Chapter Text
It’s not like Hannibal didn’t know that Will was hiding something.
It was after the third body drop a week ago that it became clear that Will had a secret that somehow involved the case, one he wasn’t willing to share yet, not even with Hannibal.
At 6:43 AM, Will had texted Hannibal that a fourth body had been found and that he was on his way to the scene with Jack.
At 8:06 PM, Will had stepped into Hannibal’s office, thirty-six minutes past his appointment time, and practically shouted “I used to be a stripper!” as loudly as his hoarse voice would allow him to.
That was about a minute ago.
Hannibal Lecter, though not phased by much in life, has never been entirely able to predict Will Graham, but this is just… getting out of control.
Will is staring at him with wild, exasperated, and almost comically angry eyes, and Hannibal stares right back, not allowing his face to show the genuine shock that he is feeling. A million things are racing through his head, but he is so busy being speechless, that Hannibal can’t focus on or even comprehend any of them.
Finally, Hannibal finds the ability to blink and shake himself out of it. “You must forgive me, Will. I must admit, I knew something was on your mind, but I never expected it to be that.” He says, his own voice coming out surprisingly unbothered.
Will throws his head back and rubs his hands over his face. Hannibal takes in his appearance; slightly rumpled from the long day, most of which was probably spent in the car and a plane. It’s cold out today, but Will’s jacket is nowhere to be found. Probably left on his passenger side seat, tossed aside and forgotten in the haste to Hannibal’s office.
When Will pulls his hands away, he sighs and glances at Hannibal. He looks tired, weary like he always does after a crime scene, but this time, while the confession still remains suspended in the air, the anxiety seems to be coming off of him in waves. Will needs to talk. Hannibal wants— needs— to listen.
“I’d offer you something stronger if I had it, but unfortunately you’ll have to make do with wine. Red or white?” Hannibal asks, causing Will to snort.
“Whichever is stronger. Just so I make sure that neither of us remembers this conversation once it’s over.” To anyone else, Will’s voice would sound monotone and grumpy, but Hannibal knows him well enough to hear that Will is grateful for the invitation. He expected to be laughed at. He notes.
A smile pulls at the doctor’s lips, and he gestures for Will to take his place in his usual chair, while Hannibal goes to his desk and pours two glasses of wine. He returns and hands one glass to Will before sitting down. It’s silent for a long time—Will is staring at the floor, and Hannibal is staring at Will, watching, waiting for him to speak.
When he doesn’t, Hannibal cocks his head, almost amused.
Finally, Will sighs and downs half of his wine in one gulp then he places the glass down on the side table and shifts in his seat. “I told you we were poor growing up. I got a lot of money in scholarships when I went to college, but it did nothing to help with living costs or anything. My dad was already doing a lot to support me, but I had to help, so.” He gestures vaguely with one hand, but Hannibal can see that he’s trembling. Why are you afraid? Hannibal wonders.
He studies Will further, taking in the restless way he’s tapping his fingers on his chair while he stares holes into the carpet again. It takes him a minute, but finally, Hannibal realizes that it’s not fear of the killer he’s hunting. Not that at all. He also realizes that it’s not actually fear that his friend is feeling, but anxious contemplation. A decision is hanging in the balance.
Hannibal takes a sip of his own wine. “I imagine this has less to do with the case itself and more to do with the victim profile.” He says casually.
“Got it in one.” Will spits, though the frustration is not directed at Hannibal. “They do… what I used to do.”
“Why did you stop?”
The question seems to startle Will because he lets out a laugh that sounds breathless. “I wanted to be a cop. It would be hard to try to arrest someone you’ve given a lap dance to.”
Hannibal envisions this idea, young New Orleans PD officer Will Graham, known for being just a bit peculiar and intense, but an incredible force to be reckoned with, facing the suspect he had just put in handcuffs, one whom he had once upon a time straddled and ground down on while some sort of awful rock music played in the background and…
Oh.
Oh.
Suddenly, the world catches up to Hannibal Lecter, and the weight of Will’s dirty little secret weighs on his shoulders. A smoldering wave of heat travels to every fiber of muscle in his body. Admittedly, he has thought of Will in many sexual ways, having many a thought about bending Will over the office desk, or in his bed while the fire roared behind them, but this… this new information was a whole new version of Will Graham.
College-age Will Graham, terribly young, not so much older than Abigail Hobbs is now, and not yet burdened with serial killers and a waning moral compass. Soft and flawless face framed by unkempt dark curls, his lithe frame moving around a stage, and his alabaster skin painted with colored lights while people watched and wanted.
Hannibal had never seen the appeal of erotic dance clubs. He could see the appeal from the minds of others, but he himself had never held any interest. He had been to three in Europe a few times as a young man, barely out of his teens, and positively vexed by his body’s betrayal.
The first one he went to was a gentlemen’s club in France, and he watched as a decently attractive and completely nude woman with soft curves and long, straight black hair impressively spun around a pole upside down. He understood the appeal, but he grew bored quickly and left.
The second he went to was a male club in Paris, and that had been a little better than the first, but only just so. It was more visually appealing for sure, some of the men small with smooth skin, others larger than Hannibal with rippling muscles, but he had still gotten bored with it quickly. (The only memorable thing about this time was the memory of killing one of the men in the audience for groping a waitress.)
The third was another male club, this one in London. A man only a little older than him with blonde hair and tanned skin covered in glitter had actually danced on him. It had been highly intimate, not at all an unpleasant thing, enjoyable, and almost fun. He didn’t touch, though. He could have, so easily, but he didn’t want to.
Hannibal touches Will all of the time. It’s a bit of a game to him, one that he plays simply for the fact that he loves to touch Will, but there’s a flair of heat that rises in his chest whenever he gets to watch Will sidestep away from anyone who gets even a little too close. His nose always screws up in an unbelievably charming way, like a wild animal with a warning growl. All while he allows Hannibal to put a hand on his shoulder or arm or even more exciting, his face. Hannibal likes to see how close his friend will allow him to be when Will Graham actually loathes being touched.
Something else strikes Hannibal then, a new thought that is certainly not as pleasant as the revelation behind what Will has just confided in him. Others have touched him in the way that Hannibal wants to.
“I am curious, Will.” He begins a bit tightly, though not so much that Will notices. Curiosity is overwhelming him. He has to know. “You have a natural aversion to social settings and physical touch, yet a-”
Will cuts him off with a groan and covers his face. A shadow of red paints his slender throat, and Hannibal knows that he’s blushing. Will does not do this very often, but when he does, it’s beautiful.
He watches his friend carefully, knowing that Will is going to explain, but wanting to give him time. Hannibal would never admit he was desperate, but at this moment, he had never wanted to pick Will’s mind apart more. It’s almost intoxicating what this man does to him. Hannibal knows he has to go slowly though, because if he doesn’t, Will could shut down.
Finally, Will takes a deep breath and takes up another sip of wine. He looks beautifully agitated. Hannibal has always loved how perpetually bad-tempered Will Graham is, the profiler’s waspish nature pulling at Hannibal’s heartstrings far more often than he would have loved to admit. “It was… surprisingly easy to drop how I felt about people. I knew it was a reasonable thing to do. I needed money, and… stripping,” he says with a small sneer that Hannibal is sure is nearly involuntary. The word rolls around in Hannibal’s ears, the near vulgarity of hearing it in Will’s voice sending a warm flare through his stomach. “...was the best way to make a lot of it fast.” Will finishes. It’s simple and direct, but definitely not the full story.
Hannibal regards Will carefully. “By ignoring your own discomfort and emotions.” The much as you do now with Uncle Jack goes unsaid.
Another sigh. He wonders if Will had picked up on his double meaning. “Dancers did most of the touching. People weren’t allowed to touch us without being given permission, or without being touched first. After a while, I just… got used to it.” He pauses again, clearly a bit overwhelmed with revealing so much at once. “I know what you’re asking me though, really. You want to know how I could stand to do it. The… intimacy of it.” Will’s voice is low and vengeful, and the word seems to curl with his breath. He raises his hand and drags his fingers across his lower lip.
Hannibal wants to bite it.
Will shifts in his seat. He looks more comfortable than he did when he first arrived, but not by much. “The people who came to the club weren’t interested in my mind.” He continues. “It wasn’t about talking or having a conversation. I didn’t even have to talk at all. It wasn’t social. Made it easier.” He takes a sip of his wine. “I could also just be someone else for the night.”
Hannibal gives him a small smile. He had been curious if this was the case. “Using your empathy disorder to get into the mindset of someone else. The same thing you do for Uncle Jack now.”
Will nods. He doesn’t explain further, but Hannibal doesn’t need him to. They may have only been having conversations for a few months, and they have been friends for less time, but Hannibal understands enough about Will’s mind. Will could put himself in the mindset of someone who enjoyed the dancing and the power behind it.
He files away more images of Will dancing in his memory palace as something to explore later. He holds a breath in to steady himself. “Does Jack know?” He asks carefully, his voice level.
“No. No one knows besides you. But, I’m going to have to tell him.”
Pride and something close to possessiveness tighten Hannibal’s chest. No one knows besides you.
He wants many things to be like that, simply staying between him and Will.
“I could catch him.” Will says, seemingly not noticing Hannibal’s contemplative expression. “I could do it. It would be easy.”
“Jack Crawford would certainly appreciate your input.” Hannibal offers almost playfully.
Will lets out a breathless laugh, but a stormy, mortified gaze settles onto his features soon after. “Fuck, I don’t want to though.”
Hannibal had known this was coming. A decision in the balance. A fork in the road. “You put yourself in the mind of a killer every single day. What makes this different?”
Will’s eyes shift to Hannibal’s in one of his rare moments of eye contact. These moments, even, have become less and less infrequent. The look is even more ferocious than the previous look had been and angry, exasperated Will is one of Hannibal’s favorite versions. So endearingly irritated. Hannibal wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t dare touch. Not yet.
“Because, Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal’s name comes out of Will’s mouth so dangerously close to a growl. “The killer is not the person I would be reconstructing.”
Hannibal’s world whites out behind him.
Will smiles, and it’s a hateful little thing. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the victim profile.”
Hannibal thinks back to the nameless faces that Will had been describing. He had heard a bit about the killer his friend was hunting and knows he is a sexual sadist from the profile they had built. All of the victims were young-looking men in their late twenties to early thirties. All attractive brunettes with blue-green eyes, all of average height, athletic but on the lean side, and most importantly, all sex workers. Specifically dancers.
He had noticed the physical similarities between the victims and Will right away.
But this… Hannibal couldn’t have been prepared for this.
Images of Will dancing in the darkness of a nightclub, surrounded by men and women who want nothing more than to touch him fill his mind once again, but this time, it’s not a younger version he sees. It’s the Will Graham in front of him with a stab wound scar on his side from the NOPD, blue eyes haunted by the things he sees, unbearably tense in his skin… so beautifully viscous.
Will Graham, the man who killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs and felt rapturous, Will Graham, who had walked into Hannibal’s office after surviving Tobias Budge and wiped the blood from Hannibal’s face, naked on a stage as music pounded in the background. This Will Graham’s body being lit up by dirty lights as he dances with the sounds of screams from the women below him.
Hannibal doesn’t believe in God, but he thanks the universe for bringing him Will Graham.
He keeps his face as neutral as he can, but admittedly it takes the doctor a moment to speak. He’s captivated, aroused, and possibly a little in love, emotions he hasn’t felt in combination a single time in his forty-six years on this Earth. So many thoughts are playing through his mind, so many things he wants to say, but instead, Hannibal lets out the breath he’s been holding, and says “Freddie Lounds will be euphoric.”
This seems to break the spell, because Will throws his head back with laughter, most of the tension falling from his shoulders. Hannibal’s face breaks out into a grin. Laughing, happy Will is another favorite version of his, and yet another version that really only Hannibal gets to see. Will Graham is certainly not known for smiling, but it’s beautiful when he does.
Will is still stifling his laughter behind his wine glass when he speaks again. “If Freddie Lounds shows up, she’ll end up a millionaire.”
It’s Hannibal’s turn to laugh, which is also something that doesn’t occur often in the presence of anyone else other than Will.
“She’s calling him the Adonis Slayer, did you know that? How fucking unimaginative.”
Hannibal considers this. “Adonis was a God of beauty and desire according to the Greeks. Or, depending on the story, a mortal man known for the same. Around 600 BCE a cult of women worshiped him from rooftops with offerings of various types of plants.”
“Plants?”
“Indeed.”
“They’re all found in fields. Maybe Freddie was onto something after all.” Will rubs tiredly at his eyes, then as an afterthought, he says, “Not that I’d ever tell her that.”
Affection curls around Hannibal’s heart. Will doesn’t bother to hide his disdain for Freddie Lounds in front of anybody, and the openness is refreshing.
“How do you imagine Uncle Jack will react to the proposition?” Hannibal leans forward in his chair, inching closer to Will.
Will tenses in his seat again, the mention of Jack Crawford unnerving him. “He’ll want me to do it, no matter how horrified he’ll be by the idea of seeing me mostly naked on a spinning pole.” His face turns bright red after that. “Oh God, Jack is going to have to watch me strip.” The words come out raspy and almost inhuman.
While Will is having his own personal crisis, Hannibal is dealing with the twist in his gut at the idea of Jack Crawford being permitted to watch Will in such a state. Rationally, yes, Jack would have to be there to help catch the killer, but the idea of him watching Will, not appreciating his beautiful body in every way that Hannibal does, watching what isn’t even his to begin with-
“I have to do it. It’s the best way to catch him.” Will says, breaking Hannibal from his thoughts. He can’t even feel embarrassed over the thoughts in his head, so he just continues to watch his friend, whose eyes are boring holes into the carpet. “I’d have to practice, but… I was good at it. Dancing, I mean.”
“There’s a sense of power in sexual prowess, especially in strip clubs.” Hannibal states. “I imagine the power to render someone down to a set of base instincts just by lewd dancing strikes some as overwhelming.”
Will’s face flushes again, the same rosy tint to his cheeks as before. He clears his throat. “Sorry, you said ‘sexual prowess’, ‘strip club’, and ‘lewd dancing’ in the same sentence, and my brain momentarily turned to goo.” He explains, embarrassed but still able to tease Hannibal. “It was like hearing the Queen say ‘fuck’. I was surprised you didn’t combust with the vulgarity.”
Hannibal smirks. If it were anybody else, the rudeness would have set him off, but Will’s rudeness never affected him the same way. “I was a young man once, Will. While the appeal is lost on me, the concept is not.” It’s not quite a lie, but Hannibal has to admit that the idea of Will as an exotic dancer is quite appealing.
Will says nothing, only turns his head so that Hannibal can see the ghost of the blush lingering on his slim neck. He wants to press his lips to the pulse point, just to feel the heartbeat.
His eyes flick back up towards Will’s face. Not now. “Is power what your killer is looking for?”
Will shrugs. “I don’t know. The victim profile and manner of death suggest it’s more of a personal vendetta, but I don’t know why yet. I know what links them, but… the why is fuzzy.”
Hannibal contemplates this for a moment. “Tell me about the bodies again.”
This time, the profiler meets his eyes with a smile, grateful that the conversation is over for now. Hannibal listens, although his mind has wandered off.