Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Not for the first time is Hannibal Lecter questioning his move to the United States. When one thrives in the Mediterranean heat and humidity of Italy or the south of France, it is hard to enjoy the crisp September rains that are somehow just as wretched as the frigid January storms that rise up from the Atlantic. In his twenty-eight years, he has never enjoyed the cold. 

He’s aware of how petulant he sounds every time he internally complains, but after spending the last eighteen hours in the operating room overtop a very challenging emergency heart surgery for an eight–year–old girl and having to deal with that self-important, imbecilic Dr. Lloyd the entire time, Hannibal is exhausted, hungry, and he simply does not want to deal with the cold too. 

He would also prefer to simply go home, but alas, he has documents that needed picking up from the crooked lawyer he has under his thumb who handles those particular falsifications. Unfortunately, his office is in a very inconvenient part of downtown, and Hannibal was forced to park several blocks away and walk through the rain to and from. 

A large, invasive droplet splatters across the back of Hannibal’s bare neck and he flinches from the chill.

Two more blocks, he reminds himself. Then home. 

Home. 

It sounds like bliss. 

Hannibal hunches his shoulders to block the rain and pushes himself to walk faster. He’s nearly there. He has leftovers from that irritating shop assistant at the butcher’s ready to reheat. Her kidneys were particularly delicious. 

Hannibal carefully steps over a small lake of water and tries not to side-swipe the filthy brick wall as he does. A large gust of wind hits him directly, wafting the nauseating smell of rotting food from the nearby dumpsters, stale cigarette smoke, and… 

Copper and iron. 

Fresh. 

Blood. 

He stills, arches his neck toward the alleyway, and listens. 

Hannibal hears the sound of not one but two fighting growls in different timbres, followed by the dense crunch of bone under flesh and a huff of lost breath. In this terrible part of town, fights are not uncommon, but Hannibal Lecter is nothing if not curious. Quick as an arrow, he saddles up to the filthy wall, careful his coat doesn’t touch the grime, then peers around the wall at the scene in front of him. 

Two men are furiously struggling near the dumpster, but Hannibal can only see one. He is almost a hulking mass, taller than Hannibal by several inches, and built like an athlete. His clothing is dirty and he smells as if he hasn’t had access to a shower in several weeks. The odor alone brings tears to Hannibal’s eyes. He’s grappling with his opponent with scrappy, uncoordinated movements and hissing vulgarities under his breath, “you little whore, I’ll cut your fucking throat.” 

The large man suddenly goes flying backward with a pained ‘oomph’ noise, staggering and finally falling on his backside into a puddle. A large switchblade, nearly as long and wide as a hunting knife, falls from his meaty hand onto the wet ground with a loud clatter. 

Pleased with this new development, Hannibal turns to cast eyes on the adversary to see what force of life landed that powerful kick, and…

Mercy. 

Humans are not meant to feel the turn of the Earth, nor the way the planet hurdles around the sun in a silent vacuum, but with one glance at him, Hannibal Lecter can feel the freefall through space beneath his feet. This angel can hardly be a day over twenty, with a delicate, seraphic face and a dusting of dark stubble framed by wet, unruly chestnut curls, and eyes the color of the sea during a raging storm. The jeans and flannel shirt may as well be wraps of silk and gold on his small frame. 

Oh, but his eyes… Even at first glance, Hannibal knows this boy is brilliant. He senses a kindred spirit like a shark to blood. This boy, young as he is, has a mind like a labyrinth, an intricate maze of horror that he cannot run from. Horror that frightens him but leaves a stain behind. No doubt this angel feels tainted or defective in this life. Broken. Like a monster. 

He’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing Hannibal has ever seen. 

This young man smells of pine, blood, and fear, but his face is contorted into unrestrained fury. His lips are pulled back over sharp, vicious teeth, and Hannibal watches, transfixed, as a drop of blood trails from the corner of his mouth down the side of his chin. The young angel, slight and wiry as he is, stalks forward with slow, predatory steps toward his prey still lying prone on the ground, his eyes burning with a violence that awakens the monster beneath Hannibal’s skin with a hungry purr. 

The swine (because what else could he be in the presence of this malevolent Demi-God), cries out in rage and moves to lunge for the boy’s legs, but the boy is faster. He sidesteps to the left and allows the swine to fumble, then his stormy eyes flicker down to the discarded blade on the ground. 

Hannibal’s heartbeat quickens. Do it, he silently begs. Let me bear witness to your glory. Give me this gift, and I will give you anything you could ever want. 

Unfortunately, the pig is undeterred, if not more aggravated at being bested a second time—he twists himself up to his feet and delivers a blow to the young man’s cheek, which sends him falling to his side on the dirty alleyway floor. 

Protectiveness is not something Hannibal has felt in nearly two decades now, but it takes a hellish amount of self-control to stay where he is, to not lash out and take his angel’s kill. Hannibal will not let this swine destroy his new treasure. He will intervene if it gets too close, but this wild boy has a blade in his sights and murderous dread in his eyes, and Hannibal wants to see what he’ll do with it. 

The young man coughs and spits out a mouthful of blood onto the pavement and scrambles to his right toward the blade. The swine intercepts him, grabbing him by the collar and trying to haul him up by the throat. His boy’s eyes go wide with terror, rapidly flickering all over the place, then he lets out a strangled noise. He claws at the hands around his throat while he blindly kicks outward and misses completely. His other hand searches for the knife almost frantically and closes around the handle just as the swine pulls him to his feet and slams him up against the alley wall. 

“You gonna cry, bitch?” He slurs in the angel’s face, tightening his grip until the boy whimpers and a few tears begin to trickle down the side of his face. This makes the pig laugh. “You gonna cry real pretty when I carve my fuckin’ name into your back.” The pig draws back his fist and hits the boy so hard his head knocks back against the bricks with a loud thud that curdles Hannibal’s blood, then he tries to grapple for the knife in the boy’s weakening grip. 

Something sharp and dangerous pierces Hannibal’s composure. 

Abandoning his plan in an instant, Hannibal steps out of the shadows with his eyes fixed on his next meal. 

The young man, ever the unpredictable force, throws his head forward for a solid headbutt to the pig’s nose, making him howl with rage and loosen his grip on the blade, which the angel is able to rip out of reach. 

Then, before Hannibal’s eyes, his angel plunges the knife into the man’s stomach, lets out a loud, fierce sound that echoes with divine power and tears, forcing a smile into the pig's repulsive flesh. 

The Devil himself nearly falls to his knees in worship. 

The pig gasps and garbles while his blood falls in rivers down his front. He is staring down at the wild, victorious boy, who is staring back with horror at what he’s just done, overshadowed only by a spark of delightful savagery. Hannibal watches this boy and he wants. He wants more than he’s ever wanted anything before. 

The pig releases him, staggers back, then falls. His stomach is slashed clean open, dripping steadily onto the pavement under him. He will die soon. 

The boy is covered in blood and pressed up against the wall in shock. He takes in large, gasping breaths and his body begins to tremble when he looks at the blade in his hand. He promptly drops it like it’s burned him. His stormy eyes flicker up at Hannibal for the first time and widen considerably with pure dread.

Hannibal though, Hannibal catches that fierce gaze just once and an unfamiliar feeling blooms through his entire body. Unfamiliar and heavy and relentless in its resolute desire to know this boy, to covet him, keep him, dote upon him. There is nothing Hannibal wouldn’t give to keep him, to hide him away from anyone and everything in the world. He wants to be the only thing this boy ever knows. Hannibal wants to belong to this boy as much as this boy belongs to him, and there is no doubt in Hannibal’s mind that this angel, this beautiful, wild, formidable creature with the face of Adonis and the heart of a warrior belongs to him  and him alone.

But there will be time for such things later. Right now, his boy is terrified and wounded, and if he does not engender a sense of dependency now, this angel could run from him. 

Hannibal would follow, of course, but he wants this angel willingly. He will settle for nothing less. 

“Don’t be frightened.” He says in a very tender voice. 

The boy’s face shutters in confusion but he doesn’t speak. 

“I’m a Doctor,” Hannibal offers, taking a careful step forward. The boy jerks like he wants to step away, but the wall prevents him from going anywhere. Hannibal holds up his hands to show he means no harm. “Are you hurt?” 

Blue eyes blink in a rapid sequence, uncertain and afraid, then flicker down to the body on the ground. He lets out a shuddering breath. “I killed him.” 

Lord, his voice. It’s soft and husky with a light Southern drawl that seems to be almost involuntary as if he spends a lot of time hiding it and now that gate has crumbled. He sounds impossibly young, so scared. 

It gives Hannibal a sick sense of pleasure to see this creature so vulnerable. 

The pig is absolutely dead, Hannibal knows this as fact, but he still crouches down and places his fingers on his thick throat, forcing down the smile that pulls at his lips when he feels no pulse. “Yes, you did.”

The young thing lets out a soft sound and collapses back against the wall, sliding down to the ground in a tiny ball, never once taking his frantic eyes off his victim as he stutters; “I don’t… But, he…” He looks to Hannibal almost pleadingly. “H-he attacked me. It was s-self defense.” 

This makes Hannibal frown. Arguably, yes, he is correct, and with a respectable member of society like Hannibal to defend him, it is possible that the boy could get away with that in court, but the brutality of the kill alone, the near savage slash of the man’s abdomen does not scream preservation; it screams murder. 

To Hannibal Lecter, who is already well on his way to clawing his heart right out from between his ribs just to offer it at this angel’s feet, it screams opportunity. 

“This isn’t self-defense. You butchered him.” He explains calmly. 

The boy shakes his head vehemently in denial. “I didn’t mean to.”

It’s a lie, Hannibal knows. Hannibal saw the intent clear as day in the boy’s eyes before he ripped this pig open, saw the way his eyes glittered with passion when the knife sunk in. Naturally, the boy isn’t going to say that out loud. 

And it’s with startling clarity that Hannibal realizes the boy is not afraid of the violence—he’s afraid of how much he enjoyed it. 

Beautiful, wicked boy. 

It’s euphoria. Pure Heaven. 

Careful not to betray his delight, Hannibal looks over the pig with a steady eye. He isn’t even disappointed that he won’t be taking anything from him. As long as this boy remains his, Hannibal will be perfectly satisfied. 

He looks back at the young man, who is almost unnaturally silent. Shock, most likely. “If you choose to tell the police,” Hannibal says, “They will see what you’ve done, and they will arrest you for murder.” 

“If I choose?” He echoes faintly without looking up. 

“Tell me your name.”

“Will.”

Will. 

He is a warrior after all.

“I can help you, Will, if you ask me to. At great risk to my career and my life.” He murmurs, keeping his voice calm as he would to a patient in the ER. “You can tell them you were defending yourself when you gutted this man, or we can hide the body.” 

This time, the boy does look his way. His face is tight with shock but is otherwise vacant. He’s dissociating, retreating into that mind of his, somewhere unreachable. “How could I ever trust you?” 

“Surely you cannot, not so soon. However, that is a risk you must be willing to take if you do not want to end up in prison.” 

Will remains silent, watching with wide, distrustful eyes. 

And as much as Hannibal would love to pry open his skull and crawl inside, they are on a filthy alleyway floor with a fresh corpse, and time is of the essence. He reaches out and puts a comforting hand on Will’s arm, curious about the way that he stiffens under the touch but seems to lean into it all the same. Even the violent shivers wrecking his small form seem to calm under Hannibal’s touch. 

Murderous, starved for affection, and all mine. 

“Shall we start small?” He gently inquires. 

“Small?” 

There is just a glimmer of hope in this boy’s tone, and Hannibal latches onto it like a snake to a field mouse. He offers a kind smile and squeezes Will’s bicep to solidify the beginning of their bond. “Give me one hour of your trust, Will. Could you do that?” 

Several agonizingly long seconds go by and Will just keeps staring at him with that empty, calculating stare. Hannibal wonders how much this beautiful boy really sees when his stormy eyes burn holes into Hannibal’s skin. It goes on so long that the first inkling of doubt begins to settle like a stone in his stomach. He can’t read this boy as accurately as he can read others—he’s too complex. Below his surface, he holds so many secrets that it makes him unpredictable. It’s irritating. It’s vexing. 

It’s glorious. 

Just when Hannibal is about to cut in and remind him of their situation, the unthinkable happens. 

Will’s bright blue eyes suddenly fill with tears, disarming him completely. “Okay.” He whispers. 

Hannibal’s monster crows in triumph. “Yes?” 

His boy nods, slowly at first, then frantically as if worried Hannibal may change his mind. A wounded, frightened sound escapes his throat. “Help me,” He begs, small, broken, and desperate for kindness. “Please help me.”  

As if Hannibal could never say no when his boy begs so prettily. 

“Will, for the next hour, you must do exactly what I say.”

Chapter Text

The car ride is silent, save for the soft orchestral music playing over the speakers and the gravel beneath the road they’re traveling on. 

Will isn’t dissociating anymore, which is promising, but he’s still in a state of shock. He hasn’t spoken a word outside of the occasional acknowledgment when Hannibal gave him an order, and his eyes are fixed out the passenger window, unmoving, barely blinking. His slender body is rigid with tension. He’s afraid, but he’s trying very hard not to show it. Brave, beautiful boy. 

Hannibal keeps his focus on the road in front of them and only spares the occasional glance to his right. Just to look at him. Just to admire. 

Earning Will’s hour of trust proved much trickier than Hannibal initially thought. After explaining to the boy that his car was down the street, he must go retrieve it but he will be right back, so please, do not move from this spot, Will’s panic came back to life with a vengeance. Quite literally, in fact; his already pale face somehow went nearly translucent the moment he registered that Hannibal intended to leave him, but his eyes glinted and flared with such betrayal and rage that for a moment, Hannibal was glad the knife was no longer in reach. 

“We are in a very compromising position, Will,” He said. “It is very late, and while the streets are empty, it would not be wise to carry him, nor leave him here alone. You are also covered in blood. You must stay hidden for now.” 

Hannibal admits that his motives for keeping Will there were not entirely on his behalf; he was curious if their trust went both ways. If Hannibal came back and Will had fled the scene, he would have forgiven him. Taken the pig himself, made his cuts… then he would have looked for Will. What he would do once he located his boy, he could not say or decide. It would most likely be an impulsive decision. 

Oh, but Hannibal miscalculated how deeply set Will’s trust issues ran. He has a strong reluctance to give in to his feelings and fear of abandonment, hence the anger, but Hannibal could see it. His boy had jerked like he wanted to free his arm that was still clasped in his grip, but stronger men have tried and failed. Hannibal held on tight, not tight enough to leave bruises or frighten him, just enough to ground him. 

“I will come back. I’m coming back for you, Will.” He vowed, keeping the boy’s eyes locked with his own. “You’ve given me your hour of trust. I will not break it.” 

The boy hadn’t believed him but seemed to realize that Hannibal had every intention to walk away from this scene, so he did as he was told. It had almost physically hurt Hannibal to walk away, but needs must and all that.

It was worth it in the end. When Hannibal parked his car right in the alley and rounded the corner, the expression that dawned across Will’s beautiful face was worth everything. His teary blue eyes widened, his lips parted ever so slightly and he gazed up from the dirty alleyway, disbelief, and raw vulnerability written all over his lovely face and broke Hannibal’s heart with just four words uttered with such devastating wonder: 

“You really came back.” 

Hannibal wonders how many people in this boy’s life had made a similar promise, only to disappear. 

It tore him in half and is still tearing at him now. One side of Hannibal is pleased that so many people have let Will down because it leaves more room for Hannibal to plant roots of dependency and allows him to alienate this beautiful wild thing from the rest of society that would term him a monster and put him down like a rabid dog. Hannibal would rather keep this treasure all to himself. 

The other side, the one that is half-mad with devotion already, wants to know who would ever be able to abandon this brilliant creature so willingly. He wants to know how they would taste.

In the end, he hadn’t said anything of the sort. He simply offered his hand and said: “I told you I would.” 

Will didn’t reply, he simply sat there staring like he couldn’t quite believe it, but it was his eyes that told Hannibal what he needed to know, which was that he had this boy’s trust now. 

His hour had begun. There was little time to waste. 

It went smoothly after that; they had loaded the body onto the tarp in the trunk of Hannibal’s car in under three minutes and Will hadn’t fought him (beyond a quick, paranoid little glance) when he instructed him to get into the passenger seat. 

Then? Well… 

Hannibal glances at the boy out of the corner of his eye, finding that he’s sat as still as a statue, looking out the window with a keen, attentive focus that is barely dulled by the glassy, dissociated look on his face. 

It occurs to Hannibal, almost delightfully, that Will is sweeping his eyes across the road, taking in the landmarks and street signs as they disappear out of the city of Baltimore. He may trust Hannibal to help him bury a body and possibly even keep his word, but ultimately he got into the car with a strange man and wants to keep a sharp eye out in case he needs to fight his way out or make a run for it. 

Clever boy. 

They haven’t spoken a word since they began their drive, and before Hannibal can stop himself, he breaks the silence with: “What is your last name, Will?” 

His head turns a fraction of an inch toward the sound but doesn’t actually look. “Why?” 

“Curiosity, I suppose.” 

“I don’t even know your name.” Will grumbles back. His voice has changed, that delectable Southern drawl replaced by crisp Atlantic vowels, solidifying Hannibal’s deduction that the accent slip from earlier was not intentional. 

“Hannibal.” He replies easily. There’s no point in lying or giving an alias. Not now. 

Will scoffs. “Of course it is.” 

Hannibal cocks his head while a tiny smile pulls at his lips. Will’s rudeness is striking and, if he were anyone else, would not go unpunished by a blade, but instead of the flare of indignation that generally accompanies blatant discourtesy, Hannibal’s body feels like he’s touched a live wire. Wicked, rude, beautiful boy. 

The boy’s face has gone a little pink, even if he’s not looking at Hannibal at all, and he clears his throat before uttering out in a well–mannered, timid voice: “It’s Graham, sir.” 

Will Graham. 

It suits him well, almost impossibly so. Two syllables, like the double–beat of a human heart. Will Graham. Will Graham. Will Graham.

“How old are you, Will?” 

“How old are you?” 

“How old do you assume I am?” 

“Too young to be a fully licensed doctor.” He doesn’t say this with skepticism, it is just a remark he felt the need to say, but nonetheless, it has Hannibal silently preening as if it were praise. 

“Normally you would be correct,” He concedes happily. “I’m twenty–eight.” 

“Advanced placement?” 

“If you’d like.” 

There is a long pause, and then Will lets out a sigh. “I’ll be twenty–one in June.” 

So, he had been correct. Barely a day over twenty, his boy. “A student then?” He asks with sincere interest, pulling a wordless nod from Will. “What are you studying?” 

“Do you ask this many questions to every person you let into your car?” He snaps back. “Or am I special because I… because of what I did?” 

Oh, his anger is lovely too. Thrilling in a way it shouldn’t be. 

“I would say that makes you a special case, yes.” Hannibal takes a deep breath to release some of the emotion coursing through his veins. “Tell me what happened between you and the poor man in the trunk.” 

There is a very long pause. So long, in fact, that Hannibal begins to think that Will simply won’t tell him at all until he finally swallows down his trepidation and speaks in that same soft, Southern voice; “I caught him trying to roofie a girl’s drink at the bar. Told him off, he got kicked out. Guess he was real angry at me. He waited until I left. Followed me. He wanted to…” He cuts off around an audible swallow and his Earthy teakwood scent goes sour with fear. 

Clearly, the pig in the trunk intended to do more than just sink his knife into Will Graham’s chest. 

“Well,” Will adds shakily. “You saw the rest.” 

“I saw you kill him.” 

“He was trying to kill me.” 

“I know. Thankfully, he did not succeed.” And thankfully, you did. “You were courageous to fight back.” 

This time, Will’s pause seems almost involuntary like his accent slips, as if he’s afraid to agree or disagree, for the sake of his character in a stranger’s eyes, no matter what Hannibal has said. To confirm this thought, he follows up with a bitter retort: “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Naturally.” 

Will Graham is at a crossroads. There was no mistaking the spark the boy felt tearing into the man who got too close, but now that it’s over he’s sinking lower and lower into that pit of self-hatred for indulging and delighting in such an egregious sin. 

This lost, lonely creature thrives in his solitude but yet there is a fire inside that yearns to spread to the dry brambles of humanity and normalcy. Searching for contact. Connection. Understanding. 

And acceptance. 

Acceptance of something inside of him that fears and never wants to acknowledge. 

Hannibal taps his thumb almost restlessly against the steering wheel. He wants to pry more, to learn this boy inside and out, but he’s smart enough to sense a retreat coming, should he push too far. Will may look calm, cold, and calculating, but Hannibal sees the way his hands tremble against his thighs and how tightly his jaw is locked. He’s surprised Will’s temporal tendons haven’t snapped from the pressure. 

“If you don’t want to discuss what occurred tonight, and you are reluctant to reveal more about yourself, what shall we talk about?” Hannibal finally says, keeping his tone light and nearly teasing. 

Will lets out an annoyed huff. “I don’t understand why we have to talk at all.” 

Oh, that sharp tongue of yours. 

“And yet, you continue to answer me.” He glances at the boy with a knowing grin. “Look at us both.” 

And finally, finally, Will Graham turns his head and meets Hannibal’s eye. It doesn’t take a genius–level intellect to know he’s being sized up, and Hannibal actually relishes the way Will bristles under his attention, yet he doesn’t bother to argue things he knows are correct. 

You are going to be my greatest adventure, and I am determined to be yours. 

That icy gaze lasts seconds before Will is turning away again, and Hannibal takes it as a small but definitive win. 

“What are we going to do with him?” Will asks after a moment. 

“There are plenty of wooded areas nearby that would be suitable for burial.” Hannibal answers with ease. “There is a small shovel in the trunk that we can use.” 

“Then what?” 

“I will take you to my home where you may clean up and change clothes. I will treat whatever injuries you sustained if you will allow me. From there it will be your choice.” He hopes that by the time they reach home, Will Graham will trust him enough to stay a little longer, but that requires Hannibal to play his card correctly. He is rather good at cards, though he expects Will to be just as good. 

His boy hums dubiously, then says in that increasingly lovely Southern drawl: “There’s small choice in rotten apples.” 

Hannibal’s heart skips a few beats. His boy knows classic literature at last a little, which is rather dangerous for Hannibal’s health at the moment. “A fan of Shakespeare, are you, Will?” 

He shrugs, not offering anything else. 

Satisfied regardless, Hannibal grins, then gestures out the window toward a mostly hidden back road that he has used once or twice to rid himself of… baggage. “We will turn off here.” 

_________________

“Sit here, please.” 

Will, who up until this point, has been staring around the walls of Hannibal’s upscale Baltimore home like he’s strolling through Buckingham Palace itself, turns to him with an almost comical expression on his face. He feels himself out of place, and it has nothing to do with the blood and mud coating his clothes and skin—Will doesn’t think he belongs here, could ever belong here in Hannibal’s house. “W–what?” 

Hannibal can help his smile. He’s precious. “Please,” he says, patting the dining room chair that he has decorated with a towel to keep it protected while he checks Will’s body for injuries. 

Will crosses the room slowly and obediently sits down, keeping his gaze averted. He’s barely looked at Hannibal since they finished in the woods. Not that Hannibal expects anything but, at least for the moment. 

The actual disposal did not take as long as Hannibal initially thought. Will is quick on his feet and good with his hands, so they were able to make a shallow–but–not–too–shallow grave for Mr. James Vaughan in a reasonable amount of time. Hannibal found his wallet and his state identification cards, which he has taken to destroy later. By the contents alone, Hannibal was able to determine that Vaughan was a less–than appreciated character, and given his actions tonight, nobody will be looking for him. No one to miss him. Perfect. 

With that in mind, Hannibal turns his attention to Will Graham. He asks a series of clinical questions (which Will answers in short, single syllables), takes his blood pressure, and shines a penlight in both of his pretty blues to check for concussion. He has defensive wounds on his hands that Hannibal cleans but does not bother to dress right away. His boy needs a shower still. 

All while he works, Will barely stirs. He allows the check–up with begrudging silence, but every now and again, Hannibal will look up to find Will staring back, only to look away the moment Hannibal catches him. He’d do anything to know what’s going on inside his head, but silent he stays. There will be time. 

Once he’s satisfied that Will is unhurt beyond a few split knuckles and a few bruises, Hannibal stands and thinks over the appropriate way to handle the next task. 

“I am aware that my hour of trust has ended,” He says as he takes off his gloves and picks up a large black trash bag from the floor. “Am I allowed to ask for an extension?”

Will narrows his eyes in confusion, but seems more curious than distrustful. 

Hannibal offers him a polite, apologetic smile. “I would prefer to keep as much evidence contained to one area as possible, but that requires you to remove your clothing here. I will turn my back, you have my word.” 

Will’s eyes go a little wide and his body tenses slightly, but, to Hannibal’s joy, he simply nods and gets to his feet. Hannibal wordlessly hands over the trash bag and turns his back, as promised. He even closes his eyes for good measure, lest he accidentally catches sight of Will’s naked body in one of the several reflective surfaces in the room. He is, first and foremost, a gentleman, and he would never take advantage like that. 

He hears the sound of fabric sliding over skin, and finally the crinkling of the plastic bag and says: “There is a shower upstairs. Second door on the right. The door locks from the inside if you would feel more comfortable that way. I will bring you a change of clothes and leave them on the floor outside for when you have finished.” 

“Okay.” Will replies softly. 

And then, he runs. Literally runs from the room, and Hannibal waits until he hears the boy’s feet on his stairs before he turns back around to continue cleaning up. Unfortunately, Will’s clothes are a lost cause, having spent too much time in the dirt and James Vaughan’s blood, so Hannibal disposes of the bloodied wrappings and the clothes as quickly as he can. 

He finds clothes for Will which consist of a dark sweater and a pair of jeans that Hannibal has only worn once. He takes them upstairs, places them on the floor outside the bathroom as promised, and knocks twice on the door to inform Will that the clothes are there. 

Afterward, he travels into his own room and takes a brisque but thorough shower himself. He washes the grit from his hands and the rain from his hair, and by the time he’s out and dressed, the upstairs shower has stopped, but there is no sign of Will. His wallet and keys are still where he left them at the end of Hannibal’s dining table and Hannibal would have heard the door shut if he left. 

Frowning, Hannibal ascends the stairs again. There is only silence coming from inside the guest bathroom, but the clothes are gone. He’s still inside. 

He knocks twice. “Will?” 

There’s a pause, then a sigh, and a desolate sounding ‘yeah’ as an acknowledgment. 

Taking that as an okay, he pushes the door open and finds his boy at the sink, braced over the tap with both hands on the counter while he appears unable to stop staring into the eyes of his own reflection. 

Hannibal has to take a moment to breathe at the sight of Will wearing his clothes. The sweater is large and hangs off his small frame, and the jeans are just as loose, the denim pooling around his bare ankles. Will has used the bar soap he provided, which smells of musk and crisp ocean air that pairs well with Will’s natural scent of teakwood and autumn leaves. Traces of Hannibal’s cologne linger on the fabric, and their combined scents create an almost intoxicating fragrance in the small, steamy room. 

Mercy, Hannibal thinks. He’s ethereal. 

“Will.” He tries again, softer this time. “Are you—”

“I killed someone.” He blurts, his voice fragile like glass. Will swallows hard and hangs his head. “He was… bad, but… but he was a person.” 

“Yes.” Hannibal agrees, not missing his boy’s flinch. “A man accustomed to violence and cruelty. I would wager his atrocious behavior tonight was likely not his first attempt.” He takes a step closer and places his hand on Will’s shoulder, causing the boy to look over at him with closely concealed desperation. “The way I see it, Will, you may have saved more lives than you took.” 

His eyes narrow. “You’re glad I killed him.” The accusation is loud and glaring. 

“What would be the alternative? That he killed you?”

“Why do you care?” Will bites back. He jerks away to rid himself of Hannibal’s touch out of petulance instead of suspicion and lowers his voice to a growl. “Why did you really help me?” 

Because you belong to me, even if you do not know it yet. Because that pig tried to take you away from me before I even had a chance to know you, and I will not allow it to happen again. 

Because I look at you and I see myself. A mirror image, the other side of my coin. Because I see you. 

He can’t say that, of course, not a word of it, not yet. 

Instead, Hannibal takes another step into Will’s space, forcing the boy to look up at him. He holds his gaze and tells him another truth that he knows the boy needs to hear. “Because though you are fiercely independent and thoroughly capable on your own, had I left you alone, the police wouldn’t have looked at his death as anything less than murder. And, because I may have only met you this evening, but I can tell that you are a very bright young man. Brave in the face of fear, trembling under the weight of your righteous compassion.” 

And Will, sweet, dangerous, beautiful Will Graham, he hangs off of Hannibal’s every word. His angry expression melts into disbelief as if he’s never heard something like that before. Perhaps he hasn’t. 

“So, you see, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, leaning just that little bit closer. “Prison would be an unfortunate hindrance to your potential.” 

Will’s breath hitches. His eyes are blown wide with something dark and fearful, but there’s a distinctly rosy tint to his cheeks that was not there before. Hannibal studies his beautiful face, knowing that he’s affecting the boy quite a lot with his presence, yet he doesn’t pull back. 

Neither does Will. 

The moment stretches between them for several minutes; Will doesn’t seem to know where to look while Hannibal can’t look away. 

Finally, though, he smiles and takes a step back. He holds out a hand. “Come with me.” 

Will startles back to reality, blinking rapidly as if batting his eyelashes to clear the fog. “Where?” 

“My kitchen.” He replies simply. “I would like to offer you something to at before you go.” 

Slowly, as if afraid it will burn him, Will takes his hand. 

To Hannibal, it feels like a victory.