The Best of What's Around

Hey, my friend
It seems your eyes are troubled
Care to share your time with me
Would you say you're feeling low and so
A good idea would be to get it off your mind

See, you and me
Have a better time than most can dream
Have it better than the best
So we can pull on through
Whatever tears at us
Whatever holds us down
And if nothing can be done
We'll make the best of what's around

- Dave Matthews Band, "The Best of What's Around"

Jack calls Hannibal the next morning to check on Will's progress.

"He's doing well," Hannibal replies, standing next to dishes in the sink, the phone in one hand and a scrub brush in the other. "Getting his stamina back."

Will, standing naked at the butcher's block with a towel in his hand, still flushed from the fantastic blow job Hannibal gave him not five minutes ago, doubles over with silent laughter. He has to hold onto the block to keep his balance. Hannibal, also naked because Will pushed his robe off to ogle his body, smiles at Will's unfettered mirth.

"The fever was a setback, but he's recovered. Still, his doctor will not clear him for field work for a few weeks. He may, however, be cleared to go back to teaching within the week."

Will shrugs and stretches his arms over his head as if to prove that he's gaining strength. He noticed more meat than usual at breakfast – protein so he can rebuild what he's lost. Good food, ample sleep, plentiful exercise: he'll be back sooner than Hannibal thinks if he keeps getting these three things. Oh, and regular sex with Hannibal. That thing, too.

He grins – and not just because Hannibal is standing there stark naked talking to Jack on the phone and it's absolutely hilarious. He grins because he can't stop himself from grinning. Because he's about as happy as he's ever been and he feels like grinning about it.

Hannibal catches his attention.

"Let me see if he's available."

Hannibal asks with an expression. Will rolls his eyes but holds his hand out for the phone. It's a little weird to be talked about as though he's not in the room, but so much weirder when the guy who's talking about him with his boss is also the guy who just blew him, who happens to be his psychiatrist, and who's standing naked before him like a feast. And now Will is going to talk to Jack while Hannibal watches. This is weird but… good? It is funny. But it's weird to talk to Jack, the only man who can make him timid. He almost doesn't want to, even with the promise of a case. Of course, he is recovering from a gunshot wound: he can blame any weirdness on pain meds.

These thoughts run through his head in the seconds it takes Hannibal to give him the phone.

"Will Graham," he answers, shooting Hannibal his most suave expression.

Hannibal laughs in his reserved way as he crosses the kitchen to retrieve his robe where it pooled on the floor when Will shoved it off his shoulders.

Will half-listens as Jack asks him how he's doing. Better. That's good; he sounds better. Silence from Will, who watches Hannibal slip the robe on. Just as Hannibal leaves the room – where is he going? – Jack mentions the case. Will turns his full attention to Jack and the kitchen falls away. Jack says they have a promising lead. Good work on the part of the forensics team. He's sorry Will can't come with them tonight.

Will, who had forgotten his nakedness, remembers his injury. That he's wounded, sick, crazy, fucked up. Not right. His posture slips a little and a frown appears on his face.

Jack's wishing him a speedy recovery when Hannibal returns holding another robe. Will curses Jack internally as he hangs up. Dammit. He'd been in the best mood he can remember, and then Jack has to call with news he doesn't want to hear.

He feels black and blue as he hands the phone to Hannibal and dons the robe. It's Hannibal's. It smells like him and Will can't place the fabric right away. Will would much rather be naked with him again, laughing over the dishes, not having heard from Jack.

Hannibal turns the tap on and soaps a plate. "Bad news?"

Will scowls. "They have a lead."

Hannibal's eyes narrow slightly as he hands the plate to Will. "You think they don't need you."

Will looks down at the plate he's drying and says nothing.

"Will."

He looks up. Hannibal has one of his sincere expressions on.

"They do. Though you might not need them."

Will sniffs. He has no interest in going over that point again. He disagrees. He won't be moved. But he doesn't meet Hannibal's eyes or challenge his assertion. Something about the conversation with Jack has got him down and he doesn't know how to get back up.

They wash the dishes in silence for a few minutes. Will feels his dark mood spreading through the room like spilled ink. Dammit, Jack.

"It's a nice morning," Hannibal says lightly. "Blue sky. No clouds. Perhaps you might join me on a walk."

Will nods and lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. This is Hannibal trying to cheer him up. He nods more vigorously and for a second thinks he's going to cry again. He tamps the urge down and wonders what the hell is going on with him. Maybe it's Jack getting into his head, making him feel insecure. Scattering his emotions. That's how he feels: scattered. Messy. A wreck.

And Hannibal's just standing there, washing a fork, waiting for an answer.

"Sure."

The word sounds anything but.

But Hannibal doesn't press him. They finish the dishes in silence. Hannibal suggests that Will get dressed while he puts the dishes away. Will limps back to his room, wondering how he should feel and what this all means. Hannibal is great. The fact that anyone with his combination of talents, looks, education, wealth, and all of the other things Hannibal has, that anyone like that would take such an interest in the son of a drunken boat mechanic, the breaking if not already broken half-hermit who imagines killing other people for a living, the lunatic with violence written on his body. That Hannibal would want him – it doesn't make sense.

He sighs as he buttons his blue plaid shirt, then limps over to the bed to sit so he can put his corduroys on. He pulls the pants up to his knees and stops. His left hand trembles, then moves over to the still-healing incision. Like the laces on a football, but smaller and tighter. Very neat. Hannibal's work.

His index finger hovers over the gnarled tissue. He hasn't touched it yet. Doesn't really want to now. But his trembling hand moves on its own and his fingertips ghost the ridge of sutured flesh. He shivers slightly and quickly pulls the pants up. They chafe. Hannibal left the wound uncovered all night and Will supposed he would say something if it should be covered again, but maybe he won't wait for Hannibal to say something. Maybe he'll do it himself. Because it's going to bother the hell out of him like this.

He goes to the bathroom, gets the supplies, and dresses it, frowning at how ugly it looks.

What could Hannibal possibly see in him.

But, he thinks, it's not like he's some charity case to Hannibal. Hannibal treats him like an equal. Always has. Moreover, the spark between them has always been there. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's some weird animal attraction thing. Because they feed off of each other in this irresistible way that reminds Will of natural forces – magnetic, gravitational, centripetal.

Then again, Hannibal came into his life with Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Maybe this is tied up in what happened when he shot Hobbs. In how much he liked it.

Because Hannibal isn't exactly his type. Not that he has a type. But if he does, it's brunette psychiatrists with kissable lips.

And yet this thing with Hannibal feels so good. So right. He doesn't have to be nervous about anything. Hannibal accepts him for who he is and seems happy with him continuing to be his acerbic self.

Will tapes the dressing down and pulls up his pants. Maybe he'll just go with it and try not to screw it up, and if it does get screwed up, he'll let it go. After all, it wasn't something he knew he wanted until he had it.

He feels better – clearer – by the time he has his shoes on and makes it to the kitchen. Hannibal is nowhere to be found. Probably takes him quite a while to get into one of his suits given how meticulous he is about everything. Like giving head. Really, really good head.

Will puffs out a sigh. Hannibal is good for him. He should be happy about that. If he isn't, there's something wrong with him.

When Hannibal comes back, he's wearing a cream cable knit sweater over a dark red oxford, looking like he's about to go yachting with the rest of the Ralph Lauren models. No one should be that attractive. But Hannibal is.

Will smiles. Hannibal wants him. Hannibal is his. Hannibal smiles back and has the great courtesy not to ask Will why he's smiling. Instead, he hands Will his jacket. Hannibal selects a jacket Will hasn't seen since the Hobbs case. He has a vague sense that Hannibal's jacket selection has more to do with fashion than with freaking him out, but he's still a little freaked out by it.

He tries to put it out of his mind as he limps out of the door, which Hannibal kindly holds open for him, and into the sunlight. He squints. It's a brilliant winter day. Endless blue sky. Not too cold. Brisk. On a day like this, if he weren't trapped indoors at work or trapped in his head at a crime scene, he'd be outside with the dogs, walking the fields and enjoying the sunshine. Their absence stabs at him.

Hannibal, finished locking the door, joins him and they walk down the driveway to the sidewalk. Hannibal walks slowly while Will swings his crutches and tests how much weight he can put on his leg. Some but not enough. Sparks of pain shoot up his thigh when he puts more than a third of his weight on it.

Will remains silent as they pass lines of row houses with old stoops and bits of wrought iron here and there. Hannibal points out a few landmarks in the neighborhood. Will pays enough attention not to be rude as he scans the streets for entrances and exits, alleyways and blindspots. Though he was never a beat cop, he feels like one now as he lets his eyes glance off of faces, reading more about random lives than he wants to. He could deal with cities when he was younger. Not any more. Too many people. Too many lives.

Hannibal stays close by, occasionally protecting Will from the brush of a passerby. Hannibal is being good to him in spite of his mood. So Will does something he never does. He nods to an ornate church, asks Hannibal about it, and listens to the story Hannibal tells.

It's an old church with a few good stories attached to it. Hannibal seems pleased to be sharing what he knows. He has pride in his neighborhood. It makes sense. This is one of the oldest of the old money neighborhoods in the country, dating back to its colonial days. How apropos that Hannibal lives in a district replete not just with culture but also history, fairly brimming with a sense of Old World aristocracy. The neighborhood fits Hannibal like one of his suits.

The original Washington Monument, smaller but no less impressive an erection than its D.C. counterpart, peeks over a building and comes into view as they round a corner. Trees line the other side of the street and Will relaxes just a bit when he sees them, even though winter has denuded them. This breath of nature is better than fresh air.

They cross the street and begin circumscribing each of the four small parks surrounding the pillar. When they've walked the outlines, Hannibal detours into a small shop. Will waits outside, not interested in knocking into things inside the tiny place. He breathes in the cool, refreshing air and looks up at the sky. Endless, endless blue. Like a vast expanse of hope.

Hannibal reemerges with a ribbon-tied box and two steaming coffees. Will follows him back across the street to a bench under a bare tree. He sits gratefully. By his count, they've done sixteen blocks. His leg aches and his wrists are sore from bearing so much of his weight. He sips the coffee eagerly, needing the caffeine. It's not as good as Hannibal's but still a far cry from the instant stuff he makes at home. Hannibal unties the ribbon, opens the box, and reveals two chocolate éclairs that look rich and delicious. For once, Hannibal doesn't tell him where the chocolate came from or what the filling is made of. He just passes one to Will, takes one for himself, and they eat in silence.

It's a good morning to be outside. Will begins to feel better. He should feel great, walking the streets with his new lover essentially on his arm, sharing a mid-morning snack shaped like a phallus in view of another phallus – very funny, Hannibal. He half-expects roosters to burst from the delivery truck across the street. Now he does let a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Everything Hannibal does is deliberate. Yeah, Will thinks, tilting his head to look up at the Washington Monument, I want to fuck you, too.

"You look contemplative, Will."

"Just noticing the symbolism."

Hannibal's mouth quirks with amusement. Will's eyes follow two pigeons pecking at the cobblestones. He can't look at Hannibal when he says what he needs to say next.

"And wondering what this is."

He sips the coffee.

Hannibal isn't trying to look at him either, though he isn't uncomfortable. They could be two strangers sharing a bench.

"What do you want it to be?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

Will sips the coffee again. It's something to do. Hannibal's tone is calm and even-keeled, understanding, more curious than anything else, but conversations like this make Will's skin feel too tight.

"Had sex with someone I know without planning to."

"Well," Hannibal says. "This can be whatever you want it to be."

Will doesn't like that answer. Too vague. He glances in Hannibal's direction, his eyes falling on a point past Hannibal's knees.

"What do you want it to be?"

Hannibal doesn't hesitate. "Pleasurable."

Will tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. "It is that."

"It doesn't have to be anything more than that."

Now Hannibal's looking at him, gaging his reaction.

Will thumbs the cardboard sleeve around the cup.

"So… we're friends with benefits?"

"I don't see why not."

"You're happy with that arrangement?"

"I am."

"So am I."

That's settled. And it was easy.

Will sips his coffee again. He shouldn't be suspicious, but he is. Just a little. Because things have never been easy for him. He's spent too much time killing within himself the craving for affection, care, and love to let it come back to life now. He can't let himself expect anything from Hannibal. He has to find some way to beat expectation back.

He'll take carnal pleasure with Hannibal when he can get it and not expect it when it's not in the air. He'll keep himself safe.

Once they finish their coffee and start back, Will feels better. Not carefree as he felt over breakfast, but lighthearted. A building on the corner where the park ends catches his attention. Rather, the enormous taxidermied stag head he can see through the window catches his attention. An impressive twelve-point buck. He hasn't dreamed about the stag since his fever broke.

"What's that?" He nods to the building, noticing the caduceus on the balustrade.

"The mansion of the city's most esteemed hostess more than a century ago and a fine example of the pinnacle of Gilded Age culture. Mrs. Garrett, later Mrs. Jacobs, filled it with art and music until it rivaled the homes of New York and Newport."

Then Will notices the small sign. The Garrett-Jacobs Mansion. A vision of Hobbs slashing Abigail's throat swirls in front of him. He sees himself, yet again, shooting Hobbs over and over and over, advancing, his heart pounding, exhilaration rushing through his blood. Hobbs slumps against the kitchen cabinets and looks at him with the intensity of a dying man.

"See? See?"

All Will can do is pant and shake violently as Abigail's blood pumps against his hand.

"Will."

He starts and realizes he's staring straight ahead, panting, as Hannibal's hand rests on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think – "

"It's fine," Will interrupts and limps away like he's been burned.

Focused on the sidewalk and nothing else, Will doesn't see Hannibal's mouth curl slowly into a smile.