Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The road is long.

This is the only thing that Will is aware of, the road is long and he has somewhere to be. No, not the only thing. There is a presence behind him, and he knows what it is without looking. A great Beast, a Stag that breathes heavily against his wrist as it noses into his hand. Will finally stops, staring at the golden thread leading him through the winding path of the road.

The road is long, but he can see the light at the end of it now. Only the light is moving closer, white and blinding and piercing through his head even as he stands still. Red and blue began to filter in, dancing. The scene coalesces quickly, coming together as the world snaps back into place.

Will wakes up standing upright, disoriented, and raises a hand to block the blinding headlights of the cop car as it rolls to a stop in front of him. Two cops get out, one of them flicking on his flashlight as they approach.

“You lost?” the one with the light asks. He sounds suspicious, wary, and he can’t blame him really. He remembers being a beat cop, before he made it past the detective’s exam. Will thinks he must mutter some kind of response, but his focus only recenters when the man asks again, “What’s your name?”

“Will Graham,” he manages. His mouth feels like chalk, and tastes slightly coppery, the way it always does when too dry.

The light finally lowers, the cop looking at his partner before he says, “Do you know where you are, Mr. Graham?”

On a road, in a forest, Will thinks sarcastically, sharply, in the middle of fucking nowhere.

He doesn’t say it, but he’s tempted for a moment. Instead he only shakes his head with a sharp hum of denial. He’s cold, he realizes. Freezing, actually, and fuck do his feet hurt. He fell asleep in his boxers and a tee shirt, like normal, and he regrets it now. Idly, he remembers that Alana had showed up while he’d been in the same thing, and wonders if he should start wearing pants to bed.

Like he did when he stayed at Hannibal’s.

His friendship with Hannibal Lecter was an odd thing, he could recognize; Will was an introvert at best and ragingly, concerning asocial at worst. Occasionally, he wondered if he might have some form of enochlophobia. Not agoraphobia, because he rather preferred wide, open spaces; a fear of crowds was more accurate, but really, he just didn’t like people.

Hannibal was different, though. He had slipped into Will’s life with an ease that would have been startling and almost worrying, if it hadn’t felt so right. After Hannibal had rubber stamped his psych eval, the man had informed Will in simple terms that Jack Crawford had already been informed he would not be seeing the empath as a patient. Because I have no interest in a doctor-patient relationship with you, Will, he had said when he asked why, My intentions lie in a much different nature. I would like to have you for dinner, to get to know you better.

And Will had said yes. Not many people were interested in being his friend, after all, and it was… nice that not only did Hannibal seek companionship from him, but that he was so frank and open about it, too.

“-Mr. Graham?”

“What?” he mumbles, returning to the moment sharply, unsteady and shivering.

“Where do you live?” the cop repeats patiently.

Will swallows, trying to wet his lips and tongue enough to speak despite the way the cold air burns his lungs, “Wolf Trap, Virginia.”

The answer has the two cops looking at each other in concern once more.

“That’s a little worrying, but you’ll be alright,” the second cop finally speaks, his voice softer but deeper than his partner, “We’re about a mile outside of College Park, Maryland. Is that yours?”

Will looks down, surprised to find Winston at his feet, sitting patiently. He immediately crouches, his dog sniffing at his face worriedly as he murmurs soft soothing things to the dog.

“Do you have someone we can call for you, Mr. Graham?” the first cop asks and Will blinks up at him. He nods before pausing.

“I don’t… I have someone I can call, but I don’t have my phone on me. I don’t know where it is.”

The second cop, who Will decides he likes more than the first, immediately fishes out his phone and hands it to Will. “Here,” he says, sounding worried, “How about you sit in the back of the cruiser and make that call?”

Will nods, letting himself be guided to the back of the cop car, Winston settling across his lap with a distressed whine. He pats the mutt’s head consolingly and punches Hannibal's phone number into the borrowed phone. He’s not sure when he memorized his friend’s phone number, but he must have because he recalls it so easily.

Once the phone begins to ring, he swallows and lifts it to his ear.

It takes until the third ring before Hannibal’s sleep-laden voice comes through, “Hannibal Lecter. Who is this?”

“My feet hurt,” Will says impulsively, the thought lingering pointedly at the front of his mind. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before correcting, “Sorry, uh, it’s Will. I’m… I’m using the cop’s phone, I think mine is still at home? I’m not, um, not entirely sure.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. It’s probably embarrassing to be calling Hannibal at all. Maybe he should have just asked the cops to take him home, instead.

There’s wild shuffling on the other side of the call, like Hannibal is hurrying out of bed and trying to get dressed. “Where are you? What happened?” He asks quickly, a little panicked. “Are you hurt, my dove?”

Hannibal does that, sometimes. Calls him sweet things, sometimes in English and sometimes in another language. It must be a European thing, Will knows, but it reminds him of the older ladies and gentlemen back in the Deep South who always went around, replacing names with pet names no matter your relation or lack thereof.

“They said near College Park, Maryland? I don’t know where that is, honestly,” Will answers his friend, chest and stomach light with fondness and warmth that his friend is so worried, “Um, I don’t know. I don’t think so? My feet hurt from crossing state lines barefoot and I’m colder than the devil’s dick, but I think I’m okay. Winston followed me, I bet he protected me. Didn’t you, boy?”

While there are still clear sounds of the older man hurrying to get prepared, he does manage a relieved chuckle at that. “I should be there within the hour, at most. Will you be alright until then, širdelė?”

“I’ll ask them to take me to the station, so you can find me,” Will says immediately. He doesn’t know why, but there’s something so… soothing about Hannibal. Something that sets him on edge, at times, but the same thing that lurks under his skin and sets off warning alarms is the thing that makes him feel weirdly safe.

Which is certainly odd and novel, because he’s a man in his late 30’s who used to be a cop and keeps a shotgun by his front door. He’s not used to the feeling of being protected or kept safe by another person. He can’t tell for sure, but if he’s honest, he thinks he likes it. Just a bit.

“I think I’ll be alright. I have Winston. I’m just… tired.”

Hannibal hums, uncertain. “Maybe you should stay with me after this?” he offers kindly, warmly, like Will deserves the world from him.

Will bites his lip, considering. “I don’t know, I don’t want to bother you. You’re already coming this far for me.”

But it would make the drive longer if he took him home. Will was certainly closer to Baltimore than he was Wolf Trap, considering he was in Maryland and not Virginia. And he is tired and sore, and maybe if he lets his friend take him home, he can get him to feed him in the morning before he has work.

“Alright,” he relents, “but only if you really don’t mind.”

“Do I ever?” Hannibal teases fondly, a soft laugh accompanying it. “I’ll be there soon, I promise.” And with that he hangs up, always ready to do anything for Will, it seems.

Will pushes the door of the car open and gives the phone back to the cop. “Can you take me to the police station in town?” he asks, “My friend is going to pick me up from there.”

“Are you on any drugs?” the first cop asks, even as the other starts nodding. Jesus Christ, he’s going to bitch about him to Hannibal, purely because his friend has the funniest reactions and Will is so tired that he can’t be bothered not being rude. He shakes his head and mutters a no, but the cop only continues. “Alcohol?”

“No. Yes- but only two fingers of whiskey before I went to bed,” Will says shortly before the second cop mercifully ushers his partner into the car.

The ride to the police station is awkward and tense, but blissfully silent. When they get there, Will is given a thin, plasticky shock blanket and directed to a chair in the lobby. Winston lays at his feet and he drifts, head tipped back against the wall. He doesn’t doze, tired but not on the verge of passing out. He just drifts, the world going out of focus and becoming hazy as he sits.

It’s kind of peaceful, actually; everything feels muted, and he feels detached from his own body and the cold, the ache in his feet and the truly horrific feeling of the shock blanket he has over his lap purely because he doesn’t feel like the whole precinct seeing him in his underwear. The drifting haze helps him avoid that sensory nightmare, at least. So he sits and stares through the fog, mind blissfully silent, while he waits for Hannibal.

When his friend finally enters the precinct, he goes straight for Will and Winston. “Oh, my dove,” he commiserates. The older man is dressed choppily, in a way Will has never seen before, in only a pair of slacks and a white button up that isn’t buttoned all the way. He has a large jacket that he takes off with ease to bundle Will into. “I brought socks and slippers for you, as well.”

Will blinks back out of the fog, all too happy to leave the hellish shock blanket in a crumpled pile on the chair as he lets Hannibal guide him out of the police station.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, swallowing roughly. Hours of walking and breathing in cold air had not been kind to his throat, leaving it raw. He sees the blanket folded neatly and sitting on the passenger seat when they get to Hannibal’s car. He can’t help the fond, pleased sigh he lets out, “Hannibal.”

The blanket is Will’s favorite, always artfully draped over the back of the sofa in the parlor when he visits, like it was the first time he’d seen it. It was some kind of fleece wool, but the proper soft kind and not the scratchy wool. It was stupidly soft and smooth against skin and he always found himself stealing it at least once a visit to lay over his lap. Even if it made him too warm because he and Hannibal were sharing a glass of wine or whiskey together in front of the fireplace. He hadn’t realized that his friend noticed how much he liked it.

Hannibal hums softly, opening the door for him. “Sit, I’ll put your socks on, širdelė.” His voice is filled with concern, clear as day, even if there is a touch of amusement to it. He lets Winston into the back as Will gets situated and offers a treat he really shouldn’t. “Good boy, keeping Will safe. I’ll give you more at home.”

“You’ve got to stop spoiling them,” Will sighs. He sits and thinks about protesting Hannibal’s offer - order, really - but decides not to. No one really thought of Hannibal as some who fretted, but Will found that his friend was practically a broody mother hen. It was just easier to let him have his whims.

He sheds Hannibal’s coat, as nice as it is, and picks the blanket up. He wraps it tight around his upper body and rubs his face against it for a moment. Finally he continues once more, “I sleepwalked across state lines tonight. I don’t have a history of sleepwalking, Hannibal, and I barely had a single drink before bed. I don’t-” his voice falters, ever so slightly, and he hopes that his friend doesn’t hear it even knowing that he does. “I don’t even know if I’m awake now.”

Hannibal kneels in front of him to gently brush away debris, apologizing whenever Will makes a noise or flinches. When he gently slips the socks over Will’s feet, it’s with a deep frown. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a hospital, darling?” he asks, looking up one he’s done, with one hand lingering on Will’s shin. “I could take you.”

Will shakes his head almost before Hannibal is done talking, wincing when his head flares with a sudden headache.

“No, it’s fine,” he insists. He hesitates before reaching out and cupping Hannibal’s jaw, pinky curving under his chin. He’s still adjusting to the casual affection Hannibal offers him and isn’t sure if he’s doing it right, but he wants to reassure his friend. “I’m fine, I’ve been hurt worse. Walking will probably just suck for a couple days, but I’ll get over it. Thank you for picking me up, but I’m really tired.”

Hannibal, who had looked ready to argue, leans into Will’s hold instead, eyes fluttering closed pleasantly at the touch. He stays there, kneeling between Will’s legs and greedily soaking up the affection for a short moment before sighing in defeat. “Fine, but I’m not letting you off the hook, Will. Stay with me for a few nights? Just to be safe. I can go take care of the dogs during the day.”

Will sighs. The offer is tempting but…

“I still have work, Hannibal. Jack won’t just let me off the hook because my unconscious body took a stroll. And you have work, too, patients,” he points out, ushering his friend up, “Come on, stop kneeling on the dirty parking lot ground. You’ll just make us both even colder at this rate.”

Hannibal rolls his eyes, a rare display of rudeness he only really lets Will see, and stands. “Sleeping at my house doesn’t stop us from our daily activities, Will,” he points out right back, if a little sad. He gently closes the door for Will before climbing into the driver’s seat.

“My working hours are also far more flexible than you seem to think,” he adds once they’re on the road to his home. “I really wouldn’t mind, širdelė. Please? For my peace of mind?”

“You’d have to drive me everywhere, or at least to my car,” he says, but he can already feel his resolve crumbling. Nights he spends at Hannibal’s have fewer nightmares and he always finds it a little easier to handle Jack and the job the day after. He isn’t sure why, but it’s admittedly very nice. Soothing. He slumps back against the seat, tilting his head into the rest. “Fine, fine. You win. Have I told you you’re incorrigible?”

Hannibal hums smugly, smiling wider now. “A few times already, yes,” he admits, though he doesn’t sound guilty at all. And then, just to be cheeky, he adds, “I’d have to drive you back tomorrow, anyhow.”

Will looks down at his bare legs peeking out from the soft blanket and the smooth, not at all itchy socks Hannibal had brought him. He wondered if they were handmade, because he swears there’s no seam.

“Ah,” he says eloquently, “I… forgot about that. I think I might need to start wearing pants to bed. You know, Alana caught me dressed like this, too. It was… awkward. I don’t think her comment about brothers helped as much as she wanted it to, either.”

He snorts slightly, muttering great car for stalking under his breath. It hadn’t been a funny joke when she said it, and it wasn’t really now either. But he likes the fit of the words on his tongue and he’s tired enough to indulge.

Hannibal doesn’t seem to find it funny, either, hands tightening on the wheel as his shoulders tense. He looks as though he wants to ask ‘She should know better by now, shouldn’t she?’ and yet doesn’t. “Anything I should be concerned about, my dove?”

“Hybrid cars are apparently very quiet?” Will laughs, closing his eyes and digging his fingers into the blanket. “Nah, it was when she came to tell me Abigail was awake. She caught me having morning coffee on the porch with the dogs so I put some pants on before she came in to talk. But until this sleepwalking resolves, maybe I should be… preemptive about it.”

He drifts off before he can hear Hannibal’s response, too tired to try and stay awake to listen.

Hannibal wakes first, which isn’t very surprising, but the sun is already higher than it usually is by the time he normally rouses. It’s not a problem, certainly not with the warm weight latched onto him and a head of curls tucked into the crook of his neck like it belongs there.

Will Graham is a creature of beauty, with fangs and teeth like a collar pointed outwards. He reminds Hannibal of a sheepdog with the large, spiked collars to keep predators away from his neck.

And yet.

He lets Hannibal close, allows him to touch when others he would bite, even relaxes under his hands.

It feels almost holy, the way he willingly gives into Hannibal, feeding the greedy beast under his tightly woven human suit and even, at times, seeming to acknowledge it. It feels intoxicating when he does, with those beautiful, storm blue eyes that threaten to tear him apart should he make the wrong move.

It’s worth it, because Will is so forgiving.

Hannibal runs a few fingers up and down the younger man’s back, tracing and counting the vertebrae there. It feels a bit like having an angel in his bed, a dove fallen straight from heaven and into his bed. He wants to trap his lover here forever.

Will stirs on his chest with a grumble, squeezing him and burying his face between Hannibal’s pecs further for a moment before relaxing as his eyes flutter open. He always wakes the same way, tensing and then relaxing. He rolls off of the older man, still within his hold but more on the bed below them now.

“Sorry,” he says, like he does every time.

The first time Hannibal had invited him to bed - just to sleep, because it was abundantly clear Will wasn’t ready for more yet - the younger man had been dreadfully embarrassed, both falling asleep beside him and waking up wrapped so tightly around him. It had been horribly adorable. Even now, he was still so shy and easily flustered in the mornings.

He was certain that most who looked upon him, who coveted him like Alana and his own students, would not expect the biting, distant man to be such a bashful lover. And none would know it either, as long as Hannibal had a say about it.

He turns on his side to chase Will a bit, today, still concerned about what had happened a few hours earlier. “Don’t be so concerned, Will,” he whispers, slipping a hand into the man’s hair. “Stay close, please?”

He would prefer biting and demanding it, even if the younger man hates him for it, but Will has always responded quite nicely to affection and honesty. It was how he’d been able to take Will for dinner that first time, after all, and all the many times afterwards.

Feeding Will long pork at nearly every meal had been invigorating, especially now that his lover had started developing a taste for it. Hannibal wonders how much longer until he can put a knife in Will’s hand and ask him to prepare the meat for dinner in the basement.

He’ll wait, of course. The older man has always been patient.

“Let me hold you, my dove?”

Will leans into him with a put upon sigh that anyone could tell was false and exaggerated. Leaning back into Hannibal’s hold, he says, “Did me sleepwalking really scare you that much?”

Hannibal hums back, pulling Will closer before tilting them over so he lays over the younger man this time around. It’s easier to hear his heart this way, and to make sure he can entrap his lover here with him. “Stay here today.”

Will huffs a laugh, lightly hugging him and patting his back like one would a fussy child. If it were anyone else, he would be offended. “I don’t have any classes today,” he starts, an acknowledgment that makes hope rise through the older man, “but Jack is expecting me. Do you want to tell him I’m not helping with the case today? Because I sure don’t.”

It’s clearly a joke. And yet-

Hannibal sits up and grabs his phone from the nightstand, staring Will in the eyes as he dials Jack. “Jack, this is Hannibal Lecter. No. I’m letting you know Will won’t be coming in today,” he says quickly, barely registering the Chief’s actual replies as he snaps the phone shut.

Straddling Will’s lap, happily looking down at his shocked lover. “Good enough?”

Will stares up at him in absolute bewilderment, but Hannibal can see his ears tinge pink. He’s flustered as well. He looks good enough to eat like this, in more than one way; mouth parted, blue eyes wide and clear as ice so early in the morning, in one of Hannibal’s sweaters he had leant him after they returned home and the younger man had showered. The neckline is wide on him, because although Will is only a few inches shorter, Hannibal is much broader and well muscled. It all means that the odd center neckline of the sweater has left his collarbones and the junction of shoulder and neck visible and tantalizing.

Will looks down right sinful; it’s a shame that Hannibal has already decided to be so patient.

“Hannibal, you did not just do that,” his lover musters up, flabbergasted.

Hannibal chuffs in displeasure and lays back down to bite playfully at his lover’s collarbone. “Your phone isn’t here,” he points out smugly, pressing his nose under Will’s jaw. “He can’t reach you. And my phone is on silent, my dove. Stay?”

His affectionate nip earns him a beautiful gift: Will’s entire face goes pink, strained, and he lets out an honest-to-god strangled squeak. It’s delightful enough that he isn’t expecting it when the pillow under Will’s head disappears only to swing through the air and smack him.

“Hannibal!” Will shouts, surprised and flustered and laughing, hiding his face under the pillow once it has proved his point.

The older man can’t help the laugh that drags out of him, shifting up and back onto his side, off of his skittish lover. “What?” he asks, despite knowing exactly what he’s done.

“Don’t what? me, Hannibal, you know what you did,” Will huffs, exasperated and smacking him with the pillow again lightly before tucking it under his head. “Incorrigible.”

After a moment’s pause, the younger man switches topics and says, gentler, “Jack is going to be upset tomorrow, but thank you. I honestly didn’t want to go in or be made to dwell in someone else’s emotions on so little sleep. And thank you for picking me up last night. This morning. Whatever. I have no idea how I managed to cross state lines without getting hit, honestly.”

Hannibal watches him for a moment before reaching up to tuck stray curls away gently. “Likely Winston kept you safe,” he says softly, resting his hand over Will’s heart. “I’m glad you called me, Will. Are you sure you wouldn’t want to look into this?”

“It’s stress, or poor sleep,” Will disregards, waving the concern away. It’s frustrating and endearing in equal measure, his lack of self-preservation. “You know, the nightmares. Or the case. Have I told you about it? It’s…” His lover sighs heavily, “It’s not a pleasant one. When is it ever? But he’s, ah, turning them into angels to watch over him while he sleeps.”

Hannibal frowns and digs his fingers in, just a little bit. “Jack Crawford disregards your well-being enough that you don’t have to, as well,” he points out, rather irritated with the BAU Chief. “You need breakfast and coffee, Will. Not more of what he’ll do to you.”

Will makes a quiet sound, squirming under his hand, but relents. “Well, since I’m not going into work today, breakfast and coffee does sound pretty good,” he says, “Should probably let Winston out, too.”

He does so love to watch the younger man squirm like this, harmlessly, not even trying to escape Hannibal’s grasp for long. It makes him feel like the cat who caught the canary. He gentles his hold and uses his hand to lift himself. Kneading a kiss onto Will’s temple, he asks, “Anything in mind you would like, Will?”

Usually he wouldn’t ask, simply cook, but his sweet lover deserves at least this much after such a rough night.

“Beignets,” he jokes, rolling away from Hannibal to sit up on the edge of the bed and stretch out the always tense line of his shoulders and back. Will looks over his shoulder at him with a small, soft smile, the perfect picture definition of temptation. “You decide, I’m not picky. Mind if I steal your pajama pants until we get to my house? They’re stupidly soft.”

He wants to dig his fingers into tense muscles and knead out the knots until his lover is sweet and pliable under him, happy. Hannibal gets out of bed on the other side, instead, knowing when he’s being asked to slow down. “Do I ever?” he asks again, smiling.

(Will has no clue yet that he lays his head besides a beast that could hurt him and make him suffer. It makes his shy affections and bashful nature that much more enticing, starving him and feeding him all at once. He wants to dig through the younger man’s guts with his mouth and watch to see how Will reacts.)

He gets to cooking as soon as he reaches the kitchen, poached eggs and ham already at the forefront of his mind alongside fresh fruits and lightly braised vegetables. Well-rounded and easy to feed to his lovely Will; despite saying he can eat anything, the older man has been watching intently and picking out the least favored ingredients from his recipes.

It wouldn’t do to have his lover be even mildly discontent with something he’s cooked, after all.

He listens to the sounds of Will padding around his house with familiarity, letting Winston out the back to use the bathroom and run around. His lover joins him in the kitchen soon enough, his dog waiting patiently outside like the clever thing he is.

“Coffee?” he asks, already going for Hannibal’s drip, a much nicer machine than the one Will keeps at home. “Same as usual?”

“Yes, please,” Hannibal answers, and the domesticity is not lost on him. He would quite like for the empath to live here, with him and as many dogs as Will would like. “I enjoy our time together, you are aware, yes?”

Because Will can be a bit oblivious at times, though it adds to his charms, Hannibal has taken up trying to be more forward with his words to be certain there are as few misunderstandings as possible.

It’s worked out quite well, so far.

Will isn’t facing him, staring down at the coffee maker as he pours and prepares two mugs of coffee for them, but he can see the way that he shifts his weight from foot to foot and ducks his head, pleased.

“I know,” he says, stirring in frankly too much cream into his own cup. “I know. I enjoy our time together, too. You’re easy to talk to- I think you’re the easiest person to talk to I’ve ever met. Our conversations don’t drain me out nearly as much.”

A high compliment, coming from Will.

He wants to sneak up behind the teacher and bite him so hard it bleeds, even leaves a scar. He doesn’t, because he just started affectionately biting him, there would be too much of a jump. His skittish lover is much like an injured coyote who thinks himself a dog, if only for the tight lead around his neck.

Hannibal has no illusions that Will would be far more capable without Jack Crawford parading him around like a new toy.

It’s still too early to speak of this, but the older man still simmers at the thought.

“I’m glad,” he answers instead, honestly. “Would you prefer if I slept with you at your home, Will? I don’t mind the travel, and you’ll be able to care for the dogs better.”

Will turns and sets his mug of coffee beside his arm, taking a drink from his own. He visibly weighs the question, putting actual thought to the offer. Hannibal is glad; he appreciates it much more that Will bothers to think things through around him, rather than impulsively say yes or no despite his true feelings. Finally, he says, “My house is a lot smaller, and you’ll undoubtedly end up covered in dog fur before work.”

It’s a simple statement of fact not a denial, an acknowledgement.

“And Alana or Jack are more likely to randomly show up at my house than yours,” the profiler continues to point out, “But you’re welcome, if you want to. I… I think I’d enjoy that. It might be nice, knowing what to expect when I get home from work.”

“Then it’s decided,” Hannibal assures sweetly, warmly enough that he knows Will has a hard time denying it. His darling is very easy to convince, after all. “Three days. Yes?”

“Alright, three days,” Will smiles at him, nodding. “What’s for breakfast?”

He puts his mug on the counter, idling closer with arms crossed to peek over Hannibal’s shoulder. His lover has a good familiarity with food, even knows how to cook relatively well, but it had taken him time to coax that fact from him. Despite any and all skill and knowledge, Will often had to be prodded into cooking for himself.

“Ham?” he guesses, “And I can see the eggs- how are you cooking them today?”

Hannibal chuckles softly. “Just because I’m cooking doesn’t mean you can’t touch me, dear,” he points out teasingly before motioning to the pot with water. “Poached. Unless you have a preference this morning?”

Will snorts, bumping their shoulders together softly, “What’s the phrase, too many cooks in a kitchen? And no, no preference. Do you ever use store bought meat? All your meat looks like proper butcher cuts.”

He asks as if the idea, the option to do so, is novel and wild to him. Perhaps it is. His lover speaks little of his childhood nor much of his adult past or relationships, but Hannibal has picked up that he grew up poor. Likely with some level of food insecurity, as so many Americans sadly do. Perhaps the concept of buying all of one’s meat from a local and known butcher truly is surprising.

“No,” Hannibal admits, because lying wouldn’t help here. He has to think for a moment longer as he stirs the water in the pot in preparation for the eggs. If Will won’t share first, Hannibal supposes he can. “After my uncle took me out of, ah, the orphanage, I’ve made sure to eat the best I can purchase.”

Or hunt himself. This pig had been too noisy for his liking, and rude on top of it all. This was a much better use of them now.

“You mentioned that before,” Will says after a long moment of quiet. He moves away from Hannibal’s back to lean back against the counter so they face each other, though not directly face to face as he cooks. “That your parents passed away when you were young. Your uncle was the one who took you in?”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer from the older man, however, because after a pause only to pick up his mug and take a bolstering sip, he says, “I didn’t know I had an aunt until I was sixteen. My grandparents died when I was pretty young, but they’d always made it clear my dad was an only kid. I, uh, didn’t get to meet her until college, though.”

And isn’t that interesting?

Hannibal wants to pry him open and drink Will in greedily, until there’s nothing left, and even then, he’d like to lick the insides of him, just to be sure. The older man hums encouragingly, curious to see where this will go as he cracks an egg and deposits it into the swirling, boiling water of the pot. “Why is that?”

“She’s my dad’s older sister,” Will says, staring into his coffee cup like he’s worried he’s about to say something embarrassing, “Their parents disowned her after she ran away to California when my pa was still in high school. He only told me about her after-”

His lover sighs, takes another sip of his coffee to prepare himself, and finishes, “After he caught me making out with Michael Corner after school. She’d, uh, she’d ran away with her girlfriend, and Pa sometimes still talked to her. I guess it was his way of telling me that he didn’t care who I liked.”

Hannibal makes sure to keep an eye on the eggs, humming softly. “Clearly she was well-cared for by him,” he points out. “Were her and her partner still together when you learned about her?”

“Mhm, they got married in 2004, when San Francisco legalized it,” Will nods. He drains the rest of his coffee and heads back to start up another round of espresso, seeming relieved at how little Hannibal had reacted. “I saw them last year for Christmas. They invited me again this year, but, well. You remember. Work came up and all that.”

“You should go see them,” Hannibal says softly, scooping an egg out gently and setting it aside. “You deserve that much after being forced to consult during the holidays.”

“I can’t find the time. Every time we close one case, it feels like there’s another already waiting,” Will sighs.

Hannibal wishes he could see how unhealthy it is, how dangerous it is to not just his mind, but his body as well. Will has been so tired, not only mentally but also physically. He’s fallen asleep in Hannibal’s car so many times over the past week and a half he can barely count them all. Not to mention his headaches soaring in frequency and the constant tension clearly bothering one of his shoulders. Perhaps he could get the young man to agree to a shoulder massage after all, maybe even his whole back.

“You’re a consultant, dear,” Hannibal tries to reason, gently because being any harsher could make him run away. He scoops the other eggs out just as carefully and takes the ham off the heat, setting the plates. He takes the vegetables out of the oven, as well, and adds them to their dish.

“You are in charge of your own schedule, not Jack.”

“Maybe I should finally talk to HR,” he relents, agreeing and taking the plates from him. This part, setting the table and washing the dishes, Will is always eager to help with. It’s sweet, and domestically painful. And then the implication that his lover has not talked to his HR department at all, despite the drastic change in his day to day work, hits Hannibal. “Here, I’ll set the table. Do you have any juice? It’s not like wine really goes with breakfast unless you’re an alcoholic.”

His lover is far less impacted by it, it seems, considering his teasing.

Hannibal takes a deep breath to recenter himself and decides not to comment on his lover’s previous statement. “I have fresh orange juice from yesterday in the fridge,” he chuffs, amused, and gets the glasses for them so Will doesn’t have to. “I worry, Will. Especially with the way Jack hounds you.”

Will sets their plates down gently on the dining room table, fetching the fresh juice from the fridge and pouring them both glasses of it when he returns. When he sits down across from him, he offers the older man a small smile and says, “I know you do. You have three days to fuss after me, and I promise to tell you if I’m not doing well, okay? Sleepwalking, hallucinating, anything. I was already thinking about passing up the next case after this one anyways.”

Hannibal smiles at that, pleased about this new development. And, well, if he makes sure to show Will what he can offer him, if they were to share the same space, who can blame him?

Will grew up in the Deep South and he was plenty familiar with angels. Stained glass motifs of them in the windows of nearly every other old, historic building. Churches at the corner of every street, and giant angels made of lights coming out with the nativity scenes every winter. Angels were not new to Will Graham.

Angels made from corpses, with wings created from the flayed flesh of their own backs.

It felt biblical, in an Old Testament sort of way. It was also giving Will a fucking headache, and making his skin crawl. The revelation that their suspect had brain cancer really didn’t help. He was tense and tired as he made the too fucking long drive home from Quantico.

The only saving grace for the day was the fact that Hannibal was probably the best friend Will had ever had. His insistence to come and stay with him for a few days after his concerning sleepwalking episode was touching. He didn’t think anyone else in his life ever would have, except for maybe Beverly, who would demand compensation in ice cream and dog cuddles and only stay for a single night.

Hannibal had insisted on three, and he was a hard man to argue with.

Not that Will didn’t argue with him anyways, but he always lost in the end. The man had picked up on the fact that all it took to make him cave in to the concerns of his friend was a severe, worried frown and a stern, “William.”

It was a little ridiculous, he thinks as he pulls up the long driveway, but he found he didn’t mind. Will had never… clicked with anyone like he had with Hannibal. He felt clear, aware, when they talked; no thoughts or feelings or emotions pushing down on him and invading soft, permeable barriers of his mind. Conversation came easily, and when he needed it, so did silence.

“I’m back,” Will calls, announcing himself as he opens the door and steps in. It’s a bit of an odd feeling to do it, but he doesn’t mind too much. He crouches to scratch ears and ruffle the heads of the dogs swarming at his feet. “I hope they didn’t bother you too much today, or stop you from doing anything.”

He finally looks up to Hannibal, ready to continue, only for any sound - any breath - to get frozen in his throat as he stares.

Hannibal is in a button up, covered by a sweater, and looser slacks than usual. He has an apron on- Will’s apron, the one he thought he’d lost and hadn’t cared to look for since -and is drying his hands on the bottom of it as he smiles at Will, hair just messy enough that he can tell the older man didn’t use products today at all.

“Welcome home, širdelė,” he greets warmly, turning around to head back to the oven. “Just in time, as well, dinner is about done. But the dogs were fine, very good even as always.”

Will… thinks he finally understands the appeal of housewives.

Embarrassment and shock course through him, hitting him like a fucking train, when he registers the thought. It’s an inherently objectifying thought, and though it’s not like Will hasn’t had passing thoughts about or attractions to friends in the past, this is just ridiculous. He ducks his head and moves further inside, clicking his tongue at the dogs as he kicks off his work boots and shrugs off his jacket.

He desperately hopes Hannibal can’t see the flush lingering at his ears and neck, or just attributes it to the cold if he can. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was he doing, going around thinking about Hannibal as his housewife? What a way to ruin the best friendship he thinks he’s ever had.

“Good, good,” Will makes himself mutter in response as he crosses to the kitchen, “What’d you make?”

Hannibal glances at Will and smiles. “Pork,” he says simply, pulling the oven open and bending over to pull out the dish. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think it was on purpose. Hannibal only plates one serving, for some reason, and walks back to Will with the utensils in hand. He sets everything down and leans in to kiss Will’s cheek, asking lightly, as if everything was normal, “How was work?”

“You’re not going to eat?” he asks, before tacking on as an afterthought, “Thank you, it looks delicious. Work was… driving me a bit insane, honestly. The, uh, our killer has a brain tumor. How are you supposed to think like someone who isn’t even thinking like themself?”

Will takes a bite of the glazed tenderloin, butter soft under his fork and absolutely smothered in some kind of rich, creamy sauce that’s sweet like apples with a bit of lingering burn of alcohol. Brandy, he thinks. There’s sauteed apples and he finds that he doesn’t mind those either, despite how soft they are. It’s really fucking good, even if he doesn’t know what it is. It probably has some fancy, French name like half of the things his friend cooks, but he doesn’t care at all.

Hannibal hums softly, a hand resting on the top of Will’s chair, waiting. “You can’t. Not without hurting yourself, Will,” he points out softly, almost tender in his affections. “Is it good?”

Will sighs heavily, but finishes off the slice of pork before he answers. It feels cyclical, like they keep coming back to the same conversation, over and over again. Despite the fact that it would usually piss him off, he can’t find it in himself to be mad at Hannibal for it. He knows he’s just worried. He knows that what he does is bad for him. It’s why he’d tried to turn Jack down, months ago in his class room.

But Will likes saving people, he thinks that the guilt would drown him if he stopped. Jack knows it, too, and uses it well.

Setting down his silverware, he turns and looks up at his friend. He says, “I know. I know that, Hannibal, I know it’s not good for me. But I can’t stop. I don’t know how to.” A pause. “Yes, it’s really good. You never answered why you aren’t eating with me, though.”

“Because I knew you would want a second plate,” Hannibal teases, taking Will’s plate away to stop himself from saying something, obviously. He takes the apron off and sets two servings before sitting with Will again. “I recognize I am pushing the line,” he apologizes softly, looking at Will with eyes that look blood red in this lighting.

“I’m glad you brought me breakfast,” Will blurts out, because saying I’m glad we met is just a step too far into embarrassing himself for even him, and I’m glad we’re friends feels too childish. But the sentiment burns in his chest, fierce and warm. “In Minnesota, I mean. I’m glad you didn’t want to be my psychiatrist.”

Hannibal rewards him with the fondest smile he thinks he’s ever seen on the older man’s face, so full of affection it might as well be a brand seared into his mind. “Eat your dinner, širdelė,” he orders, really, but it might as well be a request with how gently he says it for once.

Will grins at him and digs into his second plate. Halfway through, though, he has to pause and switch his fork to his left hand briefly so he can use his right to try and dig into the painful knot building in his left shoulder. It’s horribly tight again and he dreads that he might need to start digging out the foam roller from storage on a regular basis at the rate he’s going.

Deciding to ignore it for now, he swaps hands again and returns to eating happily in the quiet. He looks up when he feels Hannibal’s eyes on him, humming a question around a mouthful of pork and apples.

Hannibal tilts his head a bit, considering him. He looks better than usual in the sense that the older man looks truly relaxed here. At his home he would relax, sure, but Hannibal’s spacious mansion is more of a stage, a house with a heart. “Does your shoulder hurt?” he asks, curious and concerned, always so concerned about Will’s well-being.

(Will has to shove down and bury the impulsive urge to kiss his friend and ruin the friendship. But the thing about burying something alive is that it so often crawls back out. As long as it does so when Hannibal isn’t around, he’s sure he can manage.)

“Mhm, a bit,” he hums before wincing. He knows the older man can probably see right through him so he corrects, “Maybe more than a bit. I got stabbed a few years ago back when I was still a cop. Sometimes the weather or stress makes it act up, but I’m fine. I’ll figure out some way to release the knot later.”

“Do you want me to massage it for you?” Hannibal asks, smiling so charmingly it feels dangerous.

Will doesn’t choke on his last bite of sweet, brandy soaked apples, but it’s a near thing. He coughs, taking a sip of water, and asks, “What? I- you don’t have to do that. My physical therapist didn’t even do that when I was in PT.”

He pauses, considers, then admits, “I also might have left PT early. Massages are… generally out of the question for me, I don’t like strangers touching me.”

“So…” Hannibal trails off, waiting. When Will doesn’t know what to say, his friend chuckles lightheartedly. “It’s fine if I do it, then, surely?”

He bites his lip in consideration, carefully stacking his silverware on his empty plate and pushing it away. He does trust Hannibal, and the man had been a doctor, so surely he’d know what he was doing. His thumbs tap together as he thinks, before looking up and across the table to his closest friend.

“You’ll stop if I ask you to? The moment I do?” Will asks, because he can trust Hannibal with his life, but he needs to be sure he can trust him with his body as well. Or, well, perhaps not his body because that sounded far too sexual and the image of Hannibal in Will’s apron is still lingering in his head. But his tactile sensitivities, at least. He winces and adds, “I know it’s going to hurt, because the whole muscle is fucked up, but you’ll be nice about it, right?”

“Of course,” Hannibal assures, reaching out to grab one of Will’s hands. He’d done it before, a few times as he tested the water, and the older man was still liberal about the times he did it. He’d been good about respecting his need for space at most times, already, after all.

“Alright,” Will nods back. He stands and pulls Hannibal up with him by the hand holding his. His hands are warmer than Will’s and it’s kind of nice, honestly.

He drops Hannibal’s hand to unbutton his flannel and peel it and the tee shirt underneath off. He leaves the shirts on the arm of the couch and holds up a hand to stop Hannibal from speaking. Alana had, for some reason, given him a bottle of lotion that proclaimed itself stress relief! and smelled softly of something he couldn’t identify for Christmas. He’d chucked it in a bathroom cabinet and had been planning on ignoring it, but it came in handy now as he grabbed it and brought it back to Hannibal.

“Here, I’m pretty sure you’ll need this,” he says, handing it over. “How do you want me- bed, couch, chair?”

“Bed,” Hannibal orders, eyes intense but kind, like he knows Will is trusting him with something precious and fears scaring him off. “Please.”

“Yes, Dr. Lecter,” Will mocks teasingly. He has to straighten out the blankets so he can lay flat, folding his arms under a pillow and burying his face in it. Muffled by the pillow, he has to tilt his head to see a sliver of his friend through his hair and say, “This good for you?”

Hannibal follows behind him once he’s settled in, straddling his thighs and pressing close, which makes Will nervous for a moment before his friend gently touches the younger man’s scar on his shoulder.

Generally, in the very few times he’s had sex since he got the scar, people didn’t touch it. It was a nasty, ugly thing after all. And for all that he trusts Hannibal, with the man sitting on his back, he can’t see anything coming. Which is all to say that Will would like it to be known that he’s really not at fault for what happens next.

He forgets he even has arms for a moment, doesn’t move them to lash out. Instead, he twists as sharp and fast as he can and buries his teeth in Hannibal’s forearm. It all happens in a split second, driven by pure instinct, and Will releases his friend the moment he realizes what he did.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,” he starts in a rush, “Shit, are you okay? I didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you sc- you startled me. Are you-”

Hannibal gently smooths a hand through Will’s hair as he soothes, “I’m alright. You barely hurt me, my dove.” It’s a promise, forgiveness, too. “I should have warned you, I was just… curious.”

Will takes a deep breath, exhaling all in a rush as he slumps back onto his stomach and lays down again. He crosses his arms but presses his cheek to the pillow to speak easier. “I was stabbed. I already said that, um. From behind, obviously. You just startled the fuck out of me, it can be pretty sensitive for a scar at times. You’re good to keep going, just- warn me, okay? Please?”

His friend nods, a soft laugh erupting from him. “I will, I promise,” he assures, gently touching Will’s cheek. He makes sure Will can see him starting at the bottom of his spine, hands carefully wrapped around his hips, squeezing just enough that it’s grounding.

He can’t help the breathy sigh that escapes from him before he manages to hide his face back in the pillow. Will feels embarrassment rise through him, but Hannibal has warm hands, slick with lotion, and it feels nice. Unbidden, the image from before rises to mind: Hannibal in his apron, maybe only his apron, waiting for Will to come home from work with dinner ready.

Fuck, Will is not being normal about his friend and he needs to stop.

He wiggles to settle his position slightly and says, muffled by the pillow, “Thank you, but you don’t have to go so slow. I’m fine now.”

Hannibal hesitates before taking a breath and following Will’s order. If he grips a little tighter, or maybe too tight, and Will likes it, his friend doesn’t have to know. “You’re incredibly tense, my dove.”

“I do spend most of my time either sitting at a desk or in the la- fucking hell,” he hisses, cutting off the previous train of thought entirely. Hannibal’s thumb had found a knot along the underside of one of his shoulder blades and dug in, and he has to try hard to relax into it instead of twitching away. He lets out a shaky groan as he works out the tender spot and some of the tension releases.

Jesus Christ, he thinks his head just took a brief vacation through a vat of liquid nitrogen, considering the cold wave of tingles running down his back.

“Or in the lab,” Will finally finishes, melting further into his bed. “Not really the most… relaxing of activities. Mm, that’s tight, fucking hurts, Christ.”

Hannibal huffs out a breath above him, shifting slightly to raise himself above Will, so he has space to move. He doesn’t gentle his hold, however, and his voice comes out low and rough when he says, “Just bear with me, Will.”

“Uhhhhhuh, whatever you say. Anyone ever tell you you have magic hands?” Will breathes, tempted to bite his pillow to muffle the moan that a drag of hands over tense, wound up muscle pulls from him.

Would it be weird to ask Hannibal to do this again sometime? He’s pretty sure that his friend would agree in a heartbeat, but Will isn’t sure he could survive that anymore than the image of him kneeling in front of him and tending to his aching feet the other night.

He lets out a high yelp - not a squeal and anyone who claimed so would either be a liar or should be arrested for trespassing on his property - when strong thumbs find a sore spot at the base of his neck and shoulder, his lingering headache disappearing as it’s worked out. “Fuck, can you keep doing that forever?”

Hannibal groans softly back, weight dropping back gently onto him with the evident reason his friend had tried to avoid doing so. He laughs, though, pausing as if he’s caught off guard. “Really, you’d let me?” he asks, both taunting and pleased as hell.

Oh.

It’s not obvious, not from how they’re sitting, but Hannibal is hard. Will can feel it against his ass and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about it. Ignore it, he decides. He can admit that it’s a… provocative position, and the sounds and movement he’s been making probably aren’t helping. You can’t help a physical reaction to stimulus, even if you’re not into something, and he gets that.

So he resolves to ignore the half hardon pressed against his backside and just says, “Well, if it stops the headaches…”

Hannibal laughs more, slipping his hands away to hold his weight up. “And not because it’s me?” He teases, kissing the back of Will’s head sweetly. Before the younger man can complain, he gets back to work kneading the last of Will’s knots out.

Will does his best to muffle his moans and groans into the pillow after that, and neither of them mention Hannibal’s reaction. But the fact of the matter is that Will finds it so much easier to fall asleep that night, more relaxed than he has been since before he started consulting for Jack and met Hannibal. He falls asleep thinking that he’s pretty sure he’ll let him do it again.

He walks into work in a good mood the next morning, pleasantly sore but loose and relaxed. He even manages to ignore the team's ribbing and wiggled eyebrows with good humor.

It’s easier to sleep at Will’s home, he’s noticed, with the dogs and smaller space, the bed near the door with an easy entry and exit. Will had told him where the shotgun and the extra handgun were, along with a clear instruction not to go out after dusk, which had been a little irritating until he realized it was his lover’s way of worrying over him.

Hannibal listens, of course, because he can spare time to stay here with the dogs for these three days and listen to his lover’s orders, be at his beck and call for a little bit.

Will had definitely enjoyed it when he’d done so last night, it’d been obvious. It’s just a shame his darling isn’t meant to be here until the next morning.

Which is why he’s rather surprised when the dogs start barking up a storm and acting out to wake him. When he looks out the window, Will’s car appears closer to the house, lights as low as he can get them, afraid to wake Hannibal, likely.

Hannibal has time to prepare tea for them both before Will opens the door.

“Hannibal?” Will says, staring at him in shock from the doorway. He closes it quietly, joining him in the kitchen and murmuring even though it’s his own house and they’re the only ones there. “Why are you still up? I didn’t, uh, wake you, did I?”

Hannibal sets two mugs of tea on the counter before wrapping an arm around sweet, skittish Will’s waist to try and ground him. “The dogs heard you,” he admits, unbothered. “I don’t mind being up to greet you. You are home rather early.”

That earns him a heavy sigh and Will gratefully picks up his mug and swallows a mouthful. He makes a clicking noise, jaw working, and Hannibal just knows his lover has burnt his tongue in his haste. After a long moment, twisting and stretching, Will finally says, unable to keep it behind his teeth for a second longer, “I yelled at Jack.”

“And, uh, walked off the scene before doing any recreation,” he admits, taking another bolstering sip of his tea. “…And maybe took an early flight home without telling him and billed the FBI for it. He, uh, was pissing me off?”

Hannibal’s hand leaves Will’s hip to slip into dark curls and pull his lover closer so he might bury his face there. “You did so well, širdelė,” he praises, rewarding the darker thing lingering under the empath’s ribs and skull; an inviting creature that could take chunks out of the older man all it wanted.

“I’m going to have to apologize, he’s going to be so pissed,” Will groans in lament, sagging into Hannibal’s side. He’s slowly grown so much more comfortable over the past few months of their relationship; Hannibal remembers how the younger man would jump in surprise just from their arms and hands brushing. “I yelled at him in front of the local cops, Hannibal! I told him to come up with his own damn theories and then left! What am I going to do?”

“Leave it at that,” Hannibal encourages, kissing behind Will’s ear sweetly, trying to entice the creature that lives deep in his lover’s core to come out and do as it pleases. “You know how I feel about how he treats you.”

A shiver runs through Will and wasn’t that so sweet? His lover, so cute and enticing, sighs, “It wouldn’t feel right.”

As if incensed by his own words, Will pulls away from him to pace across the living room. He avoids the sleeping dogs with ease and without even looking, cradling his mug of tea between his hands and holding it close to his chest. He doesn’t seem interested in drinking it anymore, only in warming his hands with it.

“I hate this case so much,” he admits, spitting the words to life between them, “I feel like I’m going crazy. And I’m mad over the stupidest things. He’s making angels because he’s afraid to die in his sleep. As if that’s the worst way to die. I don’t know why I’m so- everyone looked at me like I was insane when I yelled at Jack. But I don’t know why the killer is doing what he’s doing! I can’t make sense of it!”

Pausing in the center of the living room, the younger man’s shoulders slump as he whispers, “…I feel like I can’t make sense of anything. At least I know what to expect from you. I feel like everyone else is pulling me in different directions.”

Hannibal abandons his own tea in favor of approaching Will slowly, loud enough for him to hear, and sets his hands on the empath’s hips, slipping them under the man’s shirts when he doesn’t initially react. “Will. Širdelė, don’t hide from me,” he whispers into Will’s shoulder.

(It’s a threat as much as it is a promise; he could bite Will now, harsh and true, if he doesn’t answer him, or, and most likely, he can leave his lover with a little bruise to remember him by.)

Will shivers under his hands, or perhaps just shakes. He turns around to hug Hannibal, tucking his face into the older man’s shoulder.

“I’m not hiding,” he says, breath warm on his neck. He squeezes him rhythmically, arms tight around his waist. “I’m just… We know who the killer is, we just can’t find him. He has a terminal brain tumor and he’s lost any sense of identity. He’s preparing to turn himself into an angel, too. I’m not hiding from you, but I’m… afraid. Of becoming him.”

“You won’t,” Hannibal whispers, gently rubbing circles into his lover’s hips, lovingly, reverently even. Will is a beautiful creature made up of fangs and fur and crystal clear eyes; there is nothing that could ruin him, no killer out there that could do much more than help Will find his way to Hannibal.

He can tell, even now, that Will is the only one with the possibility to understand anything about him.

“I’ll be here to make sure you won’t. You can always come to me for solid ground, Will.”

“Thank you,” Will murmurs into his shoulder.

He leans back just far enough to lift a hand and rub at his eyes. Hannibal’s lover looks so exhausted, the poor thing. Sounding just as drained, Will says, “Sorry. I’m just really tired. I’d tell you more about it, but I think I really want to sleep and all that instead.”

Hannibal pulls back to take the mug out of Will’s other hand and go set it down. He comes back to his lover and, impulsively, lifts him up and to bed. He wants to rip the younger man’s shirts apart to find soft hips, protruding ribs and strong muscle under a soft layer of protection. It had driven him mad when Will had undressed so easily, been so bear for him.

He might be overstepping, but, when he sets Will on the bed, Hannibal slides his hands under shirts and over a soft, yet strong chest, to help Will get undressed. “Do you need another massage?” he means to ask as a joke, but his voice comes out earnest, tender.

(He loves the creature he’s been presented with, an opinionated, biting coyote. He may be injured now, but Hannibal sees it, the potential in his love to become something more. Something like himself.)

His lover blinks at him, as if surprised by his tender care. Still, he takes the plain shirt from the drawer when Hannibal hands it to him and shrugs it on, kicking off his shoes to strip down to just his boxers.

“No, I’m okay,” he insists. Will surprises him when he takes the older man’s wrist and pulls him down over him, onto the bed as well. Nervously, he guides Hannibal’s hand to rest over the soft part of his stomach.

(He could dig his fingers in so easily, like this.)

“Would you, uh, would you mind just holding me tonight? While we sleep?”

“You won’t run away come morning light?” Hannibal asks softly, teasingly pinching lightly at Will’s skin before smoothing a thumb over it, not in the slightest bit apologetic. He wants to dig his teeth into supple skin and score it roughly. “I never mind, you know that, don’t you?”

Will shakes his head but reconsiders and corrects, “I won’t until I have to let the dogs out.”

He sets his hand over Hannibal’s, the one on his stomach, and laces his fingers through the older man’s. It’s an achingly tender gesture, maybe warmer when Will shifts and presses back into him.

“I know,” Will says, answering his second question finally and turning his head back to face him, “I’m just trying to… find where the boundaries lay. What feels right. I’ve never known anyone like you.”

Hannibal wants to kiss him until they bleed and share lungs, until they are the same creature inside and out. He wants to dig his teeth into Will’s ribs and shake until he has access to his heart so he may drown in the contents of it.

Instead, he kisses Will’s cheek, securing their laced hands and slipping his other arm under Will’s neck to fold it and lodge his other hand in unruly curls. “Mm, good enough,” he relents sweetly. “I’ve never known anyone like you, either. You are… incredibly unique, Will. I want to keep you for myself very often.”

“How do you just say things like that without being embarrassed?” Will asks, curling in on himself and closer. He sounds flustered, the tips of his ears pink and turning even more so by the second. Cute.

Hannibal chuckles, tucking Will closer. Yes, it’s definitely easier to sleep at Will’s, even more so when the man is in his arms, warm and smelling a distant sweetness he does not like.

Curious.

He kisses the back of his lover’s neck to get a better sense of it, and stays there, comfortable. “Get some sleep, širdelė.”

“You too,” Will murmurs, already drifting, and Hannibal has the exquisite pleasure of feeling his heart and breathing both slow and steady as he falls asleep. He wants this forever. He intends to keep this forever, or burn the world down trying.

Will wakes up to Hannibal’s arms around him and the dogs barking. This is somewhat normal, at least for the nights when they sleep together.

What’s decidedly less normal is that he’s standing up. He’s standing upright, in one of the upstairs rooms, in front of the open window. The curtains that came with the house, white and kind of gauzy, flutter towards him like hands beckoning closer. He takes a half step to lurch forward but finds that Hannibal’s grip on him makes it impossible to move.

He holds him differently now than how he does when they fall asleep. One arm is barred firmly over his shoulders and upper chest, the other over his stomach, just along the top of his hips. He falters, going a bit limp in surprise, but the older man holds him up with startling ease.

Will had been dreaming about something that he can’t remember anymore. He’s not sure he wants to know anymore, he thinks as he finally realizes that his friend is talking to him. He falls back into his body slowly and finally starts to properly hear the words being murmured directly in his ear, breath fanning over his ear and neck.

“-delė, come back to me, you’re alright, širdelė, please.” He sounds concerned, nearly panicked.

“Hannibal?” Will asks. His tongue feels thick and fuzzy, mouth horribly dry. “Why are we in the spare bedroom? And why is the window open?”

He has a nagging suspicion he knows why, but he doesn’t want to be the one to voice it. He wants his friend to confirm it for him, even if he’s sure he’ll hate the answer.

Hannibal gasps softly before sighing in relief. He doesn’t move away or slacken his hold, just presses his face closer to Will. “You,” he starts, still whispering, irritation rising slowly, “were attempting to climb out of this window, Will.”

“Ah. I was afraid you’d say that. That’s not good,” he says, lackluster. It comes out fuller and plainer than he means it to, but is he supposed to think when told the worst he expected.

Will tries to wiggle out of his friend’s hold, step away, but fails miserably. He never noticed how strong Hannibal was. He himself was kept relatively fit due to his job but he felt eclipsed in strength right now. It’s surprising enough that he stops trying all together.

“You can let me go now,” he tries softly instead, “I’m not going to climb onto the roof now. I’m fine now that I’m awake.”

“No,” Hannibal practically growls out, biting Will’s shoulder for good measure. “You aren’t avoiding this conversation, Will.”

“Ow!” he says, shifting again. The sound and movement are both more from shock and surprise than any actual pain. The slight, dull ache the older man’s teeth leave in his shoulder is kind of pleasant, actually.

“And we can’t have this conversation sitting down?” Will points out, huffing, “Or at least after closing the damn window so Jack Frost can stop trying to suck my dick with the wind?”

Hannibal bites him again, but stays latched there as if trying to calm himself. He hates it. Or he likes it. He’s not entirely sure, but either way it makes an odd sensation turn solid and writhe low in his stomach.

After a moment wherein Hannibal’s breathing evens out and his frustrations evaporate, he lets go in lieu of rubbing his nose along Will’s neck. His voice comes smooth and fond when he says, “Will, you deserve this for not taking my words into account sooner. We’ll have this conversation now, thank you.”

Will isn’t even sure why he’s so upset, honestly. All he knows is that he’s cold and uncomfortable. And maybe feels a bit like a chastised child being punished for doing something he shouldn’t have. Which is frankly ridiculous, considering he can’t control the sleepwalking, and has no idea what has his friend so upset.

“I don’t know what you want me to say or do,” he says honestly, tired, “I said I’d let you know if the sleepwalking happened again and look. You know. You were there.”

“My dove,” Hannibal whispers into his ear before kissing his jaw as best he can. “We have talked about why it might be happening. Please tell me you understand.”

“Stress?” Will asks, shivering and not only from the breeze. Hannibal is being… clingier than normal. He’d gotten used to the affectionate touches and kisses, something he was pretty sure was a European thing; he’d certainly been kissed plenty by friends and acquaintances when he lived in the French Quarter.

But this was different, kisses to his jaw and neck, the biting that was only ever mock violent. It could be something more, but he thinks it’s more likely just a Hannibal thing.

“So why are you still working with him? Isn’t the first priority to secure yourself before others?” Hannibal asks sadly, finally giving Will space to move. Not away from Hannibal, but enough to be comfortable in his grasp. “I worry. I worry. Shouldn’t that be reason enough?”

Fuck.

Will isn’t used to people worrying about him. Or rather, worry for him, and not about him. To worry if he is okay, and not if he is unstable or unsafe. But Hannibal is. Hannibal is worried for him, scared for him. The solid weight in his stomach stills and morphs, becoming a whole new beast to chew into his stomach instead.

He can identify its taste now: guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Will says to his friend - the closest friend he thinks he’s ever and will ever have - and it comes out hardly audible in his guilt. “I didn’t mean to make you worry. I meant what I said, I’m going to tell Jack no for the next case. I- I am sorry, Hannibal, for worrying you.”

Hannibal huffs a sigh that’s not fully satisfied, but he releases Will gently. His friend walks around him to close the window and the curtains. “I worry because I care, Will,” he says softly, not turning to look at him.

“I know,” he mumbles, sounding small. “I do.”

He’s never had a friend who cares like Hannibal. Not since he was 12 in middle school and the 16 year old girl who went to the same joint middle and high school as him and lived in the trailer next to his. She had held his hand every time they were in public so she didn’t lose him like he was a little kid, but he’d watched her cuss out a senior two times her size with no fear of God in her and come out on top. Hannibal cares like Lucy had, but infinitely more.

He touches Will, innocent and unexpecting touches that soothe the skin hunger clawing under his flesh without a demand for more. He lets him strip his head and soul bare and doesn’t find it disturbing, lacking. He worries for Will, worries when he doesn’t.

Hannibal makes Will feel like himself and yet like something better. Something he could be. And even when Will doesn’t know who he is beyond the layers and layers of other people, Hannibal helps him find it.

He knows who he is best when he’s with him.

“I’m trying,” he insists, needing to turn away from Hannibal’s back to him, before the disappointment crushes him. Will sits on the edge of the unused bed and reaches out with one hand to grasp for the older man’s fingers gently, giving him the option to move away. To leave. “I swear I am.”

He’s not sure what he’s asking for when he does it, but it feels like it’s something big when he pulls slightly on Hannibal’s hand and asks, “Please?”

Hannibal can’t stay mad, it seems, and he turns at the tug to kneel at Will’s feet, holding his hand securely. He moves Will’s other hand to his cheek and leans into it, eyes closed. “You promise, Will?” he asks, looking up at him, eyes half lidded and begging from where he looks up at Will.

His mouth feels dry, and not just from the cold air he’d been breathing in for who knows how long. Tentatively, Will strokes his thumb over Hannibal’s cheek.

“Yes,” he says, swallowing as if it will fix the desert in his mouth. He’s not entirely sure why his stomach twists and his heart races when he meets Hannibal’s eyes, “I promise. I’m going to tell Jack that I need a break for a case or two after we get this one closed today, as soon as my classes are done. I’ll let you hold me to it.”

“And you’ll come stay with me every other weekend, my dove?” Hannibal asks, smiling at the glide of thumb on skin. He looks almost enticing and even more so when he rests his other hand on Will’s thigh.

That feels ridiculous, that feels like too much. But Hannibal is looking at him steadily and Will can feel the weight of his concern, his willingness to help without any of the judgment…

He’s weak in the face of his closest friend looking at him like this, practically pleading. It’s embarrassing enough that Will has to duck his head and look at their still tangled fingers instead of his face. He relents, “Okay. If you want me to. But what about my dogs?”

“They can come with,” Hannibal assures, promises in his own way. Like he’ll make it happen if that’s what Will wants. “I could come here, the other weekends.”

“Stay together every weekend?” Will asks in surprise. He looks back up at Hannibal, trying to pick apart his face. While the idea isn’t unattractive, he can’t help wondering, “Sure you won’t get sick of me if you see me that often? I get sick of me, sometimes.”

Hannibal laughs, soft and affectionate. “I like spending time with you, Will, if you haven't noticed yet. I meant what I said earlier tonight as well, my dove.”

He looks like he wants to devour Will whole. The heavy thing in his gut churns, turns over and writhes. It burns, low and hot.

Oh. Oh no.

Will is into Hannibal, he realizes. His friend- his most affectionate and closest friend, yes, but still only his friend. He can feel his entire face starting to go red, still staring right back at the man in question. He feels completely unable to look away, despite it. Not when Hannibal is looking at him like that.

“Hannibal,” he says, not sure if it’s a plea, an admonishment, or just the only thing his brain is capable of producing right this moment.

Of course he had to go and get a crush on the one friend who never expects anything from him. Fucking hell.

Hannibal hums questioningly, tilting his face further into Will’s hand innocently. He looks like he could stay there forever if that’s what Will asks of him, like he has no clue what Will is going through right now.

He thinks his brain has shut offline, the only thing running through it a loop of Hannibal’s name and the stark reminder that he’s in only his boxers and Hannibal is knelt in front of him. Everything else is just a buzz.

Suddenly, Will’s pretty damn sure he’s going to pop a boner if his friend keeps looking at him like this. He brings his other hand up to Hannibal’s face and unceremoniously covers it with both of his, dutifully ignoring how much hotter his face gets when he feels lips brush against the base of his palm.

“Please stop looking at me like that,” he says weakly, heart pounding as he practically begs. “I said yes, didn’t I? I have to get ready for work, um-”

Hannibal actually snorts at him before laughing as he stands. “Yes, yes, let me get breakfast ready for you,” he agrees, gently pushing Will’s curls back. He gives him an amused little smile before heading for the door.

Will falls back on the bed as soon as he’s gone, putting a hand over his heart. He gives himself thirty seconds to calm down before joining Hannibal and the dogs downstairs. He starts getting dressed for the day, starting with his pants and socks.

It’s only when he tugs his tee shirt over his head and his shoulder twinges- the one that wasn’t stabbed. He looks down at his shoulder and finds himself staring at the red, indented skin of his shoulder in the perfect shape of Hannibal’s shiny, white teeth. Not just the shape in vivid red - no, the individual points of his teeth are imprinted into Will’s skin.

He’s suddenly very grateful he put his pants on first for the tingle the realization sends through him. Regardless, he spins on his friend in the kitchen, still shirtless, to shout, “Hannibal!”

Hannibal turns, panicked, like he fears Will is hurt. When his eyes finally land on the mark, however, he stops and gives Will the smuggest look his friend has ever had. “Yes? Something wrong, Will?”

“What the fuck,” he says flatly, tilting his head towards the bitemark, “is this? Why the hell did you bite me so hard?”

He’s pretty sure he’s flushed over his neck, shoulders, and ears, but he hopes that the older man doesn’t notice. He knows he must, though, because he looks so smug about it. He hopes that it will distract him enough not to notice Will half hard about it. He really hopes Hannibal won’t see that.

His friend gives him a quick once over before turning back to breakfast with an amused but dismissive hum. “I don’t see a problem, my dove.”

Will briefly considers strangling his friend but settles for muttering darkly to himself as he gets dressed. Thankfully, he flags before sitting down to share breakfast with his friend after he fed the dogs. Clover and Buster wander in and out from under the table as Hannibal sets their food down.

“I felt overwhelmed,” his friend admits softly, “I wanted to be mean in the moment, but I didn’t either. So I bit you to stop myself. And maybe to be a bit mean.”

“Oh,” Will says simply, because he gets it. His being left alone so often so young had less to do with a neglectful father and far more to do with Will getting kicked out of every daycare and after school activities group for “attacking” other children. He takes a bite of his breakfast sausage, chewing both the sausage and his words before he finishes, “Okay. I don’t mind. Just-” he looks away, unable to say it while looking at his friend, “-if you have to be mean, be mean to me. I don’t mind if you do it to me.”

Hannibal smiles, and even if Will isn’t looking at him he can tell his friend is pleased with himself. “I mind. Words are harder to fix than injuries, I suppose.”

They finish breakfast in comfortable silence and when Will leaves for work, he feels content. In fact, he feels oddly buoyed all the way through to his lunch hour, despite the… rough start to his morning. He’s in the middle of texting Hannibal to check in with him when he catches sight of Alana in his doorway, Jack right behind her.

Things have been… stilted between him and the unit chief since he’d walked away from the scene, even after he apologized for it. He can’t help but be glad Alana is here as a buffer. He finishes and sends his text to Hannibal and puts his phone face down on the desk.

“What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Will,” Alana greets with a bit of a strained smile, looking at Jack like she can’t choose between wanting him here or not. “I just heard about how you yelled at Jack at the scene the other day. Is everything alright?”

Her eyes are a piercing blue that scream uncertainty and caution; he can tell she isn’t sure if she should be worried for or about him.

“I was in a bad headspace and he was pissing me off. Everything’s fine now,” Will says honestly, shrugging a shoulder. He kind of wishes Hannibal were here right now, to shoulder the brunt of the conversation.

“I was asking you to tell me why,” Jack says, cutting Alana’s reply off, “I was asking you to do your job. And then you walked off and didn’t even have the decency to answer the phone, you had your boyfriend do it for you.”

Will sighs heavily and tries not to roll his eyes. He glances at Alana, though, because he knows that she’s the first person to hear about that part of the situation. And considering her views on him and Jack, he isn’t sure how she’ll take it. Actually, he’s not sure if she’s heard that oh so funny joke the entire team insists on, either.

“Stop, Jack,” Alana snaps. “Just because Hannibal answered the phone doesn’t mean they’re dating.”

Jack simply rolls his eyes at that. “Answer the question, Will.”

They weren’t dating, Alana is right, but Will feels himself flush when he realizes that he wishes they were. His phone buzzes and he wonders if it’s Hannibal, hand twitching towards it before he gets himself under control again.

“If I’m alright?” he clarifies, before addressing Alana, “Yeah, actually. Or, well, I’ve been better. But I did some thinking and talking this morning and uh, Hannibal has been helping me with… stress management.” Neither she nor Jack need to hear about the massage his friend had given him or all the sleeping together they’d been doing, literally. “Anyways, I came to a decision- Jack, I won’t be helping on the next case. I’m going to take a brief break from consulting to focus on my classes.”

“What do you mean you’re taking a break?” Jack says severely and this time he does roll his eyes, reorganizing the files on his desk just for something to do.

“I mean that I’m taking a break, Jack. I’m not going to consult for at least a week, week and a half.”

“Why? Did I break you, Will?” Jack demands, confronts really. Seems his day has been poor so far.

Alana frowns a bit, herself, at Jack’s choice of words. When her eyes land on Will again, there’s a form of pity there, like Will is some injured bird, as she asks, “What happened for you to choose that?”

“I am not a toy to be played with until I break,” Will asserts, channeling Hannibal. He gives in to temptation, checking his phone and smiling at Hannibal’s teasing reassurance that he and the dogs have both been fed.

With a sigh - because it feels like a secret he doesn’t want to share - he says honestly, “Hannibal. He told me he was worried, and asked me to do it for him if I wasn’t going to do it for myself. He asked me to take a break and- some other things, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can’t,” Jack snaps loudly, glaring daggers at Will as he does so. Alana flinches a bit next to him before rolling her eyes with a sigh, like she was expecting this. He’s fuming, dark with rage. “I won’t let you, Will!”

“Let me?” Will says, taken aback. He stands, leaning his hands on the edge of his desk as he looks Jack in the eye. “You can’t stop me, Jack! You want me to take this to HR? Because that’s the one thing that Hannibal asked me to do that I haven’t done yet. And if you try to stop me from taking a break, I absolutely will.”

Silence follows his declaration, heavy and shocked. Both Jack and Alana stare at him with wide eyes, but he cuts him off when Jack opens his mouth to speak.

“No. Not right now, Jack, not today. Get the hell out of my classroom.”

He leaves, reluctantly, and Will is left alone with Alana. He turns to her, sitting back down as a wave of exhaustion rolls over him and a headache starts to build in his temples. He asks, “What, Alana? What more do you need from me today?”

“O-oh, sorry,” Alana says softly, suddenly remembering how to move as she swiftly follows after Jack. At least she knows how to read the room.

His phone buzzes on his desk and, when he checks, Hannibal has taken a picture of the dogs in the back of the house, frolicking.

Will sighs heavily and impulsively texts back, I miss you.

Within 30 seconds, Hannibal calls him.

Will picks up immediately, worried he did something wrong in admitting it. “Hannibal? Are you- uh, is everything okay?”

“You said you missed me, my dove,” Hannibal answers in slight confusion. “Isn’t this better, if you do?”

“Oh,” Will breathes, laughing. “Yeah, I guess it is. I, uh, I told Jack I’m taking at least a week and a half off consulting. He didn’t take it great and I just- I realized I wished that you were here with me, I guess. Is that weird to say?”

Hannibal gives a pleased little sigh at that, and Will can practically see him preening and purring under the comment. “I think I quite enjoy the thought, actually,” his friends admits, so fucking smug again. Maybe it’s just something Will has to deal with now that they’ve become even closer. “Is it wrong to say that?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. You should, uh, come have lunch with me sometime, if your schedule allows it,” Will offers, staring down at his desk like it will smother the smile and blush that rises at the older man’s declaration.

Hannibal laughs, and his eagerness makes Will think of a stray dog, happy to follow him home. “Shall I? I’d love to, whenever you’ll have me.”

That doesn’t help his flush at all and Will barely manages to rush out an affirmative before he hangs up and hides his face in his hands for the rest of his lunch hour.

Just because Will had told Jack Crawford to back off, doesn’t make Hannibal immune to his colleagues dragging him into it. Alana, he knows, is because she wants to know how Hannibal and Will could ever be so close, but Chilton… well. He’ll have to have dinner with the man during the week to dig his claws into him.

As it stands, the situation with Abel Gideon leaves a sour, acrid taste in his mouth that doesn’t go away, even as he returns home to his lover.

The door closes behind him before he removes his shoes and trades them for his best slippers, making his way to the kitchen. He gets his reddest wine and fills himself a rather large glass before drinking. The dry, acidic sweetness of his favored wine does nothing to calm his anger.

(He ought to cook Gideon and feed the pieces to the man for what he did, in Hannibal’s name. That nurse would never have been in danger, should never have been in danger. Maybe he should ruin Chilton while he’s at it.)

He hears Will before he reaches the front door- or rather, he hears the excited yapping and barking of his dogs who must smell his return home. That would be why he hadn’t seen his lover yet, he had been walking the dogs.

The front door opens and the sound of seven sets of paws scattering throughout the house is the chorus that heralds Will’s arrival in the doorway of the kitchen, having kicked off his shoes and now only in mismatched socks.

“Welcome home,” Hannibal’s perfect lover says, eyeing his glass of wine, “Not to judge, of course, but should I be worried that you’re trying to drink a pint of wine at-” he checks his watch, “-not even four in the afternoon?”

Hannibal gives Will a non-answer in the form of finishing off his wine. “I may have taunted a copycat serial killer,” he says with simmering anger, a murderous type of anger, as he pours himself another glass.

“Ah, this is about that Ripper copycat, the one who killed his wife,” Will nods, coming to stand near him. He looks him over, oh so sweetly demanding, “Pour me a glass as well, please. This is going to take a bit, I think. Also, you should know the difference, Hannibal; Abel Gideon isn’t a serial killer, he barely even counts as a spree killer. He obviously isn’t the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“It’s why I said copycat,” Hannibal points out, pouring Will a glass before taking a few sips of his own, glaring at the bottle like it offended him. Oh, he should know better than anyone who the Ripper is. “The nurse he killed was the ward favorite, can you believe it?”

He wants to tear Abel Gideon apart and serve him to Will, to watch and see if he’d be able to pick out the killer in the taste alone.

Will lifts himself to sit on the counter, facing Hannibal, and takes a long sip of his wine. He’s eyeing him again, as if his lover is weighing the best way to say what clearly rests on his mind. Slowly, the younger man reaches out to him, pulling him closer by the shoulder. He puts a tentative hand in Hannibal’s hair, petting it slowly. His lover has been getting more comfortable with such small intimacies lately, and while it cannot quench nor even balm his anger, it is delightful to see him initiate them.

“Alright. Do you want me to just listen to you rant and nod along, or do you want my thoughts on it?” Will asks.

He gives a heavy sigh, pressing into Will’s hand greedily. “Whichever,” Hannibal assures, taking another swig from his wine. “I have an idea that Chilton is behind it, in some way. I doubt Jack would listen to me, and Alana seems to think Gideon truly is the Ripper.”

Will frowns, his nails scratching over his scalp idly, a wonderful sensation. “Weird,” he comments. “Alana is smart. I’ve never met Dr. Chilton, but Gideon… doesn’t fit the Ripper profile. Only superficially. When he killed his family it was impulsive, passionate. He’s sadistic, yes, but he also was never found to have any connection to any other kills. The Ripper, though…”

His lover is gazing distantly past Hannibal’s head, as if seeing something that isn’t there. There’s a dreamy look on his face, almost like admiration. To know he’s speaking of his work in that knowing, reverent voice is intoxicating.

“The Chesapeake Ripper isn’t impulsive. He’s sadistic, but he’s meticulous. His sadism has a purpose. He… elevates his kills. He isn’t just cleaning up the pests he comes across, he turns them into art. Each sounder, every tableau, it’s- it’s his oeuvre.”

Will ducks his head, wetting his mouth and staining his lips red as blood with his wine as he takes another. He licks his lips, but they’re still red as he rushes to defend himself against an accusation that isn’t there, “I’m not- I’m not trying to aggrandize the Ripper, of course. I don’t want you to think that I’m- I’m just saying that Gideon doesn’t match the profile because he doesn’t have the patience and, and poise that the Ripper does. That’s all.”

Hannibal rests his head against Will’s shoulder, tucking his nose against his lover’s jaw.

Ah, who knew Will Graham would be obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper like this? Certainly not himself.

He sighs softly as he hides himself for a moment, to stop the intensity with which he feels for his lover at this moment. It hadn’t gone wrong, but it hadn’t been perfect last time something like this happened. “I agree.” It’s best to look elsewhere lest he gets carried away by it all. “Thank you, for agreeing.”

He listens to Will’s heart, rapid under his ear, and to the sound of the man sipping on his wine as he pets Hannibal’s hair continuously. After a moment, his lover softly says, “I’ve never seen you this mad before. I’ve never seen you mad at all, I don’t think.”

“Does it scare you?” Hannibal asks, pulling back to look at Will again, curious. If it does, he’s certain his lover can weather the storm, and if it doesn’t, well…

(He wants to see what the limit is, how angry Hannibal can get, how murderous, even, before Will shys away from him again.)

“No,” the younger man whispers like a confession, like a secret. He’s unable to look him in the eye, or at him at all. He takes a deep breath, perhaps even a touch shaky if he sees correctly, before amending, “A little bit. But I… think I like it anyway. Or maybe I like it because of that, because it scares me.”

Hannibal wants to eat him, defile Will against his counter, his altar, and use him as a sacrificial lamb. He looks away to finish out his wine, to give his mouth something to do that doesn’t involve spilling his guts for fear of his skittish lover running from him.

Will eyes him one last time before ripping back the rest of his glass, despite it still being half full. As if he’s trying to resolve himself to something. He shifts to face the older man head on once more and asks, intent and impossible to be ignored, “Is there anything I can do to help? I mean, anything I can do to help you - I don’t know, be less angry? Tell me what you need. You always take care of me, let me do it in return.”

Hannibal sets his empty glass down and offers Will a small smile. “Kissing often helps reduce stress,” he jokes, turning to grab the wine bottle.

(Maybe it’s a bit needy, but he knows his lover simply isn’t comfortable yet, and Hannibal can respect that, he can be patient.)

Will stops him with a hand on his shoulder so Hannibal can’t turn away. His fingers dig into it as his other hand reaches up, trembling ever so slightly, to steady his face and - before he has time to even be properly surprised by the younger man - pull him into a kiss.

It’s a little clumsy, too fast for the angle to be right and clearly impulsive. He wonders how long it has been since his lover last kissed anyone, because for all the feeling poured into it, it’s surprisingly chaste.

When Will pulls back, his face is flushed pink and Hannibal is not a gambling man, but he would bet that his heart is racing even faster than it had been a minute ago.

For all the teasing he wants to do, he finds himself rather speechless as he stares at the empath, enraptured. “Will?” he asks, curious and surprised. He has to admit his anger does happen to have fizzled out. “You didn’t have to.”

His lover shrugs self consciously and says, “Well. Kissing is proven to help with stress and cortisol levels. Probably healthier than getting wine drunk before dinner, too.”

Hannibal hums, amused, and leans in to kiss Will himself, gentle and slow to keep his jittery lover close. He wants to dig fingers into soft hips and supple flesh, but stops himself from getting too rough, too possessive.

Will makes a soft sound against his mouth, surprised but content. His lips move against his as his arms loop around Hannibal’s neck cautiously. Surprising him once more, he feels Will’s lips part against his own, tongue slipping out to probe the line of his mouth. He seems to be testing how far Hannibal will let him go, as if the answer wasn’t as far as he took it.

He lets Will set the pace, in that case, more than happy to follow his lead, to let Will gauge what he wants. His lover deserves to do as such if he hasn’t kissed anyone in so long, and Hannibal is eager to learn alongside him, really.

Will’s tongue slips into his mouth and he thinks that his lover doesn’t even realize the near silent, content sighs he lets out as they kiss. They kiss gently, sweet and slow, for several long minutes until the profiler pulls away slowly.

“That alright?” he asks, unable to make eye contact with Hannibal as he does. It’s truly a rather adorable sight, as much as a grown man can be.

Hannibal leans in to gently, affectionately, nip at Will’s neck, wanting to bite and tear. He can be good for Will, be nothing more than playful teeth until his lover is ready for his cruelty. “Very good, actually,” he praises, nosing at his jaw. “So lovely. Thank you.”

The shiver that runs through him is delightful, and so is the delectable strain in his voice when he says, “Oh. Great. You’re, uh, feeling better then?”

Will hardly even finishes his question before dropping his head to his shoulder to hide away. His cheek burns warm against his neck. Hannibal doubts he’s supposed to be able to hear it, but he can’t help but smile when he hears his lover mumble, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just did that.”

He doesn’t point it out, rather he just holds Will close and tight. Dinner can wait if this is how the empath intends for their evening to go.

(He wants to wrap his mouth around more, dig his teeth into sinew and bones like a wild dog, and tear until his lover gives him everything- absolutely everything. He wants to drown in Will’s mind and be the sole object of the younger man’s desires. He wants to consume and be consumed in turn.)

He tugs gently at Will’s curls, enough for the man to pull back and look at him, only to promptly kiss him again, languide and tender.

“Come to the opera with me,” he asks once they pull apart again, hopeful, and maybe a touch obsessive. He can’t help the overwhelmingly greedy urge to take Will everywhere with him. “Please?”

“Yeah, okay,” his lover says immediately, looking slightly dazed before blinking. He winces, “What’s the dress code? Because I only have one suit that’s black tie, and I’m pretty sure I’ve only worn it to funerals. I’ve also never been to the opera, obviously.”

Oh, as if Hannibal wouldn’t find a way to give Will the sun if only he were to ask. As if he can’t handle getting him a new suit, one that would hug the trim line of his waist and let him show off just what an incredible man Hannibal had found. He thinks Mrs. Komeda, with her love for the macabre, will adore his lover.

Will is, after all, the loveliest creature in every room. Even if he was in a funeral tuxedo.

“Then we’ll go shopping,” Hannibal says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and it might as well be. “I’m inviting you, I may as well pay, hm?” He knows his lover well enough to know he would have no opportunity to ‘waste’ money on him, as he would put it, unless he has a good excuse for it.

“You do too much for me,” Will frowns before sighing. “But I’m not going to be able to convince you not to, am I?”

“No,” Hannibal agrees, chuckling softly. He finally pulls back to give Will enough space to get down the counter. “Would you like to help me cook, my dove?”

His lover slips from the counter, picking up their glasses and going to wash them in the sink as he nods. “Sure. What’s for dinner?”

Will’s idea of relaxing after a long day of lectures and being dragged to crime scenes and having the expert advice he was brought in for ignored is not a crowded theater with seats too close to each other for comfort. It is not a large hall echoing piercing music right into his head, which seems to be aching near constantly.

It is, however, Hannibal.

He doesn’t know when his definition of comfort and relaxation expanded from just working on boat motors, fishing, and playing with his dogs to include any time spent with Hannibal. Probably around the time he fell in love with his closest friend, but he still can’t pinpoint when that was.

Somehow, Hannibal manages to make something that would be horribly overstimulating into something not just bearable, but enjoyable. He holds Will’s hand through the entire opera, something he finds himself deeply grateful for. The crowd is easier to withstand when he can pull his friend’s hand into his lap and play with his fingers. He can focus on the music better, which is truly stunning.

Will had grown up going to several different churches, changing for every city they moved to. Though he had never truly believed in a single, omnipotent God, and his father had always claimed he found God in hard work and boatyards rather than stuffy buildings with improper ventilation, they had still gone together for nearly every Sunday until he was in high school. It had been about the community more than anything else. So despite having no regard for God or his supposed plans, he always found live music something of a religious experience.

When the opera ends and his friend stands to applaud, Will has to tear his eyes away from unshed tears shining in eyes the color of old blood before he can join him in clapping. He takes Hannibal’s hand once more when the standing ovation fades and everyone begins to empty into the antechamber for drinks and to socialize.

“That was better than I expected,” he murmurs in the older man’s ear as they walk, “Thank you for inviting me.”

His friend- though he wishes he were his date -gives him a delightful little shiver at the breath over his ear, ears tinging pink. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he replies, smiling. “Would you come with me again?”

Will weighs the question genuinely, because he finds that Hannibal prefers when he does. He likes it, too; there’s something freeing in not having to worry about being rude if he’s honest.

“Yes,” he settles on, “Maybe not often, it’s… a lot, but yes. I’ll come if you ask me to.”

A passing waiter hands them both flutes of champagne and Will takes it, even though he doesn’t really like the drink. But it’s something to do with the hand not holding Hannibal’s, and he knows the man will drink his for him. All he’d have to do is hand him the glass. He enjoys that, too.

The smile Hannibal gives him is genuine, they always are. He hides things from Will, yes, but not many. Not as many as he does everyone else, and Will likes that, too; how Hannibal will sometimes look down on people, especially if they’re rude to either of them, or to Will, specifically.

It’s thrilling to watch the older man be brutal with his words, even if he knows Will could do it himself.

(He lets Will do it, too, without ever stopping him. It’s freeing, dangerous.)

“Now must we socialize?” Will asks him, as if the task is horribly dreadful, and he’s only half serious. Hannibal makes so many things so much easier just being nearby, and it’s intoxicating. Terrifying, too.

An older woman, in an artfully draped red gown and actual, real sparkling gloves descends on them before his friend can reply. She grabs Hannibal by the forearms, leaning in to kiss both his cheeks with enthusiasm. “Hannibal, my dear!” she says, and her voice reminds Will of the proper older women he met in every church of every new city who demanded he listen to their cotillion stories, “It has been far too long! How are you, darling?”

“Mrs. Komeda,” Hannibal greets fondly, yet Will can tell his friend has closed off somewhat. “I’m well, and yourself? Please, this is Will, my dove.”

“Well aren’t you just too pretty for your own good,” Mrs. Komeda says, turning to Will to give him the same affectionate greeting. He’s glad he’s familiar with the action and can’t help but wonder if the woman was born in the South or if it was just the way all older, aristocratic women were. “Oh, if I was 20 years younger! Has he cooked for you, dear? It's been too long since you've properly cooked for us, Hannibal.”

“Frequently,” Will tells her, smile genuine. He likes her, with her eternally youthful air, charming humor, and the way Hannibal is clearly at ease around her. It helps that she reminds him of so many of the women he’d met growing up. “Sometimes he even lets me help.”

Hannibal looks at him with a wide smile, pride clearly swelling there. “Yes, it’s enjoyable to have him help,” he admits, and Will doesn’t miss the knowing smile she shoots him before his friend can see.

“Come over and I will cook for you,” he tells her, clearly eager for a dinner guest.

“I said properly. Means dinner and the show. Have you seen him truly cook?” she asks Will, fully ignoring Hannibal for a moment. The older man doesn’t even look surprised, just amused. “It's an entire performance. He used to throw such exquisite dinner parties.” She looks at his friend pointedly again, smug. “You heard me. Used to.”

“I know,” Will grins at her conspiratorially. Fondly, and as if sharing a great secret with the lively woman, he adds, “He’s a horrible show off. He gives my dogs handmade sausages as a treat. I think he uses my oven more than I do.”

Hannibal raises a brow at him, smiling so fondly, so warmly, but says nothing of Will’s own habit of making food from scratch for them. Even when Mrs. Komeda stares the older man down. “I will prepare a feast again, once inspiration strikes. After all, a feast must present itself.”

“You’re so picky, Hannibal,” Will snorts. He reaches out to swap his champagne flute with Hannibal’s half full one. He takes a curious sip only to wince. Yeah, he still hates it. He refocuses on gently mocking his friend, “When does inspiration strike? When the moon is right and the stars have aligned?”

Hannibal scoffs softly, knocking their shoes together affectionately as he looks at his champagne flute. He smiles, something small and real, here in the open, as he says, “Perhaps it already has, hm?”

Mrs. Komeda chuckles at them, eyes twinkling before she looks over Will’s shoulder. “I believe this young man is trying to get your attention.”

Her words catch Will’s attention and he turns, looking at the two men expanding the circle of Hannibal’s acquaintances. One of them is short and a bit round, with a well maintained beard that fails to manage at making him look sophisticated. The profiler thinks it just makes him look overeager; the brown suit isn’t very flattering either. Something about him seems almost familiar, but he can’t tell from where.

His companion, though, makes Will reflexively squeeze Hannibal’s hand. He’s much taller than his portly friend, with dark skin, short, neat hair, and eyes like a shark’s- cold, black, and dead. There’s something off about him, he can tell instantly. Looking at him feels like staring Garret Jacob Hobbs and Eldon Stammets in the face once more. It doesn’t help that he can feel Hannibal going tense beside him, as well.

“Hi, it’s so good to see you,” the short man says, and something unfamiliar, angry and possessive and gnashing its teeth, rises up through Will’s chest as he reaches out as if to shake Hannibal’s hand. His friend. He squeezes his hand tightly again, a reminder. “This is my friend Tobias.”

“Good evening,” Hannibal replies, cold, courteous. He notices the way they ignore Will, because Hannibal is so very observant. “I would offer to shake your hand, but,” his friend starts, lifting their linked hands. “It seems to be preoccupied for the evening.”

He doesn’t bother to swallow down the triumphant, pleased feeling that soaks through his chest at the flash of something like jealousy across the bearded man’s face. Hannibal may not be his in any tangible way, but his easy friendship belongs to Will and Will alone.

“Ah, hello. And you are?” the short man asks and Will realizes that he knows why he’s familiar. He’s pretty sure he’s seen him around Hannibal’s office.

“A friend,” Will says flatly, the ‘you don’t need to know’ laced in his voice. He presses his shoulder against his friend’s, viciously petty in showing that he gets to touch the older man when no one else can. “Will. Hannibal asked me to come tonight, so I accompanied him. He thought I’d enjoy it.”

Hannibal smiles at him, pleased despite the tense line of muscle that are his shoulders. Maybe he could offer Hannibal a massage tonight, once they get back.

Mrs. Komeda, staring at the two men herself, asks in a pleasant tone that belies her concern, “How do you two know each other?” Will absolutely hates the way Hannibal tenses even more, bristling, really, at the thought of the words that might leave the man.

“There should remain some mystery to my life outside the opera,” his friend tells her.

“I’m one of his patients,” the man says - Will should probably figure out his name, except he didn’t actually care - and Mrs. Komeda makes a small, disappointed sound. She was enjoying the mystery more than anything, and seems to disapprove; he likes her even more for that, he thinks.

And Hannibal, pressed against his side, is as stiff and tightly wound as a trigger about to blow. Will can practically taste the angry stillness under his skin, ready to snap and bite. He’s curious; he wants to know what would happen if he does.

(But he also remembers what happened the last time Hannibal got properly angry and a small, horrible part of him wants to see if he could drag Hannibal away and kiss him in the name of stress relief again.)

“I’ve been told he’s a very sought after psychiatrist,” he says to Mrs. Komeda, mock sotto voce. He knows that everyone in their small group can hear him. Will’s eyes trail to Hannibal to meet his as he teases, “I’m not sure why- he used the phrase ‘the bone area of your skull’ to me when we first met.”

Hannibal scoffs good naturedly and turns to his champagne to cover his smile as he drinks. “I was simply distracted,” he finally lands on when he looks back at Will, so fond and yet exasperated as Mrs. Komeda chuckles.

Apropos of nothing, however, the shorter man says, “I loved the performance, I did. Every minute.”

“Did you, then,” Hannibal replies blankly, uninterested, still angry. Will loves that he has his friend’s attention seemingly to himself through all this.

“His eyes kept wandering. More interested in you than what was happening on stage,” Tobias finally speaks, but there’s a wrongness to his voice that sits uncomfortably in his gut.

All the emotion and tone there is simply affectation, clear as day to Will. He smiles warmly, speaks teasingly, but none of it reaches dead, black eyes. The profiler reflexively squeezes his friend’s hand so tight he can feel his own knuckles groan and ache with the effort, but he can’t feel sorry in the moment. He wants to leave. He wants to get them both as far away from this Tobias as he can.

The man reminds him of a frog fish- disturbingly still, waiting for prey to wander close enough to be devoured before they can flee.

“A shame. The performance was very good- the lead has a very nice voice. Her control was incredible,” he says, crowding all the more closer to his friend. Something in his chest churns, ready to bite and tear. He’s not sure what it is, but it makes him vaguely nauseous, too.

Hannibal finally pulls his hand from Will’s grip, but it doesn’t stray far before it lands on his shoulder. “Apologies, but this isn’t something we should be discussing further,” his friend practically growls with a fake, pleasant smile. “Franklyn, Tobias.”

The older man turns to Mrs. Komeda as they leave. “I will prepare something soon, you have my word.”

He lets Hannibal guide him - practically drag him, honestly - out of the antechamber and away from the throng of socialites. Will only feels himself start to relax when he can’t see a glimpse of the two other men anymore and the conversations of hundreds of people finally grow into an indistinct murmur.

He clears his throat and offers a probably lacking apology as he glances at his friend’s hand, “Sorry. I, uh, might have overreacted there. You just looked so… uncomfortable.”

Hannibal hums softly, and though there’s still lingering anger, he stretches the hand Will squeezed with amusement. “You were being rather, ah, protective. It was fun to watch,” his friend admits before taking Will’s hand again. “Let’s head home, my dove.”

His stomach clenches for a completely different reason this time, and Will follows him dutifully. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” he asks, eyes lingering on their hands. He wants to kiss it in apology, but he thinks that might be too far.

(He wants Hannibal to kiss him again under the guise of tension relief. He wants to see if he won’t be gentle this time, if he’s annoyed enough to kiss Will like he means it. It’s manipulative and sick of Will to even be thinking about it, about how to make it happen. But he wants. He wants to know what Hannibal’s tongue down his throat and teeth digging into his lips feels like, so he can memorize the feeling for when he’s alone with his dick, like the horrible person Will apparently is.)

Hannibal shakes his head. “No. Not as much as you think you did,” he assures, opening the passenger side door for Will, waiting until the empath is seated before letting go of his hand. He joins Will shortly enough, starting the car with a little smile.

He looks perfect like this, thoughtful, gentle, rough. Angry. Still so angry, a murderous type of anger that doesn’t surprise Will very much, if only because he knows Hannibal enjoys his privacy.

Franklyn, had it been? Sniffing around where he shouldn’t be, trying to get Hannibal’s attention, his Hannibal’s attention. He can’t let that happen.

Impulsively, Will reaches across the console to cradle his friend’s face with one palm and kisses him. He kisses him hard and burning hot and if he’s trying to devour and spit out that man’s name on his friend’s tongue, well. No one needs to know that. He’ll stop kissing him the moment Hannibal moves away, of course.

But for now, he wants all of his attention.

Hannibal gasps in surprise against him, one hand reaching up to grip Will’s coat as he kisses back with fervor. Like, maybe, if he doesn’t, he might die. It’s addictive, especially when his friend’s hand slips from his coat to the back of his neck, securing them even better.

If asked, Will will forever deny the pathetic, wanting sound that slips out when their tongues slide against each other. He wants to devour Hannibal whole. He curls his hand into the lapels of his suit jacket, doesn’t want to let him go far even when he has to pull back and gasp for breath.

Something is wrong with Will. What he’s doing is downright manipulation, taking advantage of his friend’s willingness to touch, to share affection. The worst part is that he doesn’t even feel that bad about it. He’s covetous, and he wants to be for as long as Hannibal will let him be.

His friend pulls back just slightly, just enough to take a sharp inhale and pant into their shared space, foreheads pressed together. “Feeling peckish?” he teases, rubbing his thumb behind Will’s ear pleasantly, slowly. “A little warning would be appreciated next time, but I’ll stop complaining.”

Will’s brain feels like it’s running at half speed, molasses thick and sweet. “Okay,” he says, not caring what he’s agreeing to. He tries to steal another kiss before asking, “Wait, warning about what?”

(He wants to keep Hannibal. He wonders if the older man would let him. Darkly, he wonders how far he could take this before Hannibal backed away. He wonders if he could get him to leave marks all over Will’s neck, if he could mark up Hannibal.)

“About kissing me, darling,” Hannibal laughs, kissing him again, softer, slower, like he’s trying to soothe Will down. He tilts their heads a bit, and it’s like a whole other world for them before his friend finally pulls away, licking his lips. Despite his hold on Will’s head, the older man advises in a whisper, “We need to get home, Will.”

“Oh.” Hot shame flushes through the younger man, making his face burn red and he finally tries to pull away, despite the comfortable heat of Hannibal’s hand on the back of his neck. Will releases his suit jacket, making an effort to smooth out the creases. “Right, sorry-”

But his friend doesn’t let him get very far.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, and it’s good to know his anger has faded off into nothing, replaced by a pleasant, affectionate tone. “One last? And I don’t care, it’s just that the car is not the most comfortable place, mm?”

Tension he hadn’t noticed creeping into his spine releases all at once and Will nods. He kisses Hannibal once more, gentler and chaste. As he settles back into his seat so they can leave, he can’t help asking, “Why would your patient approach you in public? That sounds… painfully uncomfortable.”

Either that, or Will just hates psychiatrists to such profound levels. It could be both, even.

Hannibal starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot as he pointedly doesn’t look at Will when he says, “We should get home before I answer such a dangerous line of questioning.”

Will scowls at him and waits until they reach a red light before he says, “Yeah, well, here’s your warning.”

Before Hannibal can react, he leans over the console, yanks down on the collar of his nice button up - and probably stretching out the button, oh well - and bites into the junction of his friend’s neck and shoulder. He even goes so far as to slightly grind his teeth, especially when Hannibal moans under him, before he releases him and sits back. It’s retribution for doing it to Will the other day. He wipes the spit that had come with the messy action on the back of his hand and can’t help the smug satisfaction that flows through him.

Hannibal is flushed, looking at Will every now and then as he looks to the light. He doesn’t say anything as he finishes the drive home, clearly antsy.

Will can’t help the satisfied grin that spreads across his face all the way home.

Chapter Text

When they get back to his home, Hannibal already knows what to expect from his lover, if the incidents in the car were anything to go by. His jealous, skittish lover who had hated Franklyn and Tobias- a killer, poorly disguising himself as a human -and had kissed him intensely for it.

He imagines he won’t be allowed out of this conversation, especially not when the front door closes and Will’s eyes land on him expectantly.

He takes his coat off with a sigh, hanging it up. “I suspect,” he starts unbuttoning his cuffs, “that my patient has been stalking me for some time.”

He fears his lover might get very cross with him, unfortunately, and he’ll simply have to weather the storm.

“What,” Will says flatly, not a question but a statement. “Hannibal, why haven’t you done something about being stalked?”

He was correct. His lover was not happy with him, not at all. Will comes closer, hovering worried as he begins to relax his own clothing.

“Because I had no solid evidence and the police don’t act when it comes to stalkers, Will,” he points out simply, taking his tie off and then his shoes. He trades them for his slippers, offering Will his own. “And they wouldn’t call tonight a sign of violent behavior, either.”

(He knows as much, but the truth of it is that he’d much rather see what happens if he kills Franklyn in front of his, ah, friend. He wonders if the killer would lose his temper, escalate, and die by Hannibal’s hands. It would be a fun tussle.)

“I used to be a cop, and I know there’s more you can do. And I don’t just mean with the cops,” Will points out. “Get a restraining order. Get rid of him. There’s more you can do. Please.”

His lover turns to him and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt for him. He slides Hannibal’s vest off, staring up at him with intense eyes. “I could help you. I worry about you, too, Hannibal.”

(He has the peculiar thought to bite into Will’s neck and pull at his arteries until the man is limp in his arms and Hannibal’s stomach is full. There would be no better honor to his lover, should things turn out ugly. Will shall never become a tableau, everything that he is belongs to Hannibal, and it will be so until Will dies.)

(He knows the younger man will never forget him, and will always think about him.)

“I had no proof,” Hannibal says quietly, reaching up to brush Will’s styled curls back. They're softer like this, with the proper care and routine Hannibal had put the younger on. “And I doubt pressure from the FBI on the local police would have helped, either. Now that I’m certain, I will of course be referring Franklyn to a new psychiatrist.”

He does not pull away, has no reason to, and most of all, he quite enjoys Will’s recent confidence. It’s refreshing to see his sweet lover be so bold and obvious about what he wants.

“By all means, if you have a more solid idea, I am all ears.”

“I don’t mean the FBI, I meant me,” his lover says boldly. Tentatively, in contrast, he sets his hands on Hannibal’s hips. His thumbs rub gentle circles there, soothing and invigorating at the same time. This close, Will’s eyes are clear, deep waters threatening to drown him alive.

“I could help you.”

There’s something dark in his suggestion, not just possessive but dangerous. He had wondered what it would take to draw the darkness out of his lover, but he’s surprised it’s so easy.

“And how so?” Hannibal whispers, resting his hands on Will’s shoulders. “What do you have in mind, my dove?” There’s no stopping the pleased smile on his lips, he knows, but he’s enjoying the attention.

After all, how often will he manage to drag this out like so before Will knows his tricks and gets impatient with him? He enjoys the thrill, the fun of it all, he’s curious to see what will happen. Would it all be in vain? Would his clever darling figure it all out before even tonight?

(He wants to know how dark that creature Will hides is, how dangerous, if they might hunt together. He wants everything his lover could ever possibly offer.)

“I don’t know,” Will murmurs back, just as soft, “I wouldn’t hurt him. Unless I had to. But I could scare him. He looked small, twitchy. It wouldn’t be hard to make sure that he knows to leave you alone- Freddie Lounds already quoted me about thinking like serial killers. I could… remind him.”

His lover is breathless when he finishes speaking, sounding both caught in his own fantasy and horrified at himself. He’ll learn, with enough time and encouragement. The darkness under his skin is nothing that Will needs to fear.

However, perhaps someday soon, others should.

Hannibal presses their foreheads together, humming thoughtfully. “And for what? A possibility that you are taken from me?” he asks, pulling away slightly to stare intensely into eyes like an ocean, invitingly wide and cold like a refreshing plunge. “I prefer having you to myself, I told you as much already.”

They’re so close he can feel the sigh and shudder that runs through the younger man without needing to see. In a murmur, one world shaking sentence after the other, he says, “I wouldn’t get caught. Would you like a massage?”

He gives Will a chaste kiss to break the tension and chuckles softly. “Yes, a massage would be lovely.” He wants to see what Will would do. He relents for now, more than happy to go along with his lover’s whims.

His lover finishes slipping his shirt from his shoulders, hands light and skittish. Will licks his lips and pauses before taking off his own shirt. “Do you want more comfortable pants?” he asks, eyeing both of their slacks. And then his sly, sweet lover looks up at him as if he has no idea what face he’s making and asks, “Lotion?”

Hannibal plays along, because he should, for his precious dove’s sake. “Bedside table. Where would you like me?” he asks innocently, even if he knows exactly what it’ll do to his clever lover. He’s quite fond of Will’s witty ferocity, actually, it would be a shame to lose that bright spark of his through Becoming. “Sleepwear would be appreciated.”

A risk Hannibal is more than willing to take, however.

He has the delight of watching Will swallow before going to the bedside table and pulling out the mild floral lotion in the drawer. He sets it on the bed gently, as if afraid to mess the blankets and sheets up, before grabbing two pairs of the lounge pants Hannibal often wears to sleep. His lover passes one pair to him and strips off his own pants to replace them as he finally says, “On the bed. You said that’s easier, right?”

He’d already known it, but his lover is a vision in his sleep pants, upper body bare. He steps forward, ushering Hannibal to the bed as he babbles, “I’ve never done this before so I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can try my best. You’ll have to tell me if I’m hurting you or doing it wrong. More or less pressure, that sort of thing.”

Hannibal lets Will situate him how he wants on the bed, and if he presses into the hands on his skin as he does so, no one needs to know.

“I will,” he assures, folding his arms under his pillow. The fact Will is growing bolder and bolder is honestly filling Hannibal with a dangerous static, threatening to spill over and make him do something stupid. There’s no way to be vicious without scaring the empath for the moment, he doesn’t think. “I’m sure you’ll do wonderful.”

Hannibal listens to the sound of his lover taking a deep breath before the bed dips under his weight. Will crawls onto the bed and carefully lowers himself to straddle his hips. He relaxes as he waits, listening to the click of the lotion bottle and the slick sounds of his lover warming it up.

Warm, slick hands settle on the middle of his back, pressing up, and then out along his shoulders. Will takes a moment to simply rub the lotion into his skin and smooth the way before tenderly exploring. He maps out where any hard knot of tension has formed. It’s only when his lover places his hands on his hips along either side of Hannibal’s spine to push up the line of his back and ease the muscles, that he hears it, feels it.

A tiny, almost inaudible gasp from Will, who seems to think he has successfully muffled it. And the hot, hard length of the younger man’s erection pressed right up against Hannibal’s bottom.

He could be mean, just a tad bit, but Hannibal decides to let his lover have this. It’s not like Will had stopped him from doing the same, after all.

He grunts lightly when his lover’s clever hands find a knot under old scars, resting his forehead on the pillow. If he arches his back at the touch, pressing his hips back against the empath, he has no one to blame but himself- especially when a moan slips out of Hannibal’s mouth at a particularly tender spot.

Will’s next breath is delightfully short and shaky when he asks uselessly, “Here?”

Both his thumbs dig into the knot, moving in small circles until it releases. The specific kind of pleasure-pain that comes from massaging out all tensions lights up over his body as his lover leans forwards to start working at his shoulders. It has the added effect of pressing their bodies closer and earning a poor swallowed ‘ahhh’ from the man on top of him.

Hannibal goes to tease him before he’s cut off by a long, strained moan when Will rubs just the right spot. And maybe the position they’re in affected him more than he’d have admitted previously, but it’s undeniable when he feels the growing wet patch on his underwear.

“Will- mmnh-” he tries to say, shuddering as Will’s hands shift and press closer to his neck, enticingly heated, almost like a brand. The things he’d do to have Will wrap his fingers around his throat and squeeze just right.

“H-Hannibal?” Will stills over him, the shaky question sounding like a plea, a prayer, and a demand all at once. He wonders if his lover is even aware of the subtle, tentative way he rocks his hips in search of friction.

Slowly, the younger man squeezes his shoulders and drags his hands down Hannibal’s spine again. He asks simply, “You okay?”

Oh, the things his skittish lover does to him.

“Very,” Hannibal assures, shivering under Will’s hand. God, he wants him, wants all of Will Graham to himself. He wants the younger man to keep going, to go further, even, but he knows he can’t force it. He surprises himself at how pleading he sounds when he asks, “Keep going?”

“Okay.”

When Will’s hands return, they’re colder and slicker with fresh lotion. His fingers dig into the spaces between Hannibal’s ribs, drawing back to his spine along the intercostal muscles. The sensation is both pleasant and makes him feel as if the profiler holds his lungs in his hands.

None of it is helped by his lover’s grinding and pathetically hidden moans. He must not be aware that the older man can hear him, because his voice is remarkably level - if unsteady - when he says, “I don’t know what to do next. You feel, uh, pretty loose- relaxed. Did it help?”

“Yes,” Hannibal assures, a bit disappointed; he wants Will to touch him forever, never let go at all. He feels too wired, still, however, and he knows what he needs.

He shifts enough to slip an arm out from under the pillow to press his palm against his erection with a soft gasp. It feels right, under Will like this.

(Then again, it always feels right, perfect, domestic even, when he spends time with Will. He wants to drag him home every single day and ruin him any chance he gets.)

“Oh,” Will breathes from over him, surely able to feel the movement. He slips off of Hannibal and to the side, surprisingly little space between them. When he looks, his lover is staring at where his hand slips underneath himself. In a great rush, clearly impulsively, his lover blurts out, “Do you- want a hand with that?”

Hannibal feels light headed at the offer, moaning into the pillow to try and retain some dignity. “Yes, please, Will,” he begs, looking at the younger man intensely.

“Okay,” Will says, despite looking like a deer in headlights as he stares at Hannibal’s hip, and then finally his face, “I- I don’t know what you want? I’m sorry. I haven’t done this in… a long time.”

Hannibal pauses, shifting until he’s on his side, staring at Will. “How, ah, long is a long time, then?” he finds himself asking, running his hands over Will’s chest until they rest on protruding ribs. They fit there perfectly, comfortably, like they always have and will belong there.

(He must have been waiting for Will his whole life.)

His lover had already been pink in the cheeks, but he manages to flush even redder. Taking his time with responding, he shuffles to lay down facing Hannibal without dislodging his hands. If anything, he leans into them greedily as he places a hand of his own on his hip. As if Hannibal is the only person holding him in place on earth.

But eventually, Will can’t put off responding any longer. Looking embarrassed - or perhaps ashamed? - he admits, “Bit over five years. You remember the scar on my shoulder? Haven’t really… slept with anyone since about six months after it happened, probably.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, stores that away for later, and wraps his arms around Will’s upper chest, smiling sweetly. “Hm, would you rather I take care of us, or…?” He offers, though he doesn’t doubt his clever Will would get the hang of it either way.

In a whisper, far more seductive than intended, Will asks, “Together?” as his hand drifts slightly lower on his hip. His thumb runs a swishing line over where the waist of Hannibal’s sleep pants end and his skin begins. He seems utterly entranced by his task.

“Can I kiss you? While I… while we touch each other?”

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes, sliding his hands to Will’s own sleepwear, giving his lover a final chance to pull away before Hannibal decides to take whatever the empath will give him, good or bad.

(He wonders, faintly, why Will hasn’t been with anyone for so long. It’s not for a lack of looks, clearly. But the scar drives him wild with questions.)

Will tugs his sleep pants down gently, just enough to release his aching member from them, and stares in muted awe and hunger at Hannibal’s flushed cock. He quickly shuffles his own pants down, the younger man’s cock just as painfully red as his own.

Looking up at Hannibal with coy eyes, the profiler reaches for the bottle of lotion and warms a pump between his palms. It’s a less than preferable lubricant but he doesn’t want to break this tentative show of bravery to grab the proper lube. Will takes his hand to spread some of the lotion over it before he reaches down- and wraps his warm, slick hand around both of them at once.

“Kiss me then, cher,” he whispers boldly, the enchanting man catching him by surprise once more.

And really, who is Hannibal to refuse? Gripping Will’s waist and burying his other hand in his hair, the older man kisses him and it feels perfect, holy even. To have such an angelic, dangerous creature want him, want this.

Will’s humanity had always been his most fascinating and easiest quality to love; to care so deeply for all life that you would sacrifice yourself, your own personhood, in the pursuit of their happiness? It had always driven him mad how easily others tossed his lover aside like a broken toy that shouldn’t be used anymore. That was what Jack wanted from Hannibal. And yet, here they are now, Will a heavy, heady weight in his arms and cocks pressed flush together. He feels electrified almost when their tongues touch, moaning pleasantly in the space between them.

Will’s hand strokes them with perfect pressure, the glide warm and easy but not lacking wonderful friction. He groans into the older man’s mouth when he abandons the slow, measured pace he had tried to set for jerking them off at a much faster pace.

Between gasping kisses and shared moans, he says, “Fuck, you’re so wet. I didn’t know a dick could leak that much.”

It sends a shiver through his spine, forcing a louder moan than expected out of Hannibal. “I’ll explain later,” he assures, pulling Will in for another kiss, another bit of his lover he might be allowed to keep. He wants to keep all of him for himself.

“Yeah, okay,” Will breathes. And then he twists his palm over the heads of their cocks and pulls a truly sinful sound from himself. Torturous thing that he is, he pulls away from the kiss and noses along the older man’s jaw to pepper kisses there. “Can I be honest?”

He feels like he might be on fire, clinging to Will the way he is, but it’s worth it. “Yes,” he breathes, jerking his hips into his hand, panting. “Yes, please, y-you know I prefer it.”

His lover swears softly, lightly biting his jaw and shivering. “Don’t think I’m going to last much longer. Kinda- fuck- forgot how nice sex is.”

He should see that devilish mouth shut. He should worship it upon an altar. The things that Will says to him, often and thoughtlessly, are the sweetest torture Hannibal has encountered. Every word a dripping temptation, every bit of understanding pried out a victory. Five years, his lover had said, and he is the one lucky enough to unravel this divine creature.

He can feel himself edge over the precipice, burning and needy. “F-fuck- please, Will,” he breathes, shivering as he humps into the hold wantonly. “Please.”

For the first time in a long time, he finds himself at a loss for words, though he can’t even find it in the creature under his human suit to be offended or insulted by the action. He tilts his head to the side to give his lover a better angle, better skin to bite on.

He wants it all.

He gets his wish when Will buries his teeth into Hannibal’s neck and comes with a reedy whine. Surprisingly, he doesn’t bother with stopping his hand or focusing solely on the older man’s aching cock. If anything, the profiler only pants softly pained breaths against his skin as his cum smooths the glide over Hannibal’s cock even more.

It feels better than anything he could have done on his own, sending sparks up his spine and behind his eyes as he moans, barely managing a few more thrusts before coming into Will’s hand himself.

If he commits the moment to memory so he may come back to it over and over, cataloging the teeth in his neck and the feel of skin on skin, who could blame him? Who would dare once their eyes land on the man in bed with him, with his dark curls and piercingly cold eyes?

Anyone who does would simply be dinner for his sweet lover.

Will sags into the bed, teeth releasing from Hannibal’s neck as he presses his forehead there instead. He can’t see it, but he can feel the flutter of eyelashes against his skin as the younger man opens his eyes and pulls back just enough to lift his hand between them. It’s covered in the sticky proof of their orgasms, transparent white that slides down his palm towards the delicate bones of his wrist.

“That,” his lover says, staring blatantly at their intermingled cum on his skin, “was really nice. I’m… very tired after it, honestly.”

Hannibal laughs, can’t help himself not to, but he smooths his hands over Will’s skin tenderly. “We should wash up before you go to sleep,” he points out softly, tucking his nose into dark, messy curls.

Will groans but lets himself be pulled to his feet, demanding, “Then we sleep.”

---

The table is set, fully furnished and filled in a way that Will has never seen before. Not so much the food, as there is sparingly little. No, it’s the centerpiece. It crawls and unfurls across the entire length of the table, full of black antlers and thorny branches that weave together to create a bramble wall. To split one side of the table from the people on the other.

Red candles flicker with white flames and a dozen small passerine birds have been speared upon the thorns, their blood dripping from sharp points like an anointing oil. Still more fill each and every plate, one raw little body stripped of all their feathers and wings for each place setting.

None of this is what has Will’s full attention, distracting him from even breathing.

No, that is all stolen by the man standing at the head of the table, leaning over his throne to stand with hands braces on the edge. He knows this man, and yet he cannot see him. The shadows coil around him like a second skin, blessing him. The only thing Will can make out of him is his crown of antlers, black and dripping red with the blood of something much larger than the tiny birds, and a pair of red eyes that follow him.

Follow them.

The Stag stands beside Will, shoulder to shoulder, and yet Will is also the Stag. This is not possible. And yet, it simply is.

“Will?”

The voice is distant, echoing down the corridors behind the Crowned Man. He says nothing, merely tilting his head at Will. Will and the Stag, or perhaps only the Will-Stag, sigh.

“It’s coming,” he says, or they say. He cannot tell the difference between their skin anymore.

The Crowned Man speaks with a voice like static and screaming, but he understands him perfectly, “And will you go?”

Will opens his mouth to answer-

“Will?”

He opens his eyes to find Hannibal standing in the doorway of his classroom in Quantico, not Hannibal’s house. “What?” he asks, blinking rapidly to try to remember what he had been doing, “What time is- wait, why are you here? Are you okay?”

Hannibal frowns, tilting his head. His winter coat hangs over one arm, the hand of which holds a large lunch bag. “You said you wanted us to have lunch this morning. You were quite insistent on the phone,” his friend says, walking in and closing the door behind him, eyes never leaving Will. “My dove, is everything alright?”

“Lunch. It’s lunch time?” Will asks, blinking in confusion. He has the vaguest memory of calling Hannibal before his first lecture of the day and asking him to come in for lunch, but it feels hazy. Dreamy.

He pushes himself up from behind his desk and starts to collect the photos scattered across it to make room. He gestures for his friend to put the insulated lunch bag down, apologizing, “Right. Sorry, I must have fallen asleep at- some time. Sit down, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Hannibal sets the bag down but he keeps frowning at Will, looking extremely displeased, even. “Will, you’re lying,” he says quietly, leaning in close. “You’re usually a very good liar, but you are far too rattled at the moment.”

“I am fine, it was just a weird dream. What are you talking about? I wasn’t sleep walking again, was I?” Will frowns at his friend. He reaches for the lunch bag to start unpacking it; if Hannibal won’t set up their lunch, he can.

Hannibal grabs his wrist, strength expertly measured to restrain Will without hurting him- but the threat is there, definitely, he knows what Hanninal looks like, what he could do -and pulls it towards his face. “Your eyes were open, but you were not present, Will,” the older man tells him, without mincing words.

It’s always been part of Hannibal’s charm; being blunt and yet effortlessly even toned about it at times. It’s a fact, a warning even, to ordinary people. But to Will? Hannibal is too soft for them to be meant as anything other than worry.

Oh. That’s probably not great, he thinks and stares back at his friend.

“I felt as if I was asleep,” Will finally manages to say, “I dreamed. Unless it was an extremely vivid and prolonged hallucination. Maybe I should see someone about that. Or I need to just stop sleeping altogether, if you’ll let me get away with that. Will you?”

He means the last bit as a joke, but he can tell that his friend isn’t taking it as one.

Hannibal’s frown deepens as he squeezes Will’s wrist slightly. “Will,” he admonishes before putting Will’s hand to his cheek and pressing into it, frustrated. “I wish you would take better care of yourself.”

Will is a fool, a weak man. All Hannibal has to do is so- cute, that’s the only word that fits, while looking at him and imploring. That’s all it takes for him to cave. He thinks he’s losing his mind over it. Instead of saying something ridiculous like, I think I’m falling in love with you or something he knows will only upset his friend further like, I’m alive, aren’t I?

No, instead of that, he strokes his thumb over Hannibal’s cheek before twisting his hand to tug the older man close to him. Close enough to kiss him, Will pushes his shirt collar and tie out of the way to lightly bite Hannibal’s throat instead. He gently digs his teeth into the soft skin over his Adam’s apple just so slightly before releasing it. The moan it elicits is like a delicious reward. Licking his lips, he looks up at the older man and asks, “Isn’t that what I have you for?”

Hannibal sighs, looking a bit sad despite that. And then, much like the cat who got the cream, he releases Will’s wrist with a smile to slip gentle fingers into his hair. “Are you asking me to move in?”

Will freezes, staring at him. He knows it’s a tease, a joke, but suddenly his chest yawns with the cavernous weight of want. What would it be like to live with Hannibal, to have him close, nearby at all times? To go home to each other, to know that his friend has left Baltimore for his farmhouse in Virginia?

(He already knows the answer to that. He wouldn’t be able to help himself, stop himself from taking advantage of Hannibal’s kindness and unique social rules. He would take as much advantage of the man as he could, slip into his bed at night and steal kisses, convince him to mark each other up. He would take too much of Hannibal, wouldn’t know how to deny himself that.)

(And it would be wrong of him. It would be a horribly dark, nasty thing to do. Immoral by all measures of the word. Guilt swirls in him at the thought alone, but he knows with sickening certainty that he would do it anyways.)

(Will Graham hungers for Hannibal Lecter, and he doesn’t think it’s something that can be satiated. Not if they’re only friends.)

“You brought lunch?” Will asks instead of answering his friend, turning away as much as he can with the hand in his hair. He looks down so he can start shuffling the Ripper files back out of view. If his face feels warm, well. He’ll deny it if Hannibal tries to say anything. He ends up rambling while he scrambles, “Of course, I mean, I know I asked you to. But I meant, uh, what did you bring?”

Hannibal tugs at his hair, a bit meanly before letting go. “Nothing much,” he says, dragging one of the pictures from Will’s range. “I can see why you have bad dreams.”

“What would you do if I said that this isn’t why?” Will wonders, snatching the photo back from his friend and smoothing the edges. The corners aren’t bent, but he finds himself with an odd sense of possessiveness over the crime scene photos. “Not the Chesapeake Ripper, at least. It’s all… artistic- almost pretty, don’t you think? No, the Ripper doesn’t give me nightmares, just dreams. It’s everything else that does.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, should snatch the words back out of the air to swallow them back down, but he can’t. He can’t take them back physically and he finds he doesn’t want to, either. They feel like the truest thing he’s said all day. Maybe even all week.

His friend stays silent as he sets out their lunches, humming thoughtfully. When he does speak, it’s to offer Will a fork, “Displaying one's enemy after death has its appeal in many cultures.” It’s not admonishing or cruel, or afraid of him, like anyone else would have been. “Their reward for their cruelty.”

No, Hannibal has simply taken Will’s words for the truth they are. He thinks he’s falling even more in love, in this moment.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, shaking his head as he takes the fork and sits back down to eat. Will mulls over his words as he takes a bite of their lunch, some kind of creamy pasta rich with meat and flavor. “These aren't the Ripper's enemies, these are pests he's swatted. And I doubt he cares about their cruelty. No, this is for their… undignified behavior. A mosquito bites you rudely, so you squash it. The Ripper does them a kindness, though. I mean, in his opinion. He turns them into something worthy.”

He can’t help agreeing with it, though. A few days ago, a doctor was killed, had his organs removed before they found him sitting across from himself on a bus. Will had been the one tasked with learning about the victim while Jack pushed the forensic team to find any evidence. It wasn’t hard to find his public reviews, and there were a lot of complaints about his behavior towards a certain subset of the patients who had left reviews.

He thinks the tableau the Ripper made from him was certainly a better use of his body than before.

Hannibal frowns in thought as he mixes his own bowl. “And the picture of the young woman on top?” His friend is simply too curious for his own good, but Will can’t blame him. “I’ve never heard of her on the news being one of the Ripper’s victims.”

“Miriam Lass,” Will says and her name rolls off his tongue with the lingering taste of old pain and fondness. “Supposedly the Ripper’s ninth, yeah. She was a trainee Jack took under his wing, but she was my student, you know? One of the first classes I taught. The Ripper shames his victims, but not her. He had no reason to humiliate Miriam Lass.”

He’s a little glad for it, honestly, that her body was never found. Never displayed. The Ripper, against all odds, has some sense of morals, it seems.

“She was a student?” Hannibal asks in surprise, looking at Will with a confused frown. He understands the sentiment, the resentment directed at Jack. “Did Jack-?”

“Did he what?” he cuts his friend off, sighing sharply. Stabbing another bite of pasta with his fork, he chews it as aggressively as if it was Jack’s face. Another reason why he never seems to be able to get along with the unit chief. “Ask any of her teachers? Of course not. Know that she was only a trainee? Yeah, he did. Trainees aren’t supposed to leave campus until graduation unless they’re kicked out or have a medical emergency- much less do field work.”

Will takes a sip from the bottle of water next to him - when did that get there? - and considers. He weighs his words very carefully before meeting Hannibal’s eyes. He knows that if there’s anyone who wouldn’t judge him for it, it’s him.

So he puts his fork down, sits back, and admits, “The Ripper is humiliating Jack. And honestly? If I could thank him for it, I would.”

Hannibal stares back at him understandingly, and definitely more than a little angry. He looks ready to kill Jack for him, for the sake of Miriam Lass. “So he simply took her out of class and, what? Sent her on her way to investigate The Ripper on her own?”

His friend sets his fork down and looks away at nothing, thinking. “Why does Jack still have that position if he is endangering rookies and agents? I think I would thank the Ripper as well.”

“As far as I know? Yeah. He didn’t walk into a lecture and call her out, he did it on his own time. The last time we ever talked, it was about questioning techniques, since I used to be a cop. I thought it was for a paper under one of her other professors. And I don’t know how he got away with it. Heard rumors that he claimed he only wanted her opinion and she went out looking again, but…” Will shrugs, finally leaning forward to keep eating with a sigh.

None of the teaching staff ever did get an answer on how Jack got away with it, or why he even thought to go after a trainee in the first place. But none of them really let him into their classrooms anymore, much less let them talk to any of the students. Even Will had done that much, despite how often the unit chief liked to interrupt his classes.

(And then there was the matter of the official work ID photograph of Jack that Dr. Marshall from the physical training department had taped to a dart board and hung in the teachers’ lounge a month after Miriam Lass went missing. He’s pretty sure the picture has been swapped out several times by now, with all the use it gets. But he’s not telling Hannibal about that; he was sworn to secrecy after all.)

“You think otherwise, clearly. Do you think her still alive?” Hannibal inquires gently, leaving his fork in his bowl as he looks at Will, curious for his opinion. He’s always curious, always wanting to know what Will truly thinks. It’s just as addicting as everything else about his friend is. “Also, I would prefer staying with you for the day.”

“I don’t know if it would be kinder, for her to be dead or alive. Considering the Ripper,” Will sighs. He finishes off his pasta and shoves his empty bowl and fork to the side. He picks up Hannibal’s hand- because his friend will let him get away with it and he knows if- to trace the wandering lines of the veins along his wrist and palm, the back of his hand. “I don’t mind if you stay, I only have-”

He never gets to finish the thought, because Jack barges in despite the closed door. Despite his frown at Hannibal being there as well, he’s all too happy to drag him along with Will to “catch the Ripper”.

It’s utter bullshit, Will thinks. He lets himself zone out a bit as they’re ushered into the back of a van with Beverly; he knows Hannibal will pull him from his thoughts if he needs to. But this isn’t the Ripper. He can feel the certainty of that in his very bones, bubbling out from the marrow with his blood. The Chesapeake Ripper isn’t just some cover for an organ harvesting ring, he can’t be.

He’s too artistic for it.

He’s never admitted it allowed, but he nearly cried the first time he was given proper crime scene photos of a Ripper tableau. It had been the man in the church pew, his own tongue bookmarking the Bible. He’d had to squint at the pages until he could see past all the blood just to find the verse- Proverbs 20:19. He who goes about as a slanderer reveals secrets, therefore do not associate with a gossip.

That was art. It was not a messy attempt to hide a failure of an organ harvesting.

The thought lingers, bitter and acidic, on Will’s mind even as they find Devon Silvestri in the back of a decommissioned ambulance, in the middle of yet another botched surgery. Will’s disappointed, but mostly he’s just viciously satisfied. This is not the Ripper, and never was.

There is, of course, the odd pleasure of watching Hannibal. The ease with which he climbs into the ambulance and rolls up his sleeves captivates Will. He slides on the blue gloves with such ease, as if he does it every day and didn’t give up his job in the ER years ago. And then Hannibal slips his hand into the cut in the victim’s stomach.

He swears he feels it in his own kidneys, lodges up under his ribcage. Will stares, transfixed and utterly unable to look away as that hand roots around and pinches in a chest, in his chest. He can’t swallow, mouth far too dry, because Hannibal takes that moment to look up. Across all the space between them, something clicks into place in his mind, but he can’t discern what.

The only thing he knows in that moment is that he is irrevocably changed by Hannibal’s gravity, forever stuck in his orbit. Their hearts seem to beat as one, breathing each other’s breaths even with the 15 foot distance between them. Will stays rooted to the spot, only breathing, long after Silvestri is arrested and Hannibal is whisked off with the ambulance to save that poor man.

He doesn’t move until Beverly nudges him, and even on the drive back to Quantico, his head is full of the image of Hannibal with blood up to his forearms and sleeves pushed back. Saving a life. The steadiness of his hands, the ease of which he had reached into a chesty cavity. The power, the precision, it took. The gravity of holding a lift in your small- so very small and frail- hands.

It haunts him, plays a loop behind his eyes until he closes them in bed that night.

---

The kitchen is lively with music of his lover’s choosing and warmer toned lights, upon request, because Hannibal’s previous lighting felt too ‘medical’ apparently. The overhead lighting has been replaced as well and- it does feel better, even if he would never admit it. Especially with Will is his forest green silk shirt and black slacks. He looks angelic with the top button undone.

It takes everything in him not to wrap himself around his lover and never let go. He looks perfect here, at home in his skin finally, even if he still smells of fevered sweetness.

“Would you mind cutting the liver, mon cher?” he requests warmly, preparing the washed potatoes to be peeled. “Or would you prefer the potatoes?”

“I can cut the liver,” Will agrees. He comes to stand beside Hannibal, picking up a knife with the loose and easy grip he had taught him. In the past, had it been anyone other than his incredible lover, he would have directed them to chop at the smaller side counter he had for this precise purpose. But with Will, it’s so easy to allow him to stand by his side.

So easy to offer him the cleaned and prepared liver and watch as his lover’s hand hover over the meat.

“Sliced or cubed? Diced?” the younger man asks, seemingly unaware of the sweet torment his easy acceptance brings, “Is there even a difference between cubing and dicing something beyond size?”

“The size makes all the difference, Will,” Hannibal says, keeping his voice even as he starts peeling. He ignores Will’s childish snort, too. He wants to drag his lover to bed and ravage him until they both forget about everything else.

He doesn’t, because they have quite the dinner planned tonight.

“Diced, please,” he finally answers, looking away to keep himself on task. It’s a difficult thing, though, when he can still see the outline of his lover’s rear end in the corner of his eye.

“You’re so pedantic,” Will laughs fondly.

Hannibal is treated to the lovely view of the man he adores so very much grasping the liver he had been given and beginning to dice it properly. He had already had passable skills with a knife, clearly comfortable with it in hand and using it, when he had first invited Will to cook with him. Whether it came from his youth in the South or his fondness for fishing, he didn’t know, but it was a sight to behold all the same. Both that first time and now, after months of the profiler joining him.

He wonders if Will knows how lovely he looks like this- relaxed, dressed beautifully, cooking alongside him so that he may covet his darling before their guests arrive.

Hannibal sets aside his task and moves to his sweet slowly, settling next to him. He waits until the knife is at least paused before kissing the younger man’s cheek and nosing at his hair a little. “You look well, širdelė,” he whispers.

The soft, content sigh that falls from Will’s lips is gift enough, but his radiant smile even more so. He hums, agreeing, “I feel alright tonight. Head doesn’t hurt so bad and I think I might even be looking forward to this. Getting to see you in your element, I mean. The people…”

His lover trails off playfully, but Hannibal finds he has no time to answer as the calm and quiet, so far only interrupted by softly playing classical music, is broken by the ring of his doorbell. Will startles beside him, next cut coming down slightly too hard; hopefully the cutting board hasn’t been damaged.

(He wonders if it’s possible to turn down the volume of the doorbell?)

Hannibal pulls away and gently rubs Will’s shoulder. “I’ll go see, Will,” he says before leaving to do just that.

None of their guests should be here yet, none would dare come this early, even. So he’s surprised when he opens the door and sees Alana standing there. “Alana, you didn’t tell me you would be here this early,” he hums, looking her up and down quickly. She looks too dressed up, even for one of his dinners. “I already warned you I would be predisposed.”

“This is the time I’ve come in the past to help you prepare for the parties,” Alana says pleasantly, smiling at him despite the slight confusion there. As if it is unfathomable that he would be predisposed with his lover and not wish for anyone else’s company. “I’ve come to prep for years now, Hannibal. Why are you so surprised?”

“Because I specifically told you I would be busy, Alana. Which is a conflict for our usual schedule that I would have hoped you take to heart,” he says disappointedly, letting her in even though he would very much like to drive a dagger into a supple neck for the insult on his person.

He leaves her to remove her own coat in the foyer and goes back to the kitchen instead. “Širdelė, Alana has… arrived early,” he warns, because his poor Will was just getting relaxed.

“Will, you’re here,” Alana says as she follows him into the kitchen, seemingly surprised for some reason Hannibal can’t grasp. “And… preparing the meat.”

Will gives her a tight grimace that could perhaps generously be called a smile as he chops a few final times and sets the knife to the side. Though he doesn’t seem as if he wishes to flee, the line of his sweet lover’s shoulders is not nearly as relaxed as it had been a moment ago.

“Uh, yeah,” the teacher says after a stilted pause, “I just got done dicing the liver. Actually, I was going to ask-”

Will turns towards Hannibal to speak directly to him, but fails to ever finish the thought as Alana sidles to stand close to him - far too close for the younger man’s comfort, he knows. She points out, “Wow, Hannibal never lets anyone else prepare the meat. He’s so picky with it, gets it from a special butcher and everything.”

“Mhm, guess- uh, guess I’m just special,” Will agrees with her, lackluster. Almost weak, which would be quite fair considering the hidden insult there.

So, Hannibal intercedes between them, blocking Alana’s eyes with his own body. It feels satisfying to do so, to give Will his space back without being asked to. Even if a part of it makes his skin crawl, since she shouldn’t even be here. He leads Alana to the opposite counter, grabbing a beer glass for her. “Beer, then, Alana?”

“Please,” she agrees with a grin, leaning her hip against the counter, “I love your beer. What can I do to help?”

“The liver is done, Hannibal. What do you want me to handle next?” Will asks, talking over her slightly. Despite his discomfort with the interruption, he looks radiant when Hannibal turns to look at him. Setting down the knife, his lover detours to the sink to wash his hands.

Over his shoulder he says, “Do you want me to pour you the wine? I saw you eyeing that Cabernet Sauvignon earlier.”

Will has never been the most enthusiastic about wines, and when they had first gotten together, the younger man had admitted he only knew the difference between a red, white, and rosé wine. And yet, here they were. With the younger man knowing immediately the name of the wine Hannibal had picked out for them to sip at before the guests arrived.

How sweet, how honoring. How it made his chest swell with fondness.

“Ah, you could help with the potatoes,” Hannibal dismisses Alana in favor of looking at Will. Maybe he should simply ravage him here, once he figures out a way to get rid of Alana.

“I would love that,” he tells his sweet lover, wanting nothing more than to walk over and bite him, really. “Do you want me to show you how I make your favorite sausages?” It’s a taunt, of course, as he steps away from Alana, uncaring, and leans against the central island where Will is bound to come back.

After all, that is where Hannibal usually prepares the meat, even if Will has the honor of doing so tonight. “With the amount of guests we’ll have, I’d rather have some prepared just in case.”

Will smiles at him, a truly lovely sight in the dimmer light of the kitchen. Yes, it was a good idea to change from the overhead lighting, if only for how soft and ethereal his lover looks now. He gathers up the potatoes and the peeler, bringing them to the smaller counter where Hannibal had left Alana.

“Here,” he says, setting them down with a brief, thin smile, before he reaches past her to pull the wine bottle Hannibal had been considering from the rack. He collects two glasses as well, returning to his side to pour them each a small glass.

“And here you are, that 1998 Cabernet Sauvignon you were looking at,” he says before cheekily adding, “Sure, show me how the sausages are made. I know we won’t need them, but I won’t pass up the secrets to them.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal says softly, just for Will. “And if you are so certain we won’t need them, then perhaps I should keep the secrets to myself longer.”

He can’t stop the amused, taunting smile on his lips as he sips his wine. He does, however, head for the fridge to prepare that glass of beer for Alana. No matter how sweet and tempting his lover is, it’s difficult not to be a good host.

“Here you are, Alana,” he says lightly, filling her glass most of the way, without feeling the need to expand on how it was made, not unless Will asks about it. And currently? He doubts the man will. “Please, let me know how you like it.”

“I will,” Alana agrees, and Hannibal hopes he only imagines the flirtatious tilt of her smile.

Will, however, only laughs as he takes a sip of his wine. He savors it for a moment, another thing the older man is proud to have taught him, and says, “You can keep your secrets for now. We have all weekend, don’t we? Show me tomorrow when we have more time.”

Their interloper glances between them, drinking from her own glass. “It’s good, Hannibal, thank you. I enjoy it,” she says with a red lipped smile, a truly lurid, tempting shade of red. Alana turns her attentions to Will before Hannibal can answer her. “You two seem… close. Have the dogs already been taken care of for the day? It’s been a while since I’ve seen them, you know.”

His lover frowns, visibly baffled and perhaps slightly offended as well. “Of course, they are. They’re all upstairs right now, probably napping. Hannibal has been making his efforts to spoil them well known. And you surprised me the last time you showed up. You have a dog, don’t you? If you really want, I guess we can set up a playdate for them.”

“I’m glad you do, Alana.” Hannibal sips his wine to cover up his amused chortle at Will’s retort, looking away when his lover looks at him quickly. He turns away from Alana to say, “Will comes here every other weekend, dogs included of course. It wouldn’t be very smart to have a dog sitter for them otherwise.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” Alana says, a little awkwardly. She falls silent, peeling the potatoes and cutting them as precisely as ever, looking baffled herself. Perhaps even a bit green around the eyes.

“It is,” Will confirms, willfully oblivious to the odd tone she had taken as he returns to looking down at the liver. Picking up his knife again, despite lightly pressing their shoulders together, he puts his wine glass down carefully. Looking up to Hannibal - and oh he’s sinful like this, this close with his top button still undone and revealing the smooth line of his collarbones, looking up through his lashes to make the eye contact he rarely gifts to anyone else - he asks, “What else do you want me to cut up and prepare? It’s almost soothing, actually.”

Hannibal hums thoughtfully, letting his eyes trail down to Will’s neck with a small smile. “Hm, there are a few vegetables that still need preparation,” he admits, only pulling away to get a new knife and cutting board for Will. He trades them for the liver and knife his lover had used and heads towards the oven to cover the meat with a bowl for now.

“We still have carrots, onions, garlic and some different herbs that need preparing, especially with the stuffed hearts already in the oven,” he elaborates for Will, though he does offer Alana a smile, to involve her a little.

His lover adjusts his sleeves to make sure they stay out of the way before picking up the new knife. He spins it lightly in hand and Hannibal has the beautiful vision of Will with a blade a bit more refined and deadlier in hand, twirling it with ease before he calls forth hauntingly beautiful blood and torment from a lesser being. The vision clings to him even as it fades and he watches his lover begin to chop carrots with such confidence and ease, haunting him like a ghost with a hunger that can’t be quenched.

Despite Alana off to the side, chopping the potatoes as instructed, it’s as if only Hannibal and Will are in the room. And when Will begins to idly hum the sonata that he has played for him the night before, there could be no greater sight, no greater moment.

“The other guests will be arriving soon, right?” the younger man asks, breaking the silence with a small glance toward the woman in the room with them. “Well, somewhat soon. Do we need to set the table too?”

Oh, clever boy, jealous boy. Hannibal can see his subtle proposition of sending Alana away from them until the event begins. It seems that he too noticed her wandering, lingering eyes.

Hannibal would love to reward him immediately, to bite at him so much no one can deny that Will is his. Instead he turns to Alana with his most polite smile. “Do you mind taking care of that, Alana?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

(He’s noticed it makes Will cave when he does that, looks just a bit more like a dog, curious and eager to please. It would be the truth if he were looking at his lover.)

Alana smiles pleasantly and nods, “Of course, Hannibal.”

The moment she leaves the kitchen, Will’s shoulders sag and he sighs. His chopping slows down, less of an agitated adagio and something more even, almost like a metronome. “It feels… odd that she’s here, doesn’t it?” his lover asks, only slightly hesitantly, “I mean, not that Alana isn’t nice, but I wasn’t expecting it. It just felt a little awkward is all I’m saying.”

Hannibal hums, taking what’s left to cut of the potatoes and setting up near Will. “I understand. I told her not to come, but she is stubborn, I suppose,” he assures, picking up his knife. He pauses before leaning in to kiss Will’s cheek and tease, “Definitely not as stubborn as you, of course.”

“Hannibal,” his lover admonishes, trading the finished carrots for an onion, but he merely ends up sounding pleased. “Well, it’s the nicest way I’ve been called stubborn as an ass, so I’ll give you that. Can I say something bold? Possibly a bit rude?”

“In my presence?” Hannibal jokes, but now he’s very invested. He wants to know what Will could possibly have to say about all of this that makes him ask for permission. He never asks for permission. He sets his knife down to sip his wine, preparing himself. “Go on, you already know I love gossip.”

“I prefer it when I can have you alone,” Will admits, staring at the onion he’s dicing as if doing so will keep Hannibal from seeing the flush on his cheeks. “It’s selfish. But I feel as if I am more myself, and you are more yourself, when we’re alone together. And I… really enjoy that.”

His lover keeps his face turned down, embarrassed by the boldness of his honesty no doubt, and hurriedly finishes chopping the onion. He begins preparing the herbs as if he has not just given the older man the sweetest of admissions.

Hannibal takes a deep breath to compose himself, but reaches up to hook a finger under his sweet, precious lover’s chin. He cares very little about Alana peeking into the kitchen, it’s easy to ignore her, especially when he tilts Will’s head up towards himself slightly. “I prefer it as well,” the older man assures, staring into ocean blue eyes before kissing him tenderly.

It’s perfect, with the taste of wine on their lips and tongues.

Will sighs contentedly into it, as pleased with affection as always. He lets it linger for a long moment before stepping back, looking much more relaxed afterwards. Alana has fled from the kitchen once more and now it is just the two of them, cooking side by side.

Hannibal could ache for this moment forever.

---

Hannibal’s house has always felt far too big to Will, too many long corridors and empty rooms for just one man. Too much like a historical house or a stage to be someone’s home. With his dogs and the two of them, on the weekends he stays, he thinks it feels much more alive but still too large.

It doesn’t feel too large now, though. Will watches the ebb and flow of the crowd from his position by one of the walls. If anything, it feels as if there are far too many people. Or maybe that’s just him and his antisocial tendencies. The house is so very alive now, he considers as he sips from his wine.

There were only - only, Hannibal had said as if it wasn’t far too many already - 25 guests, due to how short notice the dinner party had been pulled together. He’s not sure if he agrees that the two and a half weeks Hannibal had been planning and gathering the food and recipes before tonight counts as “short notice” but he lets it be.

Will is always far too indulgent of his dearest friend, and he’s very aware of it.

He wonders if Hannibal would notice if he slipped upstairs to the dogs until dinner, but he knows he would. Still, he can see Jack and his wife talking with Alana across the parlor and he’d rather avoid all three of them. Well, Jack and Alana, as he’s never met Bella, Jack’s wife. Maybe, he thinks as he finishes off his glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, he can get Hannibal to pour him another one before the dinner.

It takes a moment before Hannibal calls everyone into his large dining room, very pleased with himself as he motions for Will to come sit to his left. Not his right hand man, but left- the closest side to his heart. His friend waits for everyone to be seated, eyes glimmering in the dark room as everyone appreciates the look of it all.

Maybe this is what Mrs. Komeda had meant by ‘dinner and a show’.

“Nothing here is vegetarian,” Hannibal announces, picking up his glass of wine and raising it. “Please enjoy.”

Will smiles fondly at his friend’s theatrics as the first course is brought out. A French pâté on thin slices of bruschetta, Hannibal had told him as the finishing touches were added. It looks good, he thinks, only for the words to finally register properly as Hannibal takes his seat and Will has a slice of the bruschetta half way to his mouth.

Liver, for the pâté. Spinach and ricotta stuffed pig’s heart. Lung and spleen, for the main course of Sicilian pani ca meusa that the older man had been so proud to present. Kidneys and pancreas- those, he doesn’t know how they fit in the equation, only that they must.

Will thinks of the pork sausages that Hannibal makes, pork always slightly richer and sweeter than anything he’s been able to find at markets. Sweet pork, whispers his mind, long pig.

He looks up from the slice of bruschetta topped with human liver pâté - the same liver he had diced up himself, only hours ago - to meet Hannibal’s eyes as the realization hits him.

Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and he’s feeding his organ trophies to everyone in the room.

But Hannibal turns to him with the softest look he’s ever worn, a genuine look of affection, and tilts his head just enough to be reminiscent of a dog asking for praise. Blood red eyes bore into him as he ask, “Do you like it, Will?”

He has only a moment to debate it- to decide if he’s knowingly going to eat the human flesh that has been set in front of him. And yet, has he not already? Hannibal has fed him so often since they met, and Will is sure it has not been meat from an animal the whole time. If it ever was.

The bodies are already dead, the food already made. Is it not worse to waste food? Would it not disrespect what ever lingering memory of the soul that the flesh once housed to turn it down? And, when it comes down to it, does Will really even care?

No, he decides as he eats the slice of bruschetta, he does not. Not when it’s Hannibal, who he knows he is already hopelessly in love with, and who offers him such genuine affection and sweetness. That he can’t hide, not from someone like him. Will’s morals have always been shaky, deviant. It’s far too easy to shed the ones he had picked up from the society around him in face of his wants.

And oh, how he wants Hannibal. How he wants the Ripper, he must now acknowledge. He knows there cannot be separation of the two, a single, whole being that holds the heart of Will Graham in its dark, clawed hands like a precious jewel.

Flavor bursts across his tongue and he closes his eyes, wondering who he’s eating right now. He wonders if it makes him a bad person for not caring all too much beyond the satisfaction of good food.

“It’s delicious,” Will tells Hannibal, genuinely and with a smile that’s too easy to conjure. He should have known the man would be his downfall, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he’d expected.

Hannibal brightens, hooking his foot around Will’s like it’s the easiest thing in the world, to keep close contact with each other. He can almost see it, hidden under a veneer of humanity, the real beast under it all. It is beautiful. Hannibal is beautiful. Like a predatory buck, hiding fangs and claws under polite gentleness.

Will isn’t sure what to do with this realization, other than sit with it. It is, by all means, his job and duty to catch the Ripper. But he doesn’t want to. No, the only way he wants to catch Hannibal is in his own two hands, to keep him. He supposes he does nothing.

So he only drinks from his wine glass, savoring the taste of it with the lingering flavor of the pâté and he eats another bite. He just lets himself enjoy the dinner.

Once the night has ended, Will lingers in the kitchen as Hannibal sees the last of the guests. He’s debating pouring himself another glass of wine, just for the hell of it, but maybe he shouldn’t indulge. After all, the knowledge that the Chesapeake Ripper himself lets him bite and snap, allows his rudeness and the way he covets Hannibal’s attention…

It lingers. It leaves him full from the meal, but not satiated. He wants all of him, all of Hannibal and the Ripper both.

He craves it.

“Will,” Hannibal calls as he finally closes and locks the front door. He comes looking, of course, because the man always does. “There you are. Are you alright?” He steps closer, but it’s not threatening, if anything his voice is inviting, vulnerable. There are no more mirages now that it’s only them.

“Yes,” Will says, and he means it. He’s fine, better than. He approaches Hannibal because he can, because he could be a threat and his friend wouldn’t even know it. The realization is heady. “I was debating another glass of wine.”

He reaches out to straighten the older man’s already perfect lapels, and confesses, “I’m hungry.”

He is. He is starving, not for food or anything physical to satiate him. No good food or wine can sate him anymore. He hungers for understanding, for the fleshy bits of knowledge and sight hidden away under Hannibal’s ribcage.

Hannibal lets him, lets Will indulge in touching him, and then, apropos of nowhere, he tenderly touches his face. “Hm, no fever. And no migraine?” he asks softly, concerned for him; of course the Chesapeake Ripper cares more for his health than Jack Crawford does. “If you truly want a drink, I was saving it for a different occasion, but I do have a surprise.”

Will turns his face into his palm, nuzzling it. He presses a brief kiss to the heel of the older man’s hand and sighs, soothed and contented. Honestly - because he knows that Hannibal can tell when he lies, the only person who always sees him - he says, “A little sore from all the people, but not bad. Don’t even need anything for it.”

He takes a step closer to Hannibal, not touching anywhere except the hand on his face as he soaks in the warmth. Breathes in the air of their mingled breaths. He wants to soak all of Hannibal into him, under his skin.

“I wouldn’t mind a surprise,” Will says and it comes out softer and breathier than he had intended, but it feels so painfully honest, “but I also wouldn’t mind this. You. I want to- What have you done to me, Hannibal?”

The question tears from him unasked for, and though the words form an accusation it feels like prayer instead. He already knows the answer: he has changed Will, irrevocably and permanently. And he can’t help but love that.

His answer comes in the form of a kiss, simple as that, as Hannibal seems to deem words useless for the first time since he’s met him. His hands turn rough in Will’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

Will melts, a moan slipping out only to be swallowed by a hungry mouth. He grabs Hannibal by the lapels of his suit jacket, wrinkling them horribly and taking vicious pride in it as he is devoured, devours in turn.

The answer to a question he hadn’t even asked comes easily: what does he want? Hannibal, to be his, to stay by Will’s side forever.

He knows they’re just friends - with certain benefits, certainly, but not quite more. It’s not enough. Will needs to be his everything, he needs to be the goddamn center of the universe in Hannibal’s eyes. He doesn’t just want his friendship, he wants his love. He wants the Chesapeake Ripper to love him so much he’ll never leave, the same way that he’s incapable of leaving Hannibal’s side now.

Biting at the older man’s tongue, his lips, he pulls away to gasp for air and- perhaps too soon but the words burn his mind so much he simply has to get them out- confesses, “You have ruined me. There can be no one else. Come home with me, and never leave. Please, mon chéri.”

Hannibal gasps, kisses the corner of Will’s mouth, his cheek, the side to his nose, anywhere he’s allowed to reach. Even if Hannibal doesn’t love him yet, he knows the Chesapeake Ripper is covetous by nature, would never be able to let prey get too far away. It’s the same for what he cares about, really.

So the answer comes as no surprise when Hannibal whispers, “Oui, facilement, širdelė.”

The countertop is pressing a painful line into his lower back but Will pays it no mind as he tears his hands from Hannibal’s lapels and digs them into silver sunshine hair. He pulls the older man into a hard kiss, teeth clicking together painfully but the inside of his mouth tastes so sweet. He tastes like the lingering blood and chocolate from the desert he has served and Will just can’t get enough.

“I know who I am best when I’m with you,” he breathes between kisses, an infernal heat scorching through his stomach and racing up and down his spine, “It’s so clear. You’ve changed me. That is what you’ve done to me, chéri. Mon âme. Fuck, it’s everything you do-”

Hannibal cuts him off by lifting Will onto the counter with the ease one would need to lift dead weight. He pulls Will’s shirt to the side and bites down on his shoulder, practically growling. If he’d known his friend was this easy to rile up, he would have done so sooner.

Will moans again, this time completely uninhibited. He shivers as he imagines those teeth tearing a chunk out of him and swallowing; the image, so easily projected onto the back of his eyelids when they flutter shut and tearing a pathetic, sweet sound from his throat. He wraps his legs around Hannibal’s hips and it’s only when his stomach presses against the younger man that he realizes just how painfully hard he is. He doesn’t even know when that happened.

“Hannibal,” he says, feeling and sounding ruined as he demands, “Hannibal, stop that. Just for a moment, I need this stupid fucking jacket off of you.”

Preferably, he’d like him entirely bare, but he can settle for access to his neck and shoulders.

(When Hannibal’s teeth grind into his shoulder, he wonders if he’ll bite him hard enough to draw blood. He wonders if he’ll let Will bite him so hard he bleeds. He wonders what their blood would taste like mixing on his tongue.)

Hannibal pulls off and, to Will’s surprise, pulls his tie and jacket off, and goes so far as to unfasten the first three buttons of his top as well. “Enough?”

“Yes,” Will hisses, satisfied, and pulls his friend back to bury his teeth into the junction of throat and shoulder. He releases before he truly wants to but lathes his tongue over the indent of his teeth. It’s beautiful, he thinks, kissing the bite and sucking until he’s sure Hannibal will bloom with the bruise.

He imagines what would happen if Will bit him until he bled, fast and harsh. He wonders if Hannibal would push him away, push him down. Would he take bites from him? From his thighs and shoulders? Would he dig his teeth into Will's throat and tear it clean out-

The younger man whines at the image as he sucks another hickey into Hannibal’s smooth skin that tastes of his cologne, cock twitching in his pants with the phantom pain of it. He grinds his erection against his friend’s muscled stomach and changes his answer, “No. It’s never enough when I’m with you. I always want more.”

Hannibal pushes him off as gently as he can make himself be, because Will can tell his strength is measured even now, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. His friend expertly moves onto pants, and pulls enough off of Will to free him and wrap a warm hand around his length. “May I?” he asks, basically pleading.

Will nods without conscious thought and kisses Hannibal again. He’s so strong, hands calloused but smooth and made to hold the weight of the sky cradled between two palms. The slide of his hand over his cock is dry, pleasurable but sending a wave of tingles up his spine.

How many people has he killed with those hands, bare handed and brutal? Would he kill Will with them, take him from behind and wrap his arms around his throat until everything fades to black?

He groans and this time he knows the older man must feel the way he pulses and twitches. He hopes he doesn’t ask, he hopes he does. Christ, Will is really fucked in the head, isn’t he?

Hannibal bites his lip hard enough to draw blood before pulling away to bite his chest. In a quick movement Will can barely follow, he is off the counter and his friend- the goddamn Chesapeake Ripper is on his knees, taking his dick into his mouth. The older man even has the audacity to look up at him under eyelashes like a common whore.

No, Hannibal could never be a common anything. He’s too unreal, too rare. Nothing else like him could ever exist.

Will has to steady himself on the older man’s shoulders, hips bucking forward reactively. He digs his fingers like claws into the firm muscle there, trying and failing desperately not to think about that mouth and where it’s been. How strong that jaw must be, could it bite him off at the root?

Could Hannibal turn his head and tear chunks out from his thighs until he was satiated? Until it was not only his spit slicking Will’s cock, but his very own blood?

He trembles at the fantasy, moaning and thrusting shallowly again. He licks his lips as they part, trying to say something- anything- but hot iron and copper bursts across his tongue. The sound that he lets out when he tastes his own blood coating his teeth must be unholy, because it rings throughout the kitchen.

He feels like an offering upon an altar to a horrible god, and it feels incredible. So he closes his eyes and lets himself fall into that wretched embrace, finally at peace.

---

Hannibal isn’t sure what caused it, or what keeps his sweet lover at bay despite his obvious needs, but it’s all too easy to give in to every little request the younger man makes of him. It would be faster to move his life to Will’s isolated home in Wolf Trap, if not for the young woman in his basement.

He takes a breath before heading down, despite the time he’s spent with Will, he’s made sure not to neglect his guest. After all, his lover had seemed attached to the idea of her being alive yet, so… he may as well release her, give her back to the professor he cares for so much.

When Hannibal reaches the door of her room, he knocks, as is polite, and only comes in after a moment. “Miss Lass?” he calls, closing the door behind himself. “Ah, good morning Miss Lass, how are you feeling today?”

Her face turns towards him, despite the uselessness of the gesture; the blindfold over her eyes is as firmly in place as ever. It shouldn’t be as effective as it is, but they had only had to have a simple conversation, over two years ago now. She kept the blindfold on, and Hannibal didn’t kill her right then and there.

“Good morning,” Miriam says, voice tinged with the wariness that always infects her when he catches her off guard. It is both disappointing she has not come to expect it and yet satisfying how she still fears him. “I’m good. And you, how are you today?”

It’s a shame she would never be able to see him as family without manipulation, but he supposes he could make that happen if he wanted. She reminds him so much of his dear sister Mischa, it’s difficult not to keep her. And yet, Hannibal knows what must be done.

“I’m doing well,” he answers simply, stepping closer. “We have a different matter on the agenda today, however. Your hand, if you would?”

Miriam stands carefully from where she sits on the edge of her bed, discarding the book in her lap to take his hand. “Are we going somewhere?”

The question is only perfunctory. Rarely ever does he take her from her room, and almost always is it for the light room.

“Hm, I think you’ll quite enjoy what today holds, Miss Lass,” he assures, leading her to the light room. Yes, after this he’ll be able to release her to the wider populace so she may drive Chilton into a corner. He’ll burn the evidence, make sure no trace of Miriam Lass can be found here before he can leave.

“If there should be someone to blame for your situation, and Mister Graham’s, it would be Jack Crawford,” he says quietly, mostly to himself.

“Mister Graham? Will Graham?” the young woman straightens as they walk, sightless face turning towards him once more. What isn’t hidden under her blindfold is a beautiful blend of eagerness at the familiar name and concern. “How do you know him? Is- what happened to him, is he alright?”

How sweet. It would seem that Will’s hope for Miriam Lass’ health does not go only one way.

Maybe he could gift her to Will, a potential long lost daughter, one he’s certain Will would love even if he found out how she came to be. It’s a thought.

“His own mind is eating him alive,” Hannibal admits, because she likely won’t remember. “Being pushed into uncomfortable scenarios due to the work forced upon him. He’ll be just fine soon.”

“But he’s just a teacher. I mean- he writes papers but he’s still just a professor!” Miriam says, frowning at him.

Oh, the things she didn’t know- how the world has changed and moved on without her in it. Does she even know how long it’s truly been since the day she came to his office? He doubts it.

Shaking her head, Miriam asserts once more, “Mr. Graham is just a teacher.”

“As I said,” Hannibal says gently, opening the door to the light room and guiding her in. “Jack Crawford is to blame.”

He sits her down and straps her in comfortably yet securely before setting everything to be ready for her. Yes, he might still want to keep her in his life, implant false memories where he can. It would be worth it, in the end.

It’s a simple treasure hunt that he sets up for Crawford, with the prize being his new daughter. Even if he might only think the Ripper has lost his touch, this is better than the alternative.

And it’s simply easy to pack his few personal belongings and his wardrobe, even easier to add his fresh meat to the pile of things to bring along. He’ll still have here to come back to with his prizes, so he may prepare them for his lover’s consumption.

The house he uses as a stage remains, but the ghosts that lingered alongside him dissipate by the time he finally reaches Will’s property. He feels comfortable here, in spite of everything, and it’s made better when the younger man opens the door to watch him drive up

No doubt allerted by his pack, of course, it warms his heart to see the smile on Will’s face when he finally parks the car and exits. “I brought, ah, everything of worth that isn’t already here, really.”

Will stares at him with ridiculously fond eyes, gaze trailing to his car and all the boxes neatly stacked inside. “I expected more, honestly,” he says as he steps out to head for it, dogs trailing after him like dutiful disciples, “I think everything in your house was worth something.”

Grabbing a box from the backseat but keeping his back to Hannibal, as if hiding from him, he adds, “I, uh, I didn’t move the bed upstairs yet but I didn’t know if you wanted to move it upstairs to the master bedroom or not?”

“Nothing of emotional value, then,” Hannibal corrects playfully, resting a hand on Will’s back between his shoulder blades. He thinks for a moment before he finds he really doesn’t care either way. So, he soothes, “I don’t mind if it stays downstairs. I don’t expect you to move everything around just for me.”

“I’m the one who asked you to move in, an hour away from the rest of your life. I can make some concessions, if it’s for you,” Will mumbles, ears and the high points of his cheeks flushing as he guides them into the house. How his lover always manages to say the sweetest things without meaning to, he will never understand but he loves it dearly anyway.

The dogs weave happily between their legs as the younger man sets his box on the ground by the bed, Clover sniffing at it curiously. “Did you bring bedding? Because I honestly expected you to be picky about the sheets and am fully prepared to use it as a reason to get rid of these ones.”

“You know me too well,” Hannibal says pleasantly, reaching out to brush curls away from weather eyes and smile at him. “Do I at least get a hug as a greeting? For agreeing to this?” he teases, opening his arms.

He wonders how much Will intends to let him get away with this time, how much he can take in for himself greedily before his sweet, shy lover pulls back again. He hopes it’s more than before, but he’s always willing to be kind for his life partner.

Will folds into his arms easily, that odd nervousness that has been haunting his steps lately fading away as he sighs into the older man’s shoulder and holds him back tightly. It’s a subtle thing, the strange offness that has been hovering over him like a cloak, but the profiler hides it well.

“Thank you,” Will says softly, warmth wrapping around his tongue as he speaks. “Really. I’m glad you’re here.”

Hannibal holds him, turning his head to press a gentle kiss to Will’s neck. “I’m glad to be here,” he assures, squeezing the smaller man gently. “Did you want a new mattress? I think you should get a new mattress, my dove. Did you enjoy mine?”

“You don’t have to convince me of that,” Will laughs, and he knows that his face is open and beautiful without even looking. “Yes, Hannibal, I will gladly take a new mattress. It’s about time I got rid of this one, anyways. I’ve had it for years.”

Hannibal hums, sliding a hand over Will’s back, mapping out the muscles and bones there with expert knowledge, and yet a newfound interest. He wants to feel everything that makes his lover different, perfect. Even with his odd strangeness ever since the agreement after dinner, he can prove to the younger man how devoted he is. “I could have it done tomorrow, if you don’t mind strangers interrupting the day?”

Will’s mouth thins, so protective of his privacy as he is. They truly do make such a perfect pair. His lover sighs but relents, “I’ll take the dogs for a long walk while they’re here.”

He soaks up Hannibal’s touch like a flower under the sun for a moment longer before pulling away. The professor ignores all of his neat labeling and instead opens the boxes already inside to check their contents before nodding. After a moment of clearly thinking something through, his lover feigns casualness as he shoves the box out of the way and heads back to the door to keep gathering more.

“If we’re not moving up to the master bedroom,” he offers over his shoulder, “do you want it? For all your, uh, suits and stuff? A dressing room, I guess?”

He can’t fake the way he brightens at the idea, enticed, and already knowing he’ll agree. “You mean it?”

“I’m not using it,” Will says with faux nonchalance, grabbing a box and handing it to him before taking another for himself. “With the two of us, I’ll probably move my fly stuff and motors out to the work shed, but that’s fine. It’s not unbearably cold or anything. And I don’t have nearly as much clothing as you do.”

“But your fishing gear is…” Hannibal trails off as he holds the box Will handed him. He wants to say more, but he feels truly touched by the offer. “I don’t mind buying a dresser.”

“Not up there either,” Will snorts and nods back inside, “You’ve seen it before, you know I keep it in the living room. But with two of us, I’d rather we have more space than knocking something over and having to pay a couple thousand dollars in vet bills because Clover thought a fish hook was a tasty snack. The master is yours for all your fancy suits and mirrors and whatever else you want.”

He wants to kiss Will until they’re both breathless and heaving, skin on skin and biting. He doesn’t, because it might be too intense for such a thing. Instead, he walks closer and kisses Will’s cheek.

“You spoil me,” he warns with a chuckle. Remembering the younger man’s words, he echoes them easily, “What have you done to me, hm, my dove?”

“Domesticated you, I guess,” Will says, flushing pink. “Are you going to help me with unpacking or are you just going to stand around looking pretty and watch?”

He isn’t wrong, he supposes. Will Graham has domesticated him, in a way. Tamed, perhaps, in the way that Hannibal has tamed him in return. There are many concessions he would- and does- give to his lover, after all.

“Whichever you prefer?” Hannibal teases before leaving with the box Will had given him. Yes, he supposes he should make an effort to let his lover tame and train him as necessary, after all, it’s not Will who will be moving into Hannibal’s large home with multiple rooms and the like.

“I changed my mind, move back out!” the younger man calls, laughing even as he unpacks a box of Hannibal’s books and begins to add them to his bookshelf.

Yes, he thinks he might have made the wonderfully right decision when agreeing to move in with Will.

---

Will is driving far too fast through the upper class side of Baltimore when Jack calls him.

He doesn’t bother picking up the first time and just lets it ring out, as caught up in his own head as he is. He’s too busy thinking about Hannibal, about the Chesapeake Ripper. Two nights ago, after the new mattress had been installed and bedding arranged, the older man had beckoned him onto the stupidly comfortable bed. They’d kissed, like Hannibal seemed to be so fond of these days, and Will-

Well. He had panicked a bit when Hannibal pushed him down into the bed. No, panicked wasn’t right. He hadn’t been scared, really, he'd been more curious than anything. He wanted to know what he could get away with, more than he already had.

Because Hannibal- picky, controlling, proud Hannibal- had been letting him get away with more than he had expected from the Chesapeake Ripper. Will had picked at meals and shoved them away half eaten, or eaten everything but the meat with only the paltry excuse that his stomach was bothering him. And the older man had only heaped more vegetables and bread onto his plate, testing him occasionally for fever as if he’d caught a stomach bug.

Just that morning, their breakfast had been only egg and potatoes and peppers, no sausage in sight. Because Hannibal had expected that he wouldn’t eat the meat. The people.

(If Will is honest with himself, and it’s not something he has a great track record with, then he would admit that avoiding the meat had less to do with its origin than he’d like. He could look down at that sausage, or finely sliced steak, and he wouldn’t think much about the fact that it once was human. After death, meat was meat. It all looked the same; all animals, people included, ended up being nothing but flesh and marbled fat and skin. No, he wasn’t disgusted with it. He was more bothered by his lack of care beyond the fact that it was delicious, and a mere acknowledgement of what it once had been.)

So when Hannibal leaned over him with those hungry, blood-dark eyes, Will had pushed him back with a hand on his chest and asked him to take it slow. Had asked him to be gentle, because he wasn’t up for the rougher treatment of usual.

(If it was partially so that he could know what it would be like to be a proper lover for the older man, well. No one would ever know but Will.)

Hannibal had merely kissed him and offered to let it be for the night, to go no further. “Or,” he had said, while Will drowned in his eyes, “you could take me instead.”

He had. He didn’t think he had ever come as hard as he did when he was looking down at a blissful Hannibal Lecter, able to feel every twitch and clench around him.

And now, in the face of all his testing- because that’s what Will had been doing- he’s speeding through Baltimore to the house Hannibal had decided to keep for his work dinners and dinner parties. Where Hannibal was actively having dinner with a colleague. Because Will was stupid and possibly insane, probably.

His phone rings again, as he pulls up into the long driveway. Talking through clenched teeth, he asks, “What, Jack?”

“Miriam Lass is alive. We found-” Will doesn’t even bother letting him finish speaking. He hangs up, unable to do or think of anything else as he parks and climbs out. It’s cold, snow clinging to the grass and drifting softly through the air. He pays none of it mind as he knocks on the front door, and then promptly opens it anyways, because he knows that Hannibal won’t care.

“Hannibal?” he calls out as he takes off his jacket and dusts it off, agitated. He’ll apologize for interrupting dinner later.

He can hear the man hurry from the dining room to him, without a word to whoever else might be here, which is a rare show of rudeness for him. “Will? What happened?”

“I, uh,” Will fumbles, staring at him and floundering now that he’s really here. He’s not entirely sure why he came here instead of waiting for the older man to get home. In his staring and searching for words, he ends up just blurting out, “I broke the chimney. Fireplace. Both actually. There’s, uh, there’s a hole in the wall now. Also a lot of, um- there’s a lot of plaster and stone on the floor, too, probably.”

His friend looks at him with a confused frown, stepping closer but not quite into his space. “My dove,” he says gently, reaching up to slip the coat off his shoulders to set it aside unceremoniously. “What happened? I haven’t been gone very long.”

“I may have… tore a hole in the chimney wall with a hammer?” he says weakly, more a question than a statement. Despite the fact that he very much did do that.

He slumps and rubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t want to admit this, because between all his realizations and tests it had felt right to keep it something of a secret. Not even a secret! Just something that he failed to mention every single time Hannibal asked how his day had gone. Maybe he just forgot.

Except he didn’t forget, because how could he?

“I thought I heard a raccoon stuck in it,” he admits. Then, hiding his face in his hands so he doesn’t have to see how his friend looks at him, “It, uh, might have been happening a lot lately? The hearing animals thing, I mean, not the smashing holes in our walls thing.”

Hannibal gently pulls his hands away from his face, leading him to the kitchen. “I can’t say I’m surprised you’ve been hiding that from me,” he says honestly, leaning Will against the counter before pulling out a bottle of extremely fancy whiskey. He leaves his side for a moment to get a glass and pours about two fingers of it for Will. “Will, we’ve had this conversation multiple times already. I do not think Jack Crawford or working for him is good for you.”

Will takes the glass and turns it between his palms, looking at it instead of his friend.

“This is nice,” he says, and instantly wilts under the sharp, reproving look Hannibal gives him, “And I’m definitely not changing the subject. I know, okay? I- I’m taking less cases to consult, and I’m managing my stress, and I’m- I’m doing things right. I can tell Jack no if I want to. But-”

“You don’t want to. Because you need to save everyone but yourself, so you can focus on everyone but yourself,” Hannibal says venomously, looking away. His friend is practically vibrating with his anger. “Is it so hard to want to stay? Instead of putting yourself at risk at all times, wouldn’t you prefer staying with me?”

Will takes in a sharp breath and throws back the whiskey, because he knows he won’t be able to be honest without it. Which is a damn shame, because it’s incredible and goes down smoothly. “Of course, I want to stay!” he says, and puts the glass down gentler than he wants to.

He’s not really angry, not beyond the residual feeling he’s feeding off of Hannibal. But he’s tense; very little of it has to do with the fact he’s getting into an argument with the Chesapeake Ripper, and more to do with the fact that he’s arguing with Hannibal. But this conversation has been coming for a long time now, and the other man deserves honesty. Even if it’s the ugly kind.

“But what I want doesn’t matter!” Will says loudly, before Hannibal can cut in with anything else. Not quite shouting, but close. “The people I’m saving doing my job matter more than what I want. More than I do.”

Hannibal turns on him and grips his shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Not to me,” he spits out, pained and grieving like this might be a losing battle again, like he expects Will might turn away and leave. “They don’t matter to me, Will. They never have. How would you feel if I were doing the same thing you are now??”

“That’s different,” he denies, but he knows it’s weak. He has to lean against the countertop, his head hurts like a bitch and even just imagining Hannibal being so… reckless makes his fucking heart ache too.

“Then tell me how this is different!” Hannibal demands, fingers digging in deeper, and maybe he should be afraid, but his friend has never hurt him willingly before. “Just how? Please, Will…”

“It’s different because I love you!” Will bursts out before freezing. He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t ever meant to ever admit it. “Fuck, Hannibal, I…”

There isn’t anything he can say to save this, he knows. He should probably shut up now.

It’s why he’s so surprised when Hannibal kisses him, crowding his space with frustration. “I love you,” he breathes, pulling back before biting Will’s lip meanly. “Let me help you.”

Will has always liked to think his biggest weakness was his own empathy, or perhaps his love for dogs. Now, he’s starting to think that it might be Hannibal.

He goes slack in his hold, not quite limp but relaxing so rapidly it leaves him a little unsteady. He finds his ground quickly, though, and wraps his arms around the older man’s neck. Will only pulls back to speak, guiding Hannibal’s face to his neck all the while. He can let the man work out some of his frustration on his body before they have to sit down and seriously talk over everything he’s been swallowing back.

(Well, almost everything. He can keep the Ripper bit to himself for now. Just a little longer.)

He says, “Okay. I- okay, fine, I’ll let you help. I’m sorry. I’m- I’m just sorry.”

Hannibal clamps down once he’s guided there, teeth sharp even through the fabric of his clothes. His hands, however, slowly glide down Will’s body and slip under his shirt to rest on his skin. The older man doesn’t seem satisfied at all, if the way he clamps down harder is anything to go by, but his strong hands, that could kill him so easily, simply touch and explore.

Will holds him back tightly, fingers fisted up in the older man’s shirt as he closes his eyes. It’s a little awkward, what with the teeth firmly planted in him, but he tilts his head to rest against soft, blond hair. His head throbs in time to his shoulder, to his heartbeat, but he pulls his thoughts together slowly.

After a long minute of contemplation, he gives in and confesses it all, “I’ve been hallucinating sometimes for a couple months now. I could always tell but… I don’t know, ever since I started sleep walking, I’ve been hearing things and I can’t tell if they’re not there anymore. Visual ones too, I guess. Hence the hole in our wall. Sometimes- sometimes, I don’t know if I’m actually awake or not. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

It’s oddly relieving to get it off his chest, far less shameful than he had expected it to be. As if a weight had been lifted, pried off of his chest and detangled from his ribs to set him free. Despite the ridiculous notion, he can’t help but blame Hannibal for it. He constantly feels as if the man is prying away bars and walls he hadn’t known were there, showing him sunlight for the very first time after living in the dark.

(It burns, and it is the most beautiful thing ever. He guesses that he’s really throwing his lot in with all the parts of his friend, of the man he loves, of the Chesapeake Ripper. But he already knew that he would always choose him, in the end. It was the foregone conclusion for their story, after all.)

When Hannibal finally unclenches his jaw from the meat of Will’s shoulder, he gently guides the man into one of the bar seats at the kitchen island. “Will, what happened for you to come here in such a panic?” he asks, as if knowing the chimney isn’t the real cause for alarm.

Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, has a soft, malleable heart that makes Will wonder what he might be able to make him do.

Will winces at the question, though. He had been trying not to think about it, honestly. But he loved Hannibal, and his friend didn’t deserve him waffling around the truth because he felt awkward about it.

(Were they still just friends? He had told the older man he loved him and been told the same in return. After all, they had sex regularly and lived together- was this still just a friend with benefits situation? Or had Hannibal perhaps thought that he meant it platonically? Did that mean he meant that he loved Will platonically?)

(He didn’t know anymore, but that seemed to be the theme of his life right about now.)

“Alana showed up while I was, uh, trying to find the raccoon I heard,” he admits. Then, wincing again at the memory, “She kissed me?”

Hannibal darkens all in one go, grabbing Will’s jaw with deceptively gentle fingers. “She did what?” His voice sounds steely cold and calm, like a blade expertly crafted to kill.

Hannibal looks sinfully dangerous; eyes shining almost red in the kitchen lights, reflecting rage and a possessiveness so fierce it’s more than just possessive. His hands shake with the effort to contain himself, and Will can almost see the antlers sprouting from the older man’s head as the slight tremor reverberates through him.

“She should know you are mine already.”

Will stares into those eyes, drowns in them, because what else is he supposed to do? He can’t look away, not with the deceptive strength and danger in his hold on the younger man’s jaw. He doesn’t even want to look away, not really. Not when he’s finally seeing all of Hannibal, all his pieces coming together as the veil falls away.

(He probably shouldn’t find it hot but, well. He’s already resigned to the fact that just about anything is stupid hot when it’s Hannibal.)

“She, uh, kissed me,” Will repeats as he sinks into the possessive- no, the covetous grip of the older man like a fly hopelessly entangled in a web. “I don’t know why, um. I might have pushed her away and told her to leave. I don’t even like her like that? So I also might have left to come here before she got in her car…”

Hannibal stills, looking at Will thoughtfully, like he might be debating whether or not to eat him, or eat Alana. He’s not sure which he’d prefer himself.

“Say the word,” he says softly, grabbing one of Will’s hands with his free one to rest it upon Hannibal’s cheek. “Ask me to ruin her life. I’d do it for you.”

“Hannibal,” he says, not sure if it’s an answer or a warning when he says it. Part of Will wants to reprimand the man, because Alana has never been anything but nice and worried for him. But another part, the shamefully larger part, wants to see just how far the killer is willing to go for him. “I… Okay.”

Hannibal- soft and sweet and gentle Hannibal -smiles so viciously and victoriously, it’s cute. “Alright,” he agrees, leaning in to kiss Will like he’s the most precious thing in the world, like Will is his world, to be cared for and loved.

A thought comes to him and Will frowns towards the dining room. There’s no sound of life in the house except for them, but he knows that Hannibal had a guest tonight. “What happened to your colleague? And can you maybe grab some aspirin, please? My head is killing me.”

Hannibal pauses, looking towards the dining room before simply sighing. “I was speaking with Tobias,” he admits, pulling away to put a hand to Will’s forehead. “You’ll hate the idea, but may I suggest the hospital instead of aspirin?”

“Who’s Tobias?” Will asks, completely ignoring the question. He didn’t need a hospital, he needed answers. There was a strange swell of jealousy rising up through him so fast it leaves him a little breathless. “Wait, from the opera? The friend of your stalker patient? Why the hell were you having dinner with him?”

When he could have been at home for dinner with Will instead. When he could have told him there was nothing in the chimney and they could have talked while laying in bed with the dogs roaming around them. No, if anyone was going to need the hospital, it was going to be Tobias and his cold, dead eyes.

Hannibal smiles, pleased and almost amused, kissing Will sweetly. “So I could tell him to keep Franklyn in check. I’m referring him to another psychiatrist next week, during his next appointment.” It’s a lie, but there’s enough of a warning that pushing might force the older man to spill his true secret.

“Liar,” the profiler points out, using the hand holding Hannibal’s face to pinch the soft flesh of his cheek in warning. “Don’t lie to me, we both know I can tell. You might be referring that stalker, but that’s not why he was here. So why were you having dinner with that man, Hannibal?”

Hannibal closes his eyes as he presses into Will’s hand, pleased. “So I could tell him to leave me alone,” he relents, kissing Will again. “Because I already have you. I don’t need anyone else.”

“Ah,” he says. I’m going to kill him, Will thinks before deciding he might as well say that out loud, too. “I think I’m going to kill him.”

And he really does mean it, he thinks.

The pieces come together: the opera, the trombonist with his throat turned into a cello that Jack has asked him to consult on and he had passed up, this dinner. Tobias was the killer- he was an experienced killer who had somehow figured out that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper. And he thought them equals, wanted to be by his side. A right that belonged only to Will. He had never wanted to tear someone apart with his hands so much as he does right now.

Hannibal gasps at that, a sharp inhale of air as his eyes open to stare down at Will, mesmerized.

“That could be arranged,” he whispers, kissing Will again, like he simply cannot get enough. “I will respect your decision not to go to the hospital, however I will take you there myself if I must, after some time.”

“Hannibal,” Will says, definitely in warning this time, pulling away from the kiss even though he’d really rather not. Because for all that he knows that the older man really would arrange things for it, it’s absolutely stupid for him to agree to murder out loud. Particularly to someone who works for the FBI. “I love you and I appreciate it, but you really shouldn’t tell someone who works for the BAU that.”

It’s insane to think he can say that now. That he loves Hannibal. Maybe everything about tonight is just insane.

“It’s hyperbole,” Hannibal teases before gently caressing Will’s face and checking for a fever. “I will let you be for now on the hospital front, but you have until I refer Franklyn to give me a good reason I shouldn’t. You are burning, my dove.”

“You’re burning,” Will argues. It comes out far softer than he means it to, warm and loving. That’s a little embarrassing, but it’s true. Hannibal, in all his pieces, shines so brightly that it might blind him. “Sometimes I think you’ll swallow the world whole. Swallow me whole.”

He kisses the older man again, wonders if that light can ever infect him. Kissing Hannibal is so much better than when Alana kissed him. Suddenly, he finds that he truly does want to kill Tobias. Kill him and bring him home to Hannibal like a cat with a bird in his teeth, and say, I see you, all of you, and I love it all.

Hannibal practically melts into him, like prey showing it’s neck for Will to bite. Hannibal, who loves being in control and being perfect, gives in to him with an ease unparalleled, previously unknown to the younger man.

“I love you,” the older man whispers, holding Will’s face in his hands. Even more honestly, he adds, “Will, you could have my heart, however you want it.”

Oh. Oh.

“Even if I want it forever?” Will asks, because there is no way that he can give Hannibal up if he accepts, right here and now, that they can be something more. “Even if I’m jealous and refuse to let go? Because I swear to God, Hannibal, if you say yes, I will never let you leave.”

“Is that not why you had me move in?” Hannibal teases, kissing Will delicately like it might break the moment if he does more. “I’d like to believe I made it fairly obvious how much I would like to stay. But, yes, forever is perfect.”

Will can’t do this, he’s going to collapse in on himself and explode like a goddamn neutron star. He hides his face in Hannibal’s shoulder, curling and digging his fingers in until he can feel the give of flesh.

It’s not enough. He needs to break the other man into pieces, crawl inside his body to fit himself into the missing spaces, and see them back up into one creature. It will never be enough, he thinks, not until every single atom between them is so entangled they can never be separated again.

He can hear the church bells ringing it into existence- no, that’s his phone, actually. Will is fine to ignore that, to just keep panting into the shoulder of his first catch with the weight of the emotions it inspires in him.

(It takes a terrible creature to be able to trap the Chesapeake Ripper. He can’t help but feel an odd, immense pride in it.)

“It’s Jack,” Hannibal says softly, holding him closer still if possible. “Would you prefer I answer?”

His lover, because that is what they are, sounds ready to kill or destroy whoever might endanger his health, Jack Crawford included. It’s funny how the Chesapeake Ripper cares more for him than his own work place.

“I could tell him to call back later.”

“Miriam Lass is apparently alive. I should deal with it,” Will sighs into his shoulder, taking out his phone. He shuts it off completely without even denying the call and sets it on the counter. “But I don’t want to. I want to go home and lay on top of you until we melt into each other and ignore the fucking chimney for tonight. I’ll deal with it, and Jack, tomorrow.”

Hannibal hums softly, a bit disappointed, but leans back to kiss Will’s temple and help him back up. “Let me close the back door and I’ll meet you at the car?”

No, he doesn’t want to separate at all, but he still nods and heads to his car. He climbs into the passenger seat, chest aching as if a band connects them and has stretched too thin. It’s alright, though; Will can have the burning warmth of the monster he loves once more soon.

---

Hannibal drives them home after their moment, lets Will doze in the car on the ride there and avoids as many bumps and holes in the streets as he can. It’s of no use once they get close to their home, but he can be pleased that the driveway wakes Will, and not himself.

There are so many more things he wishes to say, to let go of for Will to know, and yet he cannot. He wants his lover to dig into him and find every secret and truth that make up the creature behind the veil. It’s horrendously impulsive, and yet.

He grabs Will’s hand before the man can think of opening the door and leaving, smooth his thumb over calloused knuckles. “My dove,” he says sweetly. “You do mean to keep me, don’t you?”

(Despite everything, a part of him fears possible betrayal. Though he loves the man more than anything, he must acknowledge that Will Graham is still an FBI consultant. A fact the younger man had brought up himself.)

Will kisses him over the console, feather light and sweet. He’s done it several times tonight now, as if he’s trying to replace the memory of Alana - and oh, he will certainly have to do something about that, later - with Hannibal’s lips. The thought of it pleases the possessive beast in him.

“I do,” he says like an oath, a vow, when he presses their foreheads together. “I’ll do more than keep you. I won’t let you go, at all. So don’t try to ever run from me, please. I- want to be like the angler fish.”

Oh, he’s so downright perfect. Hannibal kisses him again, soft and gentle despite the intense hunger that crawls over him like a warm blanket. “I love you, whatever you could possibly want,” he promises, squeezing the younger man’s hand.

His Caraviaggo angel come to life, all the dangerous edges worn soft and rounded in the face of Hannibal. It fills the aching pains in his lungs to so nearly be complete; he simply needs to be truthful, to push Will over the edge. And yet, he can’t bring himself to do so.

His lover smiles at him, a soft, syrupy thing that shows all his teeth as it turns into a yawn. Will unbuckles himself and reaches over to press the release for the older man as well. “Let’s go to bed?” he suggests as they both climb from the car. “Tomorrow will be busy, if Miriam Lass really is alive. And Tobias- you think he killed the trombonist? I’ll let Jack know. But right now, I just want-”

The profiler had walked a bit ahead of Hannibal, clearly eager to get to bed. But when he turns back to look at him, eyes silver in the moonlight reflected off snow and thick flakes of it tangled in his hair like glittering gemstones. If God Himself were to descend from the Heavens with all His angels, even He would declare that there was nothing so holy as Will Graham.

He smiles again, “I just want you, right now.”

Hannibal walks up behind him as Will turns to open the door and sets upon removing the younger man’s coat once inside. “How do you feel about spring?” he asks easily, already imagining Will in a beautifully deep navy suit with white accents, a private little event for his lover’s comfort. He hangs up the coat in his hands before going to remove his own.

Will kicks off his shoes, barely bothering to nudge them into place properly with his foot. On anyone else, it would be one of those little, annoying habits. But this is just how his lover is, and he doesn’t think he could change it. Or rather, he knows he could, that it would only take a single request, but he finds he doesn’t want to.

What point is there in having this man if he does not also have all his idiosyncrasies, even the frustrating ones? Are they not the very reasons he fell in love?

His lover turns to Hannibal and steps into his space to unbutton his vest for him, followed by his shirt, as he hums in consideration. He says, “Spring’s good. Not too cold or too hot. May is nice, all the wildflowers in the field around the house bloom by then.”

Hannibal has to take a deep breath lest he set upon his lover with too much fervor for their busy schedule. Instead he lets himself be guided to bed with a pleased little hum. His coy, sweet lover is the most adorable thing he could have found, a beautiful, wild rose with thorns and all.

“Roses with the thorns?” he teases, slipping out of his vest and shirt. “Or do you have a preference?”

“Roses? Don’t be boring, Hannibal,” Will teases right back with a quick peck of lips, shedding his own shirt. “I’ve seen your flower arrangements. Give me something with bones and thorns and vines, I know you’re good at that.”

He pulls Will close by his belt loops, grateful for them not having shed their pants yet. He wants to rip his sweet lover apart and eat him whole, share in the process and let himself be devoured in turn. There will never be enough words in the universe to explain what they share, what they are. He wants them to be suns dancing dangerously close together.

(Will’s becoming, his first kill, and their own together, will finally let them become a supernova, merging together to become a black hole that will swallow everything whole in their paths.)

“I’ll do my best, then,” he breathes into Will’s neck, tucking himself close despite the cloying sweetness of his lover’s scent. “Any specific requests?”

When he laughs, he can feel it in his own chest. Somehow, though they breathe through different mouths and their lungs are not even in unison, they manage to share the same breath. No one can ever measure up to this sweet creature, could make him feel so strongly. So completely.

“Bleeding hearts,” Will murmurs into his ear, and for a moment he forgets entirely about the flower, “and snapdragons. In a nest of brambles.”

Then he settles into Hannibal’s lap and kisses him before he can reply, hot and wanting and sweet as honey wine. They stay like that for a long time, Will trying to devour his mouth harder, faster, and the older man gentling him with a hand on his jaw each time. His lover grumbles and complains about it, even when they finally finish stripping from their clothes and settle properly onto the bed.

Hannibal sits with his back to the baseboard, the other still kneeling in his lap even when he fingers Will open slowly enough to make him whine and curse. It strikes him that his lover is finally allowing him back into his body, after that brief, odd time when the idea seemed to scare him.

Now, though, he’s desperate for it. He would almost say that he needs it.

Will clings to him, arms tight around his neck as if Hannibal is the only thing keeping him afloat. Never had he been so sweet, so vulnerable and content for the psychiatrist to set a slow, deep rhythm. And when they aren’t kissing, his lover hides his face in his neck and gasps and shudders beautifully. It’s as if Will has finally given in to him completely, as if he trusts him with every little piece of him.

It’s a great honor. It’s deeply satisfying to know that a man who so craves control over what intimacy he allows has given himself over to pleasure. The younger man does not ask him for more, not even to go faster, only kisses him with hunger and love so clear and tangible that Hannibal can taste it. He cries out when he comes, nearly a painful sob if not for how dazedly content and relaxed Will looks when the aftershocks have faded.

Cleaning them up is hard, if only because his lover does not want to let him go. It takes reminding him that either of them will enjoy dried cum on any part of their bodies in the morning for the profiler to allow Hannibal to wipe his belly clean. He rolls over, panting and whimpering as he lets the older man gently scoop out and clean away the cum from inside him, so it doesn’t run down his thighs.

“Thank you.” Only when they are finally clean and wrapped up in soft blankets, Will clinging to him once more with his ear pressed into his chest, does he speak. He says, “I… I needed that. I love you.”

He feels so righteous, so full and warm with it all, as he holds Will close and safe in his arms. He’s quite pleased with how much he gets to have the younger man all to himself, something that nothing even Alana was able to drag out of the younger man.

“I love you,” he whispers back, promises. Because, oh, he does. He loves Will like the trees love the Earth and sky, like he needs his lover to be able to live and thrive. It’s intoxicating, smooths over his covetous greediness. “You should get some sleep, Will.”

He can feel the brief hesitation in the profiler’s body before he sits up slightly, so they can see each other face to face. He lifts a hand to cup Hannibal’s cheek, less of a caress and more like a tender anchor to keep him in place.

“There’s something I want to tell you, first. Then I’ll sleep,” Will says, love clear in his voice and just as clearly meant to soothe away any worries. “It’s important to me that you know. Don’t freak out, okay? I know, Hannibal. I have for a while.”

I know. Two simple words that could tear the universe away from him so easily.

He stares, knowing Will can likely feel his increasing heart rate, and tries very much to acquiesce to the request, even if he grips at him tightly in a hold that hurts more than comforts. “Is that so.” He doesn’t need to ask, because he knows Will is being honest, but he can’t help the sharpness from cutting through.

“I figured it out a while ago,” his lover confirms, surprisingly calm. Perhaps not so surprising, if he has truly known for some time now. “It was at that dinner party. It all came together, and I knew. But-”

Will pointedly tilts his face so that they’re eyes meet, red on blue, blood and the ocean. He smiles softly at him like that, “I made my choice. It was an easy one. I decided I wanted you anyway.”

Despite it, he means, Hannibal thinks unkindly. But then his love speaks once more and dismantles that entire idea.

“I want you, I want Hannibal Lecter and the Chesapeake Ripper. Do you understand?”

Oh. Oh.

He pulls Will down to kiss him, heated and vicious but loving. To whatever God he doesn’t believe in, he sends a quick prayer of thanks for creating the most beautiful angel he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing.

He pulls away to ask, “So when you mentioned killing Tobias-”

“I would do it,” Will says honestly, laughing a little but sounding entirely fond. “I didn’t like how he looked at you, at the opera. I don’t like that he was who you were having dinner with. And I really hate that he’s the one who killed the trombonist, for you. To get your attention. I think, if he had still been there when I arrived, I would have smothered him right in the dining room.”

Hannibal has never been more in love with Will Graham than ever before, feels it burn through him dangerously and all-consuming. “Tell me your thoughts about Franklyn,” he practically begs, sitting up if only to be able to bite and kiss at Will’s neck greedily.

His lover sits up with him easily, content to still lean into his hold. Bluntly, he says, “I think you should have killed him a while ago.”

Will gives him a quick kiss, barely more than a gentle press of lips, before he adjusts and settles to face him with more space than he would prefer between them. He takes Hannibal’s hand in his, idly tracing the lines of his palm as he continues. His angel, the god in his lap, says, “After the opera, when he interrupted us. I think you should have killed him then. For stalking you, for being a danger to you, take your pick. I know you’re smart enough to make it look like it’s not connected to you.”

“Have you been worried, my dove?” he can’t help but ask, staring into weather blue eyes, so open to him it might as well be holy. “I may have been toying with my food, if only because I wanted to kill him in front of Tobias,” he admits, smiling softly. “You could always help me, if you would like? I would love to see what you’d do with them.”

“Yes,” the empath admits with ease, “I’ve been worried about you getting caught and not being able to do anything. And…”

Here Will closes his eyes as he thinks, or perhaps imagines. What does he see behind his eyes, in that bone temple of his? The consequences of their actions, the pros and cons of such a thing? Or perhaps he imagines how he would do it.

Eyes still closed but face open in beautiful awe at whatever he sees, the other man breathes, “Yes. Yes, I think I would like to… help you.”

He can practically feel the burgeoning creature under Will’s skin, begging for release of some kind, release only Hannibal can give him. It fills him with a sinful amount of pride, and if they hadn’t just finished making love, he might have fucked the professor into the bed roughly and meanly. “I love you,” he whispers again, unable to stop himself as he admits, “Everything about you, Will. This was all I wanted for us, a good life, good food. I will give you everything you ask of me.”

“I love you,” Will promises back. He cups Hannibal’s face in both hands and kisses him, with teeth and tongue and a hunger to know and be known, to meld together. He settles properly against his chest once more when he pulls away, tracing idle shapes over the older man’s heart. “I love every part of you, too, you know. Even the deadly parts- maybe especially the deadly parts. All I need is you, in all your pieces. But I want a lot more. I want to hunt with you, the way you do it. I want to take you fishing. I want to cook beside you, and go to the opera, and watch how easily you lie to your dinner party guests without lying at all. And someday, Hannibal, I want to marry you.”

“This spring or next?” Hannibal asks breathlessly, feeling very much like the younger man has carved his heart out and is holding it within his hands.

Will laughs, looking not just delighted but radiantly happy. He doesn’t answer him further, but that’s fine. They have time to figure out their plans. It can wait until the morning, at the very least.

For now, he gets to cradle what he thinks must be the other half of his very own soul.