Chapter Text
"And here we have the producers and showrunners of the hottest new show on NT America: Freddie Lounds and Doctor Frederick Chilton. Welcome!"
"Thanks Amanda." Freddie is a beacon of orange and metal, dressed in a flashy pantsuit the color of burned bronze and gold, a white blouse, her ringlets falling in a heavy mane around her face. She clashes wonderfully with Chilton's lavender and peacock-blue suit. "Happy to be here."
Amanda, the host, smiles at them. She tucks a strand of her long brown hair from her face and leans on the white interview table, one leg folded over the other, and puts her chin in her hand. "So, Miss Lounds -."
"Freddie, please," Freddie says. "Though I think 'Freddie' and 'Frederick' will get confusing after a while!"
She laughs, high and sharp.
Amanda smiles, plastic, unwavering. "Freddie. You and Doctor Chilton have caused quite a stir with your new show. The Chesapeake Bay is about to begin its second season, right?"
"That's right," Chilton says, sitting forward. Neither of them will be denied the spotlight for long. "We had such a great success with our first set of candidates, and people wanted more." Freddie smiles at him, very widely.
"What's the premise of the show, for our viewers who may only just be hearing about it?"
"Well," Freddie says, putting a hand on Chilton's arm that looks friendly, but is certainly a warning; "There are so many reality shows nowadays where the drama and tension comes from the interaction of the contestants. But there is no real depth to it. We wanted to expand on the existing formula, really get outside the box and watch it collapse."
Amanda laughs, brow creasing. "Sounds ambitious."
"Oh, it is," Chilton says, smiling wide and slick. "The idea is this; everyone has a secret. Something they would never confess to anyone else. Modern psychology would tell us that these secrets shape how people behave. We wanted to take a group of brilliant people who are all hiding something, and see if they can remove the smoke and mirrors and really get at the essence of each other."
"So, it's like a murder mystery dinner meets reality TV."
Freddie smiles. "Something like that. All of our contestants are well-educated, incredibly insightful, and proven to have excelled in perception tests we gave them. They each, all, have a secret as well. Some of them mild, some of them more serious."
"I don't suppose you can tell me?" Amanda jokes.
Chilton laughs, his smile a thousand watts. "Oh, that would ruin the game!" he says, good-naturedly. "But the key note is that these secrets are fundamental to the identity of the person. It follows, therefore, that they would be unable to hide it. So if a contestant's secret is found out, they lose, and are evicted from the house."
"I have a cast list here from the first season," Amanda says, shuffling her papers absently. "But there's a new character you're bringing, is that correct?"
"Not quite new – people have seen him before," Freddie says. "Doctor Lecter agreed to be host to us for our second season, and has given us his cabin on the bay to film the next part of the show. He will also be acting as M.C. and resident psychiatrist to the contestants. If they need to vent, or talk, without giving themselves away, he's there to give them that. We think it would help counteract the isolation and paranoia aspect of the contest."
"People want to share," Chilton adds. "It would ruin the game when keeping your secret is key."
"Well, I'm excited to see the favorites returning. Doctor Bloom and Mister Graham were the fan favorites for the first season, but only one contestant was outed, isn't that right?"
"That's right," Chilton says with a nod. "Mister Tier, and his penchant for dressing up in animal costumes and behaving like a beast. He didn't last long."
"Mister Graham is remarkably perceptive," Amanda says. "He noticed it first, didn't he?"
"Yes, he was credited with Randall's discovery," Freddie says with a nod. "We're very lucky to have found him." Her head tilts, and she grins. "Is he your favorite, Amanda?"
Amanda laughs, blushing. "Well, I wouldn't want to get in the way of any potential blossoming romance on the show!" she teases. Freddie laughs with her, like they're two girls on a night out gossiping about boys they like. "I suppose I'll just have to wait for my chance."
"It's a dynamic cast," Chilton says, sitting forward. He will not show it, of course, but any mention of Mister Will Graham is known to make the ladies – and a few noted gentlemen – swoon. He unbuttons his lavender jacket and settles a hand on his thigh, the picture of ease. "We've brought in a new contestant to replace Mister Tier – a Mister Brown. He worked at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane."
"Wow!" Amanda says, wide-eyed. "I can't wait to see how he fits in with the rest of the cast." She smiles, and turns away from Freddie and Chilton as the transition music plays. "Be sure to tune in on Thursdays to NT America and catch The Chesapeake Bay, airing at 7/8 Central."
"Will! Oh, great, great. Glad to see you. Come on in."
Will rolls his shoulders, tries to ignore the grating, over-bright smiles of Freddie and Chilton as they wave him to their table. The trailer is small and the table is very large, only giving him enough room to skirt it and try and sit. He manages, wedging himself into the overstuffed chair. They are still smiling at him – Freddie, with her big bright eyes and shark-tooth smile. Chilton, smarmy as ever, head tilted like he's been let in on the best joke in the world and would love someone to ask him to tell them the punchline. For a price.
"What's this about?" Will demands, running his hands through his hair. Being with Freddie and Chilton makes him feel itchy – Chilton is the kind of man Will used to know, and Freddie, well, she's her own kind of predator. A burgeoning sociopath for whom the ends always justify the means.
"Can we get you anything?" Freddie chirps. "I can have Miriam get you water, or something stronger?"
Will winces, and folds his hands together on the table. Fixes her with an unimpressed look, and raises an eyebrow. "What do you want?"
"We have teensy, slight problem," Freddie says, nodding her head from side to side like her neck is a see-saw. Will frowns at her, and his fingers tense. "Apparently word's gotten out about your little secret."
"My secret," Will repeats.
"The, ah, camera stuff you used to do," Freddie says with a vague wave of her hand – one thing Will likes about Freddie, though that list is short. She doesn't care what your sins are, what your past is. She only cares about the end result. Everything else is a stepping stone.
Will frowns at her, and then his eyes widen. "Seriously?" he demands.
"I guess one of your clients recognized you," Chilton says, with an air of careful judgement Will is sure he cultivates specifically for Will. "The internet forums for the show have exploded. We've managed to shut down enough gossip about it, and no one has posted a link to the actual site if it still exists, but it's out there now."
"Fuck," Will growls, sitting back and huffing in annoyance when he can't push back his chair. He turns to glare at the wall, and then shakes his head and runs a hand over his mouth. "Well, I guess that's it then. I'm off the show?"
"Not exactly," Freddie says. She folds her hands together and leans her elbows on the table.
Will frowns at her.
"No one in the house knows about it," she says. "We've vetted everyone already. Now, I know, people can talk, but we were really liking your plays with the other contestants. Surveys have you as one of the favorites. We can't just let you go." Will doesn't like how she phrased that at all. "So we decided to go for another angle."
"Another angle," Will repeats, and is starting to feel very much like a parrot. "What other angle?"
Chilton smiles. "Hannibal," he says.
Will can't fight the way his upper lip twitches, and his brows lower as he glares at Chilton.
"Look, we really loved the whole 'big brother protector' thing you had with Alana," Freddie says, grinning. "The 'I'm legally allowed to carry a gun, no one messes with her' schtick? Goosebumps." She gives a little shiver that ends with another chirping sound. "But we can't run the risk of people figuring out your secret before it's time. As the host, Hannibal is not allowed to divulge anything. So, we need you to work on your relationship with him."
"There is no relationship," Will growls. "I hate the guy."
"We know, and it's delightful," Chilton says, his smile wide. He idly runs his fingers in a circle along the table, tracing an old watermark from a glass. "But people talk, Will. If the internet and the TV outlets run too hot with your…extracurricular activities, the other contestants might start paying attention. We contracted you for another ten episodes and if they figure it out too soon, we'll both lose out."
"So, what?" Will demands. "Ex-roommates? He ran over my dog? What?"
"We want you to pretend to be ex-boyfriends."
Will blinks, and sits back. He gapes, struck mute at the borderline manic gleam in Freddie's eyes.
"You want my secret to be…homosexuality?" he asks, weakly.
"Shouldn't be too hard, if the rumors about this old website of yours are any indication," Chilton says mildly, but the way he's smiling makes Will want to wring his neck.
"Okay, first of all," Will hisses, sitting forward and jabbing an accusing finger towards the other man, "ignoring the fact that you have no fucking idea what it is I used to do, what I did and sexual orientation are not the same thing. Secondly," he adds, looking to Freddie, "if everyone else figures it out and accuses me correctly, they have a right to be right. I'm not going to fake a relationship or an ex-relationship for the sake of your fucking show. Thirdly." He hisses the word. "There is not enough money in the world to convince me to pretend I was in love with Doctor Hannibal fucking Lecter."
Chilton lets out a soft huff of laughter. "Oh, Will, Will, Will-y Will," he sing-songs. "The foundations are already in place. You wouldn't believe what people are saying about your chemistry."
"Nuclear bombs are chemistry too, Chilton," Will growls. "You wanna set off a bomb?"
"Think of it as another one of your videos," Chilton says with a dismissive wave. "I've heard they were quite in-depth. Very immersive."
"Yes!" Freddie says, snapping her fingers and wagging them Chilton's way. "Exactly! It's just another video, and we are your adoring patrons." She spreads her hands out in a welcoming gesture, but her smile has fangs. "What do you say, Will?"
Will is silent, and fuming.
Chilton leans forward. "Will," he says sternly. He has about the same level of intimidation as a boiled egg. "You signed a contract. Ten more episodes. Or you'll have to pay back all the money the studio spent on your food and housing, plus any cancellation fees."
Will winces. He remembers. He rubs the back of his neck and leans back, until his hair touches the wall. He blinks up at the watermarked, stained ceiling, and heaves another sigh. Closes his eyes and tells himself the money from this gig will get him enough that he can get his house in the woods and finally escape to the seclusion he's always dreamed of.
"Fine," he growls. He straightens and sees Freddie beaming at him.
She claps her hands together, and stands. They have more room behind their chairs, Will notes with venom. He struggles to his feet as well and shakes her offered hand tightly, shortly. Chilton's, the same. "Always a pleasure, Will. See you in the house!"
"Yeah," Will growls, and leaves the trailer.
Will hates everything about the cabin. He hates that people are calling it a cabin – it's a Goddamn mansion, seated right on the edge of a cliff that's basically asking for someone to get too drunk and fall over it. The front of the building juts, sharp and angular, forward, and there is a giant wall of glass between the kitchen area and patio, and within, he can see wide leather couches, a welcoming fireplace – and, upwards, another row of doors where he and the other contestants will no doubt be sleeping.
There are a few of the crew setting up the cameras and testing sound quality. Once they're done, they will disappear, leaving only the contestants and Doctor Lecter within – he will be the only one with access to the outside world, in a case of emergency or to call Freddie and Chilton if someone's secret is figured out.
Will doesn't like that. He doesn't like the isolation, the implicit power imbalance in placing his fate and future in someone else's hands. Last season they'd rented a series of hotel suites, which were more like frat houses along the southern edge of the bay, but Freddie and Chilton are cheap at the core after they have the contestants in their claws, and Will imagines the hotel's sponsorship was severed quite abruptly the night Randall dragged a clutch of dead rabbits back to his room and tried to eat them raw.
Really, it's a wonder he made it as long as he did on the show.
"If you're considering entering any time soon, may I suggest the front door?"
Will tenses up immediately, flinching in surprise and lifting his eyes, drawing their focus forward so he is not staring into the house, but at his reflection – or, more accurately, the reflection that has appeared at his shoulder. He turns on his heel and glares at Hannibal, finds him smiling and looking remarkably pleased with himself for having caught Will off-guard.
"You need a bell around your neck," Will says, folding his arms across his chest. He lifts his chin when Hannibal merely blinks at him, expression placid and friendly enough. It sets Will's teeth on edge – everything about Hannibal sets him on edge: his fancy, clashing suits that somehow don't look ridiculous on him like they do on Chilton; his easy demeanor and ability to seamlessly ingratiate himself to anyone he meets; his apparent skill at literally everything he tries his hand at.
Either he's a con-artist, pulling the classic hustle to fool everyone to thinking he's nicer than he really is, or he's a genuine peacock, and Will has never seen someone take such great delight in every interaction – it feels plastic, and fake, and Will doesn't like feeling as though he's talking to a doll.
Finally, Hannibal seems to realize Will isn't going to say anything else, and he straightens, lips flattening to a neutral line. "You're the first to arrive," he tells Will, and Will winces. Of course he is. "Would you like to take the tour?"
"Do we have room assignments, like last time?" he asks, shouldering his duffle bag and tucking his laptop case under his arm as he follows Hannibal around the side of the house, through a little patch of grass and driveway and through the front door. Inside, the whirr of drills and distant men shouting instructions to each other can be heard, and Will wonders how cavernous this place really is, for the back of it is hidden by trees and not immediately visible from the road, and it must comfortably house almost ten adults for an extended period of time.
Hannibal shakes his head. "You are free to choose whichever one you'd like."
"The one farthest from yours will be fine."
Hannibal pauses, and regards him, his eyes bright with mirth. "Miss Lounds and Doctor Chilton informed me of the new terms," he says, and Will grits his teeth, and nods to himself, and wonders if Hannibal even offered a protest, citing that a relationship with Will would be unethical, if they were to be patient and psychiatrist during the show's filming. He tilts his head. "One mustn't run the risk of being too obvious, Will."
Will blinks, and works his jaw to one side so his molars grind, off-center. "Obvious?" he parrots.
"Such a stark separation could be read as an admission of guilt," Hannibal says. "Your obvious dislike of me and desire to avoid me may be taken a certain way."
Will lifts his chin, nostrils flaring at the amusement on Hannibal's face. He's toying with Will, baiting him like one might put a taser to a bull's hide and then release him into the ring.
"I apologize," he says through gritted teeth, following Hannibal up the stairs. "I normally try and make a better effort to hide my feelings. Though I'm sure your keen insight would have seen right through me."
Hannibal laughs, as carefree and amiable as ever, and Will can't remember ever seeing the man frowning, ever seeing him angry. His fingers curl around the bottom of his laptop case and he wonders, in the same self-destructive way people want to reach out and put their hands in the middle of an open fire, if Hannibal is even capable of anger.
If it would be obvious, like his mirth, or something cold and calculating.
Hannibal leads him down the hallway. There is a window in the middle of the far wall, shadowed with the silhouettes of tree branches which gently sway, and the window is frosted glass, preventing a clear view out of it. There is a slight turn at the end, just two feet of space large enough for someone to hide, and a single black door.
Hannibal pauses by the window, and gestures to it. "This one will give you the most isolation," he says.
Will frowns at him, and opens the door. The inside of the room is comfortably decorated, in the same way a showroom might be – sparse, lacking any personalization, but in the wake of that, Will is soothed. He enters the room, and there's just enough space for him to take three strides, to the bed pressed to the farthest corner, head away from the door. There is a window opposite the bed, similarly frosted, similarly shadowed, Will suspects to stop people being able to climb the close-knit trees and peek in.
The bed itself is covered in a light blue duvet, white sheets and pillows. The wood is dark, and one of the walls is an accent of summer sky blue, the floor a light, sandy laminate. It's a clean-looking, soft space, and Will wants to mention how blue is an instinctively soothing color, promoting trust and security, and the psychology of putting the head as far away from the door as possible, so that the person in the bed sees it open before the intruder sees them.
There is a closet, behind the door, inset into the wall where there is two feet of space outside it. Then, a second door, and Will opens it and sees a tiny room, white-tiled and white-painted, with a toilet and a shower wedged inside, just big enough to fit a grown man.
He huffs, and turns off the light, fixing Hannibal with a raised eyebrow. Hannibal has his hands in his pockets, the picture of nonchalance, as if this is the standard room for any of his guests.
"My own en suite, huh?" Will asks, dumping his laptop case and duffel bag on the bed.
Hannibal hums, and smiles. "You're a private man, Will," he says, and Will lifts his chin because Hannibal's tone sounds judgmental, but Will has been around him long enough to know Hannibal rarely judges anything deemed an eccentricity. Indeed, he seems to delight in the abnormal, find pleasure in the unique psychologies of men, and is enthralled by the fact that Will doesn't like him.
"Aren't we all, Doctor Lecter?" Will replies. "Isn't that the point of the game?"
Hannibal gives a small, approving nod. "Come," he says, and turns away. "I will show you the rest of the cabin."
It's not a cabin. Will wants to spit that. He refrains, resigning himself to having to bear Hannibal's company until everyone else arrives. The last season, they all dined together in one of the hotel's conference rooms, and Freddie had given a speech. There will probably be something like that this season, too, to recap Randall's voting off the show, his potential replacement, and how it works so everyone remembers the rules.
"This is another bathroom," Hannibal says, gesturing to a door on their right as they pass. "The rest of these rooms are bedrooms, and mine, at the end here," he adds, and nods to the first door, to the right of the top of the staircase. Will hides a smirk, strangely proud to see that, despite his paltry protests, Hannibal did, indeed, put him as far away from Hannibal as possible. "I have an en suite as well. Down here," he says, leading the way back down the stairs, "we have a laundry room, a pantry, and Mister Zeller was very specific about requesting a game room."
Will raises a brow, and Hannibal turns, smiling at him, and nods to an open door. Will steps through, wincing at the harsh shaft of sunlight as it arcs in from a skylight in the roof. They're just underneath where Will's bedroom is, and he narrows his eyes at the ceiling, takes in the men on ladders running wire and bolting cameras in the corners of the room.
There is a pool table, set up, with a rack holding four cues next to it, mounted on the wall. Beside that, a bar running in an arc around a corner where the plaster fades and the wall is brick. It looks like an old speakeasy, and the shelves are lined with bottles of liquor Will can't even pronounce.
His other eyebrow joins the first, and he looks at Hannibal. "Let me guess," he says. "You studied the specific chemistry of mixing alcohol while getting your Doctorate and learning your fifth language, and you make the best fanciest cocktails in the world."
Hannibal tilts his head, and fixes him with an amused huff, like a babysitter might look at a toddler's tantrum, knowing their parents will be home soon and they won't have to deal with them anymore. Will lifts his chin, refusing to back down.
"I've been told I make a dangerously smooth cosmopolitan," he finally says.
Will laughs – he can't help it. He rolls his eyes, folds his arms across his chest, and blows a wayward curl from his face as he brushes past Hannibal and out into the hallway again. Hannibal follows him, to the main room, and Will plops himself down on one of the couches, spreading his arms out wide along the back of it, and brings his feet up to rest, one ankle crossed over the other, on the shiny wooden coffee table.
Hannibal's eyes drop to his feet, and darken with disapproval, but he moves past Will, knocking his knees into Will's legs and Will huffs, letting his legs drop so Hannibal can pass him, and settle himself on the perpendicular couch.
Will tilts his head back, blinking up at the high ceiling. He imagines, when night falls, this space will appear intimate, under a cloak of shadow. Wonders if Hannibal is the kind of person to use only firelight to guide his way when the air grows dark. He scratches at his chin, wipes his thumb across the corner of his mouth, and lolls his head lazily to look Hannibal in the eye.
He smiles, slow and wide. "Come here often?"
Hannibal smiles at him, and folds one leg over the other, ankle to opposite knee, mimicking Will in his slouching posture, though all he does is rest his elbow on the armrest, and looks like he could summon a glass of wine in his hand with nothing more than a thought.
"I spend the occasional summer here, yes," he replies. "I much prefer the ambiance of the city."
"I can tell," Will says, and looks up again. Sighs, and pushes his shoes off with his toes, putting his socked feet back up on the table. He looks for another flash of disapproval, but it seems Hannibal is more accommodating without the threat of dirt staining his furniture. "You city folk always try and bring the city with you. This place is a Goddamn mansion."
Hannibal huffs a small laugh, gives a conceding nod. "I prefer to be comfortable."
"Jimmy and Brian are gonna make this place a party house," Will tells him, rolling his eyes. "And Bev, of course." He pauses. "I think the three of them are having an affair."
"Oh?"
"Mm."
"Why haven't you said anything?" Hannibal asks, giving away neither agreement or rejection of the idea. It is, after all, part of the game. "If you're right, that's three people evicted right away, and less competition for you."
"Because I like them," Will replies with a shrug. "But if they make it more obvious, someone will notice."
"Like Alana?"
Will tenses, and lifts his upper lip.
"She's smart," he says, shifting his weight, curling his toes. He watches them wiggle under his black socks, and rolls his wrist, rubbing the inside of it over his scruffy jaw. He looks to Hannibal, tilts his head. "Does she talk to you a lot?"
Hannibal smiles. "I'm not at liberty to say," he replies.
"I stand by what I said."
Hannibal shows his teeth, the sharpness of them lining up, vaguely threatening. "I remember," he purrs. "It's not often I'm threatened with violence simply for having friendly conversations."
Will hums. "Do you know my secret?"
"I know the one Miss Lounds and Doctor Chilton want you to pretend to have, but the original one that got you on this show? You have never told me."
Will smiles, and shows his teeth in return. "Aren't you curious?"
"Terribly," Hannibal admits. "But I prefer secrets be shared organically, between friends."
"Yeah, of course you do."
"I'm a therapist, Will. I'm used to people placing their trust in me, because they believe I can help them. And I want to help them." Will huffs, and looks away. "Of course, this is based on the assumption that everyone's secrets here would require some kind of therapy, which is not the case. An affair, for instance, is hardly cause for medical intervention."
Will is familiar with this approach; by pretending Hannibal does not care, and doesn't mind whether Will opens up to him or not, he lowers the bait and dangles the hook, inviting Will to share. It's the oldest trick in the book, combined with extended silences. Lesser men would feel the need to fill them, but Will enjoys quiet.
Besides, it is hardly completely silent, with the sounds of work going on around them.
Finally, Hannibal sighs, and straightens, pushing himself to his feet once he realizes Will isn't going to say anything more. "I'm going to make some coffee," he says. "Would you like some?"
"Sure," Will replies, for he will admit, Hannibal is an excellent cook. Of course he is, the man is good at Goddamn everything. The few meals he prepared for them during season one were delicious and eagerly devoured.
He stands, and follows Hannibal to the kitchen, watching with distaste as he pulls what looks more like a chemistry set than a coffee maker from the wall, and begins the brew. There are three bar stools along the kitchen island and he takes a seat at one, glad that, despite the relatively open plan, there appears to be a sound-deadening barrier created within the low ceiling, and the whirr of drills and knock of hammers is quieter.
There is a door, in the corner, between two sets of cabinets and a wine rack. He nods to it. "What's through there?" he asks.
Hannibal looks. "That will be where I will conduct therapy sessions, with whoever needs it," he says, and turns to Will to regard him over his shoulder. "An invitation that is open to you, as well, of course."
Will hums, pressing his lips together, and leans his elbows on the counter, fingers laced and chin resting on his knuckles. "Observation is a double-edged sword, Doctor Lecter," he says.
Hannibal smiles at him, and turns away. "We all have secrets, Will," he replies. "Perhaps, if you are curious, you might jump at the opportunity to discover some of mine."
"I don't find you all that interesting," Will says, head tilted, eyes eager to catch another roll of tension, another wound to Hannibal's pride. Hannibal is the kind of man Will knows well, soaked with arrogance and self-confidence. The kind of man who could stand to be taken down a peg or two.
Hannibal huffs a laugh, and doesn't turn. But Will hears his smile. "You will."
Beverly, Brian, and Jimmy arrive as one unit, in a minivan with the NT America logo on the side of it. Obvious. Will rolls his eyes at their lack of subtlety. They greet him with familiar, welcoming smiles, and he helps them unload their stuff, not surprised in the slightest when they all pick rooms close to each other, on the second floor.
Then, Franklyn shows up, and one of his suitcases is packed entirely with food. Will can smell the smoked sausage, the sweating cheese, from a mile away. He wrinkles his nose and makes Franklyn carry that, and Franklyn picks the room closest to Hannibal's. Will isn't surprised by that, either.
Francis arrives in the late afternoon. He's a charming man, in a rough sort of way. He's an avid fan of art and has a scar on his upper lip, which constantly shows one of his canines. He kept to himself during most of season one, spending most of his time in Randall's or Hannibal's company. Once Randall's secret was revealed and he was evicted from the show, Will found himself wondering, often, if there was a kindred spirithood between them – if, perhaps, Francis' secret brushes along the realm of Randall's.
If that's the case, he will be the next easiest to figure out.
"It's the heaviest kind of schadenfreude," Will murmurs, sipping at his coffee. The others are making themselves at home, and Francis went for a walk down the cliffsides a little over an hour ago, since technically none of them have to be in the house until the first, official dinner, marking the start of the filming process. They will all live here for ten weeks, or until there is only one of them left, whichever comes first. Will bristles at the thought of having so many people in such a confined space for so long.
Hannibal replies with a hum. He drinks his coffee black, or at least brews it so it's smooth going down. "How do you mean?"
"I mean, this whole thing," Will says with a wave of his hand. He wishes he had anyone else to talk to besides Hannibal. "Do you think, after the show aired, Randall went back to his normal life, and resumed his normal job, and no one recognized him, and knew what he liked to do in his free time?" Will doesn't judge, of course not, God knows he's done far worse and certainly not for the sake of his own pleasure. "This show has the potential to ruin someone's life."
Hannibal smiles at him, brows rising. "Would your secret ruin your life, Will?" he murmurs. "The real one?"
Will huffs, rolls his eyes, and sidesteps the question. "It allows people to judge, without knowing the full story, the full psychology behind it all. Opens the door to questions society isn't ready to hear the answers to."
"Like identifying as an animal."
"There's a certain freedom in that, don't you think?"
"I find it fascinating, yes," Hannibal says with a nod. He smiles, and sips at his coffee, dressed comfortably in suit pants and a soft-looking red sweater that he has pushed up to his elbows. It's the most dressed-down Will has ever seen him, makes him appear softer and vulnerable, and isn't how he'd been dressed when Will arrived. He wonders if it's for his sake, or perhaps Franklyn's, that poor sweet soul. Men like Hannibal show their teeth and make the sheep nervous.
Will presses his lips together, eyes Hannibal carefully. "The sessions in your office aren't recorded, right?"
"It was a stipulation of the contract, yes," Hannibal replies with a nod. "I would never betray doctor-patient confidentiality, and as you said; the allure of this program is the final reveal. It ruins it for the audience, if they already know the ending."
"Shakespeare would disagree with you," Will says, smiling.
At that, Hannibal blinks, looking surprised. He straightens, leaning against the counter, cupping his clear coffee mug with both hands. "Are you a fan of classical works?" he asks, and sounds terribly curious. Will wonders if he's the first person to have ever regarded Hannibal with open dislike, to remain stubbornly resistant to Hannibal's charm. The cat must be so curiously pleased, to see a mouse smart enough to evade its claws.
"I'm a fan of stories," Will replies, shrugging one shoulder.
Alana arrives last. Will greets her with a smile and pulls her into a hug, and she hugs him back just as tightly, her eyes bright with pleasure at seeing him. He takes her suitcase and helps her carry it inside. There is just one room left, opposite Will's, and he brings her bag in, setting it down by the bed. Her room is decorated similarly to Will's, but purple where his is blue.
"It's great to see you," she says, shrugging off her coat, revealing a modest but flattering black and red dress that goes to her knees and dips down to reveal her throat and the center of her collarbones. She runs her hands beneath her hair, flipping it out, and sighs. "How've you been?"
"Just great," Will replies. "And you?"
"Good," she tells him, her eyes glittering, and she lifts her hand to show him her left ring finger. "I got engaged."
Will's eyes widen, and he grins, stepping forward and taking her hand so he can admire the shine of the diamond, the silver band. Around the diamond are sapphires, the stones bright and glimmering, dark blue like the ocean at the bottom of the cliffs.
"Holy shit, congratulations," he says, and lets out a low whistle, nodding in appreciation of the ring. "Who's the lucky guy?"
"Her name is Margot," Alana says, and Will blinks at her, and smiles. "We were dating when I came on the show last season, and I guess she got all broody while I was gone."
"Ten weeks is a long time," Will concedes with a nod. He lets her hand go and she hums, idly playing with her hair, admiring the ring on her finger. "But I'm seriously so happy for you." He has never met Margot, but trusts Alana's instincts and her judgement enough to know that whoever she chose for a spouse would be a lovely person. Certainly of a finer pedigree than the likes of him. "You'll have to tell me all about it at dinner."
"Oh, I can't," Alana says. She takes her ring off, biting her lower lip, and sighs, slipping it into her bag. "Margot's my secret."
Will blinks, and frowns. "Alana," he murmurs, worried and warning.
"Her brother's an asshole," Alana explains. "He's…a real piece of work, I don't mind saying that." Will swallows, and looks up to the blinking red light of the camera in the corner of Alana's room. It's angled so only the door is visible, affording her enough privacy to change clothes and sleep without being watched – but, if she were to take anyone to her bed, it would be caught on film and undoubtedly used. "If he found out about us, I think he would do something to hurt her, and I can't let that happen until I'm done with the show and can get her away from him."
Will bites his lower lip, folding his arms across his chest before he can stop himself. "Why are you telling me this?" he murmurs. "I'm the competition."
She smiles at him, and pets his arm. "Because I trust you," she says, and Will winces, because he wants her to trust him, but realistically, she shouldn't. None of them can afford to, not yet. "And," she adds, smile widening and eyes bright with playful slyness, "she's only part of the secret, so even if you were to report me, you wouldn't win."
Will tilts his head, brow creasing. "Well, I'll have to keep it to myself and find out the old-fashioned way, I guess," he says, grinning when she laughs.
"You're on, pretty boy," she says, and pulls out a sleek, black shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders and pulling her hair free. "Shall we?"
Between the couches and the wall of windows leading to the porch, there is a large dining room table, placed high enough to stand at, and encircled by a ring of high, sleek-shining chairs. It is next to a piano, and there is a tray of a veritable hoard of wine. Each place has been set – Hannibal, at the head of the table, Alana to his right, and Will next to her. On Will's right, Beverly, Brian at the other head, Jimmy across from her, then Francis, and Franklyn takes the seat at Hannibal's left, the chair creaking as he shimmies into it and scoots himself close to the edge of the table.
Will doesn't like feeling closed in like this. He doesn't like that his back is to the windows, where anyone could creep up and stare at them through it without being noticed until it was too late. The sensation brings with it memories of shadow, the distinctly sharp feeling of being hunted, of being watched. There's a reason Will's site was taken down, well before his depleted savings and increasing sense of paranoia had driven him to cautiously entertain the idea of coming on the show.
After all, with everything recorded and monitored, Will is possibly safer here than he is anywhere else.
The wine Hannibal provides for them is a rich, very dark red, like blood in moonlight, almost black. The meal is, per Hannibal's announcement, sliced and roasted venison, covered in a whiskey glaze, and tastes of pure smoke and heat when Will takes a bite of it. Coupled with wild rice and a cluster of roasted autumn vegetables, Will admits, sourly, that Hannibal has once again provided a wonderful meal.
"We're all going to gain twenty pounds, with Doctor Lecter cooking for us," Beverly says around a mouthful of rice.
Hannibal smiles at her, and takes an inhale at his wine glass, before he drinks. "I believe in the calming power of indulgence," he replies. "Once Miss Lounds and Doctor Chilton arrive to make the announcements, the game officially begins."
Francis lets out a soft hum, slicing a clean bite of venison and eating it. He chews, swallows, and says; "I heard the network doesn't want to make a season three. They want to extend it, until there's only one man standing, if at the end of ten weeks there's still too many of us left."
Will frowns, and sees Alana's expression similarly concerned. "Really?" she asks weakly.
Francis nods, his eyes dropping from her. He has trouble maintaining eye contact with women, Will has noticed. He swallows back the urge to ask about Francis' mother – he's not the psychiatrist, after all, though what he used to do for a living made him very good at reading people.
He sees Hannibal eyeing Francis as well, and imagines he's thinking the same thing.
"Well, let them," Brian says, raising his glass. "I could definitely get used to this."
Will winces, and resists the urge to mutter something damning under his breath. It's probably quite a neat arrangement, living rent-free in a nice, secluded house, with the two people he's sleeping with under the same roof.
He sighs, rubbing a hand over the side of his neck, and turns his attention back to his meal.
There's a knock on the door, and Will looks up. The rest follow suit, and Hannibal rises with a smile, wiping his mouth on his cloth napkin and skirting the table as he heads for the door. Muted greetings are exchanged, and when he returns, he has Freddie and Chilton in tow.
"Hi, everyone!" Freddie chirps, opening her arms wide as though expecting them all to rush to her arms like children. Will swallows, the meat suddenly feeling sour, and takes a drink of wine. "So glad you all got here alright. Is everyone excited? We're excited."
Silence, soft nods, meet her words. Chilton clears his throat and steps forward.
"The rules from last season apply to this one," he says. "Anything and everything is recorded, except for sessions with Doctor Lecter. The theory box is also in his office, so, when you think you have uncovered one of your housemates' secret, you will write your theory and place it in the box. Only Doctor Lecter has the key to his office, so you will need to make sure he's with you when you place it."
Will frowns, fingers curling around his fork.
"We're also introducing the red phone," Freddie says, grinning. "Doctor Lecter's office has a phone it in, where people can make calls and reach you while you're in the house. It's a one-way phone, so no outbound contact will be allowed. It will also, because of its location, be unmonitored."
"We have cameras set up in every room and hallway," Chilton finishes. "Nothing in the bathrooms, of course, and there's nothing on the patio because of the weather."
Will raises a brow. It's certainly much more freedom than they were given last season. Perhaps they are relying on the inclimate weather and implicit nature of the bathrooms to ensure nothing secret is exchanged there. Of course, the cameras in the hallways and inside will show them if anyone pairs off and enters an unwatched room together.
"If someone submits a theory, we will collect it and review it with each of your files. If it's incorrect, you will receive no answer. If you're only half-right, we'll come back and announce that one of you is in danger of being revealed, but will not name any names. If the theory is correct, or close enough, then the revealed person will be evicted from the house," Freddie says. "This is another thing we're changing – there was a lot of blowback after Randall's secret was revealed, and we think it best, this time, if the person is given a choice. So, we have forms here…" She gestures to Chilton, who opens up the black leather satchel slung across his shoulder, and pulls out a set of papers. "It's a disclosure agreement. If you sign it, you give permission for us to publicize your secret and allow whoever revealed you to discuss it amongst the remaining people in the house for the rest of their time on the show."
Will's stomach turns, and his eyes flash to Alana, who is watching Chilton with wide eyes as he hands her the contract. Then Will, then Beverly, going around the table. Will blinks down at it, eyes widening when he sees the number in the second paragraph.
"Ten grand just for signing this?" Jimmy says, giving voice to Will's surprise.
Chilton gives him a thin, slick smile. "The show is very popular, Mister Price," he says with a condescending pat on Jimmy's shoulder. "And it's because of all of you; how you interact with each other, and your willingness to expose your darkest truths to America. We would see that well-rewarded. It will be added to your payout upon eviction, or if you win the game."
He returns to Freddie's side, and looks to them all expectantly.
Franklyn coughs. "You want us to…to sign this right now?" he asks, voice a high squeak.
"Yes," Freddie says.
Alana looks at Will, wide-eyed, and Will knows why she's worried. Or at least, half of why she's worried.
He clears his throat, and sets his contract down by his plate. There's a pen clipped to each one, ready for their signature, and he uncaps his pen, reads through the short sheet – it's a promise for the ten thousand dollar down-payment, and consent that, should he be revealed and evicted, his secret is allowed to be discussed at length and included within the final release of the show.
He signs at the bottom of the page. "I'm sure we can trust each other to handle our secrets with tact," he says, and looks to Alana. "Regardless of what they are."
She breathes out, and offers him a weak, thankful smile, and signs. Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian follow suit. Francis, after.
Franklyn, to Will's surprise, is the last one hesitating. His forehead shines with sweat, his upper lip pink and bitten as he sucks it between his teeth, worrying it until there blooms a milk mustache of blood and anxiety. They watch him, and his eyes lift, go to Hannibal, who is sitting back, distancing himself from the sheep, cradling his wine glass to his chest.
Then, Franklyn's eyes dart to Will.
Will smiles at him, and tries to sound encouraging and soothing, though he has little experience with either thing; "Just because it's secret doesn't mean it's shameful."
Alana nods, and reaches across the table to touch Franklyn's hand. "You can trust us."
Franklyn presses his lips together, shudders, but signs it, and Chilton slides in like the strike of a cobra, snatching it away before the ink is even dry. He gathers the pens and places the papers back in his satchel.
"Miss Lounds, Doctor Chilton, a word?" Hannibal asks, his eyes sliding from Franklyn to the pair of them. He stands, and follows them out to the front door, shutting it behind them and blocking off their conversation.
The air is crackling with tension, a sour shadow of malcontent that hands over the group. Will's fingers flex, and Brian takes a long sip of wine. Beverly clears her throat and scratches at her wrist. Finally, Hannibal returns, a cordial smile on his face.
"It seems, Francis, that what you heard was true," he says by way of announcement. "They intend to offer each of you a sizeable incentive for staying on after ten weeks, if the game extends that far."
Alana swallows, loudly, and pushes herself to her feet. "I'm sorry, excuse me. I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well," she says with an apologetic smile, and Will frowns, watching her go. Her food has barely been touched, and Will notices that she hasn't touched her wine glass.
He blinks, suspicion curling. He rises as well, and pursues her, uncaring for how it makes him look. If anyone suggests he's sleeping with Alana, they'll be wrong, so it doesn't matter. He knocks on her door twice, softly.
"Alana?" he calls.
"Come in," she replies, and Will opens the door to find her pacing, one hand fluttering over her stomach like she's going to be sick, the other rubbing the back of her neck. She stops when she sees him, her eyes wide and very, very dark. "I can't stay here that long, Will," she says, and Will closes her door behind her, stepping close so they can speak in whispers. "I can't leave Margot that long."
Will presses his lips together, dips his eyes down, and then back up. He tilts his head. "You're pregnant, aren't you?" he asks.
She gapes at him, openly, but flushes and, with a guilty wince, nods. Will swallows, lifting his eyes to the white ceiling, and rubs both hands through his hair, cradling them around the back of his neck. "How far along are you?" he asks.
"Just a week or two," she replies. Will huffs, closing his eyes, and flinches in surprise when she suddenly hugs him, clinging to his back. He wraps his arms around her instinctively, burying his nose in her hair, his hand at the back of her neck. She lets out a weak noise. "I'll start showing, after a while. I can hide it for a little but, if I get evicted too soon, I won't get any of the payout. And if Mason hears about this from anyone…"
Will closes his eyes, nodding. Despite the fact that the show is filmed, and cut together and edited the week before it airs, evictions and conversations regarding the reveal were done in real-time, last season. Will has no reason to suspect it won't happen again, and if Mason recognizes Alana, or puts everything together… Though he doesn't understand why she's worried, to know that she is, that is enough.
After all, Will is intimately familiar with how savage men can be.
"We need to switch rooms," he says, pulling back and putting his hands on her shoulders. "Mine has a bathroom attached to it. You'll be able to hide morning sickness, for a while."
She blinks at him, and her face melts into a grateful smile.
"You should also see if Doctor Lecter would be willing to give you things to help with nausea. I'm sure he can prescribe medications, and Chilton and Freddie can get them to you discreetly if necessary."
She gazes at him, wide-eyed, and shakes her head once, wondering. "Will, you're…" She clears her throat, her eyes wet, and wipes a hand over her mouth. "Thank you, so much. For understanding, for wanting to help me. I don't know how I can repay you."
Will shakes his head. "I'd rather keep a friendly face in the house as long as possible," he replies with a sharp-edged smile.
She laughs, like she knows he's full of shit, and they part when Will sees her shaking stop. "Doctor Lecter is a friendly face," she tells him.
Will rolls his eyes, glad as she starts to pack up what little she had removed from his suitcase, ready for them to switch rooms. If they hurry, they can do it before dinner is over, and no one will be the wiser, except Hannibal. But he doesn't count – he's not allowed to discuss the contestants with each other, after all.
"Maybe to you," he mutters, folding his arms across his chest.
She frowns at him, folding up one of her dresses. "Has he been anything but pleasant to you? He's always pleasant with me."
Will hums, gritting his teeth. "That's because he's chivalrous and believes in treating beautiful women well."
She smiles at him, head tilted, and packs a pair of shoes. "You both do that, you know."
"Harbor an attraction to beautiful women?"
"Flirtatiously change the subject. You have that pathology in common."
"Ah," Will says, smiling, "so you admit he flirts with you."
"Are you jealous?" Alana asks, one eyebrow arched, a playful smile on her face. Will huffs, and shakes his head, rubbing his nails across the back of his neck.
"I promise, Alana, if I was romantically attracted to you, I wouldn't be half as good a friend."
She is silent, for a moment, long enough that Will lifts his eyes and meets hers, finds her expression considering, his brows lifted like she just told a joke that Will didn't understand the punchline to. "What?" he demands.
"I just -. Never mind," she says with a shrug, and zips her suitcase. Will frowns at her, but decides to let it go. He opens her door and checks the hallway, hears only muffled conversation and clinking plates and glasses coming from downstairs. He steps forward, shielding the sight of her, and gestures for her to carry her bag to his room. He follows, and takes his own stuff, having left it unpacked, and drags it to her room instead, settling his things on the bed and meeting her in the hallway.
She smiles at him, and squeezes his shoulder. "I appreciate this, Will," she tells him. "Really. You're a great friend."
Will returns her smile, eagerly opening his arms to her when she hugs him. She smells like raspberry shampoo, vanilla in her perfume, fruity and pleasant to his nose. He lets her go, and takes her hand, squeezing gently.
"Ready to head into the fray?" he asks.
She grins, and gestures down the hall. "Lead on, fair knight."
That night finds them all gathered in the game room, Will perched on a black leather couch in the opposite corner of the bar, nursing a beer as he watches Jimmy and Francis get into a playful argument about where the white ball is allowed to go after being hit into a pocket. Beverly is across from him, her socked feet up on the little round table between the two couches, tapping feverishly at her phone.
He lifts a brow. They aren't given cell service or wi-fi here, as part of the rules. Revelation must be done through observation alone. "Candy Crush?" he guesses.
She looks up, just for a moment, and shakes her head, returning her eyes to her screen. She tilts the screen, and gives a huff of frustration. "It's called 'Dark Box'," she says. "You have to turn on all the lights but how you do it changes every time and it's not just a question of tapping, or whatever. You have to think outside the box."
Will raises an eyebrow. "Not getting enough of that on the show?"
She grins, and nudges his knee with her foot, before apparently giving up on her game and locking her phone, tossing it to her side with a sigh. Behind her, in a little reading nook, Alana and Franklyn are speaking in low, hushed voices. Brian is at the bar, a collection of glasses around him, Hannibal behind it, watching him get progressively drunker with ever-growing amusement. Brian is a quiet drunk, apparently, and Will wonders what he might be slurring into his hand and into his drink as the night goes on.
Will has a headache. The low lights are harsh behind his eyes, and there are so many people, and so much noise. He has spent the last six months between finishing the filming of last season and this one in a blessed pool of solitude, in his little house in the middle of a field on the less developed side of Wolf Trap, and after that time so much stimulation is enflaming him.
He sighs, and tilts his drink towards Beverly, who takes it with a nod of thanks. He stands, and runs his hands through his hair, lifting one in a passive 'Goodnight' before he leaves the game room. The door closes behind him and he sighs, soaking in the relative quiet. He doesn't want to go to bed yet, would not want to lay awake at night and listen to everyone drinking and laughing – though, he notes, he is no longer sleeping directly above that room. Small blessings.
He goes to the coat closet by the door and pulls his on, zipping it up tight and buttoning it for good measure. He pulls the collar high, tugs the sleeves down so they graze his knuckles, and heads to the patio. Outside, the wind is chill, biting, and the night sky has made everything very cold.
He shivers, and closes the door behind him.
There is a single, wide table made of cast iron, intricately shaped to resemble ivy. It is large enough to sit ten people around it comfortably, though there are only four chairs. Will drags the one closest to the cliffs, out, to the very edge, and sits up on it, curling his knees to his chest to try and shield him from the wind.
He looks down, and looks out, wrapping his arms around his shins and digging his exposed fingers into the opposite sleeves of his coat, burying his mouth against his knees so that his exhale warms him. Still, the wind is persistent, dragging nails across his cheeks and digging into the nape of his neck. It's fitting, he thinks, that Hannibal would own a place such as this – subtly pervasive, chrome and leather in a forest, the wind and the ocean steadily eroding the cliffside away.
He closes his eyes, sighing. He knows Alana's secret, but he will keep it for as long as he can, until it becomes too obvious or until she is the only one left in the house, besides him. He suspects Beverly's, Jimmy's, and Brian's. Of course, if he's wrong, he will receive no answer and will have to guess again. None of them are married, it's hardly the most scandalous thing in the world, but it is a secret.
Which leaves Francis and Franklyn, neither of whom he is familiar with enough to know where to start. Franklyn seems like such a sweet, wayward soul; too eager for affection, perhaps, and not the most interesting person in the world, but that's hardly the point of the game. Francis, well, he was friends with Randall, which might hint at something, but Will, again, doesn't know where to begin with them.
Randall had been nice, too. Charming, and eager to make friends. A pack animal to the bone. It was this desire for connection, this wayward snap of neurons that had led him on moonlight walks, at times. Convinced Will, during a regular bout of insomnia, to follow him. It was not careful dissection of his words, nor observations like Alana's wine, that had given Will his answer. No, it was the glint of bone in moonlight, the sharp flare of red turning black as he'd chased down and torn a rabbit apart. The way he'd snarled at Will, wild-eyed, teeth bared, that had given him his answer.
He shivers again, pressing his lips together, and opens his eyes to see Hannibal pushing the sliding glass door to one side. He huffs, glaring half-heartedly towards him, sure that the illumination from inside is showing Hannibal his expression.
Hannibal smiles at him, and he has two small glasses of wine in his hand. "May I join you?" he asks, already approaching Will, coated and gloved. He wraps his foot behind one of the legs of a chair, dragging it towards Will with a screech of iron on concrete.
Will grits his teeth, but accepts the offer of wine, cradling it behind his knees. It smells fruity, of blackberries, and he takes a drink, humming at the smooth flavor. He knows there are no cameras or microphones out here, so they can speak freely.
Hannibal sighs, settling in place, and doesn't seem to feel the cold. His face is lifted, openly accepting the bite of the wind and the chill in the air, bathed in moonlight as she casts her light from above the sea. Will looks at him, looks, and hates how comfortable he seems.
"Brian finally call it a night?" he asks.
Hannibal opens his eyes, and smiles at him. "Beverly took him to his room," he says, and Will huffs, rolling his eyes. "I thought it best to shut down the bar for the night."
"Probably wise," Will murmurs. He takes another drink, and then realizes. He lifts a brow. "But not for us, huh?"
"You're far from the same level of intoxication," Hannibal replies. "I don't think a small indulgence will tip you over the edge."
Will huffs, and shakes his head. "No," he says. He turns his gaze away, out onto the ocean, listening to the call of gulls, the gentle crash of the waves against the rocks below. Even Hannibal, in his silence, is not unobtrusive to Will's need for quiet. He sighs again, and sips at his wine. It's delicious, of course, he would expect nothing less.
Hannibal shifts, beside him, his sigh mixing with Will's in a cloud of vapor. "I would like to speak plainly, Will, if I may," he says.
Will tilts his head, eyes sliding over.
"I do not understand your dislike of me. Whether I made a bad first impression, or have caused you some offense or slight, I would feel remiss if I did not at least attempt to mend this imposed rift between us."
Will swallows harshly. He looks down at the dark blood-color of his wine, swirling it around in his glass. "I think you are arrogant," he says, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "I think you are very proud. And I have no love of psychiatrists."
Hannibal seems to consider this, neither showing offence nor pleasure at Will's words. "Too many have tried to pick your brain in the past, I imagine."
Will growls. "See? You're psychoanalyzing me."
"We are both creatures of observation, Will. I can't turn mine off any more than you could turn yours off," Hannibal says, and now he does smile. "Again, I deeply apologize if anything I have said, or any of my behavior, has rubbed you the wrong way. I would like to make amends."
Will shivers, biting his lower lip, and drops his gaze. Hannibal's eyes are piercing, his face shadowed, and he makes Will think of monsters. "Aren't we supposed to hate each other?" he asks, rasping the words. "My new secret is that you and I dated."
Hannibal hums. "Yes," he says, considering. "I can see why Miss Lounds and Doctor Chilton suggested such a thing."
Will frowns. "Why?"
"Well, there are certain ways to read chemistry, Will."
Will winces. "You read the tabloids?"
"Occasionally. Though you are a fan favorite, there are some who see your treatment of me as, well, they use the term 'abusive'." He laughs. "I wouldn't think you had that much power."
Will huffs, lifts his chin, and ignores the incensing jab. "So there are some people who think there's already something going on between us," he says. Hannibal nods. "What, am I some asshole who broke your heart and now you have to bear the pain of seeing me every day?"
"The theories vary," Hannibal replies mildly. "And the tabloids don't go into much detail; they seek to titillate, and entice people into watching the second season." He sips his wine. "But there is a lot of free work published about us – fans of the show, who like to write about hypothetical relationships forming."
He grins at Will, toothy and wide. "And there is a lot of such work written about us."
If Hannibal's intention is to make Will uncomfortable, he's certainly succeeding. Will lets out a high, offended sound, and finishes his wine, clenching his fingers tightly around the stem of the glass. "I see," he says tightly.
"You are a brilliantly insightful person, Will, and one of the smartest people I have ever met. I consider a lack of friendship with you to be a great loss."
Will growls, fingers curling, and wants to snap his teeth. He grinds his jaws together and stands with a huff. "None of this is real, Doctor Lecter," he hisses, and gestures to the house behind them. "It's all fake, alright? I have bigger things to worry about than whether or not you're my friend, and I would think a man like you would feel the same."
Hannibal regards him, placid and calm, before he sighs, and stands, and takes Will's glass from his tight grip. "Yes, well," he says, and finishes his own glass, lacing his fingers around both stems, "if you ever change your mind, and wish to talk about any of these grand worries of yours, my door is always open."
He turns, and walks inside. Will snaps his teeth together with a harsh click, turns with a snarl, and stares out to the ocean. Waits, counts, until the illumination from the kitchen lights turns off and throws him into darkness.
He shivers, folding his arms across his chest, and finally must submit to the persistent claw of the wind. He ducks inside, face flushing immediately as the warmth embraces him, eager and welcoming. He sheds his coat and hangs it, and then goes to his room.
As he passes, he hears soft moans and the creak of bedsprings from Beverly's room. He huffs, and rolls his eyes.
He'll put his theory in the box tomorrow.