Chapter Text
Dr. Hannibal Lecter is a Renaissance man with impeccable etiquette and a taste for finery. He is perfectly gracious to colleagues, always available to their petty complaints and frustrations with a fragrant cup of Ethiopian roast, and a tray of Afghan biscuits.
As Chief of Neurosurgery, Hannibal is always sure to welcome new members of the department, but when it comes to Dr. Will Graham, he finds himself making visits with a much higher frequency- and always with a present in hand. Food is, after all, a universal symbol of kinship with a message of good natured intentions.
He is surprised, however, to find someone else in the office with Dr. Graham. The door is closed, and the blinds mostly shut, as is the preference of Will, but they are not closed all the way, and the fluorescent lighting inside offers much clarity.
Hannibal sees a younger man with hooded eyes and a new age slouch that ticks him off immediately. Ah, Brown. 3rd year neurology resident. Hannibal was never fond of his challenging eyes and smarting mouth. Even the way he stood, tall but with a careless hoodlum lean was offensive.
Rude, Hannibal decides, tasting the unrefined word on his tongue.
When Will reaches for his lab coat, Brown is already an arm span ahead, snagging the fabric from the hook on the wall. He holds it out in a way that forces Will to come into his elusive embrace, arms shuffling into the sleeves with an awkward pull.
Hannibal watches as Brown whispers something discreet and quiet into the shell of Will's ear, a smattering of words that bring a flush to the curve of pale skin.
It is Brown that sees him first, and the smirk that stretches across his thin lips triggers an itching spark in Hannibal. He thinks of the faculty ID hanging from his lab coat, and the dull edge that could be easily sharpened with a few purposeful swipes against the metal door handle. A little less than a 45 degree, two times, 3 at most.
Brown sweeps a heated gaze over the small of Will's back, and tongues his cheek in a lewd manner.
Neither of them break eye contact through the gaps of the blinds.
Hannibal remembers something like this a year ago when Brown made ill-fated advances on himself. He was quite nimble with his fingers, and Hannibal had to refrain from crushing his wrist more than a few times when the man slipped his hand lower than the waistline.
Hannibal had only found out later that it was Brown’s punishment for losing a drinking game at the departmental party.
Same tactics, different motives.
Very rude, Hannibal thinks. Brown laughs.
Will reaches for his stethoscope, adjusting its position around his neck. His ears are still warm with embarrassment, but his hands are poised and steady. That was never a problem.
Matthew is hardly aware of his nearing presence, two swift paces, until a stethoscope tightens around his neck like a noose. There is enough pressure to be a warning. Will is suddenly thankful that his office door is firmly closed, and the blinds mostly drawn. Only someone with the intent to look in would find them.
"Careful what you say, Matthew."
Mathew’s breathe hitches.
Will is gentle but if he pulls the cord hard enough, each hand in a different direction, well, the nearest drawer of scalpels and medical equipment is five meters away. Matthew could envision the struggle and teeter towards the cabinets, but the image quickly flitters away, mind much more preoccupied with the texture of the rubber cord against his throat. With every inhale and exhale, the stethoscope moves in tandem. He is sure that Will can feel the quickening rise and fall of his chest, simply through the give of the cord.
Then he relaxes, and presses back into the contours of Will's body, humming contently with a breathy exhalation, "You feel amazing, Dr. Graham."
Hannibal opens the door with more force than necessary.
"It's Dr. Lecter. I don't need to justify. The food. The drop ins. The food. Why am I justifying?"
"Come on, do you not see how Will fucking smiles that little 'I am so charmed by your psychotic shit' smile? That's the deal breaker, I'm telling you. Sixty dollars on Brown."
"What's going on here?"
And the two of them turn towards Alana, forks of food still suspended in midair. Brian’s spool of pasta quickly unravels falling with a wet little splat on to the Styrofoam tray.
Of course, of course when they respond, Jimmy says 'nothing', and Brian spills every last detail.
"We're betting on who Dr. Graham hooks up with by the end of the month. That would be July 19th, uh, at 2:34 pm. The cut off, I mean. Jim’s got 50 riding on Lecter, and I've got 60 on Brown, you’ve seen him around before, yes? Creepy fucker but smart as hell-"
Alana's face shuts him up real fast, just as he feels Jimmy kick him in the shin, and it feels like third grade all over again, slipping and smacking his leg on the monkey bars. Crunch.
She doesn't even say goodbye, just walks away with her tofu salad. There's a certain tightness in her shoulders, and the distinct staccato of her heels fall away to the noise of the dining hall. Brian stares until the white lab coat disappears around the corner.
Their corner of the table is silent.
"She has a thing for Dr. Graham?"
"She has a thing for Dr. Lecter."
"But she also has a thing for Graham?"
"It's complicated. We’d have to draw a flow chart and bring in Crayola’s 24 classics.”
"Shit. What about Matthew? Are we on the clear for him? Because I bet 60 bucks on that dude."
"No one told you to bet that much. If you'd just listened to me, I could've given you a very detailed report on-"
"Hey."
"What."
"I just remembered something. Was Matthew the intern we got to go make a pass at Dr. Lecter? You know during the New Year’s party, and we were all piss drunk?"
Brian’s words slow even before he finishes asking. Jimmy grins.
“Hand over the 50. Corpses don’t count. Unless Dr. Graham’s into necro of course.”