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they want you or they don't (say yes)

Chapter 8: Mylimasis

Notes:

so sorry this took forever, trust it is a BIG chapter :0

sad to be ending this < / 3 but it felt right to do it here

Chapter Text

The scratch of stubble, the shifting against leather, wine swirling in hand, “Do you have any regrets?”

Amber eyes black in the firelight, “With every choice lies the possibility of regret. However, if I choose not to do something, it’s usually for a good reason.”

Will sighs, admits, “I’m riddled with regrets.”

“A life without regret would be no life at all,” Hannibal assures, eyes fixing on the fire instead.

“I regret what I did in the stables,” He says bitterly. Which part, the kissing or the killing, he doesn’t know.

“Do you?” Hannibal asks, eyes shifting to him again, flicking over his face. Impassive.

Will looks to the fire, doesn’t like being assessed by someone who can actually get an accurate read, swirling his wine again, “Allowing you to stop me was a mistake.”

“What would you rather have I done? Let you pull the trigger for Peter’s sake?”

“It’s better than doing it for yours,” Will huffs. He remembers apologetically being forced to handcuff Peter, waiting for Jack to arrive. Remembers lying, the tremble in his hands once it’d set in what he’d done, saying that Ingram had tried to attack him with a hammer. Self-defense, he’d said. It was in a way. Didn’t stop everyone from staring with terror as if he’d enjoyed it. (He had admittedly but who would ever know but Hannibal?)

“I want you to close your eyes, Will, and imagine a version of events you wouldn’t have regretted.”

Will looks to Hannibal for just a moment, observing, watching the glass rise to his wine-red mouth. Then he closes his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Seeing Clark Ingram in front of him, fresh blood glistening in the lights of the barn, dropping to his knees with his hands raised. Begging. The squeeze of the trigger, not nearly missing this time, landing between his eyes as intended. Before he even falls, Will twists, squeezing again this time to kill Hannibal where he stands much too close.

He opens his eyes, Hannibal watching his expression closely with interest, “What did you see?”

“A missed opportunity,” He shrugs lazily, drinks his wine, “To feel like I felt when I killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. To feel like I felt when I tried to kill you.”

Hannibal’s eyes jump between his, even as his glass raises to his lips, gaze glistening with something dark, “And what does that feel like, Will?”

“A quiet sense of power,” He admits, near a whisper.

His answer makes Hannibal’s lips twist in satisfaction. Will’s eyes only linger for a moment before he turns away, fixing his gaze instead on the flames in front of him. He’s settled into the armchair he used to frequent, in the quiet darkness of Hannibal’s house. An impromptu visit, after drinking whiskey on his front porch until the inaction got to him. Hannibal had allowed him inside easily, ever polite.

Hannibal’s dressed down but nowhere near where Will is comfortable with, used to cotton stretched across his chest rather than stiffly ironed button-ups. His hair is still gelled and his shirt tucked. Will would feel self-conscious of his obviously more disheveled look compared to his efforts lately but Hannibal has admired him in far less. His gaze lingers even now on the line of his throat.

The metallic sound of a ring hitting the stem of his glass and Will asks the fire, “Alana doesn’t ask about that? Your ring?”

“Miss Bloom is endlessly understanding. I couldn’t bear to part with it,” Hannibal’s lips are twisted in a bitter look, “I am a man in yearning, am I not?”

“Yearning? Is that what you call letting me suffer from a deadly infection for months?” Will furrows his eyebrows, “To what end, I still don’t know.”

Hannibal’s lips part, “I..”

“You made it worse, in fact. I’ve known about that, Hannibal.” Will leans forward, “Needles in my arm. Flashing light. For what? Tell me.”

Hannibal observes him for a moment, seeming to revel in his fury, “For an end I no longer saw fit. Does it matter anymore?”

“It matters because it happened to me. While I trusted you,” He sets down his glass, stands.

Hannibal stands as well, knowing that he’s leaving, ready to show him out, “Is an apology what you’re seeking from me?”

“Remorse,” Will deflates, “You’re too busy hiding behind a veil to ever take a genuine moment to consider anyone else. Are you even capable of remorse? Genuine apology?”

“I am capable of regret,” Hannibal offers.

“Regret doesn’t change anything,” Will shakes his head, pushes past, “I need to go.”

Hannibal walks him out, telling him quietly at the door, “Goodnight, Will.”

Will just waves him off, stepping into the night.

 


 

Blood is smeared over the top and dripped down the sides of a large cab roof. The man, a scraggly-looking trucker, is frozen in his wide look of terror. His head hangs over the edge, throat ripped open nearly to the bone, torso near-empty from being gutted. Zeller inspects the removed organs carefully.

Will presses his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels, looking over the scene, “There are no tracks. You sure it was an animal?”

Zeller points as he calls back, “Severance of the jugular and carotids, esophagus destroyed. The bite almost severed his head.”

“Large non-retractable claws performed evisceration, so we're looking at a wolf or a bear,” Price adds, looking instead over the spilled blood.

Jack, finished making his rounds, huffs next to him, “Whatever it was, it wasn't afraid of humans. Not anymore.”

“Wolves and bears don't eat where they kill,” Will furrows his eyebrows, “They would've dragged him off.”

“Unless it went mad,” Hannibal adds in, suddenly on his other side. Because of course he’d show up on scene with his new consulting scheme, “A rabid animal attacks its victims at random and doesn’t eat any part of them.”

“There was no eating here. We found just about everything,” Zeller tilts his head, observing the spilled guts, “Viscera was exposed, belly was laid open, but no sign of gnawing or rutting.”

Price stands upright from his observation finally, squinting in the sun, “Found the same wound patterns on recent livestock mutilations in the area. Evisceration, dismemberment, yet everything accounted for.”

“Since when does the FBI get involved in animal attacks, Jack?” He frowns, hands still in his pockets.

“When somebody's holding the leash of whatever's doing the attacking.”

Will’s jaw ticks, finally piecing together the reason they’re here, “The livestock mutations. That was practice.”

“He’s going to kill again and he’s going to get better at it,” Jack confirms grimly.

Will observes the corpse with a fresh gaze, “He’s urbanizing his animal. Moving closer to the city, adapting it to bigger prey.”

“He’s not denying its natural instincts, he’s evolving them,” Hannibal adds onto his thought seamlessly. Will blinks at him, seeing his dark eyes looking back, trained firmly on his face. Will dips his head, admitting even to himself that it feels like the words were taken from his own mouth.

Jack waits until he dips his chin before adding, “It’s blood sport.”

Will is getting into his car, leaving the team to clean up the scene, when a hand on his stops him. Just the tips of fingers against his knuckles where it’s resting on his car door and he burns holes into them. Hannibal removes them after it’s clear Will isn’t going to ignore him and get in anyway, “Will. I was wondering if you’d accompany me to the opera on Tuesday?”

“Not my scene,” Will grits, going to close the door.

A hand, more firm this time, stops it, “Then the pool tonight?”

“Are you suggesting I need to work out more, Dr. Lecter?” Will huffs in frustration at being stopped, knowing that isn’t the point of the invitation. Never once has Hannibal invited him to join him in swimming laps at whatever pretentious gym he goes to. Something about clearing his mind alone.

“No, dear Will,” Hannibal’s lips are set stubbornly, “I simply want to take the time to make our work relationship less tense.”

Will stares at him, wondering if he’s even allowed to refuse. Wouldn’t that be rude? Hannibal’s lips are flat, eyebrows slightly pinched, he looks as if he isn’t willing to let it go. Will huffs, “Quit making that face.”

“Nine o’clock?” Hannibal offers, finally removing his hand.

Will just slams his door shut.

 


 

The smell of chlorine makes his nose wrinkle, stepping into the concrete building with tall ceilings. He’s late, tragically so, an hour after the time Hannibal had said. Part of it is wanting to see how far he can push bad manners until the other snaps. The other is indecision. He’d tried when he’d showed up at Hannibal’s before, which had only ended in argument. He’s not entirely sure this effort won’t end the same.

Hannibal cuts through the water in practiced movements, almost lazily swimming laps, as if still waiting even an hour later. Will stands and watches him for a moment, watching as he swims one more lap before lifting himself out of the water. He’s seen Hannibal in various states of undress, it’s not as if they had a habit of changing in separate rooms.

Never before has he seen this much skin, Hannibal pushing his stupid little goggles up, dressed in little navy swim shorts. Will knows what he looks like shirtless, has slept next to him several times while he’s shirtless. His gaze is drawn instead to the broadness of his thighs, the muscle of his calves. His hair is getting long, messy and wet, hanging over his forehead.

Just then, as if feeling the gaze burning his skin, Hannibal looks up and breathes, “You’re late.”

Will, caught, steps forward. He observes the room, the lack of people other than them, the thick smell of chlorine trapped indoors. He affirms, “I’m late.”

“Join me,” A request.

“I’d rather watch,” Will admits, still beginning to pull his shirt over his head. He discards it on a nearby bench, toeing off his shoes. Then he confesses, “I haven’t swam properly in years.”

The water is crystal blue, calm, as if taunting him. Hannibal is on the other side of the pool, still sitting on the edge, dripping wet. Resting. Will doesn’t walk around the pool to join him, once again questioning this decision before he slowly lowers himself into the deep water. It’s heated but he still gasps at the bite of cold that lingers.

There’s a sense of nostalgia that lingers at the feeling of treading water, practically raised on docks. He savors that feeling for just a moment before pushing to greet Hannibal on the other side. He just catches a glimpse of the smile he gets once he reaches the wall, pushing off again back to where he started. He makes it back to Hannibal once again, enjoying being in the water even if his shoulder tweaks slightly with each stroke.

Then he asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes, grasping the ledge, “Why swimming?”

“A good sense of exercise without putting too much strain on the body. Allows for time to think,” Hannibal answers simply. Then he shifts where he sits and compliments, “You’re a very good swimmer. I must say I’m surprised.”

Will shrugs, pulling himself out to sit by his side, shivering slightly, “My dad worked on boats. What good would I be if I couldn’t swim?”

Hannibal considers that for a moment, eyes drifting to the water, and then tells him, “I only learned to swim as an adult. In my residency at John Hopkins, I found it a way to fill my free time.”

“Really?” Will furrows his eyebrows, “In college, you never spent your free time going a bit wild?”

“I’m not a fan of most company, as you know,” Hannibal’s lips twitch as if that statement is a private joke between them. Then he adds, eyes snapping from the water to his, reminding, “I spent enough time doing as I pleased as a young man in Florence.”

“You always speak of Florence as if you were partying constantly.”

“I was, at times. I received my inheritance as an adult, able to afford luxury after a life of living in poverty. My uncle afforded me necessities but not much more.” Hannibal muses to him, voice quiet and close, “And you know I am never one to deny myself pleasures. I did the drawings that allowed me to come to America on a scholarship then.”

“I’m sure you were insufferable about going to the museums there,” Will muses in turn, unable to summon the image of a young Hannibal. Devilishly handsome, he’s sure. But he’s never known Hannibal in any way than he does now, silvered hair and wrinkles around his eyes.

“Indeed I was,” Hannibal grants in amusement.

“If you enjoy art so much, why not pursue it then?”

“I wasn’t able to stave off my growing curiosity toward anatomy. Something started by my pursuit of art, I’m sure.” Hannibal’s eyes crinkle.

They swim more laps in different lanes until a couple joins for a late-night swim. Without the ability to speak freely to each other anymore, Will lets Hannibal lead him to the showers. His shoulder is aching from him being much more mobile than he usually is, he rolls it back, wincing. The showers are in a big room with separate stalls, providing them with slippers and towels to dry with. Because of course this pretentious place would have that.

He’s headed into a separate stall from Hannibal when his elbow is grabbed gently, “Your shoulder is hurting you. Let me help.”

Will goes because he’s being pulled anyway, pulling the curtain closed behind himself and effectively closing them in together. Hannibal adjusts the temperature before grabbing at his arm, pulling him under it. The water is hot and instantly makes him relax, pushing away the cold pressing into his body from getting out of the pool.

Tender hands touch him, fleeting against his nape before focusing on his shoulder. It’s still aching from the exercise, expert hands pressing into the muscle, massaging. Will sighs, head tipping back, “My shoulder has never been the same since I got stabbed.”

“It would help if you did exercises so it wouldn’t hurt you,” Hannibal tsks.

His voice and the rumble of his chest make Will realize how close they are together. He feels the breath from his words against his temple, closed together in the small shower. It doesn’t help that Hannibal seems to be pressing closer to soak up some of the warmth from the water. Will doesn’t know what to say, alone in the room as they are. He mumbles, eyes closing in relief, “Your shorts are stupid, by the way.”

Hannibal hums, cheek pressing to his temple, just barely avoiding pressing fully against him. His fingers still work even as he says, surprisingly forward, “Would you rather I take them off?”

Memories of Hannibal’s hands on him in the barn flash on the back of his eyelids. Will heats up, “No, definitely not.”

Hannibal’s hand drifts up, pushing his curls back from his face, and tells him quietly, “I miss your long hair.”

“I don’t,” Will argues just to be stubborn, even if he leans his head toward Hannibal’s, toward the words in his ear. The water is running over both of them now, steam thick. He reaches, grabbing the other’s hand, pressing it to his hip. Hannibal’s hand curls dutifully to hold him there, fingers stroking tenderly over his skin.

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” Hannibal hums, other hand coming to tug him back by his swim shorts.

“Excuse me?” Will breathes in a laugh.

“Your shoulder,” Hannibal’s amusement is pressed into his cheek, murmurs nearly against the corner of his mouth, “Lovely thing.”

Will nearly gasps at the feeling of himself surrounded by Hannibal, caged in, hardness pressing against his ass. His hand flies forward, grasps Hannibal’s where it’s splayed on the tiled shower wall, “Hannibal, I- I don’t-”

“I know, Will,” Hannibal does soften, backing up a little, even if Will knows he’d rather crush his hips back against the curve of his ass. He’s granted just one peck against his shoulder, “Allow me to wash the chlorine out of your hair, hm?”

Will’s hands are still trembling even when they part afterward to go their separate ways.

 


 

The file is filled with glossy pictures, ones he isn’t entirely sure about sharing. Still, Peter Bernardone’s smile is genuine when they greet each other. Setting the photos on the coffee table in front of him, Will’s hand jerks back at the sight of whiskers peeking out from Peter’s sleeve. A rat’s shiny eyes peer at him, nose twitching, and Peter hisses at him, “That's Kevin. Don’t stare. They’ll take him away.”

Will instantly looks elsewhere, at the sunny room and Peter’s jumpsuit. Instead, he leans forward, flipping the file open for Peter to see, asking, “Bear or wolf?”

Peter leans forward and Will watches discreetly as the rat retreats back into his sleeve, wiggling its way upwards. Peter touches over the rat within his clothing and then points as he separately states, “Bear. Wolf.”

Will squints, at the two pictures of the same body, mauled by two separate animals, “Do bears and wolves hunt together?”

“A bear doesn't look in the mirror and see a bear. Just sees itself. Can train a bear to be a wolf, wolf a bear. Train them long enough, they hunt together, eat together.” Peter tells him simply, whiskers tickling at his neck now.

Will watches the rat lick at his skin politely, like a tiny dog, and then asks, “Does a bear forget it’s a bear?”

“Doesn’t matter. Wolf won’t forget what the bear is. He never forgets the bear is bigger. Stronger. And would kill him if it needed to.” Peter pauses, transfers the rat into his other sleeve, and then adds, “Instinct makes them remember that.”

“That sort of friendship can keep you on your toes,” Will muses, thinking vaguely of his relationship with Hannibal.

“Animals have friendships just like we do. Oldest works of art are half-human, half-animal drawings. They figured it out thirty thousand years ago, we’re the same.”

Defense rises in him, “A bear may not recognize its reflection, Peter, but we have to.”

“Do we?” Peter asks, almost knowing of his mind being elsewhere, “The more a man forgets himself, tending to another creature, the more he sees how human he is.”

Will blinks, considering that. Then Peter extends his hand, for Will to hesitantly let his fingers linger near his open sleeve. Kevin licks his fingers enthusiastically, a wild rat tame, and Will nods, “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Don’t blame the animals,” Peter advises, “Man’s the only creature that kills to kill.”

 


 

A bonfire smothered, ash spread. Zeller stands amidst the gore, conferring lowly with Jack. The file is slick due to his sweaty palms and Will looks uncertainly at the police report and then the scene. He follows the smear of blood and ash with his eyes, from one half of the young couple to the other. He can see here, standing back, where the attacker hid in the trees in wait.

He inhales, not used to reenacting the scene anymore after finding out what he did about the Ripper scene in the church. He closes his eyes, centers himself, and when he opens his eyes it’s dark. The stars and the tall trees hang over his head and the young couple laugh distantly together in front of the bonfire.

The creature beside him, his stag of course, huffs and watches the two with him. He watches them laugh together before the young man stops and looks in their direction, grabbing onto his girlfriend and squinting closer. Kill. His stag charges forward, piercing the man roughly with its antlers, ripping him away from the woman and flat on the ground.

The stag retreats and then pierces him again, through his thick jacket like nothing. The woman screams in terror at the scene and the stag jerks, slashing her face with its antlers. And then, suddenly in just a blink, it’s Will atop her, clawing at her exposed throat where she lays. Crimson smears across the snow and then he’s panting over her, catching his breath. Staring down into unseeing eyes.

He blinks and she’s gone, revealing Jack in front of him, already midsentence. Will holds out his hand, interrupting, “It’s not an animal. It’s a man who wants to be an animal.”

Jack only looks vaguely annoyed with being disturbed, recovering quickly, “Does he believe he’s an animal?”

“It’s not what he believes,” Will swallows thickly, looking over at the woman’s corpse still staring into the sky, “It’s what he imagines.”

“Considering the savagery of the attacks, he's clean and organized. Meticulous, even. What does he want?”

“He wants to maul. This isn't personal. He doesn't know them. He doesn't need to know them,” He frowns and it sounds vaguely similar to someone he knows too well, “They're just meat to him. Prey.”

“This kind of psychosis doesn't just slip through the system. Someone somewhere would have noticed.” Jack waves off.

“If it is psychosis, he got inside it somehow. Tamed it, made a suit of it.” Will gets an itch up his spine and he wonders vaguely if he needs to confront Hannibal about this killer. Or if Jack would want him to consult with Hannibal for more information on this psychosis. He wonders if Hannibal recognized it from the first scene, he shivers.

Jack waits for him to add more, watching him process his thoughts rapidly. He huffs, feels a vague headache coming on, practically feels the imaginary gore under his nails. He looks over the scene, to the couple and the smothered bonfire.

“He’s an engineer. Or understands engineering. He can build things. He built his beast,” He finishes for Jack, “He’s a student of predators.”

 


 

Beverly has somehow managed to secure them a table at a gay bar, one Will feels obligated to join her at in order to meet her girlfriend. She offers him to come over and pre-game with them but he’d rather do that at home alone with his dogs so he denies her. Price and Zeller seem to have different preferences and when they all greet him, they’re already loose-lipped and loud.

Beverly claps him on the shoulder and he winces at the strength behind it as well as the noise seemingly determined to drill into his skull. Zeller pitifully orders him one of those dangerously strong sweet drinks and the rush makes it better. Tolerable at least. Somewhat. He hasn’t made up his mind on whether or not he’s just going to meet her and leave immediately.

Beverly’s girlfriend is polite and pretty and talks to him about his dogs. So he decides she's alright. Their table is thankfully kind of tucked away from the dancefloor and, even though he still has to shout to be heard, he decides he’ll stay. Or else he cleaned his clothes of dog hair and parted his hair for nothing.

It’s nice to have simple conversation for once, no metaphors or murder or anything else of the sort. They don’t even press him about his supposed divorce, a blessing from Beverly for her not to force him to tell her some explanation of why. It seems she’s more distracted with her girlfriend, which is fine by him.

She tries only once to get him onto the dancefloor, tugging on his hand, before she’s swept away by the other three. Will orders himself another drink, colors dancing before his eyes, and laughs at them in the crowd. Perfectly content by himself, he closes his eyes and listens to the people around him, drunk enough that the volume doesn’t feel grating.

He only opens his eyes when Beverly secures a tight hand around his shoulder and shakes him, absolutely beaming and yelling at him, “Look who I found!”

Will sets his drink down, looking up, entire body stiffening when he sees who exactly she’s brought to him. He’d told her last time there wouldn’t be a next time, yet here they are again in the same bar, with the same handsome stranger in front of him. Still tall dark and handsome, still with that crooked smile that crinkles his eyes.

Will gapes, lips parted in shock. Then the man extends his hand, “Wyatt.”

He considers not taking it, filled with embarrassment from their previous encounter. Something Beverly couldn’t have possibly known. But then he takes it hesitantly, curt, “Will.”

“Can I sit?” He gestures toward the chair opposite him. Beverly giggles at the question and leaves him, raising her eyebrows at Will behind his back. Will dips his chin toward the chair in allowance, narrowing his eyes at Beverly silently. The other sits and clears his throat, “I’m really sorry about last time, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m- I’m still taken,” Will says unsurely, for reasons he doesn’t know. He flushes at the way the man’s eyes linger on his mouth in longing, desire apparent. He’s not interested in a hook-up, only willing to offer conversation.

“That’s not what I asked, now is it?” He dips his head, blinking at him through his eyelashes.

Will tilts his head, concedes, “Alright.”

Once the man returns with his chosen drink, setting it down in front of him, he offers, “Consider it an apology for my manners last time.”

He drinks the cold new drink silently, tasting something fruity, and the man’s eyes linger on his lips wrapped around his straw. He allows it, enjoying feeling untouchable, blinking up at him, “Then consider yourself forgiven.”

“Would you dance with me?” He leans back, hands rising in disarm, “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I don’t dance,” Will nearly glares at him as he stands anyway, looking at the extended hand in front of him. He thinks instead of the twitch of Hannibal’s mouth, the way his hand would be soft and contrast his own sweaty skin. The way Hannibal would let him lead, would clutch at his shoulder as they dance. Some formal dance with actual steps, an excuse to clutch at his waist. The thought makes Will grab the man’s hand, shoving down his want angrily.

Despite his words, the man clutches at his hips the moment they’re in the crowd. It’s mostly muscle memory he didn’t know he still had from college, the beat of the music easy to find. Or, to anyone else it would be, but the man keeps him on beat. Lips meet his ear, words vibrating in his chest, “I shouldn’t have kissed you without permission last time.”

“No, I liked it,” Slips out before he means it, eyelids heavy from drinking, a bit of his accent that he’s tried so hard to get rid of slipping out. He presses his hand to his mouth, laughs at his own forwardness, and the man smiles at him and squeezes his hips. Lips against the corner of his mouth, pushing his hand away to kiss him on the mouth. Will hums, allows it, body relaxing.

“Will?” He jerks, recognizing the accent wrapping around his name anywhere. Hannibal, bodies moving around him, terribly out of place still in one of his nice suits. Hands are still on his body and Will pushes away, listening to the loud words directed at him, the conflicted look on Hannibal’s face, “Beverly messaged me that there was an emergency.”

“We’re fine,” The man against him bites.

“Will. Can I talk to you for a moment?” Hannibal’s tone is strained, the loudest his voice has ever been, over the music. His hand extends, though he looks a lot less comfortable than Will imagined him to be. Will grasps onto it instantly, letting himself be pulled away and back through the crowd.

“I don’t know why Beverly texted you,” His ears ring once they’re outside, suddenly feeling much more drunk in the quietness. He presses his palm to his forehead, groaning, “I feel like shit.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Hannibal tells him, “It wasn’t you that did it.”

“No, I mean physically,” He clarifies, squeezing his eyes shut, swaying on his feet.

“Are you alright?” A hand on his shoulder, “Where’s Beverly?” Clinical, without a thought, touching a hand against his face, “How are you getting home?”

“I am not letting you drive me home, Hannibal,” He bites, “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight. Can you never leave me alone?”

“I came here because I worried something was wrong,” Hannibal grits, “Despite your need for space, it doesn’t override any concern for your health, Will.”

“Oh, now you’re concerned for my health.”

“How are you getting home?” Hannibal ignores his comment impatiently, “Answer before I make the decision for you.”

“What’ll you do? Drug me with another needle in my arm?” Will bites, furrowing his eyebrows up at him, half-tempted to punch his teeth in. But the drawl in his words makes him realize something isn’t right and he rubs the ache between his eyes, admitting, “I don’t remember how I’m getting home, okay?”

Hannibal curves a tender hand around the nape of his neck and starts guiding him to the Bentley, “C’mon, Will.”

He collapses onto the leather seat with all of his weight, head sagging back against the headrest. Hannibal buckles him in and saves him from the humiliation of mentioning it. Once on the highway, Will mumbles, “I love your car.”

A gentle touch against his wrist, almost a reassurance before it moves to feel his pulse, “Will, I fear you may have been drugged.”

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes but suddenly he feels so tired, humming in acknowledgment of that fact. He definitely feels like he’s been drugged. He asks the sudden quietness in the air, “You gonna eat him?”

“I won’t say anything for fear of another gun being pointed my way,” Hannibal muses in return.

Will doesn’t shift from where he leans against the window, hearing the amusement curled around the other’s accent. He requests softly, “Talk to me about the case.”

A pause. Will imagines him parting his lips in pleasant surprise at the request, the slight raise of his eyebrows. But then Hannibal complies, “No beast is more savage than man when possessed with power answerable to his own rage.”

“It’s not rage. Rage is an emotional response to being provoked. This is something else.” He argues instantly.

Another pause, “What is it?”

“Instinct. It’s the way he thinks.”

“The way any animal thinks depends on limitations of mind and body. If we learn our limitations too soon, we never learn our power,” Hannibal concedes.

It takes Will’s brain a moment to process what’s being said to him. Then he argues again, “He tore his victims apart. I'd say he learned his power.”

“He claimed his power. Can you imagine tearing someone apart or would you still prefer to use a gun?” Hannibal asks curiously.

He has imagined tearing someone apart. He smiles slightly at the sound of Hannibal’s voice, the only one who would comply with talking about work while he’s drugged. Will admits, “Guns lack intimacy.”

“You set an event in motion with a gun. You don't complete it. Looking back once again on the encounter in our living room, how do you take my life in your fantasies now?”

“With my hands,” Will admits, digs his fingers into his slacks, imagining ruining the sharp bone structure. Wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing. He thinks vaguely to himself that if he didn’t have as many drugs in his system as he probably does, he might be half hard. 

“Wouldn’t that be more satisfying than pulling a trigger?” Hannibal asks him, a dirty thing.

Will shifts, “Yes.”

“When you pulled the trigger on Clark Ingram in that barn, were you imagining taking my life?” Hannibal presses further.

“I wasn’t imagining anything the first time I tried to kill you,” Will grits, “I’m still terribly aware of the double life you live.”

“I don’t have a double life with you,” Hannibal tells him and Will just squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying to will himself to sleep. He still feels much more intoxicated than he knows he actually can be. That bastard really roofied his drink, just his fucking luck. To be roofied and then rescued by a serial killer.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to the door being pulled away from how his weight is being pressed against it. He slumps but secure hands catch him, unbuckling him, and he grits, “If you try to pick me up, so help me, I will end your life, Hannibal.”

Hannibal levels him with a look, ignoring the barking coming from the house, “Are you even able to walk?”

“With help,” Will determines, even if Hannibal is mostly taking his weight when he gets out of the Bentley. His legs feel surprisingly secure underneath him, it’s just his balance that troubles him. They make it to the door with only some struggle, Hannibal’s hand digging into the pocket of his slacks for his keys without any hesitation. Truly a gentleman, isn’t he?

The dogs sniff at their pants, jumping up in excitement at the sight of Hannibal. Will scolds Buster when the mutt pees from excitement right at their feet, being led and then discarded on his bed. Hannibal crouches, greeting each mutt, face getting licked to his displeasure but allowance.

Will watches him clean up the mess, aching somewhere in his chest at the familiarity with his home. Hannibal picks up Buster gently, holding him close, something close to fondness for his favorite curling his mouth upward. Will asks him suddenly, quiet under the sound of nails on the floor, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Hannibal scratches at Buster’s ears, asking in return, “Didn’t I?”

Will tilts his head at that, considers it. Then he begins unbuttoning his shirt, tilting his head for Hannibal to fetch him night clothes. He does, setting them at his hip. Then he drops to one knee on the floor in front of him, pulling his foot up to begin removing his shoes for him. He pulls them off gently, carrying them upstairs to discard them where the dogs won’t get them.

Will pulls his sleep shirt over his head, tells him once he returns, “I’m glad you showed up. Not that I’m happy to see you.”

Hannibal’s fingers, capable of more control than Will’s right now, undoes his belt. He removes it easily and Will feels vaguely humiliated over the fact that he can’t take off his own pants right now. Hannibal folds both his pants and shirt, places them on the dresser, and tells him, “He’ll go nicely with a red, hm?”

“I didn’t even notice he’d.. I guess I’ve never worried much about that,” Will admits as Hannibal observes his pupils clinically.

“You’ll be alright after some sleep,” He tells him, straightening back out, pulling the blankets back. Will clumsily slides under them but doesn’t lay back. A gentle hand, tilting his chin up, and a press of lips that surprises him. He hums his surprise, eyebrows raising but it’s chaste, nearly distant, “I’ll lock the door behind me.”

Will thinks of laying in his house alone, in a drugged haze, defenseless. Even with a locked house, he’s never felt entirely secure. A bite of fear rises in him and he asks timidly, “Do you have to?”

“Lock the door?” Hannibal asks him in question, a pinch of his eyebrows.

“Go,” Will swallows his pride, his sense of justice, his morality, “Do you have to go?”

“Would you like me to stay?” A quiet question, his face smoothing out, hiding behind a mask.

“Down here. Stay down here.”

Hannibal knows he deals with a massive amount of fear, knows that looking into a killer beast in the woods gets into his paranoia. Especially out here in Wolf Trap. Still, he has no words of assurance, just a small dip of his head in agreement. It makes Will breathe a little easier anyway.

The checking of the locked doors, the counting of the dogs, an old routine. Will lays down when the lights turn off and the lack of sight makes him feel as if the world is spinning too fast around him. But then the bed dips next to him and his eyes adjust and a gaze centers on him in the dark.

He parts his lips and then closes them, turning away. He wants to ask Hannibal if it ever gets lonely, living his double life. If he ever considers cutting off one mask or the other. A phone goes off, Hannibal’s phone, and he wonders if Alana is in his bed waiting for him to get home. The shuffling for the phone and a soft click indicating its power off, then a timid touch against Will’s spine.

He nearly gasps at the intrusion of his space, the daringly lingering trace of it down his spine and then up to his nape again. With his lack of rejection, Hannibal grips his hip, shifting close against his back. He molds around Will like a second skin, around him like a victory flag, latching onto him. Will sighs, allowing himself to relax into it, the protection Hannibal inherently brings with his presence.

“Sleep, mylimasis,” Hannibal breathes, soothes, “You’ll be alright.”

The curl of Hannibal’s native language slipping out makes something in Will’s stomach tighten. He doesn’t know Lithuanian but he can tell it’s an endearment, the weight the language holds on Hannibal’s tongue. He grabs for his hand, lets Hannibal hold him in the dark, clutching hard at his skin.

When he wakes past noon, Hannibal is already gone, no trace of him being there at all.

 


 

Will observes the large Tyrannosaurus standing over him and Jack, thinking this definitely has to be the oddest place he’s ever asked someone questions. Their victim for today approaches and Jack asks, “Randall Tier?”

The man is young yet his eyes are aged, mature, steely, “You wanted to speak to me?”

“I'm Special Agent Jack Crawford with the FBI. This is Will Graham.” A handshake. Then Jack gestures to the sabertooth tiger skeleton beside them, “Did you put this together?”

“Yes,” A dip of a chin, confidence never wavering.

“Nice work,” Pointing to another, “What’s this one here?”

Boredom, as if this is a waste of time, behind those eyes, “A cave bear.”

“Ever put one of them together?”

“Put them together, take them apart, put them together again.”

“Then you understand their mechanics, how they're engineered?” Jack fishes obviously.

“We understand a lot about cave bears. Their fossils have been found in the tens of thousands, all over southern Europe,” The tour guide spiel, and then he adds, “They're very common. Common enough you can get one on eBay.”

“I'm asking, Randall, because the skull of a cave bear was recently used as a murder weapon. At least its jaws were. Claws, too.” Jack’s attention shifts from the fossils to the man in front of them.

A tilt of a head, interest, “Prehistoric skulls and claws were designed to do what they do best.”

Will watches the light blossoming behind his eyes, watching it be actively smothered, and adds, “Used the right tools for the job.”

“But it's what's inside the skull that tells you what the job is,” Randall Tier seems to be coming around to why they’re actually here.

“You have a history with trouble inside your skull, Mr. Tier,” Jack observes him closely.

A wince, “That what this is about? You think I killed someone with a fossil? I had an identity disorder. Doctors told me the internal map of my body didn't match reality.” A sharp look, defensive, “Do you know what it's like when the skin you're wearing doesn't fit?”

“I can imagine,” Will grits, always wearing someone else’s skin, always feeling someone else’s emotions.

“I know who I am now. I'm much better. I'm socializing. I'm taking my medication. I'm employed. I work very hard. I'm proof mental illness is treatable,” Will observes him closely as he says it, finding that he’s not lying. But there’s something else here, something that makes suspicion prick at his mind.

 


 

Will observes, having just filled their bowls, the way all of his dogs line up at the front door in waiting. He doesn’t recall hearing anyone knock, furrowing his eyebrows, looking out his window where the sun has already set. He opens the door, half expecting a serial killer on his porch. The recent case or Hannibal Lecter.

Instead, it’s a luxury car in his driveway, much too fancy to be anyone he associates with definitely. A woman in a nice fur coat and dangling earrings, hair braided. Then his mind connects, realizing that Margot Verger is showing up at his house much too late to be courteous. Rude, his mind chides.

He shuts the door to stop the dogs from barking, watching her walk across the gravel in her heels. She tightens her jacket, “Sorry for the intrusion. We met outside Dr. Lecter's office.”

“I remember,” He squints at her, “How did you find me?”

“Turns out, you are famous.”

“You’re not exactly anonymous yourself, Margot,” Meatpacking company and all.

Her mouth twists, “You have any whiskey?”

He observes the expression for a moment, trying to piece together her sour attitude towards her name. He tilts his head and leads her inside, curious. His whiskey isn’t anything fancy and neither is his glassware but she doesn’t seem to mind much. He watches her take a gulp before asking, “What's the heir to the Verger meatpacking dynasty doing at my door?”

“My brother's the heir, not me,” She swirls the glass, another sip too big, “I've got the wrong parts and the wrong proclivity for parts.”

“Didn’t answer my question,” He points out, sitting down in one of his chairs.

“I'm here for a character reference. Patient to patient. What do you think of Dr. Lecter's therapy?” She asks, sitting across from him, ignoring all the dog hair.

It’s Hannibal’s chair and it makes him twitch just slightly, “Depends what you’re in therapy for.”

She observes him, seems to recognize his discomfort at her sitting in that specific chair, and settles in, “I'm in therapy for all sorts of reasons. The Vergers slaughter eighty-six thousand cattle a day and thirty-six thousand pigs, depending on the season. That's just the public carnage.”

He asks curiously, knowing she’ll confess, “What’s your private carnage?”

A sip, “I tried to murder my brother.”

Will tilts his head, observing her, squinting, “I assume he had it coming.”

“Did he ever,” She stares at his knees not his face, fingers tapping the armrest before she decides, “What’s your private carnage?”

“I tried to murder Dr. Lecter,” He shrugs and the whiskey goes down easy before he adds, “Married him too. Before the attempted murder thing. Obviously.”

“See, now that’s interesting,” She surely must already know this due to the articles, but she asks, “Did he have it coming?”

Did he ever. He thinks of Hannibal, here in his living room, the weight of the shotgun in his hands. The amount of lives he could’ve saved if he’d simply pulled the trigger. Both chances to end things wasted. Now where does that leave them? Will frowns, asks her instead, “What do you think?”

“I can’t say that I know,” She seems to have picked up something about Hannibal that isn’t right.

Will drinks and admits, “Neither can I.”

“Sounds like we have similar issues,” She sympathizes, observing his indecision with something resembling sorrow, “I doubt Dr. Lecter gave you the same advice on murder he gave me.”

Peaking his interest, “What’s that?”

She raises her glass, “He told me, if at first I don’t succeed, I should try again.”

 


 

“I'm curious what would happen if your patients started comparing notes, Dr. Lecter. What would Randall Tier have to say to me?” Will asks him on the way to wish Abigail goodbye.

Hannibal doesn’t deny that Randall Tier was an old patient, asking instead, “What did Randall Tier say to you?”

“He said he was much better now. That mental illness was treatable. Randall Tier is a success story.”

“You believe he’s incorrect?” Hannibal asks, eyes still on the road, terribly relaxed.

“I believe your therapy was successful,” Will watches the way the sun hits his face, “You can be persuasive.”

“Persuasion is not coercion,” Hannibal tells him, glancing at him due to his staring.

“How many have there been? Like Randall Tier? Like me?” He persists.

“Every patient is unique,” Hannibal hums and then adds, “Not that I ever considered you a patient.”

Curious, Will asks, “What do you think about when you think about killing?”

Hannibal’s mouth twitches slightly at the sharp change in topic, telling him simply, “I think about God.”

Never before has Hannibal talked about religion in relation to himself. Will straightens in his seat, “Good and evil?”

“Good and evil have nothing to do with God. I collect church collapses. Did you see the recent one in Sicily? The facade fell on sixty-five grandmothers during a special Mass,” Hannibal glances at him, as if he thinks Will wouldn’t be listening to him, “Was that evil? Was that God? If He's up there, He just loves it. Typhoid and swans, it all comes from the same place.”

Will soaks in that point of view, observing him still. Then he wonders, “Is your desire for me without condition?”

Hannibal considers that for a moment, not willing to lie, “There is a part of me that views you as something to be smothered, to remove the weakness so I can continue as I am. The other knows I’d be unsatisfied even if I’ve gotten to have you. Unconditionally? I’m not yet decided.”

Will leans, observing him simply as he is now, driving his Bentley with easy confidence. Hair carefully styled, suit ironed, the morning sun lighting up his side profile. Will swallows thickly, wondering when he first started finding Hannibal attractive, “If I asked you to never kill another person, would you?”

Hannibal looks at him and his eyes crinkle, “I do not know, Will.”

“Or would you get bored?” He wonders aloud again.

“Are you asking me not to? Is that what this is?”

“No,” Will admits, “I’m not.”

“Hypotheticals then to what end? To define my level of desire?” The raise of eyebrows.

To define if it’s dependency or codependency. Will huffs, “Well.. no. I don’t know.”

A click of a blinker and they’re pulling over onto the side of the highway. He frowns, lips parting to ask if something’s wrong, and then Hannibal’s hand curls around the back of his head. The press of lips to his, soft and then coming back again harder. Will hums, pulled so the center console digs into his side.

The unbuckling of a seatbelt and Hannibal’s hand lands firmly on his thigh. Hand still in his hair, Hannibal breathes, “That wonderful mind of yours can’t read it written all over me?”

Will groans, digging hands into his hair and biting at his lips. Hannibal licks into his mouth, tasting his back molars, preening slightly when he finds him half-hard under his palm. Will runs smooth hands over his face, gripping hard at the nape of his neck, at the collar of his shirt. Grabbing at his bicep, a hand pressing against him, pressing into the touch.

Hannibal bites at his jaw, hissing when Will touches him through his slacks, “ Will.”

He’s thick and hard under his palm, and Will has never touched another man but his fingers tighten instinctually when hips push into his touch. Hannibal rolls his hips a few times before his finger hooks into his belt, undoing it in one smooth motion. Will gasps at the action and Hannibal swallows down the sound, kissing him softly.

The popping open of the button of his slacks and Hannibal’s thumbs are both digging into his waistband. Will lifts his hips without a thought, letting his boxers and slacks be pushed down at once. He sighs at the relief in pressure and chokes a little on it as Hannibal touches him.

The biting of his lips, devotion in the sudden slick motions of his fist. Will keens, grabbing at his shoulder desperately, and Hannibal groans. Hannibal is leaned over the center console, broad and intruding on his space, stroking him needily between their bodies. Will doesn’t know whether to arch into him or keep himself firmly rooted to his seat.

Hannibal tugs on his hair, kissing him again and again until he feels nearly delusional from lack of air. A wet press against the corner of his mouth, his chin, and then Hannibal swallows him down so easily without warning he nearly shouts. Toes curling, looking down at those plump lips around his cock, the simple hollowing of his cheeks making cheekbones more prominent.

Hannibal takes him to the hilt with just the slightest graze of his teeth that has Will jerking with pleasure. He moans, whines, hands clenched into fists to avoid his hips twitching upward. Hannibal hums, pulling off just to dig his tongue into the slit and sink down again. It becomes an easy rhythm, one that makes Will’s hand finally settle in gelled hair, messing it up effectively.

He gasps, trembles, as Hannibal swallows him down again and again. It’s truly a bizarre sight to see the great Hannibal Lecter blow him in his car on the side of the highway, one that makes him more desperate. Will tightens his hold and Hannibal’s mouth works faster, messy and wet with the filthiest sounds he couldn’t have imagined if he tried.

His vision whites out and his whole body is shuddering when he cums, hips jerking as he pleads. Hannibal swallows eagerly, hand stroking him through the last aftershocks, mouthing at the head. Will pulls on him, hissing in overstimulation, Hannibal facing him again with a wet swollen mouth. He never thought he’d ever see Hannibal drooling but he is, wiping at his chin, eyes dilated.

Will kisses him, close-mouthed and chaste, resting their temples together afterward. Hannibal strokes at his nape, gentle, and Will pulls away to tuck himself back into his slacks and right his belt. He kisses Hannibal again, once, twice. But Hannibal grips his wrist tightly when he reaches for him, “No, Will.”

Will blinks at him, wide-eyed, “No?”

“Just you today,” Hannibal watches him retreat back into his seat, kissing his knuckles almost in apology. Will can’t tell if this is a manipulation or true devotion, not knowing if Hannibal’s aware he feels undeserving to be the only one. His mind tunes in then to all the cars passing by, the number of people who have seen their car on the side, the amount of people who have looked to wonder if they need assistance.

His face heats and he only wonders now how crazy he has to be to let a cannibal give him a blowjob. Hannibal releases him entirely, pushing back his hair easily, unable to fix the damage done but looking elegantly handsome regardless. Will rolls down his window, realizing they smell like sex, hoping nobody will tell when they arrive.

This day is for sending Abigail away to college, not to out their relationship as messy to her or Jack or Alana or any of the staff seeing her off. They don’t talk again about patients or God or desire, silent the rest of the way.

 


 

The small thump of tails on a rug, lined up attentively to face the door, ears raised in intrigue. Will pauses where he stands in the kitchen doorway, watching them watch the door. He steps over them and pulls the door open, expecting now one or another expensive car in front of his house. This time, his yard and his porch are deserted, silent, and still.

There’s nothing but the darkness, the silence of the birds in the trees gives him goosebumps. Something is very wrong. He’s closing the door when Buster dashes out between his legs, barking, running out into the darkness. Will pauses, something in him making him raise his defenses toward running after him unarmed.

But then he hears Buster yelp somewhere past the forest line and jumps into action, closing the door again to get into his gun cabinet. He grabs his rifle, avoiding the shotgun that calls to him, chambering a shell and then a second after another thought. He’s flushed with his adrenaline pumping, pulling on his boots and bounding out into the thick mud to find his dog.

He follows Buster’s little paw prints in the mud, scanning his surroundings while also trying to locate them in the dark. The dark of the night presses in on him from all sides but he doesn’t hesitate to go into the trees, clutching his gun. He pauses, listening, but hears no movement or sound at all. The animals in the trees are silent.

He realizes fully then that it must be Tier out here, waiting, watching his house from the forest. Could be anywhere, watching, somewhere out in the wide darkness. Will curses, gun raising instantly when he hears the cracking of a stick. He steps forward carefully, hands steady. He sighs in relief, gun lowering momentarily once he realizes it’s Buster.

Buster is laid low on his haunches, whining, a large gash across his back. He’s injured and scared but alive. He can’t use his gun while also carrying him back to the house, looking around them, listening closely. Then he makes a decision, can’t leave Buster out here defenseless, even if it means his own end.

He tucks his rifle under his arm, scooping up Buster, and then runs. He supports him as best he can but finds their lives are worth more than temporary comfort, cutting his way through the trees and back to his little ship on the sea. Once he breaks the treeline, breathless and not losing speed, he stumbles in the mud.

He manages to catch himself just in time, unable to tell with the wind in his ears and his adrenaline if he’s being chased. Instinct tells him he certainly is. He jumps the steps to his door, banging his way through, and the house rattles with the force. Will places Buster down with the rest, who sniff at him worriedly, and locks the door.

It won’t stop Tier but it’s something. He slowly flicks off the last remaining lights in the house, hoping that the shelter of darkness will save his strays. He realizes his rifle is too bulky and heavy, locating his handgun in his gun cabinet. It’s old, from his police days even, and he loads ammo into it swiftly.

Clicking off the safety, he steps back into the center of the room, steadying himself. The dogs whine, crowding him, uncertain of what’s got their owner so on edge. Then he hears it, the scrape of claws on his front porch, facing his door. He lifts his gun, waiting to see if Tier still thinks he’s worth it.

He expects him to charge through the door, not the sudden shift of light and the glass cascading down on him. He recoils, hands lifting to protect his eyes from the shards. A piece of splintered wood knocks his gun from his hands, leaving it clattering noisily to the ground. He watches in horror as Randall Tier, in full mechanic suit, shakes himself free of the glass like a dog.

Then Will lowers himself to one knee, reaching for the fishing vest he’d discarded earlier on the floor to grab his fillet knife. It’s a small narrow blade and his dogs bark around him at the intruder. His ears are ringing. He’s dead, watching Tier ready himself to charge once again. Tier’s back claws scrape the ground and with a blink, it’s his stag.

Something in Will’s chest loosens seeing his beast, watching its head lower to run with antlers bared. Its feathers glisten in the moonlight. Then it runs, head down, Will’s arms raising to brace himself. The sick crack of the wall being pierced next to him and Will blinks, faced with Tier once again.

His eyes are wild where they’re visible behind the animal’s skull. Will is face to face with sharp teeth for just a moment before he reels his head back, head-butting him hard. Tier stumbles back for just a moment, a predator stunned, but it’s enough. Will pushes forward, tackling him to the ground, the heavy suit around him bringing him down easily.

He climbs up onto him, pushing his knees hard into his biceps to keep his claws away, taking just a moment to discard his knife. His vision is clear as he delivers blow after blow. The resounding crunch and the pain shooting through his arms from the impact fuel him, even as blood flecks onto his face. Again and again, until his knuckles are splitting and he loses his breath.

Even as Randall Tier’s face becomes an indescribable mess, Will grabs hard at the jaw of the beast, wrenching it hard to the side. Tier’s neck breaks from the force with a loud crack, head still secured by machinery even as the bones are split. Will gasps, blinking, realizing now what he’s done.

Tier’s young face is destroyed, blood dripping off his knuckles. He rises back to his feet, staring down at him as the dogs finally begin to sniff at the scene. Then he tsks at them, pushing them out the door and away from the mess, coming back to himself.

Hannibal’s house is dark and dead silent. Will lugs Tier onto the dining table after discarding the overly large centerpiece, sitting down to wait. He’s placed his bets on Alana not coming home with Hannibal tonight, not on such an important night. It could’ve been the night Will dies, after all.

After too short of a time, he rises again, making his way through the house. He toes off his boots in front of the door to Hannibal’s bedroom, knuckles still bleeding freely. He’d considered wrapping it messily as best he can with his wrecked hands but decided not to. Best he let Hannibal observe the damage freely.

He revels in the pain as he lights a fire in the fireplace, watching the flame steadily rise. Then he sits on the too-soft mattress, looking down at his bleeding knuckles. Finally, he hears the opening of the door, the first disruption of the empty house other than himself. He considers rising but decides not to, best not to sneak up on a serial killer.

The click of Hannibal’s shoes on the floor, suddenly outside the door after he’s surely observed the body laid on his dining table. Will hears him pause when he spots his boots. The opening of the door, near-silent, and the house is still dark behind Hannibal. His eyes meet the flames in the fireplace and then him.

Will stays where he is sitting on the bed, “I’d say this makes us even. I tried to kill you, you tried to kill me.”

Hannibal tilts his head, closing the door behind him, ominous by the door illuminated only by the flame's glow, “Consider it an act of reciprocity. One positive action begets another.”

Will twitches slightly at the word positive, “Polite society normally puts such taboos on taking a life.”

“Without death, we'd be at a loss. It's the prospect of death that drives us to greatness,” Hannibal tells him and then takes his first step deeper into the room, “Did you kill him with your hands?”

Will holds up his steadily bruised and bleeding hands, “It was very intimate.”

“It deserves intimacy. You were Randall Tier's final enemy.” Hannibal steps toward him, slow like approaching an animal. Will just tilts his chin up, maintaining eye contact, even as Hannibal hovers over him. He leans then, head turning to the side just right to press their lips together gently.

Will hums, still surprised even if they’ve now kissed many times. Hannibal’s hand cups his face, thumb stroking over his cheek tenderly, the other hand rising to press to his chest. The touch feels vaguely how you’d touch a woman and Will pulls away, spark catching, gritting, “Don’t touch me like I’m her.”

Hannibal’s hold on his face tightens, speaking against his mouth, biting back just as mean, “I don’t want her.”

Will grabs at him, kissing him again, holding his face gently even as their kiss is charged with both jealousy and frustration. He pushes at Hannibal’s outside jacket and his knuckles smart, making him huff. Hannibal pushes off his coat himself, pushing his hands back and away, knee rising to rest on the bed next to his thigh.

Hannibal hovers, telling him, “You’ll hurt yourself, darling.”

“You like when I hurt,” Will accuses back, their lips catching again. His hands rest on Hannibal’s hips instead, grip weak. He hooks his thumbs in the loops of his slacks anyway, tugging on him, allowing the tongue in his mouth.

Hannibal takes a moment to taste him before he pulls away, “I must clean you up first. Then I’ll have you.” The promise in those words makes Will shiver but he doesn’t comment. Hannibal leaves him only to return after a few minutes with a porcelain pan, filled with some kind of liquid. Hannibal sits beside him, placing it on his thigh, offering, “Water and Epsom salts.”

Will nods, too far gone not to trust him in this. Hannibal takes his hand gently, submerging it fully in the solution. He watches the water turn pink, blood washing away, revealing the damage. His knuckles are properly split and purpling. They stay like that in silence for a moment, Will looking unseeingly at their joined hands.

“Don’t go inside, Will,” Hannibal says knowingly, removing his hand and then submerging the other. While drying his skin, Hannibal adds again, “Stay with me.”

A gentle application of a salve produced from Hannibal’s breast pocket, rubbing the ointment into his wounds. Will blinks rapidly, “Where else am I going to go?”

“You have everywhere to go. As long as you fortress your mind against deterring forces like guilt,” Now done, he wraps gauze around his knuckles in a practiced way, “You should be quite pleased. I am.”

Will glares at him half-heartedly, “Of course you are.”

Hannibal kisses the bandages on his first hand, taking the other, asking him, “When you were killing Randall, did you fantasize you were killing me?”

Will remembers the startling clarity as he took Randall’s life, the conscious choice to continue punching him. He admits quietly, “No.”

Hannibal smiles with his crooked little teeth, finishing up with his left hand. Will leans and kisses him again at the expression. It’s either that or fighting him for his glee at Will willingly killing Tier. Hannibal’s hand dips under his shirt, running over his ribs, caressing over the skin. He gasps, squirms a bit ticklishly, something low in his abdomen tightening when a thumb brushes his left nipple.

Hannibal stands, placing the solution still on his lap to the side onto the nightstand. He begins unbuttoning his shirt, staring down at him looking like the predator he is. Will pushes himself back, shirt riding up, lips bit, and asks, “Is this where you have pleasurable intentions for Alana Bloom?”

“Jealousy is unbecoming of you, Will,” Hannibal chides, hands still working at his buttons, even as he climbs up onto his knees on the bed. How anyone can look so elegant doing such an awkward shuffle, he doesn’t know. He grabs Hannibal’s collar, pulling him down, kissing him. The fact the elegant Hannibal Lecter would be in love with him, would want him like this, would reveal his double life to him feels bizarre.

He grips the shirt where the last few buttons are still done and pulls, popping them off. Hannibal’s teeth bare just slightly at the ruining of his nice shirt and Will tastes them, pushing the shirt down off his broad shoulders. Hannibal’s hand presses next to his hip, supporting himself just slightly, hips finding themselves between his knees.

Will runs his hand over his chest hair curiously, finds it does nothing to stop his building arousal. Hannibal kisses him again softer, as if knowing his internal thoughts. Then hands push his shirt up over his head, touch settling over his hips, and he’s told, “Can I take you, Will?”

Will laughs, can’t help it, “You’re asking to fuck me?”

Hannibal’s expression pinches in slight offense, “My moral compass is admittedly weak but I do not want a sexual partner who isn’t willing.”

Will smiles, head falling back, propped up on his elbows, “Do you still want to eat me?”

The press of lips to his collarbone, the crook of his neck, the underside of his jaw, taking advantage of the bared skin. A hum, “Sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Will muses back, “What, am I too lean?”

“All the time,” Hannibal corrects, licking into the curve of his neck, “Hard to avoid the urge.”

Will runs a hand through his hair, wonders if he’s going to get bitten now, “Is that so?”

The scrape of teeth at his chin, “I confuse my urge to consume with my feelings of affection. What higher form of love than to carry your flesh with me forever?”

Will thinks on that, kissing him back half-mindedly. Then he grabs Hannibal’s face, pulling away and asking him seriously, “Do you want me to eat you?”

Hannibal’s eyes darken and it seems that he’d very much enjoy dying by Will’s hands. It makes him scoff and laugh in amusement, their lips meeting again almost lazily for a moment. Then Hannibal asks, “Will.”

Will pulls on his belt, undoing it, answering, “Yes. Hannibal. Please.”

His words make Hannibal kiss him with a new fever, pulling his slacks off his hips so hard it nearly hurts. He gasps, the sound swallowed by the other, the sudden teeth sinking into his lips. Finally, Hannibal’s full weight presses down on him, nearly smothering him, making him lose his breath. Hannibal is hard against him, rolling his hips, usual grace lost again in his desperation.

A hand slides under him, grabbing his ass, and Will groans. He hooks a leg around his waist, pressing him down, the angle just right as Hannibal grinds on him. It has him moaning, shuddering, having not been touched in so long. Not since the last time they did this. And before that, possibly years.

Then Hannibal is ripping himself away from him, pulling off his belt and then his slacks. Will pulls at his boxers too, which he removes without protest. He’s hard and thick, already leaking, and Will’s stomach tightens with arousal. Hannibal pulls off his boxers next, eyes dark in the firelight, tongue peeking out slightly to run over his lips.

Will doesn’t know how to feel about being naked in front of another man, not like this, not hard and with eyes looking places he hasn’t even touched himself. But it’s Hannibal and Hannibal has seen most of his body anyway so he finds himself at ease with it. The press of lips to his temple and the lowering of himself back over him, covering him with his body once again.

He moans when Hannibal touches him, moans again when he looks down to see the way his hand looks around him. It’s then that Hannibal bites down on his shoulder hard, surely drawing blood. The pain mixed with the touch has him whining and grasping at Hannibal’s shoulders. He doesn’t try to get away, trapped under his predator.

He feels the hot liquid of his blood and the way Hannibal drags his tongue over the wound, wondering if Hannibal is thinking now about eating him. The thought has him fucking into his hold, whining again. Hannibal kisses him then and it tastes like coppery blood. Tastes how Will has always assumed Hannibal would.

Will reaches, wrapping his hand finally around Hannibal’s cock, and feels the way he shivers. Feels the way a string of precum drips down onto his stomach. Hannibal grips his wrist, pushing him away, biting at his lips. They’ve split from the brutality, making their kiss even more coppery. Hannibal removes his hand from his cock, hooking it under his knee to drag his leg back up around his waist.

A kiss, close-mouthed this time, and then fingers brush against him. Will jolts slightly from the unexpected touch, a place where he’s never touched, somewhere he’s never thought to touch. The drip of drool onto fingers and Hannibal’s fingers are back pressing against him, rubbing slick coldness there. Hannibal mumbles against his ear, a near plead, “I want to hurt you.”

Will groans, pulls at the short hair at the nape of his neck, “Hannibal.”

“Can you take me like this? I need,” Hannibal’s hips jerk, smearing precum over his hip, “I need you like this.”

“You’ve hurt me enough,” Will gasps at the fingertip pressing just slightly into him, doesn’t know whether to press his hips towards it or away, “What’s more?”

Hannibal groans and the vibration echoes through Will’s body. A hand darts out and Hannibal lifts him with one arm like his weight is nothing, sliding a pillow underneath his hips smoothly. Then he looks through his nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube, letting it drip on his already wet cock. Will watches with interest at the way Hannibal’s hand slides familiarly over himself.

Then he moves, hands hooking under Will’s knees, pulling him closer. He pauses, just for a moment, as if realizing he’s going to make Will’s first time with a man needlessly painful. But Will tugs on him with his leg, blinking up at him, giving him his best doe eyes, “Hurt me, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s lip curls in distaste at the blatant begging, sliding his hand over his slick cock just once more before pressing into him. Will instantly tenses, despite his best attempts to relax, groaning from pain more than pleasure. But Hannibal is relentless, pressing forward despite that, even when his entire lower half aches with the stretch.

Bafflingly, he’s still dripping and hard against his stomach. Hannibal hisses, hand scrabbling at his hip, bottoming out slowly. Will’s lips are parted and his face is scrunched in pain, even with Hannibal no longer moving inside him. Hands slide up over his sides and he feels the gaze on his expression.

But his body is adjusting slowly and he finds himself relaxing. Just when he’s nearly okay, Hannibal’s hips rock and it has him tensing up again. The feeling is foreign and he’s not entirely sure how to feel about it yet. But Hannibal grips his hips, pulling him down further, pulling out just slightly just to sink back in again slowly, “Relax. Do you trust me, Will?”

“I’m-” Will gasps when his hips move again, Hannibal’s hand pressing to his sternum, “I can’t even think, you’re so-”

He moans when Hannibal strokes him a few times, hips beginning to endlessly rock into him. He grabs at his wrist, needing to hold onto him, body relaxing into the pleasure. His back arches and he understands now why people do this. Hannibal’s hand on his sternum strokes upward, hips pressing into him in small little movements, and Will gets the impression that he’s being savored.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” He asks after another breathy groan, not particularly liking just being another pleasure to be savored by Hannibal.

His reward is the withdrawal of Hannibal’s body completely, hands gripping his waist, saving him from the awkward shuffle of turning over onto his stomach. His hard cock pressed into the pillow underneath him, feeling more exposed with his ass up in the air, hearing the uncapping of the lube again.

Then Hannibal’s fingers grab hard at the meat of his ass, spreading him open just one horribly exposing moment before he slides back into him. The changed angle feels even better and Will moans into the sheets underneath him. Finally, Hannibal properly fucks into him, gripping his waist to press him into the mattress and hold him still.

He whines, trying to press up into the motion, hearing Hannibal groan above him. Then the angle shifts just slightly and Will is seeing stars, body jerking with pleasure, shuddering as he comes. He knows he sounds pathetic, drooling a bit, shaking through the aftershocks. Hannibal groans in return, continuing to fuck into him.

Then Hannibal leans, pressing his chest against his back, rolling his hips into him just right. It has Will sobbing with overstimulation, the abuse of his prostate like this. A tight hand against his throat, thrusts uneven, and Hannibal speaks through his teeth, “I would devour you.”

Will moans, shaking with the feeling of too much, tears building in his eyes as he pleads for mercy silently. Hannibal’s words against his skin dissolve into a language that he can’t understand, one that rolls naturally off the other’s tongue. Will reaches back, grabbing at Hannibal’s hip behind him where it presses against his ass, taking the harshness as Hannibal cums with a groan inside him.

Hannibal stays like that for a moment, properly smothering him into the mattress with his weight before pushing himself up. Will winces when he pulls out, being turned over carefully, accepting the kiss he’s given. He digs his hands into Hannibal’s hair, scratching over his scalp in the way he knows he likes, thinking that they both need a shower.

“Mylimasis,” Hannibal murmurs to him, stroking over his cheek tenderly.

Will hums in answer, tells him, “Shower.”

For a second they stay where they are, lips moving together tiredly. And then Hannibal pulls away, pulling him along, into the shower much too big for one person but just right for two. They’re mostly silent for a long moment, tired and lazy, much too old to be up this late. Hannibal washes away the blood on his body from the shattering of his window, the new bite wound on his shoulder.

When he’s washing the glass out of his hair, with only one comment on the shortness, Will tells him, “I don't think I've ever felt more alive than when I was killing him.”

“Then you owe Randall Tier a debt,” Hannibal pushes his hair back so the soap doesn’t go into his eyes, “How will you repay him?”

Will thinks as he rinses his hair, as he pours body wash into his palm. Sliding soapy hands over Hannibal’s shoulders, kissing where his eyes always crinkle, he asks, “Can we eat him?”

Hannibal cups his face, endearment shining in his eyes and the curve of his lips. The look doesn’t leave his face even as they dress and change the sheets. Or when they settle under the comforter in the dark.

Aš Tave Myliu, it says, Tekėk už manęs.