Humans started off as pack hunters. Endurance pack hunters; follow the prey for enough time and it would tire, lay down and allow itself to die to reduce the stress that it was feeling. There was a routine in that, a ritual; something that felt strangely familiar to him. Endurance had always carried him through when he decided to pluck a name from the proverbial hat of his countertop card rotary; he was much fitter than most who ended up managing to tip the scales too far from their favour. The same way his ancestors would have ensured they’d always win was something he had pulled from the hunter genes within his blood, crafted deep into his cells; it made chess seem like an underwhelming exercise in teaching toddlers the basic ideas of managing to find yourself with the advantage.
Sometimes he wishes he could painstakingly carve Graham a business card from the oak of a tree from somewhere within the land surrounding Graham’s house using one of his favourite scalpels, make thirty of them and fill a rotary for himself. Flip through it on days he didn’t feel entirely up for planning a twenty three stage game of four dimensional chess and read over their therapy notes, endearing himself to the few times he’s attempted to copy the man’s handwriting in the margins like a schoolboy annotating his favourite piece of classic literature.
Seven fifty eight. The meat fresh from last night was about to hit its twenty four hour mark; something he had planned, of course, considering he usually wouldn’t have begun preparation until roughly quarter to nine even if Will had arrived on time. The meat had managed to come to the right place at the wrong time; an hour or two difference didn’t matter. It would have if he were wearing the Ripper suit at the time; though this was more a dish to keep to himself and those who he puppeteered near to himself.
His office was warm. Always a toasty sort of feeling when it was time for this specific slot. Enough to take his jacket off, allow himself to inspect every little crevice and nook of his persona through the glinting reflection of whichever blade he had nearest. Often the scalpel he rested in the pen draw to his lower left; one was always concealed in whichever suit jacket he was wearing. A suit jacket he didn’t wear around Will. He wanted the man to admire the craft of how much time he spent perfecting the way the suit, tie and shirt all work together in harmony; he spends a little more time on it in the mornings each day he knows he’s able to grace Will with his presence. Days which Will is able to grace him with his presence. The line becomes murky sometimes. Drawing a line in the proverbial sand becomes difficult when the water refuses to stop lapping up his calves.
Or maybe it was the heat from the fire considering he had slowly turned his chair to stare into the flames, holding out a glass paperweight and watching how it distorted its dancing movements.
His leather, fitted gloves keep himself from noticing the slight chill of the steering wheel.
Even with the car heater on it cannot stand up to the warmth and comfort of his office; the opening maws of God's distaste for humanity on distorted, veiled show for Graham and Graham only… would have to wait. Instead, he was on a wild goose chase. This must be what it’s like to work for the FBI, constantly chasing for a thing you’re unable to find. He wonders absently while watching the road before him if that’s how Jack felt about Miriam Lass. The mangled words of “that is my design” are sing-songed into his mind by a sirenesque version of Will, and his mouth is tugged up into a private smile. He wishes that, thanks to the new and incessant calling, Jack would wander a little bit more too. While he has Graham perfectly dissected in such conditions that the second he needs he can pull down the house of cards it doesn’t mean that watching others mistreat him didn’t send him closer to a metaphorical edge; Will was his friend. It was distasteful to force him past a boundary, even if the man refused to state it.
Stepping out before the FBI building he turns to lock his car, something explodes within his nostrils with a shrill stabbing. Rot. Nothing planned nor well situated; something had died here and it had been wildly unpleasant. The thought brings him to the meat from last night within his kitchen, the chase and the thrill of it. Instead, he is greeted by a muntjac. The back left leg is hanging and there are evident holes within the thick, oozing flesh that heralds the fact of nature in the form of hungry birds. Nothing intentional yet it had provided; nature had pulled down the ceiling onto another creature who is wholly innocent.
No.
Humans could not be described as wholly innocent. Maybe a small muntjac could be. Wholly fanatic is perhaps a title deserving of humans. Could you compare the acts of a Sunday morning in church to the acts of a muntjac coming to a stream to drink and — without acknowledging it — bowing its head to whatever powers that possibly may be?
There’s no time to bury something which would be more use to the ecosystem decomposing above ground.
Stepping inside he claims a visitor pass from the receptionist, ducking his head into it. For a second he thinks he may look like an angel, head bowed in service of a god, the lanyard dangling above his forehead like a halo. Although his halo is red; though aren’t those of the angels? The Epicurean Paradox flashes in his mind for a brief second alongside the taste of someone else’s blood.
Walking through the corridors he trails a hand across the wall, feeling the slight indents through his gloves. The place always reeked of sweat, coffee, and artificial sweetener in the air. He wondered how strange it must be for trainees to go from staring at bodies from a freshly scented room — done for their comfort — to the actual scent of a crime scene. The sharp contrast. The pungent sickly sweet which mixes with the smell of the bloated, acidic insides. He was used to it by the time he found himself dealing with anything decomposed; a part of him subtly wonders what would have happened if he had taken this route instead. The image of Jack Crawford as a young trainee rearranges itself inside of his mind palace, hopeful and energetic. At what point do you lose your prior self to your current self?
He takes off his gloves slowly before he walks into Graham’s classroom, tucking them into his inner breast pocket.
Before him in the dim light sits Will Graham. His eyes are glazed over like those of a muntjac rotting from the inside, his hands sit in his lap. His left index finger twitches; that’s the only movement present aside from the soft rise and fall of his chest. He takes a mental picture and hangs it in the wing of his palace which he’s slowly furnishing with everything to do with this beauty of a specimen. It rests in the middle of the first corridor, something he knows he’ll be visiting rather often.
“Will. You know I have a twenty four hour policy for cancellation.”
His entire body jerks like a marionette, or maybe a fish; he wonders where Will was. He wishes he could open his head up and take a peak, wear Will as his human suit for a little while. Break open his ribs and feel the warmth with as much as his being as possible.
“What?” He asks, mumbling. “What time is it?” He sweeps back a small curl of hair from his forehead, already starting to perspire.
“After nine.” He takes a few steps closer to Will. He was somehow like a small black hole and himself a sun; they’d collide sometime soon. Maybe a black hole wasn’t the right comparison for Will, considering how well he was changing in exactly the way Hannibal wanted him to. Will was somehow his black hole and his block of marble with perfectly angled striations.
“I didn’t even realise.” He says, sheepish. His hand moves up to brush his hair back again, even when it was unnecessary. It only works to make him look more shaken up.
On the desktop sits one of his many masterpieces. Each is messily distributed over the table and yet there’s a clean cut border around every picture; the colours try to bleed into one another in how they’re layered over one another, being pried apart by the polite white lines. Within is a photo of Miriam’s arm. The blood looks fresh in the photos, the laminant making it shine in the fake lighting as if it were the real thing. The glare illuminates the puddle in such a way it reminds him of one of the first times he drove a knife deep into someone; he looks at Will's abdomen, the place he sometimes fantasises about driving something into.
It seems they’re both losing their minds.
Will apologises. It’s nothing.
It isn’t nothing; he had truly planned something wonderful for tonight. But it isn’t rude. It isn’t Will’s fault. He was blossoming into the perfect creature he himself had dreamed of, crafted. Faster than expected. It seems the brain is the best type of kindling. He had learned to expect how everything else set alight; seemingly he hadn’t paid enough attention to the brain. Maybe he could set out dinner for the two, in some far off, distant future, where they sit face to face. Between them is a mind, oozing out onto a silver edged plate. Doused in fire then lit like Christmas pudding; he’d love to see it bend, shrink and grow. The burning of the human body was always one of his favourite things. The way it bent to fit whatever shape the fiery mistress desired… exquisite.
Back in his more academic days he’d beg on his knees to write essay after essay on every word that slips from his dear friends lips. The lack of sleep… he’d commandeer the projector within Will’s classroom to explain, step by step, the causes. The ailments. The changes it would make to Will’s psyche; how it would craft him into a paranoid husk of his previous self. He leans closer to him, taking a small step in his direction. Breathing deeply he sighs - softly enough that he doubts Will would take any account.
Will won’t stop twitching. It’s something almost constant; something he evidently can’t be aware of. The man’s shirt isn’t even properly tucked in — it’s left side is bulging outwards slightly, changing his silhouette. He wants to smooth it down, make Will appear proper, when he knows that inside the man definitely is not.
“What do you think, Doctor?”
Hearing that makes him stall. A quick blink forces him back into mostly working order, yet his fingers ache to pull Will closer. He wonders how much Will's blood would mix with the photos of his prior victims if he were to bite him. He could rip sinew from muscle and flesh — he assumes Will would let him. Some base part of him, at least. He wants to bottle the noise of the man’s… noise. The way he outwardly declared Hannibal’s title couldn’t be said to be speech; it was much more alike to something debauched. There’s cameras to their left, in the conjoining corner of the north and east walls. A scene plays out of what would happen if this was instead in his more private study, how his hands could flutter over Will’s ribs.
Regardless, it would be too soon.
Even if the conversation was about him. Even if Will was the first man he had ever seen truly understanding him. His art he paints without influence of his human suit; Will was able to firmly grasp it. He wanted Will to firmly grasp him; or the other way around. Either worked. It was a shame that Will shook like a leaf whenever the wind blew; he’d like to see who would win in a true, equal scuffle. Out of breath as he stares up into—
“Will. There you are.” Jack bursts in. He had been as snugly as he could possibly be close to Will, leaning over a mosaic of his works, stealing glances. An admiration for his work was so evident he felt a little motion sick; an ailment he had never felt before. It was addictingly strange. If it weren’t for Jack being the reason he knew exactly where Will were to be stashed away, he’d kill the man for his lack of manners. He wonders how many thousands in donations he’d need to give just to earn a door.
An easier way about it would be to ensure Will never missed an appointment again.
Within his head, an act within his memory palace begins to tick away like a music box; Will’s reaction if he were fully aware. He’d never miss a session. But if he did; he’d never be this giving afterwards. Even just a quarter of a quarter of an inch less of his wit was driving him over the edge. It was enough to lead him into a consideration where he finds another path; although Graham’s becoming was more important than his imagined escapades with Will. Though maybe it isn’t more important than their conversations. He had been getting used to having a rather capable friend.
“…would you care to help us catch the ripper?”
The only thing in that moment that matters is Will’s response. A slight flicker of his eyes towards Hannibal’s direction, a lean no one else would notice (not even Will) and his breath being held. His face scrunches, slightly, as he waits in suspense. Hannibal wonders if the suspense is of the idea of finally getting his hands on the ripper or if it’s doing so with Hannibal around. His two sides clash for their want of the new prize of his game. Part of him would be painfully disappointed if Will could manage to keep up an intrigue of Hannibal without the ripper's presence.
“How could I refuse?”
Squashed into the back of the vehicle he thinks of the childhood game one of his patients mentioned a few sessions ago; sardines. One child hides and others go to find them, squeezing themselves into the place one by one, hoping not to be found after their transformation away from seeker. That’s how it felt, his thigh pressing against Will’s to the point that, at a particularly harsh bump, his was riding Will’s. The same could be said for the jet clad SWAT member to his left. Though the soldier faded into the background of the SUV; Will certainly didn’t. Slight idle chatter had emerged between the passenger within the front and the one sitting beside him; something to cure the painfully evident nerves, considering the constant tapping of fingers over the barrel of his gun. Meanwhile Will wouldn’t stop opening and closing his mouth. Alike to a drowning sardine. He was drowning in the man. His life, feelings, emotions, experiences… all were his to take by the throat. Will’s eyes kept floating back to Hannibal. His hand moves to rest on his own leg… his pinkie skims Hannibal’s suit thanks to the speed.
He could speak a thousand words into the silence. Birth new worlds with infinite meaning between them. He presses with arguable force into Will’s body with his own; while the idea of an amateur as the ripper was insulting it was partly worth it for Will’s response. Sweat pooled in the other man’s collarbones despite the chilly air within the car, done to accommodate the heavy padding of the SWAT team. He doesn’t speak. It would ruin something unsaid. He doesn’t need to say anything.
They stay behind a few steps as they approach.
Then he’s fingers deep inside a casualty, blood pooling around his latexed fingertips. Not the casualty he’d exactly want to be inside of; no, he’s staring right at the man (and wondering what Will’s addled mind is thinking of as he does so). While his face is desolate he can tell that he no longer believes this is the ripper. A man of such little substance could never manage it. His slight insults previously should tell Will all he needs to know. An accidental phoney. The body was warm and the air biting, especially considering his blazer lay resting on whatever equipment the ambulance had to spare.
They’re driven back to their cars in a much more open car, the only slight chance of touch being their knees. Yet Will keeps himself drawn inwards, no chance of such things happening. He was so close to the man only minutes ago and now all Will is willing to do is — assumedly — idolise him from a quiet distance. Oh, Hannibal saves lives. Oh, isn’t he great? The thoughts made him yearn to purge any food still within his stomach. Half to remove the sour taste of his humanity being stretched in a way that he’s so mundanely used to and another in hopes to give more room for later. In hopes it would make Will more likely to follow him home for dinner.
The muntjac still lays on the road.
“Seems we aren’t the only ones suffering tonight.” Will says while staring towards the flashing blue red lights as the two men stand beside Hannibal’s car. Will won’t stop eyeing the Muntjac, then Hannibal, then back to the drying, sticky corpse. Hannibal’s amazed it hasn’t been moved yet. “I’m sorry for keeping you out so late. Mess around your schedule and now this…” he trails off.
“I think the scene we just left made that evident. Then again, both participants likely played their roles to arrive at that conclusion. Such a waste of a medical student.” He himself looks over to Wills car. Will, though, still hasn’t moved away. “It’s fine, Will. It’s not often I’m able to take a step into your world,” he lies, “and anyhow. All you owe me now is a meal. That’s all I’ve missed being here. I’m glad, though; I wouldn’t miss out on our conversations for all the churches in Venice.”
“Doubt you could even move them all to Baltimore. Probably some European law about moving that much gold. Would be different, maybe, if we were in England.” He jokes, yet his tone doesn’t shift. He looks up like a dog which needs reassurance.
“Maybe I’d move to Venice for them, then. Though the point is; I haven’t.”
“Dinner… where are we meant to find any food at a time like this? I doubt some cruddy motel cafe would exactly suit your…” he takes a little time to do a once over of Hannibal. A little worse for wear than usual, hair out of place, blazer a tad skewered… “Everything.”
“I have a perfect piece of meat at home waiting to be cooked. Enough for two.”
Will audibly laughs, shaking his head. “And what, sleep on your sofa?” Yet as he declines, he takes two small steps closer to the car.
“I have enough guest rooms.” The rebuttal quiets him, and Will’s eyes switch from car to car.
Then Hannibal’s hands are on the wheel, skin against cool leather. Living squeezing the dead. His knuckles whiten as he applies extra pressure, then they return to a dusty pink. Repeating the measure a few times his hands slide up and down the wheel.
“Have you ever thought about it, Will? The power you have behind a steering wheel. Manipulating an entire vehicle grand enough to create such carnage, reduced to such a mundane task… you must feel that carnage reduced to mundanity within your role as Jack’s bloodhound.”
Will sits to his right. His thighs are tense and pressed together, forced away from the edge of the seats as if he could dirty them. His gaze is steadily stuck on the doctor; either that, or he’s looking out the window behind him at the foliage as it wizzes by. His right hand taps a small tune on his leg, one different to the very quiet music flowing from the speakers. Something classical and calm. When Hannibal looks at him his eyes seem to stray to the window, though Hannibal could swear he felt eyes burning his skin through his suit jacket.
“I did something good today. You— you did something good. It’s not… it’s worthwhile, Hannibal. I’m saving people. You saved that man’s life.”
“I’m not judging your choices to continue with your work. I’m judging Jack's treatment of you, and the way you make him seem reasonable and yourself seem outrageous for how his actions make you feel.”
The silence stretches. The road is long and straight, his lights blaring through the slight chilling fog. He takes the break to look towards Will, watching him inhale and exhale. In and out. In and out.
“It comes with the job. Sure, he’s… strict. But he isn’t insane. It’s stressful, and I get it. People's lives are on the line, and his job probably is too.”
He only hums in response, acknowledging the fact he swirved his observation. Like a muntjac escaping a near death experience of a collision, by the skin of its teeth. Will’s hand paws at the radio, accidentally shifting the volume down a little due to a jitter before turning it up a few clicks higher. At the same time Hannibal moves to turn the heating up. Will’s shakes are likely due to the fire in his mind instead of the lack of it in the car; that wouldn’t dissuade his manners. The straight road turns into something with a few more turns and he begins to apply road laws once again, eyes on the tarmac.
“What do you think would happen, if you were given a full classroom and a two hours slot?” Will speaks over the violin pouring from the speakers, a splatter of time later. At least, what Hannibal assumes, is a splatter for him. Dissecting his brain before tasting it and explaining in detail the taste, the refined palette, comes to mind… before deciding that Will’s taste should be his and his alone. One of the very few people he’d eat without audience.
“I don’t know if what I have to share would be very helpful.” He lies.
“You’re a great profiler — you could be amazing if you put it to use. You’d already be good at the forensic medicine side. I’d be stunned if people wouldn’t lean forward in their chairs just to grab every last syllable that comes from your mouth. You’re just… you make people— listen. Really listen. You’d be better than quite a few staff members, regardless. I mean, Joey…” Will rambles for two minutes, twenty six seconds, rocking his knee a little as he does so. Hannibal can tell the fear of both misunderstanding and rejection is high on the horizon; it would be cute, if they weren’t currently on a road which had shown a sign advertising the death toll above double digits for the last two years alone. He can’t fully concentrate on who he wants to thanks to that. They couldn’t both die in a car crash, the result of Hannibal’s mind slipping. It would be so undignified; not even able to be described as a true accident. More a mistake.
Will dying such a violent death at his fault yet not his hands drives him crazy; the image makes him want to climb the walls. So close yet so far.
When they’re back to something more drivable — he had taken a wrong turn back somewhere due to wanting to know what it would be like, and paying a little too much attention to Will’s breathing — he thinks long and hard of the idea of working daily with Will at something more… normal.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea; for either of us. I enjoy hearing how you see your job, and world, but I think I’d have to advise another…” his tongue flicks out to wet his lips to give him a moment to consider his words… “person to sign you off for mental checks. I’d be biassed. And I prefer hearing it from you. It’s an interesting theoretical, though, Will. How do you think you’d do sitting in my chair, for a change?”
Conversations come and go like the tides. Before he knows it (that’s a lie, he has the time roughly marked by different trees, buildings and landmarks within his mind) they’re before his house, Will quiet beside him. Yet finally a little unfurled; not fully, he gained a little awareness of the fact they’re so close a few miles back, though at one point he was fully relaxed. Being trapped in such a small space with someone could be peaceful. Maybe even a prison cell, in the right scenario.
“‘M just glad you have coffee. Wouldn’t even mind if it was from a packet. At this time of night, I think I might prefer something that burns a little, instead of how smooth everything is from your kitchen. The fact you always cook perfectly scares me, sometimes.”
“Something imperfect giving you exactly what you’ve been after. Perfection isn’t always what we as humans want, afterall. If it were, we wouldn’t be human.”
Talking in statements and dancing around each other.
The door is how it’s always been; wooden. His palm wraps around the metal handle and he allows it to cool him, even if only for a few seconds. A shock of freshness. He turns the key and pushes it open, stepping inside.
The second Will’s foot lands within, he freezes as if a bullet wound has ricocheted within his ribcage, tearing open delicate skin.
“I don’t think I’ve fed my dogs.”
The admittance falls like sin from his lips; the way he says it feels like how a man would admit to something serious and blasphemous within a confession booth. Will turns over his shoulder to look back into the dark and murky sky, as if it could swallow him whole and return him to where it decided he was meant to be. That decision was Hannibal’s, though; not Gods.
“Call Alana. If not, I’ve got a few friends in the area; someone will be willing to feed them. If not, what’s one evening? Dogs are used to starving.” He places his hand on the small of Wills' back for reassurance; though doesn’t lead him back inside. Instead he curiously stands as warden, the need to know Will’s choice stronger than the need to finally bundle him inside. Will cringes slightly at the choice of words, eyebrows furrowing for a few seconds. Then he walks inside, brushing past Hannibal. He doesn’t even take his shoes off; it’s a relief the floor has tiles. He, himself, Hannibal, takes his off with care and slides them into a small shoe cupboard he has hidden as the lower half of a plant pot.
“Alana? Yeah, I know, it’s late… look, are you anywhere near Wolftrap?” The conversation flows in from within the kitchen. He pads inside, hanging his coat on the way. Will had chosen the right space to become comfortable, nestled within the leather armchair in the corner. He had evidently thrown himself into it the second he had the chance. Taking the meat he begins to prepare it for something quick, easy and simple. It would be a shame for the meat to go without proper preparation but the late night may just allow it. He can always get something much better later, anyhow. Filling the pan with virgin olive oil his face shifts, a hair's width above normal, wondering if tonight’s dinner had ever decided to rid itself of the title. Virgin meat in Virgin oil. It wouldn’t change the taste; society's expectations played little part inside his mouth, rubbing up against his taste buds.
The cut is fried like steak, considering its quickest and yet would still harbour something worth eating.
“Hey, Beverly…”
This is the third call he’s made; second to pick up. At first Will was staring into nothing, now eyeing up the door. The food is almost ready, the pan sizzling softly as Hannibal moves to take out some extra spices and light salad for the side.
Will’s dogs were like family to him. The idea was a foreign one; though he supposed he chose this set. Telling all the different levels of family, reasoning behind them, that was easy; most psychological work was to do with the grittier side of parenting. How siblings squabble and how this evolves into a wider game as they age — if this behaviour drowns as the ship leaves the harbour of 18, or if it flourishes into something different. A little more twisted. Dog owners, at least within his clientele, saw them as mostly one thing. Trophies. Little white annoyances with brown, tear-stained eyes comparable to that of a panda, or ruined makeup. Large dogs with clipped ears and tails to stand guard against their monster under the bed, the dreamt-up underdogs who come to complain about their low wage. Though Will’s were different; something he hadn’t seen before in a client.
Will was always different.
The pan spits at him. Lowering the heat he begins to plate up, looking over to Will.
“You will? Thank you, Katz, I don’t know what I’d do…”
Hopefully, he’ll see Will’s next moment of need. It’ll be interesting to watch as he hums and haws over who to call first; Alana, the mysterious second choice, or Beverly. She was useful, helpful, and understood the field… once again he feels a need to tear into Will's veins, side step the blood-brain barrier. Understand how he titles different relationships; was she a friend, or just colleague?
“I’m so lucky she’s part of the team. Even at work, I think I’d be a little lost without her. Keeps everything more.. grounded.”
“It’s a shame I got such a little insight into your life tonight, Will. I think I’d be happy with my hands inside another bleeding casualty if it allowed me a view inside.”
He sets the dining room and sits Will to the left of the head of the table, bringing out their plates at once. He sits across from Will instead of next to him; seeing his eyes, watching them search the room, the plate, his face, then the intricacies of the silverware. Lack of eye contact. Maybe that’s one of the few good things the fire would bring; you can’t be all too concerned for that when half your brain is alight. Finally, the ability to truly sit down and stare into his eyes without complaint.
“This is… delicious. I don’t think I’ve had a steak this good since I was a young boy, out with my father at some sort of roadside restaurant.”
“How nostalgia manages to reflavour the past. Do you think, Will, this meal would be any better with him present?”
Looking up from his plate he makes eye contact with Hannibal’s right cheek, just under his eye.
“I’m happy it’s just us, Hannibal. Don’t think I’d want my father knowing what I get up to, anyhow.”
“Wouldn’t he be pleased that you’re doing good?”
A small hum is the only response for some time, as Will finishes his food. He uses the knife perfectly, allowing for Hannibal to think of all the different little scenarios that’ll play out when he finally beholds Will Graham's metamorphosis. The sharp blade doesn’t scratch against the plate, either — Will knows exactly how much force to press down with for an effective slice.
“I didn’t think you’d be asking about parents over dinner.”
“Would you prefer that topic stay locked away within the time and space we meet within? Therapy, kept in its own little box like the tool it’s supposed to be? Having the same place and time can be a comfort, of course, but for a subject like this… it runs through you, Will. Without wanting it to or not, his footprints echo through you. Do you not want to be a creation of past events, or would you prefer to not look it in the eyes?”
Will holds eye contact with him for two seconds before looking away and laughing. The noise is soft and subdued.
“No, it’s not that. Parents are just one of the first tenants of any talking medication. Yet you try to delve into it while I’m preoccupied, a little tired, thinking of something else. Wanting to pull the answer out from under me, Doctor? Is this your clinical interest?”
“Not at all, Will. Maybe curiosity, yet nothing as grand as interest. Unless you believe it’s worth that interest? Is it something I should be trying to coax out of you more often?”
“You sound as if you’re going to be speaking of Freud next. What, want to know if Alana looks like my mother? If I wish for her to wear red nail polish?”
“We’re talking of your father, Will. Why does the thought of him lead into romance; is the mention of your mother a cover-up? He’s the one you saw the most of.”
Something he wouldn’t say, for the time being, was the mention of Alana while Will dines at his table. The mention of his mother to hide the truth of his father… the mention of Alana to hide the truth of what sat between them? The idea makes him want to find a photo of Mr. Graham, even if only to have the ability to consider which parts were passed down succinctly and which left behind.
Tiredness can have the same effect and impact on the brain as alcohol; the two placing down all their cards face up on the table. Maybe this moment will be forgotten by daylight’s society. Speaking of what led to his becoming, while Will is slowly changing through a seperate one; it felt positively ironic.
The pig on their plates is lucky it was them chosen for this. It may not be an awakening, though it’s definitely a step in the right direction.
After having taken the plates out he sorts the dining room back to how it was. Upon re-entering the kitchen he finds their two plates clean, courtesy of Will.
Maybe in another life, this could be all he’s building up towards. A mundane yet happy life, day in and day out, with Graham. Then again, he wouldn’t trade anything for the becoming of Will. It simply wouldn’t be courteous, a side that Will is able to show to him whenever possible.
“Now, you’re probably going to say something about how this wasn’t necessary, how you could have done it, but, you always cook, and you didn’t have to offer me dinner and— you didn’t. Didn’t even really have to come and pick me up, you know? So I’ve done it. And if I’ve managed to mess it up somehow… Well, you shouldn’t set your kitchen up like this, and you’ll have to buy new ones.” By the end of his ramble, his hands have managed a wide array of actions and he’s managed to turn a full one eighty degrees to face Hannibal, back leant up against the counter.
“Thank you. Though, suppose this did ruin the dishes; you expect me to buy new ones every time you’re over?”
“I might start bringing my own. Paper sounds good, right?” He teases, grinning a little.
The idea makes both men laugh, and a small origami swan made from an unused paper plate appears on one of the many mantles dressing Will’s rooms within his mind palace.
He never thought he’d regret how spacious his living room was, until tonight. It seems the closest they’d get was back squeezed thigh to thigh within one of Jack's many squad cars. For the rest of the night he sat an entire furniture piece away from Will, half skimming the pages of a Russian classic while half watching Will. It was a classic he had read many times before; one he could likely retell word for word. Yet Will sat staring into the fire for close on half an hour before deciding to retire.
Roughly seven times, he counted, he felt the urge to do something. Be that move across to sit beside Will, spark up conversation, leave without forewarning and blame it on a bathroom break later just so he could see the man’s reaction. But the peaceful quiet beckoned him not to each and every time; they had enough of it, afterall. Time. Will was close to his breaking before being made back up again alike to a phoenix, and he knows for certain they’d find time for other… activities… later on. He was a patient man, especially in areas such as this one; his patience would be heavily rewarded sometime later.
Treading down this plank walk would likely lead to disaster. Waiting for the outcome that he has cultivated, instead of jumping in on the whim of his heart, was a much smarter idea.
The knowledge Will undressed within his home was enough. A brief look through the crack in the door at his shirtless back, bending slightly, was fine.
“How’d you sleep?” He’s asked over a shared breakfast. The caterers and staff would be arriving within only a few hours for one of the most important days in his and the Ripper’s calendar; yet this question almost stumped him. Maybe that was evident of his answer. For half of it he drifted into and out of sleep without truly knowing it, the other half he slept well and dreamt of screenshots of smells and sounds that he recognised within the dream though lost all meaning the second he awoke.
Will left far too soon.
Too soon for his liking, anyway. The SATNAV estimated he’d be ten to twenty minutes late to work, without any awful traffic, without a stop back home for clean clothes. Luckily he had been confident enough to borrow Hannibal’s shaver. The man was a slight mess when he left, not helped by Hannibal’s adamant insistence that Will use his bath before leaving. An insistence he refused with vigour.
𐂂𐂂𐂂
That evening Will returns with a bottle of wine in hand, roughly half an hour before Hannibal’s dinner party. They chat as Hannibal continues to prepare, the wine placed on top of the kitchen counter. Everyone else would receive glasses of something bottled for over fifty years, whereas he would enjoy whatever Will decided to grab on his way here. It didn’t seem too fancy; the connection to Will would make up for it.
“Sure you can’t stay?” He looks up as he asks, holding eye contact. Just a few seconds, but they’d hopefully be enough.
“I don’t think I’d make very good company.”
“I disagree. Indulge me. Last night wasn’t awful, was it?”
“I, ah… I’m supposed to be at work. Supposedly, have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.”
“I’m sure they — or is it back to something more singular? — won’t mind too much.”
“Singular. Mm. I doubt it’s… him, her, them… that’ll mind.”
“Jack must be devastated.”
“Enough devastation for one day, I expect. Can’t go bailing on him.”
“How’s this; he calls to complain, I’ll happily bail you out. If not, I’ll help you make up the hours. I don’t host these things often, Will, it would be a shame for you to miss it.”
He doubts the silence is as long as it feels. Universes are birthed then crumble into ash within the space between them; if you were to watch the chefs around him you’d misunderstand how nuanced the few seconds built themselves up to be. An entire lifetime, in the span of likely under a mere seven seconds.
“You know what, Hannibal? …alright. But if someone complains about the shirt, that’s on you. I wasn’t expecting a black tie event.”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“I doubt they’ll care for that. Thank you, Will. It’ll be nice to introduce them all to you.”
“I doubt we’ll be too similar. Like a hound surrounded by show dogs.”
“We’ll see.”
He would see. Will being at this night would only elevate it; not only for himself but also for Will’s eventual becoming.
