Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“For today’s warm up question, I want to know what paradise is to you. If you could spend a day in a perfect world, what might that look like?”

Will scraped his heels against the white tile beneath him, leaving behind two black scuff marks. A group facilitator sat across from him in the circle of clients, her smile washed out by fluorescent gymnasium lights into a greenish white. Will’s attention drifted past the woman and to the long foldable table against the wall, its sticky plastic surface full of grocery store muffins and watered down coffee. Will had decided that this evening, free dinner meant he could sit through the forced make-up meeting.

Clearing her throat, the facilitator probed once again, calling on a random participant to answer.

 “A day spent marveling in the will of God, in His creation, connecting with the earth and His magnificence.” Will’s eyes drifted lazily while the woman’s sing-song voice echoed sharply against the gymnasium walls, occasionally intercepted by sounds of mumbled agreement from the group.

It had been exactly fifteen days since Will had a drink. Alana had approached him carefully at Quantico with a bargain, sitting him down to a “go home and sign up for the rehabilitation group as I say, or find your desk indefinitely empty.” Every workday, he silently dropped a signed attendance log on Alana’s desk, turning his back towards her before she could say a word.

Will counted the seconds hand of the clock pass as the woman's story never seemed to end. After sixty more dragged on, the facilitator politely intervened to announce the end of the meeting, speaking overtop of the group as they rustled to put on coats and grab bags.

“Next week, we’ll be having a guest sit in with us for observation. He’ll be collecting data for a paper regarding the work we do,” the facilitator grinned widely, her smile lines stretching to accommodate it, “I will gather some consent forms from you all at the start of the session. I hope to see you all again soon.”

Another set of eyes, another unit of pressure. Will fumbled with his tortoise colored glasses as he rose, tugging his brown corduroy coat on. He briskly walked towards the exit, letting the emergency door slam shut behind him.

-

Waking up every morning was harder than the last. Will’s sleep was plagued by the same nightmares of his Southern hometown, dry wheat fields in the backwoods of Alabama at sundown, Will cracking and whipping against the branches of pine trees that tore into his skin. Whatever was chasing him never came into reach, and never took a rest. Will always found himself waking up wide eyed and doused in his own sweat, forced to peel off a now sour smelling t-shirt before dragging himself to the shower.

When he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool shower tile, he imagined himself standing on the rooftop of Quantico, past the guardrails and teetering on the very edge. After turning the water off, he’d stand for a long while and let the showerhead trickle its remnants onto the crown of his head. Will jumped from this great height in his mind as many times as possible, until his soft body didn’t get back up again.

At work, Will crumpled into his seat and stared across the various portfolios of unconfirmed suspects and gutted victims on his desk. Will mindlessly picked at the corner of the newest addition, staring at The Chesapeake Ripper spelled out in bold marker. 

Each body found had been contorted into something abstract and grotesque for the unfortunate FBI agent that would analyze it. Lately, it had been Will, standing in the midst of the gore and the hunger for violence.

A hungry Ripper. Will looked down and realized he had begun to fold and fray a manilla corner until it was tattered. 

“I hear Hannibal is coming to your group today?” Alana appeared unannounced before Will’s desk, arms crossed, a hip pressing flush into the old wood. Will looked up from the sea of folders towards Alana’s face, past the shoulder length hair that followed as she bowed her head closer to him.

Will furrowed his brow as he searched for the name. “The visitor coming to ‘observe’ us?” Reclining in his seat, Will watched Alana from beneath his brow. Alana trailed a hand across the folder closest to her, thumbing the edge of an evidence photo that threatened to spill over.

“Your facilitator doesn't mean any harm by bringing someone else around, Will. I’ve known Hannibal for quite some time, he mentored me through Johns Hopkins. This paper he’s working on is–”

“Doesn't mean any harm,” Will echoed wryly, dragging his palms down the knees of his pantlegs as he bitterly shook his head. He ignored the way Alana bristled at his childish interruption.

“I don't know how treating us like lab rats in a rehabilitative environment should make me feel, but I wouldn't exactly call it healing. It’s performative at best, clinical at worst.” Will eventually came to a pause, realizing how closely Alana was listening to him, her eyebrows drawn and jaw firmly set.

“This is the most you’ve spoken to me in weeks, Will. A group like this is bound to help you. I’m sure you’ll find Hannibal intriguing enough to stick around.” Alana picked up the folder she had been fiddling with, opening it to a photograph that slid down to the palm of her hand. A young woman was splayed out on yellowing grass, sternum and ribcage methodically opened, various organs missing from the cavities of her chest. Alana quickly shut the folder.

“I don’t find most people that interesting,” Will muttered as he took his glasses off, pinching and rubbing at the bridge of his nose before his hand fell down to his thigh.

Alana smiled warmly. “With Hannibal? You will.”

-

Will filled his paper plate with four banana bread muffins, balancing the coffee cup against the beveled edge of the thin platter. In between the group facilitator’s chair was a new and different body, straight postured and donning a suit with a pattern that almost seemed to shimmer beneath the terrible lighting.

Will watched the perfect silhouette of the stranger’s back while he wrote something down; not a sandy brown hair dared to come out of place when he turned to respond to the facilitator remarking on the group turn out. Will tore his gaze away, stopping at the end of the foldable table for a second plate to protect the top of his food.

Once Will was settled and the group’s small chat came to a natural end, the facilitator smiled even wider than before, splaying a hand towards the unfamiliar man sat before them.

“Good morning everyone! This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. He will be observing you for the next seven days, focusing on the cohesion of our group and how we all engage intrapersonally and emotionally.” As the facilitator spoke with a corporate pride that hung strangely in the informal community gymnasium, Will’s face twitched into a scrunch. Cupping his hand across his face, Will pretended as if he had an itch on his nose that could be scratched away.

Behind his hand, he felt Hannibal’s eyes land on him.

“Could everybody go around the group and introduce themselves? I won’t bore you with any icebreakers,” she offhandedly remarked to Hannibal, earning herself a smile so artificial that Will could not miss its insincerity from the gaps between his fingers. 

As the group went around, Will hung his head against the back of his chair, counting every crosspoint of four ceiling tiles that  met. Various careers, ages, and different degrees of alcoholism were awkwardly shared by each individual. 

When silence hung in the air to indicate his turn, Will straightened himself, tapping his feet for a moment before flattening them on the floor. Green flannel sleeves glided across his arms as he crossed them.

“Will Graham,” he said flatly towards Hannibal, who merely watched on in silence. “I’ve been working as a professor for Quantico’s Behavioral Department for over seven years. I find the job to be incredibly fulfilling. In fact, I celebrate every day I come home with a whole bottle of Maker’s Mark. And now I’m here.” Will had kept his eyes trained on the spot between both the facilitator and Hannibal’s shoulders, currently unwilling to fully meet the doctor’s gaze that had not faltered since he sat down. “I didn’t come to be ogled, or used to buff your resume–” for a moment, Will did meet Hannibal’s eyes, captured in the dark shadows cast by the light, “I don’t intend to participate for your benefit.”

“Participation isn’t mandatory, Will,” the group facilitator interjected before Hannibal could even move to speak, prompting Hannibal to shift his legs into a crossed position, hands coupled and holding onto a leather-backed legal pad. Will broke from Hannibal’s eyes, trailing his attention across the creamy white sheets and the immaculate cursive script that peeked out from the page. “If you want to miss this week’s meetings, that’s fine. It’s all delineated in the form I gave you when you first walked in.”

It sat folded into a million tiny squares in Will’s breast pocket.

“So, you enjoy teaching others how to see the world as you do, Will?” Hannibal’s voice was unexpectedly thick with an accent that Will could not place.

 Will looked at the spot between Hannibal’s eyebrows. “I don’t particularly wish for anyone to see it how I do,” Will’s eyes darted back to the familiarity of the clock on the wall, “I just want them to see the killers for who they are, how they leave traces of themselves besides physical evidence.” Will’s voice trailed off as he turned back to the ground, finally focusing on his worn out oxford shoes.

“And how do you see them, beyond the evidence?”

Will’s mouth quirked slightly down. “It’s not seeing, it’s becoming. To catch them, you have to–” 

“Well, Will, I’m glad to see how much you’re opening up,” in a far too high-pitched voice, the facilitator broke the conversation apart, clasping her hands together. “Unfortunately, it’s time for us to move onto the next person, and get to our first processing topic.”

For a fraction of a moment, the annoyance on Hannibal’s face manifested itself in the twitching quiver of his crow’s eyes, the smallest flare of his nostrils. Will watched intently until it all slammed shut in his face. Hannibal was back to the perfect neutrality of a marble statue, leaving Will at the base.

“In the past few days, has there been anything particularly distressing for you, or something on your mind that you’d like to share? Let’s work our way around the room.”

-

Once the final grueling hour ended, Will rolled his neck around, removing his glasses to wipe at them with the corner of his flannel. Every awful memory and painful story recounted by the group remained in Will’s mind, dancing around and kicking down feeble fortresses constructed to keep himself sane. Alcohol induced memory loss had been the final line of defense between him and the Ripper. Will slid his thumb against the worn down buttons of his car fob, contemplating whether he wanted to call out of work as he stood up.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Will.” Hannibal’s voice was measured as he suddenly stood before Will, a brown trenchcoat folded over his arm.

Will stuffed his keys in his pocket before adjusting a nonexistent tilt in his glasses. “Guess I should say the same for you.”

Hannibal smiled. Unlike towards the facilitator, it felt sincerely friendly, and the rest of Hannibal’s face fell into a similar warmth. “If you allow me the opportunity, perhaps we could get to know each other. I suspect we have more in common than you’d believe.”

Will dryly laughed, hand in pocket as he turned to inspect the members leaving the room. “Most people wouldn’t describe me as relatable.”

“Relatively speaking, we share a similar background. I suspect you are familiar with Alana Bloom?”

At the mention of Alana, Will’s expression softened, and the hand in his pocket began to flex. “Do you happen to stare at dead people all day long too? I’d think you know better than I what that does to your head.” Avoiding the topic of her was easier than admitting their arrangement to Hannibal.

“After completing medical school, I love it as much as you do,” Hannibal chuckled through his words, and Will glanced from the side towards him. A small, frail smile crept onto Will’s face.

“Behavioral science lends itself just as much to private practice. Identification of, for example, a classic psychopath through total insertion of yourself into their perspective is a uniquely destructive approach.” Hannibal’s steady, time-worn hand buttoned his suit back together, maintaining steady eye contact with Will as he llooked anywhere else. 

Will cleared his throat, brown downturned, “Sorry, but is this a pre-assessment? Wanna pitch your business card at me next?” Will chewed out his words as Hannibal bowed his head in acquiesce.

Hannibal began to put his coat on, looking across Will’s attire and towards the ground.

“Is that your plate? I wouldn’t want you to leave it behind.” Hannibal's eyes gestured towards the plate and coffee on the wooden floor beside Will’s chair. A hot blush quickly formed across Will’s face as he bent down to gather the plate and cup, gripping the second plate covering the muffins tightly.

“Thanks.” Will balanced the cup atop of the plate tower. Hannibal took a moment to allow Will to collect himself.

“I hope we may see each other next session.”

Will had begun to walk away, momentarily raising a free hand once he was near the exit to indicate a goodbye.

Hannibal took inventory of the spread of store bought baked goods across the room, the sound of his dress shoes reverberating across the glossy gymnasium floor.

Chapter Text

At midday, all of the Quantico forensic and behavioral team stood surrounding the office desk of the crime scene with Will tucked away in a corner, eyeing the body from a safer vantage point (as if the visualizations of his mind were any more safe than reality.) Before them sat a blonde woman, her body crudely bent over and strewn across her desk, bleeding into a miasma of work papers. Her tongue was nowhere to be found, with the rest of her upper body that laid against the edge of the stained mahogany having been hollowed out clean.

Will’s eyes landed on the papers that were so thoroughly soaked, they looked as if they had been printed red to begin with. Will couldn't help but softly laugh at how elaborate it all was. His coworkers cast a disapproving glance towards his corner.

Will cleared his throat. “I’d like some space to work, please.” 

Once the room had emptied, Will approached the front door and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he became the Ripper, standing still and pressed against the wall adjacent to the door. As the door opened, Will watched himself seize the woman from behind. A long blade cleanly pierced into her jugular. A gloved hand caressed her jaw before stifling her nose and mouth. A bubbling gurgle followed as the weapon was dragged down her neck. Blood painted the desk and all of the work laid out on it, dribbling and splattering down its sides and onto the carpet. Carefully, he walked her body to the desk, letting it drop into the seat. Will rearranged her to produce a wash of blood from her neck. Another hand reached between her lips.

Flicking his wrist, he squeezed the woman’s jaw to force her mouth wide open.

Will opened his eyes. He tasted blood that had pooled between his teeth and his bottom lip from chewing at it. A blend of pungent iron and printer ink emanated through the room. Stepping back out, Will relayed his theory of modus operandi to the team, occasionally glancing at the slumped woman from the corner of his eye. She stared back, wide and blank, a dark red tax sheet stuck against her cheek.

That night, Will dreamt of red paper flitting down from the sky as he ran, catching in branches full of pine needles that sliced and pricked his skin when he passed through them. Somewhere in the distance, a flooding river of blood grew nearer, with a horrible screaming coming closer and closer the faster he ran. Panting and trembling, Will woke up that morning in the same state of disarray, pushing wet hair from his forehead and rubbing grit from his eyes.

Idly, Will wondered what Hannibal would suggest he do for sleep, outside of drinking himself into the depths of it.

-

Uncomfortable and tugging at his flannel sleeves, Will idled by the gymnasium threshold as he watched several group members trickle in past him. His head was pounding, his sciatic nerve was burning, and his commitment was waning. Heading back home and foregoing the group entirely would give him a chance to rest before driving to Quantico. As his feet moved away from the point where the flooring turned into glossy wood, a hand appeared and pressed against the small of Will’s back.

“Good morning, Will. You’ve returned to the group,” Will looked up at Hannibal as he spoke, pulling away from his hand as he worked his jaw back and forth. Will stared at an imperfection on the metal of the gymnasium bleachers.

“Actually, I’m taking my leave—work just called,” Will muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he hung his head, glancing back up to meet the balthus knot of Hannibal’s tie.

“That is a shame to hear. I brought you something,” Hannibal opened a leather bag that hung from his shoulder. From it, he procured a large glass tupperware container, and Will counted at least eight muffins of different kinds inside. They appeared professionally made, dusted with powdered sugar and decorated with various fruits and chocolates. Will rubbed his nape with a calloused hand, feeling the heat form beneath his flannel collar.

“Doctor Lecter, you really didn't have to,” a large and expensive looking thermos followed the tupperware, and Hannibal motioned to a pair of seats outside of the gymnasium entrance. 

“Please, sit. I brewed a wonderful Carraro Globo Oro blend, providing us with the aromatic experience of Italian espresso and the palate composition of South American coffee.” Gingerly, Will sat down as Hannibal popped open the container, setting it down and taking out two small thin china plates from the same bag. Hannibal watched Will place one muffin onto the plate Hannibal had handed him; as Hannibal poured coffee into both of the thermos cups, a small smile glanced across his features.

“Do not feel as though you must be conservative, Will. I am not one for baked sweets,” Hannibal gestured towards the container, and Will dryly swallowed, placing two more muffins onto his plate. There was no functional form of rejection when Will was being offered so directly from Hannibal.

 A wonderful chocolatey aroma came from Will’s cup as he blew on it. Will only spoke after finishing off the first muffin, looking through the doorway and at the chattering group inside.

“Why did you bake these for me, Doctor Lecter?” 

Hannibal sat down beside him, raising his own cup with a long pause. Will took the moment to finally observe him up close. Today, Hannibal wore a deep navy suit with a delicate metallic embroidery of flowers and wisps, a cream white pocket square, and a lighter blue satin tie to match. Hannibal’s shoes shined so pristinely that Will could see his own reflection. Once more, the doctor’s hair was neatly combed to the side, thick with pomade that Will could faintly smell. Will put back the rest of his coffee far too quickly, his throat bobbing from the residual heat scalding the back of his throat.

Hannibal’s brow subtly twitched at the sight. “Perhaps I see it worthwhile to do more than observe. It seems your participation is to be earned, and having adequate energy during the group is important for that outcome.” Will finished the second muffin, wiping crumbs from his hands onto the plate. Some still fell to the wayside, and Hannibal watched them hit the ground, eventually landing on the sight of the muffin crumbs on Will’s lips.

“Thank you for your consideration, but I don't need this to become some kind of routine. I can feed myself just fine.” Will pushed the plate with the final muffin back towards Hannibal, refusing eye contact once more.

Hannibal smiled, receiving the plate with ease. “Tell me, Will—how often do you have this same breakfast? Is it every day?”

Will’s brows knit together in response. Hannibal languidly looked Will up and down, and Will bristled beneath the scrutiny. 

“Outside of the symptoms of your alcohol withdrawal, you appear to be somewhat malnourished. Am I remiss to believe you may benefit from a higher caloric intake?”

Will placed the empty cup down hard, his voice loud enough to draw attention from the group. “You’re not my doctor, so none of this concerns you.” As he strode down the hallway, Hannibal leaned back in his chair, hand overtop of the container of muffins.

“Would you like to bring the rest home?” Hannibal called after him, his accent buffing off the ends of his consonants.

Will stopped in his tracks, his tightly fisted hands flexing before losing their grip. Less than twenty dollars in his bank account and payday next Monday meant that Will turned back towards Hannibal, slowly making his way over.

“For future reference,” Will muttered, displaying his hands to receive the container while Hannibal looked up from the seat, “I would rather just have banana bread muffins. Keeps easier in the fridge.”

“It is settled, then.” 

Come Wednesday, it was an entire banana bread loaf, packaged in a delicate white paper container lined with gold-embellished lace. After the group dispersed, Hannibal had handed it to him in the parking lot, the cellophane around it crinkling in Will’s hands. Will could smell the vanilla and cinnamon through the wrapping, and weight alone indicated that not an inch would be crumbly or dry. On the ride home, Will listened to the soft sounds it made with every bump, stabilized in the passenger seat by his folded coat. With pinched fingers, he ate morsels of the top off as he worked through the night, savoring the complexity of the brown sugar butter. In the freezer sat the other half, which Will decided to save for a later date.

A beef wellington cut into slices and drenched with pan sauce on Thursday, gifted with a ceramic tupperware set that Hannibal firmly insisted Will kept despite his protests. Will had to Google whether steel wool would scratch ceramic. He had carefully placed the light blue set to dry on his dining room table, far away from the reused takeout containers and stainless steel dog bowls.

By Friday, Will had even lost the nerve to get out of his car, forehead pressed flush against the top of his steering wheel. 

Will glanced down at the low glow of his phone to read the text message from Alana: “Congrats on three weeks of group and sobriety! I’m really proud of you, Will.” With a thorough raking of his dark curls and an uneasy sigh, he exited the vehicle and locked it behind him.

As always, Hannibal joined him in the middle of his walk towards the back entrance.

“Good morning, Will.” A thick tan wool overcoat danced in the wind as Hannibal walked, his tie a shimmering gold fabric that shone like the sun beneath the break of dawn. “I would like to invite you to have dinner with me. You are at a milestone worthy of celebration.”

Will paused, looking at Hannibal incredulously. “Isn’t that some sort of patient–provider violation?”

“I am neither your provider, nor are you my patient. I am a medically licensed practitioner using your rehabilitative group as a study focus. We are simply having conversations,” Hannibal halfway turned towards Will with a smile; Will glanced away to remove his glasses and fold them into his flannel pocket. “This is a conversation where I am formally inviting you to partake in a meal with me. You may decline as you see fit.”

Will put both hands together and dragged them down his face, his voice projecting from the convex spot formed by the palms of his hands. “Sure, why not.” Rotting deli meat in his fridge and canned vegetables in his cupboard did not entice Will to reject the offer.

Hannibal nodded in approval, gesturing towards the entrance. “Let us exchange our information before the meeting begins.”

-

Will sat in his seat across from Hannibal, fidgeting with the pantseam on the outside of his thigh. He couldn't recall the last time he had been invited to a dinner, let alone if he had ever received an invitation to such a formal affair. As the group facilitator sat down, Will tugged and picked away at the fabric, shifting in his seat every few minutes before fully settling into it. 

“Good morning everybody! I hope you have had a pleasant week so far, and are looking forward to the weekend. Our time with Doctor Lecter will be ending so soon! I appreciate everyone’s cooperation with his work,” she grinned as the group offered an out of sync clap and noises of approval.

 Will wasn’t clapping. Hannibal had become such a staple figure in his daily routine that the thought of no longer seeing him had not even occurred, and had not yet been carefully considered. Will wiped at his nose and stared off to the side, feeling Hannibal’s gaze bore into his cheek.

“For today’s opening topic, I’d like you to think about something that has brought you gratitude. Not just being thankful for a kind gesture—sincere, thoughtful moments that you feel deeply about.” Hannibal’s hand began to dance across his legal pad with his cursive. For once, Will found himself opening his mouth to speak.

“I am so grateful for God’s presence in my life,” a blonde woman began to recount before Will could begin, “and the way my church has been my waypoint.” Will’s mouth shut and his hands gripped his own biceps. Hannibal dipped his head to the side, his attention set entirely on Will. “Honestly, finding them and their little group in the middle of nowhere changed me,” Will’s fingers had begun to dig in, his jaw endlessly grinding while blood rose to his chest and neck. “God’s little mercies are what bring me the most gratitude in life—”

“God doesn't care about you. You are an ant beneath his magnificent fucking magnifying glass, and his ‘little mercies’ are all of the delusions you feed yourself everyday to get out of bed. If God were real,” Will barely sucked in a breath as he spoke, the veins on his forehead protruding, “he wouldn't allow us to rip each other to bits and shreds and eat the remains.”

Before the facilitator or the woman could compose an appropriate response, Hannibal’s voice filled the room, stable in the electric silence. 

“Will brings up an internal struggle regarding dichotomy, and how you may want to examine your experience beyond a non-secular rationale. Some of what you experience may be attributed to God, or perhaps your own free will,” a hand flattened his tie to his breast, “and it is worth considering these matters before providing every response in a clinical setting.”

With visible strain, Will exhaled, and Hannibal glanced towards the especially panicked group facilitator.

Her hands, now clasped together, trembled. “How about we take five?”

Will immediately stood and made way for the bathroom, palms furiously dragging up and down his thighs. As he pushed the door open, he was greeted with the sickly sweet scent of industrial hand soap and antiseptic cleaner. Hunched over the sink, Will splashed cold water across his face, allowing it to dribble down his chin and onto the collar of his shirt. He shuddered from the temperature shock. With the skin between his pointer and thumb pulled taut, he wiped the water from his lashes. When Hannibal entered, Will was pulling out far too many paper towels to dry himself.

“Quite the surprising exchange,” Hannibal stood beside Will, watching him dab and drag the water off of his jaw with the fistfuls of paper towels. “Do you have anything you would still like to share?”

“I’m sick of this group,” Will muttered with venom as he spoke over the paper towels, “and I never want to come here again. Alana can take my resignation in stride.”

Hannibal furrowed his brow, placing a hand on the cool marble countertop before them. “My finality of time with the group does not need to dictate yours as well, Will. Your progress has been immense, and I believe Alana would be disappointed with such an abrupt outcome.” 

Will let out a cynical laugh, crumpling the wet paper towels into a tight wad before slamming them into the trashcan. “If only Alana spent a day in this room, she would understand why I’m ready to call it quits. And without your—” Will felt his mouth move ahead of his thoughts, stopping himself before the rest tumbled out.

Will lingered before the edge of the countertop. Silence stretched for a moment, and Hannibal took a careful step forward. Will did not move.

“Without your moderation,” Will’s teeth clenched as his hands turned into fists once more, “I foresee a great disservice for the group in my future.”

Hannibal smiled, dipping his head forward until his lips were practically beside Will’s ear. A strange, unknown part of Will kept him cemented to the spot where he stood, fully smelling the depth of Hannibal’s cologne and the sharp cleanliness of his clothes.

“I can assure you, I will not introduce distance, Will.” 

Will’s breath returned to shakiness once more, his nod stuttering. Hannibal clasped a hand around Will’s shoulder. Will tensed beneath the warmth of Hannibal’s hand before it was suddenly gone, and so was Hannibal; Will watched the restroom door swing back and forth until it slammed shut.

Chapter Text

The last time Will could remember smoking a cigarette was in Alabama, barely a day having passed after his father had horrifically passed away in a car crash. They were whatever the cheapest brand had been at the corner store, and Will had watched himself smoke from outside of his body. Today, Will bought himself one of the gold plated Marlboro packs, no longer the man that fumbled with his lighter in the cold morning haze.

Hannibal’s eyes swam in his mind. Bits and pieces of him that now lived inside of Will, familiar and so close that he could slot them into place like a perfect puzzle. Will tilted his head back and watched the cigarette smoke hazily dissipate against the roof of his car.

Will decided that he liked Hannibal, and he wagered that Hannibal liked him too, and that perhaps Hannibal already considered him a friend.

Despite this, a sense of unease curled and settled in his stomach. Will had no friends, and Will wasn't even entirely sure what constituted a friend in his life. Before he could dwell on whether Hannibal was just being kind and Will was misconstrued, he shut and sealed the door to his thoughts, pulling a large cloud of tar and nicotine.

Will rolled the cigarette between his fingers as he watched patrons exit the corner store, remembering the banana bread in the freezer, and the blue ceramic tupperware sitting on his countertop. Will took another drag, his pulse thrumming as he closed his eyes. 

Remembering that group was in thirty minutes felt bitter because Hannibal would not be there. In fact, he would never be there again, and Will would be stuck with the religious woman and the plastic group facilitator. 

Will stubbed his cigarette out on the lid of an old coffee cup and discarded the butt inside. Burned coffee and a metallic scent swarmed around him as he left his car, keys jangling at the edge of his jeans as he made his way towards the gymnasium. Cold evening air cut through his flannel and chafed his cheeks, pushing him to move faster towards the door. At first, Will had not noticed Hannibal having appeared beside him in stride, absorbed in thought as his hands flexed for warmth in his pockets. 

Hannibal smiled at Will’s side profile as he spoke. “I have a clear schedule this evening. May we meet at 7 o’clock?”

Will jumped from the sudden voice beside him. “Shit—Hannibal,” Will’s hands shot out of his pockets, reddened and now warm. Pausing, Will looked around the half empty parking lot, muscle flexing across his jaw as his gears turned.

Will’s brows twitched, his glasses slightly sliding down his nose. “Did you come here just to plan our dinner?” 

“I came to retrieve your completed consent form for the study,” Hannibal smoothed the front of his burgundy suit jacket as Will looked past him and towards the entrance of the gymnasium, “I brought a blank copy, in case it is needed.” 

“Right, the form,” Will swallowed and nodded, looking at the particularly angular apple of Hannibal’s cheek. “I’ll be needing that blank.”

Hannibal nodded. Before turning away, he leaned closer to Will, his laugh lines briefly turning into deeper ridges on his face. 

“You are a smoker?”

Will flinched away, his hands pulling down the cuffs of his flannel. “No, not really. I just had a one-and-done smoke.” 

“I see. Goodbye, Will.”

Will rubbed sheepishly at his nape, unable to bid Hannibal goodbye in return as he watched the man return to his pristine Cadillac and drive away. 

-

Will made sure to stop back at home two hours before the drive back to Hannibal’s to get changed into something smarter—based on Hannibal’s attire, anything but a flannel would pass. Will pushed metal wire clothes hangers past each other with a loud scraping as he tore through his closet, searching for something that seemed worthy of Hannibal Lecter. The shame of having such a barren selection cuts at his chest; he wondered what Hannibal would say if he saw all the holes and frayed ends that he couldn’t be bothered to replace. Eventually, he ended up in a black dress shirt, small swallows embroidered in black thread all over the linen fabric. A vague memory of Alana handing him a white box with a cheerful “Merry Christmas” tugged in the back of his mind. What could be done with his hair he accomplished using dregs of five year old pomade, opting to keep his other scents limited to his Dollar store shampoo and soap.

Tugging on a pair of dull and scratched black dress shoes, Will carefully avoided his myriad of dogs on the way to the door, promising each one bountiful kisses and treats as a reward for when he returns home.

 Heaps of bottles and bottles in boxes stacked to the ceiling greeted Will every time he entered the back patio to lock the door. Various clear spirits, dark liquors, and empty wine bottles filled the air with a sickly sweet fermentation that forced him to leave quickly. Will couldn't bring himself to remove the bottles despite how he hated every second the pungent odor infiltrated his home. A final adjustment of his sleeve collars was made in one of his car door mirrors before Will started his car, headed back to Baltimore and a bit past it, into an unfamiliar and isolated municipality near Loch Raven.