Chapter Text
It starts with a bottle of expensive Japanese whiskey.
When Will walks into his office that morning and flips on the lights, he immediately sees the white box sitting on his desk. He frowns, drops his bag by his chair and stares at it.
The embossed gold lettering and thick textured cardboard convey that whatever he's been given is at least somewhat pricey. There's not a lick of English on the packaging, only what he vaguely recognizes as either Chinese hanzi or Japanese kanji. He drops into his chair and opens the box.
Inside is a heavy glass bottle of liquor, the liquid golden amber. There's finally English on the label; when Will googles it he almost spits out his mouthful of shitty coffee at the price. The Japanese whiskey is worth more than he spends on his mortgage monthly.
There's also a card that he'd missed.
Dear Will. It reads. I hope you enjoy.
And that's it. Loopy handwriting that he doesn't recognise, black ink on snow-white card. No name, nothing. At least he knows this wasn't a mistake and the whiskey was meant for him.
Then Will remembers that his office is locked. He'd locked it when he'd left last night and he'd unlocked it this morning. Unless Peter had let someone in, whoever had left his gift had either learned to teleport, or picked the lock just to leave him an anonymous gift.
A very expensive, anonymous gift.
There is no one in Will's life who would do this. Not that he can think of, anyway.
His father is long dead. His ex-wife, Molly, doesn't have the money for it, and they're not exactly on speaking terms. Crawford, head of the faculty at the university—they're not that close. Alana…also doesn't have the money. And considering their relationship had lasted all of a week and she'd been very firm about her reasons for calling it off, this wouldn't have come from her. Peter's not really an option either.
Will's aware it's vaguely pathetic he can list the living people in his life with the fingers on one hand and still have one left over. He has more dogs than friends, but he likes to tell himself that he prefers it that way. He's in his fifties now. There's no teaching an old, twitchy dog new tricks. And he'd tried the all-American dream of a wife and kid and white picket fence. It had not worked out. Will's self aware enough now to realise that Molly and Wally had deserved much better.
It's not even eight in the morning but Will pours a shot of whiskey into a clean coffee mug. He takes a sip and can't help but close his eyes, humming. Silky smooth, pleasantly peaty, with floral and fruity notes. His palate isn't developed enough to pick out particulars but he's drunk more than enough shit whiskey in his life to know that this is not one of them.
It's probably the nicest whiskey he's ever had.
Downing the rest of the mug without savouring it is a crime, but he's got a lecture in ten minutes. The whiskey sits pleasantly warm in his stomach as he walks briskly, an unconventional breakfast that loosens his limbs while he sets up the projector and watches his students file in.
First year undergrad classes for Criminal Behaviour Psychology are inevitably full of students who will drop out, either from the subject material or his particular brand of bluntness and harsh grading. This year Will hopes more than usual will.
The first essays for the semester are dismal. Will marks them at home in Wolf Trap curled up on his couch, laptop perched on his thighs and Buster snoring up a storm next to him. Winston is much quieter on the floor in front of the fire, with Zoe's little head raising up and down on his belly as he breathes.
Brown shows some promise, but the amount of typos and run-on sentences make Will's eyelid twitch. Has the guy never heard of spell check? Not to mention his conclusion is confusing at best.
Tier's is passable if juvenile. Pimms strangely brings up bees where they have no logical reason to be, and Stammets somehow works in how fungi mirror the structure of the human mind in a way that makes Will want to slam his head through a wall.
Lecter, however, writes like he should be in Will's post graduate class. His writing is succinct, devastatingly logical and to the point, yet somehow flows almost like prose. Pretentious vocabulary at times, but Will finds himself engrossed and very impressed. He gives Lecter the highest mark he's ever given.
He sips at a few fingers of his new whiskey afterwards, staring into the fire. Material things he couldn't give less fucks about, but the whiskey is good and it's…nice to be given a gift. It's been years since he's gotten one.
He wonders if he'll get another or if it's a one off.
It is not a one off. A week later there is a slim, dark blue box waiting on his desk in the morning.
Again, it looks expensive. Will almost feels bad touching it.
On top is another note with the same loopy handwriting. Dear Will. It reads again. I noticed your belt is looking rather worn. Please accept this replacement.
Inside is a hand tooled dark brown leather belt, the carved patterns subtly reminiscent of water currents. Will runs it through his hands in admiration, but puts it back into the box. The whiskey was one thing, but the belt…it's too nice. Will doesn't have space for things like that in his life.
He puts it in the lowest drawer of his desk and tells himself to forget it.
Office hours are a commitment Will would rather not adhere to, but he's in enough hot water with Crawford over the amount of students who drop his classes as it is, so he suffers through them twice a week.
He doesn't mind helping his students per se, but conversing with too many people puts him on edge. Especially small talk. Will knows that it's a human ritual tied to feeling more comfortable with someone you don't know, but he's never been good at it. It's tiring, trying not to overload on the other's emotions but still come off as open. He tends to stare at the rim of his glasses, and not make eye contact, and be far too dry with his humour—and then the person he's speaking with gets offended, or simply doesn't get it, and he mirrors their unease and everyone just ends up uncomfortable.
Brown, however, isn't uncomfortable. If anything, he's making Will uncomfortable.
He's leaning too far over Will's desk. As Will answers his questions he doesn't seem to really care or take any notes, just keeps staring, unblinking. His eyes are a tad too wide and manic for Will's liking.
"…Do I have something on my face?" Will finally asks after a moment of awkward silence. It wouldn't be the first time. He's not exactly a neat eater. He fights the urge to scrub at his mouth and scruff.
"No," Brown says. He finally blinks.
"Oh," Will replies. "Well. Uh, if you don't have any other questions…?"
"Do you like hawks, Professor?"
Well, that's out of the blue. "I've never really thought about it. I guess I like them enough."
The slow grin that Brown gives is off-putting. "Cool," he says. "See you next week, Prof'." He winks before getting out of his chair and sauntering out the door, leaving it swinging open into the hall.
…Strange guy. Will's had a few not-quite-right students, but he's never been one to judge. He's not-quite-right himself.
He bumps his glasses up his nose with the back of a finger and checks the booking system on his laptop. The last slot of his office hours is reserved by Hannibal Lecter.
As if reading the name summons the owner, there's a quiet, polite knock on his doorframe.
Will looks up through the unruly curls of his fringe and blinks.
The young man standing in the doorway is tall, blond and handsome. Will vaguely remembers seeing him in the back row of his lectures, half in shadow. Brown eyes, strong, sharp facial structure, broad shoulders and long dancer legs. His clothing is neater and more mature looking than Will's used to seeing on students. Will's not one to care about his appearance but he's distinctly conscious that he's wearing faded flannel consisting more of dog fur than polyester at this point, he hasn't shaved in days, and he neglected to brush his hair this morning. He's fifty, divorced and chronically single with seven dogs, no one expects him to look nice for god's sake, but he finds himself tucking a curl behind his ear nervously and hating himself for it.
"Mr. Lecter, come in."
"Professor Graham, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." Lecter has a European accent that Will can't quite place, and his voice is quiet and flowing, like his essays. Will wipes his palm off on his unironed chinos before accepting his hand.
Lecter's shake is firm, his grip warm and dry. Will's hand tingles after and he tucks it away in his lap, mildly annoyed.
"Most of my students wouldn't say it's a pleasure to meet me," Will says, dry.
"I would say many of my peers have tastes that leave much to be desired," Lecter replies as he gracefully lowers himself into the chair in front of Will's desk.
Will raises a brow. "I would say I'm an acquired taste, at the risk of sounding cannibalistic."
Lecter laughs.
Will blinks, unused to someone appreciating his humour. He clears his throat and avoids Lecter's brown eyes. They're practically sparkling with mirth and it's making Will uncomfortable. Fucking office hours.
"What can I do for you?" Will asks, to get them back on track. "I find it hard to believe that you're here for advice."
Lecter raises his thin brows a tad. "Why do you say that?"
"Your work is easily the best in my class," Will says. "Hell, better than my postgraduates. I've given you almost perfect marks on everything you've handed in."
"Almost perfect marks," Lecter points out. He leans forward slightly. "I would like to know how I can achieve perfection in your eyes, Professor."
The side of Will's mouth quirks up. "I'm afraid even I don't know what that looks like."
"Shall we try to discover together?"
It's Will's turn to laugh, the sound rusty and hoarse. If he didn't know better he would have thought Lecter was flirting with him. "Sure. Let me bring up your last assignment and we can go over my feedback."
Lecter is intelligent and well spoken. He takes Will's blunt feedback gracefully and even gratefully, and if like Matthew he doesn't take notes, he obviously pays close attention. He builds on Will's ideas and conversation flows easily. When Will looks next at his watch he startles to realise it's more than ten minutes after his office hours finish.
"I apologise if I'm keeping you," Lecter says, seeing Will's look.
"Oh, it's fine." It's not like he's got anyone waiting for him at home other than his bottle of whiskey and his dogs. The whiskey isn't going anywhere and it's not the dog's dinner time for a while yet. "I'm curious, what are you majoring in?"
"I've just finished med school," Lecter says.
Will blinks. "How old are you?"
Lecter's smile is mild. "Twenty-five."
"That's impressive," Will says, feeling very old and unaccomplished. Christ, he's half my age. "Should I be calling you Doctor, then?"
"I admit I'm not yet accustomed to it."
"You'll get used to it soon." Will's smile is lopsided. "Doctor. So, why are you taking my class?"
"I'm having trouble deciding on my speciality," Lecter explains. "I decided to take some electives in the meantime. This class caught my eye."
"Why?"
Tilting his head, Lecter smiles enigmatically. "Multiple reasons."
"…Right," Will drawls. "Well, could I possibly tempt you out of the medical world and into criminal psychology?"
That sphinx smile morphs into an expression that pings Will's empathy, not in warning but something that makes Will sit up and pay attention. "You could possibly tempt me," Lecter says.
Will clears his throat again, not understanding the warmth flooding his cheeks. Lecter is not flirting with him. For so many reasons—Will's too old, and divorced, and probably depressed, and a professor, and male…and Lecter is…young, and very handsome, and a student, and scarily intelligent. And wouldn't look at Will twice even if he weren't straight. Not that Will wants him to look twice. Will's straight. He's only ever been with women. And for god's sake, Lecter is literally half his age. And his student.
"Well, let me know if I manage to change your mind. You're easily my best student."
"I'll endeavour to keep that title." Lecter stands and brushes out imaginary creases from his buttoned shirt. "Good evening, Professor Graham. Thank you for your help."
Will stands to take Lecter's offered hand again. Once more, he's left with warm, pleasant tingles. He shoves his offending hand in his pocket and forces his face into a lopsided smile. "Anytime."
He's surprised to find he means it.
The next day Will finds an expensive bottle of cologne on his desk. Dear Will. The note reads. This will suit you far better than the ship-on-the-bottle aftershave you currently wear. I have picked you out something more befitting the fine quality that is your natural scent and skin chemistry.
Wrinkling his nose, Will wonders what his natural scent and skin chemistry smells like. Probably night sweats, dog drool and stale whiskey. Surely anything that would compliment that wouldn't exactly be enjoyable.
But when he uncaps the heavy glass bottle and gives it a cursory sniff he gets a pleasant woodsy whiff. Going back for a more in depth examination, he breathes in slowly through his nose and picks up cedar, musk, and something softer and almost sweet. There are no notes of what he should be smelling on the bottle. When he googles what he thinks is the brand name on the label the website that comes up is a simple page that reads boutique custom perfumery and lists a phone number.
It's a nice scent, but Will shoves it into the bottom drawer alongside the belt.
Someone runs into Will in the hall. Swearing, Will stumbles back and his bag slips from his shoulder, hitting the floor and spilling open. He fumbles his coffee, but that too splashes all over his shirt.
"Whoops!" The student tosses over their shoulder as they keep running down the hall, obviously late for something.
"Are you alright?"
Will looks up from where he's pulling the wet material of his shirt away from his chest, grimacing. It stings where the hot liquid has soaked in.
It was Lecter who'd asked, looking as put together and handsome as always. As Will watches he goes to his knees to gather Will's things, and Will hastily goes down as well to help, wincing as his joints pop.
"You don't have to do that," Will says.
Lecter smiles at him. "I know."
Their hands brush as they reach for the same book. Will flinches back but Lecter doesn't comment, just continues to pick up the scattered papers and pens and myriad of muesli bar wrappers that Will is currently regretting not throwing out.
They rise as one.
"I'm afraid that shirt might be unsalvageable." Lecter points out.
Will sighs. The beige material has a massive brown stain down the front. "I don't have a change of clothes," he grumbles.
"I do. They will fit you. I'll collect them from my car and meet you in your office." Lecter's already striding away before Will can protest.
Well, it's not like Will's got much choice now. He hefts his bag over his shoulder and makes his way back to his office. He's stripped the wet shirt and is poking at the red skin the hot coffee left on his chest when Lecter walks in.
The younger man pauses and Will, for some godforsaken reason, goes warm in the cheeks. Lecter's amber eyes sweep over Will's chest and Will resists the urge to cross his arms to cover himself. He knows he's not exactly much to look at, softer around the edges and frailer than he'd been in his thirties and early forties.
"Only a mild burn," Lecter comments, and for some reason something in Will deflates. Of course he was just looking at the burn. Not that Will had wanted him to be looking for other reasons. "Running cool water over it would be beneficial."
"Thanks, Doctor," Will says, "but I think I'll live."
Making a mildly unimpressed noise, Lecter hands over a folded button up.
"Thank you." Will shrugs into it, noting that the quality of the fabric is far superior to his usual. He buttons it up quickly, leaving the top one undone. It big around the shoulders and chest and too long in the sleeve, which isn't surprising given Lecter's taller, broader build.
"The colour suits you."
"Hm?"
"Royal blue becomes you. You should add more of it to your wardrobe."
"Uh, I don't think Walmart stocks anything in royal blue."
"A shame."
Will smiles awkwardly, shifting on his feet. He nudges his glasses up but doesn't stare the at rims. Lecter's gaze is easier to meet than anyone else that Will's ever known, and Will's not quite sure what to make of that. Not much leaks through from him into Will's sponge of a brain. Either Lecter is on a remarkably even keel, or he's a psychopath. "Thanks for lending me a shirt, I owe you one."
"It's hardly a favour," Lecter says, "possibly more one for myself. That beige did nothing for you. I might have thanked that man for running into you, if it weren't for that burn. It was quite rude of him to not properly apologise."
Will scratches his chin, fingernail rasping through his scruff. He needs to trim it, actually. It's getting too long. "Yeah, I'm not exactly a fashionista."
Lecter's smile is strangely tinged with affection. "Clearly."
"I'll wash it tonight and return it tomorrow," Will says. "Uh, if you want to come around during my office hours, or I'm usually here in the mornings before 8."
"No need to wash it," Lecter says, "I'll get it laundered. I could also see if they can get this stain out of your shirt—my dry cleaner can work wonders."
"Not worth it," Will says, "But thanks for offering. I should've thrown it out ages ago, it's pretty threadbare."
"Well, I can't say I'm sad about it."
Will laughs. "Careful, or I'll begin to think you paid that guy to spill my coffee on me."
"I'm not that indirect," Lecter smiles. "If I'd wanted that shirt off you that badly, I'd have done it myself."
Will's laugh peters out awkwardly. He reminds himself that it's not possible Lecter is flirting with him, the guy just has a strange sense of humour. European humour, probably; Will hasn't spent much time around them to really know. And Will can't hold it against him, when his own brand of humour is so off kilter to the rest of society.
"I've actually got a class to teach in a bit."
"I won't keep you. I have a prior engagement tomorrow morning, but I'll come by Thursday to collect my shirt?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Later, after class, as Will's reviewing his lecture notes for tomorrow in his office, he finds himself tugging up the collar of Lecter's shirt and inhaling. The scent that clings to it is masculine, deeply spiced and aromatic. Will takes another breath, and then another. His eyes flutter closed.
There's a knock on his door, and Brown opens it before Will can respond.
Will straightens up in his chair, clearing his throat and regaining his composure. "My office hours are over for today."
Brown saunters in anyway. "Yeah, but I really need you, Prof'. Oh. Nice shirt." His eyes rake over Will's torso in the complete antithesis of Lecter's polite examination. It makes the hairs on the back of Will's neck stand up. "Bit big, though."
Will's had quite enough of people commenting on his clothing today. "Come back tomorrow," he says, "and book a slot in my office hours. I'm busy right now."
Rocking back on his heels, Brown cocks his head, not unlike the hawks he'd brought up last week. "Playing hard to get," he says, grinning. "I like it. Sure Prof', I'll see you tomorrow." He winks.
Incredulously, Will watches the young man leave his office. Maybe it's his age. Will really doesn't get youngsters' humour these days.