Chapter 3
"Cheese is my passion," Franklyn says, expression brightening, eyes still bloodshot from the tears he'd shed earlier in the session.
Hannibal glares disapprovingly at the crumpled, soiled paper tissue his patient has juse carelessly disposed of on the glass surface of the antique side table beside his chair before letting his gaze fall back to the notebook in his lap, the gaping blank page that today's appointment has inspired. None of his recent conversations with this particular patient have approached the kind of therapeutic breakthrough he had hoped for and Hannibal's attention is rapidly waning. He suppresses a sigh. In fairness to Mr. Froideveaux, he finds himself somewhat more distracted today than usual, unable - unwilling - to stop his subconscious from straying to thoughts of the previous evening's hotel encounter with the oddly enchanting Will.
It is rare for Hannibal to stumble upon someone who captures his interest so thoroughly. Despite the fact that he had been displeased to find his bed cold and empty of company in the hours following their tryst - rare-offered invitation to stay rebuffed as he slept - the discourtesy of the desertion had not irked him to such an extent that it was detracting from the delicious, still-fresh memory of their brief time together, nor was it sufficient to deter him from recalling each carefully catalogued detail: the liquid fire, smokey-sweet bourbon taste of his mouth, the umami flavour of his skin, salty with sweat; the heavy, heady scent of his arousal, so much more enticing than his lamentable cologne; his callus-rough hands, the way they clung to him so savagely, at odds with the velveteen skin of his spread thighs, his supple backside; the moreish sound of him in ecstasy, fevered pleading and cursing that was a symphony of obscenity to Hannibal's ears and - his favourite detail - how Will had looked towering above him; dark curls and coiling muscle, those solace-seeking eyes, as stunning in dismay as in desire, at war with his own nature and so utterly, entrancingly resentful of his gift.
Hannibal allows his eyes to close for a brief second as he inhales, exhales slowly, and lingers on just how sublimely the man had managed to engage all of his senses.
"...and I know it's not the healthiest thing I could eat," Franklyn continues, heedless of interrupting Hannibal's increasingly lascivious thoughts, "but when I feel anxious - and I do, all the time lately - it's the only thing that seems to help, besides seeing you, of course, but that's only once every week."
Hannibal chooses to ignore this thinly-veiled request for additional time and attention. "We are often drawn to things that are bad for us," he says simply. And while especially true of this particular patient, it is a flaw from which even Hannibal himself is not exempt. He crosses his legs, glances at his watch. It may indeed be time to rid himself of Mr. Friodeveux (although referral to another psychiatrist could prove difficult; his tendency towards transference leaving few in Baltimore he's yet to see), to afford Hannibal the additional time he needs to explore his own ancillary passions. In all, the morsels of memory that he had been dining on all day were serving only to arouse his appetite for a repetition of the encounter with Will - cementing his desire to see him reprimanded for absconding, to further plumb the fascinating depths of the man, both body and mind - and Hannibal is nothing if not accustomed to finding what he seeks, inclined as he is to use whatever means necessary to do so.
"Do you enjoy cheese, Doctor Lecter?" Franklyn asks, edging forward in his seat, stubby fingers fidgeting with a button on his tailored - but too-tight - jacket.
"I do," Hannibal says and extends a flat smile to Franklyn, grateful that his hour is almost up. "And I firmly believe that we should allow ourselves to indulge in the things that please us most."
Franklin's eyes widen with anodyne hope. "Even if those things aren't necessarily good for us?"
"Everything in moderation, of course," Hannibal adds and closes his notebook. "The key lies in exercising control."
His last patient of the day attended to, Hannibal removes his jacket and rolls his shoulders. He can still feel the ghost of blunt fingernails there, clawing wantonly at his skin, as he pours himself a glass of cold, crisp Viognier to cleanse his palate and settles at his desk with his tablet computer.
Armed with the knowledge that the Will he met was in the city to assist police with the case of the politician's timely death, Hannibal starts his search for information on that case and, more specifically, for any details about the team handling it.
Hannibal clicks on an article from the reliably lurid TattleCrime site - 'Heartless Anti-LGBTQ Congressman Murdered Amidst Rumors of Misconduct - FBI Investigates' - and scrolls through the accompanying collection of dimly-lit photographs (undoubtedly taken without consent, camera flash switched off to avoid discovery at the scene), which reveal, to his disappointment, nothing besides a standard crime scene tent, some police tape and evidence markers. He scans the body of the article which comprises little more than pandering fluff and wild conjecture - and to his satisfaction, no real insight, no mention yet of the Chesapeake Ripper or another likely suspect - until there at the end, he finds the name that he had wished to see - 'FBI Agents Jack Crawford and Will Graham attended the scene but declined to comment.'
With the addition of Will's probable last name, a little further online research soon reveals that the man Hannibal had spent the evening getting to know (in the biblical sense, at least) indeed appears to have been FBI Special Agent Will Graham who - as a respected teacher at the Quantico FBI Academy specializing in forensics and criminal profiling, former homicide detective and forensics analyst, and author of a highly regarded monograph on determining time of death by insect activity - had rather downplayed both his law enforcement and academic credentials during their initial conversation.
He powers off the device and reclines in his seat, savors the notes of peach and honey that the wine leaves on his tongue. This newly discovered information pleases Hannibal enormously. Not only because the depth of the fierce intelligence he had glimpsed in Will Graham serves only to galvanize his interest, but because, as fate would have it, he currently has another connection to Quantico - Dr. Alana Bloom, a former mentee from his time at Johns Hopkins and whip-smart psychology professor who is presently guest lecturing at the FBI Academy away from her resident position at Georgetown - and she happens to be long overdue for an invitation to dinner.
"Heart stuffed with foraged mushrooms, wild garlic and baby spinach, then roasted," like the rest of its owner, Hannibal thinks with a smile, but reserves this particular bon mot for himself - "and served with pan jus and Pomme Anna."
Alana wrinkles her nose at him in jest. "Still doing the nose-to-tail thing, huh?"
"Naturally," he says, and tops up her tall beer glass with a home-brewed ruby ale, hopeful that the libation might help loosen her tongue, "anything else would be a terrible waste."
"It looks incredible, as always," Alana says, smoothing her napkin across her lap, "I don't think I've ever eaten a heart before."
"But you've broken more than a few, I suspect."
She rolls her eyes at him and tucks a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear. "Well, I wouldn't dare eat this anywhere else, but I trust your superior skill and judgment when it comes to the culinary arts."
"As you should." Hannibal raises his wine glass towards her, "Bon Appetit."
They eat and share meandering chit-chat. Hannibal steers the conversation towards work with some well-placed, well-meaning questions about her semester at the FBI Academy; the attitude of trainees, the oft grim subject matter and, of course, the faculty.
Although he always enjoys Alana's company, his primary intention this evening is to find out if - and how well - she knows Will Graham; to soak up any droplets of information she might spill that will allow him to plant a seed, to somehow get close enough to manufacture a second, chance meeting with the man who has so preoccupied his thoughts since their time together. (And, if this approach should fail, he finds himself quite willing to sacrifice a patient if it might mean securing a visit from Special Agent Will Graham. To this end, he had delayed his plan to refer Franklyn Friodeveaux to another psychiatrist; he may yet prove useful as a patient.)
"Everyone's nice, of course, but the culture, the atmosphere, is entirely different from Georgetown."
Hannibal quirks a brow, stills his fork as it spears the meat on his plate. "How so?"
"Oh, you know, students carrying guns, that kind of thing," she says with a sardonic smile and a small shrug, "But mainly it's just a different workload, a different level of intensity. And I'm covering some extra classes while the regular teacher does other work for the Bureau."
"They aim to get their money's worth during your tenure," Hannibal jokes, before pressing, "How are you adapting to these new classes?"
"They're good," she says, inflection lilting upwards as though she isn't quite convinced of that, questioning her own assertion. "Honestly, I think I'm learning as much as the trainees just by reading the course notes."
"Complicated material?"
"It's more that Will has a very specific way of thinking about things."
Hannibal feels his stomach clench. He lets his gaze flit from his plate to Alana and asks casually, "Will?"
"Will Graham - the instructor I'm covering classes for," she pauses to sip her beer, then smiles fondly, "It's good to tackle something a little different, approach things from a new perspective. Keeps me on my toes."
At the confirmation of what he suspected - hoped - might be the case of Alana and Will's acquaintance, Hannibal is careful to maintain a cool countenance; his query only that of polite, passive interest. "How does this teacher's perspective differ from your own?"
"He tends to put himself into the work, rather than maintaining an academic distance. It can be…vivid in detail. He sees things most would miss, or actively avoid." There's a contemplative pause before she continues, halting the movement of her knife before it slices through the blushing, tender piece of heart on her plate. "He's great at what he does, he just does it differently than I would."
"You and I have often found ourselves at odds over differing methodologies, yet we still hold each other in high esteem."
"Exactly."
Hannibal watches Alana's expression carefully. "And are you and this Will Graham also as friendly as we are?"
She purses her lips, tilts her head. "We're friends, of sorts."
"Of sorts?" He raises a brow at her and allows his lips to stretch towards a small smile despite feeling something dark and disquieting stir low in his stomach.
"It's not like that," she chides and settles her knife and fork delicately across her plate to indicate that she has finished eating.
"No?"
"No," she says firmly.
Hannibal notes with umbrage that the implication has brought a faint blush to her cheeks. "And do you socialize with this friend, of sorts?"
"Nope. Never been in a room alone with him."
"And why is that?" He narrows his eyes, grips his wine glass, and forces himself to remain amiable.
She shakes her head at his prying and balls her napkin in her hand, sets it on the table beside her plate. "Anyway," she says, and her expression shifts, grows serious, "that actually brings me to something I wanted to talk to you about."
"Yes?"
"I had been planning on getting in touch before you called," she places her elbows on the table and leans forward - Hannibal finds himself too motivated to hear what she has to tell him to delay it by reprimanding her for a lack of table etiquette - and continues, "I shouldn't say too much in case you aren't interested, but the head of the Behavioural Science Unit is looking for a clinical psychiatrist to assist with a profile."
Hannibal feels a terse thrill at the very notion of assisting the FBI. He had made every effort to avoid direct contact with them until now - a similar invitation had been extended in the past and he had declined, with the excuse of an already sizeable workload; no sense in tempting fate, he'd thought then, by putting himself in the sights of the same people who had branded his other specialist work as 'evil' and 'monstrous' - however he finds that his opinion on that matter may well have altered. He lets the iron-rich flavor of the last bite of meat rest on his tongue before slowly chewing, swallowing, keen to keep his new-found eagerness under wraps for fear of arousing Alana's suspicion by acquiescing too readily. "I'm sure the FBI's Behaviour Science Unit is well equipped for that task. Present company included."
"It's….delicate. There's a member of staff, a teacher, who is currently consulting on cases," she says, there being the obvious implication that she is still speaking of Will Graham without saying so explicitly, "I have voiced my concerns that, while more than capable, he needs additional support, certainly a formal psych eval, before getting any deeper into fieldwork."
"And you feel you may be too close to conduct an unbiased evaluation?"
"I don't want to lose a friendship that was already hard to win, or ruffle the establishment feathers with my opinions on how it's being handled. An outsider's opinion would be useful."
"You don't want to upset the applecart." Alana knows Hannibal well enough to understand that he has no such qualms in that regard.
She nods. "I think you'd be a good fit."
Hannibal is inclined to agree, but conceals his enthusiasm. "The teacher in question is unreceptive to the idea?"
"Very much so. He's neuroatypical. He failed initial screening to be a fully-fledged FBI Agent and I think he's sensitive about it. He's great at what he does. Brilliant even, but that kind of work can take a toll on someone who is already…." she pauses, attempts to choose her next word carefully, "unpredictable."
Hannibal tempers his expression, dons a mask of quiet consideration to hide the warm sense of delight he feels pooling in his chest. Although not quite what he had envisaged, the idea of working alongside Will was undeniably exhilarating. Will had glimpsed a certain darkness in Hannibal, he's sure of that, and the idea of concealing the depth of that darkness under such a perceptive gaze whilst exploring, pushing the boundaries of, Will's response to it was too enticing to resist. He has always found it difficult to resist a challenge.
"That screening test detects psychological instability," he comments; it's not quite a question.
She nods, takes a long pull of her beer, and smiles, "I think you'd be an asset to the BSU, and you could assist with profiling. There's a case in Minnesota you could undoubtedly help with; missing girls, seven so far, as well as keeping an eye on W—" she abruptly sucks her lips in, as though trying to claw back that last, telling syllable, before continuing with a slight grimace, "the Agent in question."
Hannibal keeps his smile small, even, at her near-slip as everything clicks into place more neatly than he had dared to hope possible; puppets dancing as if he had hoisted the strings and pulled each into perfect alignment to suit his own ends. He finds himself quite responsive to the idea overall, not just the enticement of gaining legitimate access to Will Graham, but of peeking behind the curtain of the FBI, gaining insight and cultivating influence over such compelling minds. After all, where better for a tree to conceal itself than in a forest?
He makes a show of giving the idea careful consideration. "I would be amenable to discussing it further if you wish to pass my details to your colleague."
"Good," she says and reaches across the table to touch his hand. "I will. Thank you, Hannibal."
No, thank you Alana, he wants to say, but keeps it to himself.
Dressed comparatively more casually than he normally would for such an occasion - no tie, a simple sweater over an open-collared shirt, an informal blazer - and wearing day old stubble in order to cultivate an atypical air of approachability, Hannibal pulls his Bentley into the lot of the Behavioural Science Unit building at Quantico, prompt for his scheduled meeting.
Within a week of his conversation with Alana, he had received a visitor to his practice in the form of Special Agent Jack Crawford, Head of the FBI Behavioural Science Unit, requesting his assistance in constructing the psychological profile of the criminal Alana had mentioned - now responsible for eight missing girls (presumed dead), all abducted from college campuses across Minnesota - as well as help to informally evaluate and monitor a gifted, but somewhat difficult, Agent who had only recently returned to field work.
Hannibal had found Jack to be surprisingly amiable; the man had obviously conducted a background check on him, and had been briefed on his academic bona fides by Alana prior to his visit, but, even so, Hannibal had been impressed that he had taken the time to memorize and reference some of the finer details of his academic past, to compliment the sketches in his office, the paper he'd had published in the Clinical Journal of Psychiatry. Men like Jack Crawford often favored bullishness over good manners to achieve their desired results; Hannibal appreciated the courtesy of his stratagem, even if it had only been dispatched in order to serve his own interests.
Willingness to assist assured, Jack furnished him with additional information about the specific skill set of the Agent he was tasked to work with (which Hannibal, unbeknownst to Jack, already had intimate, albeit slender, knowledge of) and had made it clear, and in no uncertain terms, that while the Sprcial Agent may need to be treated with kid gloves, it was of the utmost importance that he remain able to work on this, and other, cases.
"I need him out there, and I need you to make sure that when he goes deep he can find his way back to the surface," Jack had stated.
"To act as a life preserver should he go adrift."
"Precisely."
And so, to Hannibal's illicit pleasure, it was agreed that he would rejig the rest of the week's appointments in order to start his consultation work as soon as was possible, bringing him neatly to this moment, the fruit of recent labors and his divine good fortune; his formal introduction to Special Agent Will Graham.
He feels a frisson of excitement in anticipation of the seeing Will again; the displeased expression he can already envisage on that lovely face. He wonders how long it will take for Will's eyes to meet his own and if a blush will bloom on his cheeks as prettily as it had before; if the bruise he left on his skin will still be faintly present, if it remains tender under his weight when he sits. He wonders how long it will take to be granted a taste of him again, the musky sweetness that he cannot help but crave. Though stored and revisited many times since that night, it has become as the perusal of a menu would be to a starving man; tantalizing but ultimately unfulfilling.
When he arrives at Jack Crawford's office, the door is ajar and Hannibal catches the scent of Will's cologne - the same soapy, citrus-musk as worn previously, too juvenile and inexpensive for his tastes, but made slightly more agreeable by recent association - before he comes into view. Even in profile, Will remains every bit as visually captivating as Hannibal recalls. He is sitting opposite Jack, a desk between them, and when Hannibal politely knocks on the open door to signal his arrival Will doesn't turn around to look or stand to greet him but continues to frown at the papers in his hand.
"Doctor Lecter, we're grateful to have you on board," Jack stands and circles his desk, shakes Hannibal's hand and claps him on the shoulder with the other, smiling broadly.
Hannibal's eyes flit to the still seated, uninterested Will before he speaks. He is as he had been before; unshaven, bespectacled and altogether unkempt, shoulders bowed as he broods over his work. Hannibal returns Jack's grin, "I am delighted to offer help in any way that I can."
Will's hands go still and his posture shifts at the sound of Hannibal's unmistakable voice. His jaw clenches before his head tilts to peer over the same thick-rimmed glasses as before, perched low on his nose.
"This is Special Agent Will Graham, a teacher at the Academy who is also assisting with the Minnesota killer's profile," Jack gestures to Will and frowns slightly when he sees him barely looking up, "Will, this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a forensic psychiatrist who came highly recommend by Alana Bloom."
"A pleasure to meet you, Will," Hannibal says evenly, careful to manufacture a small measure of surprise while concealing the level of glee he feels at the sight of the bristling man before him.
Unsurprisingly, Will does not return the sentiment, instead, he runs his eyes quickly over Hannibal's face, full lips pulled into a tight line of disapproval, before turning back to Jack and requesting the confession file. Every bit as discomfited and discourteous as Hannibal had expected him to be. He has to suppress the smile tickling the corners of his lips, prompted by his own reaction as much as Will's; he wouldn't tolerate such disrespect from anyone else, a sure sign of his uncommon appreciation for the man.
Jack throws Hannibal a small apologetic smile at Will's lack of manners and leads him towards the evidence board, perches on the edge of his desk as he briefs him on the known victims, pertinent locations, the spate of false confessions following the latest TattleCrime photos of the most recent victim's body - Elise Nichols, who had been sewn up and returned to her bed post-mortem.
"And yet none of the other bodies have been found, even in part?"
"He's eating them," Will says bluntly before Jack can respond, the first words he's spoken since Hannibal's arrival. Will glances up at at him from his seat.
Hannibal hums in consideration, buries his hands in his pockets and turns to peruse the photographs of the victims on the board. "Homo homini lupus," he murmurs, quietly.
Will huffs out a sour burst of laughter, "That's one way to put it."
Hannibal is impressed by Will's quick translation of the latin phrase - a personal favorite: man is wolf to man - a linguistic skill possessed by too few in his opinion; another point in Will's favor. Hannibal turns back towards him, "How would you put it?"
"He's a cannibal with the ethics of a game hunter."
Hannibal nods. "For him, the tragedy is not the death itself, but for that death to be wasted." It is a concept that he - unbeknownst to all but the few who have lived to experience it first hand - understands intimately.
"He wants to honor every part of his kill, that's why he returned Elise Nichols. She had liver cancer. The meat was spoilt, he couldn't honor her," Will says, and seems to catch himself looking at Hannibal for too long, too comfortably. His eyes dart away, and he bows his head, squints his eyes at the file in his lap before finishing the thought, "Grotesque, but practical."
"Is that how you view your own methods, Will? Grotesque, but practical?"
When he doesn't answer, Hannibal can't resist continuing, hopeful of provoking a further reaction. He moves swiftly, takes the seat beside him.
"I imagine it takes a toll on you, emotionally, to reconstruct the thoughts, the fantasies, of such a monster."
Will blinks, a dark flash of betrayal there before his eyes flit briefly to Jack then return to his work. He remains silent, jaw set. Hannibal is conscious of the part of the conversation that is taking part between their words, loaded with what little knowledge of each other they secretly share.
"Tell me, Will," Hannibal lets his voice soften, leans a little closer, "what mechanisms do you employ to preserve your own values and sense of decency under such dark influences?"
Will's fist curls in his lap, he lifts his chin, "I build forts."
"No forts, though, in the bone arena of your skull to protect the things you love."
"Whose profile are you working on?" He snaps, before turning to Jack, the volume of his voice heightened, eyes wide, in anger, "Whose profile is he working on?"
"Will—" Jack starts, tone appeasing.
"I'm sorry Will. Observing is what we do," Hannibal allows his eyes to caress his delicate features, fortifying the image that has lived within his mind for weeks, willing those scornful blue eyes to meet his. "I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut off yours."
"I told you not to psychoanalyze me," Will snarls at Hannibal as he stands, throws the files in his hands onto Jack's desk and grabs his briefcase from the floor beside his chair. "Now if you'll both excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing."
Jack looks at Hannibal, puzzled at Will's assertion. "I did warn you that he can be...difficult. He requires careful handling. A less direct approach might be more beneficial."
Hannibal concedes the point with a nod. "May I ask, during intense conversations, does he adopt your cadence of speech?"
Jack nods, "I thought it was a gimmick to get the back-and-forth going."
"It's involuntary. He couldn't stop himself if he tried," Hannibal has already experienced that personally, after all; Will does indeed require careful handling to that end. "What he has is pure cognitive and emotional empathy. He can assume your point of view, or mine, or that of a psychopath to a frightening degree. It is an uncomfortable gift, Jack. Perception is a tool pointed at both ends."
Jack nods again, a little sadly. "Well, in that case, maybe don't poke him with your own in future, Doctor Lecter."
You have no idea, Hannibal thinks, suppressing a smile.
"This cannibal you have him getting to know…" Hannibal says instead as he studies the photos of the victims; an idea taking shape. There may be an even better way for him to assist with this case, a gift he can give Will beyond his planned role of sounding board, confidante and provider of comfort, carnal or otherwise, "I think I can help good Will see his face."
"Good morning, Will," Hannibal stands at Will Graham's motel room door, most charming smile in place, two days after their tentative reunion. "May I come in?"
"Where's Crawford?"
"Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine alone today."
Will's eyes search his face, clear and unobstructed by the shield of his glasses. His lips remain tight, his tongue presses briefly over his teeth causing his lower lip to bulge in a sure sign of disapproval.
Hannibal takes in the rest of Will's appearance; he's sleep-rumpled and surly, dressed only in a thin white T-shirt and cotton boxer shorts. Still, Hannibal finds himself wishing there was more skin exposed for him to admire. He glances behind Will, considering whether his reluctance to let him in is borne of their past time alone in a hotel room together or because he has something (someone) to hide. Undeterred, he repeats, "May I come in?"
Will glances down at the cooler in Hannibal's hand, the same one he'd seen in his room before - less conspicuous if seen frequently enough for an association to form - and turns away, leaving the door open in a silent, begrudging invitation for him to enter.
"I thought I would bring breakfast for us to eat since your premature departure denied us the chance to fulfill our plans to do so last time," Hannibal says, testing the waters. Will's only response to that is a scowl while he grabs a pair of jeans from the edge of the bed and, much to Hannibal's disappointment, pulls them on over his underwear. "I would also like to apologize for the analytical ambush yesterday."
"You would?" Will asks, sarcasm as sharp on his face as it is in his tone.
"I was taken aback to see you there, as I'm sure you were to see me. I had no idea that the Will Graham I was tasked to meet with was the same Will I'd recently come across."
"No?" His brows raise at that; he doesn't quite believe him.
"Will is not so uncommon a name, and you didn't divulge that you were working with the FBI. To my recollection, you were somewhat disinclined to converse at all. The dots were too few to connect."
Will shrugs, attempts to hide his discomfit behind surface nonchalance as he sits at the small table by the window, peers through the drapes. "It was just a shock to see you in Jack's office. I didn't think you were local, with that accent."
Which is why you let your guard down, however briefly, Hannibal muses. "As local as you, it would seem. And please, call me Hannibal."
"Not Han?" Will asks with a rigid smile and gestures for Hannibal to sit.
He eyes Will as he takes a seat, pleased at the provocation, "If you wish, though my friends call me Hannibal."
Will doesn't respond this time, just sits back in his chair as Hannibal unpacks the breakfast bowls he'd prepared, passing one to Will along with a plate and silverware, before pouring them each a cup of strong coffee - freshly brewed at home from Italian roasted, Jamaican Blue Mountain arabica beans - from the thermos flask. The aroma temps Will's tongue to dart out over dry lips, whetting Hannibal's appetite for something more substantial than just breakfast.
"As we previously discussed, I like to be in control of what I eat, so prepared a little protein scramble to start the day: some eggs, some sausage," he explains, and Will holds his gaze for a second, pupils wide and dark, betraying a flash of memory as the allusion to the other kind of control they'd touched upon colors his cheeks a warm, rosy pink before he refocuses on his food, scrapes it onto his plate rather than eating straight from the Tupperware in a surprising display of good manners.
Hannibal watches intently, satisfied beyond measure as Will skewers a slice of the home-made sausage on his fork and chews before saying sincerely, "It's delicious, thank you."
He tilts his head in acceptance, pausing to eat, to enjoy the sight of Will eating, before continuing, "I felt it imprudent to alert Jack to the fact that we'd previously met, lest we expose the circumstances under which that meeting occurred," Hannibal throws a casual glance at Will's unmade bed. "Better to feign ignorance, in this instance."
"Just keep it professional. I don't like to mix business with…whatever that was."
"Pleasure?" Hannibal offers with a wry smile, amused by Will's apparent difficulty in acknowledging that he was a more-than-willing participant in their shared sexual encounter.
"It won't happen again," Will says tightly and peers at him from under dark lashes before he looks back at his breakfast, shaking his head slightly. "We should keep our distance from each other, beyond what's necessary."
"Or we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly."
"I don't find you that interesting," he says. It's disingenuous, meant to sting, a barbed reference to Hannibal's past assertion that he found Will just that - interesting. It doesn't deter Hannibal. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had observed immediately that discourtesy allows Will to maintain a distance from those around him. He is, after all, incredibly handsome, intelligent; those who would like to get closer, Hannibal is sure, are many, but Will would rather appear rude than vulnerable. He has glimpsed that vulnerability already and looks forward to breaching those defenses for a second time.
"You did before," he says with a wolfish grin before sipping on his coffee. "I'm certain you will again." When Will doesn't say anything further, gaze fixed doggedly on his food, Hannibal sees fit to change the subject. "We have a mutual friend in Doctor Bloom, it would seem."
Will raises his brows at that, skeptical. "Did she tell you how unstable she thinks I am?"
"She isn't one to gossip. If anything, she seems protective of you. So is Jack."
"Really? Sending me out to act as bloodhound doesn't feel very protective."
"Alana is against you being back in the field, as I'm sure you know."
He nods, looks like he's about to say something but stops, purses his lips instead, changing course. "But not Jack."
"Uncle Jack knows you have a knack for the monsters. He sees you as a fragile little tea-cup, the finest china used for only special guests."
"Is that how you see me, Doctor Lecter?" Will asks, placing emphasis on Hannibal's title in defiance of his earlier insistence that he use his first name.
"Not at all. Rather, you're the mongoose I want under the stairs when the snakes slither by."
His expression darkens at that, he frowns before he takes another sip of his coffee. This time, he's the one to change the subject. "The Shrike didn't kill that girl they found in the field yesterday. Have you looked at the file?"
Hannibal nods. "The devil is in the details." He knows, of course, what Will has seen; said details being a product of his own design. He had quickly constructed his own profile of the killer in this case and sought to create a negative so that Will might see the positive. Although he mimicked the wounds found on Elise Nichols' body, unlike the real Minnesota killer, there was no love in his treatment of this girl; no honor when he plucked out her lungs, still inflated while she battled for breath, and impaled her body on the trophy stag's antlers, like one would meat on a fork. (Just another pig, in this case, utilized to serve a higher purpose). The tableau intentionally grotesque, but practical in its purpose. "What didn't your copy cat do? What gave it away?"
"Everything," he says with a rasping sigh, palms spreading before he rubs one over his face. When he looks back at Hannibal his eyes are alight with a spark of exhilaration; the thrill of the chase. "That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped for me."
Hannibal is thrilled to hear Will acknowledge his gift as just that, pleasure swelling as he watches him jab his fork into the sausage on his plate - made with the remnants of the same girl's lungs that were left after his dinner last night - and raise it to his lips; his hunger satisfied at Hannibal's hands. Will's posture eases as he speaks with zeal, seizes upon every purpose-built detail of the so-called copy cat killing, uses it to validate what he already knew and extrapolate further features of the real killer as he finishes his breakfast.
Hannibal uses his coffee cup to hide the gratified smile on his face and listens, rapt, as Will rhapsodizes about what is only the first of many gifts he plans to lavish upon him.