He brings Jack coffee and his completed report while Jack's occupied with a phone call. Jack holds up a hand to indicate Will should sit down and wait, an uncapped pen held between his index and middle finger like a sixth digit. Will sits down, testing the hard arms of Jack's stuffy chairs with his bare forearms, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.
Will's attention takes an inventory while Jack makes tired affirmative noises across the line. The omnipresent pile of paperwork on Jack's desk is bigger and messier than Will's seen it in some time. His sight's too poor without glasses to read any of it from where he sits; besides, Jack's caught him squinting at paperwork deemed classified beyond Will's scope before and popped a wry eyebrow in response. Will doesn't try it this time.
Jack checks something off on the paper immediately in front of him and makes another vague "mhm." Will's on the cusp of tuning him out, tempted to lift up the flap of the folder he'd just laid on the desk and reenter the glossy crime scene photos, but his better sense and then Jack's "all right, honey, I'll see you tonight" snap him out of it.
"That was Bella," Jack confirms needlessly, hanging up the phone and letting his hand linger atop it in its cradle, like he's too exhausted to move on to another gesture.
"And how is Bella?" Will asks.
"She's fine. She's decided I should help coordinate the unit's annual Christmas party," he says, mouth turning up at the corners with false humor, "and of course it's not enough to make me volunteer, no, she has to get involved."
"That's … unfortunate," Will says.
"It is that," Jack says. "I've hired a band and a catering company, fought with unit two over venue space, and now I'm in the middle of drafting a seating chart. For over one hundred people."
Will gives a low whistle, trying to imagine where at Quantico would be large enough to stuff in a hundred staff and their plus-ones. Maybe a gym or an emptied-out lecture hall. He pictures exhausted agents in generic suits and their spouses in formal dress milling around the squeaky gym floors, air fresheners nowhere close to drowning out the smell of stale sweat and industrial-strength bleach. Cocktail weenies speared on toothpicks, maybe. Plastic champagne flutes. "Did you pull in a trainee or two to help? Planning a party seems like an inefficient use of your time; you're always ten minutes away from going wheels up, and she … has enough on her plate," Will finishes slowly.
Jack waves him off. "It's under control. My wife will run us both ragged in the name of the holidays, and I'll let her, because it's something we're doing as a couple. If I try to farm it out, she'll kill me in my sleep." He nods toward the file on his desk. "That the profile?"
"Yeah, do you want a run-down?"
"It can wait. This seating chart can't," Jack says, staring down at it with weary determination. "Are you bringing someone?"
Will pauses and runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. He wishes he had water, because he's starting to chap from the lack of it. One of the dogs chewed up his last tube of Blistex. "Am I bringing someone?" he echoes. "No? I wasn't aware I was going."
Jack leans back, knowing Will's going to drag his feet and adopting an unyielding expression accordingly. "You are. You're on the list. Bella wants to meet you."
"I'm flattered, but Christmas parties aren't my thing. Or any parties, for that matter."
"Do you want to tell my wife, the former drill instructor, that you won't be attending the first party she's planned in five years?" Jack's eyebrows rise until he looks surprised. Will says nothing, the thump of his wrist against the edge of the chair arm his answer. "I thought so. Don't even think about skipping out," he warns.
"Jack—"
"I've already gone out of my way to invite Hannibal Lecter and Alana Bloom to make things as peaceful as possible for you. Any other acquaintances I should invite?"
Will doesn't bother to suppress his scowl. "First of all, Dr. Lecter is not going to come to some gauche FBI party."
"Oh, he won't?" Jack asks, sitting back again with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, gaze level but challenging on Will's face, a gaze he struggles to keep squirming out from underneath. "Even when I tell him he's the BAU's honored guest, on personal invitation from my wife, and there to make sure you don't hide underneath the table?"
"Christ," Will breathes. "Is this really necessary—"
"December twentieth, wear a blazer. Zeller and Price have a body for you downstairs."
Will stands up in a push, mouth working as he tries to come up with a socially appropriate way to refuse Jack again and have it stick. He knows, however, that even if he finds a somewhat legitimate excuse for ditching the party, he'll pay for it later. He didn't peg Jack as the vindictive type, but this party is something he can do for his dying wife, and Will is not allowed to ruin it by failing to uphold his part.
Dread and exhaustion fill him preemptively. "Fine," he says finally. "But—"
"Downstairs, Will," Jack says, not looking up from his seating chart.
Zeller has his hand deep inside the cavern of someone's chest when Will comes in, and he doesn't look up from his unblinking examination as Will seats himself in his usual chair to eye the proceedings. Price offers him a customary cheerful greeting, the pair of goggles he wears giving him an owlish look, and Will fumbles a smile in response. In his head, he's still upstairs with Jack, articulating why exactly it's ridiculous to invite a sometimes-teacher and sometimes-special investigator to rub shoulders with agents and cronies, and why it's insulting to everyone involved to invite doctors Lecter and Bloom.
The sigh he gives is loud in the room, the hum of machines, florescent lights, and the squelch of whatever Zeller's doing not enough to eclipse it.
"Somebody's looking a little melancholic," Price says.
"I'm fine," Will says briskly, rubbing the underside of his chin. "ID on the victim yet?"
"Milton Keys," Price announces with the pride of personal discovery. "Enough markers to suggest he's the newest victim of an UNSUB who supposedly dropped off the face of the earth fifteen years ago. Apparent cause of death, victim profile, and most importantly—location, location, location. Jack's in a frenzy."
"So he wants me to see if it's the same perp?" Will asks. "Shouldn't I have gone to the crime scene for that?"
"Sure, if you felt like a little snowboarding," Zeller mutters, withdrawing from his ginger inventory of organs. "Body was found buried under the snow on a trail near Lake Tahoe. Jack wants you local, so this is the best we can do. He's only just finished thawing out," he says with an impatient gesture of his gory hand. "Do you need to look at him now, or can it wait until I've finished?"
Will ignores Zeller's prickliness and shakes his head. "Do you have the files for the other victims Jack thinks are connected?"
Price, bent over a microscope, waves a distracted flourish to a stack on his desk, and Zeller starts digging around again, mumbling something about kerfs. Will tunes him out in order to eliminate any biases he might pick up before delving into other evidence.
Katz appears not long after Will starts in on the first report, smelling like the sweetness of cold winter and spearmint gum, lugging in a huge black case on wheels.
"Hey," she says when she sees him, and he smiles briefly as he watches her maneuver the bulky case between narrow spaces crammed with costly equipment. "Wasn't expecting to see you for this one. At least not yet." She's short of breath and pushing hair out of her face, still red from being outside and wheeling that thing from wherever she got it.
"Jack sent me down here as penance for trying to decline a Christmas party invite."
"Unlucky. Though I can't believe you tried to turn him down."
"I can't believe he invited me in the first place."
"Why not?" Katz asks. She unwinds her scarf and then puts on her eye-searingly white lab coat, craning to look at him over her shoulder. "Everyone in the unit who's in town is going. I'm going. You guys going?"
"Yeah," says Zeller in the tone of the condemned.
"Open bar," Price says.
"I've got better things to do in the week before Christmas, but I'm not going to skip out on Jack's party," Katz continues. "He'd probably put me on desk duty past the new year."
"You guys are forensics. Actual agents. I'm the teacher with special privileges. I don't see how my being there is appropriate."
"He's inviting other instructors too," Katz says guilelessly, as though 'instructor' is the only description he merits. "You can all stand in the corner and bitch about agents you wanted to fail out."
"I don't socialize with other instructors."
"Somehow not a huge surprise," Zeller says, though not quite unkindly.
Katz purses her lips and faces Will directly, and Will straightens himself out of a slump, preparing for the pep talk he can see she's about to give. Anything is an improvement over Jack's version of morale, so it can't be too bad, but all Will wants is to finish reading the reports, examine their latest victim, and go home. Maybe take a few weeks off and go south for the heart of winter, avoid Jack's wrath once he gets back. Will looks at Katz's clavicle as he imagines his potential respite.
"You're part of the BAU," she says firmly, and apparently believes it. Will's enough a part of the BAU to warrant an invite, but maybe she wouldn't be saying so if the memory of calling her in the black of pre-dawn to come keep an eye on his sanity weren't already starting to fade. "Jack wants you there, so do I." She turns a smile on him with a hint of teeth and crinkling eyes. "They're really free with the booze at these things. It might even be fun."
"It won't be," Zeller says. "Division grunts are there, and everyone's wife tags along. Nothing worse than a room full of drunk civilians."
"A few years back, someone hired a karaoke machine," Price announces. "I was drunk enough to think it was a good idea."
"If Jack's in charge, there's no way that will happen again," Katz says.
"I think his wife is doing most of the heavy lifting," Will says. It doesn't matter to him if there's bad karaoke; parties are embarrassing on their foundational merits. He's embarrassing at parties. No amount of liquid courage will change that. "Jack said she invited me specifically."
"If she's the one who decorated their house, this party might not be a drab, booze-soaked nightmare," Price says with rising hope, finally breaking away from his microscope and whirling around in his chair. "Did Jack say if it was black-tie?"
"He didn't specify."
"We've got a few weeks before you need to get your tux dry-cleaned, Jimmy," Zeller says drolly, and Will finds it amusing that the two of them are in agreement, for once, when it comes to disliking the idea of the party. Or maybe Zeller just dislikes that it's in the name of Christmas; for appearances' sake, it'll probably be officially labeled as a holiday party, but Will bets it's going to have all the hallmarks of Christmas anyway. Will's agnostic at best, or maybe just apathetic, but he imagines suffering someone else's traditions must get irritating for Zeller.
"You should bring a date," Katz says suddenly, and it takes Will an extra beat to realize she's still talking to him.
"I don't think so," Will says. He offers a shrug, pushing her expectation off his shoulders. "Jack's apparently inviting some people to keep me company, and I don't … think an FBI party is the best place for me to bring someone." Never mind that he has no one to bring, and the person he might have been interested in bringing will likely only attend in order to babysit him. He hopes for Alana's sake that she's busy that night. He'd rather suffer through and be intolerable alone.
"I'm going to bring a date," Katz says, turning inquiring eyes on everyone else. "Am I the only one?"
"Yes," Zeller says.
"Probably," Price says.
"Please don't run this one off," Katz directs to the both of them, and Will shakes his head and goes back to his mountain of files, dismissed from this part of the conversation.
Will has a while to bolster himself, anyway, and dwelling on things he can't change increases his propensity for migraines, though of late those are coming without rhyme or reason. He'll go to the party, remain unsociably quiet throughout, shake Bella Crawford's hand and try to untangle himself from the snare of Jack's regard for her, drink and eat just enough to illustrate he can do so, and reassure Alana she can unstick herself from his side and mingle with colleagues—despite Jack's assertions, there's no way a society darling like Lecter will clear his schedule for something as mundane as a BAU party.
Will brings it up at their next session. There's a lull, and outside it's snowing, a visual cue that even he, loosely southern, associates with the holidays; Will can see the silhouette of it through Lecter's drapes.
"Did Jack invite you to the party at Quantico?" he asks, resisting the urge to pick at a seam on Lecter's overlarge blue chair.
"He did." Lecter's hands fold and rest on top of his crossed left leg. "I received the invitation Thursday."
"I've basically been pressganged into going." Will makes an effort not to sound as dour as he feels about the prospect. He doesn't often front for Lecter, and he's terrible at it besides, but if he's to the point where a social gathering is an insurmountable issue—well, he'd rather not belabor the point with his psychiatrist. "He said he'd invite you and Alana to keep things peaceful for me." That slips out without enough forethought to remove the barbs from his tone, but Lecter doesn't so much as blink.
"Part of my job is to anchor you in fraught situations," Lecter points out. "I don't find Jack's invitation so unreasonable."
"It's condescending."
"Yes. Though he does have other motives for inviting me. I've had Jack over to my home for several meals, and I've had the pleasure of meeting his wife. I wouldn't call us all friends, but we are friendly."
That is not news to Will. He'd surmised as much from the way Jack folded Lecter's name into his vocabulary. Jack would have wanted to ingratiate himself with Will's confidante. "And Alana? Does she invite Jack and his wife over for five-course meals?"
Lecter's lips tilt into the smallest smile, a reaction to Will's sarcasm. His head cocks along with the smile. "I don't know everything Dr. Bloom does in her private life. Although considering her working relationship with Jack and her habit of filling in for you in the classroom, I think her invitation makes more sense than mine."
"She's not coming. Visiting her parents in California for the holidays." He'd called her to confirm whether or not Jack had invited her, and to tell her she was in no way beholden to coming and having to be on Will-watch the entire time. Something in his stomach still clenched, though, when she told him she'd booked the plane tickets months ago, that she was sorry to leave him to fend for himself.
"It's a pity; Dr. Bloom is an excellent party guest. She might have made the experience more enjoyable."
"Maybe. I told Jack it was ridiculous to invite the two of you. Alana's got—a life, and you're one the busiest people I know."
"It's true that the holidays are an eventful time for me, personally and professionally."
Will nods, picturing the invitations Lecter must field every year, embossed lettering on expensive paper, charity dinners—perhaps he even hosts gatherings of his own. He pictures the onset of depression and anxiety in Lecter's patients, the consequence of the holiday season. "I told him that too. But he'll let you and Alana off the hook, no problem. If I don't go, he'll devise some punishment or other."
"This could be good for you," Lecter says.
Will looks at him dubiously. "How?"
"I advocate for controlled immersion with all of my patients who deal with social anxieties. You may be nontraditional," he adds pointedly, before Will can jump down his throat about his aversion being an offshoot of inescapable empathy, not a phobia unto itself, "but I fear your ability to handle difficult situations will only stagnate or worsen without intervention."
"I've tried flooding before," he says flatly. "It was not helpful."
"You were also willfully resistant to therapy before meeting me," Lecter says, unmoved. "And we have made progress."
Will gives a grudging nod after a moment. "I don't see how it's going to be effective controlled therapy if I'm standing by myself in a corner all night, but point taken."
Lecter smiles again, and knows without lifting his gaze from Will that their session is seconds away from ending. His internal clock is all the more remarkable as Will's own fails him. He knows somehow that Dr. Lecter never had to rely on his watch to keep track of himself, but when Will thinks of it in the context of his whole life, it seems odd. His work brought him the acquaintance of several on-call doctors, and their constant hurrying seems incompatible with Lecter's nature. How did he get through his residency? Just as inherently precise as he is now?
Will's putting on his coat and pondering the question, working his jaw like one of the dogs with an oversized bone. "When you worked in the E.R., how did you cope with the hours?"
Unfazed, Lecter watches Will fix his collar. "I discovered during my residency that I require far less sleep than most to function." He gestures with a flick of two fingers when the collar apparently still isn't lying flat. Will fixes it, and that receives a nod.
"Welcome to the club," Will says, fishing for his keys in his pocket.
"Some said it was an adaptive trait," he continues. He patiently waits near the door to open it for Will.
"Do you feel particularly evolved?" Will asks on a huff of a laugh.
"Oh, certainly." The fingers of Lecter's left hand spread open like a fan. "Never more so than when I was scheduled for more double shifts than the rest of my colleagues."
Will understands the feeling. The BAU has plenty of consultants, but he's the one Jack keeps taking out into the field like a favored showpony, even when he's drooping at the bit. "I'll see you after the holidays," he says, not one for segues and not wishing to push Dr. Lecter into more strange smalltalk when he likely has to get home.
"Of course," Lecter agrees. "Drive safely."
He brings the lint roller with him, first running it over his arms, then across his thighs, as far down his legs as he can reach in the front seat of his Volvo. Peeling off the sticky layer, Will makes a face at the fuzzy dog hair and pieces of lint he's managed to accumulate with his latest pass.
It's his best suit, though still miles away from a proper tux. Jack assured him that was fine, that half the people in the unit still within driving distance to Quantico and not on crucial assignments were going to show up as-is.
Due to Bella Crawford's interference, or maybe Jack's barking, they'd managed to wrest legitimate space to hold the unit's holiday party, and in one of the newer buildings to boot. No mottled gym floors or old classroom carpeting this Christmas. Will gets out of the car and slips his coat on for the walk to the building.
Jack's invitation said seven, so it's quarter to eight when he steps inside the doors, trailing one last exhale of cold vapor. He has to hand his coat over to an eager-to-impress trainee and is given a tiny ticket with a number so he might retrieve it later. Finally, he's made to sign a commemorative booklet. The production is charming for the importance it apes. Will finds himself amused as he signs his name with a fountain pen beneath the rows and rows of other guests, but he remembers the other occasions he's signed his name in similar books. Never for parties, unless you could count wakes. His amusement dims.
Through the open doors, Will can hear the roar of overlapping conversations and the too loud snap of a live snare drum. He stalls in the corridor outside, checking his phone and making sure his coat ticket is firmly ensconced in his pocket, until other latecomers arrive behind him. Will goes inside rather than risking a bottleneck.
He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't quite this. Strings of white lights, a few wreaths resplendent with pinecones along one wall, a pile of presents for donation that's reaching an impressive height near an expertly decorated tree in the corner. That's basically the worst of the holiday cheer, though. Otherwise it's nearly any party. There's a long row of buffet tables set off to one side, but waiters circle with trays filled with champagne and cider and hors d'oeuvre. The band plays jazzy holiday staples from a makeshift stage, a gig well beneath their skill level, and it looks like the seating chart Jack slaved over has been disregarded. Most people are mingling standing up; cramming their plates with food, lining up at the bar, passing between tables to say hello. A few agents recently off-duty line the wall, exhausted in loosened ties and jackets over khakis. Will feels perhaps ten percent assuaged in his best suit, half a size too big and shabby at the cuffs.
He's nearly next in line to order at the bar, having only been forced into making awkward smile-and-nod exchanges twice, when his name booms on the tail-end of a laugh.
"Will!"
Jack. Will hesitates, swiveling, one foot fixed in his place in line and one foot headed toward fulfilling his part of the social contract. He looks gangly and uncoordinated for all of his waffling but doesn't stumble as he walks toward Jack and his wife.
Seeing the two of them clicks pieces together in Will's mind, but he's too busy figuring out what to do with his champagne to dwell on what new shape Jack forms. Jack is in his best clothes, aside from the tux he'd wear for a political event, and Bella Crawford is wearing a black gown that falls with the severity of drapes. The only skin he can see is her hands and face, lovely as it is, hair pulled away to best showcase it with one corkscrew curl loose like a spindle, tempting him to touch it.
Careful. He pulls a half a step back as though physical distance will help him achieve mental.
Bella smiles as though he hasn't been rude in his lack of greeting and his oddness. "It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Graham."
"You too, Mrs. Crawford."
"Bella, please." Red earrings shaped like shiny Christmas ornaments hang from her lobes. "So you're the reason why Jack's been putting in so many long hours," she says wryly, "and racking up frequent flyer miles." Will nearly starts stammering, but he only detects truth without malice in her very tired but expertly made-up face, and he smiles, getting the joke.
"I do feel a little bit like the other woman," he admits.
Bella laughs. "Handsome and funny. He's even better than you described," she says to the decorative husband on her arm—Jack is several glasses into champagne and several days into a row of bad nights, making visual sweeps of the room and tallying up important guests still left to talk to. He picked his better half partially for her ability to manage moments like this. "We need to invite Mr. Graham for dinner soon."
"Yes, and I promise he's housetrained," Jack says with a smile Will hasn't seen leveled at him before, the one reserved for shaking hands and press conferences and his role as dutiful husband.
It makes Will feel acutely aware of the fact that he can't manage interactions like this unless he fakes them, channels cues and gestures stolen from other people. His social skills are a patchwork of other people's, and blatantly so in the company of the head of the BAU. Will ducks his head and studies his clenched fist, a line of rust colored oil under a few of his fingernails like a punchline, he notices, and forgoes trying to be charming. He keeps his gaze on her, but never strays above her nose; the old standby.
"We both know that's no requirement in our house," Bella says, matching Jack with a wide smile, but when he glances up again, he thinks from the pull of muscles on her face that she winks at him.
The smile he gives her in return is subdued but genuine enough. He likes what he sees of her. He wishes he'd seen it somewhere other than here and now. "I should let you two make the rounds," he starts in awkwardly, but Jack takes over for him.
"We stole him from the bar line," he intones faux-confidentially to Bella. "Will, try the beef when you get a chance," Jack says, whisking them away as a unit for some other thirty-second conversation.
Jesus, Will shapes with his champagne-soured mouth. He tries not to visibly skulk back to the bar line.
Which is where he spots Katz in a red dress, an arm crossed loosely over her torso and another holding champagne so it's close to sipping range. She's dwarfed almost comically by her date in dress blues and barely pretending to care about what he's saying to her, mostly because she's just noticed a photographer darting through the crowd with his camera. Will feels a distant spike of panic and pity for the marine who had no idea what he was getting himself into when he agreed to a date with Beverly Katz and an open bar.
Will makes a beeline to an empty table and seats himself there, as far away from Katz—and the photographer—as possible. He flags a waiter down and grabs another drink before focusing on the unclaimed place cards in front of him, staring so hard he thinks he can see the grain of the paper.
Twenty minutes later, Will has accumulated a collection of empty flutes, one for each person who's stopped by his table. His back is to the wall, his head is down, and the glasses in front of him evidently make for a poor line of defense. Two new agents he'd lectured as trainees came by to say hello, each having clearly urged the other into it until they decided on approaching him as a nervous pair. Then there was Price, but he only checked to see if Will wanted something from the bar—and had yet to return.
A fellow lecturer, one of the ilk of retired agents who thinks Will has no place going into the field and has no problem saying so at a loud enough volume to carry in the cafeteria, stops by to comment on Will's recent and increasing lack of presence at the academy. Will allows himself to finish that glass of champagne in three hard swallows.
It's Chilton's appearance, holding a martini and wearing a smirk that sets his whole face alight, that starts to crack the brittle ice of Will's control.
"Mr. Graham. I'd hoped I'd see you tonight."
"I work here," Will says, pinging one flute with a flick of his fingers. You don't goes unstated. Chilton just showed up to strut; Will wonders exactly how many times Jack considered leaving Chilton's invitation unsent.
"Oh, I'm aware. It's one of the things we find so interesting about you—not just your skills, but your ability to employ them in the field." He sips his martini and must find it too dry for his palate, because he pulls a face and sets it down on the table within range of Will's flute stronghold. "It's a pity you didn't qualify to become a real agent. Then we'd really see what you can do."
"I'm fine where I am," Will says. Sweat is starting to prickle on his skin underneath his clothes, and he's looser than he'd like to be when talking to Chilton. He scans the room, hoping for Katz and her date or even Jack to come over and distract Chilton before Will says something that would get back to Lounds and the front page of .
"Well, do let me know if that changes. I've got my ear to the ground, and there are plenty of opportunities for someone with your talents. I'd be happy to make a few phone calls, hand out a few cards …" He lets the suggestion linger.
Will snorts. "I don't suppose testing would be a part of these opportunities?"
"I couldn't say," Chilton demurs. "I'll be frank here, Mr. Graham; I know you don't want to work with me. I accept that. But I'm not the only one interested in studying your curious mind, and I promise you, not everyone has my scruples. You're a controversial figure; I wouldn't be surprised if someone was working to discredit your work as we speak. Someone with a lot more credibility than Freddie Lounds." He pauses, sliding a hand into his pocket, eyes trained on Will and posture as relaxed as Chilton ever gets. "Have you ever considered writing a book?"
"You've got to be fu—"
"Frederick," Lecter says smoothly, appearing from nowhere as though deposited by the hand of God. Will's eyes widen, and his face feels like it's seizing into an expression of exaggerated shock before he drops his chin and stares at the table again.
"Hannibal," Chilton says. For all of his wheedling of Will, he does seem to find Lecter the most interesting man in the room. Lecter looks the part, Will notes; tall and slim, and one of the only people in true black-tie. "I had no idea you were planning to attend."
"I'm past the point of fashionably late, I know. Mr. Graham is my guide tonight," he says, turning his body and attention toward Will with a smile as styled as his hair, "and I'm afraid I've made him wait."
Will slips his hands under the table when he notices they're shaking. Jack wanted Will to have a minder, and truly he is moments from making a scene and probably tripping over the table in his haste to get away, so that was warranted, but—
"For some strange reason, I thought you weren't coming."
Lecter smiles again, close-mouthed. Chilton is starting to stiffen, the looseness in his posture he exhibited with Will gone by degrees, as he's demonstrably made into a third wheel. "I wouldn't turn down an invitation from Jack Crawford, nor the experience of having you as my chaperone."
Will nearly starts laughing, but he manages to keep it together. "Sure, of course."
"Well, I won't keep you," Chilton says. "I still haven't shaken any hands myself. Though in this kind of a crowd, I'd better make sure I wash mine after." He inhales, puffing up and giving Will an all too obvious image. "Perhaps we'll catch up later, Hannibal?"
Lecter nods, and Chilton walks off toward the buffet.
Will is fighting two impulses; the flabbergasted need to demand answers, and the drunken, relieved urge to laugh his ass off. "Thanks," he says, "but why are you here?"
"My schedule was open. I enjoy parties. And Jack insisted," Lecter says with an incline of his head that gives Will the real answer.
"Did you know you were coming when you let me believe you weren't?"
"Yes. I misled you and postponed my arrival because you deserved the chance to enjoy the party without feeling like a child that needs minding," Lecter says with offhanded bluntness that reminds Will of why he agreed to keep coming back to their informal sessions. "Though I see now I should have arrived earlier."
Will waves a hand half-heartedly; all is forgiven. However much Will objects to his reason for being there, Lecter appeared in the nick of time to drive off Chilton's pecking. He's a handy scarecrow, Will thinks, and the severeness of his tux, the way it lengths the lines of his body as he continues to stand while Will sits, helps the image. Will knows he should have stood upon arrival, especially for someone of Lecter's set, but he doesn't trust his limbs to hold him.
"Have you eaten?" Lecter asks, giving no look to the collection of empties Will is still curating.
"Before I left." Will looks to where Chilton is still lined up and filling his plate. "Can we wait until he's cleared the buffet table before sobering me up?"
"Certainly. Do you mind my company while we wait?"
Will shakes his head, and Lecter pulls out the chair nearest to Will and settles in it, the shiny point of his shoe drawing Will's attention as he crosses his legs.
"How many holiday parties have you been to so far?" Will asks in an attempt to make conversation with someone who appreciates the enormity of his effort.
"This is the third of six," Lecter admits, and Will gives a darkly amused laugh. "The next is a charity art auction, so I don't know how well it fits the description." Lecter gently volleys the conversation back to him, neutral as he observes the room. "Are you attending any others?"
"No. I'm not much for revelry."
"There were several years during my residency where parties consisted of pausing in my rounds to hear the carolers visiting patients, but I have a full calendar these days."
"I've always ducked out of it. This is the only time I haven't been able to—well," he corrects himself, the sluggishness of his intoxicated brain usually a relief and now a hindrance to basic conversation, "once when I was on the force, I was roped into doing one of those white elephant gift exchanges." Time is not quite the healer of wounds for Will Graham that it might be for others, but enough of it has passed—and enough of that champagne ingested—that he can smile over the reaction to his impersonal, uninspired gift certificate.
"No Christmas traditions in childhood, I assume?"
"Not unless you count going to Mass a few times." Will licks his lips, suddenly extremely thirsty. "This is starting to feel like one of our sessions, Doctor."
"I apologize. I was only curious."
Will lets himself retreat into the silence of a lull; the band playing a capable version of White Christmas fades to nothing more than a syrupy-slow beat. He thinks he could swing the pendulum to erase the people, unstring the lights from the tree, disassemble the small stage up front, but how much good would it do him, and for how long?
"It seems Dr. Chilton has moved on," Lecter says, just as Will's blinking has turned deliberate while he tries to convince himself it's better to stay afloat.
"I guess I should make a run for it."
Lecter eyes up the distance between them and the table across the room. "There's a crush of people. Do you have a strategy for this type of situation?"
"Head down, elbows out?" Will suggests. "I think they're less likely to bother me than you. You saw the photographer?"
Lecter nods. "I can provide a distraction, if need be." Will knows he could; Google Hannibal Lecter, and the first page of results are almost exclusively society pages.
"My hero," Will says, then pauses. "You know you don't have to babysit me the whole evening, right?" He looks out at what is a veritable sea of people from his vantage point. Minus a few alcoholics making repeat trips to the bar line, he's the only person disengaged from what is objectively a mellow party. There's bound to be more interesting people for Lecter to shackle himself to. "I bet you know a lot of the guests."
"Yes, most of them as charming as Dr. Chilton," he agrees with an edge of scorn Will almost grins at. "Unfortunately for you, Will, you are the closest acquaintance I have here."
Something about the word snags in Will's mind, loops itself around a memory, and makes him smirk at his own little joke. "Are we acquaintances, or are we friends?" he asks.
Lecter clearly remembers. "Yes," he says, drawing it out; Will is avoiding his eyes, but he thinks there might be a glimmer in them just now. He pushes himself to stand in an effortless motion Will, still blurry with booze, envies. "Come; we should move while the coast is clear."
Will finishes his plate of finger food; his trip to the buffet table had been hasty and necessarily avoided anything requiring a fork. He'd been left with a lot of bread and dessert. Now that it's gone, some crumbs probably on his collar, a smear of spicy hummus on his sleeve, and a napkin wadded up in his fist, he feels an uptick in his anxiety levels. Without a goal to move him throughout the room, or to kill some of the time he's professionally obligated to spend, Will flounders. At least he feels marginally more sober.
Lecter, who still has not left his side, declines Will's second nudge toward eating something himself. "As skilled as Mrs. Crawford's caterers appear to be, I can't bring myself to pick over the same food and utensils handled by nearly a hundred guests."
Will gives a moment of thanks for his own lack of mysophobia. He swipes at the crumbs on his chest, wonders what to do with his garbage. Finding a trash bin would require leaving their relatively isolated spot.
They're standing in the corner opposite the Christmas tree, and most of the guests come nowhere near it. But then, just as Will's processing the luck of the spot, Katz spots him. Alarm bells go off the moment he really gets a look at her expression.
She's tipsy, although Katz is always pretty unrattled, and alcohol doesn't seem to impact her self-possession. The most he can say is that there's a bit of red in her cheeks, but tellingly—what's raising his hackles—he would not find the term "devilish gleam" hyperbolic. She practically crows upon hunting him down.
One hand is behind her back and remains there.
"Hey, Will. Glad you made it."
"Hi, Beverly," Will says. He's not nervous, he tells himself. Wary. "Uh, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter," he begins as a preemptive attempt to distract her from whatever she's planning. "This is Beverly Katz. And her date."
"We've run into each other a few times," Katz says to Lecter, "but crime scenes aren't great for socializing."
"Indeed we have, Ms. Katz." Katz doesn't stick out a hand for him to shake, but she does grin before jumping into shop talk.
"Jack's passed a few of your articles around, especially to the newbies. I expected him to brag for days when he landed you as a consultant."
Lecter's smile accepts the implied praise and conveys nothing like modesty, but he says, "I hardly think the insight from a garden variety psychiatrist is a coup to someone like Jack Crawford. But I'm thankful for the opportunity."
"If you think you're garden variety, you don't get out much," Katz jokes, and Will silently agrees. "Haven't seen you around much since Silvestri. There was Budge, I mean, but—" She makes a face that is somehow both appropriately sympathetic and wry. "I was surprised to see you here. In the good way."
She's playing dumb about Hannibal Lecter's real reason for associating with the FBI. The chance of her failing to pick up on that poorly kept secret is nonexistent, but she's politely skimming right over it. Will's relieved, but the conversation is still too close for comfort. There's still the matter of whatever she's holding behind her back.
Zeller joins them with a bottle of beer in his hand and a disconcerting expression on his face that Will doesn't have the focus to unravel. He does use the momentary distraction to steer them all somewhere else, however.
"Who's your date, Katz?" Will asks.
"This is Thomas Baines," she says without missing a beat.
Will eyes up the insignia before anything else, but that's nearly lost in the unwanted barrage of information he receives after one glance. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of Thomas Baines' handsome face. His posture is good even for a marine officer; Will recognizes the likelihood of PTSD and general anxiety. Baines has Katz and her conviviality as a shield, though, and if he can manage to unwind long enough to process how much sharper and quicker she is than his usual type, they'll hit it off. "Lieutenant."
"Mr. Graham," Banes says with a nod, and Katz's dimples appear when she throws him a pleased smile. Third date, then. Coffee, then a park—no, Katz took him to a gun range; Will would bet on it. No sex. Maybe tonight, if they're not too tired and Katz can get him to unwind.
"I didn't realize the MCB's hosting singles mixers now," Zeller mutters into the mouth of his bottle.
Katz smacks him with her clutch. "His sister knows my cousin, thanks."
"Your cousin knows everybody," Zeller says, and then he thumbs over his shoulder. "I told him we're about ready."
"Oh, good." She turns to Will then, the gleam intensifying, and he resists taking a physical step back by a very small margin. "Will Graham, it's officially time to welcome you to the BAU."
From behind her back, she brings forth a pair of felt reindeer antlers. A split second later, Will groans out loud when he sees the photographer headed toward them.
"Where did you even get those?"
"Jimmy," Zeller explains.
Katz can see Will's unhappiness—he's not making any attempt to play along. At his elbow, Will can feel the heat of Dr. Lecter, silently observing, and across from Katz, her date only looks confused. She gentles her expression and lets the hand holding the antlers drop to her side. "It's a tradition thing. Hazing the newbies. My picture's still hanging on my fridge at home." She means well; most of her really just wants him to feel like part of a team, only a small part of it is a frisson of delight over making him look stupid. He suspects she'll regret bringing it up when she's sober. "If you don't—"
"Just get it over with," Will says gruffly.
Katz grins, and Zeller says, "I sent Jimmy to get Jack," as she settles them atop of his head.
"We're taking this now, or he'll bolt," she announces as Will shifts his weight from foot to foot, wincing back from the smallest brush of her fingers against his bangs. She shoots him a grimace of apology and then crowds in next to him, gesturing for Baines to join her. He does, footsteps slow and unsure.
Lecter makes to leave the frame, and the photographer—doing his best to take this from an awkward moment that will replay itself against the black of Will's eyelids at night to something that will arrest him with shame for years—looks up from fiddling with an attachment and says, "If Dr. Lecter and his date could move in closer, please."
Katz chortles, Zeller situates himself somewhere west of Lecter, and the flash goes off twice. Will makes an attempt toward a neutral expression rather than obvious discomfort, but he isn't so sure he succeeded.
As soon as they disband, Will yanks the antlers off and goes to flatten his hair when he feels them pull at it. He shouldn't let it get to him; he knows what it was, and it was not some needling prank from his college roommate or a sneering colleague. It's Katz, and she wanted to loosen him up. But Lecter is radiating bemusement, Zeller's tongue is pushing against the inside of his cheek over the photographer's assumption, and Will knows that somehow this photo will end up headlining a particularly unflattering Tattle Crime article someday. Will Graham, unhinged as ever, glowering with antlers on his unkempt head.
His heart thuds at the thought, and Will fitfully combs his fingers through his bangs. Between booze and his miserable dread, his face is ruddy. He knows he's making it worse by not being able to shake it off, but if Will were able to shake things off, he wouldn't be good at his job.
"I think that one is gonna need to be framed and put on display in the lab," Zeller drawls.
Will feels another flush of emotion and opens his mouth, but he startles when he feels a gentle press of a hand to his arm, yanking him out of a kneejerk reaction.
"I have something to show you," Lecter says meaningfully, leaned in close, his eyes trained on Will's face, brows drawn together enough to create a furrow. "Follow me?"
-
The chatter is nearly silenced once Lecter closes the door to their hideaway, a utility closet-sized waiting area empty of everything but a meeting table and a small setup for coffee. Will breathes, grasping the back of one of the chairs and focusing on the scratchy material against his hands. He can scarcely hear the music. He feels like he's surfacing from something. It's not an unfamiliar feeling.
"Thanks," he says when he's finally feeling a little more verbal. Their journey out of the party was harder than Will would have guessed it'd be, too many people drawn to the sight of Dr. Lecter in a tux parting the sea of bodies as they went, Will's uneven gait a step behind him. The scrutiny and the whispers in his own mind clogged his throat.
"Your gratitude isn't necessary."
He pulls his hands away from the chairback and stands without support. He smooths his hair down again, feels the gel crackle. He wonders if Lecter had scoped this room out beforehand; his stride when he'd guided Will toward it was deliberate and assured.
"I asked Jack as a precaution for a quiet place," Lecter says, easily guessing Will's thoughts.
The fact that Will had to make use of it is painful but unsurprising. He laughs a little, a scornful sound, and shakes his head. "In case I had a meltdown?"
"In case you needed a few moments to process the excessive stimulation socializing in a crowd brings. There is no shame in this, Will." He says it mildly and to Will's back.
"I know that." Objectively, he does. If Thomas Baines needed a few minutes to get his shit together in a glorified coat closet, Will wouldn't blink. But his own weaknesses are exasperating for their perpetual lack of improvement. He's resigned to his nature, but he hasn't reconciled it.
There's a long silence while Will focuses on compartmentalizing. Lecter was right; crowds confuse him easily, especially if he's trying to do more than just cope with the sheer amount of feedback he's getting. Drinking helps soften the edges, but it also makes him sloppier, strips away some of the barriers constructed to keep him in line.
"Should I wait outside?"
"It doesn't matter. Talk, don't talk, I don't care."
"That is a grievous liberty to give a psychiatrist," Lecter says wryly, but then he leaves Will to his thoughts, a simple presence behind him.
Eventually, when Will is more centered, he turns around and says, "I guess this could be a new holiday tradition."
"Attending this party?"
Will shakes his head. "Exhibiting poor coping mechanisms and monopolizing my psychiatrist-slash-babysitter."
"Exhibiting only poor taste in dates," Lecter says with a quirk to the corner of his mouth. Will snorts. "I did warn you Dr. Bloom was the better choice."
"I don't think Alana would appreciate our current circumstances," Will says, looking around at their bland and tiny—and extremely private—room.
"Well, I appreciate both the respite and the company."
"That's good, because it's possible we'll wait the night out in here." Honesty, or maybe transparency, for Will is impulsive, and he surprises himself when he says, "I'm glad you came, even if it was on Jack's orders. And I've had worse dates." That hangs in the air too long, and Will can't help but dwell on the oddity of their relationship. Dr. Lecter, going beyond the call of doctor-patient responsibility. Dr. Lecter, officially without a tie to Will Graham, unofficially his paddle, especially in recent weeks. Friends, acquaintances, something else entirely. The moment feels amorphous, like it's searching for some kind of an end. It's not uncomfortable, but it is strange. "I've been a worse date," he mutters.
"I expect stories lay behind that."
"You can guess their content," he says, although Lecter has kept the tone light and Will doesn't feel too bothered by the reminder of his habitual failure to be normal. "Unless retelling every excruciating detail makes for good therapy?"
"Navigating romantic interactions is a skill some never master. And everyone struggles initially. I think you have an especially harsh view of your own prowess."
"You're telling me you struggled?" Will asks doubtfully, trying to picture it.
Lecter makes an elegantly amused sound. "Oh, yes. At length. I was not born into graces."
"Your attempt to comfort me falls woefully short," Will says, "but thanks for the mental image."
"It is one of the services I provide."
"That, and arm candy for photo opportunities," Will jokes, and he turns away and slips his hands into his pockets. He's off-balance, and he can't tell if it's something Lecter's doing—showing signs of humanity, how droll; Will rolls his eyes at himself—or residual shakiness from being overwhelmed.
His gaze takes a distracted tour of the part of the room that doesn't contain Lecter in it, eyes squinting nearly closed when he drifts to the overhead fluorescent light, and that's when he spots it.
Sprigs of mistletoe are bound together with a cheery red ribbon, dangling from a little hook on the ceiling. They're above Will nearly directly. He snorts, disbelieving.
"Did we wander into the hook-up spot by mistake?" he asks, nodding toward the bundle.
Lecter steps closer to get a good look, and he reaches up and gently touches the leaves with a finger. It tilts in the air and swings for a moment before stopping. "I didn't see any in the main hall," he says. "It does seem someone put it in here for an exclusive purpose."
"I'm surprised we didn't have to shoo away horny interns, then."
"Jack assured me this room would remain private." Lecter is still gazing at the mistletoe, and Will looks at his profile in turn. He seems almost enraptured. "Do you know much about Phoradendron flavescens?"
"Aside from the ubiquitous holiday stuff and a bit of biology holdover," Will shrugs, "no."
"North Americans use a different strain than the one considered sacred to druids, which is commonly found on oak. The berries of Viscum album are white." The red berries snugly nestled amongst the green leaves prove their origin. "Americans tend to favor red."
"Kissing under poisonous berries seems counterintuitive to holiday cheer." Not that Will has ever understood the ritual of holidays and celebrations. They're all pretty bizarre to him.
"One berry plucked for one kiss," Lecter says. "I don't think this one's been used for its intended purpose." He looks amused by a thought, and it's a disarming look on him, so much so that Will glances away for a moment. "Am I right in guessing that your lack of Christmas traditions includes the customary kiss under mistletoe?"
Will relates to his moment of amusement. "Yeah, I've definitely never been kissed under mistletoe."
"Nor have I."
They're both staring at the damn mistletoe, and Will's flustered, made worse by the fact that he still doesn't know if it's him or something he's picking up on. But Lecter looks calm, still faintly smiling, only a foot or so away. Under the mistletoe just as much as Will is now, he realizes.
"Would you give me permission to grant you one tradition?" Lecter asks, and his tone is much different than it was before. He's still looking up at the leaves.
"What?" Will asks, too dumbfounded by what the obvious implication is to believe it. And then, when Lecter's expression shutters and starts stiffen into regret, he blurts, "No, of course."
"Happy Christmas, Will," Lecter says with evident fondness, and he leans in to plant a quick, dry kiss on Will's mouth.
Will can pretend it's chaste. His eyes are open, and it's not much more than a warm peck. He's been kissed with more contact by his grandmother. It's something he can ignore and write off as a gesture, a moment of comfort and whimsy between two unlikely people, but the kiss made him weak like a sudden drop in an elevator.
Before Lecter pulls back all the way, Will's spastic, unsure hands keep him where he is. He's baffled by himself, acting on instinct, and when Lecter freezes entirely, he worries he overshot that by a mile. Took a friendly gesture and made it weird. But he's Will Graham, and for all of his own fumbling, he doesn't misread signals. He'd have to be far less adept to misread a kiss, anyway. Will is aware he's got an out only if he chooses it.
Lecter makes a pleased noise against his mouth and exhales slowly. Will's hands go to his firm back and rest there warily, soft, slick material that his palms want to slide across. This kiss is far less chaste; Will ends up licking the taste of Lecter off of his bottom lip, a mild spice.
The corners of Lecter's eyes crinkle with the newest iteration of his smile, and Will smiles back, this one small and knowing and a bit rueful.
"Did you happen to scope this room out beforehand, Dr. Lecter?"
Lecter regards him with a flash in his eyes like a gem facet tilted in the light. He looks doubly pleased with Will's insinuation. "I did." Will raises both eyebrows. "I promise you, my hands did not hang that mistletoe."
He laughs, a sound surprised by its own levity, into Lecter's neck. A light touch settles on the back of his head, securing him there, and the feeling from earlier is back again. The sensation of an elevator drop, a sudden jolt, spreading from his stomach through his chest. Will shuts his eyes and chases the fall.