Chapter Text
It was not something Hannibal had ever considered, for obvious reasons. It smacked of desperation, a last resort for those incapable of attracting a partner or too anxious to make the attempt.
Hannibal had more than his share of options for dalliances—beauties eager to be the jewel on his arm at the opera, or to sit in pride of place at his dinner parties. It was no secret that the single and glamorous of Baltimore society relished twinkling beside him, and he welcomed their interest. It was useful, both as camouflage and for the occasional passing amusement.
No, Hannibal would have found the idea of visiting a matchmaker preposterous if not for two moments that burrowed the idea under his skin like a splinter.
The first was a run-in with a particularly intolerable former colleague from his tenure at Johns Hopkins. It took Hannibal a moment longer than acceptable to even recognize him, and a beat longer still to understand that it was because he'd never seen him smile before.
During their thankfully brief stint as coworkers, Dr. John Wilson had been palpably miserable and took his misfortune out on the world indiscriminately. He was dismissive with the nurses, belligerent with the interns and residents, arrogant to the point of pomposity with the other attendings. His conduct had earned him a special place in Hannibal's Rolodex, bookmarked for a time when he was in the mood for a treat and feeling just reckless enough to indulge.
But now he greeted Hannibal warmly, with a squeeze to his shoulder and a firm handshake, the good humor he was radiating, entirely sincere as far as Hannibal could tell. It was more than the crow's feet gathering in the corners of his eyes from what must have been a great deal of laughing in their years apart. There was a lightness to him, a certain centered contentment that few achieve. It took effort to keep the furrow from his brow as he tried to place the change in him.
Then the change arrived, slipping her way into the circle and slinging an easy arm around his waist like it belonged there. Hannibal had long dismissed the notion that love brings happiness, or at least the kind with any staying power. It's a fantasy many of his patients embrace —a silver bullet for their self-loathing. If only someone could tolerate them, it would absolve them of having to tolerate themselves. But seeing the way John melted, practically glowing as Julia nudged her way under his arm had Hannibal briefly second-guessing that assumption.
Julia was lovely, with a sharp wit that balanced John's more sardonic attempts. And the longer Hannibal spent in their presence, the more he wondered at how seamlessly this veritable mismatch stitched together.
Long after they walked away, Hannibal couldn't quite keep his eyes from finding them across the room, unforgivably rude in his distraction. He internally shook himself whenever he caught his attention drifting, forcing his focus back to Ms. Komeda as she recounted her latest spat with the director of the Baltimore Museum of Art. But as Hannibal's gaze slid away, for what must have been the fifth time in as many minutes, lingering on Julia as she threw her head back in laughter at something John whispered to her, Ms. Komeda trailed off into silence.
"Shocking that such a repugnant man could find love with such a delight. But she patently adores him." Ms. Komeda had come to stand at Hannibal's shoulder, following his line of sight to where John was now grabbing a fresh champagne flute from the bar and sliding it into Julia's hand. She took it without even pausing in the story she was sharing, as if these small gestures of care were reflexive, hardwired between them.
"Indeed," Hannibal said taking a deep swallow from his glass, discomfited that she'd picked up on his strange preoccupation with the couple.
"They met through a matchmaker," Ms. Komeda continued, and that had Hannibal turning to her as she took an elegant sip from her glass of Merlot, "Very exclusive and discrete. So, naturally, everyone knows," her eyes shone with humor and Hannibal felt his own lips tick up slightly, even as his mind mulled the unlikely concept of a modern-day matchmaker catering to the Baltimore elite.
"I would have thought matchmakers something of an extinct profession. Gone the way of the travel agent."
Hannibal could see the smile in the tightening of Ms. Komeda's mouth. Not a smirk, but there was something amused in how her eyes brightened. He would not call Ms. Komeda a friend, but she had an understated refinement that never failed to endear her to him.
"Niche would be a more charitable descriptor. An option for those who'd rather not advertise their desires on a dating application. Those who wish to handle intimacy with the privacy and dignity it deserves."
Hannibal didn't miss the coaxing cadence in her voice. Ms. Komeda was never blunt in her insinuations; she always managed to speak her mind with a delicacy beyond reproach. But offense bloomed in his chest regardless.
He shared nothing in common with John Wilson or any other who might opt to take advantage of such a service, and the idea that he would need to call in a professional to help him manage his romantic entanglements was galling. But as he turned to make clear that her suggestion was neither necessary nor appreciated, he found her already staring back at him, her gaze startling in its uncharacteristic directness. And her eyes were earnest in a way that stilled Hannibal's tongue.
"With such bright plumage, you have always been the most sought after bird in the flock, Hannibal, with your choice of twittering paramour. But it is as impossible to grow something real in a flood as a drought. I have no doubt you take some satisfaction in your status as a confirmed bachelor, but should that ever change, the matchmaker's name is Will Graham. He's something of a miracle worker they say—has an unnatural ability to see through people, understand who and what they really are. I've heard it described as disconcerting."
She strategically chose that moment to pause for another sip of wine, knowing she'd snared his curiosity with that tidbit. The not-smirk returned to her lips as she continued, "He's discerning in who he takes on as a client. But if he finds you worthy, he has an unfailing ability to give you what you truly need in a partner, warts and all."
Hannibal hesitated, shoving down the tiny spark of interest her words inspired as he considered how best to demur, but she saved him the trouble.
Pressing a hand to his upper arm, she murmured, "Consider it, my dear," before disappearing into the crush of suit jackets and silk gowns around the bar, leaving Hannibal staring after her.
The rest of the evening was spent working the room—flitting between groups, smiling blandly through bouts of tedious small talk, without a thought to Ms. Komeda's words or John's transformation. Until he was lying in bed that night.
As sleep descended, toppling mental barricades, he couldn't keep his mind from replaying the brush of Julia's thumb over John's rough knuckles whenever he faltered in conversation, and how, even at the crowded dinner table later that evening, Julia and John seemed to see no one but one another. Hannibal had been certain John's bitterness and contempt for the world made too arid a landscape for anything so fragile as love to flourish. But Hannibal had been wrong, apparently. And Ms. Komeda's parting words echoed around the dreamy fog as consciousness finally slipped away: Consider it, my dear.
The second moment, maddeningly, was courtesy of Hannibal's most irritating patient. It was midway through Franklyn's session, and as always, they'd spent the bulk unpacking his latest episode of social ineptitude.
"You worry about being alone?" Hannibal prompted, scarcely keeping the boredom from his tone, not that Franklyn ever noticed it. He was entirely inured to the annoyance of those around him, like a foul smell that stops registering with enough exposure.
"I worry about hurting." Franklyn's perpetually damp face screwed up in a pout before he continued, more softly, "Loneliness comes with a dull ache, doesn't it?"
The observation gave Hannibal pause. And in his brief hesitation, Franklyn's eyes jumped to Hannibal's, swimming with sympathy, as if they were discussing a pain they both understood intimately. Having "a moment" as Franklyn would no doubt describe it later. Hannibal had difficulty forcing his jaw to unclench.
"It can," he answered, pleased with the breeziness of his tone.
After Franklyn left, Hannibal sat with a glass of something amber, staring into the flickering fireplace, considering those words, that ache. He did know what Franklyn was referring to—that pang that occasionally took up residence under his ribs when too many hours of silence stacked upon one another and pressed in around him—and the realization that any of his own experience overlapped with Franklyn's was appalling. But it was the truth. And as with all truths, Hannibal forced himself to probe at it, like tonguing a rotted tooth.
Solitude had served him. But, he could admit, with the burn of whiskey softening his thoughts, he was not entirely immune to its sting. It was quiet in his office aside from the pop and snap of embers, as it was most evenings, and Hannibal cast his mind back, wondering if he'd ever found anyone whose company he preferred to silence. Just then, the wail of a distant siren floated in through the cracked window. In his liquor-muddled head, it transformed into a childish shriek of delight that he never allowed himself to think about, exhumed from its burial site in the recesses of his memory. It was a glittering sunbeam of a sound, that had Hannibal clenching his glass hard enough to shatter it. He shut down the line of thought, refusing to recall how that laugh had always petered into a breathless giggle. Downing his drink, he stood, leaving the fire to burn down to ash.
The following day, disgusted at the maudlin direction of his thoughts the night prior, he invited eight of his closest acquaintances to an impromptu dinner party, pleased when all but one accepted on short notice. Loneliness felt like a distant, absurd concept as he regaled his guests with a humorous anecdote from his time in Florence, watching with satisfaction as the whole table broke into fits of laughter. The wine and conversation flowed steadily, and he accepted each person's praise for the food with grace. The following morning, dressed sharply in a new suit and one of his favorite ties, solitude, loneliness, and Franklyn Froideveaux could not have been further from his thoughts.
He assumed that would be the end of it. It was not.
For a week after that, whenever his mind was idle, the idea niggled at him, like a foot squirming its way through a crack in the door. He thought about this Will Graham—the matchmaker who could allegedly see through anyone. Who held up a mirror, no matter how unsettling the reflection. And who, if Ms. Komeda was to be believed, never failed to find that reflection's complement.
In the end, the decision to reach out to him was easy. Curiosity was an urge like any other, a desire meant to be satisfied, and Hannibal did not believe in denying himself. Calling it an experiment of sorts, he asked Ms. Komeda for Will Graham's contact information, trying not to be irritated by her lack of surprise at the request.
This was how he found himself driving to Wolf Trap, Virginia at 8 a.m. on a Monday, his morning patients all rescheduled.
He checked the address twice as he pulled into the unpaved drive, certain he'd taken a wrong turn into some kind of animal sanctuary. Dogs of various breeds darted around the yard at play, but as Hannibal threw the car into park, a sharp whistle had them stilling and coming to heel.
The whistle in question came from a scruffy man leaning cross-armed against the post of his porch. From a distance, shadowed by the overhang, Hannibal couldn't make out anything about him beyond his worn flannel shirt and thick stubble, but Hannibal marked how the man seemed to take in Hannibal's Bentley, gaze resting on the windshield as though he could see through it—see Hannibal—perfectly. Another whistle had the dogs scurrying to the porch from every direction just as Hannibal stepped out and approached.
The closer he came to Will Graham, the more he was able to make out the features buried beneath his neatly trimmed beard. And what he found was an uncommonly beautiful face, something one might have expected to see immortalized in oil paint or carved into marble were this man born in another century. Will Graham's intentionally rugged aesthetic made for a stunning contrast with the soft curl of his chestnut locks, the lush lips pulled in a stubborn line. And his eyes shifted in color constantly, like a babbling brook. Those darting eyes, Hannibal observed, had a spark of keen intelligence, and there was a voracious quality to the way he studied Hannibal.
Hannibal made no attempt to keep the initial pulse of attraction out of his expression, a flirtatious smile curving his lips automatically, and from the slow blink it earned him, Will Graham did not miss it.
"Dr. Lecter?"
”Mr. Graham.” Hannibal came to a stop at the base of the stairs as Will and his pack surveyed him for long seconds, saying nothing. The scene felt more like a king examining a tribute, than greeting a customer who'd paid two hundred dollars up front for an introductory meeting. Then the man lifted from his slouch and turned toward the screen door.
”Will is fine. Come on, they’re too well-trained to jump up on you.”
He trailed behind Will and his seven furry companions into a large living area, and though Hannibal could tell that the house was not wanting for rooms, it seemed every major function had been diverted to this one. The bookshelves overflowed with texts on a dizzying variety of subjects. A piano scattered with sheet music was tucked away in the corner, and from the askew angle of the bench, Hannibal could tell it had seen recent use. A bed dominated the room. The sheets and thin duvet were neatly made, but its presence alone was jarring, making any visitor feel as though they were intruding upon his privacy. That feeling only grew as he took in Will's overrun desk, which seemed to serve as both a station for crafting fly fishing lures, and a graveyard for near-empty whiskey bottles. A laptop sat in the center of the detritus, open and idle beside a half-drunk mug of coffee. It took seconds for Hannibal to absorb all of this and a moment more to realize his inspection was being carefully scrutinized.
There was something expectant in Will's eyes, and Hannibal guessed whatever his process for ferreting out the truth of people, it had already begun. The setup was oddly intimate, skirting the line with unprofessional by some standards, in a way that would certainly turn off most of Hannibal's ilk and Will Graham was aware of that. What he meant by provoking his would-be clients, one could only guess.
”You take your appointments at home," Hannibal observed neutrally, as his eyes drew back to Will.
”A lot of people do.”
A lot of people do not have their bed in the center of their home office, Hannibal thought and from the thin, knowing smile stretching Will's lips, Hannibal might as well have said it out loud.
“Having this first appointment in my home simplifies things when I'm trying to get a feel for a new client. I'm not going to pretend to be anything I’m not. This lets me see their reaction."
Hannibal couldn't argue with his reasoning. "And what do you make of my reaction?"
"You have a pretty impressive poker face," Will allowed, "but the house, the dogs, me, none of it is what you expected. Are you debating how to get out of this politely, doctor?” Will asked, taking a seat in an armchair and gesturing for Hannibal to take the chair opposite.
It was surprisingly refreshing to realize lying could be a challenge in this interaction. Hannibal was thankful that—for now at least—he didn't have to. "I am not. You're not what I imagined, but that might be for the best. And call me Hannibal, please."
Hannibal settled on the edge of the offered seat, only to end up sinking into the plush cushion.
"Skeptical of the whole matchmaking enterprise?"
"I'd imagine many of your clients begin that way. Outside of certain cultures, it's an anachronism, replaced, as so many fields have been, with more accessible online alternatives."
Will hummed in absent agreement, but he was only half-listening, Hannibal realized. The stare now scouring Hannibal's face called to mind nails peeling skin, and it didn't seem Will was even trying to do it. Like he couldn't help drilling in to the bone once locked on a target. It occurred to Hannibal that a stare that incisive must be uncomfortable in everyday life — for the company Will kept and for Will himself.
And the discomfort was apparent in how, every few seconds, Will's eyes flitted from Hannibal's down to his own hands, to the wall past Hannibal's left shoulder, as if the process of meeting a new person was more of an endurance exercise than a pleasure. It reminded Hannibal of someone peeking through their fingers during a horror film—too morbidly curious to look away, but wary of seeing what could not be unseen.
Hannibal considered the room, the dogs, the remote location, and realized that, beyond this lifestyle's usefulness as a client screener of sorts, it also carried the hallmarks of self-imposed isolation. Barriers to entry and a cushion from the world. Disconcerting, Ms. Komeda had said in describing Will Graham's process. That was truer than she knew, perhaps. Sometimes insight was more curse than gift.
And for the fleeting moments Hannibal was pinned by those snowstorm eyes, he felt a tug of something rare — nascent curiosity ripening into interest.
"Most have made their peace with the concept by the time they get to me." Will leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "But you haven't."
"No. I haven't." Hannibal was certain Will appreciated frankness, but he was also tossing a gauntlet between them. And as he read Will's reaction in the shifts in his expression, Hannibal could already tell that it would be fascinating to see Will's response to a host of scenarios.
Will's eyes slid over Hannibal's for a few moments before he nodded.
“I'm happy to sing for my supper, doctor, if you need convincing, but I need some assurances from you too." Hannibal almost smiled at the use of the honorific, the petty rejection of informality, but nodded for him to continue.
"Don't waste my time. When I ask a question, I expect the truth, or the best you can manage. Is honesty going to be a problem?" The brusque way Will asked suggested he already knew it would be.
Running over their brief interaction, Hannibal could see nothing in his behavior that should have read as false, but Will had still recognized the signs of a mask enough to know that there was one. His suspicion—if it could even be termed that—had no shape or direction, but there was intuitive distrust that Will himself didn't even seem entirely aware of. Hannibal kept any reaction off of his face.
"I'm a psychiatrist. I spend my days coaching others towards honesty, emotional vulnerability."
Will quirked an eyebrow at that non-answer. "In my experience, all that coaching just makes psychiatrists less willing to own their own baggage."
Hannibal let his mouth stretch in the barest hint of a smile, dipping his head to concede the point. "Those who can't do, often teach."
A surprised grin lit Will's face for the first time, and Hannibal's fingers twitched for his sketch pad and pencil at the sight.
But it dropped away with Hannibal's next words. "You have experience with psychiatrists?"
Will's expression withered into a bitter press of lips and his eyes were on anything but Hannibal. "Some."
Leaning back in his chair, Hannibal considered the man before him, his unnerving intensity and how poorly that must have gone over in a school setting. His accent was generic American now, but the twang clinging to his long vowels gave him away. Southern roots. It was easy to imagine the slight, strange boy he must have been. Parents at their wit's end, thrusting him in front of doctors and pastors, to be poked and prodded and chastened into silence.
Hannibal wanted to ask how it altered Will's own relationship with truth. What frayed pieces Will learned to hide, and at what cost. The instinct to pick at that scab until it spilled red anew was stronger than Hannibal had felt in some time. But Will's eyes were back on him now, wary and resigned, as if he knew what came next from people like Hannibal—that he'd be forced to weather his professional curiosity. Hannibal could see Will's defenses rising with his hackles, and, with a mental sigh, he swallowed back the questions gathering on his tongue.
"I'll do my part, Mr. Graham."
That brought another flash of a smile—this one flattening before it found its footing—and Hannibal thought what a shame it was that Will's expression seemed to default to severe when pleasure made him look so lovely. "Thank you."
Clearing his throat, Will began, "Let's start with an easy one, why did you reach out to me?”
This question Hannibal had expected and he gave his prepared answer with a practiced air of nonchalance. "It's the beginning of the holiday social calendar. I have several parties and events on the horizon. It seemed as good a time as any to seek out a companion to share them with."
This had been Hannibal's plan. A low stakes test of this man's skills. Realistically, Hannibal expected little more than a diverting few weeks or months, hopefully with a lover who could actually hold his interest for once. But as Will blinked, a frown starting to pull his face into a scowl, Hannibal grew keenly aware of the triteness of his request.
It was only made worse when Will asked, voice flat, "You're looking for a date for a holiday party?"
Hannibal was never tone deaf or graceless in his interactions unless it was by design, and it was strange to realize he may have unwittingly misstepped.
"I'd imagine I'm not the first client to seek you out with a specific occasion in mind. And I'm certain I'm not the first to express an interest in something less…complicated." The thread of defensiveness in his tone couldn't be helped.
Glancing at Will for some response, he found the man's expression utterly inscrutable now, so Hannibal continued, "I'd like to find an engaging partner who suits me. And dinner parties are ideal venues to enjoy someone's company."
Hannibal believed in what he said. But his stomach tightened, along with his jaw, as he watched Will's expression shift. Apparently, the other side of the coin of Will's unsettling intensity was irritation. And indifference. And Hannibal watched these creep across Will's face like a door easing shut. He recalled Ms. Komeda's words then. He's discerning in who he takes on as a client. Hannibal suspected Will was the type to find most of Hannibal's peers unbearably superficial, and he could practically see Will adjusting his initial impression of Hannibal, casting him in that same unfavorable light.
”You’re looking for a few fun dates with someone attractive and some good sex to round out the experience, that it?" It sounded frivolous, put that way. And given everything Hannibal knew Will was capable of, what he'd seen him do for John Wilson, it was by comparison. "I know a few people who might be up for a night out. Great conversationalists. The rest is up to you.”
Will wasn't looking at him anymore, and not for the same pained reason as before. Now he couldn't be bothered to pay attention, as if this interaction was no longer worth the effort. Hannibal could see those sharp eyes dulling as Will reached for his phone. Normally, Hannibal enjoyed when someone so thoroughly misread him, but this time, to be miscast as shallow rankled. There was always danger in attracting too much of any kind of interest, but, somewhere in the past ten minutes, Hannibal had decided he wanted to be of interest to this man.
Usually anger would surge on the heels of this kind of slight, a place made in his Rolodex for the affront of thinking Hannibal insignificant. And a plan hatched to show Will Graham that he was anything but. But now, Hannibal found himself reaching into the distance Will was attempting to create between them, until he had earned back every ounce of the man's formidable focus.
“I met a successful couple of yours.”
He hadn't intended to mention them, wasn't entirely sure how he expected Will to respond, but he still watched Will's down-turned eyes greedily, waiting for them to flicker his way again.
Frustratingly, he didn't even glance up at the non sequitur.
”That’s usually how people find me. I don’t advertise." Will was still scrolling through what Hannibal could only assume were potential dates on his phone, but he could have been reading through box scores for all Hannibal knew.
”John Wilson and Julia Jameson.”
That drew Will’s attention and Hannibal felt an unreasonable amount of relief at the return of his eyes. Then he got to witness Will's entire face soften in a way that made him look ten years younger, “I heard they just tied the knot," Will set his phone down on his chair arm. "How were they doing?”
”They were doing well. They were—" Hannibal paused, considered how he wanted to respond, "I knew John from my time at Johns Hopkins. He was always career-driven to a fault and resentful of his professional stagnation. He tended to take his frustrations out on anyone unlucky enough to breath the same air as him." Hannibal hesitated, "I found him insufferable."
Will snorted and gifted Hannibal another genuine smile, this one wry with shared humor, as his eyes gleamed. ”Tell me about it. I remember our first meeting. I knew he was a bastard just from the way his lip curled at the dogs. I expected him to turn tail when he saw the living room. But he just sat down primly on the edge of the bed, trying to spare his pants as much dog hair as possible. Then he said 'just tell me what I need to do.'" Will shook his head at the memory, then met Hannibal's eyes sidelong, "He was serious about this, I'll give him that.”
The comment was obviously pointed, but before Hannibal could respond, Will continued, his eyes flicking over Hannibal's face as he tilted his head thoughtfully. "What did you think of their relationship?"
"You'd know better than I would."
Will nodded, eyes not leaving Hannibal. "I want to know what you thought of them."
Hannibal hesitated again, his own eyes dropping to his crossed knee where he picked at an invisible piece of lint. He could feel Will's gaze boring into his forehead and it made it harder to choose a response.
"John was... settled. He was happy. Of course I'm sure his professional failings still eat away at him. Marriage, for all its virtues, is no cure for incompetence. But when they were together, all of life's disappointments seemed to just," Hannibal took a moment to choose the right words, "fall away.”
Will's eyes darted over Hannibal's face, his brow slightly furrowed again, as if picking through a pile of puzzle pieces, trying to guess at the final image. ”We were together, I forget the rest," he murmured absently.
Hannibal hadn't expected to hear Will quoting poetry, for all that he recalled seeing a Whitman anthology among the shelves. “Yes.”
For the first time, Will leaned forward into the space between them. ”Do you like the idea of that? A connection that makes the rest of it not matter? Most people do.”
Hannibal straightened under Will's gaze and made himself smile thinly. "Most people never find it. Do you really believe there's a perfect match for everyone, Mr. Graham?"
Will accepted the deflection with a nod, and it felt as though Will took more from Hannibal's refusal to answer the question than he would have from any reply.
”So-called 'perfect' relationships are just about maximizing compatibility and staying through the growing pains. They take humility and tweaking." Tapping his fingers twice on the chair arm, Will finished, "Settling for the simple and available is the path of least resistance. Most people can't be bothered.”
Quirking his brow, Hannibal commented, "Some might consider that a rather unromantic take on love for a matchmaker."
From Will's scoff, Hannibal suspected that was an accusation he'd fielded before. "Only if it's unromantic to acknowledge that anything worth having takes patience and effort."
"A pragmatic purveyor of true love." Hannibal smirked and Will returned it.
"Sorry if it ruins the magic, but I can't afford to deal in fantasy. And I expect my clients to come into this with open eyes."
Hannibal's smile then was entirely genuine. "To the contrary, I'm relieved."
And he was. Of course, there was nothing mystical or fated about love. And Hannibal found himself relaxing into the familiar exercise of philosophical sparring, the particular thrill that came from doing so with a partner who could match him. ”But your outlook is still cynical. Isolation can be corrosive. And pursuit of an ideal can make for a lonely existence. Would you let the perfect be the enemy of the good?”
Surprisingly, Will shook his head. ”The good has made for many happy marriages. Or at least long-lasting ones." There was something unexpectedly sharp in the way his eyes flicked over Hannibal then, like a nick from a blade you weren't holding with enough care. "Butgood doesn't seem like your style, doctor.”
How Will said good—the blatant double entendre—had Hannibal again puzzling precisely what Will saw as his eyes raked across Hannibal's face. There was no possibility that Will saw the truth of him, or even some part of it, but Hannibal still suspected the sawtooth edges that Hannibal kept concealed under layers of boldly patterned wool blend, had been noted. At least subconsciously.
Aiming for casual, Hannibal agreed. "I have little interest in mediocrity.”
”Yeah, that's obvious," Will muttered scrubbing a hand down his face, as he gestured generally to Hannibal.
Hannibal felt his lips begin to tug up in a flattered smile, but before he could manage it, Will continued. "So why are you lying to me about what you want from this?”
There was no trace of Will's discomfort with eye contact anymore. The eyes now spearing Hannibal in place were clear and relentless. And, for the first time in recent memory, Hannibal couldn't think of what to say.
"Are we going to pretend that you're not lying?" Will continued, tone unimpressed. Then Will's brow furrowed, "Or are you just lying to yourself?"
Hannibal hesitated for the length of a breath before he finally found his words. ”I already told you—“
”No." The word was as jarring as if he's rapped the table with his knuckles. It took Hannibal a moment to realize he hadn't moved at all. "If you want a date, you don’t strike me as someone who’d have trouble finding one. You definitely don’t strike me as the type to willingly seek out a matchmaker without a damn good reason. So what happened in your life, Dr. Lecter, that made you drive over an hour to rural Virginia on a Monday morning to ask me for help?”
Hannibal bristled at the phrasing, and a dozen protests and innocuous excuses flooded his mouth. Will was watching him with a grim smile, as if he expected any one of them. And somehow Hannibal knew, if he obfuscated now, Will would look away again and he wouldn't bother looking back. Hannibal's eyes dropped to his own knees as he tried to come up with an answer to the question he'd avoided asking himself in earnest.
More time than he realized must have passed, because Will's voice was gentler when he said, "Hannibal?"
Hannibal's jaw clenched, still at a loss, but under the pressing weight of Will's eyes, he said the first thing he could think of that felt undeniably, uncomfortably, true. "My patient made a observation last week about loneliness. How it can be physically painful, like a dull ache.”
For all that it was a comment, it felt like a confession, and Will's eyes softened in the wake of it. The way Will's face transformed was something beyond sympathy or abstract understanding. It looked like that pain was settling in Will's own chest, like he'd taken it into himself just by seeing the traces of it in Hannibal. And Hannibal noticed other things as well — how their positions had shifted at some point until Will's posture, the tension in his shoulders, the leg crossed over a knee, it was all mirroring Hannibal. And he seemed, at least for the moment, entirely unaware that he was doing it. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion that Hannibal suspected did not belong to him at all.
”Do you ache, Hannibal?”
Hannibal stared into those sea green eyes, and it felt as if Will were reaching inside and drawing the truth from him like a poison. And even as he distantly feared what other truths Will Graham might be capable of tugging free if he knew or cared to ask, in this moment, all he felt was the relief of being unburdened, as if Will Graham had taken a weight off of Hannibal's back and settled it on his own shoulders. Hannibal could tell that Will was not reducing his loneliness to some saccharine whining. Will understood how insidious the wear of isolation can be for a solitary creature. How—like water lapping stone—it can eat away at even the sturdiest rock face, leaving its edges brittle and misshapen.
And memories reared up again, golden hair and an infectious, gap-toothed smile to which no one was immune. And later. After. Returning from the wilderness with bloodied hands, stomach leaden with grief. Silent and alone and determined to remain so.
Every instinct within Hannibal revolted at the feeling winding its way through him as he held Will's eyes. He did not feel flayed as had earlier, this was something worse. He felt naked, willingly laid bare for Will's examination. And though the danger in allowing it was undeniable, it eased a tension Hannibal had carried for so long he had stopped noticing it was there. So, clutched in the thrall of Will's gaze, he was honest.
"On occasion.”
For long moments, Will watched Hannibal, seemingly memorizing every part of him, those remarkable eyes brimming with feeling. And when he shut them with a wince, it reminded Hannibal of a falling man desperately reaching for something to grip. After the silence stretched too long, Will's eyes reopened, and it was like a switch had been flipped. His legs unfolded and his shoulders hunched as he sank back into his seat—into himself—avoiding Hannibal's eyes as he breathed deeply down at the floor.
This was not typical intuition or insight, Hannibal realized. There was something strange at play in Will's particular brand of empathy. Some disorder amplified his ability to take the part of those around him. As his eyes ran over Will's slightly trembling form, Hannibal's interest tightened into something tough and hard as a knot, the kind that could only be excised by a blade.
After a few more shaky breaths, Will looked up again, eyes all business once more though they wouldn't meet Hannibal's at all any longer.
“What’s your physical type?” He asked finally, voice smaller than it had been.
Hannibal was still trying to wrap his head around the shift between them, but managed to answer smoothly. ”I appreciate beauty. Beyond that, I’m not sure I have one.”
Will wrote that down in a notebook he'd ignored up until now. ”Gender preference?”
”No.” After a breath's hesitation, Will jotted that down too.
“How would you describe yourself as a sexual partner?” Will's voice was carefully devoid of inflection, but Hannibal noticed how he fidgeted with his pen.
”Curious, adventurous, diligent.”
Hannibal could make out the words “I bet," in the shaky exhale that followed.
”How often are people accurate in these kinds of assessments?” Hannibal grasped for their earlier casual rapport, unnerved by how off-kilter he felt.
Still without looking up, Will answered, “Almost never, but I can tell a lot by the answers they give.”
”And what do my answers tell you?”
Will didn't even pause. ”That you see yourself more or less clearly. You answered based on your own efforts rather than assumptions about your partner’s level of satisfaction. And I would have guessed you're diligent, maybe even finicky, about meeting your partner’s needs." Will hesitated, twiddling his pen, before saying, "But I get the impression that sex is more about power for you than desire. Or it has been."
Hannibal paused, and even though he should not have been surprised anymore, he still marveled at the insight Will could extract from three adjectives. Will didn't seem to expect any response, but Hannibal answered anyway. "I enjoy sex on many levels. But you're right, I have never needed it."
Will nodded as if that was what he'd expected to hear. "And from the way your eyes crawled over me and my home, I think you tend towards curiosity." His gaze remained fixed on his notebook, paying excessive attention his few, sparse notes.
Something shifted in Hannibal's chest then, and his voice was deeper than he'd expected when he said, "I'm afraid that's your only error on the day. It takes something quite extraordinary to catch my interest."
Hannibal's candor was rewarded by a thick swallow from Will, a dust of pink giving a lovely bloom to his already sun-gold skin.
"When's your first event?" Will asked.
Hannibal frowned. "It's this Saturday evening. But I can—"
"Send me the details and I'll send your date there."
Hannibal nearly sputtered, feeling entirely wrong-footed. "That's it?"
Will's answering smile was more of a grimace. "That's it. Have a good rest of your day, doctor." Will was already on his feet, gesturing for the door with his eyes on the floor.
It was an abrupt collapse of the intimate atmosphere between them and it sent Hannibal's mind reeling. He didn't move, trying to catch Will's eyes in hopes of reclaiming it, or at least understanding how it shattered in the first place. But Will had already crossed the room, and was opening the front door, as if Hannibal would need help finding it. It was rude. But it would be ruder still to ignore a clear dismissal.
Throat tight with irritation and some other feeling he refused to examine, Hannibal stood and buttoned his suit jacket with all the dignity he could muster. He brushed past Will, vaguely nodding his goodbye and drove away without a backwards glance. It wasn't until he was halfway through his afternoon patients that he managed to shake off the foul mood that lingered long after Will Graham's quaint farmhouse disappeared from his rearview mirror.
************
On Saturday evening, Hannibal dressed in his jet black tuxedo and bow tie with more care than usual, his thoughts consumed with guesses as to what kind of person Will Graham had chosen as his date. He found himself less interested in the person themself, than what their selection implied about Will's opinion of him. In the days since their strange interview, he'd run over the memory of their encounter enough times to recall every gesture or shift in Will's expressive eyes, trying to understand why it ended as it did. And as he stood at the entrance of the Baltimore Museum of Art, it took effort not to fidget in his impatience, knowing this person could provide an answer to the question that had gnawed at him all week.
And he almost laughed when Alana Bloom stepped through the museum's double doors into the atrium. She looked resplendent in a turquoise gown that made her eyes gleam like sapphires, her glossy brown waves styled to the side, draping over her shoulder in silky ringlets. Hannibal could admit, he'd become so accustomed to her more casual uniform of patterned wrap dresses, that he forgot how effortlessly stunning she looked in formal wear.
She caught sight of Hannibal immediately, sheepishness flashing in her eyes as she made her way to him, a blush now resting high on her cheekbones. Alana was an old friend. How Will managed to guess that, Hannibal would never know. And Hannibal could acknowledge that he'd considered her as a romantic prospect not infrequently over the years. Never seriously, but with Will Graham's stamp of approval, he considered her seriously now.
Alana had always been ideal in many ways. She was beautiful in a way that it was impossible not to notice, with warm, honeyed eyes and a gentle smile that put those around her at ease. She was also an exceptionally talented and intuitive therapist; it was why he'd accepted her as a mentee. Cleverer than the world gave her credit for, Alana had excellent instincts, and—Hannibal observed, as she coyly tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear—glaring blind-spots. The truth of him would always be safe from her. And he had just enough time to wonder if Will knew that too before she was standing there, her expression uncertain, but determined.
"Surprise," she said as soon as she was close enough not to have to raise her voice, and even through the dazzling smile, he could make out a tremor of insecurity in her tone.
"A wonderful surprise," Hannibal answered her unspoken question, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, the scent of her floral perfume stronger at her wrist.
The uncertainty was still hovering in her blue eyes as she explained, "Will called me a few days ago and asked if I'd be interested in attending the opening with you."
"And what did you say?"
She canted her hips in a subtle fidget. "Well, at first I was surprised, curious," she flashed Hannibal a wry pull of lips before sighing, "And I was…excited to have his endorsement." Her eyes flitted over Hannibal's face as she searched his reaction. "You probably know I've been harboring a bit of a crush."
Hannibal did know. Alana was transparent in this, as she was in many things—standing too close whenever the opportunity arose, a flirtatious subtext to nearly every conversation that passed between them in private. And when they were around others, she was remarkably possessive, never missing an opportunity to touch his shoulder, taking liberties in his home with all the subtlety of a cat scent-marking a room. Hannibal indulged it more than he appreciated it, but he saw no need to share that. "You've never been alone in your interest, my dear."
The relief seemed to physically unwind her, and there was something so desperately hopeful in her eyes as she asked, "So we're trying this? Really trying this?"
Hannibal snagged a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter, placing one in Alana's palm, "It seems we are. To us."
A fresh flush climbed Alana's throat, meeting her already rosy cheeks, as they tapped their glasses in a soft clink.
The night that followed was, to Will Graham's credit, precisely what Hannibal requested. Alana was easy to introduce around, fluent in an array of topics. And she grew lovelier as the champagne awoke a sensuality she rarely allowed herself. It made her more brazen in her touch than usual—fingers grazing Hannibal's lapel, clutching his bicep, circling his waist. Teasing promises of more that Hannibal couldn't deny he found appealing.
Still, Hannibal's mood grew increasingly dour as the evening marched on, and for the first time in a long time, he felt as though he was merely moving through the motions, drawing no pleasure from the grandiose venue, the food, or—most damningly—the company.
Two hours in, they retreated to a high top table with an assortment of hors d'oeuvres and Hannibal finally asked the questions that had been growing louder in his mind as his disappointment swelled.
"How long have you been working with Mr. Graham?"
Alana popped some kind of pastry puff into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before answering. "I'm not. Will's a personal friend. Or well, I suppose, a former colleague," she said, twisting the stem of her wine glass where it sat on the table.
That drew all of Hannibal's attention, though he tried to downplay the surge of curiosity. "How surprising. Where did you meet? Is he a mental health professional?" That seemed exceedingly unlikely given his contempt for Hannibal's profession. "A Georgetown professor?"
With a lopsided smirk she took a long sip from her glass. "A professor, yes, though now you've met him, I think you can guess how well teaching suited him," her eyes danced with humor as they met Hannibal's, but he found he could only meet it with impatience. "He was an instructor at Quantico actually. And, for a time, an FBI profiler. The best, if you can believe it."
Hannibal could. All too well. He forced his body not to react. He neither froze nor fidgeted. And he didn't speak until he could be certain his tone would remain even, casual. "Quite a shift in career trajectory," he murmured, pleased when it came out sounding just a touch strained.
For the first time that evening, Alana's expression grew grim, soft with sympathy. "It was the right choice for him to leave. I was shocked this was what he landed on," she said, a smile back in her tone if not on her lips, "But it's been a good fit. It's good for him and he's good at it. Clearly."
She motioned between them before lifting her glass in a small toast and Hannibal recognized the gesture a beat too late, joining their glasses with a clumsy tap just as she was lowering her arm.
"What did he say when he proposed this date to you? Did he tell you why he chose you for me?"
Alana shrugged. "He didn't know we were old friends, but he wasn't surprised to hear that our paths crossed at Johns Hopkins. He said I was 'just what Dr. Lecter was looking for.' And Will's not usually wrong."
There was something in her tone now, a bid for reassurance that Hannibal suddenly realized he would not be able to give her. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek in lieu of answering and suggested they take another lap around the room.
Things were different after that, and Alana was perceptive enough to pick up on it, though there was little she could do for it. To her credit, she remained a picture of grace, keeping up more than her side of the stilted conversation as Hannibal allowed himself to grow lost in his own thoughts. She was exactly what he'd asked Will Graham to find for him, what he claimed he was looking for. Enjoyable, engaging, beautiful. Temporary. Fungible. Will had dangled her before him like a glittery bauble, calling his bluff.
And as the night dragged on, her responses grew shorter, her smiles tighter. They were both silent and somber as Hannibal drove Alana home. As Alana seemingly distracted herself by staring out at the streaks of passing headlights, Hannibal considered what Will Graham meant by this. Alana was a perfect exemplar of the good they'd spoken of. And now, Hannibal could practically see Will smirking at him, a challenge in his eyes. Is this good enough for you, Hannibal? Or do you want more?
As Hannibal escorted Alana to her door, her eyes met his for the first time in an hour, and in them he found resignation and a tentative question. It would be a simple thing to slip inside, take her to bed. And he did not doubt how lovely she'd sound and feel, falling apart under his mouth and fingers, how she'd open for him. A week ago, he might have seized this opportunity, but now he pressed a chaste kiss to her hand. "I have enjoyed this evening—"
"It's alright, Hannibal, you don't need to say it." Her tone was defeated and the street lights danced in the clear blue of her eyes as she glanced up at him with a watery smile. "For the sake of our friendship, I think the less said the better."
With a nod, Hannibal released her hand as she shivered slightly in the chill of the late evening. Still she didn't reach for her door. Instead, her eyes shut and she shook her head as if trying to toss away an idea, "Guess Will Graham can't be right every time," she muttered, pulling out her keys.
Hannibal nodded again, though for him, the evening had suggested the opposite.
The moment Hannibal relaxed into the driver's seat of his car, he pulled out his phone and navigated to Will Graham's minimalist website, drafting a request for his next available appointment. Before he submitted it, he paused and forced himself to consider all that Alana had revealed about Mr. Graham's career and his specialty. An FBI profiler. The best, if you can believe it. If it had been ill-advised to place himself on Will's radar before, it was utterly reckless now.
Hannibal glanced to his left, back to Alana's house, watching the lights flicker on in each room as she readied for bed. He stared down at the road ahead of him, where he knew, after a half hour drive, a similar solitary bedtime routine awaited him. Then he took a moment to wonder what Will was doing right now. If he was already asleep or if he too was awake, miles away. Maybe sitting up with a glass of whiskey, wondering if Hannibal would rise to the challenge he set for him. Hannibal could practically feel the burn of scotch sliding down his own throat.
Slipping his thumb over the touch screen, he sent the request.