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The consequences of a night spent drinking hangs over Hannibal with all the oppressive force of any regularly contracted illness. A blunt headache, a parched mouth, a sour stomach, a shiverish sweat. Not the worst hangover he’s ever had, of course, as he only drank wine and he indulged in all of the rich food available to him, but it’s there nonetheless, reminding him of why he chooses not to drink to excess. His body is a synced dull throb, from his head to toes, and all he wants to do is lay in bed and sleep it away.
He tells himself that a few more minutes will cure him of the throbbing. Another ten minutes, maybe twenty. But he can hear Élcair spinning around next to his bed, her little paws stamping to get his attention. It’s 6:45 AM, and her breakfast is due at 7. If she, for any reason including dire ones such as hangovers, doesn’t get her breakfast on time, she will make such a racket that the neighbors three doors down will hear, and then he’ll be apologizing for weeks. Cookies, cakes, brisket for the old man down the street who threatened to file a noise complaint against him—he hates cops and somehow, this man knows it—when she was still training. Life is too busy for that.
How a dog that only weighs five pounds can make that much noise, he doesn’t know, but she certainly has no respiratory problems, and will do whatever it takes to get what she wants.
She yips once, a warning of what’s to come if he does not bend to her will. Another paw stamps the floor.
Hannibal rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. His teeth are filmy, and his stomach churns, acid burns up his throat, but she yips again.
She’s lucky he didn’t bring the man he went with home. Éclair hates Andrew, and Hannibal can’t say he likes him for more than a good dinner and quick fuck. He did ask, but Hannibal, even drunk, did not want to stress out his beloved companion, and more importantly, did not want to stay the night away from home, not with her locked up in her play room. Andrew insisted he could come over, but Hannibal refused.
This time she barks, and he groans in pained response.
He came into possession of her naturally, although he never considered himself much of a dog person, and will never have another after her. One of his neighbors bought Éclair for her young son, expecting him to be absolutely thrilled at having a new puppy, but his vision was more dalmatian than pomeranian. She wanted the dog gone immediately so her child would stop tormenting her (he enjoyed pulling her tail and ears until she would cry, and Hannibal believes, although the mother denies this, that the boy tried to drown her), and after a shift that lasted hours beyond what he signed up for, Hannibal offered to take her off their hands. It was a moment of weakness, but the little dog looked at him with big, sad eyes, and he couldn’t imagine her thriving in a kennel in some animal shelter for even a minute. (Or, the fact that the mother said sweet Éclair was too bad to give to anyone, that her behavioral issues—caused by her son’s torment—meant she may have to be put down.)
Having had the little dog for six months now, he can confirm she’s strong willed, but bad is not the word he’d use to describe her. Not usually.
“I can find her a suitable home,” he stupidly said, exhausted from his longest trauma surgery to date. He paid $500 cash and took her. Tiny and not yet house trained.
Well, he supposes he did find her a suitable home.
“I know, I know,” he yawns, pushing up from the warmth of his bed. The throbbing intensifies and then dulls again. He pauses to allow the nausea to pass. “I don’t intend on starving you, Éclair.”
Her name when he bought her was Ellie Mae—absolutely horrendous—and he quickly changed it. She didn’t answer to it anyway so there was no damage done. The little boy still refers to her as such when they pass him and his mother on the street, but they both ignore him. However, he has the dalmatian of his dreams, so he never does try to grab at her ears or tail. (It would be wrong of him to kick a child, but every time he went to grab her before, it crossed his mind.)
He gets out of bed and locates his silk robe, tying it around his nude waist, and then walks with her trotting beside him, pleased with her work. At the stairs, he picks her up and pets through his fluff as they go down to the kitchen.
Éclair does not come into the kitchen; she knows not to. She settles herself on one of her plush, handmade beds by the door and yawns, whimpering happily. Those things cost him a fortune, so he’s glad she uses them.
“Will you forgive me?” he asks, opening the refrigerator. “You little diva.”
He scrambles two quail eggs for her breakfast, which she has every morning. Between now and dinner she’ll have so many treats, she probably doesn’t actually need whatever he decides to make her. He makes them all, so he knows exactly what goes into her little body, but he caves more than he thought he would. It’s good that one of the teenage girls down the street is always looking for a little extra money and walks her for him when he’s working so Éclair stays in shape. If the girl didn’t — he guesses he would have to deny her much more often.
He spoons the eggs into her bowl, sets it down for her, and then goes to start on his coffee.
Their schedule is ruined regardless of when he serves her breakfast due to last night’s charity gala, but he knows she doesn’t understand that. Friday afternoon she’s meant to go to the dog park with him, not the girl or anyone else, and now it’s 7:02 AM Saturday, she has not gone to the park, so she is a ball of energy he cannot tame. She has a bite, stamps her little paws, then has another bite. She needs to run around more than his house. For the first time since moving to Baltimore, he wishes he had a substantially larger yard.
“Soon,” he promises her and drinks his milky coffee.
Once they’ve both finished their breakfast (Hannibal manages down a piece of toast in hopes it’ll settle his nausea), he returns upstairs and showers. The freshness of the eucalyptus that hangs on his shower head burns through him, and the warm water dulls the throbbing enough that he almost feels better. By the time he gets out, it’s 20 to 8, and Éclair is becoming temperamental.
How she let him sleep through the night without harassing him for attention, he doesn’t know, but he’s grateful for her benevolence.
He brushes his teeth, blowdries and styles his hair, shaves, and dresses in slacks and a cashmere turtleneck. He sprays himself in his spicy cologne and comes out of his bathroom. She’s laid next to his bed, sighing with much flair. Her big, dark eyes staring at him as if he’s betrayed her by having plans.
To make it through the day with her neediness, he’s going to need peppermint gum. Something he doesn’t own, but he has no choice but to grab some on the way. He can deal with the headache and bodily throbbing, but he refuses to be sick. He’d rather cut his own stomach out than vomit at home or otherwise.
He picks her up and takes her down again, taking her to the foyer where her harness and leash are housed.
This doesn’t make him grimace anymore. He used to look at it hanging by the coats and wonder how this became his life, but now it blends in, as if it’s always been there against the cherry wood, and no one comments on it when they visit, which is strange. He’s never realized how many people find dog beds, toys, leashes, bowls, and such to be normal parts of everyday life. He’s stopped noticing it in other people’s houses as well.
Éclair is perfectly behaved as he attaches her harness to her little body, and even as they walk out into their tiny front yard, there is no sign of the dog that was ready to bark without end an hour ago.
“If you’re a good girl at the dog park, I’ll make you filet mignon for dinner,” he promises, and she yips back. The word filet is as poignant as the word treat in her world.
The streets aren’t as lively as they usually are, the first freeze of late Autumn and early Winter has come, but the few people who have managed to come out coo at her, the handful of children with their parents point and scream for the puppy, and she walks unperturbed by them all. Whether this is become he trained her well or because she’s grown snobby, he doesn’t know. Either way, he’s happy she doesn’t go wild.
The dog park isn’t so far, 20 minutes, but the nausea makes it unbearably long. She’s lucky he loves her as much as he does, no other person or animal could get him out of bed while hungover on a Saturday morning. He isn’t even on call!
Half way there, he stops at a cramped convenience store and gets a pack of gum, a bottle of water, and chewy Pepto-Bismol to be safe — all overpriced, but he doesn’t have much choice. He chews the chalky-sweet tablets and then pops a gum stick into his mouth before he makes it to the register, needing the relief immediately. The shop owner talks to Éclair like she’s a baby as he taps his card, and he wants to tell them that she’s too prissy for that, but they give her a treat so he lets it slide.
The morning sky is a hazy grey, a lingering miasma of last night’s chaos from the cold rain storm. The sun will be out soon though, and it’ll get them up at a chilly 50 degrees, and he expects she won’t want to leave until well after 9 AM, so he’s going to freeze for the next hour or two. He sighs, and accepts it. There’s too much energy in her little body for anything less—she’ll torture him if he takes her home earlier, and chew on chair legs and his favorite shoes; he knows all of the animal psychologists say dogs don’t understand the concept of punishment and threats as a human might, but he believes Éclair is a special case. This morning has been evidence enough.
When they arrive, there are a few dogs speeding around, and he settles on the driest of the benches. Éclair doesn’t often play with the other dogs, she prefers to run her energy out in circles, so he lets her go. She’ll come to him when she’s tired, and he’ll carry her home.
He watches her shoot off for her first lap around the fence, avoiding the other dogs, and checks his personal phone.
Most of his messages are from Alana and Bedelia, while a few are from people he knows from the theatre, the opera, and a few of the ER and surgical residents pleading for his attention. They’re all asking him to come to this party or this gala or this show, asking him to coffee, to dinner, asking him to cook them dinner, begging him for advice with rotations or impressing their chief of surgery. He scrolls, but doesn’t answer any of them. It’s still too early to commit to anything, especially with the way his hangover is going. He likes when his associates are desperate for his presence though, and he’ll allow them to continue to beg.
He checks his email for information about upcoming events, and then the few social media accounts he has. Hannibal rarely posts, but he’s tagged in plenty of pictures from last night. 40 or so, he needs to start saying no to people.
“Winston!” a man yells. Not necessarily a call back, but in a flash of panic.
He glances up from his phone and sees a larger dog tumbling through the mud, along with Éclair. He jumps up, startled, and moves quickly. He’s across the dog park in a second to snatch her up in his arms. She yips at him, unharmed, too happy, and licks his face.
Hannibal moves her around in his hands, looking for any tender spots or blood but she’s fine, aside from the fact she’s caked in mud. Her little body wiggles to be freed again, but he doesn’t let her go.
“Dogs have to be trained to be in this park,” he says, his voice trembles with barely contained anger. “Untrained dogs must be leashed at all times. There is a sign on the fence.”
“I’m so sorry,” the man’s voice wobbles with traces of a Southern accent long since abandoned that drags at the end of each word, “he was just playing. He doesn’t realize she’s so much smaller. He stopped once I called, is she okay?”
“There’s nothing to be done about it now.” He wipes mud from her fur with his hand, slinging it down to the ground. He should kill him. He should snap his neck right now, and he would if there weren’t witnesses, but people are sitting on benches, consumed by their phones, or playing tug-of-war with their purebred labradors. “I’ll have to clean her when we get home.”
Baths are always a nightmare. He can’t believe he has to do it again so soon.
“I have the… wet wipes for dog fur.” The man flips a satchel around and digs until he finds a packet. “Here. Take as many as you need.”
Hannibal snatches two wipes without looking and rubs her down. She keeps wiggling but he manages to get her almost clean. At least not so dirty she’ll track it through the house when they get home.
“Thank you,” he huffs and doesn’t mean it at all. He holds her up to look in her little face. “There will be no filet mignon for you tonight.”
The man stands there. This should be the end of the interaction, until they meet again in some dark place, but he doesn’t corral his dog off to his vehicle in shame or the other side of the park.
He clasps his hands behind his back, his dog sitting at his feet. Not leashed, but not misbehaving. “Let me buy you a coffee to make up for it. Winston really didn’t mean any harm, and I… feel bad.”
Hannibal glares in his direction, prepared to say no, to memorize his face in under a second and return for him in a few weeks time, but stops as soon as his eyes fall on this man he has decided to loath. Pretty eyes—one is green and one is blue, uneven smile, salt and pepper hair around his temples and throughout his well-groomed beard. He’s a little shorter than Hannibal, but not by much, and built well, like he does some sort of manual job. He’s dressed—fine, he supposes. Certainly nothing Hannibal would be caught dead in. A white and red plaid button-up with khakis and work boots, but the clothes fit him well, and the sleeves hug his biceps nicely.
In every way, he’s a beautiful man.
Hannibal glances back at Éclair. She licks at his face and he pulls her away before she can make contact. “I suppose it’s the least that you could do.”
“There’s a pretty good place up the street,” he says, “it’s not too far, maybe five minutes.”
Hannibal attaches her leash to the harness and sets her down. He won’t be carrying her this time, not with the leftover mud the fur wipes couldn’t clean up. She’ll rub it off on his clothes. She spins in a circle and pants, her little tongue falling out of her mouth in delight. She’s so cute, Hannibal thinks, why does she have to try his patience?
“Then lead the way.” He gestures toward the gate.
His water bottle and the wipes are thrown in the trash on the way out, and the man leashes Winston once they’re on the sidewalk.
There are several cafés near the dog park, often frequented by college students or 50-somethings with nothing better to do, none of which Hannibal is particularly interested in visiting, but he can’t deny himself a coffee paid for by an older, attractive man. Even if his dog is misbehaved, and even if he plans to kill him soon. Life is about the simple pleasures, and it won’t hurt him to indulge this once.
How often does someone offer to pay for Hannibal? The last time someone invited him out for a date (not that this is a date, this is repayment), he paid for everything, and it’s always been that way since he had access to his family fortune. Something simple like a coffee should feel trivial, but it doesn’t.
“My name’s Will Graham,” the man says and offers his hand. “This is… Winston.”
“Hannibal Lecter.” He takes his hand only because it’s polite. His fingers and palm are rough against Hannibal’s, Will shakes before he lets him go. “Éclair.”
“That’s a cute name,” Will tells him, “her name. Her name is cute.”
He nods in agreement. It is a cute name. She was almost Cream Puff, but it didn’t feel right when he called her that. What dog wants two names? It would’ve been shortened eventually to cream or puff, and neither would have conveyed her sweetness accurately. She is a cream color, and it reminds him of the inside of an Éclair.
(She licked up all the cream from an Éclair within the first two weeks of living with him. He worried she ate the chocolate off the top and had to take her to the emergency vet. A $5000 vet bill later and she was fine the entire time, and thus, she was Éclair.)
Winston walks on his leash without incident. He doesn’t sniff at people or bark, he doesn’t stray, the only thing he ever does is look up at Will as if to make sure he’s still there. He’s perfectly behaved, considering what just happened, and Hannibal is inclined to believe Will’s panicked explanation about playing. Rough playing, but not malicious. Maybe he judged him too quickly, a rarity but not completely unheard of. Or maybe he’s biased due to attraction. Whichever it is, he has to admit Winston is not as bad as he expects, and Will too. He is trying to make it right.
The café is white wood and painted brick with people streaming in and out. There are wrought iron chairs and tables with big white umbrellas out front. One available out of three, and through the window he sees that the inside is crammed with people. Sitting in the heat is impossible, but the rod iron seats have been dried so he doesn’t complain.
Hannibal settles at the available table, and Éclair jumps up onto his lap and lays down. So much for saving his clothes.
“What can I get you?” Will asks, tying Winston’s leash to the other chair.
“A latte with whole milk, I want the milk heated to 149 degrees,” he says. “A lot of cafés will heat it to 130, and it isn’t as good.”
He nods along to his reasonable request and goes in to wait in line.
What a gentleman, Hannibal thinks with some humor, and checks Éclair again.
Winston lays down under the chair, and Éclair sniffs toward him in inspection. She’s made a friend, her first ever, and it has to be with a dog four times her size that likes to roll in the mud. Hannibal sighs, he supposes he hasn’t been a great example. His own friends can be less than savory individuals.
The headache that has plagued him has dulled, and although his stomach still hurts, the Pepto-Bismol and gum have helped tremendously. Is getting a coffee going to be good for his nausea? He doubts it, but he’s already here, and it’s rare he gets to observe such raw beauty as is Will this close. Still, he could sneak away while Will is inside—he leans forward and sees him at the counter ordering—but he has trusted him to watch his dog, so he stays put.
It isn’t like he has plans he needs to rush home for. When he gets back, he has to groom Éclair again and then rest until his hangover passes, nothing will be done before that if he can help it, and he believes he deserves the rest.
Will comes back out and sits, folding up his receipt.
“I hope you’re not against pup cups,” he says with a shy smile. “I didn’t think about it until after they were ordered.”
Hannibal lets Élcair down so that she can nose at Winston and they can speak without the distraction. “I suppose a sweet treat will be fine today. She doesn’t deserve it, but I’d hate to waste your money.”
Éclair cocks her little head, looking up through the vine-y holes in the table top, and then settles down next to Winston, pawing at him for attention.
“Is she purebred?” he asks.
“Yes.” He has papers. His neighbor couldn’t bear to get her son anything less than perfect, even those obvious purebreds locked up in shelters for whatever reason weren’t options, not without the paperwork stating their status. “From a line of show dogs.”
“I found Winston one night after work.” He taps his finger against the thick outer ring of the table. “He was cold.”
Hannibal glances down at the two dogs. Éclair has made herself comfortable right next to his face and Winston either doesn’t mind, or views her as enough of a pest not to care. “I should forgive him for his misbehavior then. It can’t have been easy living on the streets.”
“He thinks everyone wants to play,” Will laughs, “I am sorry about her getting dirty. I didn’t want him to get dirty either.”
“Éclair isn’t completely innocent,” Hannibal admits with a sigh.
Although she may not usually play with other dogs, she does have a tendency of getting in trouble. This is just the first time she’s had company. She could have started it, especially as she keeps nosing at Winston and whimpering, and Hannibal wasn’t watching, which is his fault. He’s grown complacent.
Will waves him off. “I’m sure Winston was the instigator.”
He doesn’t tell Will that he’s likely wrong, it’s better if he stays a little guilty about the entire situation.
A girl comes out in a short, pinstripe apron with a tray. She places a latte, a black coffee, two paper cups filled with whip cream, and a chocolate puff pastry on the table.
“I got you something sweet too.” Will crosses his legs and uncrosses them. He’s still smiling, and it’s endearing, and lacks covert desires. “I hope that’s okay.”
Hannibal picks it up, chocolate oozes onto the plates, and brings it to his lips. “Like a dog.”
“No, not like that,” he defends, “not at all. I just—because of her name I assumed you liked pastries. They didn’t have éclairs yet.”
The first sweet bite of rich chocolate and buttery, sugar coated pastry fills his mouth. House-made puff pastry, not easy to find when people are only concerned about profit and not about quality, and the chocolate is thick and warm. He pulls a napkin from the small box on the table and wipes his mouth.
“Your assumption is correct.” He sets it back on the plate and goes for his latte to wash it down.
Perfect. He couldn’t have blamed Will if they did it wrong, but two offenses against his person in under an hour would not have bode well for whoever he comes into contact with after this.
He has another bite, a funny feeling coils in his belly, but not one of sickness, but tingly. Whatever this feeling is, he can’t name it, but he recognizes that it’s about Will and this pastry. About how he assumed and tried. Consideration, he supposes.
The headache starts to throb behind his eyes. Any deep thought will unfortunately have to be set aside for later investigation. It’s coming and going, which means he’s not through the worst of it.
They feed both dogs their pup cups, and then take a moment to sip their coffees in peace.
“I’ve never seen you at the dog park before,” Hannibal says when the silence has extended long enough.
He has another bite of puff pastry. It’s a safe choice, all things considered, but a good one given that it’s house-made. If he took a chance and got him something that ended up being nasty, they may not be able to move past Éclair and Winston’s tumble. (He’s tempted to ask for another to see if he’ll go in and buy it.)
“I work weekdays so I can only come on Saturdays,” Will tells him. “Or the occasional Sunday, but I don’t usually come into the city then.”
That catches his attention. He forgets other people have lives, especially after they’ve wronged him in some way, but Will has done something to correct it, so he allows himself to entertain this idea. “What do you do that keeps you so occupied?”
Will looks humble before he speaks. A taught look. “I’m a professor.”
Hannibal pauses, reconsidering his assumptions about Will quickly.
“I must admit, I wouldn’t have guessed that,” he confesses.
A list of more suitable professions comes to mind. Electrician, carpenter, contractor, mechanic. He could see him as a lineman, or a power plant worker, and the manager at some factory. All things that look like Will, but he supposes he’s wrong to assume. Both of his assumptions have been proven wrong in the short amount of time they’ve interacted. He isn’t sure he likes that.
“I do some mechanic work on the side, on boats.” A usual assumption then. “What about you?”
“I’m a trauma surgeon.” He has another sip of coffee. He isn’t humble, but he knows how to punctuate this revelation so the other person doesn’t become uncomfortable.
“Oh. You look young to be a surgeon.” He considers this for a moment. “Are you a resident?”
“An attending. I’m 27. Some call me an overachiever.” Hannibal smiles.
Praise is meant to follow. The groveling that comes when people recognize how skilled he is. The amazement.
Will rubs his finger over the lip of his cup. His eyes do shine with respect, but the flattery doesn’t come. “That’s really great. Your parents must be proud.”
The usual reaction involves hand shaking, exclamations of admiration. To be an attending so young, and for several years, always astounds people. Not Will, or if it does, he doesn’t allow himself to gush.
“They’re dead,” Hannibal says flatly. “What do you teach?”
Will sits very still, digesting what Hannibal has said with such nonchalance. He prefers for people to find out this way, it makes everything easier, but he knows he said it to unsettle Will after denying him the appropriate response. His parents would be proud, but they aren’t, and they never be, and how dare he not be awestruck.
“Forensics,” he coughs.
Hannibal looks him over with renewed interest. “Are you a cop?”
“No. I used to be, I’m just a professor now.”
This is the truth, he can tell. Cops are boastful, domineering, egotistical, and they have a hard time hiding it. Will, as far as he can tell, is none of those things. There’s a chance he never did tick off these boxes, and in that case, the police force would have eaten him alive. All of these things do not negate the fact he was once a cop though. That he did the training, that he wore the uniform. He could’ve done traffic violations, but Hannibal doubts it.
This is an unfortunate turn, he hates when attractive people have some defect like this, but he’ll try to refrain from making assumptions again. They haven’t served him yet.
He steels himself. “What made you change professions?”
“Education is a better cause. I can do more for people by shaping young minds than I ever have in the field, and it just wasn’t… what I thought it would be.” He scrubs across his jaw. “I haven’t been a cop since my 20s and I can’t say I regret leaving the force.”
He settles again. Whiplash, they both appear to be doing that to each other. That has been some time, at least 15 years if he had to wager a guess, so he may be able to give him a pass for it, but he doesn’t want a cop or anyone with that mentality getting too close to him. If Will is smart enough to recognize the faults and leave the police force, he might start to recognize him for what he is. It might be best to cut this conversation short. Look at the time and make up an excuse to leave.
“Not as nice as being a surgeon. Where do you work?” he asks earnestly. His eyes shine with that respect for him, for what he does.
He doesn’t reach for his phone yet. “Johns Hopkins.”
Will blinks, his face lighting up in pleasant surprise. “That’s quite the feat, Doctor Lecter. I saw you before Winston and Éclair took their tumble. There’s a… sophisticated air surrounding you. I thought you’d do something interesting.”
“You wanted to talk to me,” Hannibal surmises.
“I hadn’t planned on it, I didn’t want to bother you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not very social, but I guess it worked out.”
Hannibal does check the time. 9:14 AM. He has time, and Will is attractive—too attractive. He supposes he can figure out if he still has a cop’s mentality, it isn’t like it matters anyway. Coffee with a man who hasn’t been a cop in maybe 15 years isn’t going to give him away, who would he call anyway? What could he say? Hannibal is such a beloved member of Baltimore high society, no one would believe him. He donates to charity, he’s in the newspapers, he has friends who believe him to be a saint, his patients have all adored him. He could bury him if necessary.
“Why did you want to talk to me?” He asks, although he knows the usual reasons. Because he finds him attractive. No one ever thinks Hannibal looks approachable, they think he looks desirable.
“My therapist thinks I need to socialize, I can admit I’ve neglected that part of life but, I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that or anything really. I don’t know why I wanted it to be you. You looked tired.” Will takes a drink of his coffee to hide.
Does he look tired? Hannibal didn’t think so when he left home.
“Therapy does not work on me, as well. Once you notice the tricks, you can’t close your eyes to them,” he agrees.
Will leans back, his legs spread slightly, but Hannibal can’t see anything because of the table. “Well, you’re a surgeon, not a psychiatrist, so I’m inclined to like you more.”
Éclair returns to his lap and presses her head to his arm for pets, and he does so without thinking.
What could have gotten Will put into therapy if he doesn’t believe it works? Any number of things, but he imagines a person pushed him, maybe his job? Maybe he slept with one of his students and that was one of the stipulations to keep position at his school? Or, and he thinks this because it would intrigue him more than a taboo relationship, he committed some crime and it’s court-mandated.
“Most surgeons aren’t trying to get inside your head,” he jokes.
That makes Will laugh, a quick, but real sound. “She has opinions about my love for dogs. I try not to give them too much thought.”
Hannibal glances down, sees tufts of fur and a thumping tail. “Winston isn’t your only dog?”
He pictures Will with a large group of strays. All behaved, all sweet. All happy to tumble through the mud. He can see Will with them, four or five dogs, dragging him into their misbehavior, and him enjoying it.
“I did have more at one point, but they were old. I should get more, I’m sure he’s lonely,” his voice shakes, “I’m not big on buying, not unless someone is selling a dog they don’t want anymore.”
“Do you pick them all up off the street then?” he asks.
“Usually, sometimes if a shelter has a senior dog, I’ll adopt them so they can have a few more good years.” He doesn’t stop rubbing the cup. His eyes linger on Hannibal, not his eyes, but the whole of him. “I have a soft spot for strays, the abandoned, anything in need of a loving home.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
People pass them, the city has finally woken up. More people are forcing their bodies into the small café, children scream, and some talk too loudly on their cellphones. He doesn’t need to know one man is getting divorced, or that a kid is already sick at daycare and needs to be picked up, or that a movie star is at a nearby hotel and demands two different flavors of latte and they have to figure out how to make it perfect or else.
Will’s gaze drags to a man holding the door open, his voice a crackling thunderstorm of condescension. Something flashes behind his eyes, a familiar darkness that exists within very few souls.
Hannibal’s heart turns.
The moment passes, ruined by the buzz of his phone. He checks it while he eats the last of his pastry. A text from a resident asking if they can meet, he has some questions. They all want to talk to Hannibal about their futures, how he did it, who they need to suck up to in order to get the life they want.
“I have to go,” he tells him. This one is so persistent that if he doesn’t go, he’ll hear from him all day. “One of the residents has requested a meeting. Thank you for the coffee and the pastry, I truly appreciate it.”
Will’s eyes, which have softened, cling to him as he stands, collecting his drink and Éclair. Grabbing the little paper plate his pastry came on to discard it.
Will sits up and rushes out, “Would it be inappropriate for me to ask for your number?”
Hannibal blinks, the minute paranoia subsides. Will is not a cop anymore, and hasn’t been for some time. He keeps telling himself that. He’s a professor, forensics maybe, but he has kind eyes, and something else deeper within him. A spark, a burning darkness. It would be foolish of him not to investigate it, and if he only gets a free dinner out of his investigation (and he believes dinner is more adequate a payment than coffee, Will has never gone to war with a traumatized pomeranian to wash her), it will make it worth it.
It isn’t any of that that keeps him standing there dumbly, staring at him, it’s that he didn’t expect it. A coffee, a pastry, the confession that he did want to talk to him at the dog park but didn’t want to bother him. He looks tired. Will sees deeper into him, and has spurred on his own interest this way.
Will, who he thinks is too old to blush, turns a pale shade of pink and laughs awkwardly, “Sorry. Maybe not.”
The laugh breaks him from his stupor. Hannibal holds out his hand. “If you give me your phone I can put my information in.”
It’s immediate. Will fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. His background picture is Winston, and Hannibal scrolls for a second, pretending he’s looking for the contact app so that he can check the apps on his phone. Lowe’s, Home Depot, Pandora, two streaming services, State Farm, 8-ball, Solitaire—nothing incriminating, and the only social media app he finds is Facebook and he doubts Will uses it. He’d love to get a look at his music or photos, but there isn’t time.
“If you intend to take me out to dinner, I’m available next Sunday, but I’m not sure past that.” He types his information in quickly. “I work more than my colleagues, so you will be at the mercy of my schedule if you want to see me again after that.”
“We’ll make a plan.” Will returns his phone to his pocket with the same quickness he pulled it out with.
Hannibal waves his goodbyes and leaves Will at the café. Dinner next Sunday, he goes ahead and makes a mental note not to accept any other offers, at least until he hears from Will (or doesn’t. There’s a chance that he ultimately decides not to message him and they leave each other on neutral terms). By the end of the day, he’ll have at least four offers for dinner every night for the next two weeks — he should check and see what offers he has tonight.
His phone buzzes again, and he knows it’s a resident. It’s always a resident. Every resident that he has to work with this year has been clingy, desperate, and in need of hand holding. They want to impress the prodigy so that when they’re at his current level, he might look down on them with kindness. He won’t, but he allows them to believe that anyway. It’s good for morale.
“He is very lucky he’s handsome,” he says to Éclair, and she keeps going without acknowledgment. The rest of the mud has dried to her fur, and flakes off as she trots home.
He is lucky he’s attractive, and that his eyes are kind, and that he bought him a pastry.
By the time he’s bathed her before he goes out again, he’s soaked and soapy and out of breath, his headache throbs worse than it did when he woke up. He scrubs Éclair down and she writhes, he sprays her with warm water, and she shakes. Now, she’s strutting around the bathroom with a fresh wash and blow dry. He had to chase her down at the end.
“I’m going to give you dry food,” he threatens from the edge of the bath, his wet clothes sticking to his body like a second skin.
Éclair is unbothered by this threat, and leaves him to find her bed.
He meets with the resident at 1 PM. It’s an annoying case of a resident—Franklyn—trying to appeal to someone above him, and it’s more pathetic because he’s older than Hannibal and grovels for him like a child. This pathetic, whiny voice that pitches, this insistence that they could be friends, that friendship would do them both some good. As if Franklyn knows what Hannibal needs and doesn’t.
Franklyn believes that Hannibal is unhappy and alone the way he is, that they’re both prodigies in their own way. Franklyn believes he can save Hannibal. From what? He doesn’t know, he has plenty of friends that love and adore him, he isn’t wasting away in agony over loneliness, but this strange belief is held behind Franklyn’s paradoxically self-deprecating and vainglorious attitude that tells Hannibal it won’t be easy to shake him, not as long as he works in the same hospital as him. Maybe not after he leaves either.
“Doctor Lecter,” it’s almost like he’s begging, hunched down to make Hannibal appear bigger than him, eyes wet, “could you see me becoming a trauma surgeon? I think you and I, we have something that the others don’t.”
The gum and Pepto-Bismol have stopped working, or perhaps Franklyn aggravates him this badly. His headache is back with full force. He still smells traces of Éclair on his clothes. They’ve met in some chain coffee shop that smells bitter-burnt. He’s going to be sick if he doesn’t go.
“If you apply yourself, and you truly want it, anything is possible.” No, actually. He can’t see him being anything but a sniveling beggar with a misplaced God complex. He’ll crumble under the weight of saving a life. Or losing one. He should have gone into family medicine.
Franklyn perks up. Saying anything is possible is no different than telling a patient they have 20% chance of survival with surgery, but 0% without—and he’s had those. These people who come in via the emergency department, broken, mangled bodies who need to be fixed quickly before anything else can be done, and they argue with the nurses about what they need. No surgery, no pain medicine, no CT, no MRI, no blood draws. He prefers when his patients come in already passed out. It makes the whole thing much easier.
“I won’t let you down,” Franklyn promises, crossing his heart.
It takes everything in Hannibal not to react poorly to the gesture.
When he returns home, later than he expects because he ends up visiting with Alana for a while, and then goes to buy groceries, his sweet Éclair is waiting for him by the door, going round and round in her excitement and then jumping up onto his leg, begging to be picked up and coddled. Once all the groceries are in and put again, he obliges her request, and takes her into the living room so they can lounge on the velvet chaise, which is her preference.
“I suppose you can have filet, just this once since I left you longer than anticipated, but you did nothing to deserve it,” he scolds, “I won’t spoil you like this again. You should humbly take my kindness.”
But he knows he’ll spoil her again. She always gets filet on Saturdays, no matter how hard he tries to give her consequences for her bad behavior.
He makes her steak while his chicken roasts and they eat together before bed. He’s more exhausted than he cares to admit, and only finishes half his dinner before he takes her upstairs and gets ready to sleep. She makes herself comfortable on her silk bed, and he changes into his pajamas and cleans his face, taking extra care to moisturizer.
Every thirty or so minutes since their impromptu breakfast, he has checked his phone for any sign of Will. He expected a text soon after, ten minutes, maybe an hour if Will had to drive home, but it’s well past 9 PM, and his only texts are from Alana telling him about the charity gala he’s agreed to go to, (It’ll be good for him to be seen at another one, and he set his eyes on the FBI profilers trying to catch him) one from Bedelia, and one from Andrew asking Hannibal to come over. And nothing from Will.
There are any number of books he could read to take his mind off of this, work he could do, sketches he could finish, but he takes his tablet and checks around to see if anyone has reported his kill from last week, but comes up empty. Not even Tattle Crime has made a post about it. It’s going to be so decomposed by the time the police find it and they won’t know who did it.
He prickles at the thought of losing credit for this. It’s an important kill, a city judge, but he hasn’t been reported missing yet either. The timing must have been wrong.
It isn’t as if the body, his little work of art, is in a low traffic location either. Plenty of people go out by the water every day. It’s a matter of the general population’s intelligence, or lack thereof.
Hannibal discards his tablet and picks up Lower than the Angels from his nightstand and continues his read of it. The information, however, doesn’t stick into my head.
It isn’t that he particularly cares if Will messages him, but rather that he hasn’t. No one has ever asked for his information and not messaged him, people are often falling all over themselves to get his attention and hold it and yet he hasn’t. He did consider this might happen, but he didn’t believe it was a real option. Who asks for someone’s number and then discards it?
He flips a page, reads, goes back and reads again. His nose crinkles. Maybe he should go over to Andrew’s.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand. Hannibal takes a moment to mark his place in his book, three pages back, and exchanges the book for his phone.
+1 (703) 908 4247: Hey, this is Will.
Hannibal smiles triumphantly. He discards the book for good and sinks into his pillows.
“It was only a matter of time before he gave in,” Hannibal says to Éclair. She yawns in response and turns around on her bed, facing away from him.
I didn’t think you were going to message me.
Will Graham: Why?
It’s late.
Will Graham: I didn’t want to smother you. I do recognize that taking you to coffee was odd.
I didn’t find it odd, you were considerate and I found you interesting. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have given you my number or told you my availability.
Will Graham: Luckily, my schedule is free Sunday too. I needed to make sure.
Will Graham: Do you like Italian? There’s a very good Italian restaurant outside of the city I thought we could go to.
Hannibal stiffens his lip to keep from laughing.
I’m half Italian.
Yes, I do, if that’s your plan. I also enjoy French food, but I am open to any cuisine.
Will Graham: Right.
Will Graham: Should I pick somewhere else?
It depends. Are you trying to impress me, Will?
Will types, stops, and then types again.
Will Graham: I think I’d embarrass myself if I did that. Can I pick you up at 6 on Sunday then?
Yes, let me send you my address. Please be punctual.
Will Graham: Thank you, I’m not a late person so you don’t have to worry about that. Sweet dreams.
Hannibal scoffs at the absurdity of the end. Sweet dreams, is he a child? He is taking him out to dinner though so he supposes he can forgive the cheesier aspects of this for a good meal. It’ll take some getting used to, men are rarely cheesy with him. Granted, most people rarely flirt in what he’d consider a personal way, they tend to make their intentions of getting into bed with him clear from the beginning. There’s a chance he could like this side of things, there’s a first for everything anyway.
Goodnight.
He wakes up early the next morning, the hangover has passed but the general exhaustion is still there, and forces himself to get ready for work. He loves his job, he tells himself, no other profession gives him access to the human body this way.
While he’s in the shower, his phone vibrates, but he doesn’t rush out to check it. He takes his time cleaning his body and after he washes, he stands under the hot spray and lets it work its magic. He expects it’s a message from work asking him to come in right now because there’s a trauma and Doctor Huger wants to leave or Alana with more details about the gala, which is still some time away.
The water starts to lull him. Hannibal flips the cold water on high and lets it shock his senses in one quick, controlled burst, before removing himself from the steamy shower.
He shaves his stubble and smears a face mask across his cheeks and forehead before he picks up his phone.
Will Graham: Good morning.
He stares at the message for a few seconds, dripping water all over the tiles.
Good morning, Will.
Somehow, someway, a good morning text unmoors him. It isn’t some expansive and overly cheesy paragraph, it isn’t followed by six more texts, it’s just an acknowledgment, and Hannibal doesn’t know what to do with it except to leave his phone in his pocket and then in his office for the day.
He doesn’t check it again until well after 5 PM. A trauma came in at 7:13 AM, a burn victim—gasoline on a fire—then a woman who refused care post car accident, then the rest of the day he was elbow deep inside of a man’s chest from the same accident. His shift technically ends at 7, but if something comes in through the ER before that, he’ll be here. He texts the girl who walks Éclair to make sure she’s fine, and then checks his other messages.
Alana, Bedelia, a selection of people he knows from the theatre he frequents, another from Andrew asking to meet up when he gets off work.
Will Graham: Do you work today, Doctor Lecter?
Yes, I just performed a splenectomy on a car accident victim.
Will Graham: I realized earlier this morning when I didn’t get a response.
He pops open his lunch, which is unfortunately also his dinner tonight, and forks a piece of the leftover roasted chicken in his mouth.
What if I was simply ignoring you?
Will Graham: I was willing to accept that as a possibility.
If you don’t mind, I’d prefer if we called when I get off work. I’m not fond of texting.
Will likes the message and Hannibal finishes his dinner in peace. His mind returns to the good morning text, the simplicity of it, as if it’s expected of Will. Strange. He turns to his computer to start charting orders.
He’s lucky to have finished his paperwork and not be called into another surgery by 7. The parking lot is empty, most are not as lucky for him. He shoulders his leather jacket on and heads toward his motorcycle. Some of his colleagues will be out soon though, so he doesn’t delay when it comes to calling Will. The last thing he needs is for word to go around the hospital that he’s entertaining someone.
“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” Will answers two rings in.
He straddles the seat, helmet in one hand, phone in the other. “Hello, Will, how was your day?”
“A shorter one, I was off by 2. I guess that isn’t the same for you,” he says.
“It was fine, I’m off at 7, which is what I prefer. There have been times I’ve had to sleep at the hospital due to how long I’ve been working.” Hannibal leans forward, resting his elbows on the handles. “Emergencies cannot wait for the next surgeon to clock in.”
“And I thought my job was hard,” he chuckles, but he can tell that he means it. He likes that about Will.
“Molding the minds of the next generation is an important job,” he says. “Have you decided where you want to take me?”
“Yeah, I have. It’s the Italian place I was telling you about, I just hope you like it.”
“If I find it subpar, I’ll let you know.” The crunch of his colleague’s shoes come into the garage, their loud, laughing conversation echoing against the cement walls. “I’m about to drive home, I’ll talk to you then.”
“Okay.” He hears something in Will’s voice he doesn’t recognize. “Drive safe.”
That makes him want to laugh. “I will.”
He pulls his helmet on and leaves before anyone can come talk to him, sliding slippery through traffic, letting the day fall away from him, setting his mind on more important things, like sweet Éclair.
He parks his motorcycle next to his car and comes in through the garage door. Her little nails click against the hardwood as she runs, tiny body wiggling. He rests on one knee and catches her, clutching her close to his chest.
“Have you missed me?” he asks and carries her upstairs. She licks his face. “Briony said you were well behaved today. Do you deserve extra cuddle time?”
She hops down from his arms once they’re upstairs and races toward the bedroom, stopping once to make sure he’s still behind her.
Once he’s in the bathroom, she settles. Hannibal showers, cleans his face, and goes to bed without disruption. He knows she hates that he’s gone so much, and he wishes, in an unrealistic way, that his schedule isn’t so hectic. That he could be home when he wanted. Every single Friday. If he could have that, he thinks they’d both be happier.
Another fantasy he has is that there would be someone here able to take care of her. Briony does a perfectly good job, but if he could have someone permanently in place, he thinks this would all be much easier for Éclair. Alana has told him he needs a long term partner, and he goes back and forth about whether he agrees.
He sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. It’s later than he likes to call people, but he said he would, and he wants to talk to an unbiased third party.
“Hey,” Will answers, sure this time. On the first ring.
Hannibal settles into the soft sheets, phone on speaker, and opens his tablet. “If a patient is refusing medical intervention despite being in an emergent situation, what would you do?”
Will is quiet for a second. “I’ve found that you can’t force someone to let you help them.”
He sighs through his nose. “We had a woman come in and refuse surgery. Our patients are typically too far gone in these traumatic situations to say anything, but she wanted—rest and observation. She argued with the nurses, the ER doctor, and myself.”
“What happened?” Will asks.
“She continued to refuse and she died.” And he doesn’t feel bad about it. That was her choice, and her bowels burst and bled into the abdominal cavity.
“There’s nothing you could have done,” Will consoles.
It’s a waste of life, of meat.
“I know.” He scoots down in the bed. “Tell me about your day.”
Will breathes into the speaker. “One of my students accused me of plagiarism today and cited my own academic works as what I was copying off of.”
Nothing on Tattle Crime, no police reports, the news is boring.
“Does this student hate you?” He chunks his tablet away.
“This is his second time in my class. I failed him before, I don’t know how he got permission to retake the class,” he says, “it isn’t that kind of school.”
“Fail him again,” Hannibal suggests, and Will bursts with laughter. The student is already failing.
They text and call the entire week, and a peculiar thing develops inside of him where he begins to expect it. He’s used to people reaching out, but Will calls him every evening when he gets off, discusses his day, asks after Éclair, and then they talk about unimportant things. Will talks about his job—which he is cagey about if Hannibal asks more than a few questions—and he lets him complain about his patients and coworkers without reprimanding him. They send pictures of food and their dogs, and share books that they’re reading. They have similar but not identical tastes in literature, and it gives Hannibal plenty to look into reading in the future. It’s more talking than he does with anyone, but it isn’t tiresome, Will is kind enough to let him discuss whatever he wants, and he’s always an attentive listener.
“Is Winston getting into trouble?” Hannibal asks. He’s exhausted from a week of work. He’s put in nearly 70 hours and he finds he needs tomorrow more than he’s ever needed a date in his life.
“No, he’s learned from the error of his ways and has behaved himself better than ever,” Will says, voice teetering with humorous apologies.
Hannibal peels the mask off of his face. It hasn’t worked wonders for the dark circles under his eyes, but it has rejuvenated the skin enough that it no longer looks dull. “Have you learned the error of yours?”
Will’s rumbly laugh crackles on the other end. “I’m hoping to buy your forgiveness with good food.”
“You have me figured out then,” he hums.
“I’m piecing it together.” Will is quiet for a second. “You’ll ultimately decide if I have it right.”
He smiles but manages to keep his voice even. “I have faith in you.”
The next evening, he has half a dozen people begging him to come out. Dinners, shows, art galleries, anything they can think of to suggest, and it gives him a thrill to tell them all he already has plans, and has had them long before they asked. Some people have reached out well in advance, he says to them all, and made sure he was available before the night of. Whether he’s truly interested in Will or not, he’s unsure, but the initiative is attractive and he’s intrigued, sometimes that’s enough.
Andrew asks him about his plans later on in the night since he says no to dinner, around 11 or so, but he can’t say. He may very well have Will in his bed, so he says he’s busy tonight. If he wanted to see him, he should have asked before now.
Éclair runs in circles when Will arrives, like she knows it’s him.
Hannibal hurries down the stairs and opens the door. It’s 5:55, he’s a touch early, but he’s not late, so he can’t complain.
Will’s eyes trace down his body. “You look nice.”
“Thank you. As do you,” he says.
Will is in a deep blue and white plaid button-down shirt, L.L. Bean, if Hannibal has to guess, good khaki pants with oxfords. His hair is styled, and he has a nice watch. His cologne smells good too. Not expensive the way his own is, but with a muskiness that tingles down into Hannibal’s lungs. He cleans up well, and Hannibal finds himself with a new appreciation for Will.
Éclair hops up on her hind legs toward him and he bends to grab her.
“What a sweet girl,” he coos, scratching her belly. “I hope you’ve been good.”
“She rarely likes people, but I imagine it’s because you bought her that pup cup,” Hannibal says, collecting her so he can put her up. “You have managed to win her over. Come in while I put her in her room.”
Everyone likes to tell him it’s overkill, the few that know about Éclair’s room, but he worries about her having free range of the house while he’s out (Briony loves to leave her out, and he’s never corrected the girl, but only because Éclair behaves when she knows Hannibal is soon to be home), or when he’s having a dinner party, and more importantly, she doesn’t deserve to be locked up in a tiny kennel for hours. The room isn’t huge by any means, but it has food and water, a bed, and some of her toys. He sets her down and she goes for one, chewing away at the squeaky éclair. He smiles to himself and shuts the door.
Will is still waiting in the foyer, his hands in his pockets as he takes it in.
“You have a nice home,” he compliments.
Hannibal grabs his coat and gestures for them to leave. “It’s historic.”
Will opens the door. “It’s beautiful.”
He pauses when he sees that Will drives a truck. A nice one, not beat up and rusted, but a truck nonetheless, and he hasn’t shut it off. Peculiar.
Will opens the gate for him, and they go for the door handle at the same time. He pulls his hand back, Will apologizes as he opens it, and Hannibal slides onto the leather seat, promising him it’s fine, and watches him come around.
“Am I overdressed?” Hannibal touches his navy suit jacket, feigning worry. His coat is between them, and although the air is icy, he doubts he’s going to need it.
They pull away from the curb. Will turns the radio on, but leaves the volume low so they can talk. “No, I think I’m the problem in this situation.”
“I like it.” Hannibal eyes him over again. The sleeves hug his biceps, his pants are tight around his thighs and likely his ass (he hopes to get a good view of that later), it just isn’t what he’s used to. He tries to stop thinking that way because nothing about Will is what he’s used to. “It suits you.”
“Don’t think I’m not trying to give a good impression.” He squeezes the steering wheel. “If I knew… I would have dressed better.”
“I have a good impression of you,” he assures. “You can be yourself, I appreciate that far more than when people pretend.”
The restaurant in question is 20 minutes outside of the city and used to be a nice home. A white, Victorian style house with a cute, hand painted sign out front that emphasizes the fact that it is family owned and operated. Hannibal keeps that in mind, but it isn’t necessarily a positive, plenty of restaurants are family businesses, and that doesn’t make them good. It takes five minutes to find a parking spot, but they manage. Hannibal opens the door as Will is coming around the truck. He takes the handle and pulls it the rest of the way. They look at each other for a moment, both trying to understand the other.
“Sorry,” Will says again.
“No, don’t be.” If Will wants to shut and open doors for him, he’s fine with that. Manners are a lost art with most people, men and women alike regardless of money, and Hannibal hasn’t ever indulged this way. After all, it’s all part of the ritual of making up for the dog park.
They walk around to the front of the building, past people with bags of to-go food. There are several couples making their way there as well, and they allow them up first.
Based on the people they walk past sitting on the porch and drinking wine, Will isn’t the problem. Everyone has nice clothes on, of course, but not to the extent Hannibal is dressed. Pretty winter dresses, plain or plaid button-ups, a lot of khaki.
“We have a reservation for Graham,” he says to the pretty girl at the host stand.
The hostess smacks her gum. “Right this way.”
They follow her upstairs into a low lit room with a charming dark green pheasant wallpaper. He loves when places have character, and he’s happy that Will apparently likes it too. There are a few other people up here already, but he imagines it’s going to fill out in the next thirty or so minutes.
She sits them at the table nearest the stairs.
Will pulls the seat out for Hannibal, the gesture gives him pause again, but he accepts it with a smile. Will is sweating, the bitter scent of nervousness cuts through his musky cologne. Excitement curls through Hannibal—a man has never been nervous in front of him, except before he takes out their kidneys.
“Thank you,” he beams.
The hostess puts their menus down and sets a leather bound book between them. “Madison will be with you both in a moment.”
Will settles across from him and smooths down where the tablecloth has bunched up and them shifts the candle to the center. He’s cute like this. He really does want to make a good impression.
Hannibal scans the menu to force himself not to stare. Should he be cautious of price? Will has good clothes on, brand name, and he’s taken him somewhere that is nicer than an average restaurant. Family owned, family recipes, with a touch of modernization. He was expecting a chain restaurant—but all of his assumptions have been wrong so far, so he chucks away the rest. Or tries to. He isn’t too self-absorbed to not realize a professor isn’t living on the same budget as a surgeon. Most surgeons don’t have his budget.
Chicken parmigiana, mezze maniche, fideos are on the cheaper side of the menu.
“You can get whatever you want,” Will says, as if sensing his dilemma.
“I planned on it.” He wasn’t going to get the cheapest thing on the menu, a salad, but he wanted to be courteous. “Can I see the alcohol menu?”
Will passes it to him. He could get a glass of wine, and it is his preference, but their cocktail menu catches his eye, and he knows Will is the last person that would judge him for being adventurous. If anything, this is the perfect time for it.
The waiter comes from the kitchen and stands to the left. Behind Hannibal, in front of Will. A horrible spot, but the only place where he isn’t directly in the walk way.
“My name is Madison, I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” He fills their water glasses. He’s stocky, young, and has a good cadence. “Can I start you gentlemen off with anything to drink other than water?”
“The house whiskey, neat, thank you.” Will glances over the dinner menu. “And can we get the octopus carpaccio to start?”
“Of course.”
Hannibal snaps the cocktail menu shut. “I would like a tiramisu martini. Thank you.”
“I’ll put that in for you both and give you a minute to look over the menu before making entrée decisions,” he says and leaves them to their own devices.
Will looks Hannibal over, not with judgement, but calculating. He’s made his own assumptions that are wrong. “I thought you would get wine.”
He takes the cloth napkin from the table and unfolds it, laying it over his lap. “I’m intrigued by the concept. I rarely get to try anything interesting.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Will states. “I doubt you’re dull.”
“No, but the restaurants I frequent don’t have interesting or inventive offerings. I have had enough negronis and dry martinis with flair to last a lifetime, but I do typically get wine,” he answers. “Perhaps most of the people I surround myself with are dull.”
“Associating with you makes them feel like they’re interesting,” he guesses, and it’s unfortunate how right he is.
Hannibal nods in mock defeat. “Not to say I have taken issue with them. I know many lovely people from the theatre and opera house, but even the rich enjoy the safety of their normality.”
“They aren’t unique in that way, but they’d hate to hear that, wouldn’t they?”
“They would. You would not believe how—“ He waves his hand. “—different they believe they are, but they’re predictable. I have all of my associates categorized. They believe they have an innate difference from the average person, but they do not. They only have money, and that can be taken by a bad investment, or an economic crash. Security is hard fought and harder to keep.”
“Self awareness makes you better,” he says. His eyes glitter. Hannibal is a puzzle, and he believes Will is rather skilled at putting them together.
“I know what it is to have money, lose it, and come back to it.” He knows what it is to live in the ruined splendor of a once great family with 50 other unwanted children. To wear rags and cry at night. To want his mommy. “If I believe I’m better than others, it isn’t because of money.”
“I grew up poor, so money has never been something I care to judge someone for.” He leans forward. “With or without. I might be biased against people with money though. I know that’s wrong of me.”
“I have money,” Hannibal laughs.
Will shrugs, his eyebrows knit and his eyes narrow. “You have a dog though.”
A couple is sat down next to them. A man and a woman about Will’s age, not dressed as nicely as they should be. The woman is in a lime green strap-y dress and the man is in an overpriced nylon polo and cargo shorts. They start to complain about the wallpaper, the sounds of the piano from downstairs, and the fact that their seat feels too small. That this place is not as nice as people pretend. Hannibal and Will share a knowing look.
Madison waits on the couple, and they sit in silence, listening carefully to their complaints as they order drinks. It dawns on Hannibal that they’ll discuss these people later, after dinner, and a new thrill burns through him. Dinner isn’t where this ends.
He hasn’t decided if he likes Will enough to see him again—he likes him more than he likes most people, but there are considerations he has to make—but he hasn’t decided against it either. Will is interesting to talk to, and he answers his questions with ease, never letting him know if something has stumped him or not. He gives his opinion to him directly without fluff, and there’s the matter of that darkness he saw at the café. He’s drawn to that hidden piece of him, as if a cord has hooked itself between their ribs and is pulling them closer. He wonders if Will feels this too, if it’s something he wants to explore.
A second later, Madison returns with their drinks and appetizer. The tiramisu martini is served in a flat glass with a lady finger, a fat dollop of creamed mascarpone, and a sprinkling of cocoa powder on top. He beams with delight.
“You look like Éclair when you do that,” Will teases.
Hannibal blushes and is thankful for the dim lighting. This is the first time he’s ever heard such.
“What can I get you both to eat?” Madison asks as he sets the carpaccio between them.
Hannibal turns his attention from Will, adjusting in his chair to see their waiter. “I would like the agnolotti.”
Will takes Hannibal’s menu and places it on top of his, handing both to Madison. “The parmigiana style veal chop.”
“Both excellent choices,” he says, “would you like me to leave the alcohol menu?”
“Yes,” Hannibal says, just in case he does end up wanting a glass of wine.
The couple next to them wave Madison over before he can put their orders in, and Hannibal does his best to ignore whatever complaint they have currently. (They don’t understand why he didn’t take their order first.)
Hannibal plucks the lady finger from the rim of his glass, dunks the end in the mascarpone and martini and bites it. “How old are you? I haven’t thought to ask.”
Will pales slightly, his smile falters. “49.”
Hannibal blinks, pausing mid bite. Older than he thought, he thought early 40s, but Will has aged well. Grey, sure, and he has crows feet, but it’s endearing, especially when he smiles wide enough. He feels very silly, thinking about good, aged wine. That’s a comparison he’s heard Alana make in the past, when she’s drunk enough to admit some of her patients are attractive for their age. Will is the oldest man he’s ever gone for, if this is considered going for someone.
He takes a gulp of his whiskey. “I should have told you—“
“I don’t mind. If I denied someone due to age, then I would miss new experiences,” he interjects. He finishes the lady finger in another two bites. He thinks to say that it’s only dinner, but he hasn’t decided that yet. If this dinner goes well, excluding the people complaining beside them, he might be willing for another. And if not, he does plan to indulge in all of Will, his age doesn’t change that fact.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “I just don’t want you to think badly of me.”
“I judge people based on their character, Will, and you have been nothing but courteous.”
They both drink and then try the carpaccio. Something to buffer between conversations about age and whatever else comes to mind. He is loath to admit that it’s rather good, the lemon is bright and the herbs are fresh.
“So, you’re Italian?”
Hannibal perks up. “My mother was Italian and my father was Lithuanian, and I grew up in Paris.”
Will chuckles, “Eclectic mix.”
“Aristocracy tends to veer toward the… eclectic. What about you?” He has another bite, the cool flattened octopus makes his stomach grumble for more. “Are you from Virginia?”
Will shakes his head. “My dad was from Louisiana and my mom was from South Carolina. Nothing interesting there. I like it better in Wolf Trap. Bad memories back home.”
He tilts his head. “In both states?”
“Yes,” he says with finality.
“I feel the same about Lithuania, but I’ve fond of Italy. Closer to mother.”
A few times in the past year or two he’s considered it, he bought a round trip ticket and made it as far as the airport before he returned home. As far as he knows, the castle is still there, and the things have been restored to their proper places, albeit most likely decaying from years of disuse, and he’d like to visit Mischa’s grave, but he knows she isn’t beneath that soil, nothing more than her teeth. It’s the one thing in his life he can’t stomach.
It isn’t often he finds another person opposed to their home and the memories it brings. He wonders if a similar sickness comes over Will when he’s presented with the opportunity to return home, or if his suffering is milder. If so, he doesn’t care, he enjoys that they have something in common. In his experience, people tend to feel obligated to return to the place of their origin, regardless of the possible agony they could be inflicting upon themselves. A lot of people have told him he should go home as well, that going will be therapeutic, that his reluctance will pass—none of them know what he has endured, they hardly know he experienced anything at all, unless they go digging through older news reportings—and that he can find something new to love about home.
“I still have family in both, my cousins reach out sometimes.” Will takes a long drink of his whiskey. “I don’t return the gesture. There’s nothing for me there.”
Hannibal focuses on his mouth as he pulls the cup away, the soft, uneven line of his lips. His pink tongue sneaks out to lick away the alcohol that has caught there. His stomach flips.
“I only have an aunt, and we haven’t spoken since I moved to the United States,” he explains. No one knows about his aunt, or why their relationship withered, but it can't hurt him to tell Will this. There’s no other way to learn anything about Will, unless he gives him something first. “I prefer it this way.”
Will taps his fingers against the table. The nervousness is still present, but dulled by the alcohol and their candid vulnerability.
“I don’t think you deserve to be alone,” Will says.
“I’m not alone. I have plenty of friends,” Hannibal retorts, laughing.
He frowns. “That’s not what I mean, Doctor Lecter.”
Hannibal takes a sip of his martini and has to wipe the mascarpone cream from his lip. This isn’t a conversation they need to have, and so he sets the glass down and lifts his chin. “Are you nervous, Will?”
That catches him, and Hannibal is thankful it does.
“I think I’m… out of my depth,” he confesses. He leans away from him. “Not in a bad way, but I’m aware of it.”
He hasn’t heard that one before. “Why—“
“Hannibal Lecter,” someone calls in that mock shock voice he’s heard a million times before in his life, but this time, he knows it’s Andrew. The scent of cigarettes hits his senses and he has to rub his sinuses to soothe the forming headache.
Displeasure takes hold of him, lips pressed in a thin line, face twitching. He wants to scowl but he keeps himself together. This is the worst thing that could have happened tonight, worse than Will seeing through him, and he has no way of stopping it.
Andrew couldn’t have possibly known he is here, of course, but the coincidence is horrible. He’s going to ruin this. He’s going to do or say something that will put Will off from this date going any further. They’ll eat their dinner in awkward silence and Will is going to take him home, and that’ll be it and it won’t be his decision at all.
“Hello,” he greets through gritted teeth, turning enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to look open to conversation.
Andrew leers, his hand on the back of Hannibal’s chair, the scent of alcohol perfumes the air with the cigarettes. His eyebrows are knit in anger. They have never been serious, Andrew has had his fair share of lovers since they’ve known each other, nine, almost ten years now, and yet he looms over him like a scorned school girl. As if they didn’t see each other a week ago.
Hannibal glances behind him and sees a pretty young woman at the bar, staring at them with that sort of despair that only comes when one realizes they are not the first choice. He wonders how long they’ve been here, how he didn’t notice. He wants to tell him to walk away now, but he knows how that will go over since Andrew is intoxicated and has no qualms with accosting him while on a date of his own.
Will is watching them, his heavy gaze prickles across Hannibal’s skin. He can only hope that once this has passed and Andrew slinks back to his pretty date, he can make it up to Will. Perhaps he should pay for dinner after all. Of all the people that could have seen them out, why did it have to be Andrew?
“Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know you came to places like this.” He has this annoying smile that he always wears when he stumbles upon Hannibal somewhere with someone. It’s only happened a few times, and he’s usually saving him from boring conversations at places like the opera house, but that isn’t this. It’s never been a date. “A little lowbrow for you.”
“You don’t know me very well then,” he says curtly.
Andrew flinches, but he’s resilient, and that smile returns. Hannibal would like to rid him of it permanently. “They have the best caviar service, I know how you love a caviar service.”
“We didn’t get that unfortunately, perhaps next time, but I’m quite satisfied with the carpaccio,” he patronizes, and he wonders if Andrew senses the condescension, the sweet displeasure that taints every word.
Andrew’s eyes flit over to Will, as if realizing for the first time that Hannibal isn’t alone, but he knows it’s the only reason he stalked over, wine drunk and belligerent. Hannibal glances toward Will, sees the hard set of his jaw, and then looks back to Andrew who has taken stock of him and comes to the conclusion, if his pale face is any indication, that he is not welcome here. Not by Hannibal, who has had him and let him go plenty of times in the past, and not by Will, who doesn’t take the time to introduce himself.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting. I didn’t realize you were with a friend.” He rubs his hand over the back of the chair. He directs his attention to Will again. He’s about to be facetious. “I’m having the caviar, have you ever had it?”
Going out alone is a rarity for Hannibal, although he’s been known to enjoy his own company and a robust glass of wine in the past when it has suited him. If Andrew is so aware of his habits, which he should be in this regard, he should know that he goes out with someone, whether platonically or romantically, at least once a week. This is about feeling rejected, about how he didn’t fuck him last time they went out, refused to see him tonight, and has, at least from Andrew’s perspective, replaced him.
Maybe he will.
“You are interrupting.” Hannibal turns back in his seat before Will can answer. He doesn’t need to feed into this. It’ll only spur him on. “Have a good night, Andrew.”
He lingers next to Hannibal a moment longer. He doesn’t like being snubbed, but Hannibal picks up his martini and drinks, his cold shoulder too frigid for even someone as persistent as him to miss. The chair slides hard once as he pushes off, and Hannibal’s drink sloshes across his hand.
Will moves to stand. “Do you want—“
Hannibal puts up a hand, effectively stopping Will, and he’s thankful he laid the napkin down. “Don’t concern yourself with him. I’m sorry he behaved this way in front of you. There’s no excuse.”
Will rubs the condensation droplets on his glass. “It’s okay, I hate that this happened.”
“He likes me for my reputation and my title,” he sighs, “he wants to bolster himself. Say he has a Count in his pocket, and I have been growing more and more uninterested. I don’t care for social climbers. Or people with bad manners. If he wanted me to stay interested, he shouldn’t have done this.”
He’s sorry Andrew tried to make Will feel less than over caviar. What an idiotic thing to hold over someone, as if Andrew has the money for constant caviar services, he’s always made Hannibal pay, but it’s just the sort of thing a man with some money would assume makes or breaks an experience.
“He looks like he has money,” Will observes.
Hannibal drops the napkin onto his table. The cuff of his sleeve is wet. “New money. He’s a surgeon at a lesser hospital, and has been for 12 years. He wants to work at Johns Hopkins but cannot.”
Will glances at the wet napkin, lips pursed. “Oh so you’re better than him.”
“Better than most, yes.” Hannibal sets his now empty glass down, there was only a sip left after Andrew’s childish show. “My kill count isn’t as high as most attending surgeons my age. Arrogance is not a virtue in this field, and it bleeds into personal interactions.”
“But you are arrogant,” he says.
“I know when to taper it off,” Hannibal replies with a wave of his hand.
If the police never find the last body, at least he knows who he’s going to use to remind them of their idiocy.
Their meals come out some minutes later, when the conversation has strayed from his work and reputation to life in Paris, and some of Will’s travels as a teenage boat mechanic. Will takes it upon himself to order Hannibal another martini, which comes out in record time. They eat quietly and listen to the complaints from the couple next to them, and then the gossip that floats from one side of the room to them. They share an occasional glance as if no one but them understand how inconsiderate the rest of the people are, and Andrew darkens his corner, but does not return to pester Hannibal anymore.
He nearly orders his poor date a drink for the inconvenience, but she doesn’t look old enough to drink. Andrew likes that. He liked that about Hannibal when they first met.
“Do we have plans after this?” Hannibal asks once he’s halfway through his dinner. The second martini is too strong, he can feel the way it fuzzies his head. He almost suggests they do something real and handle Andrew tonight, but he knows that’s something he needs to ease into.
Will blinks in surprise. “You have work, don’t you?”
“You do, as well.” He has another bite. “I’ll be fine. So will Éclair.”
Will considers that for a moment. “Would it be cliché to take you to a movie?”
“No one’s ever taken me to a movie,” he admits quietly. Only know, with the way Will’s eyes widen, does he know this is not normal. “And anyone I have ever taken out prefers… finer things.”
This shakes Will. He has to pause and stare at him. “Really?”
“You are the first person to ever buy me coffee as well,” he says.
Will makes a disappointed face, deep lines and a frown. “There’s a drive-in theater not too far. They play old horror movies during the weekends.”
He has his last bite of dinner. “That sounds perfect.”
They finish their meals and order dessert. A slice of torta caprese and pistachio cheesecake. It isn’t extravagant, but it does the job. Hannibal tries to insist they skip dessert, if only to remove them from Andrew’s glare, and Will insists they have it.
“What’s he going to do?” Will asks, and Hannibal doesn’t have an answer.
Dessert comes out much quicker than everything else. Batch made at the beginning of the dinner shift, he assumes, but they aren’t frozen and thawed, and they share bites of each. Will insists.
“Do you prefer mechanic work or teaching? I imagine teaching, considering you are a professor, but it isn’t the only thing that has your heart,” he questions.
Will leans back in his seat and rubs his jaw. “I could stop being a professor. I think I’ll always do mechanic work. What about you? Have you always wanted to be a surgeon?”
“I would be an artist,” he says, “but my interest in the human body cannot be contained to art alone.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re good?”
“I secured my spot at Johns Hopkins with my art alone,” he sounds boastful, and maybe he is, “I’m more than good.”
Madison returns with two checks without asking, but Will takes both and pays in cash, leaving a nice tip, before coming to assist Hannibal out of his seat and down the stairs. His buzz is mild, but he lets Will do this. He likes the feeling of his hands on him, and once out of Andrew’s scrutinizing gaze, he feels much better about their prospective relationship.
This time, Hannibal doesn’t pause when Will opens the truck door for him. Instead, he makes himself comfortable, full and pleased, and very forgiving of past transgressions. He has gained his own in such a short amount of time, so they’re even now.
Will slides into his seat and cranks the truck up.
“I don’t mean to tell you what to do, and I know you said you weren’t interested, but I don’t think you should see that guy anymore,” Will tells him once they’re on the road. “He’s an ass.”
Hannibal bursts with quick laughter. Maybe he’s more than buzzed. “I know. Unfortunately, we run in the same circles, so I will see him, whether I want to or not.”
The tension in Will’s jaw makes it look like he wants to say something more but doesn’t. There’s no use. Until Andrew is dead, Hannibal is going to have to deal with him, and a first date isn’t the place to argue about things like this.
Instead, they talk about the people complaining on the drive to the theater, and the gossip that lingered, and the fact that the people next to them were given a free shrimp cocktail and desserts for their troubles. What troubles, neither of them really know.
“Everyone thinks complaining will get them ahead in life,” Will grumbles.
Hannibal tilts his head. “They did manage a shrimp cocktail and dessert.”
Will scoffs but he can’t refute that. It did work, at least this once.
The drive-in is rather expansive, with at least 50 cars in the line. Hannibal notes four screens that he can see and when they get to the ticket booth, there are twelve movies playing. Two per screen, according to the crinkly paper taped to the window. He doesn’t know where the others are hiding, closer to the woods, he supposes. The first one starts at 9, and then the second with a 15 minute intermission.
“Two tickets for screen four.” He hands the teenage boy his card and is given a car pass in return.
They drive over, following behind an old Honda. There are about a dozen other vehicles parked at this particular screen so far, and a few more finding their spots next to and behind them. This is a bigger thing than he expected—he’s seen drive-in theaters in movies, he had no idea they were a real thing people enjoyed, not to this level at least.
Will has to get out to see what the little wooden post says about the radio, he says they’ve updated it, and while out, he comes around and opens Hannibal’s door.
“The movie doesn’t start for ten more minutes,” Will holds out his hand. “Do you want popcorn?”
“We just had dinner.” He takes his hand anyway.
“You’ll be surprised how much room you can make for popcorn.” Will slinks an arm around him. “Come on.”
There’s a small concession stand not too far from their screen, lit by bright yellow lights. The man behind the counter stares at Hannibal, at his suit, and fills a large plastic cup with cherry coke that Will passes back immediately. Children run between cars, and people in sweatpants and heavy jackets pitter around the bathroom smoking cheap cigarettes and eating from boxes of candy. His headache returns.
“It’s not buttered,” he complains as soon as Will hands him the popcorn.
“Oh you’re going to love this.” Will takes it back, and brings him to a side table. He sticks the popcorn under a nozzle and clicks the button, melted butter pours out in a hot, thick stream to soak the top layer. Then he takes a straw and sticks it onto the nozzle and into the popcorn, doing the same until their entire bounty is a greasy mess.
“You’ve never had cherry coke either?” he guesses, handing him the carton back.
He takes his first sip. It’s crisp and sweet. “I dj’s be never cared to drink soda.”
Will takes one of the kernels and pops it into his mouth, then he places his hand on the small of Hannibal’s back and guides him back into the labyrinth of cars. “I feel bad, I’m corrupting you.”
“That isn’t something you have to worry about. I was corrupted long before I met you,” he teases.
By the time they make it back to the truck, the screen has turned white and the movie is a few minutes away from starting. Will lets him in first, and then slides in to change the radio. Hannibal removes his suit jacket and places it and his coat into the backseat. He almost forgoes his tie as well, but refuses to compromise that much.
He crunches on a handful of popcorn while Will turns the channel dial. The salty, rich butter greases his fingers, and he sucks one into his mouth—for the experience—and then takes a gulp of cherry choke.
A little black-and-white band of theater snacks starts marching across the screen. Popcorn, a striped drink cup, a box of candy. Carrying a baton, drums, cymbals. They’re smiling big, and the popcorn holds the baton up and spins it around. A simple melody crackles through the speaker and Will pauses, having found the correct frequency.
“Please!” A sweet, almost childlike voice announces, “respect other movie goers! Talk quietly if your windows are down! Avoid walking in front of the screen! And please, turn off all headlights!”
And they march right off screen, fists pumping up and down, knees raised high.
Ominous music beats through the radio a few seconds later. Hannibal eats another handful of popcorn as a small spaceship erupts, and the title screen comes to life. Blue lights flashing THE THING before cutting to black. Simple, direct. The darkness opens to a mountainous, snowy landscape, and music slows into a heart racing pitter patter.
“Did you see this when it came out?” he whispers.
Will scowls, “I’m not that old, I was little when this came out.”
Hannibal purses his lips in an attempt not to laugh. It doesn’t work very well. “Vintage.”
The music picks up. A dog runs through the snow and a man with a gun high up in a helicopter shoots at it. The Thing in question, he supposes.
Will sets his arm around Hannibal’s shoulders, the warm weight pulling him closer until they’re comfortably slotted together. The scent of Will’s cologne engulfs him and it takes every fiber of control not to turn his face into his shoulder and smell him. He takes another handful of popcorn to distract himself. At this rate, he’ll be sick.
He glances over at Will. He’s engrossed in the movie.
“You okay?” Will asks.
Hannibal sits up and grabs one of the napkins from the concession stand to wipe the butter off of his fingers. He folds the napkin and sets it in the cup holder and leans back to his position.
“Yes, I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re asking,” he snickers.
“No, I didn’t think you were.” He rubs his shoulder. “Your generation has gorier movies.”
Hannibal finds himself leaning into Will again. His body is warm, softening for him until he’s comfortable, and Hannibal can’t stop looking over at him. It’s distracting how attractive he is, it’s unfair, most men who inconvenience his day are average at best, but Will has to be attractive. Hannibal should never have given him a chance to make it up to him, and now they’re in the dark of his truck, watching a movie that’s older than Hannibal, and he’s curled against Will, desire pulling at his chest.
Will catches him again and Hannibal averts his gaze back to the screen. He squeezes him a little closer. His eyes flicker down to Hannibal’s mouth.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.
Hannibal looks back at him. “Yes, please.”
Will takes him by the chin and kisses him. Gentle, at first, hardly more than a peck. He leans back, takes a little breath, and then kisses him deeper. Hannibal pushes closer to him, allowing Will to lick his tongue into his mouth. His arousal pricks Hannibal’s nose, a heady scent that fills the cab. Hannibal’s body reacts, his cock twitches.
He moans quietly into the kiss, and Will sucks his tongue. His beard prickles his face. He rests his hand on Will’s thigh. He’s careful not to move it upward or squeeze, but Will still pulls away.
Hannibal blinks, confused, but Will brings him close and returns his attention to the movie. Hannibal lays his head on his shoulder and does the same, a little uncomfortable because of the heat in his belly, but not upset.
Things can’t get heavy in the truck, not here at least. It wouldn’t be a first for him, but there are children running around and the theater is fully packed.
Between them, they finish the coke and popcorn well before the movie ends. Hannibal is tired at the halfway point, and finds himself blinking hard to stay awake by the end, but he’s pleasantly surprised by it, and Will.
“I hope you liked it,” Will says when they’re headed back toward Baltimore, “it was one of my favorites growing up.”
“I did. I felt seen by it,” Hannibal says and does not elaborate.
They arrive at his house at 11:30. Despite the fact that they both have work in the morning, he’d love to invite him in. Every date doesn’t get this treatment, but he has a slim margin for error when it comes to assessing whether someone is good in bed based on kissing alone, and he’s rather certain of Will’s ability, especially with his tongue. Will comes around and opens the door for him and walks him right to his front door, and kisses him goodbye. Not open mouthed and hungry like before, but the respectful kiss of someone who has no ill intentions.
“Goodnight,” he says, cupping his cheek so he can place one more kiss on his lips.
Hannibal blinks, dumbfounded. “Goodnight, Will.”
He steps inside alone. Éclair is yipping at her door, the sound rings in his ears as he tries to make sense of what happened. Should he be offended that Will so expertly rejected him? Or is he being a gentleman by not coming in? His immediate reaction is to wash his hands of Will, but he decides against it just as fast. He’s being a gentleman, that’s the only explanation he can accept. (He’s refusing to consider the hand Andrew’s little performance may have played in this.) Éclair’s yipping intensifies, loud enough to break him from his daze, and he frees her. She hops on him, demanding the attention she’s been denied, snuffling toward the sleeve where the drink spilled, and he scoops her up like he always does.
“Have you missed me?” he asks, and she nuzzles her little head against him. “Maybe next time we can bring you along. Would you like that? He can bring Winston, but you have to behave yourself. I like him, you can’t give me a reason to kill him.”
She wiggles as they go upstairs, and rolls in his arms to be held like a baby until she catches sight of her bed and bounds out of his embrace to make herself comfortable. It’s so far past her bedtime she doesn’t follow him into the bathroom, but he keeps the door open.
“Will is nice,” he tells her as he brushes his teeth, “he has better manners than most of the men I deal with. Almost the perfect gentleman, I do think I unsettled him.”
He cleans his face. “He paid for dinner. I did assume he would, but it was strange when it came to fruition. I’ve never been out with someone and not paid for the meal.”
He changes into his pajamas. “He’s a good kisser. Passionate, but respectful of the situation. He didn’t ask to come inside. I would have invited him but he left so quickly.”
He lays down, eyes heavy. “And you like him, and I believe you are a good judge of character.”
When he wakes for work in the morning, he checks his phone. This is unlike him, but he hasn’t slept well. He almost expects there to be nothing from Will, perturbed by Andrew’s behavior. It wasn’t Hannibal’s fault, but it was a bad look. He lost control over the experience, and it may have given Will the impression that he is frivolous with his relationships. Should he care after one date? No, he reasons, but he can’t help being upset that the chance for something more could have been ruined by someone else.
Emails and work chats are his first notifications, and then a thread of texts. Alana, Bedelia, Franklyn, Andrew, and then Will. A message sent at 12:55 AM.
Will Graham: I had a really nice time tonight. I’m sorry about what happened at dinner, let’s try again. Work is about to get a little hectic though, I won’t be able to see you this coming week.
A sigh of relief escapes him. A few texts and a date shouldn’t be enough to have him wound up like this, but he is, and it feels good. Often, suitors struggle to excite him, but they never have seen him before either.
Restless night that it was, he doesn’t drag as he slips from the bed.
Good morning, Will. I’m sure we can arrange something, let me know what you have in mind.
Will starts typing within the minute.
A more structured routine develops between them within days of their first date. He texts Will when he’s in his office, or hiding in the bathroom. After work, he calls him. He never announces these calls, sometimes he has them in the parking garage, sometimes when he’s at home in the warmth of his bed. Will always answer. Or, he calls back if he is indisposed.
Each day in his office, when he’s elbow deep in someone’s abdomen, when he comes home, when he’s walking Éclair, he thinks about him. Their date, everything that preceded it, and the days after, had been nothing special. Every time his mind wanders to Will, he tells himself that. He’s gone on far nicer dates, he’s had men and women fall all over themselves for a chance to be with him, and yet, he can’t shake Will Graham. He tells himself it’s that flicker of darkness he saw behind his eyes when they first met, but he finds that he thinks about cherry coke and popcorn and every time he opened the door for him—the fact he pulled the chair out for him.
With Will, there isn’t a show. He’s honest about what he has to offer, which isn’t money, and Hannibal prefers that to the deception of platitudes.
On his day off he gets plenty of invitations out to shows, restaurants, dinner parties, but his interest has plummeted. Dinners, galas, even being invited to the opera by those he considers friends doesn’t spark his interest. Everyone is going to perform for him, they’re going to parrot what he wants to hear and bolster their position as someone Hannibal should be involved with. None of them are going to open doors for him, or pay his way, or take him somewhere casual and buy him an obscenely large soda and butter his popcorn. They’re going to plead their case, offer their bodies, and up until this point he hasn’t realized he doesn’t care for it. At least, not in the long term. These people should lower themselves around him, but it isn’t an enduring expression of their love or devotion. Any of them could be cast aside by him, and then what? Would they behave the way Andrew has?
Andrew. He grimaces thinking about him. He’s reached out several times now to make amends but there is nothing he can do to fill the cavern that he dug between them. It isn’t as if Hannibal loved him. He’s a good enough fuck, and he holds conversations well, but he showed his true colors, and that will cost him. If not his life, then his social status.
Still, the desperation he shows is enticing, and it’s not the first time someone has made a fool of themselves because of how badly they want Hannibal. To be this coveted object that few can manage to get the attention of, and to watch them do whatever they can to keep it, but what good is that when no one sees him? Will has, not all of him, but a few smoothed edges, and that appeals to him far more than desperation.
He denies every invitation, and the first few of his associates to see his messages try to convince him otherwise. There will be plenty as people realize he’s serious. Anything to assert themselves as the most deserving, and while none of them are, he loves the attention this gets him. They should want him, they just shouldn’t annoy him with their desire. He curls up with Éclair on the chaise lounge instead, in a sweater and soft pants, shoving his face into her fluff. He sends Will a picture of them together. He finds he gets the best reaction out of pictures Will might deem cute.
His phone vibrates a second later.
Andrew Daniels: Sorry about Sunday night, H. I’m sure we can figure it out, you just need to give me a chance.
His nose wrinkles.
Another text pops up on his screen as he reads the fifth text from Andrew today, and his disgust ebbs.
Will Graham: Did you persuade her to take this picture with treats?
Will Graham: I’ll call you when I’m on break.
Hannibal tucks his phone between them and pulls her little body closer. Her warmth radiates through his chest, and she wiggles until she’s comfortable.
He’s dozing when Will does call, two hours later, and his stomach is grumbling for a late lunch. He pushes up, Éclair steps onto his lap to be carried, and answers the phone, setting it on speaker so he can prepare their food and talk.
“Hey, sorry that I haven’t been able to talk much these past few days,” Will apologizes immediately, “work has me… busier than usual.”
Hannibal deposits Éclair on her little bed and starts pulling out his personal stash of meat.
“I imagine your students are needy this time of year, midterms have passed, the crunch is weighing on them.” Liver today. “I’m home anyway, so there is nothing lost.”
“I thought you’d be making the most of the day.”
“I rarely get time to myself,” Hannibal answers. “Éclair enjoys it when I’m home too. I thought we could have a slow day. She has been clingier than usual.”
“She loves you,” Will says, and he knows it’s true. She loves him so much more than anyone ever has. He wishes she understood why he has to go for such long periods of time.
He washes his hands and begins to slice the liver into thin strips. “I do feed her veal.”
Will laughs. The speaker crackles. “That’s one reason to love someone.”
His phone vibrates and he steals a glance at it.
Andrew Daniels: Why don’t you come over?
He rolls his eyes.
“Food is what first bonds us to each other. If someone fulfills that need, you’re inclined to love them.”
Will hums, “I think people can fulfill needs you didn’t know you had, you have to be willing to accept that about yourself though, that you don’t know everything.”
Hannibal considers that for a moment. “I agree. The right person can open your eyes to what has been missing, but I doubt I fulfilled needs for her that she was unaware she had.”
“I’m not sure she has needs anymore. Only wants,” Will jokes.
By Thursday of the next week, Hannibal has figured out Will’s work schedule without asking. He teaches Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Classes start at 9, and last two hours, so he’s unavailable from 9 to 11, 12 to 2, and 3 to 5. Tuesday and Thursday, Will is attentive and ready to make himself available when appropriate. It’s Hannibal’s schedule that makes communication difficult, but Will isn’t bothered by it yet, so he decides not to broach the subject about how they’ll make it work if the relationship progresses. He’s not used to getting ahead of himself, but the worry about his job as a hindrance already weighs on him.
Whatever Will did the weekend after their date, Hannibal hasn’t figured it out yet. It could be any number of things, and Will is dodgy. Work related, but when Hannibal asks about what his students have him doing, he refuses to answer in any real way. He says he doesn’t want to bore him with the details. This consideration would make him happy in any other situation, because the boring aspects of other people’s day to day lives never interest him beyond keeping face, but he finds that he wants to know what Will is doing, why he’s doing it, and what he gains from it. And most importantly, why he doesn’t want to tell him.
“Unless someone is dying, please do not let anyone disturb me in my office,” he tells Nurse Kelcie when they make it to his office door, “I have paperwork I need to complete.”
She nods to him. “I’ll tell people to steer clear.”
Paperwork and a phone call. Will went fishing today, but he texted a picture of his catch before Hannibal met with a patient’s mother an hour ago, which means he’s available to call, and he’s made it clear that Hannibal can call as he pleases, as he has been doing but Will said he needed for Hannibal to know it’s okay, as long as he isn’t in the classroom. It’s easier this way, given how unpredictable Hannibal’s hours can be.
He sits in his large leather chair, taking a moment to breathe in the antiseptic hospital air, happy that it lacks the bodily components that stick into his sinuses. Sweet infection, irony blood, and the earthy-sulfuric scent of fecal matter cannot touch him here. His office is all bleach, florals (he keeps fresh flowers on the small cabinet behind his desk to cut through anything that might linger in the HVAC system), and whatever he’s brought for lunch or dinner. Peace comes over him and he takes out the paperwork he intends to do, and calls Will, putting his phone on speaker so that their conversation and his work can go seamlessly.
He glances down at the note at the top, written in swirly handwriting of the ICU nurse from last night, and was passed to him this morning. His patient from last week has an infection that the typical antibiotic regimen doesn’t work on. They’ve done their due diligence to prevent this, but he’s so weak that it’s unavoidable. They can pump his body full of every antibiotic in their pharmacy, and it won’t save him from infection.
His phone rings twice before Will picks up.
“Hey, Doctor Lecter,” he answers, the cush of his accent softens his last name.
A tingling warmth erupts in his chest and shimmers down into his belly, leaving whatever hollowness—and he did not know there was hollowness—filled with excitement. He thought, after all of the phone calls they’ve had, he’d be used to the remnants of Will’s Southern accent peeking through around the harder sounds of his name, but it provokes him again and again, causing his body to react outside of his control. Warm, filled, with a satisfied shiver.
“Good afternoon, Will.” He’s smiling, and in the privacy of his office, he doesn’t force it away. “I see fishing went well.”
“More than I expected with the weather, but I’m a pretty good fisherman,” he says humbly.
Yes, he is. He has him hooked, and Hannibal isn’t one to bite.
“Should I expect to see them hung up on the walls of your home?” he asks, and turns on his computer, the blue screen thrums to life.
“No, I’m not the trophy type.” The line goes quiet. “I used to have a deer head. It was… when I was 15 my dad took me hunting. It was a big deal.”
That tickles him. “Where is it now?”
Will breathes out into the speaker. “In storage, but I don’t do that with fish. A few of these will be my dinner tonight and the rest will go in the freezer.”
“I’m almost jealous. Last night I prepared veal chops for myself and Éclair so I have leftovers.” His office phone rings. He leans forward and sends it to voicemail.
Will chuckles, deep and rumbly. His stomach flips. “Well, I am jealous. Winston would be too, if he knew what you’re feeding her.”
“I find it hard to believe you don’t feed him well,” Hannibal says.
“Well, but he isn’t getting veal and steak. I make his food at home, chicken, it’s easier on his stomach. I’m particular about what goes into my dogs.”
“We’re the same in that way.” It would have been foolish to expect anything less from Will, but the similarities feel good. It’s another thing he gets to file away as reasons they work. “Our plans are still good for Saturday, yes?”
“They’re still good, I’ll be at your house around 11.” He’s doing something, he can hear the sound of metal. “It’s… casual.”
Hannibal starts typing. He has to work fast, or he’ll be here all night documenting and putting in orders. “Are you telling me not to wear a suit?”
“No, no! You can wear whatever you want. I just don’t want you left in the dark,” he says quickly. “What’re you doing?”
“Paperwork. Putting in orders for the patient I did the splenectomy on.” He turns in his chair to grab his lunch. He should probably do that too, while he’s at it. “Doing my best to avoid sepsis.”
“Do you want me to let you go?” he asks.
Hannibal pops open the container. He doesn’t reheat the veal chops. He doesn’t like the way microwaved meat chews. “I called you. I’ve been busy the past few days and I wanted to assure you that I still intend to see you.”
Will says something to Winston, a muffled coo about treats, and then he’s back. “You’re checking in.”
Plans can change at any moment, and while he’s not the kind of person that is used to going steady, as Nurse Kelcie likes to call it, he feels like two weeks between dates is a bit much. His interest is piqued, but is Will’s? He hopes so. He seems like it.
Formalities lessen around Will too, and he likes that. Each time he tries to impress Hannibal, it’s never in the pompous way his suitors usually try, there’s nothing heavy handed about showing that he’s a good fisherman. That, the desire to impress him, Hannibal cares less about anyway. Talking to him is a relief after stressful meetings and surgeries, he’s the only person who has ever soothed him after the worst of his job with simple conversation. So, he needs to keep him interested—he’s never worried about that before, but he’s not a fool, he knows a man of his age isn’t going to be strung along with phone calls alone.
The thought churns inside of him, a sharp stone against his pulpy insides.
“I enjoy talking to someone unrelated to my work. It’s relaxing.” He types, takes a bite of fingerling potatoes, and types again. “Recently, it feels as if that’s all anyone wants to talk to me about.”
“I like talking to you too.” He can hear Will’s smile, it makes his accent worse. “You can’t help that you’re a prodigy, people find things like that interesting, but I do understand what you mean. It’s kind of the same with my job.”
“Yes, but I’ve heard it all. Every joke, every question, every judgment. People never have anything new to offer,” he sighs. “The ability to be impressed does not equate to closeness. People believe if they show interest in one aspect of me, then they know the whole of me.”
Will is quiet. The sound of metal returns. He must have an on going project, a motor in his living room. “What do you want people to know that they don’t ask?”
Hannibal pauses typing in his orders. This man is going to die, surgery and antibiotics and IV nutrition will only prolong the process, and his mother and wife are in agreement to try everything. That’s what he wants to say. People die, most people aren’t worth saving, but he doesn’t. There are better things he could say about himself than the fact he cares very little about whether his patients live or die — getting them out of the operating room alive, however, is important to him. Regardless of his opinions on whether his patients deserve to live or die, he does have a reputation to consider.
What would he tell people if they asked about who he is? It dawns on him that he doesn’t want people to ask things about him, he doesn’t want to be a fully fleshed out person to those in his circle, but rather, he wants Will to ask him questions. Although, he hasn’t questioned him about his job the way other people have. He’s expressed how impressive Hannibal’s accomplishments are, but he hasn’t asked him about money, gore, or everyone’s favorite topic: lawsuits.
“I play the harpsichord and the theremin. I’m an excellent cook—people do know that, however they don’t appreciate it—my drawings got me into Johns Hopkins, very few people know that aside from you, and no one asks. I have a slight allergy to chalk.” Explaining this feels childish, like he’s whining to Will about the life he wanted and got, but Will hums along. “I’d like to cook for you.”
“That’s a serious step, Doctor Lecter.”
He starts to nod and then stops himself. “You’re right, we should save that for after the third date, later if possible, but I will admit, I find it hard not to feed the people in my life.”
Will makes a noise in the back of his throat, half-laugh, half-whine. “You have to keep some mystery, but I won’t say no when you decide to. Being jealous of a dog isn’t my forté.”
“I will be sure to put you out of your misery in a reasonable amount of time. I do think—“
Nurse Kelcie knocks on the door, he recognizes the heavy scrape of her knuckles against the thick wood. One, two, three, four and she opens it just enough to poke her head in. She’s pinned all of her red hair back into a sleek bun.
He sighs. When he said no one, that included her. “Yes?”
“Someone’s dying,” she says flatly.
Hannibal stares at her. He expects for her to laugh and tease him, like she always does, but she doesn’t.
“Gunshot wound to the chest. They need us ready, the ambulance is inbound.” She clasps her hands behind her back and rocks on her heels. “Sorry. I tried to call. Hale and Mclouglin are already on the way.”
Hannibal closes up his leftovers and sticks them back into his mini refrigerator. There are other trauma surgeons who could do this that are on staff today, but since the moment he became an attending, they have started to get lazy.
“Call me later,” Will says. “I’ll be here.”
“I will.” He places his phone in his desk drawer and locks up his office.
Nurse Kelcie looks at him once they’re heading down the hallway. “Who was that?”
Hannibal nods to one of the janitors. “A friend of mine.”
She nudges him, smirking the way she does every time she finds something to tease him about. She’s lucky she’s the best OR nurse he’s ever met, because he would have had to stop her constant teasing months ago if not. “A special friend.”
“You know that I keep my personal life separate from this place,” Hannibal says. “Don’t bring this conversation into the operating room.”
She waves him off. “I’m always professional, Doctor Lecter. It just isn’t like you to take personal calls.”
His last name doesn’t soften when she says it. It’s perfunctory, rolling off the tongue with professional care, but nothing else. Their dynamic may be lenient compared to how he behaves with his other colleagues, but the spark of connection isn’t there, and as he grabs a new set of scrubs, he accepts that it likely can’t be replicated.
After the surgery, he wants to crawl onto the chaise lounge and cuddle with Éclair. The gunshot wound was horrendous and the man was practically dead when they wheeled him in. It was tedious work.
“Doctor Lecter, this was left for you,” one of the younger nurses calls as he passes the nurse’s station. “I was told no one could go into your office so I kept them here.”
On the edge of the nurse’s station is a gaudy little bouquet of flowers. Pink roses and daffodils in a cheap vase of plastic meant to resemble crystal. With two fingers, he pulls the card out and reads it.
Call me. A.
“Why don’t the nurses keep them,” he offers, “it will brighten up the place.”
“You sure?” she asks, her dark eyes shine.
“Absolutely.”
It’s well past 7 when he arrives home. Éclair has been walked and fed by the girl down the street, and put in her room to sleep. She isn’t though, and when he opens the door, she scurries out and hops against his leg until Hannibal picks her up to take her to bed. He should stop by the kitchen to eat something, cheese and crackers at least, but he needs to sleep more. A rarity in his life, but one that he’s experienced a handful of times in the past. The veal chops and fingering potatoes he finished post-surgery will have to do, although he has plans for a silkie chicken, he’ll just have to save it for tomorrow night.
He showers, shaves the stubble that has darkened his jaw, and cleans off his face. The underside of his eyes have turned a pale mauve, and despite the warm shower, his skin is dull, and no amount of moisturizer can fix it.
He dresses in his silkiest pajamas, rubs Éclair’s soft belly, and drags his body into bed. Days where exhaustion wins over his meticulously cultivated control are the days he thinks about doing something else—anything else. He won’t, he enjoys the praise too much, but the thought stays.
Franklyn bothered him after the surgery too. Asking personal questions Hannibal refuses to answer. He mentioned cheese, and then Hannibal’s butcher, and he had to tell him the conversation was inappropriate for work. Franklyn flinched and scurried away. He wishes there was a good reason to push to have him fired. Life would be so much easier without a nosy sycophant following him from place to place, but he could say that about any of the people in his life. Franklyn is just the worst behaved of them all.
He has several messages (three come Andrew practically begging him to kiss and make up), emails, and notifications demanding his attention. He crawls into bed, clears them out, and calls Will.
“Doctor Lecter,” he says the moment he picks up, “I was beginning to worry.”
The plush pillows cradle his head, the exhaustion starts to demand things of him, but he refuses to give in.
He pushes up on one elbow in an attempt to dispel the need to sleep for as long as possible. “Nothing to worry about, it was just a late day, and I told you I would call you back, I apologize that it’s so late.”
“No, don’t apologize. I was hoping you would. How did the surgery go?”
Hannibal sighs through his nose. “Unfortunately, his wounds were too extensive. By the time he reached my operating table, there was little I could do.”
But he did try. And then walked out into the waiting room full of nervous family members and told them the news. These parts are never easy, not because the emotions move him, although there are rare occasions something might prick him, but because dealing with the aftermath is part of the exhaustion. He can understand their plight, but people take their anguish out on him. He couldn’t have saved him, no one could have.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He was young. A hunting accident.” He falls forward slightly before catching himself. Fine, he thinks, he’ll lay flat. “How was your day?”
Distant sounds of nighttime break through the phone. Will must be on his porch, or on the land. He told him last week that sometimes he walks far out on his property to view his home with all the lights on, like a little boat on the sea. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now. “Other than emails, I was able to work on a mechanical project, so that was nice.”
“And your fish?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“It was really good, did you get dinner?”
“No, I had to make do with my leftovers while I was in the office. When I'm late, I rarely have time to cook after.” Usually, he would meal prep for the work on his off day, this is a personal failing from lazing the days away.
“I’ll be sure to feed you well this weekend,” Will promises, “we can’t have you starving.”
Pre-Sunrise Saturday morning Hannibal wakes up naturally from excitement, earlier than Éclair’s breakfast time. Unable to fall asleep again, he picks out his outfit for their casual date. Today is meant to be on the warmer side, in the 40s compared to last week's 30s. He retrieves a burgundy chunky turtle neck and grey woolen slacks from his closet, lays them down, and observes the pair with a keen eye. This should be casual enough for Will’s tastes, and they’ll hang on his body the way he knows drives any of his suitors mad. Some things, however, cannot be compromised, and he pairs the outfit with his finest watch and a pair of Italian leather dress shoes.
There’s already a text from Will confirming their outing, sent thirty minutes before he got out of bed.
With everything happening at work, and his focus being on Éclair and his wasted kill, he is only now realizing how excited he is for this date as he secures his watch. To see Will again, as if they’re lovers that have gone an exuberant amount of time apart, relaxes him. They aren’t anything yet, so the excitement feels misplaced, but he can’t quell it and he doesn’t try to. For once, he wants to be captivated by someone, to feel the full breadth of emotion that others do when feelings first start to bloom within them. He never had crushes, 27 doesn’t seem like a bad time to start.
He feeds Éclair her quail eggs and plucks her up once she’s finished to laze about in the living room until it’s time for him to go. His body is still exhausted from work, and he’s on call (apparently he’s the only surgeon on Johns Hopkins staff that is currently willing and able to drop everything to come in, given how often they need him), so at any moment, his plans can be ruined. Hopefully not. There are plenty of days he spends just doing paperwork, or meeting with patients, or arguing with the hospital administration over trivial things he’s right about, and of all the times he’s been on call, he’s only been called in twice, but it seems there have been more trauma patients in the last few weeks than ever before. Today, however, he would like to have an uneventful date with Will. A casual date. He can’t stop flipping that phrase around in his head.
He lounges over the velvet chaise and Éclair curls up on his belly. He clicks through crime tabloids and news articles, and finds that his kill has finally been discovered, three days ago, but the police believe it must be someone the judge put away. If that were the case, it would be fair, he was corrupt in that way, but he scraped Hannibal’s Benz with his BMW and told him to deal with it himself. Aggravation sharpens his senses, his teeth sink into the fatty part of his cheek, and blood erupts across his tongue. He’s going to have to fix that assumption—but how and when? Between work, Éclair, charity galas, dinners, and Will, he doesn’t have the time.
Of all of his priorities, he knows Will is the least demanding, but he isn’t canceling his date to deal with the police and their idiocy. It’s confirmed, and he doesn’t want to push it off. Not only would that look bad (Will has to be on the way), but he needs to do something other than sit and wait for the phone to ring. He’s too much of a social creature for his current reclusive behavior.
Éclair walks off of his belly, stepping on the tenderest parts of him, and snuggles herself between the back of the lounge and his side, whimpering gladly to be squished.
Hannibal drops his phone to his chest. He can’t let this sour his mood, and reading more about the police’s incompetence will ruin their date. When he kills again, he’ll deal with it. Whatever that means, but he’ll figure it out later.
Before Will is meant to arrive, he takes a lint roller to his entire outfit. An uneventful date with an uncommonly attractive man is just what he needs. Lunch, maybe a short walk. A few hours of peace before he officially returns to work in a few days. Has any date in his life ever been casual? He picks through his memories as he ties his shoes but can’t seem to find one. Not even with his friends. No one has ever taken him on a lunch date, at least, and vice versa.
The doorbell rings five minutes early, and Hannibal goes to the foyer. He briefly considers putting Éclair up before he opens the door, but he knows she wants to see Will. Her little paws tip-tap next to the door and her fluffy tail wags fast and hard.
She noses every inch out of the door as it opens and goes directly to him, yipping happily when Will catches her and rubs her soft belly. He coos, calling her Miss Clair, and a sweet girl, and she does her best to lick his hand, but Will’s avoidance is skillful to the point Hannibal is jealous.
“I’m on call, I apologize for the inconvenience.” He takes her wiggling body from him, and he doesn’t manage to avoid her affection. Her little tongue drags across his cheek and he grimaces. “I know it isn’t ideal.”
“No, don’t worry.” Will follows him in. Hannibal offers a little treat as an apology for leaving her. Next time, he thinks. They can meet at the dog park and get coffee. “I’m happy we’re able to do this.”
Work has taken away so much from him recently, he can’t wait for the reprieve that’ll come with the next resident season. New attendings, new residents, new hands on deck. He smiles at him, and Will smiles back, the softness in his eyes strikes him dumb. It takes a moment, and a hand on his biceps—not pulling, only guiding—for Hannibal to come to his senses and start moving of his own volition.
Will opens the door, the gate, and the truck door for him again. This time, he doesn’t try to fight against his kindness (although he didn’t try last time either, rather, he didn’t expect it). He takes in the feeling of being here again, the leather scent of his air freshener, Winston’s hair, and Will’s musky cologne. The familiarity of it is peculiar, he hardly knows Will, but in the same vein, he knows him better than most people he has associated with for years. Will is happy to tell him things, maybe he’s prickly about his life in Louisiana, and reserved about his job, but he’s told him about his previous dogs of which there are dozens, his two degrees (forensics and english), his affinity for fly fishing, and the fact he is a self-taught pianist and is also very bad at it.
“The piano came with the house,” he said over the phone last week, “so I do play from time to time.”
“Oh what can you play? Beethoven? Chopin? Or are you into lesser known artists?” Hannibal asked as he rubbed marinade on chicken breast.
Will cleared his throat. “Don’t laugh.”
Hannibal paused. He didn’t typically laugh at people when it comes to their capacity for music. “I won’t laugh.”
“Mostly kid’s lullabies. Hush, Little Baby, things like that.” He waited for Hannibal to laugh despite his promise not to, and he did not. “It would soothe some of the older dogs, but I never got very good at it.”
What does he know about anyone else? Things, sure, but what does any of those things matter? Most of what people have told him, he had to wrench out, or they told in hopes of getting something in return. Never personal things, and on the occasion he gets them out of people, they try to lie and say they misspoke or that he doesn’t understand what they mean. No one wants Hannibal to know their secrets. However, Will tells him things offhandedly, like he wants him to know them and that’s reason enough.
Hannibal has taken to filing Will’s confessions away differently than he does other people’s. He likes to play over them when he’s working or cooking. Sometimes he creates elaborate stories for Will, of him playing piano for all the dogs in his county, fishing in lakes and rivers to bring home hundreds of fish, feeding Hannibal said bounty.
He needs to feed Will.
This time, Will takes his hand in his as they ride, it’s rougher than his, he forgot the feeling of it, but their fingers link perfectly. Hannibal glances at where their hands rest, and fights the small grin that threatens to break his calm composure.
Lunch is at a ramen bar, Will gives him options on the drive, seeing as he picked last time, and while ramen isn’t a choice (a seafood place, a Pakistani restaurant Hannibal has heard really great things about, and somewhere that is definitely more bar centric), Hannibal asks anyway and Will obliges. Any of these places can be saved for another date, and this time, Hannibal has faith there will be a third date because this one is going to be perfect.
Will parks in the overflow gravel parking lot across the street from the ramen bar, as the restaurant itself only has two spots in front of it and all of the street parking is bumper to bumper. The restaurant’s food is absolutely delicious, so he understands the busyness.
“The inside is clean, but the owner has a love for 90s anime. And Godzilla,” he warns as they cross the street, “it kept me from coming here for some time, I often find that this sort of decor is tacky, and bodes poorly on the quality of the food, but it is quite good.”
Will opens the door, the little bell jingles.
“I’m not against a theme.” He glances around the inside. “Some places are a little gimmicky in this part of town.”
Over two thirds of the place is filled with people dressed far more casually than either of them, but everyone has an obsession with sweat sets and cargo shorts these days. Old Godzilla clips play over the three televisions in sync, the volume off. There are anime figurines here and there, and what he thinks, and isn’t sure, are Power Rangers, but he’s never seen them to be sure. A young man in a black t-shirt with the restaurant logo on the pocket comes over, picks up two of the laminated menus, and waves them along to one of the half booths.
“My name’s Calvin, I’ll be taking care of you today. Anything I can get us started with to drink, or just water?”
“Just two waters for now, thank you,” Will says, folding his jacket over the back of his chair.
He drops two napkins and straws on the table. “Alrighty, I’ll bring those right over.”
“I’ve never had ramen like this,” Will confesses with a little laugh.
Hannibal doesn’t cringe, but it’s a near thing. He’s sure he’s only had the cheap packets from the store, the ones that taste more like salt and water than anything good.
“You’ll like it,” Hannibal decides, “it’s comforting.”
And he feels like Will enjoys comforting food. Everyone does, really, especially with this cold. It’s a good casual spot, as well. The most casual he could think of that he genuinely likes. The places Will offered would have probably been good too, but he trusts this place not to disappoint him.
Will takes his glasses from his shirt pocket and starts to look over the menu before Calvin can return. “I’m going to defer to you for an appetizer, I don’t imagine you’re the crab rangoon type.”
He scans the menu once. It’s the same as it has been for months. “I have tried them, and they’re very good for what they are, they have blue crab meat. I think we should get the spicy pickled cucumbers. Something light.”
“You know what you want already?” he guesses.
“Hokkaido miso, with pork. Do you intend on ordering for me?” he asks, sounding innocent enough.
Will looks up, eyes wide. His cheeks turn pink. “No, no. I wouldn’t impose like that, Doctor Lecter. I was only asking because you’d been here before.”
Picking him up from his house, opening doors, calling or letting Hannibal call whenever, referring to him by Doctor, and not just Hannibal, and he did order him a second martini on their first date. Will has a specific idea of what their relationship should be, if it gets that far, this expectation of how he should behave, drilled into him from a young age. Hannibal can appreciate that. He grew up to be a gentleman, instilled by first his father, then his uncle, and then his aunt, and while usually he is, he can admit that Will may very well have him beat.
“You can. I also want to add a soft-boiled egg and a glass of their negroni.” He smiles.
Calvin returns with their waters and Will, just as Hannibal expects, orders for them. Hannibal first, and then himself. Spicy tantanmen with chicken, and the IPA on draft. Their waiter takes a second to either memorize their orders—he doesn’t write them down on the notepad slotted in his little apron—or understand that Will isn’t ordering two ramens for himself. Either way, he figures it out.
“Do you often drink beer?” Hannibal questions, “I thought the whisky menu was substantial.”
He doesn’t look like the type to drink much beer, although he knows people might disagree with that assessment. Beer drinkers have a look about them, mostly in their gut.
Will shakes his head. “I didn’t like their American whiskey selection, and I’m… unfamiliar with the Japanese whisky they have. Certain flavor profiles pair better with chicken than others and I’m particular about it. Beer is usually the safest choice if you don’t know.”
“We’ll have to get you to dabble,” Hannibal says, “I have quite a few at home. I’d be happy to let you taste them.”
Will puts his glasses back in his pocket. His watch catches the light and shines in Hannibal’s eye for a split second. A work watch, it looks like, Will also has work on his mind too.
He leans back in the chair. “The IPA is a local brewery that I’ve had before too. It’s decent.”
As Hannibal goes to speak, Calvin returns with their drinks and their pickled cucumbers, crushed and heavily sauced. He places it all down in the center and nods to them.
“Can I try it?” he asks. “I have personally never had it.”
He’s only ever had the beer he’s made for Alana, and the one can of cheap beer that was forced upon him when he first moved to the United States and tried to make friends his own age. Alana thinks his beer is delicious, and he’s happy someone does, because he can hardly stomach it.
“Of course.” Will hands him the big glass without taking the first sip.
He isn’t greedy, he doesn’t fill his mouth. It’s enough to get the flavor and let it marinate on his tongue. Herbal, with a perfume-like spike.
“It tastes like pine,” he mutters in disgust. Not a flavor he’s a fan of.
“A little bit, yeah.” His sip is much larger than Hannibal’s.
They share the cucumber salad, and he can’t tell if Will enjoys it or simply pretends to, but he decides he won’t lie about it. They’ve opened up their budding romance to the truth, as much of the truth as either is willing to give, and food preferences are one of those things they have no reason to lie about.
His negroni is fine. They’ve changed something about it. The gin, he thinks.
Their ramen comes out a few minutes later. The restaurant staff is efficient with their timing, and Calvin takes up their empty bowl of cucumbers and refills their water glasses.
“Anything else I can get you?” he asks.
“No, thank you,” Will answers.
Hannibal brings the steaming broth to his mouth, the nuttiness expands across his palate and the heat warms up his insides the way a heater never can.
“Try mine,” Will offers immediately; Hannibal hasn’t had the first bite of his actual ramen.
Still, he doesn’t protest. Will feeds him the spicy broth.
“That’s good.” He reciprocates, letting Will taste his.
Intimacy of this nature is strange to him. Of his friends, he’s never shared food in this way, especially in a public setting, but Will is unperturbed, as if this is the norm and Hannibal is the odd one out. Maybe it is, they shared dessert on their first date, and the popcorn and cherry coke. Perhaps everyone does this but him.
They eat in companionable silence, eavesdropping on other conversations happening around them. He likes that they’ve decided to do this without speaking about it, it’s fun. But there’s nothing of substance, typical life dramas. Still, people talk so freely in restaurants. Kids, divorces, dates, holiday plans, bad sex, the works. It becomes tedious, especially this woman two seats down that makes an mmm sound after every sentence she says.
Calvin comes over and asks if they want more to drink but they both say no. Midday is no time to be drunk, although a man on the other side of the restaurant is drunk. He moans and groans about his divorce and the fact that his kids hate him.
“Are you divorced?” Hannibal looks up from his ramen. He hasn’t thought to ask before this moment, but Will is a catch from what he can tell. It’s the only plausible answer.
Will’s eyebrows shoot up. “No, I’ve never been married. Engaged once, when I first moved to Wolf Trap. We weren’t a good match.”
“I was meant to marry a young English woman from a respectable family.” Hannibal slurps up noodles, careful not to splatter broth on his shirt. “Rich families still practice arranged marriages, but when I became the patriarch of the Lecter family I rejected the marriage.”
Will squints. “And that’s worked out for you?”
“Yes.” He smiles bigger than he means to. “I think so, and she married some young man she met in college. So it worked out for her as well.”
“I’m… happy it didn’t work out.”
“Which engagement?”
“Both,” he chuckles shyly. It’s a joke, but he’s serious.
His heart thumps one hard time. Hannibal averts his gaze to his ramen and plucks up the jammy egg from the broth and eats it. He’s warm all over, he takes a big gulp of his water until he’s cool again.
What has Will done to him?
“Why won’t you tell me about what you teach?” Hannibal asks to give himself time to recover. After three weeks, he thinks they can get this out of the way. “Do you think I might find it boring?”
Will pauses, noodles hanging half in the broth, half in the air. “It isn’t about that.”
“Do you enjoy being mysterious?” he pushes.
“You might find it uncomfortable, people usually do,” he explains, and Hannibal can tell this is what he says that gets most people to end the conversation.
Unfortunately for Will, Hannibal isn’t so easily pacified.
He bites into a piece of pork. The flavor of the broth has soaked into the soft meat, and he hums his pleasure. “I can stomach it.”
It takes a second. Will drinks the last of his beer, makes himself busy with noodles and the wilted greens, and tries to find the words. He looks at Godzilla on the screen, a puppet version.
Finally, he sighs, his face cool and somber. “I’m… teaching about the Chesapeake Ripper and how he evades forensics.”
He stills for an undecipherable second. “The Chesapeake Ripper.”
Maybe his initial reaction to Will’s history with the police was correct. Wariness has always kept him safe, but he’s careful, he can figure this out and where he stands — it doesn’t matter. He knows Will is like him, he might need a nudge in the right direction, and he’s good at doing that, but still. Teaching the next generation how to find him is sinful. He’s only been known as the Chesapeake Ripper for six years. He thought he’d have at least another ten.
Whatever reaction Will expected though, Hannibal doesn’t give him. He’s able to stop before he grimaces, and he is interested to hear what he has to say.
Will face changes, his eyes brighten, but he keeps whatever enthusiasm to himself. For now, at least. Hannibal is sure he’ll be spilling his guts momentarily. “He’s intelligent. He’s a good subject.”
“Do you think so?” he asks, and does what he can not to appear too interested. Too needy.
Does he need Will’s approval in this matter? Ex-cop that he is? This is all going so well, so he wants Will to talk about this correctly. He wants him to say the right things so he doesn’t have to end it in whichever way comes first.
Will nods enthusiastically. “They won’t catch him. He will never leave them the evidence they need, he’s far too meticulous. He outsmarts everyone.”
“You intend on teaching your students how to catch him then?” he guesses.
“I’m trying to teach them that sometimes you must accept defeat,” he says, “police, the FBI, they won’t. They’ll keep looking, but not every killer is one they can catch. Sometimes he is just that much smarter than you.”
His chest tightens. Hannibal’s never heard someone talk about him like this. Sometimes Tattle Crime will release an article about him that borders on praise, but there’s genuine pleasure in Will’s eyes. Earlier in the search, when Hannibal was first dubbed the Chesapeake Ripper, he doubts Will held him in such high regard, but six years of studying him would impress anyone. There has to be some level of love or adoration to continue reading about the kills, whether that be trashy tabloids, crime blogs, or the police reports. Then to teach that he’s one of those few unattainable killers, that’s unheard of.
“They have suspects,” Hannibal argues. “I have seen them on the news. My patients like to watch the broadcast when a new one is announced.”
Will waves him off. “None of them are him.”
“Are you sure?” He pushes his empty bowl to the side, he doesn’t want anything separating them.
“They lack… the ability to see beauty in the grotesque. Maybe they kill people, but no one is doing it like him. It’s an art form just as much as it is a punishment. It’s not sexual though, that’s where people get confused. A lot of investigators try to make him fit the sexual sadist profile to make sense of him, but it doesn’t work. He doesn’t return to the crime scenes, he doesn’t sexually mutilate the bodies, I doubt he has a partner, and if he does, their sexual behaviors are not determined by when he kills and how well it goes.” He rubs his chin in thought. “It’s about control. That occasionally fits, but I think he’s… indescribable.”
Part of him wants to confess to Will here and now. He already shown that he has the ability to see him, and it’s obvious he holds an inappropriate level of interest in the Chesapeake Ripper. It isn’t a smart idea, but it’s one that comes to him anyway.
“What if you found him?” he asks. “You seem to know him quite well.”
“He’d have to want it. The Chesapeake Ripper isn’t going to reveal himself to someone without the assurance his freedom will remain intact. Maybe he would reveal himself to a lover but… he’d have to know where their loyalty lies. There’s that too, some say he can’t hold relationships, I don’t agree. He’s sophisticated. He’ll have plenty of relationships in his history, and all of his lovers would come to his defense. The earlier profiles I read said he would be a straight male, it’s common, but it isn’t right. I doubt he would like the limitations of labels, but he will have male and female lovers.” He coughs, catching himself in a ramble. “He’s not typical, and that throws them off. The FBI is too spoiled.”
“What if I’m the Chesapeake Ripper?” He grins.
Will laughs suddenly, loud and wild, and people stop eating to look at them, as if they all haven’t been obnoxious this entire time. “It wouldn’t be very smart to confess to someone you barely know.”
Hannibal laughs too, “I tried.”
“He’d kill you for taking credit, and I would hate that.” His laughter slowly subsides. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, it’s a little macabre for a date.”
His heart really flutters, and for the first time in his life, he understands that he’s been missing something. This energy pulses through him. Will knows him so well, he wonders if that’s why he’s drawn to him, this subconscious knowing that he is something different, not only romantically, but this inhuman creature walking among people, killing and shapeshifting into new, better forms. Familiarity that only comes from years of studying him, and now he has him. For Will, this is striking gold, and he hardly knows he has.
The appreciation is what keeps him sitting here without a plan to kill Will. He isn’t jaded about it, he accepts that the Chesapeake Ripper is not an easy catch, and he admires him for it. Hannibal can work with this.
“I thought you might—“
“Count Lecter?” A high, scratchy voice assaults his ears.
He hangs his head in defeat. This is going to happen every time they go out. There will be someone, whether it be Andrew, another attending, or someone from his social circles that comes to interrupt them, especially when they’ve managed to get into a grove of conversation. No one can pass by without begging for his attention, and for the first time in his life, he wishes they would.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Will says, but Hannibal knows it isn’t.
He turns slightly, and sighs in relief. Although he knows Andrew’s voice well, he still feared it might be him, and that he’d try to ruin this for him again — he needs to rid himself of him altogether, but the more he thinks about it, the more he knows it can’t be a Chesapeake Ripper kill. It needs to be an accident.
“Doctor Merritt,” he greets. “What a lovely surprise.”
Doctor Merritt isn’t a physician but rather, a Doctor in Philosophy that attends the same events he does. A decent man, with above average intelligence in his field of study but nowhere else. He’s not one of Hannibal’s previous dalliances, he has a wife he loves dearly, but they run in the same circles enough that he knows a few of the men and women Hannibal has been with. He can only hope that he’s smart enough to not make any ill-timed jokes about it.
The last thing he needs is for Will to know that there are quite a few people that may be left broken-hearted over them.
“We haven’t seen you at the theatre recently,” he says, with what’s meant to be a silly frown.
“Work has kept me busy, but I do plan to come for the opening night of the ballet,” he promises. “I have it worked into my schedule.”
Doctor Merritt’s little teeth flash porcelain white in a huge grin. The theatre can relax, they aren’t losing his funding, and even if he couldn’t come for several months, he’d continue to make his donations. They’re the finest in the city, and they have the best bar.
“The cast will love to hear that.” His eyes shift to Will. His face lights up. “You have a friend.”
Hannibal turns to Will. Doctor Merritt must realize that he’s interrupted something. That’s good. “Yes, this is Will Graham.”
He juts out his hand. “Count Lecter is a good man.”
Will doesn’t take it immediately, but he doesn’t rescind his offer, so he sighs and does so. “He is.”
They exchange quick goodbyes. Doctor Merritt is only here to pick up to-go that his wife ordered and had to speak because it would have been rude not to. He promises to pass on the news to the theatre and his wife as he goes.
“You’re very popular,” Will says, watching the door shut. “Count Lecter.”
“Shush.” Hannibal drinks some of his water. He’d like another negroni now. “I have many acquaintances. Most can’t tell when it’s appropriate to insert themselves, apparently.”
Will shrugs. “He seemed nice.”
“Nice enough.” He’s going to tell everyone about the mysterious man Hannibal is seeing. “I’m the patron of a local theatre. They are magnificent. You should come with me for the ballet. They always do such a wonderful job, and I have box seats.”
Will sets his chopsticks aside. Lunch is over. “I can meet all of your acquaintances then. Maybe then they’ll stop… interrupting.”
Hannibal purses his lips. “I hope so.”
They won’t though. Hannibal has allowed so many of them to interrupt as they please in the past, and this won’t be a behavior easily corrected.
Will pays in cash, and when they get up to leave, Hannibal has to think quickly. He doesn’t want the date to end, they haven’t spent enough time together, not after all that waiting, and especially not after another uninvited guest.
There are plenty of places around them. He just needs to suggest the right thing to do.
“There’s an antique mall down the street, reasonably priced and organized” He gestures once they’re outside. “I go sometimes, if you’d like to go look.”
Will pulls his jacket back on. “Yeah, let’s go.”
It’s a ten minute walk, and it would be fine if the wind hadn’t picked up while they were having lunch, but it has, and despite the good quality of his sweater, he’s freezing. He steps closer to Will to siphon his heat, and Will takes one of his hands and puts it in his jacket pocket.
Gaggles of people pass them, older couples—he stares at one man and then glances at Will, they’re around the same age—and teenagers on bikes. A bunch of these older couples are headed to the same place, and they follow behind them but at a decent distance. Not Hannibal’s choice, but Will slows each time they start getting closer.
They turn the corner and find it, not too busy looking but the building itself is quite expansive. It used to be a warehouse, so they could walk through here for hours without seeing everything or everyone.
Of everything he could have suggested, this is the most boring. Will doesn’t complain though, so he assumes he didn’t want the date to end either.
Will gets the door for him and they go in. It’s the neatest antique mall in the city, so many are filled with clutter that people want to get rid of, or from estate sales that didn’t manage to sell everything, or dead stock. There’s purpose in this one. Everything has a place, and the back lot is a flea market where people can come and sell antiques, vintage clothing, and knickknacks. Those people sell clutter, but someone has to.
They start to the left, the opposite of those couples that came in before them, and pick up one of the baskets in case either of them want something on the way. Most of the glassware and similar items are on this side, although there will be items sporadically placed as well. People pick up and then decide against buying things, leaving them anywhere and everywhere. (Or hiding them so they can come back and get them at a later date. Hannibal sometimes buys those items, they’re good.)
There’s a little of everything, and they pick through the different pieces of uranium and ruby red glassware. Will takes his time with some pieces. Picking it up, checking the underside, the inside.
“Do you collect?” Hannibal asks, catching him as he looks at the price sticker on a plate.
Unfortunately, some of the pieces come from larger sets that aren’t here, and he doesn’t need to start a new collection, or a new scavenger hunt, and none of them are from the current collections he has at home.
Will shakes his head. “I understand the appeal, but I’m not a huge collector.”
“You collect dogs,” he counters.
Will pauses and then nods in defeat. He sets the glowing plate down. “I do get the old tumbler glasses. And silver spoons, sometimes, but most of what I buy isn’t for show.”
“Silver spoons.” He is old, Hannibal thinks.
“My dad used to buy them for me. We’d go to a new state and pick up a silver spoon that corresponds. A bad habit I’ve kept up.”
“And the tumblers?” He watches Will’s face carefully.
His eyebrows crease. “I always liked the way they looked as a kid.” And he leaves it at that.
Hannibal checks a few red pieces, but they aren’t genuine ruby red. Newer, trying to imitate vintage. “I collect different sets. I’m fond of uranium, ruby red, and Tiara. I don’t need any of these pieces though.”
His phone vibrates, his stomach drops. He checks it, but it’s only a text. Another plea from Andrew. One of those pathetic please, please, please types.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Hannibal says; he shoves his phone back into his pocket.
They continue on. There are old hot wheels, glass soda bottles, stamps, posters, comics. A lot of it doesn’t interest Hannibal, but he pauses when Will wants to, and listens as he tells him about the different items he personally used to own, and they end up with a few knickknacks in their basket. A wooden dog figurine, a serving tray with Leda and the Swan painted on it, and a pair of salt and pepper shakers that complete a set Hannibal has been collecting for three years now. (One of those hidden items, stuck behind a metal coca cola sign.)
They pass vintage clothes being sold for three times their actual worth. Furniture that neither of them need, although Hannibal pauses a few times to observe them in case he can find a need for them somewhere in his house. Old stuffed animals and dolls that Will says are probably haunted, although he later confesses to not believing in ghosts because Hannibal did not laugh, he laughed then. There is a bookshelf (for sale) that holds glass cups that were once sold at fast food restaurants (also for sale). Old lamps, a chaise lounge that needs to be completely redone, and ancient telephones.
On the back wall there are pictures for sale—Will says they’re haunted, this time Hannibal laughs—Victorian portraits, baby photos, hair wreaths that Will tells him were once big in the South for mourning.
“Look.” He gestures to a Victorian era portrait labeled Man with Beard. “Did you know him?”
Will purses his lips into a thin line and sighs through his nose. “You’re so funny, Doctor Lecter.”
He grins, leaning in. “I pride myself on my comedic timing.”
There’s a case of antique jewelry on the back right side before the flea market. Antique, loosely applied. Some of it comes from the early 2000s and the late 90s. It’s more vintage than anything, but there are a few pieces that date further back. Lockets with lover’s hair still in them, designer mid-century watches, signet rings, and tarnished earrings. They look for a long time, but neither of them get anything out of it. Alana might like some of the things, but he’ll come back for that. The little old lady behind the counter asks how they know each other and they say they’re friends.
“I always love to see young people with older friends,” she chirps, her protruding eyes growing wider with excitement. To her, Hannibal has done some great thing by befriending a much older man. Will is going to show him the ropes; he does hope he can show him new things. “Young people can learn a lot.”
Hannibal simpers, batting his eyes between her, innocent and old, and Will. “I plan to learn a lot from him. I think older men tend to teach the best lessons.”
Will clears his throat, he’s blushing, or maybe that’s the cool air leaking in from the ajar door. “We need to head on out, I think.”
Hannibal nods, bids her farewell, and allows Will to guide him outside. Hand to the shoulder in a tight, but not painful squeeze. Once outside, his fingers brush over his neck, and slide down his back.
Despite the cold, the flea market is busy. Vendors sit behind their wooden stalls, and people poke and prod at the things brought. For whatever reason, this is where most of the people are. Hannibal notes the older couples he saw on the way haggling with a woman in her 90s who, from what he can tell, doesn’t actually want to sell anything. A porcelain cat cannot cost $400, anyone with sense would balk at the price.
A lot of vendors out here only carry one type of item, but there are rare occasions he’s found pieces he absolutely adores as well. A crystal punch bowl with matching cups, mother of pearl cufflinks, an unused baguette squeaker for Éclair—one of those bulk buyers.
Today they have a good mix of rings, bracelets, Precious Moments figurines, teacups and saucers. They take their time, people speak to them, trying to bait them into long conversations, but neither of them fall for it.
Will’s eyes keep sliding over him. They stop to look at bone china, Hannibal shivers, they move on.
The wind whips through the stalls, people grab their things, his perfectly styled hair goes awry, and his clothes cling to his body and then fall flat again when the wind stops. A storm might be blowing in.
“Are you cold?” Will asks.
Hannibal picks up one of the red vases from an old woman’s booth, observing it with a sharp eye. For the price, it should be in pristine condition. “I didn’t expect the wind chill today. I’m perfectly fine.”
Will sets their basket down and shrugs off his jacket, helping Hannibal into it before he can wave the gesture away, vase swapping hands. “Here.”
“Thank you,” he says dumbly and abandons the vase altogether. Will’s scent engulfs him and Hannibal stumbles and has to hold Will’s arm. It’s too intoxicating.
They keep walking, but Hannibal doesn’t stop to look at anything else.
They only buy the three things from inside the antique mall and then return to the truck with their spoils. There are plenty of things he’d like to bring home, but he doesn’t want to turn their date into a shopping spree, he just wanted a little more time.
Will keeps him close as they walk. The jacket bunches around Hannibal’s torso, a little short in the sleeves, but heavy everywhere else. The ease is nice. Hannibal tucks his head against him and he knows if anyone sees him like this, they won’t believe their eyes. Even with his more permanent lovers, he’s never cared for such outward displays of affection. But Will holds him with care that doesn’t feel lurid or cheap.
The drive home is comfortable too. Will cranks up the heat. They hold hands again, and when they arrive, Hannibal’s stomach wets, sick with displeasure.
“You can park and come in, if you’d like,” Hannibal suggests.
Will swallows, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable, only nervous. “Yeah, of course.”
“Let me open the gate for you.” He waits this time, and Will gets out to open the door for him.
A little counterproductive since he then has to get back in the truck to park, but Hannibal finds that he likes this about Will. Watching him inconvenience himself to do these little things for Hannibal gives him a thrill.
Hannibal walks around the truck and dials in the code. The gate slowly opens and Will backs in. Not in the garage, which is closed and full, but he parks in the driveway like it’s his spot. He’s never allowed anyone this sort of access. All of his previous lovers and dates have parked elsewhere, down the road somewhere he supposes, but he’s never asked.
They go inside through the garage, passing his Benz and motorcycle. A speck of guilt buries itself inside of him, but he doesn’t want Éclair with them right now. He wants to get somewhere with Will first.
“Should we let Éclair out?” Will asks once they’re inside.
“She’ll be okay.” He waves him toward the sitting room. “We haven’t been gone so long. Let me make you a drink, a glass of the Japanese whisky I told you about?”
Will nods. “Yeah, thank you, Doctor Lecter.”
As much as he’d like to go upstairs, he knows that would scare Will off. He needs to play this safe, but he does dim the lights before he gets into the bar cart against the far window.
The sitting room, which is a smaller room adjacent to the living room, is meant for his more intimate guests, although most of them never stay here for long. It’s all dark wood, leather, and crushed velvet, with large windows, and the heavy scent of musk. He doesn’t have to turn to know that Will is observing it with an appreciative eye.
“Will Winston be okay?” he asks, pouring three fingers of his best Japanese whisky. An old gift from his aunt from before they stopped speaking, and he’s happy someone will finally get to taste it.
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Will assures. “He can get in and out through my back door.”
Hannibal strides over and hands him the glass. Will is grateful and takes the first sip.
“This is good.” He nods as he speaks. “Smooth. You have good taste, Doctor Lecter.”
“I tend to believe I do, I think you do as well.” If he’s lucky, he can keep him until dinner. There’s still two good kidneys in his refrigerator. He’s sure he can make something.
They sit. Hannibal has to first, but then Will follows suit and is closer than he expects. Thighs touching, Will puts his free hand on Hannibal’s knee but no higher.
Will is so respectful. It’s killing him.
“Thank you for your jacket,” he says. He hasn’t taken it off yet. “It’s quite warm.”
“It looks good on you.” Will adjusts the collar of it and then touches his chin. Hannibal’s cock twitches. “You were freezing.”
“It was a little chilly,” Hannibal argues. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Will brushes his thumb over Hannibal’s chin and brings him into a soft kiss. Hannibal rubs his hands over Will’s chest. He wants to crawl onto his lap, but Will coaxes him back against the leather couch before he can. The crystal tumbler tinks against the end table, and then the bottle slides over it as Will settles himself on Hannibal.
He pulls his leg up, bent against the back of the seat, and Will comfortably slots himself between his thighs. He lays his full weight on Hannibal, his tongue slipping between his lips. He can feel the warmth of Will’s cock through their layers of clothes, the hard pressure rubbing against him. He’s big, thank God for that.
Pleasure creeps up inside of him as Will kisses him, his tongue in his mouth, and then kisses are smeared across his face, the stubble of Will’s beard scratching his smooth cheeks, and then he’s kissing his lips again.
Soft whimpers escape him as Will, whether consciously or not, rolls his hips against him. Hannibal grips his hair, his body meeting his as they slide against each other.
Will kisses from his lips to his neck, sucking his fluttering pulse between the sharp edges of his teeth. His moans vibrate through Hannibal, they both shudder.
“Will,” he sighs. The low, wet heat in his belly starts to sharpen. “If you’d like, we can move to the bedroom.”
His teeth scrape his throat and Hannibal feels his cock fully harden, warm fluid stickies his underwear. He’s going to come just from this. Despair mixes with his pleasure.
“Will,” he says with a bit more urgency.
He doesn’t want to come this way, in his good trousers, quivering under him. He could at least be inside of him, but he thinks Will might not even get all the way in. The pressure of his cock entering him may very well be enough to put him over the edge.
Will pulls away, his hands slide over his ribs, but not under his shirt, but under the big jacket that envelops him. He wants his hands on his skin—hasn’t he waited long enough? Most of his partners don’t wait for a second date, most of them don’t want to wait for the first to end.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, the blue in his left eye is brighter today.
His phone vibrates, shivering on his leg, and then bleats out this annoying twinkling noise that indicates to him that the hospital is calling. He doesn’t flop back, but he could forgive Will for thinking he does, as his head hits the cushion and his short hair splays out the best it can.
Will’s face flashes with disappointment, but he manages to control it. “You’re being called in?”
“Yes,” he huffs.
Of all the times they could call it has to be now?
Will leans over him, and gives him another kiss. Softer, lingering. “That’s okay.”
It’s not okay. He wants to scream. He wants to answer and tell them to call someone else, but Will pushes up off of him. His cock bulges against his pants. The only thing that keeps Hannibal from staring is his decent upbringing, but he can see it out of the corner of his eye, and he wants to do something about it badly.
With no grace, Hannibal hauls himself up and takes the call in the hall. Another car accident, they need him to come immediately.
Outside of view of Will, he presses the heel of his palm to his eye until it hurts. When he comes back in, Will has finished the whisky and has righted himself, his pants adjusted and his cock softer, not flaccid, but he’s ready to go. He shrugs off his jacket and hands it to him, the musk of his cologne disappearing with it.
They both leave through the garage, Hannibal texts Briony that he’ll pay her double to come walk and feed Éclair, and they part ways with one of those sad kisses that feel, to him, like a permanent goodbye. A one-sided goodbye.
In all his years as a surgeon, this has never happened. Luck is usually on his side, but for some reason, when it comes to Will, he can’t catch a break.
“Call me when you’re on the way back,” Will tells him. “Don’t worry if it’s late.”
Hannibal nods, but he can’t shake the feeling that Will isn’t going to answer.
“Be safe on that… thing.” He gestures toward the motorcycle.
“Not interested in a ride, Will?” he asks.
“I’m serious.”
“I am,” Hannibal insists, and watches Will back the truck up and then disappear in the opposite direction.
Briony is already coming through the gate, her thick, dark bangs are swept up in a headband. They wave to each other and he goes.
Anguish, new and destructive, crushes his soul. The cold air blows straight through him, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Not only because of the empty pit that’s developed where the warm tug of orgasm should be, but because Will has gotten the first taste of what this life would be. Hannibal has never cared about how people feel about his tumultuous schedule, and he shouldn’t now. The opinion of a man he’s known for a handful of weeks should not matter. And maybe it doesn’t, maybe it’s more the fact these constant inconveniences mean that Will may never develop an opinion of Hannibal’s schedule. He may never give him the chance. For Will, it would be easier to remove himself from the situation before he’s too involved.
Who wants to be constantly interrupted on dates? By random people (some who know how to behave and others who don’t), by his work? Even those who work with Hannibal or run in the same circles as him would find his life to be a nuisance.
When he arrives at the hospital, he puts these thoughts aside. Daydreaming about Will during surgery is one thing, contemplating what is likely the end of their entanglement is another.
Surgery is on a 22 year old who was struck by a car during a game of chicken, at least, that’s what he’s told as he hurries in and is debriefed on his known injuries, what lies beneath the surface, only time will tell. It was his body versus the car, why would the car ever move? The friends are there, he catches sight of them sitting in the waiting room, puking and crying, and speaking to the police. If he dies, he knows they’ll get manslaughter, and if he was in good humor, he might let that happen.
He washes his hands of that and goes into the back.
Six hours of surgery to get him fixed enough to go to the ICU. He’ll need multiple plastic surgeries, a permanent skin graft, and months, perhaps years of physical therapy, but he’ll live. Hannibal can’t promise he’ll want to live, what his quality of life may be moving forward, but that isn’t his concern. He got him out of the operating room alive, that’s all he cares about.
He drags his aching body out of the waiting room where he and Neuro have to inform the family of what they’ve done, and how much of this will be a waiting game. They don’t take it well, but families never do. He’s tired and starving with nothing in his mini refrigerator because of the rush, and the fact he spent half the day with Éclair, and the other half with Will. Annoyed too, about being interrupted, but Will was good about it. He’s accepted that it’s unlikely Will meant that kiss as a goodbye, only because he thinks he’d be honest, but he wonders if he’ll always be good about it? At what point things will shift, before they’re together or after, when it feels too enmeshed to separate without a knife between them? That’s harder to know. From what he’s seen of other attending’s relationships, the answer is later than is good for anyone. People grow tired of the long hours, the sleepless nights, weeks where the hospital is the priority over the relationship.
Their second date and Will already has a taste for what’s to come.
That’s part of the reason he doesn’t commit to relationships, that’s what he wants to tell Will, it isn’t only the killing, and he hardly cares about lying to his partner, although keeping up the lie is less than ideal. It’s easier to have a few fun months than years where the other person grows to resent him. Long relationships also put him in the spotlight if his partner ends up dead, and he does not, under any circumstances, want that because he would be assumed the guilty party before anyone else. Resentment is reason enough to kill someone when he’s never lied about what he can give.
Still, it felt wrong when they parted, and while he doesn’t think it’s going to happen, he has to accept that Will might cut things off with him soon. Maybe after the third date if it doesn’t go well. He’s always been the one to end things with previous lovers, he supposes there’s always new experiences to be had.
On the way to the cafeteria to get a yogurt, he pauses in the empty hall, the scent of blood and sweat sticks to the back of his throat, and he breathes. His careful, sure work as he put this reckless young man back together runs through his mind. He’ll be hearing about how well he did for months, how no one else could have done that, and all he’ll wonder about is what could have happened between him and Will if they never called. He performed a miracle today, that’s what they’ll call it, and he doesn’t care.
(He will later. The praise will work its way through him and remind him of what he is—their little prodigy.)
“Doctor Lecter,” Nurse Kelcie calls, jogging up. She’s as tired as him, her once perfectly placed red hair has strays flying out, and her eyes are sunken.
He takes another breath and turns, smiling. “Yes?”
“You have a visitor in your office,” she says, jamming her thumb out behind her. “It’s really important I think. He was official.”
His teeth sink into the tip of his tongue until it stings.
“Of course, thank you.”
He turns back down the hall, up the elevator, and hesitates at the office door. This could be anyone, some higher up on the hospital food chain, the police wanting a statement about the patient’s injuries, the FBI, but most likely, it’s Andrew. He’s never taken rejection well from anyone, but he needs to be prepared for any question and any accusation from any person, but he isn’t anxious. He knows he’ll assuage the fears of whoever is waiting for him on the other side.
He opens the door, expecting Andrew to immediately try to worm his way back into his good graces with apologies and lies dressed as pleas, but he pauses in dumbfounded shock halfway in, all of his assurances and dismals dry up on his tongue.
“Will?” he asks, his grip on the knob tightens.
Will is sitting on the navy office chair that his patients usually take. His clothes have been changed, a thick flannel, he doesn’t smell like his cologne but the woody shampoo he uses, and in front of him is a tupperware container near bursting, emitting a savory scent of meat and potatoes.
“I thought… you might be hungry,” he says, standing from the seat fast.
Neither of them speak for a moment. Hannibal stares at Will and then to the tupperware. He tries to parse what Will’s angle could be, but can’t think of anything. He just wants to feed him.
“Thank you,” he finally gets out, “this is very kind.” He checks outside to make sure no one is coming and then shuts the door. “Please sit.”
Will waits for Hannibal to sit before he does. He should have expected that.
Inside the container is a homemade meal. Not takeout, although he would have been mildly impressed with that—he finds that he would have been impressed with anything, really. Will has brought him a pan fried chicken breast, tenderized and pounded thin, covered in a generous drizzle of lemon sauce with buttery steamed greens and the smoothest mashed potatoes he’s ever had by another person. Will has brought him silverware too, and a bottle of water. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him.
He forks a mix of chicken and mashed potatoes together into his mouth. The chicken melts between his teeth, the savory mix of meat and butter blends well with the lemon sauce. One mouthful and he’s satisfied.
Will folds his hands onto his lap. “Did the surgery go well?”
“Yes, the patient is very lucky and should recover.” Hannibal has another mouthful. “Do you rice your potatoes?”
“No, I just whisk them.” His thumbs twiddle. Hannibal glances up. He’s nervous again. The bitter scent perfumes the air. “I also wanted to apologize for earlier and I thought it would be better to do so in person. That was wrong of me.”
Hannibal knits his eyebrows together. “In what way?”
“I was a little inappropriate with you. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about my intentions, especially with how abrupt it ended,” he explains.
“You have no reason to be concerned or apologize.” He waves him off and has another tender bite of chicken. This man could have Hannibal right here in his office for bringing him such a fine meal for all he cares. He almost, and then thinks better of it, tells him that he has held out longer than anyone else, and that a little heavy petting is hardly what he considered inappropriate behavior. “Do you have plans tomorrow?”
Will’s shoulders slouch forward and his face clears. Their little rendezvous in the sitting room must have been bothering him this entire time. It’s amazing he hasn’t made himself sick over it.
“I’m working from home, I mostly plan to catch up on grading,” he says.
He perks up. “We should get coffee if you become available. I believe Éclair and Winston deserve a trip to the dog park together.”
“Yeah, if I have time, I think that’ll be great,” Will agrees.
By the end of his meal, he’s rejuvenated. Exhausted, but feeling much better about the whole thing. Although, he’s unsure about his inability to read Will. Some things are available to him, those few emotions he wears on his sleeve, and the parts of Will he recognizes within himself, but nothing more.
He closes up the container and offers it back.
“Let me walk you out.”
Will gets the door for him and then allows him to guide him out. It can be confusing for someone, especially if this is the first time they’ve been here. There are a lot of halls and the signs aren’t great.
A couple of nurses speak to him, some residents, an attending, but not for as long as any of them would probably like. They all eye Will as this oddity. They want to compliment him on his surgery, but they can’t get the words out, not with a strange man next to Hannibal. All these years here, through residency and now as an attending, and they’ve never seen someone visit Hannibal. It’s fair for them to be moved by this, Will doesn’t look like what they expect, and it makes him want Will to come here more often. He could get some work done if he had Will as his shadow.
They walk to the front entrance of the hospital, where Will must have signed in—how did he get in? There would have been some requirement for him to prove who he was going to see, but he doesn’t ask. Maybe he managed to convince the lady at the front desk he’s seeing Hannibal, maybe he lied about what he was here for. It doesn’t matter either way. The mystery is more entertaining.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Will takes his hand and squeezes it once. Too much of a gentleman to kiss him in front of his colleagues, but the desire shines in his eyes, and it’s nearly as good.
Hannibal squeezes back with the passion he’d like to put into a kiss. “Goodbye, Will.”
Once Will is around the corner to the parking lot, he goes back inside. He needs to get his charting done before exhaustion demands he leaves.
He’s stopped at the elevator now that he appears available for real conversation. Word has spread about the miracle surgery already. It adds too much time to his commute back to his office, but he makes it up the elevator and down the hall in less than 20 minutes. It should have been five.
“Is that your boyfriend?” Nurse Kelcie asks as he passes the nurses station.
“He’s my suitor,” he says, his tone teetering toward this being a joke. He doesn’t stop though.
He never shares his personal life with his colleagues, even Nurse Kelcie and all of her teasing. Some of them, of course, intermingle with people he knows, and that means they have some idea of what goes on in his romantic life, but they never have a grasp of the full picture. Doctor Merritt will certainly tell people about Hannibal’s current love interest, but he and none of those clucking gossips know how serious Hannibal has considered getting. There will be broken hearts, but perhaps that’s for the best.
“One of many,” she laughs.
His heart turns. He’s the only one to ever bring him food after surgery, the only one to pick him up, the only one to care how he perceives him beyond liking him. He can’t think of another time any of the others were ever so genuinely considerate. Not that bringing him food is some great expression of devotion, he has received the odd delivery to his home of fine quality ingredients—thousands of dollars in absheron saffron, jàmon ibérico de bellota, alba white truffles, matsutake mushrooms—but as he considers this, he wonders if the ingredients were for his enjoyment, or rather in hopes he would cook with them and invite the person to dinner. What’s a delivery compared to a home cooked meal?
He leaves her in the hall, unable to articulate what Will is, more than a suitor, less than a lover. Hannibal settles in his office to chart, and ponders over what he should do about Will, and when it might be appropriate to broach the subject of a more singular, closed relationship.
Late the next afternoon, Hannibal’s phone rings. He’s mid-knead of a homemade pie crust. He wipes one hand on his apron, answers, and returns to work.
“Hello, Will,” he greets happily. Other than a good morning message, he hasn’t heard much from him. He’s expected as much, given he’s using today to play catch-up, but he has hoped that their coffee plans were still intact.
Outside of the kitchen, Éclair’s ears perk up at the sound of his name but she continues to chew her crepe toy to smithereens. It isn’t as if he’s here.
“Hey,” Will says. Éclair’s tail starts to wag and the toy squeaks louder and louder. “I have a little bit of time if you want to meet for coffee still.”
Hannibal looks down at his dough. “How long will you be?”
“35 minutes maybe. I had an impromptu therapy session, so I’m not that far from you.”
“You don’t have Winston.” He doubts many therapists allow non-service dogs in their offices. “Éclair will be sad to hear that.”
Will is quiet for a second. “We can schedule for the next Saturday you’re off.”
“No, we can meet today.” He sets the dough to the side and pats his hands clean on his apron. “And the next Saturday I’m off too. I’ll bring Éclair anyway, I do think she’ll like to see you.”
“I want to see her too,” he almost chuckles, “should I come get you?”
“No, we can meet you there. The same café, correct?” he asks.
“Yeah. I think that should be fine.”
They say their goodbyes and Hannibal finishes kneading his dough and returns it to the refrigerator. Éclair is waiting patiently for whatever he means to say to her. Her head is tilted, and she has abandoned her toy.
He turns to her, hands on his hips. “Do you want to see Will?”
She bounces up and off her bed, circling over and over until Hannibal plucks her up so that he can get ready.
He doesn’t do anything drastic, only freshening up, cleaning the flour smudges from his face, and changing into nicer clothes. He debates leaving his coat, hoping to have Will’s again, but decides against it. He leashes Éclair, shoulders on his coat, and they go.
“Be good,” he instructs, “or we won’t make plans for the dog park.”
Éclair yips at him, and he thinks she’s disagreeing with the sentiment. They will because he wants to see Will again.
The walk is slow. He wants to give Will time to get there and get settled, and Éclair takes their slowness with heart and sniffs at the dead bushes of his neighbors and accepts pets from strangers.
By the time they arrive, Will is settled at the same table they sat at the first time. He’s on his phone, his glasses have slipped down his nose a little, and he’s in the same black jacket he let Hannibal use yesterday. He frowns, he shouldn’t have worn his coat after all.
Éclair speeds up and, although Hannibal intends for her to sit in his lap, hops on Will. He grabs her and disconnects her from the leash without asking, and she tries, and fails to lick his face.
“Hey, Miss Clair,” he coos, “you’re not being a good girl, are you?”
As if he hasn’t lazed the day away, she flops onto his lap and yawns. Hannibal touches his shoulder and kisses Will once. He may have the decency not to initiate affection in public, but Hannibal can do as he pleases, and Will kisses him back with ease.
“Have you ordered?” he asks, sitting across from him.
“It should be out in a few minutes. I haven’t been here too long.” Will looks him over. “You look better today.”
“Likely due to having been fed so well last night.” He still feels tired, but he’s happy to know it hasn’t affected his looks any. Each time he has a long day or night, he wonders if he looks tired the way Will said when they first met.
“I can do better,” he says earnestly.
A young man in a rather stained apron, comes out with their coffees and two pastries from their bakery box—an éclair, for obvious reasons, and a canelé—before he can respond. He sets everything in the middle and goes, not saying anything, or waiting long enough for either of them to thank him.
“I hope she won’t mind.” Will strokes Éclair’s back. “It's a little cruel to eat her kind in front of her.”
“You have nothing to worry about, she enjoys a touch of cannibalism.” Hannibal sips his latte. Perfect. “What prompted your therapy session? I feel as if therapy is scheduled, unless something significant has happened.”
Will adjusts awkwardly in his seat, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders. This nervousness is different from what typically wafts off of him in Hannibal’s presence. “My therapist is worried I’m spending too much time alone. I guess it was partially a social call. We’ve known each other for a while. We were friends of sorts before.”
“They wanted to make sure you weren’t spiraling,” he surmises.
Will makes himself busy with the canelé. The soft cake comes apart under pressure of the plastic fork, and he has a bite. “I’ve assuaged all concerns. The last thing I need is for my boss to get word that I’m… unwell.”
“You told your therapist about me? That’s quite the serious step,” he teases.
“I didn’t say your name,” he assures quickly, although it’s hardly necessary. He’s happy to know that Will is taking this relationship, however new, with some level of seriousness. “You’re in the newspapers. I saw that, a charity gala. I wanted to respect your privacy. You might have… qualms about seeing someone that’s in therapy.”
The pictures he saw would have been of him and Andrew. He hasn’t personally seen them, and never will, but he doesn’t like that Will has, and that he knows his disinterest in Andrew is far newer than not. He considers that for a moment, and finds that his disinterest isn’t new, but he had no reason to rid himself of him before Will. He isn’t sure that’s much better from Will’s perspective.
There’s nothing he can do about this development. The pictures aren’t vulgar, he’s sure of that, but they’re damning nonetheless.
“I doubt you’re mentally unstable, Will, and anyway, all of those people who you’re concerned about on my behalf may find out when we go to the theatre. Pictures will be taken. They do it at the end of every year, candid shots of the last play, the guests, the patrons.” He watches his face, but he doesn’t react. “If that bothers you, we can miss it, of course.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m fine with them knowing, and I’m sure everyone will be impressed. Prodigal trauma surgeon that you are.” He glances up. “Attractive too. What isn’t there to be impressed about? They might not believe I was able to convince you to let me take you out.”
“I am well known for my charity efforts.” He smiles. “Have you eased your therapist’s mind then?”
“I told her you’re an attending and that we’re… hanging out.” He has another bite. Éclair starts to whimper for some, but he denies her. “With her, I prefer to leave things open to interpretation. It gives her enough to feel like I’m doing well.”
“Hanging out, you do have a way with words.” Hannibal shudders. That’s too casual for him.
With anyone else, he’d appreciate the discreet nature of such a description, but he doesn’t like the way it sounds when it comes off of Will’s tongue. They aren’t together, they’ve only met each other a handful of times in person, but they’ve talked every day since meeting, and they’re toeing the line of something more.
Of course, he understands why Will feels this is necessary. His therapist doesn’t need to know all the details of their current situation, and is sure whoever she is, she would pressure him to tell Hannibal whatever deep dark secrets he’s confessed to her for the sake of honesty. However, Hannibal prefers to learn things about Will naturally, or from his own investigative work. There’s no need for him to come confessing his baggage so to speak, Hannibal is sure his, or what people might consider to be his, is heavier.
“She feels better.” And that’s all that really matters, he supposes.
He finally picks up his éclair and bites into the pastry. The cream sweetens his tongue. “She should. You could be—hanging out with worse.”
People start to get off work as the afternoon winds down, and everyone’s first stop is the café. It must be the best in Baltimore, because half the city seems to be streaming in and out. It’s too loud to carry conversation. They’re practically screaming at each other.
“Let me walk you home,” Will offers. “Should I carry her?”
“No, she needs the exercise, but I’ll allow you to walk her,” he says and passes him the leash.
The walk home is comfortable, quiet, mostly empty. Everyone is too busy getting coffee to be loitering on the sidewalks so they have no reason to try to conserve space. Hannibal is pleased with how things are turning out between them, and when Will takes his hand a little ways past the café, he accepts it gladly.
They turn onto his street and Will has given Éclair more slack on the leash than Hannibal does, but she’s behaving herself, trotting along ahead of them without issue. She never pulls or darts off.
A car comes up, faster than it should, and barrels through a puddle, soaking Éclair in a wave of icy water. She startles and yelps, running back to them.
Hannibal turns his head to catch sight of the license plate before soothing her. She’s soaked to the bone, all of her fluff lies flat, and she keeps yelping but there’s nothing he can do for her yet. They’re almost home and he knows washing her won’t solve the issue immediately, but he has to do it. She’s dirty and cold.
“People have no respect for pedestrians,” he grumbles.
“I’ll help you clean her,” Will says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let her get that far ahead.”
He looks down at Éclair. She isn’t hurt but anger blooms inside of him anyway.
The old man that he made the brisket for—he must be around Will’s age now that he thinks about it—comes out of his door, stalking toward his gate. Oh, Hannibal thinks, of course. Why not?
“Are you going to shut that thing up?” he snaps. He has a leathery finger pointed at him. “All it does is bark. We live in a nice neighborhood. It’s meant to be quiet here, but ever since you got that little thing, my peace has been eviscerated.”
Hannibal opens his mouth to speak but Will wraps his arm around him and pulls him close.
“Go back in your house, we’re taking her home,” he says. He isn’t rude, but he is direct.
“This isn’t your business,” he yells. Éclair can’t yelp or yip, but he can scream bloody murder in the street. “That little prick and his dog have ruined this neighborhood, coming in and out at all hours of the night, letting it bark at 7 in the morning. It was bad enough when it was just him. This is my retirement, so stay out of it.”
“That was one time, Jeffery, four months ago,” Hannibal sighs. “You cannot hold onto it forever.”
Are they going to have this argument every day until this man dies? He knows he should kill him, but is his hatred for Hannibal and Éclair this present in his mind that a few yelps are enough to send him flying out of his house? It’s not night, it isn’t as if he has a baby inside trying to nap.
“It’s people like you that think they can do whatever they want. You have a little money and now—“
“Get the fuck back in your house,” Will snaps. He doesn’t yell, but his voice rises. It startles Hannibal. “I told you we’re taking her. We’d be there if you hadn’t come out.”
The old man starts to open his gate, grumbling under his breath about handling this.
“Before you come out here, I need you to know that I have a gun,” Will states calmly.
Hannibal looks to Will, eyes widening. He expects to see something in his face that shows he’s lying, a flicker of mischief, but there’s nothing there but a calm seriousness. He does have a gun and he is threatening his neighbor.
The old man stops dead in his tracks. He turns. “Just shut her up.”
They continue their walk immediately. Hannibal glances down. He’s never noticed a gun on Will before and he doesn’t see one now, nor does he feel it.
“The holster is inside my pants on my hip,” he says. “I know you’re looking.”
Hannibal looks away. They’re at his house. “I was unaware you felt the need to wear one.”
“A habit.” He opens the gate for him.
Hannibal picks up Éclair before they go inside. If he doesn’t, she’ll run around the house and soak everything in muddy water. His poor sweet girl is shivering.
They leave their shoes and coats at the front, and Hannibal takes Will upstairs. It’s ridiculous to be taking him to his bedroom for anything but sex, but she has to be cleaned, and he needs all the help that he can get.
“Here,” Hannibal directs and Will grabs the door for him.
He continues toward the bathroom, but he doesn’t hear Will behind him. He looks over his shoulder and finds him observing his bedroom, the baroque velvet and dark wood furnishings, the tablet and books, the plush rug that extends past his bed, and Éclair’s nice, silk bed.
“Will?” he calls, and he comes.
The bathroom is just as striking, and he can see it in Will’s face that he’s impressed. Earth-toned with mother of pearl accents. A large, porcelain bathtub against one wall and a walk in shower on the other. The tile is original to the house. It was made for two originally, and Hannibal never had this changed even as renovations have been made.
“I forget you’re a Count,” he mumbles. “Except for when people say it.”
Hannibal deposits Éclair into the bath. She looks up at him, knowing whats to come, and pleading for her life. He is sorry, but she has to be cleaned. “I’m happy to learn that someone does.”
He turns the water on and the fight begins. Will tries to hold her while Hannibal scrubs her down and vice versa. Éclair writhes and wiggles, yelping louder now, as if they’re murdering her. Good, he hopes his neighbors are inconvenienced. He hopes he sits in his house, unable to do or say anything about it.
Water sloshes all over them and the tile floor, she jumps on the wall of the tub, slips from Will’s hands, and shakes soap all over them. Then she goes limp, then tense, then writhes. Anything to make it as difficult as possible to clean her.
“I thought she was trained!” Will grunts, taking hold of her little but determined body.
Hannibal washes her off, the dirty water swirls down the drain. “She is!”
He goes to take her out and soothe her before they start the drying process. Éclair jumps from his hands and dashes to the door, pressing it open with her head, and then she’s gone. Will was the last person through there, but he can’t be angry with him, the door needs to be fixed, and he simply hasn’t had to time to call someone to do so. Water is going to soak every carpet and rug in his house though, but he’ll deal with that later.
“Great,” he sighs, and slumps onto the soaked floor. He lets out a shaky breath.
Will crouches beside him, but doesn’t sit.
“I’m sorry, I swear I closed it,” Will apologizes in defeat.
Hannibal shakes his head. “No, the door needs to be fixed. I should have told you it requires work.”
“I’ll come fix it for you, it’s the least that I can do.”
He steals a glance at Will. His hair is dripping and curls around his neck, his shirt clings to him, and his pants are large water stains across them, and he’s speaking about fixing the door as the least that he could do. What a strange thing to say, when he’s done more than anyone.
It would be the right thing to tell him no, and to hire someone, but he doesn’t. The words sit on his tongue and he swallows them back down, bitter bile.
“I apologize that every time we go out it seems someone needs to ruin it.” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “This has never happened to me before. I’m teetering toward embarrassment.”
“You’re a polarizing person,” he teases. Hannibal doesn’t laugh. It’s too true. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’m not put off by the attention.”
“It must be strange.” He scrubs his face, wipes his neck. “Even those in my inner circle find it uncomfortable.”
Yet, they’re the ones constantly subjecting him to this behavior. Some of them have been at the receiving end, have been aghast by this, and they still do it when they see him in public. It’s as if they forget he isn’t theirs. It’s never been this bad before.
Will tucks a piece of hair behind Hannibal’s ear. “I’m getting used to it. I wish it was a little more positive, but it’s not your fault.”
He huffs out a breath. “As you said, I am polarizing. Maybe I am the Thing from your old movie.”
“Don’t say that, you don’t deserve that. Something is wrong with the people you associate yourself with, not the other way around.” Will shakes his head. “Rich people.”
“Your judgement of the rich is baseless when you’re here with me.” He wipes his face again. He feels like he could cry, but he doesn’t allow himself to.
“I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.” He pushes up and offers his hand to Hannibal. He stares up at him, Will glows in the artificial light, a golden nimbus brightening his dark hair, and Hannibal takes it.
They’re disgusting. Soaked and soapy and any part of Hannibal that was well put together an hour ago has dissolved into a mess he realizes too late that he doesn’t want Will to see. Will fixes Hannibal’s hair, brushing back the stray pieces, combing his fingers through the clumps. He smooths down one of Hannibal’s eyebrows with his thumb, unbothered.
His phone vibrates on the counter and Hannibal pulls away to check it.
Andrew Daniels: Can you meet me and allow me to explain myself? It’s the least you could do.
“Everything okay?” Will asks.
He shoves his phone into his pocket. “Something I need to handle, unfortunately. It’s nothing you should concern yourself with though.”
“I need to go home and shower anyway.” He takes him by the waist, Hannibal grabs fistfuls of his shirt, and they share a chaste kiss. “I’ll let myself out so you can shower. I’ll call you tonight.”
Hannibal releases his shirt and settles on the edge of the tub. Will pauses in the door and flashes his gun at him, hidden away under layers of clothes. Hannibal breathes a soft laugh and watches him go, listening for him to start down the stairs before he takes his phone out again. He tells himself they’re not together, and that Will is likely seeing other people (jealousy sours his belly and he has to breathe through it like a muscle spasm), but this still feels like betrayal, regardless of his intent.
I can meet you Friday afternoon.
Andrew answers in seconds. The pathetic desperation does not entice Hannibal anymore.
Andrew Daniels: Thank you. Meet me at our spot.
He showers and coaxes Éclair from her hiding spot under one of the guest beds with pieces of chicken. She mopes over and allows him to pick her up and bring her into the living room for cuddles. She snuggles against his belly and does not move again, not even when Will calls.
They make plans to meet Sunday for lunch if Hannibal’s schedule permits. Will makes the suggestion, however haphazard, that they could try to make this a routine. Hannibal doesn’t say yes, but he knows in his heart it’s what he wants.
“Is Miss Clair okay?” he asks, a sleepy deepness has settled into his voice.
Hannibal scratches her head. “She’s making a full recovery. I believe she may find it within her heart to forgive you.”
“I’ll be sure to beg when I see her next.”
With what’s to come, plans with Will gives him something to look forward to. A reprieve from work, the texts from people who have heard that he may have a new favorite but really don’t mean to gossip, and his impending meeting with Andrew.
Over the week, Andrew texts him a total of 47 times and Hannibal only responds to confirm their plans. Obsessive behavior aside, he never pictured Andrew as the type to behave so pathetically. Usually, he’s an angry man, prepared to have an outburst if things don’t go his way, but since his last one didn’t have the desired outcome, he’s returned to something baser. The part of himself he tries to hide with his anger, Hannibal assumes. The weak part.
It isn’t like he’s hidden it well. Almost every person he knows that reacts with anger has a weak part, tender and awful. If someone presses their fingers into the spot, they bite.
Andrew thinks he’s going to win this battle. He thinks crawling on his belly and eating the dirt from Hannibal’s heel might satiate his displeasure, but he’s wrong. Nothing can make Hannibal forgive him. Nothing he can do will compare to everything Will has done in such a short amount of time.
Nine years and Andrew has done nothing for Hannibal. He wonders if he knows that, if he’s even considered it. Probably not.
Friday afternoon, he kisses Éclair’s fluffy head goodbye.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promises her. Hopefully within the hour. “Be good.”
Their spot, as Andrew has always referred to it and Hannibal has never reciprocated, is a Spanish wine bar on the other side of the city. It’s nice enough, but it’s his preference, not Hannibal’s.
He gets their first and gets a table and a bottle. He doesn’t get anything to eat and has no need for it. This is going to be a quick conversation, they don’t need to drink and eat and reminisce about it all.
His phone vibrates and he takes it out of his pocket. Andrew is late, and although he knows it’s Will, he would like for it to magically be an explanation for his tardiness.
Will Graham: Are you okay?
Yes. Why?
Will Graham: You don’t seem like yourself, that’s all.
He scrolls up, expecting for some level of overreaction, but he sees exactly what Will means. An unconscious act, he has been responding, but with one or two words. Will is carrying the bulk of their conversation between his classes and there have been multiple instances where he’s tried to engage Hannibal and he’s dismissed him entirely.
It isn’t disinterest, but he understands why Wil might think that. He doesn’t want to tell him what he’s doing, not that it matters to Hannibal, it’s a tedious task, but because it might matter to Will. Both possible reasons it will matter is because he’s ending things with Andrew. That he’s seeing him in person, and because this is a serious step toward a closed relationship.
I’m handling a bit of business today. I apologize.
He locks his phone and then unlocks it. He hesitates, feeling unlike himself at the moment but he knows he has to give something to soothe Will, and what he’s giving is the truth.
I miss you.
He takes a sip of his wine. Andrew is later than usual, but when isn’t he? At his age, he should be a little more considerate of people’s time—Will is, he’s always early, and Hannibal has errands to run, but he anticipated this. Still, for someone determined to win him back, his efforts are less than stellar.
Another ten minutes pass before Andrew shows up. He’s peacocking in a powder blue suit, and takes his slow time walking across the bar to him. He has to stop and speak to people.
“You’ve ordered wine.” He reaches for the bottle.
He moves the bottle before Andrew can grab it. “You can order your own.”
“Hannibal, this isn’t like you,” he scolds. Andrew has an issue with treating Hannibal like he’s a child in need of correction. He always seems to believe he knows better than him, that Hannibal would benefit from his guidance.
He can hardly guide himself, he doesn’t see how Andrew could possibly help him in life. He isn’t like Will, maybe his life hasn’t been easy, but he’s learned nothing but selfishness from it. How to push others down to get to the top—but he hasn’t gotten there either, and that makes Hannibal smile.
Of course, Hannibal isn’t above pushing others down, but he has purpose behind everything he does, usually. Andrew, however, makes frivolous choices and regrets them later. His drunken explosion at the restaurant is one example, but there have been worse. He almost had a job at Johns Hopkins, Hannibal did not suggest him, but he spoke badly about the wrong man’s wife as a dinner.
“This meeting is a courtesy. You need to know where we stand with each other, and I am obligated to tell you so there is no confusion,” he states. His tone is firm but flat. He has nothing left to offer Andrew.
If he could kill him now, he would, but he’s one of those people that takes time, which is unfortunate, he doesn’t want him to marinate. A few years when his relevance has vanished will have to do. He wanted to do it soon and have it be an accident, but some things are simply not in the cards. Too many are going to be aware of their falling out, and while he doesn’t believe anyone would point their finger at him, he’d rather be safe than sorry.
Andrew slumps down in the chair. He kicks his feet out and Hannibal has to pull his in. “I know I was out of line, okay. I was drunk when I saw you, and I didn’t expect that you’d be with someone else. Especially a man I don’t know.”
Hannibal purses his lips. “Do you believe that’s reasonable? You behaved erratically, you attempted to embarrass me, and you tried to regain my favor with an ill-thought out bouquet of flowers. Have you known me to forgive these slights?”
“No, but I can make it up to you.” He waves the waiter over. “Come on, I’m your favorite, and have been for the longest time. We have fun together. I know it’s not serious, but you can’t help if I get a little jealous.”
What he means, and Hannibal hates this, is that Andrew feels as if he has him under his thumb. That’s where he likes him, but he doesn’t see how it’s the other way around. He’s too blinded by pride, but Hannibal has never behaved so poorly in front of people on his life.
They’ve argued in the past, but he’s out of luck this time. It wouldn’t matter if he never saw that darkness in Will’s eyes, if Will was like everyone else, Andrew tried to ruin his time, and belittle his date. That’s unforgivable.
“I have a new favorite. I have no need for you, and you showed me why I don’t,” he says.
The waiter comes over and Andrew orders his own bottle and a selection of meats and cheeses, but Hannibal refuses to break bread with him again. The bottle comes first and he has the waiter pour his glass. It’s unnecessary. They usually don’t.
“That guy at the Italian place?” He shakes his head, laughing too loudly for a place like this. “He’s not really your thing. He’s… country looking and a little old.”
“As if you’re young,” he retorts. “Will is a fine looking man and I have fun with him. He meets me where no one else can. He sees my perspective and is happy to show me his. He never behaves like… an ass.”
“An ass?” Andrew gawks. “Did he say that about me because it doesn’t sound like you.”
“You did behave that way. There is no better term to describe it.” He pours a little more wine into his cup and drinks.
Andrew waves him off as if this isn’t a serious insult. (If they were to kiss and make up, Andrew would try to hold this over his head for years to come.) “You don’t even like Italian and that’s where he took you, that place isn’t that good. He didn’t get the caviar service. So what he’s nice? That doesn’t mean anything if he’s broke.”
He holds his tongue for a moment, biting the tip until it stings and bleeds. Will isn’t broke, he’s not rich, but he’s comfortable, and Andrew isn’t rich by Hannibal’s standard either. He has surgeon money. That’s basically nothing when he accounts for his student loans.
Hannibal narrows his eyes at him. “I do like Italian.”
He laughs again. He thinks this is a joke. “Since when?”
“I am half Italian. My mother was. I hold dual citizenship in both Italy and Lithuania,” he tells him flatly.
A stilted quiet consumes them. Andrew hides behind his wine. The nationality of his mother is the sort of information someone should know about another person, especially one he’s known for nearly 10 years. Andrew’s mother and father are both redneck trash, his own words, although he’s never said from where. He’s also sure he told Andrew his mother is Italian, because he cooked for him—not him specially, rather a dinner party—and made a meal from a cookbook recovered from the castle in Lithuania.
“He can’t fuck you like I do.” He puts his glass down hard, but recedes before he can have one of his outbursts. His grey face is pale. “We have fun. You like having fun with me. I’m adventurous.”
“I don’t want to discuss this with you any further,” he says. He can’t attest to Will’s sexual abilities, but he knows he’s bigger than Andrew. He almost wants to tell him so, but he refrains. It’s inappropriate, childish, and not something Andrew should be privy to. He’ll probably mention it if he sees it.
“I don’t know when you turned into a missionary kind of person. You’re pretending, cutting me off like you want serious. You never have. Everyone knows that.” He scratches over his dark stubble. “What are you going to do in three months when you’re bored?”
Hannibal crinkles his nose. “I have to consider things in the long term, Andrew. I can see a future with Will, which is more than I see with you. Everyone wishes I carried a fondness for them, but I know what I want, and I have always gotten it.”
“If what you want is monogamy, or don’t ask, don’t tell, I can do that,” Andrew insists. Panic floods his face. He can’t talk him out of it, and he’s never been good at it, but Hannibal has let him think he is for too long. “I can be what you want. I can be… him.”
“Unfortunately, you lack the intelligence to be him.” Hannibal downs his wine. “This is over. It has been since that night, regardless of Will. If you’d like to keep your position in our circle, you will behave yourself.”
He scoffs, “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m only informing you of the truth. You lack much more than you know.” He gets up and leaves cash for the wine. He hates to leave any of the bottle, but he can’t take it out. “Stop calling my job.”
He can’t bring himself to return home. Éclair is fine and he’ll make her something delicious when he does get back, and they can cuddle on the chaise lounge until bed. For now, he walks through the shopping center, through stores he doesn’t buy anything in, smelling candles and perfumes and hand washes, and finds himself at a circle grove of trees in the middle. It has two benches, an artificial pond, and koi. He sits and closes his eyes.
In a few months, he’ll have to start sowing the seeds of discontent with Andrew. It’s easy work, really. He can start with Mrs. Komeda, who trusts his word that way Christian’s trust the Bible, and she’ll do the majority of the heavy lifting. This will be especially easy because he knows she’ll love Will. She swears by older men, not just rich men, and while Andrew is older than Hannibal, a man even older than him will be a positive. She always says they have more to prove.
This is going to be a fight though, but if he starts early, if he starts at the ballet, they should be fine. Andrew is a weaker link to his social circle anyway. He’s only stayed this long because he had Hannibal’s favor.
His phone vibrates, he knows it’s Will, and he sighs through his nose.
A child comes over on stumble-y legs with a handful of fish feed and throws it into the little pond. The koi go crazy, water erupts, and the little girl giggles, grabbing hold of her little velvet coat.
Her mother calls for her when the fish begin to calm. She returns to her, but Hannibal keeps watching the fish.
Will Graham: Do you want my help?
His face pinches.
With what I’m handling?
Will Graham: My students were dismissed early today. If it’s causing you stress, I don’t mind.
I’ve handled it, but thank you.
He looks out at the people passing him. Couples mostly, holding hands and kissing like they’re the one people in the world. None of them have to deal with his type of issues. None of them have ever had to consider a life alone because no one understands, or a life with someone that doesn’t. And then none of them have ever had to stifle desire for the right person so as not to scare them off.
But if you’d like, I’d love to meet you at the dog park.
Errands be damned, he supposes. He wants to see Will.
Hannibal gets up and returns to the parking lot. He drives home and collects Éclair, walking her down the street. Two walks in one day is quite the event, and she’s practically floating the entire way until they arrive and she sees Will open the gate for them, so without a second thought, she races to Winston. He smiles a little, and Will hooks an arm around him and walks him to the other end of the park.
They sit on one of the benches together. Will lays his hand on his leg, and Hannibal leans against him for his body heat.
“Why were your students dismissed early?” he asks.
“I was needed elsewhere, but I managed to finish that too,” he says, sighing. “You were distant, I was worried about you, I have been since your neighbor confronted us the other day.”
“My neighbor is the last person you should worry about, he was showing off because you were there,” Hannibal assures.
Will’s hand moves from his leg and he wraps his arm around his shoulders, and Hannibal, softened by his sweet affection, lays his head on his shoulder. This is nice. This is how it can always be.
Their dogs play together. The mud has dried up and neither of them tumble. They watch them race around the fence. Éclair is not in the lead, but she hustles like she might somehow end up there. Winston checks for her though, slowing until she’s almost to his tail, and then dashes off again.
“Didn’t you say the boy that had her before is a terror.” Will brushes his hand against Hannibal’s throat, he wonders if he’s checking to make sure he isn’t cold. He has the big black jacket on again.
“Oh yes. He loves to torment animals, I’m sure the dog he has now is traumatized,” Hannibal snickers. “He’s cruel. He can’t be older than five.”
“Animal torture in adolescence is a sign of an antisocial personality.” He shakes his head. “I assume his parents aren’t helping him. No therapies or anything like that. It’s unfortunate.”
“I believe his problem is permissive parenting, not a personality disorder.” He looks up at Will. “I don’t imagine your father was permissive.”
“Oh no, my dad was strict, but I did what I wanted.” He grins, shaking his head at some memory. “We’d be home for months at a time and he couldn't keep me in my room. He always gave me a switching when I got home, but it didn’t deter me.”
“What were you doing that you had to leave at night?” he asks.
Partying, he thinks, and then discards it. He doesn’t look like the party type. Perhaps underaged drinking, or meeting with some pretty girl. Or just enjoying the peace of night. He doesn’t see Will as the delinquent type. If their darkness is the same like he assumes it is, he would have been sure to stay out of trouble. The last thing people like them need is a record.
He blinks, paling a little and then forces a wobbly smiles. “Sitting by the water.”
That darkness flickers again. An easy lie. One he’s rehearsed but hasn’t said in years.
Hannibal cups his cheek, craning his neck to kiss him hard. Will takes a small breath then grabs him and kisses him back. It’s a quick kiss, nothing that should scandalize anyone here, but Hannibal flushes all over, both to be touched but to also be held. Will pulls away slowly, giving them a moment to enjoy the quiet moments post kiss, and when it passes, Hannibal rests his head on his shoulder again.
Winston comes over a few minutes later and noses at Hannibal. He pulls from Will and pets the dog, who is only interested in him because of the attention Will is giving him. He licks his hand. Hannibal cringes but doesn’t pull away, he can’t. It’s important to him that Winston likes him.
Once Éclair notices what’s happening, she scampers over. At first, Hannibal assumes she’s jealous of the attention he’s giving Winston, but she bites the bigger dog’s leg—she’s jealous of the attention Winston is giving Hannibal.
“She’s a cruel little beast,” Hannibal says as Winston trots off with her tailing him.
“She’s something,” Will sighs. He rubs his thumb over Hannibal’s shoulder. “I have something I need to tell you, Doctor Lecter.”
He turns into him. It feels impossible to get any closer, but he manages. “Yes?”
Will is nervous again. He averts his gaze and breathes out, laughing a little.
“My job is hectic,” he says slowly, “sometimes, because of the nature of it, I can get called away. I’m… important. And being called away can happen at any time. In the middle of the night, while we’re out, immediately after getting back. And there’s no telling when I’ll come back. I’ve been gone for weeks at a time before, but usually it’s only a few days.”
“You must be quite the professor,” he hums.
“I’m unique in my field.” He sniffles. “I want you to know that, at least. I can be gone with very little notice.”
“Then we understand each other. My schedule is hectic, you’ve experienced it first hand.” Hannibal takes his hand in his. “I cannot be hypocritical in this regard, Will.”
“There’s something else.“ Will bites his lips. “I’m happy you understand. We can talk more about what considerations need to be made later. I just wanted you to be aware of this as things move forward.”
If their relationship develops into something serious. That’s what he means to say, but Hannibal sees how he struggles to consider that. Will’s feelings are deeper than he lets on, which is shocking enough since he’s rather infatuated, and in such a short amount of time. This must be strange for him, but Hannibal understands, it’s strange for him too.
“Will it upset me?” he asks, curious.
“It might,” he confesses. “But it isn’t about you or anything like that.”
He eyes him. “Are you secretly married? That would be a cruel lie.”
His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen so large it must hurt. “No! Nothing like that. God, no. Almost all of it is unrelated to relationships. There are considerations that should be made because of the… taboo parts of our relationship, but there’s nothing like that that I need to tell you.”
“I should warn you, you will regret lying to me,” he states.
“I’m not lying to you,” he assures. He gives him a peck on the lips. “And I’ll tell you everything soon.”
If they get to that point, he once again means to say.
The sun is getting low, and the frigid night has started to set in. It’s meant to snow tonight.
“I should take Éclair home before the snow starts, she isn’t fond of it, and I would prefer you be off the road before it freezes.” He rubs his hand over Will’s chest. “Thank you for seeing me. It’s improved my day.”
“I’m always happy to help,” Will says. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
Hannibal kisses the corner of his mouth. “You will learn that I’m not easily upset.”
“I find that hard to believe.” He brings Hannibal’s hand to his lips and kisses his fingers. “Text me when you make it home.”
“I will,” he promises.
However displeased Éclair is to leave, he knows she will be ten times that if it starts to snow before they make it home. Hannibal kisses Will goodbye at the dog park gate. He’s become quite obsessed with kissing him. He likes the prickle of his beard, and the taste of whiskey on his lips. They promise to see each other soon.
Several ideas come to mind about how Will might be unique in his field. He knows he could be wrong about any of them, as most of his assumptions have been, and he knows that Will is like him, whether he’s fully accepted that part of himself or not, but he isn’t a fool. A forensics professor that is uniquely important in his field, that teaches about the Chesapeake Ripper, that is called away on a whim. He’s probably working for someone, it could be the police as a specialist, or as a special investigator of some kind, and it could be for any government agency.
He shudders at the thought. It’s probably the police. He imagines it’s quite the lucrative business endeavor to offer himself up to assist, and it would explain the expendable cash. If he works for anything more demanding than law enforcement across the country, he would be called away more often than not. They’re close to Quantico, but Will can’t possibly be FBI. He doesn’t have the ego, so he leaves it at that. Whatever it is, he’ll tell him in due time.
In the following weeks, their schedules become chaotic. Will’s students need him more and more, and, as often happens the closer the Holiday season approaches, there is an influx of trauma cases. Firework accidents, falling off of roofs, a man with an arrow through the gut. The few times they manage to meet, they’re at cafés or having walks around snowy parks, but never dates. Will doesn’t come to his house and vice versa; the majority of their time spent together is via text, and exhausted phone calls before bed. It’s fine though. They make time, and they both have the ballet penciled into their schedules as a non-negotiable.
Deep Winter settles in. Thick blankets of snow and frozen roads. He wishes he met Will in the Spring. Winter has never been a good time for him, full of aches and pains and associates that live waywardly, somehow always worse during the colder seasons. All are undeserving of his attention and childish.
He, of course, has lived in pleasant waywardness, but he hates that his associates refuse to acknowledge his desire for—not normality, he never wants the boring simplicity of normal, but whatever this new experience Will has to offer. That slowness that leaves room for the excitement he needs, but does not demand so much from him. There’s someone who gives without expecting something in return, and while he isn’t unselfish, he thinks he can be giving too without wanting. Not all the time, but enough. Those compromises Alana speaks about sometimes.
Blankets of snow fall several nights before the ballet, it melts and then refreezes into hard ice. Today is the worst, the temperature has stayed a steady 20 degrees so his walk with Éclair before the play turns into him carrying her while she snuggles beneath his thick coat. She doesn’t like the way the cold, icy ground feels under her paws (and she doesn’t care for booties either). He has to lint roll his entire body twice before he dresses in a burgundy suit for his date, checking himself over again and again for remnants of her fluff.
Tonight’s show is an original ballet—he expected the Nutcracker—the theatre has put together, according to the information the director sent him last week, and they are all quite proud of their work. Whether it’s good or not, he will be the ultimate judge of that, but he believes in their artistic abilities, and if not, he’ll be softened to the performance with Will at his side.
(As he fixes his tie he considers, with some humor, that Will is his trophy tonight. It’s rare he comes to events with someone on his arm, he much prefers to enjoy shows of all kinds alone. It may seem quick, he does recognize that they’ve only known each other for around two months, and they’ve yet to have sex, but he’s certain about his feelings for Will, and that is more important to him. He’s sure, if they’re not sexually compatible—unlikely—that he can teach an old dog new tricks.)
He catches the door before Will can knock. He parked behind the gate again, Hannibal didn’t leave it open, but he didn’t leave it locked, and he saw him through his study window.
Neither of them speak at first, it’s a tense moment of quiet as they appraise the other for the niceness of their outfits. The attractiveness.
Will’s smile wobbles, and he breaks first. “You look… nice, Doctor Lecter. You said formal—“
Without a second to reconsider, he rubs his hand over Will’s chest. His heart quickens under his touch. The suit is navy, with a good white shirt, and a matching tie. Not the $2,000 suit Hannibal has on, but Will has had it tailored to fit and he’s sure that shirt underneath is snug in all the right places. His hair is styled out of his face. Appreciation warms him, burning up in his chest, and the last bits sink low in his belly, a wet lust that engulfs his better senses, a quick and efficient flame.
“It’s perfect. I wish we could have matched. Next time, perhaps,” he sighs wistfully.
That would have been a real show. Two velvet suits, Will would look lovely in emerald, it would help the green and blue of his eyes pop. There would be so much more talk than what will already be, and he wishes he thought about it before now. His tailor could have had something made for him.
“Maybe,” Will says, but his tone is agreeable.
Their routine continues, and Hannibal finally settles comfortably in it. Will opens the truck door for him when they leave, and when they arrive, and then he opens the theatre door for him too.
People stand in pockets, the excitement of an original ballet beats through the building as enthusiastic chattering lifts up into the chandelier lighting. Some of these people only come for the Christmas performance, some come for every performance, and Hannibal is immediately replenished by the sight of the building alone.
“Do you want a drink?” Will asks, eyeing the empty bar.
Smart, he thinks. They have another 10 minutes before the performance begins, and in those last few minutes when people should be finding their seats, they will be crowding the bar for glasses of wine and dry martinis.
“They have a very good Cabernet Sauvignon. The bartender will know which one I want,” he says. “Tell him to charge it to my tab, my card is on file.”
Will goes, and Hannibal watches him move slippery through the people. Some stop to stare at him, sudden interest in a well dressed, attractive man they’ve never seen before. No one stops him though and Hannibal goes to the bathroom to check himself over once before the show starts.
This is going to be the perfect night, and he’s sure he’s going to have Will in his bed by the end of it.
When Hannibal comes out of the bathroom, he finds Will standing against the wall, avoiding the vultures that lurk. Two glasses in hand.
Hannibal takes his from him and grabs Will by the arm, pulling him. “Thank you. Come sit, if we don’t sneak off, they will hound us and we’ll miss the beginning.”
They sneak up the rich emerald velvet lined stairs and into his box, one of four in the theatre. The seats are lined with a similar emerald velvet, a recent refurbishment thanks to his last donation. The other seats were perfectly acceptable, but they needed the update, and Hannibal may have agreed to a larger sum of money than usual if they put some of it toward the seats. People hadn’t complained, but he noticed the discontentment.
Will peers down at the people filing in. Women in flashy, evening gowns and men in black suits. They stand and talk, sit, and then stand again to greet the next couple.
“I’ve been here before,” he mutters.
Hannibal blinks, the glass of wine nearing his lips. “Have you?”
“Yeah, a while ago.” He leans back in the seat and takes a swig of his whiskey. The corner of his mouth pulls into an awkward, but no less charming smile. “I can’t remember what I saw, but I remember being here. The seats were red then.”
Hannibal takes a sip of his wine and adjusts until he’s comfortable, leaning closer to Will, but unable to touch him in any meaningful way. (He should make this the next requirement, box seats that allow touching.)
The world is so much smaller than he gives it credit for. If only they met when Will came here, however long ago that was. He suspects if it was some years ago though, Will may have been less interested in pursuing a relationship with him, so—he takes another sip of wine. Wondering about, and hoping for differences won't solve the issues at hand. If they met in the Spring, people would have still given him a hard time, if they met a few years ago, their relationship would still be looked at strangely. He should be happy that they’ve met at all, and that Will isn’t perturbed by his associates and their intrusions.
He sighs through his nose. The cold seeps in through the old bones of the building. “I hope you enjoy the performance.”
Will’s shoe brushes against his, and they press together. His heart turns, but Hannibal manages not to react. Still, he can’t help but flush with the thought that Will noticed his feeble attempt at closeness. Is he that obvious? He hasn’t always been.
Will smiles and reaches for his hand. “I’m sure I will.”
At intermission, Hannibal guides Will downstairs for a refill on their drinks, and to stretch their legs. It’s a much longer performance than either of them expected; Will offered to get them more drinks within the first 30 minutes, but he didn’t want him to miss anything. That would be unfair, Will is his date tonight, not the other way around. Maybe he’ll wait in line, but he shouldn’t have to miss any of the performance.
The line is some 15 people long when they make it down the stairs, everyone has the same idea.
“I’ll wait, same thing?” Will offers, but there was never a question. Hannibal nods, Will slides his hand over his hip, gives it a quick squeeze, and goes.
He decides he should check himself over again, although nothing has changed. He heads straight toward the bathroom, but those vultures swoop down and capture him in polite conversation, picking at his flesh until they can muster up the courage to ask what they want to.
Doctor Merritt, Mr. Bryant, and Ruth Allen — she’s closer to his age, younger by three years, and one of the young women he rotates out as a lover. She has her own fair share of men so there has never been animosity between them on the subject of new love interests, but where she is, Isabela Lyons is, and she will not be pleased to see that Hannibal has picked up someone new. — These three circle Hannibal and he sighs, accepting his fate.
“You have a new friend, Count Lecter,” Mr. Bryant says as if in observation, “Doctor Merritt told us, but he couldn’t remember anything about him so we all assumed he was wrong and it must be someone we know. Or one of the wallflowers, but you’ve brought someone brand new here.”
Mr. Bryant is a business man, not from here, but he stays in Baltimore six months out of the year. He’s usually reserved, but the sharp scent of vodka clings to him like cheap perfume.
“I have.” He eyes the three down. He has no reason to be embarrassed like they might want. It was only a matter of time before he became uninterested in the same minds and bodies. He likes everyone well enough, but none of them were ever the one.
“Where’d you pick him up at?” Mr. Bryant questions. He wonders who they’re meant to report back to about this.
He has no reason to lie. “The dog park.”
Hannibal glances around the lobby area. People are whispering about this revelation, he can’t hear their hushed words, but his name lingers in the air. Their eyes skirt over him, Will, and then cut away when they realize they’ve been caught.
Bringing in an outsider is a strange occurrence for anyone, but especially for Hannibal. Everyone has done it at some point, and it’s always a little bit of a scandal, but this has surpassed that. Everyone has assumed he’s as predictable as them, but they’ve been sorely mistaken.
Will arrives, two drinks in hand—the bartender must have seen him and started on their drinks immediately. He takes the glass with a soft thank you and leans into Will. “This is Will Graham.”
“Do you work with our sweet Count?” Ruth asks, holding out her well-manicured hand.
Will takes it and they shake. Ruth, then Mr. Bryant, and then Doctor Merritt.
“No, I’m a forensics professor,” he says, and the real question remains unanswered.
What makes him different?
If he worked with Hannibal, that would make sense. If he was an art curator, a historian, a food critic. But he’s a professor, so they must have met naturally.
“An academic. Maybe a change of pace is what he needs, maybe you’ll be the one to tame Count Lecter.” Mr. Bryant winks.
He feels Will bristle against him. This is the first time he’s reacted this way, but he corrects it before anyone else notices. His eyes narrow. “I have no intention of domesticating Doctor Lecter. I don’t imagine that would go over very well.”
“Oh well, that’s just an ongoing joke.” He throws his hands up in defense. “Everyone wants to be with Count Lecter and he’s willing to give them all a turn. But he doesn’t want more than a fun time.”
The joke doesn’t land, Will stares at Mr. Bryant in silence, and while Hannibal has known about the whispers, he’s never given them much thought. They all snicker when he’s found a new plaything, and they all wish they were said plaything. However, he hates how loose lipped Mr. Bryant is being about it. He hates that everyone feels the need to offer up any information about him. He would tell Will, he has no qualms about what he’s done in life, but it isn’t their business.
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Will says so coldly that Mr. Bryant recoils.
“I mean, of course, Count Lecter is a fine man,” Ruth interjects in an attempt to save the conversation. “I’m sure he’ll make you very happy!”
Hannibal grabs Will’s hand before he can respond. “Intermission is almost over, Will. We should return to our seats.”
His face softens and he allows Hannibal to guide him.
This isn’t shame. Hannibal has no reason to be embarrassed about his sexual and romantic past. He indulges where he wants, touches and is touched however he chooses, but everyone lacks decorum, they believe every person alive is fine being a lover and not something more. He’s certain of his attraction to Will, his desire for more than a few passionate hookups. He’s also sure Will isn’t blind to Hannibal’s market value, given his attributes and money, but these things shouldn’t be discussed during intermission of an opening night ballet!
“Did bringing me here step on people’s toes?” Will asks once they’re back in his box.
“No, don’t pay them any mind,” Hannibal assures, “they want to upset you.”
Will sighs heavily through his nose. “A lot of people are watching us.”
“I apologize for their behavior, I hadn’t realized how—“
“Polarizing this would be?” Will asks. “You’re a wanted man, Doctor Lecter.”
“Everyone here wants to be with a Count,” he chuckles weakly, “it’s all the rave in American high society. I believe it always has been. You hear about it less, people have gained some sense not to market it but it’s still ever present.”
“I prefer Doctor Lecter to Count Lecter,” he states, his tone is firm. Hannibal needs to know this. “I don’t like the way they say your title.”
“You’ll find that many people refer to me this way.” He sips his wine. He would like to be drunk. “There are the handful that don’t because they feel as if our bond is close and personal, but that is a limited number.”
Some of those he has slept with before are included, but not all of them. He’s at a remove, and he prefers it that way. Obviously, he needs more distance still.
Will shakes his head. “It’s like you’re livestock.”
“I am a fantastic lover.” He shrugs a shoulder. “What can I say?”
That makes Will laugh. “I’m sure that’s part of the reason. Maybe I’m just jealous.”
Excitement curls in his belly.
He knew bringing someone like Will would upset people, but he didn’t realize that they would harass him. Nor has he ever considered the peculiarity of people referring to him by his title. From the moment he moved to Baltimore and made himself a social figure, a large group of people have referred to him this way.
“Would you consider yourself the jealous type,” he questions.
Will clears his throat. “Not before you, no.”
Hannibal takes his hand and brings it into his lap, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “Are you enjoying the performance, at least?”
“I’m… enjoying our time together, and the ballet is nice.” He squeezes his hand.
Hannibal squeezes his hand as the curtains draw back, revealing a new set. “I wouldn’t want to see it with anyone else.”
The ballet ends at a quarter to 11. A lovely show, with soft music, but definitely inspired by the Nutcracker. He’s happy to see his money go into finer costumes and sets as well.
“I’m going to use the bathroom and then we can leave. I didn’t get to during intermission,” Hannibal says at the bottom of the staircase. “We have no need to socialize.”
“Is this a good time to tell you I’m not good at socializing,” Will asks.
“Well, you are lucky I am benevolent, and aware. They’ve overwhelmed me, as well.” He fixes one of Will’s curls that has sprung out from the rest. “I’ll be quick.”
Will waits by the door and Hannibal goes in. A handful of men are in there, and they speak. They compliment his suit, his rings, and congratulate him on a job well done at the hospital. They’ve seen it in the newspaper, Prodigal Surgeon Saves Young Man From Certain Death. Hannibal fakes modesty and says the neurosurgeon played a significant role as well, but they don’t hear this. He’s what’s important.
Hannibal fixes a few strands of hair that have fallen out of place and smooths his suit down until he looks as nice as he did when Will picked him up this evening.
In the mirror, he sees how affection has mangled him. The softening of his eyes, the glow of his skin, his desire to look good for Will. It could be worse. Parts of him are changing, but for the better he thinks.
It is stupid that people refer to him by his title, Will is right. As he looks at himself, he doesn’t see a Count. In his nose maybe, he got that from his father, but his eyes and hair and cheeks and mouth are all his mother. He’s aware of his status at all times, and he’s happy to use his title to get what he wants (it’s how he got his foot in the door when he first moved to Baltimore), but he isn’t a Count first. He’s a surgeon.
He supposes it doesn’t matter how people here feel or refer to him as. Will doesn’t care about it, and that is more important to him.
He steps out, first seeing Andrew—not dressed so nicely despite the event—and Will. His face is still, uneasy. Andrew is talking quickly in hushed tones. Observing the two now, he sees with stark clarity their differences, specifically Andrew’s deficiencies. The narrow shoulders that are the same width as his ribs, torso, and hips. His perpetually curled lip. His hair is all too thin in the worst places. They were always there, Hannibal has picked these flaws apart before, but seeing them next to Will’s broader shoulders, the curve of his ass, the fine age of his face, is startling.
Hannibal grabs Will’s arm, beaming. He wonders if he looks like Éclair. “Have I entered at a bad time?”
“No,” Will mutters, his eyes narrow at Andrew. That darkness flickers behind his steady gaze. “Are you ready, Doctor Lecter?”
He nods.
Will places his hand over Hannibal’s. “Come on then.”
Andrew doesn’t get a word in edgewise. Will turns Hannibal from him and they start toward the door.
Of the people he usually speaks to, they only give time to Mrs. Komeda. It’s a quick conversation, Hannibal tells her he’ll host soon, but they have to go. She wags her finger, and tells Will he’s always busy, busy, busy, and she hopes a nice, older man will help him take things slow. Will can’t comment on his ability to do that, but he promises he won’t let him work himself to death.
“When you’re young and ambitious you forget that one day you’ll be old and tired,” she scolds, “I’m sure your date can attest to this.”
Will clears his throat. “It definitely hits you all at once.”
She laughs, squeezing Will’s arm as they part ways, “It truly does. Perhaps Doctor Lecter will sit up next to each other at his dinner.”
Will smiles. Maybe he isn’t social, but he’s good at faking it. “I’ll be sure to your request in with the boss.”
That makes her burst out laughing.
Out front, people are smoking. They call to him, speaking to him by title, and waving as he leaves. It isn’t as if he’s going to require they stop doing it, he can agree that them referencing him as Count is ridiculous without separating himself from it. Regardless of their obvious desire to invoke respect from Hannibal by belittling themselves as subjects, he enjoys their need to idolize him.
Those unmarried have this fantasy, one that persists in the romance genre to this day, that they may be the special one that some member of the aristocracy will look at with favor and love. Why not Hannibal?
Will’s arm around his waist tightens.
Their dislike of Will is obvious, but it isn’t real, completely stemming from jealousy. Why should it be him and not them that Hannibal has become so deeply infatuated with? They deserve it far more. They’re the right kind of people. He’s known them longer.
“Éclair hates Andrew,” he says as they close in on the truck.
The scent of cigarette smoke clings in the air. His head starts to ache.
“That sweet girl, I can’t see it.” He opens the door and helps Hannibal into the truck.
“She chewed his shoes. Twice. She has never had an issue with destroying things, it seems it would have to be that she hates him,” he insists.
Will leaves him in silence for a moment, and only continues the conversation when they’re pulling out of the parking lot. “She’s strict.”
“But she likes you,” Hannibal says, “very much so. Almost as much as me.”
At the first red light they come to, Will looks at Hannibal. “You don’t have to grovel. It’s not like you.”
The radio comes on, some old rock song, and Hannibal recedes. It isn’t so much that he wants to grovel, but rather discourage Will from putting too much stock into whatever Andrew has told him, true or not. He’s the worst of them, the most jealous. His other lovers will wait for them to split, sharks in the water, but Andrew is the only one that will continue to be proactive in his distaste.
Some of them may very well become attracted to Will. Jealous burns through him at the thought, but he manages to extinguish it before it ruins his mood more than has already happened. Will doesn’t like them, so it doesn’t matter if they grow fond of him.
“I don’t think he lied,” Will finally says when they’re nearing Hannibal’s house, “I’ve pieced together a lot of it myself. You’re hard to crack, but not impossible.”
“What did he say?” Hannibal whispers. He hates how pathetic he sounds.
“You go through phases. Who’s your favorite, who isn’t.” He shrugs. “And some unsavory things about your sexual relationships that aren’t my business.”
“Yes, that’s true. I do have favorites,” he confirms honestly. Why does everyone want him to feel ashamed? “It isn’t as if any of them are particularly good natured themselves.”
“I don’t think I fit your usual type,” he says, “his observation originally, but as he pointed out who you’ve been with, I agree.”
“I have never restricted myself to one type.” His nose hurts. He isn’t going to cry, he’s not a crier, but he feels it.
Will shakes his head. “Why would you?”
He doesn’t sound angry, only tired.
They pull up to the curb, not inside the gate. Hannibal frowns. He doesn’t say anything about it yet, they need to get over whatever Andrew has done before he asks him inside. This was meant to be a good night, and yet—he should have known better he supposes. He’s been taken away with fantasy, but he isn’t worried in a meaningful way. Will is reasonable, and he’s only jealousy.
Will sits there for a moment, looking off into the street. “I want to be clear with you.”
“I would prefer it if you were,” he says cautiously.
“I understand at your age, with… your accomplishments, you probably aren’t looking for anything serious, and that’s completely fine, but I am.” He rubs his hands over the steering wheel. “We’ve had a few good dates, I enjoy talking to you, but I’m not living in delusion. You can tell me if that’s the case. It’s a good place to… cut things amicably. I appreciate the time you’ve given me, and I really like you, but I don’t want to waste each other’s time if we don’t have to. I don’t want to be the favorite for a few months and then discarded for… Andrew.”
Hannibal blinks, flushing. “I’m not looking to have an affair with you, Will, if that had been my intention, you would have been in my bed the first day we met. While a committed relationship has never been something I have prioritized, I’m not incapable either. To try with you—I would enjoy that. I understand that we’ve gone out and things have not been ideal, but that doesn’t mean I want something frivolous.”
Another moment of silence passes. Hannibal reaches for his hand, and Will lets him take it. “I would not have ended things with any lover for another unless I was serious about my intentions. It would be bad form.”
“It really isn’t about who you’ve slept with.” Will interlocks there fingers. “I’ve been aware for a while that you’re sought after, and… I’ve had my own fair share. I just think you’re young. You have options.”
“I’m 27,” he scoffs.
Will laughs and turns to brush a few strands of fallen hair from Hannibal’s face. “That’s young, sweetheart, but is this what you want? Because I don’t want to try, I don’t want to be an experiment for you. And I also understand how the age difference needs to be a priority in your decision making. You can’t just say it’s fine, I’ll be 50 in a few weeks. You have a life ahead of you. Is it what you want, or do you think you need to want it?”
Hannibal pauses. He’s considered this since he first decided to explore Will as a suitable match, but to hear it out loud shocks through his core and momentarily uproots what he’s decided for himself. He wants Will, but does he truly want to give up these secret parts of himself that have carried him through life for a man who he believes is like him? Or, is this a symptom of his environment? And what would it look like to be with someone like him? Can they make it work?
Yes, he thinks so, but it will take trial and error, but they aren’t there yet. Maybe by the time he’s willing to confess—Will is right in his assessment, he will need to know where his loyalties lie before that comes up—they’ll have a strong enough relationship that it won’t cause too many problems.
He looks at himself in the side view mirror and breathes out. If not Will, then it will be no one, and what regret will be felt in 10 or 20 years if he leaves this where it is, and some part of him, that human desire for connection he disregards, breaks? Can he live his entire life without ever being seen again now that he knows what it’s like? It would be like leaving the sun for an eternal Winter, he knows that, but what about safety?
In 20 years, would he be able to find Will again if this regret surfaced? Would Will, in his old age, want him?
That isn’t something he’s willing to risk and he does want him. He wants him so badly it’s making him feel crazy.
“I do have options, you are included in them.” He leaves no room for question. “I think we get along, it’s so rare to find someone different from me, but so similar. I understand your concerns, but I have contemplated this, and I desire you far more than physically. You satiate a part of me that has starved, and if that isn’t reason enough, then what is?”
He brings Will’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles, looking up at him. “As for your age, I am not against the taboo, and I accept what lies before us due to our age difference. If we do work out in the long term, which is my hope, I’ll be sure to put you in a nice retirement home and visit you once a week. And of course, any dogs you have will be well looked after.”
Will laughs a little, “I’m glad to know I’ll be taken care of. I think he’s bothered you more than he’s bothered me.”
“I don’t bring people to events, and I’m not pleased with how misbehaved everyone was,” Hannibal sighs.
“They feel threatened, especially your… most recent lover. I’m not stupid, I know what he was trying to do.” He turns his hand and cups his cheek. “I’m new, if he can put a wedge between us early, then he can win.”
“You are brooding, and bigger than him. Much more attractive.” Hannibal presses his lips to his palm. “Would you like to come inside?”
Will hesitates, the lines around his mouth deepen. “I have a flight I need to catch in the morning.”
Hannibal pauses. No one has ever said no to coming to bed with him.
He pulls away. “I understand.”
Before he can recede within himself, Will takes him by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a hot kiss. Not sweet, or slow like they’ve typically been, but a domineering affection that demands he take it. His tongue in his mouth, the hand on his neck tight. His cock twitches, but he’s unable to do anything about it.
“Next time, I’ll have to get someone to dog-sit for me, but let me walk you in,” he says, petting his cheek.
He allows it. Will helps him from the truck and takes him up to the door. He opens it, steps into the foyer, and embraces him in another desperate kiss. They cling, hands roaming—Hannibal grabs his ass, he can’t help himself—and Will has to peel himself off of Hannibal. It isn’t easy, but Hannibal lets him go.
In the morning, he’s awoken early by a text.
Will Graham: I won’t have access to my phone for a few days while on this job, I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring you. I hope your week is good, sweetheart, and I’ll message you as soon as I can.
His heart flutters, but the cold, empty side of his bed seems to extend forever.
I’ll be waiting.
The amount of times he checks his phone over the week should startle him. It does startle him when he thinks about it, but he tries not to. Each time he opens his messages and scrolls through previous conversations with Will, lovesick and sighing. He feels like a teenager with his first crush, chewing his nails, rereading senseless conversations looking for deeper meaning than there is. (They’ve had better conversations over the weeks, he doesn’t know why he’s reading about the first dog Will ever owned, or why it comforts him so much.) No one notices, or no one says anything.
He takes this giddiness with him to work though, being softer with his patients, buying the nurses coffee in the mornings and lunch from the food trucks the hospital has, or has things from nicer restaurants delivered.
“That new guy must be treating you well,” Nurse Kelcie jokes. She has a coffee in one hand and a muffin in the other.
Hannibal sips his coffee. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He performs several standard trauma surgeries, nothing as exciting as gunshot wounds and young adult idiocy, but a few car accidents and work related injuries, and uses the rest of his time to spend with Éclair. As for his associates and friends, their interest in Will has intensified, and from what he hears, he’s developed a sort of mythology among Baltimore high society. Whether they believe he’s a long term fixture of Hannibal’s affection or a passing fantasy remains debated, but they decide he must be quite the man for Hannibal to disregard the comfortable familiarity of his usual lovers so decisively. Intelligent, personable, exciting. He must be offering something they all lack, and he learns that many of them intend on getting him back by observing Will and changing their behavior.
Some have, those in Mrs. Komeda’s circle from what he hears, express how attractive Will is. Not the usual sort they see, and how refreshing it is for a new face to be in the mix. And of course, they all agree only Hannibal could bring him into their fold.
Excitement rolls through him, but he knows they don’t stand a chance. Will is a permanent fixture, but he doubts they’ll ever fully accept that.
His life outside of work has the same giddiness. Although, he misses Will. The feeling is a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach.
“Do you miss Will?” he asks Éclair as he carries her through their house. “When he returns, perhaps I’ll take you to his house and you can play with Winston? He told me he has quite a bit of land, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She licks his cheek and he cringes.
“We’ve talked about this,” he admonishes, “if you insist upon licking me, then I’ll take back everything I just said.”
She licks him again.
Tuesday evening, only a handful of days after he has last spoken to Will, his phone buzzes three times in quick succession. He’s set a specific vibration pattern for Will’s notifications — more than a little pathetic, but he doesn’t want to check his phone 20 times in an hour and none of the messages are from Will.
Will Graham: Sorry about disappearing for so long. I should be back Thursday afternoon if you’re available for dinner?
I have plans Thursday after work, we can meet Friday evening if you’re available.
Will Graham: That would be great. Why don’t you and Éclair come stay the night? If you’re off.
He smiles.
I would love to.
A night at Will’s. He must have plans for him. He has started to imagine Will as secretly perverse, and that he’s somehow won, through his patience, a side of him that very few people see. He can see himself being used, tied down, and brought to the brink of tears via whatever is available to him. Sex toys, his hands, his mouth, until he allows Hannibal to feel his cock inside of him. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t wanted to sleep with him, he needed to make sure he could take it.
He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but it isn’t easy not to get carried away. This is the longest he’s ever waited and his hand isn’t satisfying him the way it has in the past.
Thursday afternoon, he’s in a black velvet suit with a bow tie, driving toward Quantico, stifling pride. Alana has always kept the FBI side of her job private, so the invitation to this gala is a big move forward, and he’ll meet many of the people working on the Chesapeake Ripper case. To be directly under their nose, smiling in their faces, is the most exciting thing to happen to him in a long time, other than meeting Will. He’d love to have any of them over for dinner.
He’s kind enough to pick up Alana on the way.
“Thank you for coming,” she says as she slides in. She’s in a lovely turquoise dress and her hair is pinned up. “Kade was happy about your donation too. It’s so rare that people give to her causes.”
“I’m happy to assist. The families of the Chesapeake Ripper victims are a decent cause. Many of them still suffer.”
“I know.” She shakes her head. “It’s good they’re trying to help. The FBI upends their lives as much as him.”
That isn’t surprising. Kade Prurnell is trying her hardest to give the FBI a better name and she seems to believe she can do this via charity events. Her futile attempts don’t matter to him, but this is a good way for him to see where they’re at in the Chesapeake Ripper investigation. Perhaps he can turn their head in the right direction about that judge the police brushed off, and away from him in the process.
The ride is long, and they talk briefly about work. Alana is not likely to give him much information, but she laments about the FBI needing her so often. She enjoys her few patients from there, the agents and special investigators are all nice, but the Bureau demands more and more. They’re never satisfied with her assessments of her patients and the occasional killer.
He does agree with her when she says it’s because she’s a woman that they second guess her. They value her opinion up until a certain point and then, because they—whoever—the powers that be, begin to feel inferior, have to belittle her.
They think she’s too soft, and he agrees with that too. They aren’t mutually exclusive. But if they trust her enough to assign their agents to her, then they should overlook her softness. Isn’t that part of her appeal? She’s trustworthy.
They pull into one of the many parking lots when her complaints have waned. A cluster of people are standing near their cars talking, and Alana looks at them.
“Be on your best behavior,” she says, “these are my colleagues.”
Hannibal comes around to open her door. He’s taking a note out of Will’s book today. “I promise, you have nothing to worry about.”
Alana directs him to the conference room where they're holding the little charity gala. It’s bureaucratic. Grey, brown, white. Those who have arrived are dressed nicely, but none quite as nice as him, but that’s to be expected. He counts 32 people before he stops, and more are pouring in behind them. Despite how close they are to Christmas, people are in all shades of pink, purple, and blue. He expects more velvet than there is, more bold colors. Reds and deep greens. Everyone seems to have pulled out whatever was available in their closets, but maybe that’s normal for these kinds of events.
The food selection is salmon crostinis, cranberry endives, and asparagus wraps. More to come, he supposes, but he gets a glass of white wine and has a few of the salmon crostinis to hold him over. They’re fine, he could make better.
Alana introduces him to Jack first. He’s an older man, older than Will, but the introduction isn’t necessary, at least not on Hannibal’s end. He’s well aware of Jack Crawford and his efforts to catch the Chesapeake Ripper, he’s the man every trashy magazine and crime blog mentions when they’re discussing the case. He’s been on Hannibal’s radar for some time, but he’s never had to meet him before.
It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here, so their conversation is short. A quick introduction, Jack Crawford shakes his hands, and then he goes. Hannibal watches him. He hopes there will be more time later in the evening for him to pick his brain.
Luckily, Alana is popular, and because she’s popular, she’s pulled this way and that, and Hannibal follows. And everyone is interested in him. She must have anticipated this because she’s using him as a decoy so that all of the attention isn’t on her. He answers any question thrown at them, it’s the Holiday season, he can be decent.
Are they together? No, but they’re close friends. What does Hannibal do? A trauma surgeon at Johns Hopkins. Oh, he must be the prodigy! Some do call him that, yes.
It astounds him how many people know about him, but not everyone does. Some people are simply impressed that he’s such a young surgeon.
“Are you a resident?” A man, Brian, asks. He’s heard about him before, but only ever in passing. Alana is not impressed by him.
Hannibal takes his second glass of wine. “No, an attending.”
He nods. “Alana needs to lock you down then.”
“Oh, Hannibal.” She grabs his arm. Brian is drunk, and someone else, another man, is making his way toward them. “I want you to meet someone else. One of my patients, but I think you’d find him interesting.”
They cut across the room without saying goodbye. It’s such a hard shift that he knows Alana is trying to save Hannibal before her personal vultures can swarm. Brian is just the first of many, and he understands that sentiment. He should have saved Will at the ballet and didn’t.
A few people try to stop them, but Alana promises to come speak in a little while. She has someone she needs to speak to. They all accept this, and he feels bad for her, and good for himself. It’s nice not to be the one that has out someone in the path of people’s unwavering attention.
They slip through a tight cluster of people, coming to the far end of the conference hall.
Hannibal smells him before he sees him. The musk of his cologne spreads through his body, and Hannibal doesn’t react. Will is sipping wine, shoulders hunched, glasses up high on his nose. He’s doing his best to ignore the now 50 or so people that are milling around waiting for Kade or anyone to speak. Jack has found his way next to him and they’re talking. Will makes a face and shakes his head, and Jack laughs.
He isn’t unhappy to see him, but curious. This must be part of what he wanted to discuss later, about his job that demands he go here and there and everywhere. It’s unsettling to know that he isn’t working for little police departments, but rather the FBI, but he swallows it down. This is a good thing, really. He’s struck gold.
“Will!” Alana calls and he looks up from his conversation with Jack.
His gaze flickers round the room until it lands on Alana, and then his eyes shift behind her to Hannibal. He stills, the color draining from his face.
“This is Will Graham, one of the professors at the Academy and a special investigator,” she introduces as they close in on them, “Will, this is Hannibal Lecter. We went to Medical school together.”
“Special investigator, what an interesting title,” Hannibal hums around his wine glass. “There are so few left in the world.”
Jack Crawford, for whatever reason, is more open now. He must have been waiting on Will to arrive so that he can sing his praises, and he shakes Hannibal’s hand again. “Professor first, he’s the finest forensics professor at the Academy, so we try to keep him in the classroom but he’s going to help us catch the Chesapeake Ripper.”
This is a point of pride for Jack. He needed to be near Will so he could tell people this, because Will won’t be.
“Do you believe that, Mr. Graham?” Hannibal asks. He bats his eyes at him. “I’ve heard people say he’s impossible to catch.”
Will swallows. Sweat beads on his brow. “I’m not as confident.”
Jack opens his mouth to say something else, probably that Will is humble, but he pauses and looks between them. “Do you know each other?”
And that’s just what Hannibal wanted to hear. “We do. Quite well, but of course, I was not aware that Mr. Graham was a special investigator for the FBI.”
Alana looks between them then, taking in Hannibal’s cheerfulness versus Will’s bleak expression. She frowns. “You do.”
“We go to the same dog park,” Will explains in an offhanded tone. He looks elsewhere, anywhere but Hannibal. “Our dogs like to play together.”
Jack nods. This makes sense, it fits within the constraints he’s assigned to Will. “I guess conversations about such an individual as the Chesapeake Ripper aren’t appropriate for a place like that.”
Alana drops Hannibal’s arm. “I wasn’t aware you let Éclair play with other dogs. I thought they were all flea infested and under vaccinated.”
“Éclair is fond of Winston, and I can’t deny her, you know how I am. So, I suppose that means Mr. Graham and I have been hanging out, as he says.” Hannibal grins.
Alana stares at him and then Will. The pieces have come together and he doesn’t have to look at her to know she isn’t pleased. She knows his reputation, and she’s obviously Will’s therapist.
Her voice flattens. “Have you been?”
“Oh yes. Play dates. All good fun.” He finishes his wine. “Mr. Graham, would you walk with me to get another glass of wine?”
Will’s upper lip stiffens. “Of course, Doctor Lecter.”
Hannibal smiles to Alana and Jack. “If you’ll excuse us both. I should ask Mr. Graham about Winston’s vaccination record, and this is confidential information.”
They purposefully do not touch, but they walk close enough that it doesn’t matter. Shoulders bumping, hands grazing. Will says nothing, but what is there to say? His secret is out, he works for the FBI, not some community college, and not random police departments. The FBI cannot be paying him enough.
“Is this the dinner you had in mind?” he asks when they’re far enough away from others. “I feel betrayed that you work for the FBI and you kept it to yourself.”
Will blanches. His hands shake. “No, this wasn’t it but I… planned on telling you tomorrow. I thought, it would be a good conversation to have privately, and not in a truck.”
They both grab another glass of wine. Alana is looking at them and talking with a woman. She doesn’t approve, but she never does. Jack has moved on at least, and he thinks this is probably good too. If he associates him with Will, he won’t associate him with the Chesapeake Ripper.
Hannibal leans in and curls the hair at the base of Will’s neck around his finger. He can work with that. Will shivers. “They have a lot of faith in you and your interest in the Chesapeake Ripper makes much more sense now, if you plan to catch him.”
“I don’t plan on it. I’m not going to kill myself trying.” He drinks, the wine is gone quickly. “I would have told you at dinner tomorrow, I would have explained everything to see if we’re still… on the same page. I didn’t think you’d be here, I didn’t know you know Alana.”
“Don’t check for Alana’s approval, Will, you won’t get it,” he says. He slides his hand from his hair. “She has a moral code, this is not going to fit within it.”
Hannibal should be distant, he should pull away, he should punish him for keeping this to himself, but he doesn’t. Days without him have been too much, and he needs everyone here to see him and know he’s not a threat. After all, Will is going to catch the Chesapeake Ripper, wouldn’t he know if the man he’s been seeing was him?
Will breathes out. “You’re standing very close to me, Doctor Lecter. People are staring.”
He slides his hand from his neck to his chest. “Do you care? My uncle used to say I am a performer at heart, but if you’d like, I can separate myself from you.”
Will grabs the hand on his chest but doesn’t remove it. He holds it there. “I do have a professional reputation to keep up.”
“I’m sure every profiler in this room knows, you have hardly been subtle yourself.” He leans closer, smiling. They’re inches apart. “Jack knows. You were pale, are you upset to see me?”
He shakes his head. “You’re drunk.”
“Not terribly. I’d like to go home with you tonight instead of tomorrow. Since we are together,” he says.
Will rolls his eyes. “You’re here with Alana. I’d hate to take you from her.”
“Alana is a friend, nothing more. I think she’ll understand. Or, she’ll have to. I refuse to stifle myself to make her comfortable.” He pulls his car keys from his pocket. “I’ll give her my keys so she can get home. I have already donated, so there’s no need to stay.”
It isn’t immediate. Will has to stand there, his grip on Hannibal’s hand wavering. If they go, Alana will give him an earful during their next therapy session, but she’s going to do the same thing to Hannibal. If he doesn’t go, it’ll say something about how he views their relationship.
He sighs, “We should pick up Éclair.”
Alana is not pleased when Hannibal hands over his keys. She wants to tell him things, that Will is fragile, that he doesn’t need to treat him like another affair, that he’s too old, but she doesn’t get to. He hands the keys over and tells her that he will see her tomorrow to pick up his car and that he hopes she has a wonderful time.
“You’re my date.”
Hannibal sets his last glass of wine down. “And if I stay you will spend the night trying to convince me to leave Will. Goodnight, Alana.”
Will guides him out to his truck. He’s still sweating.
The drive to Hannibal’s house is quiet. Will is trying to compartmentalize, he thinks, but he pulls into his spot and doesn’t leave as Hannibal packs for him and Éclair. They have matching overnight bags. He’s never had to wonder how people will feel about this, he wonders if Will might think it’s weird.
As soon as they’re in the truck and the bags are placed in the back, Éclair crawls onto Will’s lap and closes her eyes. Hannibal sighs. She’s ridiculous.
The drive remains quiet, and the further they get from the city, the more relaxed Hannibal is. He nods off, and when they turn down the gravel road that leads to Will’s house—a small but comfortable looking place—he starts correcting himself. Will’s just seen him slack jawed and limp, but he tries anyway. They’re having sex tonight, he doesn’t want to go in looking like a mess.
Winston is sleeping on the porch, unbothered by the cold. His head lifts, he starts wagging his tail. Will pulls them close to the porch.
Will carries Éclair and the two bags in. He doesn’t ask, he just grabs everything and goes.
“Will she be fine in the living room?” Will asks once they’re inside. He turns the heat up although it isn’t cold in his house.
He plops her down and she immediately finds her way to Winston, nosing at him for attention. He’s curled up by the fireplace, and does not bother to move as she paws at him.
“Yes,” Hannibal says. “She has company.”
“I’ll give them both a treat. My room is right through there.” He gestures. “I’ll be in there in a second.”
He’s still nervous, not about Alana anymore. Having Hannibal in his house must be overwhelming. Young and demanding as he is. They’ve been on enough dates though, spent enough time on the phone. Hannibal wants him, it may be a lesser need than the others, but it’s a need nonetheless.
But, he’s kind enough to give him his space. He takes his bag from Will and escorts himself to his bedroom. The door clicking closed behind him. He flips on the lights expecting—he doesn’t know. A bachelor pad, the way other unmarried men his age have. Leather and mirrors and a too-big television on the wall, but it isn’t like that.
Will’s bedroom has aged wallpaper, dark wood, and open windows. It smells like him, and whiskey, and dog dander, although this is much lighter. He’s cleaned for tomorrow, he realizes. Although, the room is immaculate, and he imagines it wasn’t dirty to start with. He pokes around the books on Will’s nightstand, checks over the dog figurines that line his dresser (it seems he has a collection of those too, not just vintage tumblers and silver spoons), and then sets his bag down on Will’s empty desk.
There are probably things about the Chesapeake Ripper case in here, but he doesn’t want to get caught snooping.
It takes a few minutes, but Will comes in. Nervousness bleeds off of him, but he looks certain enough.
“Sorry, Winston requires a little extra attention when I’ve been away for a while,” he explains.
“How long have you lived here?” he asks. He’s leaning against the desk. “It’s comfortable.
Very few houses he’s been in are comfortable. Everyone he knows curates. They don’t live in their homes to their fullest, it’s about what other people see, and how they feel.
Will taps his fingers on his dresser. “Almost 22 years.”
Hannibal moves away from the desk and meets him in the middle. He thinks he needs it. Alana has startled him, but he knows he can get him back.
“Have you missed me, Will?”
Will cups his cheek and kisses him. Hungry. Pulling him against him until Hannibal has his body wrapped around him. Will’s hands roam over his back, under his suit jacket, and he starts to pull at the shirt. Finally, he thinks. His fingers brush Hannibal’s bare hips and he shivers. That little touch is far better than anything he’s felt from any other lover.
Hannibal works Will’s pants open as they kiss, he can’t wait any longer to feel him. He shoves his hand in, past his boxers, and squeezes the first few inches of cock he can before he attempts to rub him. Will moans against his lips. His cock is hard and thick, but from this position he can’t get to the head, although he knows there’s at least another inch or two of unexplored flesh.
Will helps Hannibal out of his suit jacket. He’s slow about it, careful of the fine material, and sets what he can on his nightstand.
He appreciates the gesture, but rubs his cock through his pants to spur him on. His bow tie goes, his vest, his shirt. Will backs him up to the bed and undoes Hannibal’s pants. He pulls them off, along with his underwear, in one go. Hannibal lays there in his socks—Will doesn’t remove them or their garters—shivering and hard.
Will’s pupils are blown wide. He can’t see the blue or green of either eye.
“Am I the youngest person you have ever been with?” Hannibal asks. He means it as a tease, but he wants to hear how special he is.
Will’s throat jumps. “Yes.”
“I’ll be forgiving then. I know it’s harder to keep up once you hit a certain age,” and this time, it comes out as a joke.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Will laughs.
He undresses quickly. His gun is discarded on the dresser and his clothes come off with less care than he had for Hannibal’s. He nudges him to lay on the bed correctly so he can press up against his side. Their bodies slide together and find a way to lock. Will has pulled a bottle of fresh lube from his nightstand, bought specifically for this, Hannibal thinks happily, and squirts some onto his fingers.
His cock is against Hannibal’s thigh, a throbbing, heavy warmth, and when he glances down to get a good look at it, his stomach twists with anticipation. He’s big, bigger than he thought from the few times he’s had contact with his penis, and already dripping.
Without having to be asked, Hannibal spreads his legs and Will tucks one arm under his shoulders to hold him close. It’s been a long time since he was fucked like this. His last few lovers wanted quick and efficient. As much as they wanted Hannibal, they didn’t want the extra parts of sex. If they could prove they were effective lovers, if they could make him come, that was enough for them. Will’s fingers slip down and rub his hole. Hannibal’s chest stutters as Will presses the first finger inside of him. His cock twitches from one finger, and Hannibal grabs it, pumping it with the slow rhythm of Will’s finger.
Will kisses him again, licking his way into his mouth as he starts to work the second finger in. Hannibal shudders, fluid drips from his cock onto his belly. The fingers inside of him curl, brushing his prostate, and every muscle in his body goes limp, slack jawed but Will doesn’t stop. His tongue stays in his mouth, and he rubs his prostate until Hannibal is shaking and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come.
“I can’t wait any longer,” He whines. Will pumps his fingers in, rubs his prostate, and then pulls out. “I’ll come and it must be with you inside of me.”
Something about that works on Will. He cock throbs against his leg, warm fluids wets him.
He obliges Hannibal and pulls his fingers out, the emptiness is so sudden to his body that he spasms. Will smears his lips across his cheek and pulls away, hinging his body back toward the nightstand.
“This is going to be cold,” Will warns, and then wipes his belly down with a wet wipe.
Cold but not unpleasant. He doesn’t typically like to be covered in his own fluids during sex. The texture as it dries leaves much to be desired, and sometimes, is all he can think about during the act.
“Thank you,” he sighs, “I was unsure of how this would go.”
The wet wipe is discarded, he doesn’t know where and he doesn’t try to find out. “I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I know you’re a little high maintenance.”
He scoffs, meaning to say something, but Will kisses him, sucking his tongue.
If this is the sex Andrew was talking down on, he’s never wanted to have sex with Hannibal, all he wanted to do is fuck him. Will’s free hand roams over his body, squeezing his side and thigh and cupping his testicles.
Hannibal grabs the lube before Will can, squirts some onto his palm, and rubs Will’s cock. His head falls back as Hannibal strokes him. Fat droplets of clear liquid form from his slit and roll down his shaft.
“Just like that,” Will sighs. “You’re so good.”
He could make him come now, but he’s so desperate for Will to be inside of him, to come inside of him—he could wrap his mouth around the head, but that won’t satisfy his craving. He slides his hand down, squeezing his testicles once, and releases him.
“I need you inside of me.” He presses his lips hard against his. “I have never needed it this badly. Please, Will.”
Will moves within seconds, nestling between his legs, his cock bumping up against his hole and then he starts to slide on. Inch by inch, filling him up. It’s almost painful, but the hot pleasure is more abundant than any pain. Words are forming on his lips but he chokes around them.
If this is all he’s ever given of Will, he can be happy. The feeling of Will filling him so completely is enough.
He locks his legs around Will’s hips as their bodies bump against each other. Hannibal’s eyes roll back. There’s been plenty of men, and a few women, inside of him in his life, but nothing like this. Stretching him open so far he squirms. It’s better than he could have ever imagined. Well worth the wait, but he still wishes he didn’t wait.
“Oh, fuck,” Will hisses, “aren’t you perfect?”
Hannibal wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him even closer. “A little stingy to keep this from me. You’re so… much.”
“Sorry, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” Will adjusts the pillow under Hannibal’s head so it cradles him better. “My intentions weren’t only sexual.”
He has to take a moment to collect himself as his body adjusts. “I wouldn’t have. You’re far too much—of a gentleman.”
The moment passes, Will nor Hannibal can wait any longer. The fullness, and he knows the pressure for Will, are both too much to let linger this way. Will pulls out, not all the way, but enough that Hannibal whines at the loss, and then slides back in, testing. He does it again, a few times until he has a rhythm that makes Hannibal dig his nails into his back.
“The peculiar thing about this,” he barely gets out between Will’s thrusts. “Is that I was under the impression you would behave perversely with me, as if you were hiding… it all under your polite exterior.” He throws his head back, the fullness dizzying his mind. “I still believe it may be there, but… you have subverted every—expectation.”
Will strokes his cheek with his thumb. “You can’t help yourself, even now.”
“Does it bother you?” He looks up at him, eyes wet. “Should I—be quieter?”
“No. I like hearing your voice.” He kisses him. “Keep talking.”
Heat pools in his belly, his cock has not stopped twitching between them. “I had this idea that you would—take me into a room—some private room… darkly lit… and have your way with me.”
Will sucks his earlobe between his teeth. “I am going to have my way with you, sweetheart.”
“I imagined I would be… unable to walk after—my limbs would be useless.” Will fucks into him quicker, the heat in his belly spreads through his body. “Oh, God.”
“Like that?” Will asks through shaking breaths.
“Harder,” he cries. Will obliges, slamming into him. The slap of their bodies and their mingled breaths are the only sounds in the room, and the slow build of his orgasm sharpens before he can process it. “Like that—don’t stop.”
Pleasure builds low inside of him and shimmers across his body, but he doesn’t come. His cock leaks, his body spasms, but everything stalls. He’s stuck at the verge of orgasm, hot and pulsating, but never reaching it.
He throws his head back into the pillows and tries to slow his breathing, to focus on the feeling of Will inside of him.
This has never happened to him before. Usually, he can come this way with ease, and he wants to. His body slides against Will’s, meeting him with every thrust, but nothing more happens. He can’t really get his hand between them either, Will’s full weight is on him, and he doesn’t want to lose that.
“You okay?” Will murmurs. “You’re tense.”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
“I can’t finish,” he admits in mild defeat. “I have never had this issue before. If you just keep going, I will.”
With everything that has gone wrong with Will, of course, he can’t come. He’s waited all this time and his body refuses to do what he wants, and it isn’t as if Will is bad. He fills him perfectly, and each time his cock slides into him, his body slackens and he can’t think from the pleasure, but it’s too much. He’s too excited.
Will kisses him and slides out. His body quivers.
Tears spring up in his eyes. “What—“
“Lay on your side.” And he helps him roll over.
Hannibal looks down at his soaked cock. This is ridiculous. He’s as hard as he’s ever been, and the muscles in his abdomen are twitching for release. It’s there, he can feel it.
The lube clicks and a few seconds later, Will takes his leg, pulls it to rest over his thigh, and slides back into him. His cock presses against Hannibal’s sensitive insides, and he touches his belly. He doesn’t know why, he can’t think, but he presses down.
“Oh,” Hannibal gasps.
Will finds his rhythm again, thrusting into him hard. Hannibal turns his face into the arm cradling his head and moans uncontrollably, cursing and crying. This is no better. It’s there and he can’t reach it. Will’s fingers drag over his hip, rubbing the bone, and grabs his cock, pumping it as best he can as he fucks him.
Thoughtlessly, Hannibal sinks his teeth into Will’s biceps. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that the older man hisses.
“That’s right,” Will groans, “you’re almost there.”
His body shakes. Will rubs his fingers over his glans, and the heat sharpens into his cock and he comes. Hard, and, almost embarrassingly, way too much. All over the sheets and Will’s hand.
“Fuck,” Will whines into his ear, “I’m going to come.”
He doesn’t have to ask, and Hannibal can’t force the words out, but he feels Will press as deep inside of him as he can and his cock throbs. He huffs a few ragged breaths against his ear and neck and they both collapse. Hannibal against his chest and Will wraps his arm around his shoulders to keep him close. His come soaked hand is held away from Hannibal.
“Turn around,” Will whispers and kisses his neck. “I want you to face me.”
It takes a second for him to find his bearings, lost between reality and a dreamlike place, but Will starts to coax him and he listens. He presses his chest to Will’s, face centimeters from his, eyes closed.
“I need to come again,” he mutters.
“I know. I do too.” He kisses the corner of his mouth.
Hannibal manages to find himself enough to tease him. “I didn’t think old men could come again so fast.”
Will shoves his hand between their bodies and takes both of their cocks, squeezing them together. His hot flesh against Will’s makes his cock twitch, more fluid dripping out of him.
“I can’t do that,” Will says around a wet, weak laugh.
“Someone once called me virile,” he tells him. His eyes are still closed. He doesn’t dare open them. “It takes five or six times before I come dry.”
Will starts to rub them, only to Hannibal’s cockhead, and then back down. He’s some inches longer than him, but Hannibal doesn’t care, and Will seems to like the act of their cocks touching more than anything his hand is doing. “We’ll have to test that theory another time.”
“Do you not plan to fuck me again tonight?” he asks, genuinely upset.
Will shush him, a quaver in his voice from the vulgarity of the question. (Hannibal is pleased he can embarrass him.) “I will, you’re going to have to give me a minute after this.”
“Don’t be concerned,” Hannibal sighs, “I’ve accepted the limitations of your age. I’ll take your hands and mouth.”
Will presses his thumb against his cock slit. Hannibal jerks. “I’m not that old.”
Hannibal hides his face, he wants to laugh, but Will starts to pump their cocks with a little more vigor and he can’t do anything but cry into his neck. The orgasm comes fast, without pretense, and no amount of trying. Warm and thick, all over them, and Will presses his mouth to his shoulder. His cock throbs once, Hannibal feels the little bit of come that wets their already stained bellies. They lay shivering in the aftershocks.
For as long as he can manage, Will keeps their cocks pressed together, but eventually they soften and Hannibal’s is too small to hold in place. He’s always been a grower, and Will lets him go and moves on without saying anything about it.
He cleans them both up, and they go through the motions of fixing the bed and dressing. The bathroom isn’t too large, with a singular sink and a tiny walk-in shower, not the primary bathroom, which he assumes is upstairs, but Hannibal makes do. He cleans his face and dresses for bed. Checks his body for any signs of Will, but he’s been kind enough not to mark him up.
When he comes out, Will has let the dogs into the bedroom. He’s in boxers and a t-shirt, but the sleeves can’t hide the blooming bruise on his biceps.
“Do you ever let Éclair sleep with you?” he asks.
Hannibal’s eyebrows crease. “No, she has her own bed at home.”
“She doesn’t have one here.” He’s petting both dogs. He makes this face, sweet almost, the kind that no one has dared try on Hannibal before. “And Winston sleeps with me sometimes, so she might be jealous.”
“And you say I spoil my dog,” he snickers.
They end up with both dogs in bed. Éclair doesn’t know what to do with herself, and Hannibal has to move her to the side so she doesn’t sleep between them, which is what she wants. Winston is good enough to sleep at the end of the bed, on his own blanket.
Will holds Hannibal close, kisses his neck and shoulder, and rubs his stomach until he sleeps. It comes easily.
The next morning, he wakes up before Will, mostly because he isn’t used to sharing a bed like this and he’s warm from too much body heat. Warm but comfortable. He needs a few weeks to get used to it, but he knows he will. (Sleeping with the dogs is the real change he’ll need to grow accustomed to, and he hopes Éclair doesn’t get too comfortable, she has a perfectly good bed at their house and he is not letting her take over his.) He showers, using Will’s shampoo and body wash, and goes through his usual routine, albeit cramped. He realizes he didn’t pack anything comfortable to wear during the day, he’s always left immediately after or early in the morning post hook up, so he hardly considered it as he packed good slacks and a nice button-down. That won’t do though.
As quietly as he can manage, he pads into the bedroom and picks through Will’s dresser. He takes out a thick green sweater and pulls it over his head, but stays in his own silk boxers. It doesn’t smell like Will’s cologne, but it does smell like him. Oil and whiskey and his baser scent, almost earthy. He brings the collar to his nose and breathes it Will in.
The dogs demand to be let out when he walks into the kitchen, Éclair stamps her foot—he doesn’t have her quail eggs, he hopes when she remembers breakfast she can make do with a chicken egg—and he lets them out before she starts making noise.
He starts a pot of coffee in Will’s nice, but ancient coffee machine once they’re out. It sputters out dark liquid and he has to find his sugar to spoon into his least offensive mug and then lightens it with some heavy cream. He takes one of the throw blankets from the living room and sits on the swing inside of Will’s screened-in porch, the blanket tucked around him, back to one of the wooden armrests. Éclair and Winston play—funny, he thinks, she seems not to mind the cold now.
The front door opens a few minutes later. Will has washed his face, but he’s in the same boxers and t-shirt he slept in. His biceps is bruised badly. Pride flashes through Hannibal. One of them is definitely more of a gentleman, and it isn’t Hannibal. He’s made his own cup of coffee, in what Hannibal considers the most offensive of his small collection. A green fish mouth with a thick handle compared to Hannibal’s flat, boring ceramic one with little painted dogs on it.
“Hey, good morning.” Will presses a kiss to his cheek and sits on the swing.
Hannibal smiles. “Good morning. I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to your coffee machine.”
And his clothes, but that can be left unsaid.
“No, you’re fine.” He places his hand on his bunched up knee. His eyes are hard, and the lines between his eyebrows are deep. “How do you feel?”
“Well rested,” Hannibal answers and takes a sip of his milky coffee. “You look as if you have something important to say.”
Will sighs. Perhaps he was hoping that Hannibal wouldn’t interrogate him first thing in the morning. Well, he shouldn’t have come out here so stern then. “I want to be in a relationship with you. That’s all.”
“I thought we were,” Hannibal replies. “I believe we decided that after the theatre.”
“Don’t be coy with me, I want… we’re not hanging out,” he decides, “I didn’t like hearing you say that. It feels cheap, and I’m sorry I ever did.”
“You would like to be my boyfriend?” he asks.
That sounds good to his ear. His boyfriend. Where does that leave him in Will’s descriptions of himself? Is boyfriend a title that comes before or after special investigator? For Hannibal, is certainly comes before Count.
Will grimaces. “It’s weird to hear that at my age. People stop using that as a term around 35.”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” he says. Or a girlfriend for that matter. “Most of the people I have been with want to be my partner. People enjoy the ambiguity of it, and I’m sure people your age enjoy the ambiguity for different reasons, however, if we are going to do this—commitment, monogamy, everything, then I will call you my boyfriend. I have no need for ambiguity or for people to make their own assumptions about us.”
Different emotions flash over Will’s face. Uncertainty, a touch of discomfort, brief happiness, and then acceptance. It’s strange for the both of them, but Hannibal wants this, and he knows Will is going to give it to him.
“A much younger man with a much older one does raise suspicions. I don’t think many people in your circle would assume I’m your sugar daddy though.” He touches his chest, rubbing his hand over his heart. It must be beating badly. “But I understand they’ll theorize other things. That I must be giving you something to be with me. Maybe I’m leaving you my house and land when I die.”
“If they could see what you have to offer sexually—“
“Don’t be vulgar, Doctor Lecter,” Will chastises and returns his hand to his leg to squeeze it and emphasize his point.
Hannibal tucks his cold, socked feet under Will’s thigh. “You have me, Will. I don’t imagine I’ve shared you either. After our second date, I was rather sure of what I wanted, and then… you have been unlike any man or woman I’ve been with. I’m not fickle.”
“I’m happy then.” Will takes a sip of his coffee. “You’ve never used a filter coffee machine before, have you?”
“No.” He shakes his head and has another sip. His is sweet and milky, he’s going to have to convince Will to invest in a good creamer. “It wasn’t difficult.”
“This is really bad, sweetheart.” He has another sip.
“It cannot be that bad, and you were asleep,” he argues. “I need to be respectful of your sleep. It’s good to be well rested at your age.”
Will coughs as he swallows. “You can wake me up next time. This is… oh, baby, this is dirt water pretty much.”
Well, Hannibal thinks, Will is drinking it. If it’s so horrible he should have made his own pot.
He looks out into the white expanse of the yard to find where their dogs have gone. Just a little past the oak trees. They don’t acknowledge that they’ve come outside. Winston is good, he doesn’t let Éclair strays too far and, although Will told him the first day he doesn’t recognize his size compared to hers, Hannibal thinks he’s figured it out.
“Come here,” Will says, and slips his hand across his thigh to coax him.
There will be a lot of that. He’s one of those people, but Hannibal likes it. It’s so rare that anyone treats him this way, but he’ll get used to it. So long as he doesn’t grow complacent with it, they’ll be fine, but he doubts he ever will.
He flips around, adjusts the blanket so the frigid air can’t touch his bare legs—he’s impressed that Will can stand it, arms, legs, and feet out this way—and rests his back to Will’s side and part of his chest. Will kisses the back of his head, and wraps his arm around his chest to rub over his heart. His warmth seeps into Hannibal, and he curls into him instinctively.
Fat, slow snowflakes start to fall. Will sets his coffee on the swing and grabs Hannibal’s hand, and kisses his palm. He thinks he’s going to love Will, he thinks it may be his ruin, and he believes Will is already halfway in love with him.