Chapter Text
It's not that Will's mad about the extra business. He's just not sure if it's worth the hassle.
"Suck it up," Bev had chided him, not-so-subtly bringing up the appointment book on her phone to show him a beautiful grid of greyed-out sessions. "You're just freaking out because he's not exactly what you expected. So what? The guy's a godsend."
He'd known she was right, but that didn't mean he'd been happy about it.
"Christ, Will, you'd find a way to get mad at water for being wet," Margot had sighed. She'd been mid-session, ignoring the whimpers of her client as the insect circus of machines buzzed around them. She'd been grinding away at the shading on a macabre calf piece and barely spared him a glance. "You're the one who invited him."
He'd known she was right, too. That was the worst part; this was all his fault.
"Sorry, boss, but… I think you're on your own with this one," Randall had shrugged, hunched over his desk, scribbling away at a sketch of a massive deer skull on his tablet. The stylus was chewed through at the back end, like all his art tools. "I like him. The girls like him. We've got more work than we can keep up with from his groupies alone."
Will isn't sure why he'd even tried with Randall. Desperation, maybe.
"Also, it's only two weeks. Less than that, now."
10 days, to be precise, but it feels like a hell of a lot longer.
Zero for three, Will thinks, huffing as he stalks back to his little office. He'd been hoping for more support in his quiet tour of bitching while Hannibal Lecter, God's gift to tattooing, is out on lunch. That he hadn't found a single ally among his staff of six years puts him in a noticeably sour mood.
He doesn't bother trying Abigail. It's obvious to everyone at the shop that she's got a schoolgirl crush. He has no desire to encourage it.
"What's your deal?" She'd ask, eyebrow raised above the thick black liner she's convinced makes her look older, fiddling with the studded choker she wears to hide the ropy scar across her throat. "You've been obsessed with him since forever. Haven't shut up for the last month about this and now, what, you're mad he's popular? Too handsome? That's stupid."
He shakes his head. No, there's no point barking up that tree. She's not Will's apprentice, she's Bev's; his awkward pseudo-parental attitude towards her would probably only push her in Hannibal's direction. After all, who could be more appealing than someone your dad tells you to stay away from?
He'd resent it if he hadn't been exactly like her at that age.
Will pouts into his excel sheet, idly filling in a supply order without really paying attention. So what if nobody wants to complain with him about Hannibal? Fine. He can sulk over his paperwork as well as the next guy.
Imaginary Abigail's words nag at him. You've been obsessed with him since forever. He nudges his laptop angrily. He had been. Part of him probably always will be. Hannibal's a living legend in the industry for a reason; his work is brilliant. His black-and-white illustrative style, reminiscent of old medical or botanical textbooks, has won him awards all over the world.
Hannibal Lecter's online following is substantial and devoted. Back at his own shop in Florence, he books out months, if not years in advance. They call him il Mostro, the monster of tattooing, both for his enormous pieces and their technical skill. A beast, they say.
A pain in the ass.
Will had tried to build an entire trip around getting work from him once, when he was much younger. Even with nearly a year's notice and a letter of what he now considered embarrassing enthusiasm, he'd gotten an extremely polite note that there were no available appointments until the following spring.
He hadn't taken it to heart, or so he convinced himself. Will followed Hannibal's career obsessively after that, crooning to his fellow artists about the meticulous attention to detail, the masterful use of shading. When he opened his own shop, it became a mission statement to build it into something worthy of hosting Hannibal, should he ever come stateside. Everyone working for him was aware of it.
He did, and he did, and now il Mostro is finally here and Will can't fucking stand him.
"Are you kidding me?" Bev had laughed. It had only been Hannibal's second day on site when Will first sidled up to her and asked if she got a bad vibe from their esteemed guest. "I mean it. Seriously. Listen to yourself. He's your idol, Will. You're just starstruck."
He'd almost convinced himself she was right. Might have done, if Hannibal hadn't made it his raison d'etre to piss Will off.
"Will?"
Speak of the devil.
"Oh. Hey. What's up?"
Will tries to make his face blank, even pleasant. Hannibal is hovering by the half-open door, having knocked once, sharply, to announce himself. Will hadn't even noticed him approach, lost in his haze of irritation—it isn't like him not to be aware of people encroaching on his space. One more thing to add to the list of offenses Hannibal seems entirely unaware of.
"May I come in?"
Will tries not to roll his eyes. Despite his flourishing grudge, Hannibal is a guest in his shop, and one with a sizeable influence in their field. He hates having to genuflect out of self-preservation.
"Sure," he shrugs, gesturing to the patched leather chair opposite his paper-strewn desk. "You need something?"
Hannibal casts his eyes down and back up in a small gesture of acquiescence, as if he isn't the largest presence in every room. Will hates it, the smug bastard. He hates it more when Hannibal produces two glass containers of food and sets them on the desk.
"I thought you might enjoy some lunch."
Will eyes it with suspicion, biting back the snark he feels bubbling in his chest. "Oh. Um, thanks, but I'm fine."
Hannibal blinks, a reptilian act that tenses Will's calves like he's preparing to run. The smile that accompanies it is too practiced.
"I must politely disagree," Hannibal counters with a twinkle in his eye, setting the dishes side-by-side so that Will can see what looks (and smells, oh God it smells good) like jambalaya. "I may have only been here a short time, but I have noticed you rarely eat a full lunch."
Will wants to tell him to fuck off, or to ask why he's watching his food intake. His ungenerous view of Hannibal labels it as overfamiliar and weird, rather than kind.
"I had a sandwich earlier," he lies, telling himself that isn't technically untrue given the construction of peanut butter crackers. "I'll eat at home. I have to get this done before my 2 o'clock."
Hannibal's pale, barely-there eyebrows raise a fraction in polite disbelief. He can't see what's on Will's laptop screen, so he has no way of knowing the man has been highlighting and clicking out of the same column for thirty minutes.
"I will leave it with you, then," Hannibal nods, allowing Will his prickliness. The courtesy sticks like burrs around his ankles. Hannibal places a set of fine cutlery wrapped in a silk cloth napkin on top of the dish and stands before Will can protest. "Nutrition is essential to the mind and body, both of which we rely on quite heavily in our field."
"Yeah, okay," Will answers, annoyed at the slight tingle in his cheeks. "Thanks, I guess."
Being babied—again, his worst-faith interpretation of the gesture—makes him red in the face. It's worse at the tips of his ears. He's glad he kept his curls long enough to cover them at his most recent cut, the one he got a week before Hannibal's arrival by sheer coincidence.
"You're very welcome, Will," Hannibal smiles, a small thing with too much warmth for Will's liking. He's so fucking charming it makes Will want to… he doesn't know what. Do something. "I wish you luck with your appointment. May I ask what you'll be creating?"
Will fiddles with a pen, emblazoned with the shop's name in electric gold on black: Wolf & Stag Tattoo. He'd been so pleased when he first got the sign out front that Bev's teasing about his "taking inspiration" from Hannibal's own shop—Serpent & Spindle Artistry—hadn't bothered him in the slightest.
Today, it sours on his tongue. He stuffs the pen in a drawer.
"It's nothing exciting," he shrugs. "Finishing up a shoulder cap for Miriam—she's a regular."
Dish in hand, Hannibal visibly brightens. "The same Miriam you illustrated the prosthetic for?"
Will goes further crimson, squirming in his chair. "Yes, but how… how do you know that?"
Hannibal's eyes crinkle in a way Will's sure other people find beguiling. "I told you I was thorough with my research before accepting your shop's offer. All of your work is exceptional, of course, but I was particularly moved by that piece."
Will's nose scrunches. Hannibal would have had to dig at least three years back into his social media posts to see the photos of Miriam's arm; she'd only been an FBI trainee when she'd lost it below the elbow in a gruesome accident. Undeterred, she'd hired Will to tattoo the silicone skin of the replacement.
She's a proper agent now, so she keeps it covered on the job, but they've been working on connecting it to a sleeve and eventual back piece since then.
"It wasn't charity," Will huffs lightly, uncomfortable. "She paid me for it."
"Naturally," Hannibal nods. "But the skill is obvious, as well as the intent. You have helped her reclaim her body. Will you be continuing the floral theme?"
Now he's just showing off. Will taps his fingers along the desktop, staring down at all the tiny little stamps on various digits borne from a decade's worth of boredom and cheap beer. A tooth here, a fishing fly there. Simplified insects, patchy stick-and-poke runes. The beautiful howling wolf heads that lick up the backs of each hand—Bev's work, naturally—seem to mock him for his awkwardness.
"Yeah," he answers, gaze fixed firmly on his laptop keyboard. One thing he loves about his job is he generally doesn't have to make eye contact with clients past the first ten minutes. "Um, Edelweiss and Protea. We've sort of run Dahlias into the ground."
Hannibal nods warmly. "Strength and resilience. Tenacity. Her ideas, or yours?"
Will wants him to just fuck off already.
"Bit of both," he demurs.
A moment hangs where Will can hear Hannibal considering whether or not to push for more conversation; he seems to think better of it. His own lunch in hand, he makes for the door.
"I wish you both luck with the session," he says, somehow arrogant in his politeness, or so Will's decided. "I'm sure it will be a spectacular piece."
"Um, yeah. Sure."
Hannibal watches him, calculating. His stare is barbed. Will can feel it picking him apart, snagging at his edges, peeling them back to have a peek underneath. Where Will works himself to the bone trying not to look at people this way—he sees too much, always too much—Hannibal does it gleefully.
It's unnerving to have that sculpted face, those shark-black eyes focused so intently on him. He's sure someone out there would like it, maybe even feel special, but it only gives Will the sensation of eager crawling things under his skin.
People would kill to have Hannibal Lecter bring them lunch, he thinks bitterly. Some of them are sitting in the lobby right now.
"Well, I shall leave you to it," Hannibal says. "Enjoy your lunch whenever you get to it, though I am told it's best piping hot."
Will's eyes fall to the glass dish in front of him; his stomach betrays him with a loud rumble. It really does smell incredible. Hannibal probably made it himself, comfort food straight from Will's childhood, in his damn hotel kitchenette. Did he ask around, or put it together from a smothered accent and subconscious mannerisms? Where the fuck did he get silk napkins and glass dishware?
What an asshole.
"Yeah. Um, it is." Like an afterthought, or his dad nudging him with an elbow at church, he swallows his pride and attempts to be decent. "Thank you."
Hannibal's delight is nauseating. Will offers the bare minimum and he beams.
"You're most welcome, Will. Bon appetit."
He glides out gracefully, grinning to himself. Will wants to kick him in the shins. Instead, he waits until he can be reasonably sure Hannibal's at his station, biting back a groan at the scent when he pries off the lid.
Oh, God.
The heady aroma sucker-punches him back to neighborhood cookouts of his youth, to one of the only parts of Mardi Gras he ever enjoyed. He's eating it from a takeout cup with his buddies after a long day, sharing pilfered smokes behind the dive shop he apprenticed at as a teen. He's saying yes ma'am after Easter service, hoping for a second helping if he leans on his baby blues and keeps his sleeves rolled down.
Will swears around the second mouthful. It's perfectly seasoned with plenty of heat. There's a generous portion of the sort of spicy chorizo people north of the Carolinas don't usually fuck with.
Of course it's delicious. Hannibal Lecter is insufferable.
Will slouches out to the lobby at 1:55, scowling at the overcrowded couches and chairs. Miriam isn't here yet, but he isn't worried. She's punctual to a fault.
There are eight people waiting—three with appointments and five hopefuls, camping out despite Hannibal's booked schedule. He thinks of hyenas skulking in the shadows, licking their chops over the potential of a cancellation that will never come.
Hannibal does not get no-shows. His avid following decimated Will's inbox and voicemail within minutes of his expertly-curated social post about visiting Wolf & Stag.
Will understands; he was like them, once. It makes him resent them even more.
Watching Abigail remind a stout, bearded man for what must be the fifth time that Hannibal is not taking any last-minute appointments, Will's never been more grateful for her ability to deal with bullshit. She's had more than her share in the last few weeks leading up to Hannibal's visit. His fans are ravenous. This one has been back every day, despite her firm reminders. Will loves her for taking the brunt of their frustration, even if he does feel vaguely guilty about it.
"Please, just show him the sketch," the sweaty man begs, nearly on his toes to lean over the desk. "I know he'll want to do it if he sees it."
Abigail remains unphased. "I'll tell you what I told you an hour ago. He has no availability."
Desperation seeps from every pore of the stranger. He clutches a damp print-out of a tacky, overcomplicated design. It doesn't match Hannibal's style in the least. With a sigh, Abigail's eyes slide over to meet Will's.
"Mr…" Will intrudes, raising bored heads around the room. Abigail doesn't need his help, but he's feeling snarky and could use an outlet.
"Froideveaux," the portly man frowns. "Franklyn Froideveaux. Are you Will Graham? I've emailed you—"
Ah. This guy. "Mr. Froideveaux," Will sighs. He fiddles with one of his ear piercings as he leans on the desk, facing Franklyn. "Yes. Abigail told me about you."
Franklyn's nose wrinkles with anxious displeasure. He steps back from Will so their height difference isn't quite so stark. "Yes. Well, then you know you important it is that I get in to see Mr. Lecter!"
Will rubs at his jaw, aware of the room watching them closely. "Yeah. Look, I'm not sure how many ways we can tell you it's not happening. You made a request, it was declined. We have several other artists who—"
"No, no!" Franklyn sputters, adjusting his tie. "It has to be him. He's the best. I'm sure he misunderstood my message. If I can talk to him, I know he'll make an exception."
Abigail bites her tongue.
"You're wasting your breath," Will exhales. "Wait with the others if you want, but if you keep bothering Abigail, I will help you find the door."
Franklyn splutters for a moment, eyes wide. His gaze darts around, seeking allies; he finds none. The other four fans have been here all day and would be happy to shed the competition. After a moment, he composes himself, ruddy-cheeked and cowed. He slumps back to his chair.
Right on cue, the door chimes for a serious-looking blonde woman in a blue button-up. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbows, exposing her tattooed prosthetic forearm. Her hair is slicked back in its signature low ponytail. Seeing the crowded lobby, her brows raise a half-inch in surprise.
"Miriam," Will smiles, an honest reaction. He genuinely does love working with her.
"Afternoon, Will," she nods back. "You guys having a fire sale?"
"Hannibal Lecter," three people respond, all far more enthusiastic than Will, as if that will answer her question.
"Who?"
She gets a few dirty looks and a smug grin from Will. "Guest artist. I'll fill you in. You ready to go?"
"I am."
She greets Abigail fondly, her forms pre-printed and signed in a crisp manila folder. It's a formality at this point, but for all her late-adolescent sulking, Abigail is a drill sergeant about paperwork.
"C'mon up," he directs, ushering her away from the crowd. "It's been a hell of a week."
Will's station is slightly removed from the main area of the shop. While Bev, Randall and Margot all work in a common space with dividers, his little haven is tucked off to the side. It's a mutually beneficial setup; Margot and Bev enjoy the way Randall's presence deters their male clients from getting too friendly, while Will gets to block out the majority of the chaos so he can work.
He can also play his own music to drown out the fucking classical bullshit Hannibal's had piping through the speakers since he arrived.
"What's with the Chopin?" Miriam asks as Will eyeballs the stencil placement, careful to follow the curve of her shoulder. "I've never been here when you weren't playing dad rock or sad lesbian cover songs."
Will snorts to himself. "Blame Bev for the second one."
"I blame her and Margot," Miriam smirks gently. "Not that I've ever minded. Someone needs to keep the spirit of Lilith Fair alive."
He has to pause to keep from messing up the stencil while he laughs. "Yeah, well, they're doing their best. At least it's not Randall. All he plays is Tool and EDM. Drives the girls nuts."
"Seems like a good kid, though," Miriam hums. Will shows her the design in the mirror; she nods her approval. It matches her forearm beautifully.
"He is," Will agrees. He starts gathering up his things as it dries on her skin. His voice dips so he can't be overheard as he mumbles, "when he's not drooling over Count Lecter."
Miriam's expression opens, curious. They'd passed by Hannibal's station on their way to Will's; he had offered a warm smile and a polite nod.
"He's not really a count, is he?"
Will kicks himself mentally. "Would you believe me if I said he was?"
"Yes," she responds after a moment of consideration, revisiting the image of him in her mind. "He's handsome in an unusual way. Exotic, somehow. The way he holds himself speaks to aristocracy. What's his story?"
Listening to her describe him with so much thought after a two-second glimpse, Will's expression sours. Is everyone so captivated by him? Is Will nothing better than one of Hannibal's sycophants?
Was, he corrects himself. He's over it, having met the man.
Ink splatters as he squirts it too roughly into a cap, tipping it over despite the dollop of Vaseline holding it in place. Will curses under his breath. Well, at least his shirt is black.
It's always black.
"He's impossible," Will mumbles. "He was—it's a long story."
"I've got at least… I think you quoted me three hours?" Miriam smirks, detaching her forearm to set it on the table Will left out for her. "More, if we start on color."
A sigh slumps Will's shoulders. Having wiped down and reset his station, he rips off and replaces his gloves. He wheels around on his little stool, positioning her for optimal access.
She watches. Miriam likes the way Will looks at her arm, amputated just below the elbow. Not a shred of pity. He turns it like clay to be sculpted, a landscape to be captured. Like he can see the final design in his mind's eye and is working out how to get from here to there.
"Lay it on me, Graham," she smirks. "You know I love gossip that has nothing to do with me."
Will chuckles again. The tattoo machine buzzes as he adjusts it, finding the right frequency for the liner.
"Yeah," he shrugs, pressing the pedal to saturate the needle with ink before he begins. "All right. You ready?"
"I'm ready."
As usual, she doesn't flinch.
The story of Hannibal is this: four days ago, Will picked him up at the airport and felt his stomach drop.
It wasn't that he hadn't known what il Mostro looked like. The man was photogenic, prolific and far from humble; naturally, he'd been featured in tattoo magazines and articles many times over.
None of them did him justice.
"You must be Mr. Graham," Hannibal had said, looking impossibly crisp for a man fresh off a seven-hour flight. The idea of a three-piece suit for air travel, even in first class, had Will squirming in his scuffed work boots. "A pleasure to finally meet you."
"Um, yeah," Will had said, swallowing thickly. "Hi. W-welcome to Virginia."
A small, devastating smile had curled the corners of those proud lips. "I am thrilled to make its acquaintance, and yours."
Hannibal had extended a hand, the fragile grayscale leaves of one of his many breathtaking tattoos poking out from his jacket cuff. Will had felt the urge to wipe his palm off on his jeans before shaking it. Even his good shop hoodie, the one with barely any ink stains, suddenly felt like a crumpled paper bag.
"Okay," he'd said, unsure what had happened to his grasp of language. "Um, yeah. How was… the flight?"
He'd stared at the place their hands met; those corded, tanned fingers wrapping around the patchy stick-and-poke designs on his own pale digits. Hannibal's nails were neatly manicured where Will's bore the telltale signs of nervous biting. Maybe it was a European thing, but Will got the distinct feeling he held the contact a little longer than necessary.
"Uneventful, but pleasant," Hannibal had shrugged, detaching them to follow Will to his (embarrassingly affordable) car. "I was able to catch up on some paperwork and review several of the designs for this week."
"Hah, yeah. There's, you'll have a lot." What?
"Indeed. I'm humbled by the enthusiasm for my visit, and by your assistant's tenacity. Ms. Hobbs has been remarkable at organizing my books."
"Yeah. She's, um, she's great."
"I look forward to meeting her. For a young apprentice, her work is quite promising."
Will had paused, then. "You looked at it?"
"Of course. I reviewed your shop extensively. I had several offers when I announced my interest in visiting America, but yours was by far the most appealing."
Will punched a few numbers into the ticket machine in the lot, trying to see if any of them would give him his competence back. His mouth had gone dry for no apparent reason.
"That's, um, nice of you," he'd stammered, relieved by the beep-beep of his Volvo unlocking from a distance when he pressed the button on his key fob. He'd forgotten where he parked, or what a car was. "She'll, yeah. She'll be flattered. She's good."
Will had watched himself from a distance, mortified. He'd never been left speechless by someone before. Having spoken over the phone in preparation for the visit, he'd known that silky accent did something to his stomach, but hearing it in person was another thing entirely.
"I'll admit, I am rather looking forward to seeing your work take shape in person," Hannibal had told him, eyes on the pink of Will's cheeks. Why did it sound like… that? "It's quite stunning, if I may say so."
He could say so, though Will didn't know why in the hell he would.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I'm… I'm fine. People are real excited about you, though."
Opening the trunk, Will went queasy at the sight of rumpled dog blankets and a bent ice scraper, all coated in layers of fur. Why hadn't he cleaned it? Why hadn't he rented a limo? He'd nearly fallen while trying to help Hannibal lift his monogrammed suitcase into the trunk; he'd fantasized about the sweet relief of death. All the while, the smooth bastard had simply smiled that barely-there smile, eyes lit with gathering amusement.
"You aren't comfortable with praise," Hannibal had assessed. It wasn't a judgment, merely a statement of fact, as if he were narrating it before filing it into a folder of Will's eccentricities. "That will be difficult for us, as I have plenty to offer."
Will had practically leapt into the driver's seat. His face was too hot. He'd started the car without waiting for Hannibal to settle in properly, startling both of them when it jolted to life.
"Yeah, I'm not…" Not what? Not functioning? "I'm okay. You're the star attraction."
Hannibal had let out a small breath of laughter. "I will endeavor to earn my keep."
"Don't worry about that," Will had huffed, genuine. "We're booked out the a—we're booked solid with your would-be clients. I hope you're ready for fangirling. Some of these people are flying in for it. One of them is coming from, I think Abigail said… Vancouver?"
The slight pause after his short ramble caught in Will's throat. Hannibal seemed to be thinking for far too long before he'd answered, "Victoria, British Columbia, yes. Ms. Dhavernas. She's attempted to book with me before, but the distance has proved something of an obstacle."
Will thought of his own history and bit his lower lip. He'd promised himself not to bring that up under any circumstances.
"Still a hell of a trip."
"Much closer than Florence," Hannibal had hummed, fond and somewhat distant. "I wonder if our mutual jet lag will make for a memorable session."
Will rolled his window down and slipped the ticket into the little gray machine, tapping his fingers on the wheel as he'd waited for the barrier to lift. A strange, sickly heat churned in his gut. He'd tried to trace it to its source, but could only find il Mostro's description of this Canadian woman scratching away at his patience for no reason at all.
"I'm sure she'll be thrilled," he'd said, flatter and less kind than he'd intended.
Hannibal's attention from the passenger seat had been warm enough that he'd flipped on the AC. As they'd pulled out of the lot and onto the highway, Will's mind had raced miles ahead, past their destination.
For some time, neither of had spoken. The radio played softly, a classic rock station, inoffensive. Will berated himself all the while. Hannibal's presence should not have unmoored him like that. He'd been an admirer for many years, sure, but Will did not get starstruck as a rule. He saw too much of who people really were to put them on pedestals.
When he'd looked at Hannibal then, face to face, he'd seen a mirror in the dark.
Will hadn't needed to do research before putting in his bid to host Hannibal for his American tour, but he had pored over the @serpentandspindleco socials at two in the morning several days in a row before biting the bullet and (drunkenly) filling out the application. Most of the photos on Italian shop's account were of tattoos and clients, or of the studio's layout, but there were several of Hannibal taken by his two coworkers.
Dr. Bedelia du Maurier and the mononymous Chiyoh, both previous apprentices of the Count's, were plenty successful in their own right. Chiyoh had built Serpent & Spindle's online presence into a juggernaut over the years, artfully using their combined talents and ethereal beauty to cultivate a devout following. Chiyoh clearly knew what drove engagement, careful to sprinkle in portraits of each of their high-cheekboned faces just often enough to keep their audience swooning. That Hannibal's only employees-slash-coworkers were icily beautiful women only added to his mystique.
The most recent photo of Will on their shop's account was from two years ago. It was out of focus. Abigail, no slouch in the social media department, had been begging him to take some updated head shots for months. He had not yet run out of excuses.
Despite all that, and despite an application timestamped at 2:17am that was surely riddled with typos, Hannibal had accepted Wolf & Stag for his North American drop-in.
Will hadn't believed it. He'd made Bev read the reply, then stood over Abigail's shoulder as she checked it for spam. She'd deemed it legit with as much shock on her face as the rest of them. Not only because they'd been chosen, but because she never would have imagined Will would shoot his shot. She'd been visibly impressed, if confused.
He hadn't told her it would never have happened without his old friend Jack Daniel's. Bev didn't need to be told.
After the surprise mellowed and a few months of messages and bookings had passed, Hannibal simply rolled off a plane and existed in Will's world. It was surreal.
Unnerving.
The monster of Florence was taller in person. He smelled faintly of clean pine soap, though Will suspected he probably wore cologne when he wasn't flying. He would consider the potential irritation of a strong smell in a prolonged, shared space to be rude, and Serpent & Spindle made no secret of his distaste for rudeness. Their branding leaned heavily on a sort of gothic politeness, one that tiptoed close to the language of dominance but would never be so crass as to say be a good boy, or Daddy won't cut you like you want.
Will had told himself he couldn't be the first person to think that. It wasn't interesting of him to be titillated by a persona.
But… sitting next to the man in one-sided tension masked as companionable silence, Will had had a hard time reckoning with how naturally that energy came to him. It wasn't a put-on for his fans, though he certainly leaned into it. He had the sort of posture that made you aware you were slouching. A precision of language designed to have you questioning if your words were worth speaking at all.
And he just kept staring.
"Oh, wow."
Will had gawked as he'd pulled into the drive of a hotel he'd never heard of, much less stayed in. Wolf & Stag had hosted many guest artists over the years, but they'd mostly stayed with friends or at the run-down Holiday Inn close to the shop. This place was… not that.
"Ah, we're here."
It had been, at first glance, an expensive and futuristic haunted castle. Blue and pink neon lights hung tastefully in heritage stone windows. Wrought iron gates and geometric topiaries played host to scatterings of silk flowers, each bursting with glowing blue stamens.
Will had wondered who the fucking audience was for a place like this in Virginia, but Hannibal had claimed to know the owners and insisted on covering the bill, so there they were.
"That was hardly much of a trip at all," Hannibal had said, unbuckling dutifully. "More's the pity."
Will had felt a bit detached from reality. "You're mad your hotel's close to the airport? It's only fifteen minutes from the shop, too."
"I'm loathe to exchange convenience for your company. I had hoped to speak more with you before tomorrow."
"Um, if there's anything you need, you can text," Will had said, fumbling with the fraying cuffs of his hoodie. "Or call, I guess, not that anyone does that."
"You did," Hannibal had reminded him, sending Will into a brief spiral about how awkward he'd been during their first chat. "I enjoyed it greatly."
"Yeah, um, do you…"
He was starting to say need help with your bags, which sounded to him a lot like need a hand up to your room?, which was dangerously close to need my hands, in your room?
Catching Hannibal's eye, a glint of neon curiosity in an ocean of black, he'd barely managed to avoid stepping into the snare.
"Do I what, Will?"
Clearing his throat, Will had popped the trunk decisively. "Was gonna ask if you needed help, but I think you're stronger than I am."
Fuck, Graham, what are you doing? Stop talking.
Hannibal had retrieved his bag with grace, never tearing his curious gaze from Will's awkward tics or frizzy curls.
"I suspect you're hiding plenty of lean muscle beneath that sweatshirt and those baggy jeans," he'd said, like it wasn't an absolutely shameless statement to make to a near-stranger. "But I won't keep you. Not tonight, at least."
Fuck, Lecter, what are YOU doing?
Will had blanched, lost for words for the second time in as many hours. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gaping. As Hannibal had leaned closer, eyelids fluttering faintly as he inhaled, Will had experienced the distinct impression of being scented.
"What…"
"Forgive me," Hannibal murmured then, not contrite in the least. "I have quite a keen sense of smell. Something of you reminds me of the forests of my youth."
"Wh—," Will had stuttered, thrown and trembling slightly. "What did they smell like?"
Breathing in slowly, Hannibal's eyes had searched beneath closed lids. The profound intimacy of it had drawn Will's awareness to the sensitivity of his skin.
"Wildness. Earth. Verdant growth from rich decay."
His eyes had drawn open languidly, tracing the planes of Will's face, counting his piercings. Hannibal had only one in each ear—small white-gold studs—and no ink above his shoulders.
Tasteful. Smug. No ill-advised flash pieces from friends after three whiskey sours in the back of someone's van.
Will had seized those petulant thoughts like a life raft as his cheeks blazed.
"I, um. Must be my, uh, conditioner."
"Perhaps," Hannibal had grinned, a sparkle of mischief contained. "Though I suspect that wildness runs deep."
It would have been far too easy to bare his neck and let the man get a proper lungful of him. Will's pulse had beat loudly beneath the crown of antlers tattooed around his neck and collarbones—not done in anyone's van, but he couldn't say the same for the trashy bits and pieces tucked in around his calves.
In the fantastical lights of the hotel's illuminated garden, with that impossibly imposing man staring down at him, he could have almost let himself give in to the sudden, overpowering urge.
"Hah. I… maybe."
No, he'd told himself. He wasn't a groupie. He was a lifelong admirer of Hannibal's technical skill and prowess, playing host for a short while. He did not need to throw himself at the man's feet like Serpent & Spindle's comment section was wont to do, always full of wildly inappropriate come-ons and catcalls. Count Lecter's ego looked puffed up enough to require its own adjoining room. Honestly, where did he get off flirting with Will like this, knowing it was just for show, only part of his insufferable charm, meaningless, false—
"Will."
"—arrogant, like I was some kind of game, like he was bored after his flight—"
"Will."
"—maybe slumming it had some kind of appeal for him—"
"Graham."
Will freezes, machine in hand, the needles still buzzing as he draws them from her skin. He lifts his foot from the pedal with a blink, emerging from his dream-state. For a moment he panics that he's screwed up the design, but the lines are coming together neatly.
"Shit. Sorry," he gulps, setting the machine down to wipe away the ink and light smattering of blood with his eyes averted. Miriam sits like a champ. "Anyway, yeah, so that's, um, il Mostro's deal."
She lets out the faintest hiss at the dry wipe, the closest she gets to complaining even when he's shading over bone. After it, she laughs.
"You're kidding me, right?"
Will stops fiddling with the machine long enough to flick his gaze up at hers, feeling distinctly humbled by his own runaway mouth.
"Which part?"
Miriam's smile is kind, affectionate, like one might be towards a puppy trying to climb the stairs for the first time. Will bristles. He tries to focus on spraying the ink clean from the needles for the next round.
"I don't know, all of it?" she says finally, adjusting in her chair, checking her phone briefly before placing it back in her bag. She's off today, but the FBI doesn't seem to care much for a healthy work/life balance. "I mean, tell me if I'm getting this wrong—," Will knows she won't be, and braces for her scalpel of insight. "—but it sounds like your hero showed up looking like a million bucks, you immediately hit it off, and now you're mad because he's paying attention to you."
"That's not—"
"Which part is more irritating, how handsome he is or how much he clearly wants to jump your bones?"
Will's mouth flattens to a line. "Is this what it's like for other people, when I read them out loud?"
"Your talent is a goalpost," Miriam grins. "I can only hope to walk a little in your shoes." Before he can speak, she gets a look of mischief. "Though if I could, I'd stalk those beat-up Converse right over to Mr. Dreamboat Italian Count's chair and profess my love."
It's pointless to argue what she knows to be true, so he finds something else to gnaw on.
"He's leaving end of next week. You good to go?"
She nods at him, machine poised and humming above her acromioclavicular joint. There's the barest hint of a flinch as he starts in again on the finer details.
"So, he's leaving," she shrugs, or at least says in the manner of a shrug because her shoulder is being stabbed repeatedly. "All the more reason to fix him with a little of that trademark Will Graham seduction."
Will tries not to laugh. He prides himself on clean, steady linework. "I'm not sure I could be seductive with a gun to my head."
Miriam hums. "Not with that attitude."
She relents, though. They get forty-five minutes of blessed peace before a knock on the doorframe shatters it.
"May I come in?"
*