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“I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break.”
-Marya Hornbacher, Wasted
Will's awake again, bathed in that four AM light that only insomniacs, selenophiles, and murderers understand so intimately. It’s a lonely kind of light. It rakes over his rumpled sheets and uncomfortable sleep clothes like an all-seeing eye, sweeping him with its cold regard and finding him wanting. Since the night in the barn, all he can think about is Hannibal’s touch. That need — it’s an aching, reckless, relentless monster in his chest. Hannibal had stood nearer than social standards allowed, wrapped his warm palm around Will’s neck, and pulled him even closer. He’d smelled Hannibal’s cologne so strongly that now, days later, it seems to linger in the air like a half-forgotten memory.
He shivers at the chill in the house but doesn’t get up to turn on the heater that sits atop his hearth. Doesn’t move to get his blankets from the floor where he’s kicked them off. Doesn’t curl in on himself for warmth. He’s cold. As he should be. Probably, he deserves it. Hannibal, on the other hand, is likely never cold. He keeps himself, his house, and his clothes perfectly comfortable. The good doctor doesn’t take part in self-flagellation. What’s the point when you think you can do no wrong? Will knows he does wrong and has the decency to feel guilty about it. Usually.
Currently, he struggles with the idea of right and wrong. Was it wrong to point a gun at a serial killer? The one he’d attempted to kill was responsible for murdering sixteen women and trying to frame a sweet man for the crimes. Was it moral to allow that man to continue to live out the rest of his life in prison when he'd snuffed out sixteen others? Moral to fantasize about reversing the clock and pulling the trigger before Hannibal could stop him? Was it right to wonder that if Will had shot him if Hannibal still would’ve touched him like that?
He’s not sure of the answer to any of those questions, but he knows it’s wrong to dream about it happening again.
("With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you.")
Those words haunt him. Is he so unstable that even the esteemed Dr. Lecter can’t figure him out? It makes him wonder if the touch had been deliberate — some sort of test. If he’d known what Will’s reaction would be to it. That days later, he’d be dreaming about the feeling of those fingers in his hair.
Before prison, they’d touched casually often. Hannibal was fond of gentle shoulder squeezes, and mannerly offerings of security: a steadying hand at an elbow or a polite palm to his lower back as they crossed paths. He has never touched Will so boldly, so freely, as he did in the barn. Will’s insides feel like tangled balls of ribbon being tugged on by a particularly rambunctious cat.
This is ridiculous.
He shakes the thoughts from his head with a sigh and rolls over onto his side. His alarm clock kindly informs him it’s now almost five in the morning, and that he shouldn’t do what he’s thinking of doing. He picks up his phone and swipes the text through to Hannibal before he can give it a second thought.
W: Are you awake?
He turns the notifications on and sets his phone back down on the table. Hannibal is almost always up before the sun. Will’s halfway convinced he doesn’t actually need sleep; that he only does it for fun sometimes. True to form, the reply comes in only minutes later.
H: Only just. This is a surprise.
W: Can I come over?
H: My door is always open for you. I’ll brew coffee. Would you like some breakfast?
W: I doubt you’d listen if I said no
W: Maybe one of those egg things?
W: Frittata. That's the word.
H: Of course. Please inform me when you’re on your way.
Idly, he wonders if Hannibal accepts food requests from anyone else. He washes his face, gets dressed, and lets the dogs out for a couple of minutes to do their thing before ushering them back inside and feeding them. He feels guilty about cutting their playtime this morning, but there’s nothing to be done about it. He’s committed to his plan.
W: Leaving now
The drive to Baltimore is well-practiced at this point. He lets his instincts take over in the early morning traffic while he mulls over his thoughts. It seems like no time at all before he’s pulling into Hannibal’s driveway. He was kind enough to turn the porch light on, though Will doesn’t quite need it. Dawn has still yet to rise but the sky is that early warning of yellow hinting that it will happen soon, inevitably. He doesn’t bother to knock, only enters and shrugs his coat off to hang it. He leaves his boots by the door and pads to the kitchen in his socks.
It’s as warm and comfortable as he thought it’d be. Just as it always is. God forbid a winter chill makes it through one of Hannibal Lecter’s windows, that'd be a crime. The idea of Hannibal fixing a window leak is an amusing one. Would he call someone or do it himself? He could call Will. He ponders that as he steps out of the hallway and around the refrigerator.
Hannibal is the picture of focus as he pulls a skillet from the oven. He’s wearing a deep green sweater and grey sleep pants that look softer than sin. Woefully, Will considers that he might need to buy softer pajamas if he’s thinking about pants like that. If he’s alive long enough to do so. Excellent outlook, Will, nice and grim.
He’d dressed casually in soft jeans and a black henley he’d forgotten he had until this morning. Hannibal’s outfit looks far more comfortable.
“Good morning, Will. Your coffee is waiting for you there. I believe it’s to your specifications.”
Hannibal’s outward expression is minimal at best, but Will can tell he’s happy, almost like he’s illuminated inside. Unlike Will, who’s choking on shadows, Hannibal has everything to be pleased about at the moment.
This game between them is something Hannibal lives for. He thrives on it. The lies and manipulations make him happy, just like fostering Will’s dependence on his company. He’s aware of it, just too tired to care at the present. It’s a small concession. He lets Hannibal foster it, if only because he doesn’t like being alone. Will values solitude, perhaps more than anyone, but loneliness is almost unbearable. That results in the mask he’s been wearing beginning to slip. Things are blurring. Right and wrong, good and evil. Touch or don’t touch. It’s all too much for his sleep-deprived brain so he heads straight for the counter.
His mug is waiting for him. It’s not really his — just a heavy blue stoneware mug. It had been bought and casually introduced into Will’s orbit after a random comment about drinking coffee from a glass cup being uncomfortable. It had been an important lesson in watching his mouth, but he appreciated the thought nonetheless. That was what Hannibal wanted to foster in him. Fondness. Positive associations breed good connections. Eldon Stammets would’ve appreciated the thought.
“As long as it’s caffeinated I really don’t care what it tastes like.” Will takes a grateful sip. It’s rich and delicious, and ridiculously expensive, he’s sure. He truly doesn’t care, Lord knows he’s drunk enough shitty coffee in his life, but he’s learning to appreciate the finer things. Hannibal’s seeing to that. Another temptation: a lure. It's part of Hannibal’s charm, his comfortability with all things greater than most people.
“Perhaps you should.”
Is it a shame to waste good coffee on someone who doesn't appreciate it? Will wonders. If that’s the case, why are you up and out of bed making me breakfast before dawn, Dr. Lecter? Maybe you like trying to spoil me.
Unfortunately, he is not immune to nice things and the incredible chicory richness of the brew alights his tongue. A happy sigh escapes him despite his best efforts.
“It’s delicious,” Will says and takes another calculated sip. Hannibal watches his throat constrict before turning back to his eggs.
Will takes a deep, silent, breath — scenting the air. He’s been trying to be more aware of things like that, tactile things that he normally blocks out. It’s been very revealing and he can understand why Hannibal smells people so often. People rarely think about what they might smell like besides trying to cover up their body odor. He can now tell when it’s going to be a bad day because if Jack smells like grease that means he didn’t eat at home, and he stopped for a drive-thru before work. That means that Bella hadn’t been feeling well enough to eat, since they always ate together, which in turn meant Uncle Jack was going to be short with them all. He’s beginning to notice small details about other people, things he would’ve ignored before. Paired with his empathy and profiling skills, it leaves him feeling very powerful at times.
Hannibal smells like his shower gel, a rich and spicy scent that clings to him as he moves, subtle but provocative, his laundry detergent, and something Will knows is his aftershave. It's inexplicably herbal. He most likely rolled from bed straight to his morning routine as soon as Will agreed to breakfast. The kitchen smells of roasted vegetables and eggs. He isn’t experienced enough to guess everything, but he knows the scent of goat cheese. His stomach rumbles.
“It’s good to see you brought your appetite. You don’t eat nearly enough.”
“More important things on my mind lately,” he mumbles into his coffee cup. Hannibal plates the eggs gracefully, arranging sprigs of herbs overtop the triangular creations.
“Go sit. We’ll talk while we eat.”
Will doesn’t bother arguing, just brings his coffee cup with him to the dining room.
It’s not as opulent in the dawn light as it is when Hannibal has dinner parties. Even in close gatherings, nighttime fills the place with shadows, exaggerates its darkness, and speaks of the taboo that’s generally somewhere in whatever dish Hannibal is serving. But with small beams of morning sun cascading everywhere, it looks inviting. The light glances off the gold accents and the warm wood of the large table.
It puts Will at ease a little, and he feels less uncomfortable in his skin as he sits in his usual spot against the wall, facing the doorway. He’s not a fan of Hannibal coming up behind him. Despite being such a large man, he moves silently. These days, Will prefers to see him coming.
It’s only a minute before Hannibal comes in brandishing a large silver platter. He arranges it on the table and makes another trip to bring the accessories with him, and his coffee, then he sits across from Will.
Will takes his plate from the platter and sets it in front of himself, wondering if it was an oversight that Hannibal didn’t, or if it was purposeful. Hannibal likes strict control of his dining situations. He arranges every plate, piece of silverware, and wine glass. He cuts all the meat, pours the broth, and sets the plates for everyone. Why leave Will to grab it himself this time? It’s a ridiculously small thing, but he wonders if Hannibal did it because he knows Will’s uncomfortable when he does that.
If he’s aware of the problem and chooses to find a solution rather than poke Will about it, that’s indicative of Hannibal having a conscience. Or maybe he intended for Will to notice and wonder because he knows that’s the conclusion Will would draw. It’s exhausting playing with the Ripper’s mind.
Will lets that psychological profile slide away into a dark corner of his mind. It’s uncomfortable to wear Hannibal’s face for any amount of time, but having Hannibal right in front of him while he does it is beyond reckless.
Carefully, Will tucks all his soft, vulnerable parts away deep inside, pondering his predicament as he grabs his fork. Nothing’s wrong. Calm. Collected. In control. It’s Will’s lifeline, a type of grounding he needs to maintain the headspace that Hannibal’s presence requires. Keeping his mental shields up 100% is truly one of the most exhausting things he’s had to do. It’s like masking, except with much, much higher stakes. Yeah, the result for you fucking this up is death rather than social awkwardness.
“It’s an asparagus and goat cheese frittata, topped with dill.”
“Meatless?” Will inquires, raising an eyebrow and the fork to his mouth simultaneously. Hannibal rarely offers a vegetarian option.
Hannibal’s mouth quirks upward minutely as he cuts his own bite. “I thought that might be more to your tastes this morning. If I am mistaken, I have some sausage prepared.”
And whom would I be eating, Doctor?
“No, it’s fine. This is great. Thank you,” He says earnestly, mustering his best manners. The frittata is fantastic. After another bite, he takes a swill of coffee and finds himself looking out the window rather than at Hannibal. He’s sleep-mussed and soft. No less a predator, just one with a sweater on, but the rose bushes are less distracting to look at. The rose bushes don't make him wonder about his sexuality or his moral fortitude.
“You seem to have a lot on your mind, Will.”
“Don’t I always?”
“This is a first for us.”
Will swallows, contemplating. He’s not sure if Hannibal will be open to it, but it does no harm to try, he supposes. If you're going to lie to yourself, could you at least make it convincing?
“I wonder if you might be interested in a little quid pro quo.” He turns back. Hannibal’s face is impassive, revealing nothing, but Will knows him too well not to feel his interest. One of Hannibal’s driving traits is his curiosity and Will knows he doesn’t have to bait much to get him to bite. It’s Hannibal always being aware of the hook that’s the problem.
Hannibal tilts his head slightly, chewing. When he’s swallowed, he asks, “What are the rules?”
“Honesty, we can call each other on our bullshit, and we can’t ask the same question twice.”
“Hmm.” Hannibal grabs his coffee. “And if there are things we don’t wish to discuss?”
“Pass on a question and another gets asked in its place.”
Hannibal nods. Will's already committed himself to playing but butterflies flit around his stomach. He takes another bite to distract himself; it turns into lead on its way down his esophagus, crushing the butterflies.
“I wonder what questions must be bouncing around in your mind to get you out of bed before five in the morning and drive all this way.”
“Happy to let you find out,” Will quips, letting a small smirk play on his lips. Hannibal notes and catalogs all his micro expressions so he’s been trying to seem as genuine as possible, letting his real emotions take over his face when he can allow it. Remaining impassive to Hannibal’s charm and curiosity gets him nowhere.
Finally, Hannibal says, “Who begins?”
“You do, since it was my idea. Ask away.” God, what a dangerous game. He berates himself, but it’ll be alright. He and Hannibal can talk circles around each other for hours without saying anything important and can speak entire conversations in a glance. It will be interesting if nothing else. Will surreptitiously rubs his pointer finger against his thumb, gently grounding himself with the sensation.
Hannibal smiles softly, appraising Will. He knows how he looks right now, part of it’s intentional and the other part can’t be helped. He looks tired, with purple shadows under his eyes and messy curls, but he put effort into his appearance this morning. Hannibal has probably gleaned more from that information alone than he wants to think about.
“What thoughts kept you awake last night that had you texting me so early?”
Right for the bullseye, less subtle than Hannibal’s usual approach. The promise of honesty probably brought that out.
“I was thinking about morality. I wonder if it’s better that I let you stop me. Part of me thinks it would’ve been more justice if I had pulled the trigger on Ingram. Most of me.”
Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised, only interested. “You must always trust your instincts, Will. They will not guide you astray. If you believe it better that he died, then it is so. It is only a choice away.”
“Do you have any regrets?” The question surprises even him but he wants the answer all the same. It hadn’t been the one he’d intended to ask. Hannibal muses on this, chewing thoughtfully.
“A life without regret would be no life at all. I have some, but my past is all the richer for it. Regrets serve to remind us of who we once were. If you close your eyes, and imagine a version of events in the stables you don’t regret, what do you see?”
Will considers this, and though he knows the answer already, he follows Hannibal’s instruction and plays over the fantasy that’s been haunting him. In it, Will’s holding the gun over Clark Ingram, a bullet already in the chamber. It takes only an ounce of pressure to squeeze the trigger fully. The gun erupts and Ingram’s head slams back, blood spraying in a wide arc as the bullet exits. Will feels alive. He opens his eyes and meets the cool, inquisitive gaze assessing him from across the table.
“A missed opportunity. To feel like I felt when I killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. To feel like I felt when I thought I killed you.” He had promised honesty. “I see the bullet going through his skull and erupting on the other side, leaving the world a better place.”
Hannibal says nothing and Will secretly delights in it. It must be killing him not to be able to ask follow-up questions. “Do you consider it a mistake or a success that I didn’t shoot him?”
Do you regret stopping me? Do you think about what would've happened if you hadn’t?
“Neither,” Hannibal says and Will’s surprised. “I consider it an opportunity. You can adapt your behavior to avoid any forthcoming regrets. If it’s not your actions you regret, but a lack thereof, then I imagine you will act differently in the future. What does killing feel like for you?”
“A quiet sense of power.” He takes another sip of his coffee, now somewhat cooled, to avoid the glittering eyes boring into his.
“You should remember that feeling.”
I will. You’ve seen to that.
“What’s your biggest regret?” Will asks.
Hannibal’s lips purse. “I shall pass on this one for now. Ask me another.”
Will only nods, he’d expected that, and contemplates. He’s only had about nine billion questions he’s wanted to ask Hannibal just since waking up this morning. He chooses one of the more mundane ones. “Why did you leave the plate on the platter instead of placing it like you normally do?”
It’s an innocuous question, one born entirely of curiosity. It gives Hannibal pause, which intrigues him further. Will feels a quiet sense of power in that too.
“At the dining table, you resent my intrusion into your personal space. I wished to hear the conversation on your mind, so I thought it prudent to not cause you additional upset.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, like he was given a gift and not basic human decency, and eats his last bite of egg. There’s a lot of selfishness in those words, a lot of arrogance, but that’s Hannibal. It had been within his control to allow that comfort anyway, Will can’t deny it. The response feels honest. While part of it was subtle manipulation, Will can hear the kindness there. The duality of Hannibal Lecter is a fascinating one, so he ponders it as he waits for his question.
“Have dreams of the stables been interrupting your sleep?”
“Yes, nightly. How often do you sleep?”
Hannibal seems mildly amused. “I’m human, Will. I sleep like everyone else.”
“Specifics.”
“I generally get five hours a night, sometimes more, sometimes less. If I feel particularly comfortable, there are times where I sleep in twelve hour blocks.”
That answer will prompt his next question, Will thinks with a grin that doesn’t show on his face. He winces as the sun shimmers outside and blinds him for a moment. It’s already overheating his arms where the beams of light fall across his skin.
“In your dreams, what happens after you shoot Ingram?”
Danger, Will Graham, danger. This is a slippery slope of investigation and it’s devolving quickly.
“Pause for a moment. Can we sit in the study or something?”
The light coming through the windows is directly in his face and searing into his retinas. He’s always been sensitive to bright light, but recently, it bothers him much more than it used to. Can’t imagine why it'd affect me more these days, he thinks ruefully, remembering Hannibal’s light therapy.
In truth, he knows his sensory issues are not Hannibal's fault but blaming it on him is easier.
“Of course. I’ll leave the dishes to soak in the sink. Would you like more coffee?”
“Please,” Will murmurs, handing the cup to Hannibal. He stands and begins putting his dishes on the platter but soft fingers over his own freeze him mid motion. Hannibal’s hand is warm, achingly familiar, and yet so strange. Will recoils quickly, hoping that Hannibal won’t notice or wonder why. He was most likely just trying to stop Will from fumbling his china, but he wouldn’t put it past him to already have a theory that Will’s going to have to tiptoe around answering questions about.
“I can get these. Go make yourself comfortable.” Hannibal’s voice is quiet, contemplative. Will walks around the table and out of the room without responding. He fears he may already be found out. The dread sits like gravel in his stomach.
He paces the study for exactly thirty seconds and shakes his hands out, trying to get the nervous energy to dissipate. It doesn’t, but the familiar movement does help regulate him a bit. After his thirty seconds are up, he settles on the end of the couch. He sits sideways on it with his feet crossed under his legs and his back against the arm. If Hannibal wants to look at him while they talk, it will force the other man to sit similarly, again leaving them on the same playing field. His left side leans against the couch cushions in a comforting pressure. He grabs the cashmere throw off the back of the couch and settles it over his lap. He’s not cold, but a physical barrier between himself and Hannibal will help.
Hannibal materializes only moments later carrying more fresh coffee. Will accepts the cup and smiles to himself when Hannibal copies his placement just as he’d wanted him to. The study is darker than the rest of the house, usually lit by the fireplace and golden wall sconces, but for now, it’s only the indirect light of the sun coming through distant windows in far-away rooms that illuminates it. It’s much more manageable and the headache that was building behind his eyelids is dissipating, thankfully.
“Is this more to your liking?”
“Yeah, thank you.” Will wraps his fingers around the cup, now hot again, and thinks about the warmth of Hannibal’s fingers against his skin. He used to imagine that his touch was cold, clinical even, but normally it’s anything but. It’s addictive. Since Will’s resumed therapy, touching has become more common. Infrequent enough to irritate him, frequent enough to scare him.
“Will? Do you want to continue?”
“Yes, sorry.” He’d gotten lost in thought. It takes him only a moment to recall Hannibal’s question. “After I shoot Ingram, I feel elated. It feels just. Like I did something right. I’m not worried about the repercussions or consequences, it’s just satisfaction.”
Hannibal has a strange look on his face that Will can’t discern. He doesn’t reply, so Will continues. “You said that when you’re comfortable you sleep longer. What makes you uncomfortable in those circumstances?”
Hannibal’s eyes take on a sheen, reflecting the dim light. It gives them almost a preternatural shine — like how an animal’s flash on night vision cameras. “There are many reasons to lose sleep. Most often, mine are attributed to mental overwhelm or insecurity in my protective measures that keep me and this house safe from… invasion.”
Will had almost forgotten that they were still tiptoeing around his loyalty. Hannibal doesn’t trust him and can’t say what he means out loud without admitting guilt that he’s a murderer. But he explained enough that Will gets it. You lose sleep after you’ve killed and worry that the FBI will come knocking in the middle of the night. The Ripper loses sleep worrying about being caught. How interesting.
It also seems incredibly unlikely, possibly a lie. If so, he can't tell, which is a troubling thought.
“I lose sleep for the same reasons,” Will muses out loud, though the invasion he fears isn’t the FBI’s, but Hannibal’s.
“Perhaps we’re not so different after all.” A small smile graces Hannibal’s face and Will echoes it without thinking. He almost stamps it out but it’s too late to take it back. Mirroring body language is a constant struggle to turn off. When he’s focused on other things, like conversations with high stakes, he forgets to not do that.
“In your dreams, what’s my reaction after you shoot Mr. Ingram?”
Goddammit.
Leave it to Hannibal to know exactly what questions to ask. He has three choices. Answer honestly, and face those consequences. Answer with a half-truth and end up having to answer it anyway. Or skip it. Skipping it will only raise Hannibal’s suspicions though, and he’ll have to contend with those consequences. He’s not sure which he’d prefer so he takes a few moments to think it over. In the end, he decides it’s simpler to bite the bullet, so to speak.
“You’re happy, generally. Smiling. It’s pretty much the same as it originally happened.”
“Does that reaction involve more or less touch than the original event?”
“That’s two questions, Dr. Lecter.” Will gives him a small smile, ignoring his pounding heart, and takes a sip of his coffee. Once again, it’s perfect.
“I’m merely asking for more details,” Hannibal counters.
“Usually more,” he admits quietly, conceding. Hannibal waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, he merely shakes his head as if to say, Fine, your turn.
“What do you do when you can’t sleep?”
Hannibal smiles at that, and it seems genuine. “Sometimes I read or compose on my harpsichord. I’ve spent many hours whiling away the night in this room, sketching usually. If my thoughts are particularly difficult, I find myself in the kitchen cooking something that will require my full attention. It can be meditative. What does “usually more” entail?”
Will stills, contemplating. He’s not ready yet. “Pass.”
He can feel Hannibal’s disappointment but nothing shows on his face. It only takes a moment for the feeling to leave him and the atmosphere brightens again.
“Do you enjoy casual touch, Will?”
“Define casual.”
“Touch without purpose beyond basic connection, usually small and innocuous with no ulterior motives meant to garner a reaction.”
Will must tread carefully here. There are landmines afoot.
“It depends on what mood I’m in; the people I’m around. If there’s more than one other person in the room, it’s never comfortable and I tend to resent it. If it’s one on one, I usually don’t mind, though that’s just as dependent on the situation. There are some times I get so overwhelmed just existing that any extra sensation is pain. But without the negative forces at play, then yes. Typically.”
Hannibal hums a thoughtful note, nodding to himself. Will catches the reaction, eyeing him with interest when he realizes that some of Hannibal’s mask has slipped. His carefully-contained emotions are leaking through the façade. He wonders if that’s in reaction to the conversation or because of their somewhat intimate environment.
“What would you do if one of your windows had a draft?"
That surprises a chuckle out of Hannibal and Will can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at garnering such a reaction. The humor in Hannibal’s eyes is beautiful. Immediately, he tries to squash that thought, but it’s stubborn and has warmth blooming in his chest anyway.
“I fear I will never truly understand what goes on in your mind. In answer, I suppose I would have it replaced. I haven’t run into that particular problem in many years.”
“You wouldn’t fix it?”
“Replacing it is fixing it, Will.”
“Not really.”
“Where did that question come from?”
“I was thinking earlier that your house is always warm. That a winter chill wouldn’t dare enter just on principle. That made me wonder if you know how to fix a leaking window sill and if you’d prefer to do it yourself or call someone else. I also wondered if you’d consider calling me.”
Hannibal’s demeanor softens, his smile still intact. “If you’re offering, I’m more than happy to accept your services should I ever run across one.”
Will takes that to mean, 'I'm going to check all the windows when you leave and perhaps manufacture a leak myself.'
“What’s your favorite place to be in this house?” Will’s just asking questions now, things that come into his mind as their conversation continues. He supposes it's a bid to get past the bullshit. He should be using this brief window of opportunity to question Hannibal on more pertinent things, but he finds he has no energy for it. The easy back and forth of simple questions is keeping him entertained. He doesn’t have to worry so much about the stakes. It’s easy to forget what a precarious position he’s in. It’s almost like they’re just friends having a conversation. Is that what I came here for?
“Here, or my kitchen. I find most every room enjoyable to be in, but they’re the heart of the house. What space brings you the most comfort?”
“I wish you’d be more clear with your questions. Space?”
“My apologies. If you had to pick a singular space in time, whether that’s a place or with someone, what is the most comfortable situation for you to simply exist? Are there any that bring you peace?”
Will rolls the question over in his mind. He doesn’t see a lot of ulterior motives there, unlike the rest of Hannibal’s questions. He can’t imagine Hannibal would expect him to say anything pertaining to him, so there’s no real expectations to fulfill. It’s a simple curiosity question. We’re getting to know each other, he realizes with a start. He has to go through a list in his head to find the answer. He’s no longer comfortable near Jack or Alana, too many questions and worried glances, neither one of them sure where he stands. Quantico was never comfortable and certainly isn’t now that he’s only just been released from a hospital for the criminally insane.
His house, while still wonderful in its solitude, offers him little in creature comforts simply because he hasn’t taken the time. It's full of encephalitis memories now. He can’t look around without seeing remnants of the Stagman that haunted him, or memories of retching into the sink at night when he was so feverish he couldn’t breathe. It’s more or less a dog house now. He does find comfort in his pack, but that’s not without its own guilt. He always feels bad for leaving them and for his extended absence at the hospital. Three of his six have showcased some extreme anxiety about his leaving now and that’s a burden he hates carrying.
His circle was small before his incarceration, and now it’s narrowed even further. Home planet: Will Graham: Population 2. With a sigh, he concludes that though he doesn't want to acknowledge the truth, there's no getting around it.
“I wouldn’t call it peace, necessarily, but when I’m with you… things are not so difficult. You have your questions and your games, but your expectations are easily understood. I don’t have to produce them from thin air. It’s a little easier to breathe,” He finds himself admitting. It’s unwise, and he knows that logically, but this quid pro quo game is serving multiple purposes. It’s a test to see if he can trust Hannibal. Like you don't have the answer to that already. Do you not remember the BSHCI?
“You don’t have to hide.” Understanding flits across Hannibal's face.
“Yes.” Will takes another sip of his coffee, thankful for the warmth. He feels cold all of a sudden. Like his body knows he’s making himself vulnerable again, maybe more than he did before. Unfortunately, curiosity and logic override worry. Hannibal orchestrated his release from prison for a reason. He’s not going to cut Will loose unless Will himself provokes it, he knows that. Being vulnerable with Hannibal is never a good idea, but with his recent thoughts about duality and the morality of murder, he can’t find it within himself to assign Hannibal the label of ‘evil’ and call it a day. He wonders if there’s a genuinely good man somewhere under the layers. He vividly remembers seeing the humanity in Hannibal before. Since he's restarted therapy, it's on a revolving door with the monster and he has no way of knowing which one is the more active of the two. Which one is the true center?
“Do I give you peace, Hannibal?” It's not quite the same question.
“When you’re not being ridiculously, redundantly, stubborn, yes.”
Will’s mouth quirks and he smiles into the lip of his mug. That’s a good answer. It makes him feel warm and cozy. Not smart, he chides himself.
“Would you like some casual touch, Will? No strings, no ulterior motives. I would like to offer you the opportunity, should you wish. Think before you speak,” Hannibal’s voice is low, a hint of warning, and Will snaps his mouth shut. “I want a genuine answer.”
Does he? He thinks of the dreams and how after he shoots Ingram sometimes Hannibal kisses him. He thinks about how long it’s been since he’s allowed himself to enjoy being touched by anyone. He discovers two things, one: that he does, and two: it offers an opportunity to see how Hannibal will react.
“Yes. But first, my question. Can you promise me that this won’t… that you won’t manipulate it into something ugly? Can it just be exactly what it is — something simple?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Hannibal,” he sighs.
“Yes, Will.”
He looks up from his cup to meet Hannibal’s eyes. They’re clear. Not emotionless, but rather full of some unknown emotion Will doesn’t recognize. He searches them for several long moments. He can’t find a shred of artifice or misdirection in his body language.
“I understand that you don’t want to make a hasty decision, but know this, I don’t make promises I won’t keep. You have my word as a gentleman, and your friend, that I will not use this offer of comfort for my own purposes or with any hidden intentions. In the efforts of honesty, I will tell you it’s not without benefit to me. But that benefit is not nefarious in nature, and the sole purpose is not for myself.”
Will closes his eyes, processing all that. He doesn’t need to be a genius to understand what Hannibal means. His benefit, unless Will’s radar is that far off point, is that he wants human connection as well. If not that, then at least connection with Will. And he’s willing to offer it. Before he can think about it, Will stretches his legs out and gently places them in Hannibal’s lap. The blanket unfolds and keeps him covered as he does. He wiggles his socked toes a bit, trying not to settle his legs in such a way that it’ll be uncomfortable for either of them.
Hannibal makes a surprised noise but says nothing. Will keeps his eyes closed, trying to regulate his breathing. Without his legs being a firm boundary between him and the space between them, he feels vulnerable, his belly exposed. It’s an uncomfortable pit in his stomach, but Will is not a coward. Not anymore.
He opens his eyes in time to see Hannibal watching him, an affectionate expression on his face. The fondness makes his stomach flip flop but he can’t deny his happiness at having warm feet. Gingerly, Hannibal places one of his hands overtop the blanket and rests it there, somewhere in the vicinity of his ankle. It’s a comforting weight. Will’s able to release the knot of tension in his chest if only just a little.
“It’s your turn,” Will says softly, meeting Hannibal’s gaze. It’s warm. Safe.
“How do you feel?”
“Conflicted." There’s no point in lying when Hannibal will know anyway. “Everything’s confusing these days.”
Hannibal nods at that but remains silent. Slowly, his thumb starts a gentle back and forth over Will’s ankle. It’s maddeningly light, and the scratchy sensation of the motion through his sock is too much. But he’s reluctant to pull away already. He doesn’t want to admit it, but the casual intimacy feels nice. Speaking through somewhat gritted teeth, he asks, “Do you have a favorite holiday?”
Hannibal’s eyebrows raise but he smiles, “As a boy, I particularly enjoyed the Feast of Assumption. Now, I much prefer Christmas to any other holiday. What’s upsetting you right now?”
Will sighs. “It’s… too much.”
Hannibal’s brow furrows and his hand is off Will's ankle like lightning. “You needn't indulge me if you do not wish to, Will. I will not take offense.”
“It’s not that. It’s just-” He rubs his temple with his fingers. Words. Make the words work. His mouth refuses to speak and the explanation sits curled at the base of his throat, choking him. On a whim, he brings his hands up to sign, ‘Do you know this language as well?’
He hasn’t used ASL with any regularity in years but it was his preferred method of communication as a teenager. It kept people from talking to him but allowed him to communicate without having to worry about stumbling over his words. When overwhelmed, he always found it easier to speak with his hands. His mouth was not always so kind. Hannibal’s mouth quirks in a small smile and his hands shape the words, ‘I do.’
‘It feels like my skin is on fire. Can I show you?’ He adds the last part somewhat hopefully. Hannibal nods. Will leans forward and grasps Hannibal’s arm to pull it towards him. Tongue poking out in concentration, he turns Hannibal’s arm over, exposing the soft, unhaired part. Gently, he places his ragged thumbnail on Hannibal’s skin and begins to rub it back and forth. He uses just enough pressure to irritate the skin, but not enough to soothe the tickling itch that’ll spread from the sensation. Hannibal’s mouth thins but he doesn’t pull away.
‘It feels like that. Everywhere. Hurts.’
Hannibal’s face is unreadable but he stares at the spot on his arm where Will touched him. Eventually, he says, “My apologies, Will. Would more pressure be preferable?”
‘Yes.’
Hannibal’s hand gingerly finds Will’s ankle again, but this time it settles with purpose. When he begins rubbing those soothing circles again, he presses down hard enough that it dissipates the tickling pain sensation. A small sigh escapes Will and his eyes flutter closed. That already feels so much better. Hold me tight, never let me go. He swallows that thought like the bitter pill it is.
“I don’t wish to cause you discomfort.”
Will’s eyes pop open at Hannibal’s tone. It’s soft, earnest, and he’s entirely unused to hearing it.
‘I need a few minutes but we can continue our conversation this way if you’d prefer. Unless you’re bored with it?’
Hannibal’s eyes sparkle. “It’s unlikely you could bore me if you tried. This is fine, if you sign slowly.”
‘My turn?’
Hannibal nods and readjusts his hand a bit. Will has to minimize the shuddering breath he releases, it feels much too personal, but he’s sure it doesn’t go unnoticed. Hannibal sees everything.
‘Why Christmas?’
“I find Christmas lights to be particularly beautiful. It can make even the most hideous of buildings appealing on dark winter nights. As a boy, I imagined them as fireflies or fairies, trapped in bulbs and communicating with each other through light. My sister, Mischa, loved them.”
Will’s chest is uncomfortably warm. He’s trying to maintain his neutrality, but the raw emotion in Hannibal’s voice is enough to put cracks in his defenses. He’s being much more forthcoming than Will expected he’d be and he recognizes it as a show of trust. It’s him showing Will he can be fair. Yet another conflict.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Blush paints Will’s cheeks as he makes the sign. The smile he gets in return is more than worth the awkward fluttering feeling in his stomach.
“Why did you learn ASL?”
Will swallows thickly. Though he winces at the realization, it occurs to him that he wants to tell Hannibal. He wants to be known as well. So he finds himself telling him, his hands fumbling through some of the unfamiliar words as a decades-old habit comes back to the surface. He tells him about the social isolation and how he could never say the right things, how people used to scream at him for speaking out of turn or being rude when it wasn't his intention. He tells him all about discovering that sometimes his voice just wouldn’t work, and the havoc that wreaked on his relationship with his father. He gives him the cliff notes version of his high school and college experience, but it’s all the same in the end. When all people do is lie, it’s easier that you don’t talk to them. Those that knew or learned enough sign to engage with him quickly found his personality disagreeable so those connections didn’t last long anyway. At the time, that’d been fine with Will.
When he finishes, it feels like he’s just taken a run around the block. His heart is pounding and he can’t seem to focus on Hannibal’s face, so he looks away to the empty hearth.
Hannibal’s hand slides up Will’s leg to his calf, and he squeezes gently before pulling away. Will looks back at him.
‘You deserved better than what they gave. Far better. Do you remember any of their names?’
Will bursts out laughing, his head tipping back and his mouth open. It’s not the first time Hannibal’s made him laugh, but one like this is rare. He laughs till his stomach hurts and even then, he can’t stop smiling. He hadn’t expected that at all.
“If I did… what would you do?” Will asks, his tone darker than he intended it to be.
Hannibal’s irises seem to disappear and Will stifles a gasp. No matter how well he can control his expressions, he can’t fake or manipulate pupil dilation. This idea excites Hannibal.
“What would you have me do?” Hannibal counters.
Will smirks. “Now, now, Doctor. Quid pro quo was the agreement.”
Hannibal leans forward and a beam of sunlight falls across his face. It splashes against his sharp cheekbones and highlights his eyes, confirming Will’s theory. The irises are almost entirely eclipsed by black. They look like shark eyes — predatory.
‘I would slaughter them, should you ask me to.’ Then, somewhat hesitantly, Hannibal finger spells, his fingers dancing through the air and making Will’s mouth go dry. ‘E-v-i-s-c-e-r-a-t-e-d.'
Will can picture it. Knowing the Ripper’s fondness for parallels and poetry in his artistry, he’d probably rip out their tongues and make some display of their mouths. If Will closed his eyes, he could probably see it. Flashes of the Chesapeake Ripper’s crime scenes crowd his imagination, lighting him up inside with visions of vibrant blood spatter and pink organs planted with orchids. Hannibal would remove their hands since they refused to use them for purposes he deems they should’ve. He would leave the stumps ragged and bloody at the end, not suturing or cleaning the mess. They did it to themselves, really. Maybe he’d make them eat their tongues before disemboweling them.
Will jerks and his eyes snap open, finding Hannibal much closer than he’d been a minute ago. He’s close enough that Will could lean forward and kiss him, he’s right there, but he’s frozen under that powerful scrutinization. That look says Hannibal knows exactly what’s going on in his mind and that he loves watching it play out across Will’s face. He trembles under the scrutiny, his eyes unable to move away from Hannibal’s. It seems like Hannibal can see every dark and disgusting piece of his soul laid out and flayed bare; treats it all with abject adoration. It’s an unimaginable vulnerability and Will’s never felt more pinned. He’s trapped in that umber stare, helpless but to sit there and be seen.
But he’s not helpless, he realizes.
Hannibal is completely open right now, his mask has fallen away. Wow, Will thinks, then focuses all his cognitive ability on looking into Hannibal. His empathy and profiling training unite and feed him an instant stream of information. Hannibal is thrilled. He’s radiant with happiness, feeling confident and sure. Will gasps as he recognizes the telltale signature of carnal desire that he feels echoing in himself. Hannibal’s pulse jumps when he realizes how much Will is seeing and the walls begin to close, but not before Will catches the feeling of absolute panic.
Hannibal’s terrified of Will seeing him, of him seeing something important. What would give him such worry? What could be so bad that the Ripper would hide it? The unanswerable questions mount one after another, pissing him off, but there’s nothing to be done for now. Hannibal’s mask is fully back in place and he’s sat back against the arm again, looking calm and collected as ever. If Will didn’t know better, he could be convinced that the moment never even happened, that his encephalitis still torments him, and that he hallucinated the entire thing. But he knows that isn’t true.
Hannibal accidentally opened himself up and that scared the daylights out of him. That feeling of powerlessness had been enough to completely kill any desire he’d been feeling at the time, and have him back in the neat and seamless confines of his cage. The heady sense of power threatens to overtake him but he refuses to allow himself to sit in the feeling. That's a dangerous mindset to have around Hannibal Lecter.
Will barely has time to collect himself before Hannibal is standing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Will.”
His voice is curt, absolutely polite, and entirely unnerving. Hannibal disappears down the dark hallway and Will shivers. His mind is whirring, and panic is tingling at the edges of his senses. What just happened?
Will’s hands are trembling as he pulls back the blanket. Even in embarrassment, there’s no reason Hannibal should leave the room. He’s not the type to hide like that. It makes no sense. Even as he puzzles it over, it only creates more questions. For something to do, Will stands and takes his mug to the kitchen. He rinses it out in Hannibal’s fancy faucet. He focuses on the rush of water over his skin, keeping his ears attuned for any noise. He fears what might be stepping out of the darkness behind him.
After a minute, he gives in and just washes the cup. As he places it on the drying rack, he hears the faintest shift in the air. There are no audible footsteps, but he can feel Hannibal’s presence anyway. His shoulders tense as he dries his hands on the available dish towel. He can’t turn around. If he turns around, he’ll see Hannibal’s face and whatever’s there will hurt Will, he knows it, so he steadfastly faces the sink. A tremor runs through him when he hears another swish of clothing.
“Hannibal,” he whispers. He’s not sure what he even wants to say, he just wants this to stop. He feels like prey in the worst way.
“I have to go!” Before he gives himself a chance to think, Will rushes out of the kitchen. He grabs his coat off the hook but forgets his boots by the door. He’s in his car and out the driveway before he can breathe.
He drives home with socked feet, shivering because he neglects to turn the heat on.
Once home, he locks all of his doors, checks twice just to be sure, then collapses into bed.
Will waits in the darkened dining room, by the window and out of the way of the moonlight. Randall’s corpse smells like fresh blood, stale sweat, and snow. The flurrying had only just started by the time Will got to Hannibal’s house. The last few days have been intense, leaving Will floundering under the weight of high tensions. Hannibal had been helping on the case, but they hadn’t spoken outside of their time in the field together, searching for the new predator in town. Randall Tier. Hannibal’s little mentee, another murderer wrought at his hands. Two prodigal sons waiting in the den for their maker to return.
He’ll be home any minute and if Will focuses, he can imagine it.
Hannibal will unlock his door, put his keys in the bowl, and hang his coat. He’ll start to relax, maybe walk toward his study, then something will tug at the edge of his senses. Intruder. Maybe Will forgot to close a door all the way, or maybe Hannibal can smell him. He imagines that’s more likely. Hannibal will smell the blood, the snow, and the mud that covers Will’s boots, and he’ll go on the hunt. Will can almost hear it, the near-silent footsteps across the wooden floor outside the dining room. His heartbeat ratchets up when he realizes Hannibal is coming down the hallway. It takes him only a second to slide the doors open and for the light to flip on.
It illuminates the scene inside and Will has the rare opportunity to observe Hannibal when he doesn’t know he’s being watched. It’s only a moment, but the proud smile on his face is enough to ease the knot of tension under his ribs. Randall’s corpse lies sprawled on the table, his death pallor more than evident under the artificial light. Will couldn’t have done more besides a signed note to make his point any clearer — return to sender.
Hannibal’s expression flits back to calm professionalism and his eyes land on Will. He steps out of the shadows and purposefully keeps his voice entirely neutral.
“I’d say this makes us even. I sent someone to kill you… you sent someone to kill me. Even-steven.”
Hannibal tilts his head at that, his eyes cold and unfeeling. However, Will can feel the emotions boiling beneath the mask. “Consider it an act of reciprocity. One positive action begets another.”
“Polite society normally puts such a taboo on taking a life.”
“Without death, we’d be at a loss. It’s the prospect of death that drives us to greatness.” Hannibal’s eyes rove over the body, inspecting all the details before he flicks his gaze up to Will’s again. “Did you kill him with your hands?”
Will raises his hands, reminding him of their ASL conversation the other day, and presents his bruised and bloodied knuckles. The purple and blue color blossoms under his raw flesh. He barely remembers receiving the injuries, only how it felt. “It was intimate.”
Hannibal takes a step closer. “It deserves intimacy. You were Randall Tier’s final enemy.”
A moment later, Hannibal excuses himself and disappears from the doorway, drawing another parallel to the other day. Will doesn’t feel the danger this time. There’s no aching panic rising within him, no terror at what may come, only calm assurance. Randall Tier had been a test and Will passed.
Will continues to stand right where Hannibal left him, lost in thought until he returns. His vision is blurry and he barely notices Hannibal guiding him to sit in one of the dining chairs.
Only the stinging of the disinfectant brings him back into focus. He hisses a little as his hands sink into the bowl of warm water. Blood rises in little red rivulets, undulating in the water and tinging it pink as it disperses. It’s like a fluid ballet, and Will watches it, easily shutting out the pain. He’s aware of Randall’s body less than a foot from him, and Hannibal closer than that, but only in a spatial sense. He’s only briefly conscious of his hands coming out of the stinging water and being patted dry. He finds the faintest smudge of a shadow on the wallpaper behind Hannibal and he stares at it, eyes unfocused. He notices, in an absent kind of way, when Hannibal realizes he’s not present anymore.
A gentle thumb smooths over the back of his hand, just enough pressure to not make him want to rip his skin off. It’s comforting, if only fleetingly, and the ice that’s begun to grow around him thaws.
“Don’t go inside, Will. You’ll want to retreat, you’ll want it as the glint of the rails tempts us when we hear the approaching train.” Curious, Will refocuses his eyes and watches Hannibal apply a salve to the bloodied skin. He rubs it gently into the cuts, taking care not to cause him unnecessary hurt, Will notes.
“Stay with me.” Hannibal says simply, both a request and an offer, his plush mouth forming the words in such a way that Will is entranced by it.
Who knew a little reciprocity would bring the good doctor out of his cocoon? It’s like he’s asking Will on a holiday, one where anything can happen. Hannibal’s Wonderland, he muses. They could stay inside for days, eating grand meals and dancing and drinking, plotting murders, and planning alibis. Reality didn’t have to exist. If only for a moment, Will craves that break from full sanity. Everything doesn’t have to make sense in Hannibal’s world. Things are just as they are, facts, no need to question it if it feels right.
Hannibal wraps gauze around his hands, focusing intently on his work.
“Where else would I go?” Will whispers, and even to himself it sounds broken. It’s more confusing than anything. When he started this devil’s deal, when he spoke to Jack about being a fisherman, he had a different goal in mind. Now he is simply reacting to situations as they occur, or more accurately, as Hannibal arranges them. He’d slaughtered a very young man, someone only just beginning to understand their potential, a victim of the same kind of pushing as Will. It wasn’t self-defense, not all of it. And he’d waited for the wave of guilt and revulsion about his actions; it never came. Now he’s sitting here, numb, watching the Chesapeake Ripper bandage his wounds like the holy worshippers at Jesus’s feet.
“You have everywhere to go. You should be quite pleased.” Hannibal looks up at him as he secures the last of the gauze around his hand. “I am.”
Warmth blooms in Will’s chest that he doesn’t regret, though he wishes he could at least resent its presence. It feels good to have pleased him, to have exceeded expectations finally. Hannibal’s proud of him.
“When you were killing Randall, did you fantasize about killing me?”
Will swallows, his mind providing him the images of his fight to the death with the stag, with the Stagman, with Hannibal, and he says, “Yes.”
Hannibal smiles.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive than when I was killing him,” Will admits, and wonders at the fact he doesn’t feel guilty for letting the words pass his teeth. He feels lighter for it.
“Then you owe Randall Tier a debt. How will you repay him?”
Will looks over at the body, already breaking it down and stitching his imagination together to form the image. It happens without any active thought, simply pieces of a pre-cut puzzle falling into place. And he knows.
Back on Hannibal’s couch in the study, a scene so similar to their last encounter like this, Will fidgets with his shirt tails. They face each other again, the impromptu “therapy” session having just started. His heart is racing and the realization of what’s happened has begun to truly sink in. ‘What’s happened,' he seethes. Even in his subconscious, he’s distancing himself from the act like he wasn’t the one to stretch Randall’s skin across the ancient skeleton and reveal him to the world exactly as the animal he wanted to be. Like Will wasn’t the one that delighted in his death.
“Why didn’t you dispose of the body?” Hannibal asks, his voice measured, revealing nothing.
Will looks up at him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Quid pro quo, Doctor?” Though, to himself, he thinks, you know why. You’re the reason it happened.
Hannibal’s nostrils flare minutely but that’s the only outward reaction. His inner worlds are locked away from Will’s perception at the moment. It’s frustrating, but Will’s learning to be patient. He’ll have to be if he wants a hope of surviving.
“Alright.”
“Randall deserved to be seen,” Will replies in answer, then, “Did you want me to dispose of the body?”
“No. Was it Randall or your work on him that deserved to be seen?”
“Same thing. You called it artistry. Isn't that how you see your own efforts?” Will raises an eyebrow, his hands gone still.
“Yes. I also called it barbarity. You mutilated the body. Displayed it. Did you enjoy that process or only the results?”
“Both,” Will responds quickly, appreciating the prompt back and forth. Hannibal’s jaw tightens and a little thrill rushes through Will. He’s getting reactions. In an act of what he considers to be bravery, he extends his socked feet out across the couch and places them in Hannibal’s lap. His hands come up automatically and settle over Will’s ankles. The touch is a balm to frayed nerves and he releases a deep breath. “A worldly man like yourself, would you begrudge me my education?”
Hannibal’s lips quirk up into a rueful smile. “No. Understanding is key…” He pauses, and his thumb begins rubbing small circles on Will’s instep. “How did it feel to manipulate what was a living man into a message all your own?”
Will’s breath catches in his throat. He marvels at the calm spreading through his veins. It feels good to be honest with himself. “Like I wasn’t finished until I had. Is that wrong?” You know what he’s going to say to that, why are you asking?
“No, dear boy. It’s not.” Hannibal’s hands on his foot are driving him to madness. It’s dizzying in its intensity. “Did you take a trophy too, Will?”
“A memento of my first rodeo…” he muses. “Maybe.”
“Answer my question.”
“Pass. What do you think I did?”
Hannibal’s eyes narrow minutely but Will can sense the playfulness. They’re teasing each other. Testing limits, seeing what the other will do with a little fun. Will can’t help but smile.
“You pass and it’s my turn again. Tell me, Will, did you dream about taking his life again last night? Did you relive those precious moments? Did you see the blood on your hands and feel alive again?”
Will’s breath catches. “Yes. Do you think I took a trophy?”
Hannibal doesn’t react to Will’s bland answer, but he doesn’t have to give him details. Hannibal already has all the pieces of the puzzle. That little admission was just the glue to hold it all together.
“If you have, it would be the act of a serial killer.”
Will shakes his head. “By definition, one body doesn’t make me a serial killer.”
“But you feel like one, don’t you? It’s burning in your veins, like the next one is tantalizingly out of reach.”
Will shudders, his eyes slipping closed. Hannibal’s right, so he nods.
He can’t make himself meet that self-satisfied look that's surely waiting for him. With no visual stimuli, the physical sensations of Hannibal’s hands on him are tenfold. It’s all he can feel. But his mind is racing, caught up in Hannibal’s probing questions. He had dreamed of Randall last night. After he’d finished arranging the body at the museum, he’d gone home, but only to ensure his safety. He fed and walked the dogs then put them in the spare room while he repaired his living room. He’d left it a wreck before, stupid idea, but he’d done it anyway. There was nothing he could do about the glass so he covered the hole in sheet plastic and taped it securely. He’d have to call and get an estimate, or just buy the panes himself and do it that way.
Randall’s mech suit got hung in the barn, again — not wise, but he isn’t ready to part with it yet. Will’s mechanical-minded hands itched to look at it, to take it apart and see if he could put it back together again. It was part of Randall’s design too, and he wanted to understand. Once everything was finished, he’d managed about two hours of sleep. It had been broken with memories, his hands pummeling Randall’s flesh, removing his jaw, the taste of his blood as it splashed in Will’s mouth (and the subsequent scrubbing with his toothbrush). He’d woken to his phone ringing shrilly by the bed. Jack insisted he got out of bed because he needed to see this.
That particular conversation hadn’t gone well. Jack had been uneasy and tense about what Will had done. Even so caught up in nipping at the Ripper’s heels, he recognized how much Will was changing. Will is certain Jack knows more than he lets on but remains blind so he can look at himself in the mirror. For the moment, that works for Will. It's a delicate balancing act, one that more and more just lives on a tilt-a-whirl. He swings back and forth between both sides easy as anything on such a slippery slope. He knows it but continues to let himself slide anyway.
Slowly, pressure on his calf brings Will back from his thoughts. He’s breathing slower now, more even. When he opens his eyes, he focuses on watching Hannibal’s fingers massage back down to his foot. His toes want to curl in response but he doesn’t want to interrupt the motion.
“What happened the other day? The last time we were like this,” Will asks suddenly, still not meeting Hannibal’s gaze. His ministrations pause.
“I owe you an apology for that, Will. I lost control of myself. It was reckless. Why did you leave?”
Will’s brow furrows and he looks over. “No, you didn’t answer my question. Explain."
Slowly, Hannibal’s hands restart their previous motion. “I was overwhelmed. There were many paths I could take and choosing one was beyond me at the time. I needed a moment to compose myself. When I approached, you fled. Why?”
Hannibal gets overwhelmed? Will shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “I thought that no matter what I was going to see on your face, it was going to hurt. I entertained the idea of you trying to kill me for a moment, though I don’t think you would. Now. I was overwhelmed too.”
The honesty burns in his throat and makes him want to hide. He can’t of course, because that would be showing weakness. But it truly is a fool’s errand, isn’t it? Will is failing miserably at maintaining a distance between Hannibal and himself. It would only take a split-second, one wrong word, and Will could slip into that tempting abyss. He can feel it pulling at him, Hannibal’s influence like sweet venom in his veins.
Softness bleeds into Hannibal’s demeanor. “It wasn’t my intention to frighten you. In fact, scaring you away is the last thing I want to do.”
Likely inseparable by now, Doctor. I think we’ve passed the point of no return, don’t you?
“What do you want from me, Hannibal?” He wishes wholeheartedly that he’d been able to keep the desperation from his voice, but no such luck.
Hannibal sighs and watches his fingers massage over Will’s calf. He speaks like a man who’s already lost the war, “Everything.”
Will gives himself exactly ten seconds. Ten seconds to let himself be battered by the tidal wave of emotion, after that, he will act.
Ten. Alarm bells ring like desolate foghorns through the vast caverns of his brain, but anyone responsible enough to listen to them is out to lunch. It repeats on an echoed loop in time with his heartbeat: everything, everything, everything.
Nine. His heart is pounding and his mouth is dry. Memories flicker rapid-fire through his mind’s eye.
Eight. Hannibal caring for his wounds. Hannibal wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.
Seven. Hannibal kissing him in his dreams and telling him there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hannibal being proud of him.
Six. Hannibal smiling, joking, cooking, drawing.
Five. Hannibal on the stand in that damned courtroom and telling the world that he’s Will’s friend. ("Is and will always be.”)
Four. Everything? All of it? Not just the twisted darkness he’s been cultivating in Will so carefully? The easy camaraderie they shared pre-prison is a tease compared to this.
Three. But it’s not like it’s a surprise. How could it be? If it is, if Will’s truly as shocked as he feels, it’s because he’s been intentionally blinding himself to it.
Two. Can they have more than murder and pain? God, he wants it. He wants it more than he wants air in his lungs. Wanting it has never been the problem: accepting it has.
One. Can he? Yes. Should he? No.
Zero. Is he willing to?
Yes.
Will surges forward. His legs fold under him and he leans fully into Hannibal’s space. Don’t stop me, he pleads mentally, please don’t push me away. Dizzy with want and terror, Will presses his lips to Hannibal’s. Soft, chaste, and unsure, but so, so desperate. He feels himself trembling, surely Hannibal can feel it too. But Hannibal doesn’t move. Will leans back a millimeter to whisper, “Please.”
In answer, powerful hands encircle Will and support his lower back, holding him steady as they tug him closer with insistent strength. His hands land on Hannibal’s shoulders and flutter over his neck, his hair, his cheeks. He can’t stop touching and he thinks he might cry. Hannibal's cheeks are stubbled, his hair loose and soft, his eyes so unfathomably kind. (How? How? Why are they kind now? Why is he looking at me like I’m the only thing that exists?) Flecks of crimson line his iris, offsetting the brilliant brown that Will secretly thinks is the prettiest shade of it that he’s ever come across. Tentatively, their lips meet again but caution isn’t what he wants. Will breaks first. He flits his tongue out to taste and a faint sound escapes him, pure and needy.
Then it’s over.
Hannibal devours Will. Sets him aflame from the inside out. He kisses like he’s trying to reach inside and pull out every word Will’s ever dared to utter out of his presence. The passion pouring from Hannibal overwhelms his empathy and leaves him cracked open like an oyster, all vulnerable flesh waiting to be consumed. He tries to reciprocate, tries to convey everything he feels into the kiss, but how could he? It’s immeasurable. Endless. Timeless. All-consuming. Hannibal nips at his bottom lip, biting it with delightfully crooked teeth. In return, Will nibbles until Hannibal’s lips are plump with blood, all kiss-swollen and gorgeous.
By the time they break apart, his jaw aches and his tongue is overworked from having mapped every one of Hannibal’s teeth ten times over. Foreheads still pressed together, they pant against each other’s mouths, neither one willing to move away for more air.
“Oh, Hannibal,” Will whispers, and lays his face in the crook of his neck where he can feel the thundering of his pulse, tucks his nose to his carotid, and breathes him in. “Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal.”
“I could listen to you say my name forever.” Hannibal’s voice is rough. “It wouldn’t be long enough.”
“I’m so scared.” Will shudders, trying to press closer but he can’t. The admission is more weighty than Hannibal knows — than he should ever know — but he says it anyway.
Hannibal rearranges them until Will’s bracketed into the cushions. They lay chest to chest, on their sides, and Hannibal’s face is only centimeters away from Will’s — their bodies touching almost entirely from head to toe. Hannibal pulls the forgotten blanket up to Will’s ears and tucks the excess behind his head. Will’s touched by the gesture and wonders if Hannibal realizes how much of a provider he is. He’s suddenly warm, so wonderfully warm, he can’t help the full-body shudders that have him trembling against Hannibal. Goosebumps erupt and race over his spine, traveling down his arms.
“What is happening right now?” Hannibal’s voice is hushed like he’s unsure whether to cradle Will or set him gently away.
“Too many emotions to contain. Body’s just...” How does one explain stimming? He can’t begin to capture it in words. All he says is, “Hannibal,” and squeezes him closer, burying his face once more into the juncture of Hannibal’s neck. His scent is strong there, spicy cologne and the leftover scent of his moisturizer.
“Self-stimulation?” Hannibal muses. Will feels the press of a smile against his hair. He nods, grateful, as the tremors begin to slow.
“What frightens you?”
He sighs, clutching the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt in his fingers, surely wrinkling the expensive fabric. He doesn’t care. Hannibal has more money than God and no good sense. He probably has three more of the same shirt in other colors. “Everything. Nothing. All of it. The lack of it. Am I making sense?”
“No,” He says and his hand comes up to settle on Will’s hip. It doesn’t quest, merely sits there as a comforting weight.
“I’m scared of what we’ll do. What I want you to do to me. God, I’m scared of running, of not running. Too many possibilities, not enough options, never any real choices. Everything's high stakes. I can’t handle anything more… just more. I’m fracturing apart,” Will’s voice gets choked and he has to swallow hard. The words don’t want to, but he makes his mouth form them. “It’s stupid, the lengths I’d go for you. I don’t even understand it, I’m not there yet, I only know what I feel. And it’s huge. I can’t quantify it.”
“Not everything can be sorted and organized into separate, safe distinctions.”
Will shakes his head. “That’s not what I need.”
“What do you need?”
Bravely, he sneaks his hand up and cups the back of Hannibal’s strong neck. Pulls him down closer so he’s fully trapping Will in between him and the couch.
He feels raw — tenderized meat left bloody on the counter in the devastating wake of the hammer. “Peace. Safety. Could you give me that, Hannibal? Or would it only be blood and pleasure and murder? Because-” He pulls away and meets Hannibal’s worried eyes. “Because I don’t want that. Not… n-not just that. Do you understand?” Oh God, what am I saying?
The truth.
Will wants so badly to just curl into him and look away from those molten eyes but once again, he’s prey, trapped in sticky, glossy amber of his own volition. He forces himself to hold Hannibal’s gaze, trying to make him understand. Hannibal clutches the back of his head, fingers wrapping through his curls, and pulls him close to kiss his temple. He holds him there for a moment, long enough for Will to feel Hannibal’s heart still beating irregularly. The fact that he can make the Ripper’s heart pound when full-blown murder can’t is a power trip he doesn’t want to allow himself, but deep inside himself where no one but him can judge, he preens. He did this. He made Hannibal lose control.
Hannibal pulls away to speak but his lips brush Will’s skin in between some sentences, refusing to withdraw completely.
“You can have peace with me. I would offer you myself in my entirety, wholly yours to do with as you deem fit, and I hope I will have earned your trust in return. I would have you know every depth of emotion at my hand. I want you pleased — so enamored with life that words cannot convey what you feel. I’ll take your wrath, your anger, your envy; ferret them away in my mind palace so that I may never forget your power. I could tear you apart, bit by bit, for months or even years, and put you all back together again, good as new. I can offer you respite and peace. I want everything, every facet of life at your side, whatever that might entail. I can be safe,” Hannibal’s voice is so soft, “For you, Will, I would be anything.”
Will aches.
The sob that’s been building in his throat wrenches itself free with a visceral speed that leaves him gasping. He claws Hannibal closer, fingers tugging indiscriminately on clothes and hair, anything to get him where Will wants him. Tears wet his cheeks, drip down Hannibal’s neck, and soak into the blanket. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the gentle hand stroking his hair and the solid presence tethering him to the earth.
He doesn’t know if he can trust any of it. The prospect is terrifying and horrific and wonderful. He shouldn’t even consider it. But, God, he wants to.
Hannibal cradles him like he’s something precious. Something easily shattered and not so easily repaired. He’s survived Hannibal’s manipulations, his mind games, his abuse, his lies, his terror, and his inimitable power. He’s survived Hannibal’s darkness; proven that he can take it. Of course, it’d be his love that rips Will to shreds and leaves him gutted on the killing floor of his own conscience.
If he’s broken, Hannibal can put him back together again. Of that, Will has no doubt. He’s the only one that could.
Time passes by quiet and hushed, unknown and unacknowledged by either of them. Days could pass for all they care. Will’s need for touch — for love and acceptance — overrides the sirens still going Defcon 1 and his emotions take over completely. He’s unaware of anything but Hannibal. Jack and his hunt, the FBI and their hypocrisy, the classroom and its hatred for him, the lonely cave he calls home, it all falls away until all he can feel is Hannibal.
Hannibal holding him so gently, so carefully. Hannibal murmuring unfamiliar, sweet words that he doesn’t understand, but nevertheless, he’s certain he’s heard them before. Hannibal kissing him and shushing him as he cries. Hannibal letting him fall asleep in his arms, too exhausted to fight it anymore. Hannibal never, not for a single second, giving Will the impression that there’s anywhere else in the world he’d rather be.
Will’s dreaming. He knows he’s dreaming because he can’t really see his hands. They’re fuzzy, and the whole scene has that watercolor quality of a place only half-imagined. The image it paints is visceral, however. Will’s thrusting his hips off the bed, slamming himself to the back of Hannibal’s throat. He convulses when Hannibal swallows around him, pulling Will’s ass back down to the bed and pinning him there. Hannibal’s tongue laps at the head of Will’s cock, making high-pitched whines fall from his lips. He’s begging, trembling on the razor’s edge of an almost release and Hannibal won’t give it to him. He won’t let him cum. “Ple- please. Hannibal. Han- oh fuck. Oh, God. Hannibal, please!”
Will jerks awake and is completely overcome by multiple sensations at once. He realizes them in quick succession, each one tripping over the other and clattering into understanding like bricks tumbling down a set of stairs. His cock is aching in his boxers, rock hard and leaking because he’s been rutting against Hannibal in his sleep like a damn teenager. Shame rushes through him even as he trembles.
The second realization? He’s so fucking close.
The thigh he was thrusting against is still between his legs. Hannibal’s body is trapping him against the couch and there’s no way Will can get out without revealing himself.
The third realization, and most devastating of all, is that Hannibal is awake.
Before he can decide on what to do, Hannibal’s hand tightens on his hip, steadying and impossibly strong, before pulling hard. The newfound friction as he’s forced to roll his hips again makes him moan. Hannibal’s thigh slots into the vee of his legs even further and increases the friction tenfold; he could sob from how good it feels.
“Don’t stop now, Will. Please,” Hannibal sounds wrecked. Will manages to drag his eyes open and he’s caught immediately by the vision of unmitigated want sprawled across Hannibal’s face. “You’ve been begging so beautifully for me, so heartfelt, even in your sleep.”
The hand encouraging his thrusts slides down and cups his ass cheek, tugging him closer despite there being no more space between them. There’s no room for the mortification he feels either, but it turns his face red as he gasps, dick leaking in his underwear. Oh God, I’m going to cum.
"Hannibal, I want- Nng, I want you."
“Take your pleasure from me. Use me.” Hannibal urges, and Will feels an answering erection pressing against him. Hannibal’s cock is hard and huge, and fuck, Will’s aching. He groans, rocking hard and fast, desperate now. He’s falling apart at the seams.
“Han-” His breath catches as teeth latch on his pulse point, sucking. “Hannibal! Oh, God. Oh!”
“Cum, Will.”
Hannibal’s entire body rolls against him and Will’s orgasm tears through him. He bucks against Hannibal mindlessly, consciousness lost in a white haze of pleasure that radiates down his spine and all the way up his dick. It’s electric, the best orgasm Will’s had in recent memory, and Hannibal didn’t even touch him. He's pathetic.
“You're beautiful,” Hannibal whispers, rocking him through the aftershocks.
He trembles in the aftermath, arms wrapped around Hannibal like a lifeline. Will wants the entire weight of Hannibal to be suffocating him. If it were possible, he’d crawl inside of him and live there tucked all cozily behind his ribs. It would be comfortable. Safe.
Hannibal pets his hair and wipes his sweaty brow, murmuring things in other languages. They’re not all the same. He recognizes some of the German words, some of the Italian ones. They’re all sappy sweet and honey sick — soft around the edges but holding great depths of meaning within. Words like love, destiny, and forever. Words that mean things. Words that have very important concepts. Unfortunately, they’re simply beyond Will’s ability to grasp right now. He’s still orbiting somewhere, only vaguely aware of the whispers being pressed into his skin.
They still calm him and keep him grounded while he floats out in space. He’s secure. Safe to drift away and experience the feelings without having to focus on what the rest of him is doing. It’s a rare opportunity, one usually only afforded to him in the direst of circumstances — when things are simply bad enough that no one can question him. Now, he basks in it. He can feel all of Hannibal’s adoration, how sincerely he means every sweet thing he's said.
He feels so safe, so entirely wrapped in comfort. For once, it’s not suffocating. It’s everything he’s needed. This is what Hannibal was afraid of. Vulnerability. The opportunity for rejection. He's just as scared of love as me.
There's a gleeful, wicked kind of joy in his new understanding.
After an unknown amount of time, he tunes back into Hannibal’s words, now in English.
“Whenever you’re ready, you may return to me. You are safe. Beautiful, sinful, boy, are you listening?”
“‘M back,” he mumbles blearily, vision blurry, his body warm and suspended in the molasses moment.
“There you are.” Hannibal’s eyes are on him, all fond and heartbreaking. Instead of the usual terror at being seen, he just feels toasty and sated.
“I was gone… awhile.” His voice is thick, rough from moaning.
Hannibal chuckles softly. “You were. But you’re back now.” He kisses the top of Will’s head. “What were you dreaming about?”
It’s Will’s turn to laugh and he stretches a little, arching his body against Hannibal’s. It has the desired effect and he grins when he hears Hannibal gasp, the cock that was digging into him earlier still hard. The hand on his hip tightens. “Who’s asking? Dr. Lecter or Hannibal?”
Hannibal hums noncommittally. “You want to know if I have ulterior motives.”
“Do you?”
“My motives are entirely selfish. I’m hoping you’ll tell me the story so that the vision might visit me in my sleep some night.” He continues in murmured French, “I would like to hear those honeyed words while you look at me, not while you’re asleep in my arms.”
Will’s heart flutters and he can’t help but smile.
“I only need a promise from you.” He uses the French of his childhood, the South bleeding into the words, accent thicker and buttery soft in comparison to Hannibal's classic enunciation.
Hannibal tenses. “You never told me you speak French.”
“I would’ve, if you’d asked.”
“Tell me your promise.”
Anxiety roils in his stomach, chasing away the warmth. But he has to try. He can’t live with himself if he doesn’t. “I need you to promise that… that you won’t leave. I mean, if we had to separate for some reason, as long as it wasn’t forever, I could live with that but I- I need you to always come back to me. No matter where you go. Don’t leave me, Hannibal.”
I'm doing this. I'm doing this? I'm actually doing this.
Will’s heart is hammering out of his chest, filling his ears with the thunderous pounding. It doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough oxygen to his brain but he doesn’t dare breathe. God, maybe it'd be better if Hannibal just killed him now. Put him out of his misery so he doesn't have to face himself tomorrow.
Hannibal crumples then, crushing Will against him and pressing his face into Will’s hair. His voice is thick with emotion. “There is nothing you could do, short of sending me away yourself, that would have me leave your side. I promise.”
For some godforsaken reason, Will believes him. He does.
“Then you can have my honey words. I’ll learn a new language to whisper them in, if you’d like.”
Hannibal groans. “You will be the death of me.”
“You’d be okay with that.” Will chuckles.
“Yes.”
"Are you going to let me take care of that?" Will trails his hand down Hannibal's chest with clear intent. The grin he receives has butterflies fluttering all through him.
"Quid pro quo, is it?" Hannibal kisses him soundly.
As it happens, yes it is. And for them, it's enough.