Chapter Text
It starts innocently enough, as most things do.
Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter sit across from each other in his Baltimore office, three feet apart in their twin leather chairs. It's been weeks since Will was deemed fit to return to work. Even though he's declared on multiple occasions just how very much he hates being psychoanalyzed, he keeps showing up to his standing appointment. Conversations, they've agreed. Not therapist and patient, just two people who enjoy unspooling each other. Hannibal is no longer billing the FBI for their sessions. What he gets out of them is worth far more.
"You are unusually withdrawn tonight, Will."
Will hums. He's deep in thought, half of him gnawing on a case he hasn't managed to close. Bodies have been turning up in abandoned homes and warehouses, each clutching a different tarot card. They lack the finesse of the Chesapeake Ripper, of course. Who could compare? Will chastises himself for the thought, but knows it's true. These corpses are staged, yes, but it's ham-fisted and awkward. There are no trophies taken, no greater purpose evident besides death and a pitiful hunger for renown. The cards are his way of trying to stand out, but the meanings ring hollow. They've investigated the victims. The correlations to the chosen cards are flimsy. When he chases the pendulum and puts himself in the killer's shoes, he isn't awestruck. He's bored.
"You ever get a song stuck in your head, even though you can't stand it?" Will responds, knowing the answer before the question leaves his lips.
"Rarely," Hannibal replies, plucking an errant pet hair from his armrest and flicking it away. He doesn't mind Will's dogs, but their fur has managed to sneak its way into every room the man enters. "Most of the music I enjoy is instrumental. Occasionally I will endure the radio when I'm forced to take a taxi."
Will smirks. "Not sure why I asked."
"I assume as a bridge to whatever it is you're avoiding discussing." Hannibal watches him with that same placid interest he showed the first morning they met.
"The case we're working, it's..." He trails off, fingers fidgeting with a crease in his slacks. "Some killers are fascinating enough that I don't mind seeing through their eyes, you know?"
Hannibal nods. He does know, quite well. "Not this time?"
Will exhales a small laugh. "No."
"What does this killer lack, that you find yourself wanting?"
Will blushes a little, eyes boring into his own thigh. "Artistry."
Hannibal shifts in his chair. The movement is subtle, but it doesn't go unnoticed. Few things do.
"His kills don't impress you?"
"He wishes they did," Will replies, now unable to sit still. He stands, pacing the room. The good doctor simply watches.
"You compare him to an earworm you'd prefer to stamp out."
The profiler nods, inspecting a shelf he's looked over dozens of times before. Something to do with his eyes, his hands. The contents are irrelevant. "He wants to be great. To be noticed. Thinks that by adding symbols to the kills, he elevates them."
Maroon, lidded eyes follow him. "An empty gesture."
Will chuckles, now running his fingers over the edge of the bold, wooden desk as he circles it. "A copy of a copy. He wants to be the Zodiac, or..."
The words hang, unfinished. Hannibal smiles on the inside, his face betraying nothing. "The Ripper."
A shudder, stifled. Will shakes it off like an unexpected drop of rain on his neck. "Bingo." He gestures back to Hannibal with a pointed finger.
"This upsets you."
"It's not just..." His words hit a road block, so he meanders back to his chair. He hasn't looked Hannibal in the eye since he got here.
"Tell me," Hannibal prompts.
Will folds his head into his hands as he sits, elbows on his knees. He runs his fingers through his hair before sitting up and back, looking off to the left with an irritated exhale. "Jack wants me to wear these killers like a suit, as if I can take them off when I go home. I can't. They stick around, taking up room."
"And this one is a foul houseguest."
"Mmm," Will mumbles in reply. Taps his fingers along the armrest once, twice, three times. "At least the Ripper is interesting." Hannibal blinks, mouth just a little dryer than usual. He says nothing as Will continues. "Being this guy feels like after you've worked out and the sweat dries. I keep thinking about that filmy sort of sheen I get after a long flight. Makes me want a shower."
"Uncomfortable," Hannibal replies, trying not to think about Will's skin alive with sweat, or still steaming and pink, wrapped in a towel. What that would smell like.
"I want to catch him," Will insists, "But not for the reason Jack wants me to."
"You'd like him out of your head."
"Is that selfish?"
"It's human," Hannibal replies. "If that's all the motivation you need, I'm sure you'll find him before long."
Will hums again, in agreement this time. "I know it's useful, me being able to become anyone. I just wish, sometimes, I got to pick who it was."
The older man surveys him, more intrigued now than ever. "Have you ever tried?"
The response he gets is more surprised than he would have expected. Will is looking at him like it's a thought he's never considered.
"Being someone else? Sure," Will offers. "I'm someone else every time I go to work, or socialize. I've got masks for all occasions."
Hannibal smiles, wider than he has all night. "Even here?"
Will's face breaks into a smile of his own, that stubbled jaw lit up with a familiar, crooked amusement. "It's not the same. I'm more myself with you than I am anywhere."
Hannibal swallows, perplexed that Will has no idea that effect those words might have on him. He throws out the sentence like it's nothing, eyes roaming the shelves of the office's loft.
"The feeling is mutual," Hannibal replies, voice lower than normal. The tone causes Will to reappraise what he's just said. It was honest. Too honest, maybe. He's not sure how the doctor manages to look both calmly affectionate and predatory at once, but it's a little too bright. He turns away, the corner of his lip tilting up. He runs a hand across his jaw in an attempt to wipe it off.
"I'd like to suggest an exercise," Hannibal goes on, "Though I won't be offended if it's not to your tastes."
Will raises an eyebrow. "I'm all ears."
Doctor Lecter nods, sitting up just a little taller in his chair. It's a subtle show of authority, but Will's body reacts on impulse, mirroring him. He can't help making eye contact, and is suddenly aware of something flickering behind Hannibal's eyes.
"How comfortable are you with role-play?"
As he often does to deflect sincerity, Will jokes. "In therapy, or off-duty?"
Of course, Hannibal doesn't bat an eye. "Whichever you prefer."
The line of Will's jaw tenses. Why does he ever think that's going to work? Every damn time, Hannibal volleys back and he's the one who ends up blushing.
"I'm rarely comfortable interacting with anyone," he admits with a resigned smile. He sits back. "Pretending makes it easier, but I get tired."
"You seem comfortable here."
Will smiles wider, crossing one leg over the other. "I enjoy our conversations, Doctor Lecter. I didn't say they were comfortable."
Hannibal chews on that like the finest cut of meat, savoring how smoothly it goes down. He loves to watch Will squirm, lives for the moments he unknowingly concedes his affection.
"What I'd like to suggest," he says, pulling them both back on track, "Is a game." Will's eyes snap back to him, suddenly interested. Oh, the boy is so beautifully predictable sometimes. "A diversion from this clandestine killer and the roots he has planted in your mind."
Will doesn't speak, but his eyebrows meet in a terribly curious arch.
"Would your schedule allow for an hour of your time each day, for a week?"
"Every day?"
Hannibal nods. "Seven days. We meet here at 8 o'clock, and I have you for one hour."
Will tries not to acknowledge the particular choice of words. He's never been terribly good at resisting a challenge. "How do you propose we spend the hour, Doctor?"
Hannibal folds his hands elegantly in his lap. "At each appointment, I would like you to arrive as someone else."
The intrigue is woven with caution, but not enough for the scales to tip. "Who?" Will asks.
"Anyone you'd like."
"Real or imagined?"
"I leave that choice in your capable hands. Seven days, seven meetings. Each one, a new Will Graham. Or," he interrupts himself, the idea blossoming, "Another identity altogether. Whoever they may be, I get to interview them."
"Sounds like a lot of work," Will huffs, unconvincingly.
"For sixty minutes, you leave behind your killers, your concerns. I believe it will help you regain some control over these other personalities, knowing you can create your own. Moving the needle on the record, perhaps to break the repetition."
Will suddenly feels self-conscious. "Don't you have better things to do?"
"Nothing I can't reschedule."
He feels his cheeks redden under that burgundy-amber gaze. He chews the inside of his mouth, going over his schedule. His evenings are generally dedicated to playing with the dogs and puttering around the house in various degrees of intoxication, but Jack could call at any time.
"Of course, if your work requires you, we can postpone," Hannibal offers, as if reading his mind. Will hates when he does that; it makes the back of his neck go all hot.
Ignoring the sensation, he hums, considering. "Yeah, alright. Fuck it. We play pretend. Are you still you?"
Hannibal nods. "I could be little else."
Tap, tap, tap, on the supple leather chair. "When do we start?"
The doctor stands with elegant purpose, swishing over to his desk and the datebook within. Today is Thursday. He wants to give Will a few days to stew over the idea, but not enough time to change his mind. He is so terribly, feverishly pleased with himself. The agony of not letting it show is exquisite.
"Monday."
"This coming Monday?"
"Through Sunday," Hannibal affirms. "Does that work for you?"
Will fidgets, suddenly aware of the scope of what he's agreed to. He doesn't want to back down now and look like a coward. This could be hopelessly embarrassing. It probably will be. All the same, he is so tired of thinking about this case. It would give him an excuse to cancel dinner with Alana on Wednesday and a fundraiser of Jack's on Friday that he's been dreading for weeks.
He likes Alana. He hates going to dinner. He'll tell them it's mandatory; no, that makes him sound more unstable. He'll find a way to word it that comes across vulnerable, an exercise he's uncertain about trying and nervous to share with them both. They'll encourage him to open up. It'll be good for him, they'll say. Another mask, already sewn.
He doesn't admit it to himself, of course, but the idea of a week of playing with Hannibal is more than a little exciting. His mind begins to reel with ideas of personalities he could construct, how they might chip away at the bulletproof armor of his new friend.
This cinches it for him. He nods. "Monday at eight."
Hannibal stands to see him to the door, the conversation having reached its natural conclusion. "I look forward to meeting my new patient."
When their eyes meet, something in the air crackles.
The doctor pulls open the door for the patients' exit with a dancer's grace. Will slides through it, coat in hand. He dips his head in acknowledgement.
"Until then, Doctor Lecter." He turns on his heel and strolls into the crisp dark of the evening.
Hannibal watches him until he's out of sight. He closes the door gently, turning to lean against it in consideration. He'll have to cancel a dinner party, that benefit of Jack's he was almost looking forward to, and theater tickets for Saturday night. He wonders, then, with a sudden thrill, if he could entice Will to play their game for a crowd. The dinner party and mingling with officials whose careers would be made if they caught him can wait. He'll keep the theater tickets and see how the week unfolds.
Until then, he smiles to himself.
He gathers up his coat and his things, ready to endure the longest weekend of his life.