You had noticed something was wrong the moment Will Graham had grown distant with you. Sure, he wasn't open—but he was your friend, and a he had some interesting insight when he visited this dreary city. The calls you two exchanged decreased to once every few weeks, SMS was scarce, and you hadn't spoken face-to-face since he had started work on present FBI cases.
Tattle-Crime was your first in to what was going on, and while it wasn't your first go-to resource, it gave you a brief synapsis on what was going on in Will Graham's work life. It wasn't good, either.
—
You trotted up alongside Alana Bloom, who spared you a momentary glance before she pushed onward.
"I need to ask you something," no response. "Dr. Bloom, it's about Will."
That caught her attention, and she slowed her brisk pace to a sluggish walk. "If it's about how he's doing—I don't know."
So she wasn't angry with you, I guess that cleared up her attitude problem. Something else was going on and it immediately set off alarms. Trainees jogged languidly past the two of you, one nodded to Bloom, another one eyed you suspiciously.
"I mean, it was about how he's doing. He's been awfully distant; he's like a brother to me, you know," she stopped altogether, then, to look down at you. Her eyes were tired, as was expected, but something else was hidden behind them. Something that worried you. "I'm all ears if you can spill."
"I'm afraid he's getting too close, but Jack doesn't think the same."
It was work.
"Do you think he'll talk to me, at all?"
"Will you come with me? I'm going to see him now. Since Will and I are friends, I insisted he have someone keep an eye on his mental health on these cases. I want you to meet Dr. Lecter as well."
—
The moment you entered Jack's office, your eyes surveyed Will and the man that sat next to him. You hadn't seen him in months, and he looked at his limit already. His hazel eyes, will typically tired and drawn into his skull, were exhausted behind the lens of his glasses. The other man, you assumed to be Dr. Lecter, looked refreshed compared to Graham. His suit, expensive, was wrinkle free. Something about him put you off, initially, but he charmed you nonetheless.
Jack greeted you and Alana with a quick nod, but his gaze focused on you. "Alana…"
"It's fine, Jack, she's Will's friend. I wanted you to assure her as well as myself that you have the situation under control."
Jack's face crumpled in dismay, before he waved a hand toward Dr. Lecter.
"Dr. Lecter is more than willing to assist the Bureau," that wasn't what he was supposed to say, and that hardly sounded reassuring. "Will agreed months ago."
The man in question snorted while Dr. Lecter rose and straightened his vest, the suit jacket draped over the back of the chair was soon in his arms as he reached out polite hand to you.
"Dr. Hannibal Lecter, it is a pleasure to meet more of Will's friends."
—
Months passed before you were on track with Will again. Of course, you being a civilian, he didn't divulge any information that wasn't already public knowledge—but he was more than free to vent to you. Oddly enough, the main source of his drama stemmed from his suspicions of Dr. Lecter. You had expected Will to be uncomfortable with the idea of being psychologically surveyed by the Bureau, but they had no choice.
"You're inviting him to dinner?"
"Will, I'm inviting everyone to dinner: including you, Alana, and Jack," he sat down his glass of Scotch and hissed through his teeth, his fingertips came up to massage his temples. "Isn't this what I'm supposed to do? I'm thanking whatever high heavens that you're alive! You've been through hell, Graham, I'm doing my damndest to appreciate you still being here."
He stopped, nodded, and knocked his drink back. "Thanks, again. You two talk an awful lot, but don't get too close. I told you I don't trust him. Besides, whatever you cook wouldn't be up to par with him."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He's into culinary arts, or something like that. Whatever, it doesn't matter. I know how you cook."
—
As expected, pre-dinner was a disaster. Alana, Jack, and his wife arrived earlier than you expected, and had to witness your extraordinary disorganization in the kitchen. It wasn't that you couldn't cook, per say, it was your mess that you left behind that haunted many people's dreams. I'll clean up later, was your mantra.
Dr. Lecter arrived right on time. He held a bottle of merlot that you guessed had to be over your pay grade, and a large helping of tiramisu. You eyed it happily, suddenly glad that you had left dessert up to the guests. While you handled coats, and placed his gifts on the kitchen counter, Lecter glanced over your shoulder.
"Lasagne? Simple and delicious, I quite like it," your face flushed at his closeness and you stepped back. "I apologize."
"No, no, you're fine. Ha, I made lasagne with the knowledge of how many guests I'd be serving—I can't stand the thought of making a roast big enough to fill Jack and Will, let alone myself." This pulled a chortle from his lips, but his eyes were far more amused than you expected from the tiny wise-ass joke.
"Then perhaps I could show you a recipe or two, I would enjoy having you for dinner."
