Chapter Text
Hannibal had always considered himself a pragmatic, practical sort of person beneath the frills of his hedonism. He did what had to be done and he did it well, with no room for simple mistakes or miscalculations.
And yet his current predicament was testing that theory.
The Bentley gave another miserable sound, a squealing groan, before yet again cutting out. Hannibal was tempted to try the ignition one more time, but it hadn’t helped the last five attempts, thus he was forced to admit defeat. A lesser man would’ve slammed his hands on the wheel in frustration and while Hannibal enjoyed the occasional flourish of violence, he couldn’t lower himself to such a boorish display of emotion, even on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere. Instead, he allowed himself a scowl and made a soft tsking noise with his teeth.
His phone had just enough battery and signal to inform him that he was stranded in the Wolf Trap district of Virginia, lucky given the snow presently falling had blanketed any visible landmarks from sight. Unlucky, given Wolf Trap was a good several miles from anything close to resembling civilisation.
This was partially his own fault. Out of habit, Hannibal almost exclusively drove on back roads where cameras and police presence were scarce. This tactic usually served him well when out on errands or transporting his latest pig, but in his haste, he’d forgotten to check the weather forecast.
His first mistake, the one that had set the ball rolling on this downwards spiral of inconvenience, was that he’d failed to procure the pearls necessary for his next tableau in advance. His usual anonymous supplier had gone on sudden leave for personal reasons (likely in hiding or recovering from a failed hit, Hannibal suspected, but he wasn’t one to pry), so his only option was to travel out of state and purchase some in cash. The pearls were at present nestled in his coat pocket, but their acquisition wasn’t much comfort now faced by this predicament.
As the well adjusted adult he was, he called his breakdown cover providers and sat there listening to the droning elevator music, hitting the correct button when prompted until eventually he was connected to a human. It was a tedious process as he gave his name, customer profile details and explained himself to the utterly uninterested woman on the other end. Every few seconds, she would take a sip of a drink, the sound of wet swallowing like nails on a black board to Hannibal’s frayed temperament.
“Alright, sir, we'll send someone out to you as soon as they're available,” she droned, fingers clacking against an invisible keyboard.
“How long do you think that will be?” he asked, watching the snow deepening by the minute. A fine layer of it was forming on the glass windscreen, obscuring the outside world.
There was a pause and a long, grating hum. “Due to the weather and your remote location, you could be looking at 4 to 5 hours, sir. I’d recommend maybe getting a coffee or something.”
Hannibal clenched his jaw to refrain from pointing out that if he had the ability to nip off to a cafe for a drink he wouldn’t have called in the first place. “I see,” he said measuredly. “Is there really no possibility of having someone here sooner?”
“Apologies, sir, but we’re experiencing a high volume of calls today. If you have any further issues, please don’t hesitate to ring back.” And with that, the line went dead.
Hannibal stared at the darkened screen and his glaring reflection for several moments, taking a deep breath to sooth the desire to snap the woman's neck. It was unfortunate she’d hung up before he had the chance to ask for her name. A pity.
And now he was left alone with a broken down car, a phone on 20% battery, a snow storm on the horizon and four hours to kill before help could potentially arrive.
“I should have invested more time into mechanics,” he murmured. He had a cursory knowledge of how a car functioned. At least, it was enough knowledge to know how to tamper with them, but not enough to know how to put them back together again. That was him in a nutshell, wasn’t it? So quick to break the teacup, but rarely with the patience to glue it back together.
But there was no point in lamenting. There were better things to be doing.
Hannibal had a vehement dislike of snow and all things cold, so the prospect of sitting in his car and burning through the battery to keep the heating on didn’t appeal to him. A cursory look of his surroundings revealed little in the way of houses, but he could make out trees and what appeared to be a driveway about a hundred yards along.
Any house would do. If the owners weren’t in, then Hannibal would simply make himself at home without them. And if they were in, then he was confident enough that he could coax out enough sympathy for at least several hours of respite and perhaps a warm drink.
Mind made up, he buttoned up his coat, pulled on his emergency supply of hats, scarves and gloves, and ventured out into the cold.
The walk felt longer than it should’ve, up the road and turning into the barely visible driveway. What was less than a quarter mile walk lasted a small eternity, knocked and blown about by the flurrying wind, his sight masked by the monotony of white.
The snow bothered him less than it used to. He’d spent his youth chasing the sun in southern Europe. France. Italy. All to melt the cold that’d settled in his bones after that faithful January of his youth. But he was older now and enough of the milder Baltimore winters had eroded away that flinching reaction he’d long held when faced with a chilled draught of air.
The sound of snow flattening under his shoes used to conjure up the voices of unfamiliar men, and the bubbling, churning of a pot over the stove. The bite of the cold would remind him of the taste of his own blood and a mild, runny stew filled with the first meat he’d eaten in months. Now he simply walked and bundled up warm, finding the Virginia landscape far more ordered and constrained than the Lithuanian wilderness of his once home.
There was a bend in the drive, the dirt track changing from packed earth to the crunch of gravel.
At last, he saw it, a little boat sailing on a white ocean.
The squat building poured warm light across the earth like trickles of honey, the glow unperturbed by the biting gale and flurry of snowflakes. Hannibal redoubled his efforts and hunkered against the cold, not bothering to mask the crunch of his approaching footsteps.
As he got closer, there was a sudden chorus of barks from inside. Not just from one or two dogs, in fact, it sounded like an entire menagerie of the creatures.
Hannibal saw a flicker in the window as someone moved about inside and he mentally checked that his scalpel was stashed in its dedicated sleeve pocket. He had a second tucked into his sock garters, but that was a last resort.
The porch creaked as he stepped under its cover, a curtain across the front door window obscuring the room beyond. All he could make out was the vague suggestion of furniture.
Hannibal knocked three times. A short, neat succession of raps.
And then he waited, hands loosely held at his sides so he didn’t give the impression of hiding something.
And then he waited some more, the dogs continuing to bark and whine.
And then he waited even more, half tempted to knock again.
Finally, there was shuffling from inside and an impression of a human voice speaking in the soothing manner one uses to comfort small children and animals. A shadow covered the doorway and the curtain twitched to one side as a pair of eyes peered out at him and swiftly disappeared again. The lock clicked and the door opened several inches.
“I don’t know you,” a voice said. The accent was nondescript, American and held the lingering hesitation of someone that didn’t speak unless they absolutely had to.
“My car broke down just down the road. Help won’t arrive for several hours and it’s quite cold out here,” Hannibal explained. “I was wondering if you could offer some assistance.”
The door opened a little further, revealing a slither of a man.
He was about Hannibal’s age, although a little younger and leaner. One word came to mind when Hannibal inspected him, taking in the worn blue of his Henley jumper, the holes in his socks, the tangled mop of dark curls and the scraggle of his facial hair.
Bedraggled.
Feral was a close second.
“Did you get lost? These roads are rather out of the way,” the man replied, his eyes obscured behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly trying to keep the tsunami of hounds at his ankles at bay.
“I made the mistake of relying on my satnav for direction. I think it got a little confused,” he said with a somewhat sheepish glance.
The man pursed his lips, blue eyes flashing to Hannibal’s face for a moment before scrutinizing the snowy front yard. “What’s your name?” he asked stiffly.
The way he spoke made Hannibal suspect something had made the man wary, so he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his card. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”
A pale hand, smaller than his own, but calloused and defined with muscle, snatched the card and turned it over to confirm his story. After a few more moments, the man sighed with a pained grimace, but relented.
“A psychiatrist is slightly better than a murderer, I suppose,” he said, shoulders finally relaxing. “I hope you like dogs. I have coffee or hot chocolate if you want a warm drink.”
The irony wasn’t lost to Hannibal. “A coffee would be greatly appreciated.”
Stepping aside, his host allowed him in. Much to Hannibal's surprise, the dogs were well trained, mild mannered beasts, and they merely sniffed and wagged their tails at him as he entered. He gave each of them a pat before they lost interest in him and wondered back to their beds.
The house was warm, with a well stocked fireplace to one side. Fishing memorabilia lined the walls, several bookcases crammed with texts filling the spaces between. It was messy, but not overwhelmingly so. Piles of papers and empty mugs covered every available surface, but the floor was mostly clear (if littered with a fine veneer of dog hair). A bed sat in the centre of the main room, the duvet unmade and the sheets rumpled. Clearly used.
Interesting.
The man had already retreated into a small kitchen, so Hannibal followed, finding him tapping at a cracked phone screen. Upon noticing Hannibal, he glanced in his direction and put the device away.
“I was just texting a co-worker to say you’re here,” he said, turning to take down two mismatched mugs. “I gave them your name.”
Co-worker, not friend. Another notable titbit.
“You take your personal security seriously,” Hannibal observed. Smart, cautious. The man knew a predator when he saw one and was careful to clip its claws before the hunt could begin. Texts and calls were kept on record for years after the fact, their names now bound together in something permanent and observable. Inconvenient.
The man worked on the drinks with his back to Hannibal. “I’ve heard too many stories of good Samaritans getting killed by the people they help. It pays to be careful, especially out in the country.”
“Likely wise,” Hannibal conceded. “Out of interest, what is your name?”
“Oh, uh-- Will,” he said as if he wasn’t used to introducing himself, taking down a jar of instant coffee as he went. Hannibal tried to not sneer at it.
“Will, I must again thank you for your hospitality.”
The man grunted in reply as he added water and shoved the mugs into the microwave. Hannibal strongly considered grabbing the hunting knife off the kitchen counter and slitting his throat for his crimes against coffee, but knew that he was for the moment bound to good behaviour. Instead he stood there and watched as a small dog chewed at his shoe laces.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone charger, would you?” Hannibal asked, looking for an excuse to snoop around and learn more about his host.
“Oh, um—sure,” Will said, glancing up. “There should be one on my desk.”
Thanking him, Hannibal stepped back into the main room, taking his time to peer at the bookshelves and the photos propped up on the mantelpiece (In amongst the gratuitous number of dog photos was Will stood knee deep in a river, holding what appeared to be a large salmon. In another was an unsmiling older man sat beside Will, both with matching blue eyes and stern jaws. The last was of a younger Will, his hair cropped close to his scalp and dressed in an immaculate police uniform). The entire place had a sense of isolation and oneness, as if it was carefully crafted for the purpose of its owner's comfort and untouched by outside forces.
In a way, it almost reminded Hannibal of his own home.
The desk was cluttered, but he found the cable easily enough and set his phone to charge. He lingered there, glancing over the strewn papers and he recognised some of them as essays, each marked in slashes of harsh, blood red ink. From beneath one of the essays, he saw the corner of a photograph and in his curiosity, he pushed the page aside.
He froze.
Footsteps approached him from behind, a waft of burnt coffee announcing their owner. Hannibal very carefully relaxed his muscles and placed on an indifferent mask, anything to conceal the sudden spike of white hot tension that'd driven nails into his spine.
“Shit,” Will said, setting down the mugs on the desk and peering around Hannibal's shoulder. “I shouldn’t leave those out. I wasn’t expecting guests.”
Hannibal looked at the man again, this time through new eyes, searching for slither of understanding, something that would tell him why the man had photos of his latest tableau spread across his desk. “Crime scene photos?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He hoped the tightness of his voice would be taken as simply shock at seeing something so graphic.
Grimacing, Will gathered up the images and tucked them into a nearby folder. “Erm, yeah. Sorry, I know they’re not easy to look at,” he mumbled, an ever deepening crease forming between his brows. Something about his tone sounded like a lie, but Hannibal couldn’t tell exactly what was off.
“I believe I recognise the background in one of those. It’s the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, is it not?”
Will pursed his lips and took his coffee and the folder over to a worn in armchair. The faded colours of the cushions told Hannibal that this was his favoured seat and it creaked faintly as he slumped into it. “You’re right. If you’re a fan of the place, I’m afraid it’s going to be closed for a while. It’s currently an active crime scene. I’d be up there again today if it weren’t for the snow.”
“Ah, are you a police officer?” Hannibal asked mildly. The photograph on the mantle was quite old and he didn’t quite fit the brisk, black and white mundanity he often associated with local law enforcement, so he doubted it.
“No, consultant profiler is the closest thing to a title I have. Special agent, maybe? FBI bloodhound was one I heard a while back.”
Hannibal raised his eyebrows, for once not having to feign his surprise. Clearly Jack Crawford had acquired a new tool since his last peek behind the curtain. “The crime must be quite noteworthy if the FBI are involved. It’s strange to see violence so close to home,” he murmured, taking a seat in the only other chair available. It was overstuffed and smelled strongly of dog.
The man watched him from beneath his hair, the frames of his glasses preventing Hannibal from making eye contact. His stare was somehow piercing, rather like an ice-pick in the way it seemed to slide easily through the surface of Hannibal’s skin. What did he see beneath? How much truth could he discern? Just how sharp was Agent Crawford's newest blade?
“Death is always closer than any of us are truly aware of,” the profiler said, more to himself than Hannibal as he opened the file, leafing through documents and photographs. “Normality is the wood with which sadists and exhibitionists carve out their aberrations. To mock and to upset that sense of banal safety is part of their design. The Chesapeake Ripper has never been concerned about maintaining peace.”
Hannibal allowed his eyes to widen and he leant forward in the chair. “The Ripper? He’s active again?”
A slightly startled look crossed the man’s face, as if realising Hannibal was there for the first time. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “They’ve been trying to keep it out of the press to prevent a panic.”
“I promise that my lips are sealed on the matter. I would hate to cause a ruckus,” Hannibal said earnestly. “It’s been years since the Ripper struck last. I think most had hoped he’d stopped or moved elsewhere.”
“No, he’s been biding his time,” Will explained. “He was waiting for the right moment to begin again.”
“It must be daunting to be faced by a psychopath as bold as he is,” Hannibal said, enjoying how Will slouched in his armchair as he considered the pages of his file. When sat at that angle, the fire light illuminated his curls with a golden shine and the slight damp sweatiness to his skin made it almost glow.
The man's lips pinched together in a way Hannibal now understood meant that he disagreed. “I don’t think the Ripper is a psychopath,” he replied softly.
“No?”
Will shook his head, his mouth ajar for as moment as he gathered his thoughts. “He’s... ah-- he's something unique, psychopath is just the word closest to what he is, but it doesn’t capture his whole. I’ve seen a lot of psychopaths and their works, but he’s different somehow, something else. There’s not a word for what he is.”
Fascinating.
“Do you believe he was born or made to be what he is?”
“Both,” Will said, before scrunching his face. “Neither. I sometimes think he made himself. A self made monster wearing the skin of a man. Something that should've been culled at birth, but slipped through the cracks and learnt how to feign humanity. He could look you in the eye and be as kind as the next person, but deep down he’s another thing entirely else, entirely other.”
Exquisite. This man’s mind was enrapturing.
Hannibal swallowed but otherwise gave no outwards reaction. “Your monster sounds as if he will be hard to catch.”
At that, Will let out a single laugh, a deep, barking sound. “Doctor Lecter, I don’t think he’ll be caught unless he intends to be. I think he kills far more than what we know of. The sounders, they’re his grand performances, they’re what he chooses to show us. But I think there are more that go under the radar. Disappearances and accidental deaths so benign that people never look deeper. We could spend a century looking for a link and never find anything more than coincidences.”
This was dangerous. This man was dangerous. But the danger tasted so sweet on his tongue that Hannibal was powerless to sate his hunger, driven by his basest instinct for more. “An insurmountable challenge, then. It must be easy to find the Ripper's case tedious.”
Will rubbed his fingers against the smooth page, running over the lines of Hannibal's latest work. “No,” he murmured. “I should, really. The scenes go cold so quickly, it’s like trying to grasp onto air, but there’s something intoxicating about them. When I slip into his mind, it’s cold, but warm like blood. Chaotic, but so ordered it could be a library. Controlled, but so bursting with passion and desire it makes me feel faint with it. It’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. It’s art.”
“You see beauty in the Ripper’s work?”
Turning his face away, Will curled his hand and chewed at his cuticles. “Fuck, you're a shrink. Swear you won’t think I’m insane?” he asked.
“There is little you could say that would shock me, Will.”
“Then, yes,” he hissed. “Shit. Yes, I think his work is beautiful. It’s also vile and heinous, but I think that’s part of the appeal. Beauty from pain. Art from ruin. Pleasure from suffering.”
“Create splendour and rapture from that which previously held no worth,” Hannibal said, leaning forward in the chair.
Suddenly, the man’s mouth opened and he stared at Hannibal, meeting his eyes for the first time. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s what he's doing! He takes pigs that he sees as worthless and he elevates them to something better in death, something he can enjoy.”
He went very still, fingers digging into the arm of the chair until his chuckles went white.
“Will?” Hannibal pressed.
His Adam’s apple worked, a listless, unfocused edge to his gaze. “The trophies,” he whispered. “He doesn’t keep them as trophies. A leftover kidney just rots over time, loses its beauty. There’s no pleasure to be gained from that. Doctor Lecter, if you had a cut of prime beef and were asked to enjoy it, what would you do?”
Oh, what an intelligent creature this was. So fast. So entrancing. Hannibal wanted to keep him.
“I would likely open one of my cookbooks and find a suitable recipe.”
“He’s eating them. That’s it, he’s eating them. Fuck. Sorry, Doctor, but I need to make a call quickly,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.
Hannibal allowed himself a smile as he watched Will stumble away, fumbling with his pockets. One of the dogs nudged at the serial killer's knee, so he reached forward and gave its soft ears a gentle rub.
From the kitchen, Will’s hushed voice could be heard and Hannibal bathed himself in it, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
“Jack,” he began. “I’m calling about the Ripper case.” A pause. “No, not yet, but I know why he takes trophies. He eats them.”
There was a series of pacing footsteps and a long sigh. “I mean it, Jack. He has no reason to keep them in jars. He doesn’t care enough about the victims for that, but eating them fits the rest of the profile. Hell, we already know he sees his victims as pigs, so is it really that big of a jump?”
Hannibal wanted to make Will breakfast. Perhaps he would bring a protein scramble over in Tupperware as a thank you gift. He had some lung that could be put aside, and the thought of watching the profiler's lips part as he ate the evidence of a crime he was set to deconstruct made Hannibal delighted in a way that he hadn’t experienced since Florence.
“No, Jack. I'm telling you it’s not a compulsion, no more than buying mincemeat from the butchers is. He doesn’t see the difference.”
Hannibal agreed silently with the assessment. There was him and there was livestock. While he had a particular taste for long pig, it was more of a luxury than a necessity. Part of him wondered if Will was just another animal to be feasted upon, or if he was a monster to feast with.
“Yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll visit the labs once the roads clear up.” Another pause. “Yeah, I’ll keep you updated.” Hannibal heard the tell tale exchange of farewells and settled deeper into the chair, turning his attention to the hearth.
Moments later, Will reappeared and collapsed back down, chugging the remains of his coffee and swallowing what appeared be aspirin.
“Sorry about that,” he eventually spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Headache?”
“Yeah, a little. My boss is, ah—very invested in the Ripper case. It’s all I’ve been working on since the body turned up,” he admitted with a long sigh.
Hannibal was glad that he still haunted Jack Crawford's thoughts. Every day he lived in freedom was another day Crawford lived with the lingering guilt of his failures.
“Perhaps we should allow the Ripper to rest for now? I’m sure he won’t kill again while we’re talking,” he suggested. While there was something perversely intriguing about hearing of his own crimes, he knew that the longer they remained on the topic, the more likely something would slip through the cracks. He suspected this man wasn’t quite as blind as his predecessors.
“There's another case actually. I probably shouldn't tell you more but...”
“A little late for that perhaps?” Hannibal offered with a slight smile.
Will snorted and nodded jerkily, reaching over to a nearby table and pulling over a manila file. “Yeah. Before the Ripper started his sounder, there was a spree of hangings. The case is mostly on the backburner now, but I think I’m close to cracking it. Would you like to give it a look?”
Hannibal tilted his head forward. “I can’t say I’m much of an expert in murder investigation, but I can certainly glance at it.”
The file changed hands and Hannibal opened it with the same curious glee a child would have on Christmas day. There was something sordid, something thrilling about brushing his fingers over pages marked by the FBI's headers.
He began to read and mentally pieced together the image of what lay beneath the text and images.
Fledgling killer, six bodies. New, but determined and with a clear vision in mind. Someone hurt her and she never saw justice and now she replays the moment of her first kill to cling to the memory of the power she took back from them. It’s the domination she seeks.
“What do you have so far in your profile?” he asked.
Will grimaced for a moment, his lips twisting. “My personal profile is very different to the going theory.” It was a bitter admission, clearly the product of many a terse disagreement. “They’re saying its a man, 40s, possibly with a history of domestic abuse. While I agree the killings are angry and spiteful, possibly by someone that wants to take advantage of a position of power, I don’t think it’s a man and I think they’re young.”
Clever thing. “What led you to that conclusion?”
Nibbling at his nails, the man stared at the wall. “The bodies are untouched, no bruising or defensive markings, nothing to indicate a physical altercation. The team thinks the killer intimidates the victims into hanging themselves, and the window was left wide open in each case, like a staged break in, but there’s drugs in their systems and I’m not convinced all of these victims would’ve gone without a fight. The drugs aren’t too out of the ordinary for geriatric medicine, but they're too consistent across the cases to ignore. I think they’re manipulated while compromised mentally.”
“Poisonings are more typical of female killers, yes?”
“Generally, but not exclusively,” Will agreed, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. “Women serial killers often enter into medical fields like nursing; it gives power and access to medication that other careers don’t offer. There’s an entire field dedicated to hunting medical serial killers. We looked at the care and medical teams that the victims had contact with, but nothing came from it. It didn’t help that my colleagues fought me every step of the way.”
Hannibal hummed under his breath. “What about bank and agency staff? Temporary staff are often not documented as thoroughly as permanent staff. They can change workplace frequently, and are more likely to move around unquestioned than an un-uniformed stranger.” It was a trick he’d taken advantage of in the past.
“You’re right,” the profiler said, sitting up straight. “That would fit with her being younger as well. An unfamiliar, but friendly face that slips away in ensuing chaos, barely leaving a mark in the paperwork.”
Looking down at the file again, Hannibal perused the crime scene photos with a sort of glee. “Why do you think she started? Is she a monster like your Ripper?”
Will let out a sudden noise, something bordering on a snort. “No, no. I think she’s your usual victim of environment with a predisposition to violence. Something triggered the killing spree and I suspect it’s grown into a compulsion or obsession.”
Picking up a photo of the earliest scene, Hannibal tilted his head to one side. “This one is different. There’s injuries on the body,” he murmured, eyeing the purpling contusions littering the old woman's corpse.
“The first one, yeah. I considered that maybe it was the mark of inexperience and refinement of technique over time, but you think differently, don’t you?”
“It seems... significant,” Hannibal said, handing the photo across.
A line formed between the profiler's brows. “I didn’t see this one in person. They didn’t contact the FBI until the third killing,” he admitted. “But, I think I see what you mean. There’s anger here, not panic. Do you think the killer knew this one?”
Oh, definitely. “It’s a worthwhile possibility.”
The profiler set the photo down and grabbed a notebook. The pages were half falling out, each covered in handwriting so scratching that Hannibal thought it was somehow more indecipherable than the cipher he used for his patient notes. Pen clasped between his teeth, Will's leg bounced up and down.
“So we're looking for a young, female individual with a healthcare background and possible connections to the first victim,” he summarised. His face cracked into a grin and he looked in Hannibal’s general direction. “That’s certainly more concrete than anything else we’ve had.”
“It pays to have a interlocutor to make sense of our thoughts at times.”
Scoffing, Will shook his head. “Bloody shrinks. I’m sure as hell not paying your therapy fees.”
“Hmm, maybe I should ask the FBI for compensation for my time instead,” Hannibal replied easily.
This time Will actually laughed, throwing back his head. Much like the rest of the man's body language, it was a stilted sound, awkward and too harsh for pleasant company. His grin showed too many teeth. His shoulders permanently hunched as if curled up to attack. Hannibal adored it.
“Yeah, well, I’ll have fun explaining that one to Jack,” he said.
The snow eventually abated enough for Hannibal to make out the dip of the road in between the lines of distant fences and trees.
As he waited for help to arrive, Will remained quiet as if absorbed by his thoughts, only occasionally speaking or shifting in his chair to make another note. Hannibal entertained himself with one of the nautical knot reference books on the bookshelf. He’d always enjoyed incorporating ropes into his designs, but had never fully dedicated himself to the skill.
The dogs were also a surprising highlight.
The hair clinging to his trousers bothered him immensely, but he kept a lint roller in his car, so he was prepared for the damage control necessary once he left. And there was something endearing about how one of the larger dogs (he was named Max judging by Will’s murmured reprimands) bumped into his leg and rested his head on the seat with wide doleful eyes, his tail swishing back and forth. Hannibal found that petting the creature would make the swishing go faster, the more affectionate, the faster it would go. Every time he relented and withdrew his hand, Max would knock into his leg again and make a small huffing noise.
It was amusing.
Hannibal decided he would take extra sausage for the dogs when he brought Will breakfast. Perhaps he could bride them into becoming his allies.
The liminal, surreal experience was finally brought to an end by the ringing of his phone where it sat attached to the borrowed charger. Hannibal answered and was informed that a mechanic with a tow truck would be arriving soon.
“I believe that’s my sign to take my leave,” he announced as he put his phone back in his pocket.
“Rescue finally on their way?” Will replied, dragging his eyes away from his notes for more than a moment.
“Indeed. It only took them five hours,” Hannibal said as he began collecting his belongings and wrapped himself up in preparation for the snow.
Will rose from his seat and followed him to the door, holding it open and blocking the dogs from escaping as Hannibal stepped outside.
“It was nice meeting you, Will,” Hannibal said, smiling at the rarity he’d stumbled across, a golden nugget in a river of dirt.
The man met his eyes for a moment, before glancing down at the ground again. “Yeah. You weren’t so bad, for a psychiatrist.”
Hannibal humoured him. Somehow he found his particular brand of rudeness almost endearing, excusable in the light of his fragile charm.
“I’m glad to hear that. Oh, and if you ever wish to have someone to bounce your ideas off, you are welcome to contact me,” Hannibal replied, carefully transcribing his personal phone number onto the back of his business card in clear, unmistakable print.
Will took the card again and looked down at the writing with what looked like the beginnings of a smile twitching at his lip. “You gave plenty of your own input, Doctor Lecter. But thanks, I appreciate it. It’s—er... it’s rare for someone to be so... tolerant of the way I think.”
“You have a wonderful gift. Every one of your thoughts was a pleasure to behold.”
Will’s cheeks were tinged pink, possibly from the bite of the air, but Hannibal liked to imagine it was more. “Thank you. Oh, uh-- Just give me a second.” The man dove back inside and Hannibal peered after him, watching as Will shuffled through the disarray of his table, before tearing a scrap off an old envelope. He then scribbled something down and came back over. “My number,” Will offered. “I’m not great about texting people first or even responding, but have it anyway. I might reply.”
Hannibal took the paper and glanced over the scrawled numbers. It was barely legible, but he would manage. “Thank you, Will.”
Their farewells were brief. Will wasn’t the type to linger and he seemed to be itching to get back to work, so Hannibal left him to it. It would not be the last time they would meet. He would make sure of it.
There was a van ready and waiting beside the Bentley and Hannibal greeted the driver with far more cheer than he would’ve mustered several hours previously. As the repairman spoke, Hannibal nodded along and internally wondered how soon he could procure a bouquet of Sweet Williams.
They would make a nice addition to his next tableau.