you're too young & eager to love

I am not a slash writer. I hate to use that generic term too, but I will for the lack of a better alternative. I’ve always generally disliked how writers will pair two men together just because they have a close relationship. There is such a thing as male bonding or companionship and it doesn’t have anything to do with sexual desire. However … upon occasion … when given the right material, I too fall prey to embellishing a well-laid foundation. Case and point? Will Graham and Hannibal. Seriously, the scene where Will gets kind of backed up into the ladder by an approaching Hannibal? What do the writers of the show expect people to do when given material like that? C’mon.

By the way, apparently this pairing goes by the relationship tag “hannigram.” I think that’s hilariously cute.

The Internet world seems to be buzzing with mild disappointment that the NBC show is making Hannibal evil. Or, well, you know, sinister, manipulative, and sociopathic. Apparently, they want him to be an anti-hero instead. Wake up, people. It’s Hannibal Lecter. What did you expect? I find him to be incredibly compelling and intriguing just the way he is. It makes Will’s trust in him all the more tragic. Angst-fest for everyone!

… Anyway, tangent aside, I’m trying to write them. One little, abrupt drabble at a time as I get into Hannibal’s character. We’ll see how that goes. Especially since I seemed to write this more from Will’s perspective. Great start.

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When Will dreams, he runs and runs and runs and there is nowhere to go.

His sheets are stained with sweat when he wakes, in a terror, and he catches something rustle from the corner of his eye.

The stag tosses its head, antlers scratching the low ceiling of Will’s bedroom, and paws the floorboards restlessly.

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“You’re a victim, Will.” Hannibal’s voice is as steady and implacable as stone. He has been explaining the dangerous and varying effects of exhaustion on an already strained mentality for nearly half an hour, speaking in cadences as rich as the Bordeaux in their glasses. The kitchen is pristine except for the opened wine bottle and French cheese that Hannibal is expertly slicing alongside a plate of blackberries; Will looks out of place in his shirt that is starting to turn threadbare. He cleans his glasses on his sweater to give his hands something to do.

It’s late. Too late, probably, for him to be showing up like this, unannounced and instable. Hannibal had opened the door and welcomed him without hesitation. Will notices that the sleeves of the doctor’s shirt are rolled up to his elbow and his elegant tie is loosened at the throat. It’s the first time, he thinks, he’s ever seen one of Hannibal’s ties not perfectly knotted.

He takes a drink of wine to calm his nerves. He catches hints of licorice and pepper and vanilla before the scent of blood hits him. Subtle and yet distinctively sharp, coppery, and Will chokes, coughs, almost gags.

Hannibal hands him a linen dinner napkin, and Will wipes his mouth, mumbling an apology. To his surprise, Hannibal chuckles. It is brief, a rumbling, scratching noise, but it makes Will smile.

He runs a hand through his unkempt hair and says something about obligation to Jack, to the lives he’s keeping safe. He follows Hannibal into the study and feels like a lost dog that’s made his way home. Here he’ll be fed and cared for without having to ask for anything.

They take a seat in front of the fireplace, and Will rubs his eyes with the backs of his knuckles. He catches glances of Hannibal to his left. “I’m not … I don’t do well with eye contact.”

“I have noticed, but try to relax. This is no crime scene.” Hannibal bites back his smile. “But, perhaps, it would help you to think of it as one.” For a moment, he considers himself the proverbial bad wolf, all teeth and jaws, but stills the urge by taking a swallow of wine.

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