They still hadn't moved. Will sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the numerous packages spread on the desk. In three days, he hadn't opened a single one. Pride and gratitude were completely incompatible in the short time he'd had to mull over them. He missed his house. He missed his dogs. He missed his autonomy. Of the gifts, he appreciated Alana's the most, knowing she'd been the one to turn Hannibal to his favorite crafting materials. Despite that, they sat there unattended, because he couldn't bring himself to create anything at the moment. He'd lost inspiration, but he hoped it'd return. The case files were a little more inviting, being largely the product of someone else's imagination and having all the physical labor completed weeks ago. The files had no real expectation of a result. That seemed the surest route back to…respect? He chewed on the word a little more, not sure how to handle his own recalcitrance. Hannibal, specifically, had put a lot of effort into bringing these elements together to put him in a prime position for healing, and all Will could think was how…controlled, he felt. This was the most labor intensive gift he'd ever received, and he wanted to throw it all out that perfectly draped bay window a few feet away. This was a king's gesture. Will didn't like feeling petty.
He was trying really hard to be grateful, but everything in him hated Hannibal for this. Perhaps not Hannibal, exactly, but the degree of arrogance on display here…that was worthy of distaste. Despite his being goaded to speak, the investigator had spent the majority of the three days since Richmond avoiding his new living partner. He refused to think of himself as a roommate. A boarder, perhaps. Any implication of the temporary nature of the arrangement made it easier for him to think. The house was beautiful. The mind he shared it with was also, admittedly, beautiful. Will didn't feel like he belonged here, and he didn't want to live with Hannibal. The sheer volume of thought the man picked up and discarded every day made Will a little sick to his stomach, and he was confident that if he stayed to long, it would begin to erode him. That left leaving. Actually, that made leaving sound wonderful.
He'd find an apartment nearby, once the insurance was done sorting out his disbursement. He thought it once, clearly and concisely. Then again, affirming that he was making it a decision, and not a scrap thought to be dismissed at the first convenience. One from which Hannibal couldn't discourage him. He rubbed his face again, walking over the bathroom and looking at himself. A cursory shave or two in the weeks since the fire and his hair had gone to hell. He searched the drawers and found a travel kit with scissors and a short razor. Further search turned up expensive shaving oil and enough towels to make a quilt. He shrugged the robe off, and stripped down for hot shower. The boxes seemed to mutter behind his back as he closed the door.
He scrubbed every inch in water as hot as he could possibly stand. His hair hung nearly to his shoulders when full of it, and the feel of it covering the nape of his neck was cloying. He had a towel in it almost before he turned the water off. He cracked the door to let the steam out and wrung as much of the excess as he could while he waited for the mirror to clear, mulling over his conversations to come. He needed to thank Alana. He'd thank Jack for the kennel, but not the case files. And Hannibal….
He met his own eyes in the mirror, sighing heavily. He supposed he'd talk to Hannibal. They'd been in each other's circle for the last three years or so, but moving in opposition, one coming in just as the other closed the door. Their shoulders hadn't brushed until last summer when Jack pulled them together on a case. He'd gathered his general impression of Dr. Lecter from the papers he'd published denouncing some of his colleagues. Having met him, those papers seemed a lot less pretentious. It was the opposite of what he'd expected. He considered what he knew of the doctor as he took out the short comb and pushed his hair into submission.
Dr. Lecter was extravagant, but not excessively so. Will had heard of the parties, but they were always celebrations of some local event…a colleague's latest award, the opera house's 40th anniversary party, charity fundraisers for the hospital where he'd completed his internship. He was an heir, working for the pleasure of it and living on his modest income. The house he bought was built to contain as much palatial dressing as its owner could ever afford to buy, but there was none to be found. Hannibal put more effort into curating his living space than many directors did museums, every facet of a room built to upon the one previous. A number of the antiques had come with the house, and Hannibal had restored them himself. The coffee machine's repair had been on the docket this month, but Will suspected that money had since translated to the packages in his room. He picked the scissors up and spread the towel over the sink, kicking the rug out of the way. Starting at his nape, he ran the thick dark strands through his hands to get a physical sense of the length he wanted and started patiently on one side. Trapping hair between his fingers, he trimmed and snipped at awkward angles, and the hair began to fall away. One finger's width left at the neck. Two for everything between his eyes and his ear lobes. The top, he started from the front, trimming away and back, using the comb to suss out stray length and coax it all into place before it dried. It was a little time consuming with the new tools; he normally had a certain brush that he always used, and bigger scissors. Still, it was much tamer now.
There were lines of stress on his face where there hadn't been before. Will oiled the razor and his face generously, frowning as he tilted his head back to clear his neck of stubble. The beard shaping went quickly with the new blade. When he was done, he stood there for another moment, regarding himself. His idea of himself. He felt better, having carved that person from the disheveled wreck that stepped into the bathroom. Honestly, he hadn't realized how bad it had become. No wonder they looked at him sideways and asked if he was alright. Will was confident that he had the perfect genetic make-up to go become a sailor and completely forfeit human interaction in favor of the silence and chaos of the open ocean. Perhaps he'd buy a boat instead a house. An apartment. An out.
God, he needed an out, these days. He folded towel up neatly and used it to mop up the clumps of black hair from the tile floor. Another quick rinse in the water, and he felt….lighter. Hannibal had loaned him some clothes, and he chose a simple sweater and slacks, a pair of black socks. Comfortable clothing. It was time to be human again. Time to go downstairs and make coffee and discuss some unpronounceable dish to be served on tiny plates with modestly high-end silverware and real crystal. Time to go.
Dressing was easy, that last part was not. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, touching his face, his hair, his beard, holding his coffee cup like a bannerman might, as though to say 'Nevermind, this I am, and nothing before or since has mattered.'
He padded down stairs, through a dark living room, through the dining room with its ingenious greens garden, and stepped into the light. Hannibal glanced at him and his knife stopped midstroke, his expression gaining some barely perceptible warmth at the edges and eyes. The doctor smiled faintly, and Will quipped, "You might have told me that I looked like a caveman before taking me out to Richmond."
"You might have showered."
"I…might have, yes. I cede the point." Will's lips pursed wryly. He made a straight shot for the coffee machine, reloading the bean chamber, and starting a black coffee for himself. When he turned around, the doctor was looking at him bluntly, and Will didn't have the chance to brace himself for the abrupt contact. The expression said nothing outright, it was just a look, as though to say he carried himself differently, and Hannibal noticed. Will wasn't sure if that was an encouragement or not, but it felt…intentional. The doctor could hardly deny his effect on people after admitting that subtle manipulations were his favorite game. Will knew Alana, at least, was among the party of rejected admirers. He wasn't supposed to know that, but his intuition was a curse sometimes.
"So." Hannibal's voice interrupted his mental ramblings, and Will gathered his cup and moved to stand across the cutting board from him. It felt too close, but he was tired of ducking the enormity of the man's presence. It felt cheap. 'Skittish', as Hannibal put it. It was time he learned what Will thought of subtle pressure(which, frankly, was that Hannibal could fucking choke on it). Will held that expectant gaze for a moment before turning his attention to the beef tenderloin on his board. Hannibal's smile took on an edge of teeth. "I trust I cannot go amiss with steak and fine beer?"
"Hardly. I admit I was just getting used to the sweet meats, though."
"Sweetbreads." Hannibal corrected gently. "I have had a fierce love affair with organ meats for the past few years, but occasionally, I prefer lean muscle. I will braise this, and we will cork a barrel of my amber ale."
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not drink with my therapist." Will said, hating how defensive that sounded, but annoyed all the same. "The temptation to poke around in my head—"
"Given my own sundry habits, I am the champion of moderation." Dr. Lecter returned graciously. "Anything of interest in your head will reveal itself in time, whether I'm actively proceeding with your therapy or not. Though, to be honest, the idea of living with a patient appalls me. I can't emphasize enough how private a person I am."
Will lifted a skeptical eyebrow, "You've given me fistfuls of information at every turn. "
"No, I gave the information that you already had context." Hannibal countered, the edge returning to his features as he finished dressing the loin and began deftly cutting it into filets. "I have made an effort to ensure that your perception of me is not clouded by your opinions, considering how determined you are to shape our interactions by them. You are not a carnival mirror. You're not allowed decide how I'm perceived in my own home. You're not as interesting as I am."
"…I don't feel that I've been unfair in my assessment of your character."
"You just suggested that I was leading you to drink so that I could 'poke around in your mind.'" Hannibal opened his hands in a placating gesture. "It was rude, and an insult to my genuine curiosity about you. I would rather the opposite happened."
"You want me to poke around in your head?" Will followed cautiously, annoyed at being called out on his own underhanded arrogance. Of course that had been his assumption. Hannibal knew exactly why.
"You yourself admitted that my presence was part of your adjustment." The doctor rubbed two the steaks with some dark spice mixture and transferred them to a searing skillet. The rest were deftly rolled together with plastic wrap from his cabinet, to be stored after dinner. "If you're curious, I would encourage you to ask. However, for you rudeness, I will only answer one question tonight, and in turn, I will ask one tomorrow. I think that falls well outside the realm of professional psychoanalysis."
"This feels like an arranged sleepover."
"Arranged, perhaps, but neither of us have sleeping well."
Will met his eyes again, considering. Hannibal let him look. After a moment, Will stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out his glasses, starting to turn away. "I apologize for being rude. I am used to men like Jack Crawford attempting these conversations with me and failing miserably. My impression of you is…vague. A large presence, but no hard edges, no definitive shape or volume. It's frustrating, it leaves me unbalanced, and I feel like your constant upperhand is condescending."
"I will own that." Hannibal nodded, turning the steaks. "You are not the first to brand me such."
"Fine. I'll wait until after dinner…and I will have a beer with you, Hannibal." Will sighed quietly, for himself, in no particular direction. "But I think I'll go light a fire for now, and consider my questions."
"Thank you. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour."
XXXX
It was three hours later, however, that the question took shape. On his fourth pint of the admittedly remarkable beer, Will's eyes narrowed, mulling it over. Hannibal had turned the overhead light off on his last trip to refill the glasses, and the sun was gone from the sky. Will supposed the shadows had taken some part in the nature of his request. He was still for another moment, watching the sharp profile in his peripheral vision. They had claimed the two armchairs at the fireplace, each perfectly placed to warm their feet without causing undue discomfort from the heat. Will tended the fire, Hannibal tended the beer, and together, they lapsed into harmonious silence, broken only by the expectation of Will's coming question.
He tilted his head, finishing his pint and holding the beer on his tongue. It was spicy, vibrantly laced with exotic fruit and a malty body. He could drink more than his share, probably had already, but Hannibal kept returning with more, and Will did not complain. "Hannibal."
Will could barely distinguish his voice from the fire at first, but he felt the man's eyes on him now. "Yes?"
"What do you dream about?"
The doctor's chin turned with the weight of the question, and Will left it hanging between them without prompt. The fire muttered under it, and the ringing in his ears returned, his heart loud in his ears. He examined his question, slowly turning his head to—
Forget how to breathe. There was intensity in the doctor's expression that he'd never seen before, and for the first time, Will thought he was looking at the whole of Hannibal Lecter in those dark eyes. The gold light was harsh on his features, lines exaggerated into caricatures of the handsome design, leaving an impression of wariness. Eyes slightly narrowed, and mouth parted as though to speak, Will felt a small rush of pride at having surprised the man. For once, it was Hannibal that took pause.
And after a moment, he began to speak, lifting his voice just slightly over the fire. "I have had very few dreams in my lifetime. They are singular events, without narrative, without repetition. They are not induced by stress, and they are not mundane. Every one of them has left me shaken to my core, rattled the bones of my persona in such a way that I dread them. I can never predict them. And in them, I can never wake."
"I will tell you of my most recent dream now, and save the others for when you and I are more intimate. The context is lost on me. I awoke in a desert, the earth as I knew it was an endless waste of sand and dust. There had never been water, in this world. I hunted there, and knew myself to be the incarnation of death itself. Nothing could touch me. What small scraps of life I encountered had always fallen to my hand, and always would. It was bleak, and yet warmth pervaded my heart when I beheld the mountains of ash in the distance. There was nothing there for me, and all was mine. I hunted well, and every moment I breathed. There was no sun, no moon, no time to pass, just the air in and out of my lungs to mark my endless progress. I would run. I would sleep. I existed outside the concept of birth, death, and self, and it had always been that way.
"While hunting, I came upon a relic. A sarcophagus of unspeakable beauty, carved by no hand or mind that I had encountered. I dug it out of the sand with long claws and perched atop it, tracing its lines with the barest tips of my fingers. I felt power within, thrumming and alive, searing into my skin like the memory of love, and loss. I felt rage. It scarred me deeply, to be mocked by stone, to be reminded that I was lacking those things, when my existence had seemed perfect and elemental only moments before. I again knew regret, and joy, and pain. I recognized my…self, depicted in the stone. I rocked on my heels and pressed my palms to it, hungry, unfulfilled, and half-panicked that the sensation might leave if the sarcophagus disappeared before I could get it open. I set my shoulder to it, and pushed. It didn't appear to move, but I felt it give, the barest grind of stone reverberating in my shoulder. I took a deep breath fuelled by that blinding rage, and terror, and threw my entire being and my new perception of it into moving the lid. It slid away, and the thud it made as it fell shook the ground. I knew others would hear. I was jealous. Fear soured my mouth again.
"I leapt to the edge of the impossibly large box, perching on fingers and toes as I beheld the being within. It was not me. It was slender, waifish in build, and so blindingly white that I wept. I knew it lived, though the air in the sarcophagus was cool, and thickly scented of burial herbs. Upon its face rested a vermillion mask, as pristine as a fresh drop of blood, glimmering in the dim light. The mask mocked me. The rage returned so strongly that I burned. "
Hannibal paused, swallowing and beginning a bit hoarsely. The edges of his lips curled ever so slightly, his teeth just—"So, I raped it."
Will's eyes narrowed, some chill settling in his blood as he lifted his chin in question.
"I had never experienced lust before. It consumed me, riding the fire in my chest like a new brand alight, I couldn't set myself aside from it. Not love, not pain, not joy or sadness could have pulled me back from that precipice. I fell on the creature with all intent to devour it. It screamed, and that riled me unto blindness. We fought." Hannibal continued, eyes on the fire, a hunter's grin upon his features. "I chewed it. I clawed it. I bruised and twisted it until it yielded to me, and that victory ruined me. I forced myself upon the creature, and existed between worlds for hours, on the cusp of release, my teeth buried into bones. It tasted like life. It tasted of seasons, and time, and I savored every drop, every stroke because I knew when I pulled away, it would be gone. Destroyed. But I exhausted myself, without remorse. When I finally let go, I wasn't sure that it was still breathing. I regained myself and sat there panting, tasting the last of it, luxuriating in the feel of my newfound self, my murdered immortal. And I lingered there forever after, wondering what I had just done."
Those eyes found his again. The fire burned low, but the cold persisted, and it was hard to draw a complete breath. The salacious grin was gone, replaced by an echo of vaguely wounded confusion, and profound loss. The tension in them was palpable, and Will rested his head against the chair, still holding those dark eyes with his own, refusing to crush something as fragile as a moment's intimacy with a beast by shying from it. It was a beast, that looked back at him. He felt it as concretely, as assuredly, as he did the alcohol blurring the edges of his thoughts. Something within Hannibal watched him, something real and heavy. Will let him look, wondering himself if the question had been worth it. Wondering what Hannibal had done.