Chapter Text
A fucking cuddle therapist.
Granted, that may not be Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s official job title—that would be the much fancier ‘custodiruptor’, or ‘ego-breaker’ as they are known in common parlance—but as far as Will Graham is concerned, ‘cuddle therapist’ is all the respect he’s getting.
Will crumples the fancy business card, glaring daggers at Jack Crawford’s retreating back as he exits the lecture hall. He is rewarded when Jack stumbles, as if suffering a sudden case of dead leg. The agent utters an oath and shoots Will a suspicious look over his shoulder. The professor ignores him, the frames of his glasses shielding him from direct eye contact.
Serves you right, Will thinks sourly.
He’d been ambushed today, as usual. Agent Crawford has a penchant for invading the safe space of Will’s lecture hall and conscripting him to fight his battles.
“That’s three more complaints in the last week, Will. I don’t have time to be dealing with this. One appointment won’t kill you.” Jack had told him firmly, furnishing him with the doctor’s credentials. Will is just grateful it was a business card being thrust under his nose this time, rather than a case file of corpses.
Once his sort-of-boss (closer to ‘questionably benevolent overlord’) has gone, Will grabs his satchel and storms out. His timing is impeccable. Freddie Lounds is heading down the hallway towards him, visitors badge strung proudly around her neck, carrying two coffees. She slams straight the invisible barrier of his ego-guard like water breaking on rock. The drinks go flying out of her hand, redecorating the grey painted wall with artful lashings of brown. Will pushes past with his head bowed, ignoring Freddie’s shrieking promises of retribution spat through bloody lips. Grinding his teeth at the unwanted psychic contact, Will resists the urge to rip the shirt off his own back. It feels like a nest of fire ants are crawling beneath his skin. Will’s only consolation is that, out of the two of them, Freddie has definitely come off worse. Just like always.
Will’s mood does not improve when he arrives home and finds another letter from HR sitting on his doormat like an unexploded bomb. It’s an invite to a disciplinary meeting. Fuming, Will tosses the letter aside and collapses onto the beaten couch with a groan. Dusty photographs on the mantlepiece stare down at him in disappointment: his sweet ex-wife Molly, his temporarily adopted son Walter, and his precious pack of strays. Will swallows, tempted to reach for the whisky bottle hidden down the back of the couch. Molly had taken the dogs with her when she’d left, reasoning it was ‘safer’ for them. Because of ‘the way he is.’
At the time, Will thought he’d lost everything—but now he’s about to lose his fucking job too.
Unless…
Will pauses with his hand halfway down the sofa cushion and starts routing through his pockets instead. Resigned, he pulls out the half-bent business card.
Perhaps Jack Crawford is right—one appointment won’t kill him.
It might kill this ‘Doctor Lecter’ though.
Will turns up to his therapy session ten minutes early, because as tempting as it is to play hooky, he needs to appear at least half functional to his superiors. He is startled to find two people embracing in the waiting room. A tall, broad-shouldered man is holding a young woman in his arms; him dressed in a daring plum suit jacket, her with a fetching blue scarf wrapped around her neck. She can’t be more than 20 years old. The man holds her like a father would; one hand resting on her head, the other curled protectively around her shoulders. Will’s heart aches at the sight. He can’t remember the last time he was held like that. Once he turned 10, even his own mother couldn’t bear to touch him.
The young lady is the first to react to his presence, startling when the spikes of his soul press her own defences. She jumps apart from her companion, whirling around. Will is reminded of a prey animal. A rabbit, or perhaps closer to a deer; all wide-eyes, and trembling legs… but this girl has spines of her own. Will winces as her skittish ego-guard nicks at him like a razor, the blade cutting both ways in her clumsiness, giving him a taste of her spirit:
Who are you? Leave.
(This is embarrassing.)
Why are you here?
(I need this. Why did you have to interrupt?)
Are you a freak too?
(I’m alone. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been alone before.)
Hurts, huh?
(It hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and I don’t know how to make it stop.)
Will tries not to retaliate, he really does—but if it was that easy, he wouldn’t be here. The young woman draws a sharp breath, suddenly met with his seasoned thorns; a thicket of briars guarding a stone-walled keep, capped by twisting turrets and shadowy spires. A rebuke echoes in the bone arena of her skull that makes her bones quake, blood gushing from her nose with a shocked gasp.
Stay away.
“Oh dear,” her companion murmurs, pulling out a handkerchief and tenderly pressing it to her face.
Speaking of…
Compelled by some unseen force, Will drags his bespectacled gaze up, peeking beyond the safe boundary of the frames. Red wine eyes settle on blue, and a chill goes down Will’s spine—because he senses nothing.
Will can’t help it—he stares into the human-shaped void, his brain refusing to process what his eyes are telling him. The man’s purple suit is too obnoxious to ignore, sharp face commanding a second glance, towering frame casting a long shadow across the floor. He’s standing right there… but at the same time, he can’t be. Even the most accommodating people have some kind of barrier. Heck, even sweet Molly—cushioning presence that she was—had her limits. This man gives Will nothing. No welcome. No rejection. No hate. No love.
Wrong.
For the first time in Will’s life, it is the stranger who breaks eye contact first. He plasters an easy smile on his face and turns to the young woman, giving her shoulder one last squeeze that resonates in Will’s stomach.
“My apologies, Abigail; it seems we’ve overrun. I’ll schedule your appointment next month for the same time. May I ask that you see yourself out?” he requests. Abigail’s face falls, but she nods in acquiescence. Handkerchief still pressed to her nose, she glues herself to the wall to give Will as wide a berth as possible, inching past with averted eyes.
The door to the practice closes softly, leaving the two men alone. The sharp-faced man dips his head to Will, wearing a perfect expression of contrition.
“I apologise if that seemed somewhat unprofessional. Therapy can be overwhelming at times for the best of us; Abigail needed a little extra reassurance today... I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”
That much Will has already inferred. He glances to the closed door where Abigail just left, the residual shape of her ego lingering in the air, atoms yet to rearrange.
“Is she grieving?” Will asks, sliding his gaze across to the doctor. Intrigue flickers behind those red-wine eyes.
“With regret, it would be inappropriate for me to discuss the personal circumstances of my patients with a third-party.” Doctor Lecter pauses and cocks his head. “What makes you say so?” Will looks down at the floor. He runs his tongue slowly across his lower lip, certain his every move is being catalogued.
“Her ego feels… splintered. Double-edged barbs seeking a source of comfort to snare. Grief is… complicated.” When Will dares glance up again, the man is studying him with the most intense expression Will has ever seen. He looks starving. Will’s spirit bristles in defence like the pikes of a Macedonian phalanx, lunging forward to stake this creature through the heart… but there is nothing for him to spear. The doctor doesn’t even flinch as the attack passes through him, not strand of hair lifting out of place. Instead, his lips quirk in amusement.
Perhaps he doesn’t have a heart.
“Will Graham, isn’t it?” The doctor reaches for the door behind and opens it. Beyond lies an intriguing, richly decorated room formed of alcoves and columns. Pale daylight filters through arched windows, the dark wooden floor gleaming as if coated in blood. In the centre are two leather chairs sat facing each other. Doctor Lecter’s painted smile widens a fraction, gesturing for Will to step through. “Please, come in.”
Wary, Will crosses the threshold. The doctor indicates for him to take a seat but Will declines. His restless gaze jumps between objects of interest: the classical paintings on the wall, a wicked looking scalpel sitting casually on the nearby desk, the hand-woven geometric patterned rug that really shouldn't fit with the décor, yet somehow does. Will keeps his hands in his pockets to contain his jittery fingers, lest he be tempted to touch. He paces the shiny floor, leaving scuff marks on the wood, whilst his counterpart remains anchored. Doctor Lecter is a captain in total command of his ship, and Will is a floundering wreck.
“Do you know why you’re here, Will?” the man poses, sounding as confident as he looks: shoulders back, arms hanging loosely at his side, head tilted in enquiry. It’s the stance of a man with nothing to fear. Looking to the many certificates mounted on the wall, Will can see why. The doctor is amongst the best in his field… perhaps the best. Despite many nights of painstaking research looking for an out, Will couldn’t find a single bad review. Every patient that has ever walked through Doctor Lecter’s doors has come away changed.
Honestly, it pisses him off.
Will flashes a dark grin, accompanied by a strangled laugh.
“Oh yes, Doctor; my dear students allege that I am creating a ‘hostile work environment’ merely by existing. Someone should remind them they’ll be rubbing shoulders with serial murderers someday.” That last part is muttered out of the corner of Will’s mouth. Amusement dances in maroon eyes.
“The proverbial ‘snowflake’ generation, is it?”
Suddenly, Doctor Lecter is approaching him. Will shrinks in alarm, the small of his back connecting sharply with the oak-carved desk. He remembers Freddie Lounds covered in hot coffee, her hands scalded and blood running down her lips. The warning sticks in his throat:
Stay away. Don’t you know I’m dangerous?
It turns out, he needn’t have worried. Just as Will’s earlier attack met with no reaction, the doctor walks straight through his ego-guard like a knife through butter. He reaches past the stunned Will and picks up a black notebook from the desk, thumbing through pages covered in spidery ink.
“Is it only the students that have raised complaints?” Doctor Lecter asks innocently. “No incidences with the faculty?” The question provokes an unpleasant lurch in the pit of Will’s stomach. He is grateful now to be stood near the desk, leaning on the sturdy wood.
“… Jack told you about Alana.”
Of course he did. Will grinds his teeth, burning shame spreading up the back of his neck. Until very recently, Doctor Alana Bloom had been working alongside Will as a consultant custodiruptor for the FBI.
“Agent Crawford informed me of Doctor Bloom’s impromptu hospital stay, yes. I read the incident report with great interest; I find it’s always useful to learn from the mistakes of one’s colleagues,” the doctor replies, sharp-eyed gaze locking with Will’s. “Unfortunately, the detail in the report was lacking. It seems Doctor Bloom was unwilling to give a statement to the police. Surprising, considering she may never walk again.”
Will’s nails dig into the oak table as hot tears burn and blur his vision. Unwanted memories stir: the low rumble of Alana’s car pulling up on his drive at the appointed hour, followed by the sound of excitable barking. The heady smell of pine as they walked together in the nearby woods with her heeler Applesauce in-tow. Their silhouettes crossing in the dimly lit living room after nightfall…
An attempted brush of lips.
A warning ripple in the air.
Crunch.
“Would you like to tell me about it?” Doctor Lecter presses, disguised with an air of invitation. Will blinks furiously and sets his shoulders.
“Not particularly,” he retorts. The doctor closes the notebook and sets it aside, inches from Will’s fingertips. He has the gall to fucking smile.
“The ego-guard is a manifestation of the forts protecting the heart; a defence against humanity’s fear of injury through connection—both emotional and physical. If we cannot touch, we cannot be hurt… but we can also never fully understand each other.” He leans forward an inch, and Will cannot help but marvel at the austere angles and fine details of his face: the sheer cut of his brow erasing fair eyebrows, crow’s feet just starting to embed themselves… the knowing curve of Cupid’s bow lips. This is the closest he’s been to another person in years. “Your forts are abnormally robust, aren’t they Will?” Doctor Lecter continues, voice low and silky. “Your sensitivity allows you to perceive the nature of others from a distance, like you did with Abigail just now… but it’s a lonely existence. A besieged king sheltering behind the castle walls, unable to differentiate between threats real and imagined.”
Will’s throat has turned dry. There is something sensual in the bend of the doctor’s spine, the angle of his neck, eyes alight from within like glowing coals. Confidence oozes from every pore. The bastard thinks he can do anything.
“… And somebody with no boundaries is a psychopath,” Will counters pointedly, taking refuge behind his glasses once again. He longs to wipe away the smirk unsubtly hidden at the corner of Doctor Lecter’s mouth.
“I need to run some tests on you, Will. I’m afraid you may find it invasive, but I require a baseline reading of your resistance. It is the only way we can progress with your treatment.” Now it’s Will’s turn to smirk, albeit without mirth. He knows the ‘request’ that Doctor Lecter is about to make. To the doctor’s credit, he sounds convincingly professional—as if Will has a goddamn choice. “May I touch you?”
Long, pale fingertips hover centimetres in front of Will’s face, anticipating. Will sucks in a breath, assumes a disarming smile, and looks Doctor Lecter dead in the eye.
“You can try.”
He hopes it really, really fucking hurts.