?”

This answer takes even longer. “Mostly.”

“What are you not satisfied with?”

“Well, hearing that things you’ve worked hard on are worthless can be hard. I think everyone would agree to that.”

“It doesn’t sound like it’s just that.”

“There was a… specific problem I had been hoping he would help me with. A staffing issue.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“No, I don’t think that would be wise.” His expression is darkening as he speaks. “I know that Lecter will always try to help fix the problem before resorting to something drastic, but I had assumed he would know when to cut your losses and move on. It’s been somewhat disappointing that this hasn’t happened.”

“You were hoping he would push you into a decision you’ve been avoiding making.”

“Exactly. I won’t say I’ve been looking for an excuse, but Lecter’s support would be the push I need to finally pull the trigger.”

“Is it related to a specific member of the staff?”

“It is. It can be difficult to fire people, particularly if they have been working for a long time. But some people are, quite frankly, dead weight.”

“If the issue is as severe as you are implying, why do you think Hannibal has not come to the same conclusion you have?”

There’s real anger in Chilton’s expression now, and he tries to school it. His words are tight like he’s trying very hard to control them. “Because even the most rational and logical of people can still be distracted by pretty things.”

It cuts to Hannibal seated in an elegant chair, hands folded neatly in his lap. He’s wearing a more subdued suit, slate grey with a deep maroon tie, and the area behind him is cast into shadow, while his own body is well lit. There is no background music, nothing beyond an ominous silence. He begins speaking to the camera. “This episode is going to be very different from what you are used to. If you have tuned in to see how our measures to protect the future of Eloise are panning out, I must regretfully inform you that no such thing will follow.” His gaze shifts, somewhere off-screen, looking pained. “I must admit that never, in all my years, would I have anticipated a situation such as this arising.” He looks back to the camera. “On Restaurant Surgery, we take great care to not influence the interpersonal relationships of the staff unless it is affecting the restaurant itself. That has changed with this season. There has been severe mistreatment that we have tried repeatedly to address, with no success. It has deteriorated to the point where I cannot morally allow it to continue unhindered, and my staff is in agreement. We have been stripped of all our options and been forced to turn to extreme measures.”

Hannibal shifts in his chair. “Not everyone who asks for our assistance is willing to change. A great many people simply think the attention being on our show will bring will be enough to fix their financial issues and as a result are highly resistant to our attempts to improve their restaurant. We still try our hardest, of course, because the owners are not the only ones whose lives will be affected should the business fail. I do believe that Chilton falls into this category. Foolishly, I had then assumed that a great deal of his behavior was connected to that, and not something far more sinister.” Hannibal grimaces. “As a result, I have made the true problem much worse. Please, I urge you to watch this episode in its entirety. It may be difficult, but this is a story that I refuse to let go untold for any longer. I will not allow this behavior to continue and will take any measure necessary to halt it.”

He pauses, takes a moment to regain his composure. “What you see in this episode will be distressing for many of you. This episode is going to be about the extensive abuse Will Graham has suffered at the hands of Frederick Chilton.”

Cut to back Frederick Chilton, with another question. “What is your opinion on your head chef, Will Graham?”

His mouth curves down, and he adjusts his jacket with a sigh. “I hate to be so harsh, but he has been an abject disappointment. He’s a terrible chef-”

Cuts away to a montage of Will cooking with obvious skill. Person after person is shown, all of them talking about how amazing of a cook Will is and how much they love the food he’s made for them. A clip of Hannibal himself praising the man is included.

“-he can’t even run his own kitchen correctly-”

Cuts away to clips from dinner service without Chilton, where everything runs like a well oiled machine. They gradually fade into clips of him arriving, everything devolving into chaos, and ending with a series of clips of Will correcting mistakes without acknowledging them, all without hurting his normal operations.

“-and frankly, he isn’t particularly observant and makes mistakes with product all the time.”

Cuts to Beverly. She appears to be in the same room Hannibal was in, though it is now properly lit, revealing dark wooden walls. “So, we have this system set up. Chilton never wants to throw away ingredients that are past their prime. Nothing dangerous, but the kind of thing where if you got it at a restaurant, you’d definitely complain. We talked him into letting us mark out of date stock and close to out of date stock with different stickers, so that way Will can ‘accidentally’ throw it all away and Chilton just thinks he’s messing it up. That’s a pretty good summary of how their relationship works overall, honestly.”

From offscreen- “Does this not interfere with actually keeping track of food expiration dates?”

Beverly waves a hand dismissively. “No, Will doesn’t need anything remotely like this. Stuff is labeled mostly for everyone else’s sake. Will just needs to look at it once and he’ll know exactly when it needs to be tossed out. Plus, every morning he goes through everything in the walk-in and freezer to make sure nothing turned unexpectedly overnight.”

“He can remember the expiration date of every single item in the kitchen?”

“Oh man,” Beverly laughs. “That’s not even the craziest thing he can do. Dude’s a straight up genius, no exaggeration.”

Back to Chilton. Another question is asked- “If his performance is so poor, why don’t you simply replace him?”

There is a flash of anger on Chilton’s face. It takes him longer than it should have to reply, like he’s trying to think of an acceptable answer for the question. “I suppose I feel a bit bad for him,” he finally says. “He’s not the brightest. I’m not sure he’d be able to get a job anywhere else and I don’t want to put him out on the street.”

Cuts to a chef of a very well known and highly regarded restaurant in Baltimore, being interviewed from the busy kitchen. “Would I hire Will Graham?” He starts speaking faster. “Why? Is he looking for a job?” The chef pulls out his phone. “Does he still have the same phone number?”

Another chef, their restaurant behind them as well. “Oh absolutely. For anything. I’m pretty sure I’d hire the guy to do my taxes if he was willing.”

Yet another, this time one who also owns the restaurant. The pattern continues. “All the restaurants in town had to come to an agreement,” she tells the camera. “When Eloise lost the original owners we knew Will would try for the restaurant, so we all agreed to not try to poach him right off the bat or go for the restaurant ourselves.” Her expression sours. “That sure backfired, didn’t it?”

Again and again, a procession of chefs chomping at the bit to hire Will so long it’s borderline comical. It ends back on Beverly, who is openly scowling at the camera. “He won’t fire Will because he knows there’s no one else in the universe who will tolerate the horrific treatment unless they’re trapped here, like Will is.”

Back to Chilton, looking smugly at the camera. Smash cut to black, where a simple title card of the show name fades in, and then back out. Cut to commercial.

Back from commercial, on Hannibal. "Chilton’s treatment of Will defies all reason and logic. Will is an accomplished, talented man, and yet Chilton treats him like an ingrate and a fool. He has created a version of Will that is entirely separate from reality and responds to the man as if his version is correct. To put it simply, his hatred is irrational and self-sustaining to the point of delusion. This was the first thing we noticed, though I must admit that we are far from unused to dealing with owners who are in some way deluded. It was for this reason that we did not recognize the behavior for what it truly was until much later."

He pauses before continuing. "This is not an accusation I would levy without proof, of course. The first major instance of this occurring was when we were meeting to work on the new menu for Eloise. The following clip will be familiar to you all."

Cut to a clip from an earlier episode, when Hannibal is suggesting shellfish pasta dishes to the delight of Chilton. When it ends, the camera is back on Hannibal. "What you have not seen is what came before."

Now it cuts to earlier in the same episode, unused footage. It shows Will making his own suggestions for the menu, including the exact thing Hannibal later suggested, only to be shot down by Chilton.

Back on Hannibal. "As you can see, I made the same suggestion as Will and got a very different response. This is not something I enjoy doing- quite the contrary, I'm afraid. I'm loathe to take credit for ideas that are not my own. However, this situation is somewhat exceptional, and Will himself has given me express permission to do so. He cares far more about the success of the restaurant than his own pride."

The image blurs, and a text overlay appears. Audio taken from in between shots from the same episode as the previous clips. Will’s voice speaks over the still image. "It’s fine, I’m honestly okay with whatever direction we go in with the menu as long as it’s not what we have.”

Hannibal's is next. “Would you allow me to try something?”

“Sure. You can try whatever you want.”

Cuts to a short clip that had not been included in the final cut, Will nodding in thanks once Hannibal has successfully tricked Chilton into accepting his own suggestion. Then back to Hannibal. "I would say the majority of the suggestions we have made to change Eloise's direction are, in fact, Will's own. We've never before come to a restaurant only to find that the owners already had every resource necessary to turn the place around and were simply ignoring them. It has made for an admittedly… frustrating experience."

He shifts in the chair before continuing. “At times, this delusion veers into absurdity. Recently, when we were working on this very episode, there was a time that we needed to return to Eloise quite late, as a camera had been left on. I volunteered to do so. When I arrived, both Will and Chilton were still there, though neither seemed to hear my knocking. Naturally, I called Will, and the following is audio taken from upstairs at that moment.”

The image blurs again, and audio begins to play. Will’s voice is heard first. “Chilton, I keep telling you-” He is interrupted by a phone ringing.

“Sure, just go ahead and get that and ignore me,” Chilton mocks.

“...it’s Hannibal.”

“It’s who? ”

“I should probably take this.”

“Why is he calling you?”

“I don’t know yet?”

Footsteps can be heard, then Will’s protests as something is taken from him. “‘Chef Lecter’, huh?”

“Give that back. Great, now I missed the call.”

“He’s in your contacts? Does he call you that often for-”

The audio stops abruptly and Hannibal fades back into focus. “I must mention something here. It is exceedingly common for the heads of staff to have both my own phone number and the number of members of the crew while we are filming, and equally common for them to add our numbers as contacts so they can quickly tell who is calling. Chilton himself also has our numbers. In addition to that, as we filmed many segments with Will off site, we were in even closer contact than usual. There is absolutely nothing unusual about what Chilton seems to be upset about.”

It fades back away, cutting back to the audio, where a portion appears to have been skipped. Will’s voice is heard first yet again. “How often does he call me for what? ”

“You heard me.”

“Chilton, what is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? You’re the one who keeps going over to his house!”

“The house where the entire crew is living. Where we film the cooking segments that it is literally impossible for you to not know about.”

“You have him in your phone with some pet name and you’re acting like you’re the innocent one here?”

“In my phone as- what the hell else would I have him in there as? Is ‘Chef Lecter’ not professional enough for you? Do you want it to be vaguer? Should I change it to ‘tall European’? How about ‘Cook Good Man’?”

“Will,” Chilton snarls, “I will not stand here and have you disrespect-”

He’s cut off by a phone ringing, this time clearly a different one. “Chef Lecter,” Chilton answers. “I’m surprised to hear you calling so late.” They have a brief conversation, and then there is a beep as Chilton presumably mutes his phone.

“Well?” Will asks.

“Go back downstairs and get to work,” Chilton spits. “Lecter is here and needs to be let in.”

“Almost like he was calling me for a reason,” Will mutters.

“Get out.”

Hannibal reforms. “As you can see, even Will has begun to lose patience with Chilton, and his reactions are understandable and justified. The same cannot be said for Chilton.” He sighs. “Warring with this level of petulance is exhausting, and has taken quite a toll on Will. When we first arrived, he was guarded and snappy. As time passed it became more and more apparent that though the man has a prickly exterior, he is far from insensitive or cold-hearted. I had caught glimpses of it until it very suddenly became readily apparent.”

For a moment, Hannibal is silent. “As I mentioned earlier, the portions of the show where I work with the head chef to teach them new recipes were all filmed off-site, away from Eloise. The decision to do this was something of a whim, a hunch I had decided to follow. Will has always seemed tense around Chilton so it was natural to at the very least try to lift that fog of tension. The change was immediate. Will was almost a different person. It was so drastic that, as you may recall, rumors started about the two of us. Unfounded rumors, might I add.” An echo of a smile forms on his face. “Though Will is undoubtedly an introverted person, he is very passionate about his craft. That passion is something that was slowly stolen from him. Don’t take my word for it- you may hear it from the man himself.”

Cut to an unused clip of Will and Hannibal, identifiable as being from the first time they cooked at the staff house based on the clothes both men are wearing. It appears to take place after the last shot used in the episode that had aired. Both Will and Hannibal are smiling, laughing, talking about the food. Will’s smile suddenly turns serious. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

“For what?” He pauses. “You're welcome, regardless.”

“For this.” Will, wine glass in hand, gestures to the scattered remains of the recipes on the island and the stove.

“For the mess?”

“No!” Will laughs. “For the opportunity.” He finishes the wine and sets the empty glass down. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to just… cook.”

“For pleasure?”

Will shakes his head. “No. I remember… it feels distant, but I enjoyed working, back before Chilton bought the place. Now I just dread going into work to defrost the crap Chilton gives me.”

“You reheated that ravioli admirably.”

That makes Will groan. “Don’t remind me. I really did enjoy this.” Again, he gestures to the island and the stove. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve genuinely enjoyed cooking. I’m starting to remember why I loved it in the first place.”

“You lost your passion.”

“It felt like it slowly leaked out of me until there was only bitterness left behind.”

“Do you feel it returning?”

“Yes,” Will says softly. “I do.”

Hannibal holds up his wine glass. “Then to the return of passion.”

“To-” Will picks up his glass and seems to remember it is empty, frowning at it. “Oh.”

A beat of silence, followed by Hannibal looking at both glasses and pouring some of his wine into Will’s, making the other man laugh. “To the return of passion,” he repeats.

“To passion,” Will echoes, and their glasses clink together in toast. They drink their wine, and the camera lingers on Will, grinning brightly and openly.

Cut to commercial.

Back from commercial, on Jimmy Price, being interviewed in the same room as Beverly had been. “You were working here when Will first started,” Margo asks from offscreen. “Could you tell me more about that?”

“Of course!” Price answers cheerfully. “When he got hired, it was just to wash dishes and bus tables. Naturally, he was good at it. Kid was good at everything, if we’re being honest. Don’t really remember what led to it but the cooks noticed that brain of his and started using him as a calculator whenever they needed to convert a measurement.”

“Could you elaborate on the comment about his brain?”

He shrugs. “Where would I even start? He’s got a photographic memory, can do advanced math in his head in seconds, always seems to know the answer for everything; if a little alien climbed out of his neck one day and revealed Will was just a robot it had been piloting all along I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

“Not in the slightest?” 

“Well, maybe a little bit,” Price admits. “Anyways. Pretty soon he was doing odd jobs around the kitchen, and eventually someone asked him to come over there and cook something for them. Everyone knew he had been a cook at his last place but they were all a bit curious what kind of food a guy like that would come up with. Good food, it turned out. Eloise scooped him right out of the dish pit faster than I’ve ever seen.”

“When did he become sous-chef?”

“Oh man.” Price rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “That was a big deal. Ruffled some feathers. Melissa would be able to tell you the best, if you can get a hold of her.”

Cut to a second interview. A dark-skinned older woman sits in the chair. In the corner, the overlay identifies her as Melissa James, owner and head chef of Fleur . The interview appears to be taking place in the dining area of her own establishment, large dessert cases just barely out of focus in the background. “When I left?” she repeats. “That was a bit messy, that’s for sure.”

“What happened?” The voice is different- Alana.

“Well, Eloise was always the type to encourage you to go follow your dreams. She’s the one who convinced me it wasn’t too late to do so, in fact. So I packed my bags, went to France to study under a famous pâtissier, and eventually I came back to the states and opened my own shop. I’ll always be endlessly thankful for that.”

“You were the sous-chef, correct?”

“I was,” she confirms. “The choice of a replacement was ultimately up to Eloise, of course, but she asked me who I’d pick if I had control. Graham was the easy answer there.”

“How long had he been working there?”

“It’s not like he was a newbie,” Melissa sighs. “He’d been there… five years? And working in the kitchen for three. The problem was that some of the people in the kitchen had studied abroad and had pretty prestigious pedigrees. When some nobody from Louisiana with no formal training got the job over them there were a lot of people upset by that.” She shakes her head. “All nonsense, obviously. Those that didn’t leave ended up agreeing with the decision down the line. I wasn’t in the country at the time but I’ve heard that Graham was all but expected to take over the restaurant when Eloise and Howard retired.” Her expression falls. “Things never really seem to go as planned, do they?”

Back to Price, looking equally morose. “It was… the shock of a lifetime,” he says sombrely. “Everyone expected them to be around for at least another decade.” The visual changes to clippings of the accident fading in and out as Price speaks over them. “No one really figured out for sure what happened, just that it was fast. One moment they were up by Lake Erie on vacation and next thing we hear, their boat sank and no trace of them was ever found.” For a long moment, there is silence, until it fades back to Price. “It was hard for all of us, but Will took it the worst. They were like family to him. Eloise closed down for a while, until their will was read.” He looks wistful. “They left the place to Will, of course. Things seemed like they were looking up. He was a great owner for the brief time he had it, by the way.”

“What happened?”

Price sighs, long and suffering. “Their children challenged the will.”

Cuts to a new woman, dressed elegantly, the lines of age just beginning to emerge on her face. The backdrop is a hotel room, the sitting area of a multi-room suite. She looks deeply upset. The overlay identifies her as Janet Harvey, youngest daughter of Eloise & Howard. “I regret it,” he says softly, “perhaps more than anything else in my entire life.” She steels herself and looks into the camera. “I’m not here to look for pity or forgiveness. What I actively participated in is terrible, and it’s time to finally come clean.”

Alana’s voice is gentle. “Why did you contest the will?”

“Greed,” Janet answers without hesitation. “My parents were wealthy, and the restaurant was just a fraction of that. We were all left small fortunes but Café Eloise was the pièce de résistance , and me and my siblings couldn’t stand to see it left to someone who wasn’t even part of the family.”

“How was your relationship with your parents?”

“Strained. We grew up taking everything for granted. My parents knew they were partly to blame, but it did not stop the rift from widening. When they died… I was sad to lose them, but we were more interested in the contents of their will.” She looks away. “We had the money to afford the best lawyers in the country. It was not quick, but we got the restaurant back. And then we sold it.”

“You had no interest in running it yourselves?”

“Of course not.” She laughs bitterly. “It was far too much work. All throughout this, I would justify my actions by telling myself that if he wanted the place so badly, he would simply buy it off us.”

“By he, do you mean Will Graham?”

“I do.”

“How much was the restaurant sold for?”

“I cannot disclose the exact amount,” Janet tells her. “A large sum of money. Far more than most people could hope to afford.”

“Yet you expected Will to be able to buy it.”

“Now, I understand that that thought was ridiculous. At the time, yes. It would have been trivial for me, so I could not understand that it would be anything but for most others.”

“How easily was it sold?”

“With surprising difficulty,” she replies. “No one would buy at first. It was on the market for months with no takers. We know why now, of course.”

Cut to a chef previously featured, the one who had talked about the agreement not to buy the restaurant. Alana can be heard from offscreen. “Could you tell me more about this agreement?”

“Sure. It was informal, obviously. Pretty even mix between people who wanted to see Will take over the place himself and people who wanted him in their restaurants and were waiting for the chance to nab him. Meanwhile, Will was running circles trying to scrape the money together to buy Eloise. ”

“And this was honored?”

“Kind of surprisingly, yeah, it was. Well, by people in the restaurant business, anyways. We knew that if anyone outside the industry went for it there would be some negotiating, so there would be a period where we were free to try and bid for the place properly before it got sold.” She frowns. “No one was expecting what happened next.”

And back to Price. “Chilton bought the place outright, high enough above asking price that it closed in a flash. One day there were no interested parties, then the next it was off the market.”

“How did the staff react?”

“Poorly,” Price laughs. “Will was… trying to be optimistic. Maybe the new owner would be fine, maybe everything would work out. I’m pretty sure every monkey on the planet curled their paws into fists when he said that.”

“Tell me more about Chilton.”

“Where do I even begin?”

“How were things between him and Will initially?”

“Oh, it started bad. Will was perfectly cordial but Chilton clearly knew that Will had been supposed to own the place and treated him like an enemy from the get go. Any time Will would try and help him with anything- and I do mean anything- Chilton would take it as a personal slight and blow the man off. Chilton desperately needed the help Will was offering, by the way. He had absolutely no clue how to run a restaurant.”

“Would things have gone well if he had simply backed off and let Will handle things?”

“Absolutely,” Price laughs. “Instead he’d treat him like shit. Naturally, Will was not pleased with the treatment, and he started getting snippy right back. Entirely justified and a lot more restrained than I would have been, by the way, but that turned it into a loop that just kept spiraling.” His grin inverts. “Except one day, Will went up to talk to Chilton, and came back down looking… rattled. I still have no idea what Chilton said to him that day. No one does, and I doubt Will’s going to be sharing that any time soon. From then on, Will was a lot more careful, and just tried to avoid Chilton as much as possible.”

“You have no idea what happened?”

“I have a theory,” Price admits. “I think Will made the mistake of trying to explain why he cared so much about Eloise. He probably thought it would help Chilton understand his point of view and might make them more sympathetic towards each other.”

“Why do you think that?”

The frown turns into a full-blown scowl. “Because from that day forward, Chilton started threatening to fire Will if he crossed him in the slightest.”

Fade to commercial.

Back from commercial, on Chilton. He is being asked a question. “Have you ever threatened to fire Will?”

Chilton furrows his brow in concentration. When he starts to answer, it’s slowly. “Threatened? No, I don’t believe I have. In rare disciplinary cases I’ve had to mention it as a last resort.”

“As in, if your behavior does not change, I may be forced to let you go?”

He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”

The shot of Chilton blurs out of focus, frozen on his expression. Words are superimposed over the background. Audio taken from Chilton’s office.

The first voice you hear is obviously Chilton’s own. “You changed the order again. I’ve told you repeatedly that the other brand is cheaper.”

In reply, you hear Will. “The difference is negligible when you consider how much of the cheaper brand’s produce we have to throw out. Their stuff goes bad in a couple days, without fail. Last week the peppers arrived rotten. ”

Chilton’s voice slows, every word dripping with condescension. “This is why rotating the stock is important, Will.” 

“Rotating the- did you even hear what I just said? We opened the box of peppers, straight off the truck, and it was filled with mold.”

“This wouldn’t happen if you paid more attention to the expiry dates of our food.”

Will sounds exasperated. “Would you just listen to me for a change?”

“It’s such a shame that you can’t even do something as simple as this right. Sometimes I really do think things would be easier if I simply got a different head chef.” The words, spoken sharply, hang in the air. “But I’d like to give you another chance. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Eventually, Will replies. “...yes, Chilton.”

The text is removed and the picture sharpens back into focus. Chilton, still smiling, continues speaking. “Never.”

A brief cut, to another question. “Have you had to use that type of discipline often?”

“More often than I’d like to,” Chilton sighs. “He has… behavioral issues. And I say that as someone formerly in the psychiatric field. It seems like he doesn’t even listen to me half the time when I’m trying my best to help him.” Another sigh, this time more dramatic. “He can’t seem to see my side of the problem. Sometimes, I almost think that he’s lacking empathy entirely.”

Cut to Beverly. She’s simply staring at the camera in absolute dumbfounded shock. This shot continues for a good five seconds before cutting to Price, who is laughing hysterically in his chair, to the point where it seems as if he may fall out of it entirely.

Now, a cut to a young brunette server, being interviewed in the usual place at Eloise. An overlay identifies her as Marissa Schurr. “Um, something he’s done for me?” She thinks, and is silent for a while.

Margo interjects. “Is it difficult to recall an instance?”

“Hell no,” the teenager instantly responds. “It’s just hard to pick one.”

“How about the first one that came to mind?”

“Okay,” she nods. “Like half a year ago, before all you guys showed up, I had a pretty big fight with my boyfriend. Kinda felt like something we couldn’t come back from, y’know? Obviously I still came to work because you can’t just not come to work when you’re upset, that’s not how life works. Didn’t want to let it show to customers so I tried to be extra cheerful, and Abigail took all the hard tables for me.”

“Did Abigail know?”

“Yeah, we tell each other everything. I thought I was doing a good job of hiding things but Will noticed right away. Every time a dish for one of my tables came up he’d be the one who put it out, and we’d talk a little about it. He even gave me advice. It helped me feel a lot better.”

“What kind of advice?”

“Stuff that lots of people probably think is pretty basic, but you don’t really think about it when you’re panicking, y’know? That I gotta be honest with him and tell him how I’m really feeling. Will even asked how it went next time I saw him.”

“How did it go?”

“I told him how I felt and he said I was being dramatic, so I broke up with him,” Marissa laughs. “When I told Will that his face did this thing I’ve never seen before-” She tries to imitate the expression and ends up wearing an exaggerated scowl. “That, but like, also super unsurprised, if you know what I mean? He told me it sounded like I was better off without him and then he looked a little panicked like maybe he shouldn’t have said something that mean but you know what? He was right!”

That is the first in a long line of people, all recounting times Will has gone above and beyond to help or support them in some way. They range from simply listening to their troubles to bringing birthday gifts, with the final one being even more extreme.

“He paid for your dog’s vet bill?” Margo clarifies.

A dishwasher sits in the same spot as always at Eloise. “Yeah,” he nods. “Money is tight at home, with all the kids we have. Our dog needed a tooth pulled. That’s very expensive. We couldn’t figure out how to pay for it, but we didn’t want to leave the dog in pain, either. We were starting to think about giving her up for adoption to someone who could afford it. The children would be heartbroken. Will noticed what was going and absolutely refused to take no for an answer.”

“That’s a serious expense.”

“Will is…” The man’s eyes fall, like he’s not entirely sure he should be discussing this. “Will doesn’t have a lot of money either, he just doesn’t have a family to take care of. And he has a real soft spot for dogs. But he assured me that he knows a place he could get it a bit cheaper?”

Cut to a man in a white lab coat, sitting in an examination room. Judging by the size of the tables it appears to be a veterinary clinic. Text in the corner identifies George Hernandez, Will’s vet. “Yeah, he did bring in someone else’s pet once. Threw me for a loop.”

“Does Will bring in animals often?”

“Once or twice a month. It’s almost always a different dog, sometimes with cats thrown in. I had concerns about him being a hoarder but it turns out none of them are his. He just brings in strays he finds that need medical attention. Gets ‘em spayed and neutered too if he can afford it.”

“So he pays for veterinary treatment for feral animals?”

The man laughs. “They’re not feral anymore by the time Will gets them in. Usually. It’s not uncommon for me to see the same animals come in later with owners, too. No idea how he does it.”

“Do you ever give him a break on payment?”

“When I can.” The man scratches his chin. “I can only do so much, you know. But he’s got way more vet bills than the normal person and he’s pretty much doing this out of the kindness of his own heart. How could I not?”

Cut back to Chilton, repeating the very end of his final statement. “...lacking empathy entirely,” he finishes. The camera stays on him for longer, just long enough to catch the moment the feigned concern falls away. “Are we almost done here?” he asks, irritated. “I’ve got other things to do.”

“I think we’ve gotten everything we need,” Margo confirms.

“Great,” Chilton huffs. “Hopefully next time you have more interesting questions that aren’t about that worthless failure.”

Cut to commercial.

Back from commercial, on Price. “No empathy, huh?” He looks almost angry. “That’s real rich, coming from Chilton.”

“Could you elaborate on that?”

“Part of his big problem is he’s totally incapable of looking at things from any other point of view than his own. Whether or not he’s doing it on purpose is a toss up. Will is the most obvious example of that.”

“How so?”

“He hates Will, obviously. So he can’t even imagine anyone else feeling anything but the same way. Everything he thinks about Will has turned into objective truth in his eyes.” The scowl softens. “It results in some pretty impressive mental gymnastics.” He hesitates before continuing. “I overheard something up in the office once. I had to go up to talk to Chilton and he still had Will in there.”

“What did you overhear?”

“I don’t want to repeat it.”

“You can be vague.”

“He…” Price sighs. “It sounded like he’s landed on what he considers a justification for why people may do nice things for Will or want to be around him, and it’s pretty heinous.”

The frame freezes and blurs out. Once again, the text Audio taken from Chilton’s office appears.

Chilton speaks first. “Where the hell did you go?”

“I was just talking to Chef Lecter.”

“You really expect me to buy that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“So why did you leave the restaurant, then? Just to talk?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were just doing what you always do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Will sounds exasperated.

“So where’d you guys go? A hotel? Did you take him back to your apartment?”

“We went to a café.”

“Sure you did.” A scoff. “You [bleep] slut.”

Cut to Beverly. “I’m sorry, he’s been accusing Will of what? ” Abruptly, she stands, trying to pull off her lav mic and walking to the right out of frame. There’s a brief scuffle off screen as the crew rushes to stop her.

A quick cut to Beverly back in the chair, a bit disheveled. “Sorry.” 

“You didn’t know.”

“Of course I didn’t know!” She throws her hands up. “How could I? Will definitely wouldn’t have told me.”

“Why wouldn’t he have told you?”

“Because he’s still acting like nothing is wrong. He knows that it would be pretty [bleep] obvious that it wasn’t if he let that slip.”

Back to Price. “I have tried talking to Will about it, you know. He just brushes it off.”

“Do you think he’s not taking the situation seriously?”

“In a way,” Price answers. He seems uncertain. “It’s something more like he’s just… gotten used to it. Or, he thinks he has. It’s just another part of his day. Come to work, organize everything, start prepping, get screamed at by Chilton, finish prepping.”

“How often would you say this happens?”

“Basically every day. If there’s nothing Chilton can think of, I’m sure he just makes it up as he goes.”

The image blurs and the familiar text appears before the audio starts, on Will this time.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he protests.

“Of course the soup was your idea!” Chilton screams. “You’re poor, right? Poor people love soup!”

A cut, to Beverly. “It had already become normal for Will when I met him and started working here. He didn’t even mention it. First time it happened, I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to figure out where the hell he went. He came back down an hour later and I nearly went up there myself to rip Chilton a new one.”

“Why didn’t you, if I may ask?”

Beverly looks down. “Because Will begged me not to.” She falls silent for a while. “Now, all I wish is that on that day, I had ignored him.”

Now, it’s back to Hannibal. “We’ve all had our own hand in this,” he tells the camera. “Certain things we have unwittingly done have poured more fuel onto the fire. By the time we caught on, the situation had deteriorated significantly.” His expression shifts subtly, into regret. “As is common knowledge, we utilize hidden microphones in the filming, something all parties involved agree to beforehand. We do not generally go over all this audio unless we are looking for something specific. When we became suspicious of what may be occurring we made the unusual decision to listen to it in its entirety, only to be horrified by what we found had been happening over our heads while we remained blissfully ignorant. You have been listening to samples of these recordings over the course of this episode.”

He shifts in his seat. “Earlier, I said that we simply could not stand by and allow this to continue. There is another reason why we- no, why I decided to do this. To put it simply, I’ve made things much worse for Will. Being a public figure brings attention to you and those around you. Chilton did not hesitate to weaponize many of the rumors that have started involving us.”

Hannibal closes his eyes. Audio plays over what sound to be speakers, something Hannibal can hear as well.

“Oh, so now he wants you to be his little personal chef too?”

“Trust me, this is the first time I’ve heard anything about it either.”

“Right. Of course it is.”

“It’s just a rumor. If it was even true, don’t you think I’d know about it?”

“You do!” Chilton screams, and Hannibal’s expression darkens. “Of course you [bleep] do! How many times did you have to [bleep] his [bleep] for that offer, huh?”

“None! Because that didn’t happen!”

“You dumb little [bleep]. Go ahead, go crawling to him. When he gets tired of [bleep] you and throws you away, make sure you know that your job won’t be waiting for you here.”

Hannibal opens his eyes. “As you know, we made the decision to film segments with Will outside of the restaurant. We had noticed early on that there was tension between the two but could never have imagined this was why.”

The audio starts back up. This time, Hannibal does not close his eyes.

“Every Friday, huh? Do you get the cash before or after?”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Do you guys [bleep] before you start cooking or do you save it until after? Do the cameras keep rolling?”

“This again? Chilton, there is nothing going on between me and Hannibal. I swear.”

“You have to know that your word means nothing with how much you lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Why else would he take you out of Eloise for this?” Hannibal’s gaze falls. He seems tormented by the fact that this is his doing.

“I don’t know! You’d have to ask him!”

“He’d just lie about it too.”

“There’s nothing to lie about!”

A loud thud, presumably Chilton’s fist slamming down on the desk. “Yes there [bleep] is! You’re so thirsty for any kind of attention that you’ll bend over for the first person you see. You don’t think he loves you, do you? You? ”

There is no response. Chilton laughs. “[bleep] waste of air.”

The audio ends. “I am ashamed to admit that it took it happening right in front of our faces to notice. You may recall the trip to the fish market. That had to be… heavily edited. What follows is the rest of the clip in its original form.”

The scene of Will returning with the fish begins, but this time it continues playing to show Chilton berating Will. When it ends, it’s back on Hannibal.

“We could not go forward with the show as usual, not after that. None of us could. I had my suspicions earlier than this, though there was no proof of wrongdoing to be found. Foolishly, I more than once attempted to protect Will, and only made the abuse he suffered worse. Had I known the seriousness of the issue then, I never would have dared.”

His gaze hardens. “We have done real harm to this man by coming here. The only way we could begin to correct this is by doing our very best to fix it as well.”

Cut to commercial.

Back from commercial, still on Hannibal. “I have one last thing to share with you. If anyone watching this still has reservations about the severity of the situation, I challenge you to retain them after listening to this. But there is another reason I must show this to you. Earlier, I talked on how our presence as a film crew has unintentionally made things worse. This remains true. What you are about to watch, I must tell you, is no one’s fault but my own.”

He pauses for a minute, gaze dropping. “Before I understood the whole of the matter, there was a moment when I happened to be at Eloise, for personal reasons. During this brief visit Chilton attempted to bring Will into his office. All I saw at the time was how deeply uncomfortable Will seemed to be with the idea, and so, I stopped it.” He raises his head and looks directly into the camera once more. “While I certainly do not regret my desire to protect the man, had I known the larger issue I would have thought twice before intervening. What follows is the immediate consequences of my actions.”

The screen slowly fades to black. Text appears- a warning. The following audio may be considered disturbing by some listeners. Viewer discretion is advised.

The screen remains black as the warning fades away. The only visual is the subtitles of the audio itself. Chilton is the first one to speak.

“I will not tolerate insubordination.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re trying to say.”

“I’m talking about how you hid behind Chef Lecter to avoid being disciplined.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, so I suppose he just happened to be there to rush to your rescue?”

“He didn’t just happen to be there, he came by to warn me about the rumor.”

“[bleep]. You didn’t need to be warned about anything. It’s all over social media. It’s impossible to miss.”

“Chilton, I don’t use social media.”

“Pathetic excuse.” An audible scoff. “And the fact that you have the gall to call it a rumor.”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“So I’m expected to believe that you’re doing home visits for entirely innocent reasons. Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”

“For starters, it’s the truth.”

“Like hell it is.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say to you.”

“You could be honest, for once.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yeah?” Chilton laughs. “How many times did you have to [bleep] his [bleep] to get him to come riding in like a knight in shining armor?”

“Chilton. I’m not doing anything with him.”

“Of course you [bleep] are!” Chilton screams. “That’s all you [bleep] do! You bend over for every single person that walks in the door because you just can’t contain yourself. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t even have to pay you because you’re sure getting rewarded elsewhere. You need to start acting like a chef instead of a [bleep].”

A moment of silence. “Are you done?”

“Am I do- ”

Will cuts Chilton off. “I haven’t slept with a single person you’ve accused me of sleeping with, and frankly I’m starting to get pretty [bleep] sick of the fact that you keep doing so.”

“How dare you-”

Again, he’s cut off. “No, shut the hell up for a second and listen to me for once. None of these accusations even make logical sense. Do you think I’m chasing critics out the door? Dragging them into the alley for a quickie? I don’t have time to do any of this. I’m here opening to close, six days a week, busting my [bleep] just to keep this place from going und-”

Will’s words are interrupted with a tremendous crash of indiscernible origin. It hangs in the air for a while, eventually broken by footsteps and the sound of someone picking things up off the floor. It’s Will who speaks next. “Don’t take it out on the books, Chilton.”

“You think you can just come in here and try to lecture me? You, a stupid [long bleep]?”

Will does not respond. He appears to be still tidying up.

“You’re nothing more than a [long bleep]. I can’t figure out how someone like Lecter was tempted by a dirty, cheap [bleep] like you. Guess behind all that elegance and poise he’s just a tasteless freak.”

“Stop it,” Will counters, words clipped. “You shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

“Oh?” There is a light thud from Will setting down what he’s gathered. “Now you’re running to protect his honor? Did you get in a little too deep, this time? You know once this ends you’re just going to be thrown away, right?”

It’s brief, but Will hesitates. “...there’s nothing to throw away in the first place.”

“Aw, look at that!” More laughter. “Do you care about him? He’s way out of your league, you know. Who the hell would want to be with someone as trashy as you?”

“I respect him,” Will protests. “You’re reading more into this than is actually there.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” An audible shuffling. “He’s just using you because you’re easy.”

“He’s not using me for anyth- ”

Will stops talking abruptly. There is a beat of silence. “Did you just flinch?”

No response.

“I’m just putting the book away. Why would you flinch?” 

Still no response.

“Do you think I’m going to throw this at you?”

“Not at me,” Will finally replies. “I was just worried you’d throw them again.” It doesn’t sound honest.

“I’m not a brute. Have I ever laid a hand on you?”

“No.”

“So why would you flinch?”

“Because I didn’t want you to throw them again. They’ll get damaged.”

“Did daddy beat you?”

“Shut up,” Will says harshly. “Shut the [bleep] up.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Don’t say another word about my father. You have no idea what my life was like.”

“What are you gonna do? Attack me?”

“Don’t throw the books,” Will reiterates.

“Like you give a [bleep].”

“They belonged to Eloise,” Will says, softly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you think he’d still [bleep] you if you had an ugly scar? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“Not remotely.”

“Your confidence is misplaced.”

“That’s not what I-”

A whooshing sound interrupts him, recognizable as an object being thrown mostly from the sound as it impacts with something a great deal softer than a wall, and the harsh exhale that accompanies it. Silence.

Chilton speaks. “You didn’t flinch.”

Cut to black as the episode ends.

~~~

Everyone in the room is silent as they watch the credits roll. Jack breaks it. “You’re sure you want to go through with this, Hannibal?”

“I am,” Hannibal answers.

“It could end the show.”

His answer is immediate. “I consider this more important.” No one in the room objects.

“Alright,” Jack sighs. “As soon as the network approves it we’re set. It should air at the usual time.” He hangs up.

There is a brief yet awkward period, between then and the episode airing, where they have to resume filming at Eloise and pretend nothing is about to happen.

The crew heads returning suddenly would be too obvious an indicator something is about to happen, though Hannibal can do nothing about the behavior of the restaurant staff. Many of them are antsy, and Will’s keen eye picks it up very quickly. He stews through the worry until dinner service ends and for once, this time it is Will that corners Hannibal. “Hannibal, what is going on?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Playing dumb will earn him no favors, but he cannot resist prodding at Will to try and unleash some of that striking fury. 

It’s successful, and the corner of Will’s mouth curls up in a soundless snarl. “Don’t you dare try to play innocent here. Beverly has been fidgeting all day and Jimmy won’t even look at me. Neither of them will tell me why. What the hell happened?”

“Your hand,” Hannibal interjects. “The one you cut. May I see it?”

“My hand?” Though he very obviously does not appreciate the deflection, Will does offer his palm to Hannibal. The scar is fading, a pale line following the curve of Will’s thumb that Hannibal traces with his own.

“It healed nicely.”

“If there’s a point here I would advise you to find it quickly.”

“Though the injury itself was unfortunate, as a direct result we were able to replace your outdated supply of knives.”

“Hannibal-”

His thumb presses down on Will’s palm sharply, and the man cuts himself off. “It hurt when it happened, but your life was improved as a direct result of the pain. Now it is nothing but a distant, faded memory.”

Will jerks his hand back like he’s been burned, eyes flashing with betrayal. “You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.”

“Consider this your warning.”

Will closes his eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath. “Okay.” Another breath. “I understand.” He opens them. Hannibal sees, not anger, but resignation. The difference stings.

“I will see you the day after tomorrow, Will.” Some part of Hannibal, something he had buried long ago, feels a twinge of regret. He promptly smothers it. “I can only hope you will not hate me after.”

Will flinches. He takes a step back, turns away, and leaves his place by Hannibal’s side. It takes everything in him not to reach out and catch the man as he goes.

Chapter Text

It’s their best performing episode, ever. 

By happenstance, the one day Will has off is the same as the day the episodes air, so Hannibal knows the man watched it live. Most did. View counts were higher than normal at the start but as word spread, more and more people tuned in as it was airing. Even people who have never seen the show before watch it. There are a handful of people accusing them of misleading editing with the audio clips, so in response they upload the uncensored versions, swiftly silencing those detractors. Overnight, Chilton becomes one of the most hated men in the country.

Naturally, he shows up at the crew house in the morning, furious.

“I want to speak to Lecter,” he hisses.

It was Alana who met him at the door. “Hannibal is not in charge here, I am.”

“I want to speak to Lecter!” He repeats it as if saying it louder will make Alana do as he wishes. All he is accomplishing is frustrating her.

Alana has been helping Margo deal with the eruption of activity on social media, so Hannibal steps in to free her to continue her efforts. “I can handle this,” he tells her.

She looks back towards him, uncertain. “Are you sure?” 

“Margo would appreciate the return of your assistance.”

The look she gives him is clear. She’s not asking if he’ll be able to handle Chilton, she’s asking if he can handle him in an acceptable manner. Whatever sign she’s looking for, she appears to find it. “Alright,” she sighs. “Go ahead.”

He leads the irate man through the house, up the stairs and into the makeshift office, where Hannibal takes a seat behind the desk. Chilton throws himself into the opposite chair like a petulant child. “This is unacceptable,” the man grits out.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies, “it is, is it not?”

That enrages Chilton further. “This is slander. ”

“It cannot be considered slander when we have extensive recordings of your behavior proving the accusations to be true.”

“Recordings that were taken without my permission! This isn’t legal!”

Hannibal leans back in his chair. “If you may recall the contract you and your staff signed, it agrees to the placement of microphones around the place of business and potential use of the audio captured in the show.”

“Nobody reads those!” Chilton protests, blustering. 

“Perhaps you should have taken the time to do so. Even your young servers did.”

Chilton scowls. “I hired you to help me, not ruin my reputation with lies.”

“We are not here to help you, Chilton,” Hannibal calmly responds. “We are here to help the restaurant.”

“Which I own!”

Even Hannibal cannot resist his desire to pour more fuel on the fire at times. “Yes,” he tells Chilton, “that’s quite unfortunate, isn’t it?”

The effect is immediate. Chilton’s face contorts with rage. “Cancel the show. I don’t want you or your film crew anywhere near my restaurant.”

“Very well. I will have the legal team draw up the breach of contract paperwork.”

“Breach of-”

“We invest a great deal of resources in our show, and leaving the season unfinished hurts us greatly. I trust you are able to pay the early termination fee?”

He’s shouting now. “Early termination fee? Fine, I’ll pay it. How much is it?”

“That was in your contract as well,” Hannibal sighs. He writes the figure down on a piece of paper and slides it across the desk. When Chilton collects it, his eyes bulge out of their sockets.

“This is extortionate.”

“It is nothing of the sort. As I told you, we must protect our own interests.”

“I can’t afford this.”

“Then I suppose the show must go on.”

Chilton leaps to his feet. “You’re just doing this because you’re fucking him! Trying to ruin me, all for the sake of your little whore!”

Even Chilton seems to realize he’s overstepped, and he freezes in place. Hannibal lets the silence rest, watching the man grow tenser and tenser, until he finally speaks, voice ice. “I am doing nothing of the sort, and I would suggest you reexamine why you always seem to assume the only thing anyone could want out of Will is his body.”

Instead of a coherent response, Chilton makes a series of upset noises before turning around and stomping out of the room and house entirely.

Hannibal remains in the room for a moment, basking in his success. The more upset Chilton is the more likely he will be to make further mistakes, ideally up until the point where he is forced to relinquish the restaurant because public opinion of him is so poor. As is, things are moving towards that point quite nicely.

He picks up his tablet to search for something, a favor he had called in. It does not take long to find the statement that was made. Psychologist weighs in on the situation at Eloise! the blurbs read, followed by the statement from Du Marier herself. This is textbook abuse, plain and simple. There’s no other way to interpret what Dr Lecter’s show has brought to light. It needs to be addressed immediately.

There’s a more recent edit, a second statement apparently in response to the general surprise that Bedelia watches the show in the first place. Hannibal is a former professional colleague and someone who I have a great deal of respect for, she explains. I like to watch the show to see that he is still successful. How kind of her. He powers off the tablet and sets it down on the desk.

When he heads downstairs, he finds the majority of the staff gathered at the dining table around a series of laptops. Only Francis seems to be absent. “How are things at the moment?” Hannibal inquires.

Margo looks up from her computer. “I expected people to dislike Chilton, but it’s gone beyond what I even considered. We managed to underestimate just how popular Will was.”

When Matthew looks up, he is gleeful. “There’s people picketing in front of the restaurant. It’s insane.”

“Chilton sure looked mad when he left,” Gideon adds. “I’d love to know what you said to him.”

“Nothing out of line,” Hannibal answers. “I would like to go to Eloise to see how the restaurant staff are doing.”

“Make sure you go in through the back,” Alana reminds him. “Want me to call ahead to let them know?”

Doing so would have a strong chance of scaring Will off, so Hannibal shakes his head. “I imagine the staff is actively using the alley entrance. There should be no issue getting inside.”

She nods. “Let me know how it goes.”

A storm is forming in the much more literal sense, the skies overcast and angry, wind picking up as he leaves the house. He takes one of the rentals, as his personal vehicle would draw a great deal of attention and only make things harder. He approaches the restaurant from behind and parks on the street, slipping into the small alley that leads to the back entrance unnoticed. As he passed the front he saw the protest taking place, in no way hampered by the burgeoning storm. The door, as expected, is locked, and he can hear raised voices from inside. He lifts a hand and knocks.

The voices don’t even pause, but he hears one much closer to him respond. “No reporters, please,” a young voice politely instructs him. Abigail.

“Then it is a good thing I am not a reporter.”

The door swings open so suddenly that he is barely able to step out of the way in time. Abigail has an exhausted, frantic look on her face, and with the door opening the raised voices clarify into recognizable tones. “Please,” she asks him. “Can you stop them?”

If Chilton had been one of the voices that may have been a concerning request. He steps inside the kitchen and has a brief moment to take in the scene. Will, Beverly and Jimmy are locked in an intense argument, with various other staff hovering at the fringes wearing varying shades of concerned. Brian in particular looks like he wants to intervene but can’t for the life of him figure out how to do so.

The look is brief, because the moment Hannibal steps into view, Will breaks off from the group, walks towards him, and punches him across the face.

One of the younger servers yelps. Beverly and Zeller react the fastest, each one grabbing one of Will’s arms and dragging him away from Hannibal. “You son of a bitch,” the furious chef snarls.

Hannibal turns his gaze back towards Will, wiping away some blood where his teeth cut his lip on impact. Rage contorts Will’s face in a very pleasing manner. The sight is well worth the price of the blow. “I would be lying if I said I had not expected that, on some level.”

“What gave you the right?”

“I suppose I gave myself the right.” Will doesn’t like that and tries to break free, unsuccessfully. 

“Will, stop it!” Beverly shoots Hannibal a look like she really does not appreciate him riling up Will even further. “If you’re gonna hit someone, me and Jimmy did just as much to help this happen.”

“No, you didn’t!” Will counters. “You’re not the one who planned it out, created it, and decided to air it for the whole world to see!”

“He warned you,” Beverly quickly adds. “You asked him to warn you and he actually did.”

That makes Will tense up in their grip before finally falling still. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes once more, his expression is far more calm, though the rage still swirls just beneath the surface. Beverly and Brian exchange a glance and release him. “Just-” Will abruptly stops himself, hands balling into fists. “Just tell me why .”

“I believe I made my intentions quite clear.” Hannibal glances around the room, taking notice of their large audience. “Perhaps we should speak elsewhere.”

“Don’t go into the alley,” Beverly warns. “Reporters keep trying to sneak in the back.”

Will turns and looks at the stairs. “Upstairs,” he sighs. “Chilton’s not here anyways.”

That gives Hannibal pause. “Chilton is not present?”

Will grimaces, and it’s Brian who speaks. “Showed up just to put a sign on the front saying we’re closed until further notice. Didn’t notify anyone which is why…” He gestures at the kitchen crammed full of employees.

“We’re clearly not going to be open today.” Will looks over his shoulder at the group. “Everyone should just go home for now. We’ll think of something.” With that said, he pushes past Hannibal and up the stairs, the man in question close behind.

Will pauses briefly at the door to Chilton’s office before turning and pulling out his keys, unlocking and opening the door across the hall from it. This is a room Hannibal has not seen before. When the lights are turned on it is revealed to be a resting area, clearly cleaned somewhat regularly but unused for some time. All that remains is a couch against the far wall and a simple table with three chairs. “This used to be the break room, a long time ago,” Will explains. “Had a lot more in it but most of it was pulled out and sold when-” His mouth slams shut and he shoves the keys back in his pocket.

“You are unhappy,” Hannibal observes.

Will closes the door behind them before turning back to Hannibal, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Of course I’m unhappy,” he grits out. “Did you think I would be pleased?”

“I did not. That does not mean I would not like to hear why.”

“It was disingenuous.”

“In what manner?”

The scowl deepens. “You spent the first half of the episode on things that weren’t even relevant. It was emotional manipulation. Make me out to be some saint and make Chilton look like the villain.”

“He is the villain,” Hannibal points out. “The purpose was to show how deeply his delusions run.”

“Feeding stray dogs has nothing to do with that. Neither does remembering birthdays. None of those things require empathy.”

“Abstract concepts are harder to demonstrate. We worked with what we had.”

“I’m surprised you never brought up my degree. Would have been real easy to twist with how often he likes to call me stupid.”

“It would have,” Hannibal agrees. “But if you recall, I gave you my word to keep that secret.”

Will suddenly looks away, like he can’t bear to see Hannibal’s face anymore. “Would you have broken that?”

For a moment, Hannibal remains silent. “Only as a last resort. If I had felt the point was impossible to make without it.”

“But if you had felt the ground was that tenuous, you likely would never have done this in the first place.”

Hannibal nods. “That is correct.”

Will unfurls his posture and walks over to the couch, collapsing heavily upon it. He presses his fingers to his temples. “Why?” He asks. “You still haven’t told me why.”

“I have-”

He is interrupted. “No, you haven’t.” Will’s gaze, when it meets his, is piercing. “You didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart.”

Hannibal stiffens. “I take offense to the idea that I did not wish to help you.”

“You did,” Will corrects. “But you did it because you wanted to. It wouldn’t have happened this way otherwise. You did an admirable job of looking tortured on camera, by the way.”

“Chilton’s treatment of you is unacceptable and needs to be stopped. I had the power to do so.”

“Try again,” Will hisses. He sits up, drops his hands into his lap, fingers curling into fists. “If you lie one more time, you’ll regret it.”

Hannibal, imperceptibly, cocks his head and considers Will. At this point, continuing the ruse would only be detrimental. “I did it to remove Chilton from the picture.”

On the couch, Will frowns. “That’s…” He falls silent and thinks. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

“You believe me.”

“I do,” Will answers. “But it’s still not what I expected.”

“What had you expected?”

“Something more along the lines of ‘because Chilton was pissing me off’.”

“I suppose that is also true.”

“But you…” he trails off again. “How would getting rid of Chilton benefit you?”

“Does it have to benefit me?”

Will waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t do anything unless you benefit from it in some way.”

“I have expressed a desire to hire you before.”

“Yeah, but you know very well I’d never leave here. You’re not the type to hope.”

“Perhaps I simply wish to see you unrestricted.”

Will watches, blinking slowly. “You genuinely want Eloise to go to me.”

“That is correct.” Hannibal takes a step forward. “You are well aware of the esteem I hold for you. I do not wish to see your talent wasted.”

Another step. Will does not move away, instead falling still, eyes locked on Hannibal’s feet as he advances. “You just… want to see me reclaim what was stolen. Why? Would it be satisfying to watch the restaurant rebuild itself back to its former glory?”

“It would.” Yet another step.

“If that is the case, it doesn’t have to be me. Hell, you could buy it.”

“I could,” Hannibal agrees. “But I want you to have it.” He stops, just in front of Will, and reaches a hand out, curls it along the man’s jaw. Feeling the sharp angle of it, the warmth of the skin and the scruff of Will’s beard, the way his pulse jumps at the touch. He tilts the man’s head up and forces their gazes to meet. “Because you deserve it, and Chilton does not.”

“It can’t be that simple,” Will murmurs. 

“It can, and it is.”

They stay like that for a moment, until Will breaks his gaze away. He does not make any effort to escape Hannibal’s hand. Slowly, he runs his thumb along the hinge of the man’s jaw, making him shudder. From the man’s reactions he is terribly sensitive or touch-starved, possibly both. It feels like he’s taming a wild animal. In a way, he supposes that he is.

Will, perhaps involuntarily, closes his eyes and leans into Hannibal’s touch. His head is still tilted up towards Hannibal, it would be so very simple to lean down and-

A sharp rapping on the door shatters the tension and makes Will jump, eyes flying open in surprise. Eyes that happen to still be pointed right at Hannibal, and whatever Will sees makes him inhale sharply. Regretfully, Hannibal releases the man and steps back.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Beverly apologizes from the other side of the door. “You, uh, both alive in there?”

“Yup,” Will responds, wincing at the way his voice cracks.

There is a long period of silence before Beverly replies. “...right, okay! That’s not why I came up here anyways. You’re, uh, probably gonna want to come back downstairs.”

Hannibal and Will exchange a curious look before the latter stands. Hannibal backs away, allowing Will to lead them out the door and back down into the kitchen. The majority of the staff have left but some still remain, gathered around a package sitting on the island and talking in hushed tones. It has clearly begun raining as the package is dotted with droplets of water. Will stops in his tracks, allowing Hannibal to continue and circle around beside him. “You called me back down here for mail?”

That makes Beverly scowl. “No, dumbass. Well, sort of? A courier just dropped it off. It’s for you.”

His mouth ticks down. “This better not become a recurring thing.” It’s followed by him shooting Hannibal an irritated glance. At the very least, irritation is a great deal better of a thing to be directed at Hannibal than fury, though it is significantly less striking to behold. 

“It’s…” She trails off and hands him the package. “Well, just see for yourself.”

Will’s eyes widen, which prompts Hannibal to lean over and examine the package. Immediately his eyes are drawn to the sender. “Chilton,” he reads.

The chef next to him is staring at the package like he thinks it’s going to bite him. He shakes it gently, and something inside rattles around, creating a muted jingling. “I don’t know what to expect. Do I even want to open this?” He looks like he does not.

Wordlessly, Hannibal extends a hand, and Will passes the package over. He reaches into the inner pocket of his dark blue suit jacket and pulls out a small pocket knife, flipping it open and carefully slicing open the top of the padded envelope. The folded paper is what he extracts first, unfolding it and scanning the words before passing it back to Will.

Will has the paper for less than five seconds before he reacts. “What?” he exclaims, somewhat uncharacteristically. He immediately has the attention of everyone in the room, save Hannibal, who is still opening the envelope. “Uh, sorry,” he half-heartedly apologizes.

“It may be fastest to simply read the relevant portion aloud,” Hannibal offers. The only other thing in the envelope is precisely what he expected.

“Yeah, um… sure.” Will blinks. “It just says. ‘Do what you want. I’ll be back in a month.’”

The small crowd reacts immediately, and Abigail speaks first. “Does that mean-”

Hannibal extracts the ring of keys and hands it to Will. “Chilton was kind enough to leave the password for the computer as well.”

Beverly whoops. “You’re gonna do it, right?”

“Of course,” Will answers, automatically. “I mean. Uh. Yeah, I’d like to. If everyone is okay with that.”

“I don’t think anyone would be upset at the prospect of not having to deal with Chilton anymore,” Price points out. “Someone should probably get the mob out there up to speed before we try opening, though.”

“I believe I can help with that,” Hannibal offers.

“We can’t open today anyways.” Will crosses his arms. “Uh, we can shoot for tomorrow as normal?” 

Everyone murmurs their agreement, and Will continues. “Well, I, uh. I’m gonna go upstairs and call everyone else to get them up to speed. And start figuring out what Chilton’s done with the place, I guess.”

“Need a hand?” Beverly looks like she’s going to stay and help no matter what Will’s answer is.

“I would love to offer my assistance as well, but I am afraid I have much to do with Margo if you would like to open tomorrow.”

Will nods. “Yeah, we should be fine here.” He motions to Beverly. “I’m sure his files are a mess, so finding everything will probably take a while.”

“Understood.” Beverly salutes and then catches the keys when Will lobs them to her. Everyone else is collecting their things and in varying stages of leaving the building.

“I’m not going to thank you, you know,” Will says quietly, to Hannibal.

Hannibal folds up his knife and slips it back into the pocket he retrieved it from. “Of course not. I do not expect thanks and did not do this with the intention of receiving it.” He places a hand on Will’s shoulder, something that makes the man turn his head but not his gaze towards him. “I believe I have made my intentions very clear.”

“Yeah,” Will murmurs, finally meeting Hannibal’s gaze. His expression is difficult to read. “Crystal clear.” It softens, and Will gently removes Hannibal’s hand from his shoulder. It’s not a rejection. “Let me know if things go sideways.”

“Of course,” Hannibal nods. “Best of luck upstairs.”

“I’m sure I’ll need it,” Will mutters disdainfully.

They part, and Hannibal begins his drive back to the house. Things are moving along far better than expected.

Margo makes the announcement on twitter, with a link to a longer blog post attached. It goes viral quickly and other sites cover the matter which ensures it is widely seen. Eloise is able to open the following day with no trouble save the rain.

It seems that Will is well aware of the temporary nature of his position and he refrains from making any significant changes. He focuses instead on the smaller things, changes to streamline the day to day operations of the restaurant and make things easier on the staff. While Chilton had been a perfectionist and a tyrant, Will is much more flexible and understanding. If someone was having difficulty with the task they have been assigned, Chilton would punish and berate them until it was done close to his standards, and Will’s style of leadership could not be more different. If someone is having difficulty he will first try to teach them differently, and if this still is not successful he will look at their strengths and find a different job. There is a short but awkward period of time where the staff is reshuffled, during which people express some discontent, but once things click everyone seems much happier in their roles.

Most surprising is that Beverly has talked Will into taking two days off. He’s at the restaurant every day, no one can bring themselves to even consider putting a stop to that, but on Thursdays and Fridays Beverly runs the kitchen, and she certainly is capable of doing so well.

On these days Will is somewhat restless, unwilling to head downstairs and interfere with Beverly’s reign but clearly unsure what to do with his time. The first few days he is busy with untangling the mess that Chilton has left him but later on, Hannibal has gone upstairs to find him pacing the hall several times. Every time he draws the man’s attention and distracts him from the uneasiness that haunts him. Tonight, the second Thursday since Will was given control, is no different. 

When Hannibal crests the top of the stairs, Will pivots to face him, expression lifting. “Hannibal,” he greets.

“You are liable to wear a groove in the floor at this rate,” Hannibal gently teases. “Surely you did not spend your time pacing when you previously ran Eloise. ”

In answer, Will shakes his head. “No, of course not. But I can’t… do a lot of the stuff I did before. I don’t actually own the place and there’s no point in obsessively planning for a future that might not even exist.” The words, while harsh, are said without disdain. He’s not lamenting the fact, he’s simply acknowledging it. “You done with filming for the day?”

Dinner service has just ended, and Hannibal does not allow his crew to linger in the kitchen to disrupt the process of cleaning for the night. They break for their own dinner and typically return to speak to some of the staff after. “For the most part, yes. What is left does not need my supervision.”

Will stops several steps away from Hannibal and suddenly rubs the back of his head, looking down and off to the side. He very clearly wants to say something and is struggling to make himself actually say it. After a somewhat awkward silence, he finally speaks. “Did, um, everything go well today?”

It is obviously not what he had wanted to say, and Hannibal is not kind enough to allow him the escape. “You may be honest with me, Will.”

Will sighs, drops his hand, and lifts his head. He’s still not making eye contact but he’s close. “Sorry, I just. Feel weird asking this.” He fidgets. “I, uh, wanted to ask you for a favor.”

Hannibal finds he is more than willing to do the man a favor for a large variety of reasons. “I am certainly willing to help.”

“Yeah, uh.” Will inclines his head, back further in the hall towards yet another locked door. “Over here.”

The door they approach is the one next to the office, and yet again Will pulls out a rarely seen key and unlocks the door. The room inside is terribly cluttered, a mess of boxes stacked upon each other and strewn about the room at random. Everything is covered in a layer of dust and Will scrunches his nose upon entry. “Hold on.” He weaves through the clutter to the other side of the room, where a dark wooden table guards a window, which Will throws open. Upon return his eyes fall to Hannibal’s elegant gray and blue suit and he freezes. “This, uh, maybe this wasn’t a good idea?”

Hannibal steps into the room then, to make a point. “You are searching for something.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know it’s in here, I just don’t know where.”

Though there are a great number of boxes in the room, between the two of them it would not be a monumental task to locate the item in question. “Forgive me for asking, but why ask me for help and not Beverly?”

Again, Will rubs the back of his head, this time sheepishly. “I… kind of want you to smuggle something out for me, too. But this room is in much worse shape than I thought,” he adds hurriedly. “I can do this myself.”

“I am an intensely curious person, Will,” Hannibal replies, stepping further into the room. “You cannot casually mention contraband and expect me to simply leave with no further involvement.”

That makes Will laugh. “Yeah, alright. It’s nothing illegal.” He pauses. “I think.”

Just like that, Hannibal grabs a box and carries it over to the table, careful to not let it touch his clothes. Will steps to the side to allow him the room. “What are we searching for?”

After a moment Will takes a box of his own and chooses to sit directly on the dirty floor, an action that makes Hannibal frown. “A locked case. Sort of like a briefcase, but smaller.” He draws the size in the air with his fingers. “It’ll be wrapped in an apron.” He freezes. “This probably isn’t helping my ‘it’s not illegal’ case, is it.”

“That depends entirely on what resides within.” The box Hannibal has claimed appears to be filled with, oddly, photo albums, and he flips through them briefly. A photo catches his eye- Will, a decade younger, flanked by an older couple he recognizes as the former owners. They are all clad in fishing gear and smiling in a way it was hard to believe Will was capable of. He closes the album and sets the box to the side. “These are not items from the restaurant.”

“Some of them are,” Will corrects. “There’s a lot of stuff from their estate that the kids didn’t want as well. Nothing of much monetary value.” Will appears to be sorting through framed photos, and Hannibal notices a familiar picture he had seen adorning the walls of Eloise before Chilton got his hand on it.

“Put that box aside,” Hannibal asks him, and Will does so with a questioning look. “We may be able to make use of it when we remodel the restaurant.”

“Right,” Will murmurs. He grabs another box. “Forgot about that part of the show.”

“You don’t sound particularly thrilled.”

“Just don’t think you’ll be able to do much with the short leash Chilton gives you.”

“Then it is a good thing we are not obligated to listen to his suggestions in any way.” Part of the contract Chilton clearly did not read includes allowing the redesign team full control over what happens to the look of the restaurant. “If you are worried about our skills, I suppose we cannot possibly make it any worse than it currently is.”

That makes Will laugh. “I guess not.”

They make casual conversation as they search through the belongings, Hannibal occasionally asking Will to set more things aside that Margo may find useful. More interesting is how Will tells him about the various trinkets and odds and ends from Eloise and Howard that he digs up, not because of the content of what he says, but how he says it. When he speaks of the couple it’s with a soft, nearly reverent fondness, equal parts admiration and love. He smiles when he speaks like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

As time passes, a line of statues forms on the dusty table, of winged figures armed with swords, lashes, dagger, and less violent objects like scales and bridles. “She was quite fond of Nemesis,” Hannibal observes. He would very much like to set them up throughout the restaurant where they can always watch over the people within, but he knows Margo would never actually work it into the remodel. Eating a meal with a goddess of retribution looking over you would be marginally more intense than the atmosphere Eloise desired.

“She was,” Will agrees. He pushes his box away and drags over another. “Would never tell me why, exactly. It was an uncomfortable topic for her.”

“And you did not press the matter.”

“Of course not.” He opens the box and begins sifting through what appear to be utensils. “If she was out and saw something related to Nemesis, she’d usually buy it. Had quite the collection. She would also give them away to people, especially staff.”

The box Hannibal is currently sorting through seems to be filled mostly with linens, though from the weight there is clearly something heavier inside. “I assume you were no exception.”

That, unexpectedly, makes Will fall silent for a moment, his hands stilling. “No,” he eventually answers. “She did give me something, but it wasn’t a depiction of Nemesis. It was Justice.”

“She wanted better for you.”

“Yeah,” Will quietly responds. “She did.”

Hannibal pulls gently folded curtains out of the bag, finally revealing a flat, rectangular object wrapped in a pale green apron. The fabric is old but strong and elegantly embroidered. “Will,” he calls, extracting the heavy package. It’s the correct size for what Will described to him. “I may have found what you are searching for.

“Oh?” Will stands up off the floor, revealing a great deal of dust stuck to the back and sides of his pants. Hannibal resists the urge to pat the mess away. “This is it!” His face lights up as he takes the item from Hannibal, carefully unwrapping the apron around it to reveal what looks like a small leather briefcase, worn around the edges and bearing a four digit numerical lock on the front. Will folds the apron nicely before setting it to the side and focusing his attention on the case.

There is only one thing it would make sense for this case to be, considering the context. “A set of knives.”

Will nods. “Eloise’s,” he elaborates. He crouches down, entering a code with practiced ease.

“Why would it be worrisome for you to be caught with her knives? Surely they were intended for you.”

The code does not unlock the box, and Will reacts with disbelief. “What?” He mutters. He thinks for a moment before starting to enter something else. “It, well…” He trails off, swearing when the next code also fails. “Did someone change this?” As he tries more numbers, he continues to explain the situation. “She intended to, and told me as much. But it wasn’t spelled out as explicitly in the will. I was left the restaurant and all that’s inside of it, which would have included these.”

“She had not anticipated her children contesting it.”

“Exactly,” Will responds. “Never thought she’d have to be more specific.”

“Yet here they remain.” What Will has done is obvious, but he would much rather hear Will admit to it himself than accuse him of the underhanded play directly.

“Yeah, that’s because…” Will straightens up with a sigh, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I hid them. Managed to slip them in with all the junk getting packed up to be stored here without anyone noticing. On paper, the item is considered missing. Oh, maybe…” He goes back to entering codes.

“If someone saw you with them and knew it was suspicious, you would be put into a difficult position. That is why you asked for my help.”

Will steps away from the box, obviously frustrated. “If any of the more spiteful offspring found out, they’d fight me for them and win off a technicality, no questions asked. I don’t know why I can’t open this. The code should have been their anniversary, as always. I tried that, their birthdays, their kid’s birthdays, the day the restaurant opened- nothing worked.”

“You were trusted with the code.” A nod. “May I try something myself?”

The chef steps to the side to allow Hannibal room. “Be my guest. If it was someone other than Eloise that changed it I may end up having to brute force the code later.” 

Hannibal tilts the box up towards him, enters the code 0-5-2-5, depresses the button to unlock the mechanism, and the box clicks open. He carefully sets it back down on the table and steps back to his original position.

“What?” Will slowly opens the case, revealing a stunning 18-piece knife set. It is old but very well maintained, made with exquisite craftsmanship and would likely be able to fetch a high price tag should it ever be sold. The blades still shine and the handles are in good condition, a dark black material with a golden inlay drawing a twisting pattern of flowers. For a moment, Will stares at the knives, like he’s seeing a long lost lover for the first time in years. In a way, he is. “How did you open it so quickly?”

“You neglected to try your own birthday.”

Will halts, tilting down the top lid until the numbers are exposed for him to see. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and when he opens them, he’s looking at Hannibal oddly, like he wants to ask why the man even knew his birthday in the first place but doesn’t want to push the matter. “I guess I did.”

“The code should be proof enough that they are meant for you, no?”

After looking at the knives for longer, Will regretfully closes the case and resets the numbers. “You’ll have to forgive me for not wanting to test that.” He picks the knife case up by the handle and brushes the dust free with one of the folded up curtains, taking care to ensure it does not fall onto Hannibal’s suit.

“An understandable fear to have.” He holds a hand out, and after a brief hesitation Will passes the knives over. “What would you like me to do with these?”

“Take them back to the house,” Will asks of him. “I can get them from you there next time I’m over.” He reaches over and takes the apron, draping it across his arms. “It’d be weird if I came out of this with what appeared to be nothing,” he explains. 

Hannibal slips the case inside of his suit jacket, absolutely ruining the line of his suit. It would not pass a more thorough examination but at a glance it is not particularly noticeable. The bulge makes the corner of Will’s mouth twitch upwards, though he kindly refrains from laughing. “And when will that be?”

Will’s hand twitches, eventually rising up to rub his temples. “I didn’t actually think that far ahead, if you’d believe that.”

Which means he’ll be open to whatever Hannibal suggests. “Tomorrow?” Hannibal offers. "Dinner, as usual.” The bulk of that is a lie, one that Will doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah,” Will smiles. “That definitely works.” His body tenses with anxiety. “Look, I really can’t thank you enough-”

Hannibal cuts him off. “There is no need to do so. If you insist despite that, thank me by coming to dinner.”

The man tilts his head slightly, frowning. He can tell Hannibal isn’t referring to the following evening but can’t seem to pinpoint what he is alluding to. Whatever skill Will has for reading people, he seems to have some difficulty applying it to Hannibal himself. “Yeah,” he eventually responds. “Of course.”

The jump from that to a more explicit invitation will be trivial. Hannibal smiles and nods his head, pleased.

The core crew has decided to go out for drinks the following night, thanks to some advance planning from Hannibal. When he has to sorrowfully back out of the plans Friday evening absolutely no one has any doubts as to why. Alana looks like she’s warring with if asking him to refrain from fucking Will over the dining table would actually prevent it from happening or simply make it more likely to occur. In the end, she does not bring it up, quite astutely.

He meets with Margo briefly in the afternoon, as she is already well underway planning the remodel. They’re sitting catty-corner at the dining table, old photos spread out between them showing the various remodels the place has gone through. “This original decor does have some charm to it,” Hannibal says, fingers tapping several photos. In them the restaurant has a warmer and friendlier atmosphere, exposed brick and a roaring fireplace where the bar now sits, wooden tables with colorful tablecloths. Only Price had been around to see this version before it was transformed into the more elegant and upscale restaurant that Will is familiar with. “Despite that, I find myself agreeing with your assessment. We should return the restaurant to how it was when Will should have received it.”

Margo nods. “It’s almost symbolic,” she muses. “I’m sure Chilton will be offended by it too.”

“You say that like you consider that a bonus.”

“Now, that would be inappropriate,” Margo answers with a sly smile. Though Margo herself has had little interaction with the man, she is well aware of how he treats Alana, and that alone is reason enough for her to hate the man. “It should be much easier than normal to set all of this up, since we have Graham and Price to help us.”

“Have you spoken to Will yet?”

She shakes her head. “Just Price so far. I’ll try to speak to Graham on Monday, if he can spare the time. Price told me he’d be able to give me an… exhaustive list of everything involved.”

“Perhaps he can even draw them for you.”

“Not everyone who has your memory also has your artistic skills,” she points out. “And if I leave you two alone in a room for some sort of police sketch scenario Alana will not be pleased.”

He is getting too predictable, it seems. “I suppose that is fair.”

Margo stands, shuffling all the papers together and taking the stack with her. “You mentioned finding some of the old decor the other day?”

Hannibal stands with her, adjusting his shirt as he does so. “Indeed. There is a storage room upstairs that Will has the key for. I put aside all that may be of use, though I must admit there are plenty more boxes we did not go through.”

“Looking for something?” There is no suspicion in her tone, merely curiosity. She has no reason to be suspicious and Hannibal does not intend to give her any.

“An apron,” he tells her. “One that belonged to Eloise.” The knives are safely hidden away in his bedroom for the moment.

The normally stern Margo seems to soften at that. Will has managed to affect them all. Quickly, it morphs into something more calculating. “That will do very well with the viewers.”

“Of course it will,” Hannibal agrees, gently shooing her away. “Now go. You should all be leaving soon.”

“All but you.”

“All but me,” Hannibal agrees.

Margo leaves the matter there, and retreats into her room to put the papers away and change for the night.

Everyone has left by seven, and then Hannibal has a short window of time to himself. During this break he retrieves a bottle of Vermentino to pair with dinner, setting it on the island alongside a pair of glasses. Though there was a very real urge to ask Will to collect it once he had arrived there was no reason to guide Will into familiarizing himself with a house that was not even Hannibal’s to begin with. Once that has been obtained, he begins prepping some of the ingredients for dinner. He halves cherry tomatoes, pits the olives, and chops the leaves of coriander and basil. A pleasant aroma fills the air from the herbs.

At this point, the doorbell rings. Hannibal sets his knife down on the cutting board, rinses his hands, and goes to welcome Will.

The man waiting at the door is relaxed, a far cry from the anxious mess he had been the first time he arrived here. Interestingly, he’s dressed more nicely than usual- a nice jacket over a black button-up tucked into light-colored slacks. It’s possible that Will understands more than he let on. While Hannibal takes the man’s jacket, Will takes note of the apron Hannibal has donned around his waist almost immediately. “You’ve started without me.”

When Will steps inside, Hannibal takes and hangs up his coat. “I will be continuing without you as well.”

The man follows him into the kitchen as he speaks. “Cooking by yourself?” Hannibal had pulled one of the stools on the island out further from the rest, and this is the one that Will claims as Hannibal moves back around to the side facing the counter.

“Though I greatly enjoy cooking with you, I find it regrettable that I have not had the opportunity to cook for you altogether.”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitches up. “You’re showing off.”

Hannibal answers it with a small smile of his own. “I may be.”

Will’s eyes are quickly drawn to the bottle of wine, which he carefully picks up. “Cooking fish today?”

“I decided to take a risk.”

“I’m not sure any sort of cooking could be considered a risk for you.”

“Nonsense.” The prep for the main dish has been finished, so he steps to the side and begins peeling the washed potatoes. “We all have things we are not good at.”

“Your bar for being considered inadequate is far higher than most people’s.”

“That does not mean there are not things I struggle with.”

“Logically, I know that must be true.” Will sighs. “But it’s hard to reconcile that with your perfect persona.”

“Surely you have seen enough of me outside of that.” He scrapes the peels into the trash and starts to grate the potatoes. “I imagine you can come up with something that I struggle with.”

It had been a challenge, and Will rises to it. He is silent for a while, nothing but the sound of the potatoes being grated filling the air, until he finally speaks. “You’re bad at being wrong. Like I am.”

The grating pauses. “When have I been wrong?” When Will does not answer, Hannibal raises his gaze and finds the man wearing a very unimpressed expression, and he can’t help but smile in response. “Fair enough, I suppose. Would you open the wine?”

Will, as he often does, simultaneously does the task asked of him while actively questioning it. “I thought this was for dinner?”

“It can be for multiple things.” Will pours two glasses but waits for Hannibal to be done with the relatively physically intensive task of grating the potatoes before sliding a glass towards him. “Thank you, Will.”

“So what are you making?” Will sips the wine and watches as Hannibal dumps the grated mass into a large sieve, letting it drain while he dices an onion.

“Tradiciniai bulviniai blynai,” Hannibal tells him, translating after. “A traditional Lithuanian recipe for potato pancakes. He dumps the potatoes into a large bowl, adding the onions in after, along with salt and pepper. Finally, he grabs an egg. “Truthfully, I had intended to make cepelinai, a dumpling dish.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Hannibal balances the egg on the tip of a metal spatula, flicking it upwards and into the air. He rotates the spatula so the egg strikes the thin side, cracking and opening, letting the egg spill out and into the bowl while the shell remains firmly on the implement. “The dumplings do not use any eggs.”

Will tries admirably to hide his smile into his glass of wine and fails. “Neat trick. Did you learn that before or after you opened that open grill restaurant?”

“Long before,” Hannibal answers. He sets the spatula aside and mixes the contents of the bowl together with his hands. “I have learned a great deal more since.”

Will nods. “Bulviniai blynai and cepelinai…” Though the words are clearly novel to him, Will pronounces them flawlessly. “Are they family recipes?” Hannibal’s heritage is common knowledge, so the question is not out of place.

“They are,” Hannibal confirms. “Taught to me by my mother. Though in the case of the pancakes, the recipe is simple enough that I imagine the vast majority of traditional family recipes for them are indistinguishable from one another.” After washing his hands he turns towards the stove and the two pans already resting upon it, a third waiting on the counter to the side. The stovetops under both are turned on, one on medium heat with several tablespoons of sunflower oil, the other on low with olive oil instead. He puts the tomatoes, olives, and salt and pepper in the olive oil pan, stirring it gently. “I would cook with her often when I was young and can say that is where my love for the art began.”

“We got our starts in very different places,” Will muses. “Our journeys to this point are near inverses of each other. You got your unrelated degree before you decided to be a chef.”

“And I have no intention of returning to the medical field.” 

“Why did you leave?” It’s a question he’s been asked many times before; why quit being a surgeon to pursue a chef’s career instead? To most people, it would be quite a few steps down the ladder. For those people, he has a tragic answer, one where he lost one too many patients and the despair caught up to him. The real answer, while just as tragic, is far too personal for him to share.

He knows that Will knows the fake answer, and knows it to be fake. It’s a question he’s never answered honestly before and is surprised to find he desires to do so now. “My sister died.”

Will is silent for a while, allowing Hannibal ample time to take the pan of salsa off the burner and set it on a cold one further back. The third pan takes its place. He takes small portions of the potato mass, flattens them, and begins to fry them in the sunflower oil. “I’m sorry for making you tell me that,” Will eventually replies.

“If I had not wished to tell you, I would not have done so.” He turns the heat under the heavy, empty pan up to high. “She was six years my junior. When the pair of us were still young we lost our parents to tragedy.” While the new pan heats up, he stirs the herbs into the salsa, finishing it off by juicing the lemon and stirring that in as well. “Though my uncle eventually discovered us and took custody, we spent some time in an orphanage in the interim. We had always been close and the experience only strengthened that.”

While Will digests this information, Hannibal uses a sharp knife to slash the skin on the fillets of sea bream he is preparing to cook, adding a dash of oil into the pan and placing them in skin side down. In between the times he tends to the first recipe he flips and fries more of the potato pancakes, quickly moving them to a rack to drain before the heat burns his fingertips. Finally, Will speaks. “You’ve never told anyone this before.”

“I’ve seen no reason to do so.”

“Does it… bother you?” Hannibal allows Will to continue, as he could not possibly be referring to the obvious subject of if the trauma itself bothers him. “People often talk of how you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth and lived an easy life.”

“It does not, because both things are equally true. My uncle was incredibly wealthy and it has afforded me opportunities very few people are able to enjoy.”

“You’ve known both extremes of the spectrum.”

“I have.” He checks on the fish, unable to simply leave it and return at the exact moment it needs to be flipped as Will is able to do. “My sister would have fared poorly without his support. She was a sickly child, and required a great deal of medical care.”

“You became a doctor because it paid well, so she would continue to have that support even if the worst happened.”

“Not a very noble reason, I’m afraid.”

“You still got into medicine to save someone,” Will murmurs softly. “That’s no less noble than the rest.”

Hannibal is silent, flipping the fillets in the pan, the air filled only with the crackling of the food frying. It feels wrong to be called noble. Would Will still call him that if he knew what else Hannibal has done?

In the end, Hannibal realizes he doesn’t quite care what Will thinks of him as long as it doesn’t make him leave. “Misha had always hated that I’d done it and had always told me to pursue my own interests. After she died, I couldn’t quite see the point in continuing.” He tips the salsa out of the cooling pan, portioning it onto two plates. “I traveled the world for several years before using my immeasurable wealth to open my first restaurant.” The filets are placed atop the salsa and he sprinkles a portion of the herbs over the top of both. He turns to place both plates on the island, and briefly, he hesitates.

There is sympathy in Will’s gaze, that was expected, but he’s surprised to find deep sorrow underneath. More interestingly, it does not appear to be Will’s own- he recognizes the shades of his own grief, reflected back at him as if from a mirror.

If he had any doubts as to the nature of what Will was hiding, none remain. Though he now knows he sees no reason to bring it up. In time, Will will tell him. He places the dishes onto the countertop and turns to finish the pancakes.

“Want me to take these out to the table?” Will asks.

“That would be wonderful,” Hannibal responds. “There are place settings waiting.” During the brief window in which Will is gone Hannibal fans the fried pancakes onto a plate around a small dish of sour cream. He turns the stove off and washes up in the sink. Normally, he would clean the dishes before eating, but he finds himself reluctant to keep Will waiting. The man in question returns to the kitchen, grabbing the wine and glasses, and then they both journey to the dining room together.

“It’s quiet,” is the first thing Will says once they are seated. He glances up towards the second floor as he speaks.

“The rest of the crew has gone out for drinks,” Hannibal explains. “We have the house to ourselves.

Will’s eyebrows rise up to his hairline, but he does not otherwise comment. Instead, he tries the fish, eyes closing in a very appealing way as he savours the flavor. “This is good,” he eventually tells Hannibal. “Really good.” Blue eyes open and fix Hannibal with a mischievous sparkle. “My compliments to the chef.”

“Then my job has been done.”

The plate of the pancakes has been set in the middle between their two plates where they are sitting across from each other near the head of the table. Like this, they share the dish, leaning towards each other to take one of the items or dip it in the sour cream. Will, he notices, seems quite fond of these, finishing his half of them before he’s even halfway done with his main dish. He’ll have to make the man the cepelinai when he first gets the chance to do so.

They spend more time eating than talking, though as the night wears on the ratio shifts. Even once the food has been eaten they remain at the table to talk. “You seem to know a great deal about me,” Hannibal teases, after Will has brought up some other tidbit he has never been told directly.

“I mean…” Will trails off, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, though he does not redden as Hannibal had been hoping for. “Just because I didn’t want you here doesn’t mean I had no idea who you were. You’re a very famous person.”

“There are other celebrity chefs.”

“None so widely respected as you.”

“I am glad to hear that you respect me.”

That does it. A flush dusts his cheeks as he scratches his chin with his pointer finger. “I guess I didn’t exactly act like it at first, did I.”

“You had every reason to be hostile.” The word makes Will flinch, and Hannibal is satisfied.

“That doesn’t mean you deserved it. I’m… sorry, for how cold I was to you, at first.”

“It was more than worth the way you warmed up to me later.”

A strange series of emotions flashes through Will’s face here. There is overwhelming embarrassment initially, but it very quickly vanishes to be replaced by the subtly flirtatious demeanor Hannibal knows he himself is wearing. Watching Will mirror him is fascinating. How far could he take this? Is he doing it to protect himself from his own anxiety, or is it because he finds it easier than mustering the emotion on his own? If Hannibal kept pushing this, would Will draw a line where he stops responding, or could he simply charm the man upstairs before he quite knows what he’s getting into?

There is no satisfaction in a victory such as that, however. He wants Will to come to him of his own volition, not out of some twisted version of amenability.

Will stands, neatly stacking the dishes and gathering the empty wine glasses. “We should wash the dishes before the food gets too caked on.” He pauses, and corrects. “I should. You cooked, so let me clean up.” Then the doubt sets in, and his speech becomes more rushed. “Unless you don’t trust anyone else to wash your personal cooking utensils, which is totally understandable, a lot of chefs are like that-”

“Will,” Hannibal interrupts. “I trust you more than enough to clean the dishes. You may handle my tools any way which you desire.”

There is a beat of silence as the flirtation does anything but land, as it was never meant to do so. It has the intended effect of loosening Will up and making him laugh. “That one was a stretch.”

“I suppose it was doomed from the start,” Hannibal relents. “While you are doing that, I must retrieve something from my room upstairs.”

Will nods and heads into the kitchen. As Hannibal ascends the stairs he can hear the sound of running water and the gentle clink of dishes. In his room the set of knives is waiting on his desk.

He had considered holding the knives hostage. As long as he held them he had a permanent tie to Will, so the idea was admittedly tempting. Even so, it was not worth the irreparable damage it would do to their relationship as a result. No need to resort to the nuclear option when Will was so receptive to him. He takes the knives downstairs and sets them on the island.

Unsurprisingly, Will washes the dishes efficiently and carefully, stacking them neatly in the dish rack to dry. As he is doing so, Hannibal catches him taking a moment to admire Hannibal’s own personal knives, and pride swells up within him. “These really are beautiful,” Will murmurs, fully aware of Hannibal’s presence in the kitchen. “How long have you had them?”

“Not too long,” Hannibal answers. “Several years. I spent a great deal of time searching for someone to make the perfect set.”

“You seem to have found them.” The knives, Will dries by hand and returns to their block. Finished, he dries his hands and turns towards the island, his movements hanging for a moment when he sees the knife set, like he hadn’t expected it to be there. The thought that he had managed to forget the entire reason he came here in the first place in favor of simply enjoying himself sends a muted shiver down Hannibal’s spine. The next step should have no danger of failing. “And here are mine,” Will says softly, touching the box with reverence.

“You will have to forgive me for inspecting them myself while they were here.” Will enters the code and flips the case open, taking in the sight of the sets of knives he has been cruelly deprived of for far too many years. “They are in remarkable condition considering their age, though they will need to be sharpened.”

“They were due for a sharpening right around when-” Will cuts himself off, unable to finish the sentence. “I half expected to open the box to find you’d already done it for me.”

“Though I would be lying if I told you the thought had not crossed my mind, that would be too far of an overstep even for me.”

Will closes the case. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me.” His hands smooth over the worn leather. “I don’t know how I could possibly return the favor.”

Though Hannibal refrains from pointing out that he has done very little to deserve such praise, that does not stop him from taking the opening Will has created. “You can do so by accepting my invitation to dinner.”

The way it takes a second for the brilliant Will to actually catch on is quite cute. As always, he seems to have a bit of a blind spot regarding himself, despite his confidence tonight. Laying things out far more explicitly seems to be something he has trouble with. He glances around the kitchen, brows furrowed, until it clicks and he flushes both from his own foolish behavior and what is being asked. “You-” He rubs his neck, and his gaze drops, expression smoothing into the much less appealing picture of a man with very practical misgivings. “Is that… a good idea? Considering everything that’s happened.”

Will, of course, is correct, but Hannibal is unfazed. “I find that I don’t particularly care.”

That startles Will’s gaze back up to his face, eyes wide before he dissolves into laughter. “I don’t really have any objection to that that won’t sound idiotic in response.”

“It sounds like you don’t have any real objections, then.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“I am, admittedly, a biased party.”

“Sure,” Will finally responds. “I- yeah. I’d like that.”

Hannibal smiles, wide and pleased. “Next Friday?”

The chef’s hands curl around the case and drag it towards him, gathering it up into his arms rather than holding it by the handle. “I’ll try my best not to overthink this in the meantime.”

There are a wide variety of ways he could help alleviate that particular problem, but he keeps them to himself. Though the urge to touch the man is strong he has been successfully suppressing it for quite some time and continuing to do so is very little trouble. Hannibal has never been the sort of person to deny himself indulgences, but doing so now will add layers of complexity to what will happen, most likely, in the near future.

The plan is nearly finished. After Friday, he will know.

As tempting as it always is to keep the man in his home, the crew will return eventually, and he has a great deal of work to do in the meantime.

~~~

The shot begins on Hannibal, techs and makeup artists surrounding him to prep him for the shoot. Their conversation is low and unintelligible, until it is interrupted by a loud crash from the kitchen. Everyone looks up and towards the noise. Hannibal gestures for the cameras, and they go to investigate.

When they enter the kitchen they find Will on his hands and knees, picking up a burner that had fallen to the ground to create the noise. The range is partially disassembled and there are streaks of grease and oil on the man’s arms. “Is everything alright?” Hannibal asks the man.

Will jumps at the noise, hitting his head on the table. “[bleep]!”

Hannibal crouches down, reaching for the man’s head. “Let me see, please.”

The chef sits down on the floor, allowing Hannibal to examine the spot where he had hit the table. “Well this is embarrassing.”

“Apologies for startling you. Just a bump.” Hannibal stands and extends a hand to help the man up.

Will looks down at his filthy hands, holds one up with an apologetic look, and then stands up on his own, placing the dropped burner on the counter beside him. “Burner slipped out of my hands, is all. Sorry for scaring you guys.”

“Is something wrong with your stove?”

“Um.” Will looks over at the taken apart stove, then over at the counter where various parts and tools litter the area. He turns towards the stove, leans over the top, and taps the blank display. “Nothing serious, just annoying. Display stopped working, probably a blown fuse. I’m replacing it now.”

“You are able to repair your own equipment,” Hannibal elaborates, and Will nods.

“I’m mechanically inclined,” Will answers. “There’s a lot I want to do in here actually, little things Chilton wouldn’t address because they didn’t stop the machine from working entirely. Never wanted to pay for a repairman.”

“Why would he need to pay for a repairman if you can simply fix it yourself?”

“I mean.” Will looks back towards Hannibal. “You kind of made a whole episode about that, didn’t you?”

“I suppose we did,” Hannibal agrees. “What is next on your list?”

“Dishwasher,” Will tells him. “Doesn’t always start up when you lower the cover.” The footage cuts to video taken from a distance, the man cleaning dishes raising and lowering the rectangular cover over and over in increasing frustration. Will’s voice continues over the shot. “Probably just an issue with the sensor, so hopefully it’ll be an easy fix. It can make the job pretty frustrating for the people trying to use it.” The cover closes one last time and the machine finally whirs to life. The man slaps the cover and goes back to filling racks with dirty dishes. A quick cut to the kitchen, zooming in on Will looking over his shoulder at the dishwasher with a frown, then finally back to Will in the present. He shrugs. “Lots of little things like that.”

Cut to Beverly being interviewed. “Will’s version of a jigsaw puzzle is taking apart the entire engine of a boat and trying to fix it. He fixed the air conditioning at my apartment for me once.” She winces. “I got in trouble for that, actually, since he’s not an authorized repairman. I would have been waiting for way too long in the middle of summer if I had gone through the property management, though. Don’t tell Will.”

Back on Hannibal in the kitchen. “We will leave you to it,” he tells Will, who nods again. They return into the dining room, and as they walk, Hannibal looks into a camera. “I am beginning to wonder if there is anything our Will cannot do. It’s no wonder every restaurant in the area is jumping at the chance to obtain him.”

Fade to commercial.

~~~

Chapter Text

On Wednesday Will, somewhat nervously, asks Hannibal what he should wear. The temptation to tell him to overdress and leave him awkward and anxious at dinner is quite powerful, particularly when he’s so clearly uncomfortable with asking in the first place. Despite his reservations he still gathered the courage to ask and so Hannibal answers him honestly. “Nicely, but not uncomfortably.”

Hannibal picks the man up from his apartment Friday evening in his Bentley, pleased to find he has followed Hannibal’s instructions. He cuts an impressive figure in a pale blue button up with a deep navy blue blazer on top, with matching slacks. His wild curls have been somewhat tamed, though they would likely require a haircut to be entirely neat, something Hannibal is unexpectedly unsure of if he would approve of the results of. While the man cleans up beautifully, there is something undeniably appealing about his more messy, wild appearance. 

The collar of Will’s shirt has been left unbuttoned, more than enough room to slide a finger beneath and rip the shirt open altogether. It is exceedingly unlikely that the restaurant would appreciate Hannibal’s efforts as much as he himself would.

He opens the door for Will, who lands in the seat a bit more heavily than he had intended to, by all accounts. “Sorry,” he mumbles, closing the door behind him and trying futilely to adjust his jacket. “This, uh. I haven’t worn it in a while. It’s a bit too small, to be honest.”

There is not much point in hiding his actions from someone as observant as Will, so Hannibal is less than subtle with the way he leans forward to look down at the man’s shoes and pants line. The shoes are smart and pristine but the pants are a touch too short to cover them, and only pull up further as Will leans to buckle himself in. Nothing that would be noticeable while seated at dinner. “Only just,” Hannibal concludes. “Surely you have not grown more since you purchased them.”

“No, I…” Will appears slightly embarrassed by his clothes, unaware of the fact that they pull quite alluringly around his major joints. “I didn’t. They’re not that old. I just.” For some indiscernible reason, Will decides the best way to communicate his point is to hold his hands over his chest and torso and expand them outwards, almost immediately realizing what an absurd gesture it was to make. “Oh my god,” he mutters. “I got. Bigger.”

Hannibal starts the car so he has something to do with his hands that he cannot afford to let go of. Though his normal clothes are far from close fitting, Hannibal has caught enough glimpses of the man without his chef’s jacket on to know the man is far from overweight, which leaves a different option. “You work out and have built more muscle definition.”

“Yes,” Will sighs, like he’s eternally grateful to be reminded that the concept of exercise exists and is something he does regularly. “Yeah. That’s what I was. Trying to say. Communicate.”

For someone who is such a closed off person, Will makes it particularly easy to tell when he’s nervous, like speaking in chopped off fragments of sentences. “You may find it beneficial to relax somewhat.”

Will sighs again, this time less relieved and more resignedly. “Sorry. This is a little bit out of my comfort zone.”

“Which part?” His passenger broadly gestures to what appears to be everything. “We have been alone many times before.” It’s mostly true, and he wants to see how Will would react to the comment.

Quite wonderfully, he doesn’t react at all, which means he’s comfortable enough around Hannibal that it doesn’t even register as something to be concerned about. “Yeah, it’s definitely not anything about you. It’s the. Nice clothes, nice car, what I’m assuming will be a nice restaurant, if you need to dress up for it.”

“You’ve worked at a nice restaurant for many years,” Hannibal points out.

“Hiding in the kitchen.”

“Would it help to hear that we will not be dining in the main dining room?”

The answer to that is apparently no, as Will’s tendency to overthink everything kicks into overdrive. “This place is nice enough to have separate dining rooms?”

“Will, the IHOP near my home has separate dining rooms.”

Will’s train of thought is successfully derailed as he tries to picture Hannibal in a place like IHOP. “You…” Even as he says it, it sounds like he realizes what he’s saying is ridiculous. “You’ve been inside an IHOP?”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” Hannibal responds. “Sometimes I am with people with young children, where a nicer restaurant would not be an appropriate place to dine.”

“But you hate children,” Will says suddenly, when they happened to be stopped at a light. Hannibal looks over at him, eyebrows raised. “Uh. Should I not have said that?”

“You are not incorrect.” The light changes, and Hannibal’s eyes fall back to the road. “Though I am wondering how you have managed to come to that conclusion.”

“Children are loud, messy, and can’t be held morally responsible for their own actions. If a young kid knocks over a glass of juice you don’t really have the luxury of being able to blame them for it like you could an adult.” He shrugs. “The mess still exists and there’s nowhere to direct your ire.”

“Arguably, the parents.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. No one is really directly at fault. For someone who places such high value on propriety and manners, a being that isn’t mature enough to understand and respect that would be difficult to handle.” Something seems to dawn on Will, then. “...as would someone who actively shuns them. Why do you still talk to me?”

“When you are rude, it is a self defense mechanism. You are trying to drive people away when they get too close for comfort. It loses a great deal of its effectiveness when that simple fact is realized.” He pauses. “Unexpectedly, it’s grown rather charming as a result.”

Though he cannot look over at Will at the moment, his disbelieving expression is easy enough to imagine. “You may be the only person in the entire world that believes that.”

“Nonsense. As a result, what few connections you do form are exceedingly resilient. Take Beverly, for example. How would she react if you suddenly quit your job one day?”

“She’d come straight to my apartment,” Will answers. “If I didn’t answer the door she’d probably jimmy a window open and climb in herself.” It clicks. “Okay, I can see what you’re saying now. But still, I don’t think she finds my irritation charming. ”

Hannibal could choose to be exceedingly blunt with his reasoning in this area, though it would likely be a misstep. The key difference here is that Beverly’s interest in Will is very different from Hannibal’s own. “She seems to find it amusing.”

For a moment, Will is silent, before steering the conversation back into safer waters. “I’m still having trouble trying to envision you sitting in the esteemed International House of Pancakes.” 

“Yes, well,” Hannibal sighs. “Though I do not enjoy the company of children, that sadly does not stop them from existing in the first place.”

Will’s laughter fills the car, and Hannibal revels in the sound.

The rest of the ride is much more comfortable, and by the time they arrive there isn’t quite enough time for Will’s insecurities to regrow their teeth. He takes notice of the valet and the sleek stone building while Hannibal takes notice of the way the man’s pants hug his body as he exits the vehicle. Once inside, Will sees the way there are two entrances on either side of the host station, and how the hostess addresses him by name. “Good to see you, Doctor Lecter. You and your companion are looking smart as always.”

They do cut quite the picture, the blues of Will’s outfit contrasting nicely with Hannibal’s dark grey and red suit.”Thank you,” he says, for the both of them, since Will is preoccupied with taking in the layout of the restaurant.

 Will silently observes everything. The way their coats are checked, the way they are shown to a cozy room with one table and set of chairs, the soft classical music drifting in through the speakers- Will comments on none of it until they are alone, very politely allowing himself to be sat and finally thanking the hostess before she leaves. Once they are only left in the company of themselves, Will strikes. “So that IHOP bit was a bunch of crap, wasn’t it?”

“Everything I said was true, objectively,” Hannibal nods. “Though you are correct that it was used in a misleading manner. It served its purpose, did it not?”

Despite how strongly Will hates being lied to, he doesn’t seem in the slightest bit bothered, which means he agrees with Hannibal’s actions. The waiter enters the room from the other side, quick and attentive as always. The man addresses Hannibal first. “Welcome back, Chef. Would you like any drinks to start?”

“Simply water to begin. My companion will need a moment to look through the menu.”

He picks up on the cue and nods, setting down crisp and elegant menus on the table. “Of course, sirs. My name is Victor, and I will be happy to serve you tonight. I will give you some time to decide.” With a graceful bow, he departs.

Will goes for the menu, no doubt noticing the distinct lack of prices. He seems more interested in the contents of the menu itself, though it’s difficult to tell if it’s as a chef or a diner. “You’re a regular here,” he murmurs, fingers gently running down the embossed pages.

“What makes you say that?”

In response, Will shoots him an unimpressed look over the menu. He sees what game Hannibal is playing and makes it clear he is choosing to continue it, at least for the time being. “The hostess recognized you on sight and did not even hesitate in bringing us to this room, which is presumably the one you always use. The waiter only introduced himself to me, which means you have a personal waiter as well, and he seemed to know your tastes well enough to be ready to bring you the entire course of your meal without even asking what you wanted in the first place.” He closes the menu and sets it down on the table. “Which means I can ask the waiter for a recommendation instead of you and get the same answer.”

“Petty,” Hannibal remarks.

“Earlier you told me you found it charming.”

“That has not changed.”

Their waiter returns with cool glasses of water, clearly ready to leave before Hannibal halts him. “We’ve come to a decision earlier than expected, if you would be so kind as to take our order.”

“Of course,” the waiter answers. “What would you like tonight?” Notably, he does not pull out a pad to write down their order.

Hannibal looks towards Will, and the waiter follows suit. “Everything sounds delicious,” Will begins, “and I’m having trouble deciding. Do you have any recommendations?”

“We have a wonderful special right now, mussels with a coconut sweet chili broth. The cilantro and ginger give it a nice kick.”

Cilantro, which means Will will not order the dish- except what he does next is smile and say “That sounds wonderful. I’ll take the special.”

Hannibal falters for a moment, responding a touch too late to the waiter’s gaze falling back, something Will does not miss. “Tonight, I would like the pappardelle alla lepre, and we will take a side of the focaccia alongside it. We will be sharing the dishes and will need some extra plates.”

“Understood. And for your wine?”

“Whatever pairing you would recommend with our meals.”

Smoothly, the waiter gathers up the menus. “I will send this back to the kitchen. If you need anything in the meantime, please do let me know.”

Once he departs, Hannibal looks back to Will, and does not break his gaze until the man starts to crack. “That dish has cilantro in it,” is all he actually says.

Will sighs. “I know you’ve figured it out already,” he says softly. “I was kind of hoping I could get away from actually telling you for a while but that ruined that, didn’t it?”

“I know this is a subject that is difficult for you to talk about. You need not pressure yourself.”

“It doesn’t really… make sense to keep doing so, at this point. I have… an empathy disorder.”

It’s what Hannibal had expected by this point, but hearing it confirmed directly sends a thrill up his spine. Now, after all, he is allowed to ask questions. “What does that entail?”

“No one is… really sure of the scope of it,” Will answers slowly. “It’s something rare enough that no one has been able to pinpoint what exactly is going on.” His expression sours. “I spent a lot of my youth being examined by psychiatrists and the like, all looking for their big breakthrough. It’s not something I look back on in a positive light, and I can’t say I’m fond of the entire profession as a result.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches up. “Chilton was a psychiatrist before purchasing Eloise. ”

“Yeah.” Will’s mouth lifts to match. “It was almost like it had been doomed from the start.”

“I suppose I must come clean about something myself, then. I had considered psychiatry as a career before settling on surgery instead.”

“That-” Will stops himself. “That explains some things about you, if I’m being honest.”

“You are not the first person to tell me that.” He falls silent for a moment before continuing. “Though learning of this explains a great deal about your behavior and your guarded nature, I find myself failing to see what this has to do with ordering a meal you will more than likely hate.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Will says sheepishly. “Got a little sidetracked there. It works in a way that allows me to empathize with people with no effort.” His gaze briefly falls. “No, that doesn’t quite explain it. I… can’t control it. If I get a good look at someone’s face, particularly into their eyes, I can immediately tell how they’re feeling. I… feel it, in return.”

“Does this affect everyone in the same manner?”

Will shakes his head, and when he raises his gaze Hannibal notices his eyes aren’t quite being met. “I’ve never met anyone I couldn’t read anything off of, but it’s not foolproof. People who often wear personas in their day to day life will make things muddier, as the fake emotions are more obvious than their true ones.”

“People like entertainers,” Hannibal elaborates, and Will, surprisingly, winces.

“Good ones, but yeah. Please don’t think that the reason I feel comfortable around you is just because your emotions are less overwhelming.”

“I’d find solace in the fact, though from your reaction I would gather that is the less common reaction to this news.”

Will’s eyes meet his now, finally, and he’s grateful. “I… thank you.” He closes his eyes and calms himself. “So, the waiter. Though he’s composed and doesn’t let it show on his face or in his behavior, he’s nervous, and it intensified when he mentioned the special. Would you happen to know if there was a management change here recently?”

“There was,” Hannibal confirms. “In the last year.”

“Though it hasn’t changed much, most likely it’s someone who pushes things like special dishes much harder, and the waiter- Victor- isn’t quite comfortable with it, so his numbers are likely poor compared to his peers. Based on how nervous he was, he is in danger of disciplinary action if he does not improve.”

“And so you ordered the special to help him at the cost of your own meal.”

Will frowns. “When you put it like that, it sounds idiotic. Is idiotic. Why did I do that?”

“Because you want to help people,” Hannibal assures him. “That is far from foolish behavior, though you must remember to consider your own situation as well.” Unexpectedly, this gives him a window of insight into Beverly’s behavior as well- namely, how protective she seems to be of Will. A tendency to put the needs of others far above your own would certainly guide the ones around you down that path. “At the end of the day, it’s only cilantro.”

Will gives him a crooked grin. “You kind of get used to it, you know. When it’s paired with other strong flavors it’s somewhat ignorable.”

“It will be much more ignorable in the dishes it is absent from entirely. I do hope you have no qualms about eating hare.” He takes a drink of the water beside him before continuing. “I must say, Will, you are a man of endless curiosity. Your empathy is but a small piece of what you’ve turned into something quite remarkable.”

Apparently, Will has heard this a great many times before, and he frowns. “I don’t want to be remarkable,” he mutters. “I want to be normal.”

“Where’s the fun in being normal?” 

Despite his souring demeanor, Will’s frown briefly inverts. “Speaking of being abnormal, the waiter looked about ready to pass out from shock when you asked him to choose the wine pairing.”

He had looked anything but, though Will is entirely correct to assume that Hannibal usually chooses their pairing himself. “I do trust his taste, and find myself preoccupied with more interesting things than wine at the moment.”

Will’s hand reaches for his own glass to hide his face, but not before he says something. “I still can’t work out why everyone knows you so well here. Even if you visit whenever you happen to be in the area, you can’t be visiting Baltimore that often.”

Once Will takes a drink, Hannibal answers. “I am here quite often, in fact, because my home is in Baltimore.”

As expected, Will inhales the drink of water, and chokes quite attractively. He sputters and coughs but recovers on his own, wiping away the moisture from his face. “Sorry,” he coughs. “You- sorry, did you say you live here?”

“That is correct.” His place of residence is, obviously, not a well known fact, and all that is widely believed is that he resides somewhere in the states. Out of his crew, only Jack and Alana know the truth. 

“That’s why you barely had to think when we were deciding what bar to go to,” Will realizes. “And why the places you’ve shown me are all particularly discrete. How long have you lived here?”

“Nearly two decades, though admittedly more of that was spent away from my home than within it.”

“This is… a bit surreal. You’ve lived here longer than I have.”

“I do have to live somewhere, Will.”

“Yeah, of course,” Will hurriedly amends. “I guess everyone just kind of assumes people in show business live in huge cities, somewhere like LA or New York City.”

“Baltimore is not a small city,” Hannibal points out.

“It’s much harder to hide in. I’m honestly impressed there aren’t even rumors going around about you being spotted around here.”

“I value my privacy highly and am very particular about the company I keep. Though it means that, as a result, I find myself unable to fully explore the culinary scene that it offers.”

“Places like Eloise, ” Will elaborates. “No matter how much you liked eating there, you stick out like a sore thumb and would get found out pretty quickly.”

Hannibal nods in agreement. “After my restaurant burned down, my life was chaotic for a great many reasons, both related to the incident and entirely separate from it.”

“Your show got very popular around then, didn’t it?”

“Indeed. It was difficult to find the time to return home. By the time things had settled down, the restaurant had changed hands, and the opportunity felt lost.”

“Until it showed up as a potential location for the show.” He gives Hannibal a sly grin. “You couldn’t resist pouncing on that one, could you?”

“I cannot say there were no questions raised about the speed of my decision.”

“Nothing that stuck, of course.”

“Though my decision was biased, the choice I made was still a good one.”

“Yeah, it…” Will trails off, gaze sliding to the side as he thinks of what’s happened the past months. “Your ratings are probably through the roof, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Hannibal confirms, “though that was not what I was referring to.”

At that comment, Will looks back up to Hannibal, a curious look in his eyes. He sips his water and then the door to the room is opening, the smell of well-cooked food wafting through.

Victor, as always, is able to balance all of the dishes on a serving tray which he carefully removes them from in order to maintain balance. As Hannibal had asked of him, they are each served an empty plate at their settings, with the three plates of food arranged well within reach of them both at the center. He finishes off by setting a bottle of wine closer to Hannibal and giving them each a glass. “A vintage port Burmester,” he offers, gesturing towards it. “I think you’ll find the sweetness compliments both meals.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal tells the waiter, and Will bows his head in thanks as well. The waiter makes their quiet exit and leaves Hannibal to open the bottle himself, which he does not hesitate to do. As he pours them each a glass he continues talking. “A difficult pairing I asked of him, and he seems to have chosen well.”

“Oh?”

“The wines one would generally pair with either dish are vastly different, though the hare is much stronger and difficult to compliment. I would have personally ignored the mussels entirely and simply chosen a stronger read to match the pappardelle alla lepre, though admittedly I have the additional knowledge of the fact that you did not order the mussels because you wished to eat them.”

The first thing Will does in response is serve himself several of the mussels, almost like a challenge. Hannibal serves him a generous portion of the pasta dish and takes the rest of the mussels for himself, stacking the empty plates off to the side with the one still filled with the coconut broth on top and leaving the plate of sliced and steaming focaccia between them for easy access. Ever stubborn, Will cracks open a mussel to eat first.

Hannibal watches his face closely as he eats the shellfish, waiting for signs of disgust and pleased to find none. “How do you find them?”

“Good, actually,” Will answers slowly. “There are a lot of powerful flavors mixed together that make it much easier to ignore the cilantro.”

He tries one himself and finds what Will has told him to be true. They’re somewhat spicy but it’s cut by the coconut milk, turning it all into a very pleasant heat that brings out the spices of the dish without overwhelming the mussel’s own unique taste of sweetness and brine. The dish is very aromatic as well, a complex aroma revealing ginger and garlic twisted amongst the sugar and coconut. It mingles pleasingly with the strong herb scent of the focaccia, the flavor of which is only enhanced when dipped into the remaining broth on the plate. “Have you eaten game before, Will?”

Will shakes his head. “I have, but never hare. I’m interested to see what it tastes like. Is it anything like rabbit meat?”

“It is a much stronger flavor,” Hannibal answers, watching once more as Will tries the pasta. “Most are surprised to encounter how distinct the taste is from that of rabbit. It is an acquired taste, to some.”

The man’s reaction is obvious in his eyes- Will is pleased with the meal. “Oh, this is good,” he murmurs. He tries the wine next. “And I see what you’ve said about the wine. It’s good with both, but unmistakably a compromise.”

“The correct choice to have made in our circumstances. Our waiter is a very accomplished one.”

Will reaches for and chews a piece of bread before replying, eyes considering. “You’re thinking about what I said earlier, how he’s under pressure from management.”

He sips at his own wine, leaving ample time to enjoy the flavor. “Indeed.”

“It may not be the wisest idea to poach employees from one of the only places that knows something you’d rather be kept secret, you know.”

Of course, Will is correct, but it could not be considered poaching if he simply monitored the situation and waited until the man was seeking new employment of his own volition. “He would do quite well in a number of my restaurants. I have been considering opening one in Baltimore, in fact.”

Will smiles into his wine. “Do you always attempt to steal the waitstaff when you go out to eat?”

“You’ve made it more than clear that you are not possible for me to steal, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, well, don’t take anyone with you when you leave,” he sighs, half serious. “There’s bound to be a point where even my charming personality doesn’t outweigh Chilton’s.”

Hannibal waits to speak, wants to make sure Will is looking into his eyes, wants to make sure he can truly see him. It’s the only way to be sure. “I wouldn’t dare dream of it,” Hannibal reassures him. “ Eloise does not deserve to be stripped down for parts and abandoned. It deserves the chance to transform back into what it was always meant to be.”

By the look on his face, Will had not been expecting a serious response. He’s embarrassed, a little red, and even a bit touched. His gaze drops as he tries to compose himself.

But far more importantly, he believed every word Hannibal just told him. He trusts him, utterly.

“Thanks,” Will quietly responds. “That- I didn’t think you’d feel so strongly about it.”

“Surely my actions have shown that I do.” Hannibal’s mood is lifting even higher, anticipation coursing through his veins. It’s been a great deal of time since he’s had the chance he’s about to take.

“Yeah,” Will smiles. “They have. But still. Actually… hearing it out loud, it feels different.”

“In a private setting, where there’s no clear benefit to doing so.”

When eyes raise back up to meet his, Hannibal stiffens. The man across from him has very obviously stopped himself from saying something he considered unwise, and based on his next words, he has chosen to say something even more foolish in its place. “How do you think Chilton would feel?”

“That I am so explicitly on your side and not his?”

“No,” Will says, voice low, head tipping slightly to the side. “That somewhere in his baseless accusations, he had actually managed to land near the truth?”

Everything very nearly falls to pieces there. The invitation is both obvious and a near complete reversal from the man’s normally cautious nature. Will knows this is a dangerous offer, far too rushed, and is saying he’s willing to take that risk if Hannibal is as well.

Hannibal is exceedingly thankful he is not a lesser man with much poorer self-control. “Even a broken clock is still right twice a day.”

Another drink, before he responds. Will understands and is not disappointed, simply steps back into much less turbulent territory. This is likely the result he would prefer having happened in the future despite his boldness now. “Not if you beat it until the arms fall off.”

The flashes of a hidden violence Will sometimes lets slip through are endlessly fascinating to Hannibal. It makes him want to do very ill-advised things that someone as reasonable as himself would never do. “That may be one of the least elegant things I’ve ever heard you say.” He makes sure to say it with a smile, so it’s teasing and not chastising.

“You watched me assault Chilton with an overcooked loaf of bread,” Will points out, reasonably. “I think you know what you’re getting into.”

“I did not say I disapproved,” Hannibal clarifies. 

At this point, they are only about two-thirds of the way done with their meal, but the door to the room opens and their waiter enters to check on them. This is certainly the usual point in which he would be able to clear away the dishes and he hides his mistake well. “How is your meal?” he asks kindly. “Everything up to par?”

“More than so,” Will answers. “The wine is excellent as well.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Before he goes to leave, Hannibal gets his attention. “We’d like a dessert as well. Whatever the chef would recommend.”

“Of course,” Victor nods. Will is watching the waiter as they speak. “I’ll be sure to bring that out to you soon.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal smiles politely and dismisses the man. When they are once more alone, he asks. “What did you see in him, Will?”

“You’re usually done with the meal by now,” Will answers, forthright. “So he was surprised to see us still eating. He was even more surprised to see you order dessert; usually you’re on your way out after the meal. Do you do business meetings here?”

“I have,” Hannibal answers. “Though most often I am simply forced to entertain others in the industry. Tonight, things are far less rushed, and I see no reason to end the night early when we are both enjoying ourselves.”

Will raises an eyebrow as he drinks his wine, a look equal parts ‘bold of you to assume so much’ and ‘everything you’ve said is entirely correct’. In response, Hannibal gives the man a much smaller and far more genuine smile.

The next time their waiter enters they are finished with their meal, and he swaps out the empty plates for a pair of slices of an appealing honeycomb cake. Will seems particularly taken with the striking appearance of it and the taste is no less pleasing. Hannibal had arranged payment ahead of time, something Will seems entirely unsurprised to realize, but in revenge he spies the man leaving a generous tip on the table as they are on their way out. He very politely pretends to not have noticed.

Most of the drive back is done in a comfortable, relaxed silence, only the music playing from the radio filling the car. “That was good,” Will sighs, content. “Really good.”

“I would not have taken you there otherwise.”

He can see the reflection of Will’s flat look in the car window. “Don’t you dare start acting humble now.”

“My apologies,” Hannibal murmurs. “Even I have my insecurities, Will.”

It’s a blatant lie, and Will doesn’t seem like he’s entirely buying into it, but he doesn’t press the issue either. They pull up to the man’s apartment. “You’ll be filming tomorrow, I assume?” He unbuckles himself.

“Indeed.”

“I guess I’ll see you then.” Will is starting to fidget. He doesn’t want to ask for anything further, but seems unable to decide how he’s supposed to end a night like this either. “I had- a really nice time.”

Watching him stew in his discomfort has its own appeal but Hannibal mercifully ends it. He leans over, cups his hand around the hinge of the man’s jaw, tracing the bulge of it with his thumb and watching the way it makes his eyelids flutter. “As did I,” he says, low. “I will see you tomorrow, Will.”

In the seat, Will seems frozen for a second, before finally nodding as Hannibal pulls away. “Good night, Hannibal.”

“Good night, Will.”

He leaves the car idling out front until he sees Will go inside his apartment, exchanging a few words with the security guard on the way. Further in the building he sees him do the same with the overnight receptionist. Hannibal does not leave until he sees the light turn on in the window he knows Will’s apartment lies beyond.

~~~

On Will, being interviewed. “How is running the restaurant going?”

“Well?” Will scratches his chin. “I’d like to think it’s going well, at least.”

Cut to Price. “It’s going amazingly! Do you know how many walk-outs I’ve had to handle in the last couple of weeks? None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.”

Cut to Abigail. “Everyone’s been really happy with the food,” she says with a smile. “I’m always kind of bracing for the worst but it’s been really nice!”

Now, to Beverly. “It’s like a dream come true, honestly,” she says. “Getting to run the show a couple days a week has been fun too. I finally feel like I can rely on everyone around me.”

One by one, it goes through many members of the staff, all with nothing but positive things to say about how things have been going ever since Will took over. It ends back on Price. “It just… it feels like it used to, back when Eloise and Howard were still alive. I thought.” He starts to tear up, and what he says next is shaky. “I honestly never thought I’d get to see something like this again.”

Beverly can be heard shouting from offscreen. “Jimmy, are you crying?”

“Yes!” he yells back. 

The interviewer asks another question. “Can you clarify that statement?”

“Sure.” He sniffles, and someone hands him a tissue, which he uses to dry his eyes and blow his nose. “There was that brief period where Will actually did run the restaurant, you know. And it was great. He was the best replacement for Eloise and Howard we could have ever hoped for.”

“Have you ever considered running the restaurant yourself?”

“God, no.” He rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t take that job if you paid me!” Cackling laughter from Price.

“So your wish has also been for Will to take over.”

“Of course it is,” Price answers. “Why do you think I’ve stayed here this entire time?”

It cuts to Hannibal, the unlocked feedback box beside him, a pile of comment cards in front. He reaches over and picks one out to read aloud. “Service: 5/5. Food: 5/5. Best meal I’ve had in my life.” He sets the card down, and reads another.

“I don’t even like fish, or I thought so anyways. I tried a bit of the special my wife ordered and wow! We’ll be coming back here for sure!”

“There was a minor mistake with my order and the staff fixed it in record time. I’m almost more impressed by how well it was handled than I would have been by it not happening in the first place.”

“Usually when your food looks good it’s not really gonna taste just as great, but this place managed to do both. I was really surprised by the quality and the presentation based on how quickly my order came out.”

“I took my friends here expecting it to still be a disaster, only to find out things sure have improved. If this is what it’s like without Chilton involved, I hope he never comes back.”

He sets the card down and gestures towards the pile. “I could not find a single negative comment. In fact, I struggled to find one that was anything other than glowing.”

“Could you read one of those?” someone asks from off screen.

Hannibal gives them an odd look. “...are you certain?”

“Yeah.”

“Very well.” He sorts through the pile, finally extracting a relevant card, and clears his throat before speaking. “Ey Will, you single? I’m looking for a housewife. Call me. And then their phone number is listed, I believe.”

The staff behind the cameras all begin laughing, and Hannibal smiles apologetically. “I should have specified that the reviews that were not glowing were not quite reviews in the first place. Perhaps it would be best to leave these out of what we give to Will.”

Cut back to Will, being handed a bundle of cards. “What’s this?” He unties the string around them and begins sorting through. 

“Comment cards left from when you took over until now,” a voice tells him.

Will silently reads through the cards. Each and every one. When he looks back up at the cameras, his eyes are wet. “S-Sorry,” he stammers. “This is. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs, wiping away his tears. “I guess I’ve forgotten what positive feedback feels like.” Someone hands him a tissue from off screen. 

“How does this make you feel?”

“Happy,” he tells the camera, smiling openly. “Happier than I’ve been in a very, very long time.”

The shot lingers on Will smiling through his tears, and then cuts to commercial.

~~~

For the first time in a very long time, Hannibal dreams.

He’s in a dark forest, lit only by the moonlight peeking through the trees. It smells damp, like it had just recently rained, and the ground is soft and muted beneath his feet as he walks through the trees. The faint scent of flowers draws him towards a clearing, a meadow filled with white chrysanthemums, a single daffodil sprouting from the center. A huge stag stands in the center, coat and antlers a deep solid black. It’s eating the white flowers. It’s beautiful, and Hannibal takes a step into the clearing to approach it, only to hear something crunch beneath his feet. The stag lifts its head, startled, and bounds out of the clearing in the opposite direction.

When Hannibal moves his foot and looks down he sees splintered bone beneath his shoe.

He looks back up to see the daffodil has been replaced by a familiar man facing away from him, still clad in the clothes he had been wearing when Hannibal had dropped him off at his apartment earlier in the night. Without thinking twice he takes a step towards Will, again hearing the bones crack beneath his weight. The noise makes Will turn towards him, face neutral, watching carefully as Hannibal approaches. Will does not startle or flee as the stag had, simply watching Hannibal, not moving an inch even when Hannibal reaches out to touch the man. He cups his jaw with only hand and only then does Will react, reaching up with his own hands to hold Hannibal’s in place, smiling and leaning into the touch. A red trickle of blood drips down the side of his jaw and paints a line down his neck.

Hannibal tries to pull his hand away but Will holds it firmly in place, the movement sending a rush of blood down the man’s face and body. He tries to pull his hand free with his other one and still, it does not budge. Will’s form starts to waver and all through it, the man smiles and looks at Hannibal with trust and affection.

All at once, Will turns to blood and splashes onto the ground. Hannibal falls to his knees and reaches for the liquid, jerking his hand back as he sees movement in the ground. From the blood sprouts a cluster of deep, unnaturally red daffodils.

Hannibal plucks one, closes his eyes, and smells it. It smells like copper.

He wakes, refreshed, and takes a moment to examine the dream. The meaning is obvious. If Will found out the truth now, it would break the man. Hannibal needs a great deal more time to ease him into it.

The fear is unfounded, as Hannibal’s actions are as infallible as always. Time is something that they will soon have a great deal of.

He won’t be needed at the restaurant until later today and so he changes into a more casual outfit, a red sweater and slacks, something that makes him seem softer and less intimidating.  Hannibal heads downstairs and makes himself a simple protein scramble to start the day.

Most of the house will not be up this early, though he does cross paths with Alana on his way out of the kitchen and later Francis as the man heads to Eloise , heading in at the same time as the first staff of the day so he can check up on all the recording equipment. Both he and Matthew alternate the job weekly and are more than capable of monitoring each other’s tools. Hannibal takes his breakfast and a mug of coffee out into the garden to dine, sitting at the table and chairs on the cobblestone just before the garden itself begins.

The garden really is a beautiful addition to the house, a sea of colors when in bloom and an enchanting, secretive area when not. Before sitting he admires the trellis that leads up to his window, strong and sturdy with ivy climbing up it undisturbed, not a single leaf out of place. He’s been tending to it himself while they’ve stayed here as a way to pass the time.

The air is cool but not too chilly, the golden rays of the sun struggling to cut through the dense cloud cover. The scramble isn’t his most inspired work, though he has every reason to be distracted at the moment. He enjoys the view, savors his food, and listens to the house stir to life behind him.

He brought his tablet out with him to read something Margo had forwarded to him. Inviting a food critic back to the restaurant was a trick they often employed though it had gotten delayed substantially for this season due to the sharp detour into Will’s abuse. As a result, the critic had returned after Chilton had left and Will was the one running Eloise. This worked greatly in their favor, particularly since Hannibal had always been planning on reaching out to one of the many reviewers who were familiar with Will’s career under the original owners, if for no other reason than to infuriate Chilton. He sets his empty plate to the side and sips his coffee as he turns on his tablet, navigates to his email to find the link, and begins reading the review.

I’ve been to Eloise many times ever since I moved to Baltimore and until recently, the food has always been impeccable. Soon after Chilton bought the place I returned only to be profoundly disappointed with my meal. Ingredients had clearly been bought frozen instead of fresh, everything was bland, and things had been used past their prime. It was a confusing experience, once that made me question whether Chef Graham was truly still in the kitchen, a piece of information I was unfortunately able to confirm. It’s not often that the main emotion a meal brings out of me is disbelief. I wrote a review in the hopes that it would wake Chilton up to the damage he was doing to this well respected restaurant, particularly the way he was wasting the immeasurable talent in the kitchen.

With the information that has recently come out, I do regret adding to Chef Graham’s misery. I believe he is a highly accomplished chef and have nothing but respect for him. Because of this, when the Restaurant Surgery team reached out to invite me back, I jumped at the chance to make up for past mistakes.

The decor is unchanged, though to my understanding that will be addressed soon so I will not comment on it. I was seated promptly and the waitress was attentive and quick to take my order. I ordered the special, a baked tilapia with dill sauce and a side of maque choux. It’s unsurprising to see Chef Graham pull from his roots and offer a Cajun dish for the special. It arrived quickly despite how busy the restaurant was, on a chipped plate set down next to beat up silverware. Though it goes without saying that having tableware in better condition would be the preferred option, the state of it almost disarmed me for the level of quality that the food itself would offer.

Tilapia is a mild flavor, and pairing it with powerful Cajun spices is a risk that paid off spectacularly. He held off on the spices on the fish itself, letting the creamy dill sauce take center stage instead. It goes with the fish perfectly. For the maque choux, Chef Graham seems to have funneled all the spices he held back from on the main dish here instead, with an end result so hot that I found myself running back to the tilapia and dill sauce just to ease the heat. It’s not hot enough that it overwhelms the complex flavor of the side, but I certainly would not recommend it to anyone who has a low tolerance for spicy foods. I would say I have an above average tolerance for it and it was pushing the limits of what I could handle. That being said, the menu (and the waitress once more when I placed my order) do warn you that the dish is spicy, and there is an option for the more traditional, non-spicy version. I would highly recommend this meal to anyone that can try it before their special changes.

Besides the wonderful food, there was another thing I noticed while I was eating. When I had been here last everyone had seemed less than excited to be here. Now, everyone seems much happier, from the customers to the staff. Price, the longtime host, has always been both upbeat and professional, but even he seemed more so than usual. Though I did not speak with Chef Graham directly, his food speaks to his happiness for him.

I encourage readers to visit Eloise in this brief period where Chef Graham has full control if at all possible, before Chilton returns and the future becomes uncertain. It’s a glimpse into an alternate world, one where the restaurant wasn’t stolen from him, and it truly drives home what a loss to the culinary scene of Baltimore that tragedy was. We can only hope Chilton will be more open to listening to his staff going forwards. That being said, you will want to make reservations ahead of time, as the restaurant is busy enough that walk-ins cannot be guaranteed. While I was eating, I watched as they sat people at the bar because they had long since run out of open tables. I made sure not to overstay my welcome.

Visit Eloise if you can- you won’t regret it.

A review that would have made Chilton very angry indeed.

He locks his tablet and finishes his coffee, noting the sound of activity from the house behind him. People should be waking by now, though it seems almost too active and it’s only getting louder. When the degree of noise raises far above where it normally should be, Hannibal returns inside, only to narrowly avoid colliding with Alana.

“Hannibal,” she gasps, eyes wide and panicked. 

He immediately stiffens. “Something has happened.”

“It… I…” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When they reopen, she is remarkably more composed. “You’re heading into the kitchen?”

He nods, and she steps aside to allow him forwards, following him as he walks. While he washes his dishes she watches silently, deep in thought. Once he’s dried and put everything away, he turns back to her. “Alana. Tell me what happened.”

She’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “I have to tell Jack,” she mutters, distracted. “I’ll need to wake the crew. Only Francis is gone, right?”

“At the restaurant.”

“Yes, he called me from there. Hannibal, listen. I feel like I don’t need to tell you in particular to remain calm, but…” Another deep breath. “Chilton’s dead.”

Chapter Text

~~~

The following is unused footage shot much earlier in the show, released as bonus content through the Restaurant Surgery website.

Hannibal and Will are in the kitchen of Eloise, Will by the stove and Hannibal on the other side of the saloon doors. “Anything in particular?” Will asks.

“The pan-fried scallops, if you will. We may be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

“With the apple salad?” 

“That’s the one.”

“Got it,” Will nods, pulling out a large pan. “Should only take a couple minutes.”

The camera focuses on him cooking, close shots of the scallops frying in the pan, slow shots of him squeezing the lemons over them, of him mixing together the salad. It ends with him plating the salad and carefully placing the scallops on top.

Hannibal takes the plate, along with a fork. “Thank you, Will.” The chef nods. The cameras follow Hannibal as he takes the plate upstairs, up to Chilton’s office, and knocks on the door. “Chilton,” he calls out. “Have you eaten lunch?”

The door is opened, revealing Chilton with a broad smile. “Hello, Chef Lecter! I have not had the chance to, no.” His eyes fall to the plate in Hannibal’s hands. “What’s this?”

“I remembered your resistance to the scallop dish last week and thought I would try to change your mind.” He offers the man the plate. “If you would not mind terribly, try this.”

A quick cut to the men both sitting down, Chilton behind the desk and Hannibal at the front. “This is amazing,” Chilton tells Hannibal. “The tartness of the apple really balances out the sweetness of the scallops. It’s no wonder you’re such a highly regarded chef.”

Hannibal waits until the plate is half empty before replying. “Thank you,” he begins, “but I am not the one who made that particular dish.”

Chilton frowns. “Oh?”

“Will did.”

Chilton’s expression morphs into one of confusion, and he keeps looking between the food and Hannibal’s face. It finally transforms into understanding. “I know what this is. You’re trying to build my confidence in his cooking abilities by cooking me something yourself and telling me it was from him. That’s not necessary.”

For a moment, Hannibal is silent. “Perhaps you did not hear me properly. It was Will who cooked that, not myself.”

Chilton waves a hand dismissively. “I’d much rather you spend this time actually trying to teach him how to cook, you know. Tricking me like this won’t accomplish anything.”

More silence. “I am not tricking you in any way.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Chilton huffs, rolling his eyes. “I know Will wouldn’t be able to make anything like this. Things like this always do well in your show but I imagine it’s harder to pull off when the chef doesn’t have any actual talent.”

Abruptly, Hannibal stands. “I think we’re done here,” he says to the cameras. “Enjoy your meal.”

Chilton frowns at their sudden departure but is visible continuing to eat the meal in the background before the door closes. Just before the cameras stop rolling they catch Hannibal’s face, showing a rare glimpse of his anger before cutting to black.

~~~

“Chilton’s dead.”

Hannibal’s hands tighten on the countertop. “An accident? Illness?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “He was murdered,” she softly admits. “The body is at Eloise .”

Silence hangs between them, tensing the atmosphere until it becomes unendurable. Hannibal spins on his feet and heads for the front door.

“Wait,” Alana calls out, catching him around the shoulder to stop him in his tracks. “You can’t go there, Hannibal. You know that.”

“Will is there.”

She makes a frustrated noise. “Yes, and he’s one of the people who found the body. Francis is with them.”

“He’ll be their main suspect if I do not provide his alibi.”

“Will can provide his own alibi himself.” As she says it, realization dawns. “Except he won’t because the alibi is you, and you were both doing something you shouldn’t have been.” She holds his gaze for a moment before sighing. “Go. It’s not like I can stop you, anyways.”

He takes a step back. “You should wake Margo first, after Jack. I imagine the police will be working closely with her as she knows a great deal about the man’s countless enemies.”

Before waiting for a response, he heads out into the entranceway, pulls on his shoes, grabs the keys to his Bentley, and leaves.

He drives to the restaurant at a leisurely pace, checking his appearance in the mirror while stopped at a light. His dress indicates that he left in a hurry though his hair still sits neatly on his head, soft and free of product but in no way disrupted. An easily corrected issue.

It’s early enough that there’s no throng of interested civilians obstructing Eloise , though he can see the stirrings grow. A significant number of cop cars line the street and Hannibal is unable to drive down the road proper, instead parking on a cross street and walking to the closest barrier on foot. An officer there stops him, a tad wide eyed. “Can’t let you through, sir, sorry.”

Hannibal ignores the man and looks beyond him. Since Eloise is near a corner, he can easily spy Will sitting on the curb with his head in his hands, hunched over and tense, while Abigail leans over him almost protectively. A semicircle of cops is clearly trying to talk to the man and making no real progress getting through his breakdown. Further off to the side, Francis is talking to another pair of officers.

Seeing Will in such obvious distress excites him, but being kept away from him in turn angers him. Luckily Abigail glances upwards and catches sight of him, straightening upwards, pointing towards him and talking in hurried tones with the cops. One of them- the woman in charge, based on her demeanor and dress- finally sighs and motions to the beat cop stationed at the barrier. “Let him in,” she orders.

“S-Sure,” the younger cop calls back, pulling the barrier back enough to allow Hannibal to slip past before restoring it to its original position.

Abigail rushes up to him before he can meet them, words rushed and unsteady. “He’s freaking out,” she rambles, “I keep trying to calm him down but it’s not working, Hannibal, please, you have to help him-”

“Of course,” he soothes her, patting her trembling head. “You’ve done well.”

She sniffles, and trails after him like a baby duckling as he carefully approaches the nervous wreck of a chef. The cops, reluctantly, allow him to approach Will, and he crouches in front of the man. “Will,” he calls out, softly.

At the sound of his voice Will lifts his head out of his hands and looks at Hannibal. His eyes are wet with tears and unfocused, his empty hands now trembling violently with nothing to support them. “H-Hannibal?”

“I’m here, Will.”

“What- where are-” 

The man doesn’t seem entirely aware of his surroundings at the moment, and every passing second forces him further away from reality. Hannibal reaches out, places his hands at the curve of his jaw, and steadies his head until they are making eye contact. “Focus on your breathing. Deep, and slowly, Will.” It’s cut through with shudders, but the man tries his best to obey him. “Good, Will. Just like that.”

Everyone around them watches silently as Hannibal helps Will through the panic attack, speaking in low tones until the breathing slows and the shaking lessens, until clarity snaps back into those wide eyes with a shuddering gasp. “Hannibal, it’s Chilton, he’s-”

“I know,” Hannibal tells him. “Alana told me.”

All at once, Will lets out a strangled whine, and buries his face into Hannibal’s chest as he begins to cry. Hannibal wraps his arms around the man and lets him do so.

One of the cops standing behind Will, finally good for something, holds out a bottle of water that Hannibal takes. Most of them are shuffling around awkwardly as Will sobs, waiting for the moment to descend on him with questions. Watching them stew in their impatience is quite satisfying.

The captain; Gonzalez, a glance at her name tag reveals; decides they’ve waited enough and circles back around Will to speak to Hannibal while the other man recovers. “Mr Lecter,” she addressed him. “You came here in quite the hurry, didn’t you?”

“Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal corrects, exceedingly petty. “And I hurried here because Will would obviously be your primary suspect unless his whereabouts have been fully accounted for.”

She exchanges a look with another officer, who guides Abigail away from them and off towards where Francis stands. The cameraman looks up and nods to Hannibal as he spots him before turning back to the cops. “We are more than capable of vetting his alibi.”

“Not if he is hiding part of it for the sake of someone else.”

The captain’s face pinches inwards with irritation. Before she can continue, another officer beckons her over, and Will takes this opportunity to push away from Hannibal’s chest. “Hannibal, you can’t-”

Hannibal cuts him off, pushing the water into his hands. “Drink this, Will.” 

Automatically, the man’s hands clasp around the bottle. “But if it gets out-”

“With all due respect, dear Will. You are my alibi as well, and it would be far worse for my career if I was convicted of murder.”

Will’s gaze drops, and he says nothing.

Captain Gonzalez returns, arms crossed in front of her chest. “Go on then,” she grinds out. “Say what you came here to say.”

“I was with Will for most of the day, yesterday. He had come to Eloise to do some administrative work before returning home around six. I then picked him up from his apartment at 6:45, and we went out for dinner. Afterwards I returned him home near 10PM.”

He can see how the empty spot in Will’s alibi is neatly explained, and the captain’s frown deepens. “He had no reason to hide a dinner from us.”

“It was a date,” Hannibal responds, and he can hear the crinkle of plastic as Will’s hands tighten around the bottle, “and it may reflect badly upon me if it was widely known as such.”

All at once her expression transforms into an angry exhaustion as her mind switches tracks from ‘suspicious man keeping secrets’ to ‘fool about to throw his life away for the sake of a lover’. Will is given a brief but stern lecture on the seriousness of the situation, the seriousness of impeding a murder investigation, and how absolutely god damn stupid of a reason it was to leave this vital information out, all while another officer gets the restaurant information from Hannibal and is able to very quickly verify the alibi. It’s a lecture Will did not need to be given but deserved every second of.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, once she has finished. “I wasn’t thinking straight.” He refuses to look up from the ground.

“That’s, quite frankly, understandable,” she sighs. “Which is why you’re getting let off with a slap on the wrist. Security has confirmed that you didn’t leave your apartment all night until heading to work, and while we’re still working on placing you at Eloise all day I don’t see a need to detain you any longer. You’re both free to go, but don’t skip town any time soon. We may want to speak with you in the future.”

Hannibal stands and helps Will up, steadying the man as he starts to stumble. “W-What about Abigail?”

“Her parents will be here to collect her shortly,” an officer informs them. “Captain, a word?”

The officers step off to the side, their conversation still audible. Hannibal listens in as he speaks to Will. “Have you informed any of your staff?”

“...not answering, says they’re unable to reach him at the moment…”

Will shakes his head. “No, I’ve…” he pats his pockets for his phone and pulls it out of his pocket. “I never even turned it on.” He does so.

“We can give you a quiet room to do so at our house.”

“Your house?” Will repeats, surprised. 

“...have their number, try to call them directly when it’s not quite so early…”

Hannibal nods. “Things will get quite complicated soon, and our house may be a safer place for you for the time being. It would not be particularly difficult to uncover your address and I imagine your apartment will be flooded with the press in due time.”

“Wouldn’t the staff house be even worse for that?” Will’s phone buzzes in his hands, and he looks down at the screen, a frown forming on his brow.

“Undoubtedly, with the key difference of us being equipped to handle the matter.” He pauses. “Do you have an unexpected message?”

“Yeah.” Will scratches the back of his head, still shaky. “A voicemail from one of my colleagues back at Rutgers. I can’t imagine what they’d need so early in the morning.”

“...try calling them now, officer! This is a murder case!”

Will’s phone begins vibrating, something that makes the man jump slightly. It’s an unknown number. He stares at it as it rings twice before finally answering the phone. “...hello?”

The answer seems to come from two places at once, and Hannibal turns to see the officer speaking into their own phone. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you so early. This is officer Ford with the BPD. Would you have a moment?”

“Um,” Will replies, catching on. “There may be a problem here.”

“How interesting,” Hannibal comments, watching as the captain turns and spots Will speaking into his phone and sighs.

“Hang up the phone, officer,” she mutters, and after some protests he does so. “Graham, over here.”

Will gives Hannibal a worried look before pocketing his phone and approaching her. Their conversation is easily overheard, as they’re not making any sort of effort to conceal it. “Would you happen to be a leading expert in the field of forensic entomology who has helped the local police with murder cases in the past?”

“Ah,” Will coughs. “I, um. I am.”

“Beautiful,” Gonzalez mutters. “Absolutely perfect. Do you know of any others?”

Will winces. “None nearby. It’s a… narrow field of research. I can give you some names but the closest one I know of lives in Pittsburgh.”

This is the moment Hannibal chooses to insert himself back into the situation. “Perhaps he can give you his opinion on the matter, off the record? So you will have a place to start.”

She is very obviously considering the option, and finally she sighs and points to Ford. “Take him in, if he’s willing to take a closer look.”

“But ma’am-”

“We’ll get an unbiased expert in here ASAP, but we need to make as much headway as possible before this hits the mainstream and turns into the clusterfuck it will inevitably become.”

The officer looks like he wants to protest further, but a sharp look from his captain heads him off before he can do so. “Understood,” is all he says.

“Okay,” Will says, mostly to himself. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll take a look.”

“Are you certain, Will?” Should Will actually change his mind it may make the situation more difficult for Hannibal, but it would truly make no sense for him to allow Will to go look at his boss's desecrated corpse with no hesitation. He trusts Will to be strong enough to continue.

“Not the first dead body I’ve seen.” He smiles when he says it, void of all mirth.

“Very well,” Hannibam murmurs, and then Ford is leading Will back inside Eloise , leaving Hannibal and Gonzalez standing out front.

The cop gives him a once over. “How well do you know the staff here?”

“I’d like to say quite well.”

“Got any ideas as to who would have wanted him dead? I’ll take any leads I can get.”

“Unfortunately,” Hannibal sighs, “we were very successful in painting Chilton as the villain. Will has become a very popular personality, and as a result there are no shortage of people who wished suffering upon his abusive boss.”

“I’m sure,” she replies, words suddenly sharp. “And where did you go after your date?”

“Back to our shared house. There were people still up when I retired, and people up when I awoke, though I doubt anyone was awake all through the night.”

She nods. “You have a social media specialist, presumably? For your show.”

“We do,” Hannibal answers. “Margo Verger. I would give you her card, but I’m afraid I left in a bit of a rush.”

The cop pulls out hers and hands it over. “Give her mine. Have her contact me when she’s available.” Her hands smooth over her uniform, settling it back into place. “As part of my duties, I must inform you that I would not recommend allowing your- boyfriend to return to his apartment and remain alone for the time being.” The word trips her up briefly, but when she says it it’s with no judgement.

“I do not plan to do so.”

“Good,” she says gruffly. “We’ll be in contact.”

When he’s then left alone, Hannibal considers calling ahead to let Alana know he’ll be bringing Will back with him, but the producer likely has her hands full and is better off left unbothered. He also considers waiting for the man in his car, as he has no real idea of how long Will will be inside, but it is unlikely to be long. Regardless of his strong stomach Chilton was still a person Will knew closely and he will undoubtedly be affected by seeing his corpse hanging in the dining room. Besides, he quite wishes to see what expression the man wears when he emerges from the horrors inside.

In the meantime, Francis appears to have been released by the police as well, and he comes to stand beside the chef. “Quite the mess we’re in,” Hannibal sighs.

Francis crosses his arms in front of his chest, back straight. He doesn’t react to Hannibal’s flippant comment. “I’m going to wait until the girl’s parents come to pick her up, then I’ll head back to the house.”

“Much appreciated. I find myself thankful that you were the one with them instead of Brown.”

A muted snort, the closest Francis ever gets to a laugh. “The police weren’t happy that the cameras get turned off once we leave.”

“Filming the darkness would be a waste. It’s a shame we pulled out the hidden mics shortly after Will took over, too.”

“Yeah,” Francis says, voice flat and unreadable. “A real shame.”

The front door opens, a foul stench wafting through it as Will emerges. His gait is steady and the expression on his face, while rooted in a frown, is one of careful consideration instead of shock and disgust. He takes two steps forwards, just enough to be out of the police’s way, and stops in his tracks. Francis nods and steps away himself, which allows Hannibal to approach the chef. “Will,” he calls out.

The man flinches at his name, like he was startled out of deep thought. “Oh,” he mutters. “Yeah, um. I’m all done.”

Hannibal wishes terribly he could ask what was going through the man’s mind at the moment, but it is far from the right time or place. Instead, he calls attention to the two sheets of paper clasped in Will’s hands. “Printouts?”

“Yeah,” he says again, this time with a hollow laugh. “The schedule and the staff list. Copies of them. Not really sure I can trust my mind to remember it all right now.”

“Of course,” Hannibal comments. “Let us return.”

The drive back to the staff house is done in total silence, Will’s gaze fixed on something just beyond his field of vision out the passenger side window. They appear to have just made it back in time before the news broke, for while there is a whirlwind of activity inside the house proper, Hannibal has no trouble approaching and parking his car safely in the garage. People are so scattered that he is able to escort Will upstairs and to his room without anybody noticing. “In here,” he tells the man, opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. “You may use my room. It is private, and no one will enter without asking.”

“Thank you,” Will responds, and before he shuts the door Hannibal sees the man pull out his phone to begin calling the members of his staff.

Hannibal heads back downstairs, knowing it is just a matter of time before someone catches him. Unsurprisingly, Brown is the one who finds him first. His face is stretched wide in a manic smile. “So someone bumped the dude off, huh?”

His naked interest and delight makes Hannibal’s mouth twitch down with disgust. Thankfully, Gideon, though no less interested, is substantially more socially apt and is close behind the audio lead. “Brown,” he grunts, grabbing the man by the collar. “Yes, I know this is all terribly interesting, but you need to call your temps before they show up to work and make everything even more chaotic than it already is.”

“Wait, hold on,” Matthew protests. “Did you see it? Who found it? What did it-”

Hannibal cuts him off. “Call your workers, Brown,” he orders, voice ice. Though Matthew scowls openly, he knows better than to press the matter, and leaves the room while loudly grumbling.

Able lingers. “So what’s your read on the situation?” he asks, though he isn’t referring to the murder itself. “How is the show going to do on a scale from fucked to ten?”

“You may wish to prepare yourself to search for other prospects,” Hannibal answers honestly. “Not many shows can survive causing a murder.”

“Fair enough!” Even now, Gideon’s manically cheerful demeanor does not waver. “That’ll be much harder for your lot, so best of luck!”

As he leaves, Hannibal can hear a door upstairs open and close; the one to Alana’s office. He waits and listens, hears footsteps followed by a knock on a door right before the opening of it, followed further by a burst of hurried conversation and the door closing yet again. Alana will be looking for him, and he heads to the dining room to await her.

It isn’t long before she finds him, back to her near perfectly composed self. “Jack’s on his way,” she tells him, taking a seat across the table from him. “It will be a while, but he’s on the first flight out from LA.”

“You checked my room first.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she sighs. “I saw you pull in but didn’t see you entering the house with him. I’m glad you brought him here, to be honest. I just wasn’t expecting it. He lives alone, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“I’m sure Katz will look after him, but in the meantime this is a safe place for him to be.” She sighs again, long and weary. “Hannibal, where do we even begin to address something like this?”

“I imagine that we don’t,” Hannibal answers. “Not without the aid of our legal team.”

“Not just that.” Though her gaze is even, she looks exhausted. “Someone’s dead. Inside the restaurant, even. All of these people are likely going to be out of jobs after this.”

“The impact on the livelihoods of those simply caught up in the crossfire is what bothers you, currently?”

“I guess,” she answers slowly. “It’s more that the more serious ramifications haven’t sunk in yet. We were trying to help all of these people, and instead we’ve managed to ruin some of their lives.”

Some more permanently than others, Hannibal refrains from saying. “I must admit to feeling a certain level of responsibility for this as well. Once things have begun to settle, I will see what I can do to help them find new prospects.”

“You can’t just hire them all,” Alana points out.

“Nor would I want to. I have been considering opening my own restaurant in my home city for quite some time and should I do so, I would require a great deal of new staff. Things can be arranged.”

She falls silent. “Did we go too far?” she asks, voice whisper quiet. “He was murdered .”

“We did not,” Hannibal assures her. “You cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of a lone psychopath. We did what we had a moral responsibility to do.”

“I guess you’re right.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed at the elbows. “It’s not going to help anything to blame myself.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “It will not.” He then slides his hand into the pocket of his pants, extracting the police captain’s business card. “Do you happen to know where Margo is at the moment?”

“Talking to legal,” Alana answers with a grimace. “A bullet she volunteered to take, mostly because she has an easy out of the phone call once this starts hitting social media. Do you have something to give her?”

He slides over the card. “The captain who appears to be in charge of the case,” he explains. “She wishes to speak with Margo to get a better view of who his enemies may be.”

Alana takes the card and slides it into her breast pocket. “I’ll pass it along once she’s finished.” On the table, her phone lights up, Jack’s name flashing on the screen. “I need to get this. He’s going to want to talk to you but I’ll try to hold him off for as long as possible.”

“Much appreciated.” Hannibal watches as she picks up the call and makes a quick exit out of the dining room, as if afraid that Jack will learn of Hannibal’s nearness through the phone despite the impossibility of the fact.

Once more free, Hannibal decides that it would be good for Will to eat. It will take some time for him to contact all of his staff members so something that will take a bit of time to cook would be perfect. Hannibal stands and makes his way to the kitchen, looking through the ingredients in the fridge before deciding on a recipe.

He begins with a medium stock pot, adding a couple tablespoons of olive oil and allowing it to heat while he washes and dices a carrot, an onion, and several cloves of garlic. Once the oil begins to shimmer he adds the carrot and onion, cooking it carefully until the vegetables soften but before they brown. The garlic is added next, until the pungent scent starts to waft through the air, at which point he adds and stirs together the lentils. Finally, he adds the stock and bay leaves, mixing it all together and leaving it to simmer.

While the lentils cook, he tosses together a quick salad with fennel, sumac, olive oil and lemon juice, a bowl of washed arugula waiting to the side to be mixed in at the last moment. He takes this opportunity to boil a pot of water just deep enough to produce beautifully shaped poached eggs. In the fridge, he pulls out a container of labneh that he has made and seasoned previously, as it’s good for a quick snack or topping on a meal. The lentils will still need some time so he cleans up after himself, washing and putting away the dishes and remainder of ingredients until all that remains is what little he needs to complete the recipe.

That done, he poaches two eggs, carefully placing them on a plate to hold them temporarily. He tosses the arugula into the salad before putting it on a wide plate, straining out the finished lentils and placing them beside the salad. Normally he would prefer to serve the two things in separate dishes but a single plate will be easier to hold and eat from. He spoons the labneh on top of the lentils, gently places the eggs on top, and sets the plate to the side while he finishes cleaning up after himself. Then, he takes a fork, fills a glass with filtered water, and ascends the stairs to his room.

He sets the glass on a hallway table and knocks on the door first, getting no response. “Will?” he calls out. “I’ve brought you something to eat.”

Again, no response, so he opens the door to find Will seated at the armchair in the corner, staring down at the floor, papers held loosely in his hands. “Will?”

This time Will seems to notice, head jerking up so quickly it knocks his glasses askew. “Oh,” he gasps, fixing them with one of his hands. “Um. Sorry. I didn’t hear you knock.”  

Hannibal picks the glass back up and enters the room, nudging the door closed behind him with his foot. “You should eat something.”

That makes Will’s eyes fall to the plate in Hannibal’s hands, and he slowly nods. When Hannibal offers the dish over, the man reaches out to accept it.

“Have you been able to contact everyone?” He hands over the glass of water next, which Will takes a drink from.

“Yeah,” Will answers, still looking mostly on the floor. “Couple people I had trouble getting a hold of, but Price said he’d take care of it. Um. Beverly freaked out.”

“Understandably so,” Hannibal comments. 

Will takes the fork and takes a big bite of the food, chewing it slowly. “This is really good.”

Of course it is, Hannibal made it, but he refrains from pointing as much out. Instead he circles back to what had been said moments before. “What was the general reaction of whom you informed?”

“Shock,” Will immediately replies. “No one seemed… particularly concerned about who had gotten killed. Not yet, at least.” He attempts a wry smile, but it comes out mangled.

“Beverly is out of town for the weekend, is she not?”

“Not anymore,” Will murmurs, staring down into his meal. “She’s already on her way back but it’ll be a couple hours. She was-” He swallows nervously. “Um. It sounded like she was going to break the speed limit but she backed off a bit when I told her I wasn’t home alone.”

“You’ve been through a traumatizing experience,” Hannibal points out. “It is not generally considered wise to leave people alone after something like this.”

Will does not answer, but his expression tightens. Something is bothering the man, something beyond the immediate circumstances, and it can only be related to what he saw in the dining room.

Harnessing some of his limitless patience, Hannibal allows Will to finish his food before pressing the matter further.

Once the plate is empty Hannibal steps forward to collect it, placing it on his desk before walking to the front and leaning against it. He watches as Will, who ate neatly and left very little mess, wipes the corners of his mouth on the back of his hand and then his pants, something Hannibal decides to let slide for the moment. After all, he had not brought the man any kind of napkin. “Will,” he says softly. “There is something on your mind.”

“Of course there’s something on my mind,” he snaps back, almost immediately flinching away. “Sorry. That wasn’t called for.”

“You are under a great deal of stress.”

“Yeah,” Will laughs, hollow. He wipes away the sweat beginning to bead at his brow, hand shaky. “Stress.”

Hannibal tips his head to the side, watching. “You saw something.”

“I doubt I’m supposed to discuss the crime scene.”

He gestures to the empty room. “It is only us here, Will. What we say does not need to leave this room.”

The words land, and Will clearly falters. “I… I can’t…”

“Talking about it may very well help you. Whatever you are struggling with, it seems significant.”

The man breaks, letting out a pained whimper. “Hannibal,” he whispers. “Someone didn’t just kill Chilton. They killed him for me. ”

Hannibal closes his eyes, lets the words hang in the air as he savors the sharp scent of Will in distress, unable to process the thought that someone was murdered on his behalf, unable to bring himself to react to it in a socially acceptable manner. Deep down, Will is honored, even flattered, and the fact that he feels those emotions is cutting him deeply.

When he opens his eyes Will’s head is tilted at the ground, hands tightly wound in his curls. “People kill for love all the time.”

“No,” Will bites out, looking back up, eyes wet with tears and holding back fury. “It’s not- you don’t understand. It wasn’t just a corpse on the floor. It was personalized. It was a gift, Hannibal.” His hands slip out of his hair, gesturing in the air, and when he speaks next it’s as if he’s quoting someone else. “I’ve done this for your sake. It’s what he deserved, yes, but more than anything else, I did it for you.” Abruptly, he turns away.

This aspect of Will is intensely fascinating, the way he’s slipping into the mindset of another, the way everything he’s saying is, impossibly, correct. “This distresses you greatly.”

“I hated him,” Will whispers, “but I didn’t want him dead. These people-” his voice rises, but he remains looking to the side. “They don’t actually know me, at all. They know what you’ve shown them. They know what the television producers have decided they should know. They think they’ve done this for me but they’re just doing what they’ve decided I would want, for themselves.”

Hannibal’s hands tighten on the desk and his jaw sets. “Will,” he says sharply. “Look at me.” The man in the armchair looks up at Hannibal, eyes wide and startled. “This was not your fault.”

Unexpectedly, Will frowns. “I know it wasn’t,” he says plainly, “and that’s what’s pissing me off.”

For once in his life, Hannibal finds himself at a loss for words. This sort of response, the pure unadulterated rage he can see behind Will’s eyes- it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Almost immediately, panic starts to set in for Will. “No, I didn’t, that’s not what I meant, I-”

“Calm yourself, Will,” Hannibal soothes. “Nothing you are feeling is out of line considering the circumstances.”

“Yes it is,” Will grits out. “This isn’t- normal people wouldn’t react like this to finding their boss strung up in their workplace with maggots raining out of his corpse. I should be sick to my stomach.”

“Maggots?” This is as good of a segue as any, as continuing to draw out Will’s righteous ire so early would only end in disaster. “The flies had gotten to the body that quickly?”

Will can tell he slipped, but doesn’t seem interested in trying to walk it back. “No, it.” He halts. “It’s… gruesome.”

“I have a strong stomach.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this.” Will shudders, and then he does so anyway. “Are you familiar with Rethel’s Nemesis? ”

“One of the most famous pieces of art depicting the goddess.”

Will nods. As he speaks, he begins to wring his hands together. It’s obvious he’s forcing himself to distance from the identity of the body itself, reverting to more clinical terms. “It was hung from the ceiling, in the same pose. Right arm prone at the side, left bent upwards and clasping an hourglass, tied up with rope. His eyes were removed, and- inside the hourglass.” Will closes his eyes, taking his glasses off and setting them on his knee and rubbing at his face vigorously. “Instead of a sword, he was holding his own spine. Cut out through the back, simply sawed free from the ribs. Without the support the torso was misshapen and bloated. On the floor, the statue of Nemesis from the host station was positioned so it looked up at the body, sword outstretched. There were. Larvae crawling around it, which is what they wanted me to look at.”

“Fly larvae?”

“The front of his torso was opened as well, a y-incision, but it had been stitched up. I asked them to open it and more larvae poured out, dead and dying and squirming to escape. Some of the cops ran away at that point, out the back.”

“Surely maggots would be feeding on the body and not trying to escape from it.”

“It was botfly larvae,” Will says quietly. “I caught a glimpse of the heart when they first opened it, filled with holes they were emerging from. Botflies don’t want dead hosts. Someone drilled holes in his heart and forced it full of something I love.”

“Spineless,” Hannibal muses. “Blind. Heartless. A harsh judgement.”

“It was artistic,” Will protests, and Hannibal is thankful for once that Will’s eyes are elsewhere and he cannot see the way his pupils dilate at the comment. “They were elevating what they saw as worthless. An offering.”

“One that was summarily rejected.”

“It couldn’t have been their main purpose,” Will ponders. He puts his glasses back on. “Otherwise they would have stuck around to see how I liked it.”

Hannibal holds himself very still, watching Will intently. The man does not seem to be placing any special meaning to his words, and in fact seems a great deal calmer than before. “So the punishment was the main purpose.”

Will, slowly, nods. His eyes finally track up, looking at Hannibal almost reluctantly. “It was a gift, unmistakably, but the most important part of it was removing a source of my suffering. They simply did not want their intentions mistaken.”

“Presumptuous of them.”

“Gratingly,” Will grinds out, teeth bared. “They don’t realize what else they’ve destroyed with this.”

“ Eloise ,” Hannibal elaborates. “You don’t think the restaurant will survive.”

That makes Will tilt his head up to match his gaze, expression disbelieving. “Someone murdered the owner and left his body in the dining room. Nothing can survive that.”

There is silence in the room as Hannibal makes himself avert his gaze, gives his expression the color of regret. “I suppose, in the end, I did destroy everything you sought to protect.”

“No,” Will says, voice oddly strong. When Hannibal looks back towards him his gaze is resolute. “No, you didn’t. You were right. This couldn’t continue. It was headed for disaster one way or the other.”

“You seem much more certain of that now than ever before.”

“It brings a certain sort of clarity,” Will smiles, sadly. “Losing everything. I think that’s something we can both understand.”

“Forgive me,” Hannibal begins, choosing his words carefully. “But you’re handling this much better than I had expected.”

“That’s just because it hasn’t sunk in yet.” Will rights himself, leaning back in the armchair. "I’m sure I’ll have a much more spectacular breakdown in a day or two.”

“I’d much prefer you have one before I am swept up in this and unable to be by your side.”

The sad smile softens into the closest thing to genuine Hannibal has seen on the other man all day. “Beverly won’t let me be alone,” he reassures Hannibal, watching as his eyebrow raises. “I know, it’s not the same. She already offered to let me stay with her until this all calms down. I’m pretty sure if I tried to stay at my own apartment she’d break in overnight and simply abduct me.”

“Successfully, I might add.” He says it with a small smile of his own. “I merely wish I could do more for you.”

“You’ve done a great deal already. I couldn’t possibly ask for more.”

“Yet I would offer it all the same.”

“Thank you, Hannibal.” His hands fall to his knees. “Are you… what’s going to happen to your show?”

“A similar result, I would imagine,” Hannibal answers, continuing as he sees Will’s expression drop. “You need not worry about us, as we all have numerous opportunities outside of this. I find myself more worried about the livelihoods of your own staff.”

“Restaurants are always hiring.”

“Some people cannot afford to wait that long, and I have every intention of speeding up the process.”

“You’d… do that?” Will frowns, uncertain. “But… why?”

“Some of the fault does indeed lay with us,” Hannibal responds. “I have a great deal of power, and it would allow me to rest far more easily if I was to use it to my advantage in this way.”

“You can’t possibly have that many connections.”

“I have many of my own restaurants,” Hannibal explains, “and you have a keen eye for talent. I would not be opposed to hiring a significant portion of the staff at Eloise for my own use. Those I cannot, at the very least I can put a good word in for them elsewhere.”

Will still looks uncertain. “I’m not sure… I could continue on in fine dining. I don’t even know what to do with my life at this point.” Instead of responding, Hannibal looks at Will until the man meets his eyes and he sees the offer that has gone unsaid. “No,” Will says immediately. “That’s not- it’s inappropriate.”

“We are both more than capable of keeping our personal and professional lives separate.”

“You told me you weren’t serious.”

“I did not,” Hannibal corrects. “If anything, the opposite. I told you that I would not dream of taking you away from Eloise. Now, that factor has been tragically removed.”

“It- you can’t hire me to be your personal chef, Hannibal.”

He could, very easily. “It would allow you to spend more time with your second career. The police force seems to be eager for your assistance.”

“So what, I just up and vanish at a moment’s notice to consult with the FBI?” An impressive slip of tongue that Will does not seem to have noticed, one that Hannibal files away in a very important place. Will aiding the FBI is several magnitudes more serious than simply consulting with the local police force. 

“Precisely. Though I would appreciate the lifted burden, I am more than capable of providing for myself if need be.”

“It- I just-” It’s starting to overwhelm Will, too much happening all at once, too many possibilities cut short and extended in turn. “But- why? ”

“Will,” Hannibal says, voice unusually gentle. “You know why.”

Will looks up, into Hannibal’s eyes, and he sees, and he knows why.

It’s not long before, as always, his gaze drops. “It’s all…” he says, voice starting to catch. “It’s too much. Right now, it’s all too much.”

Taking a chance, Hannibal steps forward, away from the desk, and places a comforting hand on Will’s head. Pleasingly, though subtle, the man inclines into the touch. “For the future,” he assures Will. “There is no need to think of any of it now, or even soon.”

“Hannibal,” the man whispers. He’s clearly starting to crack again. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

“Nothing,” is the answer. “For now, dear Will, you must do nothing.”

Glasses are shakily removed, folded, and slipped into his shirt pocket before Will covers his face with his hands and begins to sob. It’s much more dramatic now, the deep, guttural hurt of a man finally realizing what he’s lost. His body is wracked with them. From where he is, Hannibal kneels, sliding the hand on top of the man’s head down and back until he’s cradling the back of his head, thumb running soothingly along his scalp. The gesture is repetitive and easy to automate in favor of closely observing Will, listening to the pained gasps and watching the way he shudders and savoring the salty scent of tears and snot. This is a version of Will he may very well never see again and he intends to commit every detail to memory.

Bit by bit, it leaves Will’s system, and as he can feel the man start to settle he is able to reach out with his free hand and reach a box of tissues near the edge of his desk. Will begins to speak. “Sorry,” he’s trying to say, “I’m sorry, this is-”

“Do not apologize,” Hannibal cuts in, firm. “Never apologize for your grief.”

Will’s hands start to move and so Hannibal sets the box of tissues on the man’s knee, something he quickly locates by touch and utilizes. While Hannibal leans back to allow the man a modicum of space he does not release his grip on the man’s neck, and does not look away as the man wipes away the mess on his face. Will crushes the tissue between his fists. As he does so, Hannibal leans back forward, pressing their foreheads together, a touch Will is very obviously startled by but does not reject. “You may stay here, Will,” he tells the man, “for however long you wish.”

The answer is hoarse, throat irritated from the crying. “I don’t think I can live here, unfortunately.”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke but an excellent attempt at trying to destroy Hannibal’s self-control. “We have this house rented through the end of the month.” There is a seriousness behind the offer that he knows Will will not miss but will carefully choose not to acknowledge.

“No, you.” Will leans back, separates them, and Hannibal releases the man. “I know it’s going to be crazy here pretty soon. I’ll just be in the way.”

It would do the man a disservice to try and deny the fact. As much as Hannibal wants the man to stay, it is not a particularly logistically sound idea. “Will Beverly be coming for you?”

Phrased so ominously, it makes Will crack a weak smile. “Yeah. I can meet her somewhere else if needed.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “There is a back route that can be taken to access the house, if we find ourselves surrounded by the paparazzi before she arrives. Tell her to collect you here.”

“Thank you,” Will says, unusually earnest. “I really do mean it. For everything.”

Though he wants to, dearly, this would not be an appropriate time to tell Will just how much he’d be willing to do for him. Grand gestures of affection unsettle the man even in the best of circumstances. For now, he should simply be supportive, stable ground for Will to rely on. The longer he is in the room the greater the urge to do so anyways grows, so it is for the best that they are interrupted by a knock on the door.

Hannibal straightens up, collecting the dirty plate as he does so but leaving the unfinished glass of water. “Just a moment,” he responds.

“I’ve held him off for as long as I could.” It’s Alana. He opens the door to greet her, and she waits at the doorway. “He’ll be contacting you soon, and…” She peers inside, sees that Will is at the very least not in the midst of a breakdown, and continues. “Will.”

The man seems startled that he’s being addressed. “I won’t be here long,” he says hurriedly, leaping to his feet to face the producer.

“No,” she frowns. “That’s not it at all. I want to talk to you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Though he dislikes the idea of someone else comforting Will, he knows he can trust Alana to do so while maintaining a professional distance, just as he can trust Will to decline should he truly be uncomfortable with the idea. “Oh,” Will says, unsure. “Um. Yeah, sure.”

Hannibal and Alana exchange a look before he exits the room and she steps in. “Please find me before you leave, Will,” Hannibal asks of him, and Will slowly nods his head.

Alana closes the door and he can hear the soft tones of their conversation as he departs. He barely has time to wash the used dish downstairs before his phone rings, showing Jack’s name.

“The media found out,” is what he’s greeted with, and from that moment on everything is uncontrollable chaos.

Beverly arrives several hours later, ripping through the house and upstairs to Will like a tornado, though in the noise and insanity present throughout it it barely registers to most people. She leaves with Will just as quickly, and they barely have time to say their goodbyes, with the promise that Will stays in close contact.

The first week after the murder is mostly a blur. The investigation moves quickly, behind closed doors, and the media coverage of the crime reaches new heights. One by one, everyone that worked at Eloise is cleared as a suspect, along with Hannibal’s core shooting crew. The temps will take a much longer time to work through. 

It’s never tied back to Hannibal, of course, and the closest the police ever come to the truth is pursuing the whereabouts of some of the local restaurateurs who have expressed interest in Will’s talents in the past and may have taken the opportunity to eliminate an obstacle. This too fails, which leaves the police at the essentially dead end of everyone who has ever expressed contempt towards Chilton on the internet.

A great deal of information about the investigation is constantly being leaked to the press, along with a great deal of falsehood, making it very difficult to keep truth separated from fiction. Will follows the case obsessively and when the only suspects left are ones who never could have even met him, it hits him hard. Somewhere in the second week since the murder Hannibal answers a call from Will and is surprised to hear Beverly on the other end of the line.

“He’s not doing well,” she tells him, distressed. “Hannibal, I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell me where he is.”

“My place. I can give you the address.”

Hannibal glances up, locking eyes with Alana across the table from him. She mouths go. “I’ll be there shortly.”

He talks Will through another panic attack in Beverly’s bathroom as she paces outside the door. When he’s no longer locked into place curled on the tile, Hannibal picks the man up and leaves with him, buckling him into the passenger side of his Bentley, making a mental note to clean the seats free of his sweat at a later date. There is a great deal of it, as Will had been clad in nothing but his underwear and an undershirt when Hannibal had arrived.

He takes Will to his home- his actual home, in Baltimore. He shows the man to a bathroom to shower and picks out clothes for him, ones that end up fitting for the most part but hang loose in places where Hannibal is larger and strain in ones where he is smaller. The man looks exquisite. He cooks for him, and every time he sees Will’s mind start to drift he beckons the man back, keeps him focused on the here and now.

It works. Will stays with Hannibal for several days like this, and by the end of it he seems much more stable than before. It’s difficult for Hannibal to accept just how perfectly the man seems to fit into his home. When he leaves, Will returns to his own apartment, and soon enough Hannibal finds himself invited over there for a dinner of his own.

Will’s apartment is small, cluttered but neat, with a kitchen far more restrictive than the man deserves. Bookshelves and a large desk line most of what free space there is, with another tiny desk shoved into a corner that is littered with the tools and materials to make fishing flies. Hung on the wall, almost out of place with the rest of the house, is a beautiful reproduction of Francesco Solimena’s An Allegory of Justice. He seems constantly embarrassed by his home compared to Hannibal’s, baselessly. It’s so personal and so perfectly Will.

Will is fragile, but he heals.

A month after the murder, after their contract at the staff house expires and most everyone has returned to their respective homes, Alana lingers in Baltimore, though not for much longer. With the staff house no longer accessible she comes to Hannibal’s to work on their current project, one that nears completion. She’s been focusing on finding employment for those from Eloise that were more difficult to employ, whether it be for personal reasons or for an inability to relocate from the city proper. Hannibal has been focusing on those he can address much more grandly and directly.

“Okay, so let’s go over everything again,” she begins, shuffling some papers around. “I’m nearly finished, thankfully. The busboys and waiters were easy enough to find prospects for, and I’ve just got a few of the chefs left, with some promising leads. How is it on your end?”

“Quite well,” Hannibal answers. “Did you know that Jimmy Price speaks fluent Italian?”

She looks at him in disbelief. “He’s willing to relocate to Italy? ”

“It will take some time to straighten out the visa process. He will be a great fit for my restaurant in Tuscany and seemed to embrace the upheaval it would bring.”

“That’s fortunate, then. Let’s see, Zeller will be starting this week at… Black Lily? That’s the bar around here you like to go to, right?”

“Indeed. A long-time bartender has had to suddenly relocate across the country for personal reasons, and so they were more than happy to pursue my recommendation. It appears that Brian was able to impress them enough to be hired quite quickly.”

“Out of the waitstaff you just had Abigail, and she decided to stop working for now since she’s about to leave for college.”

He nods. “I made it clear to her that it was a standing offer, though I have my doubts that this is a career she will pursue in the future.”

“Yeah, she’s young. Most people her age won’t wait tables and decide this is what they want to do for the rest of their lives.” Alana crosses something off on the paper. “How is your share of the kitchen?”

Hannibal hadn’t taken many of the chefs upon his own plate other than the two most obvious standouts, though there were a handful of promising young employees that Will had hired himself. “All of them have been given new homes at my own establishments.”

“Except,” Alana prompts.

“Except,” Hannibal agrees.

Alana sighs. “How are they doing?”

“Surprisingly well, from what I can gather. I admit that I spend far more time with one than the other.”

“Beverly was interested, wasn’t she? In Fuego. ”

Hannibal had offered Beverly a position at his open grill restaurant, a place he could see her excelling. She is both a respectable chef and an outgoing person, and has shown a fair amount of dexterity and balance. It would allow her both to hone her skills as a chef and find interesting new ways to apply them. If she stuck with it she would be likely to shoot up the ranks and help the restaurant continue to innovate in exciting new ways. “Very interested,” he confirms. “Even the relocation seemed to excite her, but there is one main issue stopping her from accepting it.”

“Will,” Alana clarifies, and Hannibal nods. “ Fuego is on the west coast.”

“It’s quite far, and she has no desire to drag him out with her. She is too worried about his future to abandon him now.”

“Is he still…” She trails off.

“For the moment.” Will has been aimless, still utterly unable to redirect himself in life. Hannibal knows the man will snap out of it eventually but it is becoming worrisome that it is taking so long. “She’s told me that she will take the offer without hesitation if Will also accepts his.”

That makes Alana frown. “I still don’t feel great about that, you know.”

“Our relationship?”

The frown hardens. “Don’t be difficult. You can’t be both his partner and his employer, Hannibal.”

“I don’t see why not.”

The look Alana gives him very much implies that she isn’t buying that for a second. “If you’re this serious about it, why not drop the job pretense altogether?”

“He is… a cautious man. It may scare him away instead.”

“You must understand this is not a healthy solution to the problem.”

He does. What she does not seem to acknowledge is that it is a very effective way of binding Will to him by whatever means possible, which is ultimately for the best. “Consider it an excuse to eat his cooking as often as possible.”

She actually looks a bit irritated at his flippancy, but it softens. “Well, at least one good thing came out of this mess.”

Unexpectedly, Hannibal’s work phone rings, Beverly’s number appearing on the screen. Alana sees it and leans back, eyebrows raised. She silently listens to Hannibal’s side of the brief conversation, waiting for him to explain once it’s ended instead of asking about it.

“That was Ms Katz,” Hannibal tells her, like she hadn’t already known. “She’s accepted my offer.”

“Oh?” Alana brightens despite her reservations. “Does that mean…?”

“I believe it does, though he must contact me yet.”

“Congratulations may be in order,” she tells him. “I’d ask if you’ve considered the logistics but I assume you’ve had them worked out for a frighteningly long period of time.”

“It would be simpler if he did not have to commute,” he muses. “This is a large home for one person.”

Alana looks so profoundly unimpressed that Hannibal can’t help the tiny smile it draws out of him. “Boundaries, Hannibal. I’m saying this as both your friend and professional colleague. If you’re going to attempt to walk this line professional boundaries will be of the utmost importance.”

“Of course, and I do fully intend to respect that,” Hannibal lies.

His phone rings, his personal this time. Will’s name flashes across the screen- quicker than expected. This time, Alana stands and leaves the room as he answers the call.

“Hello, Will,” he greets warmly.

“Hi,” Will says, tone short with nerves. “So, um. That whole personal chef thing. Can you tell me more about it?”

Hannibal takes a deep breath, and he does.