Chapter Text
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"You're going to ruin the binding," Will muttered, watching as the customer flipped through a first edition of The Great Gatsby with seemingly no care in the world.
The man didn't look up. "Hm. I thought bookstores encouraged reading." His voice was smooth and faintly accented, perhaps European, though Will struggled to hear anything over the allure of the man's voice.
"Well, not like that," Will said, much sharper than he originally meant to. He exhaled through his nose and forced himself to relax, "It's like two hundred years old."
With this, the stranger paused. He turned the book over in his hands, inspecting the spine with unexpected gentleness, considering the barbaric way he was just flipping through it. "Then perhaps it belongs behind glass." The man's eyes finally met Will's. They were dark, almost burgundy, in the cafe's warm light.
Something in the man's expression made Will's stomach tighten.
The stranger closed the book with deliberate care, sliding it back onto the shelf with the precision of someone who knew exactly where it belonged. His fingers lingered against the spine for a heartbeat too long before he withdrew.
"You have an impressive collection," he said, his gaze skimming the shelves with an undisguised appreciation. "Far more eclectic than most stores of this size."
Will shrugged before leaning on the counter in front of him. "People donate weird shit." The words, having come out on the offensive side and much sharper than intended, didn't seem to bother the man in front of him— if anything, his lips curved in amusement.
"Or perhaps you have excellent taste." He took a step closer, the scent of expensive cologne cutting through the musky smell of old paper and undusted shelves.
"Hannibal Lecter." He extended a hand, and Will found himself hesitating before ultimately taking it. Hannibal's grip was firm, his skin warm.
"Will Graham."
Will's fingers twitched against the counter's edge as Hannibal's hand lingered in his grip a second longer than necessary. The man's smile didn't waver; it seemed polite yet practiced— like he'd rehearsed in a mirror. His gaze flickered over each feature of Will's face with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It wasn't the usual once-over strangers normally gave him before sizing him up as harmless or a bit unhinged. This was something else entirely.
Something almost hungry.
“Do you run your shop alone?” Hannibal asked, glancing toward the empty cafe tables on the opposite side of the bookstore.
Will shrugged, folding his arms against his chest. “Mostly. My wife helps when she’s not at the clinic.” The lie came easily. Truth was, Molly hadn’t set foot in the shop since Alana’s body was found. The cops had asked too many questions, stared too long at the bloodstains on the back steps— stains that hadn’t been there before.
Hannibal hummed, full of thought. “A family business, then.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Will with a curiosity that bordered on clinical. “You must be under considerable stress.”
Will’s jaw tightened; he hated how easily Hannibal saw through him. It was as if the man was attempting to peel back the layers of his skin, desperately wanting to expose the raw nerves beneath.
“Just another day in paradise,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his stubble.
Hannibal’s eyes tracked the movement, lingering on the callouses on Will’s fingers. Imperfections created from fishing lines and dog leashes, though there seemed to be no history of book spines or coffee cups.
“Paradise is often misunderstood,” he mused, stepping closer to the counter. The scent of his cologne was sharper now, almost invasive.
“Many mistake it for peace. But paradise is simply a place untouched by ruin.”
A smile crept onto the man’s face, flashing his once hidden canines. “Until it isn’t,” he continued.
Will snorted, tossing a glare over at the man before glancing toward the back door where the police tape still fluttered in the breeze. “Yeah, well. Ruin’s been here.”
A flicker of something— interest, hunger?— passed through Hannibal’s maroon eyes, before quickly vanishing and being replaced with polite concern.
“You ought to take a break. Grief is corrosive when left unaddressed.”
“What are you, a fucking shrink? You my therapist now?” Will shot back, once again, immediately regretting the bite in his tone.
Hannibal merely smiled, almost as if he didn’t hear the feral tone of the shorter man.
“No. Though I have an eye for suffering.” His fingers brushed the edge of the counter, inches from Will’s own.
Hannibal leaned into Will, his voice a husky whisper, “You’re drowning in it,” he continued.
Will swallowed hard, suddenly painfully aware of the heat radiating from Hannibal’s body, the way his tailored suit clung to his shoulders like a second skin. He’d never been good with people in his personal space— but this didn’t feel like an invasion. It felt like being studied under glass.
The bell above the door jingled before he could respond.
Molly stood in the doorway, her coat damp from the rain outside. It took her several steps to even realize there was company.
Her eyes darted from Will to Hannibal; she made no attempt to hide the pained disdain her eyes made at the proximity of the two men.
“Sorry,” she said, much too quickly, “I didn’t realize you had-”
“Excuse my intrusion,” Hannibal started, “Hannibal Lecter.” He extended a hand, “A pleasure.”
Molly hesitated before shaking it, her grip loose, her eyes remained fixated on the men in front of her— darting from Hannibal to Will. “Molly Graham.”
“Could I talk to you? In the back?” Molly asked, her eyes now trained on her husband.
Will exhaled through his nose, making no effort to hide his painful disinterest in whatever Molly had to say privately.
“Sure.” He nodded to Hannibal, “Excuse us.”
Hannibal tossed Will a curt nod, a smile on his mouth that seemed dastardly close to a smirk sat on his face, “Of course.”
In the stockroom, Molly practically pounced on Will the moment the door shut.
“Who the hell was that?”
“A customer.”
Her laugh was brittle, “Customers don’t look at you like that.”
Will rubbed his temples, “Like what, Molly?”
“Like you’re-” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Know what? Never mind. The detective called again. They want you to go over your statement. Again.”
Will’s stomach twisted. “Tell them I’m busy.”
“Yeah? Busy with what, Will?” Molly’s voice cracked. “We haven’t had a customer in days, I mean, besides him.”
The accusation hung between them— thick and suffocating. Will clenched his fists.
“I’m handling it.”
Molly scoffed, her eyes wet and furious. “Are you?”
Before he could answer, the door behind them creaked open. In the doorway, there stood Hannibal, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
Will immediately recognized it as his favorite blend, a blend he hid— one he never served to the customers.
“I apologize for interrupting,” he said, his voice the sweet velvet Will needed to finally relax his shoulders. “Though I thought you could use this.”
Molly’s expression darkened, “We’re closed.”
Hannibal’s smile never wavered. “Of course.” He set the cup on a stack of boxes, his gaze lingering on Will, “Another time, then.”
The moment he left, Molly snatched the cup and dumped it in the sink.
“I mean, what the fuck, Will?”
Will stared at the dark liquid swirling down the drain. He couldn’t explain why his heart was pounding— why Hannibal’s presence felt like a key turning in a lock he himself hadn’t known was there.
“He’s just a customer,” he repeated, but the words tasted like a lie, bitter as they rolled off his tongue.
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The coffee stain lingered in the sink like an accusation. Will scrubbed at it long after Molly had stormed out, his fingers raw from the scalding water. Hannibal’s cup— Will’s favorite blend, the one he kept hidden behind the counter— had left a ring of dark residue that refused to fade.
He wondered, absent-mindedly, how Hannibal had even known.
Three days came and went without another visit. Will told himself he wasn’t watching the door.
On Thursday, Hannibal had returned— but not to the bookstore, to the dock where Will kept his fishing boat. Will saw him first as a silhouette against the setting sun, his tailored coat flaring in the salt-stained wind. He didn’t look like a man who belonged near the water.
“You stalking me now?” Will called over the creak of the boat’s hull.
Hannibal didn’t move from where he stood on the dock, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his coat. The wind tugged at his hair, though to no avail, and Will found himself oddly annoyed by the perfection of Hannibal Lecter.
“Stalking implies malicious intent,” Hannibal responded, his voice carrying easily over the water, “I prefer to think of this as a persistent admiration.”
Will scoffed, tightening his grip on the fishing net he’d been untangling. The fibers bit into his palms, a much-welcomed distraction. “Persistent,” he echoed, “That’s one word for it.”
“Would you prefer tenacious?” Hannibal took a step forward, the dock creaking beneath his polished shoes. “Or perhaps devoted?”
Will tossed the net side with more force than necessary. It landed in a tangled heap just a few inches from his feet.
“I’d prefer gone.” The lie tasted bitter. He hadn’t slept properly since their last encounter— hadn’t stopped replaying the way Hannibal’s fingers had brushed the counter, the heat of his gaze practically branding Will.
Truthfully, Will had expected Hannibal to leave when he told him to— most people did. But the man remained rooted on the dock, unmoving, his maroon eyes fixated on Will with an intensity that made the hairs on his body prickle. The wind carried the scent of his cologne across the water: something woodsy, but dark, almost metallic, it reminded Will of the blade of a knife. The scent shouldn’t have been comforting.
“You’re not very good at listening,” Will said, wiping his hands on his jeans. The saltwater had dried his skin raw, and the motion all but stung.
Hannibal tilted his head, considering. “I listen exceptionally well. It’s obedience, I believe I struggle with.” His lips curved, just slightly. “And you, Will Graham, are not a man accustomed to being obeyed.”
Will clenched his jaw. Hannibal was right, and he hated it. Hated how easily the man slipped past his defenses, how his words settled under his skin like shards of glass. He turned back to the net, feigning disinterest, but his fingers fumbled with the knots. “Why are you here?”
The net slipped from Will’s fingers, the coarse rope unraveling into the murky water below. Hannibal didn’t flinch at the splash, didn’t glance down— his gaze remained locked on Will’s face.
“I told you to take a break,” Hannibal said, as if that explained anything. As if his presence on the dock wasn’t an intrusion but an inevitability that Will must face.
Will’s pulse thudded in his throat, “So you followed me to the middle of the fucking nowhere to play therapist?”
“Not a therapist,” Hannibal corrected, stepping closer. The wood groaned beneath his weight, and Will could smell him even clearer now— not just the cologne but the warmth underneath it, something alive and unsettlingly human. “Merely a concerned observer.”
Will barked a laugh, something jarring enough to startle a bird into flight. “Bullshit.” He wiped his hands again, though they were already dry. “You, Hannibal, don’t observe. You dig. You-” He stopped, suddenly aware of how much he’d given away. How much Hannibal had pulled from him without even trying.
The silence between them stretched like a fishing line being pulled taut. Will could almost hear the tension strumming in the air, could feel the weight of Hannibal’s gaze like a hook lodged deep in his ribs. He couldn’t look at him, at least, not directly, not when the man stood there with his polished shoes and knowing smile, peeling Will apart with the precision of a surgeon.
“You don’t know me,” Will said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. He crouched to retrieve the net, his fingers sinking into the cold water, anything to avoid the way Hannibal’s eyes burned into the back of his neck.
“I know enough,” Hannibal replied; Will could hear the smile in his voice, smug and infuriating.
“You are a man who prefers the company of dogs to people. You are a man who sleeps with a knife under his pillow, even now, though the police have cleared you— mostly.”
Hannibal took a step forward.
“You are a man who has not felt the embrace of his doting wife in weeks, or at least since the body of Dr. Bloom was found behind your store.” Hannibal paused, slow and deliberate, “Shall I continue?”
Will’s fingers clenched around the net, the rope biting into his palms. He oh so wanted to throw it at Hannibal’s face, anything to see that perfect composure shatter. Instead, he stood slowly, water dripping from his hands.
“You’ve been watching me.” Will’s voice was low.
The silence between them was thick enough to choke on. Water dripped from Will’s clenched fists onto the deck, each drop sounding obscenely loud in the stillness. Hannibal didn’t move, nor blink— merely watching the man with an infuriating calm, as if dissecting every twitch of Will’s jaw, every ragged breath.
“You, Hannibal Lecter, have been watching me,” Will repeated, softer now, tasting the words like a blade on his tongue.
Hannibal tilted his head, a fraction of an inch. “Observation is not inherently malicious.”
Will choked back a dry laugh, “Tell that to Alana.” The moment her name left his lips, he regretted it. Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something between them shifted—like the pressure drop before a sweeping storm.
The name, Alana, hung between them. Will watched Hannibal’s face through furrowed brows— the way his maroon eyes flickered, the slight tightening of his jaw. Then, and only then, did Will Graham realize with sudden clarity that he’d struck something raw.
“Interesting,” Hannibal murmured, “You assume I knew her.”
Will’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He hadn’t assumed anything; he hadn’t even meant to say her name at all. But now, Hannibal’s gaze was dissecting him. Now, Will couldn’t back down.
“You’re here, aren’t you? Watching me. Digging. You know something.”
Hannibal stepped forward, almost fully closing the gap between them. The sound of Hannibal’s polished shoes tapping against the weathered dock sounded almost deliberate, rhythmic— like a predator circling its prey.
“I know many things, Will. That does not make me complicit.”
The boat creaked beneath Will’s boots, the sound piercing through the silence. He could feel Hannibal’s presence on the dock as though it was physically laboring him— unwanted and undeniable. The net in his hands dripped brackish water onto the deck, forming dark puddles that seeped into the wood grain.
“You don’t just know things, now do you, Hannibal?” Will pushed, his knuckles white around the rope.
“You knew my coffee order, th-the knife under my pillow. How long have you been standing outside my fucking house?”
Hannibal’s smile didn’t waver, but something behind his eyes sharpened— a blade now unsheathed.
“Long enough to know you lie to yourself more than you lie to others.”
Hannibal took another step forward, the dock protesting beneath him. “You ask me to leave,” he started, “though you’ve been awaiting my return.”
Will’s breath hitched. The truth burned like salt being ground into his raw and calloused hands. He had watched the door. He’d traced the rim of his coffee cup that morning, it was the one Hannibal brought him— the very one Molly poured down the drain.
Will’s fingers tightened around the net until the rough fibers bit into his palms. The pain grounded him; it kept him from lunging across the gap between the boat and the dock— kept him from doing something stupid.
Something stupid like grabbing Hannibal by his immaculate lapels and shaking him until that infuriating composure cracked.
“You don’t know what I want,” Will said, his voice low and rough like the growl of a cornered animal.
Hannibal’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it seemed to deepen, as if Will’s defiance amused him.
“Don’t I?” Another step forward from the larger man set his ever-so-polished shoes, standing at the edge of the dock. The distance between them was palpable now, close enough that Will could see the faint stubble along Hannibal’s jaw, the way the dying light caught the red in his maroon eyes.
“You want answers. You want control. You want-”
“Stop.” Will’s voice cracked like a whip. He didn’t want to hear the rest. Didn’t want Hannibal to give voice to things he couldn’t even admit to himself in the dark, when the house was silent, and Molly’s side of the bed was cold.
“You don’t get to tell me what I want,” Will said, but the defiance in his voice sounded hollow, even to himself.
Hannibal’s smile was as sharp as a knife's edge. “No?” He tilted his head, the sunset only working to catch the sharp angles of his face. “Then tell me yourself.”
Will’s jaw clenched. He could lie.
He should lie.
But something in Hannibal’s gaze— something predatory yet patient— made the bubbling lies stick in his throat. He looked away at first, staring down at the dark water lapping against the boat’s hull.
The water reflected Hannibal’s silhouette back at Will in fractured pieces— sharp shoulders, the elegant cut of his jaw, the curvature of his mouth. It was easier to look at the reflection than the man himself. Easier to pretend the hunger in Hannibal’s eyes was just a trick of the light.
“You are afraid,” Hannibal observed, “Not of me. Of what I may pull out of you.”
Will’s fingers twitched against the net. “I’m not a fucking puppet.”
“No,” Hannibal agreed, “Puppets don’t fight their strings.”
“Tell me, Will,” the man continued, “When was the last time someone saw you?”
The question hit Will hard, a slap across the face with no aftercare. He stared at Hannibal, the net now forgotten in his hands.
The words slithered under his skin, curling around his ribs.
Molly hadn’t even bothered to glance in Will’s general direction properly in the last few weeks— not since Alana’s body turned up.
Not since the cops started circling their place of peace and comfort like vultures.
But before that? God, he couldn’t remember.
Hannibal didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped onto the boat with the grace of a man who’d never known uncertainty. The boat tilted slightly under his weight, and Will hated the way his body instinctively shifted to compensate for Hannibal’s presence.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” Will said, though his voice now lacked its usual edge. It came out hoarse, like he’d been shouting into the wind for hours.
Hannibal’s smile, a slow and deliberate thing, seemed to be nothing short of amused by Will’s change in behavior. “Though I just did.”
He reached out, plucking a strand of seaweed from the net still entangled in Will’s grip. His fingers brushed Will’s knuckles— deliberately, Will was sure of it. The contact sent a jolt up his arm.
“You are not used to being known,” Hannibal mused, “It frightens you.”
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