Chapter Text
It took three days for Will to go back to work after killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. For three days, he stayed home walking his dogs, making flies, fishing, and sleeping. He spent hours in the woods, then hours cleaning his house, hours trying to sleep, and the whole time, he waited to be suddenly overtaken by core-shaking guilt for what he had done.
However, the river didn't shy away from him when he told it he had killed a man, nor did his dogs. He fished for nearly a whole afternoon waiting for the water to claim him in righteous retribution, but it just wordlessly moved around his waders. When he stared at the ceiling at night, he expected the darkness to engulf him and choke him out, demanding penance for his crime.
Instead, it just served as a blank screen for Will to rewatch the event like a movie. He watched his hand grab his gun, watched Abigail's red blood spurt in slow motion as he pulled the trigger on Hobbs again and again. These thoughts were certainly intrusive and followed him beyond his ceiling into the daytime, which was disturbing, but after three days he got tired of waiting around for some kind of grand breakdown. The only real physical side effects he gave credit to were extra nightmares and increased sensitivity to noise, but these were not exactly new symptoms, so he chalked it up to temporary jumpiness from the whole debacle. It was a horrible, disgusting thing that had happened, but the guilt never came.
He let the university know he would be back on Friday to lecture.
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That didn’t mean he was doing well, though. The weight of the dark world that he inhabited still took its toll, and his overactive mind loomed dark and ominous over every aspect of his life, staining and relentless. He continued his daily mantra that the nobility and value of his work outweighed the mental poison it caused him. That was usually enough to get by. People's lives depended on him being okay. Killing Hobbs hadn’t caused any overt damage to him that he was aware of, but his day-to-day life was still harsh, sometimes difficult to bear. Even before Hobbs, he had trouble sleeping and it certainly did not improve afterward. He couldn't help but be transfixed by the replay that clouded his eyes every night. Headaches still clamped down on his skull, and vicious anxiety still burned like acid in his stomach. He tried not to think about the things he had to shake out of the corner of his eye, the nightmares that seemed to follow him into the waking world.
Encumbered by such is how he found himself on a Friday evening in late February, sweating beneath the projector light of his packed lecture hall, explaining in detail how he took down Hobbs. The University had expressed concern when he asked to return so soon but almost immediately upon his confirmation asked if he would be so kind as to lecture about Hobbs. That email had made him chuckle; so much for sensitivity.
When he finished, the crowd applauded as though he had just given a particularly moving sermon; it made his stomach roil with nausea. A handful of students hung around his desk after class, and Will tried to shake off the well-known sensation of being a zoo animal on display. A couple of them were brave enough to approach him for questions. One asked why he was back so soon and Will flat out ignored him. Thankfully, that move seemed to discourage a couple of others from asking their probing questions. The other one who spoke up didn't seem to give a damn about Hobbs and just wanted to ask why he got such a poor grade on the most recent exam. Despite the arid students' agitation that would typically annoy him, Will was thankful that the uninteresting question dispelled what oglers remained.
When the dope sheepishly left after a curt response, the room was empty, save for a well-dressed man who appeared to have been waiting his turn to approach. He stepped forward towards the desk, and Will huffed a sigh of exasperation as he began to gather his things.
“Hello. I apologize if I’m intruding, but I was passing by and couldn't help finding your lecture to be quite compelling.” He extended his hand, “My name is Hannibal, I was hoping I might ask you a question?” He paused, leaving perfunctory space for Will to respond with his own introduction. Will eyed him for a moment and promptly returned to packing up his briefcase, leaving Hannibal to withdraw his hand.
Nice suit, visitor badge, and fancy accent. Will knew the type: likely another shrink looking to pick and prod his brain half just for the bragging rights. He didn't bother with a reply as they usually couldn't contain themselves and ended up spilling out their requests to analyze him before he could even say a word of response.
When several moments passed and it was clear the man wasn't going to elaborate any further, he turned back around. To his surprise, Hannibal simply stood there looking annoyingly patient.
He was in no mood to deal with this right now, already chronically sleep deficient and dreading the meeting with Jack he was ordered to attend after he finished his lecture- the meeting that was the only thing standing between him and going home to his dogs.
His dogs didn't make him attend meetings. They also didn't ask him questions he already answered twice in a lecture, or complain about well-deserved grades, and they certainly didn't hold him up after class, likely with some offensive request to prod inside his skull. The worst they did was whine for treats and leave their hair everywhere, which he didn't even mind as much as he should’ve. He'd rather vacuum dog hair for two hours than talk with a hungry shrink for five minutes.
“Can I help you?” he asked, exasperated.
“If you don't mind me asking, where does your discomfort from the Hobbs case originate? You seemed awfully affected during the lecture except for when directly discussing the main event.”
Will squinted, surprised by the question. He would have been offended, but the sheer boldness caught his attention. Any distress he would be displaying he figured would be due to his preexisting distaste of observation in the public sphere, but he couldn't just outright say that he didn't think the murder was bothering him. “I don’t know if you caught the whole lecture, but I killed someone.”
“Yes, but your stress during the lecture was not from discussing the killing itself. I noticed you spent as little time as possible discussing your exact actions at the moment, however, those moments were the calmest you seemed throughout the whole class. For example, you were physically more affected while broadly discussing the process of finding him than you are talking about it directly right now, even in concept. This would indicate discomfort elsewhere than the action itself. I was just curious, then, what that was.”
Taken aback by the sheer nerve to inquire about such a thing, Will’s instinct was to refute his observation but after a short self-assessment, he realized the other man was right. He was breathing and talking slower than he had during the lecture, and his head had stopped pounding quite so loudly. The notion was disquieting as he had spent the last several days convincing himself he had walked away relatively unaltered from Hobb’s kitchen; residual changes of any kind granted wariness.
Hannibal added, “I don't mean to overstep or imply something untoward. More so, my concern was with the nature of you having to discuss or even encounter it at all. It would simply be a shame if a mind like yours, which I presume is quite something to behold, was being treated so poorly. I would think it a crime to torture someone with such affecting content when they clearly have the unique capabilities to experience it more severely than the one dictating such an exposure.”
“Ha. Good luck telling that to my boss.” Will was wary of Hannibal’s consideration, but couldn't help a grin at the concept of Jack being told such a thing. The image of this borderline ridiculous man trying to convince Jack of anything, let alone something as absurd as stopping his use of Will while in the middle of a set of Ripper killings almost made him laugh, but then he remembered the meeting he was supposed to be attending shortly, and his smile fell again.
“People would be dead without me, and that's all that matters. Any repercussions on me are nothing compared to what would happen to them. In any case, people want to wind me up and watch me go. I'm not really in a position to deny them.” Several moments passed as he gathered the last of his belongings and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Look, if you're trying to get me to go on strike or something so you can crack into my head, I’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen”
“I have no desire to control the tempest of your mind, only to appreciate it.”
Will fought back an eyebrow raise at the forwardness. He wanted to believe him, but experience told him he couldn't. A beat passed and Hannibal continued talking.
“You find them difficult, I presume.” Will got the impression he wasn't talking about the case anymore.
“A lot of things in this world are difficult, you’re going to have to be more specific.” He began slowly walking towards the hallway, and Hannibal fell into step next to him.
“Others. People besides your killers.”
“Oh, I'm good at people. I'm bad at pleasing them.”
Surprisingly, he was met with an encouraging silence. He looked at the ground. “I think the idea that they are easy to understand is unnerving. No one wants to be so simple. Most of us are.”
“You have no interest in disguising this opinion.” Will shrugged, momentarily glancing at the other man. They entered the hallway and stopped walking. After a brief pause, Hannibal added “I doubt you are so simple.”
Will scoffed. “Lately, I'm not sure I have much of a ‘self’ to concern with simplicity.” Hannibal gazed at him.
“The essence of your self gets divided into multitudes at the expense of your peace.”
Will paused, struck by an odd desire to be honest. Quieter, he confessed, “Actually, yeah. It gets really damn loud.”
Disturbingly, Will couldn't help feeling for the first time like he was talking to someone who wasn't trying to prove their non-existent complexity. He couldn't tell yet though if that originated from the older man's confidence in his own speech, or if he was legitimately intriguing. In fact, he couldn’t read his intentions at all.
Will did something he usually avoided at all costs, and met the other man's gaze with purpose. Hannibal's maroon eyes pierced Will's own, and he felt compelled to look away, the intensity of his gaze almost too much to bear. He was taken aback by the lack of expectation in the other man’s eyes, instead finding plain admiration. The sheer attention made his skin heat.
As he looked, he realized he had never before seen such complete control over what one presented to the world. Will got the impression Hannibal only broadcasted those emotions that he wished to be visible to others, so if fondness and genuine appreciation were visible on his features, then it was meant for him to see.
A gift.
That made him want to squirm even more, and he looked away sharply, about to quickly launch into his well-worn script for a speedy departure. Before Will could get out many words, though, Hannibal saved him the trouble.
“I'm sure you must have things to attend to.” He reached to pull something out of his pocket, flipping open a sleek metal tin and extending a small white card to Will.
“Here is my business card.” Will liked how he said the word ‘card’. “I would like to continue this conversation, if you’re amenable. Please consider reaching out to me soon.”
Will looked at the card. “You're a therapist.” He let out a disappointed sigh, having found himself beginning to slightly enjoy the conversation he was having with the other man. “You were selling to me the whole time.” Was he not allowed to have one single conversation without someone wanting something from him?
Hannibal, though, simply smiled and said. “No, I was not extending my services, although I must admit I believe I could benefit you greatly in that regard-” Will felt an odd surge of relief and an even odder pique of interest at the notion, “-I offer this in case you ever wish for a break from all of the noise.” Will simply looked at him, at a loss for words at the novel offering. “Perhaps dinner, sometime. Office hours are for patients, but my kitchen is always open for a friend,” he said, before nodding politely and walking away.
Will was left standing rather dumbfounded in the empty hallway with a bizarre sensation in his chest. He went to the bathroom, rinsed his face, and did his best to push away thoughts of the interaction before heading to Jack's office, card secure in his pocket.