✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

8

Will would have examined the office in grander awe, but the unsettling doubt in his stomach prevented him from doing so. Everything suddenly seemed too perfect.

"Will," greeted Hannibal with a small smile. "Welcome."

"Yeah, hi," he said pathetically. He gazed around the room—up the stretching curtains and across the balcony with its bookshelves—and hesitantly turned his gaze to the immaculately-dressed Hannibal. But, despite the anxiety churning in his stomach, he could still smell it.

Always lingering about Dr. Lecter was that similar air to Death's. Thick and foreboding—bleeding through the air with power. Twisted with professional, poised glee.

Hannibal's low words snapped him out of his trance. "So, what brings you to my office today?"

"I'm sure Jack already told you," mumbled Will, continuing to examine the room. Hannibal leaned against his desk, hands in pockets and eyes examining each and every one of Graham's motions. The gaze burned against his skin.

"I'd like to hear it from you."

He shakily sighed and ran a hand over his face. "The recent murders have been... catching up to me." Will glanced back at Lecter. "I think that explains enough."

Hannibal smiled with a faint tilt of his head that irked Will's insides. "I appreciate your wit, Will," he mused, "but I feel that, to derive the most benefit from our time together, you are to be open and—preferably—not to be so hostile with me. Does that sound simple enough for you?"

Will huffed, taking further inspection of the office. "Sure."

"Very well," said Hannibal smoothly. "Please, take a seat." As they both did—across from each other—Lecter went on to say, "I always stress the idea of comfort with my patients. If you ever wish to roam the recesses of this room, feel free. Only for the moment do I request some stillness."

Graham nodded, feeling the smooth texture of the seat.

"I'd like to start off with something simple," said Hannibal, catching Graham's attention. "Tell me about your mother."

"That's some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter," blurted Will, startled by the question. Hannibal merely tilted his head. "A low-hanging fruit."

"I suspect that fruit is on a high branch. Very difficult to reach."

"So is my mother," grumbled Will. "Barely knew her."

"Interesting place to start."

Will took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "Tell me about your mother, let's start there."

Hannibal paused, and when he spoke, his words flowed with smooth evenness. "Both my parents always kept their distance from me," he said. "The only times I spent time with them were when my father took me hunting, or when my mother taught me how to cook." He stared cooly at Will. "Neglect does many things to people. It wounds children. Numbs families."

Will let a brief pause rest between them, breathing in the rich, power-laden atmosphere of the room. The reminder of Death soothed him in the slightest.

"There's something so foreign about family," breathed Will. "Like an... ill-fitting suit. I never connected to the concept."

"You've created a family for yourself."

Will mulled over the words for a moment, brows furrowing. "Well, I made a family of strays. They keep me company, but—" He leaned forward. "How do you know I have dogs?"