Chapter Text
Dr. Hannibal Lecter sits at the hotel bar, sipping a glass of Bâtard-Montrachet.
When Will Graham stumbles in, he's already a bit tipsy. He runs into a woman, apologizing as he almost knocks down her drink. She glares at him, but he doesn't notice, already tripping over someone else in his way. The celebrations have already ended. His friends are gone. He’s supposed to be on his way back home... But this feeling of... not thinking, not having to unintentionally analyze everything his empathy throws his way...
It's something he wants to continue experiencing. Just for a little bit longer.
And so, he somehow makes it to the bar, sits down heavily on a chair, and manages to order himself another drink.
***
Hannibal is aware of the man before he sees him. He moves in a cloud of whisky fumes and bad aftershave, tripping over his own feet, apologising blurrily to a bar patron, stumbling into another.
Drunk, and rude.
And heading to the bar, to drink some more, though he's clearly had enough.
Hannibal isn't hunting tonight; his larder is full, and he has no dinner parties planned, but perhaps he will strike up a conversation. Perhaps he will ask for a business card. It never hurts to be prepared. He lifts his wine glass to his lips as the man sits heavily in the seat beside him.
He glances over, expecting to see a middle-aged businessman out on a heavy night, a salesman drinking free booze on an expense account, and sees...
Oh.
***
Will rests his head on the cool bar counter, starting when the bartender places his drink in front of him. He groans, and sits up straight, unintentionally catching the eye of the man sitting next to him.
Their eyes meet for barely a second.
Three-piece suit, tailored to fit. Eyes the color of drying blood. An authoritative posture. Intelligent. Purposeful. Controlled. Powerful. Dangerous.
But Will isn’t paying attention to all that.
His eyes are fixed on the man's hair. His immaculate hair that he wants to touch. And mess up.
***
The drunken stranger is wearing a suit, but it sits slightly wrong on him, betraying the fact that he usually dresses more casually. White shirt, dark tie, no wedding ring, that atrocious aftershave. He drinks good whisky, though; Hannibal can scent aged single malt, Scottish.
None of that particularly matters.
What matters are his eyes, blue and clearer than they should be. What matters is his mouth, generous and mobile. What matters is his hair.
He has the curly dark hair of an Endymion, dishevelled and brushing his collar, unused to a comb. This man is both soft and hard, reckless and frightened, arrogant and vulnerable. Hannibal turns his body towards the stranger, almost imperceptibly, and he relaxes slightly to echo the other man's posture: both subtle invitations to conversation.
***
Will blinks as this man's shadow echoes in his mind. Familiar, and yet so distant and strange. If he had been sober, he would've wondered if his attraction to the man is physical or based on the depths he can see.
The alcohol in his body peels away his skin, and he can almost see it disintegrating around him as his reserve melts away. The dangerous man has a calm air around him, and it doesn't take long for Will to relax. He gazes up at the man, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Your hair. It's nice. But it's too perfect.”
Hannibal Lecter puts down his glass of wine. He turns to face the man, glad of a chance to observe him frankly.
“I'm not often accused of a surfeit of perfection.”
“You should—” Will raises his hands until they're hovering over his own head. He tangles his fingers in his hair and makes an abrupt, shaking motion “—make it slightly messier. Like this.” Will tilts his head to the side, eyeing the man critically.
“You would look nice with your hair falling over your forehead. Like… Like this…”
He leans forward, his hand hesitantly reaching out, fingertips inches away from the man’s face.
… Only to lose his balance and fall off his seat, planting his face right into the man’s lap.
***
Hannibal watches, astonished, as the stranger faceplants straight into his lap. He stares at the back of the man's head, surprised, amused and...aroused. He should not be. This man is drunk and rude. But if he stays where he is, he will very quickly become aware of Hannibal's reaction to his proximity. Hannibal takes the man by the shoulders and rights him, helping him back into his chair. “You've had a few drinks tonight, yes?
Will grins widely. “It's my birthday today. I don't usually... drink this much. But it helps with the voices and the shadows.” Abruptly, he changes the topic. “Your hair—no, you are… too perfect. It’s almost fake—no—unreal.”
Hannibal straightens his suit.
'Fake'. What an interesting term.
Dr. Du Maurier had used something similar, in their session this afternoon; although 'fake' was too vulgar an expression for her. She had spoken of his 'artifice'.
“Our appearance is the mask we present to the world. Clothes, hair, manners: we choose them as aspects of the personality we would most like to have. And yes: our hairstyles too. You are very perceptive for someone who's drunk so much. And happy birthday.”
Will laughs. It’s hollow, humorless laughter.
“Perceptive? You could say that, I suppose.” He shakily extends his hand, “Will Graham.”
Hannibal enfolds the other man’s hand in his and shakes it. “Hannibal Lecter. Are you an actual hairdresser, or do you just impersonate one when drunk?”
He laughs again. “I’m a Masters student. Criminal Psychology.”
“We share an interest in human nature. I’m a psychiatrist.”
“A… psychiatrist.” Will downs his glass of whisky.
“An off-duty psychiatrist. Tonight, I'm just enjoying a drink.” Hannibal tilts his glass in a salute to Will. “And considering changing my hair style.”
Will orders himself another drink. “Since you are a psychiatrist… you might be familiar with my supervisor.” His eyes light up as his mind catches up with his words. “… And you are? Considering changing your hairstyle?”
Hannibal also signals to the bartender for another drink.
“You seem so vehement, it might be good to take your advice.” He inclines his head closer to Will. “Why don’t you show me what you mean?”
And instantly, Will leans forward again, his fingers gently carding through Dr Lecter's hair. His hair, so carefully styled, falls over his forehead. Will sits back, satisfied. His lips curve into a small smile.
“Perfect.”
Hannibal has to catch his breath when Will touches his hair. It's a ridiculous attraction. This man is drunk and rude. But there's something. The contradictions. The perceptiveness. There's an interesting mind there, beneath the fog of alcohol. Will is beautiful, of course.
But... the voices and the shadows. There is something.
Hannibal says, fully aware that he is flirting, “Is there anything else you would change, since you're at it?”
Will looks at Hannibal, his eyes roaming up and down his body. He reddens. “I... No. Not really.”
Hannibal observes the thorough examination, the flush on Will's cheeks. The attraction is not unreciprocated. He smiles.
“I'm glad I pass inspection.” He takes a long sip of his wine, aware how the action brings attention to his mouth. “Since I changed my hairstyle, may I ask you a question?”
Will turns redder, dragging his eyes away from the man's lips. “What would you like to know, Dr Lecter?”
“Hannibal. Call me Hannibal.”
The name rolls off his tongue. “Hannibal.”
There's a distinct pleasure for Hannibal in hearing his name on those lips. He savours it briefly.
“You're not habitually a heavy drinker, Will: even on your birthday. What are you looking for in the bottom of that glass of Scotch whisky?”
Something about Dr Lecter... something about this situation, the whisky, the bar, the day—it makes Will bold.
“I'm trying to find the Chesapeake Ripper. Or perhaps I'm trying to find peace from him. I can't... tell at this point. I'm either running away from him, or I'm running to him.”
“The Chesapeake Ripper? The serial killer? That's a grisly thing to find at the bottom of a drink. Most people say oblivion ...or possibly sex.” Hannibal sips his wine again. “Why are you thinking about a murderer on your birthday, Will? Is it part of your degree?”
He takes a long sip of his whisky. “He is a part of my degree by my own choice. My supervisor didn’t approve, but…” He sighs. “I insisted.”
“Why?”
He shouldn't be saying this. Will's voice lowers to barely a whisper.
“Because he's... different. His art—his message—is more important to him than his kill. It's like poetry. Solving every murder tableau is like a puzzle. He’s… I feel as if…” Will straightens, as if suddenly remembering where he is, who he’s talking to.
“You feel as if you have a connection to this killer?”
Another long sip. Will closes his eyes. “That's an... understatement. I feel like I can understand him.” He backtracks, “No—that’s not true. I can understand anyone. But I feel like when I look into his mind, he looks back into mine. That never happens.”
Shadows and voices. And one of the shadows, one of the voices, in this young man's mind, is Hannibal’s own. The Chesapeake Ripper’s. Now Hannibal understands his attraction. He leans on the bar, a movement that brings him closer to Will.
“You can understand anyone?”
Will opens his eyes, and asks the bartender for another drink.
“Anyone.”
“But you want to understand the Ripper.” Hannibal turns to the bartender. “Please put this young man's drinks on my tab.”
Will starts. “Oh, you don't have to do that. And… yes. Usually, my ‘ability’ is a curse. I rarely want to use it. Understanding comes with a very heavy burden.” His voice is almost dazed. “But the Chesapeake Ripper…”
“… Is different.”
Will smiles. “He’s different. He's... magnificent. The way he kills is dispassionate, cold. But his art is…” He swallows.
“I sincerely hope you meet him. One day.”
“If I meet him, I’ll die.”
Hannibal toys with the stem of his glass. “What makes you say that?”
“Something tells me he wouldn't like me very much. His tastes seem very... singular.”
“Then I've changed my mind. If he will kill you when you meet, I hope very much that the two of you will stay away from each other. It seems to me that the world is more interesting with you in it.”
Hannibal sips his wine. The conversation has sharpened his senses.
“But suppose you are wrong?” Hannibal asks. “Suppose this murderer, this damned man, wants what you can offer him? Suppose he wants to be understood?”
Will’s eyes, dazed and wide, momentarily sharpen.
“I said that he will kill me if we ever meet. But I never said that dying will turn our meeting into a regret.”
Hannibal gazes at Will. He is probably brilliant, possibly suicidal. His mind is a labyrinth which Hannibal would love to explore. How quickly this attraction has grown from physical to mental, within the space of a glass or two of Montrachet. But this topic, delicious it is, is also dangerous. He leans back in his chair.
“You mentioned that I might know your supervisor. Is it Dr Bloom?”
He shakes his head. “Dr Frederick Chilton. He's...” Will sighs.
“Ah. I know Dr Chilton very well. In a professional capacity. I would prefer Dr Bloom as my supervisor, myself.”
Will sighs again.
“Dr Chilton spends less time helping me with my research, and more time poking around my mind. He wanted my thesis to explore my ‘ability’. It would give him an excuse to conduct experiments with my consent, since the papers and the thesis would be written by me.” Will closes his eyes, and rests his head against the cool bar counter.
“But you said your Masters degree was in criminal psychology. You're a remarkable criminal if you're walking around loose.”
“Pardon?”
“I'm sorry; I didn't express myself well. I meant that most theses in criminal psychology don't focus on the student. If they did, one could assume that the student was a criminal.” Hannibal glances up and down Will’s body quickly, then looks at his wine. “It turns out that I'm one of your teachers.”
His eyes shoot open, and he sits up so fast he nearly falls. “I—What—I beg your pardon?”
“I've been invited to give a series of guest lectures to postgraduate students. Mostly about Thorin Sunderson: the Delaware Strangler? You've heard of him?”
He nods. “l have.”
Will closes his eyes for a few seconds, as if he has to draw out the information from his mind. “Impulsive, reckless, sensitive ‘psychopath’.” The last word is said with disbelief. “His passion wasn't for the victims, but the reasons behind each kill. Got caught, but only because he let himself get caught.”
This is my design. He recites each word dispassionately, as if he's reading a script. Will opens his eyes. “Interesting killer.”
Hannibal raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Yes. He was very interesting. I was his psychiatrist. I can only speak about him because he gave me permission, shortly before he died. He killed himself in prison.”
For an inexplicable reason, Will feels fear settling cold and heavy in his stomach, contradicted by the hot excitement causing his heart to beat erratically in his chest. Will takes another long sip of his drink. “I would've liked to meet him.”
“He would not have killed you. You were not his type. You are, apparently, much more the Chesapeake Ripper's type.” Hannibal smiles. “In any case, I'll be your guest lecturer next term. I'd been rather looking forward to it, until tonight.”
“Regardless, I would've liked to meet him.” Will turns, meeting his eyes for the second time this night. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you not looking forward to being a guest lecturer?”
“Because it is distinctly awkward, professionally speaking, when a lecturer is attracted to his student.”
Will’s breath catches in his throat. “Even when the lecturer is only teaching for a few lectures?”
Hannibal gazes at him. “Interesting.”
Will flushes, but he doesn't break eye contact.
Hannibal holds his gaze for a long, silent moment, full of unspoken words. Then he looks down at his hand on the bar. “You have had a great deal to drink, and I've perhaps had more than is wise.”
“Yes. But no matter how much I drink, my mind doesn't shut up. It doesn't stop.”
“Do you want to make your mind stop, Will? Do you want to silence your judgement, for a space of time?”
“That was my intention tonight. Drinking... dulls my senses, but it never stops them. My memories and thoughts remain.”
“Nevertheless. I should not take advantage of you. I shouldn't have spoken about attraction.”
“But you did speak about attraction.”
“And I notice that you have not spoken about it.”
“One can express a lot without saying a single word.”
Will’s eyes, blue eyes, seeing so much. His first action was to breach Hannibal's artifice, to mess up his mask. What would Will perceive if Hannibal let down further guards? The thought is almost too exciting to bear. Hannibal stands.
“I think, given our relative positions, that this is becoming dangerous.”
“You don't seem like someone who'd be afraid of danger, Doctor Lecter. Regardless, if you choose to leave, I'll have to find myself an alternate option to help me shut down my mind.” Will gestures to the bartender for another drink.
Hannibal puts his hand on Will's wrist, stopping his request for a drink. “I think you should stop drinking whisky.” His fingers are remarkably strong, though his grip is gentle.
Will turns his head to look up at Hannibal. “What else do I have?”
“I think," says Hannibal Lecter, "that it's safe to say that you can have whatever you want.”