Hannibal Lecter paced the floor in his office as quietly as he could. He had a dinner to serve back at home in half an hour which he had not yet even prepared, and despite knowing how rude it would be to cancel on such short notice, he found himself stuck here in his office.

The reason for this: on the chair he regularly sat on during their "conversations", as Hannibal called them, was Will Graham. Beside the chair was a smashed glass of wine, its contents seeping into the hardwood floors.

Hannibal had never been one for drugging people, for fear of spoiling their meat, but he knew he probably wasn't going to physically consume Will for a long time, and for some reason, he felt like seeing what would happen if he knocked the mentally unstable potential FBI agent out.

He guessed that he was just curious. Will Graham was rather enigmatic to him.

It was sort of like a case of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Hannibal would study Will, and Will would study Hannibal.

"Mmn," Will grumbled in his sleep, as if detestfully sensing Hannibal's eyes staring at him, and turned over to curl up a little bit on the chair.
This grumble snapped Hannibal out of his trance (that and the sight of Will's shoes pressing into the chair's leather cushioning), and the psychologist tried to think about what to do.

He had to share a dinner with Jack Crawford in less than 15 minutes.

Hannibal crouched down in front of Will and started gently shaking his shoulder.

"Will," He said in a gentle tone in case his patient was having a peaceful sleep for once, "Will, wake up."

"Nn..."

"Will?"

"Abi... chmh..."

"Will." Hannibal began softly smacking Will's cheek.

Will only made another tired noise of slight distress at the idea of waking up, so Hannibal glanced at his watch and began calculating a plan.

Would he have time to get everything ready? He almost wished that his watch would turn into one of the clocks that Will had drawn a while back, that way he wouldn't be able to tell what time it was and wouldn't have to worry.

Whether he had time or not, he figured he had to try, lest he be rude.

With a brief sigh out of vague concern, Hannibal stood and leaned over Will. The younger man still smelled of that godawful aftershave.

The psychologist grabbed his patient's arms and wrapped them around his own neck, draping them over his shoulders as he straightened himself out a bit to prevent them from simply slipping off. Then he wrapped his hands around the underside of Will's thighs and lift his legs to his own hips.

God, what on earth was he even doing? Why not just pick him up bridal style?

That idea had crossed Hannibal's mind, but he decided it would be easier to carry Will this way. Plus, if anyone were watching from afar, it would look a little less like he was carrying a person than perhaps a bag that looked strangely human-like.

With Will's cheek against his own, Hannibal was nearly overpowered by the smell of the rancid aftershave, but it was almost as if it was becoming pleasing to his senses. The smell represented Will. He liked Will. Thus, he presumed that, by association, he must like the smell.
He almost felt as if the world had stopped; everything was frozen, no, there was nothing.

Nothing but him and Will, nothing but this moment and their friendship.

Following Will's words while in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, a million years must have passed, for Hannibal was certain that in this moment, the light of friendship was definitely reaching them.

He was wasting time. He had ten minutes now to prepare for Jack Crawford.

Again, he prayed in vain for time to become like one of Will's clocks.