Hannibal Lecter sat in Alana Bloom's Honda, listening to the pleasant combination of her voice and the drone of the tires over the county road.
Two things were glaringly obvious from her words and her manner. Number one, Dr. Bloom's substantial crush on Will Graham had intensified proportionately to her proximity to him as they'd worked together in the past weeks (not that Hannibal could blame her. Will was a constant delight to his senses.). Number Two, Both doctors Bloom and Lecter were in accord that Jack Crawford was an unmitigated dick. Yes, there were extenuating circumstances, but still Crawford was not best stewarding Will's gift.
Neither observation was startling. Dr. Bloom's pupils dilated every time Will walked into the room (as did his own, Hannibal suspected, although he had worked hard to suppress his autonomic responses to all stimuli except that of a prepared meal, spread before him). Dr. Bloom's respiration also increased, as slight flush crept up her neck and into her beautiful cheeks.
Will wasn't immune to her regard, but dear, darling Will, Hannibal already knew why he held himself apart. He viewed himself as flawed, as damaged and worse, damaging. And he may be right, certainly it would take a certain strength to dominate Will's fear. To control it, to bring his unbounded empathetic responses into line with a desired outcome.
Dr. Bloom may have that strength, it wouldn't surprise Hannibal to learn if she did. But he knew he did. It was beyond question. Just as it was beyond question that darling Will, his mongoose, wasn't for her.
Will was a banquet, destined for Hannibal himself. And it didn't even bother Hannibal that he didn't know exactly how he intended to partake of the feast. He was clear-eyed enough to recognize that Will called to a number of his more refined appetites.
"I'm worried," Dr. Bloom reiterated, pausing to steal a glance at her mentor. Hannibal was again glad that the cold had necessitated he wear a heavy coat which perforce masked his body's response to certain thoughts of Will. He shifted in his seat to ease the turgid pressure in his lap.
"You are right to worry," Hannibal said, stifling a smile at the truths she could not know. He glanced at the dirt road. "But Will isn't fine china. He's stronger than you give him credit for."
"It's not that I don't think he's strong," Alana bristled, showing the core of iron that Hannibal suspected was in her slight frame. "It's that I know Jack doesn't have Will's best interests at heart. It's that I respect the power of Will's gift. And with that respect, comes concern. Will's gift is a weapon."
"And you're afraid he may turn it on himself."
"Not deliberately," Alana stole a glance at Hannibal's placid face. "I don't think he'd harm himself. But that doesn't mean it couldn't go off in his face."
It was something Hannibal had already witnessed, in the aftermath of Hobb's death as Abigail lay there, bleeding out. Will was unable to build a fort within his mind, trying to help her and unable, the feedback loop of pain and fear and horror, spiraling into him, shuddering out of him. A moment only, Hannibal had stood watching. A glance only he'd stolen moments later, as he'd pressed his hands into the girl's wound. He'd only allowed himself these small glances of Will's suffering for the exact same reason he only allowed himself small sips of a fine vintage. For the same reason he made himself leave the table before he was fully sated.
Transcendence mustn't be wolfed down. It must be savored.
And Will was nothing if not transcendentally beautiful in his pain. In his distress.
Hannibal shifted in his seat again, repositioning his coat over the bulge in his lap.
"You are right to worry," he repeated as the car came to a stop in front of a modest white house. "Jack sent us. And if Jack is worried, it's because he senses an asset is in danger."
Which, Hannibal was learning, was pure Jack Crawford.
"Exactly." Alana turned off the engine and climbed out of her car. Hannibal sat for a moment longer, waiting for his response to subside as she climbed the porch steps.
Hannibal had been in Will's house, of course. Had handled his things, had run his fingers over rows of neat garments, over Will's still damp pillow.
Night terrors.
Will was simply delectable.
Schooling his thoughts away, preparing himself, Hannibal assumed the benign and friendly mask of a friend. Of a doctor. He climbed out of the car and walked slowly to where Alana waited for him.
He could deny himself pleasures. It was part of his strength and exceptionality. He could deny his appetite almost indefinitely, should the need arise.
But he did promise himself that he wouldn't deny himself forever. And with Will, he would allow himself many liberties.
Alana knocked on the door.
Hannibal licked his lips.