Title translation: "Foi, Confiance et la Poussière de Fée" - 'Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust" (taken from J. M. Barrie's 'Peter Pan')

Chapter 11

Foi, Confiance et la Poussière de Fée

Listening was difficult for two reasons. Firstly, Will disliked incompetence, especially incompetence brought on by false data. Listening to people discuss how to fit a false theory to a case was almost as irritating as that theory being about him.

Secondly, and perhaps most personal if not important, Will just didn't like being talked about behind his back. It set the hairs on the back of his neck on end, made him stand rigidly straight, arms firmly crossed, and stare straight ahead as he listened. He'd never truly understood his need to know, his need to slow his breathing and strain harder in order to hear each muffled word.

Why he didn't just walk away or hum to himself to cover the noise was a sore point. You're doing it to yourself, he thought; memories of home always taunted him at the thought of those five words. Memories of standing perfectly still outside the living room door as his father spoke to the social worker, both keeping their voices to an irritating low. Any stray words caught had only ever hurt.

Purnell was easier to hear than Hatcher or Crawford, her voice being higher pitched than theirs. Before the meeting concluded, obvious from the sound of moving chairs, Will had caught not only 'serious danger to himself and others' and 'lack of discipline' but also, and far more telling as far as he was concerned, 'departmental saboteur'. Will had smirked grimly at the label, pushing away from the wall in order to stand a respectful few feet away when the department heads left Crawford's office. Will didn't look at them as they left and they didn't look at him.

A saboteur wouldn't, would he, Will thought with a humour he knew he shouldn't have for the subject; only the ridiculousness of his situation did, sometimes, sink through the malaise of internal politics. He caught Jack's eye as the man stood in the doorway, looking almost as haggard as Will felt. For a moment he thought Jack would pull him inside in order to continue the charade but instead he stepped out and pulled the door to.

"Let's get out of here for a while," he said and Will followed without question.

'Getting out of there for a while' consisted of merely going down the back stairs, out through processing and into the small, paved courtyard surrounded by barren trees between the main office building and the mirrored twin stacks of the Academy teaching buildings where Will kept his own small office. It was a cold day, a slow but steady wind blowing in from the north east, bringing a moist chill in from over the ocean. He wished he'd had a chance to grab his coat before leaving. Instead he rolled down his shirt sleeves and buttoned the cuffs, hunching his shoulders as he walked beside Jack. They were quiet for a time, odd considering Will was used to Jack being a straight-to-the-point kind of guy. The hesitation was more disconcerting than the silence itself.

"We didn't find anything," Jack said eventually.

Too right they didn't, Will thought, because if they had it would have been because something was damn well planted. He hadn't been entirely surprised when the two agents from the Oversights division had turned up at his door, with two lab techs in tow, to search his house; he was more internally furious that it had ever reached this stage. Will had taken the dogs outside and spent an hour throwing the ball for them beside his garage. The dogs didn't get tired of it even when Will did.

They're in there, his mind kept reminding him as he threw the ball hard and quick out over the low grass, they're in there going through all your closed doors. The thought made his skin itch and Will hated the physical reminder of something he was trying to suppress. When one of the two lab techs had come to find him and tell him they were done he had forced himself not to snap at her. It wasn't her fault after all, he thought as he watched them drive away, it's just her job. The reasoning hadn't helped.

"I know," Will said to Jack, resisting the want to tag on because there was nothing to find in the first place.

"The last thing I need from you right now is disrespect," Jack said after a long intake of breath through his nose; the word made Will feel like he truly was talking to his own father again, "I don't think you understand yet just how much of a threat this was. Not just to you, but to the department, to me. This all falls back onto me, in the end."

"I know that too," Will said, qualifying it before Jack could get angry at his 'disrespect', "only this time I didn't do any of it. If you want to take your anger out on someone take it out on Freddie."

"I would," Jack said tightly, "except the only reason she's being such a dog with a bone about you is because you riled her up in the first place. If you would just leave it alone Will, and ignore the obvious taunting, it would do us all a lot of favours."

It was true, Will wouldn't allow his own ego to try and temper the statement, but as far as he was concerned that didn't make any difference. It did to Jack, and perhaps others. So he allowed it even though he didn't like it. They cut in behind a low ringed water fountain which was never turned on until early summer. It sat, still and unmoving, the spurious spouts sitting inert above the shivering water.

"I promised I'd stay away from her and I have," Will shrugged, "not much else I can do. I'm sure it's not the first time she's had someone tell her what a self-righteous bitch she is to her face."

"I doubt it is," Jack shook his head, "only when you tell someone about themselves it tends to sting more than just an insult."

Of which he was well aware. Will kept his shoulders shrugged up around his neck as the wind picked up. He stopped walking and, after a few paces, Jack stopped too. Will was sick of talking about her. He changed the subject.

"So everything has been hashed out then?" he asked.

"Yes," Jack's 'yes' always included a host of qualifiers but Will didn't press further; Jack would only tell Will if it suited him.

"When do I get back on the case?" he asked.

"You won't be," Jack said; Will had known it was coming but it still stung.

"Then can I suggest a replacement?"

That had Jack's attention. Dark brown eyes stared at him as if trying to tell whether this was some sort of trick. Will wasn't normally one to offer help when he felt roughly treated, so he didn't resent the look he was getting.

"Only you're missing an element of the team," he carried on, understanding that Jack would stop him if he wasn't interested, "you need the mind of this killer as well as the physical evidence he leaves behind."

"You're suggesting Alana..?" Jack tried to second guess him.

"No, Alana wouldn't want to see too far into this, don't drag her somewhere she shouldn't be," just the thought of it made Will feel angry; she was one of the few untainted things he had left in his life, the last thing he needed was her doing what he did for a living, "I was thinking of Dr. Lecter."

Jack had opened his mouth to protest but closed it instead, his eyes drifting to the left, to the still fountain. A few seconds of chill wind and shaking branches before Jack spoke up.

"I don't think it's fair to just offer up any psychologist as someone who can see where we need them to see."

"Don't be obtuse about it Jack," Will said wryly, noting that the man wasn't angry at the comment, more annoyed that he'd been caught out in it, "he knows where to look. He's helped before and he's done the QFP stage two, shouldn't that be enough?"

"You certainly are getting to know each other well I see," Jack said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Not really," Will shrugged, lying as best he could, "there has to be some inane chat between him asking me about my nightmares and my childhood."

Or it might have been that he told me about it over dinner last night, after which he fucked me into his bed so hard I nearly passed out when I came. Only no one's ever going to hear about that. Will tried not to think about being spread out beneath Hannibal's thorough hands the night before so as to avoid a blush that would have been difficult to explain. Instead he focused back on Jack.

"Trying to say you're easy to replace?"

"I'm trying to say that I need replacing, and, as far as I can see, he's the next best thing."

Jack nodded and Will took that as enough encouragement that his offering had been accepted. It made him feel better at least. The last thing he wanted was for this case to slip them by because of Lounds' meddling. Not that he didn't think the team couldn't handle it on their own, they all far outstripped him in their respective fields of expertise, only he knew that no one ever wanted to look too closely into the dark places which the killer left behind. Right now, he thought as he considered the lack of physical clues the Copycat left at any of his scenes, that was what they needed the most.

Jack stopped hovering, took another step, and then seemed to go back on his decision to keep quiet, "You know, Will, it isn't just the circumstantial evidence or Freddie that got you mixed up in all of this. You've made it bad enough that people are willing to believe you could, without hesitation."

No need to ask what the 'could' referred to. Could kill a man simply for lying about you. Could mutilate his face until he was unrecognisable and smile while you were doing it. Could imitate the work of a killer because you seem to admire him far more than any sane person should.

"It's good to know that even FBI agents listen to gossip."

"That's not the point," Jack said, "and you know it."

"Yeah, I know it," he said, watching Jack tense up, "that's what makes me sick about it."

"I want you to leave the personal aside when you walk through that door," Jack said purposefully, "and be as objective as you can from now on. If not then we'll have to revise this set up, and you know how much I don't want to do that."

"Can I assume everyone else will leave my personal issues at the door?"

"Never assume anything about other people, Will," Jack said, finally walking back towards the door, "it's a dangerous habit."

Having Hannibal at his side was akin to wearing camouflage. He was a draw for stray eyes but also a deterrent. An exotic, slow poison. Will knew the man wasn't being purposefully intimidating, he wouldn't feel the need. Yet his gaze, unrepentantly frank, tended to turn others' away. A reflective lack of guile which kept Will under its shell until they had left the building.

"I think it will rain," Hannibal had said as they walked back towards the road.

"Maybe it can wash the dirt away," Will said grimly, looking up into grey clouds; he felt for his car keys and realised that he'd forgotten his jacket inside, "shit. I need to go back. I won't be long."

Testament to how distracted he was. He felt unwound and examined, passed through multitudinous fingers who had stared deeply into him as if it were their right. Nothing to find because there had been nothing there, yet it hadn't stopped them looking.

By the time he re-emerged the rain had started. Will zipped up his jacket and made a run for the car. A shock of red hair slowed his dash, partly blocked by Hannibal's familiar red, blue and grey tartan back. Will felt that he should have been shocked and angered by Freddie's presence, only, by this point, it was really no surprise. Neither saw him approach.

"...been terribly rude, Ms. Lounds," he heard as he walked closer, "what's to be done about that?"

"Will Graham could always give me an interview," Freddie's words made Will choke, "I could give him a chance to clear his name."

"After you dragged it through the tar and then feathered it?" Will said as he walked past, "I wouldn't hold your breath."

He had continued walking, straight past, as if he were merely a casual observer. Yet Freddie didn't take the decorous route, allowing him his comment, instead she hurried after him with Hannibal walking slowly behind.

"The man of the hour," she said, walking briskly at his side, "I'm not kidding about the offer, I'll give you free reign to edit."

"Sure you will," he said tightly, "And anyway, asking me for an interview now seems rather redundant, doesn't it? You did such a good job coming up with all the facts on your own last time."

"We're all adults here," she said, skipping up over the verge as Will turned onto the sidewalk, quickening his pace, "you pushed my buttons and I pushed yours. It's all just semantics."

You interviewed my mother, you cold hearted cow. Will Graham refused to believe the human condition could be reduced to simple semantics.

"You know your problem Freddie?" he snapped out, "You've got no damned principles. You can't even stick to the principle of hating my fucking guts. If it'll get you a story you'll tell your standards to go play in traffic."

"Standards are for government employees," she said flippantly, "I can't be picky."

He stopped, hauling his small entourage to a halt.

"Then learn to be," he said, staring straight ahead at Lecter's black Bentley, "because I don't want you picking bits out of me. I was told to stay away from you and I'm extending you the same annexe. Stay away from me, stay away from Abigail, stay away from Hannibal, stay away from my family and stay away from my friends. Even you shouldn't find that too taxing, I don't have many of those."

If he'd thought about it before he said it he might have realised just how much he'd let slip. Talking to Freddie was always an exercise in foolish choices.

"Quite the little family you've got in mind already, it seems," she said, looking at him with sharp interest, her gaze flicking to Hannibal; Will could only imagine the lack of reaction she received there, "well then. I suppose I'll just have to stick to my own intuition where you are concerned."

1Wonderful, Will thought, just wonderful.

Two days after his impromptu meeting with Jack and Will was almost unable to stop himself from fidgeting as he walked down the familiar street and pulled out the still shining, new set of keys. They jingled pleasantly as he fitted the black headed key into the multi-cylinder lock. It opened smoothly and Will scuffed his boots against the doormat as he closed the front door behind him. It had taken a few weeks of convincing Hannibal to finally secure his front door to any sane standard considering who he was and, even on a normal level, just how many expensive goods he owned. Will was sure it had helped that for months now he had been subtly antagonising Lecter about his lack of security. Thus, when it had come to convincing him, it hadn't taken much pressure to effect the change.

"In the kitchen," a voice echoed through into the hall as Will hung up his jacket and the bag he had been carrying, and unlaced his boots, toeing them off.

From the overpowering, vigorous smell in the kitchen, and the sink full of pulp filled skins, Will assumed that the orange juice he was handed when he entered was as fresh as it came. Hannibal didn't watch him as he drank but he did smile to himself when Will let out a sound of appreciation after swallowing.

"Where did you get these?" Will asked as he walked to the juicer on the counter by the sink and picked up the hollowed out half-orange from the press.

"I took a trip to Lexington market earlier today," Lecter said as he fussed with something in greaseproof paper on the island counter, "I could smell them while I was buying lobster. Remembered that you said how much you love Seville oranges but can never find them."

"You didn't have to," Will felt a stab of his own familiar, stiff reaction to the courtesy, still unused to people thinking about his wellbeing so casually.

"Not at all," Lecter said as he stepped to the side to unravel straw coloured string from a ball on the counter and cut it with long, steel scissors.

"Thanks," he said, pushing down the awkwardness, taking another drink from his glass. Refocus, he thought before his mind could begin its usual stressing, "so, do you have it?"

"Have what?"

"Have what, he asks," Will said, shaking his head, "you know what."

"Yes, I do know what," Lecter said as he picked up the, now secured, long round of greaseproof paper and transported it to the freezer.

"No, I'm not playing this game," Will said wryly, following him, "really, I'm not in the mood."

"That is unfortunate, as I find it rather amusing."

"Alright, then I'll just be in the drawing room until you feel the need to stop," Will said.

He turned on the lights and walked the length of the room to stand by the window, looking out at the darkening sky as he drank. It was pleasantly warm in the house, enough that he could imagine it was closer to summer than it really was. He rocked back on his heels and took a long drink, finishing it and placing the empty glass on the coffee table. He smiled, unable to stop himself from reading the clear signs. Hannibal had got it, he must have. If he hadn't the man wouldn't have been far more peremptory, far sharper in his movements and wouldn't have allowed Will to wait the five minutes he ended up standing and observing the sky. He heard footsteps behind him, closer and closer, until hands slid around his waist and a solid chest pressed against his back.

"Do you need me to tell you?" Lecter said into his ear.

"No," Will said, unable to stop himself leaning back into the embrace.

"I thought not," Hannibal said as Will turned to face him.

"You're..." silenced with a kiss Will pulled back after a few moments' indulgence, "stop it. Tell me. I want to hear about it."

"Not much to tell," Hannibal said, "I applied for guardianship and it was approved."

"Seems too simple somehow."

"Life is not always a complex web, sometimes the finer threads are simple," Hannibal said, quickly dismissing the conversation, "now you had better get dressed, or we are going to be late."

"Get dressed?" Will said, enjoying Lecter's narrowed eyes, "But I am dressed."

"In the basest sense of the word," Hannibal said with an arrogance Will was sure the man wasn't even aware of anymore, "but not dressed for the opera. Now, we are already pushed for time and if I have to..."

"Have to learn how to take a joke," Will finished for him, "then we'll be here till the end of days," he nipped in for a soft kiss as he passed on his way back to the front door, while Hannibal watched him with curiosity, "give me five minutes."

He hung the suit on the back of the master bathroom door and looked at it, remembering how furious he had been when it had turned up at his door. His lips thinned and he forced himself to see it for what it had been. It hadn't been anger, not really; he knew that now at least. It had been worry, fear even, and a need to contain that fear. The jacket was slightly heavier than he had expected when he lifted it from the hanger, the lining cool against his fingertips.

Fear of someone trying to contain him, trying to compel him. Fear that, over all those thoughts, he was suddenly allowed to have the normal things, the everyday things, the affection and the courting and the subtle glances. Fear, underlying that, of Hannibal's words weeks before telling him that he was the man who could never fit into society. Or the most baffling of them all: Why would someone like Hannibal Lecter ever be interested in someone like Will Graham?

Will was a good fisherman; he knew why Hannibal had bought it from the moment it had arrived. A perfectly crafted lure just close enough to his own tastes that he wouldn't be put off by it, but also exquisitely well tailored in order to allow him to fit in where Hannibal deemed it necessary. Only Will didn't like to feel baited. Then why did you accept it? he questioned himself, annoyed at his own behaviour. Acting like you're nothing but a plaything. Is that all you think of yourself? Christ, Graham, get a damn grip.

He cares about you, and you fit with him don't you? Will swallowed as he slid out of his shirt and undid his belt. And if it doesn't work? Does that mean I'll have deprived myself of my only chance at happiness because he's the only person I've ever found who can understand me? When he sees me at my worst will he regret it, all of this? When I hurt him will he forgive me?

Can't live your life on when's and what-if's kid. His father's words drifted out of his memory along with the smell of cigar smoke and a warm summer evening. Will licked his lips and tried to take some more recent words of advice he'd been given: think on it, Will, but do not worry about it. He hoped that Lecter's words and his father's advice could keep him from making a stupid mistake he'd kick himself for later.

Hannibal was in the bedroom when Will emerged from the bathroom brushing his hands down over his shirt and adjusting his tie. He looked up to find maroon eyes trained upon his person, assessing him, while Lecter pulled an unfastened bow tie around his white shirt collar.

"You're wearing a tux?" Will asked, feeling a little caught out.

"I always do to the opera," Lecter said.

"Oh," Will swallowed, trying for humour, "well, I hope they don't stop me at the door."

"Dear Will, so very self-conscious," Hannibal said as if simply noting the behaviour to himself, cocking his head slightly; the thought made Will uneasy but he kept quiet.

"Pessimists are self-conscious," Will said, pulling at his cuffs to straighten the sleeves, "I'm just a realist."

"Clothes and manners do not make the man," Hannibal said as if by rote, "but, when he is made, they greatly improve his appearance."

"Wilde?" Will guessed.

"Henry Ward Beecher," Hannibal corrected.

"Then I'll take it as a compliment," Will said, "even if I'm not sure why it's necessary."

"Jūs esate labai pageidaujamas," Lecter said, smiling the small secretive smile he liked to use when he said something Will couldn't understand; he walked to Will, reaching up to run his right hand down his throat and over the front of his shirt, "ir, tiesą sakant, aš norėčiau atlupti tuos drabužius, nesvarbu, kaip gerai jūs žiūrėti."

"Translation?" Will asked, still trying to figure out the language; he refused to ask and Lecter, picking up on the game, had not offered an explanation as of yet. In fact he seemed to thoroughly enjoy tormenting Will with its use.

"Translation," Lecter offered, "being that if the tickets for tonight hadn't been so thoroughly expensive and I hadn't been looking forward to seeing the Amleto for months now, then we would not be leaving this bedroom for the rest of the evening. Unless of course you wished to christen one of the other rooms."

Will could feel the blush creeping up his throat. He took hold of Hannibal's hand, still against his chest, and removed it, pushing it back against Hannibal's own.

"Awfully full of ourselves, aren't we," Will said, even as the heat at his throat decided to begin spreading to more interesting but entirely inappropriate areas.

"When I know it is justified."

Will went to the guest bedroom while Hannibal finished getting ready so as to resist temptation. The room was already underway in its transformation from rather sterile to homely and age appropriate. A soft green for the bedspread, Abigail's favourite or so Will assumed from the amount of clothes she possessed in the colour. The brocaded, heavy curtains were now white linen with pale green muslin behind. Black and white photographs were upon the walls; Paris, New York, London. A computer desk with a slim laptop sat in one corner by the window. An armchair in the opposite corner facing a television on a cabinet already half filled with DVDs. A bookshelf, stocked to the brim with classics.

Will put his hands in his pockets and felt a shade of calm work its way over him. Things were looking up, they were, no matter how much went wrong things were getting better. Hannibal was right, he normally was, not that Will would ever tell him so. A family, that's what Abigail needed, to have a family and a home. To have Alana as her comfort, and Hannibal and Will there to look out for her. Just her, huh? his conscience niggled at him. Is she the only one who needs a family? He let the thought linger as Hannibal entered the room behind him. Will looked over his shoulder at the man.

"It looks great," Will said honestly, distracting himself from his thoughts, "I think she's going to love it."

"I hope so," Hannibal said, "she was nervous when I visited her yesterday. I think she is worried about leaving the safety of Port Haven. Everyone there knows what happened to her and have become used to her presence. Now she will have to face the outside world and all the unpredictability that it brings."

"Well at least she can relax here," Will said, even though he didn't really believe his own words, "she can breathe easy knowing she doesn't have to go outside unless she really wants to."

"Which you already know to be a falsity," Hannibal said, catching Will's hesitation, "she is as much able to hide from the world as the moon is from the sun. Abigail is drawn by the independence she has never fully tasted, but shies from the enormity of her task. She will overcome it with time. You both will."

The words made Will take a deep breath and let it out as a controlled sigh.

"What have I told you about analysing me before dinner," he gave Lecter a steady look, "anyway, when the hell have I ever shied away from the world?"

"What a terrible question to ask when you know what the answer would be," Hannibal smiled, "but that was not the thing to which I was referring."

"Oh yeah?" Will said, hating that he couldn't help but ask.

"I was referring to you accepting that I have no intentions of giving you up for any reason," Hannibal said, making Will stand rigidly with his hands gripping his elbows, "despite the fact that you appear to worry about this subject at least once each time we are together."

"You sure pick your moments," Will said tightly, looking at his watch, "come on, we'd better go. The reservation is for half six."

"As you wish," Lecter said, unable to resist, it seemed, reaching out to run his hand down Will's jacket, settling against the small of his back.

Then the pressure was gone and Lecter walked out of the room, as ever leaving Will unsure of the sheer easy casualness with which Hannibal showed his affection for him. The effortlessness with which he observed his inner workings, like a horologist watching the cogs turn and the pendulums swing; in sync, out of sync, in, out. Will wet his lips and told himself that Hannibal wasn't Alana, Hannibal wasn't watching him like a lab rat, ready to take notes and work up a groundbreaking journal article on the insecurities of the empathically disordered. He wasn't, he assured himself unsuccessfully. Just another neuroses he could add to the list, Will thought as he joined Lecter at the bottom of the stairs.

Will sat at the table, feeling slightly out of place but hiding it under his thorough scrutiny of the man across from him, and ignored the menu. He already knew he didn't know what to order and that he would defer to Hannibal's good judgement. That, in itself, had been rather freeing. He wasn't a control freak, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he did resent other people trying to impose themselves upon him. Which was why it was rather novel to realise he didn't entirely mind Hannibal doing so. Perhaps because said 'imposing' tended to be more mutual than he was accustomed to.

The restaurant was implicitly upper class, to the point where money ceased to matter and status seemed to become a mitigating factor. Will was entirely sure that if he'd turned up alone he'd have had a snowball's chance in hell of getting a table. As it was, turning up at the side (or on the arm, depending on how you wanted to look at it) of Doctor Hannibal Lecter appeared to open many doors. Including the one into a dining room filled with elegant, white clad tables and tuxedoed waiters, stylishly modern chandeliers hanging from the Victorian ceiling and delicate silverware. Truthfully he would have rather enjoyed a quiet dinner at home, just the two of them, but Hannibal had insisted.

"You know I never would have guessed you let other people cook for you," Will said as Hannibal studied the wine list intently while he drew tiny circles on the table cloth with his left index finger.

"I allow you to cook for me," Hannibal said, not looking up.

"I've cooked for you once," Will said dryly, "and that was scrambled eggs. I mean cook for you like this. I think I remember you saying you liked to know exactly what you're putting in your body, or something along those lines."

"I do, only there's no fun in not taking risks now and then."

"I also didn't know you were one to leave things to chance."

"This is an excellent restaurant, I know the chef personally," Lecter flicked his eyes up to catch Will's gaze, "the variegations of chance are significantly limited. Do you know what you want?"

"No," Will said, closing his menu, "choose me something I'll like."

That garnered a smile, small and suitable for polite company but with a subtle hint of fervent possessiveness hidden beneath the restraint. Will wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that as he poured them both water from a large carafe, while Hannibal ordered for them both in fluent French. He watched the light dance in his glass as he turned it, only half listening to the attractive words spilling between the two as they talked. The crystal fractured the pure white into a sharp rainbow. He wasn't used to places like this, certainly not entirely comfortable in them, but he could certainly adapt to them. If there was one thing he was good at it was making himself small in a crowd.

"Would you prefer duck or quail?"

"Hmm?" he looked up to find Hannibal watching him, the waiter still standing by patiently, "oh, well..." he'd never had either and so decided it was fifty-fifty, "quail."

Their order was finished in a few short sentences and a deferential nod from the waiter before leaving. Hannibal leaned his elbows on the arms of his dining chair and steepled his fingers. Will took a drink of water and knew, just from the man's stance and his curious gaze, what was coming.

"I really don't want to talk about work while I'm eating," Will said before Hannibal could start.

"It seems you have many stipulations about when things must happen in relation to mealtimes," Hannibal said, continuing on even when Will set his jaw, "no analysis before breakfast or dinner, no work with a meal. Actually I was merely wondering whether you were still under scrutiny from the Inspector General's office."

"No," Will said, moving his fork until it was perfectly in line with his plate, "no, they're done with me. The evidence was circumstantial, they found nothing at my house or at the scene to link me to the crime other than Freddie's word and a few notes that were sent to Bressinden. It seems they finally realised I had nothing to do with them either."

"Handwritten?"

"No, printed. Paper looked lightweight, cheap, and the ink was faded. Could be from anywhere just by looking at it, but I'm sure they'll have more luck in the lab."

"Then Uncle Jack has seen fit to realise his folly."

"The onus isn't on him," Will said, unsure why he was even trying to placate Lecter's irritation for Crawford, "not just on him anyway. I don't think my reputation in the Bureau is exactly stellar."

"When it comes to how far he's willing to move you across the board to get what he wants, he's certainly no saint," Hannibal said, "don't you agree?"

"I'd rather not think of myself as on the board at all," Will replied dryly.

The waiter reappeared with half a carafe of golden yellow wine, pouring a sample to taste into Lecter's wine glass. There was a glass of something deeply orange placed by Will's plate. He picked it up and tasted it while Lecter sipped, nodded and allowed the waiter to expertly fill his glass. Passion fruit juice. Will licked the sweet fruit from his lips. It still disconcerted him slightly that Lecter had obviously picked up on his tastes with expert precision, even without the memory of mentioning his penchant for exotic fruit. He wished he could feel as confident about his abilities to predict Lecter, thinking about how to tell Hannibal that he'd essentially volunteered him as Will's replacement without asking.

"So," Hannibal continued, "you have been reinstated, so to speak."

"Well, to an extent," Will said, "actually it seems I'm not going to be brought back in on this one."

That garnered an interesting reaction. Will wondered if anyone else would have recognised the subtle lift of Hannibal's chin and the tightening of his lips. Will could see annoyance, mixed in with dislike for the turnout. This could go either of two ways, he thought as he watched Hannibal closely.

"I see," Hannibal said, "then the situation is not quite as stable as presumed."

"Not entirely," Will acquiesced, "just because I'm out of the firing line doesn't mean I'm not still in their sights. The Harpy still wants me out."

"Harpy?" Hannibal asked, the edges of his mouth quirking slightly.

"Purnell," Will sighed, "thought I'd better come up with a nickname so I can talk about her at work. Harpy seemed appropriate."

"The bringers of punishment and the heralds of woe," Hannibal said, "let us hope it is not as appropriate a name for her as you seem to think."

Conversation stopped while their starters were served. Dry aged Carpaccio with braised endives and soy dressing for Hannibal, Wild mushroom stuffed quail with truffle sauce for Will. He felt like laughing at the ridiculous level of opulence but kept his composure for Hannibal's sake. Once the waiter left Will couldn't help visualising the chef trying to keep up with the wants of his rich customers by stuffing foie gras and white veal up a roasted swan before garnishing it with gold leaf. He let out a small laugh and covered it with his napkin. Hannibal was watching him curiously.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes," Will said; he looked at Hannibal and couldn't tell whether it would be a good idea or not, but in the end couldn't help himself. Will gestured to his plate, "it's just so...theatrical."

"You asked me to order you something you would like," Hannibal said, slightly stiff.

"And instead I've been given the most expensive starter on the menu, I'm sure," Will said; Hannibal gave him a sharp look but Will smiled in return; showing off, Will thought, "you're doing it again."

"I do not know this 'it' to which you refer," Hannibal said gently but with an underlying frustration, "nor do I wish to know. Now eat your food."

It was wonderful; that he could not deny. The quail was slightly dry but balanced by the succulent mushrooms with a hint or garlic and tarragon. He wasn't so keen on the truffle sauce but felt obliged to try it considering he was sure it was the most expensive thing on the plate. He decided to lay off pushing Hannibal for reactions.

"Actually I have some news as well," he said as the waiter came to take away their plates; Hannibal looked up from wiping his mouth with a pristine napkin. He pushed his glasses up his nose and wet his lips, "I didn't think you'd mind but I put you forward as a candidate now that Jack's struggling for a psychological perspective on the Copycat."

It would be fair to say that Hannibal didn't react at all. Somehow Will found that more odd than the multitude of reactions he had prepared for.

"I see," Hannibal nodded, "well, this is certainly an advancement at least."

"Advancement?" Will frowned, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Until recently I felt it was safe to assume that you did not trust me," Lecter was blunt, as always, and it made Will uncomfortable, as always, "not fully. Not enough for something such as this."

"Hannibal, for crying out loud," Will said, shaking his head softly, "I don't trust the woman behind the counter at the cafeteria not to put too much milk in my coffee. It doesn't come naturally for me, but I would have thought you'd picked up on it by now. If I didn't trust you I wouldn't have told you half the things I have."

"The human want to share oneself," Hannibal smiled as if at a personal joke, "one of the messy equations of existence. All those nasty variables. I hope I do not put yours off balance."

"Only when you try your hardest," Will said, "I'm just happy you're not put out by this."

"On the contrary," Lecter said, "I have every faith in myself; and I appreciate the trust, Will. I know how hard it is for you."

"Yeah," Will said, watching him, "oddly enough I think you do."

Their main appeared not too long after. Will was not at all surprised by Hannibal's incredibly rare filet mignon with crisped onions and béarnaise sauce. The man was an outrageous, and entirely unapologetic, carnivore as far as Will was concerned. His turned out to be pan-fried swordfish paillard with citrus salad and homemade tartar sauce. Will couldn't think of anything clever to say about it, considering he had his mouth full from start to finish. The table was quiet as they ate. He almost wished they were at home so that he could make the sinful noises of appreciation the food in his mouth was tempting him to. Instead he made do with closing his eyes every now and then, as if shutting off one sense only heightened his ability to taste.

He sat back in his chair and ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. When he looked up from his plate Lecter was openly watching him, his left hand upon the table, the index finger and thumb of his right against his lips. Will knew the look all too well by now.

"What?" he asked, even though he was well aware; Hannibal, as Phyllis had previously realised, appeared to enjoy watching Will eat, "Do we have time for desert?"

"Perhaps later," Hannibal said, his eyes smiling; Will cleared his throat discretely, "for now, I think we should leave before it gets too late, else we will be forced to find somewhere undesirable to park."

It was not that he found it boring, as such, just that he did not enjoy the medium. Will would admit he could appreciate the abilities of the performers and even enjoy sections of the music itself, but beyond that it was a tedious slog through two and a half hours of high and low pitched Italian that he could not understand a word of.

He found himself, for the mainstay, surreptitiously watching Hannibal as he sat to Will's right. Enraptured was perhaps the word he would choose; captured by sight and sound so completely that maroon eyes lit up, staring into a space which existed only for the one who sees it; no one else.

Will had observed him in this state two times only: watching the meteor shower from the roof of his rented cabin, and at Will himself as he had sat upon the couch and told Hannibal of his deepest fear. Vulnerable and desperate for someone to see him, really see him.

"Maybe I don't want to know who I am."

"Then perhaps I do."

Hannibal had reached out and taken his drowning hand thrust up above the water's surface. The memory made him feel oddly hot under the skin. Will stared, enjoying Lecter's careless enjoyment, taking pleasure in this glimpse behind what were, usually, carefully shuttered eyes.

He looks at you that way, Will thought as he returned his gaze to the stage, vibrant in red and gold, the players striving to fulfil their roles. As if you were the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. Or is it just a novelty? his conscience supplied unhelpfully. A meteor's bright streak is fleeting. Will quashed the thought as it bit sourly into his evening. When the intermission rolled around he clapped along with everyone else.

"Shall I get us something to drink?" Hannibal offered as they walked out into the elegant lobby in a chattering crowd, lit with gold and cream.

"Sure," Will nodded, trying his best not to show his discomfort.

Hannibal left, weaving gracefully through the crowd, and Will knew he felt worse for it. Being alone amid the host of strangers had a claustrophobic effect, forcing Will's hands into his expensive pockets. The lining felt pleasant against his hands, soft and smooth. Suddenly he began to resent the suit he was wearing as he scanned the darkly clad clientele.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a fan of the opera."

The familiar voice revealed a familiar face as Will turned. Phyllis Crawford stood behind him holding a glass of champagne in one hand, the other slid around her waist over a dark purple dress.

"Hi," Will said, adjusting to the unexpected sight, "I mean hello," he stalled, blinking rapidly, before continuing with the first thing that came into his head, "Jack didn't say anything about..."

"My husband isn't attending tonight," Phyllis interrupted politely, as if noting Will's struggle, "I'm here with a friend."

"Oh, right," Will said, looking somewhere over her shoulder, "uh, same actually."

"Let me guess," she said, her eyes curious, "obligation?"

Will couldn't help but smile uncertainly, ducking his head. An odd interaction, he thought, considering who he was speaking to out of the blue. Obligation. Memories of that night in the kitchen; of her natural intuition and blunt temperament. Seeing right through him and out the other side. Had she seen Hannibal seated beside him? Is that how she knew?

"Something like that," Will said evasively, nodding; he could see her observe the crowd somewhat dispassionately out the corner of his eye, "so, are you enjoying it?" Will liked small talk as much as he enjoyed opera, but, this once, he made the effort.

"Not at all," she shrugged, finishing half of her glass in one long drink; Will cleared his throat, "but it was reason enough to escape the house. And better than pretending to go to sleep so I don't have to talk to my husband."

"Right," Will said, uncomfortable at the thought of seeing into Crawford's guarded private life; his desperate line of thought swung rapidly through the air, "you could plead narcolepsy."

"I'm not up for falling to the ground every couple of hours just to take the edge off my marriage."

"Kidney failure," he suggested.

"Too many urine tests," she smiled.

"Iron deficiency."

"Too many blood tests."

"Dropsy."

Her laugh was small and low but hard won. Will hoped she hadn't picked up on the obvious choice he'd left out. There was an instinctual need to see her smile. He surprised himself when he found he was looking into her hazel eyes for her reaction. His gaze skipped away self-consciously, coming to rest on Hannibal as seen through the crowd of moving bodies, one hand propped against the bar as he leaned in to speak to the bartender, accentuating the long line of his back.

"Remind me not to come to you for fake medical advice," he heard her say; Will wasn't sure how to reply, leaving his eyes to linger for too long, "be careful Will," she said in a confiding tone, pulling his gaze guiltily back to her, "your obligation is showing."

"I..." he felt stupid for hesitating, getting straight to the point, "look, I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything to Jack about this."

"I'm not my husband's spy," she said in a straight forward tone.

"Don't take it personally," Will said, "I'm naturally paranoid."

"A good thing to be," she said, finishing her drink.

"Oh, there you are! I got us both another free one."

A tall woman in a slinky black dress, her blond hair wound up in an elegant bun, bustled up to Phyllis with a smile and handed her another glass of champagne. She seemed to notice Will as a kitten notices a ball of yarn, turning to him with an overly friendly smile and an automatic handshake. Her mouth was wide, showing perfect teeth beneath a long, slim nose.

"Who's this?" she asked rhetorically, grabbing Will's closest hand, shaking it tightly; he resisted the urge to pull back and step away, "I'm Gina, Phyllis's friend from work. And you are?"

"This is Will Graham," Will appreciated Phyllis answering for him, "he works with Jack."

"Oh! Yes, I've heard about you," Gina said enthusiastically; Will noted her eyes seemed too large for her face, bright blue and baby-like, and her cadence was a mile a minute to match; probably a tremendous over-achiever, Will thought, hiding it beneath airheaded bubbliness, "from the newspaper, the Minnesota Shrike. You're a celebrity around our place, right Phyllis? Remember James from Corporate Fraud?"

"James is a true crime nut," Phyllis said to Will in a rather bored tone, sipping her new drink.

"Right, total nut," Gina laughed and it wasn't pretty, "has all these paper clippings about you. Never shut up about it. Kind of a creepy guy actually. So yeah, the Shrike, that must have been crazy huh? I heard them say on the news that you're working on the Chesapeake Ripper case though. Scary guy, I watched a show on primetime last week, he's been loose for years. Just some normal looking guy I bet, probably walking around the streets and no one even knows he's there."

"Most of them are," Phyllis said, looking into her drink; Gina continued quickly.

"Really sick," she said, looking exaggeratedly disgusted, even as she lowered her voice in the guise of gossip, "killed a man a couple of years ago, stabbed him with every tool on the board at his workshop. Pinned to the wall like a post-it-note. I mean who thinks like that?"

"Psychopaths," Will said almost involuntarily; luckily she didn't seem to pick up on the chill in his tone and instead laughed in response.

"Yeah, good point," she said, smiling interestedly, her eyes doing a quick dance down him and then back up, "so, are you here on your own? That's no fun. Can I get you a drink?"

"No need," Will heard a voice say from over his shoulder.

Will felt Hannibal walk up beside him and stand close, no need to turn and look. Will took the glass he was handed with a soft 'thank you' and tried not to sigh as he felt a hand settle firmly against the base of his spine. Why don't you just piss all round me, Will thought dryly, I'm sure that'd make your point just as clear.

"Mrs. Crawford, it is wonderful to see you," Lecter said demurely.

"Dr. Lecter," Phyllis greeted him with warm professionalism, "Gina, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Phyllis did her introductions by rote, it seemed, "this is Gina Harper, my colleague."

"A pleasure," Gina said, her disappointed eyes flitting between Hannibal and Will.

"That remains to be seen," Hannibal said, his gaze steady and, Will knew from experience, disconcertingly unreadable; once more Gina laughed, although this time Will was sure she hadn't missed the subtext.

"Well, we should get back to our seats," Phyllis said to Gina, giving the woman her second glass of champagne.

"Yeah," Gina said, "don't want to have to make the whole row stand again so we can get in, that was awkward."

"It was nice seeing you again, Will," Phyllis said before they left.

"You too," he said, realising that he meant it; to him Phyllis Crawford was refreshingly unassuming.

They were left in a pocket of silence amidst the murmuring masses. Will took a drink of what turned out to be water, glad for it as he was thirsty more than anything else, and looked straight ahead as he spoke. Hannibal's hand was still at his back.

"Well," Will said resignedly, "that was deeply unnecessary of you."

"I do not appreciate crudeness," Hannibal said as if it were a satisfactory explanation.

"You bring me somewhere that requires me to be sociable," Will said quietly, "then put your hackles up when I am. My life is unpredictable enough as it is; I'd rather you didn't add to that. I prefer you as a constant."

"As do I," Hannibal said.

It was mid afternoon and the clouds were pearlescent with hidden sunshine. There was no wind, allowing the early spring insects to float lazily on parallel films of air. He sat beside Abigail with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, while she plaited her hair. They had been mainly silent since he arrived with a suitcase for her and helped her pack the few things she had. He had stood by her while she said goodbye to the nurses, and even one of the other patients, without saying a word.

The bush on the opposite side of the path rustled as a wood pigeon, heavy and fluttering, landed there on the bending twigs. He watched as it settled, head moving jerkily from side to side as it watched him with beady red eyes. Abigail was a shifting figure in his peripheral vision, eyes worried and face drawn. Will was glad that, when he reached out to take her hand, she did not pull back. Instead she gripped him tightly, their fingers woven together.

"Don't worry," he said, knowing it wasn't much of a consolation, "it's going to be ok."

He had agreed to wait for Hannibal because the man had been adamant on being there when Abigail was brought to the house. First off he had suggested he could drive her there, let them in and meet Hannibal there when he returned from his day. Only that hadn't been met with agreement. Association is a heavy tool, Will, one that we bear with us. I would rather Abigail see her new home for the first time with her new family around her. Not that Will had asked what Hannibal was doing today that he couldn't be there when Abigail was released. He realised he didn't tend to pry too closely into the man's private life and wondered why that was. I'll ask later, he thought by way of rebellion against his feelings.

The black Bentley turned up ten minutes later and Abigail seemed, to Will's trained eyes, oddly reluctant. He wouldn't have expected her to rush towards her new life with a smile, but perhaps move towards it under her own impetus. Will felt as if he pulled her with him when he stood. Hannibal opened the boot and she placed her suitcase inside, before he encircled her in a paternal embrace. Will got the door for her and then hopped in the passenger seat next to Hannibal.

By the time they returned home it was heading towards early evening. Hannibal had needed to stop by the local deli and, while he was busy, Will walked with Abigail around the local shops. He could feel her discomfort and sympathised. The feeling he'd had at the supermarket when he'd been recognised had been an unpleasant one to say the least. He hoped that Abigail didn't have to suffer that same humiliation for something which was not her fault. He impulse bought her the book she was looking at in the bookstore when she wasn't looking, feeling idiotic about his lack of confidence. He knew he only bought presents when he was angry or stressed. Over the past couple of weeks he had been a steady mix of the two.

Hannibal drew the curtains in the drawing room and turned on the lights. Will helped Abigail up to her room and placed the book on her nightstand. She looked around her, taking it all in, and seemed unsure of how to react.

"Are you hungry?" Will asked as she began unfolding her clothes and placing them on the bed, "We didn't get a chance for lunch."

"No," she said, "no I'm alright," she sounded anything but," actually I'm pretty tired. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Abb...Abigail," Will caught the moniker just in time, "are you really alright?"

"Mmm," she nodded, "I just...it's not home," she said all of a sudden, looking around her, "it can't be. I don't even know if that's a bad thing, I just...I don't know."

"Yeah," Will said, "and that's alright not to know. You'll figure things out and we'll help you."

"Thanks," she smiled weakly, "really, I mean it. I know haven't always been the best person to talk to."

"Can't blame you for that," Will smiled back, even though he knew it was nothing to smile about.

"Yeah, but I didn't mean it," she continued, "what I said about you and my dad. I didn't mean to say it. You saved my life and...and I wish I could just live with that."

"It takes time," Will knew he sounded stiff as he spoke; he didn't feel he was an authority on healing old wounds, but tried his best to, "you'll get through this. We all will."

The light flecked amber in her black hair as she nodded, not seeming to truly agree or disagree. Will left her alone to sleep and closed the door behind him. Sometimes he hated reassuring people; it made him feel like a liar.

"Does Abigail want lunch?" Hannibal asked as Will walked into the kitchen; he watched for a few seconds as the man put things away into cupboards.

"No," Will said, taking a long breath in and letting it out slowly, "I think she wants to take a nap."

"Understandable," Hannibal said, rolling out the rack of the small spice cupboard and picking through its contents, "and yourself?"

"I'm not hungry," he said, walking to the other side of the kitchen island in order to stand behind Lecter; once Hannibal had finished his task he stood up and turned around to face Will, placing a few nearly finished glass jars onto the counter.

"And yet you are not full either," Hannibal observed.

"Mmm," Will felt as obliged to answer as Abigail apparently had.

At first he allowed the kiss, but as time passed his shoulders relaxed and his hands crept up to take hold of Hannibal's arms. Eventually he realised he had been craving the man's touch since he had awoken that morning. Still, he couldn't help but listen out for footsteps on the floorboards. For a reason he didn't want to look into too deeply he did not want Abigail to know about them. Perhaps further fear of rejection he mused vaguely before shutting the thought down altogether.

They broke apart and Will looked down at Hannibal's chest, wondering when his simple life had become blunted at either end.

"Can I tell you now how much I don't appreciate being smothered?" Will asked.

"Was there a reason you could not before?"

"You weren't in the mood to listen."

"Perhaps," Lecter said, "but I have listened now."

"Alright," Will said, thinking that it was all far too easy, "you already know how I feel. You don't need to bribe me."

"Then please do not feel that what I do," Lecter said, "is for the purposes of showing off, as you so crudely put it. I merely wish to treat you as you deserve to be treated. Do you not agree?"

"Maybe," he said as he rubbed his thumbs over the soft cotton of Hannibal's shirt, feeling cold, "Truthfully? I just don't want to have to think for a while."

"Thinking can be regulated," Hannibal said calmly, "we have a session tomorrow. Perhaps your thoughts could be postponed until then."

"I like the sound of that," Will said with a sigh, leaning forwards and trusting Hannibal to hold him warmly; Lecter was right, it wasn't easy, nor did it come naturally, but Will found that he was not only more than capable, but that it felt wonderful when he did.

Translation of Hannibal's words:

"You look very desirable, and, to be honest, I'd like to rip off those clothes no matter how good you look."

(Again, apologies if the grammar is wrong! I will try my best to keep it right.)