All the windows have iron grates and locks on the outside, and they either overlook an unkempt courtyard or a littered parking lot. But if one stands in the corner and presses their head against the wall, there is a clear view of one of the counselor's office window, right onto a quiet street with well maintain gardens on the divides.
That's where Hannibal finds Will. The profiler is dressed in a grey undershirt and sweatpants that are rolled at the waist. There are no drawstrings allowed and no shoes with laces. So Will stands in dull yellow hospital socks with the little grips at the bottom.
Hannibal's been coming every day at the same time since Will was admitted. The profiler's already relinquishing his viewpoint to another patient when Hannibal steps off the elevator.
They smile in greeting. It's a small thing, their smiles, bordering on sad. Hannibal looks almost crestfallen at the sight of Will with tired eyes and steadily increasing weight and muscle loss. But Will looks at Hannibal and his eyes light up, his shoulders straighten. He tries to smile but exhaustion is taking a toll and he can only manage the smallest upturn of the corners of his mouth.
Rules and regulations be damned, Hannibal puts a hand to the small of Will's back and kisses his cheek tenderly before he lays another kiss on the other's mouth.
They stay that way for a moment until an orderly clears his throat, and Hannibal pulls away. He doesn't want to have to leave early. Will leads them to a small table for two by the wall, well in view of the orderlies' station and he tries for a brighter smile but it's all the more depressing.
"What did you see when you were looking out at the therapist's window?"
"Nothing," Will says in a near whisper. "It's the same as always."
"No hallucinations then?"
"Unless you are, no." Will clears his throat. "I went up a level this morning," he says if only to change the subject. "I'll be able to call if you want."
Hannibal leans forward with his hands clasped on the table. "I would like that, Will."
"How are the dogs?"
"They're adjusting."
"Winston and Churchill are going to need their shots."
"I'm aware."
"And—"
"Will."
Will finds it odd to hear his name spoken so firmly. Here, it's as though he were a child or they would call "Mr. Graham".
"I'm sorry," the profiler murmurs. "Can we talk about you today?"
Hannibal exhales as he forces a small smile. "We can talk about whatever you want."
