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Sight
That first sight of Will Graham in Jack's office is a memory Hannibal often returns to at the end of the day. He likes to pour himself a glass of red wine and sit back in his study, sifting through the collection of images in his mind until he settles directly on Will. Will hunched forward, fingers curved tight around his mug as he looks at Hannibal, but not at him. That first meeting didn’t last long. Will’s abrupt departure cut short Hannibal’s preliminary appraisal.
His posture these days is a measure of how far Will's already come. Hannibal's endlessly fascinated by the comparison between then and now, in the way Will tensed when he feared what Jack had brought Hannibal there to do, his refusal to be drawn further into the conversation. His body poised, defensive, resentful of Hannibal's gaze. Each twitch and quip only piqued Hannibal's interest further.
Now Will sits in front of him with far more ease, legs casually widespread in an unconscious invitation. He only keeps this position for a brief moment before he’s up out of the chair, moving around the room, always restless, never still unless he’s buried in work and focused beyond his own surroundings. But comparing that moment, to the way Will sat before, is a delicacy indeed.
* * *
Smell
Will smells of sweat most of the time. It’s not unpleasant, to Hannibal at least. Sweat is toil, exertion, and sometimes, more often than not, fear. Will’s sweat comes from filling his headspace with the thoughts and actions of people wrapped in fear. It rolls off him in waves as he walks in their shoes, mimicking their actions in his brain. In his dreams, the fear intensifies, until he’s drowning in them. His body reacts, drowning in sweat.
Today, for example, Will hasn't showered in the last four days, caught up in the casework strewn across his desk. His lower lip is gnawed raw from constantly worrying over the scene. Hannibal considers how it would feel to press his thumb against that bruised mouth, but Will’s not ready for that yet.
He stinks of fear-soaked sweat, dried upon his skin. There's a faint overlay of cheap soap, the kind found in the rest rooms at Quantico. The scent clings to his cheeks and chin, leftover from scrubbing fruitlessly at his face in an effort to keep himself going. It’s unfortunate, but not completely abhorrent. Hannibal prefers the natural scent of Will’s skin – the aroma of outdoors, earth stuck to his shoes, and, as always, the ever-present smell of dog. There are worse scents, Hannibal supposes, and it shows that Will is comfortable with something being close to him at least. Dogs are a start.
At least he hasn't had time to shave.
* * *
Sound
Usually Will's voice maintains an even keel, like the boats he's so familiar with. His balance is even as he speaks his way through scenes of horrific bloodshed. It only grows softer, more intimate, when he speaks directly of the dead, and to Hannibal. It’s louder, more defensive, more angry when he’s faced with obstacles and prying people, situations he’s not prepared for, and conversations he’d rather not have.
Often, it's not so much how Will speaks, as what he says, and to whom.
“I’m not sure than I can do this.” He murmurs, leaning back in his seat.
They’re sitting in the car, having just arrived at the lab. Jack wants him to go over the body. Another body. The third this month. Will’s exhausted and it shows in the weary tremor in his voice. The fact that he said anything at all aloud proves just how tired he is.
Hannibal glances at him. Will’s half turned away from him, his eyes shadowed. “You don’t have to, you know.” He knows perfectly well that Will will do it anyway; he’s too tightly enmeshed in Crawford’s web to wriggle free at this juncture. But that’s temporary.
“Ah yes, I could turn around and drive home and pretend none of this even happened…” there’s a flash of smile, and even if it’s sardonic, Hannibal will take it gladly. A smile from Will is a rare prize. “But if I don’t do it, who will?”
Will gets out of the car and Hannibal lingers before following him.
“Who indeed?”
* * *
Touch
They're too brief, but they're there.
The hand on his arm, pulling Will back once before they cross a street together. Will treads forward without considering the possibilities of every day danger. He mutters "thank you" without even glancing in Hannibal's direction. It's rude, but Hannibal's willing to make an exception.
The brush of fingertips over Will’s arm as he hands Hannibal a file to examine. Brief, regrettably brief.
The touch on his lower back, when Hannibal finds Will vomiting in the rest room instead of in his classroom.
“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.” Will leans further, fingers spread flat against the porcelain as he heaves.
Hannibal retreats, but Will hadn't objected to the touch. Chances are, he wasn’t even aware of it.
Then there’s the inevitable moment when he finds Will asleep in his waiting room. Hannibal says his name, no response, so he locks the door, and covers Will with a blanket. He would like to carry Will inside his office, lay him on his couch, slip his shoes from his feet and stretch him out. But that would be an imposition.
Instead he returns to his desk, leaving the door between ajar. An hour later Will slips through it, carrying the blanket in his arms.
“Thank you. For this.” His hand smooths over the blanket as he sets it down on the couch.
“You looked as though you needed the rest.” Hannibal stands.
Will nods, eyes still on the blanket. "I'm sorry. I've been doing that more and more later, just drifting off."
"No need to apologize."
Will's chuckle is a rasp. "You say that now. Wait till you find me wandering around some night in my sleep."
He looks so vulnerable there, so unhappily certain that that will happen eventually. Hannibal savors it, before replying. "Why don't we wait and see what happens then?"
* * *
Taste
Will tastes like fresh prey.
He faints once at a crime scene, crumpling into a limp heap after walking away from the corpse of a young man strung out in neat pieces on a laundry line. It’s late spring, the heat hasn’t set in yet. The night is young, and the breeze still chills the air. Hannibal drives him home; Will curled up in the back seat of his car. When Hannibal carries him inside, Will’s head lolls back in his arms, his hair brushing Hannibal’s mouth (sweaty nights, the scent of whiskey) the nape of his neck curving into Hannibal’s grip. There’s only the faintest murmur of skin across Hannibal’s lips and then Will shifts again, leaning into his shirt.
But the sharp tang of his skin remains on Hannibal’s lips as he settles Will upon his bed. Hannibal wants to dip him into a lightly sour sauce and lick it from every inch of Will’s body. He imagines his tongue caressing and delving into the bare expanses of Will’s flesh, exploring him until Will arches willingly into his touch.
He has yet to properly taste Will, but one day it will happen. One day Hannibal will take his time and savor Will Graham to his fullest.