Chapter Text
"Lecter!" Dr Abel Gideon called Hannibal over from where he was reviewing a patient's chart.
Hannibal Lecter was currently on his Emergency Medicine rotation, which he quite enjoyed. As was customary for third-year students, he was currently planning on which specializations to apply for, and this was a field he was inclined to consider. There were many amusing and whimsical characters here.
Hannibal left his overseeing resident to quickly walk over to the doctor, his superior, and passed him a questioning look, though he had an idea of what was going to be pawned off on him the second he saw Gideon's irritated face. "Froideveaux is back and he's insisting on seeing you. Since Dolarhyde's the resident you're working with, if you could refer to him instead of me, that'd be great."
Dr Gideon shoved a file into Hannibal's chest before quickly shuffling on, ever the busy man. Typically, the doctor was nice enough to give a rundown of the patient, but there was none needed for this one, so he opened up the file and checked what it was this time.
It looked like Franklyn was insisting he was exposed to radiation and was suffering from radiation poisoning. Hannibal's lips turned upwards slightly. He had planted the idea of radiation poisoning only a month prior.
It took him two minutes to find the patient, and he greeted Franklyn merrily when he did, "Mr Froideveaux." Though as a medical student, this was the furthest practice from standard, the staff had stopped caring about Franklyn long ago.
"Oh, Mr Lecter, thank God you're here." Franklyn Froideveaux's face was red with worry, his fingers twisting and untwisting. "Do you remember last month, when you were talking about unusual cases you heard of, and you mentioned Lisa, who'd died of radiation poisoning? Well, that got me thinking. Do you remember my X-ray scan last month, too?" At Hannibal's nod, he continued:
"Well, I'm worried the machine might have been faulty. Few days ago, I didn't sleep that well and had a headache in the morning. I thought nothing of it. But then it happened again, and the headache stayed for longer. And with every minute it stayed, I got more and more worried. Then I became nauseous, and I remembered what you told me. When I searched up the symptoms, it only took a day for me to notice more and more of them. I need to be contained and—"
"Franklyn." Though Hannibal considered it unforgivably rude to interrupt, he'd been on the receiving ends of many of these rants. He would be here all night if he did not break it up. "They've already tested you, and it came back negative. You needn't worry yourself with thoughts of radiation. Headaches and nausea are a category of symptoms for nearly every malady out there. It could be a tumor, or cancer, or diabetes or STIs. The only reason I am here is because you specifically requested it, but I am afraid I've nothing else to offer you. You are not sick, Franklyn."
The red in Franklyn's face drained away to a pale whiteness in the span of a minute. He had already been in here countless times for an array of different diseases, but it seemed one of what Hannibal mentioned did not cross his mind, predictably enough. If Hannibal vested enough effort, he gave the situation two months before Franklyn killed himself.
"Oh, God, do you think I might have a diabetes, Mr. Lecter? I—I never even considered it. Without treatment, my body won't— I think the nausea was a warning sign that I don't have much time left."
It was almost too easy. "Perhaps you could be looking too deeply into it. Why don't you go home and monitor yourself for further signs than waste your money here. The symptoms of diabetes exist in broad categories, Mr Froideveaux, and it may help to narrow the specifics down."
Franklyn nodded, a strained attempt of intellectual thoughtfulness on his face. "Yes, that's a good idea. Have you heard of Google, Mr Lecter? I can do a lot of research there. After all, if the tests came back negative, then you're probably right, it's probably nothing. I think I'll monitor my symptoms and do some research on tumors and diabetes and maybe even stomach cancer, or brain cancer, which could explain the headaches—"
"Franklyn. A nurse will be with you shortly to discharge you."
"Okay, okay, see, this is why I like you, Mr Lecter." Hannibal stayed silent. "Can I call you Hannibal?"
Hannibal did not recall ever providing Franklyn with his first name throughout the many times he'd seen him. He blinked with staged confusion at Franklyn, who was quick to explain.
"I, uh, I asked a nurse what your name was. I think we're friends now, wouldn't you say? I think I'm not that much older than you—" Hannibal once more did not comment "—and you get me. I'd like to call you Hannibal. I think we could be really fun together. Can I call you Hannibal?"
That would not be a welcome shift in dynamics.
"No." Hannibal gave pause, stopped for a moment to contemplate the words. The man had always seemed lonely, too many hours alone to obsess. "Do you often worry about first-name bases, hoping to jump on any wagon for friendship?"
Franklyn looked up at him with naivety in his eyes, seeming surprised, pleasantly so, at what he likely assumed to be a nice, personal conversation. "I suppose so. I'm alone often, and... it, being alone comes with this— this dull ache. I think friendship would eliminate that."
The words climbed up Hannibal's spine. How irritating this man could be. A dull ache. "I'll have a nurse with you soon."
And then he walked away, leaving Franklyn to ruminate on the briskness of his response. It was times like these that Franklyn felt like gum under his shoe.
From there, Hannibal's busy day resumed. Once finished checking in on his actual patients, answering Dolarhyde's hurdles of questions with ease, he was on his way to the lab for the results of a particular time-stringent test, when an unexpected voice rang out behind the double-doors of the lab.
"—to beingsocialized, you—"
Hannibal walked in at that moment, not at all interested in eavesdropping, and found himself at quite the confusing scene. Like beginning of a bad joke Hannibal was uninterested in hearing, a psychiatrist, a pathologist, an FBI agent, and a stranger stood near the door in a loose group, with a few people around the lab that actually belonged.
All four of their faces instinctively turned around to meet his at the sound of the door opening. Frederick Chilton, James Price, a face he recognized from the newspapers as Jack Crawford, and a face he didn't recognize at all but was curiously strange standing next to the aged men, clearly younger and not-at-all a professional, judging by his attire.
Three of those faces immediately turned back to where they were conversing. The last one, the stranger, looked at him for a second longer before, too, turning away. Hannibal Lecter's interest was instantly piqued at the sneer of disdain that sprawled across the stranger's face when Dr Chilton picked up the conversation, likely saying absolutely nothing of intelligence.
Choosing to ignore the group for now, Hannibal walked up to one of the lab technicians—the one he was on the best basis with—and she immediately knew what it was he wanted.
The technician and him talked for three minutes, and in that timespan he got the prioritization from her just as he needed. This was the selfish reason Gideon loved him so much; Hannibal could get people to do what he wanted.
"Christ. Okay. I'll push the importance of others' work back. Does that make you feel good about yourself? Come back in twenty." The technicians's eyes were exasperated but the twitch her lips fond.
"Thank you. Your efforts are appreciated."
He then glanced behind him, catching the young stranger's eyes staring at him. The man didn't look away, instead regarding him with a blank expression, and Hannibal sent him a raise of the eyebrows in retaliation. With what seemed like reluctance, the man dragged his eyes back the circle.
"Not to be a further bother," Hannibal began, curious as always, "what is that gaggle of unlikely people doing here?"
That caused the technician to roll her eyes. "First, it was just Jimmy in here asking about some sample for some body. Then the FBI agent came in looking for him, and the agent had Curly Hair—" the stranger, he assumed, whose head was indeed adorned with unrestricted curls "—with him. Then, Dr Chilton burst through and tried to snatch Curly Hair away. They'vebeenhere for five minutes and Christ, I could not tell you for what." She sounded all too happy to complain to someone, and Hannibal could not exactly blame her. They were loud and took up space the lab did not have.
"No, no, not this trip, I suppose. But you will humor me with—" Chilton.
"No." Stranger.
Hannibal turned around and watched them head-on, not bothering to hide his interest in the conversation.
"Gentlemen, please, let's stay on topic. Dr Chilton, thank you for your unasked contributions, but if you don't mind, we did come here for a purpose. It was nice meeting you. Jimmy, if you wouldn't mind." Mr Crawford.
"All I'm saying, Agent, is that your Mr Graham here is curated from a unique co*cktail of personality disorders and neuroses that make him a highly skilled profiler. If I were you Jack, I'd listen to the kid."
The stranger caught Hannibal's watchful eye at that exact moment once more, and something akin to shame burned at his face. Defiance, maybe. He looked away and sent a scathing glare to Chilton.
A business card suddenly appeared in the air, directed to the stranger by Chilton. "What's number is this card now?"
The stranger snatched the card out of the air, and made a show of walking a foot away to dump it into a bin. "Card number six."
"Would you like a seventh?"
The stranger's voice was taut when he spoke, "I'll be waiting in the morgue."
"Yes," Mr Crawford continued, "I'll leave you in the capable hands of Dr Price. I'll see you around." He sent a curt nod to the people of the group and walked away, Chilton following with a dramatic sigh and glance at the stranger.
The last two of the group finally walked out. The stranger sent him a last glance before disappearing.
"f*cking finally," he heard the technician whisper as she hunched over some paperwork on the table.
Hannibal checked his watch; his day, especially during the emergency rotation in the middle of the city, never stopped. "I'll take my leave as well, and shall be back soon enough."
The day went by quickly enough. Hannibal scrubbed in on the surgery for his patient with appendicitis, and thought it was very far from typical practices and likely the only one trusted enough to provide the privilege to, Hannibal was allowed by the resident on hand to sow the last few final knots at the end. The resident gave him a look of shock when Hannibal completed it as expertly and quickly as the resident might have.
"You're allowed to do this often?" The resident asked, and was that jealousy Hannibal heard?
"Not at all."
The sun was setting when he was finally given leave, and he noted with satisfaction that today was the longest shift he'd worked. He was warned about the extreme days that the emergency rotation could have and had prepared for it, but that didn't eliminate its taxing nature. Satisfying, too, with the acknowledgment that he correctly answered every question and met, if not exceeded, every expectation.
He was making his way to the locker room to change out of his scrubs when he recalled the stranger in the lab, announcing himself to be on his way to the morgue before he left.
The appendectomy had only only taken an hour and a half, so it had been less than two hours since he had last seen the stranger. Perhaps it was possible that he was still here—Hannibal was admittedly curious on what the man was doing. He certainly wasn't a medical student, Hannibal knew them all, and he was too young to have any sort of job here. Then there was his presence with Crawford and the bumbling Dr Chilton, which, when combined, all made for a tasteful end to Hannibal's evening.
Going home and cleaning himself of the hospital was placed on the back burner, for as enticing as it sounded, his curiosities were worth an hour of lost sleep; it wasn't like he couldn't function without it.
Changing trajectory from locker room to morgue, Hannibal took the stairs down to the "basem*nt" and met Margot Verger on the way, who was looking positively exhausted. She was a fellow third-year medical student and one of the few people he held a modicum of respect for.
She trudged down the steps and met Hannibal's eyes. "Why did I have to get the OB-GYN shift during the worst week? There was not one, not two, but three emergency C-sections, Hannibal."
"That is extreme."
"I heard what's-her-name talking about what a great job you did on your sewing with Dr Gideon, so if he wasn't in love with your skillful prowess before, he is now. Lucky you're in his good books."
"I am sure you will be, too, soon. You simply need a chance to prove yourself." Empty words, which he did not hand out often. But at the end of his day here, he wasn't interested in her endeavors tonight.
They finally reached the intended floor, and Hannibal opened up the door for the two of them to walk down the hallway.
"Isn't your day over?" Margot asked as she accompanied him on his walk to the morgue, bundle of papers in her hand.
"It is." They rounded a corner and greeted some colleagues before arriving at the glass that seperated the hallways from the morgue. To his delight, the sunken eyes of the stranger could be found behind it.
Margot did not seem to notice anyone out of the ordinary, making her way to the door and opening it for him, gesturing inside with the hand full of papers. "Whatever. After you, then."
"Thank you, Margot."
The sound of his voice seemed to catch the stranger's attention, who turned around to meet him. Dr Price was sitting at a desk, and his conversation with the stranger was once more interrupted by Hannibal's entrance.
"Hello."
Dr James Price, Brian Zeller, and the stranger each looked at him and Margot.
"Hello, Drs. Lecter, Verger," Price greeted. He was one of the many that referred to the students as doctors, which Hannibal supposed was an appreciated rhetoric. "What can I do for you two?"
"I don't know about this guy, but Dr Harrison wants to update you about Lara Paisley," Margot responded, walking over to Dr Price with her papers and beginning a conversation with him. Zeller quickly left the stranger alone and joined the two's conversation, obviously invested in this Lara character.
Hannibal, meanwhile, approached the stranger, who had looked away when Margot began speaking and didn't seem to notice Hannibal's proximity. The man was invested in staring at one particular cabinet of the morgue freezer.
Blue eyes that looked a sickly green under the white, fluorescent lights and pale skin that seemed to be sculpted from clay. Sharp nose and sharp jaw, framed by dark brown curls. Fading jeans and fading plaid, rolled up his elbows. Old shoes and a mouth set in a permanent line of quiet sadness.
Hannibal watched him without hiding it, the three's chattering creating background noise, and waited for the man to sense his stare. He looked at the eyes again. There was something there. An intelligence, a sharpness.
"You appear quite miserable."
This was true. The man's eyebags were perhaps more prominent than his eyes, and he radiated an air of tiredness, visible in the way he slumped slightly and the way his arms were loosely around his waist, as if half-heartedly hugging himself.
The man finally looked at him, noticed him. The eyes sharpened even moreso once they focused on Hannibal's face, then immediately back to the cabinet.
"Appreciate the honesty." He brought a hand up to rub at his face, skewing his glasses a bit in the process. "Who the hell are you?"
"I could ask the same question."
The man continued to stare at the freezer, defiant. Hannibal smiled with interest.
"Hannibal Lecter. I am a medical student here."
The man clicked his tongue. "Then go conduct medical student-y business and leave me alone."
"Will you not extend me the courtesy of your name?"
To the man's merit, he spared Hannibal's a second's glance before returning his eyes to the freezer. "You're interrupting me."
"If I may, I don't see what exactly I'm interrupting."
"I'm trying to focus."
"Is that why you're avoiding eye contact?"
The response was immediate. His eyes snapped to Hannibal's, and an expression finally overtook his face. Disdain, distate, subtle anger, annoyance, irritation. How freeing it must be to be so open a book, and how telling each emotion was at Hannibal's statement.
"Eyes are distracting." It was Hannibal's turn to stay silent, watching. The man finally spoke again, sighing, "Will. The name's Will."
Will.
"Will."
Willturned to look at Hannibal and stayed looking at him. "Yeah." A beat. "What do you want, man?"
Hannibal tilted his head towards Dr Price in deep conversation with Margot as they bent over the papers she brought, concentrated between the patient files.
"They're dealing with what I assume to be discrepancies in the files. Utmost important business. I'm politely waiting my turn to speak with Dr Price and I've nothing better to do with my time; you are the next most interesting thing in the room."
Will furrowed his eyebrows. "I'm not supposed to tell people, so. I can't satiate any of that curiosity."
"What if I promise to tell no one?" Hannibal jested.
That elicited a scoff, a half-laugh. Will returned the sarcasm in his response, "Pinkie promise?"
"Always, yes."
Then Will smiled and rolled his shoulders then shrugged and Hannibal smiled in turn. He had him.
"I'm sure you know the Ripper victim from the last couple of weeks that was found at the Univeristy of Maryland, Baltimore. Well, the body was supposed to be transported to Quantico, since it was under FBI jurisdiction, but some sort of conflict didn't allow for it. Agent Crawford's trying to make the best of a bad situation and brought me down here."
"To do...?"
Will closed himself off again. He sighed and shrugged.
"I cannot imagine what a student can offer that the learned fellows at the FBI struggle with."
"I have this... thing. It's nothing but a little party trick. The reason Chilton was so interested in me. It helps to see the bodies, to get the rawest information I can. I've been in conversation with Price and Zeller the past two hours, discussing the details and the possibilities that can be extracted from those details."
"The reason Dr Chilton was so interested in you: the combination of disorders and neuroses that he mentioned."
At Hannibal's perhaps ill-timed jest, Will sent a dirty look. "Right."
"Are the words true?"
"Not in the slightest. I—" Will turned around, giving Hannibal his back as he brought his hands back up to his face. He upturned his face to meet the ceiling with what was undoubtedly a look of exhaustion. "I can access the minds of others. Of people, let's be clear. But— it's especially useful when it comes to sh*t like this. I helped the police a few years ago and I guess they recommended me to a desperate Crawford."
The words didn't make much sense. In fact, they didn't really make sense at all. But something this Will-character said gave Hannibal pause.
Access the minds of others.
A memory was sparked then, of a pixelated screen and uncredited words from a Freddie Lounds article. It was too much of a coincidence. But. God was funny that way. Hannibal needed to make sure this was the man his curiosities had been set on three weeks ago, who was now being handed to him on a silver plate.
"Are you attempting to provide a profile or simply to find clues? I must admit that I don't quite follow how exactly you can help the FBI."
"Yeah, I guess you can say provide a profile. Or I should be, at least, if anyone listened to me."
"They don't trust your words?"
"They won't take sh*t that I'm saying into account. They just want me to find a clue, like I can just pull one from my ass, like this is Scooby Doo."
Unfamiliar with Scooby Doo, Hannibal continued, "What words of yours are they dismissing?"
"A shift in the perception of the Ripper is all. They all think he's connected to his victims, that he's apologetic, sad*stic for the sake of sadism."
"No?"
"No. Let me the first to tell you that he thinks himself an artist, one with an unconventional canvas."
Like a lightbulb going off.
This was the mind.
Hannibal smiled, a small one directed towards the air. Who the hell was Hannibal to deny God His fun?
With the ball now rolling, Will continued to speak with passion, "They think—the FBI, that is, and most crime junkies interested in his work—that the Ripper chooses victims at random. That he views everyone as able to become something more in death, and his victims are just the unfortunate f*cks that found himself in his path when he was in a ripping mood, that he learns to worship them and provide them beauty in death to commemorate that worship. But that's not quite right." Will scoffed. "Have they even seen his crimes? No, no it isn'trandom. The Ripper is meticulous, dangerous the way an alligator might be. Stalking and quiet and hidden until it's too late. Careful thought and consideration goes into everything, victim included."
Enraptured by the truth no one had ever grasped, Hannibal asked, "If not random, how is he choosing them?"
Will shrugged, a movement stiff and full of thought. He had a pursed look upon his face, complex.
"I can't say for sure. But he has some sort of criteria. Some set of beliefs that pins people as pigs, as needing to be elevated. And he can provide that elevation. He doesn't worship these people. He thinks they're beneath him in every way construable. You fail his little test or threshold of acceptability, and you're done. Then, he uses them as his canvas with which he paints his world. The Wound Man, a mounted girl, a sinner in church, a marionette to play with. He worships and has reverence for no one but himself. Nothing but his work."
Fascinating, how much easier he came to that conclusion than others, how intimately he seemed to understand the Ripper. Art, pigs, playing with marionettes and coloring the world as he pleased. Hannibal quite liked Will's interpretation.
Amused and fascinated and tickled at being peeled at, Hannibal was having fun. It was amusing, to be the painter, hidden. It was refreshing, that intelligence.
Will seemed to assume a mistake on his part as soon as he was done, watching Hannibal's calculating figure.
"No one— whatever. It's just a theory." He looked uncomfortable.
Hannibal carefully fixed his gaze on Will's eyes. "How do you know?"
"I..." Will seemed strikingly hesitant, almost afraid. Of what? Himself? Judgement? "I just sat in the mind of the Ripper, and I watched my hands dismantle the victim's skull, and then, and then I just knew. I just know. It made sense. It makes sense."
Hannibal again wanted to ask 'how'—he never could have imagined the interest of this conversation—but he had an idea, now, he was starting to: why Chilton was so interested in him.Sitting in the mind of the Ripper.
Pure empathy. Enough to climb and throw himself into the Ripper. That must have been Will'sthinghe was so secretive of.
Instead of asking, Hannibal was silent, but only for a second. Now was the moment of truth, of camaraderie. "Then that is quite the impressive ability you have," he spoke, and that seemed to ease Will's mind exponentially.
"You actually believe me?"
"Of course I believe you. Although it seems that you hold far more expertise in the art of reading than me, I do still have a penchant for it, and I see you. I imagine what you see and learn touches everything in your mind, a special insight into those around you. It's a unique gift, Will, and I defer to your better judgement."
"That's a nice way of putting it." Will moved to stare once more at the morgue freezer, puffing his cheeks up and slowly blowing the air out. "No one's ever painted it in such a positive light. No one's ever gotten it like you so easily did."
Hannibal hummed. "I am honored, then."
"I wouldn't call it an honor."
"What would you call it?"
Pause. Then, "A burden."
"Then I shall carry it with great fervor."
Those flitting eyes of Will's moved back to Hannibal's, and no one spoke. The background noise was gone, and Hannibal hadn't even been aware that his three colleagues had left the room.
"To the point that spurred this conversation, you look quite miserable. You don't enjoy this, this exercise of your pure empathy?"
Will's jaw clenched. "So you figured out the empathy disorder thing. Yeah, no. I don't enjoy it. I thought I would. But I don't."
"Why not?"
Will refused a response. That only interested Hannibal further. He already had an idea.
"I'll try a different question, then: why do it?"
No response, until, "I don't— I don't know. I don't know, but I did want to do it at first, just a few days ago. Then I did it, and now I don't want to finish it. Yet here I am now."
"Why are youstillhere?"
"Are you a goddamn journalist? Lay off the questions. I was planning on taking the bus, but then the three of us started talking about the crime and it was helpful to have a sounding board. They've given me some helpful insight. Guess I just... haven't left. Just— I'm tired. It makes me tired, so can you stop?"
"It seems the situation you're in provides one disadvantage after the other. If it makes you tired, why do you continue to stay?"
"f*ck, I don't know? Crawford called and asked, and maybe I wanted to prove something."
If Hannibal was correct, and he always was, this was the same student who freely gave Lounds his profile and wanted no recognition for it, who told Chilton to piss off in front of many others, who spoke more rudely to Hannibal than any student he'd encountered in this hospital. Hannibal doubted there was anything Will wanted to prove to Crawford.
"I might have an idea on as to why you accepted." His suspicions, in the open air. Will, he suspected, was strong enough to handle it.
"I met you five minutes ago, so this should be fun."
"You did not want to prove yourself to Uncle Jack. You do not care about others recognizing your intelligence. In fact, you might just prefer it if they don't."
Will's half-joking, calmed face was quickly turning hostile, no doubt knowing exactly where Hannibal was headed, but Hannibal plowed on. "You agreed because you tried it once and like an addict, you can't stay away. And that is what torments you. You are beginning to become afraid. It is etched into the lines of your face. It's not fear of the Ripper, is it? So what are you afraid of, Will?"
A pause. Will looked over his shoulder and seemed to acknowledge the empty space now, too. Perhaps that incentivized him, the lack of audience; Hannibal would have to keep that in mind.
"You seem to know me so well," Will spat out with bitterness, likely upset because he thought he found a tentative friend until Hannibal's insinuations, sarcasm dripping like a faulty faucet from his words, "you tell me."
"It'd be best to hear it from yourself."
Their eyes met, striking, like metal on metal. "It sounds like you already know why.Thinkyou know"
"Perhaps."
It took one, two, three, four seconds for Will to speak again. "You think I'm afraid because it felt good to me. But that's what an empathy disorder will do to you. That's the whole definition. It has nothing to do with what I feel, truly."
"You sound afraid, Will. You shouldn't be. I am no judge nor jury. Who would I be to act as either? After all, killing must feel good for God, too." The words left Hannibal's mouth without hesitation, and from Will's expression, it wasn't what he expected to hear. "After all, He does it all the time. And are we not created in His image?"
Will met Hannibal's eyes once more. Gone was the mild boy with a tired stare. There was lightning building in those eyes. "That depends who you ask."
"I am asking you."
Their eyes were unwavering. Will's gaze hardened instead of looking away. "I don't believe in god. Growing up religious tends to do that for you."
"You are thinking of matters in black and white. I am not speaking of your conventional God, used to invent morality and law. My God is terrific. He dropped a church roof on thirty four of His worshippers last night in Texas, while they sang a hymn."
"Did god feel good about that?"
"He felt powerful."
"Powerful?"
"Does that feeling ring as familiar for you, Will? When you are in the head of the Ripper."
The silence emanating from Will told Hannibal he was right more loudly than any confirmation could have.
"Congratulations." Will's voice was wavering slightly, eyes focused in intensely on Hannibal's own, as he snapped out of the trance he was in and the lightning dissipated. He looked divine, as angry and fearful as he did now. He looked religious. "You're not the first f*cking doctor—and you're not even a doctor yet, so nice job on the head start—to insinuate me to be another killer, or at least to have the capacity for it."
Hannibal noted with interest that Will did not actually contradict any of his statements.
Before Hannibal could reply, Will closed his words off with a scoff and moved to leave the morgue, but Hannibal quickly caught his arm before he could go, because to let him leave now would mean to forfeit their burgeoning relationship. That was unacceptable.
Skin on flannel. Static, buzzing quietly under Hannibal's hand, and he suddenly felt hungry.
"Let me go." A glare was directed at Hannibal.
That was when the medical student came to his senses— he had not planned to grab Will, but it was the only way he could see Will to stay, for he most certainly wouldn't have stopped if Hannibal asked.
Without letting go, Hannibal stared back at Will's glare, preparing to lend him support without giving away too much. Whatever Will saw in Hannibal's reflected gaze seemed to turn him away. His eyes glanced back down at where Hannibal grabbed Will.
"My apologies, Will." Hannibal pulled the student closer to him, having them standing face-to-face, but he didn't let go. "Once again, you misunderstand me. I'm not admonishing you. Do you fault the sun for rising when you wish to stay asleep? That would be ridiculous. It is simply following its nature, is it not?"
Will's eyebrows pulled in, glare falling away to reveal a frown, now more annoyed and confused than angry. Understanding that Will had been appeased, Hannibal let his hand fall from his arm, but he did not step away.
"I don't fault the sun, but only because it doesn't bother me. The sun is easily hidden from."
"As is obvious by the pale state of your skin."
A flicker of a smile dared to cross Will's lips before it faded away.
"So you hide from the sun even when you require it?"
"I don't require it."
"Perhaps you can survive off of pills of vitamins, and perhaps you can live with dizziness and pale skin. Just because you can settle for a lesser quality of life does not mean you should."
"That's not really up to you, is it?"
And then Will looked away, and he stepped away.
"I suppose not, no."
Silence encased them, thoughtful and bursting and empty.
Dr Price and Zeller entered the room at that moment, timing perfect, bickering about one thing or the other.
"—seriously prefer it."
"There is nothing wrong with introducing you as my reasonably intelligent assistant."
Hannibal sent Will a glance, noting the tired but somehow rejuvenated look in his eyes when they met Hannibal's.
"I'll see you if I see you." Then Will was gone in a hurry and Hannibal was left staring at the empty spot where he had stood.
"He's a character, Lecter, yeah?" Zeller joked, patting Hannibal's shoulder as he passed him.
"An oddity, to be sure."
"So, what can I do for you?" Dr Price spoke now, standing happily before Hannibal, his gentle yet sarcastic features looking at the student curiously.
"It no longer remains important. Have a wonderful shift." Hannibal left next, energized in a way he was terribly unfamiliar with.
