Carnivore, Won't You Come Digest Me?

Chapter 8

After a while, Will swaps his wine for whiskey, golden colored in his glass. Hannibal doesn't comment, but accepts a refill of wine when Will offers it to him.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, and Will shakes his head, biting his lower lip.

Hannibal stands and goes to the kitchen. Will follows, and Hannibal checks the stock as it continues to simmer. It still has about three hours left by his timing, which is plenty of time to make Will something else to eat.

"You brought enough food for two meals?" Will asks, frowning when Hannibal opens his fridge and takes out the pack of ground meat he'd brought over as well. If Will asks, he will say it's beef. The color is nice and red, and he smiles as he sets it out on the counter.

"You wanted the full husband experience, didn't you?" Hannibal replies.

Will huffs, shaking his head with a fond smile. "You don't have to," he says. "My take-out menu drawer is fully stocked."

Hannibal resists the urge to grimace at the idea of ordering take-out. "I insist," he replies mildly. "I can't have you going hungry."

"You have a strangely nurturing side to you," Will murmurs, watching as Hannibal roots through his cabinets and finds a frying pan, placing it on the stovetop next to the pot of chicken and turkey stock. "Do you often cook for guests?"

"The friends I keep with me are few and far between," Hannibal replies. "But, when occasion calls for it, I'm more than happy to serve."

Will smiles and takes another sip of whiskey. Hannibal unwraps the meat and pours some olive oil into the pan, waiting until it starts to bubble from the heat before he sets the meat inside. "Do you have a spatula?"

"Somewhere," Will murmurs, and sets his glass down, opening a drawer by the sink to pull it out. Hannibal catches the sight of two sets of utensils inside and nothing else.

"Do we have enough plates and utensils here to even serve four people?"

Will shrugs one shoulder. "I'll get the fancy stuff out, when Tobias and Franklyn get here," he replies.

Hannibal accepts that with a nod. He takes some more garlic and an onion from Will's fridge, slices both up finely, and places it in the pan as the meat starts to turn grey, and then brown.

"The fancy stuff?" he repeats after a moment.

Will manages a tight smile. "When Randall and I got married, his mother gave us a set of expensive ceramic plates, and a serving dish. At least, I assume it was expensive. Randall came from money."

"He must have, to afford you as a therapist."

Will hums. "For all the good it did."

"Do you think, if you were ever to receive concrete proof that Randall did what you think he did, that you would still hold onto his memory as you have?"

Will blinks at him, frowning when Hannibal meets his gaze. "It's not a question of holding onto his memory," Will murmurs. "Merely how those memories make me feel. I don't want to lose that."

"For someone who self-professes their ability to compartmentalize, I'm confused at your nostalgia."

Will smiles at him. "Are you sure you weren't a therapist in your former life?" he asks, teasing, and picks up his drink again. There's a loaf of bread on the kitchen counter, and Hannibal takes a knife block out and begins to slice thick pieces of it.

"I find the human mind fascinating," Hannibal says mildly. "There are so many things that can go wrong with it."

Will nods, sighing into his glass, and takes another drink. The alcohol is making his cheeks pink and his eyes are a little glazed already. Hannibal has already seen evidence of Will's less than stellar diet, and swallows back the desire to offer to cook for him more often.