L'enfer, c'est les autres.
Hell is other people.
- Jean-Paul Sartre

Hannibal is sitting behind his desk when Will arrives. The door stands open, and Will almost feels intrusive stepping over the threshold. He's used to being invited in, to having to wait his turn. Walking in unannounced feels like the height of rudeness, yet the moment demands it. He feels a chill when he does, when he surveys the scene and when his eyes fall on the man who normally welcomes him with a type of warmth only he can manifest. A warmth many people might interpret as cool detachment, but Will knows him better than that. Will knows him.

Hannibal turns, the light catching his profile, and stares at Will with an unreadable expression. It's as though he's never seen him before in his life. Will wants to ask if he's alright but it seems redundant, so he shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

"I thought you were dead." Hannibal's words are flat, his tone reverent, his eyes barely wider than usual yet Will can tell he can barely believe what he's seeing.

"Almost."

His hand stings and he clenches it into a fist at the reminder of the battle in Tobias' basement. His head still pounds, more than normal, and he hasn't regained much of the hearing in his left ear yet. He will, he's been told, but he doesn't much care right now. It's just another inconvenience to add to the myriad of troubles he's already wading through on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis. What's one more string to his bow? He cringes at his own metaphor, thinking back to the cellist's basement, and turns his attention to the room.

He wanders slowly across the polished floor, ignoring Jack at his six and the crunch of broken glass and splintered wood beneath his boots. Hannibal is still gazing at him strangely, and Will's brow knits in consternation. What is he thinking? He's never seen Hannibal so dishevelled before and it's disconcerting. He's clearly taken a beating but judging by the twisted corpse on the floor, he gave more than he took. Blood streaks from the corner of his mouth down to his chin, a bruise blooms on the opposite cheekbone and he's cradling his left forearm in his right hand. His hair has been subjected to a quick taming yet it looks nowhere near as sleek and tidy as normal and Will thinks this is the most concerning fact of all. The man is normally groomed to perfection, but now he looks worn out, a little stunned, and is still pinning Will with that strange, calculating look. As though Will might be a ghost that's crossed the threshold between this life and the next.

He perches on the edge of the desk, his good ear towards Hannibal, and crosses his ankles. Jack has wandered off to talk to a crime scene photographer. There's a body covered with a tarp somewhere off to Will's right. He asks the redundant question anyway, mostly to fill the silence.

"Are you alright?"

"I am. I believe my arm may need some stitches and I have a mild concussion. Nothing that I cannot take care of myself in my own home. Please don't concern yourself."

"You should go to a hospital," The peculiar urge to reach out and touch Hannibal flares, as it has been doing over the last few weeks, and he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to keep them confined. "Let them take care of you."

"No." Hannibal shifts in his chair and were Will not hyper-aware of his psychiatrist's usual state of being, to an obsessive level, he would have missed the twinge of pain and the flinch of his fingers around the cut to his arm. "I abhor hospitals; I can manage. Thank you for your concern."

"Yeah, I can't exactly picture you in a backless gown. What happened here?" Will rubs the back of his neck, eyes skating feverishly across the scene. A fight, clearly. Two dead bodies. His head pounds. It takes him a minute to realise Hannibal is talking. "Sorry, what?"

"You were elsewhere just now," Hannibal frowns at him.

"No. My ear. The gun went off," He rubs at his temple and it feels strangely numb yet oversensitive. Swallowing feels strange, as though he's half-submerged in water and every sound echoes like a whale's cry. "They say I'll be fine."

Hannibal stands with what looks like great effort and comes close to Will. Too close, it's too intimate. The CSIs would notice. Jack would notice, and would certainly comment, if not now then later. But Will can't seem to step away. Hannibal smells of sweat and tangy, bitter blood and it's yet another thing about his battered appearance that Will finds disconcerting.

"You must visit the hospital. I'll drive you."

"No!" Will is appalled at the very suggestion. Firstly, because he hates hospitals just as much as Hannibal clearly does, but secondly if anyone needs a doctor it isn't him. His own voice sounds oddly hollow to his own ears yet already better than before. He wonders if there's still blood in his ear or on his neck. He'd cleaned himself up in the car as best he could, but he's not sure if he got it all. His head is pounding, and he rubs his brow. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"In that case," Hannibal is studying him like a scientist might, as though he's a rare butterfly pinned to cork beneath a shining microscope. "May I suggest we assuage both our worries and tend to each other. If you'd be so kind as to drive me home, you may assist with stitching up my arm."

"Oh, I may, may I?" Will snorts, looks away, looks around the room at two CSIs who are watching them with twitching mouths. He looks anywhere in the room but at Hannibal. Beneath the corpse of Tobias Budge, a tacky puddle of drying blood creates a halo-like circle. He considers the alternative, the puddle seeping from Hannibal's skull. It's an unpleasant image and he rubs the bridge of his nose. "I suppose so. You'll leave your car here?"

"And get it tomorrow. It's safe enough." Hannibal gestures to the door. "Unless you have anything more to do here, shall we?"

Will lingers, explains to Jack where they're going, and joins Hannibal out by the car a moment later. For a reason he can't pinpoint, he feels both exhilarated and apprehensive about being alone with the older man tonight. He can't forget the look on Hannibal's face when he first walked into the office. As though Hannibal was seeing a ghost. A ghost of someone he cared for very much. Or maybe a premonition of something still to pass.

The rain batters the windshield as they drive in silence and Will white-knuckles the steering wheel, lost in thought. He's driving to Hannibal's house on autopilot, needing no direction and being offered none. Hannibal is sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, the belt resting across his chest and his injured arm clasped in his lap. His eyes are closed. Will almost swerves into the path of an oncoming car, distracted as he is by Hannibal's profile and receives a grunt of displeasure for his efforts. He's relieved when they pull up at the house.

The place is dimly lit when they arrive, and Will squints up at the windows as Hannibal unlocks the door.

"Do you always leave the lights on when you're at work?"

"No." Hannibal eases out of his coat and offers no further explanation.

"Then who-"

"Will. Your coat."

It takes him a moment to realise that Hannibal has his hand outstretched. He's taking in the elaborate decor of the hallway, the glitter of the chandelier and the glow of the wall sconces. This is more than he's ever known, so rich and decadent yet minimalistic and understated. He isn't sure how those words even work to describe Hannibal's home yet they're all he can think of. He follows the older man obediently through the house until they reach the bathroom, and he's directed to sit on the edge of a claw-foot tub. But as Hannibal begins to ease himself out of his suit jacket with apparent discomfort, Will finds he can't just sit by and watch him struggle.
"Here. Let me help."

Feeling strangely awkward, he stands and helps Hannibal slide the thick fabric down his arms. He get a flat, slightly baleful look for his troubles but Hannibal acquiesces in silence. The waistcoat is next. Then the bloodstained white shirt, still crisp and finely pressed. Bruises bloom across pale skin, muscles moving fluidly beneath them; Hannibal is strong, solid, and Will has to fight off the bizarre urge to lean forward and press his mouth to the sculpted V at Hannibal's hipbone. He had no idea the man hid such a body underneath his fine suits and sharp waistcoats, and now he wonders if he'll ever truly be able to stop picturing it. His next therapy session will certainly be interesting.

"Will?"

He snaps to focus, and flushes hotly as he realises he's been staring. His glasses have a sheen of condensation on them and he takes them off, folds in the legs, places them safely in his pocket. Takes the small medical kit Hannibal is holding out to him and tries to focus on his work. Hannibal's forearm is bare, bloody and sore with a deep laceration across it from the choke wire. Will cringes as he sees it, hating seeing the tanned skin marred in such a way. He cleans it with disinfectant, listening to the resulting hiss of pain, and furrows his brow in apology. Then it's time to stitch the wound up with a curved needle and catgut thread, and Will cringes as the sight of it, remembering. Before his eyes, he sees strings of stretched, bleached human intestines on racks, smells the strong chemical reek human flesh being preserved, and has to blink rapidly to clear his vision.

"I'm not good at this," he says, after Hannibal winces for the third time.

"You have a steady hand." It's said through gritted teeth and Hannibal's expression is carefully blank. It's amusing, Will thinks, how much he doesn't want to come across as ungrateful even when in pain and being stitched up by someone who hasn't got the first clue what to do. He's more adept at witnessing the aftermath of bodies being taken apart than being integral in sewing them back together.

They're standing very close to each other, Hannibal leaning against the sink with one hand and his other forearm raised helpfully to the height Will needs to work. The lighting in the bathroom is just bright enough for him to see, but just dim enough to make the entire experience feel intimate. Then again, he wonders as he works, he's not sure Hannibal invited many people into his home, into his bathroom, then strips off his clothing to allow them to help him. Hannibal had always seemed like the self-sufficient type. He wonders what he's done to be considered special.

"There. You're done."

It's a botched job at best, but the laceration is no longer gaping and deep, although it's still an angry red at the edges. He wipes away the remains of the blood and glances up to find Hannibal watching him with a peculiar expression on his face. He speaks after a long moment.

"You'd make a good surgeon."

"I wouldn't. I'd be terrible. I'd kill more people than I'd save, I'm sure. Nothing compared to you." The moment hasn't warranted a compliment yet he had offered one anyway. He shook himself silently, berating his obvious misstep. Hannibal probably considers unsolicited compliments the height of bad manners.

"I said good. Not excellent."

Will laughs, and it dies away as Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "I should know by now not to expect anything but honesty from you, Dr Lecter."

"I doubt you'd like me any other way, Will Graham."

A moment passes between them, one that Will will look back on and remember the heat, the loaded silence, the way Hannibal's eyes dropped to his lips for just a second. And the way he stepped forward, brushing a lock of hair away from Will's temple.

"You have some blood in your aural cavity," Hannibal says, his voice quiet and low, smooth as silk. "May I?"

It takes a moment for an answer to come. Will has to swallow a couple of times to draw saliva into his dry mouth.

"Yes," He whispers back, expectantly, hopefully, yet he still jolts when Hannibal's hand comes to rest on the back of his neck.

"Be still."

He's gently scolded, then a warm washcloth is touched to his skin, below his ear, then upwards and he shivers at the intimate touch. Long fingers brush his hair out of the way, steady and deliberate, as Hannibal wraps the washcloth around a finger and gently wipes the blood from Will's ear. His hearing is returning slowly, it feels less and less like he's underwater and, for one strange moment, he's sure Hannibal leans in. Inhales deeply. Scents him.

"There. All done."

Will almost overbalances when Hannibal steps away; he hadn't realised how closely he was leaning into the warmth of the other man's body and has to grip the smooth edge of the porcelain sink to steady himself. His blood pounds in his ears and his skin tingles from where Hannibal's touches linger, phantom caresses that he finds himself craving more of.

"You must stay here tonight," Hannibal is saying, easing himself back into his shirt but leaving it hanging open. "It's late. I can cook for us."

"The dogs…" Will rubs the back of his neck and sinks down onto the edge of the bathtub. "I can ask someone to look in on them." Then he gestures vaguely at himself. "I don't have an overnight bag."

It's a poor excuse. Is it even an excuse? Will's limbs are heavy with exhaustion and he can't deny how good it sounds to just stay here, be cooked for and fall asleep. He imagines that even the guest bedroom has a soft comforter and pillows like clouds, sheets that feel like silk on his overheated skin. He doesn't want to go home and sleep alone, as much as he loves his dogs. And while he'll obviously be sleeping alone here, at Hannibal's, he won't be alone in the house. And just for once, that would be really nice.

"I have suitable attire. For you to sleep in, if not for dinner. I fear my clothing may run too large on you."

I'll bet, Will wants to say. Have you seen yourself?

He can picture those arms around him, locked around his waist, and imagines it feels nice. More than nice. Strong. Secure. Like he isn't going to fall, and if he does then someone will catch him.

But all he does is nod and follow Hannibal's directions to go downstairs and make himself comfortable in the living room, which is dark and emotively lit, and exactly what he had come to expect from his psychiatrist. The room smells richly scented - lilies, he notes, turning to see an elaborate bouquet sitting proudly on the coffee table. He blinks at them, then turns away. He takes the liberty of approaching the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a finger of Scotch, hesitating before adding another, then runs his fingers across the beautiful, antique record player sitting nearby. A vinyl gleams on the turntable and the needle is sharp, glinting silver in the lamplight. It takes him only a second to reach out, lower it, and only a second longer before beautiful music fills the air. A woman, singing in what Will manages to identify as beautiful Italian, and her voice holds him mesmerised.

He watches the vinyl turn, the sound washing over him as lulling him into a trance-like state, in spite of his dulled hearing. It makes him think of hot, oppressive summer nights and burning sun and violence. Blood. The stag. The smell of his own sweat.

The scent of Hannibal's skin.

"Mirelli Freni."

The words drift up from behind him and it should have startled Will, he was that deep in his concentration. But Hannibal's voice seems to blend with the music and Will has to take a moment before opening his eyes, questioning. Waiting for an answer to a question he hasn't asked.

"Tosca. A personal favourite. Do you like it?"

"I don't understand it," he confesses, watching as Hannibal's gaze drops to the glass in his hand. He grips it a little tighter, feeling self-conscious and wondering if helping himself was rude, then Hannibal moves towards him. He's changed out of his crumpled, bloodstained shirt and is in a fitted sweater which hugs his chest and biceps, and Will averts his eyes, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You do," Hannibal murmurs to him, voice an octave loser. "Listen harder."

There's a hand on the small of Will's back and the space between them seems to have diminished to barely than a few inches. Will finds himself unable to look away from Hannibal's captivating gaze as Mirelli Freni continues to sing to them, serenading them, and he wants to close his eyes, to melt into Hannibal, to let the music wash over them and carry them both away. He wants to say something sharp and witty, sarcastic, to bring that faintly pained expression onto the older man's face whenever Will makes a deliberate barb designed to rattle him. But he can't. He's listening and finding himself swept up in words that he fails to understand, in Hannibal's eyes, in the intensity of the moment. The words still lack meaning to him completely, impossible to translate, yet suddenly he feels an overwhelming sense of clarity as he inhales deeply and the scent of Hannibal's cologne wraps around him like a cloak, tempting and constricting and dangerous. He hears passion. Love. Loss. Tragedy. Desire. And he sees it all reflected back at him in Hannibal's intense gaze. The hand on his back pulls him an inch closer and now they're sharing a breath. Cinnamon toothpaste and Scotch and stale mint. Fear and longing and everything in between.

Hannibal studies him for a long, powerfully intimate moment and for a second Will allows his own gaze to drop to Hannibal's lips. To wonder, not for the first time, how he kisses. With power and control, surely. With passion. With dominance. With the desire to own, to claim, to take. To possess. The opera singer in the background gathers gravitas, her last trembling note a chilling climax. Then Hannibal leans forward, his hand cupping Will's jaw ever so gently, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Will closes his eyes. Wonders if it's real. Waits for more with lips parted. But he's left cold, the touch of skin on skin falls away. And when he dares open his eyes again, a long moment later, Hannibal is gone. All that's left is the rustle of static from the record player and the smooth, cool glass beneath his own trembling fingers.