D E V O U R || HANNIGRAM // continuation

Chapter Six: What the Cat Brought

((Time for something a bit more...intense...))

When the next morning came calling, an awakening answered: Not yet as Will turned over within his bed and weary eyes glared hazily at the glaring red numbers on a digital clock. Hannibal hadn't been beside him, he didn't suspect that he'd be after all. Especially considering he could smell something pouring from the depths of the first floor- from the kitchen, of all places. Inhaling sharply, he turns over as a scowl spreads along his face only to remind him of the nearly numb sensation tingling along his cheek.

...

"Bring the cutlery, please." Hannibal asked as he brought two plates to the table and had set them individually on the end of the table and one beside it. Will had stood there, awkwardly a deep breath caught at his lungs refusing to give out. Needless to say, he abides by what was requested anyhow and takes two sets of silverware from one of the drawers before tracing to the dining room after Hannibal. Setting the utensils down in their designated area, he were about to pull out the chair beside the end of the table but had seen Hannibal holding the chair out for him. "Put yourself in my shoes for once, Will."

Will peered from Hannibal to the chair and shuffled forward and took his seat whilst the older man walked over to Wills and sat down; receiving an odd glance. All was silent besides the sound of clanking silverware as the two men began to cut into their sirloin steak and scrambled eggs or sip from their glass of Cranberry Juice.

"I don't think that I could get used to this, at all." Will mentioned, shoveling a fork full of eggs into his crookedly drawn mouth, leaning to the side to dart a look at the other before looking back to his plate once again.

Lowering the fork, Hannibal eyed Will with an empty expression as he chewed his food thoroughly before swallowing. Running his bottom lip under the top row of ridged, ivory teeth, he lowered his jaw then, "What would you be having trouble getting used to, Will?" The man asked observantly, taking another bite of food and not returning the gaze. Considering that Will hadn't any longer been pegged as a House Guest and is now officially a part of Hannibal's' Household he dismissed the common table-courtesy to ask the man on what he had meant.

With a straightened posture, Will stabbed at the eggs only to use his knife to scrape them from the thin pegs and go for the steak, instead. Hannibal had guided a bite of steak into  his mouth and  admired the taste of food as he'd dismiss that this had been the majority of his own cooking. For now, he'd like to imagine that Will had done it, appreciating the man a little more than what it is worth. Finding appreciation where there isn't had allowed Hannibal to feel whole, admiring Will even in that of which he could not do. He sensed the sudden change in Wills' demeanor and had found something else to dismiss wholeheartedly.

"I meant sitting at the head of the table. This isn't my place, this food isn't of my creation and I will never be exactly like you." Will said.

Dabbing a napkin towelette to the corners of his mouth, he paused and set the cloth back down after folding it onto his lap only to hear the home phone begin to ring out of nowhere. Will turned to look at the oddly tan stained phone hanging on the wall then to Hannibal only to see Hannibal glance to Will sidelong then back to his own plate. The both men heard it ring one last time before Hannibal would excuse himself, rising to his feet then proceed to fold the napkin once more and place it beside his plate before leaving for the wall in the kitchen to answer the phone.

"Good evening, Mr. Grey speaking." He'd announce as though already familiarized with his role of Robertus Grey. The call had been deemed of importance, Hannibal lodged the house phone between his ear and shoulder. There was a madness lingering in this voice, booming through the receiver as a sort of warning, hypothetical and seemingly dramatic, basing all of his accusations on 'morals' and 'suspicions;'. The older man could not help but shift his weight onto the wall, the surface of his right hand gripping the neck of the phone as he'd guard his tone to avoid suspicion.