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For the first time since the day that the all-knowing hand of fate chose to drop Will Graham into his life, Hannibal's life has achieved a semblance of calm. Something like it, at least. The chaos of his and Will's latest brush with death, their meeting with the icy Atlantic— it's left them weary. There is no energy to spare for manipulation, no fresh betrayals. They're too preoccupied with the mutual licking of wounds to hurt one another, for the moment. Wolves, too tired to growl.
But Hannibal is not a fool. Things are calm between them, yes, but they are not peaceful. It is the green-skied sort of calm that precedes a tornado, a moment of stillness in a storm. He can taste it, the static in the air that permeates every inch of their safe house. Will Graham may be his weakness, but that does not mean that Hannibal has let his guard down. After all, Will has always been at his most dangerous when the two of them are alone.
So he's braced for anything, when he wakes in the dead of night to a presence in the threshold of his bedroom. Hannibal is turned away from the door, but he can feel the other man’s eyes boring holes into his spine. He makes an effort to appear relaxed, to disguise the fresh tension winding in his muscles. Will doesn’t move.
Words scramble in the attic of Hannibal's mouth like rats in the darkness. None of them escape. A minute passes, possibly two. And then the door swings shut, with Will on the other side.
Hannibal thrills in his wake. Adrenaline like giddy footsteps rushes down his back, he turns in bed and stares at the door with a near childlike wonder. The space where Will had been seems to shimmer, hot with potential like Summer air hovering above asphalt.
What could it mean? Had Will been contemplating murder just now, standing like a specter in his doorway? Alive with churning rage and blood lust, his fist clenched deathly pale around the handle of a knife?
No, no knife. Just Will. Will and his hands, fitting themselves snug around Hannibal's throat before he can so much as scream. They'd feel so right against his neck, Hannibal knows this. Will would know it, too. He might even think, through the haze, that his hands felt sculpted especially for this task, built to mold themselves just so around Hannibal's throat. 'It was supposed to end like this,' he'd think to himself, and stroke a loving thumb over Hannibal's steadily fading pulse.
And what changed his mind? Will would not have risked waking him by opening the door if he hadn't been certain of his decision, Hannibal knows this too. So why, then, did he hesitate? Why turn away? Could he tell that Hannibal was awake? Perhaps he expected an ambush. That Hannibal would lure him in, then strike.
Or perhaps-
He sighs through his nose. Lies back against the pillows, firmly banishes the thought. Silence blooms, his eyes begin to grow heavy once more. His breathing slows, he's drifting.
-Perhaps Will couldn't bring himself to do it, even after all they’d been through.
Hannibal scowls to himself as he sits up in bed, entirely and irrevocably awake. It's possible, of course. It wouldn't be the first time that Will's conviction has wavered, where Hannibal is concerned. Perhaps he saw Hannibal, sleeping and vulnerable, and that anger within him faded. Just slightly, just enough to give Will pause.
The thought makes Hannibal's heart stumble, plucks at his most humiliating weaknesses. It's something he's noticed before. Even when Will wants, more than anything, to kill him, he never seems to actually want Hannibal dead. No, Will wants them both suspended in the violence, trapped together on the razor’s edge of life and death, forever.
It’s the closest thing to being truly loved that Hannibal’s ever felt.
Hannibal hauls himself from the bed with another weary sigh, resigned to sleeplessness. Will’s bedroom door is shut tight when Hannibal steps out into the hall, a signal of innocence, and Hannibal finds himself smiling. Surely Will can’t think that he’s gotten away with this, does he? Of course not. Will knows better. Hannibal pictures him, past the sturdy wood of his door. Scrubbing at his face as he does when he’s backed himself into a corner, cursing under his breath because he’s missed his chance. Worse still, he knows that Hannibal’s guard has been raised. Poor, poor Will. Maybe next time.
-
Hannibal doesn’t bring up the late-night disturbance, that morning as Will nurses his first cup of coffee. He wants to, of course. Wants to prod at Will’s every thought like pearly teeth and dig into the fleshy gums of him. But the curiosity for what Will might do if he doesn’t speak outweighs the curiosity for if he does.
So Hannibal says nothing. He sits back, plays the observer. Will is haggard, dark around his eyes and more reliant on caffeine than usual. He didn’t sleep well last night— the product of an ill-fated brush with his own murderous tendencies? Hannibal can’t help but wonder.
“You look tired,” Hannibal notes mildly over his own coffee, and glances at Will past the rim. A twinge of discomfort flirts with Will’s features, just for a moment, and then he shrugs.
“I’m an expert at tossing and turning,” Will mutters.
“Is the pain keeping you awake? I can offer you something-”
He’s not surprised when Will shakes his head dismissively. It’d been nearly impossible to give him any kind of medication, even when Will’s wounds were at their most fresh. He wants his wits about him, now that the two of them are alone together again. Ever braced for things to turn violent, never resting in Hannibal’s presence. Hannibal doesn’t doubt that Will’s sleeplessness is due at least in part to him trying to sleep with one eye held stubbornly open.
“It’s not the pain. Just struggling to settle down at night, I guess. My thoughts won’t be still like I want them to.”
Hannibal dares a mischievous smile. “Perhaps you need a more ambitious nightcap, then.”
And Will actually rewards him with a smile of his own, albeit carved with an undeniably lethal edge. “Maybe.”
-
On the second night, Will lingers longer still. The liquor must’ve turned him greedy, prone to impulse. The hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck prickle as he lies, stiff as a corpse, and waits for Will to pounce. A single sliver of light from the hallway blazes down Hannibal’s bedroom wall, offers Will’s shadow a home within the deep brown paint.
Hannibal marinates in the silence, paralyzed but painfully alert. This won’t pass, he thinks. He’d known last night that it was not a fleeting desire that led Will to his bedroom, no temporary phase. He can see the future, now, caught between the threads of his pillowcase. Will is going to haunt him every night, looming like death himself in Hannibal’s threshold until the time comes that he finally deigns to cross over and kill him.
He’ll count himself lucky if the anticipation of it all doesn’t end up killing him first.
As they sit together, floating in the un-eventfullness of it all, Hannibal considers his own role in this upcoming clash between them. He’ll have to fight back, of course. He can’t allow himself to simply lie back and die, his pride won’t allow it. More importantly, Will would never forgive him for it. Killing Hannibal is something he’ll want to earn, Hannibal is certain of that much.
Hannibal frowns to himself, examining a whorl in the wood of his bedside table, and wonders whether he’ll be able to fight when the time comes. It’s difficult for him to imagine a scenario in which he does, but then again there was a time when it was difficult to imagine himself surrendering his freedom for something as banal as love.
After what feels like countless lifetimes spent with bated breath, Hannibal hears Will sigh. It’s heavy, defeated. Hannibal is met with an absurd desire to get up and take him into his arms, to coo sympathetically in his ear and tell him not to lose heart. He will find his nerve, someday. And Hannibal is content to wait until that day arrives.
-
The following afternoon, they sit together on opposite ends of the living room sofa and pretend that nothing is amiss. Will is reading, working his way through an extraordinarily well-loved thriller novel he'd picked up at a secondhand store. Ordinarily this is when Hannibal sees the other man at his most content. It's the only activity Will seems to enjoy that involves being still. In the weeks following their descent, the agonizing string of days in which the two of them could do little more than mend, Will could only pass his time between the pages of a book. He would turn still as a statue, the only signs of life in him were the rapid movements of his eyes and the flicking of his fingers over the pages. Hannibal, in turn, would spend his days watching him, always from a safe distance. Taking in the stiffness of his elbow against the armrest, the slight angle of his neck where he stared down at the text. Hannibal hadn't dared to speak, lest he break the strange spell that’d fallen over his companion. Oftentimes Will would read hundreds of pages in a day, any pain or anger within him swallowed up by something as simple as strokes of ink on paper.
Today, it seems the story has chosen to spit him out instead. He's fidgeting where he sits, shifting every handful of minutes and unable to settle. The flicking of the pages are more infrequent than usual, he occasionally rubs at his face in frustration. It's subtle, really. Not something that would typically be unusual for anyone but Will. Hannibal imagines he only notices it because he knows Will so very well.
He doesn't acknowledge it, at first. Merely sits back and watches in amusement. Time passes, Will becomes more agitated by the moment. It's endearing, in a way, how he tugs idly at the ends of his curls. Cute.
"You're tense," Hannibal observes. Will glances up at him, then back at the book.
"What do I have to be tense about?" he replies dryly.
Hannibal shrugs. "You tell me."
Will purses his lips. He snaps his book closed, uncrosses his legs. "I'm not tense, I'm restless."
"You've been at rest for some time," Hannibal says. The healing process took longer than either of them would've liked, but this particular stretch is the most infuriating by far. They're both in working order, as healed from their near-death as either of them will ever be. But they're weak. Atrophied, poorly-fed, paranoid. Neither has said as much out loud, but they share an unspoken understanding that neither of them trusts the other to leave.
It's only natural, really, that Will should be restless by now. Honestly, Hannibal is surprised that Will's murderous designs took this long to manifest. He's lucky, in a sense, to have spent even this long by his side.
Will huffs sharply, shakes his head. "Temperance is awfully ugly for a virtue, isn't it?" he asks.
Hannibal smiles slightly. "Patience is more palatable, in my experience," he replies. "Tell me, which virtue is controlling you in this moment?"
Will laughs, but it isn't particularly mirthful. He sits back against the sofa, pushes back his curls. "Am I trying to hold back, or just waiting for the right moment?"
Will's knees have fallen in different directions, one of them lies perilously within Hannibal's reach. The urge to place a hand on it makes the tips of his fingers twitch.
"It's an important distinction," Hannibal says, and tears his eyes from where the seam of Will's trousers creeps up his thigh. "The trouble with patience is that the right moment may never come. Not on its own, anyway."
Hannibal catches Will's eye, and Will is staring back at him. There's something trapped in them, Hannibal can see it lurking just beyond his pupils. A heat, a hunger. Hannibal feels the phantom sensation of Will's hands around his neck, and finds himself subconsciously lifting his chin to better put his throat on display. Will swallows, runs the tip of his tongue over the swell of his lower lip. Hannibal watches.
Will stands abruptly, then, rubbing his palm over his mouth. He's red around the ears, Hannibal wants to fit his teeth around them. "Think I'm gonna get some fresh air," Will mutters, tossing his book thoughtlessly onto the end table. He stumbles from the room without another word, and a few moments later Hannibal hears the screen door squeal open, bounce, then settle.
Hannibal smiles, helplessly fond, at the space Will left behind. So close, and yet he can't make himself take that final plunge. Hannibal refuses to force him, though. No, Will has to come to this on his own.
Hannibal will simply wait for him, as long as it takes.
-
It's silent, in the safe house. The sky is heavy with clouds, hiding even the glow of the moon from view. The lights are all out, there is no strip of light creeping in through the gap beneath Hannibal's bedroom door.
Will is a figure painted from shadows, when he opens the door and steps inside. Hannibal doesn't feign sleep this time. He peers through the dark, lying on his back with one arm draped beside his pillow, and watches Will approach. The floorboards sink and complain against his weight with each step, the only sound that can be heard beyond the twin rhythms of their breathing.
Even in the darkness, Hannibal knows that Will is looking back at him. He feels the heat of it on his skin, the rush in his blood. Unable to resist, Hannibal speaks.
"Has your patience run out at last?" he asks, and Will shushes him.
"Don't… Don’t say anything," Will whispers. His voice is gentle, soft. It's the voice of a master just before he has to shoot his beloved rabid dog. Hannibal carves it into his mind, prays that he'll be allowed take his memories with him wherever his soul ends up. Will moves nearer, nearer, until he's standing over the bed. "You'll make me lose my nerve."
And what a pity that would be. Hannibal's gaze flickers over Will's inky silhouette, searching for a glint of steel, the shape of a handgun. Nothing. He intends to kill Hannibal with his hands, just as he always promised.
Without a word, Hannibal sinks into the mattress. He tips his head back, watches Will through lidded eyes. His heart pounds. He never imagined that he'd ever feel this way, so eager to die. But the threat of Will's hands, slowly but firmly eking the life from him, breath by stolen breath— there could be no finer way to meet his end.
Will doesn't move, for a moment. He just stares down at Hannibal, silently considering him. Is he committing this moment to memory, as well? Is this as important to Will as it is to Hannibal?
With a single, smooth motion of his wrist, Will draws back the blanket. Hannibal shivers, not due to exposure but exposure to Will. The mattress dips under new weight when Will kneels over him, warm and real where he straddles Hannibal's thigh.
Every particle around them turns charged, seconds stretch out impossibly in every direction. Will breathes, Hannibal watches his chest rise and fall like the passing of seasons overhead. Hannibal doesn't dare shut his eyes. He wants to see everything, to catch the glimmer in Will's eye as the last dregs of life slip from his grasp. Will seems to brace himself. Hannibal drinks in one slow, final breath. It smells of Will.
Will swoops downward. One of his hands plants itself on the mattress, the other wraps around Hannibal's wrist. The air catches in Hannibal's lungs, and then Will's lips are crashing into his own.
Hannibal freezes, just for a second. Too awed to move. Will's mouth is hungry against his flesh, hot and urgent and questing after Hannibal's answer.
Hannibal sighs into his kiss, parts his lips to let Will in. He thrills, luxuriates in the wet velvet of Will's tongue brushing over his own. He sucks Will's lip into his mouth, nips at it lightly just to feel the meat of it between his teeth. Will growls into the searing space between them. He squeezes Hannibal's wrist, runs his thumb down the length of the raised scar there. Sparks trail down his arm, following in Will's wake.
Will pulls away much too soon. He smears his lips over Hannibal's jaw, mouthing at heated skin until he makes a home for himself in the crook of Hannibal's neck. His fingers find their way into the spaces between Hannibal's own, pinning his hand to the bed in a firm, clinging grip. Needy, his dazed mind supplies. Will is doing this because he needs him.
Hot, damp breaths huff against Hannibal's neck, Will's lips brush loosely over his pulse again and again.
Slowly, almost timid, Hannibal lifts his free hand. His fingers card into Will's hair, hold him in place. Will's body shudders noticeably in response, his weight falls against Hannibal's. His lips press more firmly to Hannibal's throat, he sucks a small patch into his mouth, bites it just hard enough to sting. Hannibal gasps, and he can feel the shape of Will's tired grin against his flesh. Joyous. Relieved. Triumphant.
Hannibal nearly laughs. This was all Will had wanted? If he'd only known, Hannibal would have eased his woes immediately. He would have-
But no. It wasn't his step to take. It was always meant to be Will moving first, Will closing in, Will taking what he desires. It had to happen here. It had to happen now.
It was always supposed to end
just like this.