hannigram | gorged, drowned, plucked, and roasted

4.

Will opens his eyes to the milky light of a foggy Baltimore morning. The curtains have been opened and there's a silver tray on the bed with coffee, juice, pastries, and impeccable eggs Benedict.

Hannibal stands next to it, wearing a brown checkered three pieces and an irresistible smug smile.

'You must fear I'm going to waste away,' Will comments.

'That is my biggest fear, in all earnest.' Hannibal pours the coffee and hands Will the cup. 'Jack Crawford requires my moral support at Freddie Lounds' autopsy. I am confident you will find a similar request on your phone.'

Will massages his eyes. He won't find anything of the sort, the fake autopsy has been already scheduled between the two of them days ago.

'I was considering taking a day off,' he says before being able to stop.

Hannibal shakes his head but his voice betrays satisfaction. 'Will, Will, Will...That wouldn't sit well on uncle Jack. You know we need him. Just a little longer.'

Also, I wouldn't give up the chance of profiling each other in front of him for anything in the world. Not to mention, I'll probably be able to show you around a little.

'Fine,' Will mumbles. He gobbles his coffee and sulks toward the bathroom with a croissant half stuffed in his mouth.
Behind him, Hannibal does not attempt to hide he's enjoying the view.

'No time to stop in Wolf's Trap, I am afraid,' he shouts from the bedroom over the running water noise. 'I will lend you some clothes.'

Will snorts at the idea of Hannibal's parsley on him, at the thought of the looks that would provoke.
'You wish,' he shouts back, and Hannibal chuckles.

When he comes out of the shower, Will finds a warm towel, a toothbrush, and a razor waiting for him near the sink. He tries not to reckon how easily he could get used to being spoiled. However, he purposely ignores the petite, expensive-looking bottle of cologne that's apparently supposed to go with all that.
Then, Will retrieves his clothes from the wooden floor, takes a deep breath and braces to battle (against which of his friends is still unclear but better be prepared anyway)

They reach Quantico each by his own car, feeling slightly ridiculous. It's almost like Will is trying to preserve the appearance of his virtue, Hannibal thinks, and snickers at the mental image of blood-stained sheets hanging outside his window to signal the loss of Will's innocence. Not his virginity, he concedes, another purity he lost to me, that still required some blood spilling. I wish I could hang his stained victims' clothes out of my window to let the world know.

Nevertheless, there are other signs Will is donning that point at Hannibal; behind his left ear, half-covered by a lock of hair, Will showcases a purple mark shaped by Hannibal's mouth. It must've escaped Will's scrutiny, this morning, and Hannibal can't take his eyes off it.
Also, he's wearing yesterday's clothes and has a glow Hannibal believes can't pass unnoticed. He likes to think it's due to his prodigal cares, though he knows it probably just comes from the uncharacteristic uninterrupted night of sleep.
Well, that's still on me, Hannibal points out.

Will waits ten minutes after Hannibal enters the laboratory to join the party. He arrives whilst Zeller is explaining dental records and missing leg muscles. In front of him, a steel tray carries a human-shaped crispy thing.
Jack Crawford asks all his whys, and Will employs his magic empathy trick just how he's expected to - only, in this case, he has quite some advantages in aid of his guessing.

Hannibal sees Jack and probably Zeller taking note of the bruise and the wrinkled clothes. Noticing things is their job, after all, he concedes. Zeller probably interprets them as hints that Will had a pleasant date last night, but Hannibal knows Jack may suspect who's responsible for that.
Will is not fully conscious of the reasons behind their scrutiny, but he can feel it nonetheless and does his best not to squirm under it.

When Freddie's supposed body is stored away, Zeller throws a last deliberate glance at Will. 'Good to know even crime nerds can get lucky, sometimes,' he comments.

Price stares at his feet. Will glowers at Zeller and Hannibal pretends to do the same, but Jack's eyes are glued on Hannibal.

Price tries to break the awkward silence, though his colleague is faster. 'Nothing to be embarrassed about, Will. It's just the miracle of Nature. Bees and flowers and all that's in between. I accused you of multiple murders before, framing you for having a life is all downward from there.'

'I'll take the fifth on that,' Will mumbles, his cheeks flushed.

He looks like a boy, Hannibal thinks, studying his flustered face with the deliberate intent to be able to draw it later. He actually spends some time pondering whether to bake Zeller a cake or into a cake.

Later, they all part ways, though Jack intercepts Will in the parking lot when his hand is already on the car handle.

'He will invite you to dinner,' Will warns before any question may be asked, and Jack knows exactly what that means.
If he's worried about Will's state of mind, he doesn't show.

Finally, Will is free to go home to his pack. He changes into suitable clothes, bags a tuna sandwich, and they go all wander the woods together. The air is a dense mist you can almost touch, the fallen leaves damp and soft on the ground, so that their steps are eerily silent. They follow the creek to the ruined stone chimney they kind of consider their secret place. There, Will sits on a musky fallen trunk to watch the dog play and lets the suspended quiet alleviate his malady.

By late afternoon, however, he's sick again. As it has been happening way too often lately, the thought of Hannibal takes siege of his mind. When the sun finally sets, he's restless.

At eight o'clock, the dogs bark at someone approaching. After a moment, Hannibal is at Will's door, a wide canvas bag in one hand and a brown wrap in another.

'I am confident you haven't bothered having dinner yet, so I bothered for you,' he declares when the door is opened, and resolutely makes his way to the kitchenette.

The dogs wiggle their tails and whine in excitement at the unexpected guest - a feeling Will somehow relates to, but hopefully conceals better than them.
Hannibal waits for them to sit around him one after the other, undoes the paper wrap and tosses a red dice of meat to each of them. After this rite, the dogs go resume their naps over the carpet or their cushions.
Ignoring Will's incredulous stare, Hannibal takes off his jacket and hangs it over a chair. With deft gestures, he folds his sleeves up his forearms. Then, he retrieves an apron, a wine bottle and five matching metal boxes out of his bag. He sets them in an ordinate line over the counter, thoughtfully studying their ranks as they're his loyal servants.

'You could set the table,' he gently suggests, for Will's still standing near the door like a discarded ballistic dummy.

On auto-pilot, Will reaches for the cutlery drawer, touches the knob and freezes. He dies to dine with Hannibal, he's been pining for his company all day - but there's something more urgent burning inside him, right now, and dinner can always be reheated.