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Dream Home
Fandom: Hannibal
Pairing/Characters: Hannigram
Rating: T+
Word Count: 2,761
Summary: Prompt: Will and Hannibal meet in their dreams.
Notes: : /
Will is standing at a crossroads.
The dusky sky overhead is shot through with bullets of red that leak scarlet ribbons across the darkening sky. The paths before him are all dangerous, though in different ways. The path to the right is a mess of twisted, fearsome trees of some unknown origin, with high roots and sharp, clinging branches. The path to the left is empty, barren, cold; Will can feel the agony of thirst and hunger building just at the sight of it. The centre path is smooth, calm, and familiar, but Will knows that it is littered with hidden pitfalls and traps, and may be the most dangerous of the three despite—or because of?—its apparent safety. Even as Will stands, contemplating the choice before him, he can hear the sound of hounds approaching behind him, and he knows he cannot linger long in indecision.
Will is standing at a crossroads, and the symbolism is over-the-top even by his standards.
Will’s empathetic dreams reportedly began when he was thirty-months old, placing him in the 1st percentile ranking of active dreamers by age. Will is aware of this claim to fame because it appears in the early portion of the introduction to every case study published about him, and there have been many. From the moment the two-year-old Will woke up in the hospital after his then-neighbour called an ambulance when she couldn’t wake him up from his nap, Will has been the source of an endless stream of academic ebullitions, from brief reports to books. As a teenager, his forehead was constantly tacky from the electrodes that were so frequently glued to his skin, measuring the ebbs and flows of oxidation in his prefrontal cortex.
If Will were to ever take it onto himself to write his own paper on the topic, it would be a literature review, and it would sum up the data and analyses of the thousands of papers in three sentences: Subject experienced empathetic dreams at an unusually young age. Subject’s empathetic dreams are unusually vivid and frequent. Subject is just really unusual in general.
This is probably why Will becomes a police officer when he graduates high school rather than an academic.
Will is cold. He’s colder than he’s ever been before. He’s colder than he’ll ever be again. This is an old dream, and so he knows that warmth is in his future, but for now, there is only the cold, and the hunger, and the deep, throbbing grief.
Will is cold, but isn’t the winter that stole everything from him, not really. It was people. Humans. Men, who came attacking in the middle of the night. Men, with their weapons and laughter and campfires.
In a way, this is a relief. There is no way to exact vengeance on winter, but men… men are different.
Will found his retribution against the specific men who stole his life years ago, but the thirst for revenge lingers.
The cold lingers.
Will is an excellent detective.
His solve rate is through the roof, he has commendation after commendation, and he’s managed to build a rapport with the community primarily by accident. His awkward politeness succeeded in charming a series of local matriarchs early on, and since then, everyone in their neighbourhoods is very helpful to that nice, waify officer, and if they aren’t, Mamie is going to have words with them. Will eats a lot of homemade cookies and casseroles.
Will is a terrible detective.
As his oligarchy of psychiatrists and neurologists explain to him with an increasing lack of patience, his unique pathology makes him vulnerable to a myriad of mental attacks. Every day he spends pretending to be something he’s not, he’s putting all of his fellow officers at risk. He doesn’t want that, does he? He wants to make sure they’re safe, doesn’t he?
It turns out that both are true. Will solves a crime, saves a life, and ends up stabbed and comatose for a month when he looks into someone’s mind and can’t look out again.
Will retires from the force. The matriarchs mourn, and the doctors celebrate.
Why not university? He would be so well-suited to study dream psychology. Why, he probably already knows a lot of it, just incidentally through lifelong exposure. Any number of professors of his acquaintance—or his brain’s acquaintance, more like—would be more than happy to write him a letter of recommendation. Will knows this, doesn’t he?
Will knows this. Will accepts the letters of recommendation, and Will goes to university.
Will does not study dream psychology.
Will is standing in an operating theatre. On the table before him rests a pig. The pig should be asleep, but instead, it’s wide awake, its eyes rolling back in their sockets in terror as it shudders beneath him.
Will likes it better this way.
He reaches out a gloved hand and picks up his scalpel.
“The first incision,” he tells the watching residents, “is the most important.”
As he slices down, he feels warm.
Dr. Bloom pours two glasses of sweet iced tea and slides one across her desk to him. Will accepts and takes a sip. He doesn’t wince, even though he doesn’t like sweet iced tea.
Dr. Bloom doesn’t wince when she drinks from her own glass, either. She hates tea, and she’s only made and served it today because she thinks it will make him feel more at ease. A taste of home.
It’s a nice thought. Two people, each drinking something they don’t like out of respect for the other. Will thinks that this is probably how friendship works, and love: mutual sacrifice and eternal self-denial, all for the sake of impressing with intentions. Like the gifts of magi, it’s the thought that counts.
After a precisely calculated moment of companionable silence, Dr. Bloom says, “I’ve read that some researchers think your empathetic dreams come from a multitude of people you’ve encountered, while others postulate that they’re all from a single source. What do you think?”
“I’m not the expert,” Will demurs.
“Aren’t you? They’re your dreams, after all.”
Will likes Dr. Bloom. He’s never liked any of his other psychiatrists before. But then, Dr. Bloom isn’t exactly his psychiatrist. She’s a stopgap assigned to Will by the BAU while they search for a more permanent, impartial doctor for him.
Maybe they’ll even be friends when Will is reassigned. It’s unlikely, but Will thinks it sounds nice.
“This seems a little off-topic,” Will says.
“You are our topic. What part of you we discuss is up to you.” Dr. Bloom raises her eyebrows at Will’s disbelieving snort. “I thought you’d prefer to discuss your dreams rather than the top-secret shouting match that was overheard by everyone in Quantico. But maybe I was mistaken.”
Will shrugs. “I don’t like talking about my dreams,” he says.
Not that he wants to talk about Jack, either. Will would have been willing—thrilled, even—to answer Jack’s invitation to his team if it had come through legitimate channels, but no psychiatrist—not even Dr. Bloom—is willing to give Will the green-light to imagine he’s a serial killer, and, as he told Jack, Will is under too many microscopes to even contemplate trying to join the investigations illicitly.
Jack disagreed. Loudly.
Dr. Bloom seems upset by something. She takes another sip of tea to cover it up. “You don’t like talking about your dreams,” she repeats. “But you’ve consented to their being the subject of hundreds of studies.”
Will focuses on the space directly between her eyebrows in a facsimile of eye contact. “I consented to being paid hard cash in exchange for being hooked up to a bunch of machines and writing in journals. My dad and I lived on that money when his jobs fell through.”
“I see,” says Dr. Bloom quietly.
Will doesn’t like her tone. He tries to deflect. “So, I guess we’re left with Jack to talk about.”
“If you like,” she tells him agreeably. “But I’m not sure what we have to say. I think you were absolutely right to say what you did to him, and he was way out of line. I’m glad you stood up to him.”
“...Oh,” says Will.
Dr. Bloom pours them both more tea. Will thanks her.
“So if we’re not talking about dreams, and we’re not talking about Jack,” says Dr. Bloom, “what should we talk about?”
Will thinks about this for a long time. Dr. Bloom doesn’t rush him. “I found another stray dog,” he tells her. “He’s very friendly.”
It’s an absurdly benign topic. None of his past psychiatrists would have accepted it. They were always focused on getting to the meat of his problems, the problems they told him he had.
“Another dog?” asks Dr. Bloom. “You have others?”
Will grins. “Oh yeah. Winston makes seven.”
Dr. Bloom’s mouth drops open. “Wow. And I thought I was starting to go overboard with three!”
“I work with a local shelter, trying to find them homes if we can. But most people don’t want elderly ex-strays with health problems, so I usually end up keeping them.”
“I see,” says Dr. Bloom. “And how does that make you feel?”
Will looks up at her. Her eyes are innocent—too innocent—and her lips are twitching.
“Smooth, Doctor,” he tells her. “Very smooth.”
Will really likes Dr. Bloom.
Will is standing in a field of wildflowers. The sun is bright but not blinding, and its warmth is pleasant rather than a heavy drum beating down on him. Perflect, fluffy white clouds dot the sky overhead.
Will lies down in the flowers. They should be pricking and stinging him through the thin fabric of his shirt, but instead they’re as soft as a bed of spun cotton.
Everything is so calm. The peace is absolute.
Empathetic dreams are always—effectively always—shared between only two people. As there is no substantial evidence that his uninfluenced dreams come from multiple sources, it is the height of absurdity—the height of bad science—to ignore the parsimonious explanation and assume that Will is for some reason different from the rest of humanity.
But no, laboratory experiments have shown that Will is capable—yes, under specific conditions, but nevertheless capable—of sharing the dreams of those in a near proximity to him. Will’s dreams are too wild, too varied, to come from a single source. Sometimes they show a familiarity with decadent wealth, sometimes with abject poverty. Sometimes they are in Italian, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, sometimes in Japanese, sometimes in other languages that Will can’t divine from the dreams. Sometimes they show a musician, sometimes a chef, sometimes a painter, sometimes a butcher, sometimes a doctor. What Renaissance Man could fit into so many moulds? Is this your idea of parsimony?
No one prior to Dr. Bloom ever asked Will his opinion on the matter, and no one ever does after her. If they had, Will might have told them that he knows, absolutely and without doubt, that his uninfluenced empathetic dreams are all shared with one person, and only one.
Will might have told them, but then he might not have. Since they never ask, it’s a moot point.
Dr. Bloom—or maybe she’s Alana, now—is furious. “I’m not sure why you think he’ll have anything different to say from the other expert opinions you’ve already gathered, Jack. “I happen to know Hannibal, and he’s as ethical as they come.”
“He’s an outside perspective,” says Jack placidly. “You’re all too close to Will to see clearly.”
Will glances at Alana out of the corner of his eye. He almost expects her to snatch up one of Jack’s ornamental paperweights and hurl it at his head.
A throat clears from behind them, and Jack and Alana both jump. “Pardon the intrusion.” The voice is rich and familiar. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything…?”
Will doesn’t move, but Alana twists around in her chair, and Jack stands.
“Not at all,” says Jack. “Please, Dr. Lecter, come in.”
“Hannibal,” Alana greets warmly. “It’s nice to see you. I look forward to seeing you put Jack into his place.”
Jack glares at her, and Will sinks down a little deeper into his seat. He doesn’t look behind him to see Dr. Lecter’s face, but Will imagines raised eyebrows and veiled amusement.
“I’m also pleased to see you, Alana,” says Dr. Lecter, politely ignoring the rest of Alana’s words.
Jack gestures to the chair beside Will, and Dr. Lecter sits.
“Dr. Lecter, you already know Dr. Bloom,” says Jack. “We’re also joined by Will Graham, who I particularly wanted you to meet.”
“Yes,” Dr. Lecter replies. “Mr. Graham, it’s a pleasure.” He turns in his chair and holds out his hand.
Will doesn’t take it. “I’m sorry you came all this way, Dr. Lecter,” he says. “If I had known it was you, I could have spared you the trip. You can’t be my psychiatrist.”
Nothing in Dr. Lecter’s face betrays any sign of offense, but both Jack and Alana instantly protest.
Dr. Lecter is an extremely accomplished psychiatrist, they both agree. Will would benefit greatly from Dr. Lecter’s guidance. Dr. Lecter is precisely the sort of psychiatrist best suited for Will.
“With Dr. Lecter’s support, you’ll have no problem participating in investigations for the BAU,” Jack insists.
“With Dr. Lecter’s protection, you’ll have no problem turning down unsafe propositions from special agents who should know better,” argues Alana, frowning severely at Jack.
Will ignores them. He’s slightly surprised that Dr. Lecter ignores them, too.
“Whatever comes of this meeting, I could never consider an introduction to you to be a wasted trip,” says Dr. Lecter mildly.
Will flushes, and he finally shakes Dr. Lecter’s hand. It’s large and very warm.
It feels like an interruption when Jack says, “I’d like an explanation.”
“He doesn’t owe you one,” snaps Alana, though it’s extremely evident that she would also very much like an explanation.
Will licks his lips nervously. “We’re looking for an impartial therapist, aren’t we? Someone I’m distanced from, socially and professionally. I can’t be distant from you. I’ve seen your dreams.”
Alana chokes. Jack stares.
Dr. Lecter’s eyes flash violently, but the emotion is gone before Will can see anything beyond that Dr. Lecter felt it very strongly.
“The wildflowers were beautiful,” says Will. “Where was that? Was it a real place?”
“Yes,” says Dr. Lecter after a moment. “A villa in the French countryside. I lived there for some time in my youth.”
Will already knows that. Will knows a great deal about Hannibal Lecter, far more than he has ever shared in his published dream diaries or his private interviews.
“Do you enjoy fishing?” asks Dr. Lecter. “And dogs?”
Will smiles at him. “I do.”
Dr. Lecter hums quietly. His eyes are inscrutable as he looks at Will.
The room sits in silence for a long while, Alana and Jack clearly struggling through their shock, and Will content to wait for Dr. Lecter to make his decision.
“I’m not certain I want to speculate on the details,” says Dr. Lecter finally. He’s lying. Even Jack probably knows that he’s lying. “At least, not in public.” That seems more likely. “You are correct; our inherent intimacy does not seem that it would be conducive for a doctor-patient relationship. Perhaps we should have dinner instead?”
Will laughs. What a substitution. “I’d love to,” he says.
“If you’ll excuse us, Jack, Alana,” says Dr. Lecter, standing up. Apparently, his invitation wasn’t to dinner at some nebulous time in the future, but instead was for dinner right now. Will isn’t surprised. He extends his hand to Will again in a chivalrous and unnecessary gesture. Will accepts, and he lets Dr. Lecter help him to his feet.
They’re just outside the office when Will hears Jack speak. “I’m never going to get him rubberstamped,” he says mournfully.
“Good,” says Alana. “I’m glad you’re finally coming to terms with reality.”
Dr. Lecter’s amusement is clear when he looks back at Will, but he politely ignores the overheard conversation fading behind them. “Would it be too forward to invite you to my home?”
“By normal conventions, probably,” says Will. “But I’ve already seen your home, Dr. Lecter. In my dreams, I’ve already seen all your homes.”
Dr. Lecter stares at him unblinkingly for a moment. His pace through the building doesn’t slow when he gently lifts Will’s hand to his lips. “Dear Will,” he says. “Please, call me Hannibal.”
When Will dreams now, he’s never alone. It’s perfect.