Chapter Text
When Will meets Hannibal Lecter, he can assure that his first impression is not good. It starts with the context that having Jack Crawford on his back always puts him in a bad mood, and then, there's the fact that the doctor introduced himself with his cheap psychiatrist tricks.
Anyway, it's also true that Will’s terrible predisposition to being social in any situation helped him think, how unpleasant, upon seeing Dr. Lecter.
This opinion is reinforced when Will opens the door of his awful motel, encountering a giant sun invading his sleepy eyes, and, of course, the elegant man looking at him as if he had been awake for hours.
What else can Will do but accept his breakfast? Reluctantly, he puts on some pants to look a bit more decent, in hopes to get through all of this quickly and move on with the day.
But that's when they happen. The feelings.
It's just a harmless comment that Dr. Lecter makes, a rather bizarre metaphor to describe Will, something out of any normal analogy. Who goes through life comparing people they don't know to teacups, to fine porcelain?
Will doesn't remember laughing so hard in the last few days, weeks, even months or years, as exaggerated as it may sound. He feels his eyes tear up from good humor, lifting his hand to cover the smile he wears.
And he notices how Dr. Lecter shares it, more in his eyes than on his lips, in the little wrinkles that tighten in good humor as he looks at him. Something inside Will expands, a different emotion that keeps growing when Dr. Lecter compares him to a mongoose. Is this positive human contact? Is this socializing with pleasure? Could those moments of connection in romantic comedies—of which he hasn't seen many—exist in real life?
Will falls silent, a bit shy about showing so much emotion.
Later, on the way to the construction site, he can't help but revisit that moment, thinking that Dr. Lecter made him laugh. He sought to make him laugh. (Will knows it's in bad taste to be rambling on this matter when they are hunting a serial killer. But well, he never claimed not to be strange).
No one has shown such interest in something like this, not his mind or his disorder, but in bringing him joy. The psychiatrists who have approached him, of whom he thought Dr. Lecter would be a part, have always spoken to him with condescension, as if Will were a subject of experimentation. No one has tried to make him laugh before.
Because that's what the doctor does with every comment on the journey, Will smiling like a child and looking in the rearview mirror as Dr. Lecter smiles smugly at him, accepting his bad jokes. In fact, it's the good humor that Will has, so rare these days of poor sleep and nightmares, that when the epiphany of Garret Jacob Hobbs forms in his mind, Will calls Jack to deliver his revelation to him.
He isn't interested in going himself to where that cannibal is, knowing the deep pit he can fall into in case something goes wrong (such as not being able to pull the trigger, the wound on his shoulder reminding him of that unforgettable occasion).
"Shouldn't we be the ones going?" asks the doctor, dark and intense eyes, his company never leaving him.
Will shrugs. "I'm not really an agent, not a cop either. I create profiles, so leaving the job of apprehending a killer to the professionals is the best choice. Besides, Jack said he would send a team to the house. All we have to do is wait."
It's not so much what they have to wait for. Dr. Lecter invites him to lunch at a small buffet that Will doesn't know how he's aware of. The conversation is pleasant, because it flows more easily when they're not trying to drill into his brain to understand how his empathy works.
And as if he were still a teenager, Will hasn't stopped smiling. His good mood is so heightened that he doesn't even feel embarrassed about feeling this way.
An hour passes before Jack calls him, claiming to have caught the man they were looking for; his wife and daughter ended up as collateral damage after the killer took them as hostages.
He tells this to the doctor who looks at him in an indecipherable way, shrugging. "At least, he was caught."
"The glass is half full, I suppose," Will responds as he avoids thinking about the scenario that could have occurred had they been the ones to arrive at the scene instead.
"Our adventure ends here, unless Agent Crawford needs my help in the future," Dr. Lecter speaks up after a beat.
Will scratches his neck, unsure how to answer, and it's because, in 34 years, he has never understood how to make friends (or anything more than friends). He ends up nodding like an idiot.
"Jack might call you more often for consultation, having you work in parallel with Dr. Bloom," he says casually at least.
And well, the farewell ends up being quite insignificant, with Dr. Lecter offering him a simple handshake, and Will, after returning to Washington, leaving the case behind.
But it's the only thing he leaves behind.
Lying down after a warm shower and some affectionate time with his dogs, Will’s head is still stuck on that morning, at breakfast. On the presence of Dr. Lecter, on the intensity of his gaze. (And on other things, too: his height and posture; the masculinity of his features; the way his lips form his name).
Will settles on his side, pulling his knees up to his stomach, eyes fixed on the darkness of his house. He wants to feel that emotion again, the warmth that overwhelmed him, a warmth derived from laughing, from connecting. Will finds it so difficult to connect normally, to feel a bond with someone that isn't a product of his empathy but of genuine interest. And that's what happened with Dr. Lecter, a natural chemistry he has never experienced before.
His solitude doesn't bother Will, or maybe it does, but not enough to be a problem. He accepted years ago that he would end up with dozens of dogs as company, incapable of forming human relationships, as he had always been uninterested in them.
But now, this. This simple feeling. And towards a psychiatrist of all people.
Could Will be capable of making an effort to turn it into something more? Could Dr. Lecter be interested in him that way? Will doesn't know. Although he knows what rejection feels like, as he’s been on the receiving end enough times to not want to go through it ever again.
However, in his favor it’s the fact that it was Dr. Lecter who brought him breakfast, who made him laugh during the day. Unless he's reading more into his friendliness than there is.
Why am I so terrible at this? he thinks, rolling onto his stomach and burying his head in the pillow as he tries to drift off to sleep.
Upon waking and starting his usual sad routine—basically, look at the ceiling for a few minutes, shower in silence, let the dogs out, and have breakfast—the idea doesn't leave him. What if he pursued something with Dr. Lecter? How horrible could it be? If the doctor says no, Will won't lose anything; he'll always have his canine family. Only his pride would be a little wounded, but nothing more. And if Dr. Lecter says yes, well, he'd rather not set more expectations than he already has, so there's no way to be disappointed.
With that thought in mind, Will searches his phone with slightly sweaty hands, remembering having saved his number that very morning. He'll deny that his leg is nervously bouncing as he sits on the edge of his bed, and dials, until he hears that deep voice on the answering machine (“Hello, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I cannot answer right now. Please leave a message, and I will get back to you promptly.”)
And no, nothing inside him melts. "Dr. Lecter," he greets, "yesterday, maybe, I wasn't as polite as I should've been. I wanted to thank you again for breakfast, and well, I must confess something. At one point there, while we were eating, you said something that, well, it sounded in my head like a connection. You might know—" he swallows a bit, realizing he's going off on a tangent, "—and I'd like to know if we could see each other again, but in a non-professional encounter,” God, everything he is saying is terrible and time is slipping away. “I didn't mean to drag on so much, Doctor. If you can, give me a call.”
“Oh, and this is Will Graham speaking!" the answering machine cuts the call, and Will looks up at the ceiling, noticing the paint peeling off on one side. Why couldn't he get straight to the point and ask for a date, if that's what he called for? He lowers his gaze and meets the judgmental eyes of his dogs. It could be worse, he thinks as he gathers his things to take a shower.
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Hannibal Lecter can admit that he had certain expectations for Will Graham. He can also admit that, despite living in fullness, his routine has become somewhat bland. For a predator like himself, more excitement is needed in his hunts. Hence seeing how the FBI works is a great opportunity, in a way the Jack Crawford's visit was a gift.
And that Crawford would contact him for Will Graham, that profiler known in psychiatric circles, is perfect. A mind so brilliant filled with neurosis and other disorders, a charming experiment waiting to happen and to pull Hannibal out of monotony.
Will Graham in person is as Hannibal imagined: finicky and sullen, avoiding eye contact due to fear of connecting more than he wants. Slim, of medium height, dressed modestly.
Making him angry on their first encounter is not a good strategy, so Hannibal decides to change it for the second: bring Will breakfast at the motel he’s staying at.
The breakfast is unlike any he has enjoyed before. Will's demeanor remains aloof, but seeing him vulnerable, in his sleepwear, is also charming. Making him laugh is even more so because, Hannibal can notice, it's not a natural action for Will, not like his furrowed brow and pursed lips. Smiling must be difficult for him, considering all those demons in his mind.
Hannibal decides to see how much he can make Will smile during the day, and the answer is many times: Will tries to restrain the movement of his lips, not show his amusement at Hannibal's bad jokes, but Hannibal catches it, catches those long fingers trying to cover his mouth.
Will Graham is a curious mix of elements that Hannibal hasn’t encountered before. He talks about his dogs; he recently adopted a seventh one; an easy and simple conversation. In return, Hannibal tells him about his hobbies, how much he loves to cook and draw. Will nods, interested.
It's regrettable then that they can't be the ones to catch Garret Jacob Hobbs. Hannibal planned everything so well, even warned the killer with his so-called courtesy call. But Will assigns the task to Crawford and his team, ruining the plan.
Regrettable. He invites Will to eat, then, enjoying his company. Saying goodbye with a handshake. He'll have to find some excuse with Jack Crawford to intrude into Will's life once again. He wants to know more about his personality, to satisfy the curiosity the profiler has awakened.
So, it's a surprise when Hannibal hears that soft voice on his answering machine. Will wanting to see him again in a non-professional setting.
Hannibal smiles, sitting in his chair, a glass of wine in hand as he listens to the message again. He didn't have to make more effort with Will Graham seeking his company on his own. After saving the number and listening to the message one last time, he calls him on the phone, preferring a conversation over text.
It's seconds before the call is answered.
"Dr. Lecter," says Will, and Hannibal can hear the enthusiasm in his voice, "I didn't think you would call so soon."
"I did as soon as I heard your message, Will. I'm also interested in meeting with you. But I can't help but wonder what you meant by a non-professional setting."
He hears a sigh. "Doctor, well, I didn't want you to think I was calling about the case or for some medical appointment. I was interested in your company, to be honest," Will pauses for a few seconds and continues, "and that rarely happens to me. I usually distance myself from people rather than calling them to schedule dates."
Hannibal is smiling and he realizes that the smile grew on his face without him even noticing. "Date?"
A low curse is heard from the other side. "Well, no. Or yes. I meant a non-professional encounter. Well, that's what I told you in the message, but only if you think it's a good idea, the encounter, not the date–"
"It's okay, Will. I find the idea of the date charming. Please, do tell me about your availability," he decides to save him from the hole he's getting into.
Will is quick to respond, and soon they arrange to meet on Saturday afternoon for dinner.
The smile never leaves Hannibal’s face.
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Will looks at his clothes and thinks that he really should invest a bit more. He has outfits for fishing, plenty of them, for staying at home, or going to work, but no clothes that say "I'm going on a date." How terrible.
The truth is… he doesn't really need them. It's not like Will has many dates to go to. The idea of the nuclear family had never been present in his dreams, not when he was a child, and not in his adolescence and early twenties, when he barely had any relationships. None lasted more than a few months. A romantic failure, that's Will Graham.
He closes his eyes, sighs, and opens them again to choose a salmon-colored shirt that he thinks suits him well and black pants that fit snugly at the hips. He doesn't look so elegant, but relatively good for a date. A date with Hannibal Lecter.
He still can't believe that the doctor agreed to it! That he wanted to go out with Will in a non-professional atmosphere—damn euphemism that he came up with, feeling so socially awkward. Will was on cloud nine when he received the call, especially when Hannibal took charge of the situation, telling him not to worry about anything, that he would pick him up for dinner.
It makes Will’s stomach ache with that butterfly sensation, and his hands sweat, wasting minutes and minutes looking for his best clothes and combing his messy curls. He looks at himself a few times in the mirror, checks that he has his documents and keys, and watches his dogs, wagging his index finger as a well-known gesture for them to behave while he’s gone.
Will is nervous. Nerves that don't leave him when he hears the sound of a car arriving at his house, and less with the knock on the door. Even less when he opens it, and there, at the entrance, is Hannibal Lecter, who looks like he came from some aristocratic party, so elegant and handsome.
A brown, fine fabric jacket gracefully fell over his shoulders, the crimson silk tie expertly knotted over an immaculately white shirt. Furthermore, discreet cufflinks as details only made him appear even more regal. Will closes his lips and swallows. Would it be okay if he shaked Hannibal’s hands, if he kissed his cheek? If he threw himself at the doctor?
Hannibal solves the problem with a gentle handshake that lasts a few seconds, and Will smiles slightly, leaving the house and closing the door behind him.
Come on, he can do it, he can have a date with a charming man who is interesting and, most importantly, finds him interesting in return.
"A cozy house away from civilization," Hannibal says once they are on their way.
"Yeah, I like to think of it as my sanctuary, away from all the troubles, with enough space for me and the dogs. My kind of lighthouse in the middle of the forest."
Hannibal smiles. "If you could, would you live excluded from society, Will?"
Will smiles back, letting out a laugh, "Of course! If I didn't have to work, I'd live on an island. But I guess, if that were the case, I wouldn't have met you, doctor," he adds, feeling good about himself for his flirtation.
"You can call me Hannibal, I have no issues with first-name basis. And, of course, it would be regrettable not to have met you, Will. You haven't left my thoughts these days."
A blush covers Will’s cheeks, the smile still on his face. "Likewise, Hannibal. You caught my attention, especially because I can't see well into your interior, and you'll understand that this doesn't happen to me often because of my empathy."
"You will see me, Will, I desire that," the doctor replies mysteriously.
The rest of the way is spent in silence, but not the heavy kind that comes after Will says something too creepy. No, it's a comfortable silence, like the ones he spends with his dogs. He looks out the window, feeling accompanied, so many expectations bombarding him —and how much he hates having expectations.
The restaurant Hannibal takes him to is as elegant as he is, and Will crosses his fingers not to look ridiculous next to the doctor. When they are at the doors and can see their reflections, he thinks no, that they look quite good together.
That they match.
And as has been frequent, the conversation they have at the table is easy and enjoyable, with the same chemistry they've had since that morning at the motel. Hannibal helps him order since Will doesn't know the names of the dishes (that's how fancy the place is), letting himself be guided by the doctor.
"Will you continue to support Uncle Jack in his cases?" Hannibal asks him at one point, when they're talking about work.
Will carefully thinks about his answer. About his life, the satisfaction of solving a mystery, of saving lives. But also about all the pain that clenches him, the anguish.
"I think only in some, those that are really complicated like this one, but otherwise, no, I don't want pain in my life," he asserts confidently, his hands firm on the cutlery.
Hannibal's eyes look inscrutable. "It's a good step to think about yourself and your health, Will, especially when we know where those paths could lead you."
"To a pit of self-pity from which I won't be able to get out until I'm only good to be studied, perhaps even locked away," he says without humor, the appetite leaving him for a second.
"It's not something you deserve," Hannibal replies after only a few seconds of pause, his face, while remaining inscrutable, does reveal certain glimpses of emotion, yes, a protective sentiment toward Will, wanting to defend him.
Will smiles gently at the words. "I don't want to fall into that; it's one of my fears, and Jack knows it, that's why he contacted you. It took me years to reach stability, to a point where I was finally at peace, and I don't want to break it."
"Is it a point where you are happy?"
"Happiness is overrated, Hannibal. I settle for being okay and with a normal, for me, amount of nightmares."
Hannibal nods in understanding, and they continue eating together. The doctor is also the one who pays, not even taking out money or a card, just a gesture to the waiter to put it on his account. On his account at this expensive establishment!
Will's blush doesn't abandon him when they leave the restaurant, and it only gets redder when Hannibal takes him by the hand to walk through the nearby park. It seems that romantic movies are not just fiction.
Their walk is pleasant, and those minutes seem like hours until they are back in the car and on their way back to Wolf Trap.
Upon arrival, Hannibal even gets out of the car to drop Will off at the door, a true gentleman, and Will gathers all the courage he has to, before entering, say goodbye with a kiss. He stops in front of Hannibal, and with a hand on his shoulder, he leans up to connect their lips gently, being instantly reciprocated, those strong hands embracing him at the waist.
"Good night," Will says when they separate, unable to resist licking his lips and seeing those reddish eyes watch the movement.
Everything went perfectly.
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Everything is spiraling out of his control.
If Hannibal were any other man, he could easily confess that he feels lost. Yes, lost. The dates with Will Graham have grown, and they have been going out together for over a month now. He even took him to the opera just a few weeks ago.
Hannibal had a concept, a plan in mind. To satisfy his curiosity, delve more deeply into Will's character, and begin putting him in extreme situations to see his mind and disorder in action.
Initially, the dates became another avenue to work on his curiosity, to explore more of this grumpy, yet affection-starved man. It's just that no plan has worked because Hannibal is not executing them. Spontaneously, he decided not to push Will into working on more cases with Jack, not wanting to overwhelm him with nightmares.
Similarly, he doesn't cajole him into revealing his moral darkness, content with letting Will bring up those topics. He doesn't push.
And, in the same vein, when he smells that sweet scent on Will, understands the reason behind his hallucinations and other incipient problems, and realizes Will is suffering from encephalitis, he decides without hesitation that he must take him for an MRI to begin treatment. It would be an excellent opportunity to see how his brain reacts, burning from the inside, while suffering from his empathetic disorder. Perhaps, aggravate the symptoms. Disturb him even more by telling him it's just a mental disorder, nothing organic.
But it's impossible with Will in his house, in the living room after dinner, something that has already become part of the routine. Will lying on the couch with those beautiful blue-green eyes clouded with concern.
"You have to go to the hospital,” Hannibal says, “I suspect it could be a brain condition, a fever that comes hand-in-hand with encephalitis," he murmurs by Will’s side, taking his hand, smaller and calloused, within his fingers. He strokes his knuckles, something inside him breaking and rebuilding.
"Could that be true? I've taken care of myself, Hannibal. I've avoided everything that could trigger an episode. I don't want to think that I'm losing my grip, especially now," Will replies, leaning even closer to Hannibal, completely resting on him, causing his heart, always beating controlled, to accelerate. It's automatic to bring him closer with the arm, the kiss he places on his curls.
It's automatic to schedule an appointment with Dr. Sutcliffe, the neurologist, for Will to be seen. And it's automatic for a smile to form as he sees Will's relieved face, knowing he's not going crazy. So far from what Hannibal might have once planned.
Everything is spiraling out of control, and yes, it frightens him. He's frightened by Will’s unpredictability and how unpredictable Hannibal himself has become when he’s with him. It's such a strange feeling that enters his life, which now seems gray, before being colored by Will's presence.
Will, who is reserved and affectionate, who kisses him with shyness but hunger once they are already embraced. Will, who has not yet accepted to sleep together, too excited about having this relationship, who admits the fear of ruining it. How could that happen when Hannibal is completely besotted?
On the night of the diagnosis, after a hectic day of calls, Will informing the FBI, Jack, Alana Bloom; and Hannibal coordinating his schedule because, of course, he will be the one to take care of Will once the treatment begins, they end up at his house for dinner.
Will moves comfortably in his kitchen, in his own sanctuary, preparing food to help him cook. It is a pleasure to have him here, accompanying Hannibal, kissing him from time to time, enjoying the blush that always succeeds it.
And then, in the living room, with the fireplace lit, his heart rejoices at feeling Will by his side, his soft voice thanking him, "You appeared in my life so randomly, Hannibal, and fuck, I didn't like you that first day, but it was at the motel where everything changed."
"What changed?" he asks with curiosity, looking at Will, who peers at him shyly.
"You made me laugh. Something so simple. But it doesn't usually happen to me. You made me laugh, and you smiled with satisfaction for doing it, as if you really enjoyed it. I don't know, it sounds a bit ridiculous now that I say it," and Will smiles again, that smile Hannibal has come to love.
Oh.
To love, as he has come to love Will Graham. Because that's what this lack of control is. He loves Will, his laughter, his company, his presence, his bad mood, his bitterness, his innocence. He loves seeing him with his dogs and fishing when Will has invited him. And Hannibal loves to see Will mentally wander, to attend that river in his mind where he finds solace when pretending to pay attention while being by his side, surrounded by the fools who typically attend artistic functions.
He loves the changes Will produces in his life, how much he has disrupted everything, his plans, his ideas. He loves the expectations of not knowing what Will will say, what he will do, with what new twist or beautiful metaphor he will come up with. Hannibal wants to explore Will, to know him, he wants to be seen by him but not out of the sadistic pleasure of breaking him, no, he wants to be seen by Will because only then will he feel as human as he can be.
And something must be visible in his face, in his eyes, this profound epiphany that attacks him, because Will’s face also opens, and the kiss that follows is natural.
Hannibal devours him, leaving him horizontal on the couch to throw himself on top, squeezing his waist and with his other hand pulling his hair to lift his head and kiss his neck.
"God, Hannibal, I've been waiting for this," says Will and, as he raises his face, he looks at him fixedly to whisper, "I love you."
Hannibal repeats it too, his "I love you," and he feels giant, enormous, more powerful than when he goes out hunting. He kisses Will and kisses him until they crawl somehow to his bedroom. There, he lays him on the bed, continuing his feast on his body, Will arching beneath him to remove his clothes.
Hannibal assists him while doing the same with his own, then proceeds to caress the pale body he has desired for days and weeks. Will moans, clutching his shoulders when Hannibal kisses his collarbone, moaning louder when Hannibal's mouth takes a rosy nipple.
"Hannibal, Hannibal," his voice sounds like the best aria Hannibal has ever heard. He moans too when he feels Will's fingers in his hair, tousling it, when he feels those thick thighs wrap around his waist, when he looks at Will's face, and Will smiles arrogantly before he asks, "Will you fuck me?"
How much Hannibal has dreamed of this moment, even from seeing Will clad only in his little boxer briefs that day at the motel. Or even earlier, when Will looked annoyed in Crawford's office. He reluctantly separates a bit to open his bedside table and take out the lubricant, returning to his cheeky boy, kneeling in front of those divine legs to get to work.
Will arches on the bed, burying his beautiful curls in his pillows, bringing his arms toward them to hold onto when Hannibal starts to touch his rim. Hannibal does it gently, a circular motion with his fingers moistened with lubricant, and just as gently, he buries a finger into him.
"You're very tight, Will," he says with a hoarse voice as he enters with his finger and then another, hypnotized by the sight of the little pink pucker opening for him like a blossoming flower. It's the most exquisite thing he has ever observed in his life.
"God, Hannibal, move them, please," Will murmurs with a pout, his hips already making a slight sway to fuck himself in the two fingers, soon joined by one more.
Hannibal brings his other hand to his own erection, having to touch himself at the sensation of Will’s hole squeezing his digits, at the sight of his body damp with sweat, blushing, his beautiful cock firm against his abdomen. He kisses Will like that, devouring his tongue, biting his lips and the moans as he fucks him hard with his fingers.
Fingers that he withdraws in seconds, enjoying the sound of Will whining from the empty feeling, then firmly holding those strong thighs to open them more, enjoying watching his round buttocks open up to receive him, his hole blushing and blinking.
"God, yes, Hannibal, like that, please," Will whimpers when he's finally penetrated, one of his hands going to his cock to touch himself, and the other in his own hair, pulling his curls. His legs rise more, pressing against Hannibal's hips, moving forcefully and in time with the thrusts.
Hannibal affirms his waist, leaving marks that he will gladly look at in the coming days. He brings the other hand to one of Will's thighs to hold onto it as well, squeezing the skin and feeling the muscle respond. He thrusts with will, loving the sound of their bodies slapping together and their moans making a song.
And, when Will's back arches more and more, his voice and curses rising, Hannibal penetrates him to the hilt, the hand on his waist letting go to touch his cock, helping him come. He kisses him then, devouring him in his pleasure. Will clumsily kisses him back, biting his lip, and only seconds pass before Hannibal also reaches paradise.
Will's legs fall on the bed, trembling, and Hannibal smiles, gently leaving his body and lying down next to him, pulling Will against him. Will snuggles up, a pout on his lips when his thighs get wet from the escaping come from his hole.
"In minutes, I'll clean you up, darling, and prepare a bath for us," Hannibal murmurs against his temple, placing a kiss.
Will nods, lazy eyes looking at him. "It was worth every minute of the damn wait, Hannibal, you're incredible," he says and adds, "this has been a kind of communion. Listen well, I love you and I see you."
Hannibal can only look at him, at this beautiful creature lying in his arms, reading between the lines of his words. "And what you see, could you accept it?"
One of Will's hands rests on his cheek, a small caress, and his eyes look extra green and full of love when he says, "I accept it as I will always accept the contents of your kitchen, Hannibal, because yes, I know what they contain, just as I know what you have fed me since the first day,” and with a laugh he adds: “This is a non-professional situation I never want to escape from."
And Hannibal can only devour his laughter with his lips, enjoying his precious company.