Duplicity is the strangest thing. It wasn't like a coin toss or a game of cards: there were no definite results, no guaranteed separation between heads or tails, spades or clubs, deepest dark or brightest light. No lines to cross, but tangled webs that only stretched tighter together, muddling everything in their wake.
Will Graham felt…plagued. He may turn out to be the eye of the storm after all. It was crystal clear that he was a creature of conflict, which provided rather unpleasant food for thought.
Snapping out of it, the unofficial FBI agent blinked hard to focus on the man in the armchair across from his, a hand running through his curls so that they no longer brushed against his lashes.
"Where were you, Will?" The question took form in a gravely, accented voice.
Will watched as Dr. Hannibal Lecter shifted in his chair, his signature paisley tie creasing from this new position. The office was dimly lit, all its opulence gilded, colors shining faintly. There was a pinprick of light in the psychiatrist's pupils. The only reminder that he was human.
"Far, far away from this office." Will winced at how his word seemed to carry through the space.
Hannibal tilted his head, as if to show he was listening. During sessions, his patients were always his sole focus. He examined this one's troubled, haunted gaze, the slump in his shoulders hidden by earthy tones, and was surprised by an emotion akin to apology that whisked through him like a summer breeze.
Will was escaping his grasp. His mind was, at the very least. The teacup was thoroughly cracked, the web enlarging with each breath he took.
"Is it peaceful, this place you speak of?"
Will took off his glasses, hooking one leg over his collar. The lenses flashed, moving with the bob of his throat as he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. The pounding pressure behind his eyes was not soothed by his icy, pressing fingers.
"You wouldn't believe it, Dr. Lecter. It was paradise. No more fieldwork, no more Jack, no more Chesapeake Ripper."
Hannibal was almost convinced, if not for the hint of mockery in his patient's tone. A spark of familiarity for Will's habitual self-deprecation. The duo had gotten to know each other quite well, enough to make inferences, but not to the point of predictability. Hannibal enjoyed the push-and-pull of their words, dragged out and laced with implications only they could understand.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, suddenly wishing for daylight, moonlight, anything that could illuminate every corner of Will's tortured headspace. For himself, there were too many smoothed edges for light to slip past—a 'person suit' meticulously constructed. For the elusive Will Graham, light would catch on every tip of every lock of hair, smothering his silhouette, vanishing the halo from above his head. If Hannibal was the demon in the dark, how long might his angel stay?
"The thing is, though…" the psychiatrist leaned forward in anticipation, breath held. "There was blood on my hands. Bodies at my feet." Their eyes met. "I embraced my true nature, just like you said, Doctor."
"And did you regret it?"
A pendulum swings through Will's psyche in great, echoing strokes, reaching through dreams and visions, coaxing images to life as time stills.
Skulls. Flesh. A river of spilt crimson. The dead and the dying, all around. All marked in the same way. All intertwined in their suffering. Will, at the center of them, an eerie, blissful quiet enveloping every inch of his blood-soaked body. He drops the jagged shard of glass and it makes a musical sound as it shatters across the ground, where tiny flowers thrust out of the soil. Shards mingle with the petals as if they are no different, and the new growth greedily lap up the nourishment the land offers them. Rebirth after tragedy. Peace at last.
Aware of the rapid rising and falling of his chest, Will's gaze flicked away.
"No." It came out as a hoarse whisper.
Hannibal regarded his patient calmly, one finger tapping his clothed thigh in thought. There he went again. Never facing him, never holding eye contact for longer than a heartbeat. What a pity it was, and how it robbed Hannibal of precious opportunity to deepen understanding and forge a closer connection.
The silence stretched on, no longer reassuring. Instead, it gnawed at the edges of Will's mind, accompanied by spikes of agony shooting through his skull, and his hands flew to his head as his heart rate and breathing accelerated. Panic twined like vine over his limbs, thorns tearing through skin. He fought for stability, something grounding that would be enough to act as a barrier against the power of his 'overactive imagination'.
There were soft clicks as Hannibal got to his feet, his leather shoes gliding over polished floor, closing the distance between him and Will. It wouldn't do to raise his voice now.
"Will?" He called, short but firm. "What do you see?"
No response from the rocking, muttering remnants of the teacup. Will shuddered, holding his head, elbows digging into his knees in desperation.
Determined to bring his consciousness back to the present moment, Hannibal crouched so his knee rested against fine carpet. He reached out with both hands to grasp Will's wrists, gazing at his face intently.
"It is seven minutes to midnight. You are in Baltimore, Maryland. Your name is-"
Sweat was a sheen below his patient's hairline, slowly trickling down to wet his collar. His lashes were long and tear-flecked. Hannibal thought he could catch a few words that tumbled from Will's lips like smoke, dissipating if not paid attention to.
"My name is Will Graham."
Muscles shifted in Hannibal's grip tensely, eliciting a ragged gasp. Will's fingertips with their untrimmed nails dug viciously into his face, and a slight frown appeared on the psychiatrist's as he moved his hands, sliding over damp skin, a steady weight never leaving. They came to rest among Will's curls, their hands now overlapping.
Hannibal ignored how his palms' warmth seeped into the back of Will's hands and the texture of callouses beneath his fingers as he used his strength to pry away bloodied fingertips.
"It is seven-"
"Six."
"Six minutes to midnight."
Will sucked in air like he was drowning on land, as if he'd resurfaced from a crimson ocean. With both his hands trapped, the pain in his head redoubled, causing him to slump against Hannibal's shoulder. Will's curls brushed against his neck, his breath whisking over skin. The psychiatrist stiffened, but didn't let go of Will's wrists, lest he drew blood again. Heat reached his cheeks in a rush, each muffled noise of his patient vibrations that travelled down his bones.
"I'm in Baltimore, Maryland."
"That's right."
Hannibal was gifted with a brief glimpse of the blue eyes that haunted his hours. They were the crashing glaciers of his symphony, vast and beautiful, even when weakening. But Will's eyes weren't glaciers. Glaciers weren't close enough to touch. Glaciers didn't flood, didn't falter.
"Your name is Will Graham."
Hannibal felt the words in his mouth like fine wine with a bittersweet aftertaste.
"Your name is Hannibal Lecter."
"By all means you should be concerned for, yes."
Another tired look, less blurry around the edges. Still so blue. Like cracked ice, the piercing edges one uses to impale whoever approaches frozen water. A smirk tugged at Hannibal's face at the thought of wading into the stream.
"You don't know how much concerns me, Doctor."
"You could tell me, Will."
"It would be easier if I showed you."
It wasn't until Will's unsteady breath ghosted across his lips that Hannibal realized what was happening. The drumbeat of his heart filled his ears, warring against unspilled blood rushing through veins and arteries beneath layers of skin.
This was when there were no layers between them, and they shared the same air.
Will's eyes reflected lamplight, so close they were out-of-focus. He was holding back, waiting for a reaction. Ever the empath.
Hannibal hadn't moved, save for a hovering hand at his side, inches from Will's shoulder. Whether that was for creating distance or closing it was anyone's guess. Will narrowed his eyes a fraction, noting the doctor's wordlessness, the hitch in his breathing, how his gaze seemed magnetically drawn to his own.
"Do continue, Will. This is just getting interesting." Hannibal swallowed with difficulty, the oxygen in the room suddenly lacking. He gazed at Will as he wet his lips, the great tangle of chaotic thoughts and emotions absent from the empath's features.
The fog that blanketed both their minds wasn't the mist of the fields, the chill of the snowy forest. It was an all-consuming smoke from burning moths drawn too close to a flame.
Hannibal's fingers swept across Will's cheek, the others grasping the curls at the nape of his neck and pulling insistently. Their noses brushed, and Will tilted his head at a tug on his hair, so that they were falling into each other.
Sweeter than any betrayal, cutting deeper than any blade.
The soft press of lips across Hannibal's, the easy movements, were almost natural, rehearsed, before the faint burning in his lungs demanded their separation. Will gasped softly as they broke apart, Hannibal releasing the crumpled fabric of his shirtfront.
With a light clearing of his throat, he averted his eyes and busied his hands by straightening his tie. The lamplight traced across his sharp cheekbones, now tinged almost rosy, that had felt impossibly soft and warm to Will when they were skin-to-skin.
Hannibal waited patiently for breath to return to him. "Was that a demonstration of your concern?" He nearly couldn't recognize his own voice; there was a ragged edge to it, and his accent had thickened.
Will shook his head lightly, exhaling with closed eyes. "Get up."
The doctor tilted his head and half-rose, then decided against it. How far would he take this? He was more than glad to waltz along to Will's tune, however discordant it would be. This was refreshing. This was a newfound development, and something bright bloomed in Hannibal's chest at the realization that he had orchestrated it.
"And if I don't?" His voice was similarly low, bordering on threatening, although the smirk had come alive across his lips.
Shadows swathed Will's face and torso as he shifted in the chair, strength apparently back in his limbs. The front of his rumpled button-down heaved slightly, his hair sticking up at the back from Hannibal's roaming fingers. His expression belied the darkness he'd been restraining, contrasting with the beauty of the flush over his skin and fiercely red lips.
Hannibal gazed at him as Will clenched at the armrest, knuckles whitening, before a dark blur crowded the doctor's vision. He was knocked to the floor by a sudden force, back thumping against carpet, which drove the breath from his lungs once again. His inner monster roared in displeasure, and Hannibal's hands automatically searched for a weapon as it scrabbled against his office floor.
Aware of the weight on top of him, the fingers undoing the topmost button of his dress shirt, he went still. Outlined in liquid gold, Will came into focus above him, his eyes the splash of blue in the world of monochrome. He'd tamed the beast. He had the devil under his control, trapped and docile.
Hannibal suppressed a shiver at the icy prick of a blade against his jugular. He continued to breathe, feeling the seconds tick by, skin tingling at Will's closeness. The doctor opened his mouth to continue spinning his web of words, but was quickly hushed by Will bending closer and capturing his lips once more.
Before he could savor it, the empath drew back, knife skittering in his hand and leaving behind a gash. Hannibal's eyes flickered closed but gave no other response to the pain.
"By all means, Dr. Lecter, have a taste of your own medicine."
Hannibal's lips parted in surprise at a metallic taste pressed into his mouth by Will's fingers. They were glistening in blood- his blood. The thought made his head swim, or maybe it was the loss. The wound throbbed with each passing heartbeat, but Hannibal didn't mind as long as Will kept his eyes on him.
It didn't matter if he stared in disgust or fury, heartbreak or grief. It meant nothing if he struck, stabbed, or shot the doctor. Hannibal would go over the cliff with him, stay to burn in the fire together, and be willing to end any life just to keep those oil-panting eyes on him.
When Will lectured his students, the note of subtle awe as he spoke of killers didn't go unnoticed. Neither did his shaky hand of Aspirin on a bleary evening, the dog fur on his suits and coats, or the swallowed statements and ringing outbursts. Will Graham, the creature of conflict, feeding off duplicity, at war with his own psyche- intrigued the doctor. Attracted Hannibal like some sort of gravity, motives unknown and memory unclear as he was. It only made sense that his mind was Hannibal's playground.
Until the landscape shifted, and the hunter became the hunted.
Hannibal gazed up at this deity with a newfound deference.
Will had done more than pushed him down and put a knife to his throat- Hannibal had been outmaneuvered. He was, inexplicably, at the empath's mercy. And he wasn't sure if Will had any left.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but better than no remedy. Hannibal was relaxed enough to run his hand over Will's clothed knee, close to his own waist. The touch was almost soothing, placating. Will evidently didn't know what to make of it, because more pressure was applied to the knife.
"You'll kill me, Will?" There was a flash of teeth as the doctor grinned, strands of hair falling over his eyes.
Will was shaking again. His eyes were glassy.
"That would be rude," he whispered.
Hannibal turned his head to lay his cheek on the floor. It almost burned, the cold wood on hot skin. He welcomed it. Just as he would allow Will to deliver his coup de gras, with something close to complacency. He would allow Will anything, and all he had to do was ask.
"That would be poetic," the doctor acknowledged.
Will's fingers curled more tightly around the hilt of the hunting knife, glittering darkly. Hannibal found one of his hands smoothing out the creases in Will's shirt, halting at the thrum of his pulse above his collar.
As it turns out, both betrayer and betrayed could house racing hearts. He would carry this sacred knowledge into the grave.
The clock struck midnight.
When a caress came instead of a blow, Hannibal surrendered to it.
