It was remarkably similar to living with a caged animal. They rarely interacted as what started as a goodwill gesture stretched on. Whether he was actually welcome or not was somewhat ambiguous, so Will simply didn't broach it, weighing his every paycheck against the cost of an extended stay hotel. Hannibal continued to cook for him, and nothing in his manner or tone could be construed as angry, or rude, but there was very obviously something…off. Will sat in the living room by the fire, glancing up from his book at the sound of the key in the lock, reluctant to brush minds with him again. That was a professional courtesy Hannibal had extended him in their stay together, never forcing him to interact when it wasn't necessary. He didn't seem to consider Will's long evenings alone in his room a criticism of his hospitality, but a very necessary dose of quiet. For a man like Will, nothing about Hannibal was quiet.

He opened the door and a carpet of cold air ushered him in. He wore traces of snow on his collar with the unperturbed expression of someone who was raised in a much colder climate, and it made the drifts outside seem vain in their effort to compare to his memory. Hannibal never seemed cold. He closed the door and turned the lock in a fluid motion, immediately upon the mat for his shoes. His keys hung under the foyer's light switch, and his wallet, watch, and kerchief were carefully placed along the buffet table at the door. Stepping away from his shoes, he took up the kerchief again briefly to knock away the excess water from the fur trim on his outer-most layer, and then it went into the closet. Routine, practiced, and unrelentingly patterned…it had taken Will a week to get into the habit of putting his winter wear away. Finding it neatly hung in the closet every day felt like a silent rebuke for his habit of tossing it over the nearest chair. There was nothing out of place in this house. There was nothing out of place about him. Hannibal did not tolerate non-functional clutter. To a man with seven dogs, it seemed excessive, and silently…loud. He sighed as the psychiatrist unbuttoned his sleeves and vest next, checking his watch one last time before stepping away.

And there, that shift in reality is what hit him every time. An inimicable wave of consciousness, moving through the room, this house and its sundry walls, shaking its foundation. It left a void behind, a complete and calculated emptiness that stripped him of his idle thoughts and hushed his heart to a murmur in the grass...letting him forget, for a moment, his role as the mongoose, and becoming another small bit of meat and fur and nothing more. The foyer's chandelier was modest and dim, warm and welcoming, but it cast handsome shadows that obscured his eyes and made the translucent white of his shirt glow. Will shifted with his book, sitting a little straighter despite his sudden resolve to be still. That was currently the most confusing aspect of his relationship with Hannibal Lecter. He'd sorted through the edges to the best of his ability, looking for weakness or some form of mistruth in their interaction. It was never that Hannibal lied to him, simply that he held a truth so large it could not be parceled in a coherent manner. The older man wandered closer, standing in the doorway, and to all appearances relaxed…except that was another untruth. There was a tension in his movement that spoke of disquiet, the most graceful caricature of unease that Will had ever seen, and he regretted being the source. The perceived source, at least. He still hadn't worked nerve up to ask if his continued intrusion into Hannibal's living space was causing the friction he felt in his head. He was still convinced that he was exaggerating it to some degree. Everything about him was too practiced. Hannibal glanced at the side table just at Will's elbow and smiled slightly, and his voice broke the static in Will's head. "I see you have fixed the coffee machine."

"I have." Will smiled at the air between Hannibal's chest and his chair. The 'machine' in question was a fully automated espresso and latte machine that likely cost as much as Will's used truck did, but he had managed to take apart the brew group to replace a leaking gasket in the water line while waiting on the other to return. "I was wondering if we could talk?"

"Of course." He answered warmly, nodding towards the dining room and kitchen. "Would you like to help with dinner?"

Would he like some physical labor to do while he sorted his thoughts out? "Yes, very much."

He dropped his ankle from his knee and stood, smoothing his robe down over his shirt and trousers. He was used to bundling up in thicker layers when he was at home, but Hannibal kept his house much warmer than Will did. He felt too informal to share a space with him. That was the root of it, surely. Hannibal had gifted him the robe, however, so again, perhaps that tension was one-sided. He followed the older man into the kitchen and watched the set of his shoulders change as he assessed the working area. This was perhaps the one real place he'd ever seen Hannibal slouch. Smiling at his back, he watched him cross to inspect the machine, lifting his chin a bit and pretending not to notice the doctor surreptitiously run a finger under its edge. Will had moved it and cleaned the entire space before detailing the machine itself when he was done. Hannibal seemed obviously pleased. "No more leaking espresso…that is such a relief. Thank you, Will."

Will blinked, because there was some kind of blunt pressure associated with Hannibal attaching his name to the end of a sentence. Like an unexpected hand on his shoulder. "It was a simple thing. I'm afraid I may have voided the warranty, however."

"I won't tell if you won't." Hannibal answered smoothly, the corner of his mouth curled into a confident smirk as he put a demitasse cup under the spout and pressed a button. While the beans were grinding, he stepped over to the refrigerator and opened it. Deft hands pulled some unlabeled red meat from the bottom shelf, and a butternut squash from above that. "I wondered, were I to bring home a bulk selection of fish from the market, would you be willing to assist me with the butchering tomorrow?"

"Gladly. Just don't expect me to turn it into something…French." Will hovered near the coffee machine, replacing Hannibal's cup with his own and starting a large black coffee. He handed the doctor's coffee off and received a cutting board in return. Waiting until the grinder stopped again, he claimed the short island for himself and waited diligently. Hannibal dampened a cloth and passed it to him. He placed it flat on the smooth counter and set his cutting board on top of it, and received a paring knife next. The squash and a small selection of vegetables in a clear bin appeared next to his board, and Will nodded, settling in to his task of cleaning the vegetables.

Hannibal paused when the heat clicked on, realizing Will's attire for the first time. Will didn't notice until he asked, "Are you cold?"

"…Yes, but it's better now that I'm moving around." He nodded as he talked, peeling the squash with some difficulty.

"Will, you are welcome to turn the heat on if you arrive here sooner than I do." Hannibal sounded…not concerned, but if there was such a thing as forced genteel, Will thought that might be it. He glanced at him from the corner of his eye and that was almost too much, and he retreated to the safety of his board. "It is on a timer, but I would rather you be comfortable."

"That's actually what I was hoping to discuss with you." He gestured with his paring knife, talking to the air in front of him instead of Hannibal directly. "I have…been here almost six weeks, and aside from providing a bottle of wine, you have asked me for nothing. I took the coffee machine upon myself, but I wish you would ask, if you…", and he hesitated on needed, because he seriously doubted Hannibal needed him for anything, "…wanted me to participate more in the household. I can cook simple meals."

Hannibal smiled. "I don't eat simple meals."

"I can do laundry."

"My dry cleaning is delivered."

"…I don't clean very well."

"That is why I do not ask."

"….You're trying to rile me." Will said with a dry laugh, looking at Hannibal at last and finding that smirk still comfortable at the edge of his smile. "You're not abiding by any creed of college dorm cohabitation than I'm familiar with, so if you would like more from me, please ask."

"I wish you would talk more." Hannibal answered, tying a long apron around his waist. "This is nice. I genuinely enjoy our conversation, and not every conversation we have has to be as patient and therapist, or investigator and consultant."

"You mean gymnast and ballast."

"That metaphor is more flattering than you think." Hannibal worked deftly at his end of the island, seasoning flour and breaking down fresh thyme into a ramekin. "I meant what I said. I understand that there needed to be a mourning period for the house and your belongings, but I cannot abide you feeling homeless in my house, either."

"I'm not trying to. It is an adjustment, but not just to the house. To you. Your routine and your…methods are completely divergent from my lifestyle. I have found it hard to relax when I'm worried about leaving fingerprints on the glass coffee table."

Hannibal nodded. Bolstered, Will continued, trimming the frond from the fennel. "And that is not a criticism of your hospitality, in any way. It's just an observation that I have never before spent so long in someone else's headspace before, and it's jarring. I haven't seen my dogs in two weeks, and that house was full of things I would use to ground myself between cases. I could—"

"Exist freely there." Hannibal stepped over his pause, but with a comprehension that Will found utterly refreshing. He relaxed a little more as the therapist continued. "You'd built a box that put the entirety of your personality within arm's reach, and spent years reinforcing that concept within your design. When you collected a stray, you'd bring him home and integrate him into that concept. We share that method of coping, though I daresay that our problems are vastly different."

"Hannibal Lecter has a problem?" He'd meant it jokingly, but it came out a bit more scathing. Defensive, might be the better word. He regretted it. It felt like the beginning of the 'broken' rhetoric he was accustomed to hearing from professors he'd never met in person. He tried to soften it. "And that analogy makes me a stray."

"No. My pathology is different, and yes, sometimes problematic. Your mind is empathically drawn to aberrations with the intent to understand, and I…do not always fit, in my own mind." Hannibal sipped his espresso, considering his statement and its phrasing. "It is hard for me to feel…adequately portrayed at any given moment. Like you, I inflict myself on my surroundings in an attempt to make them fit my understanding of the world. Sometimes they measure up, sometimes they do not. Where you are hardwired to receive and dissect, I am built to overtake."

"Yes." Will hadn't meant to say it out loud, hadn't meant to look at him, but that was exactly it. The problem. The reason there never seemed to be enough air in the same room with him. Hannibal paused long enough to show him how he wanted the squash cut, and there was calm pause in the conversation. It was first time he'd felt a general quiet since Hannibal showed him to his room.

"Furthering that point, while out in public, I tend to very selectively broadcast elements of myself. I also find it necessary to adopt certain traits that I am not naturally inclined to…joviality, camaraderie, casual intimacies with others…it is not in my usual repertoire."

Will snickered, "Your extroversion implodes."

"…Yes. Exactly." Hannibal arranged his ingredients and gestured to the other man to bring his within reach.

"Have you been trying to set me on edge these last few weeks?"

Hannibal lit a burner, smiling again, but he didn't answer.