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Will can feel Hannibal's eyes burning into his shoulderblades as he paces the room, thighs tightened together, stiff postured. Hannibal sits impeccably poised in his chair, right leg over the left, eyes watching and roaming Will's figure as he walks. Clinically faced, composed, neutral.
Will, however, is hardly keeping his composure. He can hardly remember what they were talking about, mind cloudy and hazy, the room suddenly feeling hot. He tugs at his shirt collar, trying to loosen it.
There's an almost gravitational pull back to the side table where his nearly empty glass of wine sits, rose colored liquid glinting in the sun's natural light as he brings it to his lips, suddenly parched. He brings himself the courage to speak the first word he's consciously made in the last thirty minutes. Everything else had been a blur, autopilot.
"Don't look at me like that," the words 'Hannibal' and 'Dr. Lecter' threaten to spill but he doesn't dare let them. Hannibal doesn't deserve Will addressing him by name at the moment, not with the way his eyes sinfully drag over his body in that salmon shirt he wears.
He downs the rest of the wine in one swallow, ignoring the gritty feeling on his tongue that he tries to lave away with saliva. Hannibal almost visibly winces at the improper wine etiquette. Instead, he raises a brow.
"And how would that be?" A measured, calculated tilt of his head. Slight. Manipulative. His hands cross and rest upon his knee. Will can feel the hot sear of his gaze, even as he's increasingly becoming more disoriented.
"Like you wanna eat me." He mutters, pressing his back against the nearest wall to steady himself. "Like a sacrificial lamb. Throat cut. Bleeding into a chalice, roasted on a spit. My wool being made into a–a coat."
Earlier, Will hadn't even thought of coming in for their session.
His rut had just came, triggered early by Alana– completely Will's fault, on account of kissing her after destroying his chimney in search of an animal he'd heard. He never thought he would be so sensitive to an omega before. She wasn't even in heat– maybe it had just been his hormones acting up?
Regardless, he'd been stuck at home, contemplating his choices, torn between quickly running to the store to get pheromone blockers to avoid Hannibal's already sharp perception and nose from figuring out, or just staying home and jerking off to the thought of him.
In the end, he chose to come to Hannibal. He always did.
"–ill? Will? Will."
Hannibal's voice brings him back to reality. He's much closer now, warmer. His hands find his shoulders, guiding him to sit. "There. You spaced out for a moment." He presses his hand against Will's forehead, pretending to feel for a fever, when really, it's just an excuse to touch him. And Will eats it up, leaning in, eyes half lidded from a sudden drowsiness, feeling like he was on clouds.
And then, he realizes.
"You– you drug- drugged me. What–" His eyes dart over to the wine glass at his side, a wet, gritty substance at the bottom of the glass. Hannibal grabs his chin to study his face. He doesn't speak for a long moment, checking his pupils, pulse.
"Diazepam." He says, allowing a small smile. "You'll be confused, drowsy, dizzy. Some temporary loss of coordination." He steps back, sitting back in his chair and taking a small drink of his wine.
"Tell me, Will, what were you thinking when you went to that drugstore and bought pheromone blockers? Did you think I couldn't smell your rut beneath the chemical smell? Or Alana's perfume?"
It's not accusatory, but curious. "Or maybe, were you thinking you could just try to deal with it until it was over without anyone to help you?"