Authors Note: I try to update as many times as possible. I hope my garbage is tasty. Oh, if I particularly enjoy your comments I shall feature you.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I borrowed them and at some point I'll have to give 'em back.
Will came to suddenly, disoriented, and found himself in Jack Crawford's office.
He took in deep breaths in an effort to calm himself.
"Will, what'd you come here for?" Crawford seemed to indicate that Will's arrival at a spontaneous hour was normal, and that his unconscious behavior had been normal as well.
Will peered down for a moment at his clothes, eyes still clearing from just having woken, and noted that he was in his usual clothing, worn and almost ragged denim and flannel.
He'd been wearing them at home in Wolf Trap, Virginia, when he nursed a scotch.
"What time is it, Jack?" he asked, purposefully calm.
Jack stopped working for a moment to look at him. "3:45 am. Couldn't sleep?"
Will rubbed his temples. "Yeah. You?"
Jack leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "I thrive on insomnia. For me, sleeping is a partner activity. Bella has to be there for me to be able to."
"She wasn't home?"
"Stayed overnight at the hospital. She said her checkup turned into a goose chase for something."
Will gave him a sympathetic smile. "Hope she's okay. Any progress on the file?"
Crawford slid over a folder. "See for yourself. You were right. 23 year-old male, orphaned at eleven, and his mother was a prostitute."
"He's asthmatic," Will commented.
"He is asthmatic," Crawford nodded sagely in agreement.
The resolution of the one photo in the folder was grainy, but the man in it was tall and lanky with dark, limp hair, with just enough of his face visible to match the picture of the miserable little boy that he used to be.
"Why did you choose Hannibal and not Alana?" Will inquired curiously, after handing back the file.
Jack folded his hands and appeared thoughtful. "She's your friend; friends cloud judgement. She'd tell me you're suffering mentally and pull you out of this. I beg to differ."
And you chose the opinion which supported your own,
Will mused.
Will left, closing the file and tucking it under his arm. Where was I last?
He remembered falling asleep, surrounded by his dogs. How the hell did I end up here?
"Did I seem a little weird to you when I came in?" Will asked. Crawford looked up, surprised.
"You're being a little weird right now," Jack replied, shuffling papers. "Get some sleep, Graham. You're no good to me if you pass out on a crime scene."
Will exited the room, looking around and trying to remember what happened. The last thing he remembered was sitting at home with his dogs and lying down to sleep.
He shook his head as though to rid himself of his thoughts, and left the building to drive home.
His mind wasn't on the road as he drove, and he had to swerve to miss a police officer.
About a mile away from his house, his eyes caught a flash of tan-russet. He backed his car up, and he saw a scruffy dog, trotting on the side of the road.
It peered at him through haunted eyes, and backed away, but Will wouldn't let up. He exited the car, sat in the back, and waited.
It approached cautiously, sniffing gently.
Will smiled and patted his thighs, squatting to meet it. It licked his face with a long, slippery pink tongue.
He opened a car door, and it backed away for a moment, then launched itself onto a seat.
He ruffled its ears, closed the door, and drove away.
His dogs greeted the new stray with a whine, and he shushed them, pouring himself some scotch.
Winston wagged his tail and sniffed each in turn.
Will swished his scotch around and absently wished he could fit in like Winston, but Hannibal's voice infected his mind.
'You are like fine china.'
Morning found Will Graham at the FBI shooting range. His eyes were starting to purple like large bruises, like Abigail's had been.
He smelt Hannibal before he saw him.
He smelt mostly of peaches, but there was a dollop of iron in the mix.
"Quite an ungodly hour to do such, no?"Hannibal commented.
Will emptied his .8 glock into the target in a series of deafening claps, like iron thrunder.
"I suppose. I've been having trouble sleeping," he embellished a bit, wiping some sweat from his forehead.
"May I?" Hannibal inquired gently, gesturing to a stray curl that dangled far from the rest.
Will bowed his head slightly, chuckling softly, his cheeks dusted with a pink glaze.
Hannibal's fingers wandered a bit, caressing his head and causing sparks of electricity coursing through his skin.
Then he tugged the stray curl back into place, knuckles brushing Will's defined cheekbone.
Will could hardly remember to breathe.
There was something addictive about Hannibal, something primal and macabre that gave him shivers to think about.
"Allow me to buy you something to replace your atrocious aftershave," Hannibal said, voice a bit reluctant, as though he hadn't wanted to disturb the explosive connection.
"I have money," Will found enough voice to retort.
"But I have taste," Hannibal was quick to rebut, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Will rather enjoyed the expression, and vaguely wondered what had happened to his initial dislike of the man.
He pulled his glasses up and scraped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I guess. Let me, I don't know, pay for an outing at some point. In exchange."
Hannibal's eyes took on a glint of sorts, a genuine smile working its way across his face. "Absolutely. Now, Jack needs us. There is a case to close up, the one with the asthmatic."
Will placed the gun in the holster on his hip after replacing the cartrage, set his sound-canceling ear protection on a nearby table, and followed Hannibal like a wayward puppy.
"By the way, I have a few questions for you," Hannibal mentioned, turning his head to face Will as they exited the building.
"Such as?"
"This empathy you exhibit; was it prevalent from youth? Or did you develop it?" Hannibal queried.
"Careful, Hannibal," Will said, and though he could not tell whether or not it was a product of his fervent hope, Hannibal visibly trembled upon hearing his name spoken. "That borders on being intrusive."
"Nonsense. I know my boundaries. This is merely being curious."
"I guess I've been like this since I was able to walk and talk and observe," Will drawled, his gaze suddenly, and quite accidentally, dropping to Hannibal's posterior.
Hannibal heard Will crash into a wall behind him, curse, and continue his shuffle.
Will Graham was beet red, straightening his glasses, and laughing nervously when Hannibal turned to check on him.
The psychiatrist took pity on the special agent and asked no further questions until they reached Hannibal's vehicle outside.
"So, Will..."
Oh boy. "Yes, Hannibal?" Will asked sweetly, intentionally watching for the older man's shiver.
He was not disappointed.
"How did it feel, to kill Hobbs?" Dr. Lecter asked.
Will sputtered a moment, face reddening again, which plastered a roguish grin on Hannibal's unique face.
"I... Hannibal..." Will floundered.
"It's all right if you're not prepared to tell me."
Will paused, and took a deep breath.
"It felt... wrong."
Hannibal snorted, and Will faced him, surprised and a touch embarassed.
"That's not the truth Will. I'll allow it now, but it won't always work in your favor."
Will swallowed slowly, throat suddenly dry. He felt like a penitent sinner, like he had disobeyed the word of god.
He felt white-hot anger like a tide flow through him, and his jaw clenched.
Who was this man, to just show up and make him experience emotion like nothing he'd ever known?
But as his narrowed gaze swept over Hannibal's face as the vehicle pulled away from the lot, his fury abated.
There is nothing wrong. There is nothing off about him, he told himself.
He forced himself to walk to his car, but he couldn't help watching Hannibal's car roll away, and he couldn't stifle the feeling of slight abandonment.