Chapter Text
Nights like this are when Will regrets taking Jack up on his job offer the most.
The crime scene itself had been bland and unoriginal in Will’s expert opinion—half of some poor farmer’s crops cordoned off by the police and ruined by blood spatter and wax drippings in a so-called “ritual sacrifice” so blatantly ripped off from a bunch of B-horror movies, and just in time for Halloween, no less, that Will might have gotten a headache from how hard he had to roll his eyes at it. Although the strategically placed gore designed to make it look like the scarecrow had done it had been a fairly inventive touch, he had to admit. It even managed to spook some of the younger local officers until Bev’s analysis quickly confirmed that it was indeed a human’s doing, and the DNA left all over the scene was more than enough after that to track their culprit down and capture him in a mere matter of hours.
So not only had it turned out to be a waste of time for Will to go since his talents were not needed, it also meant he had to make the long drive back to Wolf Trap well after dark in the middle of one of the heaviest thunderstorms he’s seen so far this year. Trick-or-treaters in this part of Virginia will be sorely disappointed to have to remain indoors and endure the evening empty-handed. That’s if there are any trick-or-treaters out in this deep neck of the woods.
And speaking of, he must have somehow missed the turn back to his usual back roads because none of this looks familiar to him at all. It would be his luck too that just as he comes to this realization, the station wagon suddenly stalls out, forcing him to slam hard on the brakes. The car fishtails into the nearest ditch before dying altogether, the last thing he sees before the headlights go out being a low hanging branch that would have speared straight through his windshield had the car kept going just a couple more feet.
“Jesus,” he breathes out, and lays his head on the steering wheel for a few tense moments, until his posture relaxes and his heartrate slows back to an even tempo. Then he sits up and starts trying to figure out just what the hell happened. His car should not have stalled out like that. It may be old, but he keeps it very well maintained. His gut instinct would be to pop open the hood and check, but there’s not much he can do about it now under these conditions, and even if he were able somehow to get the engine running again, there’s no backing it out of this steep ditch he crash-landed in on his own. He’ll have to call a tow company.
At least he would, if he had any signal on his phone. Cursing aloud, Will resigns himself to braving the weather and hitchhiking up the dirt-sludge road until he finds someone who can assist him. Grabbing a flashlight and a thin, worn-out parka that’ll most likely do nothing to keep him from getting drenched, he trudges out into the storm and almost immediately his prediction proves true, as after very little time spent walking his boots and the bottoms of his pants are already caked in wet, sucking mud and every layer he’s wearing gets heavier as the rain soaks him through to the bone. Guided only by the thin beam of his flashlight and the occasional flash of lightning overhead, Will slogs his way deeper into the woods hoping to find a gas station or at least some kind of shelter with a landline, anything will do really.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” he mutters to himself in morbid humor, though it isn’t long before even that is sapped away from him as well as he has to conserve his energy for the walk and not letting his teeth chatter out of his head. He begins to wonder if perhaps it wasn’t a mistake to leave the car after all, when with another loud crash of lightning and thunder the night becomes brilliantly lit for an instant, and he sees that he is only a few more yards away from a tall and narrow but beautifully constructed country house, inexplicable out here in the middle of nowhere. It had been so dark he hadn’t even noticed how close he was and might have walked right past it never knowing it was there. Odd really that he hadn’t even seen its lights from here, when now he can easily discern the warm cheery glow from within once his eyes adjust and the flash of white is gone from above.
Making his way carefully up the stone steps out front, he raps on the door firmly with the side of his fist to make sure he is heard inside over the downpour. It’s made of good, solid wood and is surprisingly warm to the touch, though that could be from the pallid chill in his hands, which look almost like spindly white spiders when splayed out against its deeply black lacquer.
The sight of it taps into some buried animal instinct that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end despite the damp, and irrationally he feels regret for ever knocking at all, taking a step back but not quite turning away altogether, so he can use what little shelter the short awning overhead provides to pull his phone out again and pray it’s found signal this time.
It hasn’t. Releasing a frustrated snarl, he raises it high overhead and flings it down with full force, stomping down hard on what doesn’t immediately fly off in pieces from its center mass with the heel of his boot and twisting until it makes a satisfying crunch underfoot.
Panting, he picks his foot back up and stares down at the messy shrapnel remaining in transfixed horror, not sure what kind of impulsive, blind fury could have possessed him to do something so reckless and stupid. What the hell had just gotten into him?
He has no time to consider it for long, drawn back to reality by the sound of a heavy lock clicking on the other side of the door, and reflexively kicks the evidence away into the brush next to the steps before the door creaks open so he won’t have to explain himself.
“Well, well, I didn’t think we were expecting any trick-or-treaters this evening, yet here you are,” says a man Will can’t see clearly through the crack in the doorway, except for a beard and shrewd, smirking blue eyes. “Cute drowned kitten costume, by the way, although I’m afraid you forgot the ears and the burlap sack, dear.”
Will bares his teeth in a rictus smile and hopes the man can’t see how much they’re chattering. Now that he can feel a trace of warmth from inside, it makes the torrent of rain he’s standing under all the colder.
“But where are my manners?” the man adds quickly before Will can respond. “You’ll catch your death if you stay out there much longer. Please,” he says, pulling the door wider so Will can enter, “do come inside, kitten.”
He accepts the man’s offer and darts inside before he can talk himself out of it, mumbling his thanks to the wooden floorboards while the stranger shuts the door behind them, trying not to stiffen as he hears the turn and slide of the lock closing again.
“You’re most welcome, pussycat, though it isn’t my hospitality you should be grateful for. No one gets in unless he wants it.” Now that they’re standing together in the light, he can see the man has more than a bit of paunch to his gut which he proudly flaunts even under the sheer robe and tight, bright red leather corset he’s wearing over silky briefs and garters that leave little to the imagination. Will might assume “Halloween costume,” but the man’s flawlessly done makeup, nails, and sex-tousled hair combined with the comfortable expert ease with which he stands in those six-inch stiletto heels he’s wearing suggest that “everyday loungewear” is far more likely. Will’s never understood why people would put that much effort into their appearance, much less at home, but more power to them if it makes them happy.
All of this Will thinks and files away with no more than a quick, cursory glance, having seen far more shocking things in his life and seeing nothing here worth gawking over. What’s far stranger, perhaps, is that he would be so comfortable in another’s home.
“You said this isn’t your house, uh…?” he asks, trailing off since he hasn’t been told the man’s name yet and wondering even as he already starts to peel off his wet jacket if its true owner is really alright with Will being here or if this man hasn’t possibly overstepped his bounds by allowing him in.
“Abel Gideon,” the man helpfully supplies for him. “And no, kitten. I live here, but it isn’t mine. It’s…his,” Gideon says with a significant glance over Will’s shoulder that has the younger man turning to look up at the bannister above them. Another man Will hadn’t noticed as he walked in is standing there and gazing silently down at them both, face obscured by shadows so all Will can really make out when he looks is a silhouette and a large, tanned hand resting casually on the railing.
“Another stray for you come in from the rain, milord,” Gideon says with a cheery salute. “Shall I fetch us some more warm milk?”
“I’m not a damn cat,” Will finally grumbles, concerned now that this has already become a running gag he’s going to end up stuck with the rest of the time he’s here.
“Oooh, and this one’s got claws too,” Gideon continues, miming a cat’s paw with his hand and finishing his statement off with a playful hiss. Yep, stuck with it now. Isn’t that just great.
“You mustn’t tease our guest so, Abel,” the man above them speaks up finally, a peculiar lilting accent curling around the edges of his words, and begins an unhurried descent down the stairs. “He’s had quite a trying day already, I suspect.” This man is dressed far more conservatively than his counterpart, in a dark red-and-black-checked suit that fits him very well, yet Will finds he is unable to look away as readily as he had from Gideon.
“Allow me,” the man politely says when he reaches them, and starts helping to remove the stubborn wet jacket Will had all but forgotten til that moment was still halfway clinging to him.
He doesn’t miss the way the man’s eyes rake over him as more of his body is revealed—from his sodden pants and shirt which now hold tightly to his skin and conform to his shape to reveal the musculature and curves underneath, to the still-dripping curls currently plastered to his forehead—and thanks the chill he still feels down to his bones for keeping the blush that wants to surface at bay.
“My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” the man continues with Will’s parka slung elegantly over his arm. Will wants to wince at all that water seeping into what must be a very expensive and probably dry-clean only suit jacket, but since Lecter seems not to mind at all he doesn’t say anything.
“Will Graham,” he introduces himself at last and offers his hand to shake—very unlike himself considering his usual aversion to touch, but somehow he does it reflexively in this case without a thought—eyes widening and mouth dropping open when Lecter takes it only to raise it to his lips and brush a light kiss over Will’s knuckles. Unseen outside of Will’s periphery, Gideon arches a single flawless eyebrow at the gesture.
As if there was nothing out of the ordinary about what just transpired at all, Dr. Lecter turns and hangs Will’s jacket up onto an enormous coat rack with seemingly dozens more of varying styles and sizes, then opens a linen closet next to it stacked high with fluffy white towels and offers one to Will to dry his hair with.
“You seem rather well prepared for this kind of thing,” Will says, his wariness and suspicion from before returning.
“The forecast predicted quite the storm this evening, which clearly has turned out to be true,” Lecter offers as explanation. “We are holding a midnight masquerade in celebration of the occasion,” he adds, which Will supposes would explain all the assorted coats as well. It figures that he would be crashing the guy’s Halloween party. Intuition tells him it’s the kind of grandiose affair Lecter must take a lot of pride in just like his good manners.
“Sorry to be keeping you from your hosting duties,” he says by way of apology. “My car broke down a little ways up the road. If you could just point me to a working phone so I can call a tow truck, I’ll get out of your hair. I, um, dropped mine and broke it outside.”
“Is that so? How unfortunate,” Hannibal murmurs. His warm honey-brown eyes, closer actually to maroon in this lighting, seem almost to glitter mischievously despite his words, and Will worries for a second that Lecter must have somehow seen how it was actually broken before the look passes, leaving Will to wonder if he hadn’t imagined it.
“I’m afraid there is no landline here, however, nor have we been able to get any cell service during this inclement weather. You will have to stay with us and wait out the storm.” Though Lecter’s tone is apologetic, Will can’t help but suspect the man is secretly pleased by this. “If you would follow me, I’ll show you where you will be staying the night and get you some dry clothes to change into. Perhaps after that I might even convince you to join with the rest of our party.”
Not wanting to be rude by declining outright when they’ve already gone to this much trouble for him, Will simply mutters his thanks again and nods in agreement. Before leaving Hannibal turns his attention back to Gideon, whom Will is a bit ashamed to admit he had practically forgotten about until now, and asks him to stay to clean up the foyer. Embarrassed, Will looks down at the puddles and all the mud he’s tracked in and offers to help, hastily bending to untie his boots and remove them as well before he can dirty up the pristine floors even more.
“You’re sweet, Will, but I’m with the good doctor here. Priority one should be getting you all comfy and cozy and settled in. Besides, a little mopping won’t keep me from rejoining you boys later at the soiree upstairs.”
“Get Peter to help you,” Hannibal suggests. Abel laughs as if there’s something funny about that.
“If I can coax him away from his stable full of fuzzy woodland creatures and twittering songbirds for more than a few minutes, you mean,” he replies with a mocking twist of his lips, though Will can tell without even looking all that closely that it’s really a shade closer to fondness than true disrespect. More and more, he finds himself curious about these strange, mismatched characters who should seem out of place together under one roof, yet instead seem to get along surprisingly rather well.
“Come, Will,” Hannibal says, and guides him away to the staircase with a gentle hand on his arm just above the elbow.
“See you around, kitten,” Abel calls out, throwing them both a saucy wink in parting.
“I hope you won’t mind,” Hannibal says as they ascend the steps together, “but the quickest way to the wardrobe is through the den where the others are gathered. They will want to meet you, I’m sure, and I thought you might wish to savor a few minutes in front of the fireplace where you can get warm and allow your clothes to dry a bit so they’ll be easier to change out of.” Will can hardly say no to the suggestion when put to him that way, and allows himself to be steered in the direction from which he can just begin to make out the sounds of clinking glasses and happy chit-chat and laughter.
“Are Abel and Peter your roommates?” he asks, voice casual, and tells himself he isn’t fishing for details on the nature of Hannibal’s relationship with them because he’s interested or anything.
Hannibal hums thoughtfully at the question. “I suppose that is one way to describe it, though I hadn’t thought to put it in those terms before. ‘Tenants’ would be a touch more accurate, I think.”
“So you’re not really that close with them?” Will presses. Again, not interested, just…making polite conversation.
“As close with them as I am with anyone else here,” the older man responds, stopping just outside the door where all the noise is coming from. “To be honest, I was pleasantly surprised to note how quickly Abel has already warmed up to you. The people here…well,” he pauses, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “They are the disenfranchised and dispossessed, cast-offs from a society which neither wants nor understands them, and as such are generally not so quick to trust outsiders. I am curious now to see how the others will respond to your arrival.”
Will wonders at first why the fond glimmer in Hannibal’s expression is so familiar to him, until he realizes it’s the same as his own whenever he thinks of his dogs. He likens Hannibal wanting to trot him out for the rest of his party-goers then to whenever he puts the newest members of his pack into a cage at first to let the others sniff them out and get used to their presence. The comparison does not feel as insulting as it probably should.
“So that’s what Abel meant by more strays,” he mumbles mostly to himself, though the glitter of amusement that crosses over Hannibal’s features tells him it was most definitely overheard, and then the older man is opening the door and ushering Will in ahead of him, and Will finds he has no words to express what he sees inside.
Ballroom might have been more apt of a name considering the room’s size, though despite its grandiose scale it does have the coziness and warmth of a den, with all the rugs and sturdy wooden furniture and other elegant accoutrements one would expect of an especially lavish sitting room and not one, but two enormous marble fireplaces at both sides of the room. From both ends, the plush seating and coffee tables of the sitting areas taper off and give way in the middle to expansive, unobstructed wooden flooring perfect for dancing, which is indeed what many of the guests are doing.
And the guests. The guests are perhaps the most surprising sight of all. Based on what Hannibal and Gideon are wearing, Will hadn’t been sure whether he should expect people dressed to the nines in elegant formalwear and evening gowns or dolled up in pantyhose and glitter eye shadow like performers in a burlesque cabaret show—the answer to that question, apparently, was yes. Turns out this is the kind of party where no one bats an eyelash if the woman in a three-piece tuxedo and Phantom of the Opera half-mask waltzes with another woman in a sequin leopard-printed bodysuit and whiskers, or if a group in seemingly nothing but body paint wants to gyrate shamelessly against one person in the center wearing a tutu and a circus ringleader top hat.
He’s never seen a room full of so many people—all quite varied in age, race, and sex as well—dancing to the same music in whatever manner pleases them regardless of how little it matches their partners’ and wearing a wide assortment of bright, beautifully crafted costumes that should all clash and look horribly incongruous beside one another, yet somehow instead seems to fit fantastically together like scattered pieces in one mad, marvelous puzzle.
Nor has he ever been so surprisingly at ease in such a large crowd. He feels no claustrophobic desire to get away despite their large number, since the room is spacious enough that four times as many people could still comfortably fit. He also isn’t the unwilling focus of attention here as the odd one out, which is a nice change of pace as well.
Hannibal leads him to the nearest fireplace and it isn’t long before he begins to feel warm and dry again. A few people mill closer at intervals to chat with their host and greet the no-longer-shivering newcomer. They are curious about him, he can tell, but not overbearingly so, as though a random stranger come in from the rain is nothing unusual to them.
“Ah, look over there,” Hannibal says at length, pointing towards the center of the room where the crowd has parted to make way for a solitary couple who have taken charge of the dancefloor. “I do believe they have decided to put on a little show for us in spirit of the season.”
Will watches with him, the other partiers quietening down now and shivering in anticipation as a tall white man in a deep red costume with folded dragon’s wings on the back and a black woman in a flowing golden gown with tiger stripes painted over the visible parts of her arms and nape take center stage. Both of them are wearing intricately designed eye masks as well, and upon closer viewing Will notices that the woman’s has no eye holes and is completely covered.
The music changes and at once the two still figures begin moving, telling a story with their bodies of love and pain, of loss and betrayal and redemption. With careful sleight of hand, a red silk scarf appears to spurt out like blood across the woman’s throat and she falls, only for the Dragon to catch her. Holding her slumped form, the man roars, and more scarves of orange and red fly out representing a breath of fire. The woman “comes alive” again and the two finish their dance.
Their final bows are met with thunderous applause, with Will unconsciously clapping along just as enthusiastically as the rest. As the praise dies down and other dancers start returning to the middle of the floor, Hannibal leans close so he can whisper in Will’s ear, “What do you think?” It’s apparent that he’s asking about more than just the performance.
“It’s beautiful,” Will replies honestly. The look this earns him from the older man has Will swallowing hard and looking away embarrassedly.
Sensing his discomfort, Hannibal takes just the smallest step back and returns the conversation to the dancing couple who just performed so theatrically for them. “Francis and Reba were much like you when they first arrived, both shy pilgrims though each in their own way. Their van broke down not long ago and stranded them here as well.”
Will opens his mouth to remark that neither of them seem all that shy now, then closes it, something else about that statement giving him pause. He had seen no van parked outside on his way to the house. He hadn’t seen any vehicle, in fact, much less the dozens that should have been lined up alongside the road and out in the front yard to explain how this many people got here.
Before he can ask about it though, two more people stride up to Hannibal with purpose—or rather, one strides and the other crawls. The first, a statuesque blonde woman in a low-cut, sea green dress glittering with jewels, holds in one hand a glass of champagne and in the other a leash attached to the second individual, a man on all fours in a large, bulky costume made entirely out of bone.
“Hannibal,” says the woman in an icy tone that immediately commands attention. “I was beginning to wonder if you would be returning soon or if you meant to abandon your revelers to their own devices for the rest of the evening.” Will is shocked by how coldly she speaks to the man, but Hannibal only smirks as though it is no bother to him.
“They hardly need me around to teach them how to enjoy a good party, Bedelia. I’m afraid the revelry will have to make do without me just a little while longer. I plan to help dear Will here get changed and show him around the house for a bit,” he says, putting an arm around Will to pull him closer. Now Will feels he’s being shown off like a piece of arm candy, and to his own bemusement finds that he is surprisingly okay with it. At least it makes the way Bedelia’s face stiffens as she takes in his appearance more amusing than intimidating.
“And what is this one’s name?” she asks. Will hopes she doesn’t really think she’s being subtle. If she thinks that kind of tactic will work to put him off his game, she’s sorely mistaken.
“If you’d really been listening just now, Bedelia, you’d know it’s Will,” he snarks. “Will Graham,” he adds further. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I’m really not a fan of saying things I don’t mean.”
“Well, you certainly don’t have trouble speaking your mind, do you?” she observes silkily. “You should know that rudeness is one of the few vices that will not be tolerated in this…household.”
“How did you get invited then?” Will throws back before he can stop himself. The woman’s mouth thins into a severe line and her grip around the leash tightens, causing the bone man at her feet to lift his head slightly lest he be choked by it and growl softly at Will as if in retaliation.
Hannibal seems nothing if not delighted by this turn in the conversation and informs Will with some amusement, “Bedelia du Maurier is my oldest ‘tenant,’ you could say, Will, and in many ways enjoys considering herself my keeper of sorts.” Bedelia gives him a sharp look at that comment.
“You hardly look like you need a babysitter to me,” Will tells him. Then, realizing how flirtatiously that came out, he hastily follows it up with, “Just how many people do you have living here?”
“Who can really say?” Bedelia answers on Hannibal’s behalf. “Seems it’s been eons since anyone has bothered to do a proper headcount,” she snidely adds, letting her eyes drift over the various faces in the room with an air of lofty disdain.
Wait. Something…something about that doesn’t seem right. Will unconsciously takes half a step back, gaze sweeping out to take in the room just as Bedelia had done. His empathy must be off-balance somehow because there’s no way he could have possibly heard what he thinks she just implied. There’s no way…all of these people? Where would they even all fit? The little country house he glimpsed when he was outside couldn’t possibly hold so many bedrooms.
And yet, here they all are in one giant, sumptuous room. He hadn’t paid much attention as they climbed the stairs and took the many winding corridors on the way to this room, but now that he thinks back on it and tries to draw a comparison to what he saw of the house outside, he realizes it’s more taxing than it should be to try to make sense of the layout.
“Strange geometries,” he murmurs unthinkingly to himself, another half-remembered phrase from some forgotten horror story he read when he was young, before years and experience better honed his unfortunate gift to imagine all too well the horrors humanity could grant itself. The unrealistic fantasies that used to give him night terrors as a child would be a welcome distraction from the ones he harbors now as an adult…or so he once thought.
A steadying hand on his arm draws his attention back to his charming host’s face. “You’re shaking. Are you still cold?” Hannibal asks, but there is a strange glitter to his gaze, something proud and avaricious, as if he understands perfectly well that’s not the reason Will is shivering. Will, however, not quite ready to admit the same to himself, licks his lips and gives a tiny, rapid nod, feeling very much like the twitchy, nervous mess he usually is in social situations.
“Well, we can’t allow that to continue. Come, I can’t wait to get you out of those clothes,” Hannibal says, eliciting an involuntary blush from Will. “And find you some better attire more suited for the evening,” he finishes with a catlike grin.
“Right,” Will mumbles, licking his lips again self-consciously, his other misgivings, while not quite forgotten, certainly taking a backseat when he once again meets the man’s eyes and feels his stomach give a pleasant backflip in response.
He lets himself be led away to the double doors at the other end of the room, arm in arm with the enigmatic gentleman in black and red like some kind of posh modern interpretation of Lucifer, hardly even noticing the stares of the other party-goers who seem bemused by the intense personal interest their host has taken in this jittery newcomer, or the one glowing hotly at his back as Bedelia watches them leave, her fingertips going white from the pressure of her hold around the stem of her glass as she swallows another deep gulp of champagne.
*