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“You’re making me hot chocolate?”
The words were deadpanned, and Hannibal glanced up from the pot of steaming chocolate he was tending to over the stove. Hot chocolate from scratch was a tricky business, tempering the chocolate without burning it, mixing in the right amount of milk and heavy cream.
Making the perfect cup of hot chocolate was an art form, much like any other sort of cooking Hannibal did in his lavish kitchen.
“Do you not like hot chocolate?” Hannibal asked, voice mild as he whisked the mixture in the pan with an ease that made Will wish he could make more than Kraft macaroni and cheese. He was certain he had gained at least ten pounds since he had befriended Dr. Lecter.
“No,” Will said, glancing around at the very tasteful array of Christmas decorations spread throughout Hannibal’s kitchen. “I like hot chocolate just fine. What I don’t like is the…expectation that I can be plied into openness with a warm beverage heavily laced with sentimentality.”
Hannibal sighed softly. “I was under the impression we were speaking as friends,” he said. “And thusly, that we were sharing warm beverages laced with sentimentality as friends as well.”
Will made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat, leaning heavily against the counter as Hannibal turned the burner off on the stove, removing the pot from heat. He turned then, grabbing two tall, glass mugs from a cabinet—and of course Hannibal had mugs that looked like they belonged in Better Homes and Gardens—placing them gently next to the steaming pot.
“Now, what exactly is so sentimental about hot chocolate for you, Will?” Hannibal posed the question as he divided the rich, milky liquid between two mugs. Not a drop escaped. Hannibal Lecter did not make messes.
“This feels an awful lot like psychiatry, Dr. Lecter,” Will said wryly. “I thought we were speaking as friends?”
“Can two friends never have a discussion that does more than scratch the surface?” Hannibal countered. He had pulled a metal container of whipped cream out of the fridge—clearly handmade, everything Hannibal ate and served was—and was scooping large dollops of it into the mugs.
Will had to admit, it did look and smell delicious.
“Not when one of those friends is trained in the art of head shrinking,” Will said. It was more banter than anything else; he had long since moved past the point when Hannibal would get him well and truly defensive. If they hadn’t, he wouldn’t be in the man’s kitchen at quarter past ten at night with no appointment.
As it was, he happened to enjoy Hannibal’s company. Any biting comments were simply holdover from earlier in their relationship.
Hannibal had said nothing more; he knew how to wait Will out, how to give him enough time to hang himself with his own words. To reveal something he never would have if prodded.
“My father,” Will said finally, having grown uncomfortable with the silence. He accepted the mug that Hannibal slid towards him over the counter, holding it between two broad palms, savoring the warmth. “He used to make us all hot chocolate on Christmas Eve. Nothing fancy, nothing like this. The powdered kind, with mini marshmallows to float on top.”
Glancing up, Will saw that Hannibal was watching him closely; he felt a bit like a butterfly, pressed between glass.
Quickly, Will lifted the mug to his lips, taking a long sip of the hot chocolate. It was amazing, of course. The best he’d ever had. It was a wonder that Hannibal hadn’t gone into culinary arts professionally. He quietly wondered if there was anything the man couldn’t do.
“It was just a silly tradition,” Will finished, setting the mug down and meeting Hannibal’s gaze. He managed to do so without flinching or shying away; it was a good indicator that he and Hannibal were finally developing a bond of trust.
“No tradition is silly,” Hannibal said, looking bemused, “unless you make it so in your mind. There’s nothing wrong with tradition.”
Hannibal was still staring at him with a considering expression; he hadn’t yet touched his own hot chocolate, and the cream was beginning to melt and run over the sides of the mug, making a mess.
Unusual; Will couldn’t recall ever seeing a dirty dish or a splatter of sauce that didn’t get cleaned up and dealt with before it was ever really there.
Just as he was about to ask Hannibal what the problem was, the other man had reached across the counter towards him. It startled Will at first; he wasn’t used to being touched. He didn’t particularly like being touched, and especially in such unexpected circumstances.
The warm pad of Hannibal’s thumb brushed over the corner of his lips, wiping away a smear of whipped cream. The touch was gentle, almost intimate, and it had the effect of freezing Will to the spot.
When Hannibal pulled back, he looked just as calm as ever. “My apologies,” he said, “the mess on your face was terribly distracting while you spoke.”
After a few moments of consideration, Hannibal lifted his hand to his lips and lapped the whipped cream off of his fingertip. It was mesmerizing to Will, who was completely shocked by this new behavior.
Hannibal either did not notice, or did not care much about Will’s discomfort, as he continued on as if nothing had happened.
“I suppose next time I make hot chocolate for you, I’ll make sure to have a bag of mini marshmallows on hand.” Bending over the counter so that he was braced on his elbows, Hannibal took a sip of his own drink and smiled. “Although I happen to think everything is better with whipped cream; don’t you?”