Chapter Text
Will's POV
The fluorescent lighting in Will’s office hummed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the cluttered desk. The space smelled faintly of stale coffee and the tangy odor of dry-erase markers, remnants of the morning briefing still scrawled on the whiteboard. Will sat hunched over his desk, fingers idly tracing the rim of the chipped breakroom mug as he stared at the last dregs of cold coffee inside. It was quiet—at least as quiet as Quantico ever got—and he was content to let the world drift around him for a moment.
That relative peace shattered with the distinct clap of Jack Crawford’s shoes against the tiled floor. Will didn’t have to look up to know it was him; Jack’s stride was as brusque as the man himself. The office door opened without preamble, and before Will could utter a word, a sleek black rectangle landed unceremoniously on his desk with a muted thud.
“You need this,” Jack said, his voice clipped with irritation.
Will blinked at the object—gleaming under the fluorescent lights like some alien artifact—before lifting his gaze to blankly look at his boss.
“It’s a phone, Will. Your new phone. You can thank me later,” Jack continued, not waiting for a response. His arms were crossed, and there was a furrow between his eyebrows, the kind that telegraphed his frustration before he even opened his mouth.
Picking up the device as though it might bite him, Will frowned. It was heavier than his battered old flip phone, with a polished screen that reflected his perplexed expression. “What’s wrong with the one I have?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Jack sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The one you have is a relic, and it’s unacceptable for someone in your position.” His tone turned sharper, like a reprimand. “Last week, your phone was dead when I needed you at the Ripper scene. Dead, Graham. You missed ten calls and three texts before I had to send Fornell to drag you out of your house. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is?”
Will’s memory prickled with embarrassment at the mention of that day.
He’d been asleep on the couch, Winston sprawled across his chest, when an unamused FBI agent had pounded on his front door and delivered him, half-awake, to the latest tableau: the Chesapeake Ripper’s latest work, already swarming with agents and cameras by the time he arrived. Too late to preserve the scene untouched. Too late to really savor the horrific beauty.
Jack hadn’t spoken to him for hours afterward.
“It won’t happen again,” he muttered, the tips of his ears flushing red as he thumbed the smooth edge of the phone.
“No, it won’t,” Jack snapped. “You’re an asset, Graham. A damn good one. But only if I can actually reach you when I need to.” He gestured at the phone. “This isn’t for you. It’s for me—and the people who need your brain to solve their cases. Set it up, charge it, and for God’s sake, keep it on.”
With that, Jack turned and left, his footsteps retreating as abruptly as they had arrived.
Will sat there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway. The new phone gleamed in his hand, and he had a fleeting thought that it should belong to someone far more sophisticated than him. There was a reason he hadn’t upgraded his reassuringly low-tech phone. He set it down on the desk, watching how it caught the light like a polished stone amidst the clutter of half-scribbled notes and crumpled papers.
The sting of Jack’s words lingered. Will knew Jack didn’t mean it personally—it was just how he operated. But still, the gesture felt cold, a reinforcement of his role as a tool, a resource, something to be maintained for maximum efficiency. Not someone Jack actually cared about.
Sighing, Will began peeling away the protective plastic. At least this part carried a fleeting sense of satisfaction. The screen powered on and he scrolled through the setup process. Each tap of his fingers on the glass was accompanied by a pulse of irritation. It wasn’t the gift itself that bothered him—okay, maybe a little bit—but the reminder it carried: Jack valued him for what he could do, not for who he was.
The phone was, objectively, better than his old one. Faster, brighter, easier to navigate. The crisp responsiveness of the touchscreen felt alien after years of punching buttons on his old model. It would make his work more efficient, he supposed, and if it helped save lives, he could live with the insult. Efficiency was what mattered, wasn’t it? Not the implication that he was just another tool in Jack’s arsenal.
He sighed and began transferring his contacts, starting, reluctantly, with Jack’s number. His fingers hovered for a moment before typing in the name: Jack Crawford. No need for a title or embellishment. The name itself carried enough weight.
As he went through his call log, he entered the usual suspects—Alana, Beverly, the lab team, even Jimmy Price, though the odds of him needing to text Jimmy were slim. When he reached Dr. Lecter’s name, Will hesitated. He stared at the blank line, cursor blinking expectantly.
He had added Dr. Lecter’s number to his old phone at Jack’s behest shortly after meeting the man, and Will had kept it as impersonal as possible. But then it had been Dr. Lecter— not his primary physician, not Alana, certainly not Jack—who had recognized the signs of encephalitis for what they were. Dr. Lecter who had pressed rather insistently for tests and treatment, and, in all likelihood, had saved his life.
Calling him “Doctor Lecter” felt strange now—too rigid, too distant for a man who had quietly stepped in where no one else had. But anything else seemed…wrong. He considered adding a first name—maybe just Hannibal— but dismissed the idea almost immediately. No, it was Doctor Lecter.
Once the name was in, the phone prompted him to save. He hesitated again. His thumb hovered over the "Save" button, irrationally aware of how the gesture felt momentous in some intangible way.
Will snorted softly at himself. It was a phone number. Not a confession. He pressed save and moved on to the next entry.
But as he scrolled back through the contact list, the urge to do something else gnawed at him. Should he text Doctor Lecter? Just to share the new number? It would be practical, really. Courteous. He wouldn’t want his psychiatrist to have trouble reaching him if something came up. It wouldn’t even be strange—not for a patient and a colleague in the field. Plenty of people text their doctors or coworkers for less important reasons.
Even so, with Doctor Lecter, it felt different. The thought of sending a text to him, of typing out a message and waiting for a reply, came with a low buzzing of anxiety. It wasn’t just about practicality or professionalism. It felt... intimate. Too intimate.
Will opened a new text thread anyway, his fingers pausing over the keyboard. What would he even say?
Hello, Doctor Lecter. This is Will Graham. I got a new phone. Here’s the number.
Too stiff. Too formal. Too much.
He frowned, backspacing the line until it vanished. He tried again, something shorter:
Will here. Got a new phone. Here’s the number.
No. That felt cold. Dismissive. As though he were brushing Hannibal off, and the thought of being dismissive toward Hannibal made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Maybe it wasn’t necessary. He’d see Doctor Lecter later that evening during their regular appointment. He could give him his new phone number in person, a simple face-to-face interaction. That would be better. Simpler. There would be no risk of misreading a text, no strange tension lingering in the silence between replies.
Will set the phone down, but the dissatisfaction lingered. Not texting felt like the rational choice, but he couldn’t quite ignore the faint pang of regret at not having a reason—an excuse, really—to reach out.
He shook his head, irritated at his childish waffling. It was just a number. Just a phone.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the tension in his shoulders loosen. He’d see Doctor Lecter later. There was no need to dwell on it.
Still, for just a moment, Will let himself imagine how the reply might have looked:
Thank you, Will. I’ll remember.
The thought was warm and oddly reassuring, as though the imagined words carried more than a simple acknowledgment. Will shook his head again, but the faint flicker of comfort lingered. He pushed the phone further across the desk, out of arm’s reach, and forced his attention back to the scattered notes in front of him.
The next time he glanced at the phone, the screen had dimmed to black, its glow gone but its presence still heavy in the room.