The office is warm and homey, in an understated way. There's a golden hue to the lighting that reminds Hannibal of the soothing heat from a lit fireplace. The drapes are a soft shade of red shot through with gold thread, adding to the effect.
A therapeutic atmosphere, Hannibal supposes.
The doctor is warm too, his smile soft as Hannibal extends his hand, though his grasp is surprisingly strong. Hannibal finds himself liking him almost at once, and the feels suspicious of them both because of that liking.
"Dr. Graham," Hannibal says.
"Pleased to meet you," he says. "May I call you Hannibal?"
Hannibal supposes that it's irrational, the way the question rankles him in its causal insistence on informality. "All right," he says, and does not ask if he may call Dr. Graham by his first name.
Predictably, "Will" insists that Hannibal do so anyway.
Hannibal is uncomfortable in the plush chair. He sits stiffly, his spine pressed ramrod straight against the back of the chair to put as much distance between himself and Will. Will leans back as well, mirroring Hannibal's essential pose, but makes his own body more relaxed.
Hannibal is speaking. "After what happened last month, I was sent to Dr. Bloom. She decided to refer me to you."
"You mean after your deadly force encounter with Eldon Stammets."
"After I killed him, yes." The words are spoken matter-of-factly, but Will senses something of a challenge to them. Hannibal is waiting to see how he will respond. Moving on instinct, he sets his own face to look troubled by the admission but not repulsed.
"What reason did she give you for this referral?"
"She believes that I have an exaggerated sense of my own dangerousness. The fact that she is, technically, a forensic psychologist was, she thinks, only reinforcing the idea."
"Dr. Bloom told you that?"
"Not in so many words. She was kinder about it."
"Was she right?"
"This is my second 'deadly force encounter.' Once is bad luck. Twice is a pattern."
Will, who had been contemplating suggesting something just along that line to see how Hannibal would take it, is caught off balance. He masters his face quickly, but worries that some sign of astonished delight may have shone through.
Hannibal is remarkably difficult to read, but Will thinks he glimpses distrust in the slight narrowing of the eyes.
"Usually, when an agent kills someone in the course of duty the concern is helping them through the stress, fear and guilt that follows to prevent them if possible, from developing PTSD. But that isn't my area of focus."
"I'm aware," Hannibal says, and perhaps there is an edge of annoyance to his voice. Will makes mental note of it - in case he needs an easy way to get under Hannibal's skin, acting as though he assumes Hannibal doesn't know something is likely to do the trick. "Your specialization is in C-PTSD, in particular cases stemming from childhood trauma. The distinction is that, whereas the first deals with trauma inflicted by fairly short-term events, such as a tour of active combat duty or a 'deadly force encounter,' the latter deals more with the complex damage associated with extended exposure to a traumatizing environment. Hence the 'c.'
"That about sums it up, thank you." Will leans forward. "Do you consider yourself to be traumatized?"
The ghost of an expression. Gallows humor in the twitch of the edge of his mouth. "Doctor, if that isn't my problem then you've really got your work cut out for you."
"Everything about Stammets' project felt like a personal accusation," Hannibal says, the next time they meet.
There is - maybe - a shade of reluctance in the way Will puts down the file that Hannibal had given him. The file wasn't supposed to leave the records room, but Hannibal had slipped it casually into his bag and walked out, free of any twinge of guilt but as always vaguely worried by that lack.
Hannibal didn't miss the way that Will paused at the photos. He knew exactly how long one could look at such pictures while among company before it became socially unacceptable. Will went over that line, by just a hair. Hannibal wonders if he did so deliberately.
"How so?"
"I fall short of his vision for how people ought to be."
"Most people do." Will's eyes are very expressive. He is watching Hannibal intently now, but Hannibal thinks part of him still lingers with the photos.
"I'd appreciate it if you could avoid polite equivocations," Hannibal tells him. Will lifts his chin, nearly imperceivable - acquiescence without any admission of fault. Hannibal has not decided yet if he likes the doctor - or, at rather, if his desire to like him is safe - but he's grateful for the tact.
Hannibal circles back to the problem. "Stammets offered me a solution. He said that he understood my problem, and that he wanted to help me."
"I've just read about that solution. Rotting alive in the ground next to a row of lonesome corpses, food for fungus." Will's voice is gentle but his eyes are intent. "What about that appealed to you, Hannibal?"
"Connection."
He waits, but Will says nothing. He watches Hannibal, head cocked slightly to the side. In the silence, a confession blooms.
"When he came at me with the needle, I thought for an instant of letting him use it on me." It comes harder than anything else Hannibal has said so far, admitting that. "I wanted to see."
"But you shot him instead. Your sense of self-preservation is strong."
It feels like an insult, Will's words. Or an attack. Hannibal turns his head away.
"I don't think that I should have shot him."
"The bureau will find no wrongdoing on your part, Hannibal. You were within regulations. That doesn't reassure you?"
Hannibal feels his upper lip twitch towards a disgusted snarl. He controls it. He does not answer, however, and this time it is Will who breaks first.
"He intended to kill you, didn't he?"
"I could have gotten the needle from him." He worries for an instant that this sounds like a foolish boast or silly wishful thinking, but he glances towards Will and sees that the doctor believes him. "I didn't need to kill him."
"Well, then," Will asks, "why did you?"
And Hannibal says, "Because I wanted to."