Chapter Text
It's raining the first time he meets Will Graham - the boys that introduced him are a pair of grinning caporegimes that don't understand the size of the wolf they have just brought into the den. Hannibal was on his way out, with a long tan coat draped over his arm, the fedora slung low over his eyes as he took in what the boys had brought him and assessed instantly -federal agent.
Hannibal isn't the capo famiglia yet, he isn't anything technically, by very careful measured deeply greased palms. He is an assistant, he reports only up, but no one officially reports to him. He was given the word once, consigliere, but he'd never truly allowed it to stick.
With only the lightest touch of authority, he stepped in to take command of the 'new recruit', and perhaps there was some warning of where he really stood when the capos surrendered hold of what could be a brilliant new soldier without the least squeak of protest. It's elegant, really, much like the rest of the picture he presented.
Will doesn’t look at Hannibal, doesn’t look at anyone really. He keeps his eyes on the space just above Hannibal’s navel, where he can see his hands moving and determine whether or not he’ll need to reach for his gun or duck behind the nearest wall or run like hell. Hands say a lot about a person, people take body language for granted more than Will can even begin to reiterate, so he’s stopped trying. But it has saved him in the past and he continues to believe it will in future.
He’d spent months researching, following the man’s movements within the mob and without, studying where he went, what he ordered, how he responded to people, the way he looked at them… Will learned all there was to learn about Hannibal without asking a single thing about him, without even saying a word to him. Jack had not been impressed. Jack had wanted action. Jack had wanted infiltration. So, knowing what he knew, Will did. The best way he knew the man would respond.
Will Graham was determined to slide in under the skin of this system the way Hannibal had - it was why he recognized the attitude, the eager way he wore a gun tucked under at least one arm and his suit jacket unbuttoned to make reaching it easy. The way he stepped silent and respectful and kept his eyes down and pushed hard enough that he'd be impressive.
"I'm told we owe you some gratitude, Mr. Graham," Hannibal says, without any introduction. He doesn't suppose he needs much of one, though he wants to see how the man will bite in response to his effective block in the usual round of introductions. He held the door indicatively, suggesting by implication they should walk together. When they are alone, he might shoot the fed, or he might feed him. He hasn't decided quite yet the value of either notion.
“I believe you won’t be the first to owe me gratitude,” Will replies, turning his head just enough to see the men who’d escorted him step back and away. He swallows lightly before turning back, straightening his shoulders and walking to the indicated door. He could be dead when he steps through that, leaving Hannibal at his back as the man was clearly suggesting. But nothing Hannibal has done has indicated that he wants to attack Will, or kill him, and he’s not a man to shoot someone in the back when he can see their eyes as they die.
Will steps through, quickly flicking his collar up against the wind and pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat.
“If you play both sides, one side is bound to kill you.” He continues, “Though it’s understandable why neither you nor Bruno wanted to do the honors. Police commissioners are noticed, when missing.” He offers Hannibal a thin smile and wonders if that’s the last thing he will ever say; as far as famous last words go, Will’s certain he could’ve done worse. The commissioner wasn’t dead. Bloody, yes, thoroughly surprised by the assault, yes, but not dead. Just no longer in Philadelphia.
Under the awning outside, Hannibal slips on his coat, and considers the drizzle in the early Philadelphia evening, late in the year as it is. It might well turn to snow as the evening goes on, not the first of the year, but the first with potential to make a real nuisance of itself. He waits for Will to settle.
"I suppose not," Hannibal concedes, with a faint upward quirk of his mouth. "I find it unusual to owe favors to those I don't know well. I just wanted to be certain you knew I paid my debts anyway."
He doesn't offer a handshake, not in public. The press tended to hover everywhere these days, and maybe even on a day as horrible as this one, there were journalists laid out flat with long lenses in the apartments across the street, rubbing unit shoulders with the detectives that spent time trying to learn whatever they could. It could ruin the man or raise him up, a handshake from Lecter. Right now, he offers neither.
"It's a shame when men make foolish decisions without considering their young, beautiful wives," Hannibal suggests, keeping his tone in careful sympathy. "And expecting, too. I hope she recovers from the shock."
Will tries not to bristle, but perhaps it was his upbringing, or the warning bells that inevitably ring around any member of the mob, but the thought of Hannibal Lecter even knowing about the commissioner’s wife set Will’s teeth on edge. He put it down to the cold, and hoped the other man would too.
While William's eyes are angled down, Hannibal unhesitantly takes in what was in front of him. Compact, but not as short as he seemed. Will Graham has a thin build and eyes that ran unsteadily away from contact, and a square jaw that seems incongruous with the rest of him. He is handsome, and wears an outdated suit that fits him poorly. He has sloppy, dark ringlets in the style that flappers had worn, now invariably tamed carefully into waves. He doesn’t seem to have a hat.
He turns seemingly at random and steps out into the rain with his collar turned up against it, his hat still at an aggressive angle over his eyes. "Come to dinner with me, Mr. Graham. I believe we should get to know each other."
The scrutiny, too, doesn’t go unnoticed. Will stays still enough to be observed but not enough to show he is aware of it. He turns his head to the rain, eyes seeking out the fifth window on the fourth floor where he knows some agents are stationed. He keeps his eyes there deliberately for a long time, wondering if they were unnerved, if anyone on shift knew him and would attempt to report… he was under cover. He doubts anyone but Jack and his team knew he was here.
And now they did too. The press is a powerful weapon. He wouldn’t be killed here, not in this alley. When he turns back, at Hannibal’s words, the relief was evident.
“Of course.” It was not an invitation. Even beyond studying the man’s movement for as long as he had been, Will had seen films. You don’t reject and offer of dinner. And an offer of dinner was not always what it appeared.
The acceptance isn’t quite eager. The man is well scripted and well-practiced. Hannibal knows he has to walk exactly in a certain way, but it was amusing to see him navigate the very earliest twists and turns with a skill that wasn't quite effortless. Hannibal is curious to see if he'll warm into the task and get better at it, or if he'll lose his way.
He might be useful in the meantime.
Leading down the street, Hannibal seems content to walk, intimately familiar with his city - and seemingly utterly fearless. He has no guards, no one with him but Will Graham, the new member. There isn't a hint to his suspicion. Hannibal settles his hands in his pockets, and turns on twelfth, looking unerringly up the street at the Reading Terminal Market - a strange place to consider for food - unless one intended to cook it themselves.
"I know it's considered impolite to look a gift horse in the mouth," Hannibal continues, apparently satisfied with Will's responses to this point. "But I wonder what your purpose was in doing such a big favor, Mr. Graham. Not that I'm not grateful, but I understand you're new to the area in the first place. Were you discontent with the current leadership?"
Will follows in silence, not quite at ease but not trying to be. He doubts anyone was ever at ease with this man, even those who work with – and under – him on a regular basis. At his words he glances up, offering a small smile before letting his eyes slide off the man like the rain was; not heavy but certainly present.
“To be honest, I’ve been meaning to a long while,” he answers, “Dangerous as it is to say this to you, Mr. Lecter, not everything revolves around your… corporation.” The irony, he is sure, would not be lost, “The man irked me. The favor, as you call it, was a personal vendetta.”
He doesn’t acknowledge Hannibal’s words as gratitude, almost ignores them, like Hannibal had chosen to ignore introductions. It’s a dangerous move, but this was not a man you won over by praising and worship. He was won over, if ever, by loyalty and proof of it. If Will survives the evening, he will count himself lucky. He knows for a fact that, if anything, it will be a while until Hannibal Lecter forgets his name. And sometimes being known and remembered was better than being instantly in.
"And yet it was through my front doors," Hannibal answers, directly, with barely a pause to digest the information, "That you came with your victory, Mr. Graham."
He carefully orchestrates his tone to suggest that he perhaps knows exactly what Will was seeking. He arches his brows and tips his head to have a more direct look at him out from under the brim of his hat as they reach the market, and he checks his wet coat and hat with the courtesy clerk before moving deeper.
It seems strange to Will – and did, during his observations – that Hannibal rarely ate out, despite most of the restaurants offering not only free dinner but unlimited alcohol. Though, Will is sure, the reason for that was because Hannibal controlled most of the alcohol in the city, among other things. He was here for those, not to settle gambling debt or bust the man for alcohol distribution.
“I believe it was a case of being at the right diner at the wrong time,” he answers, choosing not to pass his coat over as Hannibal passed his, and instead just turns the collar down again, following Hannibal into the market. “Your associates saw me and thought the deed deserved a mention.”
"Regardless I am grateful that your vendetta coincides with my interests. Or appears to anyway," Hannibal continues, basket over his arm, as he makes his way to a market boasting baskets of ripe produce. "Though I suspect you want more from me for it than dinner."
Will inclines his head at the thanks and allows himself to smile more. “Dinner is already more than I expected for doing something I’ve wanted to do for years,” he confirms, “Though I can’t say it’s unwelcome.”
"I'd be curious to hear how you became enemies," Hannibal keeps his tone light, with genuine curiosity, watching the other assemble the steps through the game in his mind, and navigate them. "So I can avoid making the same mistakes."
Will smiles, raising his eyes to regard Hannibal’s face properly for the first time before following him to the next stall. Will has never had a problem with lying, he can keep a story afloat even when there’s a gun to his head and seconds before someone’s trigger finger slips. His issue has always been coming up with believable lies on the fly, and he almost wants to kick himself for the sheer idiocy of not coming up with a coherent story as to why he hated the poor commissioner so much. He has a skeleton of a story but not the body of one.
“Is there a term for sibling rivalry equivalent with family friends?” he asks, “Being compared to someone your entire life, being pushed to be like them and berated for taking your own path starts to weigh on the nerves. Certainly so when you end up on a higher moral path than your apparently perfect counterpart.” Will shrugs, surprised at how much truth his words held; those were always the most effective and easy to sustain lies. “So I killed him. perhaps I should spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder wondering who was compared to me.”
He lets the answer rest and concentrates on watching Hannibal. There is something so strange about watching one of Philadelphia’s most powerful men shop for produce for dinner like any normal person might, and for a moment, a brief silly moment, Will forgets that this man runs on average four hundred people into the city a month, for only God knows what. He knows that if this goes sour, a shot to the knee would be a blessing before a shot to the head. He’s certain if he’s found out he’ll find himself in a shipment.
There, actual eye contact. Hannibal smiles, while he watches Will assemble his lies into a neat line in the face of clear adversity. He thinks that he might have poked a slight hole in the cover, but it reassembles clearly enough. Quickly, too. Hannibal wonders what that mind could do when arrayed for his purposes, rather than against them.
He supposes he has time enough to lead him along and see if there's any possibility of finding out.
Listening, Hannibal's mouth quirks up at one side. "Perhaps you should." He'd put his money on Will in a fight, however. It was an interesting story - that he had a chip on his shoulder from his upbringing, to cause his theoretically unexplainable violence. Old grudges were the most satisfying to resolve.
“What do you think I want from you, Mr. Lecter?” Will asks after a moment, smile still present, shoving away the thoughts of the man’s inhumanity for the time being to keep his face clear, “What do men like me usually want from men like you?”
Hannibal pulls capers, a head of garlic, fresh parsley and basil, and various other things, before making his payment and heading for a stall displaying fresh caught fish. It looks eclectic, the array of what he's picking up, but he seems to know exactly what he wants rather than to be shopping without actual intent for whatever caught his eye. He takes two pounds of scallops still in their shells.
He smiles at that question, the unusual technique of turning a question around on him - not something Hannibal often got. He considers Will briefly. "Men like you usually want to occupy the space that I currently hold, Mr. Graham."
His last stop is the butcher, where the man seems to know him well, requires only an indication that Hannibal requires 2 of whatever it is he's here for to begin carefully cutting and packaging it for him.
"But not you, I think. It's clear you have an ambition, but I think you're smart enough to realize that only someone very specific can do what I do." There was money and power aplenty, if you were Hannibal Lecter, but if someone tried to push him out of the way and seat themselves instead, they'd find everything withering under them. "Your ambition is a different sort."
Will actually meets Hannibal’s eyes at his words, allowing his smile to become comfortable, almost relaxed, before lowering his eyes in amusement and turning away.
“It’s the façade everyone wants. The money, the women, the alcohol. Not the work behind it.” He shrugs, watching Hannibal pick up the rest of what he needs for dinner and meditating on the stall a moment, “The worst thing is to inherit a position of power, that’s why princes who overthrew their fathers rarely ruled for long. Because the men who work to get where they are, they have their problems and the solutions ready. Those who simply take end up with problems and no ace.” He licks his lips, brows furrowing a little in thought, “I would prefer to struggle for the decadence you have than to land in it and drown.”
Hannibal tucks all of his purchases together into a bag once he's completed his rounds, and folds it carefully over in three precise tucks. He picks up his coat on the way back out, careful to tuck the bag beneath it, though there is nothing in it that would be ruined by a little water, and he resettles his hat on his head after tipping the attendant on the side of generosity. "If you have to overthrow someone to get to your position, rather than simply let it slip onto you like a glove," Hannibal agreed, "It'll never be a successful one."
"Does your preference mean you're still aiming to try and take my position from me someday, Mr. Graham?" He asks, once they are on the street again. The trip was short, but it has still grown darker and cooler enough that the rain has turned to heavy, white flakes. "I'm not far, but the roads will be icy soon. Do you have a long way back home this evening?"
Will allows another slip of his mask to look at Hannibal again, his smile widening enough to draw his lips back.
“Perhaps I won’t take it,” he assures him, “Perhaps I’ll sidle up and let it slip onto me like a glove. Someday.” The thought amuses him. He wonders how long it will take him to get enough information to bring the whole organization down. He wonders what it will take out of him and if this will make his name or break it.
Hannibal arches his eyebrows at the implied challenge, but - he could see how easily the man was sliding himself in here. How carefully. How he didn't betray himself with anything but what Hannibal could smell on him instinctively. It was only Will's bad luck that Hannibal was suspicious enough. He'd slipped by neatly to this point.
It's only a fair to take the bait thrown to him and see where the line led. Hannibal would have to be careful, but he always was.
The snow outside isn’t a surprise so much as an annoyance. Will had taken a cab to the diner, had walked the rest of the way with Hannibal since. And the only thing awaiting him at his apartment is a cold draft, a broken deadbolt and a hungry dog. He could get the neighbour to feed it until he comes home; dinner, as mentioned, in such circles implies much more besides.
“I’ll get a cab,” he tells him, pushing his hands further into his pockets and wishing he hadn’t been an idiot about forgetting his scarf. “Though I’ll admit in this weather, dinner is sounding more and more appropriate and welcome. I’ll make a note to take my personal vendettas out in public more often.”
Hannibal seems impervious to the cold as he leads Will up 12th, and then two blocks down a cross street to tenth avenue - nice apartments, in high rises, over shops on the lower floors at street level and perhaps offices above. He nods in response to the suggestion of a cab. "Allow me. I appreciate intelligent company. And, if they coincide with my interests I would be pleased to make you as many meals as you'd like, Mr. Graham."
His building has a doorman, who greets them without a remote blink of surprise at Hannibal's company. They exchange comments on the weather and Hannibal encourages the man to have a mind for his extremities before they enter and wait for the slow progress of the old lift. "How have you found Philadelphia so far? It's not so large as New York, and not so active."
At least not on the surface.
Will follows, allowing himself to be impressed but not surprised. Of course Hannibal would live here, in the middle of the hidden higher classes pretending they weren’t what they were. Nonetheless, getting out of the wind is welcome. The question catches him off guard just slightly, as he supposes it should, but he keeps the majority of his panic wrapped securely under his thin shirt.
“It’s just as cold,” he counters, stamping his feet against the floor to rid his shoes of snow and, perhaps, to get feeling back into his toes. “And one can actually believe snow is white, here, as opposed to the same color as the rest of the sludge of the city.”
He hadn’t enjoyed New York. He had been sent there after Quantico so study up on Hannibal as far away as was safe. His primary research into the mob’s working and inner circle had been done there, before he’d moved to Philadelphia to watch the man properly, letting his research be grounded and backed up by what he was seeing. New York, however, hadn’t appeared to let him go just as easily as Will had let it go.
“They say one shouldn’t live in New York City long enough to make them hard of mind,” he says, “Is that what gave me away?”
"I knew you'd spent time in a city," Hannibal answers, without taking the obvious jibe at the man's suit saying otherwise. He wasn't city bred, he wasn't old money or new money. The lift ticks its way down the floors like Hannibal might otherwise tick the points off in his fingers, if he weren't holding a bag dry under his coat. "I knew you knew your way around enough to not get lost."
He doesn't mean in the standard definition of the word. Will clearly knows how to navigate the various issues that are contingent with a family owned city like this one. Where better to get the practice? "And you knew me, yet I had to dig to learn anything about you. So you weren't from here, either."
Hannibal spent a lot of time in New York, checking his acquisitions on the docks. It only made sense they'd sent Graham there to study him. "It was just a lucky guess," Hannibal smiles at him instead, and pulls back the gate to hold it politely for will when the lift arrives. "You didn't grow up there, so it hasn't hardened you that far."
He resettles the bag, and works his key in the lock, then reaches inside to activate the button that turned on the light, revealing a space that is neatly appointed and almost too clean to seem lived in.
No, he hadn’t grown up there. Will had grown up in the middle of nowhere and had wanted to get out for as long as he could remember. He doesn’t know if that makes him hard or resilient, but it certainly makes him determined. He offers a small smile and enters first, as bidden, there is no flourish, no dramatic presentation… it reminds Will a little of entering a hotel suite of someone visiting from out of town.
Everything is arranged in a way that it is meant to be, like a catalogue of a normal life. A small but comfortable kitchen with new appliances and nicely wiped down counters, a living area in dark colors with soft-looking furniture that appears to never have been sat it since the day it was delivered. Will licks his lips and takes off his coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, rubbing his hands together to warm them.
“And what did you find, when you dug to find out about me?” he knew he would be investigated when the shitstorm started, he’d prepared for it, but he wants to know how much of his cover had held up and how much he would have to explain away. It hits him rather hard, with the quiet click of the door, that in this space he is nothing, and he has nothing at all to help him if things go sour. He doubts the gun at his side would be effective beyond angering the man or acting as a prop for his own death.
"That you moved here only two months ago, " Hannibal says, and he sets the bag on the ground, puts his hat up on the top of the coat rack, and hangs his coat straight, before he frownes at it - they both had wet coats. He takes them both and settles them over one of the radiators instead, before he begins to bring the apartment to life.
He settles the bag on the counter, and wakes the electric range, pulls a stainless steel pan down from an overhead hook. "That you live in an undersized studio on the wrong side of town," Hannibal continues. "But I expect you'd almost rather it be a farm these days, having experienced the frustrations of city life."
Will listens to Hannibal talk and mentally checks off what of it is accurate and what had been fed to him. He seems to have gathered all the information provided, though it still worries him to have it told to him so blatantly. He swallows but offers a genuine smile when addressed directly again.
“The temperature between my apartment and the farm I grew up on is similar, I just wish the silence was similar also.” He replies, not denying anything. He doesn’t offer anything about Hannibal in return. In a way, this is going exactly as planned; he has the man’s attention, has his interest, and isn’t pushing hard enough to appear desperate or suspicious.
"There are silences in a city," Hannibal takes on the thread of conversation as easily as he can, while he continues on, producing a large pot in which to prepare handmade pasta that comes down from a shelf - it's clearly of an excellent quality white ribbons that will taste buttery under whatever sauce goes on them. "But the implications are usually not peaceful."
Hannibal washes his hands, and unpacks the meat to deal with it first. His kitchen is almost the most welcoming part of his house, allowing him to prepare on one side of the island counter that stands to divide it from the dining room, while on the other there are a row of tall, padded stools for others to occupy and converse. "And now I have learned that you entertain vendettas against police commissioners and your family lacked in some of the supportive qualities that are supposed to make this country so wholesome. I suppose that means you left home young."
Hannibal looks up to make eye contact and turn that into a question as he works expertly with a big knife, along the grain of well fatted pale meat - veal, which he is separating into thin slices. He works carefully, but quickly. It would all come together to form a piccata, if Will was familiar enough. "Can you shuck scallops?"
The knife offered is a surprise, though, Will hasn’t worked with sea food for a long time. His dinner is never this elaborate, he doubts it ever will be while he’s working for the FBI.
“Perhaps once my hands aren’t numb,” he replies, standing and taking the offered utensil before walking around the kitchen island to turn on the tap in the sink and put his hands under the water, waiting for it to warm them and bring the slightly uncomfortable tingling to the tips of his fingers. He licks his bottom lip into his mouth before letting it go.
“Dinner cannot be your way of showing gratitude to everyone who does you a favor,” he says, flicking his fingers of excess water before taking up a towel to dry them properly, “I’d imagine you would have quite a parade of people through here if that were the case. Was the commissioner really that much of a thorn in the side?”
Hannibal takes a towel over one hand and fires the valve on the radiator in the kitchen a little more firmly into the open position so that it will heat the space a little faster. Practically, he leaves them all on low while he is out, though the space is at least a little bit warmer than the outside - where the night has turned a brilliant reflective darkening gray, holding light longer with the swirling snowflakes to reflect it back.
The water runs hot on demand quickly, an expensive luxury, but still a practical one. It's likely that Hannibal has a hot shower as well, and any number of other subtleties that make things just a hair more pleasant. Hannibal is chopping by the time Will finishes washing his hands, though he pauses to uncork a bottle of wine, and pour both of them a glass.
"Enough of one that I expected he'd be taken care of by someone... expected." His answer is simple and elegant, and he offers a smile to suggest that was the entire truth. "And I suppose it's best to know the measure of someone who comes unpredictably into a situation. I was curious, Mr. Graham, I'll admit it."
In his more desperate moments, when following the man’s movements and studying his… body of work… became too depressing, Will took up the man’s hobbies to keep himself sane and on the same track as Hannibal. Jack didn’t look kindly to someone who dropped behind on an assignment, especially one as important as this. So for weeks at a time, Will would spend his meagre pay on expensive ingredients and cook them, trying to understand what Hannibal found so pleasing about the activity beyond the obvious aftermath, and eating what he’d prepared.
He’d found it a hypnotic and rather pleasurable way to clear his mind. and now Will takes up the scallops in not so much a practiced way as in practiced anticipation, and begins to work.
“Did you have a vocation,” Will asks, carefully working the delicate flesh from the shells, “Before this? You seem to have a gift for reading people.”
At Quantico, Will had dabbled, taken all the classes available to check out the range, to see where he fit and what he enjoyed most. He found himself fascinated by people. Just people. The way they worked and thought and acted on those thoughts. He’d started honing in on his ability to understand people and empathise, practiced with classmates and lecturers until it became almost second nature to be able to become someone else; like an actor. Like a double agent. Perhaps that had been why Jack had chosen him for the assignment, and not a more experienced agent, or even a more capable student from his own graduating year.
Will waits for his answer as he carefully continues running the knife around the edges of the shells, carefully but quick, wondering vaguely if his lack of experience – and age – will get him into trouble.
As it became easier, it became meditative. Hannibal could think while he prepared, and he enjoyed having the control over his own food that ensured the only variables were the ones he could see. He works with only the briefest of glances at Will when the other takes up the knife to begin prying open the scallop shells and separating the meat.
He knows already that Will knows some of the answer - and in a way that tempts him to toss in a blatant lie to see how long Will could play the game of fact and what he was supposed to know in his mind before he slipped up and had information he shouldn't technically know. But his willingness to pick up a knife and help in a way that was companionable earns him an easy truth.
"I was a medical student when the great war began," He says, after a careful sip of wine. It's clear he's separated the war from the rest of his mind in some careful way. "And then a field surgeon for the duration. I suppose I know a bit more about how people work than I'd like."
"And you? What's your profession?" The question is turned neatly, with a smile. It does not imply that Hannibal has totally finished talking about himself or that point in his life, but he doesn't want to go on and on about himself and risk boring someone (who already knows). "Not fisherman, I suppose."
He’s surprised Hannibal offers an honest answer, he expected a question turned back on himself, a subtle but clear elusion. He doesn’t offer more information, doesn’t give himself away by asking something Hannibal hasn’t explicitly told him. he finishes with the scallops and finds his hands in need of movement.
“Accounting,” Will offers in answer. It isn’t, really, far from the truth. His family had wanted him to go into accounting, he’d just blatantly ignored them to go into the FBI instead. “A profession my father assures me will never go out of fashion or demand.” He offers a thin smile and lets his eyes flick up to meet Hannibal’s for a moment.
“I refrain from telling him he’s confusing it with undertaking. Death is the only thing that’s constant and the only thing that will always have a flourishing business.”
He is almost painfully wary of everything around him, of how Hannibal prepares his own part of dinner near him in the kitchen, the fact that he has a knife that he can use far more effectively and accurately than Will could ever aspire to. He swallows. It also worries him that he’s here, and what’s expected of him. it’s unusual for Hannibal to bring anyone home, let alone a potential associate. Will doesn’t know if he’s expecting to be recruited, gutted or propositioned.
"It may go out of fashion perhaps, but demand - hmm. I expect not." But Hannibal runs his eyes over Will again, taking in the poorly fitting suit and the shoes that were slightly too worn. Not much of a shield against those who would question his profession, but he is young enough to fall back on the idea that he was only starting and they were still recovering from the depression.
Not that Hannibal appears to have noticed there ever was a depression. He'd arrived recently enough to stay uninvolved with it. He suspects Will's family was the sort that had starved in the dust bowl, and he felt too ashamed of suits to clothe himself in too nice of one when the cost could be compared to feeding a family for months.
Hannibal lets him fidget for the moment, watching the motions, watching him try to guess what was expected of him, and what he should be doing with his hands. It was revealing, to watch him when he lingered at a crossroads of decision. When he's finished chopping, the veal and other ingredients go into the heated pan with a decent amount of sweet cream butter and he presses them flat.
"What firm do you work for, Mr. Graham?" he asks, his tone interested. "You'll forgive me for saying it doesn't seem that they treat you well."
He glances over at the water and finds it boiling, but his hands are occupied. "Would it make me a terrible host to ask you to put the Fusilli in?"
“Heins & Whelen,” Will replies, quick enough to appear natural, not practiced. He’d recited his false backstory over and over to himself in the weeks leading up to actually orchestrating a meeting; My name is Will Graham, I am an accountant with Heins & Whelen, just starting out, no family left, absolutely nothing remarkable about me at all. “And they treat me well for a new employee. You’ve already made clear you’ve read up on me, knowing I moved here recently, I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
His smile is a challenge but not a malicious one. He’s not stupid enough to forget the man knows more about him than he probably lets on, and he won’t pretend to have forgotten in the role he’s playing. He follows Hannibal’s not-quite instruction and rinses his hands again, taking up the towel to dry them as he turns to lean his hip against the sink behind him. he hasn’t touched his wine.
“Anything else I can do to help the terrible host?” he asks casually, pushing to see how Hannibal would respond to a blatant step back from outright respect. Or, perhaps, to test if he has a sense of humor.
It is remarkable for exactly how unremarkable it is, given the man's more immediate history. One did not expect an otherwise unremarkable accountant to beat someone quite so violently out of nowhere at all. He wonders how Will would come around to explaining that, or if he would just let it sit as the single standout.
"I know what I've been told," Hannibal agrees smoothly, "but also what I can see. Your shoes are old for an accountant - or at least one that's well treated by their firm. I know you went to an excellent school where you must have rubbed shoulders with the elite, but you got in on the merit of your mind, rather than family money."
But these are physical things, tangible things. Hannibal smiles apologetically in return to the challenging one. All in the way the man dressed, and that was it. There was a lot that could be found out just by looking, rather than what was reported.
Hannibal looks appreciative, glad the man followed instructions carefully but without lunging to it too eagerly. Will is interested in knowing him, but not being owned by Hannibal. It is refreshing, and an interesting, indirect way of going about attempting an infiltration and takedown. "Thank you," Hannibal answers graciously, but with a smile. "That should do."
He leaves the pan to sit and begins to attend the scallops Will had prepared, rinsing twice, and then settling them over the boiling pasta in a catch basket to steam and starch at the same time. Then, Hannibal leans back to breathe and wash his hands and takes his wine glass back up, observing that Will's remained full. "Do you prefer white, or are you of the belief that abstaining solves the world's issues?"
Will doesn’t want to admit that it’s partially because he was worried there was something in it and partially because he doesn’t drink on the job. He simply offers a smile and takes up the glass to hold but not to drink.
“I’m not a huge drinker,” he admits; truth, to contrast the false history and job. “I’m afraid that I was never taught an appreciation for finer wine and my schooling provided more negative than positive experiences with alcohol.” Prohibition had ensured that someone would try to make their own alcohol or smuggle some in. They tried. Multiple times. And it had been horribly made and revolting and completely not worth the hangover in the morning. Will had learned quickly and hadn’t touched the stuff since unless under duress or for a cover. The way Hannibal is looking at him suggests he’s on the verge of teaching Will the meaning and appreciation of ‘fine’ alcohol. Or fine everything.
With a sigh, Will takes a tentative sip. The rest of Hannibal’s analysis of him had quite given him pause for the moment, just thinking. He could read him as well as Will could read him in turn, and it was unnerving, having that power turned back on himself.
"American schools do seem to have that fallacy in common," Hannibal allows - but he doesn't quite relent with his gaze until Will has a sip. There is nothing in it - he had uncorked the bottle in front of the man, after all, and killing someone in his own apartment was bad form. He'd avoid it unless he was defending himself. "It's not the same as it was those years ago, Mr. Graham. And I wouldn't insult you by offering anything less than something pleasing."
Bathtub gin it is not, it's complex and vaguely sweet but dry. It does not hit the mouth hard like bathtub gin, it doesn't scour the throat. It's unlikely Will has ever encountered a vintage of the like, given his professed lack of education on the subject. Hannibal smiles once Will has had some, as if that were all he was asking.
“My mind seems to be the only marketable thing about me,” Will says at length, letting his eyes linger on the stovetop a moment before sliding to Hannibal, again keeping eye contact with his hands to read his responses for the time being.
“Which begs the question of why I’m here.” He turns his chin up as casually as he lifts the glass to his lips again.
Hannibal moves to turn the veal over in the pan - he does not fuss with his cooking or hover over it. He has a sort of confidence that allows him to set it as he wants it and know how it will emerge again from the other side.
"Because I am grateful," Hannibal reiterates, once he's given the scallops a toss and glanced once down at the pasta below them. He supposes he needs more, and the adage about 'enemies closer' springs into his mind and brings a smile that touches all the way up into his eyes. "And cautious. You should allow that your sudden appearance might seem suspicious, if in fact, you were interested at all in what could be done for you if you continued to look after our interests, Mr. Graham. I thought before you met anyone important I would sound you out."
He admits it casually, but does not overplay his hand, and then he judges the veal as done as he'd like it and pushes it to a cool burner, shakes the scallops again and at last begins to fetch down some plates as the pasta finishes, but for as busy as he is, he is still watching Will from the corners of his eyes, trying to see how he will sweat this accomplishment.
Will accepts that, inclines his head as he thinks. So they are interested in him, he did make the impression he wanted. And just as Hannibal doesn’t overplay his hand, Will does the same.
“And how do I sound?” he asks, setting his glass aside and offering to help set the table, taking direction carefully but taking his time to study the rest of the apartment as he works. It’s quiet here and the view quite spectacular. He wonders how Hannibal assumes he can ‘look after their interests’ more. He’s not a hitman, it’s fairly obvious that he has neither the build nor the countenance. In fact it took him three attempts to pass for his gun license at the academy. He doubts they’d need him in actual accounting – and he is well versed in the practice, his father made sure of it – and that leaves very few things they could need him for.
When the table is set he leans against it, just watching the city pass by and letting himself meditate until Hannibal moves behind him and startles him into shifting. He takes up his glass from the kitchen and follows the man to the table.
The view is excellent, all the way up here. It's the twenty fourth floor, luxurious and well-appointed and very high up - the whole city laid out flat below them, her secrets and streets open to the eyes. It is hypnotic, Hannibal enjoys the view profoundly, looking down and discovering how many lives he actually owns of the ones ticking through their elaborate clockwork.
He does not interrupt Will's considerations, not until the table is fully set and ready, with scallops and veal piccata over a thick homemade pasta. It isn't his nationality, not hardly, but it hasn't hurt him thus far to play into the stereotype.
"I haven't quite decided yet," Hannibal admits at length, as he holds the chair for Will to settle himself into. "I'm not certain you're even interested."
He serves them both, but there is plenty. He knows, in the back of his mind, that Will is unlikely to eat well, not with his thoughts for rent and his pet and the pay he gets from the FBI. He doesn't suppose that Will Graham is the sort that could be bought over heart and soul with money - or he'd have become an accountant.
"Are you, Mr. Graham?"
Will sits and takes up his cutlery carefully, smiling at his dinner. It’s very lavish, much more than he expected if he’d come home to his dog like he’d planned. He didn’t eat anything more elaborate than potatoes or rice with meat – if he could afford it – or just vegetables – if he couldn’t buy dog food that week. This was… something else.
At Hannibal’s words he looks up, meeting his eyes with a genuinely amused expression. Both are men of power in their own right, Hannibal runs most of the east coast trafficking ring singlehandedly, despite refusing to take credit for doing so, and Will… Will has his attention. Neither will shift or budge and both know what the answer is.
“I can be tempted.” He tells him honestly, starting on his dinner and closing his eyes in enjoyment. It tastes divine, the flavors mixing in unusual but rather pleasing ways, invoking memory of the wine that Will takes up again after a few bites of dinner. It’s a quiet and comfortable silence, surprisingly, and Will begins to relax; shoulders lowering from their tense state of wariness, eyes still looking out for any sudden or unusual movement that would indicate he needs to move or defend himself.
There’s nothing.
Just occasional glances shared over the best meal Will has had in months.
Hannibal has some notion of how to coax someone so obviously starving as Will Graham. He is wondering if the shoddiness of suit and shoes was intentional, idly, and he decides he doesn't care. It had been well played if it was, and sloppy of the FBI if it wasn't, to invoke what little humanity Hannibal had ever so carefully. But much as he knew the measure of this man financially, Will Graham held his head up high and refused to whinge or scrape or beg Hannibal for favors.
The corner of Hannibal's mouth quirks, and he actually wonders how deep the statement goes - if Will Graham could be tempted right out of his original loyalty, and to instead eat from Hannibal's outstretched hand. A nervous racehorse led from the stables and painted black, no one would really ever know who truly won until the race was run and the color washed away to reveal that perhaps it was something entirely unexpected.
It's allowed to be comfortable, how they eat. Companionable. The food is excellent, and Hannibal doesn't dishonor it in the slightest by speaking until he's appreciated most of it. "It so happens I need an assistant," he says, the hand extended with the sugar cube balanced in the palm, to see how eager he might be to eat. He arches his eyebrows and tips his head. "I would need you to wear a better suit."
It's delivered with a smile, a faint drift of humor, before Hannibal passes his knife through the meat on his plate again to separate it into something smaller, and he watches Will consider as he works it between his teeth, and wonders how far he can push this man before he breaks and admits what he is.
Will pauses before carefully swallowing his mouthful and setting his knife and fork down, just resting his wrists against the edge of the table for the moment. Then he clears his throat.
“And perhaps a haircut,” he says finally, sitting up a little straighter and finishing his wine in a smooth long drink. Assistant. He didn’t expect to get that close that quick. Perhaps one of the lower runners, an organizer at most, nothing like this. It is both oddly suspicious and strangely… natural. He considers the empty glass and rolls it between his fingers before biting his lip lightly, eyes narrowed in thought.
“What would my job entail?” he asks.
Hannibal's eyes travel up toward the unruly mop, somewhat longer than was currently fashionable, by way of concession. He hopes the man won't cut all of it away, while it could stand to be neater, the curling fringe wasn't unattractive. Hannibal allows that deviancy in himself, on occasion, to influence his decisions. It is a weakness he could afford to indulge.
"And perhaps a haircut," he agrees, smoothly, before he lifts his fork to his mouth again, and drops his attention away from his dinner guest.
"It would mostly involve book keeping, Mr. Graham. I find it dull, but necessary. I am exacting and demanding on that front, I will admit," he says, dangling the temptation to look into his finances in front of the FBI agent as casually as that. He will, of course, be only dealing with the official records - and let him try to find a hole in those that went down deep enough to threaten Hannibal.
"But also errands of a personal nature, if you don't consider yourself above retrieving dry cleaning and making the occasional delivery that I would require to be just-so?" Hannibal sets his silverware down exactingly, at ten and two on his plate, and folds his hands together to look appraisingly at Will. "The rewards would be palpable, as I'm sure you've guessed, and I would be most grateful for the intelligent company - since you suggest it is your mind that is most marketable."
Will mirrors the cutlery placement, adjusting how his own is lying by gently shifting it with a forefinger. He would have access to almost everything the FBI needed for the rico case. All the finances, meaning all the companies and leaders attached to the finances. It was perfect. If all he needed to do for that was be vigilant and organized, wear better tailored suits and occasionally retrieve dry cleaning Will is fairly certain he could and would do it.
It could make his career, bringing down Hannibal Lecter.
“The suggestion will continue being just as true later as it is now,” he assures him, offering another smile, allowing part of his wall to sink and reveal the sheer excitement he is feeling. Cover or no cover, any man offered such a position by one Hannibal Lecter would be doing one of two things: on their knees thanking their lucky stars or running like hell. This was the closest to the equivalent of the former that Will would allow.
“I would need a day or two to familiarize myself with the paperwork before I could guarantee flawless and fast delivery,” he says, being realistic, “But perhaps the position would benefit us both.”
"I'm assuming you'll need to give Heins & Whelen your notice as well," Hannibal says, with a smile that he allows to be open as Will finds his outward and inward purposes aligning in a way that should possibly set off his alarm bells. But he has to play along now, regardless - to rebuff Hannibal's advances here would cut him out of the opportunity, no matter how it might tweak him as too easy.
That he steps up into it anyway and does not let his facade drop for one minute into panic, instead playing the easy, quick to anger Will Graham to the hilt. He does not overdo it. Hannibal respects him in a marginally larger increment, even as the hook sets for him to begin reeling the man in.
He arches his eyebrows at the implication lent to the last words with the addition of 'but', as if Will were suggesting more to it than Hannibal's gratitude and requirements allowing for a lucky happenstance that would benefit William with his doting employment. "Perhaps?" he asks, allowing Will to fill in the blank, wondering what exactly he'll offer.
Will realizes his error and shrugs, just blinking a moment. “I’ve been starved for intelligent company also.” He replies easily, a feign but a quick one. He’d let his mind run too quickly and his mouth follow along; he isn’t even sure if he was implying anything in particular with his last words, or simply trying to end the statement as carefully as possible.
He refrains from asking what more the man would ask of him, certain the answer would jostle his carefully arranged mask into something weaker. And he’s doing very well right now, he doesn’t need to lose this.
It’s difficult to not make his leave taking – or the onset of it – anything but awkward, and Will takes a moment before glancing to Hannibal for cues on whether or not he’s allowed to leave or – again his mind refrains – more is required of him. Eventually he stands, gathering his plate and offering to take Hannibal’s. It’s something to do with his hands if anything, a distraction to clear his head and get it back on properly.
Hannibal takes his own plate graciously, though he had seen the way William had taken a leap to get himself back on course, he knows the man is likely eager to report his progress back, or perhaps to take his leave of his cover corporation and angle himself better into a position to work both sides. Hannibal is genuinely curious where William's loyalties will fall.
"It is late," he agrees, and he takes Will's plate as well, heading for the sink. The plates are both devoid of remains, and Hannibal is appreciative that the other had eaten everything he'd offered. He considers pushing another glass of wine on the man, but there is something to be said for taking things one careful step at a time. "Let me call your cab, Mr. Graham. I expect to see you tomorrow morning, at your leisure, so that we can get you into proper attire."
He settles the plates down into a basin of hot water, and moves for the phone - but before he does, he pours another glass of wine for the both of them. Will won't be driving after all, and it would leave a taste on the man's tongue that would linger as he shivered next to his dog in his tiny apartment, likely unable to sleep for the certainty that he would soon entangle Hannibal Lecter in his carefully cast net.
Will accepts the wine, albeit reluctantly, and politely takes a sip. He isn’t sure what time it is, but he’s wired, adrenaline shooting through his veins at the prospect of what is to come. He doubts he’ll sleep the night but he’s worked more on less rest and he knows his story and Hannibal’s well enough to be confident in it. Perhaps he should worry about his mouth running away from him again, but his save seemed appropriate enough to not arouse suspicion.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, for dinner, certainly, the wine, perhaps even for the cab, but more for the opportunity. It feels like a betrayal to be thanking the man for unknowingly starting the domino effect that will end his entire empire, but Will feels it impolite to leave the gratitude unsaid. He listens to Hannibal call a cab – a company usually far too expensive for Will to afford – and the wine takes less time to disappear than the first glass did, feeling it seep into his bones and blood and fuel an engine for something new.
"I'm thanking you, remember?" Hannibal responds once the Cab is on the way, in their last few minutes. He smiles graciously, the picture of a perfect host, as he drinks in a companionable slouch against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching William mirror his motions and pace perhaps unintentionally. "I hope to keep you pleasantly inclined to my gratitude."
His voice holds just the faintest deeper suggestion of meaning, before he finishes his glass and escorts Will Graham downstairs, letting him wonder on the subject as Will slips into Hannibal's net and curls into it without the faintest struggle, the way he settles into the back of the warm cab, and lets Hannibal pay his faire.
"Keep warm, William," he says by way of goodbyes, and he watches the cab drive off through a faint haze of his own steaming breath.