Chapter Text
Will Graham wears long sleeves, always. In the hottest days of the year, sweating and panting and so red-cheeked he rivals the bright red of salmon flesh, he wears long sleeves. If he can't get away with it, like the summer he worked for McDonald's and they made him wear polo shirts, he wore athletic grips around one arm and told everyone else he broke it when they asked him what happened to earn him a cast.
His left arm is the worse one. The tattoo on that, well, he can't risk anyone accidentally seeing it. He fucked up his skin and arm doing that all through his teenage years; he's more sensitive there because his skin never got wind and sun against it. He's several shades paler on his left forearm than his right and there's no amount of tanning that'll fix that. His wrist is weaker, lacking the natural movement that would have strengthened it, but he still insists on shooting from both hands.
Will Graham has two tattoos on his arms, like everyone else. Like everyone else, one has the name of his soulmate, the other has the name of his true mortal enemy. Like everyone else, there's no way to tell which is which until he meets one of them. Even then some say it's never clear-cut. If you meet your soulmate by rear-ending them, for instance, it would be easy to assume they were your enemy and part ways for good.
One of Will Graham's Soul Names does not sound like a name at all. It sounds like a title. And it changes. That doesn't happen to everyone else.
The first time he remembers seeing the name, old enough to know how to read, it was '1057'. Then, later, 'подопечный #611990-A'. Learning to read didn't do him much good, then; the word is obviously not English. His soulmate or his mortal enemy is foreign. Then 'Boîtier 11-4331-FR'. Then 'Il Mostro di Firenze'. He stopped checking it quite so often after that. But the Soul Name change brings with it a flash of heat, an electric current running up his spine that is almost impossible to ignore. He doesn't look. He can't look, he doesn't want to see what the person who is potentially his soulmate goes by, these days.
Now, it's 'The Chesapeake Ripper'. Will knows that name far too well.
The other tattoo on his arm is more normal, at least. 'Hannibal Lecter' – a little archaic sounding and definitely not as forgettable or confusable as 'John Smith'. Not that Will would ever be confused about his soulmate.
When a child is born, they are able to hear. Enough to learn the language of the land, enough to be aware of cars and dogs and dangers. Enough to be able to speak aloud if they need to. Then, Will Graham, just like everyone else, turned sixteen and went deaf. No hearing; a complete void of sound that made the mandatory sign language classes invaluable as he grew into adulthood and prepared for navigation of the world at large.
They say you can hear the voices of your soulmate and your enemy. Only those voices. If you touch one of them after hearing them, background noise comes back. You can hear dogs and cars and music again. But that doesn't tell you if they're your soulmate or your enemy. Will doesn't want the Ripper's voice to be the first thing he hears. He never wants to hear it.
He hopes Hannibal has a nice voice. Even if he's Will's enemy, it would be nice to hear things again, other than the thoughts in his own head.
Hannibal Lecter has two names on his arm, just like everyone else. One of them is a constant, 'Will Graham'. Very American-sounding. He's probably very plain, quite uninteresting altogether, but he is either Hannibal's soulmate, or his mortal enemy, and that makes him intriguing enough to remain aware of in the world. Will Graham's name turned up when Hannibal was seven.
The other Soul Name changes. First, it was the name 'Vladis Grutas'. When the man killed Mischa, and fed Hannibal her flesh, and Hannibal killed him, it changed to his second-in-command. Then the next, then the next, until the deed was done, and his right arm became, for a while, completely bare.
Then, it was the name of the man who ran the orphanage. When Hannibal was taken away and lived with his uncle, it remained, until he moved to Italy. Then it was one Rinaldo Pazzi. Hunting monsters, how entertaining it must have been. Hannibal wonders if, even to his day, the name 'Il Mostro' is written on the man's arm, never to fade.
Now, the name is one Jack Crawford. Which makes it a very interesting day when that same man breezes his way into Hannibal's office like he owns the place. Hannibal is not stupid, nor mindless. He knows an enemy when he sees one; a threat to his existence. He is ready to act, if necessary, the same way he dealt away with one unfortunate Miriam Lass.
Until Jack turns, and signs to him that he needs a profile done. Jack wears his sleeves down – already mated, most likely. People don't need to flaunt their Names around when they've found their one and only. He wonders who Jack's enemy is.
"What is the name of the man you want me to profile?" he signs to Jack as he's making his way out the door.
"Will Graham," Jack replies.
And that is when Hannibal's life, suddenly, becomes far, far more exciting.
His name is Will Graham, and he wears his sleeves down. He has the restless demeanor of a hunting dog kept too long in the kennels. He's prickly, shoulders up, eyes down, teeth bared even when his mouth is shut. He walks in, signing some hasty excuse about traffic making him late, his fingers and arms moving seamlessly through the signs in a way obviously well-practiced, as everyone is, but also…strangely repressed. The same way people who don't know how to smile learn it from a book. Every inch of him is steeped in some close-knit, penned-in animal behavior. Not a toe out of line.
"Will," Jack signs, and gestures to Hannibal. "This is Doctor Lecter. I called him to help us with the Shrike case."
Hannibal watches, intrigued, as Will visibly freezes as Jack signs out his name. His eyes flash, a lovely blue of stained glass and gunmetal grey, and then lock on Hannibal. Narrow, suspicion flaring his nostrils. He wets his lips, settling into his chair, and Hannibal tilts his head, leaning back with a casual air. It is not impossible, he supposes, that his name is not on Will's arm like Will's is on his. This might not be the Will Graham that has stained his skin since Hannibal was seven years old.
His head tilts, when Will merely nods at him in greeting, signs a swift and polite 'Nice to meet you', and then turns his attention back to Jack.
Hannibal stifles a smile, only the corner of his lips twitching up. Well, if Will desires to play coy, Hannibal will not rush him. It's an intimate thing, he's sure, hearing someone's voice for the first time in decades. Best not to rush into anything too quickly. They have the rest of their lives, if this is The Will Graham.
Hannibal has never not been able to hear. He touched and killed his first enemy before he lost the ability to hear other voices, but the background noises have always remained. He hears Will's soft exhale, the creak of leather as he shifts his weight and the soft thump of him lowering his bag to the ground.
Still, he aches to hear Will speak. He wants to know if this is that Will Graham. He's quite lovely to look at, the harsh clench of his jaw, his wild-looking eyes, his unruly hair. He knows Will can feel the heaviness of his gaze, the tension in his shoulders a dead giveaway.
"How many are we up to, now?" Will signs to Jack.
"Eight girls have been reported missing," Jack replies, his hands moving elegantly in front of him. "No bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies. Technically we can't rule this guy as a mass murderer until something shows up."
Will nods, his eyes gravitating to the board sitting against one of Jack's office walls. He stands, prowling to it, a hunter's gait restrained by leashes and tightropes. He turns, so that Jack and Hannibal can see him speak; "They all look very Mall of America, don't they?"
"He has a type," Jack concedes.
Will hums, and Hannibal lets his eyes close in a slow blink. Even Will's hum, he shouldn't be able to hear; yes, he is the one. He's the one Hannibal's soul was made for. "He's using them as surrogates," Will signs. "One of these is his golden ticket. They represent her."
"Do you think he's choosing them based on aesthetics alone?" Hannibal signs, drawing Will's eyes. They lower, so Will can watch his hands. "Surely there would be more physical similarities between them."
Jack's shoulders move as he grunts. Hannibal hears it, because the mark on his arm dictates Jack is his enemy, for the moment. Will doesn't, clearly. Nothing draws his eye from Hannibal's hands.
He presses his lips together, clears his throat. "Have there been any confessions?" he signs to Jack.
Jack nods. "Coming out of the woodwork like damn flies. Some idiot took photos of the most recent victim, Eloise Nichols, and Freddie Lounds posted it on TattleCrime."
Will's upper lip twitches back, and he returns to his seat. "Tasteless," he mutters aloud.
Hannibal smiles. "Do you have a problem with taste?" he asks, using his voice, and sees Will stiffen, his eyes wide and his head snapping to meet Hannibal's gaze. Every inch of him is tense as a bowstring, a band of elastic ready to snap.
Unheard, but loud as a canon; You can hear me?
Hannibal merely inclines his head. Yes.
Will wets his lips, and looks away. "My thoughts are not often tasty," he says, his voice ragged. He probably hasn't spoken out loud for years. The growl of his voice is like the crisp tang of fat seared into meat. Delicious, flooding Hannibal's head. His fingers drum anxiously on the arm of his chair.
"Nor mine," Hannibal purrs. "No effective barriers."
"I build forts," Will says.
"Associations come quickly."
"So do forts."
Hannibal tilts his head, noting that Will, beyond that first moment of shock, is refusing to meet his eyes. Jack makes another sound, and Hannibal resists the urge to acknowledge it – it would be a bad move, if Will deduced that both Will's and Jack's names were on Hannibal's arms. Whatever second name is on Will, Hannibal would do well to pose as his mate, not his mortal enemy, regardless of what the truth might be.
There is no doubt in his mind, but there may be doubt in Will's, and until Hannibal knows who Will's enemy is, he must keep his cards close to his chest.
"You can hear each other?" Jack signs.
Hannibal smiles, and gives a soft, faux-sheepish nod. "It appears I will not be able to help you after all, Jack," he signs. "Clearly there is a conflict of interests."
Jack frowns heavily between the two of them, and Will makes another sound, drawing Hannibal's attention. "Whose…whose profile were you working on?" he demands, soft and high-pitched. He turns back to Jack, and signs; "Whose profile was he working on?"
"I'm sorry, Will," Hannibal murmurs. "If I had known -."
"Don't psychoanalyze me," Will snaps. He stands, abruptly, pulling his bag back over his shoulder. "I can't fucking believe this -."
He turns to go, and Hannibal rises from his seat, unwilling to let Will simply leave, now that Hannibal knows who he is. "Will, please," he says, and reaches out, surprised when Will recoils from him to put distance between them, breathing hard. He doesn't want Hannibal to touch him – why? Doesn't he want to hear? "Observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off."
"So, what, you were going to come in here and dig around my grey matter?" Will demands, showing his teeth again. Hannibal is blocking his exit; if he wants to leave, he'll have to force it.
Hannibal sighs. "I imagine everything you see and do affects you deeply. Your values, your decency, are present, yet appalled at your associations. Shocked at your dreams." Will's eyes flash and he clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white. "No room in the bone area of your skull for the things you love."
He takes a single step closer, and Will takes one back.
"Don't," he breathes. His hand flattens on the inside of his right arm, tugging at the sleeve. Enough that Hannibal can make out the '-er' writ in cursive on his wrist.
"I have no desire to invade your mind, Will, not without open invitation," Hannibal says, surprising himself with his sincerity. If Will is his mate – and he is, Hannibal is sure of it – then they're about to play a much more interesting game than therapist and patient. "But don't do either of us the disservice of making me your enemy. I'm sure that I'm not."
Will blinks, pressing his lips together. Sighs through his nose, drops his gaze. "I -." He lets his sleeve fall, a shudder running through him. Hannibal is dying to know what other name Will might have on his arm. Perhaps the name of his wife, or girlfriend. Maybe someone he thought he loved. Maybe someone he didn't want to hate. "I have to go. Are you going to let me go?"
"Let me invite you to dinner," Hannibal presses, taking another step closer. "Away from…prying eyes."
Will's gaze flashes to Jack. He breathes out heavily, and gives a single, jerky nod. "Alright," he murmurs, his voice weak. Raspy; clearly he isn't used to speaking this much. He wipes a hand over his mouth and breathes through his fingers.
Hannibal smiles, and takes a step back, freeing up the door. Will practically flies through it, and though it's so tempting, to touch Will and give him the gift of hearing again, he resists. His fingers curl at his sides, and he watches Will disappear through the door, hears it close with a soft 'click'.
Jack stands, drawing his attention. "I don't know what the Hell just happened," he signs, "but maybe it would be best not to poke him too hard, Doctor Lecter. Will is…a particular kind of animal."
"Nevertheless," Hannibal returns, "clearly he and I are connected in some way. We could hear each other."
Jack huffs, and manages a wry smile. "Let's hope he doesn't decide you are his enemy."
"Of course," Hannibal signs with a smile. "But I think it goes without saying, Jack, that I couldn't in good conscience whisper the secrets of my mate in the ears of his superior." Jack's lips pull down in a frown, but before he can reply, Hannibal continues; "I think I can help Will see your killer's face. I have no intention of leaving him be. Off the record, of course."
"Of course," Jack signs, his eyes gleaming with victory. How interesting, to be invested in the future of both his mate and his enemy. And here Hannibal thought he would be alone with his own thoughts this evening. The promise of Will's voice, his company, an open opportunity to dig into his grey matter, has presented itself, and Hannibal is suddenly ravenous.
"Keep me posted," Jack signs, and gestures towards the door. Hannibal ducks his head, and leaves, and wonders at the marvelous evolution of Soul Marks. Clearly his name is not on Jack's arm, as Jack's is on his. Otherwise Jack would be able to hear him.
He wonders who Jack's enemy is. Perhaps he, like Hannibal, did away with them when he was still young. Some convict in the system with no chance of parole. Perhaps it is the Shrike himself. The question sits at the back of his mind as he exits the facility and stands in the sunlight, hearing the rev of an engine, and turning when the car comes to a halt in front of him. The window rolls down, revealing Will.
"I'm going to pretend I have any choice in the matter," Will says in greeting. "What time, and what's your address?"
Hannibal smiles, and pulls out his personal card, reaching in and letting it drop in the passenger seat, since he knows Will won't want to touch him. "Does seven suit?" he asks.
Will presses his lips together, warily eyeing Hannibal's proximity, and he nods. "Yeah," he murmurs, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "Seven's fine."
"I'll see you then," Hannibal says, and straightens. "Come hungry."
Will huffs, a hint of a smile gracing his face. He rolls the window back up and pulls away. Hannibal watches him go, smiling all the while, a flurry of anticipation putting a spring in his step all the way back to his own vehicle.
Will can't help checking his arms as soon as he's somewhere private. Yes, there, in the same curling font it has always been; Hannibal Lecter. The name on the card is the same. Figures, that Will would meet one of his Marks in the midst of an open murder investigation.
At least it wasn't the Ripper. The name hasn't changed. He half expected it to, but no – clearly he's tied to the Ripper, whatever name or moniker he has gone by through the years. His isn't changing from person to person, just name to name.
He wonders what Hannibal's other name is. Wonders if, like Will, he's not sure if Will is his enemy or not. But no, Will can read people, even people like Lecter. Maybe. A dinner invitation would be a good way to figure out on which side of the coin they lie to each other. It feels like a date.
He kind of wants it to be a date. Hannibal is handsome, his voice…. God, his voice is smooth, low, soothing. The kind of voice he'd expect of a psychiatrist. The accent was unexpected; Will only heard Louisiana drawl before he went deaf and now he's only ever going to hear that voice, for the rest of his life.
It's…nice. It could definitely be worse.
He arrives at seven on the dot with a bottle of red wine that's both expensive and foreign, he can't pronounce the name and has no hope of trying. He checks that his sleeves are rolled down and buttoned tightly, so they won't ride up. He fixes his hair, feeling stupid for doing it, rings the bell and sees the little light flash on the inside for the non-hearing to be aware of a visitor.
He checks his sleeves again, huffing at himself. Hannibal has already seen him, prickly and rude, and still invited him over. The scents of food waft in from the little open hatch on the side of the door, and then the space darkens, and the door opens.
Hannibal greets him with a warm smile that makes Will's stomach feel empty and his chest rattle around itself. He exhales, flushing more when he realizes Hannibal can hear it, and thrusts the bottle out in offering.
"Tried my best," he offers.
Hannibal blinks at the bottle, and takes it by the base. Will is sure it doesn't miss him how Will's fingers flinch back, curl as soon as he's sure the wine won't drop. He doesn't want to – he wants to. They say you know your enemy from your soulmate if you touch them. Will wants Hannibal to be his mate so badly he can't breathe, just because it means a serial killer, a criminal, is his enemy, and that makes sense. That's bearable.
But what if he's not? What if the Ripper, whoever he is, is the perfect counterpart to Will's fucked-up soul, and Hannibal is the one he's meant to hate? He couldn't deal with that reality. It's best not to know. Best to just sit and listen to his nice voice and eat at his table and let the possibility be enough for him.
"Thank you, Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will sighs, the anxious flutter in his chest eased at Hannibal's voice. He steps back, gesturing for Will to come in, and Will sheds his coat and hangs it up in the closet by the door as Hannibal regards the label. "We'll drink it tonight; it will pair wonderfully. This way."
Hannibal's house is fancy and warm and dark. The kind of place that holds secrets, skeletons upon skeletons in the closet. Dark wood that gleams in the low light. A kitchen that's wide and spacious and flooded with delicious scents that make Will's mouth water. It's the kind of place guests would genuinely like a tour of.
He clears his throat and Hannibal turns to him, and he flushes, remembering he can't just make noise around this man. Hannibal will hear every sound Will makes. His attention is caught by something Will cannot hear, and he sets the wine down and turns off an alarm on the oven.
Will frowns. "You can hear," he murmurs.
Hannibal pauses, and eyes him over his shoulder. "Yes," he replies. "I never stopped, truthfully. I met my first Mark when I was still an adolescent."
That -. That means that…. "Not your mate, I'm guessing."
Hannibal gives him a warm smile, and shakes his head. "No, I'm certain he was not."
Will can't breathe. "Marks can change," he says. "If a mate dies, or -."
"A touch makes them permanent," Hannibal finishes for him, with another small nod. He watches Will for a moment longer, and then sighs through his nose, turning and removing whatever was in the oven and placing it on the counter. It smells absolutely fantastic; sweet meat and a thick glaze. Honey, and cranberries, and cinnamon like Goddamn Christmas. Hannibal meets his eyes from behind the kitchen island. "Have your Marks ever changed, Will?"
"Not your name," Will replies, silent as a grave. His fingers twitch with the instinct to sign, but all he manages are half-formed motions. It's nice, speaking, and knowing he'll be heard.
Hannibal smiles. "Nor yours," he says. "I'll admit, you have a relatively common name; I'm surprised at the ease through which we met."
Will huffs. "I wouldn't call that 'easy'," he replies. "Girls had to die and you had to be curious, right place right time."
"Is it?" Hannibal asks. "You seem…reluctant."
"Let's just say I wouldn't want a therapist as either my mate or my enemy."
Hannibal blinks at him, and then laughs, lowly. Christ, he has a nice laugh. "Perhaps, then, for now, we will do better to remain acquaintances. God forbid we become friendly." His hands flatten on the kitchen island, like he needs to cool them down. He has nice hands, too; big, long-fingered, veiny. Will swallows and tries not to imagine what it would feel like to have them on his skin.
"I'd rather keep things professional," Will says tightly, folding his arms across his chest.
"Or we could socialize, like adults. I'm sure there are cases where soulmates, or mortal enemies, have managed the occasional truce. There's no implicit romantic or sexual connotations to that dynamic."
Will snorts. "Do you even hear yourself?" he asks, but can't fight the urge to smile, especially when Hannibal's eyes meet his, growing warm. They're dark, he notes, a particular blend of brown and red and whiskey-gold.
"I've always heard myself," Hannibal replies with a teasing smile, startling a laugh out of Will. "Now, shall we sit? Everything is ready; I'll open the wine and bring it to you. The dining room is through that door." He nods to behind Will, and Will goes, knowing an unspoken command when he gets one.
Hannibal's dining room is just as tastefully opulent as the rest of the house. The table is huge, easily able to accommodate twelve, the centerpiece an arrangement of purple flowers around a pair of antlers. There are more along the wall, above the fireplace, framing a graphic picture of a woman laying with a swan.
His brow rises, and he takes a seat facing the door, at the left of the head of the table, where a place has been set. He smiles, inwardly appreciating Hannibal's foresight in putting him with his back to the wall, so that he can see Hannibal coming, since he can't hear.
He enters soon after, a plate in each hand, and sets them down with a smile, retreating to fetch the wine. Will breathes in deeply, mouth watering at the scent and sight of the thick slices of pork on his plate, rings with an artful dollop of bright red sauce, a few stalks of asparagus and pureed carrots flanking the edge of the plate, flecks of cinnamon visible in the bright orange mush that gives it sweetness.
Hannibal comes back with two glasses and the wine in a decanter. He sets the glasses down and pours a generous offering, and Will huffs, resisting the urge to make a joke about Hannibal getting him drunk. "Normally pork is paired with white wine," Hannibal tells him, "but I figure tonight we can make an exception."
Will smiles, and takes his glass once it's set down, fingers cradling the bowl as he brings it to his lips and takes a sip. It's thick, tastes of berries to hide the tannins, but it's good. Hannibal sits with a sigh, soundless for the rest. Will cannot hear his chair creak, nor the brush of his fingers as he takes up his knife and fork.
He presses his lips together. He wants to hear – he wants to know what it sounds like when he's not all alone. To go home to his dogs, and listen to them huff and breathe and snort at each other. His animals, like most that regularly interact with humans, have evolved prioritizing visual cues over sound. Will is sure they bark, but they don't do that to get his attention; they'll nose at his knee or lick his hands or otherwise bodily shove at him to get his attention when they need it.
He hasn't heard a dog bark since he was a teenager. He hasn't heard anything since he was a teenager, except now, Hannibal's voice. His nice, low, accented voice. Will's chest hurts.
"You can hear," he says. He's already said it before. Hannibal eyes him, and gives a soft hum of acknowledgement. "You met your first Mark when you were…. How old were you?"
Hannibal's eyes grow distant, lift to the left where memory lies. "I was thirteen or fourteen," he murmurs. There's a nerve, there, in danger of being struck, buried in the evenness of his voice. He purses his lips and lowers his eyes to the meal again. "It was, thankfully, a very brief meeting. But it left no doubt in my mind which side of nature's coin he sat upon."
Will frowns. Granted, he's never met the Ripper in person, but he would find it very difficult to know him as a mortal enemy on sight. Unless he was caught red-handed. Maybe not even then. The idea of simply looking at someone, meeting them, and knowing what they were is foreign to him despite what all the poets and storytellers say.
He clears his throat, drawing Hannibal's attention, but doesn't press. For Hannibal to be so certain, he's sure it wouldn't be a pleasant topic of conversation for dinner. Their first not-date. "So you never went deaf," he says instead, remembering Hannibal's other comment.
Hannibal shakes his head. "No. Of course, I suffered the same person-specific hearing loss everyone does. But the rest of the world remained audible to me."
Will wets his lips. "What's it like?"
"There's an easy way to find out, Will," Hannibal says with a smile. He doesn't reach, but it's clear if Will were to attempt touching him, he would be eagerly welcomed.
Will shakes his head.
Hannibal sighs. "Your reluctance to, as people say, 'seal the deal' has me frightfully curious, I must admit," he says. His knife is abandoned, replaced with his glass, as he takes a drink of wine. Will has nothing to say to that, he tries to focus on eating. The food really is fantastic, a swell of flavors that all stand out, unique and yet complimentary. He imagines that's how sound feels to those that can experience it. Music, he remembers, though it was little more than his father's mix tapes back when he was a kid. The stereotypical old man with a banjo on the front porch who the children called a murderer and a creep. The hazy sunset song of buzzes and chitters of the swamp.
"Your eagerness is rushed," Will counters. "For all you know I'm your real enemy."
Hannibal's eyes gleam in the low light, his smile makes them look narrower than they are. Calculating; Will imagines this is how mice feel in the sights of a cat. All he's missing is a lazily twitching tail.
"That would be a fun trick," Hannibal says. "God does so enjoy his little games."
"You religious?" Will asks, brow arching. "I won't judge."
"Religion implies structure, routine, and faith. I'll admit I dedicate a lot of my attention to all three." Will tilts his head, frowning at that. "I subscribe to an ideology, that every action in the world creates an equal and opposite reaction; that there are acts punished, and acts rewarded. That this task might fall to an all-knowing deity is…less important."
"So you, what, worship at the altar of physics?" Will teases, though he feels the joke fall somewhat flat.
"Miracles merely explain what science can't. Take our species, for example – we have evolved, for a purpose I'm sure made sense at the time, to wear the names of our perfect mates on our skin. And our truest enemies. We are not allowed to know which is which; must merely perform deductions, and go with our instincts. It's a rather chaotic arrangement, wouldn't you agree?"
Will nods, unable to stop himself rubbing his thumb over his sleeve, where the Ripper's name lies.
"On top of that, our selective deafness. Is it meant to foster intimacy with our closest match? Why then, can we hear our enemies as well?" Hannibal smiles. "Have you ever thought about it, Will?"
"Probably more than I should," Will admits, mouth dry. He wets it with wine, and without a word, Hannibal gathers his glass and refills it. Will swallows back the protest; it would have been half-hearted at best. "I don't think the modern world suits soulmates as much as it used to."
"Oh?"
Will hums, and takes another drink. The wine tastes sweeter, somehow. "It made sense, back then," he says. "You had to know who had your back, who would be there for you through all of it. Now people are…less isolated."
Hannibal's head tilts. "Were your parents soulmates?"
"I hope not," Will mutters, bitterness coloring his voice before he can calm it.
Hannibal hums. "An unhappy outcome. I apologize; I didn't mean to pry."
"Didn't you?" Will challenges, though he's smiling. Just a little. "Can't shut it off, can you?"
Hannibal gives Will a small, almost sheepish smile, and a slight dip of his head. No, can't shut it off. Neither can Will. Maybe they're destined to tear each other to pieces.
"As I said before, Will, if you truly have no desire to embrace every potential aspect of our relationship, then I will not force you. But, with respect to honesty, there is no doubt in my mind that you are not my enemy."
He sounds wistful.
"I don't think you're my enemy either," Will admits. "I don't want you to be, at least."
Hannibal's eyes flash, another intrigued gleam coming to them. "May I ask what the other name is, on your arm?"
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Hannibal's eyes narrow, a playful smile tugging at his lips. A ripple of static running down the cat's back as it prepares to lunge. "Perhaps some other time," he says gently. "Once we've gotten to know each other better."
"It can't be as bad as that," Will replies.
"No, I don't believe it is. Whatever name you're hiding, I'm sure there's a reason." Hannibal makes another thoughtful sound, and straightens in his seat, taking his knife back up and slicing another piece of meat free, edging the meat with a lump of carrots.
Will doesn't like how dismissive he sounds. He doesn't like how there's a hollowness in his chest that pulses in time with his heartbeat, desperate for Hannibal's approval. He doesn't like how his own tongue feels sharp, ready to fling inciting barbs of his own.
"I meant what I said in Jack's office; I didn't know you were one of my Marks, and now that I do, I cannot in good conscience perform the evaluations Jack wished of me." Hannibal's eyes meet Will's, gaze as heavy as stone. "I have no desire to do anything that might sully your perception of me."
"Sounds like the ball's in my court, then," Will answers, throat dry. He resists the urge to take another drink; he still has to drive home, after all, and his head feels fuzzy. From more than just the wine's effects.
Hannibal merely smiles, and Will's hands feel like they're on fire.