Chapter Text
Will Graham is brooding.
A still, solitary figure in sombre midnight blue amidst vivid flashes of scarlet and turquoise, lilac and pink, he leans against the pop-up bar and stabs ineffectually at the ripe olive bobbing aimlessly in his drink.
For the past hour, he's relegated himself to the role of contemptuous onlooker at what has been touted as the most prestigious charity event of Buenos Aires' autumn calendar.
Here the cream of Argentinian glitterati - actors, models, politicians, socialites and oligarchs - have come together for a night of ostentatious fund-raising in Buenos Aires' Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in the heart of the affluent La Recoleta district. Will sees these people - their rivalries, their insecurities, their petty power plays - and despises them equally.
Downing his third martini ('Mantener las aceitunas, por favor'), Will simultaneously orders a fourth via mime. Not exactly his tipple of choice but he has appearances to maintain.
'Doctor Luscombe!'
Shit. Señora Méndez de Sotomayor, bearing down on him like an oversized flamingo on speed, all ruffled hot pink taffeta and skinny, flapping limbs. No obvious escape route so he braces himself for the excruciating conversation to come.
'I've been looking for you, you naughty man. What are you doing over here all by yourself?' she shrills, clutching a frothy cocktail and squinting up at him through false eyelashes.
Your Chicago roots are showing, Mrs M.
Concealing his distaste, Will Graham (aka Doctor Patrick Luscombe, psychiatrist) twists away from the bar and offers a polite smile.
'Nice to see you, Señora,' he lies through his teeth, side-stepping the question. 'Are you enjoying the gala?'
At 150,000 pesos a pop, it would be a fucking tragedy if not.
'Now, Doctor,' she pouts, batting Will's arm playfully, cerise nails scraping the worsted wool of his Savile Row tux. 'I've told you before, call me Kikki! We Americans must stick together.'
'I'm not sure Señor Méndez de Sotomayor would agree,' Will comments neutrally.
'Nonsense! Franco's delighted that you've been able to help me so much already.'
For a woman with such a staggering number of neuroses, it is actually pretty impressive that she's made any progress at all after only a handful of therapy sessions. Will has never met her bank director husband, but his reputation for monetary shrewdness is well-documented. A shame the same can't be said for his choice of wife, though he certainly wouldn't be the first fifty-something multi-millionaire to have his head turned by a coquettish twenty-something model.
'Anyway, what I really want to know is,' Kikki stage whispers, leaning towards Will conspiratorially, 'who is that gorgeous man I saw you sitting with at dinner?'
Ah, yes. That gorgeous man.
Through an arched canopy of red and purple fuchsia, Hannibal Lecter is spotlit by the incandescence of a silvery full moon, resplendent in black, slicked back hair highlighting the beautiful severity of his high cheekbones, twirling what must surely be his seventh or eighth dance partner round the terrace to the vibrant pulse of a tango.
Forcing down a hot stab of possessiveness, Will silently repeats the mantra he's been chanting in his head for the past sixty-three minutes, ever since the moment he told Hannibal to 'just go and fucking dance' and received a look of such sharp displeasure, it sent his heart plummeting into the soles of his Italian leather brogues: I don't give a shit; I don't give a shit.
Trouble is, he does. That's the problem. That's been the problem for the last three weeks.
***
Baltimore, three weeks earlier.
Hannibal hovers solicitously, checking the plastic cable ties securing Bedelia's wrists behind her back. The table is set for lunch: cold meat on a platter and exotic salad. A portion of the salad has been placed on a plate in front of Bedelia - she's going to have a harder time dealing with the meat but that, of course, is deliberate. Not just the physical difficulty to get over (though Hannibal assures her that as her teeth are in excellent condition, it should take her no longer than an hour to chew through to the centre); there's also the psychological barrier of having to gnaw on a cold cut of one's own leg.
It has been explained very carefully to the morphine-infused lady of the house. The FBI believes her to be on vacation, so no one is watching the house. To summon help, she will need her phone. The phone is inside the meat.
'What if she starts eating the moment we leave the house?' Will asks in a quiet aside.
Hannibal shakes his head. 'Highly doubtful. Given her strong stubborn streak, Bedelia will not concede easily. I predict a long night - perhaps two - of inner battling before she is willing to take the steps necessary to free herself.'
It's a gamble but Will has to admit there's a certain poetic flair to the proceedings.
Immaculate in a red silk blouse and black pencil skirt, Bedelia looks every inch the cool professional, bound arms and amputated leg notwithstanding. Hannibal places a hand on her shoulder.
'We're leaving now, Bedelia.'
'So I see.' Slightly unfocused eyes drift past Hannibal to Will. 'Nice hat.'
A raised eyebrow is all the response Will can be bothered to muster. His initial reaction to the cream suit and matching Panama had been something along the lines of 'you've got to be joking', though not couched in anywhere near such diplomatic terms. But now that he's been wearing it for a few hours, he's secretly rather taken with the ensemble. Besides, as he knows from his years of experience with the FBI, furtive behaviour is the surest way to draw attention to oneself.
Hannibal pops a straw into Bedelia's water glass, casts a final glance over the room and smirks.
'Ready, Will?'
'In a moment.'
Strolling around Hannibal, who exits the room with the satisfied air of someone having checked off an item on a list of mundane chores, Will approaches their trussed, reluctant host. Bends. Puts his lips to her ear.
'You asked me a question once. About my feelings for Hannibal. Do you remember?'
A listless nod.
'Do you ache for him?'
'Would you like to know the answer?'
Still the urge to goad, to taunt. Still brimming with rancour for the one who got there first – behind the veil. Bedelia's drowsy laugh is unexpected. Will pulls away abruptly, frowning as she looks up with wide, glittering eyes.
'Your answer, Mr Graham, has been painfully apparent since the day you chose to unleash Hannibal on the world again.'
Will just stares as Bedelia leans towards him as far as she can without tipping over and spits out a single word, lacing the air with venom.
'Yes.'
***
'Professor Alec Lees,' Will drawls, eyes still glued to Hannibal. To his hands, skimming the slender lines of his dance partner's body as they perform a tricky dip with an aplomb that prompts impromptu applause from those standing on the terrace fringes.
Upright and breathing rapidly, Hannibal's dark-haired partner smiles coyly at him, insinuating herself even more closely into his space before emitting a shriek of laughter as he dips her again.
Will turns abruptly away, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass as he imagines using them to squeeze the life out of Señorita Fuck-Me-Now.
'Professor?'
From the way Kikki lingers on the title, it’s clear that professor trumps doctor. The thought of Hannibal becoming the focus of her neurotic attentions is mildly amusing.
Hannibal Lecter, meet the female Franklyn Froideveaux.
'What's he a professor of?'
Whatever Kikki's hoping for is unclear but her salacious tone suggests she's going to be disappointed with Will's answer.
'Fine Arts. He's a scholar - publishes in a quarterly magazine in the US. I think he's written about twelve books on the subject.'
'Fifteen, actually. Tut tut, Patrick. Your forgetfulness is not very flattering.'
And that's all it takes: Hannibal at his elbow. Blood quickens, adrenaline rushes. Sixty-five minutes of bored sulkiness forgotten in a spiked heartbeat.
'Sorry.' Not sounding sorry at all. 'Kikki Méndez de Sotomayor, allow me to present Professor Alec Lees.'
Hannibal takes Kikki's jewellery-loaded hand between both of his, murmuring honeyed compliments that might as well be spells for all she's gazing, hypnotised into his eyes.
'Excuse me,' Will mutters, seized by the absurd urge to run from all of this - the painted dolls, the ornate halls, the stultifying scents of exotic flora, Hannibal (always Hannibal) - and just breathe.
Makes it as far as the entrance lobby before a familiar hand on his shoulder halts him.
'Will.' Sharpness again. 'Where are you going?'
Shrugs off the hand, though all he wants to do is grab it, pull Hannibal closer, nestle into his arms. A place he's not been since, god, since Baltimore. How did that happen?
The plane.
'Home.' Staccato tone matching Hannibal's. 'And it's Patrick, remember?'
A quick glance around confirms that they're alone but it's not like Hannibal to be so sloppy in public.
Rolls his shoulders in an effort to ease the tightness in his muscles. Avoids Hannibal's keen glance.
'I'll walk. You take the Merc.'
Hannibal clicks his tongue in a little show of annoyance. 'Nonsense. We'll go together. Collect the coats and I'll have the car driven round to the front.'
'So domesticated, Alec.' He’s pushing it; Hannibal's eyes darken at his mocking tone and Will revels in the danger he glimpses therein.
He's spoiling for a fight. Has been building up to this for days, weeks - ever since the first day, the first night in their new home. But the plane was the catalyst.
***
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, three weeks earlier.
'Six bedrooms? A gym? What possessed you?'
Rosita the steward, who will be residing in the basement apartment of their Buenos Aires home as housekeeper/cook, along with pilot husband Juan (their soon-to-be butler/chauffeur), disappears discreetly into the forward galley as Will paces the central aisle.
'Sit down, Will.'
Totally at ease, practically lolling on the cream leather divan, Hannibal brandishes his iPad.
'It isn't as grand as you're fearing. Come and see.'
Will casts a pointed glance around the interior of the jet: cream leather chairs, butter-soft; deep pile beige carpeting; rich walnut panelling.
'I think your idea of what constitutes grandeur is vastly different from mine.'
Still glowering, he resumes his seat beside Hannibal, pulls off his tie and tosses it aside in a gesture of frustration. Glances at the screen and blanches again.
'Fourteen fucking bathrooms? Are we opening a hotel?'
'You know,' Hannibal comments casually, forefinger flicking unhurriedly through the gallery of photographs, 'I would not tolerate such language from anyone else.'
'Lucky me,' Will snaps, settling back nevertheless in capitulation. 'Okay, show me.'
Looks through the endless sequence of pictures and tries to take it all in: fifteen thousand square feet, handmade marquetry floors, a billiards room, a wine cellar, and a roof deck with an outdoor kitchen, dining area and plunge pool. Wait – a plunge pool?
Congratulates himself on the calm he's projecting - even feels a traitorous sense of excitement begin to take hold as Hannibal outlines their new identities.
'I'm a psychiatrist?'
Really, Hannibal?
'Not a million miles from your former occupation. And you will have your pick of English-speaking clientele. They are already lining up to meet you; I’ve ensured that your reputation for excellence has preceded you.'
'Bored, pampered expatriates?'
'Whatever appeals to your sense of whimsy. To help or harm - it will be entirely up to you.'
A sidelong glance at Hannibal. 'Speaking of whimsy, the names you've chosen for us...'
'No one will make the connection, Will. Unless you shared the conversation we had that night with Uncle Jack?'
Memories from an evening long ago in Hannibal's office float between them.
Patroclus and Achilles.
Battle-tested friendships.
Firelight and first kisses...
Will swallows. Hard. 'No, I didn't.'
At a time of divided loyalties and divisive emotions, he'd hoarded their conversations with a greed born of desperate defiance; stowed them away in his memory palace where Jack Crawford and the FBI could never touch them; replayed them again and again, with masochistic attention to detail, in the bleak months of loneliness following Hannibal's escape to Europe.
'Then there is no reason to be concerned.' Hannibal doesn't look up from the iPad.
A sudden impulse - a need - to touch and be touched. It’s been forty-eight hours since their lazy, easy kitchen embrace. Since then, they’ve been subsumed by their escape plans. Dealing with Bedelia. Leaving. Will shifts fractionally closer, inching his hand along the back of the divan until it rests a tantalising inch from the nape of Hannibal’s neck.
Realises he’s talking again and tunes in to listen.
'And this is your room. Ensuite, with a dressing room attached.’
‘My room?’
I need a room?
From easy banter to awkward silence in two syllables.
Hannibal clears his throat. ‘Yes. I made sure that it was decorated to your taste, though of course you are free to make whatever changes you wish. It is a large suite, affording plenty of privacy.’
Looks more closely at the pictures. Plain walls. Sturdy wooden furnishings. A colour scheme of cream, caramel and chocolate. Rustic. Subtle. Warm. Wolf Trap. His dogs. Nothing of Hannibal. Not a trace.
He knows – he knows he should be grateful. Thinks he even knows what Hannibal is trying to do. To give him. An island of simplicity amidst a sea of ostentation. But it’s vast – as big as an apartment – and all he feels is a cold sense of impending isolation. Abandonment.
What about us?
As he stares, frozen, at the screen, a destructive maggot of insecurity burrows into his heart and starts whispering poison.
He doesn’t want you. Not the way you want him.
He’s never kissed you first, has he?
You’ve been a pleasant diversion. Like Alana…
His stomach plunges. Humiliation bites deep. So he lies, feeling his way carefully around the words, like splinters of glass in his mouth.
‘Yeah, thanks. Some breathing space will do us both good. It’s been – pretty intense.’
The briefest of pauses before Hannibal replies.
‘Of course. I want you to be comfortable, Will.’
God, he’s being so polite.
Tries to smile but it comes out horribly twisted. Doesn’t really matter because Hannibal’s not looking at him. So he makes a show of feeling tired and retreats to one of the single chairs. Reclines it and tries to sleep, but stumbles off the plane at the end of the eleven hour flight hollow-eyed and cold inside.