Just random wonderfulness that came to me at 1:00 in the morning, or, in which Will thinks about Hannibal in the dead of night. I know it's kind of cliché and doesn't really come to anything but I really felt like writing fanfiction. The first one shot of many to come (hopefully). So any feedback would be incredibly appreciated :)

The clock on the bedside table read 3:00 am. Wolf Trap, VA. The dogs were asleep, and the night was too, it seemed. The night seemed pregnant with a deafening silence, a silence just screaming to be broken. The wind was still. No monsters lurked under his bed, or serial killers, come to think of it. But still, a usual occurrence occurred, one with which he had developed a less than healthy willingness to comply.
Will Graham could not sleep.
Sometimes he enjoyed the lack of sleep, because of course, with an inability to get to sleep comes an inability to have nightmares, as well as considerably less vulnerability. But not that night. It wasn't for the usual reasons, either; no corpses, no crime scenes, no killers stirred him as he lay in bed. It was something else. Something human.
Hannibal Lecter haunted his mind.
Hannibal with his mystery, his suave and capable movements, his ability to surprise Will over and over again. Oh god, his suits. Expensive, as everything was with him, and sophisticated. Tailor made, and as perfectly fitting as a personality.
And his hands. His smile, so rare and wonderful. A fragment of a once-broken thing, fixed and working again.
And his eyes. Bottomless, shark-like eyes. So empty and yet so full. Full of some nameless substance, something that, in his most drowsy state of consciousness, Will would even go so far as to call emotion. Hannibal's eyes were full of and at the same time deprived of some as of yet unidentified emotion.
Hannibal Lecter had the eyes of a predator. Eyes that could haunt you. Eyes that haunted Will's every thought, his every action. Eyes that haunted Will's waking dream. If he was to stare into the abyss that was his mind, at the bottom he would see those eyes staring back.
And how did Will feel about him? He wasn't able to say. He was definitely attracted to Hannibal, ridiculously so, although whether the attraction turned into something more was as of yet unknown. Or rather, Will refused to entertain the idea that he was in love with his psychiatrist. Or the possibility of acting on it. Or the possibility that Hannibal could return even a fraction of what Will felt towards him, that Hannibal loved him back.
But Will didn't, of course. That was all purely hypothetical.
Quit lying to yourself and accept the truth.
But really, all he was, at the end of it all, was confused and scared, scared of rejection, scared of the future, of change, of himself. Of the truth.
He didn't know how he felt towards Hannibal, whether he loved him as a person or what he stood for; stability and safety and comfort and the possibility of a normal mind and a normal life, things that now seemed a lightyear away, things that he had forgotten.
Hannibal was an island of normal, of calm, of peace in the whirlpool that was Will's life, a whirlpool that turned everything he touched into a catastrophe, that had transformed his mind into a messed-up jigsaw with missing pieces, an abyss that he was terrified of diving into, and yet he felt as if he had no choice. As if he had no chance.
Or was Hannibal his chance?

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