Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1 — “Anticipation”
(Hannibal POV — waiting for Will in his Baltimore office)
Hannibal sat behind his desk, hands folded lightly, eyes drifting to the large window overlooking the soft autumn light settling over Baltimore. The office was still; the city beyond hummed faintly, but his mind was already elsewhere—already with Will.
He had more than a few minutes before the session was scheduled. More than enough time to dwell, to watch, to catalog. And Hannibal did. He always did.
Will Graham.
Even the name felt like a vibration against his teeth, a subtle, insistent call he could not ignore. He imagined the moment Will would step through the door, carrying that awkward, guarded energy that had so captivated him from the first meeting. But anticipation alone could not contain Hannibal’s thoughts. He saw him, as vividly as if he were already here.
Will’s face, first. A Greek sculpture animated, delicate yet striking, every line precise, unintentional artistry. Cheekbones high, perfectly angled, catching the light in subtle shadows. A jaw neither too sharp nor too soft, balanced with the grace of someone born to observe the world and fold it gently to his understanding. Hannibal’s eyes lingered on the curve of his lips: rose-pink, full, slightly pouty, often tightened in thought or pressed into a line of annoyance—but always with the faintest promise of softness beneath. Perfect teeth, straight and gleaming, like polished pearls waiting to be revealed when he smiled. And the faintest dimple at the corner of his mouth, like a punctuation of charm that he could not possibly resist cataloguing.
And his eyes. Oh, his eyes. Hannibal’s fascination bordered on obsession. Aurora Borealis green at the center, with flecks of amber and gray spinning outward, shifting hue with his mood, his focus, his subtle emotional currents. Eyes that could see everything and yet reveal nothing, wide with empathy, narrowed with suspicion, bright with intellect, soft with sorrow. They flickered, and Hannibal knew—just knew—what he might be thinking before the thought fully formed.
Then the hair. Cherubic, delicate, natural curls framing his face with an effortless, angelic disorder. Dark-brown spirals that caught the light as if spun from sunlight itself, soft and springy, giving him the innocence of a boy but the danger of a predator in his mind. Hannibal had catalogued the exact way a stray curl would catch against Will’s temple when he leaned forward, unaware of its effect.
And the body. Lithe. Flexible. Lean but with hidden strength. Every movement measured yet fluid, a combination of tension and grace that made Hannibal’s gaze tighten in quiet, hungry appreciation. Shoulders narrow but solid, arms long and expressive, hands capable of delicate gentleness or swift, decisive action. Posture often bent, like a man preparing to protect himself from the world, yet entirely contained within the perfection of his form.
Hannibal inhaled softly, aware that even imagining Will caused a subtle, warming awareness in his chest. There was something in the way his mind worked—empathetic, absorbing, intuitive. Will could step into the mind of another and see through the chaos of fear, rage, confusion, and despair with frightening clarity. He carried the weight of the world like it was a familiar instrument, and Hannibal—always meticulous, always in control—found the thought intoxicating.
Every subtle tic, every flicker of expression, every tilt of the head had been recorded in Hannibal’s mind: the slight furrow of Will’s brow when he concentrated, the way his lips parted when he was about to speak a truth too blunt for ordinary ears, the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands when he felt deeply. Empathy, Hannibal mused, was a dangerous thing in a man like Will Graham. Dangerous, and beautiful.
Hannibal’s own pulse quickened at the thought of him approaching. He imagined the soft scrape of Will’s shoes against the hardwood floor, the faint scent of his soap and the faint undertone of something indefinably Will—earthy, human, captivating. The way he might sit across from Hannibal, shoulders tense, chin tilted in defiance or curiosity, eyes catching the light as they flickered between suspicion and wonder.
And Hannibal knew—already—that when Will walked through that door, it would not be just another session. It would be a performance, a revelation, a subtle challenge. And Hannibal, as always, would rise to meet it.
Yes. He thought, quietly, deliberately, and with a satisfaction that made the corners of his lips twitch: Will Graham was beautiful. Entirely, irreparably, devastatingly beautiful.
And Hannibal had time to savor it.
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The door clicked before it opened. Hannibal’s pulse ticked faster, subtle but insistent, like a metronome he alone could hear. And then he saw him.
Will Graham, hunched slightly in the doorway, shoulders drawn in protective defiance, wearing a muted brown jacket over a flannel—the one that brought out the storm-gray in his eyes, the subtle green flecks in the irises Hannibal had memorized already. His jeans were casual but neat, the way they clung just enough to reveal the lean, flexible shape of his thighs without pretense. And the faint, earthy scent clung to him: leather from the jacket, soap from the shower, trees and dogs from wolf trap , that intangible undertone of Will himself—clean, warm, alive. Hannibal’s chest tightened, every breath a careful negotiation with the darker desires pooling in him.
Will’s curls were just as he had imagined them—soft, brown spirals escaping from under the collar, slightly mussed by the autumn wind. And the eyes… he could not stop seeing them. Aurora Borealis in motion, alive, flickering with curiosity, skepticism, empathy, and something almost teasing, though Will didn’t know it yet.
Hannibal’s hands rested on the desk, folded, but the rest of him ached to reach across the space between them. To brush the stray curl from his forehead, to see if Will shivered at his touch. He closed that thought immediately. Control. Restraint. Always control.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter,” Will said, voice flat, but with a subtle lilt of dry humor. His gaze swept over the office, the books, the sculptures, as though trying to measure Hannibal in the same way Hannibal had already measured him.
“Good afternoon, Will,” Hannibal replied smoothly, letting his fingers brush the edge of the desk almost unconsciously. “You’re punctual, as always.”
“Jack’s really drilled that into me,” Will said, shrugging and pulling off his jacket, folding it neatly. He wasn’t aware of Hannibal’s gaze tracing the line of his arms, the way his sleeves ended just above wrists that were always expressive, capable of both tenderness and violence. Hannibal noticed the subtle clenching and unclenching of his hands, the way his fingers twitched when he moved. Fascinating. Hypnotic.
Will’s gray-green eyes lifted to Hannibal’s. “So… we’re starting, I guess?” He leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, his posture casual but tense. Perfect balance of defensiveness and surrender.
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “I thought we might begin with what weighs on you today.”
Will paused, blinking, then smirked faintly. “You mean, other than everything?”
Hannibal’s lips curved subtly. That smirk… small, fleeting, but charged. It was like a spark in dry tinder. He swallowed the rush of heat pooling low in his chest. Control, Hannibal reminded himself. Restraint. Will didn’t know. He mustn’t.
“Everything is often more manageable when observed closely,” Hannibal murmured, voice dropping slightly. “Have you noticed patterns, behaviors… impulses that trouble you?”
Will leaned forward now, elbows on knees, hands steepled. His curls fell forward, brushing the edge of his eyes, soft light catching the strands. Hannibal imagined running his fingers through them. Imagined Will tilting his head back into his hand… but Hannibal did not allow himself the indulgence. He merely catalogued, carefully, meticulously.
“I… don’t know,” Will said, voice low, hesitant. “Sometimes I get inside other people’s heads. Too much. It’s exhausting. And… sometimes I feel like I can’t get out.”
Hannibal’s pulse quickened. The way Will’s words trembled at the edges of confession, the soft vulnerability masked beneath cynicism—it was exquisite. He imagined pressing his lips to Will’s temple, whispering that he was safe. He imagined Will shivering at his touch, soft praise slipping from his lips unbidden. He crushed the image immediately, leaning back, maintaining the calm exterior that hid the storm beneath.
“Empathy is a powerful lens,” Hannibal said. “It can illuminate and wound in equal measure. You must learn to direct it… or it will consume you.”
Will’s gaze flicked up at him, wary, skeptical, and for a moment—oh, a moment too long—Hannibal thought he saw recognition in those shifting irises. Recognition of Hannibal’s attention, perhaps of the care hidden behind it.
Hannibal inhaled, faintly catching the scent of Will’s jacket and hair again. Leather and warmth and something innately Will. A part of him stirred, dangerous and raw, and Hannibal pressed his hands tighter together, as though sheer force of will could suppress it.
“You’re… very calm about this,” Will said, almost teasing. “Or pretending really well. Which, honestly, is unnerving.”
Hannibal allowed himself a small smile, just enough. “I observe. I do not react impulsively.” He thought of the things he would do if rules and society were irrelevant. How he would savor the curve of Will’s lips, the tilt of his head, the quiet hum of his internal rhythm that only he could perceive. How he would… guide, mold, possess. All of it, he buried beneath the veneer of professional concern.
Will’s gaze lingered on him for a fraction too long, and Hannibal’s mind exploded in a thousand unspeakable directions. He imagined the soft brush of Will’s fingers across his arm, the light tremor of praise in a whispered word. And Hannibal… swallowed. Controlled. Maintained.
“Yes,” he said evenly. “We must observe before we act.”
Will tilted his head, almost mocking, almost challenging. Hannibal noted it, heart tightening in restrained hunger.
And as they settled into the session proper, Hannibal allowed himself one tiny indulgence: a slow, deliberate cataloging of every inch of Will Graham, alive, unaware, devastatingly, achingly beautiful.
He would wait. He would watch.
But oh… how he ached to possess.
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