Chapter Text
The sweat beading on Will’s face made the bite of the January wind all the sharper, a piercing cold that distracted him from the scrawl of numbers before him on a creased and tattered sheet of notebook paper. He had been at this since early summer. He knew it was wrong, knew that he could get in trouble, knew that Hannibal didn’t even know he existed but--
The keypad flashed red. Another incorrect entry. He scratched out another set of numbers, frustration causing the lead at the tip of his pencil to snap. He took a leveling breath, two more number sets to try. If those didn't work, then it meant he’d made a critical error in selecting the digits for the door code. Which would mean months of wasted work, and that he’d have to try it all over again. But he knew he had chosen them correctly; they were the only numbers consistent with the evidence-- the absence of prints on certain numbers, the faint wear on others. He was a student of forensic science; he wouldn’t have botched this up.
He heard the crunch of tires on the snow behind him, and the anxiety of discovery made him curve himself towards the front door, shoulders hunched tight as tension thrummed through him when he heard a car door slam closed. Hannibal would be at a conference all weekend, and he wasn’t scheduled to return until late afternoon Sunday.
“Sir?” Will turned his head, heart loud in his ears when he saw a police officer standing down the driveway. Will didn’t recognize him-- he knew the regular patrol circled the neighborhood like clockwork around midnight. It was only 10. Will eyed the shine of the officer's boots, the straight line of his spine. A new recruit, ex-military. His partner was still in the car. This kid was green, over-eager. “Is this your property?”
Will supposed he didn’t fit. Hell, he knew he didn’t fit this overpriced, upper-class Baltimore neighborhood. The lawn maintenance on the property alone was probably more than his mortgage. He didn’t need some beat cop pointing out how much he didn’t belong in Hannibal’s world, though. He held the paper tighter to his chest.
“No, it’s my cousin's place.”
“Your cousin’s place.” The cop repeated Will's words with doubt heavy on each syllable. Will hurriedly pressed in the next set of digits into the door’s keypad. It flashed red, and might as well have been a flare into the night. The officer had to have seen it. Will swallowed, palms damp, barely hearing the words the cop spoke. He had one more set, one more string of numbers and if it wasn’t the right code he was fucked, he’d get arrested for trespassing, Hannibal would be contacted, any hope of watching him from afar would be ruined because his face would be known and he’d never be able to study him again.
He wouldn’t be able to follow him to the opera, to the farmer’s market, and catch the minute gestures, the there-and-gone tiny expressions on his face, the beauty in his movements. The cop was just yards away now, reaching for his belt, maybe for his gun. Will no doubt must have seemed half-crazed, scruffy and sweaty and skulking in the dark. Will pressed in the last set of numbers.
The door clicked open. The relief was a tangible thing, sweet and fast, rushing like the warm air spilling from the house across his body. Will turned and offered the officer a small smile, trying for sheepishness.
“I always mix the code up. Thanks for checking in, officer, can never be too safe, right?” Will took pleasure in slamming the door and locking it behind him, body resting on the heavy wood frame, letting it take his full weight as he smothered his giddy laughter. The officer was probably still posed on the other side, deciding if he should move on or not, and manic laughter would make the choice all too easy.
Will turned and faced the entryway and laughed again. Hannibal would have a sleek and intimidating entryway, with a grand Persian runner spanning the length of the hallway. He ran his hand over the sideboard as he walked into the house, cool and expensive under his calloused fingers. The ceilings were high, the wallpaper stretching up to the crown molding, an intricate pattern of dark color, somehow both subtle and chaotic. Lone paintings stood as beacons of light in the otherwise dark house, lit up by delicate sconces. Will paused at each of them, like a tourist might at an art gallery, though rather than plaques that expanded upon the painting, Will studied the art to wonder what about it appealed to Hannibal. Was it the vibrancy of the colors? The shapes of the limbs? The history of the artist? The chaos of the waves?
Will wanted to know every thought that went behind each selection, every detail that made him choose what he did. Hannibal was fascinating in a world of people who were so very predictable. Will could read people, their faces, he had an aptitude for seeing things that most people couldn’t. Generally, that just meant most people couldn’t lie very well to him, and were discomforted by his intrusive insights. What it meant in practice was that he was well suited for work that required the distilling of truth from scant information, which was useful in his soon-to-be profession, but not so useful in basic human interaction.
He laughed again to himself, considering the stance the FBI recruiters might have on his little side hobby. Maybe he wouldn’t pass the psychological evaluation though. If it was created and administered by anyone with a thimble of intelligence, they would recommend his immediate termination from the list of prospective recruits. At the moment he didn't care about job prospects, or potential rejection, or anything really except savoring the space he was in. Hannibal lived here, slept here. The space was an extension of Hannibal and Will was exploring the insides of it.
Hannibal was a puzzle, a delicate arrangement of behavior that Will was fascinated by. He had only met the man once, a few years ago when he had been in his undergrad, and had to make a trip to the ER for a fishing accident. The knife had slipped when he was gutting his catch, and when the blood wouldn’t stem, and he started getting light headed, he grudgingly conceded that it might not fix itself with first aid and whiskey.
Hannibal had been on call. He had stitched him up with precise movements that wasted little energy, in stitches so fine Will had likened it to art. He still recalled the way Hannibal’s eyes had met his, the curious tilt he had to his head.
“I do try to find beauty even in what some might call the grotesque,” had been Hannibal’s reply, a faint foreign lilt to his words, and a micro expression that Will couldn’t explain even with all his intuitiveness and empathy. For the first time in Will’s life, he couldn’t get a solid take on a person. Hannibal’s face seemed like a mask too well practiced for Will to name the truth of what was on it. Will almost wanted to call it humor, like there was the subtext of a joke hidden in his words, but said only for Hannibal’s amusement. That had been the day it started. Will wanted to know what Hannibal meant, the things hidden in his words, wanted to have Hannibal’s eyes on him, wanted his words smooth and accentend in his ears.
The heat of arousal slid down his spine, settling hot and heavy in his groin. He wanted to taste Hannibal, to touch him, smell him. In the man’s absence, Will would take the next best thing. He climbed the stairs at a steady pace, too eager to fully take stock of the decor, a blur of the obscure and macabre passing in his periphery. He tried three rooms before he found the one he sought. Hannibal’s bedroom. Will took off his shoes, absurdly concerned with the cleanliness of the beige rug framing the massive, well-made bed. It was made with eyeful precision, the silk duvet folded back, exposing crisp white sheets. Will wanted to touch it, see if it was as soft as he thought. He took several steps into the room, toes curling into the rug, the carpet lush underfoot. Gingerly, he reached out a hand, a soft moan leaving him when he finally had the threads of the sheet under his hand. He slowly climbed onto the bed, trembling as the silk slid across his skin, as if Hannibal himself were running gentle fingers over his body.
Shuddering, he pressed his head into the blankets, nuzzling into the faint scent of spice and cedar, a clean, masculine scent that made Will ache. He pressed his hips into the mattress, biting his lip to hold back his groans that seemed too loud in the echoing space of Hannibal’s room. White hot and heavy, pleasure coiled at his core, and he wasn’t even touching himself yet, just rubbing on Hannibal’s bed, breathing in Hannibal’s scent. Will inched his fingers down his stomach, making himself break out in goosebumps, his muscles clenching as he came closer to the button of his jeans. He didn’t think he could bear skin on skin, so over-sensitized already, so he pressed his palm to the base of his cock, slowly dragging his hand down, then he did it again, faster, and faster, until he was panting, and stuttering out Hannibal’s name.
He hadn’t had sex in years. The few times he’d had sex had been because he was curious, but he never really tried again because it left him dissatisfied, and the whole practice felt formulaic and awkward. Masturbating on Hannibal’s bed felt like the ecstasy he’d expected sex to feel like. But he wanted to know what being with Hannibal would feel like. If just touching himself through his jeans with the aid of Hannibal’s things did this much to him, if just this made him a trembling wreck, Hannibal touching him, gripping him, sliding into him, hot and thick-- that would be devastating. He had never wanted anything more than to feel full and fucked, Hannibal large and hot inside him, stretching him full to the brink of pain.
Hannibal was older, experienced, with fine hands--an artist's hands. Hannibal probably found satisfaction in bringing his partners to exactly the precipice he wanted them using his hands with the precision of an artist. Will wanted the weight of Hannibal’s body pressing him into the bed, the weight of his hands, of his cock, hot and heavy against his. Will groaned as his orgasm ripped through him, and he felt his cum damp through the denim of his jeans. He wasn’t even embarrassed about how fast he came.
Panting into the room, he felt empty and desperately wanted more. He curled around a pillow, holding it tight, lethargic and physically sated, even if he longed for someone else's hands. The world fell into a warm haze, and it was only when he was jolted awake by the clatter of metal that he even realized he had been sleeping. Heart racing, his eyes shot open, and he barely dared to breathe. Then he heard it again, this time paired with the muffled sound of a voice in the distance. Hannibal was home. He shouldn’t be home. His secretary must’ve messed up her notes, or there must’ve been a sudden change in plans. Of all nights for this to happen. Adrenaline roared through him, the fog of sleep burned away, as he set to sliding off the bed, straightening the sheets, and slipping on his shoes.
Hannibal sounded far enough away that Will could probably manage to sneak out. The house was big enough that he could make for the opposite side. That would be the sensible thing to do. The sudden silence of the house felt like a bated breath, like the suspension of time as Will carefully crept down the stairs. There was only one light on, down one hall, in what looked like the kitchen. The stainless steel glimmered in the distance, and a wall of plants, bright and welcoming, beckoned him. He stepped towards the shadows, away from the temptation of Hannibal in the flesh. He saw the flicker of light to the left, a bar of light visible beneath a closed door, then he heard the soft thrum of music. It wasn’t the piano, and he couldn’t quite put a name to the instrument being played behind the door.
He broke from the trance of the music, a nervous sweat drenching him. He needed to leave. He could go past the door, and slip through the front entrance while the playing could muffle the click of the front door closing. He turned his head to the right when he heard a muffled cry coming from the kitchen. Was someone else in the house? It came again, louder, a pitiful sound that made Will think of the sounds a deer would make when he would hunt with his father, and the shot wasn’t clean. The sharp cry of something terrified and dying. He couldn’t help himself. Even as an instinctual part of him urged him to flee, a terrible curiosity took seed, and he walked towards the kitchen, wondering as he did, if moths knew too when they were bound to burn themselves at the flame.
The music continued to play behind him, some sort of haunting melody that put his nerves on edge even as it provided some assurance that Hannibal was behind him. He almost regretted having to walk away from it; he did know how Hannibal loved his music. Will had even watched him before from his car, parked in shadow on the street corner, the library window curtains pulled back with a pianoforte in clear view. It felt like a performance, as if Hannibal knew he were playing to an audience of one. Will had only wished that night he could have heard it. He closed his eyes, allowing the present and past to blur, coloring his memory of that night with the music he heard now. He tucked the image away to savor later, once his curiosity was sated and he had made it out of the house unseen.
He peered cautiously around the corner, primed to see something, maybe some animal that had been injured-- but why would Hannibal just leave it to its misery? The question was forgotten when he found the kitchen empty. A spotless, pristine display of cooking craftsmanship, with gadgets and knives, and things Will wasn’t entirely sure the purpose of. The coffee beans in a clear glass tray in one machine was the only hint of its purpose. Will half smiled, charmed by the eccentricities of the man. Then he heard the cry again, a shriek that sounded inhuman, guttural and pained. He paused in the center of the kitchen, eyes studying the marble underfoot as he listened, trying to determine the direction of the sound.
When it came again, he followed it, past an ornate display of fruit, which Will thought must be Hannibal's interpretation of the more mundane and standard bowl of fruit. His brows furrowed as he entered the pantry, seeing racks of wine, a butcher's block--and an open trap door in the floor. He knew that a normal person would have run by now, that a normal person would have had their animal instinct kick in and have been miles away. Though he supposed a normal person would never have stalked someone and broken into their home either. He followed the wailing down the stairs that faded into darkness with barely a moment of hesitation.
The cries were abruptly louder, and Will realized that there was significant soundproofing installed in the basement. Flicking the flashlight of his phone on he pulled back an opaque meat curtain, then another, and stared in disbelief when his flashlight glinted in reflection on a metal table, drawing attention to a man, naked, and wailing on it.
“What the hell?” Will tripped over his own feet, stumbling to the concrete floor. The man’s left foot had been severed, with a tourniquet applied to keep the man from bleeding out, keeping him alive, and in agony. “Hey, are you okay?” As he asked it he knew it was a stupid question. The man’s foot had been cut off. The man had flinched away from the light, but when he was able to see Will, his eyes grew wide and frantic, and he began pulling weakly against his restraints.
“Please, help me! Please, I don’t want to die!” The man was blubbering, words overlapping, and snot dripping down his face. The sharp metallic tang of his blood, and the ripe scent of sweat, colored the space in an odor Will could only associate with fear. Will was trying to make sense of it all. There was a drain in the floor, sharp instruments against the far wall, looking monstrous and each entirely capable of cutting bone, of cleaving a foot from a body. The subzero fridges buzzed loudly, filling Will’s head with static, as bits of information moved and settled in his head, like an intricate puzzle coming together.
Will came to his feet again, and stepped towards the man, looking for the mechanism to unlatch him, even as he was recalling the news articles discussed in class. The string of murders over the past decade in Baltimore where the victims were always found in an artful display, missing organs, or limbs, or both, crystallized in Will’s mind, providing a possible context for Hannibal, and that comment he made years ago in the emergency room-- he really did like to find the artful in the grotesque. Will began to laugh, and wasn’t surprised when the man pulled away from him. “No, stay-stay-stay away from me!”
Will was going to explain he still meant to help him, when he caught the direction of the man’s gaze going over his shoulder. He realized the music from before had stopped. He turned, dread, and fear, and glee rising in him, as he met Hannibal’s eyes for the first time in years.
“Welcome to my home.” Will barely had a moment to bask in the pleasure of Hannibal speaking to him, when he saw the mallet swinging towards him. There was a fiery burst of pain, exploding across his arm, then he fell to the floor, groaning, as he held the dislocated limb. “I have to admit I find it rather rude for strangers to just invite themselves in.” Will felt a pang in his chest. He had hoped, had wanted, Hannibal to remember him. He stared up at Hannibal’s face, horrified, and in awe of the things he saw there. Gone was the mask he had met of the polite doctor, of the polished socialite, and in his place was this man who stared at him with dispassionate eyes. He realized he had never known anything about Hannibal, not really. The past two years of watching, and following, and prizing every tidbit of news of him on social media, or in the society columns, or in reading articles Hannibal had published in academic journals-- all of it meant nothing because the man in front of him was a stranger.
Hannibal Lecter was a polite, charming man, well educated and aristocratic. He was a considerate man, a kind man. Will lunged through the curtains, making for the stairs, and was startled by how fast Hannibal was, once more swinging the mallet, this time across his knee cap, making him crumble down the few stairs he had managed to climb.
The wailing from the man on the table began again, and Will’s knee screamed as he crawled back against the wall, his chest heaving as Hannibal stood before him, mallet lifted, poised to strike the killing blow. Will didn’t want to die. He knew he was about to. Will sat trembling before the object of his affection, cold sweat dripping down his face, down his back.
“I fell in love! John Hopkins Hospital, two years ago. July 15th. You were the doctor on call! You stitched me up. You fascinated me. I didn’t understand you, and I understand everyone, and I--- I didn’t mean to be rude. I never meant to be like this. To bother you like this. But I just, Hannibal, I just, I really like you.” He felt vulnerable saying it, but it was true. Every word. Will didn’t know if it was love, or fascination, or obsession, but he knew that there was just something about Hannibal that he liked, that he longed to be close to. Hannibal lowered the mallet and crouched before Will, studying him with an unblinking gaze.
“A rather unique way to show your love.” Hannibal reached out towards him, and Will flinched away from his hand, surprised and pleased when Hannibal merely rubbed a hand gently in Will’s hair, at his temple. Will gazed up at him, lashes wet with his tears, and couldn’t help but press into his touch. “You have a rather nasty cut here, I’m afraid.” Hannibal traced a finger across a gash on Will’s forehead, which only then began to sting. Hannibal smiled, a small crooked thing Will had never seen before, and he was enchanted by it, and the mysteries in it. He stood and looked down at Will, then at the man on the table. “The basement is currently occupied. How would you like to join me upstairs?”
Will gazed dumbstruck at him. Go up? Hannibal turned and began to make his way out of the basement, and Will carefully rose to his feet, following him back up the stairs. “Are you really forgiving me?” Hannibal paused and turned to look at Will.
“Yes.” Hannibal’s hand pressed on Will’s chest, and it all happened too fast, before Will could properly react or understand. “Though, unfortunately, not with your legs as they are.” And then Hannibal pushed. Will fell down the stairs, landing with a resounding crack. He was dizzy and nauseous at once, with his vision fading at the corners. He felt more than saw Hannibal looming over him. Will laughed.
“You dropped your forgiveness, Hannibal.” He thought he might’ve heard a faint reply before Hannibal hit him once more across the temple, and he finally blacked out.