"Tasteless."
It's the first word Hannibal hears Will speak, and it's intoxicating. His eyes had been downcast, contemplative yet distant, throughout the brief introductions Jack had rushed them with. But, now, Hannibal can feel the disgust rolling off the man in waves.
"Do you have trouble with taste?"
The brief flicker of Will's head in Hannibal's direction is enough, somehow, for Hannibal to be drawn in further.
"My thoughts are often not tasty." It's an outbreath, a reluctant admission to a stranger. Rather unlike Will, from what Hannibal has gathered from Jack's briefing and Alana's occasional comments.
"Nor mine." Hannibal offers Will the same vulnerability. "No effective barriers." He knows Will will be hard to work around, keep at arms' length when all Hannibal wants to do is pick him apart – piece by piece until he knows his brain inside and out.
"I build forts."
"Associations come quickly."
"So do forts."
Forts, indeed: "Not fond of eye contact, are you?"
Another exhale. "Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don't see enough—" Will's talking about his Gift, Hannibal realises with a start. He reconsiders their proximity, once more, wonders if taking Jack up on his offer is at all wise, given Will's Gift – Will's Gift being his one-touch psychic readings. Analyses. Unravellings. Particularly strong in the presence of psychopaths and their victims. But Hannibal rarely turns down a challenge.
"An-and it's hard to focus when you're thinking, 'oh, those whites are really white,' or-or, 'he might have hepatitis,' or, 'oh, is that a burst vein?'"
Hannibal revels in such things. Tries to glean as much as possible in every cursory glance: right now, Will's eyes tell Hannibal he's seen too much, he rarely sleeps through the night, he doesn't have hepatitis. He lets out a breathy laugh, a moment for Will's eyes to crease in response.
"So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible," He turns away, "Jack?" and that's that, until—
"I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind." It's out of Hannibal's mouth as he thinks it. To have Will's eyes snap back to his, however brief, is galvanizing. Freeing. Hannibal instantly needs more. "Your values and decency are present, yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love."
"Whose profile are you working on?" The wrinkle at the bridge of Will's suggests Hannibal's pushed too far, but he can't help himself. It's so rare he's so uncontrolled and he's thrilled by it. Wants to make Will feel unashamed of his dreams, his nightmares, his desires. "Whose profile is he working on?"
"I'm sorry, Will. Observing is what we do." Psychiatrists. Killers. "I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off—"
"Please, don't psychoanalyse me." Quieter: "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalysed." It should be off-putting, the clear deflections, but Hannibal is fascinated as readily as Will is obtrusive.
"Will—" It's Jack, this time.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalysing."
Will leaves. Takes his coat. Hannibal deflects the urge to keep his eyes on him, watch his gate, judge his movements, take in his appearance.
Jack isn't happy with his approach. "It's an uncomfortable Gift, Jack."
Hannibal wants him to unlock Will's full potential, wants to unravel the webs of clues fed to him through his fingertips. Wants to expose and protect him. Please him. Consume him.
/
Jack makes Will touch the second body, same as the first. Just a glance of his fingers across a wound, a cheekbone, a wisp of hair. Enough to know that this killer isn't the same. This bears the mark of precision, emotional detachment from the victim. Not at all like the first – it's bizarre to him that the others don't notice it, can't feel a difference.
Images flick across his mind, sharp and fleeting. A quick death. A copy. A reverence in the display of the body; not the body itself. A body for Will to find. This new killer knows Will, wants to impress Will. It's an almost romantic gesture, as plain to this killer as rose petals on a bed would be to every other man. But not this one.
Will wrenches his hand away from the body. His nostrils fill with blood.
In the face of Jack, Will brushes over this new admirer. Circles back to the original killer – a house, a cabin, a daughter much like the victims so far. But his mind lingers on the gesture, his courting by a cannibal. This new killer spurns on his thoughts of the first – does this new killer, this copycat, want Will to find the first, want Will to form closure over these girls, if only by spurning him onto something (someone) much more sinister. Calculating. Manipulative. Caring. Enticing. Intelligent.
"Have Dr. Lecter draw up a psychological profile. You seemed very impressed with his opinion."
/
Hannibal is pleased. "Good morning, Will. May I come in?"
"Where's Crawford?"
He's less pleased at Will's dishevelled appearance, his confusion, his obvious lack of sleep. "Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today." Risky, but necessary. "May I come in?"
In response, he's given eye contact. Progress already, however wary it may be.
Later: "God forbid we become friendly." "I don't find you that interesting." "You will."
Will discloses his reluctant appreciation for the copycat; a "gift-wrapped" crime scene. Hannibal's belatedly grateful that Will didn't touch his breakfast with bare hands. But he's also curious as to what Will's response would have been – thankful? Spiteful? Frightened? Relieved? Loving? – but suspects it would have been far too soon to show his cards.
"I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. And I think this Shrike fellow sees you as the opposite." I see you as the opposite. Which would you rather be seen as? I think I know the answer; you make it so painfully obvious.
They laugh together, and somehow, it's familiar. "How do you see me?" Hannibal's smile falls.
"The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by."
Another crease to Will's eyebrow forms, but this time their eyes lock: it's almost recognition that Hannibal sees in Will's pupils, but not quite.
/
"They know." A courtesy call, Hannibal suggests.
When they arrive at the Hobbs' house, he gets out of the car after Will, patient. He wants Will to witness this. Wants to hear the gunfire ringing through his ears days – years – after it happens.
/
Hannibal is awake when will enters the hospital room, though his eyes remain closed, his fingers lax atop Abigail's. He wants Will to see him like this, able to comfort in times of need – for he's sure Will will have many of those yet to come.
/
Will asks Hannibal to come with him to the Hobbs' cabin. Hannibal agrees on the condition that Jack remains outside.
"This is my investigation, Lecter."
"Yes, and it is Will's mind you have asked me to examine. I need to see him when he works, without distraction."
Jack concedes.
When they enter, Will takes a cursory glance of the lower floor. It's the upper he's interested in.
"Abigail has become a suspect." Hannibal's voice is low, tense.
"What? No, Garrett Jacob Hobbs killed alone, they can't bring Abigail into this." Will scales the stairs, but Hannibal watches the tight stretch of his shoulders.
"Jack didn't want to tell you, but I thought you should hear it." They'd been with Abigail a great deal since the attack, in and out with cold coffee. Will had, this past week, awoken to Hannibal's coat draped over his dozing frame more times than he could count.
"He's far too unstable for that kind of news, Dr. Lecter, so instead let's give him free reign of a cannibal's killing shed!" Will uses his best Jack voice, and Hannibal bares him the hint of a smile.
Will turns away from him and takes off a glove, runs his fingers over the floor, the antlers, the walls. He's silent for a while and Hannibal draws closer to him. He doesn't make the mistake to say anything, just braces Will's back and lowers him to the floor when his eyes roll back into his skull.
Hannibal had done his research before meeting Will, of course, and knew all about both the physical and emotional trauma caused by premonitions, visions, psychic readings and everything else that comes along with the Gift given to Will and others like him. Seizures, fits, bone breakages, hallucinations just to name a few.
But Will was fine, Hannibal knew, from the jump of his pulse visible from where Hannibal was sat, craned upwards with a careful arm around Will's waist.
"That bitch." It's a whisper as Will wriggles himself awake, slams a fist against the wood and shoves forward against Hannibal's body.
"What's wrong, Will?"
But Will's already shoving the glove back on his hand, pushing past Hannibal down the stairs. "Freddie Lounds contaminated this entire fucking scene, that's what's wrong." He's huffing, angry, and Hannibal has never seen anything so beautiful.
Later, when Hannibal has a hand braced on Will's shoulder small torch flitting between his fingers, checking Will's dilation, Will meets his eyes. And holds them.
/
It's a month before Hannibal acts on his latest urge. Abigail is awake and settled in Port Haven, however tenuously. Will visits her. So does Hannibal; sometimes, they go together. More and more frequently, Hannibal knocks on Will's door at 8am on Saturdays and they drive to see her. Sometimes – and these are very tense, very restrained times for Hannibal – they see Freddie there. Talking, coercing, preying on Abigail's mind with promises they both know she can't keep.
Hannibal's only comfort is Will's similarly defensive attitude in the wake of Freddie-and-Abigail encounters. And his plan to brutally murder her, at some point or another.
That point arrives exactly four weeks and four days after he and Will set foot in the Hobbs' cabin. With a knock on Hannibal's door.
"I want Abigail to sign my book deal and I know you can make it happen."
"What makes you think I want to make it happen?"
Freddie pushes past him, walks through the hall into the kitchen. It's too inviting to resist.
"Closure. You can see that her infamous father, her small hometown, and her unwilling involvement in such activities is taking a toll on her health. Surely you can, doctor. But I can make that all go away." A curl of her red hair snags on a button on her jacket – she pulls it aside, baring her throat.
"She has all the closure she needs. She knows the truth of her father, what she and he have done, and what Will and I are doing for her now. It is only you, Miss Lounds, that poses a problem to all of this."
An arched brow. "Is that so?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it is."
It's worth the risk.