Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Will woke up with a puppy on his face.

At first, in the hazy confusion between dreaming and consciousness, he thought his pillow had gained sentience overnight and was attempting to smother him.

Then a warm tongue licked directly up the bridge of his nose.

Will groaned.

“Your son is trying to kill me,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Beside him, Hannibal made a thoughtful noise without opening his eyes.

“A concerning development so early in life. We should consider therapy.”

Winston barked triumphantly and scrambled directly onto Will’s chest with all the grace of an avalanche. The puppy’s tail wagged violently enough to generate a small breeze.

Will cracked one eye open.

It was still dark outside, pale dawn only just beginning to creep through the curtains. The bedroom remained warm and heavy with sleep, tangled sheets, and the lingering smell of Hannibal’s cologne.

Will briefly considered ignoring the puppy and going back to sleep.

Unfortunately Winston was now chewing enthusiastically on the drawstring of his hoodie.

“Betrayed,” Will informed him gravely.

Hannibal finally opened his eyes then, watching the scene beside him with visible fondness. His hair was slightly dishevelled from sleep, which should have made him look less attractive but somehow made Will want to climb on top of him.

“You appear outnumbered,” he observed.

Will pointed accusingly at him.

“This is your fault.”

“You accepted the proposal.”

“That was before I knew he was feral.”

Winston barked again, delighted by all of the attention.

Hannibal reached over to rescue the increasingly damp hoodie string from the puppy’s mouth.

“I believe he requires feeding,” Hannibal said.

“He requires prison time.”

“And yet you adore him already.”

Will looked down at the tiny creature currently attempting to dig into the blankets with determined little paws.

“…unfortunately.”

Hannibal smiled softly, leaning over to press a brief kiss against Will’s temple before smoothly getting out of bed.

Will watched shamelessly as Hannibal crossed the room in loose black sleep trousers and absolutely nothing else. His husband, or perhaps his fiancé, was a sight for the ages.

“You know,” Will said, “most people age.”

“I have consumed enough antioxidants to become immortal.”

“I don’t believe that’s how medicine works.”

“Which one of us holds a medical doctorate?”

Fair point.

Winston suddenly launched himself after Hannibal, skidding dramatically across the hardwood floor in pursuit.

Will listened to the chaos drift downstairs.

A loud bark followed by the sound of several older dogs reacting with immediate outrage.

Hannibal’s voice echoed up the stairs in a mixture of English and Lithuanian. His tone was the one that he usually reserved for unstable psychiatric patients and difficult dinner guests.

Then there was a loud crash.

Will sat bolt upright.

“Hannibal?”

“I am in control of the situation,” Hannibal called back calmly.

Another crash followed immediately after.

Will sighed deeply and dragged himself from bed.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Winston had somehow climbed halfway into the dishwasher while several of the older dogs watched in visible judgment. Benny looked over at Will in clear disappointment, and he wondered if his companion was remembering the early days of the triplets.

“Hm,” Will said. “Under control, you say?”

Hannibal stood beside the kitchen island holding a coffee mug with the composure of a man absolutely refusing to acknowledge the disaster taking place in front of him.

“Good morning,” he said smoothly. “What would you like for breakfast, mon cœur?”

“Your son is in the dishwasher.”

“Our son. And he is exploring. It's developmentally appropriate at his age.”

“He’s going to drown in Jet Dry.”

Hannibal considered this.

“A valuable lesson to learn then.”

Will scooped Winston out before the puppy could consume industrial cleaning chemicals and tucked him against his chest.

The puppy immediately snuggled against his chest and looked up at him adorably, the picture of innocence.

Will melted immediately.

“You spoil him,” Hannibal observed.

“He’s a baby.”

“He is a criminal.”

“He learned from you.”

Hannibal looked briefly pleased by that, as if it was reasonable that a puppy could have inherited traits from him.

Before Will could continue arguing, his phone buzzed loudly against the counter.

He frowned slightly at the screen.

BFF-EVERLY.
Will answered immediately. “Morning.”

“Absolutely not,” Beverly said without preamble.

Will blinked. “You called me.”

“Yeah, well you don’t need to sound so cheerful at 8am. Besides, why are you answering your phone? You just got engaged. Well, re-engaged.”

“Again, Bev, You called me.””

“Oh yeah,” came her tinny voice through the phone. “I wanted to tell you I’ve just seen the videos.”

Will froze.

Slowly, he turned toward Hannibal.

Hannibal was suddenly looking extremely interested in preparing coffee.

“What videos?” Will asked carefully.

“Oh my God.” Beverly who suddenly sounded delighted. “You don’t know.”

“I don’t know what?”

“Zeller uploaded your karaoke performance to YouTube last night.”

Will felt his soul briefly leave his body.

“…he what.”

“It already has twelve thousand views and rising.”

Across the kitchen, Hannibal closed his eyes slowly having given up all pretence that he wasn’t listening in to the call.

“Twelve thousand?” Will repeated faintly.

“Oh it gets worse.”

“There’s worse?”

“It seems your rugged charms work on more than just your ex husband. You’re gaining quite the fan base.”

Will stared blankly at the wall.

“Hannibal,” he said hollowly, “I think I’m going to have to fake my death.”

Hannibal sipped his coffee elegantly.

“Well, you do have experience with the concept.”

Beverly was laughing so hard now she could barely breathe.

“And that’s not even the best part,” she wheezed. “The comments are completely obsessed with Hannibal.”

Will narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“What comments?”

Beverly immediately began reading aloud.

“‘Who is the terrifying silver fox and why does he look at that man like a Victorian widow?’”

Hannibal looked modestly pleased.

“‘Is this from a TV show?? Please tell me this is from a TV show.’”

“Why would anyone think we are from a tv show?”

“And my personal favourite: ‘they’re either married or about to be arrested together. no in between.’”

Silence.

Will slowly looked toward Hannibal.

Hannibal looked back.

“…accurate,” Hannibal admitted.

Will dropped his head directly onto the counter with a groan.

Winston immediately climbed onto his back in support.

“You’re going viral,” Beverly informed him cheerfully. “I should make t-shirts.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No wait, Jack apparently saw—”

Will ended the call immediately.

The kitchen fell silent.

For one brief moment, neither of them moved.

Then Hannibal made the fatal mistake of laughing.

Will looked up slowly.

“Oh, you think this is funny?”

“A little.”

“You won’t be so amused when your clients see.”

“Why not?” asked Hannibal with a shrug. “I am allowed to have a private life. What I do in my free time is none of their concern.”

Hannibal finally abandoned the coffee entirely and crossed the kitchen toward him, expression softening as he reached for Will’s waist.

“Besides, you were happy,” he said simply.

The teasing vanished from his voice completely.

Will paused.

Hannibal touched his forehead gently against Will’s.

“You have not allowed yourself happiness very often,” he murmured. “I enjoyed seeing it.”

And just like that, Will’s irritation dissolved into something warm and helpless.

God.

It was deeply unfair how easily Hannibal could do that.

Will sighed dramatically.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“I am aware.”

“And manipulative.”

“That too.”

"No wonder Winston is already picking up bad habits."

Winston barked loudly between them, happy to just be included.

Hannibal glanced downward.

“I believe,” he said gravely, “our son requires breakfast.”

Will snorted helplessly and went to fill the dog bowls whilst Hannibal got a start on the human’s breakfast.

When Will returned with the large bag of gourmet dog food, instead of finding Hannibal bent over the stove he found the man watching his phone screen with poorly disguised glee.

Will narrowed his eyes immediately.

“That better not be what I think it is.”

Hannibal didn’t look up.

“It is,” he said pleasantly.

“No.”

He cleared his throat and began reading aloud.

“‘I need everyone to understand I have never seen eye contact used as a weapon before this video.’”

Will froze.

Hannibal continued, voice warm with amusement.

“‘0:47 changed my brain chemistry. I am not the same person anymore.’”

“Give me that,” Will said flatly.

Hannibal lifted the phone higher.

“‘The tall one looks like he skulks around opera houses and kidnaps sopranos—’”

Will moved.

Quickly.

Hannibal, unfortunately, was prepared for this. He stepped back smoothly, still reading as though narrating scripture.

“‘This is not karaoke this is an emotional hostage situation with backing vocals—’”

“Stop reading them out loud,” Will snapped, reaching again.

“‘Why does the curly haired one look like he’s been possessed by the ghost of Taylor Swift—’”

“Give. Me. The phone.”

Hannibal’s eyes finally flicked up to him, far too amused.

“Make me,” he said.

That was, objectively, a mistake.

Will smiled.

Slowly.

Sweetly.

“Alright.”

Then he sucker-punched Hannibal directly in the stomach.

Hannibal folded with a genuine exhale of surprise, more from betrayal than force, and instinctively bent forward just enough for Will to snatch the phone cleanly from his hand.

Will straightened immediately, victorious, holding it to his chest like stolen evidence.

“One day,” he said pleasantly, “you’ll learn not to provoke me before coffee.”

Hannibal was still recovering, one hand braced on the counter, but his expression had already shifted into something faintly fond.

“I am learning,” he said.

“That’s terrifying.”

“You’re marrying me again anyway.”

Will opened his mouth—

Then looked at him properly.

At the slight crinkle at the corner of Hannibal’s eyes. The barely restrained smile. The fact that he was laughing at all, in the kitchen, in daylight, surrounded by dogs and stolen breakfast and a life that should have been impossible.

Will exhaled through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose I am.”

Hannibal straightened slowly, still watching him.

“Are you going to run again?” he asked mildly.

Will glanced down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Oh absolutely.”

And he bolted.

Hannibal, after a brief stunned pause, followed immediately.

Behind them, Winston barked enthusiastically, clearly interpreting this as a family activity.

The kitchen dissolved into movement and laughter and chaos, coffee forgotten, breakfast temporarily irrelevant, the abandoned phone lighting up with more and more comments as time passed.

But none of it mattered quite as much as the fact that Will was laughing as he ran.

And Hannibal was, unmistakably, chasing him.

Chapter Text

Will had been to work hungover before. More than once, in fact.

In his teenage years there had been a period of roughly fourteen months where it was more unusual for him to be sober.

University had been the first time he’d been surrounded by people constantly. Dorms. Lectures. Cafeterias. Everywhere he went there were people and their leaky emotions pressing against him until he couldn’t tell where he ended and everyone else began.

His père had eventually sobered him up by pouring every bottle down the sink, then dragging him out of school for a week to work at the boatyard.

They had barely spoken those first few days.

Will remembered the silence more than the labour. Beau Graham had simply waited him out, steady and immovable as the tide, until embarrassment finally overtook self-pity and Will had been ready to talk.

He’d been thinking about his père a lot recently.

It probably didn’t help that he still needed to find a permanent solution for his mother’s living situation. Surprisingly — or perhaps unsurprisingly — Chilton had emailed him a list of care resources the night before. Neither of them had acknowledged it afterwards, but Will was grateful all the same.

Still, his thoughts were more melancholic than anyone would expect from a recently engaged man.

Beverly had taken one look at his face that morning and immediately assigned herself, Price, and Zeller to fieldwork, leaving Will alone in the lab.

Will should probably buy her something expensive as thanks.

Sitting in the quiet hum of the laboratory, he tried to centre himself the way Beau Graham had taught him.

Breathe in.

Count to five.

Breathe out.

“Oh!”

A voice cut through his concentration.

Will opened his eyes.

Alana Bloom stood in the doorway looking faintly startled to find him there, one hand still resting against the frame. Her emotions churned together in familiar swirling patterns: distrust, guilt, pity, professional curiosity, and a lingering thread of attraction tangled tightly with shame.

Interestingly, this time the attraction wasn’t directed at him.

“Bev’s in the field,” said Will. “She’ll be back later if you’re looking for girl talk.”

Alana blinked.

“No, I wanted to talk about— wait. How did you know?”

Will raised an unimpressed eyebrow and gestured vaguely toward his own head.

“Oh. Right.” She cleared her throat. “Actually, would you be able to give me any updates on the Delridge case?”

“Are you working with Agent Morgan?” Will asked, pushing his chair back to retrieve the file.

“Yes. I’m helping put together a profile of the killer.”

“Hmm.”

The sound carried just enough disinterest to make her visibly bristle.

It wasn’t intentional exactly.

Well. Not entirely.

“So,” Alana said after a moment, attempting casual conversation with visible effort, “what are you working on?”

“Insect activity on a cold case,” said Will.

Unfortunately for both of them, that was enough to launch him into explanation before he could stop himself.

“The burial timeline doesn’t make sense,” he said, rifling through several photographs spread across the desk. “The body was recovered in woodland soil, but the insect colonisation patterns suggest it spent time somewhere enclosed first.”

Alana stepped a little closer despite herself.

Will continued automatically.

“There are blowfly eggs present from two distinct developmental stages. Normally that would suggest multiple exposure periods, except the second wave shouldn’t exist this late in decomposition unless the corpse was refrigerated and then re-exposed.”

He pointed at one of the photographs.

“See these?”

Alana squinted politely.

“Maggots,” she guessed.

“Phormia regina larvae,” Will corrected immediately. “Black blowflies. They prefer cooler temperatures than calliphora vicina, which means whoever moved the body either stored it improperly or transported it at night.”

Alana stared at him.

Will kept going.

“Most people think decomposition is chaotic, but it’s actually incredibly structured. Insects arrive in sequence. Like an orchestra. Blowflies first, then flesh flies, then beetles once the tissue begins drying out.” His voice softened slightly, becoming almost thoughtful.

“Dermestid beetles are my favourites. They clean skeletons better than most forensic teams.”

“You have favourite corpse bugs,” Alana said carefully.

“Yes,” said Will, already waiting for the snide comment.

“That was not a judgement,” she added quickly.

Will glanced up from the file.

“No?”

“No.” She smiled faintly. “You just sound…passionate.”

That word seemed to embarrass him more than the conversation about decomposition.He shrugged one shoulder awkwardly.

“Entomology makes sense. Insects do what they’re supposed to do. No hidden motivations. No moral contradictions.” He paused. “They don’t lie.”

Alana looked at him more carefully then.

“You really like bugs, huh?”

“...Yeah.” Will curled in slightly beneath the attention. “I do.”

“No, I mean that’s nice,” Alana said quickly. “To care about something that much.”

Will looked back down at the photographs.

“I am a person, you know. I have interests.”

The guilt that rolled off her then was immediate and genuine. She looked as though she wanted to both apologise and explain herself simultaneously.

“Don’t apologise,” Will said before she could speak. “I know you mean well. Everyone does.”

Alana’s expression tightened.

“That’s not fair.”

Will blinked faintly at that.

“Just because you can understand why someone has done something, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t apologise. Especially when they hurt you. I am sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t a person with feelings.”

Will gave her a look that she didn’t quite understand. Perhaps surprise.

“You know,” Alana said after a moment, “for someone who understands people as well as you do, you can be surprisingly bad at believing them.”

“That’s because I understand people.”

Despite himself, Will smiled faintly.

Alana relaxed a fraction at the sight of it.

“It must be exhausting though,” she said softly. “Feeling what everyone else feels all the time.”

“It’s not exhausting because they’re cruel,” Will replied after a pause. “It’s exhausting because most people think they’re kind.”

Alana went quiet.

“Very few people wake up intending to hurt others,” Will continued. “They justify it first. Fear. Shame. Love. Pride. Everybody has a story where they’re the reasonable one.”

“At least psychopaths are honest?” Alana asked lightly.

Will huffed a quiet laugh.

“No. They’re just worse liars.”

That startled a genuine smile out of her.

The expression softened her face in a way that briefly reminded him of their sessions years ago, before everything between them had become tangled in manipulation and blood and mutual disappointment.

“I’m glad you seem better,” she admitted.

Will tilted his head slightly.

“Better?”

“You seem…” She searched carefully for the word. “Settled.”

That almost made him laugh outright. As though Hannibal Lecter had ever brought stability into anyone’s life. Still, there was truth in it somewhere. The chaos had become familiar enough to navigate. Like learning the rhythm of rough seas.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Alana said.

Will frowned faintly.

“On the engagement.”

“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair. “Right.”

People kept congratulating him as though he’d achieved something.

“It’s funny,” he admitted. “I was going to divorce him, and now we’re getting remarried. Hannibal really does get under your skin.”

Alana’s discomfort sharpened immediately. Residual trauma still lingered around Hannibal’s name like smoke damage. Deciding he’d tortured her enough, Will shifted subjects.

“So. Margot Verger. When did that happen?”

Alana blinked.

“When did what happen?”

Will gave her the flattest, most unimpressed stare she had ever seen from him.

“When did you start seeing each other?”

“We aren’t,” she said immediately. Too immediately. “She’s helping with the Delridge case.”

“Righhtttt.”

“Oh God,” Alana muttered. “You sound exactly like Beverly.”

“That’s because Beverly also has eyes.”

“She does not. She has caffeine dependency and criminal instincts we should all pray she never uses.”

“That too.”

Alana rolled her eyes, but Will could feel nervousness creeping underneath her amusement now.

Interesting.

“So,” he said mildly, “how many murders are you planning to invite her to before just asking her out?”

“I don’t want to ask her out. We’re…friends. Basically colleagues.”

“Right. A colleague you want to pull your hair and call you pretty.”

“Will!” Alana said scandalised, but the outrage was somewhat mitigated by her giggling.

“No judgement,” Will said. “I have a strict empath confidentiality clause. If I outed every workplace crush I’d be living in HR. Besides, she doesn’t actually work here.”

Alana smiled at him gratefully.

Then before she could apparently stop herself, she asked, “You’re friends with Margot, right?”

Will looked mildly confused by the question.

“I wouldn’t say friends. We’ve met.”

“But you’ve known her long enough to get an impression of her.”

“Sure.”

“Well…” She hesitated again. “Do you think there’s any chance she was involved in the Delridge case?”

Will looked up properly then.

Not at her face.

At the anxiety beneath the question.

The conflict.

The protectiveness she already felt despite trying not to.

“Are you asking me whether the woman you have a crush on might be involved in the murder she’s using as an excuse to spend time with you?”

Alana flushed bright red.

“That is not—”

“It’s a little that.”

She pressed her lips together stubbornly.

Then, apparently realising denial was pointless around him, she exhaled sharply.

“Fine. Maybe slightly.”

“Slightly,” Will repeated flatly.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I learned from Hannibal.”

“God help us all.”

Despite himself, Will smiled faintly.

It still felt strange talking to Alana like this. Easy in a way it never used to be.Perhaps because there was nothing left to lose between them.

“So why are you asking?” he prompted.

Alana’s expression sobered immediately.

“I think Mason Verger may have had ties to the group Delridge was involved with.”

Will’s attention sharpened.

“And you think Margot might still be connected to them?”

“Maybe.” She rubbed tiredly at her forehead. “I can’t exactly ask a grieving sister if her brother was involved with a murderous fraternity can I?.”

“I think she’d be more open to the idea than you would expect,” said Will quietly.

“What do you mean?”

Will leaned back. He needed to step carefully here.

“Mason was not….a nice man. He was especially cruel to the people closest to him. There was no love lost there.”

“Oh,” said Alana with concern.

“It’s not really my place to talk about it. However what I can tell you is Margot didn’t kill Delridge.”

Alana frowned. “You sound very certain.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Will considered how honest to be.

He could picture Margot clearly in his mind. Controlled posture. Restrained violence. The particular stillness of someone who had spent years surviving in a house where vulnerability was punished.

Margot Verger was dangerous.

“If she had,” he said calmly, “you never would’ve found the body.”

A flicker of unease crossed Alana’s face.

“You think she’s capable of murder?”

“Aren’t we all?”

The question settled heavily between them.

“The real question is what it would take.”

Alana studied him carefully now.

“And what would it take for Margot?”

“That is something you should ask her,” said Will. “But be gentle. Margot spent most of her life around people who treated kindness like weakness.”

Alana looked troubled now.

“She’s…” He paused, visibly choosing his words with care. “More fragile than she wants anyone to realise.”

“That’s not the impression she gives.”

“No.” A faint, humourless smile crossed his face. “It wouldn’t be.”

Alana looked thoughtful.

“You care about her.”

Will shrugged lightly.
“I understand her.”

That felt close enough.

He glanced back toward the case file before adding, quieter this time, “Just… be kind to her.”

Something about the simplicity of that seemed to catch Alana off guard.

“I am kind.”

“You’re also curious,” said Will. “Psychiatrists sometimes forget those ideals can be in conflict.”

Alana looked genuinely chastened by that.

“She doesn’t need to be analysed,” Will continued. “And she definitely doesn’t need to be fixed.”

The protectiveness in his voice surprised even him slightly.

But then again, survivors recognised each other.

Alana nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

Will watched her carefully for another moment before apparently deciding she meant it.

“And the answer is yes,” he called after her as she reached the doorway.

She glanced back over her shoulder.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you should ask her somewhere other than a crime scene.”

Alana stared at him.

“Oh my God.”

“And please do it soon. You need to get laid.”

“I cannot believe you just said that to me.”

“Well, you poked around in my marriage. It’s only fair I return the favour.”

Alana covered her face briefly with one hand. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Alana laughed softly despite herself, shaking her head. The sound echoed strangely through the quiet lab.

“You really are happier,” she realised aloud.

Will blinked slightly at that.

He almost denied it automatically.

Instead he glanced down at the engagement ring glinting faintly against his hand beneath the fluorescent lights.

 

Not happier exactly.

But perhaps less lonely.

“That’s unfortunate for everyone involved,” he said quietly.

Alana smiled gently.

“For what it’s worth,” she replied, “I’m glad.”

And this time, when she walked away, the emotions she left behind felt lighter than guilt.

Chapter Text

By the time lunch rolled around the lab was full again as the Lab Rats returned from the morning’s crime scene.

Beverly was particularly put out about this. She had been looking forward to a few more hours away from Quantico. Not because the case was particularly interesting—it wasn't—but because getting out of the building usually meant escaping the endless paperwork that multiplied whenever they spent too much time at their desks.

Instead, the crime scene had turned out to be exactly what it looked like: a fairly straightforward staged suicide. There had been no hidden complexities or a bizarre forensic puzzle they’d have to figure out. It wasn’t yet another serial killer leaving philosophical clues in body parts.

Just a dead man with enough political pull to warrant FBI involvement and a mountain of reports waiting back at the lab.

The universe truly had a cruel sense of humour.

Price and Zeller shuffled in behind her carrying equipment cases and looking like refugees from a war zone. The fresh air had improved them somewhat, but only somewhat.

Price was deathly pale whilst Zeller looked a seasick sort of green. Both of them were squinting aggressively at the fluorescent lighting as if personally offended by electricity.

Beverly, meanwhile, felt fantastic, and she had spent the entire morning making sure they knew it.

"You know," she said casually as they unloaded equipment, "most adults learn their alcohol limits by the age of twenty-five."

Both men ignored her.

"Just a thought."

Still nothing.

"It must be difficult discovering tequila isn't actually a food group."

Two middle fingers appeared without either man looking up.

Perfectly synchronised.

Beverly stared.

"Did you practice that?"

"Get bent."

"Professionally."

She grinned.

Worth it.

Across the room, Will looked up from whatever report he was working on.

That alone was unusual.

Normally when he was focused on a puzzle he developed the attention span of a hunting dog. You could set off fireworks next to him and get less reaction.

Today he looked immediately toward the conversation, a small smile already on his face at their approach.

Beverly blinked.

That was odd.

Not because Will never smiled. Contrary to popular belief, he smiled quite often. The problem was that most of his smiles looked vaguely threatening.

This one didn't. It looked genuinely relaxed and happy. It should have been reassuring.

Instead it immediately made her suspicious.

She'd known Will Graham too long. The man operated according to rules known only to himself and possibly several woodland creatures. Plus, it was a big change from how he had been that morning, where a comparison could have been made to a bear with a toothache.

He had arrived pale and quiet, eyes hidden behind dark circles, visibly flinching when Beverly had set her coffee mug down on the desk too hard.

She had honestly considered checking his pulse.

Now he looked perfectly healthy.

Almost glowing in fact.

 

It was unsettling.

Particularly because the last time she'd seen him this content he'd just sent Freddie Lounds on a wild goose chase after a fictional serial killer.

"Alana came around earlier looking for you," Will said as she started unpacking samples.

Even his voice was lighter than normal.

Beverly narrowed her eyes slightly at his declaration.

"And is she still in one piece?"

Will pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.

"You wound me."

"I doubt it."

"I'm much nicer than you think I am."

"That's not saying much," Price muttered.

The words slipped out accidentally. Price immediately realised his mistake. His entire body seemed to enter a state of regret and the man quickly ducked behind a workstation like a soldier taking cover from incoming artillery.

Beverly waited for Will's response.

Normally this would have triggered at least three minutes of increasingly creative insults. Instead—

Will laughed.

Actually laughed.

"Fair enough."

The entire lab went quiet.

Price slowly emerged from cover as if still expecting mortar fire.

Beverly stared.

Will stared back.

"What?"

"You seem to be in a good mood."

His smile widened dangerously.

"Oh. Well."

Beverly immediately regretted asking.

"I did have some truly fantastic sex last night, which helped."

A chorus of groans erupted around the room.

"There it is," Price sighed.

"We found the catch."

"Overshare much?"

Will looked completely unrepentant.

Beverly rolled her eyes. She was happy he was happy.

She really was.

But there should have been laws against hearing about your coworkers' sex lives before lunch. Unfortunately nobody had consulted her.

"Well," Zeller said, looking much too pleased with himself, "after last night's performance I'm not surprised. Lecter looked like he wanted to eat you."

Beverly physically winced. Clearly Price’s lucky escape had made Zeller more confident than it should have. She just prayed that Will would be merciful and kill him quickly.

Instead—

Will grinned.

Actually grinned.

A broad, pleased smile that suggested he found the comment flattering.

"Oh dear," Price whispered. "He's getting worse."

Beverly pointed accusingly.

"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about."

Will opened his mouth.

Whatever horrifying response he intended to give never arrived as Beverly’s unexpected knight in shining kaiki arrived. A delivery man staggered inside carrying what appeared to be an entire flower shop.

Everyone nearby stopped and stared at the spectacle.

The bouquet was absurd.

It wasn’t large. Or even merely enormous. It was absurd.

Red roses spilled in every direction. There had to be at least several dozen. Possibly a hundred dark red blooms. It seemed as though every rose available within a fifty-mile radius was currently in the Quantico Forensics lab.

The poor delivery driver looked exhausted.

Beverly laughed immediately.

"I bet we can guess who those are for."

The driver looked more than a little relieved when she took the arrangement from him. She could quickly see why. The thing weighed far more than flowers should.

Where did Hannibal even find this? For it was clearly from the good doctor.

She located the card buried amongst the roses and immediately prepared herself for a dramatic reading.

The room gathered in eagerly, ready to join in the embarrassment of public displays of affection. Will looked resigned but made no more to stop her.

Beverly cleared her throat theatrically. Then frowned.

"What language is this?"

Everyone leaned closer to peer at the elegant handwriting but no one could decipher it.

Will sighed and took the card.

"It says, 'Mind your own business, Beverly.'"

Beverly barked a laugh.

"No it doesn't."

"It does."

"You're lying."

Will folded the card.

"I would never."

"Show me again."

"No."

"I want to learn how to write my name in Latvian."

"Lithuanian," Will corrected automatically.

"Same difference," Zeller said.

The response came instantly.

"Jar,” came the chorus of voices in the lab.

Zeller groaned.

"You're all terrible."

He reached into his pocket and dropped a ten-dollar note into the glass jar sitting near Price's workstation.

The label read:

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

The jar was surprisingly full and Beverly suspected at least half its contents belonged to Zeller. Possibly more.

Conversation returned to the flowers. Price was eying the bouquet with poorly disguised envy.

"Anyway. You already agreed to marry the guy. Now he's just showing off."

Will examined one of the roses. A strange softness entered his expression Beverly would not have believed his face could make if she weren’t staring at it.

Sometimes Beverly forgot how completely gone he was.

"I suppose he's trying to make sure I don't get cold feet."

The answer sounded casual.

Then Will added:

"He did the same thing last time."

Beverly froze.

"Last time?"

Will nodded.

"Did I ever tell you he proposed three days after we met?"

Silence.

Complete silence.

Price's mouth fell open.

Zeller nearly fell off his chair.

Beverly just stared at him.

"You're kidding."

"No. It may actually have been two days, I suppose it depends on when you count it from."

"And you said yes?"

Will considered his answer for a moment.

"Not exactly."

The answer somehow raised more questions.

"Well," he continued, "I agreed to quit my job and move in with him across the country."

The room remained silent.

"We just sort of... were, after that."

Beverly's jaw dropped further.

How was this the first time she was hearing this story?

"We eloped to Italy a few months later."

"Of course you did," Price said weakly.

"It makes perfect sense."

"Nothing about that sentence makes sense."

Will shrugged, busying himself with arranging space at his desk to set his absurdity of flowers.

"I suppose this time we might have the large society wedding."

The way he said it caught Beverly's attention immediately. Something was just a little off about his tone, as if he were talking about someone else rather than himself.

She frowned.

”Is that what you want?"

Will looked surprised by the question. Then he shrugged again.

"I don't mind."

The answer landed wrong even though Beverly couldn't explain why even to herself. It was a perfectly ordinary thing to say. Even normal.

Except Will Graham wasn't indifferent about anything. The man had opinions about dog food brands. Opinions about fishing lures. Opinions about obscure nineteenth-century authors nobody else had heard of.

He cared about things deeply and hated things with equal passion.

Even when his opinions were ridiculous, they existed.

This answer felt empty.

Like he'd reached for a response instead of having one.

Beverly found herself studying him. Trying to identify what felt off.

Before she could ask a follow up question, the lab doors opened again and Jack Crawford appeared.

Crawford had only just started taking the lead on cases again after, according to the rumour mill, a forced sit down with the department psychiatrist. Beverly hadn’t realised they had an official one, considering you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting an MD on the profilers floor. Still, he seemed better, which was always a bonus when it came to the person who determined how much overtime you worked.

Whilst Zeller presented their findings from the crime scene, Beverly found herself watching Will out of the corner of her eye. He seemed fine.

And throughout all of it, Beverly found herself watching Will.

He looked fine.

More than fine.

He was nodding along with conclusions and even offered a few observations. He made clever comments at exactly the right moments and rolled his eyes at Price and Zeller’s antics.

Everything appeared normal.

Yet something kept tugging at the back of her mind.

A loose thread.

She couldn't identify where it was coming from. Every time she looked directly at it, it disappeared. Like trying to remember a dream.

Eventually Jack left and the atmosphere immediately relaxed. Price collapsed over his microscope while Zeller started to spin slowly in his chair. The universal behaviours of scientists released from supervision.

"My head is killing me."

"That's because you're thirty and still drinking like you're nineteen."

Price made an offended noise but had no retort back.

Beverly smirked.

Then movement caught her eye.

Will winced. Just a brief flash. A hand rising toward his temple. It was gone almost immediately. But she'd seen it.

"Hey."

Will looked up.

"You okay?"

He blinked.

"What?"

"You just grabbed your head."

A pause.

The confusion that crossed his face looked genuine.

"I did?"

Beverly straightened.

For a second he seemed honestly uncertain.

"Will."

"Hm?"

"How are you feeling?"

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

His gaze drifted briefly across the room.

Toward Price.

Who remained draped across a desk looking terminally ill.

Then Will answered.

"Tired."

Price immediately pointed.

"God, same."

Will nodded.

"Yeah."

Something cold settled in Beverly's stomach. It was the same feeling she got when evidence didn't quite fit together. As if a puzzle piece was being forced into the wrong space.

Beverly pulled out her phone.

She stared at the screen before opening a contact she had never actually used before.

Hannibal Lecter.

Whilst he was the partner of her best friend, they had barely spoken more than a handful of words to each other directly. Still. Needs must.

She started typing.

Hey, it's Beverly. Did Will seem okay this morning?

The reply arrived almost immediately.

Of course it did.

Apparently Hannibal Lecter responded to texts faster than emergency services.

Will seemed well this morning, if a little tired. Has he fallen ill? Does he need me to collect him? - Hannibal L.

Beverly snorted. The signature nearly killed her. As if she might somehow confuse him with another Hannibal. It was so oddly formal she couldn’t help but be charmed.

His reply did make her feel a little like the school nurse calling a parent, or perhaps a dogsitter.

Considering Will's history, either comparison worked.

She looked up.

Will was laughing at something Price had said.

Perfectly normal.

Perfectly fine.

She looked back down.

He's not sick, he's just acting—

Delete.

He's freaking me ou—

Delete.

I'm not sure what's wrong but—

Delete.

No.

She couldn't explain it.

Not without sounding insane.

Eventually she settled on:

It's probably just his hangover. He'll be better after he's eaten. - Beverly K.

Send.

She put the phone down and tried to return to her work. She forced herself to focus on the evidence and not to think about it.

The victim's clothing had yielded an interesting fragment of fabric. She started cataloguing fibres trying to find the source.

Thirty seconds passed.

Maybe forty.

Then—

Buzz.

Beverly immediately grabbed her phone.

The response contained only one sentence.

Will wasn't hungover this morning.

She stared at the screen.

Read it again.

Then a third time.

Huh.

That was…

Strange.

Slowly, Beverly looked across the room.

Will was still talking to Price.

Still smiling.

Still perfectly normal.

Earlier that morning he had absolutely looked hungover. She could see him in her mind's eye clearly. He had been pale. Sensitive to noise. More irritable than normal.

She'd have bet money on it.

Yet Hannibal sounded equally as certain.

And Hannibal wasn't the type to mistake a hangover for anything else.

Particularly not when it involved Will.

Maybe he'd looked fine at home because it was quiet.

Maybe he'd developed symptoms later.

Maybe she was overthinking everything.

Those explanations should have made her feel better.

They didn't.

Because none of them explained the growing certainty that something was wrong.

Beverly glanced up again.

Across the lab, Will laughed at another joke.

Everything was probably fine, right?

Chapter Text

Hannibal had been having a rather productive morning.

After dropping Will at work, he stopped by his favourite florist to arrange a delivery.

The owner, an elderly Lithuanian woman named Irena, was always delighted by the opportunity to speak her native language. Every visit inevitably turned into a lecture about his accent.

"You sound American now," she informed him disapprovingly as she wrapped white lilies and dark red roses together. "Another few years and no one in Vilnius will claim you."

Hannibal accepted the criticism with as much grace as he could manage.

Her granddaughter, Gabrielė, was working the register. Unlike her grandmother, she spoke almost exclusively English, a fact that caused Irena endless suffering.

"I'm sure she'll love them," Gabrielė said with a smirk as she totaled the order. "Or forgive you. Depending on what you did."

"A celebration, thankfully," Hannibal replied. "Though I shall keep that in mind for future reference."

He handed over payment.

When Gabrielė began counting change back, he waved it away.

"Please. Keep it."

Her eyes widened slightly.

The bills disappeared into a glass jar marked Juilliard.

Who was Hannibal to stand between a future musician and Carnegie Hall?

"Remember me when you perform there."

Gabrielė smiled.

"Ach-teo."

The pronunciation was questionable at best.

Hannibal couldn’t help but fondly remember Will’s first few tenuous attempts at Lithuanian when he was first learning. His pronunciation had improved drastically throughout the years, though occasionally the New Orleans drawl snuck in.

The memory softened him more than he cared to admit.

"Close," he corrected gently. "Ačiū."

She repeated it more carefully.

"Your grandmother will be thrilled you're practicing."

Gabrielė groaned.

"I wish. She just says it's my dad's fault for never teaching me."

"Language is how we connect ourselves to others," Hannibal said. "I am not surprised she wishes to connect with you."

The girl looked thoughtful.

"I'll try harder."

"A wise decision."

She smiled.

"Have a good day, Dr Lecter."

"And you, Gabrielė."

By the time Hannibal arrived at his office, his good mood had only improved. Unfortunately, he still had patients. More specifically, he had Franklin Froideveaux.

"How have you been today, Franklin?" Hannibal asked with practiced patience.

"I've been good—well. I've been well."

The correction came with visible effort. Recently Franklin had begun copying Hannibal's cadence and speech patterns. Presumably he believed this would make them closer. It had the opposite effect.

If Hannibal were a more ethical psychiatrist, Franklin would have been referred elsewhere months ago.

Instead, he remained.

Partly because Hannibal found him fascinating in the same way one might find an unstable bridge fascinating. He kept hoping that something interesting would happen, like he would attempt to kidnap Hannibal and wear his skin like a suit. However, since Will had returned to his life such distractions were no longer necessary.

"I am glad to hear it. How are things with Tobias? You mentioned him during our last session."

Like clockwork, Franklin brightened.

"Oh, he's wonderful. Such a good friend. He invited me to a showcase at the Baltimore Philharmonic next week. They're doing Puccini."

Franklin said the composer's name with all the confidence of a man who had no idea who Puccini was.

"It all goes over my head, honestly, but Tobias loves it."

"Indeed."

Hannibal did not elaborate.

Franklin was physically incapable of allowing silence to exist for more than a few seconds.

"And get this," he continued. "He's joining the board of trustees."

Interesting.

"Aren't you on that board?" Franklin asked.

Hannibal inclined his head.

"You know I do not discuss my personal life during sessions, Franklin."

"No, of course not."

Franklin nodded eagerly.

"I didn't even know you had a husband until recently."

Hannibal resisted sighing.

"Tobias was practically tickled pink when I told him. He said he'd never heard anything about you being married ten years ago."

"My husband and I value our privacy."

“Well that’s what I said. Only Tobias has a few friends who work at the FBI and they said you are married to some sort of famous guy! Like a psychic or something. Tobias doesn’t believe in psychics, but I said you wouldn’t be married to a liar and-”

Hannibal closed his eyes briefly.

"Franklin."

"Tobias doesn't believe in psychics, but I told him you wouldn't marry a liar and—"

"Franklin."

The man immediately wilted.

"This session is intended to be about you."

"Right. Sorry."

A pause.

Then:

"I only meant that we're alike."

Hannibal waited.

"Private people."

“Franklin, this appointment is meant to be about you, not me.”

He looked suitably chastised.

“Of course. I only meant that you and me are a lot alike. Private. Keep things close to the chest.”

Hannibal didn’t deign that with a reply.

As he waited for Franklin to start up again, his phone buzzed.

“Do you mind?” he asked, already pulling out his phone.

“Of course not, I-”

Hannibal tuned out the rest of his words, focusing on the text message he had received. He didn’t get many, even Will preferred to call and threaten him than do it over text.

Beverly’s message was a little worrying. Perhaps Will had been more affected by last night’s celebrations than he had let on. Hannibal composed a short reply and turned back to Franklin who had not stopped talking.

“-And then I said that you-”

Buzz.

Hannibal checked his phone again without even asking this time.

It's probably just his hangover. He'll be better after he's eaten. - Beverly K.

Hannibal frowned.

Will hadn’t been hungover that morning. He hadn’t even drank very much after the first few cocktails, and it took a lot more than that to get his former party-boy fiance drunk enough to feel it the next day.

There was something in Beverly’s message that made his stomach twist unpleasantly.

It was probably nothing.

Still, there was no harm in going to pick Will up after work.

Just in case.

He typed back a reply before putting his phone away properly.

Franklin was still going on about something, and Hannibal managed to feign polite interest until the end of their hour. After seeing the man out, he went to close up the office, only to find someone sitting in his waiting room.

She looked remarkably composed for a woman whose brother had recently died. Even more remarkably composed for a woman who had killed him.

“Miss Verger,” Hannibal greeted with warm professionalism. “How may I help you? I was just closing up.”

Margot walked into his office without waiting for an invitation. She reminded him a little of Will when he was in one of his moods.

“You’re a remarkably hard man to pin down, Dr Lecter. Do you normally only open your practice for an hour or two a day?”

“I am fortunate to have reached the point in my career where I may choose my schedule.”

“I suppose the Lecter estate helps with that.”

Hannibal’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I see you’re a better researcher than your brother.”

Margot didn’t flinch.

“I exceed my brother in many areas," Margot replied. "Breathing, for example. How much are you worth exactly?”

“Enough.”

A smile touched her lips.

“So incredibly rich then. Only those with mountains of money ever consider it enough.”

“And you?” asked Hannibal, going to pour himself a drink before offering her one that she declined.

“Enough.”

Hannibal sat down and gestured for her to do the same.

“Am I to assume you aren’t looking to become my patient?” he asked carefully.

“No, I think we both know that that would end poorly. Your husband gave me a list of trusted contacts who I could be…more open with.”

“Did he? I wasn’t aware you were in touch.”

Margot smiled coldly.

“I’m sure there are many things you aren’t aware of, especially when it comes to your husband.”

Hannibal sipped his drink slowly.

“Not as much as you would think.”

“You know he’s a killer, were you aware it ran in the family? His father can be connected to a whole host of deaths up and down the Mississippi River, and his mother hasn’t been seen in years.”

Hannibal just watched her. He knew a fisherman when he saw one.

“My question is, do you just get off on knowing a dangerous man, or are you also keeping up the same hobbies.”

Hannibal didn’t react. She clearly knew less than she was pretending, or else she wouldn’t have entered the room alone. He didn’t doubt there were security posted in the building, probably outside both exit doors. As if that would stop him.

“I love my husband,” Hannibal said simply. “Why are you interested?”

For the first time Margot’s eyes darted away for half a second.

Caught.

“Does this have anything to do with Miss Bloom?” asked Hannibal coyly.

“Dr Bloom.”

The correction escaped before she could stop it.

How delightful.

“Of course. Dr Bloom. I saw you arrive at the party together. Could this be the start of an unlikely friendship?”

“Alana and I are working on a case together.”

“A case?” asked Hannibal. “How very Sherlock Holmes of you. Is it fun?”

Margot looked almost puzzled by the question, as if the very idea of doing something only because it was fun had never occurred to her.

“Mason was tied up with the most likely suspects,” she said instead. “I can’t have anyone looking too closely into my brother, or else they may start asking questions neither of us want” she looked pointedly at the man sat opposite her.

Hannibal remained unbothered.

“And the only way to ensure there was no connection was to spend time with Dr Bloom I assume?” he said in an almost teasing voice.

Margot looked a little flushed.

“Of course,” she said.
“Of course,” repeated Hannibal easily. “Well, in answer to your question, I think it’s a lovely idea for you to get to know someone a little more normal. Life is meant to be lived, and you will find poor company if you only spend time with those like yourself and Will.”

Margot looked confused.

“That’s not what I asked,” she said.

"Yes," Hannibal replied. "It was."

Silence.

"You wanted to know whether you are capable of building relationships with people who are not killers."

Margot's expression hardened.

"You are making assumptions."

"Am I?"

"You are."

Hannibal folded his hands.

"You wanted to know whether your history condemns you to certain kinds of people. Whether becoming close to Dr Bloom would inevitably harm her."

For perhaps the first time since entering his office, Margot had no immediate response.

Interesting.

"The answer," Hannibal continued, "is no."

She remained silent.

"You are not your brother."

Something flickered briefly across her face and was gone just as fast. A young child peeking out from behind a table leg to see if it’s safe.

"You are your own person. You may choose who you wish to become."

Margot stood abruptly.

"You are an infuriating psychiatrist."

"I hear that often."

"Mostly from your patients I assume?"

"Mostly from my husband."

That earned the smallest hint of a smile. Without another word she headed for the door.

"Please visit again soon," Hannibal called after her.

The door shut behind her.

Hannibal sat quietly for a moment before checking his phone. There were no new messages from Beverly, which should have reassured him. Should.

Perhaps he would leave early.

Just in case.

And, assuming the world was not ending, he looked forward immensely to telling Will all about Margot Verger's entirely unsuccessful attempt to ask permission to court Alana Bloom.