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Chapter Text

“I just feel like no one understands me,” Franklyn sobbed. Hannibal shifted uncomfortably while watching a bubble of snot pop from his left nostril, and he grimaced while handing over the box of tissues. Franklyn took the box gratefully, fluffing one tissue out before blowing his nose wetly.

Hannibal watched with dismay as he placed his soaked tissue on his glass side table. “No one but you, that is,” Franklyn continued, still sniffling.

‘Has it been an hour yet?’ Mischa asked. ‘I can’t with him anymore, Han.’

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to her briefly, watching her float behind Franklyn’s chair as though she were pacing. “All anyone wants in life is to feel seen,” he told his despondent patient. “To be understood. Seeking connection is a primary motivator in life. Tobias may not have understood you, but there is someone out there that will. It’s better that things ended rather than dragging them out, isn’t it?”

Franklyn sniffled, yanking another tissue from the box to dab at his eyes. “I guess,” he conceded.

“In the aftermath of your breakup, you recall your relationship with a rose tint,” Hannibal continued. “Do you recall how unhappy he made you? Do you remember how often we spoke of his heartlessness and disinterest?”

“I do, but… he always made me coffee in the mornings,” Franklyn’s voice grew near-hysterical, and Hannibal winced. “Always! Just… so thoughtful. He’d call me every day at lunchtime. He’ll never call, now,” he cried. “He’s… not in love with me, and now I have to make my own coffee!”

‘Jeez-a-loo,’ Mischa said miserably, flicking her long hair over her shoulder.

“Franklyn,” Hannibal sighed. “Now is the time to take charge of your life. Use this experience to your advantage. You’ve wanted a new career, a new apartment. Use this as a time to decide what you want, as you’ve been freed from the shackles of a failed relationship. A time for new beginnings,” he encouraged.

Franklyn blinked at him, biting his lip hesitantly. “That’s true,” he said slowly, hiccupping through his fading dry sobs. “Maybe you could come for dinner? I could… make something you’d like. Or we could go to dinner. You know. Together.”

Mischa laughed so loudly he could barely hear him, and he flicked his eyes at her disapprovingly. ‘Sorry,’ she said, covering her mouth with her fingers to cover her continued giggling.

“I am your therapist,” Hannibal said slowly and carefully. “It would be very unethical indeed if I were to do such a thing. We are not friends, Franklyn. We cannot become friends, either.”

The long, shrill, wail that poured from Franklyn’s mouth in response was like nails on a blackboard.

Mischa glared at him, crossing her arms behind his chair. ‘If I had arms, I’d have strangled him by now.’

“You say that because you don’t like me,” Franklyn wailed. “No one likes me!”

Hannibal sighed, rolling the mounting tension from his shoulders. “You dwell too much on how others perceive you,” he said soothingly. “There are those who do not like me, Franklyn. I do not concern myself with any of it. If you spend your life worrying over what others perceive you to be, you’ll never live a day of your life. Your homework for this week is to come up with ways to fill your time. Things that you’d love to do. I want a list for next week, and we can discuss your progress then.”

“What if all I write is that I want you?” Franklyn said hopefully.

Mischa giggled, and Hannibal ignored her. “I would say that you should set your sights on something attainable. That’s our hour, Franklyn.”

Franklyn huffed, standing from the leather chair in a snit. He straightened out his blazer, turning to Hannibal with pursed lips. “Till next week, Hannibal.”

“Doctor Lecter,” he corrected through gritted teeth.

Franklyn blushed, then left through the patient exit.

‘I can’t listen to patients anymore, Han,’ she sighed. Hannibal glanced at her before pouring himself a few fingers of scotch. ‘I told you when you switched from medical to psychiatry that it was a terrible idea, but no. You don’t listen to me because…’

“Because you are a ghost,” Hannibal replied after a sip of scotch. “And I am living the life that I want to live.”

‘But do you have to do such boring things?’ she said emphatically while gliding across the room to the windows. ‘There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t seen!’

“You’ve seen Italy, France, Spain, Germany, Sweden, Portugal, Great Britain, Denmark,” Hannibal listed patiently. “I’ve taken you around the world, Mischa. I have to settle down sometimes.”

She glided back across the room, and Hannibal felt the chill of her presence against his face. ‘Are you taking Alana out tonight?’

He nodded, and she rolled her eyes at him. “We’re going to dinner at seven. If you don’t like it, then you can… go to the middle place.”

The Middle Place was what they’d taken to calling the plane of existence she could snap to when she wasn’t with Hannibal. She couldn’t venture far from him physically. At least, as physically as her spirit form seemed to be. The furthest she ever got was a few blocks away before each step he took tugged her back in his direction. She could, however, go to the Middle Place. It was a world between this one and the next. It took her from his company on occasion, and as he’d gotten older, she’d spent some time there, both willingly and unwillingly.

For some reason or another, she had been tethered to him since she died thirty years ago.

‘You act like I’m in the way!’ she said miserably. ‘I don’t take up space. I don’t… cost anything! And I don’t understand what the hell you’re doing with her. She’s boring, Hannibal.’

He sipped his scotch ruefully. Dating was hard enough, never mind adding the conflict of a difficult to please sister who happened to be dead. “You’d have liked her well enough if… well,” he shrugged.

‘If I was alive?’ she asked dolefully.

“If you could speak with her,” Hannibal amended.

No one saw her but him. When he was young, he went to numerous mediums and psychics that claimed they could converse with the dead, but no one he ever saw acknowledged her presence. There was a brief time where he was certain he was mad. That losing her had tossed him off the deep end.

Thirty years later, she was still with him.

She did not interact with the physical world, aside from the very recent revelation she’d made that she could conjure enough energy to move an object. She could do it briefly, on occasion. The intense energy it took for her to move something or break something usually shipped her off to the Middle Place for a few days until she could return to his plane of existence. Despite how long she’d been this way, she’d only learned to do it within the last six years or so.

Initially, she broke things when she felt angry or helpless with her situation. Eventually she was able to move things even if she wasn’t angry, but… it took a lot out of her.

She’d broken many, many, teacups in their time together.

He watched her braid her long hair over her shoulder, wide blue eyes lifted towards the windows. The sun filtered right through her, like she was made of dust particles. She hadn’t stayed six this whole time. As he’d grown, so did she. It was like having her in his life, even if she did not live.

No matter how lonely he felt sometimes, he was always grateful that he got to keep her. Even if it was like this.

“We can stay in, if you prefer,” he offered, guilt worming in at the thought of dragging her along on a date in which she did not want to attend.

‘Does she make you happy?’ Mischa asked, flickering in and out of existence like a shadow.

“I… suppose. In a way, yes,” he said uncertainly.

‘Then let’s go home. You can’t go on a date dressed like a stiff,’ she snorted.

He touched his blazer with a frown, adjusting his tie discreetly. Perhaps he would change before he met Alana for dinner.

‘Boring,’ Mischa declared, gliding back and forth by their table at the restaurant. He’d taken Alana to a very exclusive place, and their table was a cozy one towards the back of the restaurant. She looked lovely in a royal blue dress, complimenting her dark hair and pale skin perfectly.

“So I told Jack that if he wanted me to consult, it was a bad idea. I mean, I’ve been… well, not friends necessarily, but… I guess friends is the word? Either way, I know him. So, it puts me in a weird place, because I don’t like to have sessions with people I know, you know? I-”

‘Boring, boring, boring,’ Mischa chanted, glancing over to the table next to them. There was a young man there with his girlfriend, and she whistled. ‘Wow. If I were alive, he’d be in trouble.’

He was trying to pay attention to Alana. Really. He was. Mischa was beyond distracting, however, and he scowled while watching his sister primp herself for a man that could not see her. ‘Look at his jawline!’ she exclaimed. She glanced down at his plate, glancing between the man and his lover with a scowl. ‘Ugh. Never mind. He’s vegan.’

Hannibal snorted, and Alana paused in her tirade to grimace at him. “Is something about it funny to you?”

He blinked, turning back to her with a frown. “I’m… I’m sorry, Alana. No. You were saying?”

“I was saying,” she began.

‘Something boring about work,’ Mischa interjected.

“Jack asked me to assess Will, and I said no.”

“Who is Will?” he asked, though the look on her face showed that he should definitely know that. He hadn’t heard her, though.

“Will Graham,” she sighed. “Are you… is something wrong? You’re not with me tonight.”

Usually, Mischa went to the Middle Place when he was on dates. It seemed tonight she was in the mood to haunt him. “Forgive me,” he cleared his throat, keeping his eyes firmly on Alana and not on Mischa, who was now hovering between them with the table cutting through her thighs. “I have a patient that… expressed romantic interest in me. It’s distracting me because I fear I will need to refer him to someone else.”

“Refer him to me,” Alana offered brightly, smiling while sipping her wine. “And as a favor, you could do the assessment on Will Graham?”

That sounded far too perfect, even though he really hadn’t heard a word she said about the man. He nodded while raising his glass to her. “Deal.”

“Great!” she laughed. “God, I have to warn you, though. Will is… he’s great. He’s a nice guy. Quiet. But…”

‘Oh man, he’s weirdo,’ Mischa laughed, hovering out from the table to allow a waiter to pass through her with a tray. The man stopped, turning slightly as though he felt something. It happened on occasion, but nothing ever came of it. He continued on his way, a shiver rolling through him. ‘Han! He felt me I think?’

“He’s a… well,” Alana struggled to finish the thought, and he and Mischa waited patiently. “He’s a medium. Of a sort.”

Hannibal didn’t contain his snort this time, and Mischa agreed. ‘Bullshit,’ she laughed.

“No one can converse with the dead,” Hannibal said skeptically, eyeing his sister who was now dancing by the violinist who was playing by the fireplace.

“He can,” she continued. “You’d need to see it to believe it. It’s… crazy. He solves cases like you wouldn’t believe. Goes to a scene, and boom. Walks us right through what happened like he was there for it.”

“An empathy disorder would work similarly,” Hannibal said reasonably.

“I thought that, too,” she sighed. “Until one day, he comes up to me and just…” she shivered. “He told me that my grandmother knows. He said, ‘don’t worry, your grandmother knows,’ right out of the blue. I… I burst into tears, Hannibal. I had never told anyone about… about that.”

“About what, exactly?” he pressed.

“The day she died,” Alana began, swallowing thickly. “She was having seizures. I was just a girl, barely thirteen. My mother told me to tell her that I loved her, because she was dying, and… and my throat was clogged with tears. I couldn’t get the words out. Before I could tell her, she had another convulsion and she died. I never got to tell her I loved her, and he just… he just told me that she knows.”

It all sounded very dubious, but Hannibal agreed it was oddly on the nose. “Interesting,” he decided to say.

“Yeah,” she sniffled, swallowing a sip of wine to hide her tears.

Mischa drifted back over from the table across from them. ‘That guy refused bread because yeast had to die in order for them to make it,’ she snorted. ‘Yeast, Hannibal.’

She clearly hadn’t heard Alana’s story, and perhaps that was for the best. Every time he made an appointment with a medium that was dubbed the best, they were always proven to be hoaxes. They’d talk about his grandmother whom he’d never met. Or his father, who’d never cared that he existed in the first place. They never seemed to notice Mischa, who was sometimes quiet literally in their lap, screaming in their face.

She always left those places with him feeling… miserable. It was better not to get her hopes up for this… Will Graham.

The rest of their dinner went by without preamble. Once they were in the car, Alana turned to him with a little grin. “Maybe… we go back to your house for the night?”

‘Gag me,’ Mischa sighed. ‘Game of Thrones is on tonight,’ she whined from the backseat.

“I’m amenable to that,” he agreed, leaning in for a kiss. Alana met him halfway, and Mischa made exaggerated squelching noises from the backseat.

He was very, very, good at ignoring her when she was like this, which wasn’t often. Every once in a while, her… for lack of a better word, life made her feel trapped. If being obnoxious helped her through her situation, Hannibal would allow it.

Not that he had a choice, really. Not that he ever preferred her absence.

Having her with him, squelching noises and all, was better than not having her.

Alana pressed herself against him once back at his house, and he pulled away. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I like having the television on for… background noise.”

Alana raised an eyebrow but allowed him to head off to his living room to turn on the television.

‘Channel 60,’ she said, folding to the floor in an elegant heap.

Game of Thrones would start in ten minutes, which occupied her mind and her interest, even if Hannibal couldn’t understand it. “Please give me some privacy,” he pleaded softly.

‘Obviously,’ she shivered, eyes glued to the television. ‘Not anything I want to see, brother-mine.’

He smiled, returning to Alana who was taking in the artwork on his walls. “Game of Thrones?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It… soothes me,” Hannibal grimaced. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing toward the staircase.

“I mean,” she shrugged, stepping into his space. “We could… in the living room?”

‘Oh God no,’ Mischa wailed.

“I like Game of Thrones,” Alana said coyly.

“No,” Hannibal said, clearing his throat. “I… er… prefer a bed.”

She sighed, leaning in for a kiss that Hannibal honestly wasn’t quite in the mood for, anymore. “Then let’s watch it together,” she shrugged. “Who am I to get in the way of your little pleasures?”

‘Can you not?’ Mischa groaned.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal offered with a sigh, “we could do this another night? I fear I’m… not in the right place, tonight.”

Her face fell, but she nodded. “Whatever you want, obviously.”

She called a cab for herself, refusing a drive home that Hannibal would have given her even if it made Mischa glare daggers at him. “Look,” Alana sighed. “We tried, right? I mean, we can still be friends?”

“Alana, I-”

“It’s okay,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I know you don’t… date. I knew that even when we started doing this. You’re a quiet man who likes his space, and there’s nothing wrong with that. No hard feelings, okay?”

“No hard feelings,” he agreed numbly.

She smiled again before there was a beep from the cab outside. “I’ll call you tomorrow with Will Graham’s contact information. As long as you don’t mind assessing him for me?”

“I don’t mind,” he promised.

She nodded, biting her lip while hovering by the door. “Thank you for tonight,” she said softly. “Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight, Alana.”

She closed the door, and he watched her descend his porch steps with a sense of icy dread settling over him.

He was tired of being alone. He was tired of not having anyone he could touch or feel in his life. He had his sister, but no one else. It didn’t seem that he would ever have anyone else. How could he?

With Mischa absorbed in her show, he crept upstairs to get ready for bed. After brushing his teeth and putting on pajamas, he went into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water before bed. The show came to an end, and he went into the living room to shut off the tv.

Mischa breezed past, stretching as though she were tired. ‘I think I ship Jaime and Brienne?’ she said with a laugh. ‘They’re the least likely couple of all time, but… they’re so cute together.’

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sighed, sipping his water distractedly.

‘She didn’t need to leave,’ Mischa said after a beat. ‘Hannibal, I don’t want you to be… alone.’

“I’m never alone, dearest,” he said, giving her a gentle smile. “I have you, do I not?”

‘A real person,’ she sighed, twisting her long hair over her shoulder. ‘She was boring, but… you can be, too.’

“Thank you for that,” he laughed.

‘You want to read to me a little bit before bed?’ she asked hopefully.

“Of course,” he said, putting his glass in the sink. “What book tonight?”

‘A Feast for Crows?’ she grinned.

“You’re obsessed,” he chuckled. “I am canceling HBO.”

‘You are not,’ she grinned, floating up the stairs behind him. ‘It’s the one thing I love. Well, aside from you, anyway.’

He smiled while taking the thick, stupid, book from his bookcase, settling into his bed with a sigh. Mischa hovered in the room while he read it to her, humming to herself.

At some point, he drifted off. Mischa’s little sigh made him smile as he fell asleep. ‘Right at a good part, too.’

Mischa absconded to the Middle Place the next day, completely uninterested in sitting through his appointments. He checked his messages during his lunch break, finding an email from Alana.

Completely sterile of any sentiment. He sighed, placing his tablet down on the desk to jot down Will Graham’s number.

He had some free time before his next appointment, so he called the cell phone number he’d been given.

“Graham,” a deep voice greeted briskly.

“Yes, hello,” he said politely. “This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. I was given your contact information by Alana Bloom.”

“Oh,” he said distractedly, and he heard dogs barking. “Yeah. Uh, well. There was an incident while I was working a scene, and Jack Crawford feels I need… an evaluation before I can return to field work.”

It was said like a cussword, and Hannibal bit back a laugh. “I have not been filled in on details,” he admitted. “However, I am free tonight at seven-thirty if you’d like to come to my office?”

“Tonight?” he asked in surprise. “That… that would be perfect. Yeah. Anything to get back in the field sooner. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all,” he assured the man. “I will text you my office address. I would like to inform you that should you be unable to make it for any reason, I do have a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy.”

“Of course you do,” he laughed and Hannibal bristled. “See you at seven-thirty, doctor.”

“Take care,” he said politely before ending the call. He shot out a quick text with his work address, and received a thumbs up emoji for his trouble.

The rest of his day passed in reasonable quiet aside from a few patients that tended to be headaches. He felt tired by the time seven-thirty rolled around, as he’d fallen asleep late because he’d read to Mischa for hours.

He sipped a cup of tea before going to the door, swinging it open at seven-thirty on the dot.

The man that greeted him there was not what he expected.

His initial eye sweep yielded a disheveled man in wrinkled pants and a Henley stained with what looked like oil. His chocolate curls were shiny, but wildly chaotic. The man looked up when Hannibal opened the door, and his face was so unexpected he had to physically refrain from sucking in a breath. With fingers twitching for a charcoal, he took in the strong curve of his jawline, the flawless expanse of his throat. Rose pink lips parted as his new patient took him in as well, eyes the color of the ocean during a storm regarding him with surprise.

“Will Graham?” he asked, stepping out to shake his patient’s hand. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he greeted. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Will sighed, dropping his eyes back down to Hannibal’s sternum. “Likewise.”

“Please,” he gestured towards the open door with his hand. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

As Will drifted past him, he scented the distinctly unpleasant aftershave he was wearing. Beneath that, there was dogs, pine trees, the mint of his shampoo, and motor oil that explained the stain on his blue Henley.

He did not sit down right away. Instead, he paced the office, taking the space in with wide eyes that drifted over every chair in the room. “Do you do this on purpose?” he asked.

Hannibal blinked at him. “Forgive me, but to what are you referring?”

“The chairs,” Will elaborated, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. “There are… six different places that I could potentially sit. Does where I decide to park my ass say something about me?”

He tried not to laugh. Really, he did. His new patient was startlingly perceptive. “Should a new patient decide to sit at the Tiffany Blue sofa there,” he said, pointing towards the couch on the far wall. “I can infer that they like their space, so I do my best to give that to them during their sessions. Should they sit on that wooden chair there,” he gestured toward the one by the door. “I understand they do not wish to make being in therapy official, yet. Should they sit on the chaise like a seat, I know they prefer keeping the windows away from their sightline. A general sign of depression,” he explained at the confusion on Will’s face.

“If they lay on the chaise, I know they’ve never attended a therapy session before and think that because people do it in movies and films that they’re required to do so, here. Should they pick either of the leather chairs, I know they want their session to be more of a conversation rather than therapy. If they sit at my desk, they’re invasive.”

“Sounds like I should pull one of the leather chairs to the door then,” he chuckled.

“You may sit wherever you want, and I promise not to pick apart why you chose to sit there,” Hannibal grinned. What an unusual man.

“What if I chose to stand around through the session?” he asked glancing up into Hannibal’s eyes for a split second. The depth of intelligence in them astounded him, as did the man’s beauty.

“What would you infer from someone who refused to sit through a session, I wonder?” he chose to ask instead.

Will tipped his head, hands on his hips while considering it. “I’d say the patient has difficulty in new places. Doesn’t like therapy and wants to be done with his session the moment it begins. Maybe because therapy has never worked on him. Maybe he chooses to stand because he likes to read, and the books above him were calling to him.”

“He’d be more than welcome to peruse the balcony, should he want to do so,” Hannibal chuckled. He gestured to the ladder. “You can wander wherever you’d like, and you can sit wherever you’d like.”

Will hesitated for half a second before ascending the ladder, immediately perusing his bookshelves with interest. “May I inquire about why you were referred to me, Will?”

“How much do you know about me?” he asked, glancing over the railing as Hannibal trailed the far wall so he wouldn’t have to crick his neck to look up at his new patient.

“Next to nothing at all,” he admitted.

“Next to,” Will mused with a dry laugh. “But not nothing. What have you been told?”

He decided to be truthful. Alana was not his psychiatrist, so therefore there was no breach of ethics regarding a conversation about him. “Alana informed me that you are a medium, of a sort.”

Will snorted, eyes glued to the books on his shelves as he walked along them. “That’s always the thing that gets mentioned first,” he sighed. “What else?”

“That’s all,” Hannibal admitted.

“Wow,” Will laughed. “How many languages do you speak?”

The question threw him. “Seven,” Hannibal said, smiling when it resulted in the shocked expression on Will’s face. “Five fluently, however.”

“I teach Criminal Psychology at Quantico,” Will said, quid pro quo. “Sometimes Jack Crawford asks me to consult on difficult cases, although he’s been asking me more and more. Why do you have so many medical anatomy books?”

Tit for tat, then. “I was a surgeon for a few years, but… it was not my calling,” he replied truthfully. Well, as truthfully as he could, anyway. It was very difficult to focus when Mischa was gliding around the operating room, humming to herself. “You consult on cases. Do you profile the killers?”

“Sometimes,” he shrugged, taking a book out that caught his interest before tucking it back into the case carefully. “Mostly I show up and read the scene.”

“As a medium?” Hannibal asked.

“No,” Will laughed. “I know people think I’m conversing with the dead at scenes, but they hardly ever linger where they’ve been brutally murdered. I can’t explain what I do, I guess. I take the perspective of the killer and sort out his or her motivation behind their every action. People behave predictably, you just need to know people well enough and everything they do has an explanation. It’s as simple as that.”

It sounded very specifically like an empathy disorder, and he smiled to himself at being right the night before. “It’s quite a gift,” Hannibal assured him because it truly was. “What can you infer about me, I wonder?”

Will smiled ruefully, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow. He turned from the bookcase, taking in the grand space with his elbows resting on the railing. “You are meticulous,” he said, sharp eyes taking in the room, then gliding over Hannibal with interest. “You were born somewhere that… that isn’t quite as modern as the rest of the world. You’re important there, though you don’t acknowledge it. Raised upper class, taught about the finer things in life. You’re well-traveled, and you have a great appreciation for architecture and fine art. The way you dress implies that you’re strict and unforgiving, but… I don’t think that’s true. It’s armor. Like a knight going off to battle.”

“Quite astute of you,” Hannibal said in surprise. Nothing he said was shocking, however.

“You’ve kept every human anatomy book from your residency and medical school,” Will noted clinically. “Whatever made you decide to give that up, it wasn’t because surgery wasn’t your calling. You loved it, but you loved something else more. I don’t think it was psychiatry.”

Well. Hannibal blinked at him, and he realized that the invasive man was reading his every facial expression. He struggled to smooth his face out, turning away from Will to end this. “Quite a gift you have,” he decided. “Can you tell me about the incident that sent you to me?”

Will sighed, leaning away from the railing before coming down the ladder. He paced the space, rubbing his fingers against the fine stubble covering his remarkable jawline. “I told you that they don’t always linger around where they’ve been murdered, but sometimes they do,” he said softly. “The scene was a serial killer. You might’ve heard about him, The Baltimore Strangler?”

Hannibal nodded. The man was gruesome. He raped and strangled his victims for hours before they eventually died. If Mischa hadn’t stayed with him after her death, he would be exactly the kind of man that earned Hannibal’s brand of justice. He never became that man, though. “I’ve heard of the cases,” he admitted.

“The victim… she was there,” he blurted, scrubbing his fingers across his face. “I can’t… I can’t see her, obviously. I can hear her, though. She was… God, she was so upset. If they linger here after they’ve died, it’s only for a few hours at most before whatever calls them over makes them leave this plane. I tried to get her to describe him, but… she couldn’t. I felt every ounce of pain that she felt, and it was… it was horrible, Doctor Lecter. All she wanted from me was to tell her parents that she loved them, and that she was sorry she dropped out of college without telling them. She wanted me to tell her boyfriend that she would have married him, just that he asked too soon. She wanted me to tell her brother that he deserved better than to work at a dead-end job because he was too smart to spend his life working a job he hated. Through all of it, she just… sobbed. It was horrible. I was so busy listening to her that I didn’t hear anyone else around me, and Jack… he thinks I’ve gone off the deep end. He’s never believed I have this… ability. No one ever does,” he sighed.

The story sounded utterly fantastic, but… Hannibal could agree that it was horrible. “Did you tell her loved ones what she said to you?”

It clearly was not a question that Will expected. He flinched, then nodded, pacing the office with his hands on his hips. “Even when I was right about every single thing she told me, Jack still thought I was… well, nuts. He doesn’t like to think that there are things in the world that bar explanation. For him, everything is black and white. He thinks my ability to put together scenes just goes too far sometimes. That I get lost in the violence of it and read it as though it’s happening to me. Empathizing with the victim, I guess. How can I not when the victim is screaming at me?”

“I imagine very few understand what that’s like,” Hannibal agreed. He suffered the same difficulty with Mischa day in and day out. As he’d grown older, he was better capable of tuning her out. When he was young, he didn’t understand that acknowledging her presence when there were others around made him look unstable. His aunt and uncle had sent him to therapists for years before he realized that if he just stopped talking to Mischa in front of people, they’d stop looking at him like he was insane.

“No one understands what it’s like,” Will amended. “I guess you’re not signing off on me.”

Hannibal looked up at him with a regretful expression. “I think I’d like to meet with you another time,” he admitted.

Will’s face crumpled, but he nodded. “Are there white padded rooms in my future, doctor?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Well at least that,” Will laughed humorlessly.

“Shall we say next week, same time?”

Will nodded, shoulders slumping. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Fine.”

Hannibal showed Will the exit door just as Mischa manifested by his desk. Will was out in the corridor when she spoke. ‘Are you still at work? God, when do you relax?’ she asked, sighing like a martyr.

Will whipped around the moment she spoke, looking at Hannibal with wide eyes.

He’d heard her. Hannibal’s mouth fell open, his chest rising and falling with his gasping breaths. Will’s eyes were impossibly wide, his head cocked as though he were listening for something that Hannibal shouldn’t be able to hear.

‘What is it?’ she asked, gliding over to Hannibal’s side. He pointedly ignored her, watching Will swallow thickly. ‘Oh wow. He’s kind of cute in a scruffy way, isn’t he? Look at that jawline!’

Will smiled, eyes drifting shyly towards the floor. “Is everything alright, Will?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing himself to nod. “Uh. Fine. Sorry. Next week,” he said.

“Next week,” Hannibal said numbly. “Goodnight, Will.”

He closed the door, pressing himself against it in shock. Mischa watched him curiously, gliding off towards his desk again. ‘New patient?’

“Yes,” he admitted. “One that I would like you to be present for next week.”

‘Why?’ she asked curiously.

“He’s interesting,” Hannibal said softly.

‘And pretty,’ she pointed out with a smile. ‘Oh boy. Not a good idea with a patient, Han.’

“Indeed,” he sighed, closing his eyes to gather himself for a moment. He’d heard her. He heard her.

Will Graham was in fact a medium, and he could hear Mischa.