Kaffee Bitte - Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter - Cafe AU
Title: Kaffee Bitte
Rating: PG
Words: 7,221
Fandom: NBC Hannibal AU
Summary: Hannibal is a barista and Will is a loyal customer -- Gratuitous coffee shop AU. There is very little coffee and many more stolen glances.
Warnings: Just kissin'
Notes: This was my first time writing Hannibal fic, also my first time writing the Hannibal or the Will characters. Forgive for potential OOC behaviour, although I've been told it's fairly accurate! uwu also I don't know why I made the title in German um
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Hannibal has noticed Will's presence in the cafe much more frequently this past week. It takes a lot of work to single-handedly run a successful coffee shop, so a lot of Hannibal's attention is divided. But he always has space in his mind for Will Graham.
He remembers the day Will first showed up at his shop. The boy (a boy to Hannibal; young and malleable, unkempt and nervous, and so much younger) was covered in dirt and sweat, with specks of dried blood on his collar as well as some cracked and speckled around his nose and through his beard. He had walked up to the counter, and despite his appearance and the trembling of his hands, ordered his coffee like it was scripted; carved into his eyelids.
Hannibal made the drink - ristretto with flat milk and hazelnut, simple but sweet, with enough punch to potentially send the blood running from his nose once more - with his eyes watching Will the entire time, despite Will's eyes straying anywhere but the barista behind the counter. When he placed the coffee down for him to take, he watched his face closely, watched as Will's eyes focused on the rims of his glasses as he took his first sip.
Both of them stood silently, waiting for Will to swallow, waiting for the taste to linger long enough on his tongue for him to approve or not. No sooner than his adam's apple had bobbed back down had Will nodded silently, with half of a polite, forced smile making its way onto his face.
“I'm a bit of a mess, would it be alright if I sat?” He asked.
Hannibal's response was a mere gesture and the raising of his brow, holding a hand out towards a plush leather seat in the back corner of the shop which was away from the other few, but chatty, customers. Will nodded again, this time as thanks, before making his way over to the armchair.
As much as Hannibal had wanted to know more, he could see another potential customer lingering by the cash register, and had to tend to business. The minute he was finished with the order, and could see no one else was coming by (he silently thanked the slow business hour of the day), he took a cup of his own from on top of the espresso machine, and opened the latch to let himself out from behind the barista's counter.
Will was still seated back in the armchair, with both hands circled around the mug, holding it tight with his interlocked fingers rather than his palms. Without invitation, Hannibal sat himself down on a backless stool right across from his customer and set his half-empty mug down on the small circular coffee table between them. Will's reaction to Hannibal's presence made him look like a deer caught in headlights, and Hannibal could see him physically tense up in his chair.
“You're in quite a state,” Hannibal commented, as he lifted his coffee to his lips to take a slow sip. “How does one get into such dishevelment?
He remembers the way Will's fingers tapped hurriedly against the hard edge of his mug as he tried to find his words. He eventually spoke, with audible wariness and a careful choosing to his words, “I'm just a teacher, but I have colleagues in otherwise more dangerous professions.”
Hannibal smiled as set his drink down and leant forward to rest his forearms against his knees. “You have colleagues in a different line of work?”
Will's face pulled taut in something not quite a grimace, but not cheerful enough to be a smile. “Friends, then, if you prefer.”
“What would you prefer?” Hannibal retorted.
He noticed that each time he spoke, Will would pause, and drink down each word slowly. He was incredibly methodical in his own choice of phrases, but Hannibal was not complaining for the time it took. He was patient, and there were no customers waiting. If there were, he suspected he would make them wait either way.
“I'm Will,” he ended up introducing himself as. “You make good coffee. I prefer good coffee.”
That made Hannibal smile again, wider this time, reaching right up to his eyes. “I am Hannibal,” he replied, “And I hope to see you drinking my good coffee again in future.”
Surely enough, Will returned the following week, with the same coffee order as the week before. Hannibal was ashamed at himself for not remembering it immediately, but he knew he would take it to heart soon enough. He sat in the same armchair as he had previously and stayed for the same amount of time, although Hannibal had to remain at his machine for the entirety of his visit. He was cleaner then, still unkempt but not as bloody or as grimy. It was actually somewhat disappointing to see him this way - Hannibal still believes that dried blood and bruises gives Will a certain kind of charm.
Weekly visits turned into bi-weekly, always at different times, sometimes take-away and sometimes slow, relaxing, methodical sessions in his chair at the back of the shop. Hannibal rarely had a chance to sit with him, but he always watched, uncertain as to what it was that drew his gaze and attention to the man.
It only took a few days for Hannibal to memorise Will's favoured coffee order, and after his first fortnight, he was able to prepare the coffee before Will even had a chance to ask for it. He had his own mug (slightly bigger than the others, although it was impossible to tell at first glance), and Hannibal had dubbed the leather armchair as Will's own. He had taken to placing his coat over the back of it of a morning, to discourage other customers from taking the seat, and other regulars of the shop had begun to recognise Will's presence as well as Hannibal had. There was an odd sort of comfort in the routine, although Hannibal still felt distant from the man.
Over the months, there had been polite chatter between them, extended greetings and small talk beyond the order and purchase of a drink. Hannibal eventually got to meeting Will's “friends” when he brought them in to order take-aways, and he has received passing word of the kind of work Will does, both at the academy and with assisting Jack Crawford of the FBI. Every new word and fact Hannibal learns about Will only makes him want to know more, and to this day, his fascination with him continues to grow and evolve.
But as summer rolls into the chillier months of autumn, there is a week in particular where Will has been at the forefront of his mind every day. Hannibal would not consider himself obsessed, but it is Will's face and his presence in his shop for the past seven days in a row that has rekindled Hannibal's curiosity and intensified it even more than it had been before. He stays for longer, talks less, and during the weekend before, he had shown up twice each day. Hannibal can tell that the man isn't sleeping, not only from his appearance growing gradually more and more dishevelled, but for his attitude towards the barista as well. From what used to be a gradually declining discomfort has suddenly skyrocketed back to violent trembling and a gaze positioned anywhere but at another human.
Today, Hannibal takes charge. It's late in the evening, he's only got an hour before the shop is scheduled to close up, and there is no one else in the store. Part of Will's recent habit has been to arrive earlier in the morning and later at night, another reason why Hannibal strongly suspects that he is unable to sleep. The second he sees Will's outline heading towards the shop, he takes his mug from atop the machine and begins to steam the milk.
The doorbell rings out as Will enters and pauses in the doorway, eyes casting across the room and taking in the distinct lack of company. Hannibal's eyes are set on the coffee, but he can see Will looking at him as he approaches the counter. He's suspected that it's the confrontation of the eyes that stresses William out when it comes to eye contact, so Hannibal keeps his head down, and allows Will to look at whatever he pleases without his own gaze potentially judging him.
“Good evening, Will,” he greets, “Take a seat, it will be ready soon.”
Of all the tables, sofas and stools available, Will automatically bypasses them to take refuge in his chair. Hannibal sees from the corner of his eye as Will perches, right on the edge of the seat, wrists resting upon his knees and eyes flickering out the window. When he notices Will's glasses drawn down his face, masking his view with the frames of his spectacles so he won't have to look at anything properly, he releases a tiny sigh and pulls his attention back to Will's drink.
Once he has finished pouring and automatically tracing a simple shape into the thin film of froth atop the milk, Hannibal sets it on top of the machine and begins to put his utensils away, resting at the bottom of the sink for him to tend to later. He unties his apron and hangs it over the counter, then picks the drink back up and carries it out into the shop.
Before stopping at Will's table, he strides to the other end of the shop, the action catching Will's attention. Hannibal, holding the mug in one hand, uses the other to flip the sign in the window from Open to Closed, and flicks the lock on the door to make it official. He immediately turns back, finally resting Will's mug down for him and taking the seat opposite for himself.
Will is hesitant, unused to this change of routine, uncertain as to why Hannibal would break his own schedule, and clearly nervous as to what he may want to talk about. But Hannibal stays silent for the most part, confident for Will to open the conversation.
The confidence pays off when Will takes a sip from his drink and immediately screws up his face. “It tastes... flatter,” he comments, finally looking up at Hannibal for answers.
Hannibal merely nods. “It is decaf, with a sugar-free sweetener,” he informs him. Will looks somewhat shocked at first, not sure what to do with the offending drink in hand.
“You have not been sleeping,” Hannibal continues, “It would be unwise to pump caffeine into you at such an hour. You should drink this. The warm milk will do you good.”
After a moment, Will finally takes another tiny sip, as if trying to prepare himself for the foreign taste.
“I know that decaf coffee is somewhat blasphemous to the very concept,” Hannibal smiles, “But I would be lying if I said I have not been worried about you these past few days.”
The words catch Will off guard, giving him a chance to lower the mug from his lips and place it on the table, as far away from his mouth as he can get it. Before he has a chance to ask, Hannibal continues.
“Although you are normally sporadic in your visits, you still keep to an overarching routine. Routine works for you. It works for me too. We are both men of structure. It is how we think, or perhaps, it helps you think.” Will, at this point, is somewhat stunned into silence. Hannibal uses the pause to point at the cup questioningly, waiting for Will's nod before he picks it up and takes a sip for himself.
“What I mean to say is that you have been acting out of sorts. Care to tell me what is wrong?”
He finishes a quarter of the cup before Will manages to speak. He has never stopped thinking carefully about his words, but seeing this contrast in behaviour makes Hannibal realise how comfortable he had gotten to supplying quicker, honest answers to him as their acquaintanceship grew fonder.
“I've been having... nightmares,” he eventually admits. His face is taut, almost as if he were disgusted at himself, his head turned completely away to gaze out the window and admire the halos around the street lamps in the dimming town. Or perhaps he's merely staring at the rim of his glasses again.
“Would you like to talk to me about them?” Hannibal offers.
Will's laugh is forced and short. “No offence, Mr Lecter, but you're not exactly an expert in these matters.”
Hannibal sits up and straightens his back, looking down at his sleeve cuffs as he unrolls them back down to his wrists. He tries not to show any hint of offence at the statement. “Just because I make coffee for a living does not mean I don't know a thing or two about human psychology,” he states, “If anything, I have a broader chance to practise the observational stages of the study.”
He can see Will's eyes flicker towards his direction as a hand raises to rub the back of his neck, but he does not turn his head away from the window.
“Has something happened with your friend, Jack Crawford? Prior to your daily visits, I notice you had been buying more take-out. A sign of frequent work in the field, perhaps?”
Will nods as a gesture and less of a confirmation. “Murder is a particularly gruesome field of work,” Will begins. “It doesn't ever get less gruesome. You can get numb to it, but it's hard to become numb to something when you have such extreme empathy.” He says the last two words with a clench of his jaw, and he doesn't need to raise his hands to make the air quotes in order for Hannibal to hear them.
“If you work with that kind of scene often, then why now? What has brought upon this kind of reaction from you?” Hannibal questions, “Surely there is something different about your recent work. I want you to feel comfortable talking to me about these things. Think of me as your sober bartender,” he jokes.
Will smiles grimly down at the window pane. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of this Chesapeake Ripper, but it’s Crawford’s big case. Still haven’t caught him after all this time. He’s convinced he’s killed again.”
Hannibal keeps his face straight but lightly shifts his weight to lean a little closer. “Is he particularly brutal, then?” He asks.
Will laughs sarcastically at the question and rubs a hand over his face. “You could definitely say that.”
Hannibal hums lightly. “Tell me about it? It could be good to get some things off your chest.”
The suggestion has barely left his mouth before Will is shaking his head and frowning behind his glasses. “No. No, thinking about it more is the last thing I want to do right now. If anything I need to get home and sleep. Or try, at least.” He releases a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Hannibal licks his lips in thought, deciding against pushing him any further. “I think what you need is a break,” he suggests, as honestly as he ever could. It takes Will a second or two, but he eventually turns his head back and looks in Hannibal's general direction, silently questioning the phrase, his gentle frown asking for him to continue.
“A change of scenery, perhaps,” Hannibal continues. “I will make you a warm chocolate, something less bitter to help you sleep. I can only apologise for not having anything beyond a sofa for comfort.”
Will sits up straighter and immediately opens his mouth to protest, but Hannibal cuts him off.
“It is of no discomfort to me. I can remain here with you if you fear nightmares and to assist in any way I can.”
Will takes a few sharp breaths and goes back to perching on the edge of the seat. “You have a shop to open in the morning,” he protests.
“It is a Saturday, Will,” Hannibal merely smiles. “I'm sure Baltimore can survive one Sunday without its morning brew.
Will's eyes flicker as he struggles to excuse himself. “I have a - a tendency to sweat.”
“I will put down a sheet.”
Will practically oozes panic, so Hannibal stands to give him a little more space. “If you feel so strongly toward your own bed, I will not take offence if you leave. But I do believe it would help. I would like to see you healthy, Will,” he says quietly, solemnly, as he picks up the half-empty mug and retreats back behind the counter.
He remains there for a few minutes to lightly wash as many utensils as he can, listening carefully for any signs of movement behind him, but hears none. When he turns back around to clean out the espresso machine, he can see Will over the top of it, standing by the leather armchair and pacing. His hand stims violently as he walks, his fingers tapping the air between his palm and his thigh. Every second breath is slightly sharper and he moves his head as if he were talking, but his mouth doesn't move and his eyes don't settle.
By the time the coffee bar is adequately clean and ready for an official closing, half an hour has passed, and Will has finally settled down on the three-seater sofa in the middle of the shop. Keeping his promise, Hannibal prepares a hot chocolate for him, in a smaller mug that won't be as intimidating for Will to drink. He takes it out to him and places it on the coffee table in front of the sofa, then stands back to look down at him.
“Do not panic yourself with unnecessary social precautions,” he tells him, although it doesn't seem to do much good. Hannibal finally steps forward and kneels down in front of his customer, closing past the personal space barrier of acquaintances, even of friends. Will has tensed up again as Hannibal reaches out to his half-drawn glasses and slowly, carefully, pulls them from his face. Will's eyes immediately close.
He folds the frames closed and places them on the table next to his mug. He then turns back to Will, places a hand upon his knee, and waits for him to open his eyes. For the first time in months, for the first time ever, Will looks him dead in the eye, even if only for a few seconds. His breath seems to have calmed -- or frozen in his lungs, Hannibal cannot tell.
“I will be here,” he says to him, but it is not a statement. It is an oath. “If this does not suit you, I will drive you home. If you panic in the night, I will wake you, and if you wish, I will take you home.”
Will's eyes flicker once more, occasionally crossing Hannibal's. He finally brings himself to nod, quickly and sharply, so Hannibal takes his hand from his knees and stands once more.
He walks to the opposite end of the room and gathers his belongings from a locked cupboard within the barista bar. After he slings his jacket and coat over his forearm and tucks his keys and a book under his arm, he turns around to find Will has already laid his head down. He has folded up his jacket to rest it against the arm of the chair as a makeshift pillow, leaving his body exposed.
Hannibal sighs, yet again silently under his breath. He walks to the leather armchair across the room and sets his things down, but he keeps his trench coat over his arm. His last duty of the night is to close the blinds and turn off the lights, and on his way back to his chair from doing so, he takes his coat from his arm and drapes it over Will's form.
He retreats back to the armchair, makes himself comfortable and flicks on the lamp beside it. He cracks open his book to read and hopefully stay awake as long as possible, but his eyes stray too often from the words on the page to the slowly breathing form of Will Graham across from him.
Will wakes the next day with a crook in his neck and a slight chill from where the coat had fallen off his body. He may not have slept for more than a few hours of the night, but he's pleased to find he isn't drenched and isn't hyperventilating. When he sits up and rubs at his eyes, he immediately notices Hannibal Lecter across from him, having falling asleep sitting up with a book open in his lap. He smiles very slightly to himself, before the anxiety begins to kick in.
Luckily for him, once he opens one of the window blinds, Hannibal begins to blink awake, and smile drearily at his house guest.
“Good morning, Will,” he starts, his voice low and cracked from sleep. “I apologise, I am usually an earlier riser.”
Will shakes his head immediately as he gathers his coat and phone from the sofa and retrieves his glasses from the table. “It's only seven.”
“Ah, close enough. Can I interest you in breakfast? There is a kitchen here,” he offers, already looking more awake as he stands from his chair and stretches.
Will is otherwise preoccupied, however. He tugs his coat on and clearly wants to sit down, but doesn't allow himself the comfort. He barely stands still as he fiddles with his glasses, keeping his eyes down at them before sliding them up his nose and lifting his head towards Hannibal.
“Why did you do this?” he questions, catching Hannibal in silence. “We aren't friends, or colleagues. I barely even call you by first name. You shouldn't even have known anything was wrong.”
It's Hannibal's turn to lower his eyes as he straightens out his cuffs and smooths down his shirt. “I told you last night, Will.” He lifts his head, unable to deprive Will of the eye contact he is usually so desperate to receive in return. “I have been worried about your wellbeing. I will not pretend otherwise. You say we aren’t friends, but I know as much about you as any friend would; perhaps more. The only reason that you don’t know the same of me is merely because of our situation. I am the storekeeper: I ask the questions, and you answer.”
“You do, don't you?” Will interrupts, his fingers flicking against his thigh like they had done the night before. “Ask a lot, I mean. Is there something you're trying to find out about me, something you're trying to crack?”
“Will,” Hannibal says lowly, trying to reel him back in. “You are getting ahead of yourself. I admit, I have a certain... curiosity with you. I have not been able to explain it to myself, I have since stopped trying.” He pauses for a moment. “If you wish to ask questions of me, I will not stop you.”
Will has to think about that for a moment and finally gives himself the chance to sit.
“You care about me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Hannibal hums. It's his turn to think. “I am not sure. This is why I ask questions; to try and understand.”
Will laughs at this. “You wait for me to come in to your shop, at random times of the week, without any preconceived warning of doing so, to ask me about my job and personal life?”
“I admit, is it not the ideal situation,” Hannibal nods. “I would also prefer if I could have offered you a bed.”
They both fall silent for a short moment before Hannibal laughs at his own words. “That is not what I meant. I merely...”
“No, no,” Will stops him, shaking his head and leaning his forearms against his thighs. “You don't have to excuse. I'm not the best person to fit alongside.”
“On the contrary,” Hannibal gives a little shrug, before stepping forward and taking a seat on the sofa next to him. He turns his upper body to face Will, back straight and face stoic, as if he hadn't woken up just minutes ago. “I find you fascinating to be alongside.”
Will turns his head towards him, but his eyes keep looking at the floor. Hannibal laughs again. He reaches out to touch Will's chin, tilting it gently upwards, before he places both hands upon Will's glasses and pushes them properly up his face again.
“You are defensive. I should be wise to find it irritating, but it is somewhat endearing.”
Will takes a deep breath. “I don't... know what's happening. Right now. Or anything you've done in the past 24 hours.”
“I am being brash,” Hannibal answers honestly. “I am choosing an output for a series of feelings which I do not know how to describe or explain. Do you have any more questions?”
He watches Will's jaw clench and unclench as he grinds his teeth in thought. He lifts his head properly this time, removing his glasses of his own volition. “Would you like to go... somewhere? Better than this? For more questions. Or conversation.”
Hannibal has to control his smile from growing any larger than a simple flicker of his lips. His eyes fall from Will's face, down his arms and body before settling on his hands. Yes, he thinks, hands are appropriate.
“That,” he begins quietly, as he reaches out to take one of Will's hands in his own, and lift it up to his face, “Is an excellent question.” He brushes his lips gently against Will's knuckles and waits for the squeezing of Will's hand, but it never comes. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't panic. He even breaks into a little smile.
“I guess we just have to figure out where to go,” Will points out, but Hannibal is too focused on the way Will’s voice wavers when it drops to such a soft volume. It makes him want to kiss him again, just to see how much more he can shake.
After half a second of debating the thought in his mind, Hannibal presses his lips to Will’s knuckles again. Will’s fingers curl slightly in his grasp and he feels Will gently tug to remove it from his grip. Not wanting to overstay his welcome, Hannibal loosens his grip to let Will’s hand slide from between his palms, but he stays where he is on the sofa, desperate to catch his eyes again.
“It’s still early, remember,” Hannibal reminds him. “We don’t have to move just yet.”
Will’s laugh gets stuck in his throat and it comes out as a shaken breath. “You are being brash today,” he notices, while Hannibal merely notices the way Will’s eyes haven’t left his own hands that now lay in his lap.
“I suppose it’s easy to forget where I am in such a situation. You know, we haven’t been alone together before, aside from last night. It’s easy to get distracted.”
Will nods slowly as he begins to turn his head away. “I can see what you mean. But for now...”
Hannibal lowers his eyes to Will’s hands and watches him begin to wring them out. “For now, yes. How about that breakfast? Coffee for just you and me, with real caffeine this time.”
Will quietly agrees as Hannibal stands from the sofa and makes his way to the barista bar. He takes the opportunity to stretch again while he waits for the machine to warm up, and scratches his blunt nails against the back of his neck. When he looks at Will over the top of the machine, he’s a little disappointed to find the man’s gaze elsewhere, but has to remind himself of the leap they’ve made. Will is finally settling into the idea of being Friends, after spending so long with Mr Lecter. He smiles to himself when he remembers that; that even if nothing concise comes of the next few hours, Hannibal will still have a friend over anything else.
As Hannibal begins to filter coffee through the machine, he becomes more and more aware of the silence in the shop. He would normally be fine with such a thing, but considering the whole reason he invited Will to stay, he supposes he should make sure nothing too sinister is happening within his mind.
“Would you like to talk about work?” He asks, pausing what he’s doing to roll his sleeves back up to his elbows and steal a glance over towards Will.
Across the room, Will leans over the edge of the sofa, rubbing his palms against his eyes to assist himself in waking up. He finally grumbles, “No,” but all Hannibal can do is smile and roll his eyes.
“I would like to hear about your work. I’m sure I can imagine what teaching is like, so tell me about working with Jack. You never got to mentioning this Ripper last night.” He uses a light a tone as possible, keeping his eyes down on his hands as he begins to prepare the coffee, so his questions will come off as casual inquiries if Will were to look up at him.
“The morning was getting off to such a good start,” Will excuses, “Why do we have to talk about cadavers and serial killers?”
Hannibal hums over the whirring of the machine as he finds a cup for them each to use. He continues in all seriousness, “The best thing for you to do right now is to face the problem. You keep running away from pain -- whether it be physical or mental -- and that only strengthens it. Whether you talk to me, or a registered psychiatrist, I suggest you talk to someone rather than no-one.”
Will is silent as he digests Hannibal’s words. He’s finally stood from the sofa and approached the counter, eyes on Hannibal’s hands as his own trace the countertop behind the espresso machine.
“I don’t like psychiatrists. I don’t want to be psychoanalysed,” he mutters.
“Well then,” Hannibal smiles a little wider, “It looks as if I’m your only choice. And I promise not to psychoanalyse anybody anytime soon.” He interrupts himself when he switches from preparing the espresso to steaming the milk, and asks, “Would you like to see how it’s made?”
Will looks up at Hannibal’s face and offers a light shrug. His response is to step behind the barista bar with him and watch over Hannibal’s shoulder as he pours his coffee shots into their mugs.
“Talk to me, and I will show you,” He offers, gesturing towards the steaming wand at the side of the machine, for Will to pick up the small jug of milk and try it himself.
“How do I --”
Hannibal takes a step closer, wrapping his arms around Will from behind to take a hold of his hands. He positions them carefully with the jug beneath the wand, then turns a dial on the machine to release the steam. The air is filled with a squealing hiss that causes Will to flinch, his shaking hands nearly spilling all of the milk as he does so.
“I will help you. Just talk and I’ll listen,” Hannibal assures him.
“Alright,” Will takes a deep breath, although he doesn’t sound convinced. As he finds his words, Hannibal helps him tilt the angle of the jug so that the end of the wand dips under the surface of the milk and the horrible hissing noise is properly muffled.
“This Ripper, he uh -- He has a particular way of killing people. Every crime scene he leaves behind has this certain flair. It’s what’s drawn Jack in to believing this latest case is his work,” Will explains. Hannibal notices that he’s begun to frown and wishes there was some way to wipe it clean from his face. He doubts that extra touching would go down very smoothly, though.
When Will’s hands begin to fidget from the heat of the steam, Hannibal lifts a hand to dial back to nozzle and switch it all off. He takes the jug from Will’s hands and swirls the milk inside gently to inspect it.
“Not bad,” he comments. “So. Jack believes these murders are thanks to this Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t think so?”
Will slips his hands into his pockets and shakes his head. “I think Jack is getting ahead of himself. I agree that there are similarities between the cases, but he’s denying the existence of the differences as well.”
He watches closely as Hannibal pours their coffees slowly and carefully, and afterwards wipes his index finger against the lip of the jug when he pulls it back. “What are these differences, then?” Hannibal asks. “Perhaps they are what’s been keeping you awake at night, unless there are some particularly gruesome details you have left out.”
“The Ripper is incredibly theatrical,” he begins as Hannibal hands him his coffee. “There’s a similarity there. He takes the organs and completely butchers the bodies, as if he’s trying to cover it up. Every crime scene is like a performance left for us to discover.” He takes a moment to distract himself by gulping down a portion of his coffee. He closes his eyes and allows the taste to linger before he continues. “The murders we’re faced with at the moment seem pointless. They’re... intriguing, but they’re not art.”
“The Ripper is an artist now?” Hannibal questions, and hides any traces of a smile by taking a sip from his mug.
“As close as he can get to one, yes,” Will admits, before finally rubbing his eyes and turning away.
“You still seem exhausted. If you’d like, I can drive you home before it gets too late in the day,” Hannibal offers, although part of him wishes for the other to stay for so much longer, to listen to him talk for as long as his voice will allow it. “You have pets, do you not? They may need tending to,” he observes as he plucks a dog hair from the bottom of Will’s jacket.
Will turns to look at the hair in question and chuckles lightly. “I’m sure they can manage a few more hours without me,” he murmurs, face buried in his coffee. Hannibal doesn’t bother hiding his delight in this.
“Then if I’m keeping the store closed for the day, perhaps we should utilise the space a little more.”
Will looks at him over the rim of his mug and sputters when he feels a warm hand pressed firmly against his waist. Hannibal chuckles as Will coughs, but his hand remains there all the same.
“We can just sit for a while,” he suggests, as his thumb presses gently against Will’s hip. Hannibal smiles at the way Will jumps slightly, but is pleased that he doesn’t move away. They eventually place their drinks down (Will has finished his awfully fast and Hannibal doesn’t quite care enough) and Hannibal moves his hand from Will’s hip to his back, to lead him back out to the sofa in the middle of the shop.
“I’ve told you about my work. You’ve shown me how to make coffee, albeit briefly. What do we have left?” Will questions. He shuffles across on the sofa to sit against the arm, but Hannibal simply takes his place up close to him again, so he can rest a hand lightly on his knee.
“I believe you wanted to ask me some questions,” Hannibal recites. “Although I cannot promise interesting answers. It depends on what you ask.”
He’s pleased to find Will smiling, despite the hand upon his leg. He decides that as long as Will takes to come up with a question, he can try and distract him a little, and is suddenly incredibly thankful for the other’s intense pauses.
“Are you.. comfortable enough, there?” Will asks, fighting a grin as he looks down at Hannibal’s hand.
“Quite, yes. Next question,” Hannibal baits, while his fingers trace delicate circles up Will’s knee.
Will hums quietly and curls his hand into a fist against the armrest of the sofa. “Do you do this with all of your customers?”
Hannibal has to hold back another chuckle. Perhaps these answers could be more interesting after all. “No,” he answers honestly. “Never.”
Will pauses on that note and leans back to look at him. “Never, really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” Hannibal asks.
“No -- No, I only mean...” His fingers begin to tap the edge of the sofa. “Curious as to why me, that’s all.”
Hannibal tilts his head to the side and studies the stubble creeping down Will’s neck. “Would you like to ask questions, or would you like me to describe an answer to you?”
Will takes his time. He clenches and unclenches his fists, his eyes move from various points of the room and he opens and closes his mouth several times. While he waits, Hannibal slides his fingers up Will’s thigh and curves them around for his palm to rest against his back once more. He shifts his position on the sofa to get a little closer, so their knees and thighs can touch and Hannibal can practically smell him. He does. He’s covered in the scent of warm roasted coffee beans and an aftershave Hannibal doesn’t want to recognise. He finds himself smiling, and finds his hand squeezing his hip ever so lightly.
In the end, Hannibal doesn’t wait to hear what Will decides. He turns his torso to face him, and reaches over to touch Will’s shoulder so he turns to face him back. He keeps one hand low on the man’s back while the other hovers over Will’s hands, threading his fingers through them and clutching firmly. He can feel Will’s breathing sharp and quick through his back, but Hannibal remains still, right up until the moment he leans in to touch his lips against Will’s own.
Will seems frozen beneath his mouth, and where Hannibal’s hands touch feels like he has turned to stone. But he can’t stop himself from edging closer, from squeezing Will’s hands and using the hand on his back to draw him as near as he can. He can taste the coffee on Will’s lips and he wants to moan from the feel of his stubbled beard scratching his own clean shaven face, but he holds back out of fear of frightening the deer.
When he’s certain that Will can breathe at the very least, he pulls back to take a breath of his own and lick his lips to soften them more. “Do you need further explanation?” He asks while grinning at his friend, although his eyes focus on Will’s mouth than anywhere else.
Will lifts his head slightly as a smile plays about his lips. Hannibal takes the opportunity of their closeness to inspect Will’s eyes properly, now that he doesn’t have the obstruction of his spectacles to ruin the view. He doesn’t return the contact, instead keeping his eyes lowered as if he were looking at Hannibal’s mouth, but Hannibal doesn’t need his full gaze to appreciate the mix of colours in his irises. It makes him all the more aware of the lack of space between them, and when he parts his lips (either to speak, or to kiss again, Hannibal himself isn’t quite sure), Will notices it too.
This time it’s Will’s turn to close the gap and kiss him chastely on the lips. It lasts barely a second and doesn’t do well to quell the hunger growing in Hannibal’s gut. A second after Will pulls away, Hannibal leans over him, kissing him harder and pressing his body against him where he can. A hand rises to rest against the man’s collar bone, his palm squeezing his clavicle as his mouth opens slightly to allow his teeth the pleasure of biting Will’s bottom lip.
As his hand moves up from Will’s collar to hold the back of his head, he can feel the other beginning to tremble within his grasp. This is a very different kind of trembling that Hannibal has otherwise noticed, and the hands fisting in the crisp white material of his shirt, desperate to hold onto something, proves that it is not Will’s nerves betraying him now.
He isn’t expecting for Will’s hands to stray, for one to climb its way up from his stomach to his neck. He feels the collar of his shirt pulled taut as Will grasps it, and jumps slightly when Will’s hand pulls the fabric so harshly that one of the buttons comes flying off.
Will pulls back immediately, while Hannibal looks down at his ruined shirt. He can only bring himself to laugh.
“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Hannibal murmurs, although his eyes show nothing but joy and endearment. Will sits back with a hand over his mouth, fingers tapping his lip nervously, but before he can apologise profusely, Hannibal has taken both of his hands into his own, holding them firmly down at their laps while he kisses him again.
He moves slower and much more tenderly, to try and slow that fast beating heart of his. His thumbs rub circles into Will’s palms as his tongue lines the shape of Will’s lips, and soon enough, his teeth. Will’s breaths are deep as Hannibal scrapes his teeth against the other’s lips and kisses him as fully as he is able.
Hannibal finally pulls away when he feels Will begin to shrink beneath him, curling into the sofa as if he were deflating, as if Hannibal were pulling the air from his very lungs. As Will closes his eyes and leans his head backwards over the back of the couch, he squeezes one of Hannibal’s hands and offers a glimpse of a smile.
Hannibal watches the curve of his neck stretch back, unable to help from licking his lips. He shifts his weight so he can lean down and press his lips against the side of Will’s neck, barely kissing, just feeling the scrape of stubble against his skin. At the touch of his mouth, Will startles, but soon relaxes as he lifts one of his arms to rest around Hannibal’s shoulders, his fingers threaded lightly through his hair.
“Will you be coming back tomorrow?” Hannibal asks, a bare murmur against his skin. Will shifts his weight under the touch and nods in response.
“Is the shop going to be open tomorrow?”
Hannibal hums. He lifts his head and looks down at him through lidded eyes. A hand lifts to touch his neck, his middle finger trailing down the center, tracing the bump of his adam’s apple and stopping at the dip of his collarbone. “My shop is always open to you,” he breathes.
Will chuckles and it sends a wave of vibration through Hannibal’s chest. “Then I suppose I better utilise the space,” he decides, finally tilting his head aside to look Hannibal in the face. “Do you have any ideas about where to start?”
Hannibal meets his eye and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I have a few.”
Rating: PG
Words: 7,221
Fandom: NBC Hannibal AU
Summary: Hannibal is a barista and Will is a loyal customer -- Gratuitous coffee shop AU. There is very little coffee and many more stolen glances.
Warnings: Just kissin'
Notes: This was my first time writing Hannibal fic, also my first time writing the Hannibal or the Will characters. Forgive for potential OOC behaviour, although I've been told it's fairly accurate! uwu also I don't know why I made the title in German um
Read on AO3 |
Hannibal has noticed Will's presence in the cafe much more frequently this past week. It takes a lot of work to single-handedly run a successful coffee shop, so a lot of Hannibal's attention is divided. But he always has space in his mind for Will Graham.
He remembers the day Will first showed up at his shop. The boy (a boy to Hannibal; young and malleable, unkempt and nervous, and so much younger) was covered in dirt and sweat, with specks of dried blood on his collar as well as some cracked and speckled around his nose and through his beard. He had walked up to the counter, and despite his appearance and the trembling of his hands, ordered his coffee like it was scripted; carved into his eyelids.
Hannibal made the drink - ristretto with flat milk and hazelnut, simple but sweet, with enough punch to potentially send the blood running from his nose once more - with his eyes watching Will the entire time, despite Will's eyes straying anywhere but the barista behind the counter. When he placed the coffee down for him to take, he watched his face closely, watched as Will's eyes focused on the rims of his glasses as he took his first sip.
Both of them stood silently, waiting for Will to swallow, waiting for the taste to linger long enough on his tongue for him to approve or not. No sooner than his adam's apple had bobbed back down had Will nodded silently, with half of a polite, forced smile making its way onto his face.
“I'm a bit of a mess, would it be alright if I sat?” He asked.
Hannibal's response was a mere gesture and the raising of his brow, holding a hand out towards a plush leather seat in the back corner of the shop which was away from the other few, but chatty, customers. Will nodded again, this time as thanks, before making his way over to the armchair.
As much as Hannibal had wanted to know more, he could see another potential customer lingering by the cash register, and had to tend to business. The minute he was finished with the order, and could see no one else was coming by (he silently thanked the slow business hour of the day), he took a cup of his own from on top of the espresso machine, and opened the latch to let himself out from behind the barista's counter.
Will was still seated back in the armchair, with both hands circled around the mug, holding it tight with his interlocked fingers rather than his palms. Without invitation, Hannibal sat himself down on a backless stool right across from his customer and set his half-empty mug down on the small circular coffee table between them. Will's reaction to Hannibal's presence made him look like a deer caught in headlights, and Hannibal could see him physically tense up in his chair.
“You're in quite a state,” Hannibal commented, as he lifted his coffee to his lips to take a slow sip. “How does one get into such dishevelment?
He remembers the way Will's fingers tapped hurriedly against the hard edge of his mug as he tried to find his words. He eventually spoke, with audible wariness and a careful choosing to his words, “I'm just a teacher, but I have colleagues in otherwise more dangerous professions.”
Hannibal smiled as set his drink down and leant forward to rest his forearms against his knees. “You have colleagues in a different line of work?”
Will's face pulled taut in something not quite a grimace, but not cheerful enough to be a smile. “Friends, then, if you prefer.”
“What would you prefer?” Hannibal retorted.
He noticed that each time he spoke, Will would pause, and drink down each word slowly. He was incredibly methodical in his own choice of phrases, but Hannibal was not complaining for the time it took. He was patient, and there were no customers waiting. If there were, he suspected he would make them wait either way.
“I'm Will,” he ended up introducing himself as. “You make good coffee. I prefer good coffee.”
That made Hannibal smile again, wider this time, reaching right up to his eyes. “I am Hannibal,” he replied, “And I hope to see you drinking my good coffee again in future.”
Surely enough, Will returned the following week, with the same coffee order as the week before. Hannibal was ashamed at himself for not remembering it immediately, but he knew he would take it to heart soon enough. He sat in the same armchair as he had previously and stayed for the same amount of time, although Hannibal had to remain at his machine for the entirety of his visit. He was cleaner then, still unkempt but not as bloody or as grimy. It was actually somewhat disappointing to see him this way - Hannibal still believes that dried blood and bruises gives Will a certain kind of charm.
Weekly visits turned into bi-weekly, always at different times, sometimes take-away and sometimes slow, relaxing, methodical sessions in his chair at the back of the shop. Hannibal rarely had a chance to sit with him, but he always watched, uncertain as to what it was that drew his gaze and attention to the man.
It only took a few days for Hannibal to memorise Will's favoured coffee order, and after his first fortnight, he was able to prepare the coffee before Will even had a chance to ask for it. He had his own mug (slightly bigger than the others, although it was impossible to tell at first glance), and Hannibal had dubbed the leather armchair as Will's own. He had taken to placing his coat over the back of it of a morning, to discourage other customers from taking the seat, and other regulars of the shop had begun to recognise Will's presence as well as Hannibal had. There was an odd sort of comfort in the routine, although Hannibal still felt distant from the man.
Over the months, there had been polite chatter between them, extended greetings and small talk beyond the order and purchase of a drink. Hannibal eventually got to meeting Will's “friends” when he brought them in to order take-aways, and he has received passing word of the kind of work Will does, both at the academy and with assisting Jack Crawford of the FBI. Every new word and fact Hannibal learns about Will only makes him want to know more, and to this day, his fascination with him continues to grow and evolve.
But as summer rolls into the chillier months of autumn, there is a week in particular where Will has been at the forefront of his mind every day. Hannibal would not consider himself obsessed, but it is Will's face and his presence in his shop for the past seven days in a row that has rekindled Hannibal's curiosity and intensified it even more than it had been before. He stays for longer, talks less, and during the weekend before, he had shown up twice each day. Hannibal can tell that the man isn't sleeping, not only from his appearance growing gradually more and more dishevelled, but for his attitude towards the barista as well. From what used to be a gradually declining discomfort has suddenly skyrocketed back to violent trembling and a gaze positioned anywhere but at another human.
Today, Hannibal takes charge. It's late in the evening, he's only got an hour before the shop is scheduled to close up, and there is no one else in the store. Part of Will's recent habit has been to arrive earlier in the morning and later at night, another reason why Hannibal strongly suspects that he is unable to sleep. The second he sees Will's outline heading towards the shop, he takes his mug from atop the machine and begins to steam the milk.
The doorbell rings out as Will enters and pauses in the doorway, eyes casting across the room and taking in the distinct lack of company. Hannibal's eyes are set on the coffee, but he can see Will looking at him as he approaches the counter. He's suspected that it's the confrontation of the eyes that stresses William out when it comes to eye contact, so Hannibal keeps his head down, and allows Will to look at whatever he pleases without his own gaze potentially judging him.
“Good evening, Will,” he greets, “Take a seat, it will be ready soon.”
Of all the tables, sofas and stools available, Will automatically bypasses them to take refuge in his chair. Hannibal sees from the corner of his eye as Will perches, right on the edge of the seat, wrists resting upon his knees and eyes flickering out the window. When he notices Will's glasses drawn down his face, masking his view with the frames of his spectacles so he won't have to look at anything properly, he releases a tiny sigh and pulls his attention back to Will's drink.
Once he has finished pouring and automatically tracing a simple shape into the thin film of froth atop the milk, Hannibal sets it on top of the machine and begins to put his utensils away, resting at the bottom of the sink for him to tend to later. He unties his apron and hangs it over the counter, then picks the drink back up and carries it out into the shop.
Before stopping at Will's table, he strides to the other end of the shop, the action catching Will's attention. Hannibal, holding the mug in one hand, uses the other to flip the sign in the window from Open to Closed, and flicks the lock on the door to make it official. He immediately turns back, finally resting Will's mug down for him and taking the seat opposite for himself.
Will is hesitant, unused to this change of routine, uncertain as to why Hannibal would break his own schedule, and clearly nervous as to what he may want to talk about. But Hannibal stays silent for the most part, confident for Will to open the conversation.
The confidence pays off when Will takes a sip from his drink and immediately screws up his face. “It tastes... flatter,” he comments, finally looking up at Hannibal for answers.
Hannibal merely nods. “It is decaf, with a sugar-free sweetener,” he informs him. Will looks somewhat shocked at first, not sure what to do with the offending drink in hand.
“You have not been sleeping,” Hannibal continues, “It would be unwise to pump caffeine into you at such an hour. You should drink this. The warm milk will do you good.”
After a moment, Will finally takes another tiny sip, as if trying to prepare himself for the foreign taste.
“I know that decaf coffee is somewhat blasphemous to the very concept,” Hannibal smiles, “But I would be lying if I said I have not been worried about you these past few days.”
The words catch Will off guard, giving him a chance to lower the mug from his lips and place it on the table, as far away from his mouth as he can get it. Before he has a chance to ask, Hannibal continues.
“Although you are normally sporadic in your visits, you still keep to an overarching routine. Routine works for you. It works for me too. We are both men of structure. It is how we think, or perhaps, it helps you think.” Will, at this point, is somewhat stunned into silence. Hannibal uses the pause to point at the cup questioningly, waiting for Will's nod before he picks it up and takes a sip for himself.
“What I mean to say is that you have been acting out of sorts. Care to tell me what is wrong?”
He finishes a quarter of the cup before Will manages to speak. He has never stopped thinking carefully about his words, but seeing this contrast in behaviour makes Hannibal realise how comfortable he had gotten to supplying quicker, honest answers to him as their acquaintanceship grew fonder.
“I've been having... nightmares,” he eventually admits. His face is taut, almost as if he were disgusted at himself, his head turned completely away to gaze out the window and admire the halos around the street lamps in the dimming town. Or perhaps he's merely staring at the rim of his glasses again.
“Would you like to talk to me about them?” Hannibal offers.
Will's laugh is forced and short. “No offence, Mr Lecter, but you're not exactly an expert in these matters.”
Hannibal sits up and straightens his back, looking down at his sleeve cuffs as he unrolls them back down to his wrists. He tries not to show any hint of offence at the statement. “Just because I make coffee for a living does not mean I don't know a thing or two about human psychology,” he states, “If anything, I have a broader chance to practise the observational stages of the study.”
He can see Will's eyes flicker towards his direction as a hand raises to rub the back of his neck, but he does not turn his head away from the window.
“Has something happened with your friend, Jack Crawford? Prior to your daily visits, I notice you had been buying more take-out. A sign of frequent work in the field, perhaps?”
Will nods as a gesture and less of a confirmation. “Murder is a particularly gruesome field of work,” Will begins. “It doesn't ever get less gruesome. You can get numb to it, but it's hard to become numb to something when you have such extreme empathy.” He says the last two words with a clench of his jaw, and he doesn't need to raise his hands to make the air quotes in order for Hannibal to hear them.
“If you work with that kind of scene often, then why now? What has brought upon this kind of reaction from you?” Hannibal questions, “Surely there is something different about your recent work. I want you to feel comfortable talking to me about these things. Think of me as your sober bartender,” he jokes.
Will smiles grimly down at the window pane. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of this Chesapeake Ripper, but it’s Crawford’s big case. Still haven’t caught him after all this time. He’s convinced he’s killed again.”
Hannibal keeps his face straight but lightly shifts his weight to lean a little closer. “Is he particularly brutal, then?” He asks.
Will laughs sarcastically at the question and rubs a hand over his face. “You could definitely say that.”
Hannibal hums lightly. “Tell me about it? It could be good to get some things off your chest.”
The suggestion has barely left his mouth before Will is shaking his head and frowning behind his glasses. “No. No, thinking about it more is the last thing I want to do right now. If anything I need to get home and sleep. Or try, at least.” He releases a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Hannibal licks his lips in thought, deciding against pushing him any further. “I think what you need is a break,” he suggests, as honestly as he ever could. It takes Will a second or two, but he eventually turns his head back and looks in Hannibal's general direction, silently questioning the phrase, his gentle frown asking for him to continue.
“A change of scenery, perhaps,” Hannibal continues. “I will make you a warm chocolate, something less bitter to help you sleep. I can only apologise for not having anything beyond a sofa for comfort.”
Will sits up straighter and immediately opens his mouth to protest, but Hannibal cuts him off.
“It is of no discomfort to me. I can remain here with you if you fear nightmares and to assist in any way I can.”
Will takes a few sharp breaths and goes back to perching on the edge of the seat. “You have a shop to open in the morning,” he protests.
“It is a Saturday, Will,” Hannibal merely smiles. “I'm sure Baltimore can survive one Sunday without its morning brew.
Will's eyes flicker as he struggles to excuse himself. “I have a - a tendency to sweat.”
“I will put down a sheet.”
Will practically oozes panic, so Hannibal stands to give him a little more space. “If you feel so strongly toward your own bed, I will not take offence if you leave. But I do believe it would help. I would like to see you healthy, Will,” he says quietly, solemnly, as he picks up the half-empty mug and retreats back behind the counter.
He remains there for a few minutes to lightly wash as many utensils as he can, listening carefully for any signs of movement behind him, but hears none. When he turns back around to clean out the espresso machine, he can see Will over the top of it, standing by the leather armchair and pacing. His hand stims violently as he walks, his fingers tapping the air between his palm and his thigh. Every second breath is slightly sharper and he moves his head as if he were talking, but his mouth doesn't move and his eyes don't settle.
By the time the coffee bar is adequately clean and ready for an official closing, half an hour has passed, and Will has finally settled down on the three-seater sofa in the middle of the shop. Keeping his promise, Hannibal prepares a hot chocolate for him, in a smaller mug that won't be as intimidating for Will to drink. He takes it out to him and places it on the coffee table in front of the sofa, then stands back to look down at him.
“Do not panic yourself with unnecessary social precautions,” he tells him, although it doesn't seem to do much good. Hannibal finally steps forward and kneels down in front of his customer, closing past the personal space barrier of acquaintances, even of friends. Will has tensed up again as Hannibal reaches out to his half-drawn glasses and slowly, carefully, pulls them from his face. Will's eyes immediately close.
He folds the frames closed and places them on the table next to his mug. He then turns back to Will, places a hand upon his knee, and waits for him to open his eyes. For the first time in months, for the first time ever, Will looks him dead in the eye, even if only for a few seconds. His breath seems to have calmed -- or frozen in his lungs, Hannibal cannot tell.
“I will be here,” he says to him, but it is not a statement. It is an oath. “If this does not suit you, I will drive you home. If you panic in the night, I will wake you, and if you wish, I will take you home.”
Will's eyes flicker once more, occasionally crossing Hannibal's. He finally brings himself to nod, quickly and sharply, so Hannibal takes his hand from his knees and stands once more.
He walks to the opposite end of the room and gathers his belongings from a locked cupboard within the barista bar. After he slings his jacket and coat over his forearm and tucks his keys and a book under his arm, he turns around to find Will has already laid his head down. He has folded up his jacket to rest it against the arm of the chair as a makeshift pillow, leaving his body exposed.
Hannibal sighs, yet again silently under his breath. He walks to the leather armchair across the room and sets his things down, but he keeps his trench coat over his arm. His last duty of the night is to close the blinds and turn off the lights, and on his way back to his chair from doing so, he takes his coat from his arm and drapes it over Will's form.
He retreats back to the armchair, makes himself comfortable and flicks on the lamp beside it. He cracks open his book to read and hopefully stay awake as long as possible, but his eyes stray too often from the words on the page to the slowly breathing form of Will Graham across from him.
Will wakes the next day with a crook in his neck and a slight chill from where the coat had fallen off his body. He may not have slept for more than a few hours of the night, but he's pleased to find he isn't drenched and isn't hyperventilating. When he sits up and rubs at his eyes, he immediately notices Hannibal Lecter across from him, having falling asleep sitting up with a book open in his lap. He smiles very slightly to himself, before the anxiety begins to kick in.
Luckily for him, once he opens one of the window blinds, Hannibal begins to blink awake, and smile drearily at his house guest.
“Good morning, Will,” he starts, his voice low and cracked from sleep. “I apologise, I am usually an earlier riser.”
Will shakes his head immediately as he gathers his coat and phone from the sofa and retrieves his glasses from the table. “It's only seven.”
“Ah, close enough. Can I interest you in breakfast? There is a kitchen here,” he offers, already looking more awake as he stands from his chair and stretches.
Will is otherwise preoccupied, however. He tugs his coat on and clearly wants to sit down, but doesn't allow himself the comfort. He barely stands still as he fiddles with his glasses, keeping his eyes down at them before sliding them up his nose and lifting his head towards Hannibal.
“Why did you do this?” he questions, catching Hannibal in silence. “We aren't friends, or colleagues. I barely even call you by first name. You shouldn't even have known anything was wrong.”
It's Hannibal's turn to lower his eyes as he straightens out his cuffs and smooths down his shirt. “I told you last night, Will.” He lifts his head, unable to deprive Will of the eye contact he is usually so desperate to receive in return. “I have been worried about your wellbeing. I will not pretend otherwise. You say we aren’t friends, but I know as much about you as any friend would; perhaps more. The only reason that you don’t know the same of me is merely because of our situation. I am the storekeeper: I ask the questions, and you answer.”
“You do, don't you?” Will interrupts, his fingers flicking against his thigh like they had done the night before. “Ask a lot, I mean. Is there something you're trying to find out about me, something you're trying to crack?”
“Will,” Hannibal says lowly, trying to reel him back in. “You are getting ahead of yourself. I admit, I have a certain... curiosity with you. I have not been able to explain it to myself, I have since stopped trying.” He pauses for a moment. “If you wish to ask questions of me, I will not stop you.”
Will has to think about that for a moment and finally gives himself the chance to sit.
“You care about me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Hannibal hums. It's his turn to think. “I am not sure. This is why I ask questions; to try and understand.”
Will laughs at this. “You wait for me to come in to your shop, at random times of the week, without any preconceived warning of doing so, to ask me about my job and personal life?”
“I admit, is it not the ideal situation,” Hannibal nods. “I would also prefer if I could have offered you a bed.”
They both fall silent for a short moment before Hannibal laughs at his own words. “That is not what I meant. I merely...”
“No, no,” Will stops him, shaking his head and leaning his forearms against his thighs. “You don't have to excuse. I'm not the best person to fit alongside.”
“On the contrary,” Hannibal gives a little shrug, before stepping forward and taking a seat on the sofa next to him. He turns his upper body to face Will, back straight and face stoic, as if he hadn't woken up just minutes ago. “I find you fascinating to be alongside.”
Will turns his head towards him, but his eyes keep looking at the floor. Hannibal laughs again. He reaches out to touch Will's chin, tilting it gently upwards, before he places both hands upon Will's glasses and pushes them properly up his face again.
“You are defensive. I should be wise to find it irritating, but it is somewhat endearing.”
Will takes a deep breath. “I don't... know what's happening. Right now. Or anything you've done in the past 24 hours.”
“I am being brash,” Hannibal answers honestly. “I am choosing an output for a series of feelings which I do not know how to describe or explain. Do you have any more questions?”
He watches Will's jaw clench and unclench as he grinds his teeth in thought. He lifts his head properly this time, removing his glasses of his own volition. “Would you like to go... somewhere? Better than this? For more questions. Or conversation.”
Hannibal has to control his smile from growing any larger than a simple flicker of his lips. His eyes fall from Will's face, down his arms and body before settling on his hands. Yes, he thinks, hands are appropriate.
“That,” he begins quietly, as he reaches out to take one of Will's hands in his own, and lift it up to his face, “Is an excellent question.” He brushes his lips gently against Will's knuckles and waits for the squeezing of Will's hand, but it never comes. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't panic. He even breaks into a little smile.
“I guess we just have to figure out where to go,” Will points out, but Hannibal is too focused on the way Will’s voice wavers when it drops to such a soft volume. It makes him want to kiss him again, just to see how much more he can shake.
After half a second of debating the thought in his mind, Hannibal presses his lips to Will’s knuckles again. Will’s fingers curl slightly in his grasp and he feels Will gently tug to remove it from his grip. Not wanting to overstay his welcome, Hannibal loosens his grip to let Will’s hand slide from between his palms, but he stays where he is on the sofa, desperate to catch his eyes again.
“It’s still early, remember,” Hannibal reminds him. “We don’t have to move just yet.”
Will’s laugh gets stuck in his throat and it comes out as a shaken breath. “You are being brash today,” he notices, while Hannibal merely notices the way Will’s eyes haven’t left his own hands that now lay in his lap.
“I suppose it’s easy to forget where I am in such a situation. You know, we haven’t been alone together before, aside from last night. It’s easy to get distracted.”
Will nods slowly as he begins to turn his head away. “I can see what you mean. But for now...”
Hannibal lowers his eyes to Will’s hands and watches him begin to wring them out. “For now, yes. How about that breakfast? Coffee for just you and me, with real caffeine this time.”
Will quietly agrees as Hannibal stands from the sofa and makes his way to the barista bar. He takes the opportunity to stretch again while he waits for the machine to warm up, and scratches his blunt nails against the back of his neck. When he looks at Will over the top of the machine, he’s a little disappointed to find the man’s gaze elsewhere, but has to remind himself of the leap they’ve made. Will is finally settling into the idea of being Friends, after spending so long with Mr Lecter. He smiles to himself when he remembers that; that even if nothing concise comes of the next few hours, Hannibal will still have a friend over anything else.
As Hannibal begins to filter coffee through the machine, he becomes more and more aware of the silence in the shop. He would normally be fine with such a thing, but considering the whole reason he invited Will to stay, he supposes he should make sure nothing too sinister is happening within his mind.
“Would you like to talk about work?” He asks, pausing what he’s doing to roll his sleeves back up to his elbows and steal a glance over towards Will.
Across the room, Will leans over the edge of the sofa, rubbing his palms against his eyes to assist himself in waking up. He finally grumbles, “No,” but all Hannibal can do is smile and roll his eyes.
“I would like to hear about your work. I’m sure I can imagine what teaching is like, so tell me about working with Jack. You never got to mentioning this Ripper last night.” He uses a light a tone as possible, keeping his eyes down on his hands as he begins to prepare the coffee, so his questions will come off as casual inquiries if Will were to look up at him.
“The morning was getting off to such a good start,” Will excuses, “Why do we have to talk about cadavers and serial killers?”
Hannibal hums over the whirring of the machine as he finds a cup for them each to use. He continues in all seriousness, “The best thing for you to do right now is to face the problem. You keep running away from pain -- whether it be physical or mental -- and that only strengthens it. Whether you talk to me, or a registered psychiatrist, I suggest you talk to someone rather than no-one.”
Will is silent as he digests Hannibal’s words. He’s finally stood from the sofa and approached the counter, eyes on Hannibal’s hands as his own trace the countertop behind the espresso machine.
“I don’t like psychiatrists. I don’t want to be psychoanalysed,” he mutters.
“Well then,” Hannibal smiles a little wider, “It looks as if I’m your only choice. And I promise not to psychoanalyse anybody anytime soon.” He interrupts himself when he switches from preparing the espresso to steaming the milk, and asks, “Would you like to see how it’s made?”
Will looks up at Hannibal’s face and offers a light shrug. His response is to step behind the barista bar with him and watch over Hannibal’s shoulder as he pours his coffee shots into their mugs.
“Talk to me, and I will show you,” He offers, gesturing towards the steaming wand at the side of the machine, for Will to pick up the small jug of milk and try it himself.
“How do I --”
Hannibal takes a step closer, wrapping his arms around Will from behind to take a hold of his hands. He positions them carefully with the jug beneath the wand, then turns a dial on the machine to release the steam. The air is filled with a squealing hiss that causes Will to flinch, his shaking hands nearly spilling all of the milk as he does so.
“I will help you. Just talk and I’ll listen,” Hannibal assures him.
“Alright,” Will takes a deep breath, although he doesn’t sound convinced. As he finds his words, Hannibal helps him tilt the angle of the jug so that the end of the wand dips under the surface of the milk and the horrible hissing noise is properly muffled.
“This Ripper, he uh -- He has a particular way of killing people. Every crime scene he leaves behind has this certain flair. It’s what’s drawn Jack in to believing this latest case is his work,” Will explains. Hannibal notices that he’s begun to frown and wishes there was some way to wipe it clean from his face. He doubts that extra touching would go down very smoothly, though.
When Will’s hands begin to fidget from the heat of the steam, Hannibal lifts a hand to dial back to nozzle and switch it all off. He takes the jug from Will’s hands and swirls the milk inside gently to inspect it.
“Not bad,” he comments. “So. Jack believes these murders are thanks to this Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t think so?”
Will slips his hands into his pockets and shakes his head. “I think Jack is getting ahead of himself. I agree that there are similarities between the cases, but he’s denying the existence of the differences as well.”
He watches closely as Hannibal pours their coffees slowly and carefully, and afterwards wipes his index finger against the lip of the jug when he pulls it back. “What are these differences, then?” Hannibal asks. “Perhaps they are what’s been keeping you awake at night, unless there are some particularly gruesome details you have left out.”
“The Ripper is incredibly theatrical,” he begins as Hannibal hands him his coffee. “There’s a similarity there. He takes the organs and completely butchers the bodies, as if he’s trying to cover it up. Every crime scene is like a performance left for us to discover.” He takes a moment to distract himself by gulping down a portion of his coffee. He closes his eyes and allows the taste to linger before he continues. “The murders we’re faced with at the moment seem pointless. They’re... intriguing, but they’re not art.”
“The Ripper is an artist now?” Hannibal questions, and hides any traces of a smile by taking a sip from his mug.
“As close as he can get to one, yes,” Will admits, before finally rubbing his eyes and turning away.
“You still seem exhausted. If you’d like, I can drive you home before it gets too late in the day,” Hannibal offers, although part of him wishes for the other to stay for so much longer, to listen to him talk for as long as his voice will allow it. “You have pets, do you not? They may need tending to,” he observes as he plucks a dog hair from the bottom of Will’s jacket.
Will turns to look at the hair in question and chuckles lightly. “I’m sure they can manage a few more hours without me,” he murmurs, face buried in his coffee. Hannibal doesn’t bother hiding his delight in this.
“Then if I’m keeping the store closed for the day, perhaps we should utilise the space a little more.”
Will looks at him over the rim of his mug and sputters when he feels a warm hand pressed firmly against his waist. Hannibal chuckles as Will coughs, but his hand remains there all the same.
“We can just sit for a while,” he suggests, as his thumb presses gently against Will’s hip. Hannibal smiles at the way Will jumps slightly, but is pleased that he doesn’t move away. They eventually place their drinks down (Will has finished his awfully fast and Hannibal doesn’t quite care enough) and Hannibal moves his hand from Will’s hip to his back, to lead him back out to the sofa in the middle of the shop.
“I’ve told you about my work. You’ve shown me how to make coffee, albeit briefly. What do we have left?” Will questions. He shuffles across on the sofa to sit against the arm, but Hannibal simply takes his place up close to him again, so he can rest a hand lightly on his knee.
“I believe you wanted to ask me some questions,” Hannibal recites. “Although I cannot promise interesting answers. It depends on what you ask.”
He’s pleased to find Will smiling, despite the hand upon his leg. He decides that as long as Will takes to come up with a question, he can try and distract him a little, and is suddenly incredibly thankful for the other’s intense pauses.
“Are you.. comfortable enough, there?” Will asks, fighting a grin as he looks down at Hannibal’s hand.
“Quite, yes. Next question,” Hannibal baits, while his fingers trace delicate circles up Will’s knee.
Will hums quietly and curls his hand into a fist against the armrest of the sofa. “Do you do this with all of your customers?”
Hannibal has to hold back another chuckle. Perhaps these answers could be more interesting after all. “No,” he answers honestly. “Never.”
Will pauses on that note and leans back to look at him. “Never, really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” Hannibal asks.
“No -- No, I only mean...” His fingers begin to tap the edge of the sofa. “Curious as to why me, that’s all.”
Hannibal tilts his head to the side and studies the stubble creeping down Will’s neck. “Would you like to ask questions, or would you like me to describe an answer to you?”
Will takes his time. He clenches and unclenches his fists, his eyes move from various points of the room and he opens and closes his mouth several times. While he waits, Hannibal slides his fingers up Will’s thigh and curves them around for his palm to rest against his back once more. He shifts his position on the sofa to get a little closer, so their knees and thighs can touch and Hannibal can practically smell him. He does. He’s covered in the scent of warm roasted coffee beans and an aftershave Hannibal doesn’t want to recognise. He finds himself smiling, and finds his hand squeezing his hip ever so lightly.
In the end, Hannibal doesn’t wait to hear what Will decides. He turns his torso to face him, and reaches over to touch Will’s shoulder so he turns to face him back. He keeps one hand low on the man’s back while the other hovers over Will’s hands, threading his fingers through them and clutching firmly. He can feel Will’s breathing sharp and quick through his back, but Hannibal remains still, right up until the moment he leans in to touch his lips against Will’s own.
Will seems frozen beneath his mouth, and where Hannibal’s hands touch feels like he has turned to stone. But he can’t stop himself from edging closer, from squeezing Will’s hands and using the hand on his back to draw him as near as he can. He can taste the coffee on Will’s lips and he wants to moan from the feel of his stubbled beard scratching his own clean shaven face, but he holds back out of fear of frightening the deer.
When he’s certain that Will can breathe at the very least, he pulls back to take a breath of his own and lick his lips to soften them more. “Do you need further explanation?” He asks while grinning at his friend, although his eyes focus on Will’s mouth than anywhere else.
Will lifts his head slightly as a smile plays about his lips. Hannibal takes the opportunity of their closeness to inspect Will’s eyes properly, now that he doesn’t have the obstruction of his spectacles to ruin the view. He doesn’t return the contact, instead keeping his eyes lowered as if he were looking at Hannibal’s mouth, but Hannibal doesn’t need his full gaze to appreciate the mix of colours in his irises. It makes him all the more aware of the lack of space between them, and when he parts his lips (either to speak, or to kiss again, Hannibal himself isn’t quite sure), Will notices it too.
This time it’s Will’s turn to close the gap and kiss him chastely on the lips. It lasts barely a second and doesn’t do well to quell the hunger growing in Hannibal’s gut. A second after Will pulls away, Hannibal leans over him, kissing him harder and pressing his body against him where he can. A hand rises to rest against the man’s collar bone, his palm squeezing his clavicle as his mouth opens slightly to allow his teeth the pleasure of biting Will’s bottom lip.
As his hand moves up from Will’s collar to hold the back of his head, he can feel the other beginning to tremble within his grasp. This is a very different kind of trembling that Hannibal has otherwise noticed, and the hands fisting in the crisp white material of his shirt, desperate to hold onto something, proves that it is not Will’s nerves betraying him now.
He isn’t expecting for Will’s hands to stray, for one to climb its way up from his stomach to his neck. He feels the collar of his shirt pulled taut as Will grasps it, and jumps slightly when Will’s hand pulls the fabric so harshly that one of the buttons comes flying off.
Will pulls back immediately, while Hannibal looks down at his ruined shirt. He can only bring himself to laugh.
“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Hannibal murmurs, although his eyes show nothing but joy and endearment. Will sits back with a hand over his mouth, fingers tapping his lip nervously, but before he can apologise profusely, Hannibal has taken both of his hands into his own, holding them firmly down at their laps while he kisses him again.
He moves slower and much more tenderly, to try and slow that fast beating heart of his. His thumbs rub circles into Will’s palms as his tongue lines the shape of Will’s lips, and soon enough, his teeth. Will’s breaths are deep as Hannibal scrapes his teeth against the other’s lips and kisses him as fully as he is able.
Hannibal finally pulls away when he feels Will begin to shrink beneath him, curling into the sofa as if he were deflating, as if Hannibal were pulling the air from his very lungs. As Will closes his eyes and leans his head backwards over the back of the couch, he squeezes one of Hannibal’s hands and offers a glimpse of a smile.
Hannibal watches the curve of his neck stretch back, unable to help from licking his lips. He shifts his weight so he can lean down and press his lips against the side of Will’s neck, barely kissing, just feeling the scrape of stubble against his skin. At the touch of his mouth, Will startles, but soon relaxes as he lifts one of his arms to rest around Hannibal’s shoulders, his fingers threaded lightly through his hair.
“Will you be coming back tomorrow?” Hannibal asks, a bare murmur against his skin. Will shifts his weight under the touch and nods in response.
“Is the shop going to be open tomorrow?”
Hannibal hums. He lifts his head and looks down at him through lidded eyes. A hand lifts to touch his neck, his middle finger trailing down the center, tracing the bump of his adam’s apple and stopping at the dip of his collarbone. “My shop is always open to you,” he breathes.
Will chuckles and it sends a wave of vibration through Hannibal’s chest. “Then I suppose I better utilise the space,” he decides, finally tilting his head aside to look Hannibal in the face. “Do you have any ideas about where to start?”
Hannibal meets his eye and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I have a few.”