Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Years earlier…

It was already night, and Will anxiously watched his father talking to the police officer who was trying to calm him down. The man had been anxious, almost disturbed since dawn, but Will couldn't focus on anything other than his own emotions. He desperately wanted to use his strange ability to feel what others felt, perhaps to escape the storm inside him. Anything seemed better than being trapped in his own skin.

"Why did this happen to me? Why do bad things keep happening to me? Why did that man have to put his hands on me?" Turbulent thoughts repeated in his mind. In part, he knew the answer. He had felt the man's need with his own senses, understanding the reason, and it disgusted him.

Randall was a friend of his father's. Because they were poor, his father couldn't afford to leave him in a daycare or hire a babysitter. After an anonymous report about Beau leaving his five-year-old son alone at home while he worked or drank until dawn, it became impossible to leave the boy alone or take him along. That's when Randall offered to take care of Will. Taking care of Will wasn't difficult; he was a quiet, almost non-verbal boy. His father didn't have the resources to take him to a specialist, even though he knew his son was different from other children.

Will never liked Randall. The man often stared at him sinisterly when they were alone, making his skin crawl. The boy avoided eye contact with him as much as possible, but he knew Randall's eyes were always on him. When his father said Uncle Randall would stay with him, Will had a fit. He cried, screamed, clung to his father like never before, but it was in vain. By mid-morning, Randall was there.

The nightmare took a few days to start. It was a night when Beau had to go out, and Will was already in bed, a little hungry, when the door slowly opened, and footsteps approached him. Randall grabbed him, put his hands on him, took away the innocence of a child.

"You won't tell anyone about this, okay? When your dad comes, you won't say anything. It will be our little secret, okay?" The man whispered to the panicked child. Will obeyed; the man's gaze was terrifying, almost as bad as what was happening to his body. It hurt, it hurt so much. Something inside him broke. He just wanted to escape, but nothing he thought of took the pain and his mind away.

When his father arrived, Will wanted to tell, but fear stopped him. His father already said he was a problem, always with that melancholic look. "You look like your mother. She swore she'd stay, but you were barely born, and she found a way to escape." Will just wanted some affection, to curl up in his father's arms and feel protected. That's all a child needs: protection, security, to feel loved. But if he was already a problem before, how would his father react if he knew what happened?

"Dad? Can you stay with me today?" His father gave him a tired look. It hadn't been a good night. "If I stay, boy, you won't have anything to eat tomorrow." But the boy was still his son. With an even more tired sigh, he moved towards Will. The boy started trembling and let out a moan of pain. "Calm down, boy, I'll just put you back in bed," he grumbled, while the boy tried to muffle the sounds in his father's shirt.

Will clung to his father, saying he was in pain, but in the end, the man just left him in bed, alone in his pain.

It went on for another three years. Now, he was in school. The children found him strange, the teacher sent notes to his father, asking if he was helping Will with his homework. The boy was behind, looking shabby. "Poor thing, dear Will, is your head hurting again?" She was so kind, even so. Sometimes, Will wanted to tell her, to ask her to take him away. Not to let him go home. But the fear was always greater.

"You should take some action. This child seems to be suffering mistreatment. Clearly malnourished, appears tired, doesn't interact with other children…" The teacher spoke and cast pitying looks at him. He didn't like those looks.

"We've made a report before, about the boy's absences and being clearly underweight, and at least his school attendance improved, but we have no other proof… The father already said the boy is autistic, and the man barely has money and doesn't answer calls…"

"We can't just do nothing…" In the end, it didn't seem to help much. At least the teacher was kind to him, and another visit from social services came. He wanted to bury himself in his room and stay there forever, but it wasn't safe there either.

He was almost nine when he couldn't take it anymore. The looks, the sound of footsteps, his father seeming to ignore the obvious, more teachers looking at him strangely, other children treating him badly. He knew where his father's gun was. He had seen too many programs and reports about what they could do. So that night, he put it under his pillow and waited. Everything became a blur after that.

Randall arrived, mumbled some nonsense, asked Will to start undressing. He had just gotten rid of his pants to crawl over Will when the boy unloaded the gun on him.

The noise was unbearable, but it was finally over. That man would never touch him again. He could leave it all behind. But why did this feeling of emptiness come over him? It was as if his whole small body was numb. The gun fell by his side, the smell of blood was everywhere, covering his body and coming from the corpse on the floor.

He didn't see the colorful lights arriving, men and women coming in, shouting orders. Someone picked him up and took him to an ambulance, but he doesn't remember much, unconsciousness taking over him.

He stayed in the hospital for a few days. His father came to see him, a mix of sadness and anger on his face. Will wanted to beg for forgiveness. He took a life. That person was bad, but it didn't justify it. However, they ended up releasing him. After some time, the case was considered self-defense. It was a small town, and no one wanted to complicate the situation. But his father faced some problems. That's why they were here now.

"Mr. Graham, your son went through a traumatic situation, and I understand you did too. But leaving the child locked in the car while you got into a fight with some drunks… You understand they're about to take custody of the child? Your ex-wife is not interested in custody, demanded and filed a lawsuit to keep the whole situation as far away as possible. If you don't stabilize, your son will be…"

"You can't do that, he's my son!"

"Then try to take care of him…" Once again, the officer is interrupted. If Will weren't watching himself from afar, he would be grateful that his father was arguing with a kind police officer, who was gentle enough not to just send the man to jail for contempt.

In the end, it seems the situation is resolved, as they return home, and a week later, they are moving somewhere far away. Now, they would do this frequently.

Present day:

"Graham? Are you listening to me?" Will looked up at Jack Crawford, the insistent head of the Behavioral Unit, whose insistence on involving Will's mind in this new case brought up unpleasant memories he wished were buried.

But they never were, the burden of having an eidetic memory.

"I'm not comfortable working on cases of…" The word got stuck in his throat. "My psychological tests and Alana Bloom haven't cleared me for fieldwork, too unstable." He sighed and began putting his papers back in his bag. "I'd rather stay in the classroom, Jack, it's not recommended to take a former student who just graduated to the field." His glasses slid down his nose as Jack asked for permission to put them back in place.

"You have a fascinating mind, Will, and I need it to capture this monster. A new evaluation can be done. I have a new therapist, Dr. Lecter."

"I don't like being evaluated, Jack. No one likes me when that happens."

"Will, please, do you really want more children to suffer at this man's hands?" Jack leaned over Will. He hated men who did that, took advantage of the smaller ones. Children shouldn't suffer… he shouldn't suffer. You're not a child anymore, Graham, pull yourself together. You defended yourself before; you can defend yourself now.

"I'll talk to whoever you want for you, Jack, but after what happened with Hobbs, don't have much hope about what I can do for you."

"That's all I'm asking." It never is, but Will remained silent.

---

Since the incident with Garret Jacob Hobbs, Hannibal has been intrigued by Will Graham. He would like to talk to him, know what goes on in the mind of the young man with such a great empathy disorder. How well could a mind like that understand his art?

When Jack arrived at his office asking for a psychological evaluation, imagine the pleasant surprise it was for Hannibal to have fate conspiring in his favor. He would finally have the chance to sink his hands into Will's mind and find out if it was really worth having someone like him around. He could be useful.

Their first meeting is, at best, amusing. Will is rude, although Hannibal is always willing to tolerate rudeness, Will makes him want other things, to approach other experiences.

Hannibal clears him for fieldwork again, clearly the last place Will should be, especially with the sweet illness spreading through his body. But it will be interesting to carry this forward.

Hannibal explains to Jack that Will needs someone to pull him out of dark places and offers to do that, not as a therapist but as a possible friend, someone to talk to. In the end, the therapy is not official, and Hannibal just continues as a consultant, now always working alongside Will.

They become friends. Will finds the lead to the child killer, but it costs him greatly. It's easy to forget that Will is barely 25 years old; stress and insomnia make him look older.

In a moment of vulnerability, Hannibal observes Will with a clinical and affectionate gaze. Will is feverish, his defenses are down. It’s easy to open his arms and let the feverish boy sink into them, despite the obvious reluctance. Will seeks security and comfort, but he is not willing to allow himself that. Hannibal is sure he is only here because of his inflamed brain.

He couldn’t resist taking advantage of the situation, smelling Will’s hair, sweet with the scent of illness and bitter with sweat and negative emotions spreading throughout his being.

"I've got you, dear, everything will be alright," he whispers, hugging him tightly and kissing the top of his head as Will breaks down into soft sobs before falling into unconsciousness in Hannibal's arms.

Hannibal feels a mixture of pleasure and curiosity holding Will. There is something intoxicating about the blend of vulnerability and resistance emanating from the young man. He promises himself that he will protect Will, but also that he will explore every facet of this brilliant and tortured mind. Will is a puzzle he is determined to decipher, a combination of fragility and strength that makes Hannibal feel alive in ways he hasn't experienced in a long time.

Chapter Text

Will wasn't as composed as he thought, according to Alana and other FBI doctors. A day after returning from the child killer case involving Malakai Serpentis, he was bombarded with a series of mental, physical, and emotional tests that left him sore and exhausted. His reflexes were compromised; he twitched with sudden movements and couldn't evade direct blows. His nerves were frayed to the point of uselessness. Reality was slipping beyond his grasp, alarming everyone.

"You see enemies around every corner," one of the doctors told him, typing on a keyboard as she recorded the results of his tests.

Will hesitated before responding; he had been losing control for some time, but he didn't think he was slipping into delirium.

"Have you always felt persecuted?"

"I've always felt hated," Will answered honestly. "I was never very popular in school. My opinions aren't always valued. Even now as a consultant, everyone seems eager to examine me, many expect me to become one of the monsters I help catch."

The woman hummed. "Do you resent these people?"

Will's mind turned to white noise. He didn't want to discuss this with her; she wasn't his therapist. But then again, if he weren't in the FBI, he'd probably end up living on the streets.

Still, he didn't want to answer. "Yes. It's never worth it, I understand everyone's opinion and their interests in my mind, given my history." To begin with, that's what put them in that position. If Jack had just listened to his will to continue only teaching... "They don't intend to do that." At least Will hopes not.

"But they do, Jack does. And you resent him for it."

"Yes, a little."

The woman – Bedelia, he thought her name was – finished her report and closed the screen. "Go back to your home. I'll review my findings with the team and Jack, and he'll decide how to proceed next."

He was interested to see what the next steps would be. In his current state, he doubted Jack would subject him to any ordeal. At least for two weeks, until he finds a way to work around the situation and put Will back into action again. He was, as the man said, a find for them. They don't send wounded pups to the lion's den, but they sent him before...

As Bedelia prepared to leave, he stood up. "Wait."

Her piercing eyes seemed like needles stuck in his skin, making him aware of how small and vulnerable he was. He felt like prey. He had done this for weeks.

"There's something else I should tell you... something that might explain all this." He didn't want to tell her, but he supposed the first step to recovery was to acknowledge that this had happened. Running from the truth had done nothing for him except distort his sense of reality until he saw his own face as an enemy. It was time to share.

The FBI scours your entire record so you can work for them, but Will begged them not to disclose what happened in his childhood. It was already difficult enough to deal with everyone without them knowing how truly broken he was. If the whole place knew, well, Will hopes they don't know.

Shortly after, he was sitting in front of Bedelia, recounting the story again. She watched him with the intensity of a supernova. Every fragment of self-respect and worth he had gathered over the past year and a half withered and died as he went over every sordid detail of what happened in his childhood and how the entire case played directly into those memories. With his eyes glued to the floor, he relived the horror. It wasn't hard to give them the details they wanted; they were still fresh in his mind, as if they had happened yesterday.

At the end of the story, he turned his head, still refusing to look her in the eye. She was making quick notes in her notebook, probably to transfer to the computer later.

"Who else knows about this?" Bedelia asked, her voice low and dense.

Will shrank at hearing that. "Jack and the people responsible for analyzing who can work here, they don't know all the details, just interrogated me about the record and what it represents for a future agent. They at least know I'm not an active criminal." He paused. "Doctor Lecter must know, he saw how I reacted to the case, I consider him smart enough to at least connect some dots."

"Is that all?" The woman retorted.

He nodded. There were far more people than he wanted to know about his shame. And now more people knew, probably more people would know.

"You should have come to us sooner." Bedelia huffed, forcing her voice into a rumble as soft as she could. "You weren't in any condition to return to the field, especially in a situation like this."

That Will knew very well. And yet everyone was so eager to push him back into the arms of the crime scene. It was his fault for not speaking openly, he supposed. Or was it? His thoughts were so confused now, trying to blame Jack, his own shoulders, those who thought he just needed to be behind bars.

"It was a shame to endure," he murmured, rubbing his tired eyes. He wanted to cry, having said aloud the words he needed, painting a picture of the worst nightmare of his life. He wanted to scream, have an attack and run away.

"No shame." Bedelia said, leaning in to touch his arm gently.

He flinched, afraid. "I don't like strangers touching me." He couldn't stand any touch.

"Go home, Will." Bedelia nodded slowly, her eyes softening with compassion. "Will, you're dealing with deep traumas, and it's important that you have proper support. This isn't a failure on your part. You're human, and we all carry scars. The key is how we deal with them."

She leaned closer, placing a gentle hand on Will's shoulder. "I'll recommend that you have regular sessions with a trauma-specialized therapist. And please know that you're not alone in this. The FBI has resources to help you overcome this, not just as a tool to solve cases. As a person who deserves support and understanding."

He wouldn't listen to the last advice, so he just struggled to nod, eager to remove her hand from his shoulder.

As he left the room, Will felt the weight of the conversation pressing on his chest. Each step seemed harder than the last. He headed to the parking lot, the cold night air providing momentary relief to his tumultuous mind. Memories of his childhood arose like ghosts, bringing back the suffocating feeling of being a powerless child amidst cruelty.

Hannibal received a message about what Bedelia had found out about Will; the details were even worse than he suspected. As a good ally, it was good to know that Bedelia could serve for something. The loyalty of the woman was too close to fear, but he knew he could count on her to follow his plan. None of the day's discoveries would pass to the superiors, only the necessary to keep Will away for a short period. It was enough. Hannibal could intertwine himself more and more with the boy as he became more shaken and close to a total collapse.

Hannibal was at the exit, standing beside his elegant car, waiting for Will. His eyes met Will's, who gave a weak smile, dark and tired eyes. If he had all the energy, he would have protested against all the fawning, but sleep hadn't come the night before. He was flexible in Hannibal's hands. The younger man was too tired to argue over the brief hug and offer of a ride home.

The ride was smooth; Will was lost in some kind of lucid dream state, eyes neither open nor closed, mind elsewhere but not entirely shut off. Every few moments, Hannibal's eyes would slide over, checking. He couldn't articulate even to himself what he was anxiously checking, but still, he checked the man.

"Are you going to take a nap?" Hannibal asked.

Will grunted. "We're almost there."

"You can still sleep a little. Who knows what Jack will want to do with you once he's done discussing the current situation."

He tried to smile, but Will just stared. They sat in silence for a moment. There seemed to be no time like the present to ask questions, and he had several urgent questions he wanted answers to before Will was out of reach. But he chose to leave Will in silence, just the hum of the car's engine.

The room Will currently occupied reminded him of a mediocre college dormitory or the small shanties they first occupied when his father and he started moving. Little more than a closet with a bed and a small ante-chamber with a wash basin, it was simple and contained all the amenities he needed. In fact, the spartan and tight quarters of the room made him feel a little safer. He could see all the rooms from where his bed was. If anything or anyone came in, Will decided not to think about it.

It was the first time Hannibal had seen the pathetic place he lived in. In one of their unofficial conversations, Will commented that he was saving up money to buy a house in Wolf Trap, secluded, where he could fulfill his dream of having a few dogs and spending his free time fishing. His uncertainty with work now made him anxious if he would ever really be able to achieve such a feat.

He wondered what Hannibal would think of his little home. It was no secret to anyone how influential and wealthy the man was. Will didn't have the courage or strength to look and read what was going on in the man's face. Probably nothing, Hannibal had an amazing poker face. It was hard for Will to read it.

Still, he was proud of his little cabin. What else could a seventeen-year-old want besides a comfortable bed, a stove and a microwave to cook, and a worn-out balcony to sit on in the evenings after waking up drenched in a nightmare? Since then he had made great improvements in the place, adding some details and hoping for the day when he could really call someplace his.

Despite all that was missing, the little cabin was a home. His bed was soft and cozy, he was away from prying eyes, and his needs were met. It was all he needed. He was satisfied with what little he had.

"You won't find any luxury items here, nothing close to how luxurious your office and probably your home are," Will warned, stepping in and dropping the bag on the floor.

Hannibal took a quick turn around the room and, finding it to his liking, turned back to the man with a smile. "I'm not looking for any luxury, just want to take care of you for a while."

Will shuddered and his neck warmed. Lecter enjoyed his boy's nervous smell. "I'm not a child that needs care, I just think the ride was more than enough!"

His answer didn't get anything out of Hannibal, who went to his kitchen joke. Just a stove with a broken oven, an old microwave, and a refrigerator that, despite being old, was well maintained. Will struggled to keep his things clean and organized, even spending little time in the place. "I suggest you have a bath now, to relax. I'll make something simple so you don't end up dying of hunger. What was the last meal you made?" He turned slightly to Will.

Honestly? Will couldn't remember. It was hard to focus on his body's needs. Years of abuse and neglect made him have his current bad habits. Depression, anxiety, and a recent diagnosis of an eating disorder. Spending childhood without the necessary nutrients for good development led Will to be much lower than he should be and be on the line between almost too malnourished too.

"You're not my father, Hannibal. I'm an adult; I hardly think a twenty-five-year-old needs someone to make them food and send them to a bath."

"Do we need to have this discussion again? I distinctly remember you agreeing yesterday that I would take care of you."

That seemed to settle the conversation. Hannibal turned away and opened the fridge, making a comment about its near emptiness. If he had the energy to spare, Will might have felt embarrassed about being infantilized. As it was, he couldn't muster much caring. If Hannibal thought this approach would yield better results, so be it; they would find out. He was at Hannibal's mercy and would be grateful for it. Hannibal had enough on his plate without having to cater to a rebellious, mentally troubled adult. If he ever felt resentment, Will promised himself he would remember this.

He quickly stripped and turned on the shower first, feeling exhaustion radiating from his bones. He desperately wanted to sleep, and away from the source of his anxiety, he now had peace to do so. But first, a meal. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and if he wanted to recover, he needed to attend to basics—returning to a normal pattern of eating and sleeping. He sighed heavily, forcing himself to finish washing.

He thought he already felt better. His senses were strangely clear, his mind no longer stuck in fight-or-flight mode. Will furrowed his brow. He felt better, but he knew it was only because he was no longer forced to be in the company of horrific crime scenes. Probably also due to Hannibal's constant presence. The truth of it cut deep. He craved his company, yet his shattered mind refused to let him seek out the man and find solace.

There was no time to ponder the whys and wherefores—or, there was time, but for now, he was reserving that time for eating and sleeping. When he felt a bit calmer, he would sit and ponder his turbulent emotions toward Hannibal, how he had descended into the depressed state he found himself in, and how he had become so muddled in his senses as to confuse his friend, ex-therapist, Hannibal with a loving lover.

First, a meal, then rest. Recovery later. He was in good hands.

The meal turned out to be just a mix of the few proteins Hannibal could scrounge up. Will was grateful, but the older man wanted to provide better for his future companion. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would rise early with a healthy meal for his boy. Will would dine on quality food made from the pork of his last hunt and sophisticated fare. No more living on coffee alone.

Hannibal also tossed each pill bottle into the trash with a disapproving snort.

"I need those," Will protested despondently, wondering how he would sleep without a good dose of numbing pills.

"These medicines aren't good," Hannibal scoffed.

"They do their job."

"They're old narcotics, placebos that do nothing for your well-being. No wonder you haven't made any progress in recovery. You take weak sleeping pills and numbing herbs that don't aid in healing. Didn't I warn you about relying so much on these medications? I don't want you ending up overdosing on excessive usage."

He had, thought Will, sighing. He was tired of lectures. If it happened, Will would just accept it.

"I don't see what the problem is. I've used them all since my youth without issue."

"And you're lucky they haven't led you to a coffin. These medications are unreliable. If you want so many pills, I can prescribe you some that won't impair your cognitive function or I can recommend you to a trustworthy professional," Hannibal reiterated. "I'll have Bedelia prepare a new regimen for you. They'll be much more effective."

Therapy, then. It was almost surreal. He would go just to get a new prescription, no more people poking around in his mind. No one could handle the truth inside it.

He probably could have used some therapy after that crushing trauma, Will supposed. No wonder he was so messed up when Hannibal found him.

There was no help for it; he had to obey Hannibal. With a slight nod, he flopped onto the bed, curling up and starting to drift away.

"Why do you sleep like this?"

Will lifted his head to look at Hannibal. "What?"

"Your boots are still on." He pointed at the twisted, dirty soles on the sheets. "You have a gun under your pillow."

Will clenched his fist. Sure enough, he felt the familiar weight of his gun handle fitting perfectly in his palm. He hadn't even realized he was holding it. He glanced at Hannibal. Was it strange to sleep with a gun? Certainly. Maybe the boots he could see as strange too, but he needed them, needed to be ready to flee at a moment's notice, in case—

"I feel safe like this," he said softly, dropping his head onto the pillow and gripping the gun handle tightly.

Hannibal made no comment, though his murmured disapproval spoke volumes. The door to his room opened and closed a moment later. He was alone.

Was it strange to feel a little abandoned? Probably.