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Entry tags:
In Sickness And
Title: In Sickness And
Author: Phnx
Fandom: Hannibal (TV Series)
Pairing/Characters: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Jack Crawford, Alana Bloom
Word Count: 6,838(goal: 5853+) (bigger goal: 6627+) (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧
Rating: M
Warnings: Gore, maybe violence, mild profanity
Summary: Will scries the future in blood. Hannibal falls in love with Will at first rude.
Read this fic on AO3
#alternate universe #arranged marriage #bond fic #soul bond #magic #seer/scrying #manipulative everybody
--
When Will Graham was twelve years old, he stared into the still pond near his father’s home, and he saw death in its shadows.
It was not the first time he saw these particular paths twisting before him, but it was the first time he decided to do something about it.
--
Will ends the last lecture of his old life without a flourish, giving no hint that the world has settled into place, a thousand futures twined into two.
“This… thing that you can do, this ability that you have,” Jack Crawford is saying. “May I borrow it?”
Will glances in Crawford’s direction and catches flickers of iron-strength and guilt and dogged determination carried in the air between them. “You’re making me sound like I’m special,” he says, voice wry. “But my thing is hardly unique. Seers--even natural seers--may not be all that common, but I can name three others off the top of my head in the DMV.”
“Maybe you can, but they’re not like you, are they? You can do things they can’t even dream of.”
Most types of socialization make Will uneasy, but right now his anxiety is through the roof. He’s shaking very slightly from the tips of his fingers and all along his body. He knows what this is. He recognizes this conversation. “I think they probably can dream of it, actually,” he replies. “That’s kind of the point. Listen,” he drags his fingers through his hair and winces as they catch in the tangles of damp curls, “can we just skip to the end, here? You say you want to borrow my ability, but I’m damn sure I’ve already been turned down from working with the FBI in any capacity. Like most seers, I’m apparently too ‘unstable.’ So what do you really want?”
Crawford slides his hands into his pockets and loosens the stretch of his shoulders in a facsimile of nonchalance, but he doesn’t try to dodge the question. “Plenty of bonded seers have been hired by law enforcement all around the world,” he says, pointed.
Will turns back to his desk and begins shoving his papers into his bag, hands now visibly trembling. “That may be,” he replies, making his voice hard, “but I’m not bonded.”
“You could be. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Will barks a laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he drawls. “I had no idea the chief of the BAU was also a closet matchmaker.”
Except, of course, that he did know.
The man Crawford introduces him to is tall, elegant, and smiling. Will hunches in on himself. He avoids the man’s eyes when they try to meet his, and he ignores the man’s hand when it reaches out to shake his own. This is the man Will who will, and already has, changed Will’s entire life. This is the man that he dreams about every night. There’s no point in pretending he’s someone he’s not, not now.
“Will Graham, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” says Crawford, taking at seat behind his desk and gesturing for Will and Lecter to sit in the guest chairs opposite. “Dr. Lecter is a celebrated psychiatrist--don’t roll your eyes at me, Will. You know a career like that will only look better for you.”
Will wraps his arms around himself and turns away from Crawford’s pointed look and Lecter’s enquiring gaze.
“As I was saying, Dr. Lecter has a great deal of experience stabilizing a wide variety of minds. This makes him the ideal choice when it comes to stabilizing yours. Meanwhile, a bond would give him the opportunity to study your abilities more closely, maybe publish some articles.”
Will’s knuckles are turning white where they are gripping the armrest of his chair. Lecter’s eyebrows have shot up into an expression of polite incredulity.
“Well, Dr. Lecter?” asks Will. His voice is rough with anger and embarrassment, and he pauses to clear his throat. “Am I what you imagined when you pictured your future blushing bride?”
Lecter’s mouth thins as he struggles to find a response. “I admit,” he says eventually, “I had not given the matter much thought. Jack,” he continues, turning to Crawford. “Surely you are aware that what you’re suggesting is highly unethical.”
Crawford settles back in his chair with the air of a man complacent in the strength of his argument. “In what way? People enter into bonds for business or health all the time.”
“I am not sick,” Will snaps, leaning forward. His fervor combined with his now constant trembling causes him to nearly fall out of his chair. He manages to get himself settled again, but the red of his face probably looks more like fever than mortification. Crawford and Lecter exchange a glance.
“Indeed,” agrees Lecter mildly. Will notices that he makes no mention of with whom that agreement falls. “Nevertheless, Jack, you have recommended that I take advantage of the intimate position of a bonding and use it toward my own material and social gain. Surely you see the ethical violations involved in this situation.”
“There’s no need for any intimacy,” Crawford argues. “A bond doesn’t require a sexual relationship, or even a romantic one. I was thinking that you would take the roles of doctor and patient within the bond.”
Lecter frowns at Crawford. “With or without sex, a bond is inherently intimate. It would be impossible to maintain a professional distance under the circumstances.”
“Well, you can work out the business side yourselves,” Crawford dismisses.
Will’s mouth forms a sneer, and Lecter’s eyes catch on it for a long moment.
“There are certainly a great many details to be worked out, but if Mr. Graham is willing to enter into this arrangement, then,” Lecter throws a smile in Will’s direction, “so am I.”
Will suppresses a shiver that threatens to wrack through his body. The air is in motion around them, delivering whispery screams to his ears, bloody tableaux to his eyes. Down one path, he holds chains; down the other, a knife.
“Oh baby, when you talk like that,” intones Will, deadpan. “If you’re going to be my other half, Hannibal, you might as well use my first name.”
--
A bond is kind of… well. Exactly what it sounds like. Mages who specialize in soul magic have a way to tie two people together so that their strengths and weaknesses are shared between them. People who are bonded can feel what the other is feeling, can lend them mental fortitude and physical stamina, and can sometimes even exchange thoughts and memories.
That kind of connection, it’s not something to be taken lightly. A bond can technically be severed, but it’s less like cutting away a rope and more like an amputation.
When you enter into a bond, you have to know that it’s going to be a part of you, one way or another, forever. You have to know that it’s going to be worth it, no matter what your endgame is.
Crawford suggests that Will and Hannibal get know one another in a neutral place, but Hannibal gives every impression of being allergic to public restaurants, and so Will agrees to follow him to his home for an early dinner.
Will meekly follows Hannibal’s directives to slice some of the less aesthetically precarious vegetables while Hannibal dominates the rest of the kitchen like a lord over his castle, transforming the raw ingredients into culinary masterpieces.
Will watches the performance, but only briefly. Most of his focus he dedicates to his own task, chopping the vegetables as neatly as he’s practiced for so many years.
“You’re very skilled,” Hannibal observes after some moments of busy silence. “Do you enjoy cooking as well?”
Will shrugs, ducking his head at the praise. “I guess. I’m not picky, though, and it seems like too much effort to do anything fancy when it’s just me eating.”
Hannibal hums noncommittally. As he retrieves a paper-wrapped package from one of his refrigerators, he pauses theatrically. “Forgive me, Will, it was very rude of me not to enquire before--do you eat meat? Do you have any dietary restrictions at all?”
“Nothing that should be a problem tonight,” Will says, glancing down at the package in Hannibal’s hands. “And yes, I eat meat.” He grins, suddenly feeling that it’s past time someone prodded at the invisible elephant between them. “Sometimes, I think I eat more meat than my dogs do.”
“You have dogs?” Hannibal’s expression, his tone, are indecipherable.
Will can’t help but be disappointed at the lack of reaction, but he rallies himself and readies the next volley of bullets. “Yeah. Seven.” He flashes Hannibal a smile, all teeth. “Why? That’s not a deal-breaker, is it, Doctor?”
Hannibal’s hands are deft as he prepares the steaks. “Certainly not,” he says. “I am simply surprised.”
Will finishes the chopping that he has been allotted and steps back to lean against the opposite counter. “What are you even doing?”
“Is it a problem? This particular method of preparation may seem unconventional to you, but in many areas of the world, this is the preferred--”
“Not the steaks, Hannibal. You know what I mean. Why did you agree to this farce? What’s in it for you?”
“What an unusual question. How many other men my age are interrogated as though their motivations are a secret when they appear with a beautiful young spouse on their arm?”
Will flushes. “I think we both know that I’m neither of those things.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Even if that were true, that wouldn’t have been why you did this.”
Hannibal looks at him for a long moment. “Your beauty was not the primary reason behind my decision, it’s true, but I cannot pretend to you or to myself that it was not a motivator. But never mind that now. I agreed because when I met you today, I thought that you and I would make a good team.”
“That’s it?”
“What more reason need I have?”
“Lots of people make a good team; that doesn’t mean they should get hitched.”
Hannibal smiles slightly. “Perhaps that is true for ‘lots of people,’ but it has not been the case for me. I have only encountered one other person whose soul I felt could work in tandem with mine, and she has been dead for many years.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I don’t mind. If we are to go through with this, surely we should learn these things about one another.”
Will taps his fingers nervously against the counter. “You do know this will be permanent, right? Our souls will be irrevocably entangled. Even if we got the bond severed, pieces of me would remain with you forever.”
“I was fully informed when I made my decision, I ensure you.” A small smile plays on Hannibal’s lips. “I intend to love you and honor you all the days of my life.”
Will shivers, feeling lightheaded and dizzy.
“And my decision is made, Will. I am perfectly content with it. Is it really me that you’re trying to convince with your arguments? Or, perhaps you are trying to turn me away? If you don’t wish to enter into a bond with me, whatever your reasoning, then we will not. I only ask that you be honest with me.”
Will takes a deep breath and meets Hannibal’s eyes, letting the world spin in and out of reality around him. He sees shadows rising up around Hannibal, splintering off into jagged edges like antlers.
He swallows. “I do. Want this. With you.”
In good times and in bad, in sickness and--
The stove flares up at Hannibal’s direction, and the scent of cooking flesh fills the air.
(Will might be a little sick.)
--
“Do you think I’m sick?”
Alana Bloom jumps slightly in surprise, splattering coffee from the carafe she is holding across the counter in the faculty break room.
“Sorry,” says Will, grabbing some napkins to mop up the mess.
Alana shakes her head, smiling and relaxed once more. “It’s no problem, Will,” she says, but she accepts the help all the same.
When they’re in Alana’s office, steaming mugs in hand, Will tries again. “I’ve been feeling… strange,” he says, whispering it like it’s a confession. “I didn’t really notice at first, but I’m starting to think that what’s happening to me isn’t normal.”
Alana looks at him from across her desk. “I see.” Her tone of voice is professional, but not lacking in warmth or camaraderie. “Let’s talk about your symptoms. What is it that tipped you off that something is different?”
That fucker Hannibal sniffing me, Will doesn’t say. He has met briefly with his future bonded now on several occasions, none of them professional, and they have been equally elucidating and mystifying. Hannibal looks at him, sweaty, feverish, and rambling Will Graham, as though he is the most fascinating thing Hannibal has ever seen.
“Probably the sleepwalking,” is the response he settles on. “Or maybe the migraines. Or the hallucinations.”
Alana stares at him, mouth slightly open. She doesn’t seem to know which issue to address first. “Okay. I can see how those might be clues that something is off.” She smiles at him quickly, inviting him to share in the teasing, before she turns serious again. “Are you sure that what you’re experiencing are hallucinations, though? How can you distinguish them from visions?”
Will thinks of the eyes of the dead surrounding him. He thinks of noises that he can’t trace back to a source. He thinks of the soft clack of hooves following him down a wooded path, antlers rising up out of the fog, black feathers soft and silky under his hand. He thinks Alana has a point.
“When they’re visions, I know that’s what they are. I always have. I’m never uncertain as to whether they’re real or not.” Until recently.
“I see what you mean. Why don’t we run through some quick tests, just to see if we can narrow down the problem?”
There are tests, and then a referral to a neurologist, and then more tests. Finally, there is a diagnosis, and treatment, and recovery.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Hannibal about this?” asks Alana. She had heard a highly edited version from Will of the developing relationship and upcoming bonding of her current colleague and her former mentor, and she seems caught between a professional condemnation and sincere congratulations. “I know we caught it in its early stages, but…”
Will is already shaking his head before she finishes her question. “Not until I’m all better,” he says. “We’re still in an awkward place, and I don’t want to complicate everything.”
“If that’s what you really want,” Alana replies, radiating disapproval.
--
“The thing about most seers,” Crawford is saying as he leads them to the sequestered crime scene, “is that they specialize. Some people can catch little snippets off the air, some people can see scenes in water, others in crystal. But Will, here--he can scry using any or all of them. Isn’t that right, Will?”
This first crime scene is a test run. Hannibal is the official consultant; Will is supposedly only present to observe.
What they’re really trying to determine is the level of Hannibal’s stabilizing influence on Will pre-bonding. If Hannibal is able to steady Will now, in a safe and controlled environment, that will be a good indicator of his later success during emergencies after their bonding.
When he realizes that everyone is looking at him, awaiting his response, he shrugs a little. He had his third inpatient encephalitis treatment earlier that day, and he’s still feeling sore and crotchety. Hannibal’s gentle touches to his elbow and his shoulders and the small of his back are not making him feel what he would refer to as stable.
“I guess that’s right,” Will finally mumbles. “But I’m not sure how much of that is intentional specialization and how much of it is an actual inability to scry using other media. I’ve read about other people who use water and crystals both, or air and water, or whatever.”
“Well, today, I want you to try something new. I want to see if you can scry using blood.”
Hannibal raises his eyebrows, but he gives no sign of any feelings of protest. Many of the agents don’t feel as sanguine and are muttering to one another nervously.
“If you’re ready, let’s give it a try.” Crawford gestures to the body laid out before them, and Will moves forward hesitantly. Hannibal follows him step for step, eyes fixed on Will’s face.
Will isn’t exactly sure what they’re expecting of him. Should he struggle a few times before he finally succeeds? Should he look frightened?
There have been very few documented cases throughout history of a seer scrying in blood. Despite its physical similarities to water, and despite its potent use in other magical practices, blood is largely considered an inert material when it comes to scrying.
Will isn’t sure why. He has never had any trouble scrying in any of the traditional media, but blood has always come easiest to him. The very first visions he saw were reflected back to him in blood.
Will looks down at the body before him and focuses on the red pooling around it. He looks, and he sees, and he sees.
Hannibal leads Will back to the car when they’re finished, shielding him from the frightened stares and whispers of the agents who are clearing up the crime scene.
“Would you be willing to give me a lift home, Will? Jack brought me here from my home this morning, and now I’ve found myself potentially stranded.”
Will smiles at him weakly. “Is that your subtle way of inviting me over to dinner, Hannibal?”
Hannibal only stares at him, and Will squeezes his eyes shut. “You too, then?”
“I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
“You’re like them. You’re scared of me, too.”
A gentle touch to his cheek startles Will into opening his eyes. Hannibal’s gaze is fixed on his own hand as it strokes along the rough stubble of Will’s jaw. “No, Will,” Hannibal says, voice quiet. “I am not like them. And though I am feeling a great many things at the moment, I do not believe fear to be one of them.” His thumb traces Will’s bottom lip, and he asks, “May I?”
Will licks his lips nervously, catching Hannibal’s thumb in the process. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I--Yes.”
When Hannibal kisses him, every touch is deliberate and controlled, but backed with a strange intensity, giving the overall impression of a wild beast held back only by chains. As the heat begins to spark within him, Will leans deeper into Hannibal, ready to draw that beast out of its carefully maintained cage.
A wolf whistle causes them to pull apart quickly. Will looks behind him and sees Katz making faces at him as she heads to her own car. He gestures rudely, but she just laughs at him and winks, giving Hannibal a pointed once over.
When Will turns back to him, Hannibal has already smoothed himself into his usual tidy propriety. Hannibal opens the unlocked driver door and gestures Will inside gallantly. “I believe,” he says, “that you mentioned something about dinner?”
--
The bonding, when it happens, is nothing like Will had imagined. It’s not a harsh tug, it doesn’t feel like his whole being is being twisted and stretched into knots.
For a moment, it doesn’t feel like anything. And then there is a strange sensation, like water trickling onto him and through him.
The justice of the peace continues to recite her lines from the vows, her hands raised so that one hovers over Hannibal, the other over Will. The magic is subtle, but if Will lets his vision swim slightly out of focus, he can make out the delicate strands flowing from her fingertips and into each of them.
Will darts a glance at Hannibal, whose expression is serious as he listens to the justice. Just as Will feels his anxiety grow to the point of overwhelming him, a flicker of amusement interrupts his whirling emotions, and calm rolls over him like a tidal wave. Will risks another sidelong glance, and now Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on him, steady and mild.
“What has been joined, we must not divide,” the justice finishes, jerking Will’s attention back in front. The justice has obviously noticed their wandering attention, but she smiles at them both, pleased. “You may kiss your spouse.”
It was a simple thing to fall into Hannibal before; now it seems easier than breathing.
“Hi,” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips, smiling as he presses into him. He runs a hand through Hannibal’s hair, delighting in the mess he’s making of iit. For a moment, he thinks he can feel the base of antlers rising from the crown of Hannibal’s head against his fingertips.
But then Hannibal pulls away, and the sensation fades. “I believe it is time to meet our friends for our reception,” Hannibal says, eyes warm. He tucks Will’s hand into the crook of his elbow and leads him toward the door.
Will pouts as obnoxiously as he knows how. “And here I was hoping we could skip straight to the honeymoon.”
The justice coughs a laugh behind them.
Their reception is being held at Hannibal’s house, and the guest list is limited to the Crawfords, Alana, and several of Hannibal’s high-society friends.
“Where are all the dogs?” asks Alana, grinning at them. “I was hoping to see some familiar faces, here.”
“They’re busy destroying one of Hannibal’s guestrooms,” Will replies. He reaches out to take Hannibal’s hand in his, barely aware of what he’s doing until he feels the heat seeping in through his palm. “I haven’t worn Hannibal down into recognizing them as legitimate party hosts, yet.”
Hannibal smiles at him tolerantly and makes no reply.
Even when Hannibal has moved to the other side of the room to speak with Dr. Du Maurier and Mrs. Komeda, Will can still feel him as clearly as when they were standing side-by-side, and he marvels at the warmth of it.
--
This time, when Will goes with Crawford to a crime scene and stares into the stories told by the pools of blood, Hannibal follows along for the whole ride.
It’s curious, the way it feels to sense Hannibal’s presence beside his own as he dives into the twists and turns of the past. It’s strange to know that Hannibal is seeing what he is seeing, feeling what he is feeling.
He makes his report to Crawford and they leave, but Hannibal’s hand is stiff within his own, his mind and face shuttered.
Will sighs. “I thought you said you weren’t afraid.”
Hannibal waits until they are in the car and on their way home before he responds. “I had understood that seers scry images in tiny, disconnected fragments, like pieces of a million different puzzles that are impossible to reconcile with one another.”
He pauses, as though allowing Will time to disagree with him. Will remains silent, waiting.
“What I saw through you was very different from what I had expected. The past opened up before us as easily as a door. We read it page by page, its story as clear and concise as a children’s book.”
“Scrying the past or the present is different from scrying the future,” Will says calmly. “It’s easier to get a single story. And blood makes the experience different, too. Its ties to the event, to the person we want to know about, are more solid and constant than a stream of air or water or a mirror or a crystal.”
“I see,” says Hannibal, still unsoothed. “You speak as though you have prior experience scrying in blood, but Jack left me with the impression that I was witness to your first attempt.”
“He didn’t ask.”
“And so you have done this before?”
Will glances at Hannibal sidelong. “I have.”
He can feel Hannibal’s mind buzzing with activity, but it’s as though his thoughts and feelings are separated from Will by a thick screen that is now tied shut.
Hannibal pulls into their driveway smoothly and is already opening Will’s door for him by the time Will has managed to remove his seatbelt. He still appears to be deep in thought, and Will rolls his eyes at Hannibal’s absent-minded solicitousness.
“And when you scry the future,” Hannibal asks abruptly, “then, your visions are disjointed?”
Will kneels to greet the mass of dogs surrounding him. “Sometimes,” he says, not looking at Hannibal. “It depends on what I’m looking for.”
This answer does not seem to please Hannibal. He turns sharply and disappears into the kitchen.
Will buries his face into Winston’s fur and grins.
--
Will is instantly suspicious when he joins Hannibal in the kitchen the next morning, but Hannibal’s mask of congeniality remains firmly in place, and the sensations from his mind are as muted as they have been since they returned from Will’s first official consult. Will squints at him for a moment, but eventually turns to the menial tasks Hannibal has laid out for him. Their breakfast preparation is consequently a peaceful affair, and by the time they are seated at the dining room table, Will has forgotten his misgivings.
Hannibal, of course, chooses this moment to begin the ambush. “Friday marks a week since our bonding,” he says, nonchalant. “Did you have any particular plans for this weekend?”
Will freezes in the midst of chewing. They had eschewed taking a traditional honeymoon vacation, but Hannibal is so fond of his little ceremonies; of course he wants some sort of formal celebration. “I was going to check on the house in Wolf Trap, maybe take the dogs and let them run around for a while. But I can do that some other time, if you have something special in mind.”
“On the contrary, that sounds very pleasant. We could drive over on Saturday afternoon and return on Sunday evening. You could go fishing, or perhaps we could have a picnic.”
Will grins at him. “If that’s what you want. It’s not much of a vacation home, though.” Maybe Will can have a new bed delivered by then, one that would be placed in the bedroom upstairs. He can hide the crumbling mass of his old one in the barn for now.
“I’m certain it will be perfectly charming. And, of course, this will leave our Friday night open to attend the ballet.” Will scowls at Hannibal, who simply smiles back at him smugly. “More coffee?”
Hannibal has already scheduled fittings for Will’s new suit, of which Will is assured he is in desperate need. The one he wore to their bonding ceremony--also a gift from Hannibal--would simply not be appropriate at the ballet.
Will sighs and lets Hannibal have his fun.
The ballet is beautiful. By the time the lights brighten for the intermission, Will wonders why Hannibal had felt the need to trick him into attendance as though delivering him unto an endless torment.
It only takes him a few minutes more to learn the answer.
There are people everywhere, all smiling coquettishly, all sweetly asking questions of him that carry knives buried within them.
“Oh, how lovely,” Ms. Lewis breathes, her eyes wide in poorly feigned delight. “It’s so wonderful that you’ve settled down at last, Dr. Lecter!” As people move about the room, they stir little currents of air. As the air flows by Ms. Lewis, Will sees her flirting deliberately with Hannibal, placing herself in his way at every opportunity, hurling the tablet displaying news of their bonding across her room in fury. He does not need to see these images to guess these things about her, but they flicker before his eyes nevertheless. “And how did you two meet?”
“A mutual friend introduced us,” Hannibal replies smoothly. He looks at Will, eyes tender, but Will is rankled by the shadow of amusement flowing from Hannibal. “Thank you for your kind wishes, Ms. Lewis. Before I met Will, I never imagined there existed someone so well suited to me. He is truly wonderful.”
Will feels himself soften, flattered despite himself.
Ms. Lewis’ smile grows strained, but then she brightens. “Oh, look who it is! Dr. Lecter, have you met Dr. Sutcliffe?” She gestures in the direction of the open bar behind them, where another socialite is holding court. “I know you have, Mr. Graham. Didn’t Dr. Sutcliffe recently give a consult for you? Dr. Sutcliffe,” she tells the crowd of people surrounding them, “is a neurologist. Goodness, the world seems so small sometimes, doesn’t it?” Ms. Lewis smirks meanly at him.
She is obviously enjoying the implications she has spread--Will had--or has--a problem that was centered in his brain. Even in a social circle heavily populated by medical doctors and psychiatrists, having a mental or neurological disorder is apparently something to inspire fear and shame. Will absently wonders how she would react if she knew how deeply his problems actually ran.
Will wants to snap back at her, maybe tear into her for the clear ethical boundaries she has crossed, both in possessing that knowledge and disseminating it, but he restrains himself. This is Hannibal’s show, and he needs to play it by Hannibal’s rules. He lets his gaze his eyes go unfocused for just a moment, just long enough to sample a dozen immediate futures, and he makes his choice.
“Yes, Dr. Sutcliffe was very helpful,” he says before Hannibal can intervene. “He was able to diagnose me with encephalitis, an inflammation in the brain.” A calmly delivered, vaguely clinical description would make the diagnosis seem less like some mystical affliction of lunacy, and an assurance of current health--“I’m still technically recovering, actually, but we caught it early on, and my symptoms are pretty much all gone now”--would wash away their petty fears of insanity in their midst.
If only they knew.
Will flashes Ms. Lewis a bright grin. “I guess now you see how I caught the attention of a psychiatrist.”
Their audience titters, and Ms. Lewis visibly suppresses a glare.
Hannibal settles his hand on the small of Will’s back. “I assure you, my darling” he says, voice low and teasing, “the neurological infection you suffered was only one of the many attractions your brain has to me.”
When they have found their way back to Hannibal’s private box to view the rest of the ballet, Will asks, “Are you angry with me? For not telling you about the encephalitis?”
Hannibal does not look at him. “I am disappointed, yes. I had believed us to be past the point of secrets.”
In the cover of the darkness, Will rolls his eyes at Hannibal’s blatant hypocrisy. He makes his voice small. “We had just met. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Hannibal sighs. He leans into Will and curls an arm around him. “My dear Will,” he says, “I do not like it, but I understand.”
Will decides to mark the night as a win.
--
-What, no tiara? No glittering jewels? I expected more from Baltimore’s newest princess.-
Will scowls at Katz’s text, and then he follows the link to an article written about his “debut” at the ballet, and he scowls more.
“Problems at work?” asks Hannibal. They are taking Will’s station wagon to Wolf Trap to accommodate the dogs, but Hannibal had expressed a preference for driving, and Will had not cared to argue the point.
“No, not at work.” Will’s voice comes out more petulantly than he’d like. “Apparently, we made the society pages last night.”
“I frequently do,” says Hannibal mildly. “That is the exit, is it not?”
Hannibal has, thankfully, never been to Will’s house before, and Will is pleased to confirm personally that the combined efforts of his neighbor and a very amused Alana had seen the removal of his old bed and the installment of a new one upstairs. That simple exchange elevates his home from pathetic to comfortably lived in.
Hannibal, predictably, gravitates to the kitchen, cooler filled with ingredients in tow. Will shakes his head fondly and takes the dogs on a long run.
When they get back, Hannibal has not only produced a four-course dinner for himself and Will, but also cooked up some sort of gourmet dog food. The dogs in question clearly think they’ve found their way into paradise. They collapse into a heap after their meal, too blissed out to do much more than lazily wag a tail when they notice Will’s attention on them.
Will’s fishing gear has been cleared from his table and relocated to a tidy stack in the corner of the room. Will’s eyes catch on his collection of flies, which seems to have grown in number since the last time he was here. He waits for Hannibal to return to the kitchen to collect the final dishes, and then he slips the new flies into his pocket.
“Where did all this meat come from?” asks Will, claiming a seat at the table. “I don’t remember buying it or seeing it in the freezer or the fridge.”
There is a pause in Hannibal’s elaborate movements as he joins Will. It is barely perceptible, but Will is watching for it. “A great deal of it came from the deep freeze in the basement. I like to always have some on hand.”
“Oh?” Will tries a bite of the thinly sliced meat. It’s perfect, just like everything Hannibal makes. “I thought you said no more secrets, Hannibal.”
Hannibal’s eyes flash. “Not a secret, my dear. I simply forgot to mention it.”
Will makes sure his smile has an extra dose of teeth. “Of course. Just like I ‘forgot’ to mention the encephalitis.”
Will wonders what Hannibal thinks they’re talking about. He wonders how much Hannibal knows, or suspects.
“Yes, your encephalitis,” says Hannibal. “Last night, when it was brought up, you did--something. It happened a little too quickly for me to follow, but it seemed that you scried the future and then acted according to the knowledge it had granted you.”
Will blinks in surprise, pleased. “I hadn’t realized that you noticed.”
“I would not have, if not for our bond. But it made me wonder--how often do you do that? Scry the conclusions of conversations, events, even as they are happening around you?”
“All the time.” At Hannibal’s blank-faced look, Will clarifies, “With focus and the correct medium, I can scry things that are more distant from me, temporally or physically. But things that just happened, or are about to happen, right in front of me? Those visions are constant, carried around on the air. I can’t turn them off.”
“I see,” says Hannibal, in a way that suggests that he does see, or is beginning to, and does not like the picture that is forming. “If I may ask, what is your gift showing you right now?”
Will smiles at him. “I see you preparing this meal. I see you wrinkling your nose at my fish diagrams above the sink. But that’s not just because we’re both here right now. It feels like I see you all the time, lately. You’re in my visions as often as you’re in my thoughts.”
Will’s tone of voice is fond, he knows, but trepidation is pouring from Hannibal in waves, though his face remains a mask of polite interest.
Hannibal asks, “And what do you think of these things that you see?”
“I mean,” says Will, “I married you, didn’t I?”
“You did indeed,” Hannibal agrees, thoughtful.
--
“What is that?” Hannibal whispers into Will’s ear, leaning close.
“Hmm?” Will is dreaming. Hannibal has followed him into the foggy night in the woods, and his presence is like a beacon lighting the way back home.
But there’s no need to leave just yet.
Will steps forward and carefully picks his way between the tall trees, listening to the crunching of his boots against the dried detritus layered across the forest floor.
“Will? What is that?”
Will lazily tracks Hannibal’s gaze and tilts his head at the shape rising out of the fog before them.
“It’s the stag man,” he says, making it clear in his tone that that answer should be obvious.
“And what does this stag man do?”
Will frowns in thought. “He takes,” he responds finally. “And he gives.”
“Is this a nightmare?” asks Hannibal.
“No.”
“Is this a vision?”
“Not yet.”
Hannibal is staring at him in frustration, but Will feels warm and heady as though he’s had a glass too many of wine, and so Hannibal’s irritation can’t touch him. Still, Hannibal did follow him all the way out here. “It’s not a vision until the fog clears,” he explains.
Hannibal nods uncertainly and returns to staring around them.
They stand there together, hand in hand, for moments or hours or days. Soon, or finally, a slight breeze begins to stir the air around them.
“Hannibal,” Will breathes. “Look. See with me.”
The landscape around them clears by degrees until all at once it snaps into clarity. They are no longer in the woods, but are instead standing in Hannibal’s basement, clothed in plastic. A single bare light bulb illuminates a table in the center of the room, as well as the person lying on it.
Hannibal draws in a sharp breath as he takes in the scene before them.
Will squints a little. He thinks he recognizes the man as one of Hannibal’s million social satellites. They’d met at the ballet, he thinks.
Hannibal looks at Will searchingly, trying to parse his reaction from his face, from the bond between them.
Will raises his eyebrows, letting an incredulous smile settle on his lips. “Did you think this would change anything?” He reaches out a gloved hand and strokes a fingertip delicately down the handle of one of Hannibal’s scalpels.
Hannibal stares back at him, still and unblinking, seeming not even to breathe. “I had hoped it would not, and yet I do not see how it is possible for you to accept this so easily.”
“Accept you, you mean,” says Will, smirking. “I’ve had decades to get used to it.” He lets his eyes slide lazily over the man on the basement table, bound and gagged and ready to be reshaped into a masterpiece, before he meets Hannibal’s gaze. He sighs, touches Hannibal’s cheek gently through the plastic between them. “Hannibal,” he says. “This is the path I chose. This is my design.”
As Hannibal’s eyes widen, Will lashes out with the scalpel in his other hand, neatly drawing a long red line along their victim’s sternum. “When we wake up,” Will continues, “we’ll do this for real. We’ll have to be careful. We’ll have to be meticulous. But right here, right now, we can make a mess. Let’s think of it as a practice run.”
He hands Hannibal the other scalpel, meeting his gaze steadily.
“I’m ready,” he tells Hannibal, smug. “Aren’t you?”
Will is certain that Hannibal has never moved so quickly in his life.
And together, they make art.
-EPILOGUE-
“Who let the dogs out?” asks Alana, giggling into her wine.
Hannibal’s expression is long-suffering, but Will can feel his amusement bubbling below the surface. No one could make as many terrible cannibal puns as Hannibal does and not find jokes like Alana’s funny. “Can’t you guess?”
The dogs are indeed politely picking their way around the room, pausing frequently to peer soulfully up at any guests who seem particularly predisposed to dole out food or affection.
“I think it’s charming,” says Mrs. Komeda. “I think I may be enjoying tonight even more than your first dinner party together.”
Will exchanges a smile with Hannibal. “Actually, we’re counting this as our first,” he says. “Hannibal did most of the heavy lifting for our reception. This is our first party that we really planned and put together as a team, if you know what I mean.”
Bella Crawford raises an elegant eyebrow. “Don’t talk like that around Jack. He’s already bragging to everyone who knows the two of you that he was the genius behind your bonding. He’s getting obnoxious.”
“When is he not?” Will asks, wry, and Bella laughs.
“In all seriousness, we are so grateful to Jack for the same that we can hardly be upset with him for sharing in our happiness,” Hannibal interjects, frowning at Will teasingly.
“So it’s all been smooth sailing?” Alana looks between the two of them, smiling. “You’re settled in for the long haul?”
Will and Hannibal stare at once another for a long moment. “I,” says Will, biting back a grin, “foresee a long and happy future together for us.”
Mrs. Komeda raises her glass in a salute. “Well, I’ll drink to that!”
-END-
[A/N: Apologies to Shakira, the Baha Men, and Roman Catholic wedding vows.]
Author: Phnx
Fandom: Hannibal (TV Series)
Pairing/Characters: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Jack Crawford, Alana Bloom
Word Count: 6,838
Rating: M
Warnings: Gore, maybe violence, mild profanity
Summary: Will scries the future in blood. Hannibal falls in love with Will at first rude.
Read this fic on AO3
#alternate universe #arranged marriage #bond fic #soul bond #magic #seer/scrying #manipulative everybody
When Will Graham was twelve years old, he stared into the still pond near his father’s home, and he saw death in its shadows.
It was not the first time he saw these particular paths twisting before him, but it was the first time he decided to do something about it.
Will ends the last lecture of his old life without a flourish, giving no hint that the world has settled into place, a thousand futures twined into two.
“This… thing that you can do, this ability that you have,” Jack Crawford is saying. “May I borrow it?”
Will glances in Crawford’s direction and catches flickers of iron-strength and guilt and dogged determination carried in the air between them. “You’re making me sound like I’m special,” he says, voice wry. “But my thing is hardly unique. Seers--even natural seers--may not be all that common, but I can name three others off the top of my head in the DMV.”
“Maybe you can, but they’re not like you, are they? You can do things they can’t even dream of.”
Most types of socialization make Will uneasy, but right now his anxiety is through the roof. He’s shaking very slightly from the tips of his fingers and all along his body. He knows what this is. He recognizes this conversation. “I think they probably can dream of it, actually,” he replies. “That’s kind of the point. Listen,” he drags his fingers through his hair and winces as they catch in the tangles of damp curls, “can we just skip to the end, here? You say you want to borrow my ability, but I’m damn sure I’ve already been turned down from working with the FBI in any capacity. Like most seers, I’m apparently too ‘unstable.’ So what do you really want?”
Crawford slides his hands into his pockets and loosens the stretch of his shoulders in a facsimile of nonchalance, but he doesn’t try to dodge the question. “Plenty of bonded seers have been hired by law enforcement all around the world,” he says, pointed.
Will turns back to his desk and begins shoving his papers into his bag, hands now visibly trembling. “That may be,” he replies, making his voice hard, “but I’m not bonded.”
“You could be. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Will barks a laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he drawls. “I had no idea the chief of the BAU was also a closet matchmaker.”
Except, of course, that he did know.
The man Crawford introduces him to is tall, elegant, and smiling. Will hunches in on himself. He avoids the man’s eyes when they try to meet his, and he ignores the man’s hand when it reaches out to shake his own. This is the man Will who will, and already has, changed Will’s entire life. This is the man that he dreams about every night. There’s no point in pretending he’s someone he’s not, not now.
“Will Graham, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” says Crawford, taking at seat behind his desk and gesturing for Will and Lecter to sit in the guest chairs opposite. “Dr. Lecter is a celebrated psychiatrist--don’t roll your eyes at me, Will. You know a career like that will only look better for you.”
Will wraps his arms around himself and turns away from Crawford’s pointed look and Lecter’s enquiring gaze.
“As I was saying, Dr. Lecter has a great deal of experience stabilizing a wide variety of minds. This makes him the ideal choice when it comes to stabilizing yours. Meanwhile, a bond would give him the opportunity to study your abilities more closely, maybe publish some articles.”
Will’s knuckles are turning white where they are gripping the armrest of his chair. Lecter’s eyebrows have shot up into an expression of polite incredulity.
“Well, Dr. Lecter?” asks Will. His voice is rough with anger and embarrassment, and he pauses to clear his throat. “Am I what you imagined when you pictured your future blushing bride?”
Lecter’s mouth thins as he struggles to find a response. “I admit,” he says eventually, “I had not given the matter much thought. Jack,” he continues, turning to Crawford. “Surely you are aware that what you’re suggesting is highly unethical.”
Crawford settles back in his chair with the air of a man complacent in the strength of his argument. “In what way? People enter into bonds for business or health all the time.”
“I am not sick,” Will snaps, leaning forward. His fervor combined with his now constant trembling causes him to nearly fall out of his chair. He manages to get himself settled again, but the red of his face probably looks more like fever than mortification. Crawford and Lecter exchange a glance.
“Indeed,” agrees Lecter mildly. Will notices that he makes no mention of with whom that agreement falls. “Nevertheless, Jack, you have recommended that I take advantage of the intimate position of a bonding and use it toward my own material and social gain. Surely you see the ethical violations involved in this situation.”
“There’s no need for any intimacy,” Crawford argues. “A bond doesn’t require a sexual relationship, or even a romantic one. I was thinking that you would take the roles of doctor and patient within the bond.”
Lecter frowns at Crawford. “With or without sex, a bond is inherently intimate. It would be impossible to maintain a professional distance under the circumstances.”
“Well, you can work out the business side yourselves,” Crawford dismisses.
Will’s mouth forms a sneer, and Lecter’s eyes catch on it for a long moment.
“There are certainly a great many details to be worked out, but if Mr. Graham is willing to enter into this arrangement, then,” Lecter throws a smile in Will’s direction, “so am I.”
Will suppresses a shiver that threatens to wrack through his body. The air is in motion around them, delivering whispery screams to his ears, bloody tableaux to his eyes. Down one path, he holds chains; down the other, a knife.
“Oh baby, when you talk like that,” intones Will, deadpan. “If you’re going to be my other half, Hannibal, you might as well use my first name.”
A bond is kind of… well. Exactly what it sounds like. Mages who specialize in soul magic have a way to tie two people together so that their strengths and weaknesses are shared between them. People who are bonded can feel what the other is feeling, can lend them mental fortitude and physical stamina, and can sometimes even exchange thoughts and memories.
That kind of connection, it’s not something to be taken lightly. A bond can technically be severed, but it’s less like cutting away a rope and more like an amputation.
When you enter into a bond, you have to know that it’s going to be a part of you, one way or another, forever. You have to know that it’s going to be worth it, no matter what your endgame is.
Crawford suggests that Will and Hannibal get know one another in a neutral place, but Hannibal gives every impression of being allergic to public restaurants, and so Will agrees to follow him to his home for an early dinner.
Will meekly follows Hannibal’s directives to slice some of the less aesthetically precarious vegetables while Hannibal dominates the rest of the kitchen like a lord over his castle, transforming the raw ingredients into culinary masterpieces.
Will watches the performance, but only briefly. Most of his focus he dedicates to his own task, chopping the vegetables as neatly as he’s practiced for so many years.
“You’re very skilled,” Hannibal observes after some moments of busy silence. “Do you enjoy cooking as well?”
Will shrugs, ducking his head at the praise. “I guess. I’m not picky, though, and it seems like too much effort to do anything fancy when it’s just me eating.”
Hannibal hums noncommittally. As he retrieves a paper-wrapped package from one of his refrigerators, he pauses theatrically. “Forgive me, Will, it was very rude of me not to enquire before--do you eat meat? Do you have any dietary restrictions at all?”
“Nothing that should be a problem tonight,” Will says, glancing down at the package in Hannibal’s hands. “And yes, I eat meat.” He grins, suddenly feeling that it’s past time someone prodded at the invisible elephant between them. “Sometimes, I think I eat more meat than my dogs do.”
“You have dogs?” Hannibal’s expression, his tone, are indecipherable.
Will can’t help but be disappointed at the lack of reaction, but he rallies himself and readies the next volley of bullets. “Yeah. Seven.” He flashes Hannibal a smile, all teeth. “Why? That’s not a deal-breaker, is it, Doctor?”
Hannibal’s hands are deft as he prepares the steaks. “Certainly not,” he says. “I am simply surprised.”
Will finishes the chopping that he has been allotted and steps back to lean against the opposite counter. “What are you even doing?”
“Is it a problem? This particular method of preparation may seem unconventional to you, but in many areas of the world, this is the preferred--”
“Not the steaks, Hannibal. You know what I mean. Why did you agree to this farce? What’s in it for you?”
“What an unusual question. How many other men my age are interrogated as though their motivations are a secret when they appear with a beautiful young spouse on their arm?”
Will flushes. “I think we both know that I’m neither of those things.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Even if that were true, that wouldn’t have been why you did this.”
Hannibal looks at him for a long moment. “Your beauty was not the primary reason behind my decision, it’s true, but I cannot pretend to you or to myself that it was not a motivator. But never mind that now. I agreed because when I met you today, I thought that you and I would make a good team.”
“That’s it?”
“What more reason need I have?”
“Lots of people make a good team; that doesn’t mean they should get hitched.”
Hannibal smiles slightly. “Perhaps that is true for ‘lots of people,’ but it has not been the case for me. I have only encountered one other person whose soul I felt could work in tandem with mine, and she has been dead for many years.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I don’t mind. If we are to go through with this, surely we should learn these things about one another.”
Will taps his fingers nervously against the counter. “You do know this will be permanent, right? Our souls will be irrevocably entangled. Even if we got the bond severed, pieces of me would remain with you forever.”
“I was fully informed when I made my decision, I ensure you.” A small smile plays on Hannibal’s lips. “I intend to love you and honor you all the days of my life.”
Will shivers, feeling lightheaded and dizzy.
“And my decision is made, Will. I am perfectly content with it. Is it really me that you’re trying to convince with your arguments? Or, perhaps you are trying to turn me away? If you don’t wish to enter into a bond with me, whatever your reasoning, then we will not. I only ask that you be honest with me.”
Will takes a deep breath and meets Hannibal’s eyes, letting the world spin in and out of reality around him. He sees shadows rising up around Hannibal, splintering off into jagged edges like antlers.
He swallows. “I do. Want this. With you.”
In good times and in bad, in sickness and--
The stove flares up at Hannibal’s direction, and the scent of cooking flesh fills the air.
(Will might be a little sick.)
“Do you think I’m sick?”
Alana Bloom jumps slightly in surprise, splattering coffee from the carafe she is holding across the counter in the faculty break room.
“Sorry,” says Will, grabbing some napkins to mop up the mess.
Alana shakes her head, smiling and relaxed once more. “It’s no problem, Will,” she says, but she accepts the help all the same.
When they’re in Alana’s office, steaming mugs in hand, Will tries again. “I’ve been feeling… strange,” he says, whispering it like it’s a confession. “I didn’t really notice at first, but I’m starting to think that what’s happening to me isn’t normal.”
Alana looks at him from across her desk. “I see.” Her tone of voice is professional, but not lacking in warmth or camaraderie. “Let’s talk about your symptoms. What is it that tipped you off that something is different?”
That fucker Hannibal sniffing me, Will doesn’t say. He has met briefly with his future bonded now on several occasions, none of them professional, and they have been equally elucidating and mystifying. Hannibal looks at him, sweaty, feverish, and rambling Will Graham, as though he is the most fascinating thing Hannibal has ever seen.
“Probably the sleepwalking,” is the response he settles on. “Or maybe the migraines. Or the hallucinations.”
Alana stares at him, mouth slightly open. She doesn’t seem to know which issue to address first. “Okay. I can see how those might be clues that something is off.” She smiles at him quickly, inviting him to share in the teasing, before she turns serious again. “Are you sure that what you’re experiencing are hallucinations, though? How can you distinguish them from visions?”
Will thinks of the eyes of the dead surrounding him. He thinks of noises that he can’t trace back to a source. He thinks of the soft clack of hooves following him down a wooded path, antlers rising up out of the fog, black feathers soft and silky under his hand. He thinks Alana has a point.
“When they’re visions, I know that’s what they are. I always have. I’m never uncertain as to whether they’re real or not.” Until recently.
“I see what you mean. Why don’t we run through some quick tests, just to see if we can narrow down the problem?”
There are tests, and then a referral to a neurologist, and then more tests. Finally, there is a diagnosis, and treatment, and recovery.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Hannibal about this?” asks Alana. She had heard a highly edited version from Will of the developing relationship and upcoming bonding of her current colleague and her former mentor, and she seems caught between a professional condemnation and sincere congratulations. “I know we caught it in its early stages, but…”
Will is already shaking his head before she finishes her question. “Not until I’m all better,” he says. “We’re still in an awkward place, and I don’t want to complicate everything.”
“If that’s what you really want,” Alana replies, radiating disapproval.
“The thing about most seers,” Crawford is saying as he leads them to the sequestered crime scene, “is that they specialize. Some people can catch little snippets off the air, some people can see scenes in water, others in crystal. But Will, here--he can scry using any or all of them. Isn’t that right, Will?”
This first crime scene is a test run. Hannibal is the official consultant; Will is supposedly only present to observe.
What they’re really trying to determine is the level of Hannibal’s stabilizing influence on Will pre-bonding. If Hannibal is able to steady Will now, in a safe and controlled environment, that will be a good indicator of his later success during emergencies after their bonding.
When he realizes that everyone is looking at him, awaiting his response, he shrugs a little. He had his third inpatient encephalitis treatment earlier that day, and he’s still feeling sore and crotchety. Hannibal’s gentle touches to his elbow and his shoulders and the small of his back are not making him feel what he would refer to as stable.
“I guess that’s right,” Will finally mumbles. “But I’m not sure how much of that is intentional specialization and how much of it is an actual inability to scry using other media. I’ve read about other people who use water and crystals both, or air and water, or whatever.”
“Well, today, I want you to try something new. I want to see if you can scry using blood.”
Hannibal raises his eyebrows, but he gives no sign of any feelings of protest. Many of the agents don’t feel as sanguine and are muttering to one another nervously.
“If you’re ready, let’s give it a try.” Crawford gestures to the body laid out before them, and Will moves forward hesitantly. Hannibal follows him step for step, eyes fixed on Will’s face.
Will isn’t exactly sure what they’re expecting of him. Should he struggle a few times before he finally succeeds? Should he look frightened?
There have been very few documented cases throughout history of a seer scrying in blood. Despite its physical similarities to water, and despite its potent use in other magical practices, blood is largely considered an inert material when it comes to scrying.
Will isn’t sure why. He has never had any trouble scrying in any of the traditional media, but blood has always come easiest to him. The very first visions he saw were reflected back to him in blood.
Will looks down at the body before him and focuses on the red pooling around it. He looks, and he sees, and he sees.
Hannibal leads Will back to the car when they’re finished, shielding him from the frightened stares and whispers of the agents who are clearing up the crime scene.
“Would you be willing to give me a lift home, Will? Jack brought me here from my home this morning, and now I’ve found myself potentially stranded.”
Will smiles at him weakly. “Is that your subtle way of inviting me over to dinner, Hannibal?”
Hannibal only stares at him, and Will squeezes his eyes shut. “You too, then?”
“I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
“You’re like them. You’re scared of me, too.”
A gentle touch to his cheek startles Will into opening his eyes. Hannibal’s gaze is fixed on his own hand as it strokes along the rough stubble of Will’s jaw. “No, Will,” Hannibal says, voice quiet. “I am not like them. And though I am feeling a great many things at the moment, I do not believe fear to be one of them.” His thumb traces Will’s bottom lip, and he asks, “May I?”
Will licks his lips nervously, catching Hannibal’s thumb in the process. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I--Yes.”
When Hannibal kisses him, every touch is deliberate and controlled, but backed with a strange intensity, giving the overall impression of a wild beast held back only by chains. As the heat begins to spark within him, Will leans deeper into Hannibal, ready to draw that beast out of its carefully maintained cage.
A wolf whistle causes them to pull apart quickly. Will looks behind him and sees Katz making faces at him as she heads to her own car. He gestures rudely, but she just laughs at him and winks, giving Hannibal a pointed once over.
When Will turns back to him, Hannibal has already smoothed himself into his usual tidy propriety. Hannibal opens the unlocked driver door and gestures Will inside gallantly. “I believe,” he says, “that you mentioned something about dinner?”
The bonding, when it happens, is nothing like Will had imagined. It’s not a harsh tug, it doesn’t feel like his whole being is being twisted and stretched into knots.
For a moment, it doesn’t feel like anything. And then there is a strange sensation, like water trickling onto him and through him.
The justice of the peace continues to recite her lines from the vows, her hands raised so that one hovers over Hannibal, the other over Will. The magic is subtle, but if Will lets his vision swim slightly out of focus, he can make out the delicate strands flowing from her fingertips and into each of them.
Will darts a glance at Hannibal, whose expression is serious as he listens to the justice. Just as Will feels his anxiety grow to the point of overwhelming him, a flicker of amusement interrupts his whirling emotions, and calm rolls over him like a tidal wave. Will risks another sidelong glance, and now Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on him, steady and mild.
“What has been joined, we must not divide,” the justice finishes, jerking Will’s attention back in front. The justice has obviously noticed their wandering attention, but she smiles at them both, pleased. “You may kiss your spouse.”
It was a simple thing to fall into Hannibal before; now it seems easier than breathing.
“Hi,” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips, smiling as he presses into him. He runs a hand through Hannibal’s hair, delighting in the mess he’s making of iit. For a moment, he thinks he can feel the base of antlers rising from the crown of Hannibal’s head against his fingertips.
But then Hannibal pulls away, and the sensation fades. “I believe it is time to meet our friends for our reception,” Hannibal says, eyes warm. He tucks Will’s hand into the crook of his elbow and leads him toward the door.
Will pouts as obnoxiously as he knows how. “And here I was hoping we could skip straight to the honeymoon.”
The justice coughs a laugh behind them.
Their reception is being held at Hannibal’s house, and the guest list is limited to the Crawfords, Alana, and several of Hannibal’s high-society friends.
“Where are all the dogs?” asks Alana, grinning at them. “I was hoping to see some familiar faces, here.”
“They’re busy destroying one of Hannibal’s guestrooms,” Will replies. He reaches out to take Hannibal’s hand in his, barely aware of what he’s doing until he feels the heat seeping in through his palm. “I haven’t worn Hannibal down into recognizing them as legitimate party hosts, yet.”
Hannibal smiles at him tolerantly and makes no reply.
Even when Hannibal has moved to the other side of the room to speak with Dr. Du Maurier and Mrs. Komeda, Will can still feel him as clearly as when they were standing side-by-side, and he marvels at the warmth of it.
This time, when Will goes with Crawford to a crime scene and stares into the stories told by the pools of blood, Hannibal follows along for the whole ride.
It’s curious, the way it feels to sense Hannibal’s presence beside his own as he dives into the twists and turns of the past. It’s strange to know that Hannibal is seeing what he is seeing, feeling what he is feeling.
He makes his report to Crawford and they leave, but Hannibal’s hand is stiff within his own, his mind and face shuttered.
Will sighs. “I thought you said you weren’t afraid.”
Hannibal waits until they are in the car and on their way home before he responds. “I had understood that seers scry images in tiny, disconnected fragments, like pieces of a million different puzzles that are impossible to reconcile with one another.”
He pauses, as though allowing Will time to disagree with him. Will remains silent, waiting.
“What I saw through you was very different from what I had expected. The past opened up before us as easily as a door. We read it page by page, its story as clear and concise as a children’s book.”
“Scrying the past or the present is different from scrying the future,” Will says calmly. “It’s easier to get a single story. And blood makes the experience different, too. Its ties to the event, to the person we want to know about, are more solid and constant than a stream of air or water or a mirror or a crystal.”
“I see,” says Hannibal, still unsoothed. “You speak as though you have prior experience scrying in blood, but Jack left me with the impression that I was witness to your first attempt.”
“He didn’t ask.”
“And so you have done this before?”
Will glances at Hannibal sidelong. “I have.”
He can feel Hannibal’s mind buzzing with activity, but it’s as though his thoughts and feelings are separated from Will by a thick screen that is now tied shut.
Hannibal pulls into their driveway smoothly and is already opening Will’s door for him by the time Will has managed to remove his seatbelt. He still appears to be deep in thought, and Will rolls his eyes at Hannibal’s absent-minded solicitousness.
“And when you scry the future,” Hannibal asks abruptly, “then, your visions are disjointed?”
Will kneels to greet the mass of dogs surrounding him. “Sometimes,” he says, not looking at Hannibal. “It depends on what I’m looking for.”
This answer does not seem to please Hannibal. He turns sharply and disappears into the kitchen.
Will buries his face into Winston’s fur and grins.
Will is instantly suspicious when he joins Hannibal in the kitchen the next morning, but Hannibal’s mask of congeniality remains firmly in place, and the sensations from his mind are as muted as they have been since they returned from Will’s first official consult. Will squints at him for a moment, but eventually turns to the menial tasks Hannibal has laid out for him. Their breakfast preparation is consequently a peaceful affair, and by the time they are seated at the dining room table, Will has forgotten his misgivings.
Hannibal, of course, chooses this moment to begin the ambush. “Friday marks a week since our bonding,” he says, nonchalant. “Did you have any particular plans for this weekend?”
Will freezes in the midst of chewing. They had eschewed taking a traditional honeymoon vacation, but Hannibal is so fond of his little ceremonies; of course he wants some sort of formal celebration. “I was going to check on the house in Wolf Trap, maybe take the dogs and let them run around for a while. But I can do that some other time, if you have something special in mind.”
“On the contrary, that sounds very pleasant. We could drive over on Saturday afternoon and return on Sunday evening. You could go fishing, or perhaps we could have a picnic.”
Will grins at him. “If that’s what you want. It’s not much of a vacation home, though.” Maybe Will can have a new bed delivered by then, one that would be placed in the bedroom upstairs. He can hide the crumbling mass of his old one in the barn for now.
“I’m certain it will be perfectly charming. And, of course, this will leave our Friday night open to attend the ballet.” Will scowls at Hannibal, who simply smiles back at him smugly. “More coffee?”
Hannibal has already scheduled fittings for Will’s new suit, of which Will is assured he is in desperate need. The one he wore to their bonding ceremony--also a gift from Hannibal--would simply not be appropriate at the ballet.
Will sighs and lets Hannibal have his fun.
The ballet is beautiful. By the time the lights brighten for the intermission, Will wonders why Hannibal had felt the need to trick him into attendance as though delivering him unto an endless torment.
It only takes him a few minutes more to learn the answer.
There are people everywhere, all smiling coquettishly, all sweetly asking questions of him that carry knives buried within them.
“Oh, how lovely,” Ms. Lewis breathes, her eyes wide in poorly feigned delight. “It’s so wonderful that you’ve settled down at last, Dr. Lecter!” As people move about the room, they stir little currents of air. As the air flows by Ms. Lewis, Will sees her flirting deliberately with Hannibal, placing herself in his way at every opportunity, hurling the tablet displaying news of their bonding across her room in fury. He does not need to see these images to guess these things about her, but they flicker before his eyes nevertheless. “And how did you two meet?”
“A mutual friend introduced us,” Hannibal replies smoothly. He looks at Will, eyes tender, but Will is rankled by the shadow of amusement flowing from Hannibal. “Thank you for your kind wishes, Ms. Lewis. Before I met Will, I never imagined there existed someone so well suited to me. He is truly wonderful.”
Will feels himself soften, flattered despite himself.
Ms. Lewis’ smile grows strained, but then she brightens. “Oh, look who it is! Dr. Lecter, have you met Dr. Sutcliffe?” She gestures in the direction of the open bar behind them, where another socialite is holding court. “I know you have, Mr. Graham. Didn’t Dr. Sutcliffe recently give a consult for you? Dr. Sutcliffe,” she tells the crowd of people surrounding them, “is a neurologist. Goodness, the world seems so small sometimes, doesn’t it?” Ms. Lewis smirks meanly at him.
She is obviously enjoying the implications she has spread--Will had--or has--a problem that was centered in his brain. Even in a social circle heavily populated by medical doctors and psychiatrists, having a mental or neurological disorder is apparently something to inspire fear and shame. Will absently wonders how she would react if she knew how deeply his problems actually ran.
Will wants to snap back at her, maybe tear into her for the clear ethical boundaries she has crossed, both in possessing that knowledge and disseminating it, but he restrains himself. This is Hannibal’s show, and he needs to play it by Hannibal’s rules. He lets his gaze his eyes go unfocused for just a moment, just long enough to sample a dozen immediate futures, and he makes his choice.
“Yes, Dr. Sutcliffe was very helpful,” he says before Hannibal can intervene. “He was able to diagnose me with encephalitis, an inflammation in the brain.” A calmly delivered, vaguely clinical description would make the diagnosis seem less like some mystical affliction of lunacy, and an assurance of current health--“I’m still technically recovering, actually, but we caught it early on, and my symptoms are pretty much all gone now”--would wash away their petty fears of insanity in their midst.
If only they knew.
Will flashes Ms. Lewis a bright grin. “I guess now you see how I caught the attention of a psychiatrist.”
Their audience titters, and Ms. Lewis visibly suppresses a glare.
Hannibal settles his hand on the small of Will’s back. “I assure you, my darling” he says, voice low and teasing, “the neurological infection you suffered was only one of the many attractions your brain has to me.”
When they have found their way back to Hannibal’s private box to view the rest of the ballet, Will asks, “Are you angry with me? For not telling you about the encephalitis?”
Hannibal does not look at him. “I am disappointed, yes. I had believed us to be past the point of secrets.”
In the cover of the darkness, Will rolls his eyes at Hannibal’s blatant hypocrisy. He makes his voice small. “We had just met. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Hannibal sighs. He leans into Will and curls an arm around him. “My dear Will,” he says, “I do not like it, but I understand.”
Will decides to mark the night as a win.
-What, no tiara? No glittering jewels? I expected more from Baltimore’s newest princess.-
Will scowls at Katz’s text, and then he follows the link to an article written about his “debut” at the ballet, and he scowls more.
“Problems at work?” asks Hannibal. They are taking Will’s station wagon to Wolf Trap to accommodate the dogs, but Hannibal had expressed a preference for driving, and Will had not cared to argue the point.
“No, not at work.” Will’s voice comes out more petulantly than he’d like. “Apparently, we made the society pages last night.”
“I frequently do,” says Hannibal mildly. “That is the exit, is it not?”
Hannibal has, thankfully, never been to Will’s house before, and Will is pleased to confirm personally that the combined efforts of his neighbor and a very amused Alana had seen the removal of his old bed and the installment of a new one upstairs. That simple exchange elevates his home from pathetic to comfortably lived in.
Hannibal, predictably, gravitates to the kitchen, cooler filled with ingredients in tow. Will shakes his head fondly and takes the dogs on a long run.
When they get back, Hannibal has not only produced a four-course dinner for himself and Will, but also cooked up some sort of gourmet dog food. The dogs in question clearly think they’ve found their way into paradise. They collapse into a heap after their meal, too blissed out to do much more than lazily wag a tail when they notice Will’s attention on them.
Will’s fishing gear has been cleared from his table and relocated to a tidy stack in the corner of the room. Will’s eyes catch on his collection of flies, which seems to have grown in number since the last time he was here. He waits for Hannibal to return to the kitchen to collect the final dishes, and then he slips the new flies into his pocket.
“Where did all this meat come from?” asks Will, claiming a seat at the table. “I don’t remember buying it or seeing it in the freezer or the fridge.”
There is a pause in Hannibal’s elaborate movements as he joins Will. It is barely perceptible, but Will is watching for it. “A great deal of it came from the deep freeze in the basement. I like to always have some on hand.”
“Oh?” Will tries a bite of the thinly sliced meat. It’s perfect, just like everything Hannibal makes. “I thought you said no more secrets, Hannibal.”
Hannibal’s eyes flash. “Not a secret, my dear. I simply forgot to mention it.”
Will makes sure his smile has an extra dose of teeth. “Of course. Just like I ‘forgot’ to mention the encephalitis.”
Will wonders what Hannibal thinks they’re talking about. He wonders how much Hannibal knows, or suspects.
“Yes, your encephalitis,” says Hannibal. “Last night, when it was brought up, you did--something. It happened a little too quickly for me to follow, but it seemed that you scried the future and then acted according to the knowledge it had granted you.”
Will blinks in surprise, pleased. “I hadn’t realized that you noticed.”
“I would not have, if not for our bond. But it made me wonder--how often do you do that? Scry the conclusions of conversations, events, even as they are happening around you?”
“All the time.” At Hannibal’s blank-faced look, Will clarifies, “With focus and the correct medium, I can scry things that are more distant from me, temporally or physically. But things that just happened, or are about to happen, right in front of me? Those visions are constant, carried around on the air. I can’t turn them off.”
“I see,” says Hannibal, in a way that suggests that he does see, or is beginning to, and does not like the picture that is forming. “If I may ask, what is your gift showing you right now?”
Will smiles at him. “I see you preparing this meal. I see you wrinkling your nose at my fish diagrams above the sink. But that’s not just because we’re both here right now. It feels like I see you all the time, lately. You’re in my visions as often as you’re in my thoughts.”
Will’s tone of voice is fond, he knows, but trepidation is pouring from Hannibal in waves, though his face remains a mask of polite interest.
Hannibal asks, “And what do you think of these things that you see?”
“I mean,” says Will, “I married you, didn’t I?”
“You did indeed,” Hannibal agrees, thoughtful.
“What is that?” Hannibal whispers into Will’s ear, leaning close.
“Hmm?” Will is dreaming. Hannibal has followed him into the foggy night in the woods, and his presence is like a beacon lighting the way back home.
But there’s no need to leave just yet.
Will steps forward and carefully picks his way between the tall trees, listening to the crunching of his boots against the dried detritus layered across the forest floor.
“Will? What is that?”
Will lazily tracks Hannibal’s gaze and tilts his head at the shape rising out of the fog before them.
“It’s the stag man,” he says, making it clear in his tone that that answer should be obvious.
“And what does this stag man do?”
Will frowns in thought. “He takes,” he responds finally. “And he gives.”
“Is this a nightmare?” asks Hannibal.
“No.”
“Is this a vision?”
“Not yet.”
Hannibal is staring at him in frustration, but Will feels warm and heady as though he’s had a glass too many of wine, and so Hannibal’s irritation can’t touch him. Still, Hannibal did follow him all the way out here. “It’s not a vision until the fog clears,” he explains.
Hannibal nods uncertainly and returns to staring around them.
They stand there together, hand in hand, for moments or hours or days. Soon, or finally, a slight breeze begins to stir the air around them.
“Hannibal,” Will breathes. “Look. See with me.”
The landscape around them clears by degrees until all at once it snaps into clarity. They are no longer in the woods, but are instead standing in Hannibal’s basement, clothed in plastic. A single bare light bulb illuminates a table in the center of the room, as well as the person lying on it.
Hannibal draws in a sharp breath as he takes in the scene before them.
Will squints a little. He thinks he recognizes the man as one of Hannibal’s million social satellites. They’d met at the ballet, he thinks.
Hannibal looks at Will searchingly, trying to parse his reaction from his face, from the bond between them.
Will raises his eyebrows, letting an incredulous smile settle on his lips. “Did you think this would change anything?” He reaches out a gloved hand and strokes a fingertip delicately down the handle of one of Hannibal’s scalpels.
Hannibal stares back at him, still and unblinking, seeming not even to breathe. “I had hoped it would not, and yet I do not see how it is possible for you to accept this so easily.”
“Accept you, you mean,” says Will, smirking. “I’ve had decades to get used to it.” He lets his eyes slide lazily over the man on the basement table, bound and gagged and ready to be reshaped into a masterpiece, before he meets Hannibal’s gaze. He sighs, touches Hannibal’s cheek gently through the plastic between them. “Hannibal,” he says. “This is the path I chose. This is my design.”
As Hannibal’s eyes widen, Will lashes out with the scalpel in his other hand, neatly drawing a long red line along their victim’s sternum. “When we wake up,” Will continues, “we’ll do this for real. We’ll have to be careful. We’ll have to be meticulous. But right here, right now, we can make a mess. Let’s think of it as a practice run.”
He hands Hannibal the other scalpel, meeting his gaze steadily.
“I’m ready,” he tells Hannibal, smug. “Aren’t you?”
Will is certain that Hannibal has never moved so quickly in his life.
And together, they make art.
“Who let the dogs out?” asks Alana, giggling into her wine.
Hannibal’s expression is long-suffering, but Will can feel his amusement bubbling below the surface. No one could make as many terrible cannibal puns as Hannibal does and not find jokes like Alana’s funny. “Can’t you guess?”
The dogs are indeed politely picking their way around the room, pausing frequently to peer soulfully up at any guests who seem particularly predisposed to dole out food or affection.
“I think it’s charming,” says Mrs. Komeda. “I think I may be enjoying tonight even more than your first dinner party together.”
Will exchanges a smile with Hannibal. “Actually, we’re counting this as our first,” he says. “Hannibal did most of the heavy lifting for our reception. This is our first party that we really planned and put together as a team, if you know what I mean.”
Bella Crawford raises an elegant eyebrow. “Don’t talk like that around Jack. He’s already bragging to everyone who knows the two of you that he was the genius behind your bonding. He’s getting obnoxious.”
“When is he not?” Will asks, wry, and Bella laughs.
“In all seriousness, we are so grateful to Jack for the same that we can hardly be upset with him for sharing in our happiness,” Hannibal interjects, frowning at Will teasingly.
“So it’s all been smooth sailing?” Alana looks between the two of them, smiling. “You’re settled in for the long haul?”
Will and Hannibal stare at once another for a long moment. “I,” says Will, biting back a grin, “foresee a long and happy future together for us.”
Mrs. Komeda raises her glass in a salute. “Well, I’ll drink to that!”
[A/N: Apologies to Shakira, the Baha Men, and Roman Catholic wedding vows.]