Chapter Text
Will’s departure was meant to be simple. There would be no lingering, no drawn-out pleasantries, no silences waiting for him to fill.
Quick. Efficient. Controlled.
But now it felt different. Tonight, Will was with someone he wasn’t ready to leave. And it was...unsettling.
“Conversation,” was what Alana had called it when she first brought up Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It was an innocent word, too small for what it had become. At the time, it wasn’t conversation that got Will into the psychiatrist’s office; it was the looming threat of Jack Crawford and the unspoken promise of professional black-listing.
Since then, Will’s unofficial doctor/patient relationship had taken a new form –
“God forbid we become friendly.”
It was pleasant, something Will wanted to encapsulate in a bell jar to look at whenever he pleased. Maybe he could tuck it into the breast pocket of his jacket, the one right over his heart.
Whatever it was, it had convinced him that it would be appropriate to bring Hannibal a bottle of wine – a thank-you for helping save a man’s life. It had taken nearly an hour of pursuing the aisles of his usual liquor store before he had settled on an Amarone. Eighty dollars and a slow spiral of self-criticism later—Hannibal’s wine cellar likely held bottles worth ten times that— he was in Maryland feeling incredibly twitchy.
By then the label on the bottle felt like a joke.
He stood in Hannibal’s kitchen, fidgeting beneath the brief glances of of a handful of sous chefs. They were much too busy chopping vegetables and marinating cuts of meat to be sincerely interested in Will’s presence, but to him it felt clinical, precise, as if they were trying to peel back his skin just by looking. He had set the wine on the table, tried his best not to seem foolish as he expressed his gratitude. With that, he turned to leave as quickly as possible. He was half-way there when he heard it:
“Will.”
His name, spoken with a polite insistence. It was enough to make him stop and turn.
“Yes?”
Hannibal’s head tilted, just slightly. “One glass. It’s all I ask.”
Will’s hands curled and uncurled. He couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop thinking.
“Technically, it would be two.”
Hannibal smiled. “Two, then.”
“Two, then,” Will echoed, fearing his voice would crack.
Hannibal was already untying his apron. “I’ll find you in the living room. The door will be to your right.”
Will nodded. Just the two of them, isolated together in a room without witnesses. He was used to that; in fact, he enjoyed it.
“I’ll see you in a minute,” he said.
Hannibal turned toward the cupboard, taking out a decanter.
“Or two.”
Hannibal’s estate reminded Will of a labyrinth. But it was not meant to confuse or trap a deadly Minotaur, but rather a home full of quiet corners and unopened doors. There were still rooms Will hadn’t explored and hallways he hadn’t walked down. But in the foyer, he could follow the simple direction of “turn right.”
The living room was a mixture of fine taste and masculinity. It was lush with potted plants and the patterned, soft green wallpaper contrasted perfectly with the dark wood and deep, rich fabrics of the furniture (a couch and a leather chair sat quietly by the fireplace.) In the corner was Hannibal’s harpsichord, but Will was more interested in the animal skulls sat on the console table. Their horns curled upwards in a spiral, bones bleach white.
Will touched on of their points.
“An Addax skull I ordered from an apothecary.” Hannibal’s voice was sudden but not startling. He set two wine glasses next to the skull, the decanter in his other hand full. "The seller called it ‘macabre,’" Hannibal turned the skull, fingers brushing against Will’s. "But I disagree.”
“A clash of opinions about death and decay?” Goosebumps traveled down Will’s back at the touch. “You see grace”
Hannibal poured the wine into Will’s glass first. “And you don’t.”
“It is the universe’s ultimate design. It’s pure, unburdened by pretense.” He ran his hand through his hair, trying to shake off the fluttering in his chest. “It’s a grotesque horror that eventually knocks on all of our doors.”
Hannibal filled his own glass. “Do you know what makes this wine special?”
It wasn’t unusual for Hannibal to switch subjects. However, it did bring a puff of laughter out of Will. “What?”
Picking up his wineglass, Hannibal held it towards the lamplight. “The grapes are partially dried before they are fermented. The process gives it a higher alcohol content and a particular sweetness to the wine.”
The alcoholic in Will wanted to argue that it was the proof that mattered, but he held his glass, trying to anticipate which train of thought Hannibal was choosing to take.
“As a gift from you it’s even sweeter.” Hannibal held the wineglass beneath his nose, eyes fluttering closed as he inhaled the undertones. It was the first time Will noticed how long Hannibal’s eyelashes were.
Shifting from foot to foot, Will sampled from his own glass, hoping Hannibal wouldn’t notice how disarmed he felt. There hadn’t been much affection in his life before Hannibal – friendly or otherwise – only a constant undercurrent of dread. Walking through the minds of killers left marks of its own. His thoughts had been softened like clay, reshaped again and again into whatever grotesque form a corpse demanded of him. For the dead, they were quite creative.
He scrunched his eyes, realizing that he had been staring. “Glad you like it.”
Hannibal smiled, just barely — a flicker of warmth at the corners of his mouth. “Very much.”
They stood in a moment of comfortable quiet. Will didn’t move to sit. He didn’t move to leave, either. He just stood there, glass in hand, as though his body hadn’t quite decided which way to turn.
“I know social rituals don’t come easily to you,” Hannibal said at last, voice quiet but clear. “Especially ones like this.”
Will raised an eyebrow, wary. “Ones like what?”
“A dinner party.”
"Ah. Right.”
“I didn’t want to impose. But… I would like it if you stayed.”
Will blinked. His gaze dropped, then returned to Hannibal’s face. “I don’t think I’ll fit in with your usual crowd.”
Hannibal’s smile had become fond. “Even then.”
“You already know I won’t enjoy it.”
“It isn’t about enjoyment. It’s about being with people who matter. And enduring it together.” Hannibal’s eyes sparkled with a youthful whimsy. “In fact, I was cajoled into hosting by a friend whom I have no interest in speaking to.”
“Sounds like a horrible friend.” Will rolled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, thinking of the bell jar. The next words came out slowly, as if he was still giving himself time to opt out: “Don’t expect me to socialize.”
Hannibal put his hand on Will’s shoulder, leaning in. “I would expect nothing less.”