Chapter Text
“Male, late twenties, GSW to the upper right chest. We need an OR stat.”
Just before midnight in the emergency room is when Hannibal Lecter’s life becomes very interesting. The emergency room surgery attending on the floor that night, he swoops through crowds of minor stab wounds, drug overdoses, burst appendices, and broken fingers to greet the newest admittance in the trauma center.
The man’s head lolls, eyes unfocused and glassy. Hannibal studies him curiously. His skin is pale from blood loss and shock, hair plastered to his forehead, but there’s a soft beauty in his suffering. Mouth slack and softly gasping for air, groans tumbling from his lips. Hannibal gives one of his reassuring smiles. “I’m Dr. Lecter. I will be your surgeon.”
The man’s eyes flit around; Hannibal can’t tell if he’s avoiding eye contact or just can’t focus due to the pain. “Officer Graham, you’re in good hands,” a nurse reassures him. “Just hold on.” Hannibal notices the uniform that has now been cut to shreds dangling off this Officer Graham.
He gets wheeled off to prep for surgery and Hannibal goes to scrub in. Soon, Baltimore PD will be descending upon his emergency room waiting area, waiting for an update on their downed officer. Graham was in pain but lucid when he arrived; the chances of him dying on the table are negligible. He enters the OR with his clean hands, a nurse sliding gloves onto him. Graham gets moved from his gurney, now unclothed with the thin paper covering him.
The anaesthesiologist fits the mask over Graham’s face. “Count backwards from ten, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal says quietly. He readies his scalpel.
“Ten… nine… eight…” Graham’s eyes roll backwards, and then he’s asleep. His eyelids get taped shut and then he’s intubated, and then Hannibal can get to work.
The gun shot wound certainly made a mess of things. Officer Graham’s blood smells iron-rich, coppery and warm, and Hannibal longs to know what it smells like through his skin when he’s healthy. He is not normally someone to get infatuated, but he appreciates aesthetics, and even unconscious, Officer Graham is very aesthetically pleasing.
Miraculously, the bullet missed his lungs by a hairsbreadth. Most of Hannibal’s time is spent cleaning up shrapnel and putting muscle back together. His skin is unblemished and Hannibal silently seethes at the idea of having to mar all this soft skin. Stitching him up is slow and meticulous to avoid as much scarring as possible, however physical therapy will be unavoidable.
He gets moved to recovery and Hannibal disposes of his gloves and surgical scrubs, a job well done. Officer Graham lived through his gunshot wound. “Doctor Lecter,” a nurse says when he leaves the operating room. “There’s someone from the FBI in the waiting room, wanting an update on Officer Graham.”
“FBI?” Hannibal asks curiously. “I thought he was Baltimore PD.”
The nurse shrugs. “I was just told to get you since you were his surgeon. Is he okay?”
“He is in recovery in the ICU. He should be just fine.”
“Thank god. We don’t need the FBI sniffing around here, telling us how to do our jobs.”
Hannibal bows his head in agreement. “You are quite right.” He walks to the front desk, where a woman in an FBI jacket is waiting impatiently. Hannibal raises his eyebrows; the FBI really did send someone here.
“I’m his emergency contact,” she’s telling the front desk. “Can you at least tell me if he’s alive?”
Hannibal clears his throat. “Are you asking about Officer Graham?” The woman jumps, slapping a hand over her chest dramatically. “He is quite alright. Are you with the FBI?”
The woman suddenly looks embarrassed. “I’m technically just a trainee,” she says quietly. “I thought they’d let me see him if I wore my jacket. It was worth a shot.” She shrugs, and then holds out a hand. “Beverly Katz. Will Graham’s emergency contact.”
Will Graham. Hannibal smiles minutely and takes the offered hand. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. You are his friend?”
Beverly shifts from one foot to the other. “I consider him a friend, he considers me his emergency contact. Will Graham does not have friends.” She shrugs off her jacket and slings it over her arm. “Sorry for the…” She trails off, gesturing to the jacket. “You’re not gonna tell, are you?”
“Tell what to whom?” Hannibal says with an incline of his head. He gives her a small, knowing smile. Beverly looks relieved at this. “How are you his emergency contact, if he is not your friend?”
“He doesn’t have family out here. I think he said he used to be in New Orleans PD? I don’t know what brought him out here. Met a year ago in the FBI Academy, he didn’t immediately piss me off and vice versa. I made it through, he didn’t, kept in touch. Or as in touch as Will could let someone be. Hence… Emergency contact.”
Curious and curiouser. “Forgive my prying, but he seems to have some years of law enforcement under his belt. Why wouldn’t the FBI let him in?”
Beverly visibly stiffens and looks uncomfortable. Hannibal cocks his head curiously. Her tongue is already loosened, comfortable enough to speak to him but she has realized she’s said too much. “You’re his doctor now, right? Since you operated on him? Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that?” she asks.
That is not how it works, but Hannibal wants to know everything about Will Graham. “Of course,” he says simply.
She sighs and looks around, as if anyone could be listening to them speak about a stranger. “He refused to take the psych exam. I said he was being ridiculous but he doesn’t like people digging around in his brain.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, he aced every other test they gave him but wouldn’t get evaluated. He has a forensic psychology degree and he’s a little quirky but I don’t think he had anything to be afraid of.”
Hannibal allows those words to sink in. Beverly is not being completely forthcoming, he can tell. Will’s refusal of an evaluation makes Hannibal terribly curious about what he’s so worried a psychiatrist might find. When Will wakes up, Hannibal wants to be there and see it for himself. “It is quite late, Miss Katz, and I don’t think he will wake up for a few more hours. Unfortunately I can’t let you into the ICU unless you’re family—”
“But he has no family!”
“However, I will let you know as soon as he’s awake. Please get some rest; he is quite taken care of and you mustn’t worry.”
Beverly looks like she wants to argue some more and Hannibal stands stoically, shoulders back as if daring her to cross him. Of course, he could let her in, nothing is stopping him, but he would like a chance to read over Will’s charts without prying eyes. And of course, be the first person he sees when he wakes up.
“As soon as he wakes up, alright? I’m holding you to it, Dr. Lecter.”
“Of course. I always keep my promises.”
***
Hannibal’s pager beeps while he’s on his way back to the recovery room to check on Will Graham. He scowls at the wretched thing but Will certainly is not awake by now, so he goes back to the ER. He had seen in Will’s eyes something wild and dangerous and Hannibal’s interest is piqued. It has been a while since another person interested him.
Morning light breaks and Hannibal finally has a moment to get back to the ICU recovery rooms. Will has his own room on account of being a police officer, which makes it much easier to slip into his room without making a sound. Will is still asleep, thankfully, skin pale and paper thin-looking. His chart hangs off the edge of his bed and Hannibal picks it up. His weight, height, age, all listed there. No known diagnoses or allergies. Just shy of twenty-nine. Blood type, O-. The heart monitor is beeping steadily; his heartbeat is strong, a good sign.
He could be made of glass while he’s sleeping, Hannibal observes. Already delicate features further softened by anaesthetic and painkillers. No friends or family, too unstable for the FBI. Hannibal smiles to himself, reaching out to brush hair off Will’s forehead before thinking better of it. His pager beeps and Hannibal sighs, putting the chart back on its holder. Will stirs a little, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t wake.
The page ends up being a patient demanding to speak to him, despite perfectly capable nurses being available to administer pain medication. The patient has also diagnosed himself with multiple cancers and mental disorders. Hannibal listens patiently, offers more tests, only for Jeremy Olmstead to decide he does not need tests, and instead would like to be discharged. It’s a painfully boring exchange and Hannibal is able to convince him to get back in bed and continue treatment.
“I’m a real estate agent, you know,” Jeremy says haughtily. “I can get you a real good deal on a house if you’re in the market for a vacation home. A surgeon like you… bet you got a lot of money. You married?”
“No,” Hannibal says mildly. “But if you have a business card, I will keep you in mind.”
He is more than willing to dig through his things to hand Hannibal a business card. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat at Hannibal.
“But of course, the pleasure is all mine.”
Hannibal’s shift is almost over and Will should be waking up any moment now, so he makes his way back to Will’s room. Much to his annoyance, it looks like Will has woken up without him, but he has the excuse of checking on his patient before his shift ends. “Oh, good, Dr. Lecter, you’re here. Officer Graham is up now,” the nurse says to him in the hallway outside the room. “He’s pretty groggy but I figured you’d want to do the check in.”
“Thank you,” Hannibal says, inclining his head. “How long has he been up?”
“A few minutes, maybe, I got him some water and then said I’d go get the doctor. He’s all yours.”
Hannibal smiles. No one knows just how true that will be. He steps inside and his eyes sweep over Will’s body in the bed. Will’s blinks are slow and heavy as he takes in Hannibal, licking his dry lips. “Am I gonna live?” he rasps weakly, a sardonic smile playing on his face.
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal replies. “I’m Doctor Lecter. You are extraordinarily lucky, I would say.”
“I don’t feel lucky.” His voice is thick and rough from the intubation during surgery. He reaches out with his left hand to get the water and Hannibal beats him to it. Will glares at him, but Hannibal notices Will is looking at his chin. “Thanks,” he mutters, begrudging, and sips from the straw.
“I hope the pain is not too bad. Please don’t hesitate to use the morphine drip.” He sets the water back down. “I could go into excruciating detail about your surgery but the important thing is you will make a full recovery, provided you follow through with physical therapy.”
Will grunts in response and closes his eyes, tipping his head back on the pillow. “Can I go home? I have dogs, they need to be let out and fed.” Hannibal notices a syrupy drawl in Will’s voice. Beverly was right, then, that Will is from New Orleans.
“Unfortunately, Will, you have to stay here at least a week. Being shot in the chest is not for the fainthearted. I trust you have someone who can take care of them? Perhaps your friend Beverly?”
Will’s eyes narrow suspiciously, gaze firmly planted on Hannibal’s ear. “How do you know Beverly?”
“She’s your emergency contact. She was very concerned for your wellbeing.”
A flush creeps up on Will’s neck and cheeks. “Oh.” His eyes cast downward. “I didn’t think they’d call her.”
Hannibal smiles and clasps his hands behind his back. “You must be tired, so I will let you rest. And let Beverly know you’re awake and she can visit you.”
He turns to leave, and then Will speaks up again. “Wait,” he calls. Hannibal turns and tilts his head, curious. Listening. “Can you ask her to watch my dogs? She knows where the spare key is. And if she can bring the… stuff on my desk. She’ll know what it is.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
Will fidgets for a moment. “Maybe something to eat?” he asks hopefully.
Oh, Will. Hannibal smiles again. “I will be sure to pass on the message.” Will smiles sleepily at him and closes his eyes again.
Hannibal looks at his watch. Will lives over an hour away and Beverly will have to go there and back; food will simply take too long to get to him so he must take it into his own hands.
He dials Beverly as he leaves Will’s room. She picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” comes the slightly suspicious answer.
“Hello, Miss Katz. It’s Dr. Lecter. Will is awake now. He asked if you would feed and let out his dogs and bring some items on his desk. He assured me you knew what they were.”
Beverly lets out a loud breath. “Oh, that’s good to hear he’s awake. He lives all the way out in Wolf Trap so I won’t be back for at least two hours. Will he be okay until then? Is he in a lot of pain?”
“I assure you Miss Katz, he is in good hands. He isn’t going anywhere, so don’t feel the need to rush.”
“Yeah, okay,” Beverly says, sounding a little defeated. “I’ll have to miss class but I think they’ll understand. Thank you, Dr. Lecter. For the call, for saving Will’s life, all that. I’m sure Baltimore PD will send you something nice.”
“There is no need. I was only doing my job.” Getting more time with Will is all Hannibal wants or needs from the Baltimore PD. Beverly thanks him again and hangs up. When he passes by Will’s room again, he’s asleep, so he quietly clocks out and hurries to his car. His house is close to Johns Hopkins. Hannibal finds the convenience of the commute worth living so close to the Baltimore city center.
He has leftover homemade sausage, which will be perfect for a protein scramble. Will needs his strength to heal from a gunshot wound. Hospital food is mediocre, at best, and Will is his patient so Hannibal takes responsibility for his recovery. Hospital food will not help his recovery. After adding fresh herbs and vegetables to the scramble, Hannibal packs it away in a to-go container and an insulated bag so it stays warm enough.
When he returns to the hospital, no one inquires why he’s here past his shift, or why he is taking a lunch bag to Will Graham’s room. Will is still asleep when Hannibal enters, so he quietly unpacks the food to put on a table. Will must sense a presence in the room because he stirs, groaning softly in his sleep. His face scrunches in pain as he shifts. His morphine release button dangles limply from his hand and Hannibal revels in the beauty of Will’s pain for a moment before stepping forward and pressing the button himself.
“Dr. Lecter?” Will slurs sleepily.
“Hello, Will.”
“What smells so good? Am I dying?”
Hannibal straightens up Will’s IV drip. He gives Will an amused smile. “I took the liberty of bringing you breakfast. Beverly will not be here for some time, and you are my patient. Your wellbeing is of utmost importance to me.”
Will snorts a laugh, eyes closed again and head resting back against the pillows. “What’s on the menu?”
“Protein scramble. Some eggs, some sausage.”
Will sits up straighter, scenting the air and chewing on his lip. Hannibal smiles privately, turning away to pick up the container and utensils. Will murmurs a thanks as he takes it, poking the food gingerly with a fork for a moment before digging in. His eyes close, and his shoulders relax. “It’s delicious,” he says. “Where’d you get it?”
“I made it myself.”
“For me?”
“As I said, you are my patient. It is my responsibility to make sure you are well. You were shot in the chest; I did not think hospital cafeteria food was conducive to your recovery.”
Will continues to cast his eyes downward, focusing on his food rather than looking at Hannibal. When he does look up, clearing his throat to speak, he focuses on Hannibal’s cheek. “Don’t you have other patients?”
“My shift is over. I wanted to get you something hearty to eat before leaving you to the whims of another doctor.” Hannibal would much rather stay and tend to Will himself, but the hospital would never allow it. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”
Will laughs a little to himself, eyes closing as he tips his head back against his pillow. “Eyes are distracting,” he says quietly. His voice is still hoarse from intubation during surgery. “See too much, don’t see enough.” He cracks one eye open and locks it onto Hannibal. It’s the first time they’ve made eye contact. “And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking if those whites are really white or they must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein? So I try to avoid eye contact. Whenever possible.” Both eyes close again and his breathing gets shallow.
Hannibal gets up and removes the bowl of half-eaten eggs from Will’s lap and sets it aside, then adjusts his blankets. He will be in and out of consciousness for probably the next day or so, with the morphine drip and lingering anaesthetic. “Sleep well, Will,” Hannibal says quietly, and gets up from the uncomfortable plastic chair.
Hannibal has never met such a remarkable person. His mind whirs with who Will Graham is, what he is. He’s still cloudy and fuzzy from surgery but in their brief eye contact, even with Will’s barely-open eye, he could see fire behind those eyes. Dormant darkness, mirroring Hannibal’s own.
***
Hannibal tries not to feel disappointed that he isn’t paged by staff during his off-day. It’s good that Will didn’t need him; if he did, it would have meant he was bleeding internally or externally. And that would mean Hannibal made a mistake somewhere in his surgery. Hannibal does not make mistakes.
When he arrives for the graveyard shift, it’s not immediately dire that Hannibal scrub in for any surgeries, so he decides to check in on Will. He expects him to be asleep, but he’s awake, with the bed table turned so it’s over his lap and he has an open text book. He’s wearing glasses now, which he has perched low on the bridge of his nose. “Hello, Will. I take it Beverly brought your things,” Hannibal says pleasantly.
Will starts a little, clearly absorbed in what he’s doing. He turns to look at Hannibal, readjusting his glasses to make sure the frames block his vision. “Might as well catch up on work while I’m bedbound.” Curiously, the southern drawl that Hannibal had taken note of earlier is now almost entirely gone; he has picked up a clipped, more neutral accent. Nearly mimicking Hannibal’s own speech pattern.
“As your doctor, I do feel like I should remind you that you need to rest, not work.” The books do not look like police material and Hannibal is admittedly intrigued. What is Will Graham up to?
Will scrubs at his face and grimaces. “This isn’t exactly police business,” he admits. “I’ve been studying insect activity to determine a more accurate time of death. I like to fish in my free time so I’ve been using dead fish, mostly. But my dogs will sometimes bring me dead birds or squirrels so…” He trails off and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about the dead animals I spend too much time looking at.”
Hannibal would very much like to hear more. Most people would shy away from the morbid and macabre but Will is getting closer to it, is fascinated by it. And Hannibal is fascinated by Will. “You forget I’m a surgeon. I have spent my fair share around dead animals.”
“Right,” Will says, sheepish.
“May I?” Hannibal asks, motioning toward the notebooks. Will sweeps his hand out in a ‘go ahead’ gesture, so Hannibal picks up the one Will was working on. It’s mostly scribbled notes, times of death for whatever animal he’s observing, and then what time insect activity starts, plus questions in the margins. It’s quite interesting and Hannibal looks forward to whatever Will publishes.
“I don’t get a lot of fresh human corpses and as a homicide detective I can’t be taking notes on the insects when I should be looking for tangible evidence…” Will says unhappily.
“Why not try to get a grant and dedicate real time to it instead of doing it in your free time?”
Will laughs, bitter, and shakes his head. “The FBI didn’t want me. They’re not going to want my studies, either. At least with this injury I’ll have more time to work on it, since I’m either being put on desk duty or getting fired.”
Hannibal tuts and hands the notebook back to Will. “An officer shot in the line of duty is not a fireable offense, Will.”
“Yeah, well, I also let the suspect get away because I didn’t shoot him. He was pointing a gun right at me. I was pointing a gun right at him. I knew he had killed that girl. And I couldn’t pull the trigger.” He spins a pen in his hand, chewing on his lip. Hannibal can tell this is weighing on him. He doesn’t have any pressing surgeries, so he pulls up one of the guest chairs to sit down.
“Have you ever shot anyone before?” he asks.
The heart rate monitor that had been beeping steadily suddenly ticks up. Hannibal doesn’t react and Will gives no acknowledgement that he’s nervous. “No,” Will says. “Never come face to face with a suspect like that. I’ve drawn my gun but they usually surrender. I don’t know why I clammed up.”
The beeping increases and Will’s eyes flit around again before settling on Hannibal’s coat pocket. Hannibal gently crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap. “You were scared to kill someone.”
Will’s breathing stutters a little and he licks his lips, swallows. His throat clicks. The heart monitor is still elevated, but steady. Hannibal presses on. “It’s only natural to be scared of taking a life. Most people are never in a situation where they might need to do something so drastic.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, now sounding exhausted. He’s closing his textbooks and setting his notebooks aside. “You’re right, I need to rest.” Hannibal gets up and helps Will clear his table so he can get settled. The lack of eye contact before had been unconscious but now Will is very deliberately not looking at him. He’s retreating somewhere into his subconscious and Hannibal wants to pull him back.
“Have you thought about what it’s like to take a life, Will?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You were involved in a traumatic shooting. How does that make you feel?”
“How does that make you feel?” he counters, scowling. “Go away. I’m tired.” Hannibal watches him fumble for the morphine release button. He makes a mental note to lower the dosage on Will’s chart. Enough medication to take the edge off but keep him alert so Hannibal can continue to ask him questions.
“Please don’t hesitate to page me if you need anything else,” he says as he strides across the room. “Enjoy your evening.”
***
A typical evening in the ER has Hannibal usually in back-to-back surgeries. It’s a quieter night tonight so he does his rounds, updates paperwork, and retires to his office to access some medical records. Will has only lived in the area for a short time and he has no idea where he was treated before this, but there’s a chance the hospitals use the same systems and Hannibal can see his medical history. He has no such luck, of course, other than the basics he already saw on Will’s chart and an allergy to cedar.
A search for police officers in the New Orleans area proves slightly more fruitful. Old public records of salaries for public servants, an old photo of his graduating police academy class, and a few articles here and there of homicide investigations. The standard police boilerplate responses. Searching in Baltimore is even less helpful, as Will hasn’t been here long. He would have noticed him on Tattlecrime, Hannibal is sure of it, but he scrolls through the blog anyway.
Nothing. He hadn’t expected to find an entire biography on Will Graham but he had hoped to find a little more. The murders he’s solved aren’t particularly interesting - robberies gone wrong, gang-related shootings, and domestic disputes. There’s already an article about the shooting from a few days ago, no names released other than the suspect, who is still at large. Hannibal stares at the man’s picture; he probably isn’t even in the state anymore since he’s now an attempted cop-killer, but Hannibal is sure he could find him.
Find him, and feed him to Will.
His pager beeps and Hannibal glances down. Not Will, but he wasn’t expecting that at this hour. His other patients are simply tiresome. Hannibal has theories about Will but he would need to ask a few more questions. He definitely did not seem willing to answer a few hours ago, but maybe some sleep will do him some good. He might have a looser tongue if he thinks he will get more pain management out of it.
When he arrives at Will’s room to check on him in the early morning, he finds that Will is not alone. A police officer is at his bedside to take his statement. Hannibal quickly has to bury the anger he feels at not being informed someone was here to talk to Will. He would have put a stop to it. Instead, he gently pushes open the door.
Will is agitated, Hannibal can tell, and the officer taking his statement looks like he would rather be doing anything else. “Hello Will,” Hannibal says. “Who is your friend?”
“Officer Roth,” the man says before Will can even speak. “You must be his doctor. Apologies for the early call, but you know how it is. Got the media breathing down our necks, demanding answers.”
Will looks displeased. Hannibal smiles internally. “He’s been through a traumatic injury. He needs rest, not an interrogation.” Hannibal can finesse answers out of Will. This Officer Roth is too clumsy, too aggressive with Will’s psyche to understand him. Hannibal can handle him with the care and understanding he needs. “Unfortunately I am going to have to ask you to leave.”
“With all due respect, doctor, this is a police investigation.” Roth stands, putting a hand on Will’s shoulder. Will swivels his head, looking at the hand with abject horror on his face. Roth squeezes and Will winces; it probably pulled on his stitches. Hannibal’s fingers twitch in his coat pocket, briefly thinking he could drive a pen through Roth’s eye and Will probably wouldn’t even be upset about it.
“With all due respect, Officer Roth, this is a hospital, and Will is my patient. He will answer questions when he is well,” Hannibal says tersely. “Of course, if you have a business card, I will call you and let you know when it is appropriate to return.”
Roth scowls, giving Will’s shoulder another tight squeeze in anger and Hannibal sees the flash of violence in Will’s eyes, just for a moment. He wants to bite Roth and what a sight that would be. To watch Will rip Officer Roth’s fingers off one by one with his teeth. He would be marvelous. Hannibal smiles politely at Roth, thinking about how he’d look with a bloody stump for a hand instead as he hands over his business card.
“This isn’t over, Graham,” Roth threatens. “I’ll be back with a subpoena if I have to. You will answer for this.” He glares at Hannibal as he stalks out, door slamming behind him. Will rolls his eyes.
“I fuckin’ hate cops,” he mutters. His jello sits abandoned on the side table and Will makes a reach for it, but Hannibal gets it first and opens it for him.
“And yet you’re one of them,” Hannibal teases. Will rolls his eyes again as he scoops jello into his mouth. It’s not something Hannibal made for him, much to his chagrin, but at least he provided something by opening it for Will. It pleases him to watch Will eat something he helped provide.
“I wanted to solve murders and put bad guys away, Roth wants to be a bully,” Will says through his jello. “We’re not the same.”
Hannibal sits in the now unoccupied chair, crossing his legs. “And yet, when you had the chance to get a bad guy, you let him get away.”
Will recoils as if he’s been hit. The heart rate monitor ticks up. “I didn’t let him get away. He shot me,” he says indignantly. “Same thing I told Roth.”
“Of course,” Hannibal says, showing his palms. “You ‘clammed up’ as you said. Why were you so nervous, Will?”
“Dr. Lecter, please don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”
“I am merely trying to understand. We’re bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.” Hannibal leans in. “Were you afraid to shoot?”
Will’s heart is hammering, according to the heart rate monitor. Hannibal wishes every person he talked to had one; it would be much easier to find out where to poke and prod.
“No,” Will hisses. “I’m not afraid of shooting someone.”
“Were you afraid of killing someone?”
“No.”
“Tell me, Will. Why couldn’t you shoot that man?”
Will closes his eyes, swallows. When he opens them, he makes eye contact with Hannibal. The heart rate monitor slowly starts going to a normal pattern. Will’s heart is soon beating in time with Hannibal’s. “I saw how much he wanted to kill me. It made me want to kill him. It scared me, how much I wanted him to die. Judge, jury, executioner. I hesitated and in that split second he shot me.”
“It feels good to do bad things to bad people,” Hannibal says simply. “He is a murderer. Objectively, you would have been making the world a safer place.” Will is still looking intently and his heart rate is still steady, calm. As if he is using Hannibal’s own calm demeanor to relax himself. Hannibal’s breath hitches; what a remarkable boy Will is.
“Isn’t that against your oath? ‘Do no harm’? If—if he had showed up here with a bullet hole in his chest, you would have saved his life.”
“Correct. And I would have still saved your life if you had shot that man. If you had been the murderer—” Will takes a shuddering breath, closing his eyes tightly and breaking eye contact. As if he’s steeling himself for a slap around the face. Hannibal presses on. “If you had been the murderer I would have given you the same treatment.”
“Don’t,” Will grits out. He sounds weary. “Please don’t.” When he opens his eyes again, they’re hazy and far off. He’s retreated somewhere Hannibal can’t follow. “I need to do some walking. You have other patients. I can handle myself.”
Hannibal stands, deciding Will has had enough for now. When he isn’t so raw, Hannibal would like to know more about what he suspects might be an empathy disorder. There was no mention of a diagnosis on Will’s charts. Will hardly notices Hannibal’s departure, instead opting to stare at the opposite wall and ignore anything else Hannibal says.
Mildly irritated, Hannibal closes the door with more force than necessary. Will Graham’s rudeness would be unbecoming on anyone else. Instead, Hannibal wants to cradle Will’s skull and thumb over every ridge and bone. He wants to learn his secrets and consume his thoughts. They would taste divine, Hannibal thinks, like sanguinaccio dolce.
Maybe he will make some and bring it to Will the next time he sees him.
***
The sanguinaccio dolce keeps fairly well in the insulated container, so when Hannibal arrives at the ER for the start of his shift, he can set it in his office’s personal mini fridge. He is technically not allowed to have one but he is not going to be putting anything he’s spent the time making at his own home in a communal fridge, for anyone to see or eat.
He has surgeries to tend to so he can only walk by Will’s room and check through the window to see how he’s doing. However, as he passes, he realizes Will is not in his bed. It doesn’t look like anyone has been there at all. Hannibal detours to the front desk. “Where is Will Graham?” he asks.
The bored-looking nurse barely glances up at him as she types in Will’s name. “Discharged this morning,” she deadpans. “Signed off by Doctor Chapman.”
“Did she leave a note?” Hannibal, obviously, could not stay for days to watch over Will. He didn’t expect Will to go over his head and find a doctor who would discharge him in his state.
The nurse clicks away on the keyboard a few times. “Just that patient requested to go home and the examination confirmed that he was well enough,” she says. Hannibal’s fingers twitch around his pen in his pocket. It’s not this nurse’s fault that Will is no longer here. Anyone who was on that shift has probably gone home by now, so there is no one here to answer to Hannibal.
“Thank you,” he says tersely. “Please schedule Mr. Graham for a check up with me in a week. He will need his stitches out.”
With that, Hannibal turns on his heel and heads to his office. His surgery can wait five minutes. After straightening his pens and notebooks on his desk in an attempt to regain control of himself, he picks up his phone.
“Hello. I am calling with some concerns about one of your officers.”
***
Hannibal doesn’t know what will come of an investigation into Will Graham. He called anonymously, hiding his office number before dialing the Baltimore PD. He kept it vague, of course, worrying about Will’s mental fitness to be an officer. On top of the unfavorable press coverage around the officer-involved shooting, a complaint about Will might send them over the edge.
He had been angry, of course, that Will was discharged before he allowed it. He had been setting it up so nicely to gain Will’s trust and show him just how much he understands, and then Will slipped through his fingers. Doctor Chapman, of course, is untouchable while they are colleagues. She is too close to Hannibal and it would be too easy to link Will Graham between them. Will would be suspicious, with his sharp eyes and eidetic memory. Hannibal can’t show his hand like that to Will, not yet.
Instead he eats the sanguinaccio dolce himself and tries not to think about if Will would have liked it. Would he have been able to taste the blood? Hannibal should have cooked him more meals while he was in the hospital but working overnight meant Will was asleep for much of his shift. Hannibal finds himself thinking about Will being free from the Baltimore PD, to study his insects. He could give Will a fresh corpse. He couldn’t know it was from Hannibal, of course, otherwise he would never be able to publish his work. What a waste of a mind it would be, for Will Graham to never share what he’s worked so hard on.
Will, at least, does his pre-appointment questionnaire and confirms when the hospital calls to remind him of his appointment. Hannibal will get to see him again, and hopefully keep him coming back for physical therapy. It’s an early morning appointment, toward the end of Hannibal’s shift, so unless a trauma patient gets rushed in at the last minute, he plans on taking his time removing Will’s stitches.
In the waiting room, Will is dressed as a civilian, in a flannel button-up and ratty-looking coat. He has a sling to keep his arm from pulling at the healing muscle. His hair is unruly and curling around his ears. Hannibal is quite pleased to see him upright, if unhappy that he had to make an hour drive for something he could go to his local urgent care for.
“Will, welcome back,” Hannibal says amiably. “If you would follow me.” Will ambles behind him, a stormy mood hanging over his head. Hannibal leads to an open examination room and instructs Will to take his shirt off. He turns to pretend he is very engrossed in the charts that he pulled up on the computer so he doesn’t stare openly; he can still watch Will undress in the corner of his eye.
“How is the pain? Range of motion?”
“Sore most days, still limited,” Will says gruffly. Hannibal deftly starts manipulating Will’s shoulder near the gunshot wound, earning a grunt and a wince. The scar is star-shaped and pink, slightly raised where the stitches are threaded through his skin. The exit wound is larger and more jagged where Hannibal tried his best to minimize the scarring.
“I hope you have been resting. Not working too hard while you’re on desk duty,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. He turns to get his tweezers so he can start pulling the stitches out and notices Will’s face has turned from tired, a little exasperated, to downright irritated.
“I’m on administrative leave, actually,” he grumbles. “Someone took it upon themselves to complain about my mental capabilities. I’m currently under investigation and had a psych eval, which I soundly failed.”
Hannibal schools his face to be as neutral as possible. He did not expect Baltimore PD to act so quickly and for Will to fail so beautifully at his psychiatric evaluation. He had hoped, of course, but he expected it to take months. “That is unfortunate. I’m sorry, Will.”
Will heaves out a great breath that ruffles his bangs. “You didn’t do anything,” he says, shoulders slumping a little. “Roth is a bastard, he’s been out to get me since I transferred. Why he was sent to question me is beyond me.”
“Officer Roth was behind this?” Hannibal starts slowly pulling at the stitches, a broad hand wrapping easily around Will’s arm to keep him from squirming.
“Who else?” Will scoffs. “He’s finally rid of me, I guess. I’m not sticking around til the end of this investigation. Might as well take my workers’ comp and get the fuck outta dodge. Go back to fixing boat motors in the gulf.”
The thought of allowing Will’s wondrous mind to atrophy in motor oil and grease has Hannibal so stricken for a moment that he accidentally nicks Will with his sharp tweezers.
“Ow, fuck,” he grunts.
“Apologies, Will,” Hannibal says, getting a disinfectant wipe to clean up the small bead of blood. “Forgive me for overstepping, but you do not seem like someone to give up so easily. You are a talented homicide detective, surely there is a place for you somewhere.”
Will’s smile in response is a little sad and he shrugs his good shoulder. “I’m not giving up. I’m getting the message that I don’t belong here.”
Hannibal tuts and gets the last of the stitches in the front out. “Now that I do not believe,” he says, cleaning his tweezers. He walks around the exam table where Will is sitting so he can work on the exit wound stitches. Hannibal will take his time; he needs to figure out how to make Will stay in the area instead of moving back to Louisiana. His wheels are already turning with who owes him favors and can somehow get him a second chance at the FBI.
“I appreciate your faith in me, Dr. Lecter,” Will says. “Sometimes shit just doesn’t work out. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Hannibal resists the urge to card his fingers through Will’s fine hair and rest his palm against his nape. Will’s neck is so delicate, Hannibal thinks, that he could snap it with ease. He almost sighs wistfully at the idea of holding Will’s skull in his hands. “If you could humor me, Will, I’ve never been so close to homicide before. How do you solve a murder?”
Will laughs a little, clearly taken aback by the abrupt subject change. “I look at the evidence. I interpret it.” He shifts a little on the examination table. “Witness statements and all that. You’ve seen crime shows, haven’t you?”
Hannibal can’t help his soft chuckle. Will is being vague on purpose and Hannibal sees right through him. He gets the last of the stitches and straightens up. “When you are at a crime scene, what do you see?” he asks, tossing his tweezers to the side and peeling off his latex gloves.
He can see Will swallow from the corner of his eye. “I see the motive,” he says quietly. His eyes close. “I see what they intended.”
“What who intended?” Electricity thrums through Hannibal’s veins. The puzzle pieces are slotting together as he completes his internal profile of Will Graham. It can really only mean one thing, but he needs to hear Will say it. He needs Will to confirm his suspicions.
Will licks his lips, adjusts his glasses. A nervous tic, Hannibal has noticed. “What the suspect intended,” he breathes. He rubs the back of his neck. “Their design.”
“You empathize with the killer?” Hannibal asks.
“No!” Will barks, then his cheeks turn a lovely shade of red. “No,” he says, quieter. “That makes me sound like some kind of monster, I don’t empathize with—with murderers. I can figure out their motive and work backwards from there.”
What a beautiful monster Will would be, Hannibal thinks. “When we are children, we have mirror neurons to help us socialize. Eventually, they melt away,” he explains. “For some people, they never do. You reflect those around you, pick up their speaking patterns, their facial expressions, and even their motives.” Will looks stricken by what Hannibal is saying, so he presses on. “Pure empathy. You can take on any point of view, even the dregs of society.”
“I didn’t ask for a diagnosis,” Will snarls, shrugging his flannel back on and starting to button. “In fact, I have specifically avoided a—a diagnosis. So you can take your medical degree and shove it.”
“Will,” Hannibal warns. “It is truly a remarkable gift. The FBI would be lucky to have you.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to them,” Will says, and then slams the examination room door behind him.
***
Hannibal continues to make sure Will is scheduled for physical therapy, but doesn’t make any direct appointments with him. He can’t make Will spend time with him, not when he is so slow to trust, but he can at least keep an eye on him and know that he hasn’t left for Louisiana yet.
It takes many calls and a dinner party, but Hannibal gets a meeting with the Behavioral Analysis Unit for the FBI. He knows he will never be able to get Will into the FBI, but Quantico needs teachers and they are very interested in Will’s insects and decay study. He was able to recreate the few pages he saw to get them interested and prove it’s real. Will is going to resign before he’s officially fired from the Baltimore PD, so the failed psych evaluation hopefully won’t be on his background check.
His plan is falling into place; he just needs to bide his time. Will has to come to him now. He will immediately suspect Hannibal had something to do with it, when the FBI reaches out to him. Hannibal will deny it, of course, and convince Will he got it on merit or perhaps he has friends in the Baltimore PD after all. Will does belong here and he belongs to Hannibal, even if he’s unaware of it.
He doesn’t have to wait terribly long for Will to come to him. Nearly a month after Will’s stitches come out, there is a knock at his office door. He can practically smell the atrocious aftershave through the door. Hannibal is not one to call out come in like he was raised by wolves, so he gets up to open the door. Will does not even greet him when he stalks in. “Well, come in,” Hannibal sighs. Will’s lack of manners still rankles him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Will half-shouts. “Why did I get a call from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the fucking FBI offering to fund my study in exchange for teaching a few classes at Quantico? How the hell did you manage that?” His hands are on his hips as he stares at Hannibal, glasses nowhere to be seen.
“I assure you, Will, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hannibal says mildly. “Perhaps it was Beverly? She has seen what you’ve been working on, and certainly has more contacts at the FBI than I do.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Dr. Lecter, you’re terrible at it,” Will sneers. “Super special empathy powers, remember?”
“You seem upset by this.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.” He collapses into one of Hannibal’s chairs and puts his head in his hands. “Beverly has never looked at any of my notebooks, hasn’t read anything. When they called me, they had specific information. Only you have looked at it. It doesn’t take a detective to figure that one out.”
Hannibal leans against his desk across from Will. “I apologize for overstepping. I was upset by your investigation and thought I was helping. If you’d like, I can make another call and reject the job for you.”
Will’s head snaps up. “What? No!” Hannibal feels something akin to warmth spread in his chest. He is quite fond of Will. He so badly wants the thing that Hannibal has handed to him on a silver platter, but he is too humble to take it without a fight. “I want the job,” Will admits quietly. “I just wish you would have looped me in on it.”
“You would have said no.”
Will scrubs his face. “Yes. I would have,” he sighs. He sits up in the chair and leans against the back, exposing the long line of his throat. Hannibal indulges himself and stares since Will’s eyes are closed. His arterial spray would be beautiful, if it ever came to that. If Hannibal showed him what he was and Will rejected it.
Hannibal cannot allow that to happen. He circles his desk to sit down and pulls out a notepad. He found a reputable doctor near Wolf Trap so Will wouldn’t have to make the hour-long trek to Johns Hopkins for his physical therapy and any more follow-ups for his injury. He writes down the name and number and slides it across the desk.
“What’s this?” Will asks.
“A referral to a doctor closer to you. I figured it would be more convenient.”
“You’re firing me as your patient.”
Hannibal wants to smile at the indignation in Will’s voice. He is offended that Hannibal would pass him off to anyone else. He understands that Hannibal is the only one who can treat him properly. Will is truly remarkable. “I would like to celebrate your job offer,” Hannibal says instead of responding to Will. “If you would join me for dinner. I’d be honored to cook for you.”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate, Dr. Lecter,” Will says warily. He’s still looking at the notepaper Hannibal handed him. “I’m still your patient.”
“If you take my referral, you no longer are,” Hannibal replies. “And you can just call me Hannibal. God forbid we become friendly.”
“I don’t find you that interesting.” He pockets the referral and stands up. Hannibal mirrors him, hoping to walk Will out, but instead, Will starts wandering over to the wall where Hannibal has his credentials hung. There’s a small stag statue on a display table underneath the frames and Will inspects it, running his fingers over the brass. “This is the most effort anyone has ever gone to get me to go on a date with them.”
“Who said anything about a date?” Hannibal very deliberately did not try to have romantic undertones when he asked Will to dinner. “It is merely a dinner.” He joins Will at the statue and puts his hands in his pockets. “Consider it an apology, if you must.”
Will looks like he’s struggling with his answer, refusing to look at Hannibal and becoming very engrossed in the antlers. “Consider my attendance a thank you, then, for the job. And the whole saving my life thing.”
Hannibal smiles, pleased. He had not been expecting his manipulations to fall so perfectly into place and he is very much looking forward to his dinner date with Will Graham.
Notes:
This is my first hannigram fic and I'm not entirely pleased with it but please be nice ;~;
Next chapter: the date and we earn our E rating ;)
Chapter Text
Between Hannibal’s demanding surgery schedule and a hard-to-pin-down Will Graham, their dinner plans end up taking a few weeks to come into fruition. It gives Hannibal plenty of time to plan the menu and procure ingredients, at least, and he’s quite pleased with what he has planned. Will is not one to be terribly responsive to text messages and even less so to phone calls, as Hannibal discovers, and Hannibal is not someone who begs for attention. He tamps down the urge to punish Will.
He could cook some of Will’s food on a cedar plank just to see what would happen, but intentionally poisoning Will would not be conducive to him returning for more dinners. Will had responded so wonderfully to the protein scramble and Hannibal is looking forward to watching him eat the things he’s made again. Heart tartare for an appetizer, nestled in flaky pastry. Leg, for dinner, with a side of risotto. And of course, a meal is not complete without dessert, so Hannibal has bread pudding warming in the oven.
Will should be arriving any moment and most of the food is ready, so Hannibal changes from his apron and gets his suit jacket back on. He imagines Will knowing what he’s eating and wanting more, wanting to provide the meat himself. A knock on the door pulls Hannibal out of his reverie and he crosses the foyer to answer. Will Graham stands at his doorway, hair brushed back off his forehead, no glasses, and a solid button-up rather than the plaid he has seen him in. His hand is wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. He’s still in the ratty jacket, but Hannibal figures it’s the only one he has.
“Welcome, Will,” Hannibal says, stepping aside to let him in. The atrocious aftershave wafts into the foyer, but there’s an undercurrent of cologne and something citrusy that might be deodorant. “May I take your coat?”
“Oh, hell, I’m underdressed, aren’t I?” he says with a grimace, sliding out of his coat. “I brought wine. I, uh, was told it was only polite.” Hannibal takes both Will’s jacket and the bottle of wine.
He smiles at Will. “This is a fine wine,” he says. It’s not in a plastic bottle, at least. “And don’t be silly, you’re dressed just fine. I happen to overdress.”
After Hannibal hangs up Will’s coat, he leads him into the kitchen. Will looks around curiously, hands shoved into his pockets. “Nice place,” is his only observation.
“I spent much of my life with very little,” Hannibal explains. “I wanted to surround myself with the things I am most passionate about. Art, books, and of course, cooking.”
“This looks like a kitchen from a cooking show,” Will says when he enters. “I don’t even have a dishwasher.”
“When I bought the house, I had the entire kitchen redesigned to my liking. I am very careful with what I put in my body so I often make all my meals. I needed a kitchen that could handle being used frequently.”
“I sleep in my living room.”
“Are you going to keep self-deprecating or are we going to have a conversation, like adults?” Hannibal smiles at Will again, whose cheeks have gone red. “There are appetizers if you are hungry. Heart tartare tarts. Dinner should be ready shortly.”
Will eyes the tarts; he doesn’t seem suspicious or wary of them. He picks one up and pops it into his mouth. Hannibal tries not to stare at the way Will chews and swallows, the way his eyes look around and take in all his surroundings. “Would you like a drink? Some wine, perhaps?” Hannibal asks, already pulling out some glasses.
“That’d be great, thanks,” Will says, another tart already between his thumb and forefinger. “Is this actual heart?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t use the wine Will brought and instead goes for a favorite in his wine pantry, one that will pair better with dinner. “Do you like it?”
Will is already eating another tart and Hannibal is pleased. He sets a glass of wine down in front of him and raises his own. “To new jobs and friendships,” Hannibal says.
Will raises his glass with a slightly crooked smile. He’s at ease, which is what Hannibal wanted. His glasses are left at home or in a pocket somewhere so obviously Will doesn’t feel the need to use them as a buffer. “I’ve never had tartare anything before,” Will admits once they’ve taken their respective sips. “Sashimi, a little, in Louisiana but I’m not a big restaurant go-er. This is already the fanciest meal I’ve ever had.”
Hannibal pictures Will, just a few years ago, tanned and sweaty in New Orleans, barefoot on the docks as he fishes. A boy who has always provided his own food grown into a man who finds comfort in catching his own meals. “I’m happy to provide,” Hannibal says. “We will be eating in the dining room, if you would like to help set the table.” He can tell Will is not used to being catered to, and he needs to give him a task before he starts getting uncomfortable.
Will nods and after Hannibal points out where the silverware and decorative plates are, he goes into the dining room to set the table. Hannibal pulls the main course out of the oven and begins plating them meticulously. Will has not returned from the dining room when Hannibal is finished. He picks up both completed plates and enters the dining area to find Will standing at the mantle that a painting is mounted above.
“Something got your attention?” Hannibal asks, putting the plates down on the table. Will continues to stare at the painting and takes a sip of wine. He is lost in thought. Hannibal clears his throat.
Will jerks in surprise and whips his head around to look at Hannibal. “Didn’t hear you come in,” he mutters. He turns back to the painting. “Interesting choice of dining room decor, Dr. Lecter.”
“Painted by François Boucher around 1740 or so. And please, call me Hannibal.”
“Leda and the Swan. Zeus raped Leda and she bore Helen of Troy in an egg.”
“Only in some iterations. In others it was completely consensual and there were no eggs. There is another version, a da Vinci replica, at the Galleria degli Uffizi in Florence, Italy that I am quite fond of. Spent much of my twenties studying the art in that gallery.”
Will takes another sip of wine and tears his eyes away from the painting. “You’re from Italy?” he asks with a tilt of his head. “You don’t sound Italian.”
Hannibal gestures to the table so they can sit down and eat rather than just stand around and stare at the painting. He tops Will’s wine off then unbuttons his suit jacket as he takes a seat. Will shifts a little awkwardly. He’s outside his comfort zone. “I am from Lithuania. Spent my formative years in Paris, and lived in Florence for my studies.”
Will absorbs that knowledge with a nod as he chews the inside of his cheek. “You must not have guests over often, a painting like that would cause quite a stir.”
“I often have people for dinner. No one has ever commented on it before you,” Hannibal replies lightly.
“That’s surprising,” Will says with a slight laugh. His eyes light up in amusement and Hannibal finds himself enamored. “What’s for dinner?”
“Ossco Buco. Veal shank braised in wine and broth. Served with risotto. Eat, while it’s still warm.” Will doesn’t hesitate to begin eating and Hannibal watches fondly for a few moments before picking up his own fork.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had veal,” Will says thoughtfully after a few bites. “Tastes a lot different than beef.” He closes his eyes, clearly savoring the flavor. Hannibal can’t help the small smile on his face.
“It’s all in the braising. The bone marrow especially adds extra flavor.” Another bite, another sip of wine. “How is the search for the man who shot you?”
Will sighs and shrugs one shoulder. “It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth,” he says. “An APB was sent out and it’s been crickets. He wasn’t exactly a criminal mastermind so he’s probably being hidden by family members or something. In between all the administrative bullshit with handing in my resignation and workers’ comp I really haven’t had time to think about what he’s up to.”
“Let us hope he stays away,” Hannibal says. He knows that he will never bother anyone again, and Will is safe from him, but he would rather police resources be poured into looking for a man they’ll never find rather than anything Hannibal is doing. “Tell me, Will, where are you from?”
Will grimaces a little and takes another long pull of wine. “I was born in Biloxi. Resort city in Mississippi, but we didn’t live there very long. Not really from anywhere I guess if we never spent long in any one city. At one point we were in Erie, Pennsylvania, which was probably the biggest city I lived in as a kid before New Orleans. My dad followed where work was and he was a boat mechanic so it was a lot dragging me around the coast.”
“Your mother?”
“Never knew her.” Will shrugs again and then downs the rest of his wine. “It was okay though, we got by. I was a gifted student so despite never finishing the year at the same school I started at I never fell behind.”
Hannibal can see Will, gangly limbs and big eyes that always saw too much. The insects he liked to study and his nose stuck in books rather than socializing with his peers. “Always the new kid,” Hannibal observes.
“Always.”
Will is lonesome. Hannibal sees much of himself in Will. Different from all his peers. Smarter. Cunning. A boy who could talk his way out of any situation, or into any building. He swirls his wine in his glass with a wistful sigh. “How did you get involved in law enforcement, with your disorder?”
“Don’t call it that,” Will snarls. “Makes it—makes it sound like there’s something wrong with me.”
“There is nothing wrong with you. It just seems like an odd choice of profession, given your… gift.”
“That is somehow worse,” Will grumbles. “My dad had a little tube TV with antennae, we could haul it around from trailer park to trailer park. It only got basic cable and I really only watched late at night, after my dad had fallen asleep. And what was on was Unsolved Mysteries, 48 Hours, and Cops.” Will pushes the last dregs of his meal around on the table, eyes cast down. “It’s when I realized I could, uh. You know.”
“Empathize with killers.”
Will winces as if he’s been hit. “Yeah, that.”
Hannibal does not believe in pity or feeling sorry for anyone, and certainly not himself, but there is a twinge of sorrow for Will. He is so repulsed by his own thoughts, appalled by his dreams, he lives in fear of his own mind. Hannibal wants to mold it, help Will see that he has nothing to be afraid of. “It’s an uncomfortable gift. Perception is a tool that’s pointed on both ends.”
“Sure.” Will scrapes marrow out of the bone a little more viciously than is strictly necessary. Hannibal imagines that flash of violence on a body that is still living, scraping someone’s insides while they breathe their last breaths. A glorious sight Will would be. “What about you? What took you from Lithuania to Paris?”
“My parents died when I was young. I had an uncle in Paris who adopted me.” Hannibal is not usually forthcoming about his family, but Will earned it, with his honesty. Will grimaces again, clearly not expecting that kind of answer. “Don’t pity me, Will, I am perfectly alright.”
“I’m not pitying you,” Will says defensively. “Just… empathizing.” He reaches for the wine bottle to pour what’s left of it into his glass. “It’s not like I can turn it off.”
Hannibal imagines that’s why Will never goes to restaurants and doesn’t seem to socialize. Everyone else’s emotions around him would be too overwhelming, too overstimulating. He’d never have peace. Will wants sweet and easy peace and Hannibal knows the only way he will ever achieve that is if he becomes the person he is meant to be. Fierce. Violent. Hungry.
“Would you like dessert?” Hannibal asks. “We could retire to the study and enjoy it.”
Will rubs the back of his neck and checks his watch. “I guess it’s not too late. It’s an hour drive back and all this food is making me sleepy.” He stands to stretch and Hannibal can’t help but watch the long line of Will’s limbs. He doesn’t seem to have full range of motion yet on the side he was shot on; Hannibal hopes he gave Will a decent referral. He is too young to have a stiff shoulder.
He follows Will’s lead and stands up, ushering him back towards the kitchen. “Would you like another glass of wine? Or perhaps whiskey?” He goes to his oven where the bread pudding is warming and pulls it out, leaving it on the island so he can get his hand-whipped cream and chocolate out of the fridge. Will watches intently as Hannibal dollops whipped cream and elegantly shaves chocolate on top of the dessert.
“Wine is alright. I should probably stop drinking if I want to drive home,” Will says, but still holds out his empty-again glass. Hannibal opens another bottle and pours Will another glass. He then picks up the two desserts to lead Will to the study. He doesn’t normally eat here, but he felt the casual nature of it might continue to put Will at ease. Will flops down on the couch with little elegance once he puts his wine down. “I need to get a couch like this.”
Hannibal puts the two plates down on the coffee table. He lets Will get comfortable, opting to start a fire. The glow from the fireplace makes Will look ethereal, like the glow from a Rembrandt. At some point he must have slipped his shoes off because Will is now cross-legged on the couch and digging into the bread pudding. Hannibal can’t help his smile as he sits on the couch next to him, leaving enough space so he’s not crowding Will, but close enough that he’s within touching distance.
Will’s eyes drift to the coffee table where Hannibal has a few books—including an old anatomy tome in German and a collection of erotic paintings from the 18th century and later. He tries to observe Will’s face as he absorbs what he’s seeing. The wheels turn in his wine-slowed mind and then he looks rather amused. “Erotic Art of the Masters,” Will reads aloud. “Now I really don’t believe you have people over.”
“Why is that?”
Will sets his mostly-empty plate down and picks up the rather hefty book. “American sensibilities. This is much too European.” Hannibal raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond; he’d much rather watch Will go through the book himself. “Did you put these out here just so I’d look at them?”
It would have been excellent manipulation to do so. It puts sensuality on Will’s mind and makes him think it was his idea. Hannibal is quite attracted to Will, more so in mind than in body, but that doesn’t mean his physical attributes aren’t also appealing. The soft curls, a permanent flush on his cheeks, and eyes that could be jade or cerulean or turquoise depending on the light. Hannibal gives Will a feline smile and shakes his head, truthful. “I find them to be intriguing pieces of decoration and, admittedly, good conversation starters. Erotic art is hardly out of the ordinary.”
Will snorts a little and pulls the book into his lap to flip through. “They’ve found cave drawings from thousands of years ago depicting sex acts. Humanity has had an obsession with dick drawings since the dawn of time,” he says. Will looks slightly amused at some of the more raunchy paintings included.
Hannibal purses his lips at the crudeness of description. “Erotic art is hardly just dick drawings, Will. Even to the cavemen. Look at the beauty of it, the pleasure depicted. Only in the last fifty years or so have we seen strides in sexual liberation, but for hundreds of years we have been depicting it in art as something desirable. Why is that?”
“I’m not an art historian, Doctor Lect—Hannibal,” Will drawls. “What’s with the anatomy textbook? Pathological need to remind everyone you’re a surgeon?”
He bristles a little at that. Wine makes Will rude. “I am a fan of anatomy in all forms,” Hannibal says with a tight smile. “I can admire insides just as much as I can outsides.” He doesn’t derive sexual pleasure from surgery or organ removal, but it is a routine that is relaxing like making a cup of coffee in the morning. How does Will like his coffee, he wonders. Saccharine sweet or bitter black? If only he could convince Will to stay until morning.
Will continues to thumb through the art book, delicately turning each page. The book is in good condition and it’s not rare, but Hannibal appreciates the way Will is careful with it. His tongue may be vulgar but his hands are deft. He could have made a good surgeon, Hannibal believes. Together, they look at the crude sketches of cunnilingus and beautiful paintings of various sex acts. “Europeans tended to be more liberal about their art,” Will says with a soft chuckle. “American eroticism ended up getting taken to court.”
“Americans are very repressed, yes,” Hannibal agrees. He can feel tension rolling off of Will, closed off and now uncomfortable despite the wine. His face is a little flushed, embarrassed. “Are you repressed, Will?” He knows the violence that runs through Will’s veins bubbles beneath his skin, ready to pour out while Will desperately tries to keep himself in check. He is (was) a police officer after all, afraid to kill a suspect who was ready to kill him because he knew he would enjoy it.
Will barks out a laugh, rubbing at his chest nervously. “Me? Never.”
Hannibal’s mouth curls into a smile. Will might be open to Hannibal grabbing him around his slim waist to haul him into his lap, but Hannibal approaches this as if Will is an easily spooked deer. “Neither am I,” Hannibal says, leaning in a little with a cheeky smile. “You and I are just alike.” His breath gusts over Will’s ear and Hannibal can see his hair flutter over the helix.
He can see the way Will’s breath hitches, the warm scent of arousal permeating ever so slightly through his skin. Hannibal smiles. His fingers brush the shell of Will’s ear ever so slightly as he tucks an errant curl behind it. Will’s adam’s apple bobs with the force of his swallow. “I knew this was a date,” Will breathes, turning his head toward Hannibal.
They’re so close that Hannibal can feel Will’s soft breathing against his face. It’s uncharacteristically gentle for Hannibal, the way he cradles Will’s jaw and rubs a thumb over his lower lip. Will tenses for a moment, like he might bolt, and Hannibal holds on a little tighter. “And yet you still came,” Hannibal says, voice low and smoky.
“I wanted to see what would happen,” Will responds. His voice is hoarse. Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment and pictures his hands around Will’s throat, the way his voice might sound as he begs for air. Instead, he pulls Will forward and closes the few inches of space in between them. Will’s lips are a little chapped and dry and tastes of wine and chocolate from dessert.
The kiss is downright chaste to begin with, as Hannibal gets his bearings to understand what Will likes. He’s a little awkward but doesn’t pull away, keeping his hands in his lap and still holding onto the art book. His stubble scrapes against Hannibal’s chin as the kiss deepens. Will shifts, sliding the book off his lap and trying to twist so they’re facing each other.
Hannibal pulls Will so he’s straddling his lap. Will goes easily, knees bracketed on either side of Hannibal’s thighs. Hannibal can’t help the way his hands roam and grab at every inch of Will’s body that he can reach. He untucks Will’s shirt so he can get his hands on his skin, warmth blooming under his palms. Will fists his hands in Hannibal’s lapels and holds him close as if Hannibal will float away if he lets go.
Touch-starved, desperate boy. Hannibal can’t help his smile against Will’s mouth. Will starts trying to get Hannibal’s suit jacket off, sharp teeth nipping at his mouth. He wants to toss Will across the room, pin him to the floor, and devour him whole. Instead, he pushes against Will’s chest to get him back on the couch and presses him against the cushions. His lips are shiny and swollen, eyes dark as he watches Hannibal stand. His suit jacket is wrinkled where Will’s fingers were twisted into the fabric. He quickly sheds it, along with his waistcoat.
Will is looking at him hungrily. Hannibal can hardly decide what to do to Will Graham first. He would most likely be amenable to anything, if the way he’s mirroring Hannibal’s desire is any indication. An empathy disorder must be difficult to navigate in relationships, Hannibal imagines, always unsure if your own desires and needs are yours or your partner’s. This works in Hannibal’s favor. He works on Will’s belt, roughly tugging his pants down his hips.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Will mutters. “Hannibal.”
He looks up at Will, masking his impatience. “Is something wrong?” Hannibal asks curiously. He will stop if Will wants him to, but he will not be happy. He’s not sure how agreeable Will is going to be for a second dinner together.
“What the fuck are we doing?” Will asks, a little bit of a laugh around his words. His hair falls into his eyes, completely charming Hannibal. He wonders if Will would be agreeable to a gentle haircut from him.
“I was going to fellate you,” Hannibal says matter-of-factly while curling a finger around the waistband of Will’s underwear. Will groans and laughs at the same time, throwing an arm over his eyes. Hannibal cocks his head to the side, questioning.
“You managed to make saying the clinical term for blowjob sound sexy,” he explains breathlessly. He lifts his hips up unconsciously to let Hannibal continue getting his pants and underwear off. He’s already responding so wonderfully to Hannibal’s ministrations and Hannibal is looking forward to just how pliable he can get Will. It will take long, careful manipulation for this becoming.
Will wriggles out of his pants. His erection tents his boxers and Hannibal starts mouthing at it through the cloth. A delicious whine escapes Will’s lips and Hannibal wraps a possessive hand around his hip. Will’s arousal fills Hannibal’s nostrils, warm and spicy. He yanks the underwear down to Will’s thighs and breathes in deep.
“Did you just smell me?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer, and instead slowly laves his tongue over the base of Will’s cock. He will savor this, tasting every inch of Will that he’s allowed. A loud huff escapes Will’s lungs as he shifts a little underneath. Hannibal wraps his hands around the back of Will’s thighs, thumbs digging into the muscle to keep him still. Will’s cock is hot and heavy on Hannibal’s tongue as he presses against the underside.
Will groans, finding Hannibal’s head with his hands, and gingerly threads his fingers through his hair. Hannibal moans in response to encourage Will to take his pleasure as he wants. He hopes to have no barriers or hesitations between them eventually. Will curls his fingers in response, not quite tugging, but holding the strands of Hannibal’s hair firmly. He swallows around Will, earning a gasp in response.
He pulls off, agonizingly slow, and looks up to see Will’s eyes closed and chest heaving. He whines, opening his eyes and attempting to sit up. “Why’d you stop?” he asks, sounding petulant. Of course, despite his empathy and mirror neurons, Will is still a young man and the blood in his brain is fully in his hard cock. Hannibal lets go of Will’s thigh to circle his hand around Will’s shaft and thumbs at his frenulum. It makes Will squirm.
“Patience, dear Will,” Hannibal purrs. He kisses the inside of Will’s thigh, nipping and biting until he’s at the apex, and then lightly sucks Will’s balls into his mouth. Will yelps, this time tugging on Hannibal’s hair sharply.
“Oh, god,” he moans. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last.” His hips start rolling, trying to get more of Hannibal’s mouth on him. Hannibal pulls off with an obscene pop and goes back to licking up Will’s cock broadly. He pinches the base and that makes Will hiss. “Christ.” He’s babbling now, rocking against the couch and trying to guide Hannibal’s head where he wants it.
He feels the head of Will’s cock brush against the soft palate in the back of his throat. Will chokes on a moan, thighs shaking as he tries to hold back. Hannibal wants to take him apart, piece by piece. How lovely he would look utterly debauched in Hannibal’s bed. Will barely stutters out a warning before he’s coming, hot and thick, down Hannibal’s throat. He continues to suck through the last weak pulses of his orgasm, Will practically thrashing underneath him from overstimulation.
When Hannibal pulls away, Will becomes jelly as he slumps onto the couch. “Stay the night,” Hannibal implores. He rubs his thumbs in circles against Will’s thigh.
“My dogs—” Will starts, sounding strangled.
“Will be fine for a night,” Hannibal insists. He kisses where his thumb had been rubbing and Will twitches violently.
They look at each other for a few long moments. Will’s eyes are hazy with lust and alcohol. He shouldn’t drive home anyway. He can see Will’s resolve crumble as he scrubs a hand across his face. Even his indecision is beautiful.
“Okay,” Will finally says. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
Hannibal smirks, nips at the inside of Will’s thigh again, and then stands. Will bashfully tucks himself away but doesn’t bother zipping anything up, leaving the jut of his hipbones exposed. Hannibal can’t wait to wrap bruises around them with his fingers. And maybe, if he’s amenable, around his throat as well. How unstoppable they will be once Will becomes himself.
Notes:
Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it :)
Not that it matters, but for this timeline Hannibal is less than a year out from "killing" a patient and switching to psychiatry and about two years away from Chesapeake Ripping. How long until Will notices?
The other book Hannibal has on his coffee table is Fasciculus Medicinae, which is where Wound Man appears
LVMHi221b on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Jul 2025 01:16PM UTC
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