notesapp-unreleased

[notesapp-unreleased]

Strip Poker - a Hannigram drabble

Will has always been able to read or, perhaps, feel his way past any poker face. That, coupled with his time as a cop in New Orleans, and finding creative ways to help Beau Graham keep food on the table, has lent Will Graham a distinct advantage in navigating the cards tables.

Perhaps it is this (and an Old Fashioned) that find Will inexplicably agreeing to strip poker at the annual BAU holiday party.

He folds early on into the first round, taking the opportunity to shed his tweed suit jacket - it’s stuffy and the whiskey from the open bar is warming him from the inside out.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, inexplicably, is sitting at the table. Will watches him, swirling inadequate wine and looking all too delighted to have been roped into strip-poker by consequence of attending a holiday party with his not-patient. (Will insisted that he shouldn’t feel the need to join the absurd game; he could mingle or even leave and Will would get a taxi. Hannibal told him it would be rude to decline.)

Beverly (eternally wise) opts to be the dealer and maintain her dignity. By the time Zeller is down to his briefs, he accepts his defeat and Jimmy offers him another drink as consolation.

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is good at poker. Is there anything he isn’t good at? Will muses, missing his tie, belt, both shoes, and his left sock. Will, however, has spent enough time analyzing Hannibal’s micro-expressions to spare himself from the same indignities Brian Zeller is recovering from with an alarming number of shots.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is not more skilled at poker than Will. No. The only reason Will is wearing significantly less clothing than Hannibal is that Hannibal wears so many fucking clothes.

Will grits his teeth and examines his cards as Beverly places the flop. He is wearing his undershirt and slacks. Hannibal is sitting across from him, flush high on his cheeks from several glasses of wine, and to an unpracticed eye, appears to be fully dressed. Thus far, Hannibal has divested himself of his pocket square, his tie, his suit jacket, his watch, two leather brogues, and the cuff links from his right sleeve.

Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller have returned, looking rather flushed and disheveled, Will notes, to bear witness.

Will is in his boxers. Hannibal is in the process of removing his last sock garter. Will is fuming. He wants to launch over the table and rip that stupid silk shirt off of Hannibal’s torso. Huh. Where did That come from?

Beverly is placing the river and Will Graham glares mournfully at his pile of shed clothing.

“I raise you 500.”

Hannibal’s eyes briefly cast downward, to his cards and the garishly colored chips they’ve been playing with. His golden eyes hold a predatory glint. Will steels himself and prepares to don his birthday suit. Hannibal, uncharacteristically, chooses to take mercy on Will.

“Alas, I’m afraid I must fold.” Hannibal’s face pinches theatrically as he sighs. His cards are placed neatly on the table in front of him, face down.

“That’s it folks! Graham is keeping his pants tonight!!” Beverly announces. Something like disappointment flashes in Hannibal’s eyes. Surely regret at throwing the game - nothing more. Off comes the silk shirt, one mother of pearl button at a time.

Warmth pools in Will’s gut. Embarrassment, probably. And perhaps his fourth (?) drink of the evening. His skin prickles with gooseflesh as he collects his winnings (the privilege of putting his clothes back on). He glances up. Hannibal is still staring at him. Will is suddenly distinctly aware that his mouth is dry as sandpaper and shirt buttons are a touch too challenging for whiskey-addled senses.

When Will nearly keels over trying to shove his shoes back on Hannibal takes mercy on him for the second time that evening. He gestures for Will to sit and sinks to one knee. Gingerly, he places Will’s worn dress shoe on his foot. Like Cinderella, Will’s brain supplies unhelpfully. “Perhaps we should get you home,” Hannibal says, his low timbre cutting through Will’s musings on the Brothers Grimm and the tips of his feet staying intact in this version of the fairy tale.

“Take me home then.” Will quips, then immediately regrets his choice of words. Looking down reminds him that Hannibal is on his knees in front of him and Will hasn’t bothered to properly zip up his pants yet. He thinks he hears someone wolf whistle. Probably Zeller.

The attention doesn’t seem to bother the doctor. Hannibal just smiles a private, toothy grin. For some killers biting may be a fighting pattern, as much as sexual behavior. Will shakes his head, attempting to dispel the thought. Definitely too much whiskey for one night.