Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

**

In the top drawer of the desk in his office, Will keeps a treasured leather bound notebook, next to a pack of well-worn tarot cards. Made from antique oak, dark and heavy, his desk matches the Colonial revival mansion and large wooded estate it sits in.

The deck of cards is kept out of a sense of sentimentality, no longer to be drawn in Celtic crosses to divine Will’s fortune.

The notebook is old, the cover creased, pages littered with names. Those that are crossed off are now bereft of life, although Will has not personally seen to the deadening of a name in a few years. Every day, he yearns to return to it. 

No, the privilege of taking a name out from the book is now given to whomever amongst Will’s strays seems to need it most.

They are killers, his strays. His underbosses. All of them having been painstakingly collected and added to his pack. In his pack, they have a purpose, and they have rules. Broken rules are met with punishment. Which is exactly why Will sank his teeth into the base of Abel Gideon’s neck mere seconds after ripping out Clark Ingram’s throat – two unforgivable lapses in control, one following after another, they could almost be counted as one.

Afterwards, Will shoved the dazed alpha into his car and hissed, “Get your ass back to the house. I’ll deal with this.” Gideon should have been watching his back instead of cracking jokes and letting Ingram slip by him. 

Ingram did not deserve to join Will’s pack. There was no artistry in the barbaric butchering of innocents and torment of the vulnerable in a simplistic attempt to feel powerful.  His name hadn’t even made it into his notebook by the time he was killed. Will is more affronted about that than the fact he’s been waiting nigh on three hours in Jack Crawford’s otherwise empty office: a knife wound to his shoulder and blood slowly drying on his face.

Jack had all but dragged him through the precinct, past every officer and pencil pusher currently on duty, only to press Will into a chair and then disappear. He can still feel their eyes on him through the walls of Jack’s office. Lecherous alphas, the whole lot of them.

The office burns his nose with the prevailing stench of cigarettes and alpha that Will has come to associate with government buildings. He sucks the last of the blood off his teeth when Jack barges in, only the way an alpha could, loud and demanding instantaneous attention

“Will! There you are.”

“Could at least let me get the blood off my face, Jack,” It had stretched his skin uncomfortably as it dried, but Will made no move to get rid of it.

Jack is caught unawares at the comment, his face betraying worry, and then shock as he takes in Will’s appearance from behind his desk. Will blinks back at him,skin stained a rust red from just below his nose to the collar of the clean shirt someone had given him. 

They stare at one another, and eventually Jack drops his eyes.

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“As long as I need to. You did kill a man.” With your teeth going unsaid.

“He put a knife in my shoulder,” Will shifts the injured limb, relishing the sting. “I’d say he had it coming.”

“So that’s it? You’re walking down the street, someone comes up to you and sticks a knife in you so you bite his throat out? The same someone who also happens to be the culprit we're looking at for committing multiple murders?”

Will gives him a blank look, “I guess.”

“You guess,” Jack purses his lips, “Look, I know Clark Ingram was a reprehensible human being, but that doesn’t justify you murdering him.”

“I didn’t murder him, Jack, it was self defense.” 

“Oh, don’t you start. You of all people know the difference, and you of all people should have been able to stop this from escalating.”

“Because I know how to fight?” Will asks cryptically. 

“Because you almost joined the force,” Jack barks, “You have the training!”

“It was self defense, Jack,” Will speaks in an even tone, “and that’s what you’re going to put on record because you don’t want me to go to prison.”

Jack grinds his teeth. “And why don’t I want that?”

“Because otherwise you can’t use me.”

Jack gives a humorless little chuckle, “You know, I’m starting to see your pattern, Will,” he murmurs.

“Are you now.”

“Don’t play coy,” Jack jabs a finger at him from across the desk, “Every time you get involved with one of these cases, the murders magically seem to stop. Only this time, you stopped them rather publicly.”

“Are you accusing me of something? Other than what you’ve already accused me of.” 

Jack huffs, slumping backwards in his seat. He rubs absently at his mouth, staring down at the cluttered space of his desk. Will remembers the way the large alpha had tried intimidating him during one of his first crime scene consultations. Will didn’t so much as bat an eye at Jack’s snarl. Then Jack had growled at him, and Will had given him a look so venomous, the detective had never tried something so underhanded again.

“I'm not fond of your methods, Will, but in this case I can't help but be grateful for them. Ingram would have walked, we had no evidence,” Jack laces his fingers together on the desk, making an effort to appear diplomatic, “I am going to let you go, but on one condition.”

Will knows he’s not going to like this.

“You get someone to watch your back, this can't happen again.”

“You want me to get a bodyguard?” Will says slowly, incredulous. “I can defend myself-”

“Like you did today? Don't answer that,” Jack growls. “The police department cannot be seen letting a vulnerable omega go without protection after being publicly attacked!” Will recognizes the bureaucratic undertone so uncharacteristic of Jack and understanding dawns. “Now, I can give you one of my men-”

“No-”

“Will -”

“No Jack. A cop following me around will tank my business. I'm small time, I won't recover from it,” Will lies smoothly.

Jack eyes Will like he’s a particularly garish houseplant, “I know people in private security-”

“I am in private security-”

“As a racketeer! Dammit Will, I’m trying to help you!” Jack looks like he’s spent the last hour attempting to reason with a toddler. “You’re right, I can’t use you in prison. I can spin this situation as self defense, just this once, but I won’t do it unless you work with me.”

Will doesn’t glare, but it’s a near thing, “I never thought you'd graduate to extortion, Jack.”

Jack throws his hands in the air, exclaiming, “I would love to get around this another way, but we can't. This is out of my hands, Will, orders from above.”

He makes it sound as though this was the will of God himself, and it serves to only vex Will further, knowing he has no choice with the present circumstances being as they are.

Jack can only go as far as the leash around his neck permits, whilst the dog’s real master remains hidden in the shadows, and Will can’t bite who he cannot see.

This might turn out to be an opportunity for Will to kill two birds with one stone.

“Fine, but I’m not using a cop.”

“Hallelujah.”

“And since we're negotiating so well, I'd like to talk about my work for the police department.”

“Oh don’t give me that. You and I both know you have your own agenda by helping us solve murders.”

“Do you have any idea what looking at your cases does to me?” Will snaps out, “You don’t even pay me. What do you think I get out of looking at all that carnage?”

Jack’s silence only serves to drag out the tension between the two of them.

Will rarely gets anything other than a headache from looking at Jack’s cases these days, the murders terribly uninspired, the foreign violence, petulance and disregard for innocence building up into a pulsating tumor behind his eyes.

“I used to think that you got into this as a way to help people, save lives, after the police force wouldn’t take you…  but now I’m not going to pretend to know why you keep helping us,” Jack sighs, resigned. “Margaret can give you a list of reputable private security,” he nods to the door, where his secretary sits dutifully typing, a blatantly dismissive gesture. 

Will gets up, using a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the gore from his mouth and neck. It flakes off in little bits, like red snow. He thinks of an earlier time : when he worked alone in crossing names out of his book. It had afforded him an effective way to let off steam without putting his freedom in danger. 

He grabs his coat and hat from the stand in the corner, shoving the now stained red square of fabric into his pocket. Will wrenches open the door, smiles at Margaret and doesn't bother asking her for the list.

“Is there a phone I can use?” he inquires instead, throwing his coat around his shoulders without slipping his arms through the sleeves, careful not to open up his stab wound.

“There's a public phone just around the corner, sweetie.”

The usual bustle of the station quiets down as he heads toward the phone: Jack's murder suspect has been set free, but he pays his spectators no mind. 

He leans against the wall, back to the busy main lobby and begins hatching the bare bones of a plan. The noise level picks up quickly once everyone realizes Will isn’t about to do something spectacular, like spontaneously combust.

Will unhooks the receiver and dials a number from memory. 

“Hello?”

“Hello Alana.”

“Will! It's good to hear from you.”

“Do you remember our conversation about my crippling loneliness?” Will asks, feigning sheepishness as he hunches over the phone.

Alana gives a breathy laugh, “Oh it was hardly that. You’re just a bit rusty, it’ll come to you.”

“Yeah, I do try,” he murmurs, “You mentioned a name back then, someone good at socializing,” Will pauses, pursing his lips, “You also mentioned he’s looking for a job.”

“What’s going on, Will?” He’s not surprised at her concern, she is a very perceptive woman.

Will glances around to make sure he’s not being overheard, “I might be in some trouble. Jack Crawford wants me to get personal protection.”

“Oh, Will-”

“It's not as bad as it sounds, but...you know I can't stand these posturing assholes. I thought you might know someone who's less…”

“Overbearing Alpha?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Tell you what, I'll call him and tell him where to meet you. He's been eager to since I mentioned you.”

“Alana-”

“He's different Will, you'll like him, I promise. He’s way too well-mannered to act so boorishly,” she sounds so desperately sincere that Will can't help but hope she's right. 

“Yeah, okay. Tonight, the Black Stag.” Better to get the painful meeting out of the way.

Alana’s silence conveys her hesitation at his suggestion.

“What? I've had the place cleaned up. It's not so bad.”

“If you say so,” she sounds doubtful, ”I'll let him know.”

Will hangs up, makes another call and then waits outside the station for his car. 

When the car finally arrives, driven by a near frantic Peter, the weak winter sun was just about set and the wind had started picking up in earnest. Will pulls his coat tighter around him, grateful for the cold suppressing his scent, along with everyone else’s, and climbs into the passenger side. 

“Are you alright?” Peter asks, eyes wide. 

Will nods and doesn't mention the stabbing; Peter’s guilt is already coming off him in waves, Will sees no reason to add to it. 

“We need to get to the Stag.”

They drive through Baltimore in silence, heading towards the bad side of town, snowmelt and slush clinging to the sides of the car where the wheels throw it up like sweat on a shivering racehorse. Will gazes out the window and hopes Alana’s friend lives up to expectations.

The car stops across from a dark stand of buildings, their doorways and windows spilling sulphurous light onto the pavement, shadows cutting through as people move in and out of their usual haunts. 

“Do you regret it?” Peter asks softly, pulling Will from his reverie. 

“What?” 

“Killing him, d-do you regret it?”

“No. Maybe I regret doing it in public, but I'm glad he's dead,” Will doesn’t lie. He’d enjoyed killing Ingram, wishes he could have done it properly, but it being his only taste of blood in years, he’ll take what he got. And now he’s got Peter too.

“Y-you shouldn't have had to. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have had to-”

“Peter, look at me,” Will says gently, waiting until the beta meets his eyes, “What he did was not your fault, understand? He was scum, he was going to hurt you even more than he already has. I would do it all again if given the choice, so no more worrying, alright?”

“A-alright.”

Will glares across the street, watching the comings and goings of patrons from the speakeasy. He doesn't quite know what he’s looking for, but he knows just from what Alana said that the man would stand out on this side of the tracks. 

“Are we meeting someone?” Peter asks tentatively.

“Yeah, how do I look?” Will flashes him a grin.

“Underdressed. Where’s your tie?” 

“It unfortunately didn’t survive today,” he says ruefully, “It doesn’t matter, I’m not meeting a client.”

Peter squints at him, and Will ignores him in favor of watching a man lope far too comfortably across the street. No one else out here would walk with such careless confidence, upright and regal, marking them as an outsider and therefore easy to rob. Will is almost tempted to watch it happen, his very own demonstration of the man’s skills, if he’d deescalate the situation or elevate it to violence.

“That him?”

“I think so.”

Peter squints again, “You think? Will-”

Will climbs out of the car, pulling his hat over down against the wind as he crosses the street. He feels a twinge of guilt at leaving Peter to worry without an explanation, again, but it’s quickly forgotten in the grey smoke and noise of The Black Stag.

The bar lives up to its name, dark wood and dark walls peeking out from between the bodies of those jostling for a drink. Will sees the bartender give him a once over, and the alpha slouching next to the door with a gun at his side stares hard into the back of his head. Good, it wouldn’t do for just anyone to waltz in where alcohol is being so blatantly thrown around, prohibition being what it is.

Will’s target is casually watching the room in the mirror behind the bar in the guise of waiting his turn to order, no doubt trying to find Will. Will passes by him, careful not to touch, but not so careful that the alpha does not feel someone attempting to scent him. The distance is too great for Will to catch more than a whiff, but the intent is there, raising hairs on the man’s neck. He heads to one of the rickety tables and sits, back to the wall, gaining a few choice looks from the tables around him as he shrugs his coat off his shoulders.

Will knows it's rude, scenting someone he has never spoken to, in a public space. Scenting a stranger as an indicator of intent - to fight or to court - hasn’t been practiced in decades.

But then again, Will feels only so much for social convention. 

Will places his hat on the table and looks up, letting his eyes flash silver as they meet the alpha’s. The man tilts his head subtly, the action akin to that of a curious predator. He certainly moves like one, gliding from the bar to take the chair directly in front of Will. 

“Mr. Graham, I presume?”

“Mr. Lecter,” Will catalogues the man as he sits, “Beer or whiskey?”

“The sale and consumption of alcohol is illegal.”

“Do you see any cops around?”

A beat of silence, and then “Wine, if they have it.”

“Whiskey it is,” Will signals the barman. Alana said he was well-mannered, but it seems that was just her polite way of saying snobbish. Lecter is slightly younger than Will imagined, his cloth of middling quality. He has a strange face, all sharp cheekbones and broad lips but it’s his eyes that catch Will, dark and red and so very very deep. He is undoubtedly powerful, thick muscle and broad shoulders characteristic of an alpha nearly in his prime. He’s sitting too far for Will to discern his warming scent from between the smoke and clamor of everyone else.

“Did you have a difficult day?” His tone is surprisingly flat, but his voice is warm and dark.

“What makes you say that?” Will tilts his head, coy. He knows the picture he makes with his soft omegan skin and his tousled curls on top of his boyish face, not above using it to his advantage, but he prefers being his honest, skeptical and coarse self.

“You smell like blood.”

Will looks down at his shirt, finding clean white cotton where earlier today there had been rich red stains. His stab wound hadn’t reopened. The man has a nose on him. “Not my blood. You should see the other guy.”

Their drinks arrive, two chipped glass tumblers with a small amount each. Will takes a glass and finishes it in several sips. 

“That is why you had Alana call me, yes?”

“Yeah. I figured if someone could get to me in broad daylight like that, I should get some extra security.”

“Implying your existing security is lacking,” Lecter pushes his untouched drink across the table. Will slings it into the back of his throat, knowing the movement exposes the line of his neck and not caring.

“Lacking in discipline, perhaps,” Will sucks the burn of whiskey from his bottom lip. The alpha remains placid. “Alana told me you are a very focused man, capable of compartmentalizing.”

Lecter dips his head in affirmation, “I was a field medic during the war, I had to focus.”

“Alana also said you’re good with people.”

“Asking after my bedside manner?”

“I am,” Will tries his best to look earnest, “Look, I’m an asshole at the best of times and that’s bad for business.” Not just an asshole, but nearly a hermit too, and it shows whenever he’s pressed to interact with others for a significant amount of time.

“I can’t see how you’d act otherwise, with the way I suspect they treat you. Forgive me for being so bold, but they see you as a fragile little teacup, don’t they?”

Will rears back slightly, narrowing his eyes at the man in front of him. 

“So you’d like me to be your mediator, in addition to being your protection?”

“Straight to the point, aren't you?” Will can feel the corners of his lips tilting up.

“I think you appreciate directness over flattery.”

“Hmm, you’d be right. You sound like you could be one of those head doctors,” Will drags a hand through his hair, “Well, in that spirit, I’m going to be direct and say I can’t promise much besides paying you and asking you to keep secrets. Hell, I don’t even know how long I’m gonna need you for. That is, if you’re interested at all?”

“Oh I am, very much,” the alpha’s eyes glint in the low light, “And please, call me Hannibal.”

“Will,” he extends a hand, and Hannibal takes it, grip warm and firm as he shakes it once before letting go. He resists the urge to sniff at his palm. “How do you see me, Hannibal, if not a teacup?”

“I doubt you are so fragile, Will, no. I see you as the mongoose I want under the house, when the snakes slither by.”

Will smiles for the first time all day, not bothering to hide his fangs, on par with those of an alpha. “When can you start?”

“As soon as you’d like me to,” Hannibal’s face is full of mirth, mirroring Will’s own.

Will gives him an address, tells him to be there in the morning for a contract negotiation. They part ways out in the cold. 

Peter drives Will to the house on the outskirts of the city, horse stables to one side and a large greenhouse to the other. A number of Will’s pack are gathered around and just beyond the foyer, acting nonchalant. He spies Francis’ large shadow lurking uneasily at the top of the stairs. Randall grins feral behind Will where he props up the door jamb.

Normally the prospect of something so social sprung on him by surprise would have made Will snarl, but he spares a smile for his pack, turning his face and meeting everyone’s eyes. They worried about me .

Will sighs, resigned to the inevitable ruining of the moment, “Where is Abel?”

Everyone who is not Abel Gideon flees. Peter murmurs that he’ll find Abel and then he too is gone.

Will shrugs off his coat in his office, wrinkling his nose at the stale remnant of cigarette smoke that he most definitely did not leave to linger in the air, and waits.

“I should send you to Pig Town for your carelessness,” he says slowly, toneless but for an unmistakable undercurrent of fury when Abel arrives, hunched and cowed.  He’s sorely tempted to, but he’d gone through quite a bit of trouble to catch the alpha, and his talent at forging documents would be wasted in the work camps.

*****

Ostensibly, Will is part of a small gang of criminals who happened to get lucky, acquiring a legal betting license and reaping the rewards. It's not a typical family-run mob, but rather an eclectic collection of men orbiting Will at its center. The whole affair is covered in layers of deception so thick that no one knows it exists. 

To the outside world, these men are seen as independent criminal enterprisers who occasionally help each other out; no one sees Will, the link between them all.  

Will has seven men he delegates to, usually routine criminal pursuits, while he himself makes a point to broker new deals and manage trouble. Dolarhyde oversees his speakeasies, Wells is his bookie, running his betting houses with ruthless precision. Will trusts his underbosses, and generally they run their sections well, but he still makes a point of routinely inspecting his little empire.

Everyone is suspiciously well behaved in the aftermath of Gideon’s discipline, passing no comments on the unusually smooth introduction of Hannibal into their pack.

Hannibal moves into one of the upstairs rooms, boarding along with Will’s upper echelons on the first floor. Will himself sleeps on the ground floor, only a door away from his office. It takes two days of waking up in the small puddle of blood under his shoulder for him to ask after Hannibal’s first aid experience.

Will is cranky, sitting on the kitchen island next to the stove and unbuttoning his shirt. He’d slept poorly the last two nights, dreaming he was Abel before Will found him, bloodthirsty and frustrated and so very confused. It’s not unusual for Will to dream of murder, but it is unusual for the feelings associated with someone else's headspace to linger long into the day.

Hannibal digs for supplies in his well-stocked medical bag on the counter. He’s annoyed behind his professional mask, Will can tell, at having to deal with a less than fresh stab wound when Will should have known better, asked sooner. It’s enough to lift Will’s mood out of the gutter, watching Hannibal try to remain polite.

“Stab wounds are dangerous. You should take better care,” he turns, glaring at the drop of blood leaking a trail down Will’s chest like it’s a venomous snake.

“Well?” Will knows he’s being a shit.

“You’ll live,” Hannibal says, washing his hands in the kitchen sink. Will can smell him as he steps closer, and his scent is wonderfully unobtrusive. It's comforting in a way scents from childhood are. Will pushes the thought away in favor of watching Hannibal work. 

He’s meticulous, cleaning and probing at the wound with practiced care. Will doesn't make a sound as the edges are pried open. “You’ve kept it clean at least, but this will need stitches.”

Will hums, whatever the doctor orders. “I usually don’t,” he says flatly, thinking about other wounds that have failed to leave lasting marks on his body, “but everyone seems to go for my right shoulder and it’s really starting to piss me off.”

“You’ve been stabbed here before?” Hannibal asks, gathering suture thread.

“Shot.”

Hannibal works methodically, small black butterflies forming a line in Will’s skin. Will grits his teeth, lip lifting in a barely repressed snarl at each drag of thread.

“You don’t have a scar,” Hannibal says, tying another knot.

“I do not,” Will looks down at the side of Hannibal’s head where he's bent over his work. He can hear gears turning. “Spit it out.”

Hannibal meets his eyes, red on blue, and then bows forward to continue working, “Either you are deceiving me, or you are not. Each option has its implications, and I’m curious.”

“I’m not a liar, Hannibal.”

“Aren’t you?” he says softly, lifting his head again. Will searches his dark eyes, feeling something build in the space between them.

Will tilts his head, regarding the alpha, “What do you think?” he murmurs

Hannibal smiles tight-lipped, shuttering his eyes. He cleans and packs his equipment with efficiency. “Keep your stitches dry. They will need to be removed in ten days.”

Will can’t help but think Hannibal is hiding something. He watches the alpha, but he only betrays his fondness for Will’s expansive kitchen.

*****

“Do you have a particular product you traffic?” Hannibal asks. They’re heading towards a warehouse on the waterfront, one Will frequently visits. The previous time they’d been here, Hannibal had eyed the crates containing European wine with longing. “Or do you traffic whatever you can?”

“Oh, the usual. Booze, guns. Tobias has a nose for counterfeit art and antique instruments. You’d be surprised how much people pay for things like that,” Will barks a humorless laugh, “It’s funny, dealing with the rich and ignorant. They think buying something gives them power over me, but in the end I know more about them than they’d ever tell anyone, and I use that to my advantage.”

“Mr. Graham,” Hannibal says wryly, and Will smiles crooked right back at him, “I do believe that it’s safer to make a deal with Lucifer than it is to make a deal with you.”

Will laughs loud and bright, “I’m an opportunist.”

“A manipulative one at that.”

“Why, Mr. Lecter, are you complaining?”

“No,” Hannibal smiles.

“Good. I want you to do something for me.”

Hannibal bows his head as they enter the warehouse. The outside is carefully constructed decay, weather-worn from the storms that frequently sweep across the bay, but the inside is well maintained and bustling.

Will nods towards the tall alpha heading their way, “Give him a list of wines you’d like, he’ll get it for you.”

Francis reaches them in time to hear the last part of what Will says, and he looks somewhat proud to be recognized.

“Will.”

“Whatever your heart desires, Hannibal,” Will tells him, and Hannibal looks at Will almost like he’s grown a second head, though he hides it well enough to anyone else, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you looking forlorn in my kitchen.”

Hannibal doesn’t flounder outwardly, but Will sees the shock turning behind his eyes., “Your kitchen is underutilized, both in frequency and pantry space.”

“So utilize it,” Will pans, “No one else really does, except maybe Garret. Alana mentioned your love of cooking.” Will steps closer and Hannibal’s jaw ticks minutely, “Shall we make a deal, then, to ease your reluctance?”

Hannibal swallows, “Am I selling my soul, Oh Devil?”

Will grins, lips pulling up slowly to display his fangs, and Francis shifts on his feet, wary, “Only your skills, Hannibal. If you cook for me, I’ll gladly provide the wine. It’s only polite, after all.”

They fall into an easy routine, Hannibal as Will’s shadow when he leaves the confines of his house, and Will as Hannibal’s audience when he performs. And perform he does, producing culinary masterpieces now that he finally has access to the resources the war in Europe had sought to deny him.

Though Will does not seek to deny Hannibal, finding him joyous when granted what he desires, there are certain times when he must ask the alpha to defer their after dinner conversation, times when one of his killers come to speak their mind and collect a name from his book.

He can feel Hannibal’s curiosity practically burning off him in waves whenever one of Will’s underbosses joins him for a fireside tete-a-tete, often extended to the early morning hours, but Will does not enlighten him to their purpose nor their content. The secrets spilled between the walls of his office are fated to remain between him and the murderer he unleashes onto an unfortunate soul marked for death by his hand.

*****

Will drives them to Spring Grove, growing quiet and uneasy as the Maryland Hospital for the Insane looms larger and larger on the horizon.

They are stopped at the door and let no further than the foyer. An orderly ostensibly dressed in white dismisses Will immediately, turning to Hannibal instead, “What do you want?”

Hannibal remains placid, looking the orderly in the eye, “We have an appointment with Dr. Frederick Chilton.”

“Dr. Chilton doesn’t take appointments on Wednesdays,” the orderly lifts his upper lip in disdain. “Try again.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Will mutters, taking his gun from where he’d holstered it this morning and dropping it on the admission desk. The clerk behind it rears back from the gleaming black metal. “Tell Chilton Will Graham is here.”

Hannibal places his gun next to Will’s, and the orderly glares at both of them. He turns on his heel and marches away. Hannibal had been quietly offended at being offered a firearm at the start of his work and Will still finds it amusing.

They stand in the airy foyer for nearly fifteen minutes, listening to the soft echoing wails of mental patients reverberating off the walls, and before long Will’s teeth are on edge. A different orderly approaches them, swinging a set of keys on a thin chain.

“Follow me,” he says, giving Will a coy look. He sticks closer to Will than is appropriate, but only by a small margin, making it impossible for Will to tell him to fuck off without being rude.

When they finally reach the administrator’s office, Will’s mouth is pressed into a thin displeased line.

“You are late, Mr. Graham.”

“We were on time, Doctor Chilton. Your staff wouldn’t let us through the door,” Will hates how saying it makes him feel like he’s a student making excuses for tardiness in the principal's office. 

Dr. Chilton hides a sneer behind his large desk, his scent lost in the mist of some completely heinous concoction from a perfumery.

“Sit,” he says eventually, leaning back in his chair. “You’re quite infamous, Mr. Graham, a criminal omega.”

“I’m hardly the only one,” Will takes the chair in front of the desk, Hannibal lurks behind him silently. 

“No, but you’re the only omega I’ve ever come across who’s trusted to negotiate for a mob. I wonder what it is you’ve done to earn yourself that position,” Chilton’s eyes flicker between Will and his bodyguard before he dismisses Hannibal's presence entirely, no doubt assuming Hannibal is here to keep Will in check. 

“I’m not here to discuss past incidents of criminal activity, Doctor, I’m here to discuss future ones, specifically those which you've asked for. What is it you want us to transport?”

“I thought you’d afford me more discretion than that, Mr. Graham, at least to my face. I assume you people take a look in all the boxes you move around for people, hmm?” 

“Only to ensure we haven’t been lied to. There are certain things we will not move. It’s better you tell me now, and save us both the trouble of calling off the deal after negotiations have been completed.”

“Will you move opium?” he asks sourly.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to take a cut? I hear it’s custom among some of you.”

“No.” Will partakes of some contraband, but he draws the line at things he doesn’t trust. He’ll transport it, but he won’t let it tarnish his industry.

Frederick purses his lips, swiveling in his chair, “I’m not paying full price. We’ll have to find something else, besides money, to trade then.” He has the look of a man who is about to get what he wants, so Will waits him out. 

“I’ve heard some...incredible rumors, Mr. Graham, about you. Rumors concerning your nature, speculations that you aren’t really an omega at all, just pretending to be one. Others muse that you are a true chimera, so very rare. Would you be interested in perhaps remaining in my hospital for a study? I’m sure you’d find it beneficial.”

“Absolutely not,” Will should have expected this and he can't find it in himself to be angry about it. Chilton is a bottom feeder.

“You won’t even think on it?”

“I know what I am, Frederick,” he says with fraying patience. 

Chilton narrows his eyes at the casual use of his first name, “Then what else can I offer you, besides my expertise?”

Will pretends to think, “How about the train tracks running behind your hospital?”

“What about them?” the doctor snaps

“They’re strategically placed.”

“O-oh, Mr. Graham, those tracks belong to the government, a fact you are undoubtedly aware of.”

“I am, I am also aware of who controls them, and it certainly isn’t the government,” Will looks at him a moment longer, and then rises, heading for the door, “Do let me know what you decide, Doctor. Good day.” 

Will is halfway through the door, Hannibal behind him, when Chilton calls, “Wait!”

Will pauses and turns his head, listening.

“Fine. You have a deal. I’ll send my foreman to the docks at White Banks on Friday.”

Will tips his chin, “Pleasure doing business with you, Doctor Chilton.”

*****

Hannibal drives to the docks on Friday, Will begging off sitting behind the wheel because of a headache.

“You should take some time to rest, Will.”

Will makes an unimpressed noise where he’s squinting out the window, coat collar flipped up. He’d forgone his hat today.

“Your sleep schedule is deplorable, and your appetite has decreased.”

“Hannibal.” 

“You haven’t finished a meal in two days, Will-”

“Hannibal,” he repeats, louder, ill-tempered, “Let it go.”

The silence is filled only by the car’s rumbling engine. It’s a clear day, though still cold, and the winter sun is stabbing Will right in the eyes. He knows his temples are aching for the same reason he’s irritable and not in the mood to eat. He’s been stuck in Tobias’ anal-retentive headspace for days now; the alpha keeps finding fault with the names Will gives him out of the notebook and the irritating perfectionist mentality has followed Will out of his office. Finding fault with everything he usually doesn’t give two shits about, even from the detached second-person view he inhabits when in someone else’s head, is grating on his nerves.

“If there’s something wrong with the food,” Hannibal starts, hesitant.

Will huffs a derisive sound, bringing a hand up to rub at his mouth, “There’s nothing wrong with your cooking.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?”

Will doesn’t answer him, and they drive the rest of the way to the docks in silence. Several of Chilton’s men are there, milling about, and Will recognises one of them as the orderly who’d dismissed him before at the hospital.

“Would you like me to deal with this?” Hannibal asks, soft and low as Will squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of bright sunlight.

Will works his jaw, tongue licking over his teeth, “Yeah.”

Hannibal gets out of the car, more than capable of navigating these negotiations. He’s intelligent, and cunning, and knows exactly what to bargain for.

Will sits in blessed silence for a long time, until he suddenly can’t bear the confinement. He nearly kicks open the passenger side door in his haste to reach open air. He slams the door shut and leans against it, eyes closed and head tilted back as he takes several deep breaths filled with river stink. The tension in his skull and down his shoulders starts to ease.

His tranquility is ruined by invading musk, and when the alpha speaks, Will’s headache digs deep, “You’re way too pretty to be out here alone, honey.”

Will spies the alpha through his narrowed eyelids and resists curling his upper lip to warn him off. It’s one of Chilton’s men, the orderly who walked too close to him as he escorted Will through the hospital. Will can’t afford to cause another scene, rip out another throat in broad daylight. He crosses his arms over his chest, drawing his coat closer to himself in the hopes that the insufferable knothead would take the cue and leave.

Will has no such luck, the alpha creeping closer, “Aw, baby, don’t be shy. You smell way too good to be acting like that.”

Will can only imagine Jack Crawford yelling at him - another one Will? Can’t you control yourself? - but it’s not enough to stop him from actually snarling now, eyes flashing silver.

“So that’s how you want to play-” his aggressive advance on Will is stopped by the impenetrable barrier of Hannibal’s bulk, appearing just in time to save the fool from being bitten. “Oh, he belongs to you.”

Will saves himself from smelling and hearing any more by wrenching open the car door and then slamming it behind himself. His teeth itch for blood and it feels like he’s retreating. He clenches his jaw until the urge to tear and rend and kill rushes through his blood and dissipates through his fingers.

He becomes vaguely aware of muffled voices just beyond his metal sanctuary, several more alphas gathered around at a respectful distance to watch the drama unfold. They won’t interfere with what they perceive to be an altercation over an omega.

Hannibal says something with finality, Will’s head resounding too painfully with every beat of his heart for him to make out the words and then Hannibal is in the car and they’re driving away, but Will doesn’t regain the ability to breathe.

“Stop,” he says weakly.

“Will?”

“Stop the car, Hannibal, please.”

They’re on the bridge crossing over the Chesapeake Bay, but Hannibal pulls over and Will is out the door before the car has even stopped. They’re alone on the bridge, thank fuck. Will paces up and down the dusty road, fingers pressed so hard into his eyes he sees stars.

“Fuck.”

Will leans on the railing, staring across the water with unfocussed eyes until his breathing stops being ragged.

“Did you catch his name?” Will sounds like he’s been screaming.

“Matthew Brown. Are you going to speak to Chilton about this?” 

Will bites his lip. That pompous asshole wouldn’t do anything as undignified as discipline his own men.

“I really wanted to kill him,” Will hisses eventually.

“You were within your rights,” Hannibal says from where he’s leaning against the hood, watching. 

“He thought I was your omega. You could have gotten away with it,” Will spits.

“But you are not.” No he’s not, but Will still hates how calmly he says it.

“What would you have done, if I was?” he challenges, whirling around to glare at Hannibal.

“I guess we’ll never know, because you are not.”

*****

Will’s little notebook gains an extra name and is swiftly returned to its drawer.

Hannibal makes him sweet-smelling tea, and he spends the rest of the day in his office with the curtains drawn, menacing in his foul mood until his headache eases and he sleeps.