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The last thing he wants to do is go to a Halloween party. It isn’t that he hates parties, the merriment of music and food and alcohol, and the general feeling of the season. If anything, he likes them. Or he used to when he was much younger. There’s just no good reason for him to go, that’s what he keeps telling Alana — he isn’t friends with those people, he doesn’t know them, he doesn’t want to be around them. But she insists, and she insists so much that the good Doctor Lecter thinks it’ll be good for him too.
It’s like having two psychiatrists, although one says being his psychiatrist would be inappropriate and the other doesn’t mind when the lines blur a little. They both are griping his nerves.
Their insistence is enough to make him want another case, as crazy as that sounds to him. It would whirl him away, maybe somewhere remote like Montana, where he could slide into the skin of someone else and he could fix a problem. It would take days, and he could think of anything else but being surrounded by people who look at him more like a specimen than a person. (The people he works with view him in the same light a lot of the time, but it feels like pointed since they have a job to do as well.) It doesn’t appear that it’ll work out that way for him, and even if something popped up, he now believes that Alana would just change the date of her party to accommodate him.
They both want him to try new things. Or Alana does. Will’s of the belief that Hannibal just wants to see him uncomfortable. He’s noticed that Hannibal studies him more if he believes Will doesn’t want to be somewhere, or is discussing something he’d rather not. Although, his eyes are always on Will. His eyes and his hands, but Will has been trying to ignore that part recently.
“Are you trying a new form of therapy?” Will stares into his glass of white wine. He’s slumped in the leather chair, sleeves rolled up, face tight. Hannibal has been prodding about his distaste for parties, insinuating something about his teenage years or perhaps college. He’s right, but Will doesn’t want to admit that. “Socialize me with people I would rather avoid? Like an anxious dog.”
“Sometimes we have to thrust ourselves into uncomfortable situations,” Hannibal says, “or be guided. You’ve stopped pushing yourself, Will.”
He huffs quietly. “I… push myself elsewhere. With what I do, you can’t blame me for not wanting to live in constant discomfort.”
“This could be a good change. New scenery, people who don't require you to use your gift to understand them,” Hannibal suggests, tasting his wine for the first time since pouring it.
That’s the thing—Will isn’t sure there are any good changes anymore. Everyone insisted that working in the field would be a good change for him because he’d have more recent hands-on experience to bring back to the classroom, but all it’s given him is a heaviness he can’t shake. It cloaks him like a second skin, and he knows everyone can see it, but they try not to look.
Everyone except the good Doctor Lecter who revels in it. The way it goes, he sometimes thinks he’s studying him for more than personal curiosity. He’ll have a best seller for sure, especially with the way Freddie Lounds writes about him. Her thousands of fans will want to read what the man closest to him has to say. They’ll gorge themselves on Hannibal’s accounts, spinning new theories, explaining new ways that Will is wrong.
Maybe that’s a morbid way to view their relationship, maybe it isn’t even true, but it’s better than the confusion that’s started to grow in his gut about it.
“It isn’t something I can so easily turn off and on. I can hone it in for specific purposes but it’s always there in the back of my mind.” He takes a sip of his wine, lets it sit on his tongue until it warms. “Are you coming to this party?”
Hannibal smiles, smoothing a hand over the jacket of his maroon paisley suit. “Yes, I am.”
He perks up; he hates that he does. He can’t stop it though.
“Are you dressing up?” he asks, deliberately indifferent.
“That is yet to be seen.” He couldn’t see Hannibal dressing up. Hannibal, to him, exists outside of the pop culture edifice. He wouldn’t be a book or movie character, a tongue-in-cheek reference, a musical star, or some other thing that would make people go Hey! That’s cool!
The idea of Hannibal in a cheap costume eating hokey finger foods and enjoying a Halloween playlist while everyone drinks and does—whatever else might happen, is so impossible to him that in all of his expansive imagination, he just can’t picture it. He wants to, he tries to, but Hannibal outside of his suits, existing casually in a home other than his own, around complete strangers feels wrong.
When he does try to put him in a costume, all he can conjure up is him in a different suit, perhaps referencing a singer long since passed or a great writer. Or worse, there’s nothing but a vague blur of color. Nothing, and he hates to think this way, fun.
“If I have to dress up, you have to,” Will decides anyway.
Hannibal tilts his head, mouth curled. “Are there stipulations to your therapy now, Will?”
“For this, yes. I think it’ll make you uncomfortable.” Not that he thinks Hannibal experiences uncomfortability in a way that counts. Still, he’d like for the tables to be turned for once. “If I have to experience the entirety of the party, so do you.”
Something strange comes over him at the thought of them sharing the experience. He nearly jokes that they should coordinate outfits so they can be as ridiculous as possible together. It would probably startle everyone who knows them, or knows of them. The thought chokes him, the thought warms him, but he realizes instantly that if he suggests it—joke as it may be—and Hannibal rejects him, he’ll bow out of the party altogether.
This would be a great excuse, really. I said I would go if Doctor Lecter agreed to coordinate outfits with me, but he refused. Not really his fault at all then, and yet, he can’t bring himself to do it.
A pit forms deep in his belly. His throat clicks and he sighs heavily to try and dispel the ache coming. It isn’t rejection alone that scares him.
Hannibal sips his wine, contemplating his request.
It’s a costume party anyway, Will reasons with himself. It would be unbecoming of Hannibal to go against the theme. He almost tells him that.
“What about this bothers you?” Hannibal asks instead of agreeing. (It gripes him, but he chooses to ignore it.)
Will thinks. Outside of the normal, outside of what he could tell Hannibal, that the man already knows. That he isn’t keen on socializing, that he’d rather be home, that he doesn’t want to waste the money on a costume he’ll wear for an hour and then throw away. “I feel like a deer.”
That makes Hannibal pause. “A deer?”
“The target deer in a dog drive,” he continues. His tongue sours so he takes another sip of his wine. “Sometimes your insistence feels less like help and more like you—and Alana—are driving me to the barrel of a gun.”
“I don’t believe that you’ll be targeted at this party,” Hannibal reassures. His wine glass is held down low. “Nor am I driving you toward your demise.”
Will clears his throat, tongue to his molars. He doesn’t quite believe him. “No, you’re not, but I feel targeted by Alana’s… desire to help me.”
And Hannibal’s desire to push. Maybe it isn’t toward his demise, what good would that do Hannibal, but it is toward something secret. He can feel it, and Hannibal isn’t stupid. He knows Will is catching on.
“And that upsets you?” Hannibal asks.
He looks to the side, chuckling. “I’m not broken. I don’t need new screws and a fresh set of batteries. I think Alana has good intentions but the path to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
They didn’t have money for Halloween, that’s what it was. Sometimes they did. Sometimes, when his dad was doing good and was sober and they were in Louisiana around the scant amount of family they had he would take extra work and buy Will one of the cheap costumes from the store, but that wasn’t always, and he never grew attached to the idea of parties and costumes, and candy.
He went maybe three times in his life, and then he was never allowed to go to parties. Not allowed, but he did. His dad was always neglectful in that way. He had rules, and when he was drunk he couldn’t watch Will to enforce them and when he was sober he ached for the bottle so bad it was the same. He never fit in though. People knew, and kids are cruel.
This detachment only intensified with the few college parties he went to. He realized he had missed something as a teenager, so he continued to not quite fit in.
“I agree with your sentiments, Will, but I do think you would benefit from stepping out of your comfort zone and away from the field. This is less damaging than any case could be.” Hannibal picks up the bottle. An offer that Will takes gladly. He’d like to stop thinking about it for a while.
The party is Saturday and Will doesn’t buy a costume. At first, it’s because he isn’t going to go, but he relents. Not by any pressure from others, but because he already told Alana he would and he doesn’t want to go back on his word. That, and he never misses an opportunity to see Hannibal anymore. He pulls a few items out of his closet that he already owns. An old t-shirt, camo pants and a matching jacket, and an orange vest. That’s enough, he thinks, but he grabs his old compound bow too just to sell the point. Good enough, he tells himself. Some part of him believes it’ll help him feel less like the targeted deer in this situation.
His pack shoots out of the house as he goes to leave. The sun is setting, but he thinks they’ll be okay for an hour or two. Being outside might tire them out too, which would be ideal.
He’s sliding into his car and his leg vibrates. He puts the bow in the passenger seat and fishes his phone out of his pocket.
It’s a text from Hannibal. He sighs. He really wanted it to be Jack telling him that he can’t go.
Can I expect to see you tonight?
Yes, Dr Lecter. On the way now.
He’s lucky that Alana doesn’t live too far from him so it won’t be a long drive when he ultimately decides he’s had enough of it. And so Hannibal doesn’t feel inclined to collect him personally and bring him to the party more or less against his will. He’ll be able to leave as he chooses and not inconvenience anyone, although he doesn’t think he could ever inconvenience Hannibal.
He takes the drive quietly. The crackling radio picks up music now and then, but he’s in silence for the majority of the ride there. It’s better that way. It gives him time to prepare himself for the inevitable.
Alana’s yard, which is spacious enough, boasts a dozen or so cars. 24 people then, give or take. He decides to park along the empty road so as not to get trapped. Someone pulls up behind him, two women dressed as vampires, and Will waits for them to get out and go inside before he gets out. He collects his glasses, ultimately decides to abandon the compound bow, and leaves the safety of his car.
Her house is modest in terms of what it could be, but it’s nice and plenty big enough for the number of people moving from room to room—more than 24, people carpooled. It isn’t lost on him that they all seem to know each other. There’s no one from work, not that he particularly cares to see Price or Zeller. Maybe Beverly though. He is a bit shocked Jack and Bella aren’t here but, he isn’t going to push the subject. Jack might want to pick his brain about the Chesapeake Ripper since they’re currently caseless and he doesn’t want to talk about that.
Paved with good intentions, he reminds himself.
“Will!” Alana chirps happily, dressed in a knit pink and orange dress, a nod to an over the top 90s spy movie, albeit far less risqué. “You decided to come.”
Will gives her a tight lipped smile. “I wasn’t given much of a choice. You got Doctor Lecter on your side.”
“Well, I knew if anyone could convince you, it would be Hannibal.” She squeezes him. “He’s here, he helped me prepare the food—great costumes by the way. I can’t believe you convinced him to dress up.”
He blinks. “Thank you. It was the stipulation for me to come, actually.”
“You’re both able to get each other out of your comfort zones.” She pulls back, placing her hand on his arm. “I have to go greet Harper and Cole, have fun.”
He smiles wobbly and nods. “I’m going to go find—“
Her eyes widen, eyebrows raising in excitement. “Of course. He might be out back.”
He gives a half wave and turns, going to find Hannibal. At least he can show his face to both of them and then go home. Maybe he’ll eat a little of the food too. No reason to deny himself what he assumes is mostly Hannibal’s cooking.
As it would be, Hannibal is an easy person to find. Or he would be if Will had taken into account that he would take the challenge of wearing a costume personally. That’s the only thing that throws him, but not for long.
There’s a small cluster of people around him, completely sucked into his orbit (It’s always like that, or at least, he guesses so. Most of their time spent together is one-on-one or in a professional setting, but he isn’t surprised by the fact that people are pulled to him. Will is, although he tries to ignore that most of the time), and he scrutinizes him from a distance to ensure that he’s looking at the right person. He looks right, he sounds right, but he has to believe his eyes are deceiving him.
It’s him though, and if tonight is about them both stepping out of his comfort zone, Hannibal has nailed it.
“Six point. Not great,” Will coughs out, pushing through a man that’s standing too close to Hannibal.
Really, he wants to laugh. His lungs burn with the desire to double over at the sight of him. He has a nice set of antlers, in a sort of jumpsuit with a white belly and a puffy tail. It’s ridiculous. How anyone takes him seriously is beyond him and yet all of these people are fully enamored by him.
Hannibal turns from the people speaking to him and smiles. “A stag, yes.”
Will comes a step closer, now he’s going to be sucked up into his orbit. He touches one of the points. “I wouldn’t shoot you.”
“You are the hunter,” Hannibal hums. “It would be up to your discretion whether I was worth the bullet.”
That makes him pause. Hunter and deer. A control Will has lacked, a balance in their relationship he isn’t sure he’s ready for. Not because he doesn’t crave it, but because it catches him off strangely. It’s also a jab at him, at his fears.
“You did this shut on purpose,” he accuses quietly.
“How could I have?” Hannibal asks. He looks far too pleased with himself for this not to be planned. Their conversations about dog drives and targets. “I’m not psychic, Will. Although, some would argue that you are.”
Will rolls his eyes, putting a few inches between them. “I think you were able to deduce what I might come as, seeing as I wasn’t going to buy something.”
“You could have come as a fisherman, which is more likely.” He gestures to his outfit. “And I am not a fish.”
Will blanches and Hannibal excuses himself from the people waiting to talk to him. Their faces pull with disappointment. Will, as pissed as he is, likes it. He’s been rather fond of the times Hannibal has ignored people on cases to instead talk to him, or how he brings him coffee and no one else, or how he backs up his theories before anyone else’s.
“Are you going to socialize?” Hannibal touches his arm, the same way Alana had but with a different sort of determination. “You can socialize with me if that would make you more comfortable, Will. As your psychiatrist, I feel obligated to help you through perilous predicaments.”
Now he’s teasing him, but he can tell he’s genuine when he says they can stick together tonight.
Will purses his lips. “Fine.”
By socializing, they both mean that Will is going to stand next to Hannibal, eat the finger food, and listen to him talk. By socializing, they mean that Hannibal is going to touch Will—his arm, shoulder, back—to guide him from place to place and person to person. Most of the people here are his peers, and none of them work for the FBI he finds. They’re all doctors of different kinds, surgical, pediatric, gastric, oncologists, and so on. They’re picking each other's minds, but really they’re more interested in Hannibal. Nothing is as interesting as working with the mentally ill and the FBI, apparently. Sometimes he says something when there’s something to add, and he’s largely, and thankfully ignored, but occasionally someone goes—
“You’re the FBI special agent, right? I’ve seen your face.”
Will blinks, half of a homemade cheese pastry puff shaped like a pumpkin in his mouth.
He chews and swallows quickly. Hannibal could answer for him, in fact he’d prefer it, but the older man just looks at him expectantly.
“Yes, but I’m actually a professor,” he corrects.
He’s always correcting. He doesn’t want to be known as the special agent. He wants to be known for the job he’s been doing for years now. The one that doesn’t torment him day and night.
“You teach at the Academy then,” the man says. He’s short, balding at the crown of his head, with a thick mustache. He’s a surgeon, cardio, he thinks but Will wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t care. He shouldn’t have been acknowledged directly.
Will pushes his glasses up. “I have for five years now.”
The man’s eyes light up. He’s seen that look before. People love talking about the different facets of his working life. “Oh really? You teach future agents how to catch killers?”
Will grimaces. “I teach them valuable skills for profiling. Forensic science.”
“Will is one of the smartest people I know,” Hannibal interjects finally. “Indispensable to his students’ education.”
The woman with him smiles and looks at Hannibal. “Of course, you need someone who can keep you on your toes, Doctor Lecter, both academically and socially. I never pictured you as the couple's costume type but it’s a refreshing change.”
If he were still eating, he’d choke.
“That would be unethical,” Will says with a laugh that no one reciprocates. Unethical, and something he’s been thinking about for a handful of weeks now.
“Will is a patient of mine, and a friend. Our costumes are merely incidental,” Hannibal explains, “but he does keep me on my toes.”
He suddenly feels like a charity case. Like a kid who’s clung to his mommy’s sleeve for an hour now because he’s too scared to say hi. The husband and wife look at him in that sorry way people get when anyone is described as a patient. He removes himself from Hannibal’s side.
“I’m going to get a drink,” he calls, slipping away before Hannibal can answer.
How Alana can know this many people, he really does know, but the house feels cramped now. He can smell sweat and food and hear the chatter as it swells and then collapses and then swells again. It’s starting to give him a headache.
In the kitchen, which is only a room away from Hannibal, he finds the drinks on the counter next to the sink. They come in a variety of sodas, beer, and red punch with clear plastic cups. He fills one with punch, scrubs his face, and then begins to drink. It’s spiked with rum, so he finishes it and refills his little plastic cup.
Through the kitchen entrance, he sees a woman who hasn’t spoken to them has come up to Hannibal. He can’t tell what’s being said, but she laughs. She laughs excitedly, her cheeks reddening, her eyelashes fluttering.
His stomach turns. Everyone here, save Alana who believes Hannibal is good and right about all aspects of his practice, believes they’re together, and here comes this woman, waiting for Will to step away to make her move. It’s crazy for him to be upset about that. They aren’t together. They are, as Hannibal said, psychiatrist and patient, and yet the idea of this woman waiting to steal him away upsets him so much he finishes his second cup. It makes him want to do something reckless that he can’t take back.
Will makes another cup of punch for himself, and then one for Hannibal as an excuse to slip back into the conversation. He pushes through people, sliding through those who are too close, and saddles himself up next to his side and places the cup in his hand.
“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal says with a smile, his maroon eyes light up.
Will nods. “You’re welcome.”
“Katherine was just asking me about my practice. She’s in search of a good psychiatrist,” he explains. “Alana told her about me.”
He swallows. God, he’s an idiot. An idiot and for no reason. If this woman wanted to take Hannibal, she could. He doesn’t belong to him, even if he purposefully wore a costume that would go with Will’s. They may be a lot of things, but they aren’t together and he thinks he might need a break from therapy for a while. He needs to screw his head back on straight because this, this is too much.
He shouldn’t have come at all.
“Strange time to be doing interviews,” Will glibly says. He brings his cup to his lips. There isn’t enough rum in these to get him drunk, but Alana probably anticipated that people would be driving home and added a small amount. Enough for flavor and nothing else. “It’s a party, not a medical convention.”
The woman looks between them, unsure of what she’s done to catch Will’s ire. Nothing, he should apologize, but he doesn’t. He stares into the red punch, lips pursed, and ignores her.
“It was nice to meet you, Doctor Lecter,” she says, confused.
“You as well.” He turns his attention to Will as soon as she’s out of earshot. “It isn’t uncommon for patients to want to be the center of their therapist's attention. It feels like betrayal when the attention is focused on someone else. I’ve had patients who wished they were the only ones.”
That isn’t it. He knows it. Somehow this feels more pathetic. “I just… thought you might be thirsty.”
There is a chance that part of his problem is that he wants Hannibal’s undivided attention due to their relationship as psychiatrist and patient, but that’s not the thing that’s looming over him. They’re friends too, equally, and he thinks it’s more likely that he doesn’t want to lose his closest friend to someone.
Everyone has thought they’re together. Every single person but Alana, and he knew it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it, and he didn’t want anyone to call them on it. Ruining the subconscious fantasy that for a few hours, they could both be something else completely. They could be each other’s. That’s wrong of him though. It’s wrong of Hannibal too. He’s playing a cruel game. Whether intentionally to upset Will or not, he doesn’t know. Maybe he thinks they’re playing it together, but it bothers him.
Will sips on his punch quietly for another thirty minutes or so before excusing himself. He says he’s going to find the bathroom, but really he needs to get out of here.
Stepping away from Hannibal though, he feels his body being torn from his orbit. He’s going to cancel his next few appointments, he’ll tell Hannibal that he just needs some time to himself. He won’t even take cases. Just work and the dogs. After that, he’ll be able to come back and be fine. He’ll close this short, childish chapter and never look back.
Maybe he should try dating. It might help him.
“I’m gonna go,” Will tells Alana in the living room. “I need to put the dogs up. They get antsy.”
She hugs him, her face a little drawn. Upset, he guesses, but it’s better this way. “Thank you for coming.”
Will squeezes her in a quick hug. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a good time.”
He leaves immediately. Stalking across her yard, weaving through the parking lot worth of cars that have materialized since he arrived. He needs to go home, shower, and go to bed.
The front door opens and shuts, and he stops. It’s Hannibal. He doesn’t have to turn to confirm.
“Are you leaving too?” Will asks with a sigh.
Hannibal catches up quickly. He looks more ridiculous walking through the yard than he did in the house. “I have work in the morning.”
Will shakes his head. “Not until 11, Doctor Lecter. That’s not a good excuse to give someone who knows your schedule.”
“I have an emergency appointment. I make room for them in the mornings,” he clarifies.
The two start walking again. Hannibal’s car is toward the front, so he shouldn’t be walking with Will at all, but he decides not to call him on it. He supposes that a few more minutes before he distances himself isn’t going to kill anyone.
“How accommodating of you,” Will mutters. “They must be special.”
Hannibal hums. “They wanted to come in today, but I knew you’d prefer it if I were here so I had to decline and schedule their appointment for tomorrow.”
Will’s jaw twitches. “You’re good at accommodating all of your patients then.”
“Some hold more importance than others.” Hannibal is looking at him. He can feel the weight of his gaze, studying him like he always does. This might make a great chapter in his eventual book—When the Patient Becomes Attached. He can see it now. “The ones I consider to be my friends take precedence over those whom I merely treat.”
Will’s eyebrows shoot up, lips pursing in momentary amusement. “I’m honored.”
He already knows they’re friends, he doesn’t need his confirmation of it, but it still feels good to hear it anyway. It feels good that Hannibal is willing to make himself ridiculous for him on a rare occasion, and that he’ll leave a party early because Will is.
They make it to Will’s car together, which they shouldn’t. He doesn’t need the escort, but it heats inside of him. Slow at first, and then all-consuming, like a wildfire. He’s going to do something reckless, and Hannibal… Hannibal is instigating it.
“You look ridiculous,” Will says as he opens his door. His chest is flush. He takes his glasses off and sets them on the dashboard. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked this way in front of a group of your colleagues before. Is it wrong that I feel proud of myself for setting this stipulation?”
“Do I?” He touches his outfit, smoothing a hand over the white belly. “I thought you wanted to knock me down a bit with your request that I dress up. I would be shocked if you weren’t immensely proud of yourself. No one else could convince me to dress in such a way.”
“I just didn’t want to be alone in it,” Will admits.
Hannibal cocks his head. “You’re never alone with me, Will.”
The darkness takes up all the space between them. The house is too far for the light to make it here, and the yellow light in his car offers nothing. He can’t see Hannibal’s face, but he gets the sense that he’s misinterpreted the game and that Hannibal knows it’s
Will’s throat works, tongue pressed to his lips. He can hear the music from inside, the steady hum of the base, and the sound of people in the backyard laughing. No one is here to see them though, they probably couldn't see from the windows or the door if they tried, too consumed with their own bubbles of drinking and talking, and eating. The night is a good cover. He is going to do something reckless.
Right now, he needs to prove a point. He doesn’t know who needs it, but it has to happen.
Will shuts the door, the light fades out, and despite the absurdity of this, he grabs Hannibal by the hips and kisses him. Hard, desperate, shoving him against the side of the car and groaning as his lips part of him without fuss.
Hannibal touches his shoulders after a few seconds, not to push him away, but to get his attention. “I thought you were concerned about the unethical implication—“
Will pulls back slightly, their nose brushing. He can’t look at the stupid costume Hannibal is in or remember what they are. He just wants to kiss him right now. Kiss him and go. Or better yet, take him with him. “Please, shut up, Doctor Lecter.”
He presses closer to him, his chest to Hannibal’s, fumbling to feel him under the costume. He kisses him fully, tasting him, and realizes that he wants more. Hannibal’s body gives under him; a peculiar reaction he doesn’t expect, but that makes something inside of him thrum. All he can think about is getting him out of this stupid costume, to press Hannibal down, to feel his warm body under his. To feel the moment that Hannibal’s body becomes soft under his touch. It’s as much a clutch for balance as it is a fantasy come true.
This never happens to him. Not in his wildest dreams has he ever truly pictured himself kissing Hannibal like this.
“Come home with me?” he asks before he loses his confidence. “Right now. We don’t have to tell anyone.”
Hannibal blinks, lips parting. “I have to wonder—“
“No, none of that,” Will whispers and kisses him again, tongue between his teeth and Hannibal makes this noise that makes his blood rush. He wants to hear it again. He wants to break down all his walls and hear what Hannibal sounds like under the mask. “Before Alana sees.”
They shouldn’t be doing this. He knows it well. If anyone caught them, they’d never heard the end of it from Alana and Hannibal would have to stop being his psychiatrist and he doesn’t think he could deal with anyone else trying to get inside of his head.
Hannibal takes a breath and removes the antler headpiece. “Allow me to leave first.”
Will begrudgingly steps back, and Hannibal moves away from where he’s just been pinned. Not with any sense of urgency. His fingers linger on Will’s shoulder, and then slide down against his biceps.
“You did this on purpose,” Will whispers.
Hannibal smiles. He can barely make it out in the darkness but he knows it’s there. “I wondered what you would do, but the answer is much better than even I could have imagined.”