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Hannibal watched Alana tuck her hair behind her ear over the rim of his wineglass.

It was her tell, the hair tuck. As though placing a few strands behind her ear would provide protection from any unpleasantries to come. It acted as a talisman of sorts. A shield. It meant she was finally ready to speak.

“I, um, I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to dinner.”

Hannibal quirked his lips in a gentle smile, enough to sway but not seduce. “I am always honored by your attentions, regardless of reason.”

Her cheeks warmed. Thin shoulders relaxed as her previous tension melted away. It seemed even the years between their last encounter and this moment were not enough to kill her romantic interests. Fledgling things, much like Alana herself: desperate to be noticed and kindled yet too timid to reach out and take.  

She tilted her head forward, freeing the hair she’d placed behind her ear. “It’s about Will Graham.”

Hannibal blinked. For the first time that night, he didn’t have to feign his interest. “The Chesapeake Ripper?”

The blood in her cheeks immediately fled. She stared at her plate rather than Hannibal, and for the briefest second, he wondered if she’d finally figured out the truth. Then she nodded and demurely murmured, “That’s the one.”

So, not yet aware of Dr. Graham’s innocence then. Which begged the bigger question: What did this have to do with Hannibal?

If not for her blatant displays of affection toward him, he might think that her days consulting for the BAU had finally familiarized her to the scent of a killer. Or perhaps it had, and she simply couldn’t smell it on Hannibal over the artificial daisies she’d bathed in before coming to his door.

He sipped his wine. Enjoyed the wash of rich, red plums on his tongue. Downturned one side of his lips in a show of concern. “I must admit, I didn’t expect this turn of conversation. You were friends in a past life, no?”

She laughed, bitter and humorless. “Something like that.”

“Has he attempted to make contact with you?”

“No. I just… I saw Chilton at a fundraiser earlier this week. He was bragging about the progress he’s made with Will.” Her voice dipped bitterly under the word ‘progress,’ like the very thought repulsed her. “He says he's going to write a book about the murders.”

He swirled the remains of his Malbec, pretending to think. “You don’t believe him.”

She scoffed softly, derisively. “No.”

“Does this mean you’ve reconsidered your stance on Dr. Graham’s plea?”

She clenched her fingers indelicately around the stem of her wineglass, lips drawn into a thin, determined line. “No. No, of course not. The evidence points to Will, and no amount of wishful thinking will change that.”

Hannibal hummed. “Another reason then.”

She shook her head. Guzzled her wine without pausing to savor it. “Will hasn’t spoken in a year and a half. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

Her slip-of-the-tongue sparkled, a diamond in a sea of sand.

“You’ve been to see him.”

“I…” Light blue eyes rose to meet Hannibal’s, and the fight in her drained like water dumped from a bucket. Her shoulders slumped, defeated. “I have.”

“But you do not wish to.”

“Talk about an understatement. All I want is to forget. Forget about him, about what he’s done, but… It’s hard, Hannibal. I cared about him. I still care. Even knowing what horrible things he’s done, I—” She cut herself off and finished her wine. Hannibal waited, patiently, until she found her voice again. “I think about it sometimes. How he probably would have evaded us forever, if not for the encephalitis making him sloppy. And I want to condemn him. I do condemn him. But I also…” She pushed a long, slow sigh out between her teeth. “I want to know why.”

Ah. There it is.

The urge to smile curled within Hannibal at such a perfect opportunity. A chance to converse with the man who’d unwillingly laid claim to Hannibal’s title, giftwrapped in the guise of a favor for a friend.

“You would like for me to speak with him in your stead.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask. But Will… He’s not like other men. He could keep his head down and his lips shut for the rest of his life if he wanted, and nothing and nobody could make him do otherwise.”

“If he is so inclined to his silence, I must wonder what miracles you expect of me.”

A fond smile touched Alana’s lips. “Just talk to him. No one can make him do anything, no, but you’ve always had a way with uncooperative patients. If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.” Slim fingers twitched, momentarily leaving the stem before darting back again. Her urge to reach for his hand – to seek comfort and find comfort in return – was nearly palpable.

“Your faith in me is flattering.” He pressed his lips into a pleased smile, allowing her to believe him oblivious to her inner plight. “While I’m afraid I cannot promise a breakthrough, I assure you I will do my best.”

Her hopeful gaze brightened adoringly. The ardor seeped into her voice. “You’re a life saver, Hannibal. You don’t know what this means to me.”

He waved his free hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Think nothing of it. I am pleased to be of assistance.”

“No, I’m serious. This is… a lot. He’s the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She sighed, the furrow of her brows relaying affection even as the downward curve of her lips screamed concern. “Just be careful, alright?”

“I will. He is, after all, a very dangerous criminal.”

“Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it.” She lifted her glass only to realize it was empty. She put it back down. The tired set of her jaw told Hannibal she was about to change the subject, and despite wanting to hear more about his own alter ego and the man who’d taken the lashes for his crimes, he prepared to acquiesce.

There would come a time where Alana was desperate to delve into the delightful topic of Will Graham. A time when she would question the jury’s verdict and her own handling of his ‘guilt.’ It could take a year, or two, or five. The justice system was slow, and the real Chesapeake Ripper had no plans to emerge any time soon. But Hannibal was nothing if not patient.

He could wait.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal entered the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane with low expectations.

While Dr. Graham’s diagnosis as a pure empath made him out as something exquisitely rare and interesting, Hannibal had doubts. After all, Dr. Graham had become a police officer while earning his doctorate, been discharged from the force for an unwillingness to fire his weapon, and secured a teaching position at Quantico all by the ripe age of twenty. He’d been headhunted by the FBI to be a consulting profiler a short two years later. It wasn’t out of the question to think his high IQ and knack for reading people could have been incorrectly interpreted as a hyper empathy disorder.

Aside from his questionable emotional state, the only interesting thing about Dr. Graham was the fact that he could be mistaken for the Ripper. Though, considering he’d been in the deepest throws of encephalitis at the time of arrest, it was hardly a promising lead.

That being said, the wrongly convicted profiler didn’t necessarily need to be interesting to glean Hannibal’s interest. So long as Dr. Graham wore the Chesapeake Ripper’s reputation like an ill-fitting suit, Hannibal would keep a bookmark over his name and actions. Something to glance at in his spare time. A smooth nightcap with which to relax before bed.

An orderly – his nametag read M. Brown – led Hannibal to Dr. Chilton’s office. Mr. Brown used an affected lisp to say, “Dr. Chilton will be out soon. He has to do a bunch of preparations any time somebody comes to see Dr. Graham.”

There was a gleam in Mr. Brown’s eyes. A young, wild beast with no knowledge of humility. Its craving for acceptance and acknowledgement slobbered all over the words ‘Dr. Graham.’

Hannibal smiled. “Does Dr. Graham often receive visitors?”

“Not often, no.”

“No family of which to speak?”

Mr. Brown’s head jerked from side-to-side, a feral dog shaking water out of his ears. “No. Dr. Graham doesn’t need family though. He’s doing just fine.”

Hannibal hummed, mildly curious as to whether Mr. Brown’s devotional attitude would remain even after learning the truth of Dr. Graham’s involvement in the Ripper murders.

That curiosity was placed on hold as Dr. Chilton emerged from his office.

A moment settled between them, thick like sludge, where Dr. Chilton recognized Hannibal as better. Better job. Better reputation. Better suit (by at least seven thousand dollars). Jealousy and irritation seeded in that moment, then time moved on. Dr. Chilton smoothed the lapels of his suit, tailored but not designer, in an attempt to preen what few feathers he had.

Hannibal nodded in greeting. “Dr. Chilton.”

“Dr. Lecter! I knew you’d come ‘round eventually. You tried to stand above it, uncaring of one of the most complex criminal minds of the century, but no one is immune to curiosity. Isn’t that right?”

Hannibal twisted his lips into a professionally clip smile. “As I mentioned over the phone, Alana is worried about him. She says he hasn’t spoken in a year and a half.”

Dr. Chilton’s smug grin faltered at the use of Alana’s first name. He had been not-so-subtly vying for her attention ever since their school days, and his inability to foster anything past professional courtesy painted a clean target. He recovered with a quick, “Yes, well, he was hardly communicative even before his vow of silence. Professed his innocence and nothing else. Luckily, words are hardly the only form of communication. His childhood, for example. Absent mother, workaholic father, no stable home of which to speak, and an inability to connect with his peers. Excluding his love of animals, he’s a veritable how-to manual for creating a killer.”

Dr. Chilton took obvious pride in his assessment, chest puffing out like a gorilla seeking a mate. Beside him, Mr. Brown stared with wide, hungry eyes. Hannibal wondered if the orderly had already taken a life, or if that was a desire yet to be indulged.

Perhaps he’d offer the boy a free therapy session and find out.

“I shall have to take your word for it. I’m afraid I haven’t done much research into Dr. Graham outside what Alana shared.”

Dr. Chilton’s lips twitched downward, jilted yet again by the casual use of Alana’s name. “You’ll find a lack of preparedness can mean more than just an unhappy patient within these walls, Dr. Lecter. Mr. Graham is exactly as volatile as you’d expect.”

Mister Graham, not Doctor. As though being a serial killer stripped him of his worldly titles and due respects.

“I appreciate the warning.” Hannibal held out an arm, gliding easily into the role of host despite being in socially hostile territory. “Shall we?”

Dr. Chilton stepped forward before recognizing the role reversal. He bristled, irritation clear in the stretch of his lips, but said nothing. He knew as well as Hannibal did that the time to take control had passed. Hannibal fell in step beside Dr. Chilton a moment later.

Mr. Brown, ahead of them but continually glancing back, was not unaware of the intricacies of their social dance. As someone who was neither born into money nor had the opportunity to rub elbows with those who were, he was clearly out of his depths. Not recognizing the steps, however, didn’t equate to not hearing the music. The way he watched Hannibal from beneath his lashes, barely daring to meet his eyes, said he, too, knew who led and who followed.

They reached the Maximum-Security wing without further conversation. Bars lined the walls, and behind them stood prisoners, each in their own cell. These were the men and women society deemed depraved. Insane. Slaves to their baser instincts. Hannibal could read each and every one of them in a glance, but he wouldn’t. Not now, at least. Not with a much finer delicacy sitting in a special kind of cage at the end of the wing, cut off from the rest.

Will Graham was not behind bars. He was cased in glass.

Hannibal knew from the media frenzy covering the Ripper trial that Dr. Graham was handsome. That had never been in question. As he approached the cell, however, he began to think ‘handsome’ was the ill-gotten cousin of whatever word correctly described the prisoner. Luminous, perhaps. Or stunning. Kerintis. Asombroso. Lovely.

Laid back in his chair with all the calm of Angel playing the lute, but drawn with the hollow, choking duality of Rustici’s Woman Standing with Child in her Arms and Man Begging. Though looking at his figure – lithe musculature apparent even through the baggy white uniform – he’d likely be better suited to appear in Les raboteurs. Not an angel or a streetwalker, but a physical laborer.

Dr. Graham was lax in his seat: the only furnishing in his cell aside from a bolted-down cot. His head was tilted so his neck rested against the back of the chair, eyes closed. Long fingers moved in a steady motion next to his outer thigh, massaging something only he could see. Hannibal was curious until Dr. Graham’s pointer and middle fingers twitched in what was almost certainly a scratching motion, and it clicked.

His dogs.

Alana had complained about them once, just after Dr. Graham had been imprisoned but before she’d started avoiding Hannibal (avoiding the inevitable questions about her mental state, which would in turn bring the conversation back to Dr. Graham). There were seven of them, if Hannibal’s memory served him correctly. Seven strays, picked up and cared for by a man whose height of human intimacy (according to Alana) was running into a colleague outside of work and not immediately fleeing.

Hannibal took the chair on the left. Dr. Chilton the one on the right. Mr. Brown stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back, eyes riveted on Dr. Graham. Not that Hannibal could blame him. Dr. Graham was art in the flesh, and he deserved to be admired.

 Dr. Chilton cleared his throat: a forced, guttural sound. “Mr. Graham. Dr. Lecter is here for your interview.”

Dr. Graham’s hand cut a smooth crescent through the air, perhaps to pet across the dog’s head and down its neck. Hannibal waited as Dr. Graham came back to himself: shoulders tensing minutely, chapped lips pulling in displeasure, breathing purposefully evened. When Dr. Graham flattened his hand against his pantleg and rapidly tapped his middle finger, Hannibal knew he was present.

And then, the high note of a siren’s song, he opened his eyes.

Hannibal’s breath caught, fingers nearly physically twitching with the urge to sketch. No, to paint. For as much as the tilt and shape of Dr. Graham’s eyes were pleasant, it was the color that astounded Hannibal. Like an aurora borealis coupled with the fading blue of a clear night’s sky to make the perfect blend of Dr. Graham’s eyes. Hannibal could stare for hours without losing attention, he was sure.

Dr. Graham met Hannibal’s eyes for the briefest flicker of a moment before focusing on Hannibal’s shoes. Hannibal swallowed the seductive tones that tried to come out in the face of such devastating beauty, instead using a flat yet friendly voice to say, “Hello, Dr. Graham.”

Dr. Graham’s eyes flitted up to Hannibal’s tie then down to his knee. He said nothing, but the angle of his torso betrayed him. He wanted to know why Hannibal was there.

“My name is Dr. Lecter. I’m not here to interview you, but to converse. I am not your doctor, and you are not my patient. While I won’t say I have no interest in psychoanalyzing you, as that would be a lie, I do it with no ulterior motive. I can no more turn off my observations than you can yours.”

Dr. Graham’s eyes jerked up this time, near to meeting Hannibal’s but not quite. The lack of eye contact was a good sign. An honest sign that lent credence to the theory of pure empathy. Dr. Graham didn’t want to understand people as well as he did.

Better still, he didn’t expect any understanding in return.

“If those terms sound amenable to you, I’d like to proceed. May I call you Will?”

Dr. Graham’s eyes trailed down: sliding across Hannibal’s torso and caressing his legs before coming to a soft pause on the tip of his shoe. They hopped up again a second later, past Hannibal’s eyes to rest in his hair. A minute passed in silence. Two minutes. Just before the three minute mark, his chin dipped half an inch in consent.

Hannibal nearly purred. “Very good. Thank you, Will.”

Will’s fingers stilled. His eyes dilated, though whether from the praise or the use of his name was unknown. Barely furrowed brows told Hannibal that Will wasn’t sure why he was reacting either. An anomaly Hannibal looked forward to exploring together.

“Dr. Lecter came a long way to see you, Will.” Dr. Chilton’s obnoxiously over-confident voice crashed through their spider-web thin rapport, ruining it. “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”

Anger chilled Hannibal’s chest as he turned his head sharply to Dr. Chilton. The number of sins Dr. Chilton had committed with two simple sentences was staggering. Inserting himself in Hannibal’s conversation, for one. Using Will’s name when he had not asked, had not earned, was another. The greatest offense, however, came in the form of Will’s teeth baring as he remembered where, exactly, he was. Will tilted his head back, resting it against the chair. Eyes closed.

While he was nowhere near as relaxed as before they’d arrived, indicating he hadn’t yet retreated to his version of a Mind Palace, it was clear he felt their conversation finished.

Whatever progress Hannibal had made was locked away.

Dr. Chilton, oblivious to the damage he’d done, prattled on. “Don’t be discouraged, Dr. Lecter. He’s always like this. Arrogant in his silence, believing himself above us and everything we do. A classic narcissist.”

Will snorted, his thoughts on Dr. Chilton’s analysis apparently mirroring Hannibal’s own.

Hannibal returned his attention to Will, noting the hunch of his shoulders and tension in his legs. Will’s body language was withdrawn. Protective. Defensive. These were not the markers of someone who thought themselves above the chaff, but someone who was aware that he must fight through the chaff for no greater purpose than to survive. Will was used to being ignored, misdiagnosed, and misused.

Perhaps Dr. Chilton’s imbecilic nature could prove useful yet.

Hannibal adopted a low, conversational tone akin to a murmur. “Is that true, Will? Has Dr. Chilton seen through your façade? Are you really so simple?”

Will’s tapping fingers curled, bitten-down nails digging into the leg of his jumpsuit.

Hannibal hummed, pleased. “I thought not.”

“You’re giving him too much credit. He’s an intelligent psychopath capable of faking extreme empathy. Nothing more. Don’t let his reputation fool you.” Dr. Chilton swiveled to face Will. “Unless, of course, you’d like to refute that, Mr. Graham? Refute your status as a narcissist. Refute your role as the Chesapeake Ripper. Refute your feelings on me. You could do it all, if only you’d speak.” Dr. Chilton turned again toward Hannibal, giving Will no time to say anything. “I suppose you weren’t privy to the why of Mr. Graham’s vow of silence, were you? Allow me to clue you in. It’s a game of sorts, born out of respect for my expertise. He knows that if he actually talks to me, I’ll have him figured out within the week. All of his secrets – his air of mystery and intrigue – gone. He doesn’t speak because he’s afraid of me. He knows he’s met his match.”

Will’s eyes cracked open the barest amount, just enough to watch Hannibal from beneath a canopy of dark lashes. His glance was an almost audible: You’re hearing this too, right?

Hannibal rolled his shoulders a fourth of an inch forward.

I am.

Will closed his eyes again, calmer now.

Dr. Chiton frowned, returning his attention to Will. “It’s really no wonder Dr. Bloom sent Dr. Lecter to check on you rather than returning herself. Another bridge burned, eh, Mr. Graham?”

Will opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. His body tensed, but not in the defensive, angry manner to which he naturally gravitated. This tenseness was soft. Worried, almost. Will stopped tapping a tuneless rhythm against his leg to instead raise his hand and, almost delicately, tuck a few curls behind his ear.

The interest that had been sparking in Hannibal’s chest exploded into brilliant, obsessive fireworks.

Not only was pure empathy not a misdiagnosis, it was even more captivating than Hannibal had imagined. Will, in that motion, was more Alana than himself. If Hannibal breathed in deeply enough, he could almost smell the artificial daisies.

Except Will wouldn’t wear pretty, flowered scents, would he? And if he did, it wouldn’t be often. Certainly not with the intent of attracting a suitable partner. No, Will struck Hannibal as a minimalist. Whatever scent Will bore, it was one of convenience.

For now, he would smell mostly of prison soap. But beneath that? Would his skin, free of chemicals, be musky or sweet? What about when he was out and about, free from Dr. Chilton’s cage? Would he wear cologne? Aftershave? If so, it was unlikely to be anything expensive. Probably something with a ship on the bottle.

Hannibal would need to know Will’s natural scent before recommending a suitable cologne, though there was a certain appeal in simply sprinkling him with Hannibal’s own. A claim, of sorts, to ward off undesirables.

Dr. Chilton, completely unaware of Hannibal’s revelation, continued, “Face it, Mr. Graham. I’m the only person willing to put up with you in the long-term. No one cares about you or your supposed innocence. No one wants to play your game, be it forced silence or faux empathy. You are nothing.” Dr. Chilton leaned forward, greedily taking in the (admittedly stunning) hurt splashed across Will’s face. “That doesn’t have to be the case though. Speak to me. Let me tell your story. I’ll write a book – your book – on the Chesapeake Ripper murders, and you’ll go down in history as a brilliant, shining star. Doesn’t that sound good, Mr. Graham? And all you have to do is open your mouth.

“You can start out slow. One word answers so the audience knows you were defiant to the end. Just tell me how you felt when you killed them. Or how you chose your victims. Was it your mother or father who drove you to insanity? Or maybe you’d like to start with more recent events. How do you feel about your stay here? The staff? Me?”

Will’s posture abruptly shifted: a cornered animal gliding smoothly into the skin of a predator. His spine straightened as he sat up, poised yet languid. Commanding. The unshakable confidence of someone born into opulence. He lifted his head casually, as though they were on his time rather than the other way around, and bypassed Dr. Chilton completely to stare at Hannibal.

Right into his eyes.

Hannibal’s heartrate sped as he recognized the cool indifference pinning him to his seat. This version of Will felt no anger or pain over Dr. Chilton’s remarks. And why would he, when Dr. Chilton was no more than an animal beneath his feet? A pig to the slaughter.

Those eyes were Hannibal’s just before he requested a business card. They were the Chesapeake Ripper’s, unmasked and exposed. And it was in seeing the Ripper’s eyes on Will that Hannibal, for the first time in his life, felt seen. Seen and known and it was addicting. Ambrosia of the finest quality seeping into Hannibal’s lungs and poisoning his veins.

He wanted more. More of that look, more of this feeling, more of Will. More, more, more. To be looked at not only in the dark, with his baser cravings on display, but in the sweet light of day. To be wholly understood by this vessel of perfection.

Oh, what he wouldn’t do.

Before Hannibal could contemplate it further, Will (glorious, generous Will) opened his mouth. He shaped his lips around a single word, delivered it with a voice roughened from lack of use.

 “Rude.”

Just like that, his vow of silence ended. A year and a half of self-imposed solitude broken for no other reason than to slight an arrogant doctor with a wayward tongue. A year and a half of work: discarded on a whim.

Hannibal could have sighed in appreciation, but the moment was too short, and their audience too broad. Will came back to himself in a blink. A frown twisted on cupid’s bow lips as he retreated into his previous defensive posture. The slump of his shoulders was more pronounced than before, signaling exhaustion, and regardless of Dr. Chilton’s excited babbling, Hannibal decided he would push no further.

When Will came to him – and Will would come – it would be in search of solidarity. He’d need a place to rest his head without fear. A sanctuary where he could Become.

And Hannibal would provide.

(***Paragon***)

When Hannibal left the BSHCI, he got Matthew Brown to write his information on the back of one of Dr. Chilton’s business cards. While Mr. Brown hadn’t been rude, per se, the way he stared at Will was unacceptable.

Not that Hannibal didn’t understand the fascination. Will was nothing short of divine, and street urchin like Matthew Brown had to take their brushes with beauty where they could get it. Like a starving mongrel staring through a window at a warm fireplace and nourishing meal, Mr. Brown knew that Will Graham could complete him. He also knew (had to know, on some instinctual level) that a luxury like Will was not meant for his grubby, clumsy fingers to bruise and smudge.

Will was meant to be worshipped. To be pampered and cared for by an acolyte devoted enough to lick the blood of the undeserving from his flesh. The most Mr. Brown would be able to provide was a sordid, daily struggle to obtain scraps off the streets.

And that, Hannibal would not allow.

He supposed if Mr. Brown were content with admiring from afar, things would be different. Not even Hannibal could kill every person who tossed Will a lustful glance.

(Nor would he want to. Will had barely moved during their meeting, and already Hannibal could tell that his boy was the epitome of sensuality. He could no more expect people to overlook Will’s sexual potential than he could ask an artist to overlook the Louvre.)

Unfortunately for Mr. Brown, Hannibal recognized the yearning – the avarice – in his fevered stares. The orderly would never be content with looking. He would want to reach, to touch, leaving Hannibal no choice but to cut him off at the wrists.

Hannibal closed his eyes, savoring the thought. Another time.

The important thing now was to get Will out of the BSHCI, away from both Dr. Chilton and Mr. Brown, and into Hannibal’s daily life. Not an impossible goal, all things considered, but a lengthy one.

And the first step toward his goal, his Will, was Jack Crawford.

Agent Crawford didn’t look up as Hannibal entered his office, too concerned with one of the many files stacked and strewn across his desk. The office reeked of chemicals (ointments, chemo, expensive perfume, cheap cologne), and Hannibal knew without asking that Agent Crawford’s much-beloved wife had late-stage cancer.

Agent Crawford ignored Hannibal for another forty-five seconds. In that time, Hannibal learned Agent Crawford spent more time at work than was strictly proper, given his wife’s diagnosis. Many a meal was taken in the office, judging by the stale smell of food and the myriad of take-out menus. Hannibal also learned that catching the Chesapeake Ripper was the agent’s crowning achievement: the newspaper clipping of Will’s sentencing framed and centered amongst a sea of diplomas, certificates, and awards.

It was news of the Chesapeake Ripper, coupled with Alana’s name, that earned Hannibal this short-notice meeting.

Hard, tired brown eyes raised to meet Hannibal’s. “Dr. Lecter. You wanted to see me?”

Hannibal stuck out a hand. “Please, call me Hannibal.”

Agent Crawford reached across the cluttered desk to accept. His grip was tight and professional. He pumped twice, then leaned back in his chair. “Jack. What can I do for you?”

“Not much, I suspect. I only came to tell you that I visited Dr. Will Graham this morning.”

Jack’s meaty hand fisted into a tight ball, the dark skin around his knuckles paling. His voice dropped to a low bark. “And?”

“And I believe he is innocent.”

A train wreck of emotions piled up on Jack’s face. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Fear. Denial. Self-doubt. Anger again. He settled on anger as he shouted, “What the hell are you going on about?”

Hannibal kept his expression neutral and tone professional. “I met him, today, at Alana’s request. He bears none of the personality markers of the Chesapeake Ripper, and it is my professional opinion that he is not the man society claims him to be.”

“Where are you getting your personality analysis, Doctor? Will hasn’t spoken in over a year.”

“He spoke today.”

More self-doubt. More denial. More anger. Anger, anger, anger. “What did he say?”

“He said Dr. Chilton was rude.”

Jack waited for more. Hannibal met his gaze unflinchingly, silently daring him to bark another order, as though Hannibal were one of his obedient pawns.

Jack looked away first. “Anything else?”

“No.”

A string of curses fell from plump lips. He slammed his palm on the file he had been reading. “I don’t have time for this. Will Graham is the Chesapeake Ripper, and I’ve got a dozen more, active serial killers on my desk. I’m not reopening the Ripper case just because Chilton is rude.”

“Not because Dr. Chilton is rude. Because Will Graham is innocent.”

A fissure opened up in the anger to reveal sweet, vulnerable fear. Then, like a bear trap, the anger snapped it back up. “Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but I’m very busy. I’m sure you can show yourself out.”

Hannibal nodded, easily acquiescing. He bid Jack a good day.

They wouldn’t reopen the Ripper case because of this conversation, but Hannibal hadn’t expected them to. The point of their meeting wasn’t to pick fruit, after all, but to plant a seed. Now, when the Ripper’s next victim revealed itself to the world, Jack’s first thoughts wouldn’t be of a copy-cat, but this conversation.

Hannibal pressed his lips together into what was almost a smile and slid into his car. He’d gone to Jack directly after the BSHCI not only to add weight to the claim of Will’s innocence, but because he was a man who enjoyed saving the best for last. Ending his day in Jack’s office may have left a sour taste on his tongue. Ending the day in Will’s house, on the other hand?

Anticipation thrummed steady in his chest throughout the hour-long drive. He was greeted by a broken gate at the end of the driveway, a beaten-up old sedan, and a dilapidated house. Vandals and rebellious youths made their mark on the place: faded red and black paint splashing every available insult across the aging wood. Murderer. Cannibal. Psycho. Sicko. Freak. All slurs meant for the Ripper, aimed at an innocent.

The front door was unlocked, splinters of wood around the latch and faceplate denoting the first entry wasn’t gentle. Two fingers and a soft prod later, the door was open. The house’s innards were in even worse shape than the shell. Crude drawings and graffiti smeared the walls. Satanic symbols sank into hardwood floors. Garbage was everywhere.

Red solo cups, crushed cans, and empty bottles. Fecal matter and fur.

Hannibal wrinkled his nose at the smell of the place, almost overwhelmingly old alcohol and urine, then strode to the left. If not for the mattress rotting in the back corner, he would think this a living room. As it was, he decided it was either a bedroom or an everything room. Considering Will’s empathy, job history, and childhood, having a clear line of sight was probably very important to him.

Hannibal took his time exploring the room, cataloguing everything he could about Will Graham. The mattress was old, stained with rainwater and bodily fluids. Its only adornments were a single sheet and a thin blanket. Will, at least when sleeping, likely ran hot. The couch perpendicular to the bed was in no better shape, its once-tan upholstery irreparably torn and soiled. The chimney above the fireplace had a hole in it, possibly from a sledgehammer. The remains of a lure crafting station haunted a desk beneath a window, and two unfinished boat motors rusted away on the floor.

Will was a laborer, as Hannibal had thought he would be.

He was also, unexpectedly, a musician. An old piano sat to the left of the fireplace, bench positioned so Will could feel the flames at his back while he played. If the state of the rest of the room was anything to go by, it was likely out of tune. Possibly even damaged beyond repair. Luckily, Hannibal had a grand piano in his own home, and he was more than willing to share.

In terms of art and whimsical personalization, the room was bare. Rather than devoting space to aesthetic pleasures, Will collected books. Shelves upon shelves, filled to bursting. Many of the books were ruined, either by weather or intruders, but the few that remained intact were clearly well-loved. Hannibal made note of the ones which looked like they had been read countless times so that he could read them himself. A stack of printed-out articles laid atop the books on a higher shelf, and Hannibal needed only to glance at the sharp, messy handwriting in the margins before tucking them under his arm to take with him.

The kitchen was unimpressive, with several bowls on the floor for the dogs and almost no kitchenware of which to speak. It was clear Will preferred to take better care of his dogs than himself.

Upstairs was much more utilitarian than the rest of the house, with the majority of the rooms sitting empty. The only indication that the upper floor was inhabited at all came from Will’s closet, and even then, it was questionable. Unlike Hannibal’s ever-expanding wardrobe, Will’s choice of clothing was scarce. A few pairs of jeans lay crumpled on the ground. Six long-sleeved shirts sagged from mismatched plastic hangers. A pile of sweat-stained undershirts clumped together on a shelf above them. Boxer-briefs pressed against the wall beside the undershirts, old and worn enough to have holes near the waistbands.

It would have been a sorry excuse for a wardrobe even before Will’s imprisonment, but two years of neglect had done it no favors. The materials were moth-bitten and mildewed. Practically unwearable. Hannibal didn’t touch, but he did catalogue the type of clothing Will preferred. Winter was only three short months away, and Hannibal refused to let these scraps be the only thing standing between Will and hypothermia.

The bathroom was his final stop within the house. It was mostly bare, populated only by a single bottle of cheap shampoo, a bar of soap, a towel, a razor, and a bottle of cologne with the (expected) ship on the label. Hannibal tossed the cologne in the trash as he left.

He made his way to the shed out back. While the smaller building didn’t escape the obligatory painted slurs, the padlock was unbroken. Hunger flared in his chest at the thought of seeing a room made by Will, untouched by swine. He picked the lock in seconds and pushed his way in.

First came the obvious odors: dust, dust-mites, oil, sawdust, and rust. Beneath that, barely detectable even by Hannibal, rested something sweeter. Sunshine and warm rain misted with coffee and fresh herbs. Perfection. Hannibal breathed deeper, imagined pressing his nose to Will’s neck and taking his fill. Within his Mind Palace, he bottled the scent in a fine crystal perfume glass and placed it gently on a shelf inside a room meant solely for Will.

The shed itself was unremarkable, if a bit cluttered. Woodworking tools – handsaws, hand sanders, a small bandsaw, and a planar – littered the back-left corner in a gentle proclamation of Will’s talents. Multiple toolboxes sat open on the floor, and coupled with the tools strewn about them, they made a circle around where Will must have commonly sat and worked. The medium-sized woodstove and spare generator on the right made the room feel smaller than it was. What interested Hannibal most, however, was the bag of cement mix and stack of bricks by the door. They suggested the hole in the chimney had been there before the vandals arrived.

Hannibal exited the shed, locking the door behind him.

While the house didn’t provide the peek into Will’s personal life that Hannibal had wanted, it was hardly a waste. Hannibal now knew which room in his own home he’d be remodeling to Will’s tastes. He also had an idea of Will’s hobbies, though the finer details of what, exactly, Will would need to enjoy them required more research.

He slid into his Bentley, placing the annotated articles in the passenger seat as he went, and thought of the day when he wouldn’t need to pilfer to gain access to Will’s thoughts. The day when Will would speak freely, with no glass between them or swine to steal his attention away.

The day when Will would really and truly belong to Hannibal.

Soon.

Chapter Text

Hannibal expected to be contacted after the Chesapeake Ripper re-entered the limelight. The only question was by whom.

The obvious choice was Jack, as he had contained the scene so quickly and quietly that even TattleCrime hadn’t mentioned it. The next most likely option was Alana, though whether she would seek him out due to what he’d told Jack or because of her personal experiences with Will was unknown.  

The actual answer, to Hannibal’s surprise and delight, was Dr. Chilton.

Apparently, Will’s year-and-a-half long vow of silence, thrown away at the drop of a hat, had been picked up again just as quickly. Not a single syllable had slipped past his lips since Hannibal’s departure near a month ago.

While Hannibal took that as both a sign of Will’s refined tastes and an acknowledgement of Will’s lack of care for authority figures, Dr. Chilton seemed incapable of seeing past the fact that Will had spoken at all. He believed that Will, if given enough attention, would once again break, consequently paving the way to fame and fortune that the lesser doctor so blatantly craved.

(Technically, what Dr. Chilton had said over the phone was, “It’s his ego, you see. He can hold himself back in front of one genius prying at his mind, but place two in front of him, and he can’t help himself. He wants this book as much as I do.” but Hannibal had long ago learned to pick around babblings of dimmer pigs so that he only consumed the truth.)

Hannibal’s initial response to the invitation for a second interview with Will had been coy, even going so far as to pretend to check his schedule, but the truth was that nothing would stop him from seeing Will again. Three minutes of flattery and a promise that Hannibal would receive a hearty footnote in Dr. Chilton’s book on the Chesapeake Ripper later, Hannibal conceded.

Which brought him once again to the BSHCI, following an eager Matthew Brown toward the Maximum-Security wing. Dr. Chilton had already gone ahead, no doubt believing he could coerce Will to speak with the mere promise of Hannibal’s return.

When they entered the wing, it was to the sound of Dr. Chilton’s ego. Words of how successful their book would be, and of how even Hannibal was keen to be involved, echoed down the long hall. Mr. Brown sped up, the eagerness in eyes transforming to lust, yearning, and awe the moment Will came into view. The open display of want made Hannibal ache for his scalpel: possessive to a dark, animalistic extent. But he was better than Mr. Brown.

He didn’t let it show on his face.

There was a cost to looking at Hannibal’s things with such unsavory intent, and if Mr. Brown wished to rack up exorbitant charges, that was his prerogative. Just as it would be Hannibal’s prerogative to seek him out and collect.

In the future, however, Will would need to be marked. Bruises would do for a time, toward the beginning of their relationship, but Hannibal would prefer something more substantial.

A collar, perhaps.

“Dr. Lecter! So glad you could join us!” Dr. Chilton motioned to the seat beside him. Hannibal nodded as he sat, propping his ankle over his opposite knee.

“Dr. Chilton.” He turned, finally, toward Will, and felt the tension of their separation over the last month melt away. Will was as breathtaking as ever, slouched in his chair, dark curls hanging over his face as he stared at his knees. Long fingers continually smoothed out a particular spot on his pantleg. “Will.”

Will looked up. Piercing, intelligent eyes flitted over Hannibal’s brow before settling on his pocket square. Will nodded, as polite a greeting as he could manage given his unique circumstances.

(It was worth noting that Will’s eyes didn’t dilate at the sound of his name. Hannibal looked forward to testing out praise, next.)

“You seem very fond of Dr. Lecter, Mr. Graham. You refuse to acknowledge other guests, myself included. What makes him special?”

Will’s eyes remained trained on the pocket square. He said nothing.

“It’s a simple question, Mr. Graham. And Dr. Lecter is here. Listening. Don’t you want to speak to him? Impress him? Impress the world?”

Will’s lips twitched minutely downward. He’d likely rather have the world forget about him entirely, if given the choice.

“I’m here, too, Mr. Graham. A nationally renowned doctor at your beck and call. Doesn’t that thrill you?”

Amusement slid through Hannibal as Will openly grimaced. Dr. Chilton frowned, ego bruised. He glared at Hannibal and made a rude, rolling gesture with his hand as if to say, ‘Well, you do it then.’

Hannibal allowed himself a smile, small and indulgent.

“Will, would you look at me, please? I’m aware you dislike eye contact, but I have something important to say.”

Will’s brows furrowed as he stared Hannibal’s pocket square down. Hannibal had known from first glance that Will’s empathy disorder left him jaded, distrusting, and touch-starved. It was with that in mind that Hannibal made no attempt to sway Will further. Curiosity was as deeply engrained in the boy as caution, and so long as he felt the decision to seek knowledge was his to make, he would fold.

Seconds ticked by, heavy with silence. Hannibal kept his body language neutral and inviting. Shortly before the minute-mark, Will looked up. Aurora borealis eyes connected with Hannibal’s like a force of nature: Wild. Challenging. Violent. Hannibal breathed in, subtle but deep.

“I believe you.”

Will tilted his head, barely enough to cause curls to shift. Questioning.

“You are innocent.”

Will sucked in a gasp loud enough for Hannibal to hear, the hand on his leg twisting into a grip that had to be painful. Will stared at him with wide eyes, searching for some sign of deception, and Hannibal let him look. In this, at least, he had nothing to hide. The Adam’s apple in Will’s throat bobbed – delectable thing – before Will shifted so both forearms rested over his thighs.

Eyes still on Hannibal, he croaked, “How?”

Hannibal ignored Dr. Chilton’s excited jolt as he explained, “You are an empathetic man, Will. You see too much, care too much, and while your darker tendencies may put you in constant conflict with the morals you uphold, it does not break them. Even if you were to kill, it would not be in the manner of which you were accused. You are not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will’s eyes shimmered with tears, sunshine on the sea, but none fell. He swallowed again, rougher this time. Lips trembling, voice shaking, he agreed.

“I’m not.”

The moment stretched on, pregnant with the unspoken. Will was stronger than most would be in his situation, but he was still human. Traumatized by betrayal and captivity. Desperate for the warmth of human connection but terrified to be burned. Trauma victims often imprinted on those they considered saviors, and, much to Hannibal’s pleasure, Will was no exception.

Blue eyes warmed and softened. Tense shoulders relaxed. His torso leaned forward, more toward Hannibal, while his legs spread to accommodate the shift.

“Thank you for saying that, Dr. Lecter.”

“Please, call me Hannibal.” Will’s lips pressed together, uncomfortable with the notion, and the urge to ply Will with praise for how perfectly he was reacting to Hannibal’s presence surged. Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place. Hannibal settled instead for, “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Will shrugged, dismissive. There must have been other experiences in his life which he felt rivaled being falsely imprisoned, making this show of terrible luck commonplace. “I won’t say it’s okay. It’s not. But it won’t last forever.”

“Oh?”

“You said it yourself. The real Ripper is out there. He only let me take credit in the first place because it amused him to see his hunting party rip out its own throat. Taking a pound of their own flesh, as it were. He won’t be amused forever. He’ll make his kills public again, and they’ll have to let me go.”

The accuracy of Will’s description had pleasure coiling warm and low in Hannibal’s gut. “You believe he kills, even now?”

“An artist doesn’t hang every canvas in the museum.”

Oh, Will. Hannibal could have swooned, could have killed both Mr. Brown and Dr. Chilton and ensconced with Will into the night. He forced himself still.

Dr. Chilton shouldered his way into the conversation with a crude, “How many others are there, Mr. Graham?”

Will grimaced, as though only just remembering Dr. Chilton was present. Hannibal echoed the sentiment.

Rather than giving Dr. Chilton any sort of verbal acknowledgement, Will stood from his chair. He was of average height: four inches shorter than Hannibal. Five, if his hair were to lay flat. His posture was abysmal, but his movements screamed of untapped potential. A predator trapped in the skin of its prey. He scanned the bare room before finding Hannibal’s eyes once more.

“The Ripper will strike again, publicly, and prove my innocence. I’d rather not speak again until then, if it’s all the same to you.”

It wasn’t, of course, all the same to Hannibal, but he respected Will’s autonomy.

“Of course.”

Will nodded. “Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal dipped his chin. “Will.”

Will turned away and laid on the cot: hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. He couldn’t leave them or force them to leave, but they’d been dismissed all the same.

Hannibal stood. “Mr. Brown, if you will?”

Dr. Chilton glanced distractedly away from Will. “You’re leaving?”

“Will no longer wishes to speak.”

Dr. Chilton sneered, showing what he thought of Will’s right to choose. If it weren’t already in his rolodex, Hannibal would have requested a business card. As it was, he bid Dr. Chilton a good day, tossed a final, lingering glance at Will, and left.

(***Paragon***)

The next person to call upon Hannibal concerning the Chesapeake Ripper was Jack. The summons came two days after the second, much more public Ripper display, which meant Hannibal didn’t have to feign ignorance as to why he’d been summoned. Alana stood in the corner, hair tucked behind both ears. Her eyes darted between Hannibal and Jack, who had yet to stand from his desk.

“Dr. Lecter. I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

Hannibal nodded, unperturbed. “The Chesapeake Ripper has struck again.”

The hard, angry draw of Jack’s lips paired well with the resignation in his tone as he asked, “Why did you say Will was innocent?”

Alana cut in with a sharp, “You said what?”

Hannibal glanced at her, unaffected. “It is my professional opinion that he is innocent. It would be unethical to have kept that to myself.”

“So you told Jack?” Crystalline blue eyes touched on Jack as she murmured, “No offense,” before latching back onto Hannibal. “You should have told me, Hannibal. Jack doesn’t know Will like I do. I know how he comes off, and I know how easy it is to fall into the role of protector. But he’s not some sweet, broken thing. He’s a monster.”

Jack huffed. “Alana—”

“No, Jack. He needs to hear this. I’ve seen behind the mask, okay? And for the longest time, I attributed it to his empathy – told myself he was so deep in the Ripper’s head that he couldn’t help what came out – but I should have known. The way he spoke about the murders… the passion in his voice. He called them beautiful, Hannibal. A controlled violence. The act of elevating swine into art.”

She spat the word art, disgusted at the taste of it on her tongue. Hannibal hardly heard. He could imagine those same words formed by Will’s lips, sang in the perfect tenor of Will’s voice. The thought of Will praising him so openly sent shivers up Hannibal’s spine.

He said, “As I’m sure you’re aware, his empathy makes him uniquely qualified to access the mentality of a murderer—”

“It’s not empathy—”

“Shut up! Both of you!” Jack slammed his palms on the desk. Hannibal met his angry glare with a look of bored displeasure. Jack turned instead to Alana. “There were organs inside the body. Organs belonging to past Ripper victims.”

All countenance of anger fled from her face. “W-what?”

Hannibal nodded, understanding. “So, either Will worked with an accomplice, highly unlikely, or—”

“Will is innocent.”

Alana sucked in a sharp gasp, hands flying to her face. “No.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, he looked as exhausted as he no doubt felt. “Yes. Now please, Dr. Lecter. Tell me what made you think he was innocent.”

“He bears none of the personality markers, as I have said. He also lacks a background in medicine. Though I have yet to see him with possessions, he strikes me as someone who prefers controlled clutter, whereas the Chesapeake Ripper was profiled as an obsessive perfectionist. Will was also said to have encephalitis when caught.”

“Yeah. We assumed that’s what made him sloppy.”

“On the contrary. The only thing I believe it did was rid him of his alibis. Encephalitis is inflammation of the brain. It can cause disorientation, yes, but also seizures, muscle weakness, time loss, and hallucinations. If he committed murder while experiencing those symptoms, the scenes would not have been so clean. And that is only if his body were strong enough to carry them out under such duress. Furthermore, I’ve examined the evidence used in his court case. It’s circumstantial, at best. All of this led me to believe Will Graham is not the Chesapeake Ripper, but an unfortunate man who caught the wrong disease while working the wrong case at the wrong time.”

Around the wrong people went unsaid, but judging by the way Alana fell sobbing to her knees, it came across just the same. Tears and mascara painted scraggly lines down her cheeks while she cradled her arms to her chest. He watched her for a few seconds, contented in her sorrow, then knelt and offered her the monogrammed handkerchief he kept in his inner breast pocket. She took it without a word, pressing it roughly to her eyes as her hysterics increased.

Hannibal tilted his head minutely, enough to see Jack had placed his head in his hands as well. Sorrowful. Guilty. Defeated. Hannibal wished Will were there to see how beautifully they’d broken.

He rubbed a calming hand up and down Alana’s spine as he cleared his throat. Jack looked up, eyes red but dry.

“Should we not be working to exonerate him, in light of this news?”

“Far as the public is concerned, there is no news. If we say anything about this – about Will’s part in this – we have to be sure. Right now, all we’ve got is speculation.”

Hannibal raised both brows: not quite judgmental, but the thought was there. “And while you speculate, Will rots in prison.” Alana gasped out another sob. “Even ignoring the ethical dilemma of his imprisonment, the public has a right to know if the Chesapeake Ripper is on the loose. It’s common knowledge he strikes in groups of three.”

Alana made a choking noise, which evolved into, “S-sounders. W-Will said—he—oh god.”

Hannibal glanced questioningly at Jack as Alana broke down once more. Jack looked away.

“It’s not groups of three. It’s sounders. Like pigs. Will said that was how the Ripper thought of them.”

Hannibal withheld a smile. Remarkable boy. “Sounders then. You believe there will be more?”

Jack nodded, a jerky motion. “Probably. At any rate, you’ve given us everything we needed. If you could…” He motioned awkwardly to Alana, and while Hannibal would rather not have her tears and snot on his suit, he complied. After all, suffering her bodily fluids was fair trade for the information he’d received.

If Jack, despite the evidence at hand, would make no immediate moves to free Will, Hannibal would do it for him.

(***Paragon***)

Will wasn’t sure what to think when the most powerful criminal defense attorney in Baltimore requested to meet with him. The height of his case’s publicity had passed more than three years ago, and even if it hadn’t, there was no way he could afford her. Mary Louise’s fees rocketed past exorbitant and settled in downright ridiculous. He could buy a house with the money it would take to hire her. Hell, he could buy two.

Still, Will never turned down visitors. It helped to be around people who weren’t murderers every now and again, and he wasn’t in a position to be picky over whom.

Matthew led Will to a secure meeting room, wrists and ankles already cuffed. He secured the cuffs to two separate points under the table, taking ample liberties in his touches as he did so. Will did his best not to react, but the urge to punch the orderly in the face was real.

When Matthew left, Mary Louise replaced him. She wore a smart, expensive dress that accentuated her curves. It made her look both powerful and soft, and Will could already imagine juries nodding helplessly along with whatever tale she’d spin.

“Dr. Graham. So good to finally meet you. My name is Mary Louise. I’m a criminal defense attorney for Louise & Louise at Law. I’ve been trying to schedule this meeting for days.”

Will blinked, surprised, and focused on the delicate diamond necklace around her throat. “You have?”

“Yes. And if Chilton hasn’t even told you that, I’m willing to bet you don’t know what’s going on in the outside world, either. Do you?”

Will shook his head. “Something to do with the Ripper, I’m assuming.”

Mary laughed, sharp and charismatic. “You assume right. He’s struck again, two kills already this month, and both point to him being the real deal. Which, in turn, makes you innocent.”

Will hummed dully. When Dr. Lecter had said something similar, the relief Will experienced was bone deep. This, in comparison, felt more like a hook through his cheek.

Her brows furrowed. Her smile stayed put. “Pardon my curiosity, but you don’t seem very excited.”

“Should I be?”

“I’d say so. You don’t belong in here, Dr. Graham. And with this new evidence, we can prove that.”

“Two people are dead.”

Mary’s smile faded, but it didn’t disappear. “That’s awful for them, and I feel for their families. I do.” She didn’t. “But we have to look at the silver lining. You’re innocent. We can get you out of here.”

Will shifted his gaze from her necklace to the matching, dangling diamond earrings. “We both know I can’t afford your rates.”

“Nor do you have to. The people of Baltimore are outraged over the injustice that’s been heaped upon you. They want to help. Donations have been pouring in, and it’s more than enough to cover my fees.”

“Seriously?”

“Cross my heart.”

Hope seeded in Will’s chest. He dug it back out. “What uh, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we work together here. You tell me everything I need to know, full honesty, and we get you out of here by the end of the month.”

“By the—Seriously?”

“The Ripper case is at the top of every newsfeed in Maryland right now. Add that to the substantial lack of evidence in your case and the fact that you were still recovering from a very serious case of encephalitis when sentenced, and you’ve basically got a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

She seemed confident, but it was her job to seem confident. Will twisted his hands together beneath the table, anxious and unsure. If he bought into this and she was wrong, the pain would be unbearable. Turning her down, though, was hardly any different than consenting to his cage.

He worried his bottom lip, already knowing what he’d choose but dreading it all the same.

“One month?”

“One month.”

He sighed. Licked his lips. “What do you need to know?”

(***Paragon***)

As it turned out, Mary didn’t need a month to overturn his sentence. She needed two and a half weeks.

For the first time in more than three years, Will dressed in something other than a prison jumpsuit. They were Matthew’s clothes, not Will’s (the old suit he’d worn to trial had been stolen and likely sold off somewhere along the way), but that was fine. Not even the orderly’s lewd, approving stares could ruin Will’s day.

He was going to see the sun.

Will tuned out Dr. Chilton’s offers to write a new book – one concerning their time together and how it impacted Will on a psychological level to be so closely intertwined with the Ripper’s psyche that he could be mistaken for the killer – to instead focus on the number of steps left to the exit. He’d counted three hundred forty-six on the way down to his cage.

Three hundred thirty-two up.

Three hundred thirty-three.

Three hundred thirty-four.

“You can’t deny your unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses will make an impact on the medical world for years to come.”

Three hundred thirty-nine.

Three hundred forty.

“This is the chance of a lifetime. Don’t let it pass you by.”

Three hundred forty-four.

Three hundred forty-five.

Three hundred forty-six.

He opened the door with a satisfying shove, and the sunshine on his face was heaven. He didn’t even register the crowd of reporters, the flash of their cameras, or the incessant nature of their questions. The only things that existed were Will, the sun, and fresh air. He breathed in, filled his lungs with it, imagined drowning in it.

The grin came to his lips unbidden. He opened his eyes, uncaring of the mass of vultures aiming for a slice of his infamy, and stepped into the crowd. They parted around him like the Red Sea (like he had the plague), and Will could already see the waiting taxi on the other side of the parking lot.

He sped up, ready to be out of the parking lot. Out of Baltimore. To be home in his own bed, prepping the house for the return of his dogs. It was only as he opened the cab’s back door that he noticed Dr. Lecter among the crowd, and time seemed to slow.

Their eyes met, an accidental thing, but Will didn’t mind it. Dr. Lecter’s eyes didn’t sweep him away with uncontrolled, unwanted emotions. They watched him, a hall of mirrors ever-reflecting Will’s own intent back at him. They waited.

Will could speak when he wanted to speak. Hide when he wanted to hide. Fight when he wanted to fight.

Will nodded, not wanting to talk but thankful for Dr. Lecter’s presence nonetheless. Dr. Lecter nodded back: maybe a hello, maybe a goodbye. Dr. Lecter made no move to cross the parking lot and stop him, so Will didn’t stop.

He slid into the cab and rattled off his address. The ride was long and would cost a good chunk of Will’s already frighteningly small savings, but the sight of his driveway made it worth it.

The sight of his house, on the other hand, made him sick. To the cabbie’s credit, the only words out of her mouth were the price of the journey. Will pulled the cash out of his pocket – something Mary had retrieved and delivered before his release – and handed it over. Four seconds later, the cab was gone.

He’d been looking forward to changing out of Matthew’s oversized cutoff and too-large jeans, but just glancing at his home made it feel like that wouldn’t be an option. And maybe he should have expected this, all things considered, but the idea of returning home had always been more of a retreat than a reality. He dreamed of it, pretended he was there with his dogs, and nothing bad ever happened in those scenarios.

The broken latch on the door felt like a violation of not only Will’s privacy, but his safety. He’d need to replace the latch, lock, and knob. The wood around the latch, too. He glanced up at the sky, wondering how long he had until winter hit. A month, maybe? Two, if he were lucky.

He was never lucky.

Either way, he’d need to fix the door before winter. He pushed it open. A single step inside had him gagging and stumbling back out. The stench of piss and stale beer cloyed on his tongue. He barely made it to the edge of the porch before vomiting.

The house – his home, his safe place – had been desecrated. Touched and smeared and ruined by hands which held no claim. Had no right. And for the first time since Will was accused, he felt the tears come.

He’d been strong, so strong, all throughout imprisonment. His entire life was a shitshow, and he refused to give viewers the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Now, though, there was no one watching. No one to pretend for. No reason to stay strong.

So, he didn’t.

He curled up in a ball, arms wrapped around his knees, and cried for all he was worth. The injustices that had happened to him; the cruel words seared into his brain and painted across his house; the fact that he owed his freedom, technically, to the Chesapeake Ripper: They welled in his eyes and soaked into his jeans.

He cried until his throat was raw. His eyes dried up, almost painfully so, and refused to produce anymore tears. He was probably dehydrated.

His head felt clearer though.

He ran a quick calculation of what he had left in the bank. Five thousand, at most. Two, once he paid off his overdue property taxes. One (maybe not even that), once he took cost of materials for repairs into account, and even that was just to make it livable through winter. He’d have enough left over to turn on the water and buy some cleaning supplies, but not much else.

He could fish for food. Gather herbs and wild veggies from the forest. The fireplace would provide warmth, though he’d need to fix the hole in the chimney. Thank Christ he’d bought the bricks and cement mix before getting sent to prison, as he wasn’t sure he could stomach the expense now.

He’d need to call the water company to restart their service. He didn’t have a phone. Did his car still run? He glanced at the decaying thing, accepted that it barely ran before the three years of neglect, and knew the answer was No, probably not.

He’d look over it tomorrow, or maybe the next day. It wasn’t like he needed to be anywhere any time soon.

A hiccup, or maybe the last vestiges of a sob, hopped up his throat. He wiped his eyes on his forearm, rubbed his palms against the rough material of pants that weren’t his, and stood.

He could do this.

The house smelled even worse the second time he entered, but at least he was prepared. He went around and opened every window, even the broken ones. (There went another $600.) That done, he dragged both his mattress and the couch – the main sources of the wretched smell – out to the gate at the end of the drive. It was a shit deal, to come home and learn he wouldn’t even have a bed to sleep on, but it wasn’t like he’d ever gotten any other kind of deal. He’d make do.

There were, blessedly, still three rolls of trash bags under the sink. It took one roll just to clean up the garbage littered on and around his property, then another roll and a half to get rid of the things which were his but damaged beyond repair.

By the time he finished, the stack of garbage bags by the gate was scarily large, his bookshelves were painfully empty, and the sky was dark. It was midnight, maybe. Or two in the morning. Or four. The only clock in the house had been broken, and it would be a long time before he’d be able to afford a phone again.

Will stretched his arms above his head, exhausted both mentally and physically, and decided he’d make the two-mile trek to his neighbor’s and borrow their phone in the morning. He could get the water turned on, wash his clothes, and use Matthew’s clothes as kindling in a fire. He also needed to eat, so he guessed he’d go fishing after that. And chop down a tree or two, for firewood. Maryland winters were harsh, and he had a gut feeling that this one would be harsher than most. He couldn’t afford to be caught unprepared.

He rubbed his face roughly, wishing not for the first time that his dogs were there but knowing that he shouldn’t go get them until he had (at minimum) a place for them to sleep.

God, he needed sleep.

The house, for all his cleaning and airing out, still smelled like piss. The night air, while not outright cold, was chilly. He trudged through the yard to get to the shed, felt for the key over the doorway, and let himself in. It was small, dusty, cramped, and still a million times better than his house. He collected the scattered tools and dumped them indiscriminately into his toolboxes, then swept the boxes to the side. He thought, briefly, of taking off his shirt and bundling it up as a pillow, but it still reeked of Matthew’s god-awful cologne. Better to be uncomfortable than to breathe in Axe: Sexed-Up Teen Angst Spray for the rest of the night.

He curled in on himself, small, cold, and uncomfortable, and fell asleep.

(***Paragon***)

The next month passed with the comforting pulse of routine.

He’d pick a project, work on it until it was done, and pick another. Early mornings were for fishing. Late evenings were for chopping firewood. So far, he’d managed to re-brick the chimney (and there was something ironic, wasn’t there, about smashing a hole in the chimney because he’d hallucinated animals inside only to brick it back up once the animals were actually present), strip and re-varnish the floors, replace the broken windows, replace the locks, fix the front door, and get the car running (he was a handy-man, not a mechanic; it would never truly be ‘fixed’).

The list of things he still needed to do was startlingly long (not the least of which being to pressure wash, fix, and repaint the exterior of the house), but it was nothing he couldn’t handle, given time. The only hitches in his routine came from reporters. Mostly Freddie Lounds. She, much like every other person on the fucking planet, wanted to write a book with him.

(Will didn’t want to write a book. Will wanted to curl up with his dogs, alone in a cabin in the middle of Bum-Fuck-Nowhere, and go to sleep.)

The only non-irritating surprise came in the form of a package with no return address. Will had contemplated for exactly half a second whether or not it could be a bomb, then opened it anyway.

The box contained winterwear: thick and luxuriously soft. There was a plush, dark blue beanie, two pairs of black, fleece-lined gloves (one waterproof, one not), a ridiculously warm, black pea coat, and, at the very bottom, a bright red flannel shirt. The box had arrived with the first signs of frost, and Will could have kissed whoever sent them. He’d put the majority on almost immediately, reveling in the warmth and comfort, but hung the flannel shirt up for a special occasion. He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of occasion would require a fine flannel shirt, but it felt too nice for every-day wear.

It was at the month-and-a-half mark, dressed in his ridiculously comfortable coat and beanie, that he decided it was time to get his dogs back. Alana had promised to take care of them, once upon a time. Back when he was only accused and not yet guilty. She hadn’t come to see him since her last visit to the BSHCI, where she’d apologized and pleaded for forgiveness only for Will to stare at the wall above her head and wait for her to leave.

He knew where her house was, assuming she hadn’t moved, but that felt too intimate. He was still angry at her, angry at all of them, and didn’t want to give the wrong impression. So, he went to Quantico instead. He signed in like a stranger, like he hadn’t consulted for them for the better part of two years and taught there for four. He accepted directions like someone who didn’t know where they were going, and he knocked on Alana’s office door like she hadn’t, at one time, been his best friend.

“Come in.”

Will opened the door. Watched her pleasant smile drop and the color flee from her cheeks. Focused on her fingers as they tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Hey. Sorry to drop in on you like this. I just… My house…”

“I saw.” Her tone dripped meek apology and soulful sympathy. He wondered, momentarily, how she could have seen, before remembering that the TattleCrime blog was a thing.

He grunted, somehow feeling even more awkward than if he’d had to explain. “Right. Well, I fixed it up, mostly, and just wanted to see about getting my dogs back.”

Silence descended, thick and heavy. He heard Alana swallow, saw her lips twist in anguish, and finally, “Oh, Will.”

“Where are they, Alana?”

He could see tears brimming in her eyes, though he refused to look directly at them, and wished she would just stop crying already. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her. Didn’t have the time or energy to spend emotions on anyone but himself.

“I’m so sorry, Will. I… I kept them. For a long time, I kept them, but it hurt. Every time I looked at them, I saw you, saw what I thought you did, and I—” Her voice cracked, breaking into shards of glass that sounded like sobs but cut like knives. “I didn’t know. I thought you were never getting out, and I… I found them good homes, I swear.”

Will stood in the doorway, frozen, as pain and rage formed a tornado inside. He wanted to scream. To scream and cry and rip out her fucking throat, how dare she get rid of his dogs, but he didn’t. He swallowed thickly, on autopilot, and stepped out of the office. The door clicked shut, muffling the sound of Alana’s pain. He walked away.

For so long now, the light at the end of the tunnel had been his pack. Zoe. Ellie. Buster. Jack. Heidee. Harley. Max. They were all he’d cared to get back to, and now…

Now he was alone.

Will drove without thinking, took turns he didn’t know, and ended up in a parking lot he didn’t recognize. It was in a fancy part of Baltimore: a business neighborhood someone would have to be nonsensically rich to afford an office in. He almost drove away again, but the plaque in front of the building reading: Dr. Hannibal Lecter, M.D. gave him pause.

Will blinked. Seriously? He’d known where the man worked, of course (Will had looked up and printed out everything he could find on Dr. Lecter at the nearest library computer, then avariciously devoured every word), but googling him and showing up at his place of work unannounced were two very different things.

He should leave. He was going to leave.

He got out of his car, walked across the parking lot, and entered the building.

The waiting room was professional and warm. Not quite inviting, but close. Like Will should sit and wait, but not get comfortable. He shifted on his feet, overly aware of what a terrible idea this was but unable to make himself leave. He pulled his beanie down over the tips of his ears, already embarrassed, and knocked. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Will prepared to turn tail and run, deciding he’d try another day. Or not.

Then the door opened, and all thoughts of leaving slid away.

Dr. Lecter was as glorious as Will remembered. Tall with broad shoulders and perfectly styled hair. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut coupled with a strong jawline and brilliant maroon eyes. His suit, a pastel pink, pinstriped thing with a dark purple pocket square and matching tie, would have looked ridiculous on anyone else but somehow only managed to make Dr. Lecter seem more elegant.

A small, pleased smile tilted Dr. Lecter’s lips.

“Will.”

A single syllable from anyone else, but from Dr. Lecter, a praise. Will couldn’t remember why he’d ever thought this was a bad idea.

The door opened wider, as though in answer to his silent misunderstanding, and Will saw a short, stout man with a full beard and mustache. He wore expensive clothes, but they were skewed. Something he’d taken for granted and grew around, not something earned or cherished. The tissue crumpled in his hand coupled with his reddened eyes told Will both that this was a patient and that he was interrupting.

The patient huffed, indignant at Will’s existence. “Are you new? You should have made an appointment. Dr. Lecter hates being interrupted. It’s very rude.”

And oh. There it was. The reason Will shouldn’t have come. He felt heat flood his cheeks as he looked down at his shoes, thread-barren with his toes practically poking through, pointed ashamedly at two pairs of what were probably hand-stitched Italian leathers.

“More to the point, Dr. Lecter’s time is very expensive. Perhaps you should go.”

Will felt the words like a stab to the heart, suddenly forced to remember that ‘go’ meant returning home, to an empty house with no dogs and no people and no heat, just to start a fire and eat and stare at printed-out articles written by a man who clearly didn’t want him there. Tears sprung to his eyes, involuntary. He blinked them back.

“Right.” It came out like a croak. Nothing like Dr. Lecter’s smooth, soothing voice and lilting accent. “Sorry. I’ll just…” He thumbed toward the exit.

“Please, stay.” Dr. Lecter’s tone was soft but insistent. “We were just finishing up, if you wouldn’t mind waiting ten minutes.”

Will’s eyes jerked back up, meeting Dr. Lecter’s for the barest second as he searched for the lie. The pity. If they were there, he couldn’t find them. Slowly, Will nodded. He tugged at his beanie again – for comfort, for something to do with his hands – and watched as Dr. Lecter’s eyes darkened.

Maybe he didn’t like the color?

Will walked over to one of the waiting room chairs as the office door closed again. The chair was comfortable, but not overtly so. It encouraged good posture more than relaxation, which Will felt suited Dr. Lecter’s strict but sensible personality. Will threaded his fingers together over his stomach and tilted his head so his neck rested over the back of the chair.

Ten minutes. Ten hours.

So long as Will’s house remained empty, he didn’t see the difference.

Chapter Text

When Dr. Lecter’s office door reopened, his patient was gone.

Will stepped into the room, eagerly soaking in his first glimpse of Dr. Lecter’s personal life. The psychiatrist appreciated art in all its forms, if the statues, paintings, and harpsichord were anything to go by. Oh, and the books. Books lining the walls and a ladder leading to an upper landing of even more books. It was heaven.

Will jumped as he felt fingers glide along the back of his neck. He smacked the hands away and spun. “Dr. Lecter?”

Dr. Lecter’s brows rose, curiously surprised. “I apologize, Will. It’s only polite for me to take your coat.”

He held his hands up again, like he wanted Will to turn around. Will grimaced. “I can get it.”

“Please. I insist.”

Will swallowed. He didn’t like the thought of being touched, but he didn’t want to offend, either. After a few more seconds of staring, he stiffly turned around, arms out. He braced himself, not sure what he was expecting, and was pleasantly surprised at the barest skim of fingers along his neck and shoulders. Dr. Lecter got the coat off Will probably quicker and more gracefully than Will could have done on his own, then waited for the beanie.

Will handed it over without question.

Once Dr. Lecter had hung Will’s things on the coat rack, he motioned for Will to take a seat. “I do apologize for my associate’s behavior earlier. He’s…”

“Neurotic? Desperate for the approval of those who he considers the upper echelon of society, likely due to his parents giving all their attention to a smarter, better-looking sibling?” Will smiled softly as he bypassed the proffered chair, preferring instead to move around the room. He ran a gentle finger over the thick mahogany frame of what was probably an original painting. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

Will glanced to Dr. Lecter to see the barest hint of a sphynx-like smile. “I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny your assessment.”

“That’s alright. I don’t need your confirmation.” He stopped at the harpsichord. Well taken care of. Probably in tune. He wondered if Dr. Lecter played or if it was just for looks.

“May I ask what brought you here, Will?”

Will moved on from the harpsichord, toward the statue of a feathered stag by Dr. Lecter’s desk. He shrugged. “The other guy was right. I don’t know what your rates are, but I sure as hell can’t afford them.”

“Nor should you have to. I told you already, Will. I am not your psychiatrist, and you are not my patient. I only wish to converse.” He stood, drawing Will’s attention like a moth to the flame. The older man walked over to a globe, which opened at the equator to reveal liquor, and offered a glass to Will. “Unless, of course, you’ve come to talk about alcoholism?”

Laughter felt rough and unfamiliar in Will’s throat. “Not yet.”

“Join me then.”

It wasn’t a question. Dr. Lecter had already poured two glasses, at least two fingers apiece, by the time Will made the short walk from the raven-stag statue to the desk. Dr. Lecter made sure their skin didn’t brush as he handed over the glass, and for that, Will was grateful.

He took a sip and almost immediately moaned. “Oh, god, that’s good. I haven’t had good whiskey in…” He pursed his lips, trying to remember the last time he’d downed something other than Tennessee Williams or Jack.

“Really?” Dr. Lecter sounded amused. “I would have assumed the celebration of your release demanded an assortment of fine liquors.”

Will snorted. Breathed in the smell of aged whiskey. Wondered how many paychecks this glass alone would have cost him. He took a smaller, more appreciative sip. “Not a lot of celebrating. Not a lot of money.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Will blinked, slow and stupid, before basically choking on the insinuation. “What? No. I would never—Shit. No. I don’t want your money.”

Hannibal sipped at his glass, looking for all the world like he wouldn’t have minded if that were why Will had come.

Will fidgeted, suddenly embarrassed. He tugged on one of the fraying strings of his flannel. “I didn’t mean to come here. I kind of just… did.”

“Ah, yes. Accidentally driving to a place you’ve never been to find a friend you had no intentions of meeting.” Dr. Lecter nodded sagely. “Happens to me all the time.”

Will bit back a smile, thankful that Dr. Lecter was suave enough to step around the train wreck of Will’s social skills. “Well, you know. Self-driving cars. Can’t live with ‘em…”

“A self-driving vehicle? And here I thought you were poor.”

Will barked out a laugh. “Alright. Not psychiatrist and patient then. Unless you’re just a really shitty psychiatrist.”

“Suppose I am. Would that make you more or less likely to confess what brought you to my door?”

“More.” Will hesitated. “Less. Wouldn’t want to talk to an idiot.”

“Then I suppose we shall have to assume I am good at what I do.”

Will shifted only to jolt as he brushed shoulders with Dr. Lecter. He hadn’t realized they’d gotten so close.

He pushed off the edge of the desk to browse the bookshelves, whiskey in hand. “Alana…” He thought about his dogs. His pack. His family. He couldn’t say it. “Alana mentioned you once, a few years back. Something about a dinner party. She was excited just to have gotten an invite.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’ll be honest. I kind of tuned her out halfway through. I do remember her mentioning your accent though. Called it unplaceable.”

“Did she?”

“Mmhm. I don’t think it’s unplaceable though. I think it’s Lithuanian.”

“You have quite an ear.”

Will shrugged noncommittally. “Sometimes. It’s the way you do your ‘th’ sounds. Soft. Tongue barely brushing the backs of your front teeth, not touching the tips. Th. It’s very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

The words sounded oddly pleased. Will glanced back at Dr. Lecter, who was still standing where Will had left him. Maroon eyes shone in the soft light of the office, practically glued to Will. Will readjusted his grip on the glass and climbed the ladder to the second floor.

“Do you have other patients to see?”

“No. That was my last one.”

“Lucky timing. Have you read all the books in your office?”

“Most of them.”

“Minimum of six languages then. Impressive.” Will took another sip of whiskey. Just enough to warm his chest. He wanted to savor it. “Why did you come see me, that first time?”

“It is as Dr. Chilton said. Alana requested I check on you.”

“Alana gave away my dogs.”

The words came out harsher than Will had intended. Or, no. He hadn’t intended them to come out at all. He glanced incredulously at his whiskey, which wasn’t nearly low enough to blame for the slip.

Unsure silence settled between them. Will leaned over the railing, and it was only after his eyes settled on Dr. Lecter – on the spot where the purple tie met the pink suit – that Dr. Lecter said, “I am sorry for your loss.”

Will forwent savoring to down the rest of the glass. “Me too.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. No. Not right now.”

Dr. Lecter dipped his head in acquiescence. “Another time then. Would you like a refill?”

Will considered it. Shook his head. “No thanks. This is good whiskey. Not the kind of thing you do shots of.” The edge of Will’s lip twitched involuntarily upward. “But I guess you already knew that.”

“I did.”

Will tapped his fingers on the side of the glass. “Have you seen it, too?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“My house. On TattleCrime.”

“I have.”

There was no shame in the admission. Will wondered, almost blandly, if there was anything Dr. Lecter would feel shame over. Looking at him in his pink suit, dressed to the nines for absolutely nothing, Will didn’t think so. He climbed back down the ladder.

“It didn’t used to look that bad.”

“I had assumed as much.”

“I mean, it wasn’t ever nice, but… It wasn’t bad. It was home.”

“Is it not still home?”

“It is. It will be.” Will picked a coaster out of the globe and sat it on Dr. Lecter’s desk, then placed his glass on that. Dr. Lecter seemed almost rigidly organized, so Will figured he’d appreciate the gesture. “I should go.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

The question was so commonplace that, for a second, it didn’t even register. Then he remembered that people usually ate around this time, and they usually ate together. Will wasn’t sure what Dr. Lecter would gain from eating with him though. Outside of being mistaken for the Chesapeake Ripper, Will wasn’t all that interesting, and it wasn’t like he could afford whatever restaurant Dr. Lecter was likely to patron.

He risked a glance at Dr. Lecter’s eyes, just in case the question was born from pity or guilt, but the doctor looked as inscrutable as ever. An offer for the sake of an offer, nothing more.

Will smiled, small but grateful. “No, but I really should be getting back. I need to chop some more firewood to store for winter, and it can’t really wait.”

“Surely manual labor is best after a warm meal.”

Warm meals are for those who can afford them.

Will blinked at the thought, unsure where it had come from. Bitterness over his situation, maybe. Disappointment from his achingly empty stomach. For a single blink, Will was once again a young boy, watching with wide eyes as his father polished off the only food they’d seen in days. Then he was back in Dr. Lecter’s office, and though he knew turning down food was idiotic bordering on suicidal, the trees really couldn’t wait.

Soon it would be too cold for Will to linger outside, and he didn’t have nearly enough wood to last him through winter. Better to go hungry for a night than to die of hypothermia.

“Good, day, Dr. Lecter.”

“Good day, Will.”

Dr. Lecter helped Will back into his coat and handed him the hat.

“Thank you for the whiskey. And the conversation. Is it alright if I come by again some time?”

“Any time, Will.”

Dr. Lecter’s voice was so smooth and low that Will almost believed it.

He tugged his beanie down over the tips of his ears to hide the flush he knew was forming, nodded a final time, and left.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal made a protein scramble for Will.

He made it not because they were going to have breakfast or because he particularly wanted it to be Will’s first taste of his cooking, but because of the easily digestible proteins, fibers, and vitamins. Because that was what Will needed.

Hannibal, who had lived without a steady food source from ages six to eleven, knew hunger when he saw it. And Will Graham, regardless of what he was willing to admit, was hungry. The lack of sluggishness, lack of pity for himself or his circumstances, and lack of thought spared to accepting handouts told Hannibal that Will had grown up hungry, too.

When Hannibal closed his eyes, he could imagine it. Young Will, all lanky limbs and wide, aurora borealis eyes, following his father from town to town, chasing work that never paid well enough for what they’d need. He’d stumble along the streets, odd and empathetic and starving. Able to understand those around him with alarming accuracy but powerless to reach across the void and connect. How often must he have refused to coddle himself, determined to stand strong despite the potent combination of youth and uncontrollable circumstances demanding he be on his knees.

Proud, even as his stomach began to distend and devour itself.

Hannibal had sketched that picture when he got home, tracing the lines of Young Will’s face well into the night. Will was used to hunger, yes, but he need not continue to suffer through it. Not when Hannibal was so eager to provide.

He would prove that to Will, one way or another. Starting with breakfast.

Will’s first visible reaction to Hannibal’s Bentley pulling into his driveway was irritation. Then Hannibal got out of the car, and pleasant surprise blanketed the anger.

“Dr. Lecter?”

Will stood decked in Hannibal’s gifts. The pea coat and winter hat complimented him even more perfectly than the night before, as this time they were paired with the crystal blush of cold weather sprinkled across his cheeks and nose. He’d been outside for a while already, despite the early hour.

“Will.” Hannibal smiled. “Seeing as you were indisposed for dinner, I thought breakfast may be in order.”

Will blinked a few times, his fingers rubbing circles into the thigh of worn, ripped jeans. Hannibal could practically see him scrolling through questions in his mind, deciding which to ask first.

“How did you know where I live?”

“The same way you knew where I work, I presume.”

The pink staining Will’s cheeks darkened. Delightful.

“Right. Uh… Okay. Do you…” Blue eyes darted around the snow-dusted yard. “Do you want to come in?”

“I do.” Hannibal collected the protein scramble and thermos of coffee from the passenger seat, then followed Will inside.

Though the outside of the house remained largely the same, the inside was infinitely better. The first thing Hannibal noticed, as per usual, was the smell. Will’s unique blend of sunshine, rain, coffee, and herbs permeated the house, and Hannibal breathed as deeply as he could without alerting Will to his actions.

The interior was cleaner, not only in terms of waste but the floors themselves. The stains and satanic markings were gone, replaced instead by shining hardwood. Hannibal thought, if only for a moment, that it was odd for Will to have chosen such a costly endeavor as replacing the flooring to be his first task. Then he saw a deep scrape in the floor near the kitchen, memorable from his first visit, and realized the wood hadn’t been replaced. It had been re-varnished.

Will was fixing the house on his own.

It made sense, considering Will’s means, but it also brought about the question of why. While the house itself was worth very little, the land it sat on had done nothing but appreciate since its purchase. If Will so chose, he could sell it and use the funds to start over.

Will paused once they reached the kitchen, which was as bare as it had been the last time Hannibal visited. The table was cleaner. The mismatched, broken chairs that once surrounded it were gone. Will’s dark brows drew together, like he’d remembered something unpleasant, then he turned and opened a drawer.

An oddly calculating glance at the tote in Hannibal’s hands interrupted Will’s task before he snatched both a fork and a spoon from the drawer. He made his way back out of the kitchen, stepping sideways to avoid contact with Hannibal as he went, and beelined toward the everything room. Hannibal followed him calmly, admiring the contrast of practically pristine flooring and horribly marred walls as he went.

The everything room had changed, and though it was better for its cleanliness and smell, the bareness of it carved a deep displeasure in Hannibal’s chest. There was no couch, no bed. The majority of the books had been thrown away, leaving once-bursting shelves barren. The lure crafting station was now only a table, devoid of joy or personality. Though the piano remained near the fireplace, whether it was in working condition or simply too heavy to move was unknown.

The fireplace had been fixed, discolored bricks in the center of the chimney being the only sign that it was ever broken at all. Firewood stacked beside it, half as high as Hannibal was tall, and a ratty blanket stuffed against the edges told Hannibal that this was where Will slept.

Will immediately set to starting a fire. He did it fluidly, with the grace of someone who knew their task backwards and forwards. The utensils in his hand never once touched wood or soot. When he finished, he turned to Hannibal and gestured sheepishly to the floor. “Sorry. No chairs.”

The words were gruff but not embarrassed. Hannibal took in the fire, immediately understanding that this was the only available heat source. The rest of the house, without electricity, not built for propane, was barely warmer than outside. Hannibal lowered himself to the floor, cross-legged, without complaint.

Will scratched the back of his neck, not seeming to know what to do with Hannibal’s compliance. After a few seconds, he dropped to the floor, posture mimicking Hannibal’s as he stared at the warming tote. Hannibal watched Will curiously, shifted his knee and, like a mirror, saw Will do the same.

An unconscious mimicry then. Fascinating.

Will turned the utensils over in his palm. “You’re really not used to getting turned down, are you?”

“I must admit, I am not.”

Blue eyes skimmed over Hannibal as though he were an oft-read article, interesting but unsurprising. “Is that coffee in the thermos?”

“It is.”

Will groaned, appreciative even before tasting it. “I’ll get some cups.” He stood. Hesitated. “Do you want any water, or… Yeah. All I’ve got is water.”

“Water would be lovely.”

Will nodded jerkily and left the room. Hannibal stayed put, pulling out the Tupperware and setting it on the floor by his shins. He heard water running in the kitchen, counted six books and one stack of papers on the shelves, and decided he would research what work went into re-varnishing floors. Will returned with three cups, all plastic, and the utensils still curled tightly in hand. He placed two of the cups in front of Hannibal, one filled with water, one not.

“That smells fantastic. Scrambled eggs?”

“A variation of it. Quail eggs with cream and goat butter, mixed with homemade sausage, chives, sungolds, and broccoli.”

Will blinked, attention on Hannibal despite his eyes never leaving the food. “You like to cook.”

“I believe the art of cooking, of creating something capable of nourishing the body and warming the soul, to be one of life’s greatest pleasures.” Hannibal poured coffee into Will’s plastic cup, filling it near to the brim, then half-filled his own. “Do you have plates?”

There was a moment of silence in which Hannibal became entirely sure that the answer was No. Then Will shrugged, his voice forced-casual as he said, “No glassware. All the research that went into checking out this house, and somehow it never occurred to me to ask for statistics on cannibal-haters with  baseball bats in the area.”

“Rather shortsighted of you.” Hannibal tutted, then waited for the half-amused twist on Will’s lips to fade. “What makes you believe they used a bat?”

“Cabinet shelving. Or what’s left of it. The breaks aren’t clean enough to be a crowbar. The blunt indents are larger toward the back. There are also light-colored splinters, probably ash, that make me think the bat was wooden.” Will fiddled with the utensils in his hand, then held both out for Hannibal to choose which one he wanted.

The protein scramble was meant for a fork. Hannibal took the spoon.

Rather than immediately tucking in, Will went for the coffee. If he preferred it with cream or sugar, he didn’t say so, but then, he probably didn’t have cream or sugar. Blue eyes fluttered closed as he breathed in. His tongue met coffee, and a low groan most certainly meant for the bedroom rumbled out of his throat.

Hannibal preened under the wordless praise, eyes locked on Will’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Next time, he would bring Will a thermos of his own. Something to drink throughout the day, and to keep him warm as he worked.

When Will set the cup down, his eyes flitted from the spoon in Hannibal’s hand to the food and back again. His shoulders were tense, lips parted in anticipation, but he made no move to eat. Fondness popped in Hannibal’s chest, unexpected, as he realized Will was waiting for him to eat first. Hannibal did so, scooping up a spoon of mostly egg. Will watched him the entire time, only moving to get his own bite after Hannibal had swallowed.

Will’s speech was crass and flippant bordering on rude. The boy himself, almost achingly polite.

“Holy hell, that’s good.” He swallowed his first bite practically without chewing, then took another. Hannibal didn’t think he would ever grow bored of watching someone eat his cooking with such gusto.

Though proper dinnerware and seating were preferred, there was something to be said about the intimacy of sharing a dish in front of the fire. Every third of Will’s bites, Hannibal took another of his own. And Will – the observant, half-starved boy – noticed. He slowed until Hannibal was taking every other bite, clearly unwilling to deprive someone of taking their fill even if it meant he suffered. When the dish was slightly over half-empty, Hannibal set his spoon on the floor.

Will stared at the utensil as though it had hopped out of Hannibal’s hand and placed itself on the ground. “You’re done?”

“I am.”

Hannibal gave no defense, made no excuses as to why. Will, after another second of staring, plucked the Tupperware from the floor and dug in like the starving creature he was. It was charming, how quickly his act of satedness dropped, and telling: how different his need was when not tamped by concern for others.

“Am I correct in assuming you’re fixing the house yourself?”

Will hummed, disinterested. “Not sure how it’d get fixed otherwise.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps you’d sell it to someone less inclined, and they’d tear it down to build anew.”

Distaste flashed across Will’s fine features, a poor expression considering he was eating Hannibal’s food. “Sounds awful.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. The house doesn’t deserve that.”

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, just enough to relay interest. “What does a house deserve?”

“Not a house. This house. It…” He huffed unhappily, shoveling another forkful into his mouth. “Look around. What do you see?”

“Paint. Destruction. Improper spelling.”

Will’s lips twitched, but his voice was no less serious as he corrected, “Hatred. They hated me, Dr. Lecter. Hated the Chesapeake Ripper. But I was locked away, and this house took their hatred in my stead. Everything done to this building, they wanted to do to me. It protected me, in a sense. I can’t just throw it away.”

Hannibal turned his attention on the room once more, taking in the unbroken windows and empty shelves in an entirely new light. The scarred walls were Will’s skin. The floors his bones. Books took the place of Will’s psyche, and furniture his heart.

Nothing changed, and yet it was all vastly more valuable than it had been even moments before.

It also highlighted the differences between how Hannibal and Will approached the subject of material items. Where Hannibal enjoyed all of his things, to an extent, and took care of them simply because they were his, Will seemed to separate his belongings into categories. Things he happened to own, things he enjoyed, and things he cared for.

Clothes and kitchenware were something he happened to own. Necessities, and nothing more. The books had been things he enjoyed. Things he liked but could let go. The dogs, the house: Those were things he cared for. Hannibal wondered, with no small amount of fervor, what it would take to join that list. To be kept by Will’s diligent hands and known, through and through, by his resplendent mind.

“I suppose the house deserves my thanks, if that is the case.”

Pink rose on Will’s cheeks like a sunset, the perfect companion to the night sky of his eyes. The tines of his fork clanged against the glass bottom of the Tupperware, and Will’s eyes darted down to stare, surprised, at the empty dish.

His lips parted, but the sound of a car down the gravel drive interrupted whatever he was about to say. The tentative openness which had leaked into Will’s posture vanished, replaced immediately by suspicion. He set the container down, met Hannibal’s eyes for a split second, and pushed himself up to see who had arrived.

Hannibal followed Will with silent steps. He could smell Will at this distance, could lean down the barest amount and press his nose against Will’s pulse points. He settled for breathing deep, just before Will opened the door and let the brisk, winter air inside.

They stepped onto the porch as Jack climbed out of his SUV.

Will’s wary stance shifted, strengthening into something defensive. Jack’s eyes moved between them, calculating, before the large man came to a stop at the bottom of the steps.

“Graham. Dr. Lecter.”

“What do you want, Jack?” Will’s tone was terse. Rude. Hannibal found he didn’t mind.

“I see you finally got a therapist. Good for you.”

Will stepped in front of Hannibal, placing himself firmly, protectively between them. It meant very little, considering Will was shorter, slighter, and considerably less dangerous than Hannibal himself, but Hannibal was charmed all the same.

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“The Ripper is still out there. We need you.”

Straight to the point. Will’s shoulders rose up toward his ears as he bristled. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jack shook his head. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“You sent me to prison!”

“We didn’t know—”

“No? Well, maybe someone should have told you. Oh. Wait.”

“Graham. Will. I’m sorry for what we did. I’m sorry we didn’t listen. That doesn’t change the fact that the Ripper is still out there, two bodies into his sounder, and he will kill again.”

Will flinched, his anger receding to make way for guilt. Hannibal considered reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but with Will’s aversion to touch, it would likely do more harm than good.

“Don’t do this to me, Jack. I’m not… I just got out of a fucking loony bin. I can’t handle walking into the heads of serial killers right now.”

“You won’t have to do it alone. The FBI will pay for a psychiatrist to work with you. Keep you in the saddle. Dr. Bloom volunteered—”

“No.” Will growled the word, the viciousness in his tone reminiscent of when he’d revealed Alana had given away his dogs.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Someone else then. You seem to be pretty cozy with Dr. Lecter. Maybe he could—”

“You leave him out of this.” Will stepped forward, vehement, and Hannibal suddenly understood the appeal of having a dog. Something to adore and protect him, regardless of whether or not he needed it. “We’re done, Jack.”

“So, what? You’re just going to walk away? Duck your head and pretend this has nothing to do with you? People are dying.”

“I can’t—”

“I’m not asking you to come back forever. Just until we catch the Ripper.” Jack rolled his shoulders: a tell. He found it stressful to approach Will, and it was more than duty bringing him around. Hannibal remembered the arrangement of the pictures on Jack’s office wall. The smell of sickness lingering on his clothes. Jack continued, “Think about it, Graham. You need us as much as we need you.”

Will clenched his fists at his sides. “I don’t.”

“You’re not exactly hireable. Not with your reputation. Your mannerisms. You scare people. All that changes if you help us. As soon as the real Ripper is behind bars, you’ll be out of the limelight. People will stop questioning your involvement, and it’ll be five-star recommendations for any job you want to get next. And besides.” Jack’s arm went up in a grim gesture toward the house. “You could use the extra cash.”

Interestingly enough, it was the financial slight which seemed to hurt Will most. He stepped back, lips drawn tight as though hit by a physical blow. Hannibal saw a dozen responses fly across his expressive face, the most powerful of which were: I can’t help my circumstances; I’ve done so much with so little, why is that never good enough; and How dare you?

It was the last one that gave Hannibal pause. The darkness in it. Will’s potential to Become was greater than any Hannibal had seen before, and it was abruptly clear that this – bringing Will back to the source of his pain and suffering – was the most direct path to metamorphosis.

Jack would push Will out of a sense of duty, both to the murder victims and to his wife. Alana would push Will out of a sense of guilt, out of a desire to be forgiven and an almost pathological need to be seen as ‘good.’ Hannibal would push Will for Will’s sake, as well as his own, until they both tumbled from the edge of the cliff. Together.

Hannibal had seen the work Will’s capable hands could do. Knew that this teacup would be the one that came back together.

He intercepted accordingly.

“I believe, Jack, that now may not be the best time for Will to make such a large decision. Consider waiting until he approaches you.”

Jack crossed his arms, impertinent. “He approached Dr. Bloom. That’s good enough for me.”

The responding silence was loud. Alana gave away my dogs, it said. Rough. Vengeful. Desperate.

Hannibal took the tail-end of the silence between his teeth. “Just the same. Another time.”

Jack glanced between them, unhappily aware that he could not goad or guilt Hannibal as he could Will. His jaw worked back and forth as he ground his teeth. “Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He got in the SUV without another word. Without a farewell. It was almost intolerably rude.

Still, he’d gifted a beautiful backdrop for Will’s Becoming. Hand-painted antagonists from Will’s past silhouetting the windows and intricately crafted insecurities arranged like props for Hannibal’s use. For that, rudeness could be pardoned.

Hannibal placed a hand on the small of Will’s back in a barely-there touch, startling his boy out of whatever headspace had him so enraptured. Though Will appeared notably uncomfortable, he did not pull away. Hannibal hid a pleased smile as he guided Will into the house.

Only after they were seated by the fire did Hannibal ask, “What are you thinking, Will?”

“I’m thinking that was a gross invasion of privacy.” Sharp. Bitter. Then, almost ashamed: “And I’m thinking people are going to die.”

“You’re considering his offer.”

“‘Offer’ makes it sound like I have a choice.”

“You do.”

Will scoffed humorlessly. Said nothing.

“Why don’t we list the pros and cons? The first pro is obvious. Catching the Ripper.”

“What if I don’t want him caught?”

Hannibal fought not to react, caught off guard once again by this extraordinary boy. “Do you not?”

Will shrugged, terse. He stood and began wandering around the room. Hannibal watched, rapt, as Will’s hand ghosted over the piano. “You don’t understand what it was like in prison. For me.” Slim fingers tapped a single, yellowed key without pushing it down. “I need time to myself, to be myself. Time alone. I took it after every case, when possible. Took it as much as I could, to separate me from them. In prison…”

Hannibal nodded, beginning to understand. “You were never alone.”

Will’s next breath came out shaking. “No. And everyone around me, everyone I could see or hear, was exactly the thing I needed to escape from.” He stopped where his bed used to be. The heel of his palm rubbed repetitive circles against the rough denim covering his thigh. Hannibal watched him avidly, hungrily, waiting for more. Minutes ticked by in complete silence, but Hannibal had turned patience – delayed gratification – into an art.

Will returned to Hannibal like a frozen video that finished buffering. One moment still, the next moving toward the window with quick, sure steps. He spoke in a deep, impassioned voice. “I couldn’t survive in there, Dr. Lecter. I couldn’t become them, all day, every day, and ever expect to come out myself again on the other side. I needed someone else to do it for me. Someone with a personality strong enough to take what they had without bending. Without becoming.”

Hannibal breathed out, almost reverent, “You needed the Ripper.”

“Better one killer in my head than twenty.”

Beautiful, perfect boy. The knowledge that Will had picked Hannibal’s psyche above the rest, seen him for the apex predator that he was, made Hannibal want to preen. To preen and to pamper and to breathe Will in like a drug.

“Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“So’s pleasure.”

“Is that what the Ripper gave you?”

Will’s eyes, so full of blues and greens that Hannibal couldn’t possibly parse out every shade in one sitting, swept over the room without seeing it. “No. No, but he protected me. The same as this house. He took the pressure and the fear, obdurate, while I tucked myself away. He never wavered, no matter what they threw at him. Never complained. And in the end, it was him who got me out of prison, wasn’t it? Him who went out of his way to prove that I was innocent.”

Will stroked the edge of his lure-crafting table. Hannibal imagined taking a bone saw to his skull and reaching in to feel the spectacular brain held within.

Endless gyri and sulci: a physical labyrinth to match the maze of Will’s mind. More mirror neurons than any one man could ever need. Hannibal restrained himself, if only because giving into that particular urge meant giving up a lifetime of others.

“Do you feel indebted to him?"

Thin shoulders rose in a shrug. Noncommittal. “It’s not a debt. Not exactly. To reward that kindness by locking him away in the same cage he freed me from just seems rude.” Will raised a hand to nibble absently on his thumbnail. “Don’t want to be rude.”

“Proper manners go a long way in any relationship, but especially one so tenuous as yours and the Ripper’s.” Hannibal agreed easily. “Should we file catching him under ‘cons’ then?”

“Both, I think, but mostly cons. Maryland doesn’t have a death sentence, and the only way he’d stay incarcerated is if he felt like it.”

“Why is that?”

Will twisted around, lips downturned in a patronizing frown that told Hannibal exactly what he thought of the question. “As myself, I came up with thirty-eight plausible ways to escape the BSCHI without harming anyone. As the Ripper, I came up with four hundred eighty-one. If he’s caught, and that’s a big ‘if,’ it’ll be because he decided as much. And if he’s imprisoned…?” Will made a vague gesture with his hand. “God help whatever poor sap’s on shift when he decides to break out.”

When Will’s eyes pointed away, out the window, Hannibal allowed himself a smile. “You have a high opinion of him.”

“It’s not a matter of opinion. He’s an intelligent psychopath the likes of which we’ve never seen before and will probably never see again. Assuming him to be anything less than a genius would be a gross underestimation.” Will started moving again, his thoughts skipping along like a rock over still water. “Fuck Jack for pointing it out, but money is a pro. It’d be nice to have electricity before a blizzard hits.”

“There is no shame in having needs, Will. Nor in doing what it takes to fulfill them.”

Will traced an unknown pattern down the spine of a lone book. Skipped to the next thought. “Alana is a con. I don’t want her following me around at crime scenes, expecting me to open up to her after hours.”

“If it’s a psychiatrist you need, I know a very good one.”

Will tossed a smile over his shoulder. “And you don’t think that’d be a conflict of interest?”

“Of course it will. And I’m willing to sign the papers stating you’re sound of mind right now, before we ever have a session.”

Will stilled. For the first time since Jack’s ambush, Hannibal bore the full weight of his addictive attention.

“Why would you do that?”

“To be clear, it would be in a strictly unofficial capacity.”

“I don’t think Jack would like that.”

“On the contrary, Jack would jump at the opportunity. A lack of official capacity, by proxy, means doctor-patient confidentiality does not apply. He is unaware that my confidentiality clause for friends is in fact much stricter than that of patients.”

Will’s brows scrunched. “What would you get out of this?”

“Conversations. Time with you. The ability to support you in your time of need, should that time ever come.”

Will swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple tracing a tempting line down his throat. “How very selfless of you.”

“Hardly. I always intended to grow closer to you. Though this is not the way I imagined it, I cannot complain.”

Blue eyes narrowed on Hannibal, searching for a lie that did not exist. So prepared for betrayal he was that he seemed unsure how to proceed in its absence.

Eventually, slowly, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Will’s first day back at work was hard.

He didn’t have a phone, so there was no warning before Jack’s SUV rumbled down his driveway at half past four in the morning. He was shepherded into the vehicle for a tense, three-hour drive to a crime scene which was not the Ripper’s. The cuts weren’t precise enough. The mutilations angry rather than impassive. There was too much emphasis on careers and, to a lesser extent, sex.

Zeller, Price, and Katz walked around him like he was made of thin, cracked glass. Zeller didn’t fight Will’s conclusions as he once would’ve. The police didn’t hide their distrustful glares. Will made it back to Quantico at three minutes past seven at night, more tired than he’d been in years and fucking starving.

The Ripper files were waiting for him on his desk. He stumbled into the kitchenette and got a cup of burned, hours-old coffee before daring to sit down. He was going to have to find a way to store the fish he caught, then the time to pack a lunch. He couldn’t afford to eat out, let alone every time they had a case. And especially not before his first paycheck came in.

Price tiptoed past his desk, eyes to the floor, and Will yearned for the office that teaching had allotted him. He could always go home and examine the files on his own – they’d provide an SUV and a driver to get him back – but the nights were starting to get frigid, even with a fire. He should utilize the heat while he could.

An hour into looking at the new Ripper cases, Zeller broke. “I had twenty dollars on you being guilty.”

Will glanced up as Katz elbowed him and hissed, “Brian.”

“What? I did.”

Price visibly relaxed. “I had forty on you being innocent. Which, technically, means Brian owes me sixty.”

“What? No I don’t. Judge said he was guilty.”

“Not in the new trial.”

“We didn’t bet on the new trial.”

Katz pressed her palm against her forehead with an exasperated, “Would you idiots be quiet? Too soon.”

Privately, Will thought that it wasn’t too soon. Encephalitis had lost him a lot of time, and there were points – terrifying points – where he came to barefoot in the snow, miles from home with no clue how he got there. In those moments, had anyone asked him to place a bet, he probably would have sided with Zeller.

Aloud, Will said, “It’s fine. I appreciate the honesty. Hell of a lot better than everyone pretending like I just went on vacation.”

Price snorted. “You mean you don’t want an all-expenses paid trip to Chilton Town? Population: His Ego.”

“Maybe if it comes with a complimentary lobotomy.”

That earned Will an outright laugh. Katz shook her head, but she was smiling.

Zeller looked around the room. “We all good?”

Will hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. We’re good. Soon as you pay Price his sixty, that is.”

Zeller groaned while Price pumped a fist in the air. Katz placed a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder, not even appearing insulted when he flinched away.

“Glad to have you back.”

The words ‘glad to be back’ sat on Will’s tongue, but they were a lie. He nodded instead. That seemed to be enough, as she offered him a soft smile and went back to work.

The next interruption was equal parts pleasant and unwelcome, as Dr. Lecter walked into the lab side-by-side with Alana. Will told himself, as he’d often told himself over the course of his lifetime, to behave. He was at work. Alana was a colleague.

She’d given away his dogs.

Dr. Lecter gave Will a single, unhurried once-over, then said, “You haven’t eaten.”

Will felt his lips twitch in what was almost a smile. “No.”

“I thought not. Luckily, I came prepared.”

Dr. Lecter sat a warming tote, the same one he’d brought to Will’s home, on Will’s desk. He placed a thermos of coffee next to it.

Will reached for the coffee.

“You’re a godsend.”

“I am a man with a French press and an oven.”

Will shrugged as he sipped from the thermos (black, scalding hot, perfect) and groaned out his appreciation. “Same thing.”

Dr. Lecter unzipped the tote, freeing a heavenly smell. Price peeked over his shoulder. “Is that the smell of therapy? If so, sign me up.”

Dr. Lecter rattled off a bunch of ingredients and techniques that basically boiled down to a fancy roast. Will gulped down two more steaming mouthfuls of coffee before dragging the tote closer.

“Have you already eaten?”

“I have.”

Will hummed, uncapped the Tupperware, and abandoned all pretense of table manners to shovel the unfairly delicious food into his demanding stomach. “Thank you for this.”

“Think nothing of it. I would have joined you earlier, if I could, but I hold myself to the same twenty-four-hour cancellation policy as my patients.”

“S’okay. Wasn’t anything interesting.”

Alana’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she stepped closer to Will’s desk. Tentatively, she asked, “How are you holding up?”

Will ignored her, focusing instead on the bright green and gold swirls of Dr. Lecter’s tie. “Any interesting patients?”

“All of my patients are interesting.”

“That’s a no then. Rough. The rest of the week looking any better?”

“I have a new client coming in tomorrow. An empathetic young man with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He promises, if nothing else, to be a good conversationalist.”

Will scoffed. “Sounds boring to me.”

“Yes, but you are not a psychiatrist.”

“Pulling the education card early, huh?”

“It’s nearly nine PM.”

Will rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what it was about Dr. Lecter that made it so easy to unwind (maybe the fact that he hadn’t recoiled after Will admitted his reluctance to catch the Ripper), but it felt  so ridiculously good that he didn’t really want to question it, either.

Alana shuffled forward. Her bicep brushed Dr. Lecter’s. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Will stared at the spot where they touched with an unreasonable amount of distaste as she said, “I was wondering if we could talk.”

Will kept eating. Alana, uncomfortable in the silence, pressed her arm more firmly against Dr. Lecter’s.

Will had known they had a history together. Teacher and student. Mentor and mentee. Colleagues. Now he knew they’d fucked, too. Maybe a one-night stand. Maybe a fling. Nothing ongoing, or else she wouldn’t have been so restrained in her comfort seeking. Nothing hidden, or else she wouldn’t have sought the comfort at all.

His voice sounded gruff and unfriendly even to his own ears as he said, “We can’t. I’m busy.” He gestured to the crime scene photos with his fork. The Tupperware was empty.

“It’s doesn’t have to be now—”

“I’ll be busy then, too.”

Alana flinched, bringing a sharp surge of satisfaction to Will’s chest.

“Will, please.”

“Alana, please.” Will mimicked her voice, her pitch, her cadence, then dropped roughly back to himself. “We can talk the second you give back my goddamn dogs.”

She shook her head, hurt but insistent. At least she wasn’t crying. “I told you I was sorry, Will.”

Will peeked into the warming tote, purposefully apathetic. It was empty. He closed the Tupperware and tossed it inside.

“Will, please look at me. Please. Just—”

 “Are you serious right now?” Fury saturated his tongue. Toxic. “You know what happens when I look at people. Are you really so desperate to make yourself feel better that you’d prefer I cover my feelings with yours? You want me to experience your pain on top of my own, to understand how sorry you are so deeply that I’m physically incapable of staying angry?” He zipped the tote closed with more force than strictly necessary. Tried to hold himself back. Faced Dr. Lecter. “Would you say it’s healthy to shove my feelings in a box for the sake of others?”

Dr. Lecter blinked. If he had any qualms about being used in a fight against his ex, he didn’t show it.

“I would not.”

Will turned back to Alana, gaze locked on the curve of her jacket lapels, and put both hands up in a ‘well there you have it’ motion. “Sorry. Psychiatrist says no.”

In the background, Price whispered, “Oh shit.”

“That’s not what I meant, Will. I would never—”

“Slap me across the face for being a cannibal, then give away my dogs?” He turned back to the crime scene photos, blatantly dismissive. “Funny. I didn’t think you’d do that, either.”

Alana smacked her palms on the desk. “Would you just listen to me for one second?”

“No!” Will planted his own palms on the desk and pushed, so angry that he barely knew he was moving until he was already on his feet. “No, I can’t listen to you because every time you open your mouth, all I hear is…” Will adopted her posture and cadence from the last time they spoke, just after his arrest. “How could you do this to me, Will? How could you—I mean—The Chesapeake Ripper? All those people. Did you really, did you eat them?” He made a gagging noise. “Did I—? Oh, god, was that really even fish? You sick son of a—” He dropped his Alana impression. “And then you hit me. Here.”

He tapped his left cheek as tears welled in her eyes. Something buried deep inside said he should feel guilty, but he didn’t.  

“I’m sor—I’m sorry.”

“That’s all I hear, Alana. Every. Single. Time. You speak. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.” Will walked around the desk, uncaring of the work he still needed to do, and stormed out of the room.

Then, as an afterthought, he marched back in and grabbed Dr. Lecter by the extra material of his coat-sleeve. The older man resisted exactly long enough to pick up his thermos and warming tote, then allowed himself to be dragged away.

(***Paragon***)

Will, when pushed, was even more glorious than Hannibal had imagined.

He was vicious, teeth sinking straight to the bone with no care for how the blood spattered. The ferocity of him, in words alone, filled Hannibal with the urge to drop to his knees and worship. He was tempted to take Will home with him, to ply the boy with decadent desserts and expensive wines until the sugar and liquor made him lax enough to kiss.

Just a touch of the lips, chaste and sweet. A taste of that exquisite violence.

He didn’t though. He drove Will home instead. The only words exchanged throughout the entirety of the commute were a quiet reiteration of gratitude for the meal and ride, right before Will slipped off into the night.

And in the end, Hannibal didn’t mind. Will was the most worthy, wonderful thing in the world, and he deserved a slow courtship. Deserved personalized gifts, extravagant dates, and to be shown off like the gem he was. Hannibal would be remiss to skip even a single step, lest Will get the wrong impression.

This was not, after all, about sex. Hannibal craved Will’s mind far more than his body. The wrath in his eyes, the flesh in his teeth, the blood beneath his nails. Every wayward thought and borderline impossible deduction. Hannibal wanted to see and be seen in return.

First, though, he had to earn it. To prove he was a provider and protector more capable than the rest.

When he returned home after dropping Will off, it was only to collect supplies. He was cooking for two now, and Will was expecting another message from the Ripper. Another body to complete his sounder.

Hannibal flipped idly through his rolodex, selected a waiter who’d spilled red wine on a white tuxedo, and got to work.

By the time he finished both his tableau and properly storing the meat, it was nearly four in the morning. He cleaned his workspace until six, napped until nine, made breakfast, and arrived at work with a half hour to spare before his first appointment.

The call and subsequent voicemail from Jack came during Hannibal’s one o’clock appointment. Hannibal listened to it (“Dr. Lecter. There’s been another killing, this time the Ripper for sure. I’m headed for Graham now. If you can join us, the address is…”) while waiting for his three o’clock but didn’t respond. The only point of interest for Hannibal would be seeing Will’s reaction to his gift in person, an opportunity which had no doubt already passed.

It was unfortunate that Will didn’t have a phone, and thus Hannibal couldn’t contact him directly, but there was nothing he could do about that without overstepping bounds.

Hannibal sketched various versions of Will throughout the day, some from memory, others imagination. During the break between his four o’clock and six o’clock appointments, Alana opened his door. She didn’t knock.

Makeup coated the bags under her eyes. Artificial daises fluttered into the room, the thick smear of them on her pulse points enough to overpower. Hannibal welcomed her inside. He took her coat and hat, then watched as she collapsed gratefully into the patients’ chair.

“You would not believe the day I’ve had.”

Hannibal straightened his suit jacket, smoothed the material over his abdomen, and made his way to the chair opposite Alana. He was curious as to her sudden appearance, but only to the extent that he knew it had to do with Will.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Would I ever. Any chance you keep some of my special brew here, too?”

“My apologies. I do not. I can start keeping a bottle in stock, if you see this becoming routine?” Hannibal raised both brows, gently questioning.

Alana flushed. Her chin tilted toward her chest, a shadow of a classic submissive pose, and she made eye contact through mascara-thickened lashes. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Hannibal crossed his legs and folded his fingers over his knee. The last time she’d been so obvious in her flirtations had been at a conference seven years ago. (Six conferences, technically, and eight non-conferences in between.) “Would you like some wine, in the meantime?”

“Yes, please.”

He stood and poured them each a glass of wine. Alana watched him as he went. Her gaze lingered on the half-empty bottle of whiskey. When she accepted her glass, their fingers touched.

Hannibal returned to his chair with an encouraging smile. “Now, about your day.”

“The Ripper struck again. Female. Early twenties. Flayed everywhere except the skin around her eyes.”

“Do you often visit crime scenes?”

“Not usually, but Jack’s taking every precaution with Will. When you can’t be there, I have to go in your place.” She twisted the stem of her glass, playing coy with no awareness of the fact that her cards were face-up on the table. “I didn’t expect you two would hit it off so well when I first asked you to go see him.”

“He has a brilliant mind.”

“That he does.” She smiled, genuine. “I’m glad you’re there for him. He’s got a habit of getting lost in his own head, especially when it comes to the Ripper. And if you couldn’t tell from yesterday, I’m not exactly suited to guide him back to himself anymore.”

Anymore. He wondered if Will had tasted Alana in the same way Hannibal himself had, or if their interactions were more innocent. With how vehemently Will had reacted to her betrayal, it could go either way.

“Does that bother you? Being unable to guide him.”

“I don’t want to guide, necessarily. I just want to help. Help him. Help you.” She leaned forward, legs together, elbows on her knees. “You’ve probably noticed already, but his personality is a bit… obsessive.”

“Did he obsess over you, Alana?”

The pink of her cheeks darkened past what was artificially applied. Embarrassment contributed, and longing. “No, but he did get attached. He kissed me once.” She blinked twice, a quick flutter of dark lashes. “And I kissed him once. A lack of judgement on my part. He…”

“Had encephalitis.”

She pressed her lips into a tight line. This time, the embarrassment was pure. “Yes. But I think he liked me before that.”

Hannibal watched her over the rim of his glass. Her body language professed attraction for Hannibal, but the words out of her mouth built a covetous circle around Will. It was as she looked to the side, once again showing off the delicate curve of her neck, that the connecting factors clicked.

She regretted losing Will. Could see, now, that Will was everything she’d thought him to be and more. Brilliant. Handsome. Strong-willed. An able-bodied protector and provider who would have, if given the chance, showered her with unconditional love and affection. And she’d thrown that away. The opportunity of a lifetime, lost, and the fault completely her own.

Any chance of salvaging her relationship with Will was gone. The previous evening’s tongue lashing had taught her as much. That, in turn, no doubt had her mind turning over what else she regretted. What other men she’d pulled away from prematurely.

Which brought her to Hannibal.

“You regret not being there for him in his time of need.”

“Of course I do. I regret… a lot of things. But especially that.” She met Hannibal’s eyes, voice pitched low. “I don’t want to regret anything else, Hannibal.”

Subtle yet direct. Alana’s confidence and social tact were no small part of what had attracted Hannibal to her in the first place.

He smiled. Opened his mouth. The phone rang.

“My apologies.” Hannibal took out his cell to see an unknown number. He glanced at Alana, who waved him away in a ‘go ahead’ gesture. He stood and pressed the green circle. “Dr. Lecter speaking.”

“Hey. Sorry to call you so late.”

Hannibal relaxed minutely. He infused warmth in his tone as he said, “Will.”

Alana eyed him from over her wine glass. He turned and walked casually to the other side of the room.

“Yeah. I just wanted to let you know I’m not going to make it tonight.”

“You’re aware of my cancellation policy.”

“Yeah. I know. But the Ripper dropped another body, and I only made it back to Quantico half an hour ago. No way Jack’s letting me out of here before sunrise.”

Hannibal allowed a contented smile to tug at his lips. “Not a cancellation then. A rescheduling. Come to the opera with me Saturday, and we’ll have our conversation there.”

“The opera?” A pause. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I would never joke about the opera.”

“No, I bet you wouldn’t.” Another pause, likely spent with Will’s bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“Nonsense. I have an extra ticket.”

“Of course you do. And I suppose it doesn’t matter that I’m not really an opera kind of guy?”

“You suppose correctly.”

Will laughed, sharp and short. “I don’t really think it’s a good idea. I’d probably embarrass you.”

“I am not easily embarrassed.”

“You’ve never been around me in a public setting.” It was self-depreciation stated like fact. Will wasn’t looking for pity. He considered his words a genuine warning. Hannibal waited, aware that anything he said would spur Will deeper into denial. After nearly twenty seconds of silence, his patience was rewarded. Will muttered, “I can’t believe I’m saying this.” His voice rose, if only barely. “Okay. I’ll go. But when I royally fuck this up, remember I warned you.”

Hannibal made himself sound grave as he responded, “I’ll do my best.”

A soft, amused sound. “How should I get my ticket?”

“It’s already in your desk.”

Silence followed by the click of Will opening his desk and shuffling papers. A low whistle. “And granola?”

“You’re dreadfully thin.”

Another laugh, delighted this time, followed by the crunch of chewing. “You’re gonna spoil me.”

“That is the hope.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Shifting fabric. More chewing. “I hate to eat and run, but Jack just walked in looking like somebody pissed in his Cheerios. I’ve got to go.”

“Should I save this number?”

“No. It’s Katz’s. Jack’s supposed to be getting me a cell from the Bureau at some point, but…” He grunted. “Probably don’t plan on saving that one, either. I don’t need the FBI openly recording my personal calls.”

Hannibal rolled his shoulders, pleased that Will considered their interactions personal. “Duly noted. Then I suppose this is farewell, until Saturday.”

“Have a good day, Dr. Lecter.”

“And a good day to you, too, Will.”

The answer was a dial tone. Hannibal slipped his phone back into his pocket and returned to Alana.

She eyed him curiously, glass empty. “Bringing him dinner. Taking him to the opera. If you’re not careful, people could get the wrong idea.”

“And what is the wrong idea, Alana?”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “You’re doctor and patient.”

“Only unofficially.” Hannibal breathed in the tart scent of his Domaine Leflaive Montrachet Grand Cru without drinking. “Does the thought bother you?”

“Depends. Is this a hypothetical?”

“Of course.”

“Then yes. Obviously yes either way, but without the berating. Will wasn’t stable before going to prison. He’s in no position to enter into a relationship now, especially not with someone in a position of power.”

“You seek to protect him.”

“He’s had a hard life. I just want him to be happy.”

“Even if that happiness has nothing to do with you?”

Pain flashed across her features, furrowing her brows and pursing her lips. “What are you saying?”

“Will does not want you in his life, yet you seek ways to enter it. Personally. Professionally. And now second-hand.”

Her entire body stiffened, flash-frozen with shame and denial. “I didn’t come here for Will.”

“No?”

“No.”

Hannibal watched her without responding. He kept his body language open, neutral. Gentle interest not sullied by judgment. It took Alana twenty-six seconds to break.

“I just worry about him. He doesn’t have anyone, Hannibal. He doesn’t take care of himself. And he’s out there, all alone, in Wolf Trap. I need to know he’s okay.”

“I’d be happy to supply you with information on his general wellbeing, but I’m afraid anything beyond that would be a breach of confidence.”

“You said it yourself. Your capacity as his therapist is unofficial.”

“My capacity as his friend is not.”

The hard lines bracketing her mouth softened, and her voice with them. Pitying. Sympathetic. “Will doesn’t have friends.”

“And yet here I am.” Hannibal took a single sip of his wine, just enough to wet the tongue. “I have enjoyed your company, Alana, but I fear our time together is drawing to a close. I must prepare for my next appointment.”

“Of course.” She stood, placing her wine glass directly on the table as she went. “Thank you for the wine. It was delicious, as always, though I admit I’m looking forward to having my brew next time.”

 Hannibal’s smile was the gentle curve of a spider’s leg, meticulously adjusting its web.

“Next time.”

(***Paragon***)

Will regretted agreeing to the opera.

He’d regretted it the second he agreed and every second thereafter. Regardless of what Dr. Lecter believed, Will was going to embarrass him. Embarrass both of them. And worse: he couldn’t bring himself to cancel.

Three years ago, he could have turned down the invitation with a practiced disinterest. No matter how nice and genial Dr. Lecter was, operas just weren’t Will’s scene. He didn’t appreciate art and didn’t like crowds. He didn’t own any nice clothes.

Three years ago, however, was three years ago. He’d had his teaching job and a flourishing crush and dogs. The Ripper had only been an occasional visitor in his head rather than a permanent fixture. He’d avoided touch out of discomfort rather than fear.

Now, he was starved.

More than the hunger in his belly, Will was starved for positive attention. Starved for warmth and trust and a place where he could feel safe. He’d wanted to turn Dr. Lecter down, but even the thought of ruining their budding friendship brought anxiety thick to his throat. Dr. Lecter was the only one who didn’t look at Will like he was crazy, didn’t treat Will like he was broken. And Will honestly didn’t think he could stand to lose that.

Too many things had gone wrong in Will’s life, and all too fast. He couldn’t take another tragedy just yet.

So he got dressed. The ticket called it a black-tie event, but Will had worn his only suit to trial, to prison, and hadn’t seen it since. He had exactly zero pairs of jeans without holes in them, one pair of worn tennis shoes, one pair of galoshes, and no formal shirts. The closest he could get to tidying up was a pair of dark jeans that almost fit and the red flannel from the mystery box. His hair refused to lay flat.

He huffed against the mirror. Thought about cancelling again. Was it more offensive to show up looking like a gutter orphan or not to show up at all?

He rubbed his palms against his pockets, for once glad he didn’t have a phone. It stopped him from caving to his anxieties and backing out. It also stopped him from connecting to the internet (his laptop was long gone), which was another plus because he was sure there was a new article out about him. The head of frizzy red hair he’d spotted at the latest Ripper scene had been unmistakable, and she never took more time than absolutely necessary to toss Will under the closest bus.

He’d stopped himself from looking at work out of sheer stubbornness, but now he almost wished he had. Dr. Lecter certainly read TattleCrime, at least to the extent that he’d seen Will’s house on it, and it couldn’t hurt to know what kind of crazy the man currently thought Will embodied.

(Except yes, it could hurt. It could hurt a lot.)

Christ, Will was a mess. It was just an article. Dr. Lecter was just a man.

He made one more attempt to fix his hair. It mocked him for the effort. He gave up.

The drive was long and cold – his car went from ‘acceptable expense’ to ‘gas guzzler’ with a press of the heat switch – but even that was better than the opera house.

The complimentary valet asked Will if he was lost. The ticketer wasn’t much better.

Brown eyes examined the ticket with an insulting thoroughness, looking for some sign of counterfeiting. The smile he turned on Will was strained, and the, “May I take your coat?” sounded more like ‘You should leave.’

Will did hand the man his coat and hat, but only because he thought the uptight fucker might strangle him if he didn’t. The following you’re a worthless piece of shit disguised as “Enjoy your night” was an obvious, disdainful dismissal. Will stayed back anyway.

“Any chance you know where I can find Dr. Lecter?”

The man’s lips parted as his eyebrows lifted. Surprised, then haughty. The words ‘Oh, you’re Dr. Lecter’s patient. Everything makes sense now.’ practically tattooed themselves across his face in goddamn Comic Sans.

What he actually said was, “No. Sorry.”

Will didn’t press it. He was probably lucky no one recognized him past his poverty. He slipped into the crowd of tailor-made suits and designer dresses, head down. People were already staring. Part of him hoped he could somehow identify Dr. Lecter by shoes alone, but it looked like everyone in attendance had a limitless budget for footwear.

There was a bar, but Will’s empty wallet insisted he do this sober.

Manicured fingers on his shoulder startled him out of his brooding. He jerked away.

“Sorry. I tried calling to you.” A woman, late thirties. She didn’t come from money, but she was used to it. Married in, perhaps. No ring though. No tan line, either. “Did I hear you were looking for Hannibal?”

He perked up. “Yeah. Do you know where he is?”

“Right through there, sweetheart.” She used a bedazzled fingernail to point toward an open hall.

Will closed his eyes, almost overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you. Seriously.”

She looked amused, and he met her smile with one of his own before half-jogging toward the hall. His relief, almost sharp in flavor, dropped with a splash as he found the servant’s exit.

Fucking rich people.

He was tempted, then, to leave. He’d had enough bullying in middle school, in high school, and even as a child at home, not to sit back and take it as an adult, too. Dr. Lecter would understand. Would have no choice but to understand because Will would already be gone.

“Hey! I know you.”

Will turned his head to see the patient from Dr. Lecter’s office – the one who’d not-so-subtly told him to fuck off for being poor – waving excitedly. And here Will had thought the night couldn’t get worse.

Both the patient and his companion entered the hallway, making it impossible for Will to flee without notice. He sighed and resigned himself to his fate.

“Hey.” He waved, halfhearted at best. “Will.”

“Franklyn. And this is my friend, Tobias.” He said ‘my friend’ in the way others would say ‘my god.’ Reverent. Grateful. Desperate for attention. “I didn’t take you for someone who liked opera.”

Will shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t.”

“Are you here for Dr. Lecter then?”

And if ‘my friend’ was said like ‘my god,’ then ‘Dr. Lecter’ must be something above even that. Will glanced at Tobias to see how the other man felt about the exchange. Their eyes met. Will tumbled.

(Darkness. Disdain for the world at large. Emotions so numbed they were barely there at all. Except, no. That wasn’t true. He rarely felt, but when emotions flowed through him, they flowed like a river raging after a storm. Unstoppable. He felt when he heard music.)

(He felt when he killed.)

Will straightened, mimicking Tobias’ rigid posture, and held the man’s empty stare. Tobias had yet to make himself – his music – known to the world, but he would. He wanted an audience. A chase. To have eyes on him from every angle and to outsmart them all. The ultimate show of power.

“Will?”

Will blinked, once more himself, and returned his attention to Franklyn. This time, he was careful not to meet eyes. “Sorry. Yeah. Dr. Lecter.”

Franklyn grinned, genuine in his fervor. “How did you know he’d be here? I heard opera music coming through the door before our session once.” He twisted to look up at Tobias. “Will is one of Dr. Lecter’s patient’s too. Or at least, he wanted to be. Dr. Lecter’s time is very expensive.”

There was that phrase again. This time without malice, but also without pity. Like it was just a fact, said more to compliment Dr. Lecter than anything else.

Will relaxed a fraction. Tobias asked, “Are you in the orchestra?”

“Do I look like I’m in the orchestra?”

“No, but you do look like you have a song to play.”

You look like you kill.

“I don’t.”

“You do play though, don’t you?”

“Piano, though I haven’t touched one in years. Mine’s so out of tune it may as well be mute.”

Tobias’ hand moved like something separate from him. Mechanical. He held out a business card. “You’re in luck. I happen to own the Chordophone String shop and could tune your piano for you.”

Will accepted the card, careful not to touch. He shoved it into his pocket without looking. “Thanks, but that’s not really in the budget right now.”

“I’d do it for free.”

Will looked again to Tobias. To his lips and chin. Anywhere but his eyes. “Why?”

“Any friend of Franklyn’s is a friend of mine.”

Franklyn practically swooned. Will scoffed but didn’t discredit him.

“I’ll think about it.”

Something in Tobias adjusted. A snake curling and coiling, wrapping around itself in indiscernible layers as it readied for the next move. To strike or to wait, Will wasn’t sure. “Please do.”

“Oh, you should take him up on it. Tobias is brilliant. He’s the main string supplier for the Baltimore orchestra, you know, and the only person I’d trust to restring my harpsichord.”

Will tilted his head. “Do you play the harpsichord?”

“No. But I’m thinking about learning.”

Stalker. He’d bought it because he saw the one in Dr. Lecter’s office. A set up for a fantasy where Dr. Lecter visited his house and played for him.

Tobias moved forward, more a slide of the foot than a step. “Aren’t you going to ask what I play?”

“You play a lot of instruments, but you favor the violin.” Will tapped the side of his own throat with two fingers. “Fiddler’s neck.”

Tobias’ smile was genuine, and somehow that was worse. Will felt his ability to socialize leave him like a good old-fashioned hanging: floor dropping out from under him; gravity doing the rest. He sagged with the weight of it.

“Listen, it was nice meeting you, but I actually think I’m going to head out.”

Franklyn looked like he learned to be appalled from a 1960s sitcom, palm to his mouth and all. “But the opera hasn’t even started yet.”

“Sure hasn’t.” Will swung a glance at the servant’s exit. They’d have questions if he didn’t leave through the front. They’d be persistent. “Have a good night, guys.”

He stepped around them and made his way out of the hallway. Head down. Quick steps. All he had to do was make it to the door, and this nightmare would be over.

They followed.

“But we haven’t even run into Dr. Lecter yet. Would it surprise you to hear this isn’t the first place he frequents that I also happen to frequent?”

Also happen to frequent. Yeah-fucking-right.

Will hummed noncommittally.

Franklyn continued, “There’s also a cheese and wine shop we both go to. He has excellent taste, you know. I bought what he bought, and it was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. He has a very refined palette. I can show you the place, if you’d like.”

Will would not like. Even if he did want a block of cheese, which he didn’t, it wasn’t like he could afford any cheese Dr. Lecter was willing to buy. Rather than saying any of that, he shrugged. Ten yards to the door.

“He hosts dinner parties, too. No patients allowed, unfortunately. I like to pretend I’m there sometimes though, with the wine he serves and the cheese he uses.”

Will couldn’t help himself. He glanced back at Tobias with an ‘Is he serious?’ look. A mistake, he realized, as Tobias rewarded him with another genuine smile. The intense way he watched Will doubled down, almost a physical thing. Will hissed out a breath between his teeth.

Shit.

Will walked even faster. He needed his coat and his hat. He could come back for them later. Hand on the door, specifically not looking at anyone, Will pushed—

“Will.”

—and like the most ill-timed cock-block of the century, there was Dr. Lecter. Will craned his neck to see both the man who had invited him and what was practically a fucking entourage crowding his back. Dr. Lecter was dressed in a tuxedo that could pay Will’s yearly salary. He held an almost-empty wine glass with a grip that was a little too tight to be considered casual.

Shit-fuck. Dr. Lecter was actually upset. Likely because… Will scanned the group behind Dr. Lecter to find the woman who’d pointed him toward the hall. She stood, wringing her hands together, openly nervous. She must’ve told Dr. Lecter about her prank, and, judging by the combination of her posture and Dr. Lecter’s grip on his wine, it hadn’t gone over well.

The urge to leave anyway swelled. Will hadn’t spent this much time around this many people since his trial. He’d never been good with crowds. Dr. Lecter would understand. Will just had to go home and… And pace anxiously until their Thursday night meeting, flogging himself for fucking up the only almost-friendship he had.

He gave the door one last, longing glance and let it close.

“Dr. Lecter.” He spared the group behind Dr. Lecter another glance and reluctant nod. “Everybody else.”

Franklyn was practically bouncing on his toes, overly enthused about Dr. Lecter being the one to approach them. Dr. Lecter offered the man one of his polite, barely-there smiles and moved toward Will.

He placed a gentle hand on Will’s lower back – that was the second time he’d touched Will there – and Will worked not to pull away. It was a small touch, barely there at all for the pressure it exuded, but still more than Will was used to. The only people who touched him in prison were the orderlies, and that had never been pleasant. He’d started working out in his cell for a reason.

But Dr. Lecter’s touch didn’t leave Will wondering when ‘okay’ would turn into holding his stomach and head to protect his vitals. It was purposeful yet gentle, without a drop of malice. If Will weren’t so awkward, it may even have been considered nice.

Dr. Lecter guided Will away from the exit, toward the wall. Not exactly out of the limelight, considering six people were following Dr. Lecter and two were following Will, but still better than standing in the middle of the room. When they settled, Dr. Lecter’s hand remained. And Will let it.

The hand, after all, didn’t have anything to do with Will as a person. It had to do with status. Dr. Lecter was the one who invited Will, and he needed everyone to know it. To respect it, regardless of Will’s attitude or attire.

What a drama queen.

The woman who sent Will away moved first, palms together like a prayer. “I am so, so sorry about earlier. I had no idea you were Hannibal’s friend.”

Will scrunched his nose at what he guessed passed as an apology. God, the moral compasses on rich people didn’t even have a north, did they?

Rather than responding, he glanced at Dr. Lecter. The set of the doctor’s lips were downturned the barest amount, just enough to relay displeasure. He didn’t acknowledge that the woman had spoken.

Will turned his attention back to the woman, to the gaudy diamond necklace clutching her throat, and noted that she had yet to look away from him. Her eyes were wide. Begging. Apparently, despite it being Dr. Lecter who she truly wanted to appease, Will was the only one who could grant forgiveness. He shrugged, neither forgiving nor condemning.

…Which, in rich-people-speak, was apparently the same as condemning. The rest of the group (Tobias included) took what was basically a simultaneous step away from her. Even Franklyn, after a half-second delay, moved.

Her pleading smile crumbled disparagingly. Will leaned slightly more toward Dr. Lecter and, low enough not to be overheard, murmured, “Just how much power do you have over these people?”

Dr. Lecter’s answer was a smile hidden in the lip of his glass.

One of the men (mid-thirties; fit; he’d earned his money, but not honestly; likely embezzlement) tried to catch Will’s eyes. “It’s good to put a name to the face, Mr. Graham. We’ve heard so much about you.”

i.e., They’d heard his name and nothing else. Will felt his patience wane.

“How much longer until the opera starts?”

Four people looked at their fancy watches while the others dug out their phones. A different man (late sixties; callouses on his hands; a laborer, but not a menial one; expensive, unique accessories; jewelry maker?) said, “Not for another twenty minutes.”

Decision made, Will pressed himself closer to Dr. Lecter’s side. They weren’t touching, not quite, but it wouldn’t take much. Dr. Lecter tossed him a curious glance which Will pretended not to notice. He nodded along to something a debutante (early twenties; living off her parents’ money but looking to marry into more) was saying and deftly lifted Dr. Lecter’s wallet from his pocket.

“In that case, I think I’ll need a drink.”

Will peeled himself from the group just as Dr. Lecter said, “Allow me.”

“I already did.”

Will held up the other man’s wallet with an almost innocent wave. Maroon eyes widened (surprise) then darkened (approval). He liked that Will had some less-than-savory skills. Liked that Will was willing to use them on him, even in such a crowded, posh setting. He smiled.

“In that case, bring me back a Sangiovese.”

Will hummed and walked away while Franklyn babbled about wine behind him. The bar wasn’t as crowded as it should be, considering they were at the opera. He ordered two whiskey doubles, paid with a thick black credit card that had no information on it, and made his way back to the group.

Dr. Lecter accepted the whiskey with amusement. He smelled it before asking, “And this is?”

“Cheapest thing on the menu.” Will clinked their glasses together. “Like a true gentleman.”

The rest of the group talked around them. Franklyn and Tobias had apparently excused themselves (or more likely been excused), while Will was gone. The woman who’d insulted Will kept trying to strike up a conversation but was shut down at every turn. Will finished his drink in record time (probably too quickly, considering he hadn’t eaten dinner) and was pleasantly surprised when Dr. Lecter traded their glasses. If he’d taken even a single sip, Will didn’t see it.

“So, Will, what do you do for work?”

It was the man who’d claimed to have heard so much about Will. The other people in the circle shifted, interested but unsure they should show it, in case this was another misstep. They probably thought Will was homeless.

Will shrugged. “I consult.”

The group quieted, waiting for more. Will took another swig of whiskey and allowed the silence to fester.  

A woman around Dr. Lecter’s age (born into money but not dependent on it; likely increased her fortune through her own means; as socially powerful, at least in opera terms, as Dr. Lecter) wearing a dress made of feathers and sequins broke the lull with an easy laugh. “Well, I’m sure you’re excellent at it, if you caught Hannibal’s eye. Tell me, will you be joining us more often?”

Will grimaced. “Sorry, no. Opera’s not really my thing.”

Her smile tilted mischievously. “Not at the opera then. Hannibal here is known for throwing the most glorious dinner parties, though he hasn’t done so in ages. Perhaps you could convince him a welcoming party is in order?”

The thought of being around these people in a personal setting made Will want to bash his head against a wall. Dr. Lecter cut in with a smooth, “You cannot rush these things, Komeda. A dinner party, like all art, requires a muse.”

She raised her arm in a graceful gesture to Will, who immediately balked.

“I don’t think I’m—”

The sound of the orchestra warming up played over Will’s protest, and just like that, the group dispersed. Komeda smiled encouragingly as she passed, though Will wasn’t sure what to do with the gesture. He drained the rest of his glass.

“Shall we?”

Will nodded absently and let Dr. Lecter led the way. The seats gave an excellent view of the stage, and Will prepared himself for two hours of feigning interest.

The lights went down as the music rose. He set his empty glass in the cup holder and shot a covert look at Dr. Lecter, who was already giving his full attention to the stage. Will breathed out a soft sigh and leaned back in his (surprisingly comfortable) seat.

While he wasn’t anywhere near drunk, he could admit to a pleasant buzz. His chest felt light and warm. His limbs felt heavy. A woman walked out on stage, and despite Will’s bitter, baseless opinions about opera, he enjoyed hearing her sing. He closed his eyes to listen better.

He fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Normally, Hannibal would take offense to someone falling asleep at the opera. He would take extra offense if he had personally invited that someone, paying for their ticket and drink out of his own pocket.

Will, of course, was an exception.

He was lax and vulnerable in his sleep, like a gift to Hannibal saying, ‘I trust you.’ The four fingers of whiskey, endless workdays, and gentle warmth of the opera house no doubt helped, but in the end, the deciding factor had to be Hannibal. For Will’s guard was built high and strong even on his worst days, and he would never allow himself to drift if he did not think it safe. If he did not believe there was someone capable around to protect him.

Considering it had only taken Hannibal a glance to recognize Tobias as a serial murderer, it certainly wasn’t the opera house in general which put Will at ease.

And Will was at ease. Broad shoulders slumped softly against the seat. Nimble hands rested limply in his lap. Pink lips parted the barest amount, a beautiful invitation, while dark lashes rested against soft cheeks. Will’s eyes moved rapidly back and forth beneath thin lids, mind incapable of resting even as he slept.

Delicate curls framed his face, untamed and alluring. His untrimmed beard begged for a date with Hannibal’s straight razor. Will’s breath stuttered, chest twitching with the uneven fill, but he did not wake. Hannibal tallied up the different shades of brown required to replicate Will’s hair on paper.

The opera ebbed and flowed in the background, for once unable to steal Hannibal’s attention away. It was beautiful, yes, but not rare. He could attend every night of the week, if he so wished. The next time he’d be able to watch Will sleep, on the other hand, was unknown.

When the opera ended, Hannibal clapped enthusiastically. He’d spent the last two hours largely distracted, true, but this was hardly his first viewing. He knew the excellence they had achieved.

More than giving the performers their due respects, however, he wanted Will to think he had been paying attention. Enthusiastic attention. To a show which Will had slept through.

Will jerked awake to the sound of a standing ovation. His mind seemed to need a moment to catch up to his body, but the moment he realized his predicament was clear. Blue eyes shot over to Hannibal while frowning lips mouthed the word ‘shit.’

He stood, clapping dully as he went, and leaned in so Hannibal could hear him say, “Any chance you didn’t notice I fell asleep?”

“None.”

Guilt and anxiety sewed themselves into Will’s micro-expressions. He was as beautiful in distress as he was in happiness. “Sorry. And after you went through the trouble of inviting me, too.”

Hannibal stopped clapping as the applause around them died down. He half-turned to Will. “Your body required rest more than it required art. There is no shame in that.”

“You sure? Because I feel pretty ashamed.”

The people around them started to move. Hannibal made his way out of the theater, Will close at his heels. 

“I am positive. Though if you are truly determined to assuage your guilt through apologetic gestures, I cannot stop you.”

Will shrugged and swerved to lead them toward the coat closet and, notably, away from Hannibal’s gathering acquaintances. “I’d like to say I’m determined, but the truth is I don’t really have anything to offer you. And even if I did, you’re kind of already…” He gestured blandly to Hannibal as a whole. “You know.”

Hannibal did know. He smiled and took Will’s coat from the server. Will scowled when Hannibal held it open but otherwise didn’t complain. He slipped into the coat, no longer flinching as Hannibal smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, and turned to grab the hat.

It was an improvement. Slowly but surely, Will was accepting Hannibal’s touch.

Hannibal took his own coat as he said, “You could offer your company.”

“Please don’t tell me you want to go to another opera.”

“I was thinking a late dinner, possibly with a nightcap. Much as this was supposed to be a rescheduling of our conversation, it’s hardly the place to talk.”

Will’s brows scrunched. “Wait. You mean now?”

“If you are not otherwise detained.”

Will, as he so often did, looked for the lie in Hannibal’s words. The deception which would show Will why this was a bad idea and save him the humiliation of trusting someone who should not be trusted. Hannibal kept his body language open yet neutral and softened his expression with geniality. Will was an expert on reading people, but Hannibal was an expert at not being read.

Thus, regardless of Hannibal’s many ulterior motives, Will found nothing.

He nodded. “Okay. I mean, if you’re serious, I’m not one to turn down free food.”

“Excellent.” Hannibal held the door open for Will, who walked through without giving thanks. The valet noticed them immediately and, recognizing Hannibal, moved to retrieve his car. Will raised a hand to flag down another valet only for Hannibal to press gentle fingers to the top of his wrist, aborting the motion. “I must insist you ride with me. You’ve been drinking.”

Will pressed his lips into a tight line, and the blush provided by the cold darkened. He shuffled his feet: a nervous tick to relay embarrassment. “I don’t uh, don’t really have money for a cab.”

“I’ll drive you back in the morning.”

Will’s eyes shot up, meeting Hannibal’s for the barest second before settling on cheekbones. “I thought this was just dinner.”

“Dinner and a conversation.” The valet arrived, and Hannibal opened the passenger door for Will. “It could go well into the morning, should we let it, and I have a perfectly serviceable guest bed.”

Will didn’t move. He stared at a spot on the ground and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. The outline of fists in his jacket pockets bulged and twitched.

It didn’t take a psychiatrist to know he was weighing the idea of driving an hour to a cold, empty house and going to sleep on the floor without dinner against a short, comfortable ride to a warm, furnished home and a hot meal. And what stopped him wasn’t pride – Will didn’t have much of that – but social anxiety. He didn’t want to overstep his bounds with Hannibal. Didn’t want to be seen as clingy or a charity case.

Still, there was a line of cars waiting to be filled, and Hannibal had yet to move from the door. The pressures to choose (to choose Hannibal) were high. Seconds passed quickly, and Will’s head jerked in an almost forced nod. He climbed into the Bentley without taking his eyes off the ground.

Hannibal closed the door, sealing him inside.

There was a certain amount of pleasure in knowing that people had watched the exchange. That they would whisper, later, about how Will belonged to Hannibal and was not to be disrespected. It sent a possessive thrill up Hannibal’s spine, encouraging him to take Will out more. To show him off more.

He slid into the driver’s seat with plans for what to buy Will next. New shoes, certainly, and pants. He’d like to replace Will’s underwear, but those articles of clothing were personal. When Hannibal bought him new ones, he wanted Will to know who they were from.

The drive to Hannibal’s house was spent in contented silence. Will lifted his head from the window only when they pulled into the garage. Hannibal kept one eye on Will as they made their way through the house, to the kitchen. The boy was openly curious, neck craning to take in the décor they’d already passed, and Hannibal enjoyed the indirect attention.

When they got to the kitchen, Will went straight to the island. Any other guests would have been politely redirected to the dining table on the far end of the room, but Will was ever the exception. Rather than push him away, Hannibal took his coat, poured him a glass of wine, and began to cook.

It was Will who broke their companionable silence, the soft tone of his voice doing nothing to hide the sharp probe of intellect beneath. “You used to be a surgeon.”

“Yes.”

“You loved it.”

Hannibal glanced up, interest piqued. “Yes.”

“I saw it in the way you held yourself before. The way you control a conversation. The precision in your words and actions, everything coming across exactly as you want it to. But it’s clearer here. Knife in hand. Cuts visible. You love it.” Will swirled his wine but didn’t drink. “Why’d you stop?”

“I lost one too many patients.”

“Is that true?”

There was no judgment in the question. Hannibal tilted his head, considering.

“Somewhat. I did change careers directly after the loss of a patient, but it was less his death that affected me and more the fact that I had done everything correctly. Every cut, every stitch: perfect. And still his heart failed.”

“Lack of control.” Blue eyes blinked. “Or, no. That’s not it. You enjoy control, but you don’t need it. Lack of results? Closer. Lack of…” Will licked his lips. Breathed out. “Appreciation. You’re an artist, and the hours of work you spent elevating his body into something better were wasted.” He pressed his lips together, watching a scene Hannibal could not see, and finally tasted his wine.

Hannibal placed thin strips of lung into a pre-heated, buttered pan. While Will was hardly the first person to question his change in career, there was something exhilarating in the accuracy of it. Being seen by those eyes, acknowledged by those lips, was akin to a high.

Hannibal hummed as he turned to chop vegetables. “Does that bother you?”

“Should it? No one likes a thankless job.”

“Few people would consider a surgeon’s job thankless.”

“Few people had your skill.” He tapped his finger against the tabletop, inches from where Hannibal’s knife danced over a ripe red pepper. “I googled you. Highest success rate in the state.”

“And what of your job, Will? Being dragged around by Jack, constantly expected to do the impossible and, once the impossible is done, to do it again.”

Will grunted. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I walk around all day thinking about killing people. It’s hardly a skill.”

“And yet you are good at it. An asset to the extent that Jack would lay down his pride to get you back under his thumb. It’s admirable, what you do. Worthy of not only thanks, but praise.”

Hannibal kept his voice low and appreciative, attention wholly on Will as he tested another theory. And, yes, there it was. Eyes dilating. A blush, soft and sweet, sweeping across his cheeks.

Will liked to be praised.

Hannibal hid his pleasure at the confirmation on the rim of his glass. He plated their meals with a flourish while Will stared at his own hands, unsure how to respond. Eventually, as Hannibal set the table, Will managed a quiet, “Thanks.”

“You are welcome.” Hannibal pulled out a chair. He waited for Will to sit before taking his place at the head of the table.

This time, Will wasted no time digging in. His lips closed around the fork, encasing the food Hannibal had caught, killed, and cooked just for him. Blue eyes fluttered closed in pleasure, appreciation non-verbal but no less satisfying. Hannibal watched him take three more bites before touching his own meal.

Will’s plate was half empty before he slowed and said, “I’m going to regret asking this, but were you a professional chef between being a surgeon and a psychiatrist?”

“That depends. Why the regret?”

“Because either you’ve got a third respectable career under your belt or you just figured this out on your own, and either way that’s too much talent.”

“No, I was not a professional chef.”

“Of course you weren’t. Did you hire one to show you the ropes or just watch YouTube and read?”

“A conglomeration of the three. In the beginning I hired a teacher, though I have not required a guiding hand in many years. Do you cook?”

“Not really. I can fry a cod six ways to Sunday, but everything else burns on sight.”

“And baking?”

Will dragged a forkful of lung through the reduction. “Tried to make cookies with my dad once – not real ones, just the pre-cut dough from the store – but the oven went out.”

“Unfortunate.”

“The oven going out or the cookie dough?”

“Both.”

“Would it make it better or worse to know I ate the dough raw when we couldn’t get the oven back up?”

Hannibal took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “Both.”

Will laughed, for once amused rather than bitter. “C’mon. No way you haven’t eaten raw cookie dough before.”

“I have, in tasting my own before baking.”

“Same thing.”

The teasing smile on Will’s lips said he knew exactly how insulting that was.

“Horrible boy.”

Will grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and finished his food. The wine went after that, with Hannibal’s eyes tracing the line of Will’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Will’s utensils clattered against the empty plate as he set them down, another demarcation of his manner-less upbringing. His smile faded to a more serious expression as he stared at the plate, fingers tugging restlessly at the edge of his sleeve. It took thirty seconds for his eyes to meander over to Hannibal’s hands, then another twelve for him to speak.

“Why are you doing this, exactly?”

“Eating?”

“Eating with me.”

Hannibal steepled his fingers just shy of his own empty plate, giving Will his full attention. “I desired company. Is that so hard to believe?”

Will scowled. “Don’t play dumb, Dr. Lecter. It doesn’t suit you. The people in that opera house were falling all over themselves to get your attention. They’d have killed for an invitation like this. So why me?”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering. “Why you, indeed. Perhaps because, had I invited anyone else, and had they noted my history as a surgeon, it would have been crafted in sugared-sweet words and delivered with care. Compliments thrown out like confetti with the intent to stroke my ego and secure their next invitation. You, however, say what you mean. There is value in being seen, Will, and it is much greater than you give credit.”

“You invited me because I’m willing to insult you?”

“I invited you because I consider you my friend.”

Will flinched, wide eyes moving from Hannibal’s hands to his own clenched fists. “You shouldn’t. I’m not who you think I am.”

“No?”

Will clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw, as though preparing for a physical blow. He used a single breath to say, “I thought about killing Alana.”

Desire seeded in Hannibal’s gut, hot and gluttonous. He wanted to pry the memory out of Will’s head and live in it himself. To see Will splashed in Alana’s blood, and to kiss him before the crimson droplets cooled.

Were it not for the obviousness of the red herring, Hannibal may have indulged the fantasy further. As it was, he filed it away for another time and turned instead to Will’s motivation for sharing.

The boy intended for Hannibal to balk and pull away, but he did not want it. That meant it was not the result that mattered, but the situation. Something about utilizing their shared relation with Alana? Plausible, but no. Alana was a footnote, the topic of murder a distraction. Which left only Will, eyes hardened and body tense as he braced for impact.

Braced.

A grin made more of teeth than joy unfurled within Hannibal even as he kept his physical expression neutral. It wasn’t that Will wanted Hannibal gone, but that he believed Hannibal was bound to leave regardless. And if Will had to be abandoned, had to be hurt, he wanted to be the one doing the hurting. To control the pain. Limit the damage.

It was unfortunate, then, that Will chose possibly the only topic guaranteed to endear Hannibal to him further. Not only would Hannibal not leave him, he would carve a space for himself so deep in Will’s heart that neither of them would survive a separation.

But first: “She gave away your dogs, effectively destroying your chosen family. Thoughts of vengeance for such a grievance are normal, even for one who hasn’t spent the last three years in the mindset of a killer.”

“No. This isn’t—It’s not about the Ripper. When I’m in his head, it’s clinical. Detached. He kills just because he can, not out of some need for emotional outlet. When I thought about killing her, it was with my bare hands on her throat. Not for a tableau. Not to send a message. I just wanted it. Do you understand?”

Will, desperate and in pain, was one of the most darling things Hannibal had ever seen. Like a wild animal recognizing it had been trapped, ready to chew off its own leg to escape. There was so much passion – so much violence – in him that Hannibal wanted to croon.

Instead, he stood from his chair to collect their plates, pausing next to Will as he said, “You’re telling me this to scare me away, as thoughts much more savory than those are what drove the rest of your friends to betrayal. It will not work.” Hannibal paused as Will’s wide, disbelieving eyes shot up to meet his. “Struggle, spit, and bite all you like. I will not abandon you.”

Disbelief hit Will first, twisting his lips and narrowing his eyes. Caution came next, wrinkling his forehead and wetting his lips. Finally, Will’s shoulders slumped, his relief a tangible thing. More was revealed in the thickness of his gratitude than he no doubt intended.

It wasn’t that Will desired control, but that he desired someone strong enough to take control. Someone who would not buckle under the weight of his responsibilities. Someone who would not run, even when Will himself gave chase.

Lovely.

Will’s lips parted, trembling. “This isn’t a good idea. Us being friends.”

“And yet here you are, at my table. And here I am, about to serve you dessert.”

Hannibal picked up Will’s plate and made his way to the kitchen. The dishes went in the sink to be washed after they finished eating, and he took his time plating the chocolate crème tarts.

Will glanced up when Hannibal returned, just barely skirting eye contact. Though Will did not verbally address their shift in dynamic, the defensive set of his body language had peeled away. The first petals of a flower beginning to bloom. Hannibal placed the treat in front of him, and Will waited until Hannibal was seated before beginning to eat.

They dined in companionable silence, with Will immediately offering to help with dishes when they finished. A regular guest, of course, would not be allowed, but Will was no regular guest. (Given time, he would not be a guest at all.) They did the dishes together, with Hannibal washing and Will drying. Hannibal showed Will where everything went in his kitchen, and he delighted in the knowledge that he would not have to explain again.

When they retired to the study, Will asked if he could build a fire. Hannibal said, “Yes.”

(It would be important, in the coming weeks especially, for Will to associate comfort and familiarity with Hannibal’s personal space.)

Hannibal poured Will two fingers of scotch and himself a glass of wine before settling into his reading chair. Will, much like in Hannibal’s office, preferred to wander the room, gently touching whatever caught his interest.

Will was halfway through his circuit, out of Hannibal’s sight, when he said, “I don’t really want to kill Alana.”

“No?”

“I did, in the moment, but only in the moment. I don’t hate her. I just, I can’t let her off the hook, either.”

“Because she hurt you.”

“Because I’m angry.” Will’s voice rang from just behind Hannibal, then moved away. “Because I know, technically, that she reacted reasonably given the situation and that someday I’m going to have to let it go. And when I do, when I’m not angry anymore, I don’t know what’ll be left.”

“So you have to be angry. To protect yourself.”

“Yeah. I…” He wandered back into Hannibal’s line of sight, fingers trailing along the textured designs of an ornate vase. “Are you really okay with talking about this? I know you and Alana were a thing, or whatever. I don’t want to come between you.”

And that was the truth. Will didn’t wish to harm Hannibal in any way, regardless of the discomfort keeping Hannibal happy may cause.

“Worry not, dear Will. How you feel about Alana has no bearing on my relationship with her, just as how she feels about you shall not affect us.”

Will made a surprised noise. “She talks about me?”

“Yes. Often.”

“Should you be telling me that? What about that super strict confidentiality clause for friends you’re so proud of?”

“It only applies to friends, of course. Alana is a co-worker. A colleague. An ex-lover. We have shared much, but it was never so personal as friendship.”

“You consider having lovers less personal than having friends?”

“Lovers need only see the physical responses. Friends get the mind.”

Subtle notes of understanding and longing softened Will’s expression. “Fair enough.”

“Have you ever had lovers, Will?”

Will stared at the wall and swirled his scotch, breathing it in before taking a sip. “One. Almost. Almost one.”

Hannibal watched Will crouch to examine the intricate carvings on a table leg. He waited. Eventually, Will continued.

“It was high school. There was a girl, Hailey Bennett. She invited me over when her parents were out, and I went down on her. It was…” He stood again, fingers tapping against the iron bookends atop the table. “It wasn’t good. I didn’t know what I was doing, and no matter how much she pretended to like it, I knew she wasn’t feeling anything. She wanted me to think she did though. Wanted me to like her the way she liked me. Wanted me to want her so badly that it was all I could feel. Her expectations. Her needs. And the glaring fact that they weren’t being met. It was too much. I…” Will glanced embarrassedly at Hannibal, who kept his expression neutral. “I couldn’t get it up. Not with her hands, not with her mouth. And the harder she tried, the more pressure I felt, until neither of us could take it anymore. She stormed out, and the whole school knew about it by morning.”

“That must have been very difficult. Am I correct to assume you haven’t attempted intercourse since?”

“I, uh…” He sighed. Scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I thought maybe it would be different with Alana, but—” He stopped to look at Hannibal, no doubt searching for some kind of discomfort over their shared sexual interest. Hannibal relaxed his shoulders further: open, curious, and devoid of judgment. After a moment, Will nodded. “Even if I hadn’t gotten encephalitis or been mistaken for the Ripper, we wouldn’t have worked. She’d understand, sure. She’d be gentle and patient. But it would always be under the pretense of me getting better. Of her fixing me somehow. And if I didn’t turn out how she wanted, the fault would be mine.” He brought his thumb to his lips to gnaw on the nail. “It’s just too much pressure.”

Hannibal adopted a look of understanding and empathy: a complete one-eighty from the dark satisfaction coiling in his stomach. He’d been thinking he was going to have to track down and remove all others who’d tasted the pleasure of Will’s flesh, but this was better. Will was a virgin.

Untouched, unsullied, and entirely Hannibal’s for the taking.

Perfect.

“It’s not so unusual, using sex as a means of escape. Tell me, Will, have you ever considered BDSM?”

Will flushed, bright and beautiful, then hid his embarrassment in an upturned glass. He cleared his throat. “That’s a pretty personal question, Dr. Lecter.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I mean… I guess not, all things considered. But…” He shrugged, almost lost. “Yeah. I’ve considered it. Looked at a few sites. Thought about going somewhere where they’d blindfold me and tie me up, and it’d just be out of my fucking hands—”

He cut himself off. Hannibal crossed his legs, ankle over knee, and prompted, “And did you ever go?”

“No. I couldn’t gather the courage. It’s one thing for a girl to run out on you for bad technique. If I went to someone who was specifically looking for sex, said ‘do whatever you want with me,’ and still got turned down, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Hannibal hummed without comment. Personally, he was thankful for Will’s insecurities, both out of a sense of possessiveness and because he preferred not to have to re-train over bad habits. At the same time, the thought that any dominant could look at Will – at his perfect, desperate eyes and overwhelming need to be controlled – and deny him was ridiculous.

Will’s pensive frown twisted into a sardonic grin as he finally took the seat across from Hannibal. “Besides, with my luck I’d end up with the singular serial killer in the bunch and live out the rest of my days locked in a secret bunker in Milwaukee.”

Hannibal smiled, showing he understood the humor, but considering the way Mr. Brown, Tobias, and even Hannibal himself had focused in on Will, it was a real possibility.

He motioned to the empty glass in Will’s hand. “Would you like another?”

“I probably shouldn’t.”

“You have somewhere else to be?”

“You know I don’t. I just didn’t want to waste all your fancy liquor. But hey, it’s your house.” He offered Hannibal his glass, and Hannibal accepted.

By the liquor cabinet, Hannibal poured Will another two fingers and stirred in a crushed Rohypnol. He hadn’t consumed enough of his own wine to require a refill. When he returned, Will reached out and gave thanks.

“So what about you? You a BDSM guy?”

“On occasion. It takes the right submissive to spark my interest.”

Will snorted. “Course you’d be a dominant. Not all the time though?”

“I care for quality over quantity. There is no pleasure in controlling someone who does not wish to be controlled.”

“I guess I never thought about it like that. But even if my partner were good at it, I don’t think I’d want it all the time. That’d be too much pressure, too.”

“All things in moderation.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Hannibal sipped his wine, prompting an unconscious mimicry in Will.

“How have you been settling in at work?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess. Jack’s riding my ass over the latest Ripper killing. Lounds figured out I’m back – but I guess you’ve seen the article already – and…” Will swayed. Furrowed his brows. Blinked a few times. Took another swig of scotch to wake himself back up. “And they’re bringing two interns in to help with the workload, just until the Ripper is caught. Top of their class, supposedly, but all it really comes down to is warm bodies who don’t expect to get paid well.”

“If I’m not mistaken, the Ripper kills in threes. Was this not the last body in his sounder?”

Will shook his head, eyes drooping and body relaxing even as he explained, “It’s not that simple. It doesn’t matter that he kills in threes. It matters why he kills in threes.”

“And why does he kill in threes?”

“Because why not? It’s an aesthetically pleasing number. It provides a nice separation between sets of tableaus, like a palette cleanser. It doesn’t actually matter why because he doesn’t actually care. It’s something he decided on, not a compulsion.”

Hannibal’s chest warmed at the assessment. The clarity with which Will could see Hannibal’s alter ego was both startling and humbling. It reminded him that, while he stood far above the majority of the human race, he was not invincible.

Not versing Will, at least.

Hannibal leaned forward as Will’s head slumped, catching his glass before the remainder of the scotch could stain the rug. Rather than immediately setting to work, he went to the kitchen and cleaned their glasses.

When he returned, he put the tumbler and wine glass away. He then positioned one arm along Will’s upper back and the other under his knees, picking him up in a bridal carry. Will wasn’t light, but he was lighter than he should be given his height and age.

Hannibal carried him up the stairs, to the guest bedroom down the hall from the master suite, then laid him gently on the bed. From there, he retrieved the medical bag he’d prepared specifically for this occasion and unbuttoned Will’s jeans.

While Will didn’t smell of disease, it was better to be safe than sorry. And better still, to be certain that they could safely take their fill of each other from the moment Will consented onward.

He tugged the worn jeans and boxers down past the swell of Will’s ass, then pulled on a pair of sterile, latex gloves. He took the swabs out first: one for saliva, one for the skin around his genitals, and one for the urethra. With his samples safely stored in test tubes, he moved onto the catheter. Will’s cock did not harden when touched, but Hannibal didn’t expect it to. He pressed the thin tube into Will’s slit, feeding it through until it reached the bladder and started to collect urine.

While the catheter bag filled, Hannibal replaced his gloves with a fresh pair and prepared a syringe. For all that Will’s body was unhealthy, his veins were bright and bulging. Hannibal tied an elastic tourniquet just above Will’s elbow, flicked the median cubital vein, and inserted the needle.

He had everything he needed in less than ten minutes with Will none the wiser. He redressed Will without flourish, not wishing to see more than necessary until expressly invited to do so.

It was only in turning to leave that Hannibal faltered, eyes drawn (as they so often were) to Will’s lips.

He imagined, for a moment, taking out his own cock and stroking it to full hardness. Imagined pressing the tip to Will’s lips and painting them with precum. Will would be asleep, as he was now, but accepting. Hannibal would place his thumb between Will’s teeth to prevent accidental biting and use Will’s mouth as he pleased. Soft, languid thrusts down the tight cavern of Will’s throat followed by Hannibal spilling himself into Will’s mouth, directly on the tongue.

And Will, swallowing.

It was such a powerful fantasy that Hannibal was already half-hard in his slacks, but he did not touch. He wanted, of course, to be inside Will in every way imaginable. Not only his dick in Will’s mouth, but his hands in Will’s chest. His thoughts in Will’s mind. His essence in Will’s stomach.

Hannibal licked his lips, eyes still on Will’s delectable mouth, and decided that while the majority of those desires required express consent, not all of them did. Will, after all, had already partaken in the bodies of numerous others without knowledge or issue.

What was the trouble in one more?

(***Paragon***)

Will stared at the latest crime scene photos as though a new answer or clue would miraculously reveal itself.

The woman, Nancy Flemming, had been flayed everywhere but around the eyes. Her lungs and kidneys had been removed with surgical precision, pre-mortem. She’d been posed on a chair, milky-white eyes staring at an open, empty cage.

The Ripper was saying, “You’re welcome.”

It wasn’t that Will was entirely surprised by the contact. The Ripper was a narcissist who doubtlessly kept up with any and all coverage on his public profile. If he hadn’t known who Will was before Will had been mistaken for the Ripper (unlikely, considering how often Lounds had singled him out during the previous Ripper sounder), he certainly knew after.

No, the surprise came with the fact that the Ripper felt it necessary to say, “You’re welcome,” which implied there was a reason for Will to have said, “Thanks.” And the only possible conclusion to draw from there was that the Ripper’s motivation for his newest sounder had been specifically to set Will free.

Which was… something.

Not something good, but not necessarily something bad, either. The Ripper wasn’t in the habit of doing people favors. Would he expect something in return?

Will shifted in his seat, resisting the urge to adjust himself. While sleeping in a soft, warm bed made the rest of his body feel fantastic, his dick ached. Maybe he’d slept on it wrong? Not out of the question, considering he’d been drunk enough not to remember how he got to bed.

“Graham!” Fingers snapped in front of Will’s face, bringing him back to the present.

“What do you want, Jack?”

Jack frowned at his tone, but Jack had also sent him to prison. Will scowled, unrepentant.

“I want you to get out of your own head for a second and pay attention. These are our new recruits.” He motioned to a man (early twenties, slightly smaller than Will, well-groomed with an ego to match the price tag on his clothes) and a woman (early twenties, athletic, eager to prove herself in a male-dominated field without sacrificing her integrity) who were apparently also in front of Will’s desk.

The man gave Will a bored once-over, and it was unlikely he saw anything past Will’s old, rumpled shirt and jeans. Rather than holding out a hand, he nodded and said, “Aaron Cavell. Nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Ava. Ava Fairfield.” She held out an enthusiastic hand, which Will shook. “I’ve read all your papers. I was actually signed up to take your class on the psyche of a serial killer right before…”

“Before I got arrested.”

“Yeah.”  She frowned, sheepish and apologetic. Genuine.

Will leaned back in his chair. “Don’t worry about it. The class wasn’t that great. I hear the professor got called out on cases so often it was practically self-study.”

She giggled, a pretty blush rising on dark cheeks. Jack nodded. “Alright. Everybody knows everybody? Good. They’re at your disposal. Use them.”

Will furrowed his brows and motioned to the casefiles strewn across his desk. “For what?”

“I don’t care. Just catch the Ripper.”

Just catch the most notorious serial killer in the history of Baltimore. Right.

Aloud, Will only sighed. “Yeah. Sure. You two go get printouts of the latest Ripper sounder. Go over every detail, and when you’re done, tell me what you see.”

Ava nodded, immediately turning to do as she was told. Aaron looked to Jack, who glared back, before following. Jack barely spared Will a glance before returning to his office, which was well enough because Will was in an arguing mood. He didn’t need some starry-eyed brats following him around at crime scenes, asking stupid questions when all they really needed to do was get the heck out of dodge. Life in the BAU had ruined Jack, ruined Will, and it would ruin them, too.

Katz sat on the edge of his desk. “Hard day?”

“And it’s only ten in the morning.”

“It’s one PM.”

Will glanced at the clock on his taskbar with a surprised hum. So it was.

Katz laughed. “Three years and you haven’t changed a bit. Do you want to go get lunch with me?” Will opened his mouth to decline only for her to say, “My treat.”

He groaned. “You know I can’t turn down free food.”

“Yes. I do know.” She stood and held out both hands for him to take. He rolled his eyes and stood on his own. They walked to a café down the street, Katz rambling about how her girlfriend hated her boyfriend and that they were trying to make her choose, not realizing that she’d rather be alone than play into their egos. While Will couldn’t relate to multiple people fighting for his affections, he could definitely get behind bucking their expectations.

It wasn’t until they were seated, food in hand, that Katz got serious.

“So… That Lounds article. It was pretty harsh.”

Will spoke around a mouthful of half-chewed sandwich. “I didn’t read it.”

“No? Well, good. It was all bullshit anyway.”

“Let me guess. I’m crazy, the FBI is crazy for hiring me again, and… I’m still the Ripper?”

Katz smiled. “Close. You’re actually working with the Ripper.”

“Right. Because both the Ripper and I are so prone to teamwork.”

Her smile faded. “I’m sorry this is happening to you. Seriously. It’s not fair. Wouldn’t be fair to anyone, but especially not to you.”

Will shrugged tersely. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not, Will. It’s really, really not. And I know it’s in your blood to march through the storm without accepting aid, but you don’t have to do this alone.”

“What? You want us to be best friends? Sit down and braid each other’s hair over mimosas?”

Katz rolled her eyes. “You’d be terrible at braiding hair, and you know it. But, no. I’m not expecting us to be besties. Having lunch together every now and again though? Being on a first name basis? I don’t think that’s too far a reach.”

He stared down the half-eaten sandwich in his hands, wishing she were being less reasonable. It wasn’t like he wanted more friends. Dr. Lecter was enough. But he didn’t resent Katz the same way he resented Alana, either. Katz was… pleasantly neutral. If he let her closer than that, if she betrayed him again, there would be only him to blame.

Fool me once.

Still, she seemed genuine. Katz had always made decisions based on her personal morals coupled with presented fact, not out of malice. He risked a glance at her eyes and found only sincerity. She wanted to be his friend. To be there for him, even if only in small, innocuous ways.

Eventually, he nodded. “Okay. Beverly then.”

Tension drained from her posture. “And Jimmy and Brian?”

“What about them?”

“Well, the only reason they aren’t here is because we didn’t want to scare you off.” She lifted a forkful of salad in a faux-casual wave. “They would’ve scared you off, right?”

It stung, realizing they were approaching him like an injured animal. It stung even more knowing that was the right move. He glowered.

“Yeah.”

“And that’s okay. We don’t want to force you into anything or make you uncomfortable. Just know that they want the same things I do, and if you’d be okay having lunch with all three of us sometime, we’d really like that.”

Will tugged on the frayed edges of his sleeve. It did sound nice, when she put it like that. Nothing as serious, deep, or time-consuming as what he had with Dr. Lecter, but still amicable. A good time with people who didn’t think he was crazy (or at least if they did think he was crazy, they’d say it to his face). He nodded almost without meaning to.

“Alright. But you’re buying.”

She held up both hands in immediate surrender. “No prob, Bob. Any other conditions?”

Will shook his head. “Nah. So long as it’s just you three, I’m good.”

“It will be. Though I can’t promise that Ava girl won’t try and bribe her way in. Did you see the way she looked at you?” Beverly waggled her eyebrows.

“Yeah. Like a student looking to learn.” Will crumpled the paper his sandwich had been sitting on. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” She stuffed another two bites of salad into her mouth and capped the rest for later. “Let’s go.”

They walked back to the office together, and though nothing had technically changed, it was different. They walked a little closer. Will felt a little lighter.

Maybe having friends (friends, plural) wouldn’t be so bad.

Chapter Text

Over the weekend, Will received another box with equally nice, useful things. There were tennis shoes (fit for both running and tromping through the forest), two pairs of jeans (workman heavy, not the flimsy, designer bullshit), a super soft, dark green sweater, four pairs of thick, crew cut socks, a fleece-lined blue flannel, a plain black button-up, and a red cashmere blanket.

It was the blanket that tipped him off.

He’d slept with a similar one a week ago, the only difference being that Dr. Lecter’s was blue, not red. What he didn’t know was what to do with that information. It wasn’t like he could get mad at the man, considering how much he’d appreciated the items before knowing who they were from. And, technically, Dr. Lecter did everything in his power to offer aid while still sparing Will’s pride.

It was thoughtful. It was nice.

Will couldn’t let it go.

He rubbed his palm over the rough material of his new jeans and stared at the files on his desk, willing himself to focus. Fingers tapped a photo, drawing his attention to Alana, who had pulled a chair up to his desk some time ago. While she still wasn’t forgiven, by any means, their relationship wasn’t hostile. Well, it wasn’t blatantly hostile. Or rather, it wasn’t blatantly hostile all the time.

He was trying, okay?

Will used a mostly neutral tone to say, “Yeah?”

“Do you think the Ripper always planned to free you, or did something spur this?”

“Both. He’s a cannibal. The fact that he kept some of the organs says he always planned to use them like this, it was just a matter of when. And while three years seems like a long time for you or me, he’s coma-level patient. Something pushed him to move early.”

“Any idea what?”

Will shook his head. Alana moved the pictures around so a different one topped the pile.

“Anything new happen to you around then?”

“No. Why?”

She gave him an unamused look. “Because he purposefully set you free. Like it or not, you’re at the center of this. Maybe he visited you? Or you did something, and he heard about it?”

“The only new visitors were Dr. Lecter and my lawyer, and I highly doubt either of them is the Ripper.”

“No, probably not.” She sighed. “I’m just trying to think of all the options, Will. He did this for a reason. We need to figure out what.”

“I already told you. The reason was to set me free.”

“Yes, but why?”

“I don’t know. I can think like the Ripper sometimes, but I don’t live his life. He could have picked up an orange at the supermarket and thought, ‘Man, I’d like to take credit for killing again. Time to free Will.’ Just because he had a reason doesn’t mean it was a good one.”

“You really think he’d do this on a whim?”

“I think he does most things on a whim.”

Alana rested her elbows on the desk and used both hands to push her hair out of her face. She stared at the files as though they had all the answers, and Will, just for a moment, admired her inability to empathize.

Then she took out her phone and said, “I’m going to text Hannibal. See if he wants to come brainstorm with us.”

Will grimaced, partially because he hadn’t figured out how to confront Dr. Lecter over the care packages and partially because he was jealous that he couldn’t text the man himself. (Jack, despite his promises to get Will a phone, seemed perfectly content with just showing up at Will’s at two AM and dragging him out of not-bed.)

Alana caught the look and asked, “Do you not want him to come?”

“No. It’s not that. Text away.”

“Will, it’s okay to say no. If you have a problem with Hannibal—”

“Jesus, Alana. I said you could invite him. What more do you want?”

She hesitated, typed something that was way too long to be an invitation, waited around fifteen seconds, typed something else, then put her phone face down on the desk.

“He said he’s busy. Next time.”

Will wanted to roll his eyes at how obvious she was being. He also wanted to grab her phone and look at whatever idiot thing she’d told Dr. Lecter, but that felt childish. He went back to flipping through the file.

Her phone dinged. Will pretended not to notice her glancing at him before she picked it up. She typed out something even longer than the first message, paused, typed some more, then placed the phone face down again. It almost immediately dinged.

He turned a page. She texted some more. Her phone rang.

“Excuse me. I’ve got to take this.” She answered the call with a quiet, “Hey,” then left the room.

Will packed up his files and threw them into his ratty satchel. If he’d wanted to watch people gossip about him like he wasn’t there, he would’ve stayed in prison. He slung the strap over his shoulder, waved to the others, and headed out.

He passed Alana in the hall. She hurriedly whispered, “Will’s leaving. I’ve got to go.” then fast-walked after him. Once they were side-by-side, she asked, “Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“If it’s fine, why are you leaving?”

“I can do the rest at home.”

“At home? Will, it’s below freezing.”

“So?”

“So Jack told me you don’t have electricity. I thought for sure you were going to stay here tonight.”

“Yeah? Well, making incorrect assumptions about me is kind of your thing at this point, isn’t it?” He used his back to push open the door, and frigid, snow-filled air greeted him.

“Will.”

She watched him without following. He turned and made his way to the car.

It wasn’t a blizzard by any means, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable. He decided Dr. Lecter had probably checked the weather before buying him a blanket, and the thought was as ridiculous as it was heartwarming. He really needed to tell the man to stop.

He drove slowly, honestly a little scared that his half-bald tires would have him spinning out. By the time he got home, his fingers and toes were half-frozen, and he was shivering uncontrollably. It took him an awkward amount of time to start a fire.

For the first time, he was actually glad his dogs weren’t there. At least they were probably warm and cozy with food in their fluffy bellies. He’d have hated himself if he’d subjected them to something like this.

He curled up under both his blankets, still in his hat and coat, and sat as close to the fire as possible without burning himself. His fingers, toes, and face were too warm. The rest of him was freezing. He hugged his knees to his chest and, for the first time in weeks, acknowledged how completely and utterly fucked he was.

Payday was two weeks away. He had enough firewood, but the hardwood flooring wasn’t doing him any favors. He needed to go upstairs and get all his clothes. Make them into a nest of sorts. Warmth was warmth, and he couldn’t be picky about where it came from.

A sharp pang of longing shot through his chest as he thought about Dr. Lecter’s warm kitchen and soft guest bed, and he hated the tears he felt gathering behind his eyes. He didn’t need Dr. Lecter’s kindness. Didn’t need a bed or gourmet fucking food. This wasn’t the first shit situation life had handed Will, and it wouldn’t be the last. He could handle it.

He was fine.

Will wiped his eyes, refusing to cry even when no one was around to berate him for it, and went upstairs to gather his clothes. He was alone. Freezing. Starving.

And he was fine.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal was surprised to find Will at his door for two reasons. One: Will hadn’t told Hannibal he was coming. Two: Alana had informed him less than two days ago that Will had reacted unfavorably to the idea of Hannibal joining them at the office, the likely cause being that he “needed space.” While Hannibal didn’t like the idea of giving Will space, he could respect it.

If that was what Will needed.

The fact that he was standing at Hannibal’s door, cooler in hand, said that wasn’t the case. Hannibal opened the door wider and let him in.

“Will. What a pleasant surprise.”

Will walked into Hannibal’s house like it was his own. He paused only long enough for Hannibal to take his coat and hat, then made his way to the kitchen. Hannibal, more than curious to see where this was going, followed.

“I don’t know what Alana told you, but she’s wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And next time you want to call and chat about me, make sure I’m not in the room.” Will stood on the side of the island nearest the stove and opened the cooler. Hannibal watched with ever-growing interest as he retrieved one of Hannibal’s cutting boards and a fillet knife, washed his hands, and pulled a medium-sized bass from the cooler. A glance in Hannibal’s direction told him Will was waiting on an answer.

“Alana requested I call, so I called. Nothing more.”

Will grunted as he scaled the fish. “Ask me why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m cooking for you. Ask me if there’s an occasion.”

“Is there an occasion?”

A slice down the bass’ underbelly and an expert flick of the knife had entrails spilling onto the counter. “No. I just figured if you’re going to provide for me, it’s only fair I return the favor.” A pause where Will, for the briefest second, met Hannibal’s eyes. “The care packages, Dr. Lecter. You have the same blanket on your guest bed, in blue.”

“Ah.” Hannibal nodded, attention still trained on Will’s hands as he beheaded the fish with a single, sure chop. “Does it bother you?”

“Yes.” Two swift flicks of the knife, and the bones were out. Will set the knife down and moved to wash the meat. His back was to Hannibal as he gruffly added, “Probably not as much as it should. I did need the stuff, and I’m grateful. Knowing my luck, I would have frozen to death without it.” He carried the fillets back over in one hand and retrieved a clean plate with another. “So, thanks for that. Really.”

“You are welcome.”

Will placed a large frying pan on the stove to heat as he searched through Hannibal’s fridge. He brought out butter, lemon, and broccoli, dropped a half-stick of butter into the pan, and started cleaning the mess he’d made while gutting the fish.

“You can stop now though. I’ve got a job. My house isn’t as nice as yours, but it’s livable. I’ve got plenty of clothes. I don’t need your charity or… whatever this is.”

Hannibal tilted his head, choosing to observe rather than respond. As with the previous time Will tried to push Hannibal away, the boy was tensed as if readying for a physical impact. He was waiting for Hannibal to agree.

Which meant it wasn’t that Will didn’t want the things, but that he didn’t know how to accept them. He was proud of his ability to take care of himself. Wary of kindness with no visible strings attached. Even now, he was giving back to (repaying) Hannibal in the only way he knew how.

But those were only surface reasons. Things Will clung to like a shield and presented to the world. The truth was deeper. Sharper. It was in the way Will held himself and how careful he was not to get blood on the shirt Hannibal had bought him.

Will didn’t value himself.

He likely didn’t believe himself worth the money Hannibal had spent and, worse still, felt like such nice things were wasted on him. And he would rather turn the things away, never experiencing the comfort or pleasure they could bring, than to have someone notice the dissonance and point it out. Especially if that someone were Hannibal.

These were all ridiculous misconceptions, of course, and would need to be cleared accordingly. For the moment, however, Hannibal focused on himself.

“I agree. You don’t require charity or assistance of any sort.” Hannibal watched Will nod tensely and add broccoli florets to the pan. “That said, I will not stop buying you whatever material items suit my fancy.”

Will spun around, eyes wide. “What? Why the hell not?”

“Because the money is mine to spend as I please. Just as you cannot reasonably force me to buy you something, you cannot reasonably stop me from giving what I buy to you.”

“I’ll throw it away.”

A bluff.

Still, Hannibal conceded, “What you do with your belongings is your prerogative. If you wish to throw them away, or slice them up, or burn them, I will take no offense. You’d do well to keep it from me though, lest I simply buy you another.”

Will swallowed thickly, appearing entirely out of his depth. He turned to stir the florets, then added water to the pan. “Why would you—That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I take pleasure in seeing my friends cared for, Will. Money is no object for me, but friends are few and far between. Even if you do not see the joy I take in it, know that there is joy. Indulge me.”

Will faltered. He’d built up defenses for himself in preparation for Hannibal to acquiesce, but much like with Hannibal’s friendship, he seemed entirely unprepared for persistence. He turned to find plates, salted the broccoli, and doled it out. He added more butter to the pan, seasoned the fish, and watched the butter melt. His pointer and middle fingers repeatedly tapped the counter until he could add the fish, too.

It was only after flipping the fish that Will very quietly admitted, “I don’t know how to indulge you.”

Sweet thing. Hannibal smiled, only barely resisting the urge to lower his voice to something gentle and soothing as he said, “Darling Will, you say thank you and move on.”

The stillness Will embodied was a delicate thing: a lonely child awaiting a cruel punchline. Silence swept around them, interrupted only by the crackling of their frying meal. Pink crept up to the tips of Will’s ears, giving away his decision.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Yeah. Thank you.” He moved, plating crisp fish and turning off the stove. He grabbed two forks, then handed Hannibal his plate and utensil without fanfare. Will leaned against the counter with clear intent to eat where he stood, and Hannibal followed his lead. “I’m not great at this friendship stuff. Definitely not good at letting people do things for me. But if you’re really getting something out of this, then okay.”

Will’s fork hovered over his meal, but his eyes were on Hannibal’s plate. Waiting for him to take a bite. Hannibal did so gently, carefully pulling the tender meat off the tines with his teeth, and hummed in appreciation. It was simple but tasteful, likely something Will made for himself time and time again.

“This is delicious. Thank you very much.”

Will nodded and started eating. The vigor with which he ate said it had been a while, and Hannibal was once again honored by Will’s decision to share. Not only did his perfect boy kill and cook something specifically for Hannibal, he did it with the knowledge that what he gave away, he could not take back. Life sustaining nutrients – nutrients which Will could not afford to spare – placed on a plate for Hannibal’s consumption. Physical evidence of Will’s decision to nurture Hannibal’s body in place of his own.

Hannibal closed his eyes to savor the taste, carefully placing this meal (steaming and carelessly plated and perfect) on a shelf in the wing of his Mind Palace dedicated solely to Will. When he opened his eyes, Will was smiling at him.

Hannibal savored that, too.

“Sorry for barging in here like this. I should’ve borrowed someone’s phone and called ahead. Or asked, I guess.”

“Never apologize for gracing me with your company. My home is your home.”

Will snorted. “If my house looked like this, I think I’d notice.” He motioned to the room at large with his fork. “But yeah, I get what you mean. And you know, same goes for you. Show up whenever. You’re always welcome.”

Warmth blossomed in Hannibal’s stomach. “Thank you.”

Will nodded absently. His fork pierced a floret with enough force to make his tines clang against the plate. “So, can I ask you what Alana said about me, or is that bad manners?”

“Yes to both.” Hannibal pulled his phone out of his pocket and brought up Alana’s text chain. He held it out, and it was Will who hesitated.

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I weren’t.”

Will’s eyes flicked to Hannibal’s face, just below his eyes, then returned to the phone. He accepted the device and scrolled upward. Blue eyes glowed with the light of the screen. Pink lips twisted with distaste.

“I’m fragile? What part of me is fragile?”

“None of you. Which is what I say next.” Hannibal walked the few steps to Will, close enough to feel his body heat, and breathed in that perfect blend of sunshine, rain, coffee, and herbs. He tapped the screen over the text bubble stating, ‘He is stronger than you think.’

Will shook his head. “I can’t believe she thinks I’m fragile. Does she not know I went to prison? I mean…” He kept scrolling. “And telling you to back off? That I ‘need space?’ She lost the right to have a say in what I need a long time ago.”

Privately, Hannibal agreed. Aloud, he said, “She means well.”

“Meaning well and doing well are two different things. I know she doesn’t mean to lie, but that doesn’t make her interpretations any less wrong.”

“Are you saying you did not react negatively to the idea of my joining you on the Ripper case?”

Will’s brows scrunched. “No? I mean, I made a face, yeah, but that’s just because I’d figured out you got me all that stuff and didn’t know what to do about it. I told her to invite you.” He motioned to the phone with his free hand. “Which, clearly, she didn’t.”

Hannibal nodded, pleased with the clarification. When Will reached the end of that day’s text chain, he clicked the lock screen button and handed it back. The motion (the fact that he didn’t look at anything past what Hannibal expressly permitted) denoted a lovely level of respect for Hannibal’s privacy.

“Thanks for letting me look. You didn’t have to.”

“Consider it tit for tat. If you and Alana ever have a text conversation about me while I’m sitting with her, I’ll expect full reciprocity.”

Will smiled wryly. “If you ever want your tat, Doctor, I’d change your conditions to something a little more plausible.”

“Like?”

“Like, ‘If you ever cook in my kitchen again, I’ll expect you to clean up as you go’ or ‘If this happens again, I’ll expect you to steal Beverly’s phone and set the story straight.’ At least make it something you actually care about.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t care what you and Alana have to say about me?”

“Because you don’t care what anyone has to say about you. Not really. Not past which way it happens to stroke your ego.” Will’s voice softened. “And because you know I’d tell you anyway.”

Marvelous boy. He seemed to know exactly what to say to melt Hannibal’s heart further, leaving the fearsome Chesapeake Ripper akin to putty in his hands.

Hannibal sighed softly. “Yes. You would, wouldn’t you? Then let’s pick a different tat. If Alana and I have a text conversation about you whilst you are sitting with one or both of us again, I’ll expect you to do this again. To storm into my home, uninvited, all fire and righteous wrath, and cook for me.”

A surprised laugh hopped out of Will. “This is what you like?” He shook his head, lips stretched in an incredulous grin. “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

“Incorrect. I have one friend.”

Aurora borealis eyes blinked, focusing on the knot in Hannibal’s tie. Where most people would have brushed off Hannibal’s words as joking, Will took them at face value. His grin faded, making way for a rarer, more affectionate smile.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

He turned so that his shoulder bumped Hannibal’s, and brief as the contact was, Hannibal reveled in it. It was, after all, the first time Will had initiated contact.

Hannibal approved the gesture with a smile and moved back to his own plate. Unlike Alana, Hannibal would not make the mistake of moving toward Will too quickly. He would not risk scaring his perfect boy off. And one day – not today or tomorrow, but one day – Will would be his.

Hannibal would make sure of it.

(***Paragon***)

Will breathed in the killer as the pendulum swung. Felt the disdain for those weak bitches deep in his bones. He lifted his gun just to see his victims, tied up as they were, flinch.

“I hate women. Hate the way you walk. The way you talk. The way you enter a bar and expect me to buy your drink. And for what? So you can go home with some other guy, slobber on his dick like he’s the one that did you a favor? No fucking thank you. Not that it’s your fault. No, it’s this new age, equality bullshit making you think you can just take what you want. Be who you want. When you can’t! Those are men’s jobs you’re taking! Men’s reputations you’re slandering! If you didn’t want to be labeled a slut, you shouldn’t have put out.”

Will fired his gun, planting a bullet in the wall. The bitches sobbed at his show of power, no doubt as turned on as they were afraid. But his dick wasn’t an option for them. Not anymore.

“I’ll teach you where your place is. Teach you the job you were meant to do before you spread your legs and fucked your way to the top. Consider this lesson one.”

He mutilated their genitals first, leaving them wide open for anyone who walked by to have and take as they pleased. Cut their ligaments so they couldn’t fight back. Legs amputated at the knees. Jaws wired open. And after the bitches were properly humiliated – turned into puppets meant solely for the pleasure of men – he threw salt into the wounds by refusing to use them. Stupid, power hungry women: only useful for one thing and not even good enough for that.

Disgusting.

Will’s stomach churned as he came back to himself. The thought of hurting women like that made him want to hurl. To scrub himself clean and apologize to every female he’d ever come in contact with. He turned away from the bitches (Women, he reminded himself. They’re women.) and left the house.

It was hard, at times like this, not to hide himself away inside the Ripper. Will had never been great at separating himself out from the killers. There was too much darkness inside him, and he didn’t have a great hold on the leash.

A swarm of officers and agents awaited him outside. Jack barked orders for the forensics team to go in before nodding to Will.

“What’d you see?”

“White male, early thirties, narcissist. Violently sexist, but he cares more about the women’s careers than the women themselves. They took the jobs he wanted. The jobs he felt he deserved. He’s handsome enough to get a date, but his personality scares them off every time. He doesn’t have professional medical training, but he applied to a lot of med schools. Maybe even got in once only to be kicked out for bad behavior. He likely tells people he’s a doctor, lives above his means.” Will racked his mind for any other useful details. “He’ll insert himself into the investigation. Not just an anonymous tip or a drop by the station. He’ll be at the crime scenes. Interview the officers and start keeping a record of any passersby.”

“Start? You think he’s here right now?”

Will shook his head. “No. He was here, but he’s not confident enough to stick around. Not yet. The more scenes he makes, the longer he’ll stay.”

Jack cursed but nodded. “Good work.”

Will clenched his fists. Tugged at his beanie. Stared at the ground. “Anything else?”

“No. Go write your report.”

Will nodded and turned only to practically slam into Dr. Lecter. He took a stumbling step back while Dr. Lecter reached out to steady him with firm hands on Will’s shoulders. As soon as Will was steady, he doubled the space between them and focused intently on the spot where Dr. Lecter’s pantleg met his shoe.

“Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Dr. Lecter, completely unperturbed by Will’s graceless idiocy, said, “I’ve been told more than once that I’m too quiet for my own good.”

“Maybe we should put a bell on you.”

“Perhaps.”

Will glanced up just enough to catch the hint of a smile on Dr. Lecter’s lips, then returned his gaze to the pantleg-shoe juncture. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear your rather thorough profile. Tell me, how long were you with the bodies?”

Will shrugged. Time passed differently in the killers’ heads.

To his right, Jack said, “Four minutes.”

There was pride in his voice, like Will’s accomplishments were Jack’s own. Will frowned.

Dr. Lecter said, “Impressive. And how are you feeling, Will?”

Will shrugged again, terser this time. “Fine.”

He didn’t have to look to see Jack and Dr. Lecter exchanging a glance. Two more pairs of shoes joined them: Ava’s and Aaron’s.

Ava’s were pointed toward Will as she asked, “Are you okay?” She sounded worried. Shaken. This was probably her first crime scene.

Will straightened and met her eyes. (Disgust. Anger. Strength. Disbelief. She was thankful not to be one of the women rotting in that house, but she didn’t yet understand that the only thing separating their fates was time and attention. Killers could target anyone.) “Tell me what you saw.”

“What? I, um…” She glanced around their circle, unsure. “He amputated the legs—”

“No. Not physically. Mentally. What did you see?”

“He’s angry. Angry at women. At the world. He made them into sick sex toys. Probably raped them—”

“He didn’t rape them.”

“Impotent then—”

“No. Go back in there and look again. I want a profile on my desk by morning.” Will nodded toward the house, and Ava didn’t argue. He turned to face Aaron (Arrogant. Desperate to prove himself. Raised in a large, academically inclined family with no obvious way to gain recognition. He thought he was better than those who broke the law simply by nature of being in the FBI. He was wrong). “Now you.”

“Angry, like she said. Sexist. He did it because they’re women. Because he can’t get a date—”

“No.”

Aaron faltered. His eyes flitted to Dr. Lecter, denoting some sort of respect for the older man. “Because a woman spurned him in the past then. Someone close to him. Maybe a mom or a siste—”

“No. Go look again. Profile on my desk by morning.”

Aaron’s forehead rumpled like he honestly hadn’t expected this outcome. He looked between Dr. Lecter and Jack, neither of which were going to help, then gave a tense nod and trotted off.

Once they were both in the house, Jack said, “Not going easy on them, are you?”

“You wanted me to teach them. This is me, teaching.” He pressed a gloved finger to his temple, and it was with a surprising suddenness that he realized he both had a pounding headache and was freezing.

Jack said, “Hey. I’m not complaining. Just don’t break them too fast. Interns take more paperwork than you’d think.”

Will bared his teeth. Dr. Lecter stepped in with a smooth, “Jack, perhaps you should lend a guiding hand. I’m sure that newcomers and seasoned agents alike would benefit from observing your crime scene methodology.”

Jack blinked, surprised, then bolstered a bit at the praise. He was as taken in by Dr. Lecter’s charms as everyone else. “Not a bad idea. I think I will.”

Dr. Lecter offered Will another small, sphynx-like smile, then placed a hand on the small of Jack’s back to guide him away.

Will tilted his head, mind almost too tired to process the sight. A second later, he relaxed into the knowledge that Dr. Lecter didn’t consider touch a measure of closeness.

While Dr. Lecter never touched Will in any way that could be considered untoward, Will was so awkward that even his own caresses sometimes made him uncomfortable. That reflexive backpedaling was even worse with someone as socially aware as Dr. Lecter. Not knowing what each touch meant – what social contract he was agreeing to or denying by leaning in or away – was stressful as fuck. The counter-knowledge that Dr. Lecter didn’t mean anything by the touches (that he was just a naturally tactile person) was more than a bit of a relief.

Will ran a tired hand through his hair as he started the snowy trek toward his car. He’d steal some aspirin from Jimmy’s lunchbox when he got to the office and maybe get in a quick nap at his desk before the others returned.

“Graham!”

Will closed his eyes and counted to five before turning to see Jack and Dr. Lecter heading back toward him. Jack held his phone in the air: a beacon capable of transmitting only one signal. Will knew before words were spoken that there’d been another murder.

He chewed on the fat of his cheek, nowhere near ready to do this again. “More from this guy?”

“Worse.” Jack motioned to Will’s car in a clear order for him to get in. “It’s the Ripper.”

Will’s heart plummeted. “I don’t think I can—”

“You don’t have a choice, Graham. We need you on this. The scene’s an hour away. Use the drive to get your head on straight, and I’ll see you there.”

Jack walked away without waiting for a response. Will’s headache intensified.

A gentle tap on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Back to Dr. Lecter. The man was still beside Will, inscrutable as ever. He didn’t even look cold.

“Would you like to ride with me?”

Will glanced at his car, flexed stiff fingers, and nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Dr. Lecter’s car wasn’t parked far from Will’s. Dr. Lecter opened the passenger door, as he seemed intent to do every time Will rode with him, and Will got in. The car was already on, already heating. He held his hands next to the vents to warm up faster.

Dr. Lecter joined him a second later. He typed the address into the GPS on the dash, then they were off. Will rested his head against the window and watched the streetlights pass.

Seconds ticked into minutes, and Will, blanketed by comfortable silence, was nearly asleep when Dr. Lecter asked, “Did the Ripper not shield you this time?”

Will blinked out of his sleepy stupor. He twisted his neck to see Dr. Lecter, who was (predictably) staring at the road.

“It’s not that simple.”

“No?”

“I have to become the killers to see what they did. To know why. I can’t be them and the Ripper at the same time.”

“Could you not become the Ripper afterward? Let him absorb the emotional trauma in your stead?”

Will shrugged because it was true. “That’s a dangerous game, Dr. Lecter. If you gaze for long into an abyss…”

“The abyss also gazes into you. Do you fear the Ripper will see you, should you pretend to be him too often?”

“The Ripper already sees me, but no. I’m not afraid of him. What I’m afraid of is myself. My own darkness, hiding in the Ripper’s shadow.”

Dr. Lecter glanced at Will. “We all have something dark in us, lingering just beneath the surface.”

“Mine’s not beneath the surface. It is the surface. Not threatening, not yet, but ever-present.”

“When did you first notice this darkness?”

“Always. But more in prison.” Will rolled his shoulders and sat up so he could look at Dr. Lecter more easily. “It was bad in there, Dr. Lecter. Really bad. And it changed me. I know so because pre-prison, I never would have seriously considered vigilante justice. Murder was wrong, and that was that. In prison, on the other hand, I started to question how ‘bad’ killing someone actually was. Just, on a scale of one to ten.

“And you see, pre-prison, I’d call it an eleven. No hesitation. But standing there, alone in my cell for days on end, I thought, ‘maybe a six.’ Surely dying couldn’t be that much worse than being stuck in a box and left to gather dust. And if death and being stuck in a box are equal, then what a killer does and what the justice system – what my friends – did to me must be equal, too. And I tried to lock it up, what prison brought out in me, but—”

“It is the surface.”

“Yes.”

“You considered killing the man who mutilated those women today.”

“No.”

Dr. Lecter glanced at Will, questioning.

Will kept his eyes firmly on the rose gold knot of Dr. Lecter’s tie as he clarified, “I didn’t consider it. I wanted it. And that’s why I can’t be the Ripper after a crime scene. At least I know, on a technical level, that murder is wrong. The Ripper though…?”

He shrugged again, feeling like a half-empty, mixed-up shell of a person. Not their killer, not the Ripper, and not Will quite yet, either. Dr. Lecter (the saint) didn’t even blink at Will’s confession.

“You have been through a major trauma, Will. Even if you refuse to view it as such. You did, are still doing, only what is necessary to protect yourself.”

“It doesn’t feel like protecting myself.”

“Are all things which leave us feeling safe at the end of the day not some form of protection?”

Will wanted to say, ‘I don’t feel safe,’ but that wasn’t strictly true. He wouldn’t feel safe later, at the end of the day. Now though? Sitting in a warm car, breathing in softly spiced cologne and the doctor’s natural scent, Will felt the safest he had in years.

He shuffled so his shoulder was comfortably pressed to the seat and he was facing Dr. Lecter. “What makes you feel safe?”

“Myself, mostly. I have been alone a very long time, and it is admittedly difficult to depend on others.”

Will scoffed goodheartedly. “Can’t relate to that at all.”

Dr. Lecter’s lips twitched into one of his barely-there smiles. “No. I’m sure you couldn’t.”

The car slowed to a stop, and Will straightened, more than a little surprised that the hour had flown so quickly. “We’re here?”

“We are.” He turned off the car. “Do you need a moment?”

“No. I’m good.”

Dr. Lecter nodded and got out. Will opened his own door quickly, before the doctor could do it for him. They’d parked on a backstreet: next to an embankment, behind Jack and a line of cruisers. Red and blue lights decorated the snow, which should have been pretty but was mostly annoying. Jesus Christ, snow was reflective.

Will scowled and followed the trail of footprints. Jack’s voice thundered as he ordered everyone to clear the scene, and Will’s headache returned with startling clarity. He grit his teeth, all remnants of his good mood gone. He was ready to yell for Jack to quiet the fuck down when he crested the hill.

And oh. The Ripper was in love.

Will felt the roots of it curl around and crush his own reaction, leaving only the Ripper’s feelings in its wake. Adoration. Devotion. Obsession. This wasn’t the cool, unshakeable façade of the Ripper he’d embodied in prison. No, this Ripper was a series of fireworks. Explosions of color and life that blinded and filled Will. He didn’t realize he was crying until the tears froze on his face, and even then, it was a peripheral acknowledgement.

He stepped closer to the body – the gift – with careful reverence, everything else falling away. The skin was so white it was nearly translucent, the snow only adding to the effect. A perfect line parted the middle of the torso, baring its nearly empty chest cavity to the world. The body’s ribs, along with the ribs of what had to be half a dozen others, stuck out from the chest like flower petals. A meticulous arrangement of bones meant to imitate a Venus flytrap. And there, at the center of it all, a heart.

A heart worth losing a hand over. A heart worth protecting. A heart which the Ripper would not stop until he obtained.

Will breathed in, slow and shaky. He reached up with shaking fingers and dabbed at his eyes. Still crying. Jesus-fuck. He rubbed his eyes harshly with his sleeve, then his whole face with both hands. What the fuck was wrong with him? He couldn’t cry at a crime scene. He spun around only to come toe-to-toe with Dr. Lecter.

Fucking hell, Dr. Lecter saw all of that.

Will rubbed his eyes again out of reflex and quickly stepped around the older man to fast walk (he wasn’t running) toward Jack.

Jack awaited him at the bottom of the hill, arms crossed over his chest. “Well? What’d you see?”

“He’s in love.”

“What?” Jack’s entire forehead scrunched. “What do you mean in love? He’s a psychopath. He isn’t capable of love.”

Will snapped. “Well then he’s in his version of love. I don’t know what you want from me, Jack.”

“I want you to start making sense!” Jack’s already ridiculously loud voice raised to a yell, cracking against the inside of Will’s skull like a baseball bat. “Are you telling me this is some sort of sick love letter?”

“No. A love letter is juvenile. This is a declaration of intent.”

“Intent to what?”

“To court.” Will rubbed the bridge of his nose as his headache spread to that soft, vulnerable place behind his eyes. “To make whoever that heart represents fall for him just as hard as he fell for them. Look, can I just—can I write it up for you? Please?”

Jack’s glare said the answer was no. Will’s patience thinned. Dr. Lecter stepped in with a soft press of his hand to Will’s lower back and said, “I believe it would be best if I drove Will back to his car. He can return to headquarters from there and write your report.”

Jack looked like he wanted to argue, but it seemed that (unlike with Will) he actually respected Dr. Lecter. He tossed Will another irritated glance, then waved them away.

“Go.”

Will didn’t have to be told twice. He swerved around Jack and sped to Dr. Lecter’s Bentley. Dr. Lecter followed at a much more reasonable pace, though he unlocked the car and started it from afar so Will could go ahead and get in.

Will was once again thawing his hands with the vents when Dr. Lecter joined him. Dr. Lecter didn’t ask questions, didn’t force the issue, simply pulled out into the streets. Will slumped forward, resting his head against the dash.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Why?”

Will glanced at Hannibal from beneath his lashes, voice gruff. “Friendship confidentiality?”

“Always.”

Will hesitated. Sighed from deep within his diaphragm. Whispered, “Because it was beautiful.”

Silence seeped between them, thick only for a second before Dr. Lecter matched Will’s pitch, low and pleasant. “Tell me about it.”

“I never understood people who idolize serial killers until I saw his work.”

“Just now?”

Will shook his head. “Years ago. Before I went to prison. Probably would’ve understood it before that, too, if I were old enough.” He traced intricate patterns on the knee of his jeans, refusing to look up as he said, “I look at cold cases sometimes, just to see if there’s a quick solve. When I’m stuck or can’t sleep. And I kind of just… stumbled across it. Him. The Ripper. Only he wasn’t the Ripper then. He was too young and unrefined. Still honing his craft. But the moment I saw the scenes, I knew.”

“Knew what, Will?”

Will closed his eyes. “He’s not just the Ripper. He’s Il Mostro, too. The Monster of Florence.”

Dr. Lecter’s voice, usually so calm, sounded almost clipped as he asked, “Have you told Jack?”

Will half-flinched, overly aware that telling Jack should have been the first thing he did. Part of him wanted to lie, to save face in front of his only friend, but in the end, he couldn’t do it.

“No. I know I should’ve, but… There can’t be too many people whose living situations overlap with both Il Mostro’s and the Ripper’s kill records, and I still don’t know if I want to catch him yet.”

Will tensed in preparation for a scolding. It never came. Whatever terseness he’d imagined in Dr. Lecter’s voice vanished, returning the man to his default curious-yet-neutral setting.

“Which means you haven’t reached out to the Florence police, either.”

Will shook his head before remembering that Dr. Lecter was driving. “No. I couldn’t raise a question like that without leaving a trail. Tipping somebody off.”

No response. The hum of the Bentley’s engine. The pulse of Will’s own heart.

Then, soft as a butterfly wing: “You’re protecting him.”

“Not protecting. Just not attacking.” Will shook his head again, more for himself this time. “It’s hard to explain. If you just—If you could see what I see, feel what I feel, you wouldn’t turn away from what he’s doing. You’d…” He hesitated, almost afraid of what Dr. Lecter would think of his wayward thoughts. He sounded lost even to his own ears when he finally forced out: “You’d hang it on a wall and worship.”

The conversation lulled long enough to make Will think he’d finally overstepped his bounds. Then Dr. Lecter, in an almost indulgent tone, said, “You speak of him like he is a god.”

“And you speak of him like he isn’t.” Will grimaced. Buried his hand in his hair. Tugged. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t think he’s a god, I just—I don’t—I don’t know what he is, okay? He’s in my head all the time, and I just… I’m just having a hard time separating it out right now. That’s all.”

Dr. Lecter hummed, the lilt of it not quite believing. “You said the Ripper is in love.”

Will sighed, thankful for the change of subject. “Yeah. Though love might not be a strong enough word.”

“What word is more suited?”

“Obsession. Devotion.” Will made a vague gesture with his hand. “I don’t know. Something in French, maybe, for its passion. Or German, for its force. English doesn’t quite cut it on this one.”

Will risked a glance and saw a fond smile flit across Dr. Lecter’s lips. “Would you like me find the proper word for you?”

“Only if you’re willing to trail along behind me and explain it to Jack every time he yells in my ear.” Will rubbed gentle circles into his temple. “Any chance you keep aspirin in your car?”

“I’m afraid not. I rarely get headaches. Would you like me to stop at a gas station?”

“No. That’s okay. Jimmy keeps some in his lunchbox. I’ll steal that.”

“A reasonable choice, considering you’re quite the talented thief.”

Will blinked, confused, then raised both brows in remembrance. He turned his face to rest his cheek on the dash and stare at Dr. Lecter. “Oh yeah. I did pickpocket you, didn’t I? Did I ever give you your wallet back?”

“No, but you are not the only skilled pickpocket.” Dr. Lecter lifted one hand from the wheel with a such a strait-laced expression that Will couldn’t help but grin.

“You? I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

“Then I fear you’ll never believe, as no talented pickpocket would ever get caught.”

“If I steal enough of your things, and you steal enough of them back, I’m bound to catch you eventually.”

“A game, then? To see who catches whom first?”

“Oh, you are so on. Winner gets…?” Will tapped his fingers on his knee. “You already buy me things, and I don’t have any money, so real-people prizes are out. I guess if I win, I’d like some more of that granola you made. Anything you want if you win?”

“A sleepover.”

Will nearly choked on his own laugh. “What?”

“The last time you stayed the night was enjoyable. I’d like you to do so again.”

“Seriously?” When Dr. Lecter’s only response was to nod, Will continued, “No skin off my teeth, I guess. If I win, you make me granola. If you win, I’ll stay the night at your place.”

“Perfect.” Dr. Lecter pulled the car over, and Will was once again surprised to see they’d reached their destination. “I can only assume you’ll need your driver’s license to return to Quantico?”

“Yeah, I—” Will cut himself off as Dr. Lecter held out Will’s wallet. “When did you…?” Dr. Lecter tilted his head, too innocent to be innocent. Will snatched his wallet, and despite the freezing weather awaiting him, the headache pounding behind his eyes, and the near-guarantee that he would get no sleep tonight, he found himself smiling. “Good night, Dr. Lecter.”

“Good night, Will. Drive safely.”

Will nodded and moved from Dr. Lecter’s car to his own. He rubbed gentle lines across the face of his wallet, plenty of places to be but no urge to go. He started the engine.

Ahead of him, Dr. Lecter disappeared into the snow.

Chapter Text

Hannibal picked up a chestnut colored pencil and added a few delicate curls to his drawing of Will. He used his pinky to blend the browns toward the base of the scalp, then switched colors again. Twenty minutes remained until the real Will would knock on his door, joining Hannibal for yet another of their ‘sessions.’

Anticipation simmered in Hannibal's veins at the very thought of it. Of Will, teary eyed and staring in perfect wonder at the gift Hannibal had left him. And so trusting he’d been, afterward, as he confessed he could have already had Hannibal by the tail, just from glancing at an old photo.

(Hannibal had considered, then, the need to render Will immobile and whisk them both away to a country without extradition to continue his courting, but Will was already a step ahead. He was protecting the Ripper.)

Hannibal promised himself that, one day, he would take Will to Florence. He’d show Will the church where he’d had created his first public work of art, then make love to Will in the very pew where he’d nailed the swine down and given it wings. He’d pamper Will in every way possible, never letting the boy lift a finger to do anything for himself. Gifts from every storefront and whims fulfilled on conception.

They would fuck relentlessly, and when they weren’t fucking, Hannibal would hand-dip ripe strawberries in delicate chocolates for Will’s consumption. He’d feed Will by hand, staining those beautiful lips red only to kiss off the sweet juices and begin the process anew, bringing Will to the heights of pleasure and leaving him there for days.

Hannibal stopped drawing, closing both the sketchpad and his eyes as he savored their imaginary vacation.

The idea of a debauched Will in Florence solidified inside a crystal, which Hannibal hung on a chandelier in Will’s wing of the Mind Palace. Next to the fantasy was a memory from the night before: Will staring at his knees as he confessed what he knew of the Ripper, body strung tight as he anxiously awaited Hannibal’s verdict.

And oh, what a sweet sight that had been. Will being so open and vulnerable – so unaware – brought out Hannibal’s predatorial instincts something awful.

He caressed the crystal with the memory, adoring the way Will’s spine tensed with the fear of rejection.

It made Hannibal want to bring those fears to life. To shatter that cherubic show of faith and trust in one fell swoop and reveal everything. He’d drug Will first, to avoid having to harm Will’s precious body in a fight, then tie him to a bed (or a bench or a sex swing) in the basement and watch him crumble.

Will would fight and spit in the beginning, of course, and for a commendable amount of time. He’d be so full of fear and betrayal that giving in wouldn’t even be an option. But darkness and isolation, sensory deprivation, could break even the strongest of men. Given time, Will would have no choice but to seek comfort in Hannibal, for there would be Nothing and No One else. Hannibal would be food, water, and affection. Hannibal would be stimulation, both mental and physical. And, eventually, Will would come to crave Hannibal as Hannibal craved him.

The only downside was that such direct methods tended to break more than just the spirit, and Hannibal wanted Will’s mind intact.

He sighed through his nose, lightly disappointed. Another lifetime, perhaps.

Or perhaps, once they were closer, in a role-playing scene.

He rolled the idea around on his tongue, only taking a few seconds to decide he liked the taste. It would be different from their trip to Florence, but a vacation all the same. One spent at home, with Will tied up and splayed out for Hannibal’s viewing pleasure. He’d have no autonomy at all, unable to so much as use the bathroom on his own, and his only purpose would be for Hannibal to use whenever and however he pleased. Endless days spent with just the two of them. Alone.  

Hannibal caught a familiar whiff of coffee, sunshine, rain, and herbs a moment before Will opened the door and let himself in. Hannibal tucked his musings away for another time, leaving his sketchpad on his desk as he stood. Will, as though aware of Hannibal’s previous, salacious thoughts, blushed.

Curious.

 “Good evening, Will. How are you?”

The moment Hannibal spoke, Will’s blush darkened. He mumbled something unintelligible (probably ‘fine’), then held his arms out as stiffly as the first time Hannibal had taken his coat. He tensed even further when they made contact.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Hannibal hung up Will’s coat and hat, then returned to his usual seat. Will, instead of wandering the room as per his usual routine, headed straight for the chair across from Hannibal. He rubbed both palms against his jeans, back and forth over his knees. The way he stared off to the right, toward the harpsichord, said that he likely didn’t realize he was doing it.

Sensing that this session would be different from their others, Hannibal opted to start them off rather than wait for Will to come around.

“You seem tense, Will.”

Will hunched in on himself. His bitten-down fingernails scraped against his jeans. “Not really. No tenser than usual.”

Deflective. Self-depreciating. An opening meant to lead Hannibal down the path of what Will was usually like as opposed to exploring his current status. Hannibal deferred.

“Does it have to do with work?”

Will tilted his chin downward and twisted his torso away. He shook his head. The truth.

Hannibal paused. Waited for Will to relax. “Does it have to do with me?”

Blue eyes jerked up to Hannibal’s shoulder, horrified and disbelieving, before darting determinedly back to the floor. “No.”

A lie.

Hannibal, more interested than ever, infused concern into his voice as he said, “Will, if I have made you uncomfortable in any way—”

“No! Jesus, no. It’s nothing like that.”

Honesty again. Still, Hannibal sewed a thin thread of insecurity through his micro-expressions (little enough than anyone else would miss it, but for an empath like Will, practically a flare in the night), and said, “If Alana was correct after all, I implore you: please tell me.”

“She wasn’t correct. I just—I had a dream. That’s all.”

Will coated the word ‘dream’ in dread and shame, like he wished it didn’t exist. Hannibal tilted his head. Though he recognized the dream as the genuine crux of the issue, he laced his tone in doubt as he questioned, “A dream?”

“Yeah. A dream.” The fight drained out of Will, leaving him slumped in his seat, head down. "It’s nothing to worry about. I’m just being dumb.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

Will looked up, eyes focused on Hannibal’s cheekbone or ear, wary. “I don’t think you want to hear about it.”

Hannibal most certainly did want to hear about it. He leaned forward, legs spread, elbows on his knees. His body language was open and neutral, his expression interested and intent. “Please.”

Will’s lips pressed together in an unsure line. Despite his clear reluctance, it took less than two minutes for him to sigh, brows furrowed, and give in.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hannibal blinked, accepting. “How does the dream start, Will?”

Will hesitated. Breathed in. Closed his eyes. “I’m in a dark room, on my knees. The Ripper is there.” He opened his eyes again. “Is this really necessary?”

“Nothing is necessary. This is merely a conversation. A show of trust and openness between friends. We can desist it, if you’d like.”

As expected, the word ‘friends’ got to Will, immediately softening him to Hannibal’s probing. He sighed, closing his eyes once more. “Right. Okay. Dark room. Knees. The Ripper.”

“Where is the Ripper?”

“Here.” He held his hands out in front of him, thumbs toward the ceiling, fingers curled to cup something invisible. “He’s standing, facing me. I’m holding the backs of his knees.”

Hannibal remained silent, letting Will (encouraging Will to) sink further into his incredible imagination.

Slowly, Will's breathing evened. His shoulders relaxed. His blush faded. The tenseness in his expression fell away. When Will's right thumb made a circular motion, caressing nothing, Hannibal knew Will was no longer with him.

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, all pretenses of disinterest gone. “What does he look like, Will?”

Will tilted his head all the way back, no doubt looking at the Ripper in his mind’s eye. “He’s wearing a suit. Black. Sleek. Tailored. Maybe even bespoke. His face is shadowed, but he has large, sprawling antlers, and there are feathers in his hair.”

Hannibal blinked, eyes straying to the raven-stag statue that Will was so fond of touching. It seemed that even if Will could not yet see how the two halves of Hannibal came together to make a whole, his subconscious had already made the leap. Remarkable boy.

“What is he doing?”

“It’s not what he’s doing. It’s what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?”

Will’s fingers flexed, clutching the invisible material of the Ripper’s slacks. “I’m thanking him.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not me. I’m the person he killed for.” His upper body pitched ever so slightly forward while his grip on the Ripper slid upward, caressing imaginary thighs before settling again on the knees. Will's voice was low and thick with desire as he continued, “I’m so thankful, so overwhelmed with gratitude, that I don’t know how to express it. I want to though. I want him to show me, step by step, exactly how to appreciate him. And he knows it.” He pitched forward again, face tilting as though nosing a line up the Ripper’s slacks. At the angle described, he must be directly in front of the Ripper’s cock.

Hannibal drank in the motion with gluttonous envy. What he wouldn’t give to see what Will saw. To see what Will’s version of the Ripper saw, with Will fully aware of who he was and still begging so prettily for his dick.

Will headily continued, “I can see it. Feel it. Smell it. He’s aroused.”

Hannibal breathed deeply. Imagined it all in vivid detail, eyes never leaving Will.

“I see his hand move. He’s reaching for me, intent on guiding and molding me as he sees fit, but right when he gets there…” Will lifted his right hand, barely brushing the curls on the back of his head. “He disappears. I’m in a different room, still dark. Still on my knees. My hands are against the wall now, and I’m so hard.”

Will spread his legs and leaned forward, fingers splayed against an invisible wall. His hips rocked gently, taunting Hannibal with the fact that Will was in a chair rather than on Hannibal’s lap.

“I try to touch myself, but then there you are, behind me. Your voice is right in my ear, barely a murmur. You know you don't need to use force to make me listen. You say,  'Hands on the wall, Will.'”

Will shuddered, the outline of his cock visible through his jeans. A thrill danced up Hannibal’s spine, demanding more.

Will didn’t continue though, some part of his mind no doubt recognizing the taboo nature of their interaction and holding back. Hannibal, in turn, prompted, “And then?”

Will swallowed thickly. His back curved in a soft arch. “I listen. How can I not? My hands are on the wall, my dick is aching, and I wait. Wait for you to tell me what to do. What you want me to do.”

Hannibal leaned forward, darkly adoring. “And what do I want, Will? What do I say?”

“You say I’ll cum from the sound of your voice or I won’t cum at all.”

The words shot straight to Hannibal’s dick. He rolled his hips to relieve pressure, actively willing himself to remain soft. Hannibal’s voice remained entirely unaffected as he asked, “And did you cum? Did my words bring you to completion?”

Will’s arms dropped to his lap, forearms crisscrossing thighs and framing the perfect bulge of his cock. His face crumpled: Ashamed. Amorous. In Awe.

“Yes.”

Pride swelled to bursting in Hannibal’s chest. He thought again of Will’s STD panel (completely clean, as Hannibal had known he would be; the sweet, virgin boy) and congratulated himself on thinking ahead. Having to hold back for even a moment after Will consented would be nothing short of torture.

Will’s eyes snapped open, immediately focusing on Hannibal’s pocket square. He was back to himself, blush returning in full force as he realized what, exactly, he had revealed.

Delicious.

“Oh god. I’m sorry. I don’t know why you were in my dream. Especially like, like that. I didn’t—I don’t—I don’t think of you like that. Not normally. I swear.”

Will’s voice rang out, anxious and apologetic. He was terrified Hannibal would pull away, would declare him defective or unseemly. If he could see the thoughts in Hannibal’s head – what Hannibal yearned to do to him here and now – then Will would understand his fantasies were positively tame. Adorable boy.

Hannibal smiled, gently reassuring. “Honestly, Will, I would be surprised if I had not appeared in this dream.”

Will perked up, clinging to the idea with a desperate intensity. “Really?”

“Of course. Sexual matters, especially ones as intimate as what you described, require a degree of trust in your partner. Am I wrong to assume I am the person you trust most in your life?”

Will quickly shook his head, curls bouncing. “No, you’re right. No one else even comes close.”

Hannibal’s smile widened a fraction. “Exactly. And your subconscious picked up on that. When your empathy placed you in that situation with the Ripper, your subconscious, likely feeling unsafe and unmoored, replaced him with me.”

Will peered at Hannibal through dark lashes. Hopeful. Almost demure. “This really doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all. You are my closest and dearest friend, Will. I could never find you anything short of wonderful.”

Will’s blush returned, soft and sweet. He was so starved for positive attention – for affection and assurance – that his usual instinct to deflect and self-deprecate fell away. He nodded, almost shyly accepting, and watched Hannibal with dark, beholden eyes.

Such an endearing reaction made Hannibal want to kiss Will’s neck and murmur sweet nothings against his skin in every available language. He settled for asking, “Is it normal for you to empathize so heavily with the object of a killer’s affections?”

“Normal? No. But then, none of this is normal.”

“And how did it feel, to harbor such strong positive emotions for the Ripper, considering what he did to you?”

The turn of conversation allowed Will to slip back into his comfort zone, which in turn helped to normalize the intimacy they just shared. He relaxed, propping his elbow on the arm of the chair and resting his cheek on his fist. “Would you blame a lion for killing an antelope? It wasn’t the Ripper’s job to make sure they caught the right person.”

“Are you the antelope in this metaphor? If so, I feel you are being vastly underestimated.”

“Tell that to the me who knew all his friends suspected him of murder and stupidly assumed that being innocent still meant something. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have let the justice system do its thing. I’d have run.”

Hannibal uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, ankle over knee. “If you’d done that, your name would never have been cleared.”

Will shrugged, dismissive. “Like I said, Dr. Lecter, I didn’t do well in prison.”

The urge to push, to dig until he knew exactly what had scarred Will so badly, pulsed beneath the surface. Hannibal ignored it. He would know everything about Will, in due time. Until then, he’d have to content himself with the act of slowly prying Will open, muscle by muscle, bone by bone. (Ideally dissecting him so smoothly and so well that Will would actually hold his spread ribs in place while Hannibal explored.)

That, of course, meant encouraging progress and solidifying Will’s conscious and subconscious connections of good experiences and Hannibal. Like now, for instance. It was difficult to share something so personal, especially for someone like Will.

He deserved a reward.

Hannibal rose from his seat, aware of Will’s curious stare, and retrieved from his desk a medium-sized box wrapped in simple brown paper and twine. He handed Will the box without flourish, then reclined once more in his seat.

Will held it carefully, appearing at a genuine loss for what to do next. “What is this?”

“A gift.”

Will’s brows furrowed, more confused rather than less. “What for?”

“I don’t need an occasion, Will. I wanted to buy you something, so I did.”

Blue eyes stayed firmly on the box as Will sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed. He no doubt wanted to refuse the gift or repay Hannibal in some way, but they’d already had this conversation, and Will had already lost.

After a few moments, he dipped his head and murmured, “Thank you.”

 “You’re most welcome.”

 Will balanced the box on his lap and ripped off the wrapping. The moment he realized what Hannibal had bought him was clear, blue eyes dilating with pleasure and lips parting with a sweetly exhaled, “Oh, wow.”

Will picked the box up and moved to the floor, a child on Christmas morning. His hands were overly careful as they lifted the pieces of his new lure crafting station out of the box, each item receiving a thorough examination before joining the arrangement on the ground. 

It was only after the box was empty that Will seemed to remember Hannibal existed. He raised his head, eyes meeting Hannibal’s without hesitation. “This is gorgeous, Dr. Lecter. How did you know?”

“In the photos of your home on TattleCrime, there’s a broken version of this on a table. I noticed it wasn’t there when I visited and assumed it irreparable. Considering you’re likely fishing for the majority of your food and have very few sources of entertainment, this seemed the best choice.”

If Will thought it odd that Hannibal had gleaned so much from a photo, he didn’t say so. He simply nodded, eyes on Hannibal, fingers still covetously tracing a magnifying glass. It was clear from his body language that he didn’t know how to proceed. That he didn’t feel the thanks he’d shown was enough, and that he was afraid not doing more would result in his gift being taken away.

Hannibal, intent on assuaging those fears, joined Will on the floor. “I researched fly tying kits and what items experts most prefer, but I have very little knowledge of the craft itself. Would you mind explaining the pieces?”

Though Will had to know that Hannibal harbored little to no interest in fly-fishing, the opportunity to provide a positive contribution was too great to pass up. He began explaining the kit, why each piece was either important or unnecessary, and how his personal preferences came into play. He spoke with passion: his love for both the act of creating a lure and fishing itself sewn into every word.

Hannibal filed the fly-fishing station away into the Things Will Cared About category and silently congratulated himself for doing so well on the first try.

For this was only the first try. As Hannibal got to know Will, his courting gifts would improve, increasing in personalization. Will’s life would slowly fill with reminders of Hannibal, until Hannibal was present in every thought and action. Until there was nowhere Will could turn without finding Hannibal there.

A fly in a spider’s web, wrapped up snug and safe and forever.

Perfect.

(***Paragon***)

Will was fixing the engine of his car, which never seemed to go more than a few days without some sort of issue, when he heard tires pulling down the drive.

His heart did an embarrassing little skip at the thought of Dr. Lecter visiting him again (of being able to show Dr. Lecter the lures he’d made), but disappointment got it back on track. It wasn’t Dr. Lecter’s Bentley which pulled up next to Will, but a beaten-up old Honda.

And it wasn’t a friend which emerged from the car, but Matthew Brown.

Will sneered and went back to the engine. While he’d cursed his car for breaking down yet again, maybe it was a blessing in disguise. At least this way Matthew had no reason to ask to go inside. And hey, maybe he’d find the cold to be too much and cut his visit short.

(Or maybe he'd die of hypothermia. Either one was fine by Will.)

“Dr. Graham! You look good.” He’d dropped his lisp, speaking in what was probably meant to be a seductive tone.

Will rolled his eyes. He knew for a fact that he did not look good. He was wearing nothing but jeans and a ratty long-sleeve shirt, both of which were stained with engine grease (which was why he wasn’t wearing his coat, hat, or gloves). His fingers were practically frost-bitten, and his nose and ears ached from the cold.

“What do you want, Matthew?”

“I want to talk to you. It was real good what you did, getting them to let you out. Smart.”

“I didn’t do anything. They let me out because I’m innocent.”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course. We’re all innocent when it comes down to it. Just animals, listening to our instincts.”

Will shook his head. He'd sat through enough of these conversations in the BSHCI to know nothing he said would matter. “You going to tell me we’re hawks again?”

“Nah. You already know we’re hawks. I came to find out when you’d like to go flying.”

Will glanced up from replacing the timing belt, careful not to meet Matthew’s eyes, then got back to work. “I’m not going to kill with you, Matthew.”

“It’s kill or be killed out there, Dr. Graham. You don’t want to be killed, do you?”

“What I don’t want is to talk to you.”

“I’m glad you’re talking again. I missed your voice.”

Will lifted a hand exactly long enough to flip up his middle finger.

Matthew, unperturbed, said, “Is that a ‘fuck off’ or a ‘fuck you?’ Because you already know I’d fuck you. And that you’d like it.”

“It’s a fuck off. As in get the fuck off my property.”

“Or what? You’ll call the police?” Matthew smiled like it was a joke, and it was. “I read about you on TattleCrime. Everything you did, kills out in the open with your name on them, and you still got the FBI to take you back?” He shook his head, incredulous and proud. “I hope I get to be that good some day.”

Flattery for flattery’s sake. Matthew already thought he was that good and just hadn’t proved it yet.

Unfortunately for him, Will was seriously freaking innocent, and the flattery did nothing.

“I’m not the Ripper. I’ve never been the Ripper. I’ll never be the Ripper. Please leave.”

Matthew leaned against Will’s car. “I wonder what it would take to make you tell the truth. Maybe if I brought one of your friends into it?” Matthew said the word ‘friends’ like shit smeared on his boot. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with that Dr. Lecter guy lately. I bet he’d like to hear the truth, too.”

Will glanced up sharply. Dangerously. “Are you stalking me?”

“Gotta learn from you somehow. You won’t return my calls.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Let me buy you one. A phone just for me, so we can talk whenever.”

“Pass.”

Matthew scowled, anger coming through in a rush. “I bet you’d let Dr. Lecter buy you one. Like you let him buy you that fishing lure stuff. He your sugar daddy or something?”

“Dr. Lecter isn’t fucking stalking me, and who I choose to accept gifts from isn’t anyone’s business but my goddamn own. Now get off my property before I put this wrench in your skull and claim self-defense.”

Matthew pushed off the car, yearning joining his anger as he said, “Yeah, sure. I’ll go. But without a phone, you’ll have no way to ask me where I am. And maybe, after I’ve paid a visit to Dr. Lecter’s fancy fucking mansion, you’ll wish you’d knew. You’ll wish you’d flocked together.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t I dare what? I’m just getting off your property. Like you asked.”

Will took a threatening step forward. “Stay away from him, Matthew.”

Matthew shrugged, an entitled child acting out. “Anything that happens to him is on you. After all, anyone who has the Ripper there to protect them should be perfectly safe.” He returned to his car, opened the door with too much force, and folded himself inside. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Graham. And if you look real close, you might just see me, too.” He slammed his door just as Will started to cuss him out, peeling out of the drive without pause.

Will balled his hands into fists, both out of anger and for warmth. He told himself Matthew was bluffing. That the arrogant asshole wasn’t actually confident enough to go after someone as high-profile as Dr. Lecter yet.

(Except yes, he was.)

Matthew hadn’t been confident enough before Will had been freed, but the way he’d presented his companionship had changed. He was stronger. More forceful. He didn’t consider them on equal grounds, but it was a near thing. Somewhere between Will getting out of the BSHCI and this moment, Matthew must have killed and gotten away with it. Maybe even multiple times.

Cold fear dropped into Will’s gut. He cursed his car again, finished changing the belt in record time, and barely remembered to run in and grab his winterwear before taking off toward Dr. Lecter’s office.

An hour of worrying later, he twisted a locked knob and, rather belatedly, realized he had no knowledge of the other man’s schedule. Will’s own was so sporadic that he never really thought about it, but it made sense for someone like Dr. Lecter to take Sundays off.

Will rubbed gloved hands together and blew warm breaths against his fingers. This was a sign. He was overreacting. He should go home.

Thoughts of Dr. Lecter, tied up in some warehouse for Matthew’s amusement, spurred him forward.

Another twenty minutes of driving brought him to another locked door, which really, really should have been taken as a sign to leave. Dr. Lecter was out. Maybe he was buying groceries or at the opera. He could be on a date with no intentions of returning home at all. Will didn’t know, and there was no way for him to check.

He looked at his car. Told himself he’d only wait five more minutes. Sat down on the stoop.

Five minutes turned into ten, then twenty, then an hour. Every time he tried to make himself leave, thoughts of Matthew killing Dr. Lecter forced him still. An hour turned into two. He physically hurt from the cold. What if Dr. Lecter was already dead, all because Will couldn’t play nice with an obnoxious psychopath?

Stupid, stupid, stupid—

Headlights momentarily blinded Will as Dr. Lecter’s Bentley turned into the driveway. Thirty seconds after Dr. Lecter parked in the garage, he was next to Will.

“Will? What are you doing here?” Dr. Lecter crouched, pressing the backs of two fingers to Will’s cheek. “Darling, you’re freezing.” He pulled Will up before opening the door and practically shepherding Will inside. He helped Will out of his snow-covered coat and hat, then immediately led Will upstairs to a bathroom.

“S-sorry. I sh-should’ve called.” The house felt too warm and not warm enough. His thoughts were sluggish.

“Nonsense. You cannot help what you do not have.” Dr. Lecter started running a bath: nothing too hot, judging by the lack of steam. “Please, get in. You need to warm up. I have some things to bring in from the car, then I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we’ll discuss what brought you to my door.”

Will shook his head. “I d-d-don’t n-need—”

“Get in the bath, Will.”

The tone left no room for argument. Will nodded without meaning to, and Dr. Lecter once again brushed two fingers across Will’s cheek before leaving the room.

Will twisted his hands together, too cold to be embarrassed, and started to undress. His fingers were so stiff that it was hard to get a hold on his clothes and harder still to undo the laces on his shoes. When he finally stepped into the bath (warm, not hot, like he’d guessed), all he could think was that he was thankful for Dr. Lecter’s foresight.

It only took a few minutes for his body to stop shivering and his teeth to stop chattering. He turned off the water and leaned his head against the wall. A knock on the door snagged his attention.

“Will? May I come in?”

Will looked down at his naked body, the clear water doing absolutely nothing to hide him. He sighed. “Yeah. Come in.”

Dr. Lecter opened the door, eyes darting over Will with a glance so professional they may as well have been in a hospital. He carried a bundle of clothes in one hand and a cup of steaming tea in the other. The tea went to Will, the clothes to the counter of the sink. He strode to the linen closet to retrieve a towel.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thanks.” Will didn’t blow on his tea before taking a drink. He kept his eyes on the lip of the mug as he said,  “I guess that was pretty stupid of me, huh?”

“You are many things, Will. Stupid is not one of them.” Dr. Lecter hung the towel on a hook right next to the bath, then kneeled on the floor so they were eye level. “What brought you here?”

“Car.” Will smiled weakly at his own joke. Dr. Lecter pressed the back of his hand to Will’s forehead, appearing displeased with whatever he felt.

“Drink more.”

Will nodded and took two large gulps. “I’m okay. Really. I was just a little cold.”

“You were not ‘just a little’ anything. I am only glad I got back when I did, for something tells me you would have frozen to death outside my door before choosing to go home.”

Will shrugged because that was probably true. “I didn’t mean to wait for so long.”

“So why did you?”

“I was worried.” He took in another mouthful of tea as the embarrassment finally set in. Too late to turn back now. “Not worried, I guess. Scared. Do you remember the orderly that brought you and Chilton down to see me at the BSHCI?”

“Mr. Brown?”

“Matthew, yeah. He uh, he’s a little obsessed with me. Or, obsessed with the Ripper, who he thinks is me. It’s complicated.”

Dr. Lecter removed his suit jacket, laying it over the edge of the sink before rolling up one sleeve. He reached into the water at Will’s feet to drain the tub.

“What does this Matthew Brown have to do with me?”

“He came by my house today. I told him to fuck off. He threatened you. And I knew I was overreacting, but I just thought… I mean, you live alone. Nice neighborhood. Private practice. If you went missing, no one would report it until tomorrow night, at the earliest. Then the police wouldn’t be willing to file a report until Wednesday, because you’re an adult. Matthew’s not a stable guy. You’d be dead by Wednesday.”

Will watched the water swirl down the drain, aware that he sounded less than stable himself. Dr. Lecter drew his attention by brushing a stray curl behind Will’s ear.

“Thank you for worrying about me.” He stood, looking taller and safer than ever, and folded his jacket over his forearm. He collected Will’s empty cup (when had Will finished his tea?) and said, “Please, shower and get dressed. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Will nodded, and Dr. Lecter left.

As Will scrubbed the engine grease off his hands and face, he tried to regret the trouble he was putting Dr. Lecter through. The fact that Dr. Lecter was alive (that Will knew he was alive and that he could protect Dr. Lecter, should Matthew try anything tonight) prevented that. He washed his hair and turned off the water.

The towel was ridiculously fluffy, which Will enjoyed just a little too much. He changed into the black sleep pants and white undershirt that Dr. Lecter had provided, both of which were too long and too wide. He tied the drawstring in the pants as tight as it would go and tried not to feel guilty about treading on the extra material.

He bundled his clothes and shoes with the towel and made his way downstairs. Before he could even enter the kitchen, Dr. Lecter was there, taking his things and guiding him to a chair in the study. He was sitting, blanket over his lap by a crackling fire before he could protest.

“Seriously, Dr. Lecter. I’m fine.”

Dr. Lecter gave him a distinctly unimpressed look, then left the room again. Will briefly considered getting up and following, but the 'chair-blanket-fireplace' combo was too cozy to abandon.

A few minutes later, Dr. Lecter returned with a bowl of soup and two slices of bread. Will accepted them with a quiet, “Thanks."

Dr. Lecter watched him eat, a mix of approval and expectation in his stance, and Will decided he was a forceful kind of caring. Like a particularly harsh schoolmarm.

Near finished with his meal, Will noted as much.

“I bet no one ever disobeyed you in the ER.”

Dr. Lecter eyed him, amused. “They did not.”

Will rubbed the last of his bread along the bottom of the bowl and stuffed it in his mouth. He handed the bowl to Dr. Lecter, who left the room to deposit it in the sink. When he returned, it was with a label-less beer and a glass of wine. He handed Will the beer, then pulled over a chair so they were next to each other.

Will sniffed the beer. Noted a bitter, oaky smell. Took a swig. He swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. A stout, maybe?

“Did you brew this yourself?”

“I did.”

Will looked over to Dr. Lecter, who was watching him with a pleased intensity that didn’t quite match what they were doing. Then again, he did have a thing about people eating his cooking. He was probably waiting on a verdict.

Will nodded. “It’s good.” He tipped the bottle up and swallowed another mouthful to prove it. Maroon eyes traced his Adam’s apple like the cat that got the cream, and though Will felt like he was missing something in the exchange, it didn’t feel like anything bad. “Do you brew beer often?”

“On occasion. For the right people.”

Will blinked at the bottle. “Wait. Did you make this just for me?”

“I did. Not many of my meals pair well with hard liquors, and you don’t seem to care for wine.”

Warmth flooded Will’s chest. He cradled the beer a little closer. “Not to be rude, but how in the hell are you single?”

Dr. Lecter smiled. “I have very particular tastes.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sure plenty of women would be fine with bondage porn or whatever you're into, so long as you’re willing to run them baths and brew them beers afterward.”

“Are you the woman in this scenario?”

“No. But if you’re willing to go this far for a friend, I can’t imagine what you’d do for a partner.”

“Much the same, I presume. What would you do for a partner?”

“You presume? Have you not dated before? And I can barely handle having a friend. I think speculating on hypothetical partners is a little far-reaching at this point.”

“I’ve dated, yes, but ‘partner’ implies ‘equal,’ and that, I have not had.”

“I can’t tell if that’s you being egotistical or if it’s a comment on your previous significant others making you feel like your worth somehow stemmed from your ability to provide.”

“Can it not be both?”

Will hummed around the lip of his beer. “It can. I wish it wasn’t. You deserve an equal.”

“As do you. You’re already an excellent friend.”

The praise made lazy butterflies flutter to life in Will’s stomach. He snuggled deeper into the blanket and considered what his life would be like if he’d never met Dr. Lecter. What his life would be like if he wasn’t proactive: if he let Matthew take his only friend away.

“Dr. Lecter?”

“Yes?”

“May I stay the night?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Lecter didn’t ask why Will wanted to stay, didn’t insinuate that Will needed a reason, and Will didn’t try and justify it. He wanted to stay. Dr. Lecter wanted to provide. And that, at least for the night, was enough.

He stared into the fire, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and finished his beer.

Chapter Text

Hannibal made breakfast with extra care. The flaky, crunchy crusts of his mini-quiches were a perfect golden brown. The meat inside was fresh from the previous night’s kill.  

He wanted Will to be impressed with breakfast. Wanted Will to ask to stay again.

The night before (Will sitting half-frozen on Hannibal’s porch, waiting for him; Will reclining in the bath, trusting Hannibal with his care; Will drinking the beer based in Hannibal’s cum, saying, ‘it’s good’) had been utter perfection. And though the force which had spurred the night into existence (Matthew) would need to be dealt with at some point, it wasn’t a priority. Hannibal was, after all, much more dangerous than Will gave him credit.

And if Hannibal were being honest, he quite liked the protective streak it brought out in Will.

Watching Will bare his teeth, willing to do whatever he deemed necessary to protect Hannibal, was beyond addicting. It put all of Will’s formidable attention on Hannibal. Pinned him with it. Plowed him with it. And still, he wanted more.

(His aunt had always told him he was a gluttonous thing. She was right.)

When Will entered the kitchen, the quiches had set and the coffee had been poured. He was wearing his own grease-stained pants again, but the undershirt was Hannibal’s.

“Hey, any chance I can borrow one of your shirts? Mine’s in pretty rough shape.”

Any chance Hannibal could openly mark Will as his?

“Of course.”

Hannibal untied his apron and hung it on its hook, then led Will up the steps and into his room. Will stood by the bed as Hannibal entered the closet. Hannibal skimmed over his shirts idly before settling on one of his favorites: a red button up with burnt orange swirls that only appeared in the light. It was ostentatious, and he’d worn it recently enough that everyone in Will’s office would recognize it as Hannibal’s.

He brought it out to Will, who looked half fond and half like he regretted having asked. Still, Will accepted it without complaint, shrugging it on and beginning to button it from the bottom up.

The shirt was large on him, doing nothing to accentuate his fine figure, but even that was lovely as it emphasized the fact that the clothing (and Will) belonged to Hannibal.

Will tucked the shirt into his jeans, then turned to look in the mirror. The domesticity of the action spawned the fantasy of a future together where every morning could be just like this one, only with the added bonus of knowing Will would return to him at night. The thought was as powerful as it was soothing, and Hannibal wanted. He stepped closer and leaned down, breathing Will in.

Will’s head turned. “Did you just smell me?”

 “Yes.” Hannibal straightened, unrepentant. “I have a very sensitive nose. While I find many scents irritating, yours is quite soothing.”

This close, Hannibal could see a dozen different shades of greens and blues in Will’s eyes. His boy blinked, taking in the information, then pressed his nose to his shoulder.

“But I don’t smell like me right now. I smell like you.”

Hannibal could have groaned. His cock twitched, just once, before he got it under control. He strode to his dresser and tipped his bottle of cologne so it smeared on his pointer and middle fingers, then returned to Will and dabbed it on his neck, right at the pulse points.

“No, dear boy. Now, you smell like me.”

Will blushed, the light pink of his cheeks pairing brilliantly with the red of Hannibal’s shirt. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, then rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Right. Well, I get… I get the smell thing. The smell of the forest, the river, my dogs… They helped me a lot when I was stressed.” He reached up, likely to tug on his winter hat, only to abort the motion when he realized he wasn’t wearing it. “So, I mean, if it helps you somehow… I um, I don’t really mind it. I guess.”

The pink darkened adorably, and Hannibal resisted the urge to tuck Will’s hair behind his ear and kiss him until the lips matched.

He smiled, lightly exaggerating the soft ‘th’ in "Thank you" because Will thought it was pretty.

And Will, the wonderful boy, ducked his head and turned back around to finish checking himself in the mirror. He made no attempt to put space between them, as he had before. Hannibal leaned forward so his nose brushed Will’s curls and breathed in again, deeper this time.

Will tensed, but he didn’t move. Perfect thing. Hannibal pulled back a moment later, walking to his closet to get a red suit jacket and the matching burnt orange tie and pocket square set for himself. Will glanced at him when he emerged, an amused smile twitching on lovely lips. Though Will returned his attention to the mirror without comment, his reflection rolled its eyes.

Hannibal paused behind Will, checking himself in the mirror as he questioned, “Are you ready?”

Will nodded. His shoulders twisted just a bit farther than was natural as he turned and left the room.

Hannibal glanced in the mirror a final time, pausing when he saw his pocket square missing. Mischievous boy. They were only lucky Hannibal hadn't added his scalpel yet.

He caught up with Will a moment later, deftly picking the orange cloth out of Will’s pocket as he went. By the time they got to the kitchen, it was in its rightful place.

When he turned to serve the quiches, Will’s brows scrunched. His hand shot to his pocket, incredulous. “How?”

“How what, Will?”

Will tilted his head, analyzing. After a few seconds, he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. “Alright. Game on.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and took a quiche. He maintained eye contact with Hannibal as he popped it in his mouth.

Game on, indeed.

They parted after breakfast, Will driving to work and Hannibal prepping their lunches for quick assembly later. He had two appointments before noon, at which point he fully intended to go see Will again.

He had another gift: a blue thermos. Though he’d meant to save it for their next session, the opportunity to see Will blushing and expressing gratitude in Hannibal's clothes was too great to pass.

The appointments were dull (as most people who weren’t Will were dull) but they went quickly enough. Hannibal returned home to cook their meals, then headed to Quantico. He signed in and strode directly to the shared office space.

Will was absent.

The male intern from the crime scene approached him with a professional smile. “Dr. Lecter. Hi, I’m Aaron Cavell, an intern here at the BAU. You can call me Aaron.” He thrust his hand out to shake, which Hannibal did. “It’s so nice to formally meet you. I’ve read all your papers. May I just say, the one on social exclusionism is just remarkable.”

“Hannibal. And thank you. It’s nice to meet you as well.”

The boy puffed out his chest, obviously eager for the attentions of someone he deemed ‘of worth.’ “Is there anything I can help you with?”

From across the room, Dr. Price said, “Don’t bother. He’s here for Will.”

Aaron frowned. “Will?”

Dr. Zeller scoffed. “He’s certainly not here for any of us.”

Alana waved them off from her place at Dr. Katz’s desk. “Stop teasing him. I think it’s nice, what he’s doing for Will.”

Dr. Katz leaned over her desk and stole something off Alana’s plate. “What? Preparing to bone?”

Alana huffed but smiled, tossing Hannibal a look that said, ‘I told you that’s what they’d think.’ Hannibal returned her smile with a look of indulgence and moved to Will’s desk. He shuffled the case files to the side to make room for the tote and two thermoses.

As if on cue, Will returned. In his hands was another set of files, and at his side was Miss Lounds.

“Listen to me, Graham. You’re not thinking. This is the book deal of the century.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to fuck off, but fuck off.”

“With your story and my writing—”

“Your writing has done nothing but slander me from day one.”

“I said some bad things. I can take them back. Everyone loves the wrongly accused, misunderstood misanthropist, Graham. There are a million TV shows about it, and with any luck, the book we write together will be one of them.”

“No.” Will brushed past Hannibal (at which point Hannibal lifted Will's car keys) without a hello, then flopped into his chair. “Is that all? Because some of us have actual jobs to do.”

“No. It’s not all.” Miss Lounds dug in her satchel to pull out a check, which she placed on Will’s desk and slid across to him. “That’s a forward from the publishing company I’m talking to. Guaranteed, before royalties, and they expect it to make a lot more in the long run.”

Will reached for the coffee without even glancing at the check. “Which one of these is mine?”

“The blue one.”

Will picked up the blue one and leaned back again. Miss Lounds frowned.

“It’s half a million dollars, Graham.”

On the other side of the room, Dr. Price sputtered, half-choking on his lunch. The others stilled, waiting for Will’s response.

Will drank his coffee.

Slowly, Dr. Zeller said, “No one will blame you for taking the money, Will.”

Miss Lounds grinned, triumphant. “Listen to your friends, Graham. They know what they’re talking about.”

Will ignored them. “What’d you bring for lunch, Dr. Lecter?”

Before Hannibal could respond, Miss Lounds cut in, “I don’t know why you’re acting so high and mighty. You sleep in a decrepit old house with no light and no heat and no furniture, curled up on the floor on a pile of clothes in front of the fireplace like a dog. You need this.”

Irritation spiked in Hannibal’s chest, sharp and vengeful. Will's friends, Alana, and the intern froze under the awkwardness of being an outsider present for a personal conversation. Will set the thermos down and casually picked up the check.

He ran a soft, considering thumb over the numbers, hummed in understanding, and ripped it in half.

He stacked the halves and ripped it again. Then again. And again after that. He ripped until he could crumple the pieces in his hand, then threw them into the air like confetti. He made eye contact with Miss Lounds as he picked up his thermos again and leaned back. He lifted his leg, slammed the heel of his shoe against his desk, then gently laid his other leg across it.

“I like dogs.”

Beautiful boy. Hannibal could have praised his stubbornness. His violence. Miss Lounds did not feel the same.

She took a step back, shaking her head. “You’re going to regret this, Graham. I can put your reputation back together, but I can also make it a whole lot worse.”

“What are you going to do? Convince people I’m the Ripper again? Double Jeopardy, bitch.”

She sneered at him, openly disgusted. She left.

Dr. Zeller whistled. “Holy shit. Did you really just rip up a check for half a mil? Balls of fucking steel.”

Will shrugged. “It’s just money.”

“Yeah. A lot of money. You could buy anything you wanted!”

“I want my dogs back.” The room quieted again, this time for Alana. Will paid it no mind, instead turning his head to look at Hannibal. “Food?”

“Of course.” Hannibal picked up the tote and handed it to Will. This time, only because he was looking for it, he saw Will’s fingers move. A quick, nimble motion that blended in with accepting the tote left Hannibal’s watch in Will’s hands.

Hannibal withheld a smile and pretended not to notice.

He would win this game of theirs, of course, but not quickly. Pickpocketing each other encouraged Will to touch and accept touches in return. It, coupled with allowing Will to see Hannibal occasionally touching others, would do wonders for lowering Will’s defenses.

Will opened the tote and pulled out his Tupperware and utensil, then handed the rest back. Hannibal sat on the edge of Will’s desk and opened his own container.

Will, as per usual, was vocal in his enjoyment of Hannibal’s cooking, but the sight (Will in Hannibal’s clothes) and smell (Will wearing Hannibal’s cologne) that went along with the sound made the experience something special.

Dr. Katz cooed. “God, you two are cute. My significant others are never that cute with me. Jimmy, are you that cute with your wife?”

“Not even close.”

Will glared at them. “We’re not cute.”

Dr. Katz raised both brows. “Excuse me? Will, you’re wearing matching clothes, and he brought you lunch. If you got any cuter, you’d be a baby panda cuddling a baby lion.”

Will glanced over at Hannibal. Judging by the groan, he’d forgotten that they did, in fact, match.

Dr. Katz continued, “Besides, I broke up with both Steven and Angie, so I’m currently living vicariously through you.”

“So?”

“So if you tap that…” Dr. Katz made an overexaggerated, faux-secretive motion toward Hannibal, “Do me a favor and let me know. I want all the deets.”

Will chewed slowly, entirely unamused. “I’m not going to sleep with Dr. Lecter.”

Dr. Zeller cursed and handed Dr. Price a few bills, apparently having lost a bet. Alana pretended not to be listening. Mr. Cavell brightened.

Dr. Katz made an unimpressed noise. “Well, someone should. Dude is hot.”

Will rolled his eyes and returned to eating. Dr. Katz made eye contact with Hannibal and mouthed, ‘We’re rooting for you.’ She pointed at Will, then gave two thumbs ups. Hannibal curved his lips in a grateful smile, if only because having Will’s friends on his side would make the courting process easier. 

They finished eating without much conversation, Will’s attention largely consumed by the files he brought back. Will capped his empty Tupperware and place it back in the tote. He held up his thermos. “Mind if I get this back to you on Thursday?”

“You need never get it back to me. It is yours.”

 “What?”

“There is another, in my home. You may clean that when you’re finished and trade with me, if you wish.”

Will shook his head, confused. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do anything. I want to.”

Dr. Katz ‘awwwed.’ Will blinked and glanced at their obvious audience, blush rising to color his ears. He looked up at Hannibal pleadingly, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Dr. Lecter.”

“Will.”

Hannibal watched, unashamed, as Will struggled under the weight of Hannibal’s kindness. It would be important, in the future, to encourage Will to be more open with his desires. To prove to him that he wouldn’t be punished for his happiness, and to make him feel secure in his ability to enjoy something without it being ripped away.

Will tugged his winter hat down over the tip of one ear and mumbled, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Across the room, Alana’s concerned voice rang out, “Hey, Hannibal. Don’t you have a two o’clock appointment?”

Hannibal pulled up his sleeve, adopting a look of surprise when he saw his bare wrist.

In his chair, Will pulled up his own sleeve to reveal Hannibal’s watch. “She’s right. It’s one twenty.”

Dr. Price squawked. “Did you steal his Rolex?”

Hannibal met Will's eyes, if only briefly. “It’s quite alright. He can pawn it to buy the car he’ll need to get home.” He pulled Will’s keys from his pocket. Will grinned.

“Trade?”

“Trade.”

Hannibal sat Will’s keys on the desk, and Will handed Hannibal his watch. Will was still smiling as he returned to his files, intelligent eyes skimming over a faded report. And he was so lovely that, for a moment, Hannibal actually felt envious of his future self: a man who could look forward to going home to Will each and every night.

Will glanced up a final time, eyes sparkling. “Good day, Dr. Lecter.”

“Good day, Will.”

(***Paragon***)

Will was getting much better at not feeling irrationally angry every time he saw Alana’s face. He didn’t think about the fact that she gave away his dogs every time they were in a room together anymore. Only most of the times.

Oh, and when she said something stupid, like, “Do you like Hannibal? Romantically?”

Will scowled. “No.”

“It’s okay if you do. Everyone’s had a crush on him at one point or another.” She said it sympathetically, knowingly, and Will realized she didn’t know he knew. She was about to confess to him that she’d liked Dr. Lecter at one point (though she'd probably leave out the fact that she still liked him).

He headed the conversation off with a terse, “We should focus on the case files.”

“Will, it’s six PM. Everyone else has gone home. We should go home.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, practically a neon sign that she was about to say something that would make them both uncomfortable. “And I’m not judging you. It’s natural for someone in your situation to form a crush on someone like Hannibal.”

Jesus-ever-loving-fuck. “Someone in my situation? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You lost everything, Will. Your life got turned upside down, and now everyone’s expecting you to just pick up and move on like nothing happened. But traumas like that don’t just go away. You want to be protected and taken care of. That’s reasonable. And having someone like Hannibal around – someone who brings you lunches and takes you to the opera – can get confusing.”

“Confusing? I’m not confused, Alana.”

“Are you not? Because the way you smiled at him today, the fact that you came in wearing his clothes and his cologne, says otherwise.”

“Yeah. It says we’re friends and that I stayed the night at his house. My place gets a bit cold sometimes, especially without my dogs.”

She flinched, if only barely. “How long are you going to hold that against me?”

“You mean you giving away my family? I was thinking forever.”

“Will, I’m trying to help you.”

“Really? Because it feels like you’re being a massive bitch—”

“Hannibal doesn’t like you.”

Will’s entire body suddenly felt cold. His heart beat in his ears. “What?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear again, apologetic. “I talked to him, Will. Told him people were going to get the wrong impression. He isn’t interested in you like that. And I know it’s hard to hear, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up only to have them crushed. He only likes you as a friend.”

Will’s breath came back to him in a rush. It was terrifying, how much the thought of Dr. Lecter not being his friend affected him, and worrying, how a pang of rejection remained even after he recognized the misunderstanding.

Rather than admitting any of that, he said, “I actually consider that a good thing. Because, and this is just in case I wasn’t clear enough the last five hundred times, I don’t like him like that.”

“I know that’s what you said, Will, but it’s not how you act. You’re different around him. You smile more. You’re playful.”

“So what? I shouldn’t have friends that make me happy?”

“You shouldn’t have a single friend that makes you that happy. Because that’s not a friend. It’s a boyfriend.”

“Why is it that when Dr. Lecter says he doesn’t like me like that, you believe him, but when I say it, I’m some lovesick sap? In case you haven’t noticed, he’s the one bringing me lunch.”

She sighed, her version of empathetic. “Because he doesn’t look at you the way you look at him.”

Will recoiled, not expecting her words to hurt as much as they did. “I’m going home.”

“Will—”

Jack opened the door to the lab, phone in hand. “It’s the Mutilator. We’ve got to go. Now.” Will grabbed his coat and beanie. Alana picked up her purse only for Jack to look at her and say, “You can go home if you want. Dr. Lecter’s already on his way.”

Alana glanced unsurely at Will, who glared back. She nodded with a strained smile. “Sounds good. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Jack nodded, motioning impatiently for Will to hurry. Will resisted the urge to give her a one-finger salute as he passed. She stopped him with a soft touch of his bicep, to which he violently jerked away.

The look she gave him was pitying. “Just think about what I said, okay?”

Will grit his teeth. Told himself to be good. Flipped her off anyway.

Sometimes, she just deserved it.

(***Paragon***)

In terms of the FBI, Hannibal was one of the first to arrive at the Mutilator crime scene.

After him came Mr. Cavell and Miss Fairfield. They had, apparently, been studying for finals at a diner down the road when they got the call. Jack arrived shortly after them, barking orders even before he stepped foot on the scene.

Will arrived much more quietly, though his body language was anything but calm. His hands kept moving, switching from tapping his pockets to clenching his fists to tugging on his winter hat. He was more agitated than Hannibal had ever seen him, which meant something substantial must have happened between Hannibal’s lunch visit and this moment.

Blue eyes scanned the scene, locking on something behind Hannibal, before all Will’s nervous ticks simultaneously ceased. He darted behind Jack and started unbuttoning his pea coat.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Will? What are you—”

“Shut up. He’s here.” Will shoved his pea coat into Jack’s arms and started unbuttoning Hannibal’s shirt, too. “Twenty yards northwest. Blue jacket. Blue cap. Standing next to a man in brown. Talking to an officer.” He tossed Hannibal his shirt, then put the pea coat back on, leaving it unbuttoned. "Any misinformation?"

"We've been telling people he dropped two bodies instead of three. We hoped the lack of credit would lure him out."

Will hummed. He took his hat off and mussed up his hair more. When he put it back on, it was skewed. “Jack, I’m going in."

"Like hell you are. You're not a field agent, Graham. You're a consultant."

"I told you already. This guy's smart. We bring him in without evidence, and he'll clam up. Then, when we're forced to release him again, he'll run. Maybe out of the state. Maybe out of the country. The other other option is planning better and waiting for his next scene. Either way, the next time we see him will be over a pile of corpses."

Jack grit his teeth. "Then we'll send someone else."

"I'm the only one he hasn't seen, and he won't stick around much longer."

"You can't protect yourself—"

"Yeah. Because prison was so comfortable. Never had to defend myself once." Will sneered, then shook his head. He veered away from antagonism to say, "I'll be fine, Jack. I used to be a cop. Combat training and everything."

Jack glanced discreetly over at the suspect, no doubt aware of the ticking clock. In that motion, Hannibal saw a genuine reluctance to put Will in harm's way. He also saw the need to seek justice above all else, and in the end, that was what won out. 

Jack took his gun from its holster and handed it to Will. "Go."

Will nodded. Turned to his interns. "Aaron, Ava, watch closely but do not interfere. Be prepared to tell me what I did wrong and how I could do better as soon as this is over.”

Will stuffed the gun in the back of his pants and covered it with his coat. As he prepared to disappear into the crowd of onlookers, Hannibal stepped forward. 

“Will—”

Will cut him off with a hard look and a dark, “Stay.”

Fascination swept away Hannibal’s questions, leaving him staring after this new, forceful Will. (And he knew, in that moment, that Will's dogs must have been very well trained. He'd like to watch Will train new ones.) Jack spoke rapidly into his earpiece, ordering invisible soldiers into place.

When Mr. Cavell and Miss Fairfield moved to a better vantage point, Hannibal moved with them. They looked unsure of Hannibal’s presence, but neither of them were confident enough to tell him to do otherwise. They stopped barely three yards from the man in question, just in time to see Will emerge from the crowd. 

He was on the opposite side of the yellow tape, directly beside the suspect. The adjustments to his attire made him look disheveled. His expression relayed awe.

“Whew-wee. Y’all know what happened here?” The southern accent he’d adopted was thick, likely more exaggerated than anything he’d naturally grown up with. “I ain’t never seen so many po-pos in my life.”

The suspect glanced at Will, openly disdainful. “It’s a murder. Two women. They haven’t said who yet, but with a crowd like this, it has to be the Mutilator. Doesn’t it?”

“Muti-what now? Aw, don’t tell me there’s more o’ them serial killers out and about. Here I thought it was bad enough the Ripper came back.”

The suspect sneered. “The Mutilator is much worse than the Ripper.”

Internally, Hannibal disagreed. He'd seen the Mutilator's work, and it was amateurish, at best. 

Will scratched the back of his neck, appearing confused. “I’m sorry. You’re gonna have to remind me. What’s this muti-guy done again?”

“Mutilator. And he’s turned six high-powered women into sex toys just this month. Not counting the ones in there.”

“Oh, gosh. I think I have heard o’ that guy.”

The suspect finally gave Will his full attention. If he were as smart as he believed himself to be, he’d take note of the way Will’s eyes never strayed toward the scene in which he'd claimed so much interest.  

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I heard he was impotent or somethin’. You know, 'cause he don’t never actually have sex with the ladies.”

The suspect hummed, haughty. “Is that what they’re saying?”

“Yeh. But you’re right. I’d much rather face the Ripper than that guy.”

The suspect perked up, visibly interested. A fish entranced by a well-made lure. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Well, least the Ripper’s supposed to be a real doctor, right? I figure on the off chance he decides not to kill me, he can just stitch me back up, all good and new. This muti-vader guy, on the other hand, ain’t no doctor at all. He just likes to play pretend. I heard so myself from a guy down at the gas station, and the guy at the gas station heard it on the radio.”

Will said it like that was all the fact he needed. The suspect’s fist clenched at his side.

Hannibal prepared to intervene, if necessary.

“Well, I guess you’re in luck, since the Mutilator doesn’t go after men anyway.”

“Don’t he? I thought one o’ them women was a cross-dresser. Like she had a dick. Or does that count?”

The suspect stilled, eyes narrowing. “None of them were crossdressers.”

“Maybe she was trans then. ‘Cause I’m almost positive the mutatorer killed somebody that looked like a woman but wasn’t a woman.” His face scrunched up in thought, appearing, to an outsider, completely unaware of the anger his words induced. “Or, I guess if you’re bein’ politically correct, she is a girl? I don’t know. I’d just like to know where the line is. Like, if I get real drunk and put on a dress, is this guy gonna come for me? Not only is he not a real doctor, he can’t even tell who’s a girl and who’s not.” Will let out a high-pitched, snorting laugh. “Mutitioner’s prolly so dumb that whatever he killed in there ain’t even people. They’s cats. He just heard ‘pussy’ and got mixed up.”

The suspect turned to Will hard and fast. “It’s the Mutilator, you stupid hick, and they’re not fucking cats. Show some goddamn respect. Three women are dead in there, and—”

 “Three?” Will’s accent dropped off. “I thought you said there were two.”

The suspect – the Mutilator – stared at Will with slowly dawning horror. His body language readied for flight, but something in him must have recognized Will as police because he switched stances at the last second and went for a sucker-punch.

Will’s head jerked to the side for a split second, then Will was moving, too. Quick as a snake, Will struck the Mutilator in the solar plexus, then the throat. As the other man doubled over, Will grabbed his hair, forcing the Mutilator’s face down until it met Will’s knee with a crack. The Mutilator was on the ground with Will’s shoe on his throat and a gun trained on his face a moment later. Agents and policeman alike burst out of the woodwork, guns aimed at the Mutilator. Someone (not Will) started reading the man his rights.

Will didn’t move until the suspect was in cuffs. When he stepped off, he was himself again. No longer an oblivious country yokel, but an anxious, fidgeting empath. He walked over to Hannibal, stopping only to adjust his jaw and spit blood into the snow.

Hannibal immediately lifted Will's chin to see the damage. A busted lip. A bit of bruising. Nothing serious. Pride swelled in Hannibal’s chest for his beautiful, violent boy. He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to Will, who put it to his bleeding lip.

“Why southern?”

Will pursed his lips. Licked his teeth. Swallowed. “Quickest way to get underestimated in America’s to be born in the South.”

Miss Fairfield put both hands up, fingers splayed in excitement. “Oh, my gosh. That was so fricking cool! How did you know that would work?”

“You tell me.”

She straightened and nodded. Her desire for both knowledge and Will’s approval were clear. “He was arrogant. He wanted to be known as something great and for people to recognize his skill. That’s why you compared him to the Ripper.”

“Close. I compared him to the Ripper because he wanted to be a doctor, and the real Ripper likely is or was a doctor.”

Her mouth opened in an ‘o’ shape. “Right. Of course. Find someone who took basically the same path he did, only more successfully.”

Will nodded. “Aaron. What could I have done better?”

“Drawn it out. He was about to walk away, before that last bit. You almost lost him.”

“And?”

Mr. Cavell shifted. There was a burgeoning respect for Will despite a natural resistance to liking someone so unrefined. He said, “And you could have dodged his punch? It was pretty clear he was going to hit you.”

“No. I chose to go in as an antagonist because the chances he’d see through the admirer act were too high. But I could have switched to someone more understanding and interested halfway through, and his arrogance coupled with my perceived naivety would have blinded him. It probably would’ve gotten us a more damning confession, too.”

Miss Fairfield asked, “Then why didn’t you do it?”

“Because I’m not a field agent. I noticed it a little too late, and I couldn’t go back. Slip ups like that are often the difference between an arrest and a knife between the ribs.”

Mr. Cavell shook his head. “You were good though. You had him cornered, and you took him down fast.”

“I was lucky. I haven’t been in a fight in years, and if he’d had any sort of combat training, I’d have been fucked.” He removed the bloody handkerchief from his lip and made a vague motion with it. “Write me a ten page paper on what to do when arrests go awry. Due Monday.”

The interns glanced at each other. Mr. Cavell said, “Today is Monday.”

Will’s brows scrunched. “Really? Wednesday then, I guess.”

They nodded. Mr. Cavell bid both Will and Hannibal good night, but Miss Fairfield stayed back. She adjusted her coat, and Hannibal watched as Will mimicked the motion.

“Hey, I know you’re super busy, but I just wanted to say that we’ll be graduating soon. In like, two weeks. And I didn’t know if you’d want to maybe come to the ceremony?" She shifted on her feet, nervous. "I mean, it’s not like you won’t see us again afterward. The internship is still going. But we’ll be official agents then. And… I don’t know. I’m probably just being dumb.”

Will frowned. “You’re not being dumb, but I don’t really like crowds. I’m sure Beverly will go if you ask though.”

She nodded, downtrodden but understanding. “Yeah. She said she’d be there.” Before Will could say anything else, she raised her hand in a quick wave. “Thanks anyway. I should get started on that paper.” She headed in the direction of Mr. Cavell without pause.

Will tilted his head, staring after her. “What was that all about?”

“She respects you. She wishes to earn your affection.”

Will re-buttoned his jacket, making no move to retrieve the shirt folded over Hannibal’s arm. “I don’t know about all that. She just likes my papers.”

“Is it really so hard to believe that someone likes you?”

Will tensed, demeanor instantly changing to something more hostile. His voice was unreasonably harsh as he said, “Yes.” He stuffed his hands (and the bloodied handkerchief) in his pockets and stomped past Hannibal. “I’m going home.”

Hannibal considered stopping him.

He considered asking Will to join him for dinner and digging to find out what had Will so riled. He decided against it, if only because Will was an emotionally volatile person. When whatever was simmering inside him came to a boil, he would seek Hannibal out and explain. 

(And if Will’s emotional outburst ended, as they usually did, in Will feeling endeared to Hannibal for his patience and understanding, there was nothing Hannibal could do about it.)

He let Will go.

Fortunately, Will had a relatively low boiling point, and the wait took less than a day. Will stormed into Hannibal’s office without knocking, mere minutes after Hannibal’s last patient of the day had left, and half-shouted, “Did Alana tell you I like you?”

Hannibal blinked, curious. “No. Do you?”

“That’s not the point. She thinks I like you just because you were nice to me. Like you’re some knight in shining armor whose only purpose is to take care of others. Fucking pisses me off.”

Will’s hand gestures became larger and more expressive when angry. Hannibal stood to take Will's winterwear and was pleasantly surprised when Will stilled to let him. The moment the articles of clothing were off, Will's pacing and ranting resumed. 

“It shouldn’t matter if you’re rich or if you can’t invite people to your fancy fucking operas or if your hands stop working and you can’t make your stupidly extravagant food anymore. You’re not the only person who can take responsibility. You deserve to be taken care of, too.”

Warmth and fondness bloomed in Hannibal’s chest. He smiled. “And what, exactly, would taking care of me entail? Cooking my meals?”

Will shot him a dismissive glance.

“No. Cooking is a form of self-care for you. It would be counter-productive to take that away. Besides, you treat your body like a temple. Caring for you means respecting that temple and helping it to prosper. Back rubs or massages. Participating in whatever nightly rituals you have for moisturizing and cleaning. Keeping up with and stimulating you academically. Respecting your things not because of how much they cost but because they belong to you.” He finished ticking the list off his fingers with an uncaring wave.

Hannibal folded his fingers together over his abdomen and imagined Will doing all of those things. “Insightful boy. Tell me, would you like to accompany me to another opera?”

Will pulled a face, almost repulsed. He muttered,  “No thanks. One was enough.”

Hannibal's smile widened as Will stroked the raven-stag statue, entirely unaware of his own charms. There was no acknowledgement of the way Hannibal’s invitation linked to their conversation and no recognition of the sway he held over Hannibal’s heart. Innocent thing.

“A dinner party then. I haven’t hosted one in months, and I would quite like you at the next one.”

Will’s frown deepened. “No offense, but your acquaintances are a little…” He made a vague, rolling motion with his hand. “The worst? I know they touch your ego in just the right spot, but they don’t really do it for me.” He paused again, this time looking wary. He didn't want to insult Hannibal. As an awkward afterthought, he added, “Komeda was alright. She seemed nice enough.”

“Yes, Komeda is always invited. And I would not wish for you to spend a night in solely unpleasant company. We would, of course, invite your friends, too.”

If Will caught the ‘we’ in the invitation (the implication that they would be hosting together), he didn’t show it. “Do I have other friends?”

“I was under the impression you enjoyed Dr. Katz’s company, as well as Dr. Price and Dr. Zeller.”

Will blinked, surprised. “You’d invite them? I thought your dinner parties were supposed to be super exclusive or something.”

“So long as they make you happy, consider the invitations already extended.”

Will’s expression softened, the care he felt for Hannibal left on open display, and a possessive need to praise and claim clawed at Hannibal’s heart. He wanted so badly to take Will into his arms and whisper every positive thing imaginable against his skin. To kiss Will’s neck, leaving a necklace of bruises, then to take Will shopping for a diamond-studded collar. Something with Hannibal’s name on it, so Will could wear that loving expression in public without attracting unwanted attention. 

Hannibal sighed internally. It was too soon – far too soon – for anything like that. But he could dream.

Slow enough to verge on hesitant, Will said, “I... That sounds okay. Or not terrible, at least." He shuffled his feet and scratched the back of his neck. Added, "I never know when I'll be called away on a case though. I can't help that."

"Nor would I expect you to."

Will tapped his fingers on the raven-stag's stand, his excuses dying away. After another few seconds of staring at Hannibal's pocket square, he nodded. "Okay. Just one though. If I don't like it, I'm not going to the next one."

Hannibal smiled. He would make sure Will liked it.

“Lovely. Shall we say this Saturday then? Six o’clock?”

“Isn’t that a little short notice?”

“Schedules can be cleared.”

Will scoffed softly. “I’d make a bet that everyone you invite will magically be free this Saturday, but there isn’t anyone who’d bet against me.” He turned, mind visibly skipping to another topic as he reached into his pocket. “Oh. Before I forget.” He pulled out a scalpel and held it by the blade for Hannibal to take. “I swiped this from you when you took my coat. Why do you keep a scalpel with your pocket square?”

Hannibal accepted the scalpel, slipping it nonchalantly back into his breast pocket. “I use it as a pencil sharpener. I’ve found it gives me the finest point.”

Will hummed, the sound of it not quite believing. “When did you learn to draw?”

“It’s been an interest of mine since I was very small, though I didn’t have the ability to seriously pursue artistic endeavors until I was a preteen.”

“Why not?”

Hannibal paused, deciding how much to reveal. Will caught onto the accidental gravity of the question (observant boy) and turned. His full attention settled on Hannibal with a comforting weight, silently encouraging him forward. 

Hannibal conceded. 

“My parents died, and I was rather consumed with taking care of my younger sister. It wasn’t until my uncle found and adopted me, years later, that I had the time or resources to spare on frivolities.”

Will’s eyes dilated as he took in the information, no doubt catching the transition from Hannibal and Mischa to solely Hannibal. He wetted his lips. Walked closer. His knees nearly brushed Hannibal’s.

Hannibal craned his neck so he could meet Will’s eyes.

“Have you drawn her?”

Hannibal, momentarily thrown, tilted his head. “Mischa?”

“Is that your sister’s name?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes.”

“I have drawn her before, on occasion.”

“Will you show me?”

It was a request not only for Hannibal’s art, but a piece of Hannibal’s past. Trust which could not be un-shared. Care which could not be classified as anything less than intimate. Hannibal shifted so that his legs bracketed Will’s, the material of their pants abutting.

“Yes.”

Will nodded, gentle. He was aware of what he had asked. Aware of what Hannibal was willing to give.

“Thank you.”

“You are always welcome, Will.”

“You know what’s crazy?” Will leaned the barest amount to the right, putting pressure on Hannibal’s left leg. “I believe you.”

“As you should. I mean every word.”

“Don’t invite her.”

Hannibal blinked, taking a moment to shift with the abrupt change in topic. “Her?”

“Alana. To your dinner party. I know you two are… whatever you are, but don’t invite her.”

She gave away my dogs rang out between them, dense with anger and obviousness. Beneath that, in a much smaller, scrawling font lived the words, I don’t want to share. Those were the ones to which Hannibal listened (adoring) and indulged.

“Of course not, Darling.”

Will twitched at the endearment but didn’t protest. Another wonderful sign of their deepening bond. Hannibal did not reach out, did not try to touch Will any more than he already was, and Will did not move away.

They stayed like that, together, until the clock chimed eight. And even then, they lingered.

Chapter Text

Hannibal took the thick, lemon-thyme hazelnut reduction off the stove and poured it into two bowls to cool. He set the empty pot on a backburner and turned off the stove, then unbuttoned his slacks.

His cock was already half-hard from the mere thought of Will openly eating his cum. It only took a few strokes to get him the rest of the way.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the counter, easily sliding into a fantasy where Will had already admitted feelings for Hannibal. Had already learned to crave the taste of Hannibal’s cock. The Will of Hannibal’s mind used nimble fingers to free Hannibal’s cock from its cloth confines, perfect blue eyes dark and dilated with lust as he looked up at Hannibal from his knees.

Did this Will know who Hannibal was? Truly?

Yes.

He knew that the bodies of others nourished his own. Welcomed it, even. And now, he wanted Hannibal to nourish him, too. His lips were soft on the head of Hannibal’s dick, teasing. His tongue came out to lick the slit, not to tease, but to taste. Hannibal groaned.

Will mimicked the sound, appreciative, and swallowed Hannibal whole. This Will had plenty of experience taking Hannibal’s cock, both in his throat and his ass, and he did not flinch as Hannibal grabbed hold of his hair and began to thrust. His tongue flattened, pressing up against the underside of Hannibal’s cock. Savoring the feel. Hannibal pushed in so deep that his pelvis flattened Will’s lips, and Will looked up at him through tear-wettened eyes, adoring.

Hannibal thrust faster, his pelvis connecting with Will’s lips over and over again, never gently. He hoped Will would bruise. Hoped everyone who came in contact with Will would look and know. Know that he was Hannibal’s. Know that he’d choked on Hannibal’s dick. Know that he’d enjoyed it.

Hannibal’s abdomen shuddered as his thighs began to spasm, and he quickly grabbed one bowl of the reduction and placed it just below his dick. He stroked faster, eyes open so he could watch his cum spurt into Will’s portion of the food. So he could know that this would end up in Will’s body.

He squeezed the base of his cock, drawing out another harsh shudder, and slowly drew a line up to the tip, squeezing any leftover cum out of his urethra. It dripped into the bowl: a thick, translucent white.

He returned the bowl to the counter and licked a stray drop of semen off his thumb, making sure the flavor was what he thought it would be. A tad more bitter than he’d intended, but it would both pair well with and be disguised by the reduction.

He washed his hands before re-tucking his shirt and fixing his slacks, then went about preparing their pork loin. He placed the finished product on a bed of rice because the rice would soak up the reduction: an assurance that Will would take in every last drop.

Will’s portion went in blue-lidded Tupperware. Hannibal’s in green. He made them both coffee and drove to Quantico.

Will, predictably, was at his desk, completely absorbed in a file. Hannibal sat the tote and thermoses on Will’s desk. Will used his middle finger to mark his place before looking up.

“Dr. Lecter. Long time no see.”

“Almost fifteen hours, yes. Astonishing how long we can go without one another.”

“How long I can go without you? Not surprising. How long I can go without your food…?”

Hannibal plucked the blue-lidded Tupperware out of the tote and handed it to Will, whose lips pulled into a dazzling smile.

“If cooking is all that’s required to maintain your friendship, it is a small price to pay.”

Will popped off the lid and leaned back in his chair. His fork pierced the loin and gathered the rice and reduction without hesitation. He raised the utensil, pink lips parting, and took the fork into his mouth. Past his teeth, onto his tongue, lips closed.

Will groaned pleasantly. His jaw worked as he chewed. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “How do you make it so good every time?”

“Practice.”

Hannibal watched with avid eyes as Will inhaled a second bite, then a third. Eagerly taking Hannibal into himself and savoring the taste as he went. Will paused in the middle of his fifth bite (the food, Hannibal’s cum, sitting delicately on his tongue) as he noticed Hannibal had yet to start eating. He finished chewing slowly, then raised his fork to point at Hannibal.

“Are you not hungry?”

Hannibal opened his own Tupperware, if only to appease Will, and began to eat.

Will took another bite.

When Will finished, he ran his thumb along the bottom of the Tupperware, through the last vestiges of the reduction, and stuck it in his mouth. Seductive thing. Hannibal finished his own portion at a much more sedate pace, warmed by the knowledge that Will’s stomach was currently digesting a portion of Hannibal’s own body. When they parted, Will was none the wiser.

And Hannibal was already planning their next meal.

(***Paragon***)

Will tried to hand the woman at the register a twenty only for Brian to knock his hand away and hold out a credit card.

“Seriously guys, our paychecks came in. I’m good now.”

“It’s not about whether or not you can pay. It’s whether or not you should pay.” Brian slid his card back into his wallet, and they all picked up their trays to find a table. They settled into a booth in the corner. “Consider this a trade for the food we’re going to get at Dr. Lecter’s party. We all know you’re the only reason we got an invite.”

Will twirled his fork, unable to deny it. “You were actually kind of a bribe to get me to go.”

Jimmy pointed his fork at his own chest. “Us?”

Will blinked. “Is that bad?”

Beverly stabbed a tomato in her salad. “Not bad, no. I personally love being a bribe.”

Jimmy nodded. “I mean, we’re usually bribes in the other direction, but…”

Brian snorted. “What they mean to say is that we didn’t think you liked us that much.”

Beverly punched Brian in the shoulder while Jimmy nodded again.

Will shrugged. “Not a lot of competition.” He took a bite of his alfredo, then corrected, “I do like talking to you. You guys are honest. Funny. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather suffer through a dinner party with.”

“You may be suffering, but I will be living the high life.” Beverly reclined, eyes closed. “I’ve always wanted to be invited to a fancy dinner party. Closest I’ve gotten is the stupid, Bureau sponsored gala-slash-fundraiser we do every year, and that’s not even worth buying a new dress over.”

“And this is?”

“Oh yeah. This party is the shit, Will. Only eighteen people got invited, and we’re four of them. I’m talking Pulitzer prize winners, platinum album musicians, CEOs. If you aren’t at the top of your field or besties with Lecter, you don’t get an invite, and no one gets a Plus One.”

Heat rose to Will’s cheeks at the underlying, ‘You got a Plus Three.’

He deflected, “Dr. Lecter was just being nice. He probably invited some other people we know.”

“Nope.” Jimmy slurped at his milkshake, giving himself a thick, ice cream mustache. “Not even Alana or Jack got an invite.”

Brian muffled a laugh in his fist. “Oh shit, that’s right. You actually asked her, didn’t you?”

Jimmy shrugged defensively. “How was I supposed to know?”

“By not being an idiot? If the goal is to make Will comfortable, no way he’s inviting Alana. They’re kind of…” He made a clawing motion with his hand and hissed like a cat.

Will rolled his eyes, ignoring the butterflies that came with knowing exactly why Dr. Lecter hadn’t invited Alana. “We’re not that bad.”

“Oh, yes you are.” Beverly leaned forward, in full gossip mode. “My parents’ divorce was more amicable than whatever’s going on between you two, and they refuse to be in the same country together.”

Jimmy pursed his lips. “Unpopular opinion here, but I actually feel kind of… sorry for her? I mean, it’s obvious she’s crushing hard on the good doctor, and he invited literally everyone at the office except her. It’s kind of sad.”

Will acknowledged the blank place in his chest where he should have felt guilt and shrugged. “If she really wants to go, she’ll just ask him for an invite.”

Jimmy copied Beverly and leaned forward, though he actually lowered his voice to whisper, “That’s just it. She did. And he said no.” He straightened again, using a normal voice to say, “She said it like it wasn’t a big deal, citing that he just wants to make you comfortable and that she understands, but that’s gotta sting.”

Will finished his food and stood to bus their trays. “Who Dr. Lecter invites is his business. I’m not worried about it.”

All three of his friends exchanged disbelieving glances. Will rolled his eyes and took their trays to the trash. They walked back to the Bureau together, and Will was only a little surprised to find Dr. Lecter sitting at his desk.

Aaron stood to Dr. Lecter’s right, more excited than Will had ever seen him. “Are you serious? A Stuart Hughes Diamond Edition Bespoke suit? I would kill to be in the same room as one of those, let alone own one.”

Dr. Lecter nodded. “There are few things better than a well-made suit.”

Beverly leaned toward Will, though she didn’t lower her voice as she said, “Mine’s a Walmart original. Does that count?”

Will hummed. “Counts as a faux-pas. We’re wearing the same thing.”

“No, sweetie. You’re talking about a dress clash, and we have to be wearing the exact same outfit for that. Just having matching brands doesn’t count.”

“Maybe not at your parties.”

Will held a straight face up until Beverly laughed. Then his smile slipped through.

Aaron cut in, “You two don’t get it. How you present yourself matters. When Dr. Lecter walks into a room, people pay attention. When you walk into a room, no one even notices. It’s about respect.”

Will snorted, parting with Beverly so they could go to their respective desks. There was a long, semi-flat box on top of his files, no doubt from the man sitting in his seat. Will distantly heard Beverly greeting Ava, who was nearer to her desk.

He said, “And you don’t think that’s on purpose? First rule of being a profiler: Never assume anyone else’s motivations are going to match up with your own.” He ran a finger gently across the ribbon, just to feel the texture. It was thick and soft, not at all like the flimsy plastic strip Will had expected. “Take time. Think about it. When I see you next, I want you to tell me why Beverly, Dr. Lecter and I all dress the way we do.”

Aaron’s lips turned down. He glanced past Will, likely to Ava, then back again. “You know we’re not your students, right? We’re here to do field work, not write papers.”

Will looked up from the ribbon, unamused. “And now it’s a presentation. Nine A.M. Monday. Cover the clothing choices of Beverly, Dr. Lecter, Jimmy, Brian, Jack, Ava, me, and you.”

Aaron’s eyes widened, his lips parting dumbly. He didn’t move.

Will lifted a brow. “Sorry. Did I stutter?”

Aaron glanced around the room, as though anyone there would save him, then gave a jagged nod and stormed off.

Beverly laughed. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Will gave a one-shoulder shrug. “When killers think they’re smarter than everyone else, they get caught. When profilers think that, those same killers walk free.” He turned to Ava. “Aaron’s going to try and goad you into helping him. You’re under direct orders to say no.”

Ava’s cheeks were pink, her posture nervous. She nodded. “No problem.”

Beverly flopped into her chair with a wolfish grin. “Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m feeling a little hot for teacher. W-o-w.”

Ava nodded again, weakly. “Ditto.”

“Atta girl!” Beverly and Ava fist-bumped.

Will rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Dr. Lecter. “What can I do for you?”

Dr. Lecter stood, and Will took the opportunity to snatch a small box out of the older man’s coat pocket. He only barely managed to slip it into his own pocket before Dr. Lecter was lifting his hands and relieving Will of his coat. Will took off his own hat and tossed it on the desk.

“I came to bring you this.” Dr. Lecter motioned to the box. “And to let you know that I will be otherwise detained with preparations until Saturday night.”

“Three days? How much work does it take to throw a party?”

“A worthwhile party? Much.” He tapped the box. “Open it, please.”

Heat crept up the back of Will’s neck. He was overly aware of his co-workers’ not-so-subtle stares as he undid the ribbon and lifted the lid of the box. Inside sat a neatly folded, dark blue shirt that looked markedly more expensive than anything else Dr. Lecter had bought him. There were also black slacks, black socks, a pair of luxuriously soft, bright blue boxer-briefs, a white undershirt, and a pearl-white tie. Will stepped back from the gift and checked the floor around his desk for another box.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The matching shoes. No way you got all of this just to let me walk in wearing sneakers.”

Dr. Lecter’s usual, sphynx-like smile tilted mischievously. “I was unaware that I ‘let you’ do anything, Will. It is your decision what you wear.”

Will snorted. “So you’re saying you wouldn’t rather I wear this than, say, an old flannel and a pair of ripped jeans? Because I was going dress up for you, but if you honestly don’t care what I wear…”

Will trailed off. Dr. Lecter stared at him, casually weighing his options.

Eventually, he capitulated. “Horrible boy.”

“Thank you. Shoes?”

“At your house.”

“Of course they are.” Will shook his head. At least in this, he didn’t have to feel guilty. The things Dr. Lecter bought were obviously for the doctor’s enjoyment rather than Will’s own. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter.”

“You’re welcome, Will.” Dr. Lecter straightened, running his palm over his abdomen to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles. “I suppose I should be going. This was only one errand of many.”

“Hold up a sec. I took something.” Will stepped around Dr. Lecter to pluck his coat from the back of the chair. He pulled the little box out of the pocket and blinked when he realized it, too, was giftwrapped. He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Tell me, would you also like me to return…” Dr. Lecter reached into his pocket and pulled out a palmful of feathers, small rocks, and tree bark. “This debris?”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s for lure crafting.” He tossed his coat onto his chair and held out the newly-freed hand. Dr. Lecter dumped the assorted items into his palm. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Dr. Lecter checked his watch, maybe just to make sure it was still there. “Good day, Will.”

“Good day, Dr. Lecter.”

Dr. Lecter nodded and left the room. Beverly was by his side a moment later. “What’d he get you?”

“Clothes.” Will shrugged. “I really was planning on going in jeans and flannel, so it’s fair enough.”

She flipped through the articles of clothing. “And the little box?”

“Not sure.” He stuffed the lure crafting materials back into his coat pocket, then brought the smaller present up to his ear and shook. It didn’t make any noise. He tugged the ribbon off without flourish and ripped the paper. A small, rectangular velvet box greeted him. He flipped it open to see what he really hoped weren’t real diamonds.

Beside him, Beverly said, “Oh my god.”

Will turned the box sideways. “Are these… earrings?”

“They’re cufflinks, you nerd. Really nice cufflinks.”

“He’s going to ask for them back afterward, right? There’s no way he’s just giving these to me.”

Will glanced at Beverly for assurance. She smirked. “Do you think that man has ever asked for anything back? Ever?”

Will groaned. Moved his coat. Dropped into his chair. “Maybe I can reverse-pickpocket him and just give it back?”

Beverly leaned over and poked one of the (please don’t be real) diamonds. “You sure that’s a precedent you want to set?”

He blinked. Thought about Dr. Lecter just slipping gifts into Will’s pockets every time they saw each other. Grimaced. “No. Damn.” He huffed and snapped the box closed, then tossed it onto the clothes.

She patted the back of his chair, semi-sympathetic. “What are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do.”

He turned to his computer, utterly defeated, and looked up a how-to video for wearing cufflinks.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal donned a pearl-white, three-piece suit with a dark blue tie and sapphire cufflinks, overtly aware that he and Will were going to look stunning standing next to each other.

A power couple, as it were.

He made his way downstairs to check on his sous chefs and the waitstaff. The hors d'oeuvres were on serving plates. The wines were breathing. Liquor would flow freely, as it always did at his dinner parties, with the exception being that the beer was meant solely for Will. Anticipation seeded in his gut, and he waited.

The majority of his guests (as was proper) arrived at exactly six.  

Will did not.

He did not arrive at six, or six-ten, or six-thirty. As time wore on with no Will and no excuse, amusement made way for unease. He asked Will’s friends if Will had gotten caught up at work, but they were as confused as Hannibal. Apparently, Will had even left early to get ready.

The unease twisted deep, turning his care for Will into worry. The pleasantries he presented to his guests, while always false, suddenly verged on forced. He derived no enjoyment from their unintended cannibalism and took no pleasure from their praise. He wanted Will.

Near six-forty-five, Komeda said, “Color me surprised, Hannibal. I thought for sure that boy from the opera would be here. You seemed quite taken with him.”

The agitation in Hannibal grew, shifting like a caged beast. He smiled. “He was invited. Something must have come up.”

Her brows rose. “Oh? Any idea what?”

Displeasure spiked because no, he did not know what, but it was headed off by Dr. Katz approaching, entirely distracted by her phone. In an equally distracted, uneasy tone, she said, “Lecter. I found Will.”

The displeasure abruptly vanished, leaving only obsessive curiosity in its wake. She turned so he could see her phone, which showed a live feed (not steady enough to be the news; likely someone holding a camera phone) of a car teetering on the edge of a bridge.

And in the back of that car: Will.

Disapproval flared. Fear burned. Though Will was in the clothes Hannibal had given him for this occasion (without his coat), he was not on his way. He was stepping instead to death’s door – entirely too far from Hannibal’s arms – and speaking to what looked to be a little girl in a car seat.

Dr. Katz said, “This is happening right now. Apparently he already pulled the mom and another kid out.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched down as the car tipped further, forcing Will to grasp at a headrest for balance. Stupid, altruistic boy.

Komeda leaned in, interested. Hannibal asked, “Does this have sound?”

Dr. Katz nodded, likely only having muted it to avoid disturbing the ambiance of the party. She tapped the sound button and Will’s voice came through, low and purposefully soothing.

“—oing great. Just keep calm. Eyes on me. I’m going to get you out of here, alright?”

The car slipped another half-foot off the bridge. The girl screamed. A woman beside the vehicle, likely the mother, screamed along with her. All Hannibal cared about, however, was Will.

(The set of Will’s shoulders as he hunkered down, not even considering fleeing. The determination in Will’s expression as he calculated the odds, none of which were in his favor. The glimpse of Will’s lips as he spoke, reassuring instead of apologetic. He would not run.)

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. But I need you to focus on me, alright? Can you do that?” A pause. “Good. You’re doing so good. Now, I’m going to count to three. On three, I’m going to undo your seatbelt and grab you. That’s going to make the car move.”

The girl whimpered. Dr. Katz put her free hand over her mouth, fearful and empathetic.

“I know. I know it’s scary. But you’ve gotta be brave for me, okay? I’m going to grab you, count of three, and I need you to hold onto me, tight as you can. Can you do that?” Another pause, shorter this time. “Good. Now close your eyes, and trust me. When you open them again, you’ll be safe. You ready?”

A small, terrified, “Yeah.”

“One.”

Will glanced over his shoulder, out of the hatch of the car. Likely judging the distance.

“Two.”

His stance widened, preparing for quick movement.

“Three.”

Nimble hands darted to the side, likely undoing the girl’s seatbelt, and she was in his arms a split second later. Hannibal breathed in, slow and purposefully steady, as the car tilted in earnest. One step with the vehicle at a forty-five-degree angle. One step at ninety-degrees. Will’s foot on the bumper with the vehicle perpendicular to the bridge. And a leap.

Will’s shoulder hit the bridge first, no doubt ruining his shirt. He skidded then rolled, using his body to protect the girl. When he came to a stop, the video was quiet enough for Hannibal to think the sound had gone out. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, both a war drum and a funeral march. The video went eerily still.

Then Will propped himself on his forearms, revealing a very alive little girl, and the volume skyrocketed. Relief flushed violently through Hannibal, leaving him weak.

He released a low, shaky exhale. Onlookers cheered while the mother ran over, hugging her daughter and, after a moment, Will. Another child, slightly older and wearing Will’s coat, joined them in their celebrations. Both of the children cried. The mother could say nothing but ‘thank you.’

Dr. Katz lowered her free hand from her mouth to her heart and muttered, “Oh, thank god.”

Will appeared uncomfortable under the attention, his entire body stiff. He peeled himself rather awkwardly from the family only for a member of the crowd to sling an arm over his shoulder to take a selfie. It spoke leagues of the crowd’s manners that not a single one of them had checked on Will’s arm or leg, where he had fallen.

Will’s expression twisted in panic as he caught sight of the man’s phone, and he quickly disentangled himself. Dr. Katz laughed softly, voice fond and tearful as she said, “I think he just saw the time.”

Though the crowd was now too loud to hear Will speak, the camera never left him. Hannibal watched as Will hurried back over to the family and plucked his wallet from his coat pocket. He left the coat itself around the girl’s shoulders.

Will made it all of two steps away from the family before turning back and opening his wallet to hand the mother a wad of bills. She tried to turn him down, but he smiled, curled her hands around the money, and took off. Over the sound of the raucous crowd, the phone picked up the mother shouting, “Wait! What’s your name?”

Will glanced back and waved, mouth closed. A second later, he was gone.

Dr. Katz paused the video.

Dr. Price, who’d joined them along the way, offered a consolatory, “At least we know where he is.”

Dr. Zeller shook his head. His voice was tight as he said, “Guy can’t go five seconds without saving a baby from a burning building. What are we going to do with him?”

“Get him a phone, for starters.” Dr. Katz dragged the red bar beneath the video to the left, rewinding it. “Anyone else want to watch this from the beginning? I know that bridge. He’s still like twenty minutes away.”

The head waiter stopped politely at the edge of their group, waiting until he caught Hannibal’s eye to say, “We’re ready whenever you are, sir.”

Komeda placed a manicured hand on Hannibal’s bicep. “Surely we should wait. If he wasn’t the man of the hour before, he certainly is now.”

Hannibal kept the anger out of his smile as he said, “Will would prefer we begin without him. He’s very particular about making sure his friends are well-fed.” He nodded to the waiter. “We’ll begin at seven, as scheduled.”

Komeda blinked, recognizing that this was not a debate. She respectfully backed down. “I’ll let the others know we’re getting started.”

There would be gossip mixed in with the message, Hannibal was sure. News of Will’s bravery and heroics. He let her go.

Phones came out of purses and pockets in a wave, and for the first time in the history of Hannibal’s dinner parties, his guests were more absorbed in their screens than each other. Hannibal allowed it, if only because he needed to check on the food a final time prior to serving.

The waitstaff politely corralled his guests to the formal dining area while he disappeared into the kitchen. Though his tone and mannerisms remained unruffled, the monster that lived in Hannibal’s chest seethed.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Hannibal felt the dark stirrings of genuine rage. Rage at Will for risking his life over something so insignificant. Rage at himself for not having already bought Will a phone. (The expense was miniscule, his boy reckless.)

He would order one at the end of the night. Link it to his own and enable tracking so that Will could never again stray so far from his side as to vanish.

Before that, though, he and Will needed to speak.

Part of Will’s self-sacrificial streak came from the idea that his death would have no negative side effects. He had no family. No pets. A singular friend whom he’d known for only a few months. So long as he believed Hannibal was fine without him, Will would see no downside to his martyring ways. He would continue to fling himself indiscriminately into harm’s path, uncaring of the damage accrued.

He’d fling himself, until he died.

Until Hannibal could no longer look into his eyes or listen to his voice or touch his skin. Until he faded from this world, leaving Hannibal all alone. Again.

And that was absolutely Unacceptable.

Hannibal rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. He suppressed the fury that smoldered deep in his chest. The food was perfect. His guests were seated. He allowed himself a singular extra moment of solitude before sliding back into the role of perfect host. When he took his place at the head of the table, he gave a short but witty toast.

His guests clapped. The food was served.

The seat to his right remained empty.

(***Paragon***)

Will whispered every curse he knew as he parallel parked down the street from Dr. Lecter’s house. He was so late.

Late and a mess. The clothes Dr. Lecter had gotten him were well-made but not meant for roughhousing. He couldn’t just brush off the mud and snow like he would in jeans and expect them to be fine. So not only were they stained, they were ruined.

And right before the party Dr. Lecter had specifically bought them for, too.

Guilt squeezed his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He hurried up the driveway. God, how much of an idiot did a person have to be to fuck up wearing clothes? Dr. Lecter would have every right to be angry with him after this. Maybe he’d even turn Will away at the door, telling him to go home.

Anxiety took over for the guilt, forcing Will’s hands rub harsh lines up and down his thighs. His arm ached from where he’d hit the bridge. He should just go home.

No, he should apologize.

No, he should go home.

The door opened, taking the decision out of Will’s hands. And god fucking damn it, how did Dr. Lecter look that good in white? No one looked good in white. The anxiety that had been bubbling in Will hit its peak, turning from hot water to scalding tar and destroying him from the inside out.

In a single breath, he said, “I’m sorry for being late and sorry for ruining your clothes and sorry for not calling ahead. I should’ve just gone home. I’ll go home now. I should return the clothes first. You don’t want these clothes. I’ll pay you back. You don’t care about money. Shit.”

Will didn’t realize how badly he was shaking until he tried to wring his hands together and missed. Dr. Lecter’s warm, steady hands cupped both sides of Will’s face, forcing him to look up. Will looked anywhere but at Dr. Lecter’s eyes. He would not cry.

“Darling, you’re having a panic attack. I need you to breathe.”

Will looked up at the awning, not quite processing his friend’s words. Dr. Lecter stepped closer, until they were muscle-to-muscle and toe-to-toe. He felt Dr. Lecter’s chest expand with a deep inhale, then relax with a slow release. It happened again, just as calm, and Will copied without meaning to.

“Good boy. That’s perfect, Darling. Keep breathing.” The doctor smiled, his thumbs tracing gentle lines across Will’s cheekbones, and despite the fact that Will was doing something ludicrously simple, it felt like he’d accomplished something great.

They stood there for long, slow minutes as Will sunk into the calm that Dr. Lecter exuded. He felt it like a tranquil wave. Like fuzz on the edges of his conscious. When Dr. Lecter finally stepped back, only his left hand fell away. The other moved to touch Will’s hand, twining their fingers together in an almost achingly gentle motion before using that as leverage to pull Will inside.

The house was warm and welcoming. Will didn’t see any other guests, but then, he was late. They were probably already eating. He opened his mouth to apologize again only for Dr. Lecter to beat him to it.

“Hush. I don’t care about the clothes. I don’t care that you’re late. I care only that you are safe.” He moved toward the stairs, and Will, connected by the hand, followed. “I’d like to check your arm and leg first. Then we can get you changed and join the others.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

“There’s a video, Darling. ‘Good Samaritan Saves Family of Three.’ Were you there when the car crashed?”

Will sniffed, his nose beginning to run as his body warmed. “I was just ahead of them. Saw it in my rearview. I pulled off at the edge of the bridge and went back.”

Dr. Lecter hummed. They stopped in his bedroom, where he finally released Will’s hand. “Undress for me, please. I’m going to fetch a first aid kit.”

Will nodded almost absently. He felt a sort of disconnect from his body, with his hands immediately moving to follow Dr. Lecter’s orders and his mind floating in something of a free space. It was currently easier to mimic Dr. Lecter’s breathing – to let the older man dictate what he should do – than to think for himself.

Dr. Lecter returned from the bathroom as Will finished shimmying out of his slacks.

Will’s leg didn’t look too terrible. There was an ugly bruise up his thigh, but nothing lasting. His bicep wasn’t so lucky. He was scraped from elbow to shoulder and (though he hadn’t noticed it through the dark, muddy stain on his shirt) bleeding. The skin that wasn’t torn matched the coloration on his leg.

Will flexed his arm. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just take a shower when I get home.”

“You will do no such thing.” Dr. Lecter opened the kit on the bed before returning to the bathroom to fetch a wet washcloth. “Hold out your arm, please.”

Will presented his arm even as he said, “It’s really okay. You don’t have to do this.”

“Kindly remind me which one of us used to be a surgeon.”

Will rolled his eyes. “You.”

“And which of us is the foolish boy who nearly fell off a bridge?”

Will looked down. Stared at his bruised thigh and mud-slick boxers and snow-soaked socks. Reluctantly muttered, “Me.”

The washcloth stung as it touched his arm. He didn’t flinch.

“Correct. Now, tell me why you were so eager to throw yourself to your death.”

Will’s head jerked up to stare at Dr. Lecter, who was entirely focused on Will’s arm. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?”

“No. Everyone was just standing around, and the car was going to fall. If I hadn’t helped, that family would have died.”

Maroon eyes glanced up to meet Will’s, and though Dr. Lecter’s face remained impassive, Will felt the anger. Frigidly cold and dangerously deep. Will’s breath caught in his throat.

Dr. Lecter’s voice relayed none of that frozen fury as he said, “They could have died with your help, too. The only difference being that you would have died along with them.”

Will swallowed thickly. Tried to defend himself. All that came out was, “You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“But not about the clothes.”

“No.”

“You’re angry that I… saved them?”

“I am angry that you would so brazenly risk your own safety for that of three strangers.”

“There were children! They could have died!”

“Yes. A much preferable outcome to losing you.” Dr. Lecter met Will’s eyes again, unrelenting in his honesty as he continued, “I don’t care about you being a hero, Will. I care about you being alive.”

Will’s heart did an uncomfortable flip in his chest. He was surprised, then, to feel tears prick his eyes, and even more surprised to know they weren’t his own. Dr. Lecter wasn’t just angry. He was—

“You were scared.”

“Terrified.” He placed the washcloth on the lid of the first aid kit and opened an alcohol prep pad. Gentle hands cradled and cleaned Will’s arm as Dr. Lecter said, “Stupid boy. What am I going to do if I lose you?”

Wonderful, painful sparks lit Will’s chest at the thought of Dr. Lecter actually caring about him. He licked his lips, unsure how to respond. After a full minute of floundering, he settled on, “I’m sorry. I can’t promise this won’t happen again.”

“Then promise me something else. Promise me that the next time you’re in this position – the next time you’re preparing to sacrifice yourself for another – you’ll think of me. Think of your only friend, who only has one friend, and the fact that I’ll be alone should you die.” Dr. Lecter released Will’s arm to take hold of his hand, raising Will’s knuckles to his lips as he murmured, “Please. Do not leave me alone, Will.”

Will’s breath stuttered. Every reasonable excuse he had for why it was the right thing to do went out the window, and the notion that he could ever purposefully hurt Dr. Lecter like that became impossible.

“You—” Will’s voice trembled. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “You’d really rather they die than me?”

“Mylimasis, I’d have traded the lives of every person on that bridge for the knowledge of your safety.”

It was horrible and awful and true. The intensity of his confession – the extreme extent to which Dr. Lecter cared – should have sent Will sprinting in the opposite direction. Instead, it had Will’s hand moving. Returning the other man’s hold and bringing those talented fingers to his own lips.

“Thank you.” He pressed his forehead to the back of Dr. Lecter’s hand, hating that he felt like crying all over again. Dr. Lecter stepped forward, his free arm wrapping around Will’s naked back to pull him closer. Will felt the entirety of Dr. Lecter’s body in that motion (‘a hug,’ his mind numbly supplied), from the strong line of Dr. Lecter's legs to the press of his lips and nose against Will’s scalp.

Will hesitated for the briefest second before collapsing into the embrace, hands reaching almost desperately to grasp at Dr. Lecter’s arms. To pull him closer.

Dr. Lecter obliged, wrapping both arms around Will and pulling tight. One hand curled into Will’s hair and pressed his face into the crook of Dr. Lecter’s neck. The hold was so strong that Will could not have broken free even if he struggled, and the restraint (the support) Dr. Lecter provided was heaven.

Will breathed him in, adoring.

Dr. Lecter whispered something soft and sweet in another language, lips brushing gently against Will’s hair and scalp, until Will finally choked out a laugh and pulled back.

“We’re ridiculous.”

“You’re perfect.”

Will glanced off to the side, barely far enough away to be considered ‘not touching.’ “We should get downstairs. Your guests are waiting.”

Dr. Lecter hummed, almost overly satisfied. “That they are. Come. Let’s find you something suitable to wear.”

He led Will into his closet, which was half as large as his bedroom, and opened a drawer to retrieve dark blue boxers. He gave Will black socks, a black belt, and a white undershirt before picking carefully through two dozen pairs of the exact same black slacks. He decided on a pair on the far right for reasons Will couldn’t discern, then turned to the shirts.

There were at least a hundred shirts in a hundred different colors, many of them with little designs ranging from pinstripes to tiny birds. Dr. Lecter didn’t even glance at the section of white shirts off to the left, browsing instead through the blues. He settled on one that looked nearly identical to Will’s, only it had little white swirls. A pair of pearl-white suspenders joined the pile with relatively little fanfare.

He handed everything to Will, then left the closet to pluck Will’s old shirt from the floor. It looked even worse from afar.

Will grimaced. “That is why we don’t buy me nice things.”

“Incorrect. It’s why we buy you more nice things, so you have something to change into when you ruin them.” He removed the cufflinks from the shirt in a fraction of the time it took Will to put them on. “Change, please.”

Will nodded and moved to the en suite bathroom. While tucking in the shirt, tightening the belt to the farthest notch, and attaching the suspenders helped the clothes to look like they almost fit, it was impossible to miss the way the pantlegs dragged the ground. Will re-entered the bedroom feeling more than a little silly.

Dr. Lecter smiled. (Not his usual smile – sphynx-like and indiscernible – but something more genuine. Something fonder.) Will grinned back.

“Fancy enough for you?”

“Almost.”

Dr. Lecter approached Will like a swan gliding on water. He used the backs of his pointer and middle fingers to brush a few stray curls out of Will’s face, then knelt. Will tried to take a step away, but Dr. Lecter caught him by the back of his calf and held him in place.

“Dr. Lecter?”

“The pants are bit long.” Dr. Lecter used the hand not holding Will to pat the top of his own lowered knee. “Foot here, please.”

“What? I’m not stepping on you.”

“This will be more difficult if you’re attempting to balance on one foot while I fold. Now please, Will. Our guests are waiting.”

Embarrassment flushed through Will at the reminder that he had stolen Dr. Lecter away from his party. That there were seventeen people downstairs waiting for him to return. Will swallowed, throat suddenly too dry, and very gently moved so his toes and the ball of his foot were balanced on Dr. Lecter’s knee.

Dr. Lecter, entirely unperturbed, began to fold up the end of Will’s pantleg so it no longer dragged the ground. Will wanted to look away, to give the man some privacy, but there was something serene about the sight of Dr. Lecter on one knee while Will stood tall.

It wasn’t just that Dr. Lecter didn’t mind doing this for Will. He almost seemed to enjoy it. Like actively wanted to be… Below Will? No. Under Will? No. Supporting Will?

Yes.

He wanted to be the rock on which Will leaned and the strength from which Will drew. Wanted to be as important to Will as Will was to him. He patted Will’s calf, finished with the first leg, and Will carefully switched his feet.

Clearly, Will wasn’t being a good enough friend to Dr. Lecter if the other man thought he needed to literally get on the ground to gain Will’s favor. Dr. Lecter had been so kind to Will (always taking Will into account and trying to include him) that Will felt almost ashamed to realize he’d returned none of the effort.

Dr. Lecter’s main love language was obviously Physical Touch. Acts of Service came after that, followed by Quality Time. Will’s own ability to accept care went in the opposite direction, with his main language being Words of Affirmation.

While Dr. Lecter had acknowledged this and approached caring for Will in a way that Will could understand (constantly affirming and complimenting him), Will had selfishly stayed inside his comfort zone. He’d tried to offer Words of Affirmation back. If Will actually wanted to make Dr. Lecter feel cared about, he needed to make the effort to speak Dr. Lecter’s language.

He needed to touch.

Discomfort blossomed in Will at the thought of initiating contact (the thought of being rejected after initiating), but as Dr. Lecter finished with his other pantleg, Will knew he would do it anyway. Enough people in Dr. Lecter’s life faked smiles to get closer to his reputation, money, or looks. What the man deserved was actual affection, delivered in a way he naturally understood.

Dr. Lecter rose from the ground, graceful as ever, and pulled Will’s cufflinks from his pocket. He attached them to Will’s shirt with admirable ease, then centered Will’s suspenders on his shoulders and smiled.

“There. Perfectly fancy. Or at least you will be, once you have shoes.”

“My shoes are soaked, and yours are too big. Can’t I just go in my socks?”

Dr. Lecter raised both brows, decidedly unimpressed. “No.”

“Please?”

Will looked up at Dr. Lecter – looked him directly in the eyes – and stepped forward so the inside of his foot pressed against the outside of Dr. Lecter’s shoe. Physical touch.

Dr. Lecter tilted his head, calculating. Seconds passed, gentle and curious, before he murmured, “Terrible boy. You know I can deny you nothing.”

Will smiled, equal parts fond and incredulous. “I’m beginning to think that’s true.”

“It is.” Dr. Lecter reached up and touched Will’s hair in a few spots, likely because it looked a mess after Will took a dive out of a falling vehicle onto a muddy bridge. “Now, my darling, shoeless boy, let us rejoin our guests. I’m positive you’re starving.”

“Always.”

Will dragged his toes along the side of Dr. Lecter’s shoe as he pulled away.

They left the room together.

Chapter Text

When they entered the dining room, everyone clapped.

Will was confused until Beverly stood and shouted, “There’s our hero,” which reminded him of the bridge and the children and the video. Which apparently everyone had seen. He ducked his head and hurried to the only open seat that wasn’t at the head of the table.

It was a shitty seat, sort of, because he had to pass literally every person to get to it. It was also a great seat because it was directly between Beverly and Dr. Lecter. Jimmy sat beside Beverly, and Brian across from her. Across from Will and on the other side of Dr. Lecter was Will’s old lawyer, Mary Louise.

Will slid into his chair without fanfare. Embarrassment kept his head down and his shoulders hunched. He counted the seconds until they stopped clapping.

When the rest of the guests realized he didn’t intend to make a speech, they sat, too. A waiter immediately brought Will some kind of soup despite the fact that everyone else (Dr. Lecter included) seemed to be on the main course.

Will got in three bites before Beverly said, “You guys were up there for a while. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Would’ve been down sooner, but my arm’s kind of banged up, and Mr. ‘I-Used-To-Be-A-Surgeon’ couldn’t let it go.” Will shot Dr. Lecter a look, which was received and returned without remorse.

Beverly cut another piece of her steak with a shrug. “Maybe you should listen to him.” She glanced around (as though everyone in their group wasn't already watching her), then leaned in to conspiratorially whisper, “You didn't hear this from me, but word on the street is he used to be a surgeon.”

Will snorted. Across from him, Mary Louise playfully chimed in, “You know, I think I heard that, too.”

He glanced up. Mary was as pretty as he remembered, with ringlet curls and a thousand-watt smile. Her body language was relaxed and inviting, but her motions were practiced. Political. She wasn’t one of Dr. Lecter’s usual acquaintances.

Rather than responding, Will finished his soup. A waiter immediately replaced it with the next course. Though Will couldn’t identify what he was about to eat, he could admire it. Red, brown, and yellow sauces made pretty swirls around bite-sized cuts of meat, which looked more like art than food.

He stabbed the center piece and swiped it through the decorations. It melted in his mouth.

He groaned. “Oh, that’s not fair.” He stabbed another piece. Pointed it at Dr. Lecter. “Food’s not supposed to taste this good. You know that, right?”

“You flatter me.”

On the other side of Beverly, Jimmy grinned. “It’s not flattery. I know I’ve said it already, but this is fantastic. I can’t even tell you how jealous my wife’s going to be when I get home and start bragging.”

Mary lifted her wine glass: a mock toast. “I hear that. My wife is already incredibly jealous, and with good reason. I’ve made more high-powered connections in the last hour than in three months of fundraisers and galas.”

Her lips tilted. Ecstatic. Not surprised. Will stuck the last of his meat-bites in his mouth, letting the fork hang as the cogs in his subconscious started to spin.

He was missing something. Something between Dr. Lecter and Mary. Were they more than acquaintances? No. Business partners? Not that either.

He watched as a waitress replaced his empty plate with the main course, leaving a beer to his right as she went. Mary cut into the center of her steak. Blood seeped out. The answer clicked.

“There was no outrage at my false imprisonment after the Ripper came back, was there?”

Her eyes dilated. Her smile stiffened. “There absolutely was. The public—”

“No. You’re too thankful to be here. You know Dr. Lecter, but only distantly. You’re friends with his other guests though. Not so many that this wouldn’t be a useful networking event. Not so few as to think the important people in attendance could be a fluke. Four? Four. None of which attended the same dinner party. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re here. Unless you found a way to convince Dr. Lecter to invite you? A discount, of sorts. He doesn't give a damn about money. Your proposal then, not his.” Will turned to Dr. Lecter, the rest of the equation solving itself. “You paid her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary shake her head. “No. That’s not—”

“Yes.” Dr. Lecter’s teeth dug gently into the meat on his fork, tugging it off.

Will frowned. Discomfort settled deep in his stomach at the idea of someone having spent so much on him, but above and around that discomfort was a visceral surge of gratitude.

Before Will’s arrest, mental hospitals had been his worst nightmare. The BSHCI was one of the few times where reality outdid his imagination. The constant probing. The abusive orderlies. The solitude. Being surrounded by killers twenty-four-seven and assured on repeat that he was crazy. It was hell. And Will…

Will didn’t know how much longer he could have taken it.

He nodded.

Thanking.

Accepting.

“Okay.”

Dr. Lecter took a sip of his wine. Will took a sip of his beer.

Mary said, “Not going to lie. I expected more of a reaction.”

Will shrugged. Started on the main course. “Won’t do anything to get mad about it now. Besides, I’m half-convinced he’s just deeply in debt and so charming that people forget to collect.”

Mary grinned. “Oh, the money’s real. I charged—”

“Don’t.” Will lifted his hand in a quick ‘stop’ motion, panic rising. “I’m okay with the concept of him hiring you. Not the reality. You give me a number, and it becomes an actual expense.” He lowered his gaze to the tablecloth, fingers already tapping an inconsistent, nervous rhythm. “If it’s an expense, then I have to sell my kidney and probably a lung in an attempt to repay him. None of us want that. So just… don’t.”

Out of his peripherals, he saw Dr. Lecter pick up his wine and Beverly pat the table near Will’s plate.

Mary pulled an imaginary zipper across her lips. “Mum’s the word. I would like to know how you figured it out though. Was it something I said?”

“It’s the way you compared this party to fundraisers. Too much excitement. Not enough surprise. Can I ask a personal question?”

Mary nodded. Will speared a brussels sprout. A drop of condensation slid down his beer.

“Why are you here?”

She blinked. Taken aback. “Well, as you’ve already mentioned, these things are great for networking—”

“Not here as in the party. Here as in this end of the table.” He glanced up to gauge her reaction. Accidentally met her eyes. Mary’s confidence and charisma flooded him like a force of nature, straightening his spine and puppeteering his body language to mirror hers. “You and Dr. Lecter run in the same social circles now. If you wanted to approach him, you could do so at any time. It would be more beneficial for you to be sitting elsewhere, making new connections.”

Her mouth opened. He felt the words as they formed in her mind. Knew the shape of them on his tongue. Matched her pitch and cadence as they simultaneously said, “This isn’t just about connections.”

She stopped. In his own voice, he continued.

“Yes it is. And none of this is a mistake. Which means this was part of the deal, too. You wanted to sit here. Next to him. No. Next to me.” He furrowed his brows. “Why would you want to sit next to me though? I don’t have anything you care about. Unless I do, and I just don’t know it. You’re a shark if I’ve ever seen one. You wouldn’t be here if there weren’t blood in the water. Could I be bleeding without realizing it? But how would I not notice? That doesn’t make any sense—”

Beverly snapped her fingers in front of Will’s face, drawing his attention. He glanced over.

“Will, honey. You’re scaring her.”

He blinked, very suddenly himself again, and diverted his gaze to Mary's necklace. “Shit. Sorry. I, uh…” He cleared his throat. Felt heat flush his cheeks. Prayed that he hadn't just embarrassed Dr Lecter at his own party. “It’s the eye contact. Strong personalities tend to overwhelm me.”

He braced himself for a well-deserved berating. Mary laughed.

“That’s alright. I’m not scared. I’m impressed.” She smiled into her wine. “Besides, my wife always says I wouldn’t be so hard on others if only I knew what having a conversation with me was like. Now I know she’s right.”

Beverly put her elbow on the table. Arm up. Wrist bent so her palm was parallel to her plate. “Oh, sweetheart. I know what you mean. I was a perfectly happy lesbian before Will came along and pointed out that I only avoided men to spite my parents. Now I’ve got a girlfriend and a boyfriend, and I’m much happier for it.”

Brian held up a hand. “Wait, wait. I thought you broke up with them.”

“These ones are new.”

“How can you get two new significant others in a matter of days, and I’m still single?” He stabbed a piece of his steak, grumbling. “Not fair.”

Will’s anxiety made a mellow drop as the attention veered away from him. Dr. Lecter’s shoe tapped Will’s foot under the table.

Will glanced up. Nodded. He was okay.

Mary brought them back on topic with a playful grin. “I’m serious though. That was one of the most impressive displays of deductive reasoning I’ve ever seen. And you got it right in one. Again. I’m here for you, Dr. Graham.”

Will pushed the food around on his plate. “Why though? I can’t do anything for you.”

“Before you sussed out everything about me in ninety seconds, I’d have said that’s true. Now…” She took out a business card and slid it across the table. “I’d love to hire you.”

Will picked up the card, curiosity mild. “I’m not a lawyer.”

“You don’t have to be. We’d be lucky to have you as an expert witness.”

“An expert on what?”

“People. You do to a jury what you just did to me, and they’ll eat whatever you say about whoever you choose out of the palm of your hand.” She leaned back in her seat, the stem of her glass poised between three elegant fingers. When she continued, her voice was airy. “The fact that you’re handsome doesn’t hurt, either.”

Will tossed her a skeptical glance, eyes on her shoulder.

She raised both brows. “What? You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’re charming.” He shrugged softly. “I know how I look.”

She swirled her wine, whimsy replaced by quiet observation. “You know, I don’t think you do.” Then, with an extra spark of enthusiasm: “Just think about it, Dr. Graham. It’d be flexible hours. Great benefits. Excellent pay. I’d hate to face you in the courtroom, and that, in turn, means I’d do a heck of a lot to make my opponents face you instead.”

Will hummed, noncommittal. He moved to put the card in his pocket only to hesitate when he felt the outline of Dr. Lecter’s wallet. (Stolen. Again.) After exactly half a second of consideration, he pulled it out and gave it back.

Dr. Lecter accepted, gaze curious. “My wallet?”

“Yeah. I was going to rearrange everything inside before slipping it back to you, but now that I know you bought me literal freedom, it seems kind of rude.” He took a swig of his beer, only moderately apologetic. “Next time.”

Dr. Lecter stared at the wallet for a moment, lips pressed together as though it had betrayed him somehow, then returned his attention to Will. “You are a terror.”

“Thank you.” Will turned back to Mary and finished cutting his steak. “You didn’t want to hire me before this conversation, so it’s not why you wanted to sit by me. What else?”

“Glad you asked. You know there’s a video up of you saving that family tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Will thought about it. Frowned. “Is this a trick question?”

“It’s an opportunity, Dr. Graham.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“To sue.”

Anger burned black in Will’s stomach. His knife scraped the plate with too much force. “I am not suing that family.”

“Not the family. The FBI.” Will blinked at the unexpected turn of conversation. Mary waited until his eyes were on her to continue, “I mean, you had a case before, but on the heels of this kind of selfless publicity? There isn’t a judge in the country that would rule against you.”

Discomfort settled heavy in Will’s stomach. A suspiciously father-like voice in his head gruffed at him not to get his hopes up. Shitty things happened to Will (shitty people did shitty things to Will), and no one ever said sorry. That was just how life worked.

He pushed the last few cuts of meat around on his plate, then stabbed them so they stacked up on his fork. He shoved all of them into his mouth at once. As soon as he did, there was a swarm of waiters replacing everyone’s dinner with dessert.

He washed the steak down with beer and asked, “What would I even sue for?”

“Wrongful imprisonment, lost income, pain and suffering, punitive damages, property damage—”

“The FBI didn’t damage my house.”

“They made people think you were the most hated cannibal in the country, which caused your house to be damaged. And while I am in no way condoning TattleCrime and what it’s done to you, the before-and-after pictures of your house on that site make the charge a done-deal.”

Will fiddled with his fork. Copied Dr. Lecter in picking up the fork above his plate instead of the one he’d been eating with. Glanced at Beverly.

She smiled at him. “Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”

Brian nodded. “We work for the FBI, but we’re not the FBI.” He raised an overly large bite of cheesecake to his lips. Made eye contact. “They fucked up. Sue away.”

“They’re right.” Jimmy dragged a piece of his cheesecake through the sauce, not even looking at Will. “Jack’ll be pissed, but he’d rather chew his own arm off than fire you. It’s a win-win.”

Will tapped his fork softly against the plate in a repetitive ‘tap-tap, tap-tap-tap’ cycle. He stared at the tablecloth. Shrugged. “I couldn’t afford you back then, and I can’t afford you now.”

Mary waved a hand. “Not a problem.”

“I’m not letting Dr. Lecter pay for me again.”

“You don’t have to. Because you, Dr. Graham, are a good guy. Not hold-the-door-open level good, but save-a-baby-from-a-flooding-river level good. And that means you deserve to have something good happen to you, too.”

Will raised a brow, disbelieving. “What? You’ll do it pro-bono?”

“No, but I won’t make you pay up front. And instead of my usual set price, you give me five percent of whatever we win. If we don’t win, you don’t owe me anything.”

“That doesn’t seem like a great deal for you.”

“Oh, honey.” She smiled, baring rows and rows of sharp teeth. “You have no idea how hard they’re going to fold, do you? Not only do I think we’ll win, I think I’ll walk away with half a million.”

Price sputtered. Will moved the fork tines through the cheesecake sauce, making new designs.

“I don’t want their money.”

Mary’s confidence faltered. “Dr. Graham. Now’s not the time to—”

“I don’t want it.” He gave the plate one extra hard tap with the fork, stopping her from speaking again, then finally cut into his dessert. “But if you think you can get me an apology, go for it.”

Multiple sets of eyes burred incredulous holes in his skin. He refused to look up.

Mary asked, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He put the cheesecake in his mouth. It smeared fragrant notes of oolong tea and strawberries across his tongue. Looking at Mary made the words feel heavy and impossible in his chest, so he turned to Dr. Lecter instead. “They never said sorry. They should have.”

Dr. Lecter dipped his chin in a nod, doubtless. “Yes. They should have.”

The acknowledgment warmed Will. It felt better, somehow, to have Dr. Lecter reaffirm his feelings. Like they were more important – more valid – coming from someone so confident and reliable.

(Someone who wasn’t Will.)

Mary said, “You’ll get your apology, no problem, but the money will come, too. That’s not a question.”

“Okay. Then take your cut and give the rest to BARCS.”

“Barks?”

“The Baltimore Animal Rescue and Care Shelter.”

He glanced up to see Mary sending questioning looks to his friends. Trying to ascertain whether or not he was serious. After a few densely silent seconds, she carefully ventured, “Dr. Graham, I mean no offense, but I don’t think you understand. We’re talking millions—”

“It goes to the animal shelter, or you can forget about suing. Your choice.”

She pursed her lips. Considered her next steps with the care of someone defusing a bomb. She squared her shoulders before saying, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

She reached into the purse hanging over the back of her chair and pulled out her phone. A few screen pokes later, she turned it to show Will the TattleCrime webpage with a picture of his house before he’d cleaned. 

“Is this your house?”

“Yeah.”

She flipped her phone again. Skimmed through a few pictures. Turned it back to reveal the pile of sooty clothes and blankets in front of his fireplace. “And this is where you sleep?”

He blinked at the picture, a whole new level of shame surging from the fact that everyone had seen it. His voice remained steady as he said, “Yes.”

“Then how can you say you don’t want the money?”

“Because accepting their money is the same as saying it’s okay. That they can do this to whoever they want, so long as they’re willing to pay through the nose afterward. Only it isn’t. And they can’t.”

He made eye contact with her again. Waited for her next argument.

She nodded once, sharp and sure.

“Okay.” Her wine glass lifted in another, more respectful toast. “You get an apology. I get five percent of the settlement. Everything else goes to BARCS.”

He held up his beer in return, eyes already skirting down the arm of her dress, away from her face. “Thank you.”

“No, Dr. Graham. Thank you.”

He shrugged. Tipped his beer up to drink the last of it. Went back to his cheesecake. A waiter replaced his empty bottle with a cold one.

Beverly leaned over. “How come you’re the only one who gets a beer?”

“Because I’m special.” He sectioned off another bite of cheesecake with his fork. Brought it up to his mouth. “And because I can’t tell wines apart to save my life.”

“What if I want a beer?”

Will offered her his own bottle without comment, which she accepted with a small “Thanks.” She pressed the opening to her lips and tilted. Swished the beer around in her mouth. Scrunched her nose and handed it back. “A bit bitter, don’t you think?”

He shrugged and took another swig. “I like it.”

“More for you then. I’ll stick with the wine.”

She drank some wine to prove a point, then tried to steal a bite of Will’s cheesecake. Will moved his plate more toward Dr. Lecter so she couldn’t reach. She pouted.

Once they were finished eating, Dr. Lecter guided everyone out of the dining room to mingle. Waitstaff wandered around with endless platters of wines and champagnes. Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian all grabbed refills while Dr. Lecter nursed a flute of champagne.

Will cradled his beer. “Do you guys not have to drive?”

“Nah.” Jimmy tipped his glass back. “We ubered.”

Beverly shot Will a suggestive glance, eyebrows practically waggling as she said, “I’d ask if you’re driving back, but we already know you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“Oh, c’mon, Will. You can trust us!” She bounced lightly on her toes. “Please, please, please?”

Will shook his head, more than a little confused. “I’m sorry. You lost me there. What am I trusting you with?”

Brian rolled his eyes. “She’s talking about you two.” His pointer finger moved between Dr. Lecter and Will. “Fucking.”

“Brian.”

“Fine. Dating.” He raised one hand, openly unconvinced that the wording made a difference. “And she’s right. You don’t have to worry about us. We’re not going to go running to Jack.”

Will looked at each of them in turn, and it took a solid minute for him to accept that they were serious. They all thought he and Dr. Lecter were a thing.

He shook his head. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends, guys. For real.”

Jimmy blinked. “For real for real?”

“Yeah.”

They exchanged incredulous looks. Brian voiced their thoughts with a dumbstruck, “Seriously? We thought you were just hiding it because of the whole therapist thing.”

Will popped the ‘p’ on his “Nope,” then tossed a chiding look over his shoulder at Dr. Lecter. “You know this is because you insist on matching our clothes, right?”

Dr. Lecter sipped his champagne, unrepentant.

Beverly, still not convinced, asked, “But what about the gifts? And the lunches? And the touching.” She motioned to where Dr. Lecter was currently touching Will, palm soft on his lower back.

Will shrugged. “He touches everyone like this. Hell, he touched Jack like this. Some people are just more tactile than others.”

Beverly and Brian exchanged a look that said they thought Dr. Lecter most certainly did not touch other people like he touched Will. Jimmy gave Dr. Lecter an overly sympathetic nod. “Keep it up, champ.”

Brian jumped onto the bandwagon, thumping his fist twice over his heart with an overly serious, “He’s right. New respect.”

Will rolled his eyes. “You guys are children.”

“We’re also okay with you two.” Beverly gestured to Will and Dr. Lecter with her already-empty champagne glass. “You know, if it ever does happen.”

“It won’t.”

She lifted both hands in a ‘Who can say?’ motion. Will huffed. Dr. Lecter’s hand pressed just the slightest bit firmer against his back.

And Will leaned into it.

In truth, he didn’t care about their teasing. He knew his relationship with Dr. Lecter was odd. Intense, even. And if other people needed a greater reason than the fact that Will and Dr. Lecter clicked, they could feel free to seek it.

Will, on the other hand, was content to just enjoy. He tilted his head, breathing in the scent of Dr. Lecter both beside him and on his borrowed clothes. He sipped idly at his beer, which caused Dr. Lecter’s thumb to swipe encouragingly over his spine.

He drank more.

(***Paragon***)

Will was, without a doubt, the most enchanting creature to ever walk the face of the earth.

Not only did he look ravishing in Hannibal’s clothes, he was the perfect ornament on Hannibal’s arm. Bright, intelligent blue eyes. Lovely, wild brown curls. Dry witticisms prepared with a sharp tongue and washed down by beer. Bewitching boy.

Even after Will’s friends wandered to mingle, Will stayed by Hannibal’s side. He charmed their guests flawlessly when directly addressed and at all other points deferred to Hannibal. A glance. A nod. A polite laugh that amounted to, ‘Wow, these people suck. Take over the conversation or I’ll hide in the kitchen.’

Hannibal, as always, obliged. He swept their attention away from Will, effectively reducing the insanely intelligent, versatile boy to a very pretty prop. And Will, the gorgeous thing, slid so contentedly into his new role: happy to let Hannibal take the lead.

(To let Hannibal take control.)

Hannibal slid his hand across Will’s back to squeeze his waist, then returned to center. Will swayed the slightest bit closer, nursing his (fourth) beer close to his chest.

The alcohol was starting to take effect. Judging by the laxness of his posture and slight delay in his response times, Will was mid-range tipsy. Not so much that he wouldn’t remember this in the morning, but not so little as to be in full control.

(A new fantasy spawned, then, of fucking Will while he was drunk. Flushed, pliant, and clinging to Hannibal without restraint. Weak and adoring as Hannibal moved and used him as he pleased. Entirely defenseless. Entirely Hannibal’s.)

As the evening neared its natural close, Hannibal entered into and maintained a conversation on world economics with Miss Erica Davenport: the heiress to a multi-million-dollar accounting firm. She was bright and well-mannered. She spoke in soft, pleasant tones and complimented the party on repeat. Though she fit in perfectly with the rest of his Acquaintance Collection, she was nothing special.

It was as Hannibal prepared to end the conversation and move on that she said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I hear you’re actually a Count?”

“That’s correct.”

At his side, apparently no longer interesting in being solely an adornment, Will snorted. “Of course he is.” Hannibal looked curiously to his darling boy, who shrugged and tipped his beer back. “You just sound like something out of a soap opera.” His voice shifted to something high and theatrically southern. “Oh, Count Lecter, no! Not the baby!” He shifted again, this time to a surprisingly accurate imitation of Hannibal’s accent and countenance. “Don’t worry, my dear. I would never harm… the baby.” His normal voice and slouch returned as he waved his beer in a mild, placating gesture. “You’re a villain in this. All the handsome foreigners are.”

Hannibal smiled, amused. “Of course.”

Will returned to his version of a southern belle, this time shifting his body a bit to the left so he faced Hannibal more. “Count Lecter, please! I promise I won’t tell anyone your secret.” He twisted his torso to the right, once again mimicking Hannibal. “That’s Doctor Count Lecter to you.” Will came back to his own again, furrowing his brows and addressing Hannibal with a confused, “Doctor Count Lecter? Count Doctor Lecter?”

“Count Doctor Lecter.”

“Right.” A pause. “Any other titles I should know about?”

“The Eighth.”

“There are eight of you? Jesus Christ.” And then, offhandedly, “But I guess if your genes are that good, you pass them on.”

Hannibal preened, delighted that Will believed his very DNA worthy of praise.

Will, who was determined to finish playing out his soap opera, slipped back into his frightened, southern belle pose and continued, “Count Doctor Lecter the Eighth! Please! I swear I’ll never tell anyone that you’re a… a vampire!” He returned to his natural posture a final time, fingers tapping a gentle, unconcerned tune on the side of his bottle. “And then you kill her.”

“Naturally.”

Will and Hannibal smiled at each other. Miss Davenport also smiled, but it was strained.

She redirected, “I, for one, think it’s fascinating that you’re European nobility.”

Will scrunched his nose, disagreeing. “Be more fascinating if he were a vampire.”

Miss Davenport’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute, smile fading to something cooler. “You’re quite rude. Are you aware of that?”

“No. Chatting up a nonsensically rich Count in the hopes of becoming a nonsensically rich Countess is rude. I’m funny.” Will leaned back on his heels, pressing himself against Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal returned the pressure.

Miss Davenport looked to Hannibal, waiting for him to either defend her or rebuke Will. He sipped his champagne.

She excused herself.

As she left, Will seemed to (belatedly) remember that he was supposed to be nice to their guests. Rather than going after her, he offered a remarkably unapologetic, “Sorry. I think I just scared off your future wife.”

“I’ll live.”

Like flicking a switch, Will's posture shifted from bored to languidly playful. He glanced up through thick lashes, mischief glittering in the aurora borealis of his eyes. “Are you sure, Count Lecter? I wouldn't want to mess up any prospects for you, Count Lecter.”

Hannibal returned Will’s stare, intensely curious. He splayed his hand against the small of Will's back, encouraging this minx-like behavior even as he murmured, “Horrible boy.”

Will blinked with exaggerated innocence. “So sorry, Count Lecter. Anything I can do to make it up to you, Count Lecter?”

“I suppose asking you not to speak would be a wasted effort.”

Will grinned in confirmation.

Hannibal casually continued, “It is a good thing, then, that I am not the only one with a title to abuse." He lowered his voice. Smooth. Seductive. "Wouldn’t you say, Dr. Graham?"

Will’s smile dropped. He turned his head and downed the rest of his beer.

Hannibal stepped closer. “Would you like another bottle, Dr. Graham?”

A blush crept down Will’s neck, soft and pink. Begging for Hannibal's teeth. “Point made, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed the shell of Will’s ear. He purposefully thickened his accent as he asked, “Is it made, Dr. Graham?”

Hannibal felt the shudder that spun up Will’s spine. His eyes trailed down Will's perfect body. Noted the wonderfully soft outline of Will’s cock in his (Hannibal’s) slacks. Will mumbled something unintelligible into the lip of his bottle.

“What was that, Darling?”

“I said, ‘You’re so irritating.’”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You seem to be the only one who thinks so.”

“Yeah? Well, no one else knows you as well as I do.” He stepped away from Hannibal so they could face each other. “All your guests see is the smart, handsome socialite Count Doctor Lecter the Eighth. They don't realize you're also arrogant, manipulative, obsessive, controlling... You're too smart to trust and too kind not to trust. And if your idiot acquaintances can't do the math to see that you're irritating on top of being perfect, that's on them." 

Warmth flooded Hannibal: washing through his veins and leaving him with nothing but adoration for his beautiful boy. He signaled for one of the waitstaff to get Will a fresh beer. They returned within the minute to switch out the bottles, which Will accepted without hesitation. He pressed the new bottle to his lips and swallowed more of Hannibal’s seed.

It was a wonderful sight, not only because Hannibal adored being inside Will but because their final stop for the night required Will to be more inebriated than not.

They made their way into the next room, where Hannibal searched for Komeda. At least once at every party, regardless of who hosted, she requested he play piano. This time, he intended to accept.

(Or rather, he intended for Will to accept.)

He caught Komeda’s eye with little issue, and she raised a few delicate fingers to signal them over. They joined her without delay. Komeda's eyes locked on the arm connecting Hannibal to Will in silent question of their relationship. Hannibal slid his hand upward to settle on the nape of Will's neck: a gentle ownership.

She gently tapped her stiletto nail against the rim of Hannibal's grand piano and, as though scripted, asked, “Will, I don’t suppose you’re aware that Hannibal plays?”

Will shrugged. “I kind of figured. He plays the harpsichord, and piano isn’t so different that he wouldn’t get a little bleed-over knowledge, even without practice.”

Hannibal caressed the back of Will’s neck with his thumb. Proud. Praising.

Komeda’s smile widened. “I heard him once, years ago. One of the most beautiful performances I’ve ever experienced.” She traced the rim with the tip of her nail, expression softening with embellished nostalgia. “I’ve tried to entice him into playing at every party since, but he always manages to slip away. Something tells me you’ll get a different result.”

Will shifted awkwardly, uncomfortable under the pressure of expectation. He kept his eyes on her hand as he deflected, “Doubtful. He knows I don’t care much for music.”

“It’s true. He doesn’t much care to listen." Hannibal sipped his champagne, enjoying the wash of citrus on his tongue. "He does, however, play.”

Will stiffened. Komeda’s entire demeanor brightened.

“You play?”

Will twisted the beer in his hands, eyes anywhere but on Komeda and the piano. He didn't like the turn of conversation. He hoped it would end.

“I used to.”

Four of Komeda’s fingers slid over the rim to curl around the lid prop. Her voice dipped low with flattery as she pushed on, undeterred. “No wonder Hannibal is so captivated by you. I’ll bet you’re as talented on the piano as you are at being a consulting profiler.”

“Sure. But whether that makes me a great pianist or a shitty profiler is in the air.”

“Why don’t we find out?” She unfolded her arm in an elegant gesture to the piano bench.

Will blinked, eyes wide. He leaned away from her, more toward Hannibal. “Me?”

“Of course. And I’m sure Hannibal would love to hear you play. Wouldn’t you, Hannibal?”

She met Hannibal’s eyes, playful and coquettish. He returned the look with matched intent, fingers flexing to softly massage the base of Will’s neck.

“I can think of no greater pleasure.”

Will shook his head, almost desperate. “I’m really not very good. I haven’t touched a piano in over three years.” He turned to Hannibal, eyes beseeching.

Hannibal, in turn, affected a hopeful expression. There was a single drop of reluctance in his tone as he said, “If you do not wish to play, I will not force you. But know that having you perform would be the shining star atop this already beautiful night.”

Will’s pleading expression crumbled: the weight of both his social anxiety and the need to make Hannibal happy too much to take. Dark satisfaction spiked in Hannibal as blue eyes swiveled toward the ground. Toward socked feet and the concession Hannibal had already made for him. The bottle in Will’s hands twisted restlessly back and forth. Hannibal stretched his fingers to slide into the curls at the base of Will’s scalp, then gently scraped his nails downward. A reassurance. A comfort.

(A question of whether Will would put forth the effort to comfort Hannibal in return.)

Will cursed, and his open devotion was beautiful. Even knowing that attempting such a rusty skill so publicly was likely to bring on another anxiety attack, Will couldn’t bring himself turn Hannibal down. He handed Hannibal his beer without looking up and slid onto the bench.

Hannibal watched his back, besotted.

So low that it was almost to himself, Will said, “Don’t you dare complain if I suck.”

“Of course not, Darling.”

Will placed his fingers close together over the leftmost keys, but he did not play. His fingers tapped nervously without pressing down. Hannibal observed without interfering, well aware that this could go badly. He had no knowledge of Will’s skill level, and if Will did not play well, there would be no convincing the boy otherwise. Will’s empathy disorder would separate the pitying from the sincere with a ruthless efficiency.

Which was also fine.

If Will did well, Hannibal would congratulate. If he did badly, Hannibal would comfort. (In an ideal world, Will would have another panic attack, allowing Hannibal to sweep him away to the kitchen and kiss every inch of his lovely face until he calmed down.) Either way, the experiment would end with Will further endeared to Hannibal.

Will pressed a single key, drawing out a long note. A second key followed, then a third. He paused as the third note died off. A breath in. A breath out. His fingers flew. Will played a complex series of notes at a punishing pace, and though Hannibal didn’t recognize the piece, he wanted to. Wanted a copy of it on a vinyl in his office to be played on repeat.

More than the beauty of the piece, however, was the beauty of the player.

Will didn’t simply feel, he transcended. He threw his entire body into the music, expression intent and adoring to an almost pained extent. And as the music sped, the emotions intensified. Growing and overflowing until he really was pained.

Tears decorated his lashes: stars to the night sky of his eyes. Hannibal wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t turn to diamonds before hitting the ivories. Will seemed to be pleading with the music, begging it to take everything he was and transform him into something new. To communicate with others, reaching across the chasm of understanding that he, himself could never cross.

The pace slowed to almost nothing. Will pulled in a shuddering breath, his pain morphing into acceptance and the residues of love. His fingers brushed the keys like a lover’s caress, soft and reverent. Hannibal wanted those same fingers on his skin, tapping along his ribs and sweeping down his side. When the pace picked up a final time, it was like a fist gathering Hannibal’s heartstrings and tugging.

Will embodied everything magic about humanity. The highs and the lows. The dark and the light. The terrible and the sweet. And Hannibal wanted now more than ever to fall to his knees and worship.

To place his head in Will’s lap and have those perfect fingers run through his hair. To kiss every inch of skin on Will’s body until he knew the other man’s figure better than his own. To care for and nourish and possess. He wanted it all, and the intensity of his want – of his love – brought tears to his eyes.

He was in love with Will Graham.

The irony of Will recognizing the Ripper’s love before Hannibal himself saw it was not lost on him, but then, that was exactly why he needed Will. His empathetic warrior. His compassionate deity. The idol by which Hannibal would sacrifice millions of lives, if only to see Will smile.

Will was Hannibal’s other half, and for him, Hannibal would do anything.

Hannibal closed his eyes, savoring the moment of realization in a blood red lily. He placed that lily on an unused bed in Will’s wing of the Mind Palace, as ravenous as he was reverent. When he stroked the soft petals, Will’s music filled the room.

As the final, long notes of the movement rang out, Hannibal opened his eyes. The other guests had gathered, drawn by the music. Will’s hands fell to his lap.

Hannibal clapped. (Exalting. Pious.)

The others joined in, enthusiastic, and the commotion shocked Will back into himself. He jumped, a frightened animal. Anxious blue eyes shot to Hannibal – to his proud smile and ardent clapping – and the relief Will felt was palpable. He stood, the heel of his palm rising to roughly wipe at his eyes, and headed straight to Hannibal’s side.

Where he belonged.

Hannibal stopped clapping to place an adoring hand low on the nape of Will’s neck. He massaged the vulnerable point just above Will’s collarbone, staking his claim. The perfect boy leaned into his hold.

Guests crowded Will, showering him with both compliments and business cards. Invitations to play at private parties for exorbitant prices. Wonderings over where Hannibal had found such a gem.

Will (both unused to the attention and emotionally exhausted from his earlier heroism and anxiety attack) began to fold under the pressure. His shoulders hunched. His eyes darted aimlessly. The more they complimented him, the more his discomfort grew. Nimble fingers tapped against his thigh, tugged on the suspenders, and fiddled with his cufflinks.

When Will reached up to tug roughly on one of his curls, Hannibal stepped in.  

“Thank you all very much for your kind words. Unfortunately, it seems our night is drawing to a close. If you would…?” He raised his arm in the general direction of the entryway, and the spotlight of their attention seamlessly transitioned from Will to Hannibal. They took turns thanking him for the lovely evening.

Practically pressed to Hannibal’s side, Will very softly whispered, “Thank you.”

Hannibal handed him his beer, for the first time purposefully making sure their fingers brushed. In an equally soft voice, he responded, “Go hide in the kitchen, Darling. I’ll get rid of them.”

Will nodded, grateful. He pressed the stack of business cards into Hannibal’s hand to do with as he pleased, then turned to escape. Dr. Katz immediately thwarted him.

She put her face directly next to his, openly inebriated. Her words slurred as she said, “Will! You’re so good! You never told me you were so good.”

Will glanced past her, toward the only slightly more sober Dr. Price and Dr. Zeller.

Dr. Zeller gave a thumbs up. “Was good.”

Dr. Price, the most sober of the three, nodded. “Yeah. We didn’t uh, didn’t know you played.”

Will’s fingers fisted in the extra material of his pants, the only sign of his continued restlessness. He shrugged. “Only sometimes.”

Dr. Katz giggled. “He doesn’t play. He makes magic.”  

Dr. Price nodded again, dismissive. “Right. Well I think Will’s got to go ‘make magic’ elsewhere, and we need to get to our uber.” He tilted his phone back and forth to draw her attention. “It’s here.”

Dr. Katz blinked slowly, alcohol bringing a pleasant flush to her cheeks. She nodded. Then, in a much quicker motion, she spun away from Will to jab Hannibal in the chest.

“You. I know you’re all tall and cheekbones and pretty accent, but don’t think even for a second that you can hurt my Graham Cracker. I will end you.” She poked him three more times in quick succession: a failed attempt at being threatening. “And I know so many ways to hide the body. They’ll never find you. Never.”

Hannibal smoothed out the wrinkled material of his suit jacket with his palm. “Noted.”

Will made a high-pitched noise. “Graham Cracker?”

Dr. Katz rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re not the sweetest cookie here.”

“Al-right.” Dr. Price came up behind Dr. Katz and placed firm hands on her biceps. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

Dr. Katz turned to throw her arms around Dr. Price, who half-carried her toward the exit. Dr. Zeller gave an awkward wave and a quiet, “Thanks again for the invite,” then hurried after them.

Will waited barely long enough to catch Hannibal’s eye before rushing to the kitchen, likely determined not to get stopped again. Though Hannibal needed to see off his other guests, he allowed himself a moment of indulgence in watching Will go.

Soft curls. A bared neck. Broad shoulders. A strong backline. Slim hips. Endlessly long legs. And shoeless feet. Hannibal’s perfect, darling boy.

He sighed, utterly enamored. He returned to his guests.

Chapter Text

Will breathed in the calm of the kitchen, ridiculously thankful to finally be alone.

The party had been fine, overall. Melting into the background and trusting Dr. Lecter to handle the foreground had been easy. Natural, even. But playing the piano – facing the crowd afterward – was just too much. Too many people. Too much noise. All of it focused on Will.

He paced, wringing his hands behind his back and pushing the nervous energy he’d accumulated out through the soles of his feet. A circle around the counter. Two circles around the table. Three vertical lines from the fridge to the sink. His heart started to calm.

The cleanup had already been done by the catering crew, which had magically already vanished. The food was stacked in neat Tupperware containers which took all of ten seconds to move to the fridge. Will chugged the rest of his beer. Set the bottle on the stove just in case Dr. Lecter reused them. Grabbed another.

He used the edge of the counter to open the new one, then chugged that, too. The second empty bottle joined the first. Lingering alcoholism appeased, he hopped up on the counter to lie down.

Despite the agitation still twitching in his chest, his head felt pleasantly fuzzy. Which either meant his alcohol tolerance had gone way, way down since before prison, or Dr. Lecter’s beers were just that strong.

(Semantics. All roads led to Will being buzzed.)

Will didn’t mind. He closed his eyes. Soaked in the quiet. Enjoyed the ebb and flow of his own breathing.

An unknown amount of time later, a gentle finger traced a line along his forehead. Two more joined it, brushing the hair from his face. Will opened his eyes to see Dr. Lecter standing above him.

He blinked lazily, still caught in his calm. “I’m not food.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh.” Will shook his head. “I’m on your counter. I’m not food.”

“You could be.” Dr. Lecter’s fingers moved from Will’s face down to his waist and gave the shirt two light tugs: untucking it. Cool air hit Will’s stomach, followed by the soft trail of a finger up his abdomen. “A single incision. Here.” The finger pressed down on his sternum. “And you’d open up beautifully. A veritable buffet.”

Dr. Lecter’s hand trailed back down to Will’s belly button, then flattened over Will’s stomach. Probably feeling for the organs beneath.

Will snorted. “If you want to feel me up, I’m going to need to be a lot drunker.”

“Would you like some bourbon?”

Will smiled. Shook his head. “No.”

“Then would you like to talk about what happened earlier?”

“The car wreck?”

“The car wreck. The panic attack. The decision to sue the FBI. The piano.”

Will hummed. He lifted is head to get a better look at Dr. Lecter’s hand, which was still pressed to his stomach, but the motion made his head spin. He laid back down.

“The wreck was whatever. I’m glad I was there. I don’t intend to do it again. The panic attack was… I don’t want to talk about it. I’m glad you were there. I don’t intend to do that again, either.”

“And suing the FBI?”

Will shrugged, shoulder blades rubbing against the marble countertop. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t gain anything if I win. I don’t lose anything if I lose.” He licked his lips. Breathed in deep just to feel the weight of Dr. Lecter’s palm on his abdomen. Quietly admitted, “I knew, technically, that Louds broke into my house and took pictures. She said as much when she pointed out how I slept. I guess it just didn’t click to me that those pictures were online, and that everyone else had seen them, too.”

Shame burned behind his eyes. He closed them.

“Would you like me to buy you a bed?”

“No. I don’t mind my living situation. There’s nothing wrong with being poor. It’s just knowing that when other people look at me, they see…”

“A sad, starving boy from Louisiana?”

“A charity case.”

Dr. Lecter’s fingers tapped gently against Will’s skin. “A gorgeous young man with more intelligence and talent in the tips of his fingers than most people have in their entire bodies?”

A surprised laugh hopped out of Will’s chest. He opened his eyes. “I don’t think anyone sees that.”

“No? Perhaps you didn’t hear yourself play tonight.”

“I did hear myself. I missed a ton of keys.”

“You were perfect. And I am not the only one who thought so.” Dr. Lecter removed his hand from Will’s stomach to pull the stack of business cards from his pocket. He lifted them up, then let them flutter away, one by one. They fell over Will like paper snow.

Will sighed. “They were just being nice.”

“They were not.”

“Then they were exaggerating.”

Dr. Lecter’s hand returned to the countertop. His body language was open and honest. His voice steady and true. He shook his head.

“No, Will. You were lovely.”

Pleasure curled low in Will’s stomach, unexpected. He wanted Dr. Lecter to find more things he liked about Will. (More things he could praise.)

Rather than admitting that, Will sat up. He brushed the business cards away and straightened is shirt, though he didn’t re-tuck it. “Everyone gone?”

“Everyone but us.” Dr. Lecter’s hands moved to collect the business cards. “Do you intend to go home tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

Will smiled at the bluntness. The honesty. His eyes flitted down to Dr. Lecter’s lips without his consent, and he quickly diverted his attention to the dark blue tie. It occurred to him, then, that he should probably go home, if only because Buzzed Will’s thoughts on Dr. Lecter were slightly less platonic than Sober Will’s thoughts.

Unfortunately, Buzzed Will was buzzed, and his mouth said, “Then no.”

“Good.” Dr. Lecter held out a hand to help Will down. “Come. Let’s get you pajamas.”

“Me pajamas? Not us pajamas?” Will hopped down without the help. “You going to sleep in your tux?”

“It’s a suit, and no. But I know what I’ll sleep in. You, we’ll have to find out.”

Will tilted his head, eyeing Dr. Lecter as they walked. “You’re probably going to think I’m stupid, but I honestly can’t tell the difference.”

“I could never think that. And you have no need to know the difference.”

“Why? Because you’ll take care of all my suit-versus-tux needs?”

“Precisely.”

Will chuckled. They entered the bedroom. Will waited by the bed while Dr. Lecter strode into the closet.

“You’re supposed to say no.”

“And leave both your suit and tuxedo needs in your fumbling fingers? No thank you.”

“Excuse you. My fingers are the perfect amount of fumbling. It helps me change faster.”

A hum. A blatantly insincere, “Of course it does, Darling.” Dr. Lecter thumbed through a drawer of clothes without looking up. “That said, I do believe we’ll leave your formal attire to me.”

“If not for you, I wouldn’t even need formal attire.”

“All the more reason to indulge me.”

He left the closet to hand Will a pair of light blue pants and a white undershirt. Will stared at the pile, momentarily distracted by the feel of such soft cloth against his skin. He hugged it to his chest to feel more and was all at once overwhelmed by the notion of being so incredibly well cared for.

His mouth, in tandem with his mind, said, “Hannibal.”

Dr. Lecter’s shoes (white, spotless, expensive leather) came to a stop in front of Will’s black-socked feet. “Yes, Will?”

“Nothing. I’m indulging you.”

He squeezed the clothes, wrinkling them. He waited. It felt intimate, somehow, to call Dr. Lecter by his first name. And if Dr. Lecter rejected the movement toward a closer friendship, Will wasn’t sure what he would do.

Run, probably.

“Sweet thing.” Dr. Lecter’s voice was low and soothing. Almost a purr. He didn’t move any closer. Seconds stacked on top of one another, growing more precarious with each addition, until the tower toppled and Will looked up.

Maroon eyes snared him instantly. Mercilessly. The care he held for Will was soft.

The ‘th’ in his responding “Thank you” was even softer.

Butterflies burst to life in Will’s chest, and in the soft brush of their wings against his heart, he found his undoing. He blinked twice, very suddenly aware that Alana might have a point, and he might like Hannibal as slightly more than a friend.

Well, shit.

He swallowed around an impulsive confession, painfully aware that getting rejected was going to suck. His comfort came from the fact that it didn’t have to suck tonight. Properly dealing with his emotions, after all, was Future Will’s problem.

He stepped around Hannibal, clothes still held tight to his chest, and relocated to the bathroom to change.

When he returned to the bedroom, Hannibal was already dressed in dark grey sweats and a white undershirt. The older man took the bundle from Will and set about separating the accessories from the cloth. He put the suspenders back in the closet, then plucked the cufflinks off the shirt. He held those out for Will to take.

Will shook his head. “No thanks. If I really need them again, I can just borrow them from you.”

Hannibal paused, and though his expression didn’t change, he seemed to think it over. Whatever conclusion he came to must have been agreeable because he curled his fingers around the cufflinks and took them back. He put the shirts and slacks in a hamper, then pulled a thin drawer out of a white cabinet apparently meant just for jewelry. The cufflinks went in there.

Once his arms were empty, he turned back to Will. “I’m in a drawing mood tonight. Would you care to join me?”

“Do I have to draw?”

“You do not.”

“Then sure.”

They went back downstairs to the study. Will headed straight for a book on the flora and fauna of Lithuania while Hannibal collected his drawing supplies from the desk. Rather than settling in his usual seat by the fire, Will curled up on the far-left end of the couch.

Less than a minute later, Hannibal settled on the middle cushion. His thigh brushed against Will’s calf, reminding Will once again that Hannibal’s love language was touch.

Will balled his free hand into a fist in his lap. The thought of reaching out and touching – of leaving himself open and vulnerable to rejection – was honestly a little nauseating. What if Hannibal didn’t like it? What if Hannibal was so uncomfortable that he got up and moved to another chair?

What if Hannibal continued to feel so uncared for that decided he had to get back on his knees in search of affection?

Will breathed out through his nose, slow and steadying. He unclenched his fist and slowly (probably too slowly) lifted it so his elbow rested on the back of the couch. His heart beat way too fast. His fingers trembled.

He touched Hannibal’s hair.

Will very specifically did not look up from his book. He gave Hannibal plenty of time to pull away. When the other man stayed still, Will dared to go further, threading his fingers into short, soft locks. He tugged gently, massaged lightly, then made an awkward adjustment so he could scratch the base of Hannibal’s hairline, much like Hannibal had done to him earlier that night.

Hannibal, in turn, pulled away.

Will tried not to let the hurt show on his face. He stared a hole into the book, not reading a single word. Rather than getting up and leaving, as Will expected, Hannibal rearranged himself so he was half-lying on the couch. He propped the sketchpad on his knees and pressed his back against Will’s legs. A better angle for Will to play with his hair.

Relief and fondness swept through Will, making his heart do a stupid little hop. He re-buried his fingers in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal leaned into the touch with an approving hum. After a minute of paying attention only to his fingers against Hannibal’s scalp and Hannibal’s reactions, Will returned to his book.

He’d spent enough nights reading while petting his dogs that playing with Hannibal’s hair was almost second nature. It didn’t take long for Will to fall into the pages of the book, and somewhere along the way, he forgot to be awkward. Hannibal was warm against his legs. Hannibal’s hair was soft in his hands.

And Will was content.

(***Paragon***)

Alana entered Hannibal’s office without knocking.

While the action was endearing when carried out by Will, Alana’s rendition was little more than a faux pas. The faux pas was followed shortly by a faux-naïf, as Alana settled into the patient’s chair and used an overly casual tone to question how the party went.

“Splendidly. Thank you for asking.”

“And Will? How did he fit in?”

There was an eagerness in the question that Hannibal pretended not to notice. “My other guests were endlessly charmed, of course. They’re already asking if he’ll be attending more events in the future.” He opened the globe near his desk, the picture of calm. “Wine?”

Her smile slipped the smallest amount, confused. “Really? I wouldn’t have thought he’d fit in with your usual crowd.” She crossed her legs at the ankle, signaling a lie. “And I’d rather have a beer, if you’ve got it.”

“I’m afraid I do not. Beer takes a minimum of two weeks to brew. Good beer, much longer.”

“Oh.” She nodded, accepting. The conversation could have grown complicated, had she asked when he started the brewing process (as the answer was ‘he hadn’t’), but her mind was elsewhere. She adjusted the off-shoulder sleeve of her form fitting dress and said, “Then yes, please.”

Hannibal poured them both a glass of Lafite Rothschild. He relaxed into the chair across from her, legs crossed ankle over knee. He waited.

She cradled the bowl of her wine glass in both hands, a mark of discomfort. The artificial shine on her lips glistened as she admitted, “Beverly showed me a YouTube video of Will playing piano. It threw me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’s excellent? Because he did it in front of a crowd?” She hesitated. Lowered her voice. “Because we used to be best friends, and I didn’t even know he played.”

“Have you not been to his home?”

“I have. I guess I kind of assumed it belonged to his dad or the old owners and he just never bothered to move it.” She shrugged, a delicate lift of the shoulders. “Now I wish I’d asked.”

“Do you regret the state in which your relationship ended?”

“Of course I do.”

Hannibal watched her, adding nothing to the conversation.

She curled her hair around two fingers, drawing his attention to the delicate curve of her naked collarbone. “You’re not talking about the cannibal bit, are you?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Do I regret not kissing Will a third time? Obviously I do. But even if I had started a relationship with him, it would have ended the same. Me, believing misconstrued evidence. Him, being innocent.” She rubbed the side of her neck, sending a fresh burst of artificial daisies across the room. “Have you seen the video?”

“I have.”

“Did you look at Will’s face in it? Because he looked happy. Afterward, I mean. Standing next to you.” She glanced off to the side, expression both envious and affectionate. “I don’t know what you’re doing with him, but it’s working. He’s healthier. More confident. You’ve made more progress with him in a month than I did in four years.”

Hannibal raised his glass to his lips but didn’t drink. They were getting closer to the point of her visit. Half a minute passed in silence as she gathered her courage.

She tucked her hair behind her ear.

“That said, I think you should be careful, Hannibal. Will gets attached easily. If he were to develop a crush on you…” She licked her lips. The set of her jaw said she believed Will had already developed such feelings. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter how gently you turn him down. He’ll be embarrassed and ashamed. He’ll pull away from you, and he won’t come back.”

The regret staining her voice was based in personal experience. Hannibal, who had exactly zero intentions of turning Will down, hummed.

“And what do you propose I do to prevent that?”

She shifted in her seat, subtly stretching to show off the long, bare line of her legs. “Maybe you should show him you’re unavailable. Before he gets the wrong idea, that is.”

Hannibal traced the suggestive presentation of her calves with his eyes, mentally mapping out the incisions necessary to harvest her muscles. “But I am not unavailable.”

“You could be. If you were to start dating someone.”

His gaze trailed slowly up the inviting curve of her body, pretending contemplation, before settling on her eyes. “I’m afraid if the goal is to prevent Will from pulling away, becoming involved with you would hardly help.”

Her confidence faltered, posture practically deflating. She clutched the wine glass tighter. “Maybe not for Will then. For us.”

Hannibal paused, tempted to tell the truth. (That Will was his soulmate who he craved every minute of every day, and she was a passing fancy which he had drained of worth and thrown away.) He settled for a vague, “I am not seeking any serious attachments at the moment.”

“And non-serious ones?”

A beat. An acknowledgment that, once Alana abandoned her hopes of attaining Hannibal’s affections, she would no longer blind herself to Hannibal’s salacious intentions toward Will.

“Not at the moment.”

Rejection sat heavy on her shoulders, but she bore it well. She smiled and pulled her legs closer to her body, physically rescinding her invitation.

“Alright. You can’t blame a girl for trying.” Her pointer finger rubbed the wine glass, unsure, then departed from the crystal for another hair tuck. “Can I ask why? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I thought what we had was good. Good conversations. Good dates. Great sex. So, why?”

“We had our moment, Alana, and it was lovely. It was also only a moment.” He tapped his pointer finger against his glass, confident and assuring. “I quite enjoy my life as a bachelor. My solitude. I do not wish to give that up.”

“A fling then.”

“Would you settle for a fling?”

She faltered. Bit her lip. Finished her wine. “No. But you don’t enjoy your solitude as much as you claim, either. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Will.”

“Yes. Will is special.”

She shook her head, kindly disapproving. “Talk like that is exactly why Beverly and the others think you like him as more than a friend.”

“I have never found importance in how others interpret my proclivities.”

“If only the rest of us could be so lucky.” She set her glass on the table, once again forgoing a coaster, and stood. “It’s alright if you don’t want to start anything back up with me. I knew it was a long shot. But what I said about Will remains true. If you don’t pull back, he’s going to get the wrong idea. And he’s going to get hurt. So just…” She smoothed the wrinkles on her dress. Met Hannibal’s eyes. “Be careful with him, alright?”

“I will.”

Hannibal accompanied her to the door and helped her into her coat. When she left, he plucked her glass from the table and set it on a coaster for later cleaning. He then brought his own wine over to his desk and returned to the sketch he’d been working on before her impromptu visit.

Alana meant well (or at least well enough), but she hardly understood the intricacies of Hannibal and Will’s relationship. She hadn’t felt Will’s body tugging Hannibal close, so desperate for care and protection. Hadn’t heard Will’s voice say Hannibal’s first name, sweet and adoring. Hadn’t watched Will as he reached out to touch Hannibal’s hair, terrified of rejection which Hannibal would never even think of bestowing.

While Will didn’t currently care for Hannibal as Hannibal cared for him, he would. Hannibal could already see a seed of it sprouting. Growing. Digging its roots deep. And Hannibal was the water and sunlight on which it would thrive.

He would have Will. There were no other options.

And if Alana were lucky, Hannibal would have Will before her meddling went too far. For while Hannibal could overlook many, many affronts, coming between him and his heart was more than a venial error.

It was rude.

(***Paragon***)

 Will was an idiot.

He’d always been an idiot, obviously, but being around Hannibal (liking Hannibal) made it infinitely worse. Will knew this because pre-Hannibal, he would never even have considered doing something as monumentally stupid as inviting a known serial killer into his home.

If not for the way Hannibal had praised Will after he’d played the piano, Will still wouldn’t be considering it. Only Hannibal had praised him, practically adoring, and Will wanted more. He wanted to practice. To show Hannibal just how much better he could do, so that Hannibal could praise him again, in earnest. Not just a sentence or two, but a whole damn soliloquy.

(And yes, Will knew that was far-reaching, but if he was going to fantasize, he may as well go all out.)

So, he’d called Tobias. Called, like an idiot. Given his address, like a bigger idiot. Unsurprisingly, Tobias had an opening that very night, which brought Will to the present. He painted over the slurs and crude drawings in the hallway and tried not to think about all the ways Tobias’ visit could go wrong. He palmed the hunting knife in his pocket.

He wished he had a gun.

The sound of tires pulling down the drive interrupted his morbid musings. Will stuck the paint roller in a bucket of water, grabbed the long coat Hannibal had lent him, and went outside.

Tobias drove a bland grey sedan. He hefted a well-used duffel out of the passenger’s seat and offered Will a genuine smile. Discomfort squirmed in Will’s gut, but Will (still an idiot) welcomed the murderer inside.

Tobias looked around with unrestrained interest. “You have a nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t expect it to be so isolated. Do you have any neighbors?”

Will scratched the back of his neck, wishing he could lie. Unfortunately, Tobias was smart. If he hadn’t already Google Mapped Will’s house to check out the neighbor situation, he would after this. They stopped in front of the piano.

“A few miles out, yeah. You have any trouble finding the place?”

“A little. I had to circle around a few times.” Tobias ran a finger over the tarnished music rack. “It’s curious that your neighbors are so far out, considering I saw a red Honda idling just outside your driveway. It was there every time I passed. A safety precaution?”

Will blinked. Scrunched his nose. Matthew.

“Something like that.” He waved a hand over the piano. “Think you can fix it?”

“I’ll have to open it up to be sure, but probably. I’m very good with my hands.”

Will nodded absently and made his way to the other side of the room. Enough space so he could react if Tobias attacked. Not so much space that he’d miss it if Tobias did something suspicious while messing with the piano. He propped his back against the wall so he could watch the other man work.

Tobias opened the lid and took out a few tools. As he leaned over the rim, he said, “I wasn’t sure you would call.”

“I didn’t plan on it.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Stuff. Things.” Will shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Not particularly. I was just curious.” Tobias switched tools, pulling out piano wire as he went. “There’s a video on YouTube of you playing. You’re quite good.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re more than okay. With the right teacher, you could be great.”

Tobias glanced up at Will, gaze both empty and intense. He was talking about murder again.

Will sighed. “I don’t want to kill anyone, Tobias.”

Brown lids closed over brown eyes in a single, slow blink. If he was surprised that Will dropped the metaphor, he didn’t show it.

“Do you not want it, or are you afraid?” Tobias returned to fixing the piano, confidence unwavering. “I can see it in you. The darkness. All you need is someone to draw it out.” He pulled on something in the piano, releasing a loud metal twang. “A guiding hand, as it were.”

“My darkness is just fine where it’s at, thanks. And if I were going to get someone to teach me, it wouldn’t be you.” Will shifted his weight to his left foot, arms crossed. “I clocked you as a killer the second our eyes met, and I’m not looking to learn from someone so easy to catch.”

“I wouldn’t call myself easy to catch.”

“I’m not looking to go on the run, either. You may not want to go to prison, but you do want the cops to know who you are. You want people to look for you. To show the whole world that even with your name and face on full display, they can’t capture you.” Will shook his head. “I’m not interested. I like my house. I like dogs. I don’t want to move.”

“Maybe that’s only because you haven’t experienced anything better yet. The power. The control.”

“I don’t think you understand how much I like dogs.”

Tobias tilted his head without looking up from the piano, practically a verbal admission of, ‘No. I don’t understand.’

“Wouldn’t you like to have a friend who shares a similar outlook on the world? Or perhaps more than a friend. If we worked together, you wouldn’t have to hide yourself anymore.”

Will thought again of Hannibal, who accepted every dark and dirty thought without hesitation or judgment. “I’m fine where I’m at, thanks. I will warn you though, as a sort of payment for fixing my piano.” Will waited until Tobias looked up. “Don’t kill around here. They’ll put me on the case, and I will catch you.”

“Are you trying to protect me?”

“Not even a little. The only reason you aren’t behind bars right now is because I have no proof. No bodies. No evidence. No reason for a search warrant. But I’m willing to bet the catgut strings in your shop are a little less cat than gut, and the second I have probable cause, I’ll prove it.”

Tobias didn’t respond. He continued to fix the piano, silent, and used a microfiber cloth from his duffel to wipe his hands when he finished.

“Will you play something for me? Test it out?”

Will joined Tobias by the piano, too close for comfort. He played a few quick bars of Moonlight Sonata, the first movement. It sounded good.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

“Would you like to accompany me to dinner?”

“No.”

“Another time then.” Tobias put his tools away, unbothered. “You’ll let me know if you need anything else?”

“Probably not.”

“You will.” He picked up his duffel and faced Will. Tried to meet his eyes. Will stared at the too-stiff collar of Tobias’ shirt instead. “We’re kindred spirits, you and I. The darkness in us. The acceptance we can harbor for each other. The difference is that while I’m comfortable with who I am, you’re still learning. You’ll call.”

“Doubtful.” Will opened the front door in a clear invitation for Tobias to leave. “But thanks for fixing the piano.”

“Of course. I would never hinder your ability to play.”

Will frowned. Tobias walked past him without further comment.

It was as the serial murderer got into his car that Will thought that maybe his decision to call hadn’t been so terrible after all. The piano was fixed. Tobias was a creepy fuck, but he was leaving. No one got hurt. Will hadn’t even needed his knife.

He relaxed against the doorjamb and thought, only to himself, and only once: Maybe things will be okay.

Again, Will was an idiot.

Tobias’ first public murder showed up two days later in a symphony hall. Douglas Wilson, a trombone player for the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, had his vocal chords removed, treated, and put back in like a makeshift cello.

Every inch of the presentation screamed ‘Tobias,’ but not in the way Will had expected. (Less of a cadenza, more of a ballad.) Tobias was still showing off, but not for the world. For a person. For Will.

Will told Jack as much, though he left out both the part where he knew exactly who the killer was and the fact that it was for him. He did tell them to check music shops, especially shops specializing in catgut, and to send officers in groups of three or four.

Jack nodded, but rather than dismissing Will to write a report, he checked the area for eavesdroppers. Once he was sure that all other officers and agents were a sufficient distance away, he lowered his voice to say, “On the record, I never approached you concerning your lawsuit. I have never and will never say anything to you about it, either in support or condemnation. Is that clear?”

Will nodded dully. “And off the record?”

Jack pressed his lips together. Made eye contact. Sighed. “Good for you, Graham.”

Will blinked, honestly a little surprised. Jack patted Will’s shoulder as he passed: a physical dismissal.

Beverly came up to him, coffee in hand. “What was that about?”

“He’s okay with the suing, off the record.”

“Really? Good for him.”

Will hummed. “I’m going to head back to the office. Hopefully get this report kicked out and be home with enough time to paint one of the bedrooms upstairs. You need anything?”

“Nah. You get out of here.”

Will nodded and headed to his car. Before starting it, he laid his head against the horn and breathed.

While the majority of him wanted them to catch Tobias and lock him away forever, there was another, smaller part that just didn’t care. Some people were murderers. Some people ran mental hospitals. Some people gave away other people’s dogs. If two out of the three were allowed to run free, why was it Will’s responsibility to catch the third?

He rubbed his hands together beneath the wheel for warmth. He shouldn’t give the small feeling too much attention. It was, after all, small. Infinitesimal, even. And it wouldn’t actually stop Will from catching any killers. (Any killers other than the Ripper, but he’d already come to terms with that.) He’d put Tobias behind bars or in a body bag, and that would be the end of it.

Except it wouldn’t.

Because that infinitesimally small feeling hadn’t existed pre-prison. Even directly post-prison, it had been so negligibly tiny that Will had hardly noticed it. And that was exactly the problem. He was noticing it now. Which meant it was growing.

The bitterness he harbored. The apathy. The Darkness.

Will puffed out a frozen breath. He started the car.

(***Paragon***)

The files on Will’s desk were useless. He already knew who the killer was. He just couldn’t prove it.

The initial searches of music shops came up empty, confirming that Tobias’ ideal of outrunning the law had somehow changed. (Or maybe it hadn’t, and he just didn’t want to run alone.) Will couldn’t force extra attention on Tobias without drawing attention to himself, which he wasn’t willing to do.

There were always anonymous tips, but Will had helped track down ten too many anonymous tippers to think he could get away with it. He could draw Tobias out in the open, but there was no telling whose blood would be spilled, and he’d only just promised Hannibal that he’d be more careful.

A familiar tote covered Will’s files, drawing his attention upward.

Warmth blossomed in his chest at the sight of Hannibal, who placed a small, giftwrapped box next to the tote. Will ignored the present in favor of the food. Kabobs. Hannibal perched on the edge of Will’s desk, the leg of his sky-blue suit mere inches from the arm of Will’s chair.

Hannibal asked, “Are these for the Maestro case?”

Will tugged a pepper off the kabob with his teeth. “Depends. That what Lounds is calling the killer from the music hall?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes.” Will got to the meat, which was abso-fucking-lutely delicious, then put the kabob down to pick up the gift. “What’s this?”

“Perhaps you should open it and find out.”

“Perhaps you should stop getting me things I don’t ask for.”

Will shook the box next to his ear, as was tradition, but it didn’t make any noise. Hannibal hummed.

“If you asked for more things, I might be less inclined to seek out gifts on my own.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

They shared a knowing glance: Will exasperated, Hannibal unrepentant. Will turned away and ripped the wrapping paper in half. The gift glinted in the light. Will sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, disbelieving.

Hannibal had bought him a phone.

A really, really nice phone by the looks of it. The large, flat touch screen was both scratch-less and smudge-less. It was already protected by a black, textured case that felt like it could handle a hard drop. Will shook his head.

“I can’t accept this.”

“I don’t recall ever saying it was for you.” Hannibal tilted his head, examining. “I find myself very much wishing to speak with you when you’re not around, Will. Indulge me.”

Will felt the heat creep up his ears. On the other side of the room, Beverly ‘awwwed.’ Will ducked his head and held the phone close, fingers curling around it like it was made of glass.

“Have uh, have you already put in your number?”

“I have. I’ve also taken the liberty of downloading Microsoft Office and subscribing you to multiple sites providing up-to-date scholarly articles.”

Of course he had. Will tried to come up with an argument that wouldn’t immediately get turned down. Tried to convince himself he didn’t want the phone as much as he did. He ended up with a stuttered, “I… Can I… I mean, you’ve at least got to let me foot the monthly bill. I’m the one using it.”

“What sort of gentleman would I be if I forced a service upon you, then made you pay for it?” He shook his head. “The answer is no.”

“But—”

“No.”

Will rubbed the back of his neck, horribly embarrassed. The audience on the other side of the room didn’t help.

After a few seconds of staring, he reached for a beanie that wasn’t there, returned his free hand to his lap, and murmured, “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

Will didn’t have it in him to look up. He ran a finger down the phone screen without turning it on. Jimmy saw fit to save him by saying, “On the upside, this means you don’t have to feel bad about going home anymore. Anything happens, we can call.” There was a tapping noise, probably Jimmy’s pen against his desk. “I know you’ve been wanting to work on your house more.”

Brian snorted. “Or he could just ask Lecter to buy him a new one.” Will raised his head to glare at Brian, who gave a defensive shrug. “What? You could. Dude’s clearly loaded, and he’s got a soft spot for you the size of Texas.”

Will frowned, but the offense he’d taken faded. “Why would I want that?”

“Why wouldn’t you want that?”

Will returned his gaze to the phone. Sleek and new. Functional. He sighed. “Have you ever heard of kintsugi?”

“Like the fox?”

Jimmy chimed in, “No, that’s kitsune.”

Will continued, “Kintsugi is the art of taking something broken, usually pottery, and putting it back together again. Only instead of hiding the flaws and making it like new, you pour gold in the cracks. Highlight the damage.” He lifted the phone and mimicked tossing it away. “A teacup, shattered against the wall, made whole again. Even more beautiful for its flaws. Not only are imperfections okay, they’re what make a thing desirable.” He placed the phone very carefully on the desk and went back to his kabob. “It’s more satisfying to bring the teacup back together again than to just ‘buy a new one.’”

Brian leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Personally, I’d just prefer not to live in a teacup.”

Jimmy looked up from his ramen. “Sorry, Will. Gotta go with Zee on this one.”

Beverly slid down in her chair so she could kick Jimmy’s seat. “Oh, hush. I think it’s sweet.” She swiveled to face Will. “And you should totally give us your new number so we can invite you out on weekends.”

“Only if you promise never to invite me out on weekends.” Will tilted his head to look at Hannibal, who was already staring back. Maroon eyes were lit with care and colored with wonder. Like Will was something precious to behold rather than an anxious, twitchy empath with a head full of neuroses. The like Will felt for Hannibal curled a little tighter around his heart, and he repeated, “Thank you, Hannibal. Seriously.”

“Think nothing of it, Mylimasis. I am happy to provide.”

“I know you are.” Will dug his teeth into the last bite of the kabob. Traded the empty spear for the full one. Picked up his phone. He swiped the screen to unlock it, then opened the messaging system. There was only one number in his contacts, which Will used to send a simple, Hi.

Hannibal’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Will smiled.

He would put the others in his phone some day, but for now, it was nice to have a line connecting him solely to Hannibal. Will clicked the phone off and set it on the desk again.

“How are things with your patients?”

“Dreadfully dull. And your murderers?”

“Not dull enough. The Ripper’s gone quiet, which is never a good sign. The Maestro’s just getting started, and his music is grating. I’m just counting myself lucky that there are only two right now.”

“What about your lawsuit?”

“Dunno.” Will waved the kabob in a circle. “I told Mary to do whatever she thought was best and left it at that.”

“I assume she was quite pleased with having free reign.”

“Pleased enough.” Will offered Hannibal his half-finished kabob. “Do you want some of this?”

“I already ate, but thank you.”

Will hummed and finished his food. He leaned forward so his forearm pressed against Hannibal’s thigh (physical touch) and tried to find something in stealing range. The pocket square and scalpel were too far away. The wallet was on the other side. He was wearing a pocket watch, but it was too obvious. He would feel it if Will tried to take his phone.

After a second of contemplation, Will decided on the opposite route. He plucked the bone of a bird from his own pocket (it would have made a cool lure, but oh well) and slipped it into Hannibal’s jacket.

If the older man noticed, he didn’t show it.

Will put the empty Tupperware back in the warming tote and zipped it up. Hannibal accepted the container without a fuss, then stood to smooth out the nonexistent creases in his suit.

“I’ll see you tomorrow? The usual time?”

“That’s the plan.” Will turned back to the files on his desk, mind already skipping away from their conversation and back toward Tobias. He tapped a rhythmless tune against the screen of his new phone and gave an offhanded, “Good day, Hannibal.”

A pause. Barely two breaths. No movement.

Then, so soft that it was almost a caress: “Good day, Will.”

(***Paragon***)

Will sat cross-legged in front of the Ripper’s latest kill.

It was a man, Caucasian, early thirties. Much like the Venus Flytrap, this man’s chest had been cracked open and put on display. Rather than a heart to catch and cradle, however, the cavity was empty. Drawings were carved into the muscle at the back. Tar filled the wounds to make the etchings stand out.

Two men, unidentifiable. One cradling the face of the other. Both adoring. Two hearts sat at the feet of the men, for neither man needed them anymore. They had each other.

It was morbid. Disgusting. Gorgeous. Will couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He could feel what the Ripper had felt in making this masterpiece. The devotion which had flowed through him and the belief that his beloved could do no wrong. That much, Will had expected. What worried him was the way his own heart fluttered in response.

This kill was both a shameless proclamation of love and an arrogant display of power. “Look how strong I am,” it said, “Look how well I could care for you. Come to my side, and nothing and no one will ever hurt you again.”

And Will, the fool, he wanted.

Much as he hated to admit it, he was genuinely attracted to this side of the Ripper. This caring, controlling, fastidious man who would take everything that had ever harmed Will and destroy it. Just because Will asked.

Will reached a hand up past his own shoulder, and the Ripper was there. Tall in a bespoke suit with antlers and feathers in his hair. Beautiful. Will tilted his head back to nuzzle the Ripper’s leg. He leaned too far.

He fell.

The Ripper was gone. Will scrambled against the damp, dead leaves in a desperate attempt to get to his feet before the others noticed. Shadows moved behind the trees. Seeing him. Sensing him. Smelling his fear. Will ran as hard as he could, slipping this way and that. He searched for the Ripper. There was nothing. Only They were following him, and he was slow.

Worse. He was trapped.

Will curled up on the floor of his cell, one hand curled around his stomach and the other over his head. Blows landed, but Will didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. A strong hand reached over, curling around Will’s wrist. Taking away his protection. And Will—

Will’s head hit the ground with a crack. He sucked in a stuttering gasp, breath knocked out of him. There were no leaves under his fingers. The white tile wasn’t pristine enough to be from his cell. He squeezed his eyes closed, disorientation fading in chunks. He was at the office. He must have fallen asleep at his desk. In his chair. Which explained why he was currently on the ground.

He put a hand to his heart and breathed in, slow and deep. It wasn’t real. He wasn’t in prison anymore. They couldn’t hurt him—

“Will?”

Will’s eyes snapped open. Hannibal was crouched beside him. Worried. Will turned his head to see the others – Beverly, Jimmy, Brian, Alana, Aaron, Ava – all staring.

His anxiety spiked. He choked on it.

“Sorry. Must’ve fallen asleep.” He glued his eyes to the ground and righted himself, ignoring Hannibal’s offered help. He fixed the chair (stiffly, mechanically) and sat back down. Elbow on the table. Thumb on his temple. Two fingers rubbing his forehead. “What’d I miss?”

Silence.

Will didn’t look up.

Eventually, Beverly cautiously explained, “We were just talking about the new Ripper kill. Are you—”

“I’m fine. What about the kill?”

“Nothing new. No evidence left behind. No better interpretations. Lecter came because you missed your session, but that’s—”

“Shit. I meant to text.” He glanced up at Hannibal, not getting anywhere near the other man’s eyes. He refocused on the desk. “I should have text.”

“It’s alright, Will. You needed the rest.”

Something inside Will kicked, berating. Hannibal had bought him a goddamn phone and Will wasn’t even considerate enough to give the man a heads up on cancelling their plans. Stupid, fucking—

Will nodded jerkily, accepting the out.

When he didn’t say anything else, Hannibal continued, “And now you need more rest. Come, let us leave.” A hand appeared in front of Will’s face. Will blankly traced the line of Hannibal’s maroon-suited arm up to settle on the older man’s earlobe.

“I have to work.”

“They will survive without you.”

Brian cut in, forced jovial. “He’s right. We were just finishing up here anyway.”

“Yeah, Will.” Jimmy sounded shaken. Worried. “We’ve got this. You head out.”

Will went back to staring at the desk. He’d made them feel awkward with his nightmares. With his pain. He ignored Hannibal’s hand to shove the case files into his satchel, and when he stood, it was on his own.

He didn’t bother with goodbyes. He just left. Only Hannibal followed.

The psychiatrist walked beside him, quiet as a shadow. He didn’t ask questions. Will didn’t offer answers. When they got to Will’s car, Hannibal opened the door for him.

Hannibal held out an arm, and Will (for the normalcy of it, for the feel) went for his watch. Two quick twists of his fingers, and the jewelry dropped into his hand. He moved to slip it into his sleeve only for Hannibal’s hand to snake out and grab his wrist. Tight and inescapable.

Will’s eyes shot to Hannibal’s. A smile tilted his friend’s lips.

(Kind. Predatory.)

Hannibal’s voice was deeply satisfied as he murmured, “I win, Darling.” He shut the car door.

The hand on Will’s wrist slipped seamlessly over to Will’s shoulder, guiding him instead to Hannibal’s Bentley.

Will blinked, a little stupefied. “What?”

“Our bet. I caught you. I won. Now, you spend the night with me.”

Will shook his head, but Hannibal was already opening the passenger door and ushering him inside.

“You mean now?”

“No time like the present, Dearest.”

“But I—You said I needed to rest.”

“Which you can do at my home, in a warm bed.” Hannibal motioned again toward the passenger’s seat. “Now, please. It’s quite cold.”

Will grimaced as he realized he was making Hannibal stand in the snow. Guilt bubbled in his gut. He got in the Bentley.

Hannibal closed the door and, a moment later, joined Will inside. Will pressed his face against the dash so he wouldn’t have to look at Hannibal (so he could curl in on himself without looking weak). The car started moving.

After a few minutes of silence, Hannibal said, “I hear you had a confrontation with Miss Lounds.”

Will shrugged, his shoulders butting up against the dash. “I wouldn’t call it a confrontation.”

“No?”

“No. She said something stupid. I corrected her. That’s it.”

“What did she say?”

Will relaxed a little into the heated seat, his mind slowly trickling from the dream over to his conversation with Lounds. “She said I was a hypocrite for suing the FBI while working for the FBI. I told her I’m only here to catch the Ripper. She asked if I thought I was too good for the other murderers. Too good for their victims. I flipped her off.” He moved so the heat from the vents blew directly onto his beanie. “Nothing special.”

“One might argue that all things involving you are special.”

“One might be wrong.”

They pulled into Hannibal’s garage. Will didn’t wait for Hannibal before getting out and heading inside. He went straight to the kitchen – the heart of the house – and leaned against the counter.

Though he didn’t hear Hannibal approach, he knew the other man was there.

“Are you hungry?”

Will shook his head. “Not really.”

“Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me prepare a snack.”

Will blinked, finally gathering the sense of self to look at Hannibal in earnest. “You want help?”

“Please.”

Will pushed off the counter as Hannibal removed his maroon suit jacket and rolled up the red sleeves of his button-up. Hannibal placed the upper string of an apron around his neck, then tied the lower half around his waist. He handed Will a second apron, which Will shrugged on with substantially less grace.

“What are we making?”

“Cookies.”

A lopsided smile flipped Will’s lips. “Seriously?”

“Yes. I thought you might enjoy dough not bought in a store, cooked in an oven which will not fail.”

“You thought I might enjoy that, or you might enjoy that?”

“Why not both?”

Will’s smile widened. He pressed his shoulder against Hannibal’s. “What do I do?”

Hannibal set Will to the task of measuring out the dry ingredients while he mixed together the fats and sugars. It was a nice, mindless task that helped Will to relax further, though that was probably the point. They used a small wooden spoon to stir all the ingredients together, and Will added way too many chocolate chips. Hannibal put parchment paper on a cookie sheet and brought out a tablespoon to measure the dough.

Will snatched the bowl, cradling it to his chest as he spun away. “Oh, no. We’re not cooking this until you eat the dough.”

Hannibal raised both brows, lightly questioning. “I have already tried the dough.”

“Exactly. You tried it. Now you have to eat it. You know, for fun.”

“I believe you and I have different definitions of fun.”

Will stuck the wooden spoon in the bowl, scooped out a blob of dough, and stuck it in his mouth. It was admittedly better than anything he had ever bought from the store. He put the spoon back into the bowl and held that out to Hannibal.

Hannibal moved quickly, two hands darting out for the bowl. Will twisted out of the way and sprinted to the other side of the island.

Counter safely between them, he scoffed. “C’mon, Mr. ‘I-Used-To-Be-A-Surgeon.’ You can do better than that.” Will scooped out another spoonful and offered it across the counter. Teasing. “Just one bite.”

Maroon eyes moved between the spoon and Will, calculating. Hannibal’s eyes were on the spoon when his shoulders dipped. Conceding. He reached forward slowly, a silent assurance that he wouldn’t try anything. Will leaned forward a little more, eager for victory. Long fingers brushed the handle, gentle, then thrust up to wrap around Will’s hand. Will tried to pull away, too late. Hannibal tugged, sending him stumbling forward. Will’s stomach jammed against the edge of the counter while Hannibal’s other hand reached casually over to pull the bowl from Will’s grasp.

Battle won, Hannibal made eye contact. He used Will’s hand, the one holding the spoon, to pull Will even further forward. Up onto his tiptoes. Eyes still locked, Hannibal wrapped his lips around the spoon, dough and all.

Below the counter, Will’s dick twitched.

Heat flooded his cheeks. He couldn’t look away. Hannibal’s lips slid off the spoon, slow and sensual. He maintained eye contact with Will as he murmured, “Very good.”

Pleasure swelled, and Will’s dick swelled with it. He squeezed his thighs together. It didn’t help at all.

Hannibal uncurled his fingers and pulled away, leaving the spoon with Will. “Would you like any more of the dough, or may I bake it now?”

“You can bake it.” Will cleared his throat to get his voice back to its normal pitch. “Is there uh, anything else you need from me?”

“Not for this.” Hannibal measured out the dough into perfect half-spheres and started to fill the baking sheet. “Though you’ll never be a sous chef, I do believe you exaggerated your incompetence in the kitchen. I would love to use you again sometime.”

The words were kindly praising and not at all suggestive. Will’s dick reacted anyway. He fought the urge to cover his crotch (and the subsequent urge to rub himself against his palm). His smile was strained.

“Sure. Just say the word.”

“I will.” Hannibal moved the baking sheets to the oven. “They’ll be a few minutes yet. Would you like to wait in the study?”

The manners ingrained in Will said he should offer to help with cleanup. The erection between his legs vetoed that idea to instead have him say, “The study sounds great.” He turned so Hannibal couldn’t see the tent in his jeans and took the long way out of the kitchen.

The walk helped remarkably less than Will had hoped, but there were enough blankets folded over the backs of chairs that it didn’t really matter. He grabbed a very fluffy yellow blanket and curled up on the couch, stuffing it around his hips as he went.

When Hannibal joined him, it was with a platter of cookies and two glasses of milk. He placed the platter on the table in front of the couch, then sat on the middle cushion. He was close enough that his thigh pressed against Will’s shins and Will’s feet curled around Hannibal’s back. He handed Will a cookie.

It was warm in his hands and sweet on his tongue. It tasted like a childhood Will had never experienced, full of trust and safety. He was pretty sure it was his new favorite food.

He moaned and snuggled further into the blanket. “We made this?”

“We did.”

“Can we make it again? Like, every day, forever?” Will stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, then leaned forward to grab another. (Two anothers.)

Hannibal said, “Yes.”

Will watched him over his cookies. He covered his mouth, still chewing, to ask, “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’d really make these all the time if I asked.”

“Yes, I would.”

Will shook his head, incredulous. He swallowed. “Maybe not every day forever then. Just a bunch of the days. Or just when I’m here to help.”

Hannibal smiled, openly content regardless of the outcome. “I’ll keep the chocolate chips in stock.”

Will curled his toes against Hannibal’s spine, grateful. Hannibal handed Will his milk. The conversation faded into a companionable silence, and Will, possibly for the first time in his life, hoped that a night would never end. He offered Hannibal some of his blanket, which Hannibal accepted.

He ate another cookie.

Chapter Text

Hannibal read the newest TattleCrime article with unrestrained interest.

The blog was clickbait in its truest form, but like all junk foods, it had its appeal. The appeal this week came from the focus on how utterly obsessed Will Graham was with the Chesapeake Ripper.

The article covered Hannibal’s latest public kill, of course, but the bulk of the piece revolved around Will’s reaction to the scene. How he crouched next to the open chest cavity, almost awed. How he could hardly turn away from the etchings, practically reverent. How he said, and she was quoting here, “The only thing I care about is catching the Ripper. After that, I’m out.”

Just gorgeous.

Though Will had expressed much the same sentiment multiple times already, there was something special about the rest of the world being able to see it, too. A public claim, of sorts.

Nothing so nice as a collar, but still a sturdy string meant for tugging Will into place.

Hannibal scrolled to the top of the post so he could read it again only to be interrupted by the smell of chromium salt and old blood. It seemed his newest patient had arrived.

He stood and straightened his suit just before three concise, evenly placed knocks rang out. He opened the door, demeanor perfectly neutral, and welcomed the man inside.

“Tobias.”

“Hannibal.” Tobias nodded, polite yet obviously insincere. He could copy the actions of his peers well enough, but his public persona didn’t have nearly the texture or nuances that Hannibal’s did. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Think nothing of it.” Hannibal gestured toward the patient’s chair. Tobias chose to stand. Hannibal moved past him and relaxed into his own seat, entirely unperturbed.

Tobias, in the spirit of a true narcissist, started the conversation with a curveball. (With an attempt to control the board from the very first move.) He said, “I know you’re the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Hannibal blinked, not even bothering to feign surprise. He’d known Tobias had been following him. Had specifically lured the other man out of the city to watch his kill take place. He folded his fingers over his knee and asked, “Is that so? My, how clumsy of me.”

Tobias’ brows furrowed the barest amount. Confused but not deterred. “I’m the one they’re calling the Maestro. We have a shared interest.”

“And that is?”

“Will Graham.” Tobias stood behind the patient’s chair, dark fingers tracing hand-carved wood. Though the interest he projected professed apathy, the hungry gleam in his eyes bordered on obsession. “I want him. So do you.”

Hannibal tilted his head, only distantly curious. “You have a proposal.”

“I do.” Tobias walked around the chair to sit. Legs spread. Elbows over knees. Eager. “You and I are both artists, even if we work in different mediums. I can respect your talent, just as I’m sure you can respect mine. Which is why I propose we share.”

Possessive ire struck Hannibal like an iron, burning him from the inside out. As though he would ever let this filth touch Will.

Outwardly, he remained impassive.

“Oh? And how would that work?”

“We don’t leave marks. Nothing permanently damaging, at least. We work out our schedules to see who would get the most use out of him each week, and make sure he’s cleaned out before passing him along.” Tobias waved a hand to the side as though this were a reasonable suggestion. As though he weren’t speaking of using and abusing Hannibal’s beloved like some garden variety streetwalker.

Hannibal leaned back, entirely too calm, and adopted an almost lackadaisical tone to say, “I’m afraid that won’t work for me. I don’t share.”

“Are you positive?” Tobias’ hands came together between his legs, fingers curling over fist. “Because the other option is not having him at all.”

“You must be quite confident in your skills, to threaten me so openly.”

“Out with the old, in with the new.”

“If the new were an improvement on the old, I would wholeheartedly agree. As is…?” Hannibal ran his eyes down the length of Tobias’ body, unimpressed.

Tobias, in a show of youth (of incompetence) snarled. “You think you can kill me?”

“I think a small child could kill you, but that’s hardly the point. The focus of the conversation, after all, is not you or me. It is Will.”

Tobias faltered, easily thrown by the sharp turn of conversation. Though his posture spoke of self-assured, unassailable intelligence, he wasn’t nearly as smart as he believed.

Seconds passed in silence before he ceded, “Will?”

“Yes.” Hannibal downturned his lips a fraction: an almost audible ‘Do keep up.’ “We each wish to guide Will in his Becoming. To teach him and mold him as we please, with the ideal being for him to grow in confidence to the point that he can kill. So, why not bet on that?”

Tobias tilted his head, finally catching on. “We train him to kill each other?”

“Correct. If Will kills me, he is yours. If he kills you, he is mine. Two birds, one stone.”

Tobias perked up, interested, only to hunch again a moment later. It seemed his general lack of expressiveness was a natural state rather than a learned skill. Tobias argued, “You’ve got quite a head start.”

“Life isn’t fair.” Hannibal propped his elbow on the armrest and laid his temple atop his fist. “Greater predators are born, not made, and you’ve already entered the arena. The only question is whether you’ll accept the current challenge or if we shall we find another way to settle our dilemma.”

Tobias watched Hannibal, plush lips pursed. Though he did not speak, the relaxed set of his shoulders told Hannibal everything he needed to know.

Seconds fell around them, silent rain. Eventually, Tobias leaned back in his chair, stoicism regained. “I accept your challenge.”

Hannibal nodded, then stood from his seat in a single, graceful motion. He took unhurried steps to his desk. A smear of chromium salt in the air told Hannibal Tobias had followed.

Only after Tobias had stopped beside him did Hannibal say, “There is one more condition.”

“Oh?”

Quick as a flash, Hannibal grabbed Tobias by the back of the neck and slammed his head against the edge of the desk. The crack was audible. The force of it: barely a hair short of Hannibal’s full strength. Tobias’ body crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Hannibal slid his fingers along the lapels of his suit jacket, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. He had around two minutes before Tobias would regain consciousness naturally, which was a minute more than what he needed. He scanned the room, contemplative, before deciding on the raven-stag statue Will was so fond of.

He stepped over Tobias to retrieve it. The statue was solid iron, plenty heavy enough for what Hannibal wanted. He walked back to Tobias and crouched to position the man’s right hand.

What Tobias had said about Will – intended to do to Will – was unacceptable. Penances had to be paid.

He stretched Tobias’ right hand away from the rest of the body and splayed the middle three fingers prominently outward. When he stood, he hefted the raven-stag statue with him. With a six-foot drop, the statue would do more than break bones. It would shatter them. The fingers would be rendered useless. Irreparable. And if Tobias ever regained enough dexterity to play music again, his skill would never be what it once was.

Such was the price of coveting Will.

Hannibal released the statue. It landed on Tobias’ chosen fingers. The thump and crunch of Tobias’ payment were nearly drown out by the sound of his screams.

The younger man twisted onto his side, desperate to pull his hand free. Hannibal stepped on the statue’s base. Tobias screamed louder, his other hand reaching out to scratch and grapple with Hannibal’s ankle. Hannibal ground his foot harder, unsatisfied.

In a pleasant tone that in no way matched what they were doing, Hannibal said, “I need your attention, Tobias. This next part is important.”

Pathetic keens and sobs still scraped their way out of Tobias’ throat, but the screaming ceased. Shock was setting in. Brown eyes turned upward to Hannibal, immeasurably angry and wonderfully afraid.

Once he was sure Tobias was listening – really listening, not simply taking in sound while trying to break free – Hannibal calmly continued, “If you so much as think about touching Will without his consent, the game is off. I will capture you. I will torture you. And you will suffocate on your own agony until Will has come into his own enough to end you. Are we understood?”

Tobias stared at him, chest heaving. Hannibal bent his knee, putting more pressure on Tobias’ ruined hand. The other man screeched. Sobbed. Nodded.

Hannibal lifted his foot. Soaked in the swine’s hope. Stomped. “Verbal confirmation, please.”

“Yes! Yes, just—Get off!”

Furious, humiliated tears streamed down Tobias’ face. Hannibal admired them for a handful of seconds before casually stepping back and kicking the statue over. Tobias pulled his mangled hand to his chest, shoulders shaking.

Hannibal leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, unconcerned. “If you hope to regain any mobility in your fingers, I suggest rushing to the nearest hospital. Otherwise, we can continue where we left off.” He gestured to the chairs they had vacated with an upturned palm. Visibly bored.

Tobias’ mouth opened in an animalistic snarl. The need to hurt Hannibal – to take revenge and regain control – was palpable, but Tobias was made more of logic than emotion. He cradled his hand to his chest, turned his eyes to the floor, and fled.

Hannibal continued to stand by his desk. Breathing low and slow. Heartrate stable.

Mild irritation flexed beneath the surface, demanding he give chase and finish the job, but there was nothing to be done about it. Tobias would play an important role in Will’s Becoming, and Hannibal cared too much for his boy to get in the way of that.

He returned the raven-stag statue to its rightful place, then moved around his desk to retrieve his phone. It read his thumbprint and took him to the TattleCrime website, which he ignored in favor of accessing the mirror function on Will’s phone.

Will’s GPS placed him at work, in the office. Aside from Will’s lunch-time perusal of an article on the decomposition of living flesh in still water, the device remained unused. Hannibal brushed his finger over the screen of his phone (of Will’s phone), appeased.

The game he’d set up with Tobias was rigged, obviously. Will already spent the majority of his time either at work or with Hannibal, and considering the way Will’s feelings toward Hannibal were leaning, that wasn’t about to change. On top of that, Hannibal didn’t intend to let Tobias anywhere near his darling without proper antagonistic lighting. The more Tobias tried to get Will’s attention, the more Will would recoil, until there was no option other than to spiral into a pool of Tobias’ blood.

Hannibal rolled his shoulders, shedding the last of his irritation.

He flipped back to the TattleCrime article, but it no longer held his interest. Hannibal didn’t want words about Will. He wanted Will, himself. He placed his phone on facedown on the desk, aware that his desires were currently unfulfillable, and moved instead to his Mind Palace.

New decorations were added to Will’s wing every day, the most recent addition being a large yellow blanket. Every fiber was a moment with Will, and when Hannibal ran his hand across it, he could see the wanton arch of Will’s spine as Will fed Hannibal cookie dough.

The adorable thing had no idea how he looked when aroused, and no idea how obvious his arousal was to someone more experienced in the art of sex. Dilated pupils. Parted lips. Flushed cheeks. The subtle tilt of Will’s hips away from the counter as he attempted to discourage his own reaction.

Hannibal lifted the blanket to his face and breathed deeply, wishing he could instead be holding Will. He tempered his want with the knowledge that holding back was key. Hannibal longed to do an endless number of controlling, debasing, erotic things with Will, and the only way that could work while maintaining the balance of their relationship was for Will to take the first step.

At every major crossroads, Will had to be the one who decided to move forward.

Which meant, despite knowing for a fact that Will desired him, Hannibal could not make a move. He pressed his cheek against the blanket, gently amorous, and reminded himself that it was only a matter of time. Will was, after all, an emotionally volatile man. He could no more hold his emotions inside than he could bypass an injured canine without offering aid.

Which meant Will would confess to him. Soon.

A myriad of fantasies flitted across his mind. (Will’s talented hands running down Hannibal’s sides to settle on his hipbones. Will’s warm breath between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. Will’s perfect erection pressed against Hannibal’s ass.) He treasured the thoughts. Loved each and every thing Will did, both real and imagined. Then he returned the blanket to its proper place and opened his eyes.

Once again in his office.

(Once again alone.)

(***Paragon***)

Only three things were certain in life: Death, Taxes, and the fact that Will was goddamn catnip for the Crazies. 

Will rubbed his temples with his pointer and middle fingers. His headache didn’t care. The scene in front of him (the smell it gave off) was nothing short of grotesque. Two men stood together, back to back, held up by a single noose. They’d been beaten to death and posed post-mortem. Their chests were open and empty aside from the hearts, which had been moved to center and nailed in place. The rest of their organs decayed in a veritable cesspool of muck and grime at their feet.

It was an homage to the Ripper and, more specifically, to Will.

Will knew because he’d spent the last three years watching the film of Matthew’s desires develop, and this sad excuse for a snuff film ticked every box but the kitchen sink. The only curious point about the tableau had been the timing, but even that made sense when he remembered Lounds’ stupid article on him idolizing the Ripper.

Matthew, even believing that Will and the Ripper were one and the same, didn’t like the thought of Will’s attention being elsewhere. The point of this scene was to spur another, better article with Will and Matthew at the center. Fucking stalker.

Will pressed harder against his temples, pressure verging on pain. First Tobias and now Matthew. Why couldn’t Will inspire people to adopt stray dogs for a change? Or to volunteer at animal shelters? Why did they always skip straight to murder?

A hand touched Will’s back, unexpected. He jerked away. His foot landed on something slick, which sent him stumbling. He landed on his ass in the rotting moat of organs and muck a half-second later, and if Will weren’t already hardwired to handle death in all its revolting facets, he would have vomited.

Ava’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Will! I am so sorry!” She stepped forward as though to offer him a hand, then pulled away as she remembered he was sitting in a crime scene. He lifted his hands (his bodily-fluid soaked gloves) and shook off the muck, stomach churning.

Jack appeared from the ether a split second later, his Will Fucked Up alarm flashing bright overhead. Jack shouted, “Graham! What do you think you’re doing?” Followed immediately by, “Get out of there! You’re contaminating evidence!”

Will pushed himself to his feet and glared at Jack’s kneecaps. The gunk soaked through his clothes (which didn’t matter nearly as much as the now-ruined jacket he’d borrowed from Hannibal), leaving him sopping wet. Snow continued to fall around them, uncaring of his predicament. He shivered.

“Do you seriously think I meant to fall in the organ pool?”

“I don’t care what you meant to do. Move.”

Will trudged out of the sewage, lifting his knees the same as he would when wearing galoshes in a swamp. He belatedly realized the sludge had flooded into his shoes, which was both disgusting and disappointing. They were nice shoes.

Both Jack and Ava made a face as he approached. It was Jack who said, “Go. Get back to the office. Shower. Change. Alana and the forensics team were about to head out anyway.”

“I don’t have any extra clothes at the office.”

“Well you aren’t driving all the way back to Wolf Trap.” Jack glanced around for exactly half a second before raising his hand and shouting, “Cavell!”

Aaron jogged over. “Yes, Sir?”

“You have a go-bag?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Give it to Graham.”

Aaron glanced over, curiosity morphing into disgust as he saw the state Will was in. He grimaced. “I don’t really think that’s…”

“It wasn’t a question, Cavell. Go-bag. Graham. Now.”

Aaron’s face fell. He looked at Will a final time, obviously hoping Will would tell him not to worry about it and that he could keep his clothes, then hurried over to his car.

While Will waited, he wrung sludge from his sleeves and asked Ava, “What’d you need?”

“Nothing. I just—I just wanted to ask about the scene. About… about the motives.” She stared at the ground, shoulders tensed as though expecting a beating. “I’m really sorry.”

Will shook his head. The gunk was in his hair. “It’s fine. These things happen.” Aaron reappeared with a small duffel, which Will accepted with two dirty fingers. “We’ll talk motives back at the office. Write down any questions you’ve got, and I promise we’ll go through them. Yeah?”

Ava relaxed, gratitude sparkling in her smile as she held up her notebook and pen. “You got it, boss.”

Will nodded and stepped around the interns (or were they trainees now? Will had never had a great grasp on the passage of time) to head to his car. He felt bad for dirtying the upholstery for around two seconds, then he remembered it was a piece of shit. A little decaying organ muck wouldn’t hurt.

He drove as fast as he dared in the snow, already freezing. The FBI Headquarters was warmer, but not warm enough. Will fast-walked to the locker room, peeled out of his clothes, and dove into the shower.

Tense muscles relaxed under the near-scalding stream. He pressed his forehead to the wall of the shower and groaned. It took him a good ten minutes to finally start washing, which he did four separate times in an attempt to get rid of the stench.

Aaron’s go-bag was sleek and expensive. The clothes inside weren’t any better. Aaron was a little smaller than Will, which meant the clothes were a little too tight, but it wasn’t like he was in a position to complain. He tugged on the black socks, black boxers, black slacks, and black button-up without a fuss. The tie, undershirt, and suit jacket remained in the duffel.

A quick search of the janitor’s closet gave Will a trash bag, which was the only acceptable carrier for his old clothes and shoes. He slipped his phone and wallet out of the jacket, cleaned them as best he could at the sink, and slipped them into his pockets. He dropped the trash bag off at Evidence for processing, then returned to the shared office space.

As soon as he stepped into the room, Beverly wolf-whistled. “Well, hello there. You never told me you were a hottie with a body.”

Will raised both brows. “A what?” He shook his head. “You know what? No. I don’t want to know.” He tossed Aaron the mostly empty duffel, then dropped his miraculously clean beanie on his desk. “We find anything at the scene?”

Beverly shrugged. “It’ll take days to get through all the muck and grime, but I doubt it. For all the grossness of the scene itself, the bodies were pretty clean.”

Will frowned and headed over to Beverly’s desk. She had a few initial reports pulled up, along with like twenty-five other miscellaneous tabs. None of them said anything useful yet.

On the other side of Beverly’s desk, nearer to Jimmy than Will, Alana said, “Those clothes really suit you, Will. You look nice.”

Will shrugged. He preferred flannel.

Beverly leaned back in her chair, openly ogling. “You mean he looks hot.”

“I mean he looks nice.”

“Ava will back me up. Right Ava?” Beverly turned her head to look at someone (presumably Ava) behind Will. “Doesn’t Will look totally bang-able?”

Ava squeaked.

Will pushed his bangs out of his face, and because his hair was wet, they actually stayed that way. Without looking at her, he said, “Don’t answer that, Ava.”

Beverly swatted at Will without actually touching him. “Oh, you’re no fun.”

“And you’re a walking sexual harassment suit.”

“You love it. And if it makes you feel better, you can sexually harass me whenever you’d like. None of my significant others will mind.”

“None? Did you get a third?”

“Yep. And there’s always room for a fourth.”

Will snorted. “I’m good. Thanks.” He clicked on the report she’d been working on before he interrupted her and pulled away. Ava was by his desk, notebook in hand, so he headed there next. Rather than sitting down, he pressed his ass against the desk-edge and motioned to the notebook. “Questions?”

“Oh! Yeah, thank you.” Her eyes skimmed down Will’s face, paused on his chest, then jerked over to the paper. Her cheeks flushed. “First thing is the hearts. I get that it’s a shout-out to the Ripper, but I don’t understand the nails. Is it just a convenience thing?”

Will shook his head. “It’s personality. Everything the Ripper does is elegant. This guy is making a tableau, but he doesn’t want to lose his own vision in it. The fact that he felt the need to use nails both tells us that he considers himself a bit of a rustic – someone from a lower class background who had to work to get wherever he is – and that he’s delusional. He believed there was a genuine possibility that we could mistake his work for the Ripper’s, so he drew a hard, visible line between their works to keep us away from that.”

Her pen flew across the paper, not stopping even as she asked, “But you wouldn’t have confused him for the Ripper anyway, right? Why not?”

“The cuts were amateurish, for one. More likely a hunting knife than a scalpel. He also left the organs instead of keeping them to eat. Above all else, though, is the lack of grace. If the Ripper is Da Vinci, this guy is a third grader learning to finger paint with feces.”

She paused, brows furrowing. “That big a difference?”

“Bigger.”

She nodded and kept writing. From the other side of the room, Aaron’s surprisingly chipper voice rang out, “Hannibal. Are you here to help with the new case?”

“I am.”

Will glanced up to see Hannibal already staring back. Maroon eyes pinned Will with an intensity he didn’t understand, and Will tilted his head in question. Hannibal crossed the room with six long, powerful strides. He placed his warming tote on Will’s desk, then moved to the space directly in front of Will. His hand immediately rose to touch one of Will’s curls.

“Darling, you’re wet.”

“Yeah. I kind of tripped in the middle of a crime scene. Ended up in a cesspool of mud and blood and god knows what else. I had to come back here and shower.” Guilt flared in Will, making him duck his head as he quietly added, “I also might have been wearing your jacket when it happened. Sorry.”

Hannibal’s hand trailed from Will’s hair down to his neck, then over to his bicep. He was touching more than usual. “I have others.” Hannibal took half a step back, eyes swiveling to the ground. His hand didn’t leave Will. “Your shoes?”

“Ruined. Also evidence.” He shrugged. “I’ve still got my old pair at the house.”

“And I suppose you intend to walk through the snow, barefoot and without winterwear, to get there?”

“Thought I’d drive, actually.” Will smiled at his own joke. “Plus, my beanie’s safe. So that’s nice.”

Hannibal sighed through his nose, unimpressed. His hand left Will so he could unbutton his peacoat. It was as he transferred his wallet and phone from his coat pockets to his pants pockets that Will caught on.

“Hannibal, no.”

“As I’ve said, I have others.”

“My house has heat now. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll freeze before you get there.”

“No, I won’t. Hannibal you can’t—” Will cut himself off. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. Pressed the outside of his foot to the inside of Hannibal’s shoe. “You can’t give me the literal coat off your back, okay? It’s too much.”

“Continue to complain, and you’ll get my shoes as well.” Hannibal shrugged off the coat, revealing a seafoam and white bespoke suit with a cerulean tie and pocket square combination. “My car has heat. Yours does not.”

Will frowned, both wanting to argue and recognizing that Hannibal was right. Hannibal took Will’s silence as acceptance and moved to hang the coat over the back of Will’s chair. Will turned to Ava to apologize for the interruption only to realize she’d already wandered off.

When had that happened?

Hannibal returned to his place in front of Will, impossibly closer than before. His fingers traced the triangular point of Will’s shirt collar as he said, “I can only assume these clothes aren’t yours.”

Aaron, still standing where Hannibal had left him, piped up, “They’re mine. He’s borrowing them.”

Will looked over to see a glimmer of hope on Aaron’s face. He wanted Hannibal to compliment his taste in clothing (or to pay any attention to him at all). Hannibal’s eyes flicked to Aaron in the barest acknowledgement of having heard.

“It needs a tie.”

“It had a tie. I chose not to wear it.”

Hannibal hummed. He lifted his hands again, this time to undo his tie. Will crossed his arms.

“No way. I get the jacket. That’s reasonable. But a tie? I’m just going to sit around here with these losers, then go home and take it off again.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for me.” The tie slid off Hannibal’s neck with a single tug: a motion which had no right to be as hot as it was. “Aesthetics, Darling. You’ll understand some day.”

“I doubt it. And I’m not taking your tie.”

Hannibal tilted his head in a now familiar, ‘What’s-the-easiest-way-to-make-Will-cave’ motion. He settled on, “I brought you food.”

“We both know you wouldn’t withhold food from me.”

“No, but I would withhold dessert.”

Will furrowed his brows, more than a little suspicious. “You’ve never brought dessert before. That’s a dinner-at-your-place kind of thing.”

Hannibal raised his brows, faking both innocence and surprise. He moved away from Will to walk around the desk, and Will looked over his shoulder to watch him go. Hannibal unzipped the tote, purposefully slow, and brought out a bag of cookies. He shook them once for emphasis, then returned to his place in front of Will.

Will stared at the cookies, debating. On one hand, letting Hannibal control him with food wasn’t a precedent he wanted to set. On the other hand, they were really good cookies.

Will cursed and held out his hand, palm up. “Fine. Gimme the tie.”

Hannibal put the bag of cookies in Will’s outstretched hand, then reached forward to flip up Will’s collar. Will smacked his hands away.

“I can tie a tie.”

“Can you tie a trinity knot?”

“I don’t need a trinity knot.”

“Nor do you need a tie, yet here we are.”

Will held Hannibal’s stare for around six seconds before rolling his eyes and giving up. He made a show of dropping his hands, then watched as Hannibal slipped the cloth around his throat. Hannibal proceeded to tie an unnecessarily complicated (Will counted thirteen steps) knot. When he finished, he flipped Will’s collar back down and smoothed his hands across Will’s shoulders.

“There. Perfect.”

Will reached up to loosen the tie, pulling the knot down to the second button of his shirt. Hannibal eyed him fondly, lips pursed in what was practically a verbal, ‘It was nice while it lasted.’ Will opened his bag of cookies.

“You should eat your food first.”

“If you wanted me to be a responsible adult, you shouldn’t have given me cookies.” Will pointed a cookie at Hannibal, unrepentant. “That’s on you.”

A smile twitched at Hannibal’s lips, which probably weren’t as kissable as they looked. Will shoved an entire cookie in his own mouth and scooted past Hannibal to flop into his chair. Hannibal perched on the edge of Will’s desk, as he was wont to do, and Ava rejoined them with more questions.

Hannibal’s legs were long and stretched out near Will’s chair. Will turned so his calf brushed against Hannibal’s. Hannibal shifted the slightest amount, returning the pressure.

And though Will would never be thankful for what Matthew had done, he could admit that this (the food, the company, the excuse to hang out with Hannibal, the pressure) was nice.

He leaned back in his chair, content to listen to Ava’s theories, and kept eating.

(***Paragon***)

Will had made a mistake.

It wasn’t a large mistake, in the span of things. Most people wouldn’t consider it a mistake at all. If Hannibal had intended for Will to immediately return his tie, he would have asked for it at the end of the night.

Except Will’s mistake wasn’t in keeping the tie. It was in smelling it. Accidentally. At home.

He’d already started a fire and curled up on his blankets to read. He wasn’t even thinking about sex. Then the smell of Hannibal’s tie – of Hannibal – in his safe space made his cock twitch with interest. Which wasn’t something Will wanted. He turned his head away, into his shoulder, only to be flooded with even more of Hannibal’s scent because he was still wearing the other man’s pea coat.

And god what a good scent.

Warmth and power with hints of that perfectly expensive cologne. Control. Safety. Will breathed it in, deep as he could. His hand moved to his dick without meaning to, sending static pleasure shooting up his groin, into his stomach.

He groaned. Acknowledged that he shouldn’t do this to the smell of his friend. Palmed himself harder. His imagination lit up, placing Hannibal behind him. A strong hand slid along Will’s lower back, encouraging, and Will listened. He undid the button on his jeans and yanked at the zipper, almost desperate. The ghost of Hannibal’s hand slid up his back to grasp at his neck.

Will pulled the tie tighter.

He could imagine Hannibal there. Kneeling. Pressing against him. Soft lips – never bitten, never chapped – brushed the shell of his ear to whisper, “That’s it, Darling. Touch yourself for me.”

Will groaned again. He stroked himself faster, sharp shocks of pleasure making his thighs tremble. The word Hannibal stuffed itself behind his lips, filling his mouth. It wasn’t enough. Will put his hand over his mouth, meaning to cover it. He slipped his fingers inside.

Two at first. Then three.

His fingertips touched the back of his tongue, both too small and too thin. He rocked into his hand and buried his nose in Hannibal’s pea coat, giving the fantasy strength. He wished his fingers were Hannibal’s cock.

The imaginary Hannibal behind him chuckled, breath puffing warm against Will’s ear. He calmly (always calm, always in control) insisted that if Will wanted to taste him, he was going to have to work for it.

Will moaned again, loud and needy. His thighs trembled uncontrollably. One hand was slick with spit, the other with precum. He rocked back against the imaginary Hannibal and choked on his own fingers. It felt good. God, so good. His fingers brushed the back of his throat. He bit down.

The feel of teeth digging roughly into skin was all his brain needed to short-circuit, pleasure skyrocketing.

He came.

The orgasm hit him like a train: harder and hotter than any he’d had before. It ripped through him with a full-body shudder, and he tore his hand from his mouth to shout Hannibal’s name. His cock dribbled cum even four solid strokes after he came, over-sensitization doing nothing to stop the need for more. He sucked in a deep breath through the mouth, wanting to taste the scent that had him so riled.

The fantasy Hannibal smoothed a hand up and down his back: the feel of him so solid that, for a moment, Will thought he might actually be real. Will closed his eyes, basking in the afterglow. Breathing in the coat. Hannibal’s teeth scraped soft against his ear.

“Absolutely lovely, Darling. So good for me. You did perfect.”

Will’s hips jerked without his permission, unbelievably turned on even directly after orgasm. Another spurt of cum spilled from his dick, weaker than the rest. He shuddered.

It took strength (more strength than it should’ve) to turn his head away from Hannibal’s pea coat. He took a breath of normal air instead of sexed-up psychiatrist. Leaned his forehead against the cool hardwood floor. Sighed.

“Fuck.”

He shouldn’t have done that. Oh, sweet Jesus, he shouldn’t have done that. How was he ever going to look Hannibal in the eyes again? Will couldn’t even lie about a fantasy he didn’t mean to have. How was he supposed to hide this?

He tapped his forehead against the floor. The cum on his hand started to dry.

He was going to have to face the music eventually, be it confessing his sins to Hannibal or just standing up to shower. He should probably take off the coat and tie first.

Will breathed in through is nose, once again taking in Hannibal’s scent. This time for assurance rather than arousal. And because he was an idiot (a full blown, ridiculously enamored, crush-on-his-best-friend level idiot), it worked. He felt a little better.

Which, in turn, made him feel a whole lot worse.

He knocked his forehead against the floor again, harder this time.

“Fuck.”

(***Paragon***)

This time, Alana didn’t simply enter Hannibal’s office without knocking. She barged in.

The door slammed against the edge of a bookshelf, as no door should ever do, but she paid it no mind. She began to rant.

“Seriously, Hannibal? A tie? God, could you be any more obvious?”

Hannibal blinked. Yes, he could have been more obvious. He could have pushed Will against the desk and fucked him raw for the world to see. Could have devoured his perfect boy whole right in front of Alana’s eyes. Instead, he’d tied a tie.

He leaned back in his chair, unashamed. “Alana. Do come in.”

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare turn this around on me. You like Will.”

“Yes.”

“Like, you like-like him. Romantically.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t try to deny it. You called him ‘Darling.’ No one calls anyone else ‘Darling’ unless they—Wait. Yes?”

“Yes.” Hannibal lifted his shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I am interested in Will romantically.”

She stared at him, jaw clenched. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Blue eyes blinked. Anger stained her cheeks. She shook her head, sending artificial daisies fluttering. “No. That is not it, Hannibal. You’re his psychiatrist!”

“In no official capacity.”

“It’s not about the capacity. It’s about the power imbalance. You know that.” She dug her fingers into her hair. Paced halfway across the room. Spun to face him again. “This isn’t professional.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Then how can you do it? He trusts you!”

“And he shall trust me even more once we are romantically involved.”

“That’s not… Hannibal, you can’t do this. Official capacity or not, he’s your patient. You’re overstepping bounds.”

Hannibal crossed his legs, ankle over knee. “Unless I am grossly mistaken, you have no business in either Will’s or my personal life. Certainly not our romantic lives. If you truly wish to fret about overstepping bounds, consider looking at your feet.”

“You son of a—this isn’t about us. It’s about the fact that you’re a psychiatrist who wants to fuck his patient. You are crossing so many ethical lines right now that it’s making my head spin.”

“And if I’m in love with him?”

Alana’s mouth opened, offended even before she processed his words. Then her mind caught up with her body, and the righteous indignation stiffening her posture made way for bafflement.

“What?”

“Does it make a difference if I’m in love with him?”

“You…” She drew back. Still defensive. Leery. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

Her resolve faltered. She swept a glance around the room. Chewed on her bottom lip. Tucked her hair behind her ear. “You barely know each other.”

“Does time really have such control over emotional strength? I feel what I feel, Alana. I would never hurt him.”

“Even so…” She sighed, defeated, and took her place in the patient’s chair across from Hannibal. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I can’t let you do this. I know what you think you feel, but if this turns out to be a passing fancy, it’ll crush him. And even if it isn’t, you can’t have a healthy relationship with that kind of power imbalance.” She pressed her hands together as though in prayer, unsatisfied, then rubbed the lower half of her face. “I’ll give you a week.”

“For?”

“Confessing, if you want. Giving him a referral, regardless. You can’t keep being his psychiatrist.”

“I am not his psychiatrist now.”

“You have weekly appointments in your office where you question his mental health. Legalities aside, you’re his psychiatrist.”

Hannibal tilted his head, blandly considering. “And if I do not refer him elsewhere?”

“I’ll go to Jack. I can’t stop you from being friends with him – I don’t want to stop you from being friends with him – but your professional relationship has to end. You understand that, right?”

Hannibal steepled his fingers in front of him, thumbs pointing to the ceiling. “I understand you’re doing what you think is best. Just as I will do what I think is best.”

“Hannibal, if you care about him at all, you’ll let him go. Give him a few months out from under your influence, and if you still feel the same, reconnect on a personal level. No pretense of FBI work or a thriving medical practice between you.” She leaned forward, knees and elbows together. “He’s not stable. And so long as you’ve got ulterior motives, being with you won’t help.” She hesitated, then sighed. Gently apologetic. “This is for Will.”

Hannibal continued to watch her, face impassive.

He’d known it would come to this, of course. Alana was too self-righteous – too caught on her own moral high ground – to overlook such an obvious breach in protocol. The only way she would let it go was if she thought she had already done “the right thing.” (Also known as successfully advocating for the most vulnerable party involved. In this case, Will.)

Any concessions made afterward would stem from appeals to (A) her humanity, and (B) the egotistical belief that so long as her heart was in the right place, she could do whatever she wanted.

In a nutshell: Hannibal needed to instill the belief that she was doing him a favor.

He waited an acceptable amount of time, then softened his features to express remorse and a hint of shame. His voice was soft and guilt-laced as he admitted, “I know. What you say is true, and it is what needs to be done. But I… I worry that he will not accept me. That in our months apart, he may find another, more suitable partner.” He twisted his lips, pained and vulnerable. Averted his eyes. “Someone younger.”

Alana, predictably, melted under the pretense of trust. Her hand moved to her heart. Her voice oozed sympathy. “Oh, Hannibal.” The last of her anger, self-righteous or otherwise, faded away. “I know it’s scary, considering a relationship with someone so much younger. Even I was a little wary, and Will and I are only four years apart. But Will’s not so superficial as to care about something like an age gap.”

“Even an age gap of nearly twenty years?”

“If he likes you, he’ll move mountains.” She smiled, encouraging, then seemed to remember who they were talking about. Her expression stiffened into something purely decorative. “And if it doesn’t work out, that’s okay, too. Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

Hannibal turned his eyes to the ground, affecting a look of disappointed understanding. Inwardly, the bone-deep knowledge that he and Will were meant to be battened. They weren’t simply ships passing in the night, but soulmates. Inarguably, irrevocably tied together now and forever more. Across all timelines and all lifetimes. In love.

Still, he said, “I’m aware this is already too much, but could I request an extension on your timeline? One month, rather than one week. Give me time to find a psychiatrist suitable to handle his care. Someone I can trust.” He clasped his hands together and met her eyes, appropriately wary. He inflected just the right amount of embarrassment into his tone as he added, “And time to gather my own courage. It has been long since I’ve confessed any sort of romantic attachment to someone, and I wish to do it right.”

He wrapped her heartstrings around his fingers, both talented and meticulous. With a careful tug, she danced. Her hands fell to her lap. She stood to close the gap between them and, confident in their relationship, laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

She said, “One month. Then I go to Jack.”

“Of course.” He covered her hand with his own and squeezed, lips drawing into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Alana.”

“You’re welcome, Hannibal. And thank you for taking this so well. I know it can be hard, weighing personal feelings against professional duty. But you’re doing the right thing. I promise.”

He warmed his smile. Graciously agreed. Offered her wine.

She accepted.

It was as he poured her drink that he considered what to do should Will not confess to him by the end of the month. Alana was pacified, but only temporarily. And Hannibal had absolutely no intention of giving Will a referral. No, delving into the wonders of Will’s mind was a privilege meant for Hannibal and Hannibal alone.

Which meant Alana had to go.

The only question was how.

Killing her would be a hassle, considering they were so publicly entwined. He could frame her – allow her to spend some undeserved time in a cage for a change – but his darling boy would see through the ruse in an instant.

Hannibal handed Alana a glass of wine, still outwardly grateful. He supposed he would need to think on it. There was still the possibility that Will would confess, and Hannibal wouldn’t need to take any action against her at all. And if not...

Why, they had all month.

Chapter Text

Will entered Hannibal’s office normally.

He let Hannibal take his coat and hat normally, pickpocketed Hannibal’s phone normally, and started walking around the room. All without a single confession slipping past his lips.

Hannibal settled into his usual chair, blissfully unaware of Will’s inner struggle. “It was only for a night, but I must say. I missed your flannel.”

“Really?” Will ran a finger down the spine of a leather-bound book, fingernail catching in the indents of the gilded title. “I would’ve thought you’d prefer Aaron’s clothes over mine. They’re not as flashy as yours, but still more your style.”

“They’re more in line with my tastes, yes. If we’re going to dress you up, however, I’d prefer to provide you with your own clothes.”

“Or your clothes?”

“Or my clothes.”

Will glanced over his shoulder to see Hannibal watching him. Shameless.

“You know you’re supposed to feel embarrassed when you admit things like that, right?”

 “As I have said before, I am not—”

“Easily embarrassed. Yeah. I remember.”

Hannibal hummed, pleased. “Would you prefer I be embarrassed?”

“No, I—” Will stopped. Backtracked two steps. Squinted. “Hannibal. What did you do?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Darling.”

Will pulled four books off the shelf, piling them into his arms so he could reach the thin brown package that’d been tucked behind them. He held it up accusingly. “This.”

Hannibal only blinked. “That isn’t a question, Will.”

“I—You—Why do you keep buying me things? And why is it hidden in your office?”

“Why do you assume it’s for you?”

Will flushed, mortification spiking as he realized the package was entirely unmarked. He’d literally just pulled something out of a hidden corner in Hannibal’s office and, like a spoiled kid, assumed it was for him.

Rather than answering, as that required a much higher threshold for humiliation than Will currently had, he made to put the package back.

Hannibal interrupted, “Sweet boy. It is for you. I only wondered what made you jump to the conclusion.”

The tension dropped out of Will in an instant. Any embarrassment he felt for constantly accepting gifts from Hannibal was far outweighed by the embarrassment of somehow having turned into a selfish brat over the last few months. At least if the gift was really for him, he wasn’t just presumptuous.

(He was presumptuous and right.)

He leaned up on his toes to stuff all the books back on the shelf at once, then cradled the package to his chest. It molded easily under pressure. Probably clothes.

“I just… You buy me things a lot, and this wasn’t here last week.”

The justification sounded weak, even to Will’s own ears.

Hannibal smiled. “Remarkable boy. Open it, please.”

Will nodded, still a little overwhelmed by his own pretentiousness, and carefully peeled the tape off the package. It was, as he suspected, clothing. A warm brown flannel with a fleece lining. He balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash, then laid the shirt on his usual chair.

“Thank you, Hannibal.” Will shifted on his feet. Tugged at his sleeves. Stared at the gift. “I think this one’s my favorite so far. I like neutral colors a lot. Browns and tans. Greys. Dark greens, after that.” He looked up from the shirt only long enough to skim over Hannibal’s eyes. It felt pompous to tell Hannibal his preferences: only a step away from outright asking the man to buy more things for Will.

Hannibal didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ll remember that.”

“I know you will.”

Will brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck, which reminded him of the way Hannibal’s hand felt on his neck, which sent him back to his spot by the bookshelf to continue his circuit. He made it all the way to the harpsichord before exasperation flared to life, burning away his embarrassment.

“Hannibal.”

“Yes, Will?”

Will turned, a medium-sized, brown paper wrapped box in hand. “Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

Will shook the box near his ear. It thumped more up-and-down than side-to-side. Shoes.

“How many more are there?”

Hannibal shrugged, far from innocent. “I can’t recall.”

Will rolled his eyes. “What do you want me to do? Just wander the room until I find them all?”

“That is the idea, yes.” Hannibal’s eyes flicked to the package. “Open it, please.”

Will sighed but did as he was told. This time, he ripped the paper.

Inside was a box with the predicted shoes. What Will hadn’t predicted was that they were the same as Will’s old pair. The ones he’d ruined just the night before. Fondness rushed through him at the sight.

Will was a habitual creature. He avoided change whenever he could. And somewhere along the line, Hannibal had picked up on that. Will smiled (couldn’t stop himself from smiling) and sat on the floor to trade out his threadbare shoes for the new ones. They fit perfectly, just like the last ones had.

He pointed his toes, then flexed them. He looked up.

“Thank you. And thank you more for getting these ones again. I’m sure you were tempted to go for something fancier.”

“Indeed I was. But these gifts, unlike the phone and the tie, are for you. It is your preferences which matter here, not mine.”

Heat warmed Will’s ears. He reached for a beanie that wasn’t there, then aborted the motion to instead mess with the collar of his shirt. He put his old shoes in the box and placed that on the chair, too. When he returned to roaming the room, it was with an eye out for packages.

The next one was hidden in the large, ornate vase, and Will knew from the weight and flexibility that it was jeans. Nice, workman’s jeans. He tore off the paper to be proved right, put the jeans on the chair, and went back to searching.

There was another box behind the couch. Another pair of shoes, the exact same as the ones on his feet, except in grey rather than black.

“They have a sale or something?”

“You’ve gone through two pairs of shoes in as many weeks, Darling. I’m taking precautions.”

Will ducked his head as he remembered the dress shoes he’d ruined before the party. He added the box to the ever-growing pile.

After a thorough sweep of the room, the only other gift he could find was hidden under the cushion of his usual chair. Beneath the rest of the gifts. Will supposed it was there to start the search, just in case he’d decided to sit down instead of meander.

He felt it through the packaging. Cloth, but stiff. Rectangular. It had a strap. A bag of sorts?

Will tore off the paper to reveal an incredibly nice (incredibly expensive), dark brown leather satchel. It had enough pockets and compartments to be an organizer’s wet dream, though Will was more liable to just stuff things inside and hope for the best.

He placed it carefully on the chair with the rest of the gifts, then offered his final thanks. “You really didn’t have to do this. And I know you know that, but I’m just… grateful, I guess. And out of my depth. I’m not used to people taking care of me.” Will curled his right hand into a fist, then used his thumb to repeatedly trace the circle his pointer finger made. “It’s honestly a little overwhelming.”

“Would it be more or less overwhelming to know you missed one?”

Will looked up, eyes narrowed. “There are more?”

“One more, yes. Would you like me to tell you where it is?”

Will scowled. They both knew he didn’t.

He scanned the room, but nothing immediately jumped out at him. So the gift was for-real hidden, not just placed. He raised his fist to his face and nibbled on his thumbnail.

Hannibal was smart. He liked puzzles. Riddles. There was probably some sort of logic behind where he’d hidden the presents. An algorithm? No. Hannibal’s gift-giving thrived on personalization, which meant the placement had to do with Will. The bookcase. The harpsichord. The vase. The couch. The chair. All things Will would have come across on his own, in his circuit. All things Will liked to touch.

Will perked up, puzzle solved, and strode over to the raven-stag statue. He lifted the base to find the only unwrapped gift.

A pair of gloves.

Will grinned. He snatched the gloves and spun to face Hannibal, triumphant. Teasing, taunting words sat on his tongue. He never voiced them. The moment he saw Hannibal, his victorious heart stuttered.

Cracked open.

Broke.

Because Hannibal was smiling at him. Hannibal, whose expressions were so strictly controlled that he was practically wearing a fucking person suit, was smiling at Will. Barely a twitch of the lips – soft bordering on nonexistent – but so wonderfully emotional.

A tidal wave of admiration and respect. A gentle sweep of ardor. The barest hint of devotion.

And all of it so devastatingly genuine that Will’s heart couldn’t stand to be quiet for a single moment more. It ran away with his mouth, reckless, and plunged him into the abyss.

“I like you.”

Hannibal’s soft smile faded, returning him to neutral. Seconds ticked by, each one heavier than the last. Hannibal didn’t respond.

Will crushed the gloves in his palm. Stuffed them into his pocket. He paced over to the bookshelf near the door, ready for a quick escape.

(Ready to be asked to leave.)

“It’s not because you buy me things. I don’t want you to think that. Hell, I wouldn’t care if you lived in a cardboard box and we had to share a soggy PB&J. It’s just… You make me feel safe, Hannibal. Safer than I’ve ever felt in my whole goddamn life. And happier, too. God, it’s stupid how happy you make me.”

Will raised a hand to wipe at the tears budding in his eyes. Thought about running. Forced himself to stay.

“And I’m not saying this to make you feel bad or to pressure you into reciprocating. I know we’re just friends. I know that. But fuck, Hannibal, I also don’t know that. I just—I can’t stop thinking about you.” Will faced Hannibal again, self-expression turning to self-destruction with a single, well-placed, “I jacked off to you last night.”

Will nodded in response to the unasked question, damning himself as he went. He kept his eyes on Hannibal’s tie as he further admitted, “I didn’t plan on it. Didn’t plan on telling you, either. But I guess if you’re going to go around touching me, you should know what kind of reaction it inspires. Otherwise it feels like I’m—fuck. Like I’m violating you or something. Here you are, being so goddamn nice to me, and I…”

Will drew in a shaky, guilt-ridden breath. The tears were back. “Holy shit, this is going badly. Like, I never thought it would go well, but this is spectacularly bad.  Why don’t I just leave, maybe take a run around the block or—or the city, and when I come back, we can pretend this never—”

Hannibal crossed the room in a blink. A bruising grip on Will’s hip. Fingers curled tight into Will’s hair. Hannibal’s lips on Will’s lips. Will gasped, then fisted his hands in Hannibal’s lapels and yanked him closer.

Hannibal obliged, the grip on Will’s hip growing impossibly tighter. He pulled Will’s lower half forward, groin to groin, while the hand in Will’s hair forced the rest of him back. Will’s shoulders scraped the bookcase. Pinned.

Hannibal licked across Will’s lips. Will opened. Hannibal’s tongue entered Will’s mouth in an instant, tracing over every reachable inch. Intent not only to know Will, but to fill him. Will tilted his head to allow Hannibal better access. Hannibal rolled his hips approvingly. Strong fingers massaged Will’s scalp in silent praise.

Will tried to pull back – to ask if this was real, what it meant – but those same fingers fisted in Will’s hair tight and forced him back into place. Hannibal’s voice edged out in what was practically a growl. (Dark. Possessive.) Will melted.

Being controlled by such powerful hands had Will rocking his hips for more. His tongue slipped into Hannibal’s mouth, copying what Hannibal had done to him. Hannibal dug his teeth into Will’s lower lip. Hard.

Will shuddered and pushed his hands up the line of Hannibal’s shoulders. Up and up until his arms were around Hannibal’s neck and in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal took a full step forward, caging Will in against the shelves. He ground his cock against Will’s, ruthless in his pressure and pace.

Pleasure sparked in Will’s dick and coiled tight in his stomach. His head jerked back, directly into Hannibal’s immovable hand. He mumbled, “Oh, god.”

This close, he could feel the full length of Hannibal’s cock against his own. Long. Thick. Eager. And fuck if Hannibal didn’t dwarf Will in the dick department, too. Hannibal’s hand slid from Will’s waist down to the curve of his ass, a single finger pressing against the seam of his jeans. Right over his hole.

Will’s thighs trembled. He needed to tell Hannibal to stop, to wait, but it all felt so good that he just—

Came.

Will’s entire body locked up. His orgasm gripped him tight and left him shaking. Trembling like a leaf in Hannibal’s hold. He barely noticed Hannibal’s lips leave his own to press a hot trail down his throat. Hannibal rolled his hips again, pulling another over-sensitized shudder out of Will. The kisses turned to sweet nothings in another language, then another language still. And though Will didn’t know the words, he understood the message.

Hannibal was praising. Thanking. Worshipping. The older man pressed another chaste kiss to Will’s lips before leaning back and looking down. Will followed his gaze to the wet spot on his jeans. (A wetness which would no doubt transfer over to Hannibal’s slacks, should they not part soon.) Hannibal’s fascination bled over into Will, blotting out any embarrassment he might have felt. They both watched as Hannibal’s still hard cock closed the distance and ground upward, making the wet spot grow.

Will groaned.

Hannibal’s hips moved away again. The hand on Will’s ass slid down to squeeze the top of Will’s thigh before traveling around to the front of Will’s jeans. He pressed a thumb against the wet spot, putting pressure on the tip of Will’s spent cock. Will twitched.

“Perfect, Darling. Just perfect.”

His hand disappeared to make room for his cock. He pressed them flush against one another, the outline of Hannibal’s dick feeling larger than ever now that Will’s own hardness was fading.

Will met Hannibal’s eyes, still a little dazed. “I take it this means you like me, too?”

Hannibal laughed, surprised but joyful. He cupped Will’s face with both hands and kissed him hard. “Darling boy, I adore you. Every hair on your head. Every cell in your body. Every breath you take leaves me swooning. I was only waiting for you to say it first.”

Will leaned his head against the bookshelf, chest filled more with butterflies than organs. “Because you didn’t want to pressure me?”

“Because I didn’t want to pressure you.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “We’re ridiculous.”

Hannibal pressed their foreheads together. “You’re perfect.”

Will moved his hand from Hannibal’s hair to caress the side of his neck. He traced the strong line of Hannibal’s jugular, thankful for the blood that pulsed beneath. “So what does this make us? Are we dating? Or lovers? Or…”

“Boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends sounds a little juvenile.”

Hannibal released Will’s hair to twine his fingers instead with the hand Will had on his throat. He lifted Will’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Mylimasis, I would be honored to be your boyfriend.”

The butterflies in Will’s chest doubled. He grinned, almost ridiculously happy, then hid his face in the breast of Hannibal’s suit jacket. Just because he could. Will repeated, “Boyfriends.”

Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will’s waist, endlessly gentle. Like Will was something to be pampered and cherished. Like Will was important. His lips and nose caressed the top of Will’s scalp, almost devout.

“Boyfriends.”

(***Paragon***)

Will could admit he was nervous.

The night before – having his confession accepted and being kissed silly – was perfect. They’d moved from Hannibal’s office to Hannibal’s house, where Will got a change of clothes and a shower.

Hannibal had cooked while Will bathed. They ate together, curled up on the couch together, and read until bedtime. When the clock struck midnight, Hannibal led Will to the guest room, where he kissed Will chastely and bid him goodnight. The perfect gentleman.

At no point did they discuss how they were going to act in public or who they were going to tell. Will wasn’t technically Hannibal’s patient, but it was still kind of taboo. Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian would be happy for him. Alana would go ballistic. Jack would sit in his office and, so long as it didn’t get in the way of Will solving cases, pretend not to notice.

All in all, it was probably in their best interests to hide their relationship until they’d discussed it further.

Which was fine. Will didn’t care who knew they were dating or how other people felt about it. His personal life was personal. Hannibal, on the other hand…?

The man was more sophisticated than Will could ever hope to be and ran in much more uppity circles. He had an image to uphold. It would be reasonable for him to want a trial period before going public, just in case they failed.

So… How was Will supposed to act? He’d always been a shitty liar. Could he even hide something like this?

Will put his head in his hand just as Hannibal walked in with a warming tote. The others greeted him cheerily. Will held an internal debate over whether he should stand up and greet his boyfriend or lean back and pretend nothing had changed.

Hannibal, apparently, had no such qualms. He set the warming tote on Will’s desk, slipped a hand into Will’s hair, and kissed him.

Beverly screamed.

The kiss was chaste (especially considering their first kiss), with Hannibal pulling away barely a second later.

“Hello, Darling.”

“Hey.” Will smiled: anxiety dissipating as warmth and fondness bloomed. He leaned in for another kiss. “How was work?”

Beverly’s heels clacked against the floor as she rushed over shouting, “No! No, no, no.” She was next to them a second later, almost manic with excitement. Over her shoulder, Will saw Jimmy handing Brian a decently large wad of cash. “No work talk. Dating talk. When did this happen? How? Where? Who confessed? What did the other person say? Oh, my god, I have been living for this moment. You have no idea.”

Will glanced at Hannibal. Raised both brows. “Um… Last night. Not sure what you mean by ‘how.’ In his office. I confessed. He said yes. And you’re right. I have no idea.”

Beverly crossed her arms, openly unhappy. “You’re no fun. I want the romantic version.” She turned to Hannibal. “Lay it on me, Lecter. What really went down?”

“I’m afraid it’s exactly as he said.” Hannibal sighed, theatrically despondent. His voice took on an innocent lilt as he added, “I suppose he did leave out the part where the light hit his eyes at just the right angle. The painfully perfect curl of his hair around his ears and the way his cheeks tinted a lovely sunset pink. Aurora borealis eyes blowing wide as cupid’s bow lips parted to release a mellifluous ‘I like you.’” Hannibal shrugged: delicate and offhanded. “But then, I suppose he might not have noticed. He was a tad preoccupied.”

Will ducked his head, enough heat in his cheeks to burn. Beverly squealed, her feet moving in what was either a stand-in-place jog or a happy dance.

“Yes! That is exactly what I wanted to hear. The doctor is in the house!” Her feet swiveled to face Will, and she crouched so they could look at each other. Her grin was overtly suggestive as she asked, “Or is the doctor in the Will?”

He kicked her shin, still unable to raise his head. “I’m easy. I’m not that easy.”

Will glanced past her. Jimmy and Brian gave him a thumbs-up. Alana offered a weak smile but, surprisingly, had nothing to say.

Will turned back to Beverly as she said, “Bummer. Let me know when you get easier because we all want to hear how the doctor is in bed.”

Jimmy said, “No, we don’t,” at the same time that Brian pitched in, “Do we not already know? I thought he had a thing with Alana for a while.”

Beverly shot a glare over her shoulder. “Jimmy, kick him for me.”

Jimmy kicked Brian with the bottom of his shoe, making his chair spin. Brian glared at Jimmy. Jimmy shrugged.

“She asked me to.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

“And risk her kicking me instead? Have you seen her heels?”

“Coward.”

“Lowlife.”

“Bastard.”

“Bitch.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same for me.”

Alana cut in with a sharp, “It’s fine. We were involved for a bit, yes, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. It was a long time ago.” She shot an apologetic glance at Will. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want how you felt about me to get in the way of your work with Hannibal.”

His work with Hannibal.

Not the actual work they did together. The psychiatry.

Embarrassment made way for anger. (She gave away his dogs.) Will sat up. He reached out to twine his fingers with Hannibal’s and tugged the man closer. Hannibal’s knees butted up against Will’s chair, between Will’s legs. Eyes still on Alana, Will said, “Oh, don’t worry. It didn’t.”

He turned from her without waiting for a response. Hannibal caught his eyes, amused.

Beverly made another high-pitched, excited noise. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

She winked at Will. Will ignored her.

He squeezed Hannibal’s hand. “So… Lunch?”

“That sounds lovely, thank you.”

Will leaned back and, with the hand not holding Hannibal’s, reached for the warming tote. He unzipped it and pulled out the first container, which he offered to Hannibal. Hannibal bypassed the offer to reach for the Tupperware still in the tote. The one with the teal top.

Will tilted his head. “Is there a difference?”

“Mine has more lemongrass. A personal preference.”

Will hummed. He placed the tote back on the desk before finally releasing Hannibal’s hand so they could both eat. Hannibal perched on the edge of the desk, his legs arching over Will’s so that one of his pristine leather shoes balanced on the seat between Will’s thighs.

Lunch looked like orange chicken, only fancier. It was over rice. Will dug in, and though it was both a little sweeter and little more bitter than what he expected, he found he liked it that way. He hummed in appreciation, then held out his fork.

“Can I try yours?”

Hannibal lowered his Tupperware for Will to pilfer, looking both pleased and curious. Will took a sauce-coated piece of chicken and popped it in his mouth.

Though he didn’t taste the lemongrass (granted, he wasn’t super sure what lemongrass tasted like), he could tell the difference. Hannibal’s had a lighter, more fragrant taste. A slightly thicker sauce. It was also less… tangy?

Will leaned back and shook his head. “I’ll stick with mine, thanks.”

Hannibal didn’t respond right away. He watched Will take another bite, then another after that. Maroon eyes glued to Will’s lips, he asked, “You like the taste then?”

“Yeah. It was a good call.” Will stopped himself. Backtracked. “I mean, both dishes are great. You’re a fantastic cook. Just… personal preference, like you said. I like mine better.” Will took a larger than average bite of chicken and rice to prove his point.

Voice still oddly intent, Hannibal asked, “What do you think makes yours better?”

Will licked the stray sauce off his fork. “I don’t know. More of a kick, maybe?” He shrugged, a little helpless. “I’m not really useful in the food department past ‘it tastes good’ or ‘it doesn’t.’ And this is good. So just… Whatever it is you’re doing, keep it up.”

Hannibal smiled then, looking deeply, personally satisfied. “Thank you, Darling. I will.”

Hannibal adjusted his legs, which caused the front of his shoe to accidentally nudge Will’s cock. Will instinctively shifted back, but there was nowhere to move to, so he just ended up rubbing himself against Hannibal’s shoe. He lowered his Tupperware to his lap and hoped no one would notice.

Hannibal asked, “How are your Maestro and Proto-Ripper doing?”

Will’s blood ran cold. His heart dropped into his stomach, any arousal he felt dissipating in an instant.

“What did you say?”

“Your killers—”

“No. What did you call him? The killer from two nights ago.”

Hannibal tilted his head, curious. “The Proto-Ripper. It’s the nickname given to him by Miss Lounds—”

“Shit.” Will shoved himself up, sending the chair skidding backward and dropping Hannibal’s foot to the floor. “Shit fuck goddamn.” He tossed the Tupperware onto his desk and grabbed his coat, pushing his arms through the holes with all the grace of a rigor mortised corpse. “I have to find Jack.”

Hannibal stood as well, placing his Tupperware next to Will’s.

It was Alana who asked, “Will, what’s wrong?”

Will turned on her, aware that he was lashing out even as he said, “Are you fucking with me right now? They’re going to be pissed.” He roughly pulled his beanie over his ears, then swiveled back to Hannibal. “How long has the article been out?”

Hannibal, unbothered by Will’s volatile shift in attitude, answered, “Since noon yesterday.”

Will loosed another string of curses.

Alana used a soothing, purposefully non-confrontational tone to say, “Why is that bad, Will? Explain it to us.”

“Jesus Christ. There’s no time to—” Will cut himself off. Took a breath. It would take four minutes to successfully argue, but only two to explain. “Look, if the guy from two nights ago is a random executioner, then the Ripper is Death itself. That’s bad because our executioner has a big fucking head, and he thinks he’s good as or better than Death. He doesn’t want to be seen as a prototype when he thinks he’s a master. And Death doesn’t really like to be lowered to the standard of an executioner, either. Which means Lounds has successfully pissed off both an executioner on an ego trip and Death. The only surprising thing is that the bodies haven’t started dropping already.”

Will took two steps around the desk, toward the door, before pacing right back.

“Actually, no. If I know the Ripper – and I do know the Ripper – then he has dropped a body already. We just haven’t found it yet.” He walked to his chair. If they were going to do a search, he needed to put his winterwear on. He already had it on. Which meant must have figured out there were bodies before he’d known he figured it out. Will tangled his hand in his hair, trying to get his thoughts straight. “I’ll get Jack. Commandeer some uniformed officers. Check all the marshlands. Maybe swamps, if we get desperate. Don’t expect to go home tonight.”

He was halfway across the room when Hannibal redrew his attention with a simple, “Darling.”

Will turned, mind still caught on the Ripper and Matthew and the bodies they’d yet to find. Hannibal closed the distance between them and handed Will his half-empty Tupperware.

Will blinked down at it, having legitimately forgotten he’d been eating. “Right. Lunch. Thanks.” Will leaned up and kissed Hannibal, practically on autopilot. “Gotta go. Drive safe.” He shoved more food in his mouth and hurried out of the room.

This time, no one stopped him.

(***Paragon***)

They found the bodies in a marsh, like Will had predicted.

What he hadn’t predicted was the presentation. It was a mimicry of what Matthew had done, only elevated to art. Two men, back to back, with a finely woven noose of hair around their necks. Their arms were uplifted as though they were saints welcoming sinners into the fold. The moat of water around them was pristine, maybe even drinkable, which made a stark contrast to the rest of the muck of the marsh. Their chests were open and empty aside from their hearts, which had been moved to the middle and pierced through with a single, intricately carved arrow.

Will tilted his head and moved to look at it from a different angle.

From somewhere to his right, Jack asked, “What do you see?”

Will scowled. “Nothing. Give me some time.”

Jack matched his glare with full force. “You’ve been standing there for over an hour. You losing time again?”

Will blinked twice, confusion overtaking his ire. “I have?” Another blink. An unconcerned wave of the hand. “It’s fine. Time always passes differently in killer’s heads.”

“Yeah, but usually you take minutes, not hours.” Jack stepped closer, into Will’s space. “Look at me, Graham. Seriously. You okay?”

Will turned his head. Forced himself to meet Jack’s eyes. Nodded. “I’m good, Jack. This drop is just… weird. I can’t explain it.”

Any concern Jack felt for Will washed away, revealing the irritation hidden beneath. “Well, you’d better figure it out. We don’t bring you out here so you can stand around looking pretty.”

Will wanted to snipe that they wouldn’t be there at all if he hadn’t told them where to find the bodies, but he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t worth it.

A strong hand slid onto Will’s lower back, drawing Will’s attention to the left. Hannibal was there, and beside him, Beverly. It was her who asked, “I thought you said this was supposed to be angry?”

Will frowned. “It is angry. It’s just also… something else. I don’t know. It’s like the Ripper, but not.”

Beverly’s brows rose. “You think it’s a copy cat?”

“No. This is definitely the real Ripper. But like… Like the Ripper is pretending to be someone else? Take the presentation. It’s elevating what the other guy did, almost like he’s saying ‘Thanks for the inspiration.’ Like he saw the other scene and appreciated the hat-tip enough to tip his hat back.”

“But that’s… not true?”

“No. The Ripper was insulted by the comparison. Even in his earliest years, he was never that crude or sloppy. And you can see the insult, too, if you look closely enough. Every detail is elegant to the extreme. Not only a sharp contrast in styles, but a blatant disdain for their difference in class.”

“Okay, well, it sounds like you see it pretty clearly. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is why. There’s no point in pretending to compliment. No point in being nice. And even more than that, it’s…” Will raised a hand to rub his forehead. “The Ripper is a hunter. He stalks his prey. Outsmarts and overpowers them. He loves the hunt. The struggle. The kill. But this?” Will shook his head. “This is a lure.”

Hannibal’s hand on Will’s back shifted, rubbing a line up his back to caress the base of Will’s neck. Will leaned more toward Hannibal, a hair away from touching.

Beverly furrowed her brows. “Like a fisherman?”

“Exactly.”

“But why would he do that? What’s he trying to catch?”

Will shrugged. “Dunno. My gut says the other killer, but I don’t think that’s right. There’s no threat in this. Just false compliment and disdain. And if the Ripper wanted to kill the other guy, he’d have hidden it in here somewhere. Nothing better than telling your opponent they’re going to die and having them wander into your kill zone anyway.”

Beverly hummed, unconcerned. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“But will I figure it out before the other guy responds?”

Beverly crouched by the pool of water to get a closer look. “You’re really refusing to call him the Proto-Ripper, huh?”

“Because he’s not the Proto-Ripper. He’s the Other Guy.”

“Now who’s looking to insult murderers?”

“Better to insult an executioner than Death.” Will tilted his head up and to the side to look at Hannibal. “I think I’m going to head back to the office. Maybe writing it up will help get my thoughts straight. You going home?”

“I’m afraid I must. I have two new clients scheduled for tomorrow, and there’s much preparation to be done.”

“That’s okay.” Will shifted on his feet, unsure how much PDA was too much PDA. He wasn’t used to having a boyfriend, let alone a boyfriend in public. He swallowed, closed his eyes to gather his courage, then stepped away. As soon as Hannibal’s hand fell from Will’s back, Will reached out to twine their fingers together. (Physical touch.) He kept his eyes on the ground as he asked, “Can I walk you to your car?”

Hannibal squeezed his hand. “Please.”

Beverly groaned. “Ugh. You guys are literally too cute.”

Will ignored her to tug Hannibal toward their cars. Hannibal followed, his thumb brushing light lines over Will’s pointer finger. Once they were far enough from the crime scene (from prying ears), Will said, “Thank you for coming today. For lunch.” He watched their feet make tracks through the snow and used his pointer finger to rub the underside of his frozen nose. He mumbled, “I missed you.”

“And I, you. Were it possible to spend every moment of every day basking in your presence, I would.”

Will gently elbowed Hannibal in the ribs. “Liar.”

“I speak only the truth.”

“Not even I want to spend that much time around me.”

“You take yourself for granted, Dearest. I do not.”

“You…” Will stuffed his free hand in his pocket to stop himself from tugging on his beanie. His breath froze on the air. He sighed. “Yeah. Spending all my time around you wouldn’t be so bad, either.”

“Wouldn’t be so bad? Darling, I’m blushing.”

Will laughed. “Fine. It’d be great, okay? Fantastic, probably. But I’m not looking for you to get tired of me that quickly, so let’s not quit our day jobs.”

Hannibal stopped, their entwined hands forcing Will to stop with him.

“I could never grow tired of you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know, Will.” Hannibal reached up with gentle fingers, as though Will were made of glass, and swept Will’s bangs from his face. He then traced a line down Will’s jaw, pointer finger stopping beneath Will’s chin so his thumb could sweep across the unruly scruff of Will’s beard. He repeated, “I know.”

Hannibal leaned down to press a kiss to Will’s lips. Will tilted his head to allow Hannibal a better angle. Hannibal pulled back.

Will blinked once, honestly a little surprised (disappointed). Hannibal didn’t seem to notice. Hannibal’s hand left Will’s face to reach over Will’s shoulder. He tapped on something.

“Get in, please.”

Will followed the line of Hannibal’s arm to see they’d stopped in front of Will’s car. He scrunched his nose.

“I thought you said I could walk you to your car?”

“I lied.”

“I thought you spoke only the truth.”

Hannibal kissed Will again, this time on the cheek. “I lied about that, too.”

Will shook his head, but he was smiling. He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.

Hannibal stayed between the door and the car. He was darkened by the sleek black overcoat and backlit by the snowfall. Gorgeous. Strong. Serene, even in the face of death.

(Something in the back of Will’s mind flexed: a rusty gearwheel beginning to turn.)

Will tilted his head, unsure what it was he’d figured out or even what puzzle his subconscious had been working on. Hannibal leaned down to kiss Will again.

“Good night, Will.”

“Good night, Hannibal.”

Hannibal shut the door, though he continued to stand in the snow (some sort of dark, guardian angel) until Will drove away.

(***Paragon***)

A week after the latest Ripper murder, Will agreed to go shopping with Hannibal.

He’d agreed for two reasons. One: their schedules were crazy, and he missed his boyfriend. Two: Hannibal promised him that they’d only be shopping for food. While high-end groceries weren’t exactly Will’s idea of a good time, he could at least rest assured that he wouldn’t be going home with a new watch (or car or boat).

And overall, it was fine. Hannibal had Will try a few wines, all of which tasted the same. He asked Will to pick out some fruits and chocolates, then proceeded to return everything Will had chosen for a better selection of the exact same thing. Will made a show of rolling his eyes, but he didn’t actually mind.

It was nice: being with Hannibal in public outside a crime scene. It made the whole dating-thing feel more real. (And something had to, as aside from an endless parade of swift kisses on the lips or face, nothing else in their relationship had changed.)

They were at their fifth store. Hannibal had wandered off after striking up a conversation with someone in Italian, probably the owner. (Hannibal had asked Will to join them, but the last thing Will wanted to do was try a bunch of cheeses in front of people who actually knew about cheeses.) Will was idling at the front of the store, reading an article on his phone, when their dream life hit its first pothole.

Er… person.

“Will! I didn’t expect to see you here!”

Will glanced up from his phone to see none other than Franklyn Froideveaux. It only took a second after that to realize this must be the wine and cheese shop Franklyn had mentioned at the opera. Will withheld a curse.

“Franklyn. Hey.”

“I see you found the cheese shop. You dog, you.” He moved to jokingly punch Will’s arm. Will dodged. Franklyn, apparently oblivious to their lack of friendship, asked, “How have you been? Tobias told me you took him up on getting your piano tuned. Good move. He’s very talented.”

Will craned his neck to see if he could spot Hannibal over the displays of cheese and wine racks. He couldn’t.

“Yeah. He did a good job.” Will tapped his fingers against his thigh, not wanting to talk about Tobias but also not sure what else to say. He’d always been shit at small talk. “Are you here to get… cheese?”

“Wine, actually.” Franklyn smiled, seeming happy to be engaged in conversation at all. “What about you? Can you afford the wine here? They might kick you out if you can’t. Do you want me to buy you something? No charge. Anything to help a friend.”

Will shifted awkwardly. Any offense he might have taken was sidelined by the knowledge that Franklyn didn’t know it was offensive. Will was poor. Franklyn was not. Franklyn was trying to help.

Will sighed and brushed a hand through his hair. “I’m good, thanks. I’m actually here with a friend, but he’s taking way too long, so I’m just gonna…” Will slipped his phone back into his pocket, then thumbed toward the door.

Franklyn didn’t take the hint. If anything, he got chattier.

“You’re here with a friend? That’s nice. I brought Tobias here once, but he doesn’t care nearly as much for fine foods as I do. Maybe we could all get together for dinner some time. You, me, Tobias, and your friend.”

“I don’t really think that’s a good idea.”

Franklyn’s happy-go-lucky demeanor plummeted. As much as he didn’t seem to pick up on social cues (and that was saying something, coming from Will), he certainly recognized rejection. Franklyn’s voice slumped down half an octave to say, “Oh. Of course.”

Will’s heart twisted guiltily. He grimaced. “It’s just that I have a really unpredictable work schedule. Any plans I make tend to get cancelled.”

Franklyn immediately perked back up. “Oh? Well, that’s totally understandable. Maybe we should exchange numbers and—”

Franklyn stopped, wide eyes shooting to something behind Will. A second later, a possessive hand slid around Will’s waist, pulling him flush to Hannibal’s side.

Hannibal’s voice was neutral on the side of cold as he said, “Franklyn.”

“Dr. Lecter! I didn’t know you were here!” Franklyn’s eyes shot to Will (excited) then to the hand around Will’s waist (less excited). “Are you two…?”

Will fiddled with his sleeves and scratched uselessly at his wrist. He glanced at Hannibal the same way he had at the party, requesting the older man take the conversation away. Hannibal obliged.

“Will is my boyfriend. He kindly agreed to help me gather ingredients for dinner.” Hannibal held up a brown paper bag with the hand not wrapped around Will. “This is the last of it.”

“Oh.” Franklyn’s lips bunched up, confused and hurt. “I thought he was your patient.”

“He is not.”

“Oh.” Franklyn turned his eyes to the ground, posture sagging like a dejected child. He twiddled his thumbs and, with an honest-to-god sniffle, mumbled, “That’s good then. I’m happy for you.”

The guilt dug deeper, rebuking Will for not clearing up the misconception sooner. Rather than taking responsibility for it, like any reasonable adult would, Will pressed his lips to Hannibal’s chest and asked, “Can we get out of here?”

“Of course, Darling.” Hannibal’s hand tightened on Will’s waist, encouraging his deference (his faith that Hannibal would take care of everything and the corresponding knowledge that all Will had to do was ask). Hannibal smiled at Franklyn: a flat, meaningless thing. “Good day, Franklyn.”

Franklyn waved, dejected. “Good day, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal guided Will out of the building and across the parking lot. Though they were well out of Franklyn’s line of sight, his arm remained tight around Will’s waist. It was only after they reached Hannibal’s Bentley that Hannibal leaned down, nose cold against the arch of Will’s ear as he murmured, “You should be careful, Darling. You’re more delectable than you think.”

He pressed a soft, warning kiss to the top of Will’s ear. Will sucked in a breath and tried to pretend it didn’t go straight to his dick.

Jesus Christ, Will needed to get a hold of himself. Hannibal was being nice. He was a gentleman, and he didn’t mean it like that. The proof of which being the way Hannibal proceeded to open Will’s door, entirely unbothered, and made no further moves to touch Will.

(He hadn’t made any real moves on Will since their first kiss. Will didn’t know why.)

Will got into the car, buckled his seatbelt, and leaned forward to press his head against the dash. There was no way Hannibal didn’t know he leaked sexual energy everywhere he went, right? He was forty-something. He had strings of lovers and high-class admirers. He had to know.

Except he joined Will in the car without a hint of salacious intent, held Will’s hand as he drove them home, and never once hinted at needing anything more. Was it because Will was a virgin? Or because Will had turned him off somehow? Maybe Hannibal just wanted to take it slow.

Will relaxed against the dash, sexual tension weighed down by the knowledge that he was being selfish. If Hannibal wanted to wait, they could wait. Will could wait.

Will could wait.

He glanced over at Hannibal, who was impossibly handsome even when all he did was drive a car. Will had already cashed in every lucky ticket of his life to get such a kind, doting boyfriend. He wasn’t about to screw it up now. Especially not by being that asshole who pressured his partner into having sex before they were ready.

He would wait.

Chapter Text

It was official. Will was an ass.

Why was Will an ass? Because Hannibal was a gentleman.

Will repeatedly tapped his forehead against the table, ignoring the sandwich Beverly had bought him. She reached across the booth and poked his arm with her fork.

“As much fun as it is to watch you do… whatever it is you’re doing, I assume you invited me out for a reason?”

Will lifted his head and glanced around the café. There was no one in hearing range. He lowered his voice anyway. “Promise me you won’t tell Jimmy or Brian.”

“Cross my heart.” She drew a little ‘x’ over her heart. Will frowned, unconvinced. She said, “Look, just because I don’t keep secrets of my own doesn’t mean I can’t keep them at all. Whatever you have to say, it doesn’t leave this booth. Okay?”

She sounded honest. She looked honest. He still hesitated. He chewed on his bottom lip until he could peel a little flake of skin off, then quietly admitted, “Hannibal won’t touch me.”

Her brows scrunched. “He touches you all the time.”

“No, I mean…” He lowered his voice even further, the heat of his blush reaching all the way to his ears. “I mean sexually.”

Her salad fork froze midway to her mouth. Eyebrows in her hairline, she said, “Oh shit.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He tugged a knot out of his unbrushed hair, then scratched his scalp. Back and forth. Back and forth. “I don’t know what to do about it. The last thing I want is to pressure him into anything. But also I… You know.”

“Want that dick?”

Will scrunched his nose. He thought about berating her, but the point was moot. “Yes.”

Beverly, apparently over her shock, kept eating. “Well, have you talked to him about this?”

“No. What am I supposed to say? ‘I know your touches are innocent, but my mind lives in a gutter, so please take off your clothes?’”

She shrugged. “It’s as good a start as any.”

“No, it’s not. Hannibal is all eloquence and sophistication. He’s probably used to red roses and champagne from Norway as seduction tactics.”

“Is champagne from Norway good?”

Will waved a hand, dismissive. “I don’t know. It was just an example.”

“Huh. Well, either way I don’t think you have anything to worry about. That man is head-over-heels for you. You say jump, he’ll be in the air with lube and a condom.”

Will groaned unhappily. “That’s the problem. I don’t want him to sleep with me just because I want him to sleep with me. I want him to want to sleep with me.”

“I feel you, girlfriend.”

“Don’t call me girlfriend.”

“If you don’t want to be called girlfriend, then stop acting like one.” Beverly pointed a forkful of salad at Will, her no-bullshit methodology in full effect. “You’re grown men, Will. You want sex? Talk to your boyfriend about it. Trust that he, just like you, is a grown-ass adult who can make his own decisions. And if he’s got reservations about tapping that sweet ass of yours, at least you’ll know. Sitting here talking to me isn’t helping anyone.”

Will blinked. Opened his mouth to argue. Closed it again.

“I… hadn’t thought of that.”

Beverly snorted. “I kind of figured. For a genius, you can be pretty damn oblivious sometimes.”

Will huffed. The anxious butterflies in his stomach settled enough for him to pick up his sandwich and take a bite. As soon as he swallowed, he defended, “It’s the social cues. They don’t match up with people’s thoughts and feelings, and it’s confusing.”

“Excuses, excuses. Social cues confuse everyone. It doesn’t make you special. It makes you human.”

Will smiled around his sandwich, warmed by the idea of being normal for once. “What about you? Your sex life must be crazy with three separate partners.”

“Crazier than yours, yeah, but not crazy-crazy. Alice has read a little too much Fifty Shades of Grey and needs to tone it down with the hot wax. Fiona is gorgeous and brilliant – we talk all night without ever getting bored – but she’s so vanilla. I mentioned a kinky roleplay once, and she acted like I wanted to burn her house down. Derek is insatiable, but he pays more attention to his needs than mine. Luckily, his dick is…” She held her hands a ruler’s length apart.

Will raised a brow. “Wouldn’t that be painful?”

“You’re going to find out.” She leaned back in the booth, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Have you seen Lecter? Six-one, broad shoulders, legs like tree trunks. I’ll bet he’s hung like a horse.”

Heat rushed to Will’s cheeks as he remembered the sizeable length of Hannibal’s cock pressed against his thigh.

Beverly held up a hand. “Wait-wait-wait. You already know, don’t you?”

“I… I haven’t seen it.”

“But you’ve felt it? I thought you said he wouldn’t touch you!”

“He touched me once. We kissed. That was it.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How big is he?”

Will blinked. Pursed his lips. Shook his head. “No. Nope. No way. We are not talking about this.”

“Oh, c’mon. Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

She propped her elbow on the table with an over-exaggerated sigh. “Killjoy.”

“Thank you.” He took an overly large bite of his sandwich and spoke with his mouth full. “So, you going to keep these ones around for a bit?”

“Fiona for sure. The others?” She tilted her hand back and forth. “Debatable.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I could handle it if Hannibal were sleeping with people on the side.”

“Polyamory’s not for everyone.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “If it helps, I don’t think Lecter would do well sharing you, either. That man’s possessive.” She paused. Waved her fork in a circle. “You know, in a good way. He’s not up-in-your face controlling or anything. But when you two are in a room together, there’s no doubt you’re his.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Nah. Jimmy and Brian have been timing it. In the last two weeks, the longest he’s gone between entering the room and touching you is thirty-two seconds.”

Will stopped chewing. He covered his mouth with his hand and asked, “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She laid her fork down and capped the remainder of her salad. “Don’t worry. We think it’s cute.”

“It’s not about cute or not-cute. Why would you guys even time that?”

“Boredom.”

Will rolled his eyes and finished off his sandwich. When he stood to bus their trays, Beverly stood with him.

It was as he dumped their trash in the receptacle that he said, “Thank you for coming out with me today. For listening. It really did help.”

She smiled. (Not one of her usual, boisterous smiles, but something smaller. More genuine.) “Anytime. And hey, if you really want to thank me, you can go talk to your beau, get on that dick, and snap a picture when you’re done.”

He snorted. “Absolutely not.”

She held her hands out beside her shoulders, palms to the ceiling. “Gratitude comes in all shapes and sizes, Will. Just think about it.”

“No.”

She stuck her tongue out at him while pushing the door open with her shoulder. He laughed.

They ventured into the snow together.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal welcomed Will into his home for dinner.

Will mumbled his greeting, eyes remaining firmly on Hannibal’s shoes while slim fingers traced restless patterns on his jeans.

Anxiety rolled off the boy in waves, souring his scent. Like the herbs in his natural blend were decaying. Hannibal took Will’s coat and hat, then pressed his nose to Will’s hair and breathed deeper.

Hannibal had been teasing – preying on Will’s innocence – for weeks now. It smelled like his efforts were finally ready to bear fruit.

They only made it to the kitchen, halfway to the island, before Will stopped. His chin was tucked to his chest. His cheeks were strawberry red. He sucked the perfect, petal-pink curve of his bottom lip between enviable teeth, then he broke.

“Why haven’t you touched me? Since our first kiss, I mean. Did I do something to turn you off? Is it because I…” His blush darkened. His voice lowered and cracked. “Because I came so fast? I thought that didn’t bother you, but if it did—”

Hannibal took Will’s face in his hands, tilting his boy’s head up so he could see the sumptuous fear in those lovely blue eyes.

“Seductive thing. I could never be unattracted to you. I’ve brought myself to completion countless times, all while thinking of your lips. Your body.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, confused but relieved. “Then why?”

“Because you’re both an empath and a virgin with negative experiences. I wish to move at your pace.”

Will balked, like the idea of leaving it in his hands repulsed him. His voice echoed that sentiment as he said, “I don’t even know what my pace is.”

“Which is why we will take it slow. Find out.”

Will shook his head as best he could while still being held by Hannibal. “No way. You leave this in my hands, and it’ll end up just like high school. Me freaking out, unable to give you want you want. You walking away. I can’t—”

“Breathe, Darling. I would never leave you.”

“It’s not about you leaving me. It’s more than that. Or maybe less than that.” The sour tinge of his anxiety thickened in the air. Lovely. “I don’t know what my pace is or what’s best for me. What I do know is that when you pulled me back into that kiss – when you took control and showed me exactly what you wanted – I felt fucking amazing. I didn’t have to wonder if I was messing up or if you weren’t interested because you were right there. Taking charge. Showing me the way.” Will licked his lips, sudden burst of confidence faltering. “I want that again, Hannibal. Please.”

Hannibal allowed himself a soft, yearning groan. He pulled Will into a tight hug, breathed in as much of that sickly-sour anxiety as his lungs could hold, and said, “Magnificent boy. You have no idea what your words do to me.”

He pulled back again to look Will in the eyes. To brush is thumb over Will’s cheekbone in the basest show of reverence. Will leaned into his touch, adoring.

The anxiety faded off even before Hannibal said, “I might be rough with you.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m very possessive. I’ll leave marks.”

Will nodded, eyes blown wide. “Please.”

“If you don’t like something, I’ll expect you to say so. A safe word, and a motion for times when you can’t speak.”

Will blushed, prurient. It reached the tips of his ears. After a moment, he nodded.

Hannibal smiled. “Not later, Darling. Now. Give me a word that means ‘stop’ in its most absolute form. Because once we begin, ‘no’ and ‘stop’ will mean nothing.”

Will swallowed, his Adam’s apple a bobbing temptation. His tongue swiped across chapped, well-bitten lips before he said, “Louisiana.”

“And a silent motion?”

Will shifted on his feet, visibly lost. “I don’t know. What’s good?”

“Two long, full-hand taps.” Hannibal moved his hand to Will’s shoulder and tapped twice, waiting long enough between each tap that the motion couldn’t be taken as accidental. “Is that agreeable?”

“Yeah. It’s good.” Will shuffled forward. “And if I can’t use my hands?”

Hannibal’s smile widened. Clever boy. “If you still have your voice, moan twice. Same cadence. If not, tuck your head down, mouth against your shoulder. Though keep in mind, I’ll only count that as a sign to stop if all of the above requirements are met.”

“And if my mouth is… otherwise occupied?”

Hannibal kissed Will, just a taste, then murmured against his lips, “Bite me, Darling. I can take it.”

Will moaned into Hannibal’s lips, reinitiating contact. Hannibal licked across his mouth, then delved in to swipe his tongue across those gorgeous teeth. He pulled back barely a minute later and cupped both sides of Will’s face. Pressed their foreheads together. Exalted.

“My dear. I am going to devour you.”

Will fisted his hand into Hannibal’s shirt and yanked. He opened his mouth wider, devouring Hannibal right back. Hannibal fought the urge to take his boy right there in the kitchen, instead stealing another kiss (nine, ten, eleven more kisses) before peeling himself away.

Will whined. Perfect thing.

Hannibal kissed him again. “Allow me to make you dinner? To wine and dine you properly before I take you to bed.”

The slight downturn of Will’s kiss-reddened lips told Hannibal that he most certainly did not want to be wined and dined first, but the sweet thing still nodded. Hannibal led his lovely boy to the counter, then moved to put on his apron.

He made ris de veau with ratatouille and a vanilla sweet crème soufflé. Will’s eyes bore into his back, keeping track of his every move as well as any trained attack dog. The darling thing was a perfect predator, just waiting for the right master to come along and collar him. To teach him to bare his teeth.

Hannibal refused to let Will help set the table. He served Will with care, even going so far as to fold the napkin over his boy’s lap. The final touch to their meal was a flute of Dom Perignon Rose Gold champagne. (Will wouldn’t appreciate it, but it was a special night, and Hannibal wanted to treat it that way.) The food contained no part of Hannibal, but in a way, that was part of the charm.

It enhanced the knowledge that tonight, Will would be getting his dose of cum fresh.

They ate and drank with no conversation. When they finished, Hannibal washed the dishes while Will retired to the study. They read together on the couch, Will lying on his back with his head in Hannibal’s lap. His boy didn’t demand they go faster. Didn’t question when Hannibal would take him to bed. Simply relaxed and followed Hannibal’s lead.

Hannibal threaded his fingers into Will’s hair: playing, scratching, petting. Will leaned into the things he liked, baring his throat in an utmost show of trust. Hannibal imagined the exact same scene, but with a velvet blue collar proclaiming his ownership.

Some day.

When Hannibal stood, he offered both hands to Will. Will accepted. Hannibal kissed the backs of his hands, then used the right one to lead Will upstairs. They passed the guest bedroom, which Will would never need to use again, and entered the master suite. He let go of Will by the bed and stepped back, eyes hungry.

“Strip for me, Darling.”

Aurora borealis eyes widened. Will’s fingers twitched, tapped twice against his thigh, then moved to the buttons on his shirt. Though his chin tilted toward the ground, his eyes remained on Hannibal. Watching for reactions (waiting for instructions).

He shrugged off his shirt with a confidence that didn’t belong to him, and it was with fascination that Hannibal realized he was watching himself. His confidence, his poise, his sensuality. All on Will.

Absolutely lovely.

Will’s hands went to his jeans, fingers nimble. He undid the button and unzipped his jeans, revealing the sky blue boxers Hannibal had bought him. (Sky blue because it went well with his eyes. Sky blue because he’d dressed with the hopes of Hannibal seeing him like this. Provocative thing.) Will shucked his jeans. His socks. Hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.

He paused to make eye contact with Hannibal, then dropped those, too.

Will was already fully hard, his precious cock bouncing to stand perpendicular to his body. Hannibal had felt it before, both in testing Will for STDs and grinding against him as they kissed, but seeing it was still a treat. His cock was perfectly proportioned, if an inch or so below average. The small size was likely due to childhood malnutrition leading to a delayed puberty, but it could also be genetic.

Hannibal stared, enjoying the way the delicate red coloration darkened under his attentions. After a full minute with no movement or verbal comfort, Will’s nervous ticks returned.

He had pulled on Hannibal’s personality for the strip show, but that was it. Will was still Will: nervous and in need of reassurance. Of praise.

Hannibal closed the space between them, hand bypassing Will’s cock to instead run a nail over Will’s nipple. It didn’t perk up for him, not yet, but it would learn.

Hannibal leaned in. Pressed a gentle kiss to Will’s jaw. Whispered, “Beautiful.”

Will’s abs flexed while his cock twitched.

Hannibal pulled away to undo his own shirt. He kept a pace even more leisurely than Will, relishing the way Will’s body teemed with impatience. His boy wanted to touch, to taste, but not nearly as much as he wanted to obey.

(To give Hannibal everything he wanted. To be considered good. To be praised.)

Once the last article of Hannibal’s clothing lay crumpled on the ground, he stepped forward to press their groins together. They were both dry, adding friction to the pleasure of contact. Will moaned, his cock giving an eager jerk. Hannibal looked down so he could see them side by side.

He didn’t double Will, but it was a near thing. Two inches. Perhaps less.

Hannibal wrapped his fist around the both of them, and Will bucked upward. Hannibal’s name slipped past his lips, hidden inside a groan. Visceral pleasure dug its teeth into Hannibal, its power born from the knowledge that no one else would ever hear that sweet sound.

Will had never been with anyone else. Would never be with anyone else. He was one-hundred-percent for now and forever more Hannibal’s.

Hannibal curled his free hand in Will’s hair and brought him in for a kiss. Deep. Passionate. He’d held back from tasting his boy for weeks, and delving into that devilish mouth once more was nothing short of heroin. The most endearing high in existence molding to Hannibal’s every whim with needy, hitching moans. Hannibal tightened his grip on their cocks and stroked them both twice more. Then he pulled back.

“On the bed please.”

Will practically tripped over himself in his rush to comply. No grace at all. Only desire. Hannibal’s own need spiked in response, and he spread his legs wider to accommodate the swell.

Will laid on his back, eyes on Hannibal for guidance. Hannibal smiled.

“Gorgeous, Darling. Just like that. Only…” Hannibal grasped Will’s upper thighs and tugged, dragging his pert ass to the very edge of the bed. Will swore in surprise. The red coloration of his dick darkened.

Will stared at their cocks, so close together. No doubt noting their difference in size. He glanced up at Hannibal. He laid his head on the bed.

“I don’t think that was supposed to be as hot as it was.”

“There is pleasure to be found in giving up control, and pleasure to be found in knowing that the person you have given control to is powerful enough to protect you.” Hannibal lowered himself to his knees in one smooth motion, right between Will’s legs. He kissed Will’s inner thigh. “Now, we’re going to do an experiment, Darling. I want you to tell me when you’re close. Can you do that?”

Will propped himself up on his elbows to look at Hannibal. His eyes were the darkest blue Hannibal had seen yet: more night sky than aurora borealis. All lust. He breathed out, shaky. “Yeah. I’ll tell you.”

“And your safe word?”

“Louisiana.”

“Good boy.” Hannibal ducked his head, deepthroating Will in a single go. Will cried out, thighs tightening around Hannibal while his hips bucked instinctively upward. Will’s hands gripped the duvet, and Hannibal reached out to lead one of them to his hair.

Will’s grip was tight, uncaring (or unknowing) of the pain he caused. Hannibal grinned around Will’s cock and set a semi-punishing pace. Nothing like what he would make Will do for him, but more than enough for a virgin.

Sure enough, it took less than a minute under Hannibal’s tongue – inside Hannibal’s throat – for Will to choke out a panicked, “Close! I’m close.”

Hannibal detached himself immediately, lips slick with spit and precum. He rubbed gentle circles on Will’s thighs with his thumbs. “Good. That was perfect. Sweet thing, you’re so good for me. My darling, virgin boy.” He pressed a soft kiss to Will’s left thigh, then nipped where he’d kissed. Will showed no adverse reaction to teeth, so he nipped again. Harder.

Will, in turn, spread his legs a little wider, giving Hannibal more room. He breathlessly asked, “Is that the experiment?”

“The start of it. Have you calmed enough to go again?”

Will lifted his head. Eyes narrowed. Lips parted. Incredulous. After half a minute with no explanation (and indeed, Will should never need any explanation past ‘Hannibal wants’), Will nodded.

“Yeah. Okay, yeah.”

Hannibal took Will into his mouth again, slower this time. Testing reactions. Will liked it when Hannibal swallowed. Adored it when Hannibal took him all the way to the base. He preferred fast over slow, and trembling thighs jerked wantonly at the first sign of teeth.

Hannibal’s own length was rock hard with the need to go further – to be inside Will, taking his pleasure from that perfect body until his seed spilled down Will’s throat, where it belonged – but he ignored it in favor of licking Will from base to tip.

This was a tease for the both of them. And if Hannibal happened to cum harder and thicker into Will because of it?

All the better.

Will’s hand tightened in Hannibal’s hair, almost reluctant, and even knowing what Hannibal would do, the perfect thing said, “Close.”

Hannibal pulled away. Rubbed two encouraging lines up and down Will’s thighs. Purred, “That’s it, Darling. I knew you would tell me again. Knew you’d be my perfect, obedient boy.” He leaned over to the same spot he’d kissed and nipped before, only this time he spread his teeth enough for a genuine bite. The pressure was even and consistent: enough to bruise but not to break skin.

Will’s hips bucked again, cock bouncing. His thighs pressed closer to Hannibal rather than farther away. Will groaned, “Oh, Hannibal.”

Pleasure shot from Hannibal’s groin up through his spine. He stretched his jaw as he released Will’s flesh, entirely too tempted by the fact that Will liked to be bitten. Hannibal kissed the forming bruise, then took Will back into his mouth.

Will’s balls were tight. His pubic hairs long and wiry. Hannibal would love to trim them down and condition what was left until they were soft against his face. With each rendition of their experiment, Will took less time to reach his peak. ‘Close’ transitioned to ‘stop’ before devolving into a needy, begging whine and simple tug on Hannibal’s hair.

Hannibal brought Will to the edge three more times after his boy’s ability to vocalize disappeared, then added one last bruise to the already impressive collection along Will’s inner thighs.

When Hannibal stood from his place on his knees, he saw exactly what he wanted to see. Beautiful, hazy blue eyes and a lax body reacting more on instinct than thought. Hannibal had noted from previous encounters that Will was practically predisposed to fall into subspace. This proved it.

Repetitive stimuli. Pain. Pleasure. Orders. Safety. The perfect submissive.

Hannibal grasped the flesh just below Will’s ass and hoisted him higher on the bed. Once the underside of Will’s knees bumped the edge of the mattress, Hannibal laid on the bed next to him. He used one arm to prop himself up, the other gently circling one of Will’s nipples.

“Darling, can you hear me?”

Will hummed affirmatively. His nipple started to peak, so Hannibal pinched and twisted. Will gasped, arching into it. Hannibal met his open mouth with a searching tongue, and though the urge to rut against Will’s side existed, he did not give into it.

Hannibal would cum inside of Will’s body or not at all.

Will’s hand reached up, seeking, and buried itself in Hannibal’s hair for a now-familiar tug. Hannibal ended the kiss, utterly enamored. To think that his boy was so obedient and eager to please, even when not expressly told to do so, sent Hannibal’s heart soaring. 

“You’re doing so well, my love. Spectacular. Every move you make is perfection. I adore you.”

Will moaned again, wanton. He said, “Need.”

Hannibal kissed the nipple he hadn’t yet teased, running his teeth lightly over the nub before biting down. Will arched again, helplessly turned on. Hannibal kissed over his bite, mouth still around the swollen thing as he said, “No, Darling. You don’t need. Not yet.” With a final lick, Hannibal sat up. He threw his leg over Will’s upper torso so that his legs boxed in Will’s biceps. “But you will.”

He placed one hand on the wall for balance and used the other to guide his aching cock to Will’s mouth. He smeared precum across Will’s pretty lips, and Will’s tongue immediately darted out to lap it up. Hannibal thrust forward the tiniest amount, butting the head of his cock against Will’s lips and teeth.

Will licked his lips again. Licked the tip.

“Open, Mylimasis.”

Will’s lips stretched wide. No hesitation. Hannibal pressed in. In and in and in, gently coaxing Will through relaxing his throat until Hannibal’s pelvis crushed those perfect lips against blunt teeth.

And oh. Will’s mouth. His throat. They were velvet heaven. Hannibal wanted to stay there forever. To keep Will beneath his desk as he worked and never leave the soft, clenching heat of Will’s body. Will’s tongue pressed against the base as he struggled not to choke on Hannibal’s cock. And if that didn’t make Hannibal want to thrust in all the more—

“Sweet, hungry thing. Are you ready?”

Will hummed around him, sending vibrations up and around Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal brushed a stray curl out of dark, intelligent eyes. Everything in him screamed to thrust, but he held back. One more moment. One final confirmation.

“I won’t be gentle.”

Wills hands curled around Hannibal’s thighs, just above the knees. Rather than squeezing, he pressed, forcing Hannibal that extra quarter inch deeper into his throat. Hannibal gasped at the unexpected feel.

And he complied.

He pulled all the way out, then thrust right back in. Will choked and spasmed around him, eyes already wet with reactionary tears. It only made the pleasure greater. Hannibal set a brutal pace, jackrabbiting into Will’s open mouth with full intent for Will to leave with a sore throat in the morning.

Will moaned around him, more pleasure than pain. Glistening eyes never once closed or attempted to look away from Hannibal, and Hannibal admired the way his darling boy’s lips stretched obscenely wide around his cock. Barely able to hold him.

Will’s teeth slammed against Hannibal’s pelvis more than once, a delightful jolt of pain. Hannibal curled both fists into Will’s hair to force Will to meet his thrusts halfway. The extra curve of Will’s throat added pressure in an already too-tight cavern, sending sparks of pleasure up Hannibal’s spine. His cock pulsed and swelled as orgasm approached.

Will’s hands squeezed Hannibal’s thighs in a quick, repetitive motion: far from the two long taps he would need to get Hannibal to stop.

Hannibal thrust harder. Faster. He didn’t pull out nearly as far, not wanting to waste a single drop. And when his orgasm finally hit, it was with is cock stuffed so far down Will’s throat that his cum might fall directly into the boy’s stomach.

He didn’t want that.

Hannibal pulled far enough out that only his cockhead remained locked behind Will’s teeth and spilled the rest onto Will’s tongue. He wanted his boy to taste it. Wanted Will to savor him. When the last drop fell, Hannibal freed himself from the pleasure trap of Will’s lips with a soft ‘pop’. He looked at his cum soaking Will’s tongue. Placed his thumb between Will’s teeth so Will couldn’t end the moment too quickly.

After a full minute of staring, he removed his thumb and said, “Swallow.”

Will did. He closed his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing. When he opened again, his mouth was empty. Hannibal groaned and put his dick back inside. (For the feel of it. To be cleaned. Just because he could.) He pressed his pelvis flat against Will’s mouth and rolled his hips. Oversensitivity didn’t stop him from thrusting thrice more before pulling out again. One long, slow drag so that only the head remained inside. One swift plunge so Will kissed his pelvic bone. And finally, horribly, he left for good.

(For now.)

Hannibal positioned his cockhead over Will’s open mouth and ran two fingers down the length of his penis: base to tip. The remaining semen in his urethra dripped onto Will’s waiting tongue, where the boy swallowed it down like milk and honey.

“Oh, Mylimasis. If you’re a succubus sent to take my soul, you may have it. Perfect, enthralling thing.” Hannibal swung his leg back over Will in preparation to kiss his boy into oblivion, and only then did he notice the translucent fluid puddling on Will’s stomach.

His heart ached in time with his cock as he realized Will hadn’t squeezed Hannibal’s thighs out of discomfort or a need for air, but in pleasure. He’d been telling Hannibal he was close.

Hannibal dove down to kiss Will’s adorable cock, then lapped up the spilt seed, praising Will all the while. (Though Hannibal hadn’t intended to let Will cum tonight, it was hardly the boy’s fault if he did everything Hannibal asked of him and Hannibal didn’t listen. This would be a treat.) When Will’s stomach was clean, Hannibal dipped his head to suck the last of it from Will’s cock.

Will shuddered, long past over-sensitized. Hannibal kissed his way back up Will’s body, pausing to lavish reddened nipples with too much attention, and ended the sexual side of their encounter with a long, deep kiss. He tasted himself on Will, just as he was sure Will tasted his own seed on Hannibal.

Will’s arms rose to encircle Hannibal’s shoulders, adoring, and Hannibal held Will even closer. There was no greater pleasure in life than knowing this boy belonged to him. No greater knowledge than that of Will’s ultimate place by Hannibal side. At Hannibal’s feet.

And vice versa.

And though they wouldn’t proceed to deflowering Will tonight, they were in the home stretch. Another week, give or take. Two, if Will was feeling particularly stubborn.

They only had to wait, after all, until Will needed it.

(***Paragon***)

Will woke up naked in Hannibal’s bed with a sore throat and aching thighs. Aching everything, actually. And he only had to glance down to see why.

His dick was still pink from getting sucked for what had to have been over an hour. His inner thighs were littered with bruises and markedly clear teeth marks. His nipples were bright red, though they itched more than ached. And finally, his jaw and lips were obviously sore from the thorough face-fucking he’d received.

He touched his lips, still a little in awe that something like that had actually happened to him (not to mention the fact that he’d gotten off from the rough treatment). He glanced around the room, but Hannibal was nowhere to be seen. Kitchen, probably.

The room was clean, their clothes spirited off to only god knew where. Will tugged on a pair of Hannibal’s sweats from the pajama drawer and made his way downstairs.

Hannibal was, as expected, in the kitchen. He stirred something on the stove, back to Will.

Will padded up behind him and slipped his arms around Hannibal’s waist. The man was toned, especially for his age, and Will wondered when he found the time to work out. He pressed a kiss to the side of Hannibal’s neck, above the collar of his pale green shirt, and said, “Morning.”

“Good morning, Darling.” Hannibal turned his head to catch Will in a kiss. “Did you sleep well?”

Will hummed. His throat itched in addition to aching as he said, “Best I’ve slept in a long time. You?”

“The same. And waking up with you beside me was every bit the dream I thought it would be.”

Will hid his smile in Hannibal’s shirt. “Geeze. Enough with the sweet talk. You’re going to give me cavities.”

“A price we must pay, Dearest. I’ve only just begun singing my praises.”

“What’s there to praise? I just laid there while you did all the work.” He kissed Hannibal’s shoulder, preemptively appeasing. “Fantastic work, by the way. I don’t know what you did, but like halfway through I felt like I was… drunk? Kind of. More hazy, I guess. Or floaty. It was weird.”

“But good?”

“Yeah. Definitely good.”

Will turned his head to the side and coughed. Hannibal immediately slipped out of Will’s grasp to grab a thermos, which he placed in Will’s waiting hands.

“Chamomile tea with honey. May I look?”

Will unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The need to cough momentarily soothed, he asked, “My throat?”

“Yes.”

Will blinked slowly, not quite awake enough to process the request. He shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Look all you want.”

Hannibal, as prepared for this as he was for everything else, pulled a small flashlight from a nearby drawer. He clicked it on. “Open, please.”

Will did. He kept his tongue flat to give Hannibal a better view. Hannibal shined the flashlight into his mouth, and whatever he saw, it must have pleased him. He lowered the flashlight, the veritable cat who got the cream.

“Your throat is sore, but nothing lasting. Two days of tea and cough drops, and you’ll be fine.”

Will smiled, lopsided and tired. He leaned against the counter. “You already knew that though.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You never would have hurt me. Not even accidentally. Which means you just wanted to see the damage.” He sipped his tea, thankful for the heat numbing his throat. “How’s it look?”

Hannibal watched him for a moment, gauging Will’s reaction. He returned to the stove to adjust the food. After a few seconds of stirring, he murmured, “Stunning.”

Will smiled.

“What is it that you like about it? You attributed marking me to being possessive, but no one’s going to see what you do to the back of my throat. Is it the positioning? The intimacy?” Will coughed into the crook of his elbow. He drank more tea. “Maybe just the fact that I let you do it at all. That I’ll be coughing and swallowing for the next two days, and that every time I do, I’ll remember your dick down my throat.” Will paused. Licked his lips. “Yeah. That one.”

Hannibal plated their food: a protein scramble similar to their first meal together. He said, “It’s all of the above, Darling. I’m going to make a point to leave my mark on you everywhere I can. The more intimate the placement, the better. And the more it reminds you of what we’ve done – of who we are to each other – the better still.” He took the plates over to the table within the kitchen (not the formal dining room) and pulled out Will’s chair. “That said, my desire to make sure you weren’t harmed to any extreme was genuine. Any time I’m rough with you, I’ll insist on checking you over afterward. Peace of mind.”

Will nodded, understanding. He took his seat and started to eat. “I was really okay then? Just lying there and taking it. You don’t wish I’d done more?”

“Sweet succubus, if I could spend every day and every night lodged in your throat, I would.”

Will’s dick twitched at the thought. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, then drank more tea. “I um, I liked it, too. The roughness. The power imbalance, I guess. I liked being able to just listen to what you said and not worry about the details.” He pushed a slice of sausage around on his plate. “Not that you have to take control all the time. Just that if you want to uh… to keep being rough with me, I’m okay with it. Encouraging it, actually.”

Will glanced up through his lashes to see Hannibal watching him. Maroon eyes were dark and dangerous. A ravenous beast stalking weak, plump prey.

“Lovely thing. Perhaps you’re trying to entice me back to bed?”

“We both have work.” Will took another, slower bite. “But it is tempting.”

“Come back to me tonight. Allow me to lavish you with attention and pleasure until you’re once again drunk with it.”

“Do I get to touch you this time, too?”

Hannibal smiled. “No, sweet boy. You’ll touch me when I say you can touch me.”

Will shuddered, dick suddenly stiffening in his pants. He scooted a little closer to the table.

Hannibal, in an equally casual tone, continued, “You’ll also only touch yourself with my say so. If you’d like to cum, it’ll be with my permission.”

Will blinked, slow and dumb. “Wait. Are you serious?”

“Unless you have something you’d like to say to me, yes.”

Louisiana. Will blinked again as he realized that to Hannibal, play wasn’t just play, but a relationship. Hannibal would do what he wanted – would command and dote on Will as he pleased – until Will said otherwise. And though Will knew this was odd, even for a BDSM relationship, there was something soothing about it, too. That he didn’t have to save his dependence on Hannibal for the bedroom.

Even more comforting was the knowledge that, in the end, the power belonged to Will. He could stop Hannibal in his tracks with a single word. Five little syllables to control the most dominant (most proudly independent) man Will had ever met.

Louisiana.

Will relaxed in his seat, inexplicably more secure in their relationship than before. He nodded softly. “Okay. I can do that.”

Hannibal’s voice was low and warm as he praised, “Good boy.”

Will smiled into his breakfast. Hesitated. “Can I… Can I ask you something personal?”

“Anything.”

Will shifted in his seat. Swallowed just to feel the scrape down his throat. “Did you do this kind of thing with Alana?”

Will hated himself even as he spoke. Hated how clingy and jealous he sounded. Hannibal and Alana’s relationship was in the past. It didn’t matter.

Hannibal remained silent until Will met his eyes. Then he said, “I’ve had many lovers, Will. Explored my sexuality to the extent that it pleased me, with whomever caught my fancy at the time. That said, my primary role as a lover is always to please my partner first, and take my own pleasure second. The order of those priorities makes me into a chameleon. I am whatever brand of lover my partner wants me to be, within reason. And very, very few share our proclivities.

“Alana preferred someone kind but in control. Quick romps with no foreplay and long, slow sessions full of whispered praises. Nothing in between.” Hannibal took a sip from his mug, coffee not tea. “In short: no. I never ravaged Alana the way I ravaged you. Nor have I ever enjoyed another so thoroughly as I enjoyed you, regardless of which lover you single out in question.” Maroon eyes trailed down to stare at Will’s mouth, entirely unashamed. “Would you like to know more?”

Will sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, feeling warm. “No. I’m good. Thank you for telling me that.”

“You’re welcome, Will. Should you ever have a question for me, all you have to do is ask.”

Will nodded. “I know.” He polished off the last of his breakfast, content. “When do you get off work tonight?”

“My last patient leaves at six. Assuming no new serial murderers steal your attention away, will you join me at six-thirty?”

“Yeah. I can do that.” A pause. “Or maybe eight-thirty? I can run home and get some clothes. You know, assuming I’ll be spending the night again.”

“Six-thirty. You’ll stay the night and wear my clothes in the morning. Just like today.”

Will kneaded his bottom lip with his teeth, overly aware the other man was going to choose something ostentatious (something obviously belonging to Hannibal), and that rumors would fly because of it.

On the one hand, he didn’t really need or want the extra attention. On the other hand, by allowing Hannibal to openly mark him, he was also openly marking Hannibal. Everyone who looked at Will would know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Hannibal belonged to him.

That they belonged to each other.

He sighed, taking more pleasure in the concept of ownership than he probably should. Another tendril of like wrapped around Will’s heart, tight and possessive. He nodded.

“Six-thirty.”

Chapter Text

Will was at work, but he wasn’t working. He was researching BDSM.

Studying criminology had given him a general knowledge of the practice, if only because a professor in college had made a point to dispel prejudices. Most of the time, the guy hog-tying a corpse didn’t also gain pleasure from safely tying up and pleasing a partner. Also, the majority of dominant personalities going out and torturing innocents wouldn’t be welcomed into the BDSM community. That kind of dominant would be abusive, not adoring, and both submissives and other dominants talked.

BDSM was safe, sane, and consensual. Murder was not.

Unfortunately, that was about the extent of what Will understood about BDSM. Or at least, it had been, before Will spent the morning researching. Articles, blogs, YouTube videos: he devoured them. He wanted to know what he’d gotten into. Wanted to be good at it, so Hannibal would be happy, too.

What he learned was that their relationship was odd, but not insanely so. Most people did scenes (roleplaying, bondage, etc.) rather than just living life in full dom-sub mode. A lot of people also used systems to check in with their partner without breaking the scene, like a stoplight. The dom would ask for a color, and the sub would say red, yellow, or green to indicate how okay with it they were.

Will thought Hannibal probably knew about this system. Whether Hannibal wasn’t implementing it because he was too arrogant to think he’d cross the line or because he figured a single safe word was enough was unknown. And to be fair, Will did feel completely confident in his ability to stop Hannibal from doing anything he didn’t like. (He also thought there wasn’t much he wouldn’t like, so long as Hannibal was the one doing it to him.)

The point of his research wasn’t to question Hannibal’s way of doing things though.

He trusted Hannibal. Foot on the pedal, hands off the wheel. Trust. Will did not, however, trust himself. He had definitely entered into a dom-sub relationship with Hannibal. Hannibal was definitely the dom, which meant Will was definitely the sub. Only… Will didn’t feel submissive.

It wasn’t like he suddenly wasn’t allowed to speak out of turn or like he worried Hannibal would start spanking him at work. He wasn’t afraid to tease Hannibal or disagree. It was basically the exact same as before, only now Hannibal could make mildly outrageous requests, and Will would agree.

(Realistically though, Will would have agreed anyway.)

So, what else was supposed to change? Hannibal was as confident in his role as a dominant as he was in every-fucking-thing else. Would he just tell Will how to be submissive? And what happened when that went too far and butted up against Will’s problem with authority? At what point would Hannibal decide that Will just wasn’t a very good submissive and drop him?

Will wasn’t sure (wasn’t brave enough to just ask Hannibal), so he read even more. He looked up what a good sub was supposed to be and how to please a dom. The answers varied widely, with practically no one agreeing on a set way to do things. (It seemed BDSM relationships were still just relationships. Who would have guessed?) Preferences varied from couple to throuple to quadrouple, with the only steadfast advice being, ‘Talk to your partner.’

Though Will had been hoping for some more definitive boundaries, the knowledge that there wasn’t really a ‘wrong’ way to be a submissive was comforting. It meant he probably couldn’t fuck it up.

He learned from a pretty sub on YouTube with purple hair that what he’d felt after his forever-long blowjob was called subspace. They, too, described it as kind of a drunken state, or a high. They said it was normal and that it was a good place to recharge and relax, especially in the company of a caring dom. A corresponding blog said to be careful not to go into subspace too often, as it could be addicting. (Which sounded dumb, but was also a little worrying. Will was weaker to vices than most.)

Probably the best thing Will had learned was that his mindset as a sub was normal. Having a dominant wasn’t necessarily about feeling dominated, but feeling safe. Trusting that someone else would take the burdens he couldn’t – or didn’t want to – handle, and that things would be okay even if he let go.

And that felt right. Hannibal never took Will’s power away or demanded Will do anything. Hell, he even said ‘please’ most of the time, which was more than Will could say for himself. And if Will listened to him when he made a request, it was because Will wanted to listen. He didn’t have to defer to Hannibal.

He chose to defer.

Aside from a few skeevy articles from people who obviously weren’t a part of the BDSM community, everything he’d read online said that was exactly was a sub was supposed to feel. Safe. Cared for. Like they could take the wheel at any time but preferred to let their partner(s) drive.

It was Hannibal entering the room for lunch that put an end to Will’s research, if only because he would die of embarrassment if Hannibal ever saw his search history. Will set his phone facedown on the desk to prevent pickpocketing, then stood to kiss his boyfriend.

He stole Hannibal’s scalpel out of his breast pocket when their lips touched. Hannibal pulled him back in for another, harder kiss. When he let go, the scalpel was gone again.

Will smiled. “Missed you.”

“And I, you, Darling.”

Will returned to his chair. Hannibal perched on his desk.

“How were your new patients?”

“I haven’t seen them yet. Both appointments are later in the day.” He unzipped the warming tote. “Your murderers are still giving you trouble, I assume?”

“Always.” Will leaned over to peek into the open tote. Hannibal’s hands went for the Tupperware. Will snatched the bag of cookies. He opened the bag, partially because the cookies were mana from heaven but mostly to test the waters. Hannibal was a rigidly organized man. Would he use his mystical dom powers to force Will to do things in proper order, too?

Will watched Hannibal as he pulled a cookie out of the bag. Hannibal smiled. Indulgent. Like he knew what Will was doing and wanted to… what? Encourage it? Did Hannibal want Will to test his boundaries?

Will tilted his head and offered Hannibal the other cookie. Hannibal glanced at it, amused.

“I prefer to eat my meal first, thank you.”

“Please?”

A twitch of a smile. A shake of the head. “No, Darling. If you really want it eaten before lunch, I’m afraid you’ll have to do so yourself.”

So he wouldn’t bend to Will’s whims, but he would compromise by indulging Will even further. Will shoved the entirety of the first cookie in his mouth and picked up the second one.

Was this different from Will not wanting to wear shoes at the dinner party? Obviously it was, but how? Was it the setting? The intimacy? The want?

The want.

Will didn’t actually want Hannibal to eat the cookie. He just wanted to see if Hannibal would. And Hannibal knew that.

Satisfied with his observations (and aware that Hannibal probably packed the second cookie with the intent to give it to Will anyway), Will ate Hannibal’s cookie, too. The inside of Hannibal’s shoe pressed against the inside of Will’s. Pleased.

It was as Hannibal got out the Tupperware, handing Will the one with the blue lid, that a delivery person arrived with a giant vase full of red roses.

“Delivery for Will Graham?”

Will blinked at the delivery person, then frowned at the gaudy display of romance. Much as Hannibal was the type to buy Will something that shoved their relationship in other people’s faces, he also preferred personalization (a physical show of how well he knew Will) over all else. Will didn’t give a damn about roses, so they probably weren’t from Hannibal.

Will threw a questioning glance at Hannibal, just to be sure. Hannibal said, “They are not from me.”

Will scrunched his nose and raised his hand. “I’m Will Graham.”

The delivery person beamed and brought the vase over to Will. Hannibal stood so they would have a place to put it. Will signed their tablet. They thanked him and left.

Hannibal placed one hand on Will’s lower back and reached into the center of the arrangement to retrieve a fancy-looking card with the other. He read it before showing it to Will.

To the most beautiful rose in the garden.

--Tobias Budge.

Will fake-gagged. “Oh, gross.” He took the card from Hannibal and tossed it in the trash. After a single second of thinking, he moved the vase to the trash, too.

Jimmy practically ran across the room. “Hold up. You’re throwing them away?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I have them?”

 “I guess so.”

Jimmy grinned. “Frick yeah. Roses are crazy expensive. My wife’s going to love me.” He crouched next to Will’s trash and lifted the big glass vase by its base. “Thanks, Will!”

Will shrugged because they were literal garbage flowers. “No problem.”

He looked to Hannibal, who appeared entirely unperturbed by the fact that someone else was sending his boyfriend flowers.

Hannibal caught his eye. “Tobias Budge. That’s the man we met at the opera, no? Franklyn’s friend?”

Will nodded. “Yeah. He offered to fix my piano for free, and stupid me took him up on it.”

Maroon eyes flashed. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I kind of…” Will focused on Hannibal’s sparkly yellow tie. He scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the floor. “Kind of maybe wanted to practice for you after your dinner party?”

Hannibal’s hand on Will’s back splayed, adding pressure. Lips met the top of Will’s head, and Hannibal breathed in. Smelling him. “Thoughtful thing. You spoil me.”

“If anyone is spoiling anyone, it’s you spoiling me.”

“Can we not spoil each other?”

Warmth blossomed in Will’s chest. Much as he didn’t think he’d ever live up to Hannibal’s level of spoiling, the idea of being able to make Hannibal feel doted on and adored was a powerful one. It made Will want to do more things for Hannibal. To take care of Hannibal just as well as Hannibal took care of him.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.”

Hannibal used his thumb and pointer finger to lift Will’s chin, then pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Wonderful, Darling. Now, take a seat. My lunch hour is, after all, only an hour.”

Will obeyed without thinking about it. Hannibal handed Will his Tupperware once again. He watched, avid, as Will took his first bite. Will hummed in appreciation and licked his fork. Most of his lunches from Hannibal now seemed to have a sort of bitter tang, and though Will couldn’t quite identify the flavor (probably some fancy foreign spice Hannibal special ordered just for Will), he enjoyed it.

Like how canned hotdogs and beans made him think of his childhood, the tang made him think of Hannibal. Of food prepared especially for Will and time devoted solely to making sure Will was nourished. Cared for. Well-fed.

(Such a stark contrast with the rest of his life, where his hands shook just trying to open those stupid cans of beans, and if he couldn’t do it fast enough, the food would go away.)

He blinked away the memory.

He ate more.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal shut the door behind Franklyn, then moved to dispose of the used tissues sitting on the table. He sanitized both the table and chair until operations could be safely performed on them, then sanitized more.

It pained him not to give Franklyn a referral. Not only did the man stomp on Hannibal’s well-placed boundaries, he absolved himself of guilt by failing to recognize the boundaries existed. Like a particularly stupid child, his level of comprehension was too low to punish in any meaningful way.

Which was unfortunate, as Hannibal genuinely enjoyed administering punishment.

Franklyn’s saving grace (and the reason Hannibal wouldn’t give Franklyn a referral) was that he was an open tap of information on Tobias. While Hannibal was sure Tobias realized this, too, and would eventually attempt to manipulate that flow of information, he wasn’t worried. Franklyn wasn’t anywhere near bright enough to succeed in lying to Hannibal, and Tobias was too narcissistic to realize that just as a good pawn could turn the tides in his favor, a bad pawn could drown him.

Franklyn (for Tobias’ purposes) was a very bad pawn.

Which left Hannibal sanitizing.

He’d only just finished when the next knock came. He adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket and the cufflinks hidden under his jacket sleeves, then welcomed his newest patient inside.

“Matthew. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Hannibal shook Matthew’s hand. Pretended not to notice the too-tight (aggressive) grip.

“No, thank you for having me. A free session from the Hannibal Lecter is nothing to scoff at.”

False praise given with a faux lisp. Hannibal smiled anyway. He took his usual chair while Matthew shrugged off his coat.

Matthew copied Hannibal’s posture as he folded himself into the patient’s chair, affecting an air of sophistication he didn’t own. He started the session with an eager, “So what do we do in these things?”

“We speak.”

“About?”

“Anything you’d like.”

Matthew’s shoulders slumped into a more natural posture, though his back was still unnaturally straight. He grinned. “You’re friends with Dr. Graham, right?”

“I am.”

“Can we talk about him?”

“We can.” Hannibal crossed his legs, ankle over knee. “Were you close to him, within the BSHCI?”

“Yeah. Real close. I talked to him all the time.”

“But he didn’t speak back.”

Matthew made a rolling motion with his fingers. “Not in so many words.”

“But in his actions?”

“He liked me. I kept the rougher orderlies away. He was thankful.”

Hannibal steepled his fingers over his lap. “Was he?”

“Yeah. You could see it in the way he looked at me.”

Delusional. Disconnect between actions and interpretations. Likely no safe way to dismantle the illusion. “And how did he look at you?”

“I don’t know. Just grateful. Like he hoped my shift would never end.”

“It sounds like you were good to him. Did he do anything to garner this kindness?”

“Oh, yeah.” Matthew nodded. Prideful. Overly enthused. “I was so good to him. And he earned it. He’s the only one who ever pulled anything over on me.”

Matthew waited for Hannibal to ask for details. Hannibal waited for Matthew to continue. After a few seconds, the orderly gave in. He pushed up his sleeve and presented the underside of his forearm, revealing a long surgical scar. Likely the result of a metal implant supplementing bone strength after a bad break.

“Dr. Graham did this to me. Damn near broke my arm in half. That’s how he ended up in the glass cage.”

Hannibal blinked, observing the scar with new interest. “I hadn’t heard he’d been violent.”

“Only the once. Took out me and three others. Had to trank him to get him to go down.”

“And was this attack unprovoked?”

Matthew shrugged. Arrogant. “No more provoked than usual.”

“Then, after the outburst, shall we say he was less provoked than usual?”

Matthew’s brows raised. “Yeah. That’s a good way to put it.” He crossed his legs, ankle over knee, like Hannibal. He spread his thighs too wide to be considered elegant. “You should have seen him. He’s small, but strong. Fast, too. You wouldn’t think so with how little he moved in the cage, but when he lashes out, he lashes out hard.” The grin returned, more objectifying than fond. “You’d better watch yourself around him.”

Hannibal tilted his head, noting once again that Matthew seemed to lose control of his persona when presented with his obsession over Will. “You believe he would hurt me?”

“I believe he’d hurt anyone who gets in his way. That’s how a guy like the Ripper works, isn’t it?”

A purposeful slip. More bait. This time, Hannibal took it.

“You still think Will is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Matthew flexed his wrist, drawing attention back to the surgical scar. “You haven’t seen him the way I’ve seen him.” He pushed his sleeve back down, abandoning his mimicry of Hannibal’s posture for something more comfortable. Back slouched, elbows on the chair arms, hands folded over his abdomen. “But hey, maybe you’re right. Maybe the guy you’re sleeping next to isn’t a serial killer.”

Hannibal watched Matthew’s carotid artery pulse in his neck. Easy to reach. Easy to slit.

“You’re aware that we’re seeing each other.”

“Dr. Graham might’ve mentioned it, yeah.”

A blatant falsehood. A cover for his stalking. Matthew knew Hannibal hadn’t told Will about the free therapy session, which meant he also knew Hannibal wouldn’t ask Will what he’d told Matthew.

The confident, toothy grin said Matthew thought he was outmaneuvering Hannibal. That he would either drive a wedge between Hannibal and Will or that he would flat-out scare Hannibal away. Unfortunately for him, Hannibal wasn’t the one sleeping next to a serial murderer.

Hannibal leaned back in his seat, purposefully neutral. “You have feelings for Will.”

Matthew’s shoulder jerked, surprised. He clenched his fist but kept a pleasant tone as he said, “I accept him for who he is. What he is. Do you?”

“I do my best.”

“What if your best isn’t good enough? What if he comes home, covered in blood, and asks you to eat his latest victim? What’ll you do then?”

Hannibal closed his eyes, outwardly torn, and savored the fantasy.

“I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have to think about it. I’d eat it. For him.”

“And would you kill for him, too?”

Matthew pulled back, seeming to remember he had a persona to upkeep. He shrugged defensively. “Maybe. If he asked me to. People do crazy things when they’re in love.”

In love.

Practically a verbal pissing contest of who cared for Will more. Hannibal stepped around the mess to ask, “Are you jealous, Matthew?”

Matthew scowled. “No. I know what you’ve got with him won’t last. You’re a fling. I’m endgame.”

“Will it end naturally, I wonder, or will you intercede?”

“If it’s going to end either way, who cares how?”

Hannibal uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, forearms over thighs. “Who indeed? Tell me, do you think Will knows our relationship will end, too?”

“Yeah.” A pause. Genuine doubt. “On the inside.”

Weakness. Hannibal latched on with deadly accuracy, curling his fist around Matthew’s heart as he said, “You truly believe he falls asleep thinking about you each night? Hoping you’ll be the one to come save him from his horrible life?” Hannibal raised one brow, projecting interest but not investment. “Perhaps that was true before: him in a glass cage, helpless and wanting. You fiddling with the key. Now though? What can you provide for him that he does not already have?”

Matthew’s confidence shriveled, shoulders hunching as he was forced to face his poverty and lack of education. Forced to compare himself to Hannibal.

“I can give him acceptance.”

“Does he need acceptance? Does he want it? Or is that you, superimposing your own desires onto him? Is Will so dark that you are the only person who can accept him, or is it his darkness which makes him the only person suitable to accept you?”

Matthew balked, visibly paling. When he spoke next, it was without his lisp.

“Both! Dr. Graham sees me. He sees, and he understands. Nothing is more important than that. Nothing is better. I would do anything for him.” He stood with enough force to push his chair back. “That’s why he’s wasting his time with you. To test me. To see if I’ll wait. And once he’s done testing – once I pass – it’ll be you who’s standing on the sidelines while he comes home to me. Or you on the table. I don’t really care which.”

He stormed over to the coat rack, which was just as well because their time was drawing to a close.

As a parting gift, Hannibal offered a calm, “Has it ever occurred to you that you might be the one to end up on his table? The flesh that nourishes his flesh?”

Matthew sneered and shook his head. Frustrated. Condescending. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, Dr. Graham is smarter. He’s sending me messages behind your back. Thanking me for inspiring him.” He zipped up his coat with a few jagged jerks, advertising its age and lack of quality. “He may like your dick, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck about you. Someday, you’ll see that. Someday soon.”

He slammed the door as he left. Hannibal remained seated, contented with having poked the bear.

He vaguely considered taking patient notes for his files, but there wasn’t much of a point. He wouldn’t be offering Matthew another session, and the orderly would never be able to afford Hannibal on his own.

Hannibal did, however, retrieve his notepad for the next patient. A woman seeing Hannibal not of her own volition, but on the order of her brother. Because, and here was the interesting part, she tried to have him killed.

At four o’clock on the dot, the smell of lilacs, sandalwood, and chocolate wafted in from the entryway. Hannibal rose from his desk, smoothed the material over his abdomen, and waited for her to knock. Four minutes after their scheduled appointment time, she did. He opened the door to reveal a markedly beautiful (markedly broken) woman awaiting him on the other side.

He smiled. “Miss Verger.”

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal prepared dinner at home, alone.

Will was late.

He’d messaged at six-fifteen to tell Hannibal he would be late but that he should be finished at work within the hour. He apologized profusely (at the beginning and end of each text) and pointed out that he knew how much Hannibal valued punctuality.

And though Hannibal would prefer having Will at his table or in his arms, there were other ways to amuse himself. Preparing their dinner, for one. Scrolling through Will’s search history to see what information he’d gathered on BDSM relationships, for another.

Will had chosen largely pleasant sources, gravitating toward healthy submissives, explanations on subspace, and tips on how to please a dominant. He’d clicked on a singular porn, watched for less than three minutes, and exited out. Though Will hadn’t touched his phone other than to text Hannibal since two o’clock (likely when his work had picked up), his browser remained open on a nonsensical blog called What a Dom Wants.

Endearing thing.

Hannibal watched a few of the videos Will had chosen while cooking and bookmarked the more interesting articles and blogs for later. Dinner was ready by the time Will knocked on the door.

Hannibal kissed him, then took his coat, then kissed him again. Will melted against him, pressing his cold nose to Hannibal’s throat and breathing in. (Perfection.)

“Hey.”

“Hello, Love.” Hannibal ran his hands up and down Will’s back. Soothing. Assuring Will’s body that this was where it belonged. “How was your drive?”

“Snowy.” Will kissed Hannibal’s neck, then pulled away. “Sorry again for being late.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I respect you and the work you do.” He twined their fingers together, kissed his boy’s knuckles, and finally led Will to the kitchen. “I do prefer to be informed of impending tardiness, but there is nothing you could do which I would not forgive.”

Will squeezed his hand, grateful. “That is way too much leeway. You should draw some lines in the sand.”

“Even if I did, you would not cross them.”

“I might.”

“I would move the lines.”

Will grinned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re perfect.”

“I’m really not.”

Hannibal pulled out a chair for Will. Once Will was seated, Hannibal kissed the space under his ear and murmured, “Perfect.”

Delicate pink crawled down the back of Will’s neck. Hannibal kissed that, too.

He left Will only long enough to plate their food. He poured himself wine and gave Will a beer, which Will appreciatively sipped. (Hannibal would need to start brewing another batch soon, with how quickly Will drank them. This time, though, he could adjust the recipe to suit Will’s tastes. Up the oak extract. Add coffee powder. Double the semen. It wouldn’t be enough to sate the thirsty thing, but it would help.)

Will asked, “How was your day?”

Hannibal allowed guilt to flicker across his expression, then just as quickly smoothed it out. Will’s empathy caught on the display like a fly in honey: uselessly sweet and utterly trapped. 

“Hannibal? What’s wrong?”

Hannibal paused long enough to make himself seem torn, then added a sprinkle of contrition to his voice. “I apologize, Will. Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing.”

Will’s brows drew together. “No. No, it’s fine. I get it. I’m lucky you work with me, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you half the stuff I do.” He reached across the table to squeeze Hannibal’s hand. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s okay.”

Hannibal nodded, openly grateful, and kissed the tips of Will’s fingers. He released Will’s hand so they could return to their meal, and though Will continued to glance at him, he didn’t press.

A dangerously satisfied smile unfurled in Hannibal’s heart. Now, should Matthew ever approach Will about their session, Will’s mind would immediately skip to this moment.

The desire Hannibal had to share. The moral code that stopped him.  

 When they finished their meal, Will picked up their plates and insisted on doing the dishes. He was determined to be of use. To ease Hannibal’s burden, if only a little. Sweet thing. He helped Hannibal plate their dessert, and though Hannibal’s portion looked much worse for the effort, it was the thought that counted.

Will ate his coffee and chocolate crème petit gateau with vigor. When he finished, Hannibal held a forkful of his own gateau up to Will’s mouth. The heavenly thing closed his lips around Hannibal’s fork with a thankful moan, unaware of his own sensuality. Hannibal’s cock swelled.

He cut his fork down the gateau and offered it again to Will. Will shook his head.

“I’m okay. That one’s yours.”

“Yes, and I wish to give it to you.”

Will frowned. “Hannibal.”

“Please, Darling?”

The determined set of Will’s shoulders instantly fell. He was almost ridiculously weak to the idea of making Hannibal happy (of being the source of Hannibal’s happiness), and that weakness made Hannibal love him all the more. Will opened his mouth, accepting the food. Hannibal moved the fork forward, past Will’s teeth, and watched as Will’s lips closed around the utensil. He took everything Hannibal had to give with a soft hum and sucked down as he pulled back. Seductive thing.

Hannibal fed him another bite, then another after that. He mourned the loss when his plate emptied. Will’s perfect mouth was made to be filled, and it was almost a crime for it to go unoccupied.

Hannibal took their plates as he stood, making sure to give Will a view of his cock hard in his slacks.

Aurora borealis eyes darted downward. Will shifted in his seat. Hannibal walked to the sink as though he didn’t mean for Will to notice and smiled to himself when he heard Will follow.

He started washing dishes. Will stood behind him, no doubt fidgeting as he tried to decide how to proceed. After half a minute of nothing, Will’s hands slipped around Hannibal’s waist, pressing flat against his stomach. Will’s nose and mouth snuggled into the divide between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. Nimble fingers tapped repetitively against Hannibal’s abs – an unconscious motion – before Will took a deep, steadying breath. One hand slipped lower, a single fingertip dipping beneath Hannibal’s slacks.

Asking permission.

Hannibal hummed, approving, and Will’s hands came together to undo his belt. Will pressed a kiss to Hannibal’s spine as he tugged at the zipper, then Will’s perfectly calloused hand was around Hannibal’s cock.

Pleasure shot through his dick. Hannibal groaned and leaned away from the counter to give Will more room. Will dug his teeth lightly into Hannibal’s shoulder as his free hand pushed Hannibal’s boxers down, freeing his cock. Hannibal moaned encouragingly. He tilted his head to give Will better biting access and ground his ass against Will’s cock. Will responded with a gasp and quicker, rougher strokes. A mimicry of how Will pleasured himself.

Hannibal placed the final dish in the drying wrack and turned, catching Will’s lips in a deep kiss. Will’s mouth plundered Hannibal’s, ravenous. It wasn’t enough.

Hannibal licked across Will’s lips, ending the kiss. “I think you can do better than that, Darling.” He curled wet fingers into soft curls and guided Will downward. His precious boy obeyed, blue eyes blown wide, and needed no further prompting to suck Hannibal into his mouth.

He slid down Hannibal’s cock like it was a craving. Like this was all he’d been thinking about all day. The lovely thing choked and sputtered with less than half of Hannibal inside, and Hannibal used the hand in Will’s hair to force him deeper. Down and down that tight, hot cavern until Will’s lips were pressed to Hannibal’s pubes.

Will’s throat twitched and convulsed around Hannibal while Will made visible efforts to breathe through his nose. Taking in the scent of Hannibal’s cock and nothing else. Will’s tongue constantly moved, trying to find room inside his own stuffed mouth. His teeth grazed the base of Hannibal’s cock as he struggled to accommodate the girth. After a moment, he blinked up at Hannibal. Reactionary tears made pretty tracks down his cheeks, and Hannibal couldn’t help himself.

He thrust.

Will gagged on him, voice coming out in an undignified squeak. The muscles in his throat constricted around Hannibal’s dick, impossibly tight. Will swallowed, trying to drink him down further. Hannibal placed his free hand on Will’s throat so he could feel the bulge of his own cock and (well aware that Will still needed time to adjust) started moving.

He pulled out of Will’s mouth slowly, enjoying the drag of his cockhead up Will’s already sore throat, then roughly thrust back in. More tears blossomed in Will’s eyes while the boy made a noise that could either be a moan or a sob.

Probably a moan, if the way Will needily nuzzled Hannibal’s pubes was anything to go by.

Hannibal groaned and rolled his hips, then started thrusting in earnest. The bulge of himself moving up and down Will’s throat brushed against his palm: a constant reminder of just how well he filled Will. Will’s muscles spasmed around the intrusion, trying to force him out. He went deeper.

Will’s lips stretched obscenely thin around Hannibal’s thick cock. Sucking him in and molding to his shape. The perfect cock sleeve. Hannibal groaned and tightened his grip in Will’s hair, pulling hard on those lovely curls. Will’s mouth and throat convulsed around his dick, drawing him in deep, while Will himself moaned.

He was so hot that Hannibal might melt. So tight that there was no way he wasn’t trying to milk Hannibal dry.

Hannibal thrust even harder. Hard enough that Will’s teeth hurt his pelvis and, in turn, enough that his pelvic bone must have hurt Will’s face. Hannibal squeezed Will’s throat, adding pressure to the already addictingly tight passage. Just as he reached his peak, he pulled out so only the cockhead remained.

“Drink, Darling.”

And Will did. He tightened his lips, licked Hannibal’s slit, and sucked. Hannibal came with a shudder, hand pressing hard on Will’s throat so he could feel Will’s Adam’s apple bob. It did so once, as he swallowed the initial load, then again as he sucked more out. Hannibal moved his hand from Will’s hair to his own cock and pressed up from the base, prompting a third and final swallow.

“Oh, perfect boy.”

Hannibal curled both hands into Will’s hair and thrust in again. Will’s entire body jerked at the unexpected movement, but he didn’t fight it. Blue eyes were hazy but aware. Hannibal massaged Will’s scalp, keeping the darling thing in place so that the glorious pleasure hole of Will’s mouth wouldn’t have to suffer through being empty for a second longer than necessary. “It’s like you were meant for this. Like you were built to house my cock.” He pulled out a few inches, then slowly pressed back in. “If only I could keep you like this, Darling. Under my desk, in my car, on my cock forever.”

Will’s tongue pressed up against the base of Hannibal’s dick. His throat clenched as he swallowed. Hannibal gave a shallow, appreciative thrust.

“You like that idea, don’t you?”

Will closed his eyes and pressed his nose more firmly to Hannibal’s pelvis, trying to take him deeper. He hummed.

Hannibal ran his hands through Will’s hair. Petting his darling, greedy boy. “You could quit your job. Spend all day, every day warming my cock.” Will groaned again, longing. Hannibal pressed on. “I would love that, sweet thing. My cock would love it even more. Oh, you have no idea how it yearns for you. How even the thought of visiting your mouth has me hardening like a teenager. Mylimasis, what you do to me.”

Hannibal thrust in twice more, while he was still hard enough for Will to choke on, then pulled out fully.

Will whined.

Hannibal tugged on Will’s hair to make him stand, then pinned Will to the counter and kissed his boy until the taste of his sperm disappeared. Against Will’s lips, he whispered, “Sweet boy. I’m supposed to be the one pleasuring you.”

Will’s breaths were deep and labored. With a voice rough enough to match the damage done to his throat, Will said, “I’m pleasured.”

Hannibal kissed him again, hard but chaste. “Not yet you aren’t.”

He brought Will away from the counter, then crouched and swept him into a bridal carry. Will yelped. “Hannibal! What are you doing?”

His hands clawed at Hannibal’s shoulders, holding tight. Hannibal kissed his neck.

“Taking you to bed.”

Hannibal started walking toward the staircase. Will’s bitten-down nails dug into his shirt.

Will laughed, both happy and uncomfortable. “I can walk.”

“I know you can.”

Will wiggled and kicked. Hannibal tightened his grip warningly. Will stopped.

“Then let me down.”

Hannibal hummed dismissively. He started up the steps.

Will curled one arm around Hannibal’s neck for better purchase. “This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. I’ve got to be heavy.”

“I’ve carried heavier.”

Will leaned his head away to stare at Hannibal. “Why?”

“Extracurricular activities.” Hannibal held Will close as he entered the master suite, savoring him, then tossed him carelessly onto the bed. “Undress, please.”

Will bounced on the mattress. His fingers grasped at the hem of his (Hannibal’s) shirt, not bothering with the buttons. He tugged the shirt and undershirt off in one go, then moved onto his pants. Hannibal made quick work of his own clothes, eager to touch that supple body once more.

As soon as they were both naked, Hannibal was on him. He kissed one of the sweet nubs on Will’s chest at the same time as he pressed three fingers to Will’s mouth. Hannibal sucked the nub up between his teeth, and Will opened his mouth to accept Hannibal’s fingers. Hannibal pressed in straight to the knuckles, filling Will’s hungry mouth once more.

Will’s tongue traced each of Hannibal’s fingers, praising them with the same fervor as he did Hannibal’s dick. Hannibal’s cock twitched, eager to delve back into that heat.

He locked his teeth around Will’s nipple and tugged, rolling it between his teeth. The other nipple perked despite Hannibal having done nothing to it. Pride swelled at the open display of Will’s body adjusting to Hannibal’s preferences. He sucked hard and tilted his head so he could glance down. When he dug his teeth into the swollen red nub, precum beaded on Will’s cock.

Desire spiked in Hannibal’s dick, insisting he recover faster.

Lovely.

He moved to the other nipple, which rose and reddened from Hannibal’s breath alone. Hannibal kissed it softly, praising. Will moaned and sucked on Hannibal’s fingers, attempting to pull them back into his throat.

Hannibal chuckled, adoring, then bit down. Blood spread along his tongue, delicious. Will’s back arched. Hannibal sucked, wishing it would come out fast enough for him to drink. He pulled back to see red already beading along the edges, then lapped those up, too.

He extricated his fingers from Will’s mouth, and his adorable boy’s lips followed him, blindly searching. Hannibal groaned, cock swelling with new vigor. Will wanted him. Wanted Hannibal’s dick back in his mouth, filling him up.

Hannibal positioned himself between Will’s legs and put Will’s knees over his shoulders. He groped Will’s ass – two beautiful, full globes of flesh – and used his thumbs to expose Will’s hole to the room. The wrinkled flesh clenched, inviting Hannibal closer.

He kissed the discolored flesh (currently so tightly closed that it could hardly be considered a hole) then licked up Will’s taint, balls, and shaft to swallow Will whole. Will’s voice tore from his throat as he thrust instinctively into Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal accepted everything Will had to give with ardor. The pleasure and the pain. The lust. The love. He sucked hard, then released Will and reached for the lube in the nightstand.

“Tell me when you’re close, Love.”

Will groaned, “Hannibal, please—” He cut himself off with a soft thrust in the air. Hannibal kissed the side of his cute cock, then drizzled cool lube down the cleft of his ass. Will’s asshole clenched. Eager. Hannibal pressed the pad of his forefinger over the hole to feel it twitch, then pushed in.  

If Will’s throat was tight, his ass was suffocating.

Will pushed out the intrusion with as much force as he sucked in, and even Hannibal’s single finger was practically crushed under the pressure. Hannibal entered Will all the way to the knuckle in a single press. Will hissed a breath in through his teeth, clenching hard around Hannibal even as he visibly worked to relax.

Seductive, endlessly tempting thing. He would have to fuck Will without prep one day. After they’d discovered the threshold for his pain tolerance and, if necessary, upped it.

Hannibal made continuous circles inside Will as he licked up Will’s cock. He pulled his finger out, added more lube, then swallowed Will down at the same time that he pressed both fingers back inside. Will clenched so hard that Hannibal’s knuckles ground painfully together. Erotic thing.

Hannibal started fingering anyway.

Hannibal’s cock hung heavy between his legs, brought fully back to life by the knowledge that this was what awaited him. Tightness and heat sucking him down and draining him dry. Will’s wonderful body, yearning to take in his cock and never let go.

Hannibal sucked Will’s cockhead, tonguing the slit. He shoved a third finger inside without extra lube, and Will shouted, “Close!”

Hannibal grinned, all teeth. He scraped his way up Will’s shaft.

“Good boy.”

Will’s cock jerked again from the praise alone, but he didn’t cum. Hannibal stilled his fingers, though he didn’t remove them: unable as he was to stand the thought of wholly abandoning Will’s perfect innards

“So sweet for me, my darling boy. Opening yourself up and welcoming me in. I’m going to fit so perfectly inside you. To be so good to you that you’ll think and want nothing else.”

Will moaned at Hannibal’s words, the deep red of his cock taking on a pretty purple tint. “Please.”

“Please what, lovely thing?”

Will thrust up toward Hannibal’s face, then sunk back down on Hannibal’s fingers. Swallowing him. “Please let me cum.”

Hannibal moved up Will, practically folding his boy in half so he could keep his fingers lodged deep inside. He sucked on Will’s bloody nipple, cleaning it off once more.

“No, sweet boy.”

Hannibal started moving again, this time aiming straight for Will’s prostate. Will shouted, locking his ankles together behind Hannibal’s head and forcing him closer. Hannibal rutted against Will’s back in time with his fingers, imagining himself deep inside that overwhelming heat. He kissed and nibbled on Will’s abused nipple, determined to leave Will sore for days.

Will’s next “Close” came through sobs.

Hannibal immediately stopped. His cock ached in protest. He straightened, sitting up on his knees with Will’s legs still locked around his neck, and admired his work.

Will’s hole stretched around Hannibal’s fingers, surrounding skin slick with lube. His beautiful nipples were red and swollen, perked up as though asking for more. Skilled hands curled into the bedsheets, fisting tight as he spread his shoulders: presenting his neck and chest to Hannibal for the taking.

Hannibal kissed Will’s calf as he removed his fingers. Will’s tight ass gaped for long seconds after Hannibal had vacated him: an open invitation. A ‘Please.’ Hannibal ground his cock against Will’s back, his normally endless control genuinely waning.

Only when he was sure he could keep himself in check did he squeeze Will’s calves and release himself from that tempting hold. He lowered Will’s body so that hungry hole lined up with his cock, then pushed inside.

Will’s heat greeted him, kissing the tip of his cock and sucking. It took everything Hannibal had not to thrust in all the way, filling Will to the brim in a single go. He grit his teeth, watching as the wide head of his cock disappeared into Will’s tiny hole. Swallowed down. Devoured.

As soon as the broad end of his cockhead was inside, Hannibal stopped. He held Will still with one bruising grip and used the hand that had been inside Will to stroke his exposed shaft. The heat and pressure of Will’s insides on Hannibal’s cockhead mocked his comparatively cold shaft, but he stayed still.

Will groaned, desperately unhappy. He tried to thrust himself down on Hannibal’s cock, but Hannibal’s tight hold gave him nothing.

“Don’t stop. Please. Please, Hannibal. I want you so much. Your dick. Your fingers. Your mouth. I don’t care what, just please let me cum.” Will squeezed even tighter around Hannibal’s cock, body begging along with his mouth. Tears fell from wide eyes as he shook his head, dark curls glued to his forehead with sweat. Then soft, like a siren’s song, “Please fuck me.”

Pleasure pulsed in Hannibal’s cock. He stroked himself faster. “Oh, my darling. Mylimasis. Some day, your begging will bring me to my knees with the desire to please you. To give you anything and everything you want. I swear it. Today though, I need something different.”

Will reached for his own cock. Hannibal caught his hand and pinned it to the bed.

Will sobbed, blue eyes glistening. Beautiful. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. I’ll please you.”

“I know you would, my love. Sweet thing. Perfect thing.” Ecstasy spiked, bringing Hannibal to the edge for the second time that night. “You deserve the world, Darling. Deserve my cock deep inside. And you’ll have it, too. I just need something from you first.”

“A-anything. Anything.”

Hannibal tilted his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the sound of Will’s begging in a handful of diamonds. He tightened his fist around his cock, the edge of his fist pounding against the soft mounds of Will’s flesh. Pleasure exploded in his stomach, sending him over the edge.

He came with a final stroke, painting Will’s perfect insides with his sperm. Will’s cock stood straight up, stiff and burgundy. Hannibal pulled out before he could give into temptation and thrust the rest of the way inside. Some of his cum leaked out with the motion. He gathered it on his fingers and shoved it back in.

And oh. Hannibal had thought Will couldn’t feel any more perfect. Obviously he was wrong.

Will alone was nothing compared to Will soaked in Hannibal’s cum. His boy was made to swallow cock, and every moment Hannibal denied him was a sin. Hannibal pressed a kiss to Will’s pelvis: inside the forest of wiry curls, right next to the base of his straining cock.

He locked his teeth softly under the head of Will’s cock and licked a flat line over the tip, tasting his precum. He then removed his fingers from Will’s ass and left his rightful place between his darling boy’s legs to instead press his cock to Will’s lips.

“Now you.”

Will looked at him. Dazed. Still holding out hope that Hannibal would give him release. After a second of staring, he accepted the head of Hannibal’s cock into his mouth, copying Hannibal’s motion with his teeth and tongue. Hannibal’s cock jerked, oversensitive, and he used his clean hand to pour the remaining cum in his urethra into Will’s mouth. When he pulled out, he replaced his cock with his cum-stained fingers.

Will licked and sucked those, too. Eagerly accepting anything and everything Hannibal gave him without question. Hannibal pressed in, teeth scraping over his knuckles as he brushed the back of Will’s throat.

Will choked.

“Stunning thing. That was perfect. Asombroso. Lovely.” Hannibal removed his fingers and cupped Will’s face with both hands, showering him with kisses. “Let me clean you up, Mylimasis. Pamper you. Worship you.”

Will’s cock twitched weakly between his legs, but he didn’t ask to cum again. He leaned into Hannibal’s hold, so starved for attention and affection that he’d happily ignore his body’s needs for a few kind words.

His voice was weak as he asked, “Please?”

Hannibal kissed him again. Gentle. “May I carry you, Darling?”

Will hesitated, obviously thinking it was too much. Hannibal positioned his arms beneath Will’s knees and back, pulling Will into his lap. After a moment, Will laid his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Tired. Accepting. (So close to subspace that he could hardly do more.)

“Okay.”

Hannibal kept his ‘th’ soft as he said, “Thank you.” Will snuggled closer.

Perfect.

Chapter Text

Will was wearing one of Hannibal’s shirts. A silk shirt. Because his nipples were too fucking sore for anything else.

He shifted in his seat. Tried to ignore the way the soft shirt brushed against his nipples and, in turn, the way his dick thought about reacting. He rubbed his palm against his (Hannibal’s) slacks, which was stupid because it made him think about doing the same thing over his dick. And he couldn’t. Hannibal hadn’t given him permission.

(Hannibal never gave permission.)

It had only been a few days, but when Will agreed not to cum without Hannibal’s permission, he’d definitely thought that translated to, ‘don’t cum when I’m not around.’ Not ‘don’t cum at all.’ And if not for how spectacularly proud Hannibal was of Will each and every time Will told him that he was close, Will would consider just keeping his mouth shut and cumming anyway.

Only Hannibal was proud, and Will did love it. God, he was hopeless.

“Will?”

Will glanced up. “Alana.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, then rubbed her left bicep. Two nervous ticks back to back. Well, that wasn’t a good sign. She asked, “Can I speak to you in the hall for a minute? Alone?”

Will peeked around Alana to see Beverly shrugging. He stood, grabbing his thermos as he went. “Sure.”

She smiled, but it was her therapist smile. He followed her out into the hall, twisting the thermos in his hands almost out of habit. She waited for the door to close before saying, “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

He raised both brows. “No more or less okay than usual.”

“You sure? You’re not feeling overwhelmed in any way? Or pressured?”

“No.”

“And you know you have people to talk to, if you ever do feel that way? If you ever feel like someone wants you to do something you don’t want to do—”

“Get to the point, Alana.”

She sighed. Tucked her hair behind her ear again. “You and Hannibal. The power imbalance. I want to know if you’re okay.”

Will opened his mouth without sound, anger and incredulity acting as a mute until he finally forced out, “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No. I know you two care about each other, but this is important Will.”

“I’m not his patient—”

“You are. And to add a BDSM relationship on top of that? I don’t mean to overstep, but you need to be careful. It’s easy to lose agency in these situations and not even realize it.”

Will stopped fiddling with his thermos to press two fingers against his temple. “Wait. How do you know about the BDSM?”

Her brows furrowed, almost pitying. “I’m sorry, Will, but you two aren’t exactly subtle. His hand on your neck. Him dressing you. You deferring to him. The way he marks you.” She motioned to the hickeys on Will’s neck: too high up to be covered by anything, but her eyes darted down to his chest.

Heat rushed to his cheeks as he realized she could see his nipples peaking against his shirt. He scowled, outright refusing to be embarrassed. “We can do what we want.”

“I’m not saying you can’t. There’s nothing wrong with entering a BDSM relationship. It’s just… entering one with your therapist…”

Anger flared, hot and uncontrollable. “He’s not my goddamn therapist.”

“He is, Will. And I’m worried about you.”

“Well don’t be! I’m not a fucking child, Alana. I can take care of myself. And there’s no power imbalance in our relationship—”

“He covers you in his things. Physically marking you as his. I don’t see him carrying anything of yours.”

“That’s because he gets the physical. I get the emotional. His thoughts, his feelings. Those are mine.”

“Will, that’s not how it works—”

“No. This isn’t how it works.” Will stepped into her personal space, practically snarling. He was close enough to smell her stupid daisy perfume, and it only made him angrier. “You. Barging into my life like some hero ready to save me. Newsflash! I don’t need saving, Alana! And if anyone needs to check themselves, it’s you. You’ve got this—this pathological need to butt into my life, and it needs to stop. You’re not my therapist. You’re not my friend. You’re barely even my co-worker. Go. Away.”

The cover of Alana’s concern crumbled, revealing a well of fear and guilt. She hugged her arms to her chest and took a step back. “I don’t want to fight, Will. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I just—I just want to help.”

“Well, you’re not helping. You’re making everything worse.”

Will turned to re-enter the office. Alana touched his bicep. He jerked away, slamming into the wall.

Her hands flew to her face. “Oh, my god, Will. I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I—” She used both hands to push her hair out of her face. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You’re right. It’s my fault you went to prison. My fault that I didn’t believe you.” Her mouth curled in an ugly, crying frown. Her voice hoarsened. “My fault I gave away your dogs.” Tears overflowed, making jagged black lines down her cheeks.

Will watched her cry, knowing he should care, but there was nothing.

She continued, “And I’m so, so sorry. I’ll never be able to make it up to you. Never be able to say it enough. I tried… I mean, I tracked down your dogs, but no one was willing to give them back. And I know that doesn’t make it right, but I just don’t know what else to do.” She breathed in, deep and despondent. “What can I do, Will? How can I make it up to you? Just tell me, and I’ll do it. I swear.”

Will rubbed the spot where she’d touched him. He looked into her pretty, tear-filled eyes. Felt the pain she was in. Understood the desperation.

He sneered. “Go to hell.”

“Will—”

“I never want to see you again, Alana. You really want to help me? Get out of my life. Seriously. Just fucking go.”

Her sobs echoed in the long hallway, but Will’s once-malleable heartstrings had turned to stone.

He went back to his desk.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal examined Alana’s kitchen with interest.

He’d never visited before, as going to her home would have led their sexual relationship down a more romantic path. Now that he was off the market, however, he could accept her invitations freely.

Her home looked much like he’d expected. Mostly clean, elegantly decorated, and sparsely personalized. It reflected both pride in her career and her internalized shame over her lack of home life. Her kitchen had a number of useful appliances, such as a KitchenAid with multiple attachments and an air-fryer, but the stack of take-out boxes in her trashcan said they were more decorative than anything else. Resolutions bought on New Year’s Day and left to gather dust.

She offered him a cup of coffee out of a pot, and he accepted both cream and sugar to cover the taste.

“Thank you for coming, Hannibal. It’s really… It’s been a hard day.”

“I’m happy to spend time with you, Alana. Tell me, what’s on your mind?”

She led him to the living room, which was decorated more like a cozy waiting room than a home. A single picture of Alana and her parents sat on the mantelpiece. Both Hannibal and Alana settled on the couch, though far enough away as to avoid accidentally touching.

She said, “Will. As always.” She shook her head, appearing disappointed with herself. “I talked to him. Told him about how I tried to get his dogs back. How no one would give them up. He… made some good points.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Points about me using him to ease my own guilt. Points about him not wanting that.” Her eyes stayed firmly on her mug as she spoke, relaying how hard it was for her to open up. While the emotion was real, it was also purposefully placed. She was going to expect Hannibal to open up in return. She fiddled with her mug, ashamed. “I think he’s right.”

He lifted his own mug to his lips. Smelled it. Lowered it again. “What do you intend to do with this information?”

Her eyes met Hannibal’s. Confiding. “I put in my two-week notice today. Chilton’s offered me a job over at the BSHCI as coordinating psychiatrist. I’d be second only to him, and he’s already promised me free reign.” She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. “And you know, maybe it’ll be good for me. I can keep an eye out, settle my guilt on my own by making sure what happened to Will doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

“It sounds like a wise decision. It also sounds like a decision you’ve already made, and thus need no input on.”

She straightened her shoulders. Raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. Aborted the motion to clench her fist instead. “Hannibal, I know you’re Will’s dominant.”

Hannibal blinked. “Yes.”

“I also know you haven’t given him a referral yet. Have you even been looking?”

“These things take time. I will not sacrifice quality for speed.”

She pursed her lips. Her artificial daisies had been replaced with artificial apricots, likely in line with her decision to change jobs and seek a serious relationship. A mid-life crisis.

She said, “I know they do. I know. But I need you to know that I’m still serious about the referral. My time at the BAU ends in two weeks. Your deadline to refer him is in a week and a half. I will tell Jack.”

He tilted his head. While it was no surprise that she still intended to hold him to his promise, it was surprising that she felt the need to bring it up. “You’re angry with me.”

Her brows furrowed, disbelieving. “Yes. Yes, Hannibal, I’m angry. I mean, BDSM? The whole reason you have to refer him in the first place is to avoid a power imbalance. Why would you stack BDSM on top of that?”

“Because we both enjoy the dynamic, and because we’re consenting adults. Do we need another reason?”

“You need to understand who he is. I get that you’re closer to him than I am and that I have no place in your relationship, but you’ve got to see the way his wires are going to cross. His psychiatrist, his boyfriend, and his dom, all in one? Not to mention you buy his clothes and provide the majority of his meals. Keep this up, and you’re going to saddle him with an unhealthy dependency and a power imbalance so heavy that he won’t even think to say no to you.”

Hannibal withheld a smile, for the first time in months recognizing the brilliant woman he’d chosen to take to bed. He leaned forward, outwardly concerned, and said, “Will has a job, his own home, and a support system outside of myself. He keeps his own schedule and can spend his own money. I choose to dote on him, but doting is all it is. We also held a thorough discussion concerning our BDSM preferences before entering into that part of our relationship, and he knows that a single word returns all the power to him. I would never force Will to do something he doesn’t enjoy.”

Alana frowned. “He went through a traumatic experience. Betrayed. Alone. Imprisoned. Years of trauma stacked one on top of another. Then you swooped in from the heavens and singlehandedly made every aspect of his life better. And you don’t think that’ll breed dependency?” She gave him a pointed look over her mug. “Hannibal.”

“What would you prefer I change, Alana? Would you rather I stop feeding him or stop giving him gifts?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Perhaps. The fact remains that I cannot change how we met. Will and I are what we are, and I refuse to stop providing for him out of fear that he will get used to being provided for.” Hannibal crossed his legs, knee over knee to avoid bumping the coffee table. “We both know he has a deep-seated fear of abandonment and perilously low self-esteem. Power imbalances and growing too attached will always be an issue for him, regardless of the partner. You can at least rest assured in the knowledge that I want what’s best for him. I will take care of him in every way I can, for as long as I can. Until he decides otherwise.”

Alana’s confident disapproval faltered. She chewed on her bottom lip. Shook her head. “It would be so easy for you to hurt him.”

“But I would never.” Hannibal set his full mug on the coffee table (there were no coasters) and reached over to squeeze her hand. “Will has confided in me that he knows he will forgive you. That it isn’t your fault. He only needs to work through his emotions first.” He paused, watching as her eyes gathered tears and her shoulders dropped: hopeful. He continued, “It will be easier for him if you present yourself as a friend on the sidelines, ready to offer support, rather than an adversary seeking to end his relationship. Then, if the unthinkable occurs and I do accidentally hurt him, he will have someone to turn to.”

Her lips parted, longing, and there it was. The need to be good – to be helpful – overwhelming all else. She nodded, lost in the idea. “I can do that.” Her eyes met his and, seeming to remember the point of their conversation, added, “But only if you refer him.” Hesitation. Downturned lips. “Please don’t make me go to Jack.”

Hannibal smiled, trustworthy and reassuring.

He said, “Of course not.”

(***Paragon***)

The downstairs of Will’s house was so close to being finished. He had to paint the trim, and that was it.

…Well, not counting the lack of furniture, appliances, and dishes, that was it. He’d honestly thought it would take longer, but with Hannibal buying the majority of his food and clothes, he had wiggle room in the budget for paint and lumber.

He was halfway through the trim in the kitchen when a car pulled down the gravel drive. It screeched to a stop, too fast to be considered safe. He stood, furrowing his brows. Loud, banging knocks echoed through the house along with an almost pathetic sounding, “Dr. Graham?”

Will dropped his brush into the paint tray. No way in hell. Was that Matthew?

He speed walked to the entryway and opened the door. Sure enough, Matthew fucking Brown stood on the other side. His hair was mussed, his clothes were wrinkled, and he stunk of cheap whiskey. Will glanced past him to see that he’d drifted to get his car to stop, only barely missing the trees at the edge of the yard.

“Dr. Graham, you see me, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You see me. Tell me you see me.”

Will blinked. Squinted. “Are you crying?”

Matthew rubbed his eyes roughly with his forearm. “No. I just—I just need to hear it, okay? Tell me you see me, too.”

Will frowned. Matthew wasn’t just drunk. He was Drunk. Blackout, kiss-your-sister, think-the-Twilight-movies-are-good level drunk. If Will let him drive, he’d be equally responsible for the death of whoever Matthew inevitably hit on the way home.

“Dr. Graham, please. I’m begging, okay? I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

Will glanced up at the sky. It had been snowing for hours already, and the weather wasn’t supposed to clear up any time soon. If he took Matthew’s keys, the idiot would freeze to death before finding a way home.

“Dr. Graham—”

“Shut up. Get inside.”

Will stepped back to clear the way for Matthew, who looked like Will had just offered him the sun and the stars. Matthew stumbled inside, nose almost immediately starting to run. Will led Matthew to the main room, tossed a few fresh logs on the fire, and told him to sit. Matthew flopped onto the ground like an over-eager puppy.

Will grimaced and left him by the fire. He returned to the kitchen, where he sealed his painting supplies in a trash bag to prevent them from drying out, and got his guest a glass of water. When he returned, Matthew hadn’t moved an inch.

The younger man accepted the water with way too much fervor, then repeated, “Tell me you see me.”

Will sighed. “Yeah. I see you.”

Matthew’s eyes glistened again, an incredibly sad drunk. He held the water cup close, like a child. He sniffed and mumbled, “Thank you.”

Will rubbed his eyes. Jesus Christ, this was stupid. Will was stupid. He should just let the murderous fucker die in the snow. Except…

Except no matter what anyone believed, Will wasn’t a murderer. Not even by proxy. He ran a tired hand through tangled curls, hating himself even as he asked, “What’s wrong, Matthew?”

Matthew looked up at him. Wide eyed. Adoring. Damn it. “He said you didn’t—didn’t see. Or, no, that there wasn’t seeing. That you didn’t… need seeing? But you see fine!”

Will crossed his arms. “That makes literally no sense.”

“You do see me though. And I see you.” Matthew blinked, fat tears falling from long lashes. “I love you, Dr. Graham. I would do anything for you.”

“Will you leave me alone?”

“Never.”

Will sighed. Worth a shot. “You don’t love me. You love the Ripper. Who is, for the thousandth time, not me.”

“No, I love you. I love—” He turned his head and puked on Will’s blanket. Sad, watery eyes slowly raised back to meet Will’s unamused stare. Matthew’s voice was wobbly as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Will’s heart softened, irritation fading as he took in some of Matthew’s loneliness. And he was so lonely. Misunderstood. He just wanted to be seen. Will stepped forward and put a hand on Matthew’s head, ruffling the other man’s hair like he would one of his dogs.

“It’s okay. Stay there. I’m going to get something to clean that up.”

Matthew nodded.

Will added, “And drink your water.”

Matthew tipped the cup back, draining half of it in one go. Will left the main room to gather two towels: one wet and soapy, the other dry. In the three minutes it took him to get back, Matthew had already passed out on the floor.

“Seriously?”

Will poked Matthew in the chest with his toes. The other man didn’t move. He poked harder. No reaction. Will cursed, then knelt to carefully move Matthew’s head away from the vomit pool. He wiped up the majority of it with the already-soiled blanket, counting his blessings that Matthew puked on the ratty one rather than the nice one from Hannibal. The soapy towel went next, and finally the dry one.

Will bundled up the towels and blanket and carried them straight to the washer. He started the load before returning to Matthew, who remained curled up in front of the fireplace. Tear tracks had dried on his face, making him look as sad in his sleep as he had when awake.

Will scratched the back of his head. Well, damn. Now he really couldn’t throw the idiot out. He glanced around, decided there wasn’t anything in his house worth stealing, and pulled out his phone. In the messaging app with Hannibal, he typed: Can I come over?

Hannibal, ever the quick texter, took around two seconds to send back: Yes.

Will slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked over to Matthew’s prone form. With another sigh, unable to believe he was this big an idiot, he grabbed the nice blanket and draped it over Matthew. Will stoked the fire, then, as an afterthought, refilled the cup of water and brought over a bucket. He was halfway out the door before he remembered hangovers were a thing, and he went back inside to grab a bottle of aspirin out of the sink. He placed it next to the cup of water, then left.

His car was cold, but his car was always cold.

He started it up, drove around Matthew’s Honda, and headed to Hannibal. The roads were stupidly snowy, as he’d known they would be, and his tires were ridiculously bald. That said, Will was a safe driver. He turned on his emergency blinkers, slowed his speed to a crawl, and ignored the way his body shivered because ‘cold’ was better than ‘dead.’

Unfortunately, god hated him. With only fifteen minutes left to go in what was turning into a two-hour trip, Will’s car died. Not sputtered. Not gave him trouble. Just flat-out died.

“No, no, no. Stupid, fucking—” Will smacked the wheel as he steered off onto the shoulder. His car rolled to a stop, completely useless, and refused to start again. Frustration swelled. He cursed both creatively and repetitively as he checked under the hood, using the flashlight on his phone to check for damage.

There was nothing obvious. Finding the problem would take time, and fixing it would take who the hell knew what. With Will’s luck it was the transmission, at which point he may as well just get a new car.

He couldn’t afford a new car.

“Shit.” He bent over the engine, making sure not to touch anything, and tried to see if all the belts were still in place. His options to fix it if he figured out what was wrong were fuck-all, but it was still better than doing nothing.

He’d just replaced his battery. The radiator hose looked fine. If the radiator itself had cracked, he was fucked anyway, but he didn’t see or smell any stray antifreeze.

Dread sank in Will’s stomach as the car continued to look fine, and the snow continued to fall. His fingers were cold enough that he nearly dropped his phone in the engine. He turned off the light and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. While the light from the streetlamp wasn’t nearly as good, it was better than killing his phone along with his car.

He leaned closer to the quickly cooling engine because at least it was warm, then checked his fluids. (The fluids were fine. He’d known that already. Shit.) He got back in the car and turned the key. Nothing. He returned to the engine. No amount of staring got him any closer to an answer, and the night only got colder. He stuffed his hands under his armpits for warmth, resentment and anxiety clumping heavy in his chest.

He needed to call a tow truck. He couldn’t afford a tow truck. He needed to call a taxi. He couldn’t afford a taxi. He could always call Hannibal, but then Hannibal would wave his magic credit card and fix everything. Which wasn’t bad, technically, except it would feel way too much like using Hannibal for his money. And if Will felt like he was using Hannibal for his money, then Hannibal might feel like Will was using him for his money, too.

Just the thought of it made Will sick.

So he stared at the engine. And stared. And stared. When it cooled enough, he stuck his hand inside to feel for any obvious breaks or misalignments. His fingers were too numb to tell. The urge to cry simmered behind his eyes, but it was too cold for that shit. He kicked his tire instead.

Headlights blinded Will as a car pulled off the road behind his own. He ducked his head and tried to figure out the make of the car. Something newer, or at least very well taken care of, judging by how bright the lights were.

He prayed for a good Samaritan, but with Will’s luck, it was more likely to be a serial killer. Maybe even one of his stalkers. Which, come to think of it, were both serial killers.

How fucking convenient.

The door to the other car opened, and a tall man stepped out. Will curled his fist around his pocket knife, just in case.

“Will?”

Will squinted, fingers going lax. “Hannibal?”

Hannibal stepped forward, his dark, silhouetted form causing a single moment of panic as Will’s instincts screamed this man is dangerous. Then the streetlamp illuminated his features, and the fear flickered out.

“Darling, I’ve been calling you. I was afraid you’d wrecked.”

Will furrowed his brows and used a trembling hand to pull out his phone. Four missed calls.

“Shit. Sorry, Hannibal. My car broke down, and I just…” He made a useless motion toward the engine.

“Decided to freeze to death while fixing it?” Hannibal took off his glove to place the backs of two fingers on Will’s cheek. Will barely felt it. “Tenacious thing, you’re frozen solid. Come. Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”

Will shivered and hugged his own torso tighter. He shook his head. “It’s fine. I can fix it.”

“I don’t doubt you can. What I do doubt is your body’s ability to stay alive while you do it. We’ll call a tow truck. Have them bring it back to Wolf Trap. You can work on it there, where you have the ability to use tools and can go inside to warm up as needed.”

Will shook his head again, frustration bubbling dangerously high, and went back to poking around in the engine. “Can’t afford a tow truck.”

“Then I will—”

“Stop saving me, Hannibal!” Will flinched at the sound of his own voice. Loud and angry. Eyes firmly fixed to the engine, Will softly continued, “I can’t let you keep saving me. If I keep… keep using you for your money, someday you’re going to get tired of it.” Get tired of Will. “And I don’t want that. So please just back off. I can fix it. I can take care of myself.”

Hannibal shifted in Will’s peripherals. Will didn’t look up.

A moment later, weight and a trickle of warmth fell on Will’s snow-covered shoulders. Will blinked dumbly as he realized it was Hannibal’s coat. He raised his head to see Hannibal standing in the snow in nothing but dress slacks and a white button up. Will yanked off the coat and tried to push it into Hannibal’s arms.

“What are you doing? You’ll freeze!”

Hannibal ignored the offered cloth. “I know you hate being psychoanalyzed, Mylimasis, but it’s very cold, so I’m going to speed this up. You don’t actually believe I’ll tire of spending money on you. Nor do you believe I don’t think you can take care of yourself.” Hannibal tugged his other glove off, exposing both his hands to the weather. Will tried to cover Hannibal’s hands with the coat, but Hannibal pushed it away. He continued, “You’ve provided for yourself all your life. A homeless, practically parentless child. A scholarship student. A self-taught repairman.”

Will sounded overly-urgent even to his own ears as he said, “Hannibal, stop. Put on your coat.”

“Tell me why you insist on fixing your car.”

“Because it’s broken.”

“No.”

“Because I can’t afford a new one.”

“No.”

“Because I don’t want you to spend your money on me.”

“No.”

Tears burned behind Will’s eyes. Hannibal’s (precious, dexterous, important) hands tinted dark pink.

“Hannibal, please.”

“Tell me, Will.”

“I don’t—Because it’s my car. I need it.”

“No.” Hannibal’s hand moved to the top of his already too-thin shirt. He started undoing the buttons, cold fingers much slower than usual.

Will tossed Hannibal’s jacket onto the engine and grabbed Hannibal’s hands before he could strip to is undershirt. “I don’t know!”

“You do know.”

“Please put your coat back on.”

“Say it, Will.”

“Please—”

“Say it.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Will.”

Hannibal’s voice was soft but firm. An order. Anxiety spiked while the tears spilled over, and Will half-shouted, “Because I don’t know how to be taken care of!” He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed. In a quieter voice, he continued, “Because I’m scared that I’m going to get used to this, and you’re going to leave. Because I don’t want to be blindsided when I have to do it all alone again.”

Hannibal’s hand slipped out of Will’s hold. One arm encircled Will’s waist to pull him close. The other buried itself in Will’s hair, pressing his face against Hannibal’s shoulder. In a soft, praising voice, Hannibal said, “There’s my good boy. So honest. So vulnerable.”

Will sucked in a watery breath, not sure why the words hurt. He tried to pull away. Hannibal held him even closer.

“Lovely thing. It must have been hard, holding that in. You did so good to tell me the truth. To trust me. I’m so proud of you, Darling.”

Proud.

The word echoed in Will’s head like a wrecking ball.

It broke him.

Pain and anxiety gripped him tight, making the world spin. He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t breathe. Will tried to push Hannibal away, to get air, but Hannibal was immovable. Suffocating. A strong hand ran up and down Will’s back while Hannibal took deep, even breaths. Will gasped.

“Hannibal, I can’t—I can’t—”

“Breathe with me, Love.”

Will tried, but it was too much. His breaths turned shallow and short. He stopped breathing altogether.

Hannibal’s hand left Will’s hair to grasp Will’s chin and tilt upward. Will met Hannibal’s eyes. Heard the slow, purposeful intake of breath. Felt the warmth of Hannibal breathing out on his nose and lips. Hannibal did it again, attention unwavering.

Will copied.

And it was so easy, standing there while Hannibal took the wheel. Not thinking about anything but how to breathe. Not breathing in any way other than the one Hannibal liked. Slowly, Hannibal’s hand left Will’s chin to pet his hair.

“My wonderful, self-sufficient boy. My Will.” Hannibal peppered his cheeks and hair with cold kisses. “Allow me to take you home, Darling. To dote on you and service you as you deserve.”

Will blinked, hazy and tired. He hesitated. “My car…”

“I’ll call a tow truck.” He pressed his lips to Will’s, hard and chaste. “And you can pay me back.”

Will narrowed his eyes, resolve wavering. “You promise?”

Hannibal smiled. “Paranoid thing. Yes, I promise.” He took a step away from Will, and the cold immediately set back in. “Now will you please get in my car?”

Will huffed out a laugh. He grabbed Hannibal’s coat off the engine, closed the hood, and trucked through the snow to the passenger’s seat of Hannibal’s Bentley. Heat flowed out of the car as he opened the door, and he quickly got inside to prevent losing any more.

“Oh, wow.” He put both hands over the vents, soaking in the heat. Hannibal joined him a moment later, and Will was once again reminded that Hannibal had practically frozen himself to force Will’s hand. Will took the upper part of Hannibal’s coat and draped it over Hannibal’s lap, like a blanket. It was long enough that the hem still covered Will.

Hannibal offered Will his hand, which was redder than it was white, and Will accepted. By the time they got back to Hannibal’s house, feeling had returned to Will’s fingers and toes. Hannibal squeezed Will’s hand before exiting the car, and Will forced himself to wait as the older man walked around the hood to open Will’s door, too.

Will stood, bundling Hannibal’s coat in his arms as he went. Hannibal kissed his cheek.

“Spectacular thing. Are you trying to spoil me?”

Will glanced at the undone buttons of Hannibal’s shirt. He nodded.

Hannibal kissed his ear and purred, “Good. Spoil me more.”

A shiver twirled up Will’s spine, and with it: want. “How?”

Hannibal took his jacket from Will and folded it over his forearm. He held out a hand for Will to take, twining their fingers together as he led Will from the garage, through the house, to the front entrance. He hung up his own coat on the coat rack rather than in the closet, then took Will’s coat and hat, too. They left their shoes by the door.

Hannibal led Will up to the bathroom connected to his bedroom, then peeled Will’s glove from his hand and kissed the knuckles. “Undress, please.”

Will blinked. “Are we…?” He glanced back at the nice warm bed behind them, then threw a look around the cold tile bathroom. “In here?”

 Hannibal smiled, indulgent. “No, Darling. I’m going to bathe you.”

Will glared. “You said I would get to spoil you.”

“Sexual pleasures are not the only rewards, Will. I want to bathe you. Not simply to wash you off in the shower, as I have before, but to trim your hair and massage your skin.” He brushed a curl out of Will’s eyes. “It will make you uncomfortable. You’ll feel like I’m doing too much and you’re doing too little. You’ll want to stop before I’m done.”

Will’s gut twisted, knowing that was true. Hell, he already wanted to stop. It was easy to let Hannibal take charge with sex and in social clubs because Will didn’t know what he was doing. Bathing himself though? That was easy. He could (and did) do it on autopilot. To give control of something that simple over to Hannibal would be…

Intimate.

Will fisted his fingers in the hem of his flannel and tugged. That wasn’t enough, so he pressed his knuckles against his jeans, too. He tugged again, using the rough scrape of denim against skin to ground himself. 

Hannibal’s touch was ridiculously soft as he trailed his fingertips from Will’s hair down the side of his face. He paused for a moment over Will’s jugular, then curled his fingers around the back of Will’s neck.

“May I?”

Will worked his jaw. He wanted to tell Hannibal no. Wanted to find another way to spoil the man that wouldn’t leave Will feeling even more adored and attached. He looked at the ground.

“Tell me you won’t get tired of me.”

“I won’t get tired of you.”

“Tell me you don’t care about the money.”

“I don’t care about the money.”

Tears pricked in Will’s eyes. “Tell me you won’t leave.”

Hannibal stepped closer. Pressed his face into Will’s hair. “I will never leave you, Will. And I will never let you leave me.” He kissed Will’s scalp: a dark promise. Will melted against him.

“Okay.”

Hannibal’s hand on his neck tightened, approving.

“Okay.”

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal unbuttoned Will’s flannel for him.

He would like to undress Will in full, but it was too soon. His boy was on edge, unused to being cared for, and pushing too hard, too fast would have Will running.

Hannibal turned to fill the bath while Will finished undressing. The tub was perfect for one adult male but unsuited for two. He briefly considered remodeling to accommodate, but it would be easier to wait until he’d picked their new home. He could hire a team to remodel there while Will came around to the idea of living together, essentially getting everything he wanted without ever interfering with their day-to-day life.

Will walked over, fully nude, long before the tub finished filling. Hannibal admired him.

Unruly curls of hair. Aurora borealis eyes. Petal soft, ever-chapped lips. Sweet, still-swollen nipples. A lovely trail of dark hair leading down to Will’s small, limp cock. Hannibal stepped closer and ran his fingers through the wiry tangle of pubic hairs.

“May I trim these?”

Will’s brows furrowed. He looked down. “My pubes?”

“Yes. For aesthetics, mostly, though it also makes blowjobs more pleasant.”

Will blinked, discomfort obvious in the way he shifted his hips away from Hannibal’s fingers. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He forced a shrug. “I guess so.” Hesitation. “You’re not going to shave them off, right?”

“No.” Shaving would be an occasional thing. A treat. “An inch of hair should be perfect.”

“Is that how long yours are?”

“Yes.”

Will grunted. He continued to look at Hannibal’s hand in his pubic hairs. His cock remained soft. After half a minute, he sighed. “Yeah. Okay. An inch is fine.”

Hannibal released the hairs to pat the counter of the sink. “Up, please.” Will hopped up onto the counter, shoulders still tense. Hannibal brushed the back of his middle finger down Will’s beard. “May I shave this, too?”

Will pulled back, hand raising to cover the place Hannibal had touched. He shook his head. “I like my facial hair.”

Hannibal took in the narrowed eyes and tightly closed legs. The willingness to run. The hopes that Hannibal would push too far so that Will would have reason to lash out. To resent.

Hannibal nodded. “Alright.”

Will, as always, appeared unprepared for Hannibal’s easy acquiescence. The defensive set of his shoulders dropped. The tight squeeze of his thighs relaxed. Tone suspicious, he asked, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Hannibal patted Will’s knee with one hand and plucked his electric razor out of its charging port with the other. “Open, please.”

Will frowned, obviously expecting more of a fight. After another second of hesitation, he spread his legs. Hannibal stepped between them, then used his own hands to spread them wider still. Wide enough to pull the skin on Will’s scrotum taut, so Hannibal could trim him evenly. Hannibal placed the one-inch guard over the blades and turned it on. Blue eyes locked on the razor.

Will’s toes flexed as he worked to keep himself still. Hannibal placed his hand on Will’s stomach to make his boy lean back a bit. Will’s abs tightened as Hannibal pressed the razor to his skin.

He drew a smooth line upward, cutting a path through the forest of curls. The muscles under Hannibal’s hand quivered. Will’s cock twitched.

Hannibal glanced at the bath to make sure the water was still at a reasonable level, then kept going. Another line, close to the base of Will’s cock. A third one above it. The fourth and fifth lines on the other side, and a click to turn the razor off. Will’s cock stood at half-mast, still adorably small. Hannibal placed the electric razor on the counter to be washed and grabbed his straight razor to clean up the edges.

He flicked it open, blade gleaming in the light. He brushed the incredibly sharp edge across the crease between Will’s thigh and scrotum. The stray hairs outside Hannibal’s decided-upon boundary line fell away.

Will’s cock hardened.

Hannibal groaned softly. “Perfect thing.” He used the back of the razor to caress the underside of Will’s cock. Will spread his legs wider. Hannibal leaned forward to softly kiss Will’s nipple, then continued cleaning up the outer boundary of Will’s pubic hairs. He didn’t touch Will’s cock again, no matter how much his boy tempted him.

Will’s body needed to know Hannibal as a source of kindness, comfort, and safety, not just pleasure.

When he finished, he set the straight razor next to the electric razor and moved to turn off the bath. Will stayed still, likely so as not to get hair everywhere, and stared at himself. Hannibal watched as Will ran curious fingers through the shortened curls, making sure not to touch his dick as he went. Darling thing.

Hannibal plucked a hand towel from the closet and returned to Will. He gathered the majority of the hairs in his hand and dropped them in the trash, then wet the hand towel in the sink beside Will. He wiped the remaining hairs away and shook that over the trash, too. Once he was sure Will wouldn’t track hairs everywhere, he motioned to the bath.

Will hopped down, less tense now that what he’d perceived as the worst of it was over. His hands stayed a bit closer to his pelvis than usual: not quite hiding his cock from Hannibal’s view, but thinking about it. Self-conscious.

He slipped into the clear water, and Hannibal gathered the proper bath salts and oils from the closet. When he returned to Will’s side, Will raised both brows.

“Seriously?”

Hannibal uncapped a vial of bath salts and poured a circle around Will. He did the same with a second vial, then added whimsical, dissolvable balls of bath oils to help soften Will’s skin.

Will batted one away. “Is this what you usually use?”

“No. I bought these for you.” As a final touch, Hannibal added two soap roses to the water, letting them float on the surface around Will.

Will picked one up and examined it. “Why?”

“Aesthetics.” Hannibal settled on his knees next to the tub. “And because I felt you’d never had a proper bath before. One meant for pampering, not simply cleaning.”

Will peeled one of the petals off the rose. It half-dissolved between his fingers. He dropped it into the water and picked off another. “Well, you’re not wrong. If I’ve ever had a bath at all before this, I don’t remember it.”

“And has anyone ever told you they're proud of you before?”

Will stilled. They both knew why Hannibal was asking. After a few seconds, Will’s fingers continued absently tearing off petals. He stared at the bottles of body and hair products lining the edge of the bath, mind likely running through all the usual suspects for receiving praise. Parents. Teachers. Lovers. 

His shoulders relaxed. He stopped plucking petals off the rose, only half finished, and dunked the rest under water. When he raised his hand again, it was a shapeless mound.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Hannibal nodded, knowing that this (much like Alana having gotten rid of Will’s dogs), was a topic for another time. He filed ‘I’m proud of you,’ under praises belonging on the far end of the validation spectrum. Something to be used sparingly. Pointedly.

(‘Proud’ would be one of the weapons with which he broke Will, and also one of the tools used to put him back together again.)

Hannibal picked up one of the spheres of oil, now soft thanks to the water, and popped it between his fingers. Will copied him. Hannibal rinsed his fingers in the pink water. Will went for another sphere.

“Turn, please. I’d like to wash your hair.”

Will dunked his head under water, then turned and leaned his back against the edge of the tub to give Hannibal access. Hannibal rolled up his sleeves, poured shampoo into his palm, and started massaging Will’s scalp.

Will hummed and relaxed further. His hand found the other rose and started tearing off petals. (Hannibal would have to get more of those.) He murmured, “Feels nice.”

“I’m glad.” He scrubbed behind Will’s ears before moving lower, to Will’s neck and shoulders. “You’ve been very tense lately.”

Will snorted. “And whose fault is that?”

“I want to let you cum as much as you do, Darling.”

“Doubtful.” Will tilted his head to catch Hannibal’s eye. “If you actually want to let me cum, why don’t you?”

“Because I need something first.”

“What?”

“You have to come to that conclusion on your own.”

“And if I never come to that conclusion?”

“Then you’ll never cum.” Hannibal dug his thumb into a knot next to Will’s shoulder blade. Will groaned pleasantly.

He sounded relaxed even as he asked, “You don’t actually mean that, do you?”

“Do you think I mean it?”

Will glanced back at Hannibal again. He grimaced. “You mean it.”

“Correct.” Hannibal worked his way back into Will’s hair. “But I think you’ll get it within the week. Rinse, please.”

Will sucked in a breath and dunked his head. He ruffled his hair the same way one would a dog, which said a lot about his level of self-care, then came back up. He brushed his hair carelessly out of his face. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because it would defeat the purpose.” Hannibal made a circular motion with his finger so Will would turn around again, then started on the conditioner.

Almost offhandedly, Will said, “You know most people don’t turn sex into a mind game, right?”

“I am not most people.”

Will hummed, unconvinced. Hannibal tapped his shoulder to get his attention, then patted the edge of the tub. Will obeyed without question. It wasn’t until Hannibal started rubbing conditioner into his public hairs, too, that Will blinked down at him in question.

“Yes, Darling?”

“Not gonna lie. I honestly thought you just magically had soft pubes, but this makes more sense.”

Hannibal smiled. “I take care of my body.”

“I… think about taking care of my body sometimes.”

“Do you?”

Will scrunched his nose. “No.”

They both watched Hannibal’s hands massage the triangular area of Will’s scrotum. Having both of Hannibal’s hands next to Will’s soft cock made him look even smaller, which made Hannibal’s own cock harden in his slacks. He used a conditioner-soaked hand to make a fist around the soft, squishy length, completely covering it. Will pulsed in his fist, starting to grow. Hannibal dug his fingernail into the slit, then released it.

“Stand, please.”

Will twisted his lips, obviously put-out, but obeyed. Hannibal lathered his hands in body wash and leaned over the edge to rub Will’s calves. He made his way up Will’s soft, slick body, and while he was able to hold himself back from stroking that lovely cock, he couldn’t resist rubbing two fingers up the cleft of Will’s ass.

Will’s hole puckered beneath his fingers, remembering what he could do. Hannibal pressed inside only enough to feel that perfect heat on his fingertips, then moved on. Will whined prettily. Hannibal groped the globes of his ass, then stood so he could reach the rest.

He smoothed his hands over Will’s waist and hips. Rubbed his thumbs adoringly over pert nipples. Will’s cock swelled, as though trying to show Hannibal how hard it had worked to fulfill his desires. Will’s body didn’t used to respond to nipple play. Now it knew better.

(Someday, it would know well enough to cum just from nipple stimulation. Hannibal didn’t care how many years he had to work or how many wires he had to cross in Will’s brain. He would make it happen.)

Hannibal kissed one nipple, then the other, only barely resisting the urge to take them between his teeth. He finished when he reached Will’s shoulders, then switched to face wash. Will closed his eyes as Hannibal worked, unquestioning. When Hannibal placed two hands on his shoulders and pushed him lower – down into the water where Hannibal could so easily drown him – he didn’t protest. He slipped beneath the surface.

The monster in Hannibal twitched at the open show of trust. The man was no better.

Hannibal rinsed Will’s hair, then moved a hand lower, to Will’s chest. Will squirmed, requesting air. Hannibal kept him under. Will’s fingers curled around Hannibal’s wrist, but he didn’t force Hannibal away. Hannibal watched, engrossed, as air bubbles disturbed the otherwise calm water. Will’s heartbeat sped under his palm. (Frightened? Excited? Or simply adrenaline.)

More air bubbles. A tighter grip. And finally two long, distinct taps.

Hannibal let him up.

Will broke the surface with a gasp, hands shooting out to clench either side of the tub. He hadn’t only waited until he felt uncomfortable, but until he had genuinely run out of air and risked drowning. Fascinating. Will twisted he neck to look at Hannibal, desperately searching.

Hannibal calmly tilted his head, wondering what his boy would find.

After a few deep, shaky breaths, Will said, “You enjoyed that.”

“Yes.”

Will swallowed thickly, the conclusion ‘Sadist’ practically sprawled across his face. His breathing evened. He said nothing.

Slowly, as not to spook Will, Hannibal placed his palm over the center of Will’s chest. A silent request to do it again.

Will sucked in a deeper breath, still trembling. After an incredibly slow minute where neither man did anything but stare, Will nodded. A small, jagged thing. A show of trust. Hannibal pressed on Will’s chest. Watched as Will’s hands released their hold on the edge of the tub. Stared as lovely curls disappeared beneath the surface of the cloudy pink water.

Oh, how Will spoiled him.

Chapter Text

Will expected not masturbating to be easier than it was.

His lifestyle, nightmare-fueled insomnia, stint in prison, and general neuroses had all taught him that he didn’t need to get off to survive. He’d gone for a month (months?) before, no problem.

Before, however, was before.

Before Hannibal started sliding his devilishly talented hands along Will’s body, day and night. Before Will had known what it was like to stand atop the steepest cliffs of pleasure: toes over the edge, orgasm at the bottom, ready to drop. Before he realized Hannibal never intended to give that final push.

Intense sexual pleasure, practically every night and every morning. Never with any release.

“Hannibal. Hannibal, please.” Will rocked back onto Hannibal’s fingers, fucking himself against those perfect digits for what felt like the millionth time in an endless stream of not-orgasms. His cock quivered. His thighs trembled. Hannibal’s fingers curled to grind against Will’s prostate, and despite the urge to just let go, his mouth still opened to say, “C-close.”

Will sobbed as the fingers pulled out. His cock strained painfully between his legs, demanding to be touched. Two strokes would do it. Maybe even just one. Hannibal’s steady hand rubbed a line up Will’s sweaty, shaking stomach. Away from his dick.

“Good boy. So good for me. So perfect. You’re beautiful like this, Darling.”

Will keened, too desperate to be embarrassed. He shook his head. “Please, Hannibal. I can’t—I can’t take anymore. I need to cum.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Trust me, sweet thing. You can take so much more than this.” Hannibal circled a finger around Will’s already gaping asshole. Slipped it casually inside, nowhere near Will’s prostate. Will bucked into it anyway. “And you will. You’ll take everything I have to give, suck it all up with this hungry hole of yours, and keep going. Do you know why?”

Will sobbed again, this time with need. He rocked himself against the finger but found no pleasure in it. “N-no.”

“Because it pleases me for you to do so.”

Hannibal leaned down and kissed one of Will’s overly-sensitive nipples. He scraped his teeth along the chafed, bruised nub, then gently bit down. Will’s hips jerked harder without his permission. Hannibal smiled against Will’s skin, kissed the nipple again, then moved on to do the same thing to the next one.

(And Will was sure – was positive – that his nipples didn’t used to do anything for him sexually. They still didn’t, most of the time. But when Hannibal’s lips and teeth touched him, no matter where they touched him, all bets were off.)

“One more time, Darling. Then you can rest.”

Will groaned because he couldn’t take one more time. Hannibal’s nails scratched along Will’s ribs: a silent promise for how proud he would be when Will made it all the way through their session. Will blinked away tears.

He couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to do it. He nodded anyway.

Hannibal kissed his way from Will’s nipple to his shoulder. He bit just above Will’s collarbone, teeth digging into Will’s skin at the same time that he shoved in two extra fingers. Will cried out, dick once again painfully full. Hannibal’s fingers went straight for Will’s prostate, merciless, while his tongue lapped up the blood welling in the indents from his teeth.

Ecstasy spiked all throughout Will’s body, but especially in his cock. He grit his teeth, trying to hold on just a second longer, then said, “Stop.”

“Lovely boy.” Hannibal removed his fingers, leaving Will achingly empty, then prodded Will’s stretched hole with the tip of his penis. Will rolled his shoulders against the bed, eager for what he knew came next. Hoping it would lead to more.

(Knowing it wouldn’t.)

Hannibal pressed forward until the head of his cock slipped past the outer sphincter of Will’s asshole. Stretching Will so wide that it was hard to believe it was only the tip. God, when they fucked, Will was going to break.

With the largest part of his cock tucked safely away inside, Hannibal began to stroke himself. Will groaned and tried to thrust down, to claim more of Hannibal, but a strong hand on his stomach held him still.

“So tight around me, Darling. Hot. Sweet. Perfect. You’re going to feel so good when you finally take me inside.”

Will nodded, frantic. “Please, Hannibal. Please. Please fuck me.”

“Not yet.” Hannibal rolled his hips, obviously enjoying himself. “Soon.”

Will curled his fists into the bed sheets, body trembling with anticipation. The edge of Hannibal’s fist slapped against Will’s ass with every stroke. The look on Hannibal’s face (maroon eyes hooded, hair out of place, cheeks flushed) had Will tightening around Hannibal’s cockhead. Hannibal groaned, eyes closing in time with the warmth that spurted into Will.

Will tilted his head back against the bed, feeling Hannibal’s satisfaction as though it were his own. And though Will didn’t understand it fully, he knew there was something euphoric (something obsessive) in making sure Will took in every last drop of his seed. Be it in Will’s mouth, down Will’s throat, or even just like this – the head of Hannibal’s cock stretching out Will’s small hole – when Hannibal came, he did it always, always inside Will.

(Like Will’s body was the only acceptable receptacle for Hannibal’s cum, and placing it anywhere else would be downright distasteful.)

It made Will feel as desired as it did debased. It made him want more.

Hannibal pulled out, and whatever cum came out with him was quickly stuffed back inside by two long fingers. Will’s entire body spasmed as Hannibal rubbed his prostate: one final tease before officially vacating Will.

Will immediately turned on his side, waiting, and Hannibal moved up the bed. The wet head of Hannibal’s dick kissed Will’s lips a moment later, and Will took him inside once more. His lips closed around Hannibal’s cock, the taste of Hannibal bitter on his tongue. He sucked as Hannibal stroked himself, the last of Hannibal’s cum dribbling into his mouth.

Will held it there, knowing Hannibal would want to see. He kept his lips pressed tight as Hannibal pulled out, sucking him clean, then opened his mouth again. Hannibal loosed a sated hum, his hand tugging appreciatively at Will’s hair.

Will swallowed.

As soon as he did, Hannibal’s lips were on his. Will’s cock bumped Hannibal’s stomach, still ridiculously hard. Will moaned into Hannibal’s mouth.

“My darling.” A kiss. “My heart.” A kiss. “My stunning little vixen. Narcissus envies your beauty, and Cupid yearns for your mouth. Both belong to me. Oh, how the Fates must favor me to have blessed me with such a perfect man. A perfect partner. You are everything I have ever dreamed of, Will. And even then, my dreams are sallow in comparison.”

Contentment fluttered in Will’s chest. Hannibal pressed another kiss to Will’s mouth, then to Will’s cheeks and eyelids and throat. However rough Hannibal was with Will during sex, his tenderness afterward matched and multiplied tenfold. He petted Will’s hair, praises transitioning to a language Will didn’t know. And though Will’s dick still ached – though he was still painfully unsatisfied – he wouldn’t trade Hannibal’s open adoration for the world.

For the first time in Will’s life, he felt loved. Unconditionally so.

Which was stupid, technically. He shouldn’t feel loved – shouldn’t want to feel loved – by a man who took pleasure from pretending to drown him. Will knew that.

He just didn’t care.

Hannibal had pretended to drown him. He didn’t actually do it. Every time Will asked to be let up, Hannibal released him. No hesitation.

And okay, there was something decidedly dark staring out from behind Hannibal’s eyes as he let Will up, but Will had dark parts, too. He’d thought about killing Alana. Actively wanted to kill the Mutilator. Withheld information from the police so they couldn’t catch the Ripper.

Hannibal took all of that in stride, never once making Will feel like he was ‘sick’ or ‘wrong.’ No, he made Will feel loved. And what kind of bastard would Will be to ask someone to accept him for all of his faults only to turn his nose up when they displayed a fault of their own?

Hannibal was an honest-to-god sadist.

And that was okay.

Will grabbed Hannibal tightly by the hair and pulled him up for a kiss. He pushed his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth, wanting more. Always more. Hannibal kissed him back with fervor, rolling them so Will was on top. Will bit Hannibal’s lip hard enough to draw blood. Hannibal moaned.

Will pulled away, needing to stop before he came too close to cumming again. He sat up, hips aligned with Hannibal’s hips, and used a hand on Hannibal’s chest to keep the other man on the bed. (A mockery of Will’s drowning. A power play Hannibal could easily reverse.) Hannibal’s chest heaved, sweaty and powerful. Will curled his fingers in the thick tufts of chest hair, eyes trailing down to look at their cocks. Even with Will fully hard and Hannibal completely soft, Will was barely larger.

Will rolled his hips, turned on for reasons he couldn’t describe. Hannibal arched his back encouragingly.

“If only you could see yourself, Will. Gorgeous boy.”

 “Not as gorgeous as you.” Will pressed his hard cock onto Hannibal’s soft length, not for the feel but for the visual. “When you’re finally willing to have sex, I think I’m going to enjoy riding you.”

“I do hope so.” Hannibal’s hands found Will’s hips, grip reverent. “I know I’m going to adore being ridden.”

Will scoffed. “Most men do.”

“Yes, but most men don’t have access to a succubus. Once I’m in here…” Hannibal slid a hand from Will’s hip to Will’s stomach, splaying it flat. “I may never decide to leave again.”

Will ground his ass against Hannibal’s thighs, humming as he felt some of Hannibal’s cum leak out. “Sounds good to me.”

“As it should, considering your body was made specifically for my cock.”

“Technically, I think it was also made for crime solving and mental breakdowns.”

Hannibal pursed his lips, pretending to think. He shook his head. “No. Just my cock.”

Will laughed. He smacked Hannibal’s chest. “Jerk.”

Hannibal smoothed his hand back and forth along Will’s stomach, unrepentant. “You can continue to do those other things, too, if you’d like. So long as you come home to me afterward.”

“And to your cock?”

Hannibal nodded. “And to my cock.”

Will rolled his eyes with a grin. “You’re lucky I like you so much. Your pick-up lines are terrible.”

“Yes, well, you are already in my bed.”

“Yeah, and I can get out of your bed.”

Hannibal ran his fingers through the soft, short curls at the base of Will’s softening cock. “Or you could lie down with me. Allow me to massage your back and shoulders. Your feet. Your legs.”

“The inside of my ass?”

“If we must.”

Will snorted but obediently rolled off Hannibal to lie on his stomach. Face buried comfortably in the pillow, aware that he was going to fall asleep long before Hannibal got anywhere near his ass, Will said, “Keep it PG.”

Hannibal’s fingers ghosted along his shoulders. Caressed the back of his neck. Sank into his hair.

Lips against Will’s ear, he murmured, “Anything, Darling.”

(***Paragon***)

Will’s nipples didn’t used to do anything for him. They just sat there, on his chest, being nipples. Before Hannibal, he’d never even thought of using them to get off. Now though, what he thought didn’t mean a thing.

His nipples were so sore (he outright refused to call them sensitive) that every brush of cloth from Will’s softest flannel to Hannibal’s silkiest silk shirt had him aching. And because Hannibal insisted on toying with them as he sucked on Will’s dick, his body had formed an association.

When Will’s nipples ached, his dick did, too.

And apparently, because Will’s body was that of a goddamn teenager, it couldn’t tell the difference between ‘at home in bed’ and ‘staring at a fucking corpse.’

Will didn’t need that association, too, so he did what any reasonable adult would do. He hid in a bathroom stall, absolutely mortified, and looked up what to do about sore nipples on his phone. Unfortunately, the only suggestion that didn’t have to do with either breastfeeding or seeing a doctor was to put Band-Aids over his nipples.

Band-Aids.

Over his nipples.

It was embarrassing to the extreme, and if anyone ever found out about it, he would die.

…It did help though. His nipples still itched and were generally sore, but he could shift in his seat without worrying about popping a stiffy. And so long as Will remembered not to reach up and scratch at them, it was almost like normal. (Or whatever ‘normal’ was now that he was dating a sadist who was obsessed with his nipples.)

Will officially exited out of the incognito google search on his phone, then set it face down on the desk. He didn’t know how much time passed between delving into is files and a warm hand landing on his shoulder, but when he looked up next, Hannibal was there.

Warmth immediately unfurled in Will’s stomach.

“Hannibal.”

“Mylimasis.” Hannibal leaned down to kiss Will on the lips. “I brought you lunch.”

Will smiled gratefully. He leaned back from where he’d been hunched over his files, and maroon eyes flitted down to his chest. The hand on Will’s neck slid around to adjust Will’s collar, pinky subtly brushing over Will’s bandaged nipple. Will tensed at the odd sensation, and though he was embarrassed to have been found out already, at least there was no shock of arousal to go along with it. Hannibal tilted his head, expression too neutral to read.

A second later, Hannibal’s hand left Will to smooth the material over his own abdomen. “Darling, I’ve forgotten something for you in my car. Would you mind accompanying me to retrieve it?”

Forgotten something. Will didn’t believe that for a single second. Discomfort shifted in his gut: a warning. Still, he grabbed his (Hannibal’s) coat off the back of his chair and said, “Sure.”

He didn’t bother buttoning the coat. He also didn’t miss the disapproving look Alana sent Hannibal as they left. It seemed like the longer Will and Hannibal were together, the more she disapproved. (Like she thought they were on a… a time limit, maybe? And they were nearing the end? It didn’t make much sense in Will’s head, either.)

Once they were in the hall, Hannibal’s hand returned to Will’s neck. His grip was just the slightest bit tighter than usual, which, for Hannibal, was as good as a stern berating. Nerves bundled on top of the discomfort. Will ducked his head.

Rather than turning left at the end of the hall, toward the exit, Hannibal took a right. He led them into the gender-neutral restroom and locked the door.

Will pressed his back against the door, eyes glued to the bottom button of Hannibal’s coat. Hannibal’s hand fell from his neck.

“Show me, Darling.”

Will swallowed. His throat didn’t hurt anymore, but he wished it did. Anything to distract him from the guilt of having displeased Hannibal. He slowly fisted his hands in the bottom hem of his flannel and tugged upward.

The embarrassment he’d felt putting the Band-Aids on was nothing compared to the embarrassment of showing Hannibal. He bunched up material just below his chin and held it there, cheeks burning.

Hannibal lifted a hand to smooth over the left bandage. He peeled it off slowly, revealing Will’s red, swollen nipple, then repeated the motion on the other side. He crumpled the Band-Aids in his fist and threw them away.

“You covered yourself.”

“They were sore.”

“They are supposed to be sore. You should feel every brush of cloth and every breeze, and you should think of me when you do.” Hannibal reached up to tweak Will’s nipple. Pain and shameful pleasure shot through him. His cock stirred. Hannibal, still in a leisurely tone, asked, “Do you know why that’s important, Will?”

Hannibal’s fingernail dug into the top of Will’s nipple. Will closed his eyes. His voice hitched as he said, “Because you want it?”

“That’s part of it. More importantly, however, is the timing. Your body is getting to know me. It’s learning to recognize my touch and what I expect of it. Learning to yearn for me and the pleasure I provide.”

Hannibal’s fingers trailed over to Will’s other nipple, two fingernails digging into the nub. He scraped outward, stretching it away from Will’s chest, then twisted. Will hissed a gasp in through his teeth.

Will said, “I already know you.”

“Intellectually, yes. But these…” He flattened his hand in the middle of Will’s chest and used his thumb to flick the right nipple. “Need to know me, too. Your body must react to me separately from your mind. Even if you are angry with me, even if you are determined not to be pleased, I want your nipples to perk in anticipation. Your cock to twitch and swell. And bandages get in the way of that.”

Hannibal ducked to take Will’s nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around it. His hand twisted and tugged at the other bud, nails scraping red lines down Will’s skin. Will’s head fell back against the door. He quickly pressed his hand to his mouth in an attempt to stop himself from moaning. One side of his shirt sagged. Hannibal sunk his teeth into Will’s nipple, hard and reprimanding. Will’s voice jumped out in an embarrassing squeak, and he moved his hand back to the shirt.

Hannibal sucked his freshly bitten nipple. Pulled away. Returned with a flat tongue to lick off a welling bead of blood. Will’s fingers trembled from how tightly he gripped his flannel, uselessly aroused, and he tried to remember why he couldn’t make noise.

Voice broken and desperate, Will whispered, “Hannibal, we’re at work.”

Hannibal switched hands and moved his mouth to the other nipple. His fingers immediately found Will’s fresh wounds and dug in. Workspace be damned, Will moaned.

He rolled his hips into empty air, cock aching. He wouldn’t cum – couldn’t cum – just from his nipples, but then, he didn’t used to get hard from his nipples, either. Hannibal was crossing Will’s wires as he pleased, and Will feared it was only a matter of time before his reactions belonged more to Hannibal than himself.

Hannibal’s teeth rolled and teased the unbitten nub, grinding hard without breaking skin. Will’s fingers twitched and twisted in his shirt as he fought the urge to bury his hands in Hannibal’s hair and pull the man closer. He whined, “Hannibal please.”

Hannibal’s teeth and fingers simultaneously tugged, and it hurt so good. Will’s back arched, shoulder blades grinding against the door. His hips jerked on instinct. Hannibal pressed a hard kiss to each nipple, once again licking the blood away from the broken skin, then stepped away.

Will slumped against the door, chest heaving, arms shaking. He continued to hold his shirt up for no other reason than the fact that Hannibal hadn’t given him permission to drop it.

Hannibal watched him, pleased, and raised his left hand to lick Will’s blood from his fingers. “Perfect, Darling. So good for me.”

Will’s dick jerked in his pants. He turned his eyes downward, gaze catching on his bright red, heavily swollen nipples. The thought Hannibal did that scrolled through is mind on a teleprompter, leaving him groaning.

Hannibal’s shoes and endlessly long legs entered Will’s line of sight. Warm lips pressed against the flat of his ear. “Thank me, Will.”

“Thank you.”

Another kiss, this time on Will’s cheekbone. “Good boy. You can fix your shirt now.”

Will’s eyes fluttered closed, momentarily overwhelmed by the high of having satisfied Hannibal. He dropped his shirt a moment later. Hannibal’s fingers moved to button Will’s coat over the rumpled shirt. The extra weight laid heavy on his painfully sore (not sensitive) nipples, but rather than thinking of ways to fix it, he relaxed into the ache. His (Hannibal’s) coat was long enough to cover Will’s cock. If he kept it on, his arousal would stay hidden.

(It should have disturbed him, then, to realize that if Hannibal denied him his coat, he would still have obeyed. It didn’t.)

Hannibal brushed his hands across Will’s shoulders, smoothing out the coat material. His right hand slid around to the nape of Will’s neck, pressure once again normal. And there was something comforting in the knowledge that, after a punishment, the slate was wiped clean. No grudges. No walking on glass. No worries. Hannibal chastised as he saw fit, then moved on.

He guided Will away from the door, then led them out into the blessedly empty hallway. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t just head back to Will’s desk from there. They actually went outside. Will reached up to tug his beanie down over his ears only to remember he wasn’t wearing it.

“Did you really forget something?”

“I rarely forget anything, Darling.” Hannibal’s hand left Will’s neck to open the passenger side door. A giftwrapped box sat inside. Hannibal picked it up and handed it to Will.

Will shook it beside his ear even as he said, “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Whatever was inside didn’t make noise. The box was light though. Some sort of clothing, probably. Will tore off the paper, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He lifted the lid to reveal dark green cloth, though it wasn’t until he took it out of the box that he recognized it as a winter scarf.

He grinned. “Thank you, Hannibal.” He handed Hannibal the box so he could put on the scarf. Hannibal immediately placed the box in the Bentley and took the scarf from Will so he could wrap it around Will’s neck himself. He folded it so that two long, even lines of cloth trailed down the center of Will’s chest.

Hannibal then twisted the ends of the scarf around his hand and used that to tug Will forward. Will stumbled toward him. Hannibal caught his lips in a kiss.

Will opened his mouth to properly kiss Hannibal. Hannibal slipped his tongue into Will’s mouth, then tugged the scarf just a little too tight. Will moaned. Hannibal’s free hand rubbed a hard line over Will’s nipple, which went straight to Will’s dick, then Hannibal pulled away.

He pressed a warm kiss to Will’s cold cheek. “Lovely, Darling.”

Hannibal loosened the scarf before tucking the long ends into the neck of Will’s coat. While he did that, Will snuck a hand inside Hannibal’s coat pocket and stole his wallet. When Hannibal finished adjusting the scarf to his liking, Will tugged it up higher, so it covered his lips and nose.

It was warm and soft. Probably hand-knitted, knowing Hannibal. Butterflies flitted around Will’s heart, stupidly happy. Will held out a hand for Hannibal to take, and Hannibal did.

They went back inside together.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal drove three hours to a crime scene not his own because it was the only way to see Will.

The darling thing had been spirited away by Jack, his own car still out of commission. If Hannibal didn’t go, there was no telling how long it would be before Will would come back. And though Hannibal was normally patient, the nights he spent worshipping Will’s body and the mornings he woke to Will’s warmth had spoiled him.

He missed his Darling.

So, when Jack called, stating that they had a traumatized child on the scene and that Alana ‘wasn’t working,’ Hannibal found himself agreeing where he normally would have declined. He made the three-hour trek (three and a half, thanks to traffic), and parked behind a line of police cruisers.

Jack met him at the yellow tape, ordering the officers to let Hannibal through. “Dr. Lecter. Glad you could make it.” They fell into step, Jack guiding them toward a flower shop. “It’s a nasty one. The dad burned alive in front of the kid. We found her hiding in a corner behind some of the bigger plants. She won’t talk.”

“And Alana?”

“Kid’s afraid of her. Graham said it’s probably because the murderer was a woman with similar features, which skews the hell out of every profile we’ve got. Arsonists are almost always male.”

Hannibal nodded. “Fire is a violent, messy method. Has Will said anything else about the killer?”

“That she was angry. That it was a righteous kill, but he isn’t sure why.” Jack’s big shoulders shrugged, clearly irritated. “He got distracted by the kid and hasn’t been any use since.”

Hannibal blinked, suddenly more interested. “Will is with the child?”

“Yeah.” Jack opened the door to the flower shop and pointed to the left. “Right over there. See if you can’t get the kid to talk and let me know what you find. And while you’re at it, tell Graham I’m not paying him to babysit. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Of course.”

Hannibal parted from Jack to make his way to the left of the shop. He rounded a large display of hibiscus plants to find Will sitting cross-legged on the floor. A little girl hung off his shoulders, tucking small, colorful flowers into his hair. They sprouted from his dark curls: already a veritable garden. She seemed far from finished.

Will glanced up at Hannibal, aurora borealis eyes sparkling warmly. He smiled.

Whatever love Hannibal had felt for Will before that moment doubled.

(If Hannibal and his alter ego were the mythical raven-stag, Will was a water nymph: Hannibal’s antlered compatriot with flowers in his hair instead of feathers. They’d rule over a dark, enchanted forest, Hannibal roaming the land while Will met him on the riverbank. The lovely thing would smile, just like this. Eyes bluer than the water. Capable of both drowning men in pleasure and just plain drowning them. And Hannibal was smitten.)

The little girl tapped Will’s shoulder. He turned his head so she could adorn him with a purple cosmos. Hannibal lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of Will. Rather than speaking to either of them, he tore a few branches off a potted Japanese quince and gave his boy antlers.

The girl looked at Hannibal, wide eyed. She yanked off a long, pink leaf from a dracaena red ruby and offered it to Hannibal, clearly hoping he would make it balance in Will’s hair.

Hannibal caught Will’s eyes as he accepted the leaf. The smile on Will’s lips was softly adoring: an open advertisement that Will enjoyed watching Hannibal interact with children. Enjoyed the idea of Hannibal being a father. Of them being a family.

 Hannibal breathed in deeply, memorizing the way the floral scents mixed with Will’s natural blend of sunshine, rain, coffee, and herbs. He imbedded the smell in a small, stuffed dog and placed it on a couch in Will’s wing of his Mind Palace.

It would memorialize the moment Hannibal decided to make Will a father.

He ripped the leaf in fourths, then rolled them and placed them strategically into Will’s curls. While it would be impossible to find a child anywhere near as perfect as Will, they would still need parameters. Not just any orphan would do.

They would need to be young enough to disallow autonomy, assuring that Will would slip more into the roll of ‘father’ than ‘guardian.’ They’d be broken, as Will liked strays, but not too broken. Hannibal didn’t need a delinquent running around his house. Preferably a girl, though a genderless child would do. Males tended to be more aggressive, more territorial, and Hannibal was only willing to share to an extent.

The little girl currently clinging to Will was a good base model (pretty, seemingly well-behaved, no older than seven), but she wasn’t quite right. Will cared for her because she was a child, not because he felt genuinely attached. Their little girl would need to be something Will loved. Something that would tie him so inexorably to Hannibal that he couldn’t even think of leaving.

Hannibal arranged the last leaf-curl into Will’s hair, then folded his hands in his lap. He spoke to the child.

Getting the girl to talk was difficult, but not extraordinarily so. The information she gave was mediocre. While she had seen the killer, the only details she could give were that it was a dark-haired female (a conclusion which Will had already come to).

The girl’s aunt arrived, and they rose from the floor. Hannibal used that opportunity to slip his fingers into Will's coat pocket, deftly retrieving two pens, a feather, and half a fish hook. Such an odd boy. Will departed from Hannibal to re-examine the scene none the wiser. Hannibal stayed back to explain what the girl had been through, what to expect from this kind of trauma at her age, and to recommend that the aunt very seriously consider counseling for both her niece and herself.

By the time Hannibal finished, Will was waiting by the door. The antlers were gone, but the flowers remained.

Will asked, “Did you drive?”

“I did.”

“Any chance I can hitch a ride back with you?”

Hannibal slipped a hand around the back of Will’s neck, underneath the green scarf. “That was my intention, yes.”

Will relaxed into his hold. “Good. If I have to spend another three hours in a car with Jack, I think I’ll end up back in the BSHCI.” They left the flower shop, and Hannibal guided Will through the snow, to his Bentley.

He opened the door for Will, closing it again when his boy was safely inside.

Useful as it was to have a full access to the FBI’s knowledge of the Ripper, Hannibal looked forward to the day where Will picked a different profession. Something with more normalized hours that would keep Will closer to home. The ideal was for him to be a stay-at-home father (or even just a stay-at-home cock warmer), but Will’s need for independence made that unlikely.

Hannibal walked around to the driver’s side and joined Will in the car. Will was already picking the flowers out of his hair and piling them in his hand. As Hannibal pulled away from the crime scene, Will asked, “You came here just to see me, didn’t you?”

Hannibal glanced over, interested. Ever since he’d faux-drowned Will in the bathtub, his darling’s questions had been getting more pointed. He was beginning to truly see Hannibal, and rather than pulling away, he asked for more. Curious thing.

Hannibal said, “Yes.”

“You didn’t care about that little girl.”

“No.”

“Did you love your parents?”

Hannibal blinked, wishing once again that he could see the complicated tracks on which Will’s train of thought rode. After a moment of contemplation, he admitted, “No. They were kind enough. Doting in all the right ways. But when they died, I did not feel for them. I did not cry.”

A pause. Blue eyes searching. Picking out particular words and passing over others. Eventually, Will used a soft tone to say, “You cried when Mischa died though. For days and days. You still cry sometimes.”

Hannibal kept his eyes on the road. For the first time since meeting Will, Hannibal realized that Will was not the only one gazing into an abyss. And, despite his careful manipulations, he could not wholly control which parts of himself the abyss saw.

Quietly, though still too loud in the silence of the Bentley, Hannibal said, “Not recently.”

“Because you’ve had me.”

“Yes.”

Will placed a hand on the center console, palm up. Hannibal mirrored him and twined their fingers together. Blue eyes stared fixedly out the window, almost resigned.

“You know what we have probably isn’t healthy, right?”

“I’m aware, yes.”

“And you want to be together anyway?”

Warmth flooded Hannibal at the ridiculousness of the question. Adorable boy. He brought Will’s hand to his lips and kissed those lovely fingers. “More than anything, Mylimasis.”

Will squeezed Hannibal’s hand, tight and desperate (like he was afraid Hannibal would take it back and turn away; like Hannibal would disappear). Soft like a butterfly kiss, he admitted, “Me too.”

Will used his free hand to crack the window and let the flowers the little girl had given him flutter away. When he closed the window again, there was a finality to it. Will turned his head toward Hannibal, soft curls fluffing up against the headrest.

“Is it bad if I want to blow you right now?”

Pleasure jolted in Hannibal’s dick. He slowed down to sixty miles per hour and engaged cruise control. “Never bad, Darling. So long as my cock is available, you may have it.”

Will smiled, both sultry and adoring. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Please do.”

Will squeezed Hannibal’s hand one more time, then let go to unbuckle his seatbelt. Hannibal undid his own belt buckle one-handed, then unbuttoned and unzipped his slacks. He let Will reach inside to free his half-hard cock, and though Will’s hands radiated pleasure, they were nothing compared to the slick heat of his mouth.

Hannibal curled his hand into Will’s hair and groaned. Will was already choking, only halfway down, and Hannibal grew longer inside his throat. Hannibal pushed Will’s head down, forcing him to swallow the rest of Hannibal’s sizeable cock far too fast. Will gagged, his whole body twitching. Hannibal rolled his hips.

“That’s it, Darling. You missed this, didn’t you? The taste of my cock.”

Will moaned, breath warm against Hannibal’s pelvis. Hannibal massaged his scalp without letting him up.

“I know I’ve missed your mouth. You feel exquisite.”

Will pushed against Hannibal’s hold, trying to bob his head. Hannibal smiled. Eager thing. He gathered a handful of Will’s curls and, forceful enough to be painful, pulled Will’s head back. Will slid almost all the way off Hannibal’s cock before Hannibal slammed him back down, thrusting all the way back into that tight heat in a single go.

Will’s throat convulsed around him, encouraging Hannibal’s pleasure. Hannibal did it again. And again. He did it until the rhythm was set, then said, “Now you.”

Will took over with enthusiasm: moaning as he choked himself on Hannibal’s dick. Swallowing Hannibal like he was a gift. Pleasure spiked in Hannibal at the thought of it (at how much Will wanted him). He glanced down. Will stared up through tear-wettened lashes, aurora borealis eyes blown wide, and oh.

Will took it like a gift because it was. Will was feeling Hannibal’s pleasure.

Hannibal buried his hand back in Will’s hair and forced that sinful mouth to kiss his pelvis. Ecstasy threaded through Hannibal’s cock, begging release. He kept Will perfectly still to prevent cumming prematurely.

Just as Will had felt the judgment and boredom from his ‘Hailey Bennett from high school,’ he felt the approval and pleasure from Hannibal. He soaked it in. Took it as his own. Became.

Hannibal pushed his hips upward, grinding into Will’s throat. Still so close to cumming. Will’s throat massaged him gently. Encouragingly. Hannibal flipped his turn signal and passed a slow truck.

“Perfect thing. Stay just like that. Let me enjoy you.”

Will hummed lovingly, sending vibrations up Hannibal’s sensitive cock. A confirmation. A question. How long?

Hannibal smiled at the dark road ahead of them. “It’s a long drive, Darling. Keep me warm.”

Will jerked, throat tightening around Hannibal’s cock. Worried. His jaw was no doubt already tired, his throat already sore. Hannibal bucked up into him.

“Do you have something to say?” Two taps or you aren’t coming up.

Will hesitated, but only for a moment. He flattened his hand on Hannibal’s thigh and remained purposefully still.

Hannibal ran long fingers through messy curls. “Good boy. I’d like to stay not only in your mouth, but down your throat for the duration of the trip. Can I trust you to keep me aroused?”

Will hummed again, a forceful (indignant) confirmation. Hannibal squeezed Will’s neck, then returned to petting his hair. The GPS gave them another two hours before they would reach Hannibal’s home. Hannibal slowed cruise control another five miles and gently rolled his hips.

Will’s throat was warm. Warm and tight and lovely. The absolute perfect size for Hannibal’s dick. Every swallow and adjustment sent a pulse of pleasure through Hannibal, and the moments in between were just as sweet.

It took nearly twenty minutes before Will’s body started to genuinely accept him. Shoulders went lax. Ever-twitching fingers became still. The moment Will stopped fighting the thickness down his throat was heaven, with Hannibal able to feel the way Will relaxed onto his cock. The press of Will’s face to Hannibal’s scrotum became a natural thing rather than a held position, and his swallowing was reflexive, not forced.

Pride flared at the sight of Will’s body so readily adjusting to his dick. Hannibal stroked praising lines from Will’s hair down to the curve of his ass.

The car in front of them slowed. They slowed with it.

Hannibal’s hands dipped low enough to slip a finger beneath the waistband of Will’s jeans. Will didn’t react.

Hannibal groaned, beyond turned on. The idea that this brilliant profiler – indeed, the only man capable of catching the Chesapeake Ripper – was currently nothing more than a warm hole for Hannibal’s cock was intoxicating. He grew larger inside Will’s throat, swelling with the need to fuck and fill.

He made a tight fist in Will’s hair to bring him out of his relaxed state and said, “Suck me, Darling.”

Will did so without hesitation. He bobbed his head slowly, pulling all the way out, then taking Hannibal back in. He worked through his gag reflex slightly better after having held Hannibal in his throat for so long, but he still needed Hannibal’s hand on his head to get him the last few inches. Will rose again, tongue flicking over Hannibal’s frenulum before dipping into the slit. Tasting.

He wanted Hannibal’s cum.

Hannibal shoved Will all the way back down in one go. Will’s teeth knocked painfully against Hannibal’s shaft, but oh, that felt good, too. Hannibal took a fistful of Will’s hair and pushed down hard, so that Will’s nose was pressed to his pelvis and he couldn’t breathe.

Will swallowed around him, nervous, but didn’t fight it. Hannibal counted to fifteen, then released the pressure. Will sucked in deep breaths through his nose, pushing warm air out onto Hannibal’s pelvis. His throat trembled with the effort.

Hannibal thrust up into him roughly. Once. Twice. A dozen more times, until he felt the edges of ecstasy approaching and had to stop. He settled Will back down onto his cock, lips to pelvis, then gently pet his hair.

“You’re doing so perfect, Darling. Did you know you’ve already held me inside for an hour? Impressive boy.”

Will hummed weakly. An hour was a long time, but the ache in his jaw and the knowledge that they still had an hour and a half to go (by Will’s calculations, at least), dulled the pleasure.

Hannibal doubled down, softening his voice and adding awe. “You take care of me so splendidly, Love. Making sure I’m warm and well-kept. Giving me pleasure beyond all expectation. You’re exceptional. Brilliant. Perfect. You are everything I have ever wanted and more. I ache for your mouth each and every moment I’m not inside you, and this—this is heaven.” He stroked adoring fingers through Will’s curls, then rolled his hips softly against Will’s waiting lips.

Will’s responding hum was short but pleasant. Still tired, but not unsure. He wanted to please Hannibal more than he wanted rest.

“Stunning thing. Your throat is the perfect container for my cock. Soft, warm, tight. And though three hours feels long now, it won’t forever.” Hannibal made small, gyrating motions with his hips as he took an exit. Will began to relax once more, easier this time. Hannibal smiled. “One day, you’ll keep my cock inside you from the moment you wake up until the moment you go to sleep, and you won’t even bat a lash. Beautiful, adaptive thing. I adore you.”

Will’s eyelashes fluttered against Hannibal’s pelvis. His throat tightened around Hannibal’s cock, a purposeful squeeze rather than a reflexive swallow. Hannibal continued to massage Will’s scalp, encouraging him to relax further. To leave the mindset of a dependable FBI profiler behind, and to become nothing more than Hannibal’s pretty little fuck-hole.

This time when Will relaxed, Hannibal left him be.

Learning how to cock warm could be difficult, and Hannibal hadn’t given him any of the usual training wheels (shorter time periods, a soft cock, comfortable seating). There was pleasure in giving Will pleasure, and also pleasure in watching Will suffer through discomfort solely because Hannibal asked him to do so.

A physical show of his devotion, as it were. Will giving up a piece of his own enjoyment for Hannibal’s consumption.

Though he occasionally ground himself into Will’s throat or had Will slide up and down his cock, it was only enough to keep him erect (to keep Will filled). Hours of soft pleasure, of Will with his mouth stretched wide over Hannibal’s girthy cock, passed in a comfortable haze. A dream from which Hannibal never wanted to wake.

The exit for Baltimore appeared on the right: an alarm clock meant to kill the dream. Hannibal played with Will’s curls, forlorn, and thought of how cruel it would be to deprive Will of his cock (and his cock of Will) so soon. The boy was the picture of contentment as he laid in Hannibal’s lap, without worries or responsibilities. With just the right amount of pain. Such a lovely submissive.

He’d taken to cock warming even better than Hannibal expected, and he’d done it so well. He certainly deserved rest. Praise. Another bath. He deserved to go home. At the same time, Hannibal was a glutton.

He took a detour.

“Will, Darling.” Hannibal twisted one of Will’s curls (softer than ever, now that he used Hannibal’s conditioner rather than a bar of off-brand Dove) around his finger. “Play with your nipples, please.”

Will tensed. His teeth pressed lightly against the base of Hannibal’s cock as he tried to work his jaw. After a few long seconds, he made a soft, questioning noise.

How?

“Do it how I would do it, sweet boy. I’ve played with you enough that you should know my touch.” Hannibal lowered his voice. Added a tease of authority. “Or have you not been paying attention?”

Will’s hips bucked lightly against the seat. Hannibal blinked at the new knowledge that, while Will never actually wanted to earn Hannibal’s ire, he liked the thought of being punished (used, abused, debased) and earning praise afterward. Sweet thing. Hannibal smoothed a hand down Will’s back, all the way to the swell of his tempting ass.

He sped the car, no longer concerned with drawing it out now that they were making a veritable loop around Baltimore. Even going the speed limit, he’d added an extra hour to their trip. (Two, if he counted how much they’d slowed initially.)

He squeezed Will’s ass, pressing two fingers over the seam of his jeans. Right above that wonderfully hungry hole. “Darling. Now, please.”

Will’s hand left Hannibal’s thigh to slip under his coat and, presumably, his shirt. Will’s breathing slowed as he touched himself, gentle and unsure. Hannibal trailed a hand up Will’s spine, counting the vertebrae as he went, and settled in Will’s hair once more. Will swallowed around Hannibal’s cock, well aware that he wasn’t doing what Hannibal had asked.

Seeking punishment? No. Shy. He didn’t want to play with his nipples in front of Hannibal. Didn’t want playing with his nipples to be what got him off at all. He was embarrassed.

Adorable thing.

Hannibal infused an air of nonexistent disapproval into his tone as he asked, “Will, is that how I touch you?”

Will jerked. Rather than making a case for himself or hesitating, he quickly did something to himself that had his entire body shuddering. His throat convulsed around Hannibal’s dick, almost painfully tight. Will moaned.

Hannibal grinned. “That’s it, Darling. Good boy.” He curled his hand around the side of Will’s throat, under the scarf. Feeling himself inside. “What else do I do to you?”

Will’s hips thrust against nothing. His head bobbed in time with whatever he was doing to himself – to whatever he was imagining Hannibal was doing to him – and he groaned lovingly around Hannibal’s cock.

Not a ‘please let me cum,’ but a ‘please let me have your cum.’

Hannibal tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded as he watched the road. How could he refuse? He released his hold on Will’s head and said, “Make me cum, Beloved. You’ve earned it.”

Will’s teeth scraped up his cock. Eager. He took Hannibal as deep as he could, then did something to his nipples and went deeper. Hannibal helped him by re-engaging cruise control and thrusting the rest of the way in. Will choked and spasmed around Hannibal, the lovely thing, then pulled back and did it again. His pace was hard and fast, just as Hannibal liked it.

Pleasure sparked low and warm in Hannibal’s stomach, warning him of an upcoming release.

“Are you using your nails, Will? You bite them so short that they probably don’t pleasure you quite the way mine do.” He slid his hand over Will’s exposed stomach, then moved upward to join Will on that sweet, tortured nipple. He pinched the nub, silently praised Will for how swollen it was, then dug his nails in deep.

Will’s pace faltered. He choked on a moan (on Hannibal’s dick). Hannibal twisted the bud, wetting his fingertips with Will’s blood. He murmured, “Did I say you could stop?”

Will breathed in, shaky. He slid back down Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal spread the blood over his thumb and forefinger, then retreated so Will could keep playing with himself. Judging by the tight squeeze of his throat and whining moan, he did.

Hannibal thrust his hips up hard, forcefully burying himself in Will. He licked the blood off his fingers.

The taste of Will filled his mouth, sharp and metallic. Addictive. He sucked on them even after they were clean, wishing there were more, then buried his spit-slicked fingers Will’s hair and shoved him down. Will’s throat gripped him tight, milking him. Hannibal moaned.

“Don’t spill.”

Ecstasy burst through him a second later, and he emptied himself down Will’s throat. The sweet thing drank (and drank and drank), sucking until Hannibal had nothing left to give. Hannibal shuddered, oversensitive, as Will licked over his cock. Will’s fingers had abandoned his nipple to grip Hannibal’s thigh, and in the flash of the streetlamps, Hannibal saw they were stained red.

Hannibal pressed Will back down onto his cock, sinking once again into that perfect warmth. Will accepted the push without question, almost immediately relaxing onto Hannibal’s slowly softening cock.

Hannibal’s fondness for Will expanded yet again, unfurling in his chest and demanding he own this boy. The GPS said they still had thirty-five minutes left. He rubbed soothing, circular motions into Will’s wild curls and glanced down. Hazy blue eyes blinked sparkling tears out of dark, wet lashes, entirely unaware of Hannibal’s gaze. Will swallowed instinctively, mouth hugging Hannibal’s overly sensitive cock extra close.

Hannibal sighed at the sight (the feel) of his precious, precious boy, as enamored as he was obsessed. Will snuggled sweetly into his thigh. Hannibal’s need to monopolize dug deeper.

Perhaps another detour.

Chapter Text

Will woke up screaming.

He flailed, desperate to get away from the (orderlies, SWAT team, his friends) shadows chasing him. He scrambled off the bed, landing hard on the cold wooden floor. He kept going until his back hit the wall, then curled up to protect his head and vital organs. Tears simmered in his eyes while panic bolstered with every heartbeat.

This was going to hurt. This was going to hurt. This was going to hurt.

“Will?”

Will squeezed his eyes shut, stuck somewhere between his dream and reality.

Hannibal's voice was low and purposefully soothing. “Repeat after me, please. Your name is Will Graham. You’re twenty-seven years old. It’s three-thirty-two in the morning. You’re at Hannibal Lecter’s house. You were having a nightmare. You’re safe.”

His voice was kind and familiar. (So much better than being beaten mostly to death then tossed in the dark to rot). Will gravitated toward it.

He whispered, “My name is Will Graham. I’m twenty-seven years old. It’s three-thirty-two in the morning. I’m at Hannibal Lecter’s house. I was having a nightmare.” His breath hitched. “I’m safe.”

“Good, Darling. That was so good. May I touch you?”

Will shook his head hard.

“That’s alright. Perfectly fine, Darling. You needn’t do anything you don’t want.” A pause. “Would you like to talk about your nightmare?”

Will shook his head again, softer this time.

“Would you like me to make you some hot chocolate?”

A pause. A moment where Will recognized he was being childish and needy.

He nodded, and it was as small as he felt. Hannibal stood, obviously putting in effort to make noise so Will wouldn’t be startled. His footsteps retreated from the room, leaving Will alone. And despite how many nightmares Will had woken up from and dealt with all on his own, being alone again wasn’t helpful. It was worse.

The whole room felt colder. More open. His fears swelled in the shadows, and though Will knew – he knew – that he could stand up and defend himself, he didn’t want to.

He wanted Hannibal to do it for him.

Will clenched his eyes shut, hating himself for being so weak. Hannibal returned, his footsteps audible all the way down the hall, and placed something beside Will. He made extra noise as he sat down on the floor to Will’s left.

Will peeked up to see a mug of hot chocolate that looked like it came out of a fucking magazine (perfect, fluffy whipped cream, chocolate shreds, and two sticks of cinnamon), and though he didn’t want to uncurl, he did want the drink.

He snuck a glance at Hannibal, who watched him the same way Will would watch a stray dog he’d found on the street. His normally styled hair was out of place, and his undershirt and sweatpants were crumpled from sleep. The sight was almost painfully comforting, and Hannibal almost painfully handsome.

Will unfurled his arm only long enough to grab the pristine white mug, then held that close, too. It smelled wonderful. Just like Will had imagined it would as a child. Just like Will had tried and failed to make as an adult (the instant packets at the store never quite lived up). Tears pricked behind his eyes as he took a sip.

Heaven.

The whipped cream was sweet and fluffy, probably made by hand. The chocolate was real. It was sweeter than anything Hannibal enjoyed, which meant he’d catered it to Will’s tastes rather than sticking to a recipe. And it was so good that it hurt.

Will breathed in, shaky. “My name is Will Graham. I’m twenty-seven years old. It’s…” He glanced at the clock. “Three-fifty-one in the morning. I’m at Hannibal Lecter’s house. I was having a nightmare. I’m safe.”

“You’re safe.”

“I’m safe.” Will drank more hot chocolate, then licked the whipped cream out of his mustache. He cradled the warm mug close to his chest. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

“You are welcome. Always.”

Warmth huddled in Will’s chest, chasing away some of the fear. He opened his mouth only for preemptive guilt to ram into his request, knocking it off course. He’d already woken Hannibal up in the middle of the night, and Hannibal had already made him hot chocolate. That was more than he could ask for.

(More than he deserved.)

He stayed quiet.

Hannibal, while staying perfectly still, prompted, “Yes, lovely thing?”

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

Silence descended. Will breathed in the sweet mix of chocolate and cream. Used one of the cinnamon sticks to eat the cream. Pretended he couldn’t feel Hannibal staring.

Eventually, Hannibal said, “You want something, Will. And I want to give it to you.”

Will shook his head. “I don’t. I’m happy with the hot chocolate.”

“You’re afraid to ask for more.”

Will flinched and, despite having already given himself away, defended, “I’m happy.”

“Do you think I can’t guess? It’s something you found relaxing and safe, since you want it now. Something which requires me to do work, or at least what you perceive as work, while you either do nothing or very little. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel so ashamed to ask. It isn’t sexual because you feel useful when I cum, and you know I would accept you, whatever you wanted. Shall I continue?”

Will shook his head.

“Then ask me, please.”

Guilt settled in Will’s gut, hard and heavy. Now not only was he being unreasonable, he was being difficult, too. He opened his mouth to make his request, but it got stuck in his throat. He ended up with a bland, “It’s four in the morning. You have work at nine. I’ll ask tomorrow.”

Hannibal tilted his head, contemplative, then stood to retrieve his phone. His fingers moved across the screen quickly and with purpose, then he set it face down on the nightstand and returned to the floor next to Will.

“I’ve cancelled all of my appointments. Make your request.”

Will jerked his head up, nearly spilling his drink. “What? No. Un-cancel them.”

“No. Make your request.”

“I can’t make my request. It’s stupid. Un-cancel your appointments.”

“I will not. And if you don’t make your request, my appointments will have been cancelled for nothing.” Hannibal held up a hand as if to say, ‘Your choice.’

The guilt doubled. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”

The ‘th’ in Hannibal’s “Thank you” was unreasonably soft.

Will gripped his mug tighter. Drained the rest in three gulps. Mumbled into the lip of his mug, “Bath.”

He waited for the sting of judgement (of rejection). It never came. Hannibal smiled, warm and proud. “I would love to give you a bath, Mylimasis.” He stood, waiting for Will to follow.

Will hesitated. “I don’t… I don’t want to discourage you because I seriously didn’t mind the whole ‘drowning’ thing. But can this just be a regular bath?”

Amused indulgence flooded Hannibal’s voice. “Most baths will be regular baths. And if you wish for them all to be that way, you only need say so.”

Will shook his head, relieved that Hannibal understood. “It’s not that. Being held under water was… relaxing is the wrong word, but it’s the right word, too. It felt good to be able to trust you so much. To know that you could drown me but wouldn’t.” Will twisted the mug so the handle was facing the opposite side. He tapped it with his pointer finger in sets of threes. “I would do it again.”

“Perfect boy.” The tilt of Hannibal’s body said he wanted to kiss Will, but he didn’t move to do so. Didn’t make Will touch when Will didn’t want to touch. “Come, Darling, let me pamper you.”

The wording made Will feel both hedonistic and adored. He thought about backpedaling and saying he didn’t want the bath. He nodded.

They entered the bathroom without touching. Will leaned against the sink while Hannibal started the water and plugged the tub. Hannibal used a hanging rag to dry his hand, then held that same hand out in front of Will.

“Would you like more hot chocolate?”

Will perked up. “There’s more?”

The lilt of Hannibal’s smile spelled amusement. “Yes, Darling. There’s more.”

Will immediately held his empty mug out to Hannibal, who made sure their fingers didn’t brush as he accepted. Gratitude blossomed in the center of Will’s heart, far too deep to be healthy. Hannibal left the room without asking for thanks, without expecting anything in return.

The gratitude grew roots.

Will stripped and stepped into the bath, which was just hot enough to relax his nightmare-tensed muscles. He hugged his knees to his chest and watched the water fill, not currently in the mood to let Hannibal see him naked.

He turned off the water when it reached the appropriate level, and he waited. Hannibal returned with a cup of hot chocolate just as pretty as the first, which made Will feel ridiculously spoiled. Hannibal walked to the bathroom closet and pulled out even more oil balls, roses, and vials of bath salts than before. He lined them up on the edge of the tub, labels facing Will.

“What would you like to use, Mylimasis?”

Will scrunched his brows. “I don’t know. Whatever you used last time is fine.” Will took the hot chocolate from the ledge. Hannibal blinked.

 “If you’d like the same ones as before, feel free to pick them out.”

Will tried to scowl, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He sipped the hot chocolate (did it somehow get even more delicious?) and skimmed through the labels. There were a ton of different scents and colors. Most of the ingredients were the same, with bases like shea butter and coconut oil. None of it meant anything to Will.

He grabbed two of the green bath salts, the container of purple (there were no green) oil balls, and two of the green soap roses. He stacked it all on the ledge to his right. After a second of contemplation, he grabbed the last green rose and a purple rose, too. He stared pointedly at his hot chocolate afterward, silently hoping he didn’t look as materialistic as he felt.

If Hannibal took issue with Will using so may roses at once, he didn’t say so. He put everything Will didn’t pick back in the closet, then gathered the things Will did want and started removing them from the packaging. The salts made a circle around Will. The oil balls got poured in at the edge. The roses were placed gently in the water, so they would float without dissolving too quickly.

Will set his hot chocolate on the ledge so he could pick up the purple rose and tear off petals.

“May I wash your hair, Darling?”

Will met Hannibal’s eyes for the first time since they’d woken up. He remembered a hand on his chest. His head under water. The knowledge that Hannibal wouldn’t let him drown. Another layer of tenseness faded away, allowing Will to dunk his hair and lean against the wall of the tub.

Hannibal’s hands were magic, rubbing and scratching in all the right places. Will relaxed into it, thinking that maybe this had been what he needed after all. He closed his eyes. His dream was there. He opened them again.

The fear curled around Will’s heart, claws sharp. It made him ask, “Do you know how they captured me?”

“I do not.”

“They used a SWAT team.” Will sat up straighter to give Hannibal access to his shoulders, then tore more violently at the soap petals. The hands moved down. “And you know, that makes sense for the Ripper. Good luck to the SWAT team, even. But me? I was just asleep in bed. Just fucking asleep.” Tears pricked at his eyes. He squashed the rose in his fist and threw it in the water. It didn’t help. “And they threw me out of bed, shouting at me, and all I knew was that there were men in my house. Men and guns. Fuck, I was scared.”

Will reached over his shoulder without turning, so that Hannibal wouldn’t see his tears. The hot chocolate magically appeared in his hand.

“Is that what you dreamed about?”

“No. Yes. Sort of. They were there, the SWAT team, but I couldn’t see them. They were chasing me through the woods. And I knew that if they caught me, I’d end up at the BSHCI. With the orderlies. And I knew that if I went back to town, my friends would turn me in. And I knew…” Will’s voice wavered. Tears dripped into the bath. God, it was so hard just to speak. “I knew that—that if I found the Ripper, who was also in the woods, they’d take him instead. So I had to do it alone.”

He wiped his face with a wet hand. He drank his hot chocolate.

Hannibal’s hands were gentle but firm. They grounded Will to the here and now. Never threatening. Ever-present. “Perhaps if you had gone to the Ripper, he would have killed your SWAT team for you. Saved you. Kept you as his own.”

Will shook his head. “No. The Ripper is amused by me, but he doesn’t care. The only person he would ever save for the sake of keeping would be whoever he’s killing for, and I don’t even want to know what kind of fucked up they are.”

Hannibal hummed. “Say that isn’t true. If the Ripper did decide to keep you, what then?”

Will paused. He used a cinnamon stick to stir the remainder of his whipped cream into the dredges of his hot chocolate. “I think… that would be bad for both of us.”

“You and me or you and the Ripper?”

“All three of us, I guess. If the Ripper liked me, he wouldn’t like you, and—” Will stopped. He drank the rest of his hot chocolate and handed it blindly over his shoulder. Hannibal took the cup.

“And?”

Will picked up one of the green roses and started tearing off petals. He shook his head. “And the Ripper would kill you and take me.”

“Would you fight him?”

“That’s not the right question.”

“What is the right question?”

Will pulled away from Hannibal and dunked his head to rinse out the shampoo. The soap rose squished and molded to his fist. He let it go when he emerged, and it sank to the bottom.

He slicked back his hair. Rubbed the water out of his eyes. Turned to face Hannibal. “The right question is, ‘Would I win?’” Will shook his head in answer to his own question. “Against Il Mostro, I think I would have. The Ripper is a whole different beast. And maybe, if he didn’t love me, I’d have a chance of pulling something over on him. But his love isn’t like yours or mine. It’s obsessive. He’d watch my every move, know my every thought. He’d prefer I go willingly, but if it came between taking me by force and not having me at all, he’d choose force. And Stockholm Syndrome is a thing.” Will crossed his arms on the edge of the tub. “Fighting doesn’t mean a lick if you can’t win, Hannibal. But again. I’m not the one he cares about. He’d probably just kill me.”

Hannibal rinsed his hands, then put a dollop of facewash on his fingers and started rubbing it into Will’s cheeks. “Dreams are different from reality, Darling. The Ripper in your subconscious, at the very least, seems fond of you. He may have protected you regardless of who the real Ripper cares for.”

“Yeah, but I’m fond of the Ripper in my subconscious, too, so I wouldn’t want to turn him over anyhow.” Will caught the closest oil ball and popped it. He reached for the next one. “Besides, it’s not like the dream came out of nowhere. The settlement went through last week, and with stupid fucking Matthew showing up at my house, the only wonder is that I didn’t have a nightmare sooner.” Will raised a finger to tap the side of his head. “Not a difficult place to break into.”

“It is, however, difficult to navigate. Tell me, is Matthew why you’ve yet to go home? Are you afraid of him?”

Will scrunched his nose. “No? I mean, he’s a fucking psycho, but I could take him.”

Hannibal tilted his head, examining. “But he does have to do with why you haven’t gone home.”

Will didn’t respond. Hannibal poured conditioner into his palm and started massaging it into Will’s hair.

After what felt like way too long, Will said, “Yeah. I just don’t—” He stopped again, voice lost. The words played over and over again in his mind, each time seeming a little harder to say. He worked his jaw. Swallowed. His throat was still sore, which helped to ground him in the present. Will stared at the center of Hannibal’s chest and admitted, “I don’t want to go home to another wrecked house, I guess.”

He hoped that he sounded nonchalant. (Knew he didn’t.) Hannibal’s fingers dipped behind Will’s ears and down his neck.

Rather than pitying Will or explaining why what Will felt was normal, Hannibal said, “You can stay as long as you’d like, of course, but I have it on good authority that tomorrow would be an excellent day to go home.”

Will blinked. He raised his head to look Hannibal in the eyes, suspicious. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t. You’ll simply have to go home and find out for yourself.”

“Hannibal, what did you do?”

“Not me this time, Darling, though I do appreciate your willingness to assign credit.”

Will scowled. He tried to think of a way that he could make Hannibal crack, but the man’s poker face was immutable.

“So, what? You’d just drive me to my place after work?”

“Or you could take the day off, too. We could have breakfast here, pack a lunch, then head over. You could teach me to make a lure.”

“You don’t care about making lures.”

“No, but I care about you.”

The like Will felt for Hannibal multiplied: spilling out of his heart and filling his chest. “Text Jack.”

“Now?”

“Unless you want to give me time to change my mind.”

Hannibal stood from his position on the floor and wiped his hands on a hanging hand-towel. He left the bathroom only to return with Will’s phone, which Will kept unlocked. His thumbs tapped out something on the screen, which he turned to show to Will.

Feeling sick. Won’t be in tomorrow.

Short and to the point, just like all of Will’s other texts to Jack. Will nodded. Hannibal hit send. He placed the phone on the sink, face up, then returned to his place by the tub.

“Rinse, please.”

Will laid down and ruffled his hair until it didn’t feel ridiculously silky anymore. He broke the surface and brushed the hair out of his face, then sat on the edge of the tub opposite Hannibal. He reached for the conditioner only to have Hannibal catch his wrist.

“No, Darling. I get to wash you.”

“You massaged me for like fifty billion hours after the car ride. I can do this much.”

“I want to wash you, Will. Don’t deprive me.”

“But that doesn’t… Why do you like this? What do you get out of it?”

“I get to take care of you.” Hannibal held out a hand, silently requesting Will move to his side of the tub. Will complied. Hannibal poured a small amount of conditioner in his palm and, without touching Will’s penis, began to lather his pubes. “You’re a wonderful man, Will. Brilliant. Strong. Kind. You deserve the world, and I want to be the one to give it to you. To build you up so that you feel empowered to take what you want rather than bowing your head and accepting whatever scraps you’re given.”

Hannibal’s fingers dipped lower, to caress Will’s taint, then drew a smooth line along Will’s inner thigh. Will watched Hannibal’s hands leave him to rinse off in the water. Long, talented fingers grabbed the body wash, pouring a decent amount in the opposite hand before replacing the bottle on the ledge.

Will’s eyes remained trained on Hannibal’s hands as the other man started to wash his legs. Nothing had changed, yet he felt undeniably nervous. He asked, “What if I take too much? Get too full of myself?”

“Not possible, Darling. You’re the most deserving thing in the entire world. It’s my honor simply to serve you.” Excitement sparkled next to the nervousness. Hannibal’s hands slid from Will’s legs up to his hips, gripping his waist for the barest moment before continuing on to his stomach.

Will swallowed thickly. “You’re talking about me like I’m a king or a… a god.”

“Yes.” Hannibal breathed the word against Will’s skin. Reverent. “Will Graham: my chosen deity.”

His palms pressed firmly against Will’s ribs before moving up to his nipples. Soapy fingers skimmed over the nubs without sexual intent. Will’s dick reacted anyway.

Hannibal glanced down but didn’t reach to touch. He kissed Will’s bicep and rubbed soap into Will’s shoulders. “I won’t say that I was unhappy before meeting you, Will. I wasn’t. But I didn’t know how happy I could be. You bring color to the world. You brighten the sun and make foods taste better. And every moment where I can return even a smidgen of that happiness to you is a moment well spent.”

Gentle adoration swept through Will. And he thought, if only for a moment, that his like might be love. Hannibal’s hands worked across his shoulders and down his back, slow and purposeful.

The gratitude and care Will felt for Hannibal turned from a drizzle into a waterfall. Overflowing. The words ‘Can I bathe you some time?’ sat on the tip of Will’s tongue. He traded them out for, “I want to wash you, too. To pamper you. To make you feel cared for.” The next words caught in his throat, selfish and presumptuous. He forced them out anyway. “Let me.”

Hannibal’s hands cupped Will’s sides: fingers outlining his ribs. His touch was praising: encouraging Will to demand more.

He said, “Of course, Darling. Anything you want.”

Will relaxed into Hannibal’s hands, another nuance of their dynamic clicking into place.

In Will’s desperation to be a good sub, he’d forgotten to balance their new dynamic with the rest of their relationship. The ability to talk it out. The ability to exert force. The ability to take. Adding in BDSM didn't negate those things. It made them stronger. Because (and here was the important part), they weren’t just dom and sub. They were boyfriends.

And the only person stopping Will from getting what he wanted was Will.

(***Paragon***)

Will looked from Hannibal’s lure to his own, then back again. He was glad Hannibal had accompanied him to Wolf Trap, but in the end, it hadn’t been necessary. Not only had Matthew not trashed the place, he’d folded the blanket, switched over the laundry, and washed the cup.

Which was good. It meant Will’s house was fine. It also meant Will had plenty of extra emotional energy to spend being irritated at Hannibal, who was somehow better at making lures than Will.

“Seriously? Can’t you at least pretend to be bad at something?”

“I apologize, Darling. The opportunity to have you compliment me was too great to pass. If you’d like, I can make another, uglier lure. Perhaps one with loose knots, so you can teach me how to correct my error?”

Will rolled his eyes. “It’s not teaching if you already know the answer.”

“I can pretend not to know the answer. I’m a very good actor.”

“You’re ridiculous is what you are.” Will held Hannibal’s lure up to the sun, then laid back on the porch. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t see any use otherwise.”

“Fair enough.” Will tilted his head to stare at Hannibal, who looked far too fancy in his pinstriped suit and sleek overcoat to be sitting on Will’s old, slur-painted porch. “Do you think you’d want to go fishing with me some time? You wouldn’t actually have to fish. You could draw next to the river or something.”

“That sounds delightful, Darling.” Hannibal reached over to twirl a lock of Will’s hair around his finger, contemplative. “We could go to the ocean.”

“I was more thinking the stream on my property, but yeah. The ocean sounds nice.” Will leaned into Hannibal’s touch: a silent request for Hannibal to play with his hair. Hannibal obliged.

His touch was perfect, as everything Hannibal did was perfect. Will closed his eyes and imagined they were already on their way. Hannibal’s art supplies and Will’s fishing gear in the backseat. Phones turned off without care for patients or serial killers. Hannibal driving. Will’s head in his lap. Hannibal’s fingers in Will’s hair. Hannibal’s cock in Will’s mouth.

Heat rose to Will’s cheeks, unbidden. He covered his eyes with his arm and hoped Hannibal wouldn’t notice.

(He noticed.)

Hannibal twined their fingers together and moved Will’s arm. Maroon eyes glinted in the fading light of the sun. “What salacious turns have your thoughts taken, my love? You’re blushing.”

Will focused on the complicated knot of Hannibal’s tie. He fiddled with the lures in his free hand and skirted around the question to ask, “I should be angry at you, shouldn’t I?”

Hannibal blinked. “For?”

“For? What do you think ‘for?'” Will released Hannibal’s hand and twisted his body so that he could lay his head on Hannibal’s lap. He picked Hannibal’s hand back up and plopped it into his hair. Hannibal obediently started playing with his curls. “For turning a blow job into four and a half hours of cock warming. Most people would be angry.”

Hannibal tilted his head, eyes on Will. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, but there wasn’t a single hair out of place. He said, “But you aren’t.”

Will licked his lips. Huffed. Bent his legs so his knees pointed to the sky. “No. I’m not.”

“Because you liked it.”

Embarrassment flushed through Will at hearing it said so blatantly. Shamelessly. He liked cock warming. Will covered his face again, and this time, Hannibal let him.

“Oh, fuck. That’s weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s not.”

“It is. The whole point of giving a blow job is to complain about it afterward. There’s a whole section of the internet dedicated to how much people hate it. Plus, it hurt. My back hurt. My nipples hurt. My jaw hurt. My throat still hurts...”

“And you liked it.”

Humiliation clustered in Will’s stomach, undeniably pleasant. He lowered his hands and hid his face in the material covering Hannibal’s stomach. He mumbled, “Yeah.”

Hannibal continued to play with Will’s hair. There was a smile in his voice as he said, “I liked it, too.”

Will snorted, not the least bit comforted. “Obviously. You’re the one who got cock warmed.”

“I’m only saying we’re complimentary, Darling. You enjoy being treated roughly. I’m happy to comply.” Sadist. “And if it helps, I quite enjoy having your cock in my mouth as well.”

Will smacked blindly at Hannibal’s chest. “Doesn’t help.”

“No?”

Will frowned and rolled back over so he could see Hannibal’s stupidly handsome face. He held up his thumb and pointer fingers, barely half an inch apart. “It helps this much.”

“Perfect. That’s exactly how much it was meant to help.”

Will laughed. “Jerk.” He adjusted himself so he could wrap his arms around Hannibal’s waist. “I think I would’ve been more upset if it felt like that long, but I was just… I don’t know. The drive kind of passed in a haze.” He fiddled with the lures in one hand and drew meaningless symbols on Hannibal’s back with the other. “Have you ever heard of subspace?”

“I have.” Hannibal’s nails scratched the base of Will’s scalp. Will snuggled comfortably into his abdomen.

“I think that’s where I was for most of the ride. Because I just—I didn’t exactly tune it out, but I wasn’t really there for it, either. Or maybe I was extra there for it, since it’s the rest of the world that kind of faded away? It’s hard to explain.”

“Everyone experiences subspace differently, Darling. That said, I have heard similar accounts from other submissives.”

“Have you ever experienced subspace?”

“I have not. I’m not quite as predisposed to it as you.”

Predisposed. Will scoffed. He’d heard that before, only applied to alcoholism instead of subspace. “I read a blog that said I shouldn’t do it too often, or I might get addicted.”

“Is that something you fear?”

“Fear? No.” Will hugged Hannibal tighter, breathing in his warmth. “I do think they have a point though.”

The hand not in Will’s hair massaged its way down Will’s spine. “There are worse vices.”

Will breathed in deeply. Thought of his countless nights downing cheap scotch just to be able to sleep. Changed the subject. “How long do we have to stay out here? It’s cold.”

“Impatient thing. Your surprise is nearly here, and I want you to see it arrive.”

Will groaned, but the snark on his tongue vanished at the sound of tires rolling down the drive. He disentangled himself from Hannibal and sat up just in time to see a candy blue Jeep pull in. It parked at the very end of Will’s yard. A bright red Mercedes followed it, and not one, but two moving trucks appeared after that.

Will’s heart sped in his chest. “Hannibal, what is all this?”

Hannibal didn’t answer. The door to the Jeep opened, and out stepped Mary Louise. She looked as pretty as she did expensive, with her flashy red overcoat and done-up hair. She wore heels, even in the snow. Another woman climbed out of the second car. Both walked over to Will and Hannibal.

Will stood, and Hannibal stood with him. The second woman pulled out her phone to… what? Record them?

Will asked, “Mary? What are you doing here?”

“Delivering.” She held out a manilla envelope for Will to take, which he did. “You were right before, when you said there was no outrage over your imprisonment. There’s outrage now. Once word got out about what happened to you – what happened to your house, what you did for that family on the bridge – this stuff flooded in from all over the country.”

Will blinked twice, feeling almost numb. He turned his head to look at the trucks as four men piled out, presumably to start unloading. He heard himself ask, “This stuff?”

“Couches, beds, books, dinnerware, appliances… You name it, you probably got two.” She smiled, but it was fuzzy through the tears brimming in Will’s eyes.

“How would they—” He cleared his throat. Blinked away tears. “How would they even know?”

“It might’ve leaked that you donated every penny of your settlement to an animal shelter. Pictures of your house and a list of things you lost might also have trended on Twitter for a while.” She winked, giving away her position as the leak. “People want to help, Will. And they want to help you.”

Thankfulness mixed with… what? Shock? Happiness? Maybe just ‘Overwhelm.’ It bubbled in his chest and clogged his throat, turning to hot water in his eyes. He sniffed and wiped them away. The movers in the far truck brought out a new mattress, still in the plastic. The tears came back.

“I can’t—How do I—Did they leave phone numbers or, or addresses? Can I thank them?”

Mary smiled, for the first time entirely genuine. She pointed to the woman holding the phone. “You already did. This is streaming live, Will. They’re all watching right now.”

She stepped into the frame and waved. The Overwhelm grew. Will tilted his head back and rubbed the water out of his eyes. It didn’t help. The movers stepped around them carrying the mattress, and behind the men with the mattress were the other movers with a couch.

(Will was going to have furniture.)

He made a vague motion to the main room while the Overwhelm doubled. Tripled. He looked at the camera and all the people – real people – who wanted to help.

Mary redrew his attention by tapping on the manilla envelope in his hands. “This is from BARCS. Pictures of every dog they’ve saved so far thanks to the money you donated. And this…” She motioned behind her, to the Jeep. The camera followed the motion. “Is from Louise & Louise at Law. Paid off. In your name.” She held out a hand, all smiles. For the PR. Will stared at it numbly before realizing he was supposed to shake. Once his hand slid into hers, she said, “Thank you for your service, Agent Graham. You’re a good man, and you deserve good things. It was an honor to work with you.”

Will nodded, reactions lagging. Mary was hopping on the bandwagon, but the rest of the people – the rest of this stuff – was out of kindness. He turned to the camera again, but he didn’t know what to say. How to thank them. Hannibal took the manilla envelope out of Will’s hand, then twined their fingers together, offering his support. Will leaned into his side. Soaked in his strength.

The tears burned. The gratitude engulfed him. His voice wobbled as he said, “Thank you. All of you. Seriously.” The movers went past them again, back to the trucks. Back to Will’s things. Will buried his head in Hannibal’s coat. Hannibal released his hand to hug Will close.

And Will cried.

They weren’t the deep, sobbing cries that came with holding too much in for too long, but soft tears of release. Of a long, hard journey finally coming to an end. It was over. People really believed he was innocent. They really couldn’t take him back to the BSHCI. He was really, genuinely safe.

He hugged Hannibal hard.

He cried even harder.

Hannibal rubbed soothing lines up and down Will’s back. All of the walls Will had built around himself – the need to stay strong do everything alone – crumbled. He leaned his entire weight against Hannibal, and Hannibal cradled him close. Uncaring of the burden. Adoring. Will was not alone.

When Will finally pulled away, his cathartic cry finished, the camera phone was gone. The woman who had been holding it (tall, pretty, expensively dressed, probably the other Louise) smiled at him. She said, “We’ll leave you two to it. It was a pleasure handling your case, and if you need anything else, just let us know.” She held out a hand for both Will and Hannibal to shake. They did. “Happy holidays.”

Will blinked, lashes still wet with tears. He croaked, “Holidays?”

She gave him an odd look, though her smile didn’t falter. “It’s December eleventh. Christmas is two weeks away.”

He blinked again. Slowly. Then, “Shit.”

Both Louises laughed. Rather than engaging in further conversation, however, they bid Will and Hannibal goodbye and headed to the Mercedes. Hannibal kissed Will’s hair. The movers carried more furniture in. The Louises left.

Will cuddled against Hannibal and watched the things flow into his house. Boxes. Bedframes. A fridge. More boxes. He was more tired than he had any right to be, considering he’d taken the day off, but if Hannibal minded Will’s sluggishness, he didn’t say so. Will breathed in the scent of Hannibal’s cologne, the warmth and power of Hannibal himself, then uncurled his fist to look at the lures they’d made. His own was sturdy and practical. Hannibal’s was elegant and aesthetically pleasing.

The Overwhelm still simmered inside him, but with it sat peace. Comfort. Hannibal was warm at his side. The past was the past. And though the lures in his hand were incredibly different, they looked good together.

They were good together.

Chapter Text

Hannibal sat on the bed next to Will, who couldn’t stop staring at all his new things.

While Hannibal would have preferred to furnish the place himself (thus avoiding all the hideous upholstery and clashing color schemes), there was opportunity in this, too. Will would become more secure in himself and his place in the world. He would be able to finish his house faster, thus alleviating his need to return to Wolf Trap a few times a week. And, as icing on the proverbial cake, the first search result for ‘Will Graham’ in Google was not Will alone, but a picture of Will in Hannibal’s arms.

It was almost as good as a collar.

Will said, “People really sent this stuff to me.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s not just you pretending to be other people again?”

“If it were, I dare say your living room set would match.”

Will’s smile was small but grateful. Lovely thing. The emerald greens in Will’s eyes glittered in the light of the fire. He scooted closer to Hannibal, so their thighs touched.

“I have a bed.”

“You have a bed.”

“I have a car that works.”

“You have a car that works.”

“The Jeep…” Will twined their fingers together. “Did you help Mary pick it out or just flat-out tell her what to buy?”

Pride for how clearly Will saw him welled in Hannibal’s chest. “Brilliant boy. I told her which car to buy. It would have been a shame for her to get the wrong one and for us to have to return it.”

Will grinned, all teeth and beauty. “And you would have returned it, wouldn’t you? Are you even capable of feeling shame?”

Though the question was asked in jest, Hannibal answered honestly. “I don’t think so.”

And Will, because he was an empath (or, no, because he was Will), understood the truth of the statement. His smile faded but didn’t vanish. His thumb stroked the back of Hannibal’s hand. “When I was a kid, my dad made me break into people’s houses and steal the leftovers out of their fridge. Always at night, so we wouldn’t be seen. Always poor houses because we couldn’t get past the alarm systems otherwise. He stayed outside while I broke in because I was little. Because if I got caught, the people would take pity on me.”

Hannibal watched decades-old shame tug at Will’s lips, painful even after all this time. Gorgeous. When Will didn’t continue, Hannibal supplied, “They didn’t take pity on you.”

“No. They stripped me down, dumped the food I was trying to steal over my head, and paraded me around the neighborhood so everyone would know I was a thief.” Will squeezed Hannibal’s hand, eyes never leaving the fire. “Shame is overrated.”

Hannibal bypassed the obvious segue back into his own life to ask, “And your father? What did he do?”

“Watched. Waited until they left. Told me to…” Will broadened his shoulders and downturned his lips, adopting a deep voice and a smooth, southern drawl to say, “Buck the fuck up, boy. Cyrin’ is for pussies.” He dropped back into himself a moment later. Soft curls brushed Hannibal’s shoulder as Will leaned in. “Never did buck up. That was the last house I ever broke into.”

Hannibal planted a kiss in Will’s hair, breathing in that spectacular blend of coffee, herbs, sunshine, and rain. Will’s sorrow was frost on the edges, turning a warm, summer drizzle into a cool, winter shower. Hannibal closed his eyes and embedded the scent of Will’s sadness in a blue scarf, which he then hung on the coat rack in Will’s wing of his Mind Palace.

He opened his eyes and said, “You did stifle your tears though. They made you feel weak. He made you feel weak.”

“Yeah. Not that you can tell now. I feel like all I’ve done the past few days is cry on you.”

“For which I am thankful. You’re beautiful when you cry.”

Will shook his head, but he was smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re perfect.”

Will hummed. He pulled away from Hannibal and brought his knee up onto the bed, calf parallel to Hannibal’s thigh. “Would you ever want to be a dad?”

“With the right partner.”

“And how will you know who the right partner is?”

“He’ll be smart. Handsome. Kind beyond belief. He’ll probably have a propensity for picking up strays off the streets.” Hannibal smiled and brushed a strand of hair out of Will’s face. “And once he cries on me at least once a day for three days in a row, I’ll know.”

Surprised laughter leapt from Will. He smacked Hannibal softly in the chest, then asked, “You’d really have a kid with me? We’ve only been together a month.”

“Yes, well I have no intention of ever breaking up with you.” Hannibal slid a hand from Will’s knee up to his thigh. “And the adoption process is long and drawn out. In the time it takes to get approved, we may figure out a way to have one of our own.”

Will laughed again, softer this time. He leaned in so his lips were a hair’s breadth from Hannibal’s. “We can’t get pregnant. We’re both men.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t try.” Hannibal hooked both hands under the muscle just below Will’s ass and lifted, tossing Will onto his back. Will grabbed Hannibal’s shirt to drag Hannibal down with him. Hannibal stifled that lovely laughter with a kiss.

Will threaded his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and pulled him closer (always closer, the greedy thing). Hannibal slipped his tongue into Will’s mouth, tasting his boy for the first time in hours, while his hands moved down to the button on Will’s jeans.

Tonight would be the night. Hannibal could feel it.

Will rolled his hips against Hannibal, already hard. Hannibal fought the urge to grind against him, instead choosing to pull back and rid Will of his pants and boxers. Will’s cock sprung up, practically bouncing against his stomach. Adorable thing. Will sat up, hooked his fingers in the waistband of Hannibal’s slacks, and tugged him back over. Hannibal groaned, arousal pooling low. His dick bulged against fitted slacks, practically begging for Will’s attention.

Nimble fingers undid Hannibal’s belt. “Do you have lube?”

“In my coat.”

The buckle, the button, the zipper: all undone. Will pushed him away by the hips. “Get it.” Will’s fingers curled under the edge of his shirt so he could finish stripping himself. Hannibal watched for a moment longer, reluctant to miss even a single second of Will’s brazen sexuality. The ache in his cock forced him to the other side of the room to retrieve the lube.

When he turned back, Will had two fingers inside himself. Dry. Hannibal swallowed thickly and stripped as he walked, leaving his pants on the floor on the other side of the room and losing his shirt beside the bed. His sweet boy’s fingers were moving in and out, but at the complete wrong angle. Hannibal kneeled on the bed and leaned over, the tip of his cock brushing the (hideous yellow and green flannel) comforter. He wrapped his hand around Will’s fist and twisted, forcing Will’s inserted fingers to—

“Oh!”

“There we are, Darling. Just like that.” Hannibal drizzled lube over Will’s fingers, adding an obscene squelching noise to the already debauched picture of Will pleasuring himself. Hannibal thrust his hips lightly, rubbing himself against the bed.

The need to step back and paint the perfection that was Will warred with the need to replace Will’s fingers with his cock. (And perhaps, if Will were lying on a soft cerulean blanket beside an open, moonlit window, painting would win out. As it was, his cock made the better argument.) He poured the lube on his own dick, just in case Will said the magic words, then stroked himself to rub it in. He tossed the lube to the side.

Will moaned and arched his back. Hannibal rubbed the head of his cock up the cleft of Will’s ass, stopping next to Will’s lube-slick, knuckle deep fingers. The heel of Will’s hand rubbed purposefully against Hannibal’s cock as he continued to finger himself, hitting his own prostate every time. His cock reddened, straining. His nipples peaked despite not having been touched. Beautiful boy.

Hannibal pressed himself against Will’s hole, seeking that heat.

“May I cut in?”

“Fuck yes.” Will jerked his fingers out to grab Hannibal’s shaft and guide him in. The perfect, melting heat of Will’s ass welcomed Hannibal inside, begging him to go further than the head. Will’s hand was no better, his tight strokes trying to pull Hannibal in. Pleasure and need spiked in Hannibal’s cock as Will clenched around him.

The urge to give in – to forget about restoring balance and to hand Will everything he wanted on a silver platter – surged. And were Hannibal a lesser man, he would surrender.

He forced himself still.

Will’s legs wrapped around Hannibal’s waist, heels digging into the muscle on either side of Hannibal’s spine to push him another inch in. They both moaned.

Hannibal pressed his hand to Will’s taut stomach and leaned back against Will’s feet, stopping them both. “You’re teasing, Darling.”

“I’m teasing?” Will barked out a laugh, ass instinctively squeezing Hannibal’s cock. “You’re the tease. Or you were.” He lifted his hips, purposefully tightening. Hannibal tilted his head back and savored it.

He could feel the frustration, the need, building in his boy. Just as he wanted it to. For while Will didn’t know what his pace was, he did have one. And Hannibal intended to find it. To push and tease and take Will to the brink until he had no choice but to admit his desires and send them both over the edge.

Voice awed, Hannibal asked, “Were? Past tense?”

Will’s eyes closed. The pink in his cheeks crept down his neck to the top of his chest. Hannibal scraped his nails over Will’s nipple, making Will’s cock jump. Will stayed quiet, but they were so close.

As soon as Will established his wants as equal value to Hannibal’s, Hannibal would give Will whatever he wanted. He’d become a slave to his boy’s whims, reveling as his darling took without shyness or shame. But he needed consent first.

(Explicit consent that Will wanted and was ready to dive into the abyss. For once Hannibal claimed him – heart, body, and mind – he would never stop. Would never let Will go, not even an inch. Would never allow Will to take a single breath that wasn’t filled to the brim with Hannibal.)

Hannibal rolled his hips without entering Will further. He drew a circle around Will’s nipple with his nail, teasing. Will’s abs spasmed.

Another moment passed, torturously long, then Will nodded. “You’re done. You’re going to fuck me, Hannibal, and I’m going to cum. Now.”

Finally.

Hannibal gripped Will’s hips and thrust the rest of the way in, entering Will in a single stroke. Will gasped, entire body going stiff with the sudden intrusion, and Hannibal melted. The heat, the tightness, the fact that it was Will: there had never been a greater test of strength than that of not pulling out and thrusting right back in again.

Hannibal leaned over his boy and kissed one of those beautiful nipples. Yearning. Will remained perfectly still, body trying desperately to adjust to Hannibal’s sizeable cock. Hannibal kissed his way up to Will’s ear and huffed warmth breath against the canal. He pressed his palm flat against Will’s stomach, right over where he knew his cock to be. Perfect.

“Take this as a lesson, Darling. I am your dominant. Always. I am also your equal. Everything I am belongs to you.” Hannibal rolled his hips, grinding himself against Will’s prostate. Will moaned, wanton and needy. Stunning thing. “Don’t be afraid to take. If you have a thought, a desire, fight for it.  Impose your will on me and know that I get no greater pleasure than fulfilling your whims. I own you, Will. And I am your servant. Use me.”

Will licked his lips. He breathed in deep, then lifted his hips and slid halfway off Hannibal’s cock. He thrust himself back on in a single motion, sending pleasure sparking into Hannibal’s abdomen. They both groaned.

“I think…” Will’s voice faltered. “I think if you’re here to serve, you should fucking serve already.”

Pride and ecstasy exploded within him, engorging his cock. He bit Will’s earlobe. “Yes, Mylimasis. Anything.”

Hannibal sat up, gripped Will’s hips tight, and thrust. He set a brutal pace, hitting Will’s prostate with every move, and Will’s unbelievably soft insides held him through it. Will's ass sucked him in with every thrust, doing its very best to swallow Hannibal whole.

Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck, bitten down nails digging into Hannibal’s skin. Slick muscles spasmed around Hannibal’s cock while Will’s teeth scraped his shoulder. “H-Hannibal, I’m—”

“I know.” Hannibal increased the pace. The brutality. He slammed his cock deep into Will and crashed their lips together with too much force. He murmured, “Cum for me, Darling.”

And Will did.

He clenched down on Hannibal’s cock like he was trying to suffocate it (to milk it dry) and sank his teeth into Hannibal’s skin. Pleasure and pain brought Hannibal to the edge, demanding he fall with Will, but he resisted. This was Will’s moment. Will’s orgasm. And Hannibal would see him through it.

Cum spurted from Will’s pretty little cock – his first orgasm in weeks – and Will moaned into Hannibal’s skin. His entire body spasmed with the force of it: a delicious suction on Hannibal’s dick.

Then Will went limp.

He fell back onto the bedspread, insides still quivering. Breathing slow. Hannibal slid out of Will’s lovely hole, then casually thrust back in. Will instinctively clenched around him. Hannibal checked Will’s pulse.  One hundred ten beats per minute and slowing. He groaned and leaned down to softly bite one of Will’s perfect pink nipples. His darling had actually passed out from the force of his orgasm. Seductive thing.

Hannibal wrapped his fist around Will’s oversensitive cock and stroked. Will’s insides twitched. Hannibal quickened his thrusts, returning to his brutal pace without hesitation. He had less than a minute before Will would wake up, and he wanted to enjoy it. To take in the way Will sucked him down, eagerly accepting everything Hannibal had to give regardless of cognizance.

He lifted Will’s hips off the bed for a better angle, holding Will’s lower half in the air so he could ram against his darling’s prostate as directly as possible. Will’s insides clenched and fluttered around him, desperate to pleasure Hannibal even when unconscious.

Oh, this boy was built to take his dick.

Hannibal dug his nails into Will’s skin, grip already bruising, and the sweet thing’s cock started to swell once more. The mark of the young. Will’s ass tightened around Hannibal’s cock as long lashes fluttered open. Hazy blue eyes focused on Hannibal: completely overwhelmed with pleasure. Hannibal slammed his cock in as hard as he could, smacking his pelvis against Will’s ass and abusing Will’s already swollen prostate.

Will jerked with a whining keen, once again fully awake but not yet fully aware. Hannibal’s own cock ached with the need to bury himself deep and release. Will maneuvered his arms and shoulders against the bed, then jerked so he could meet Hannibal’s thrusts halfway.

Hannibal moaned. “Yes, Darling. Take your pleasure. Use me.”

Hannibal leaned down, bending Will practically in half, and pressed his lips to Will’s. Will tilted his head to give Hannibal better access, lips parting to let him in. Hungry.

Against Hannibal’s lips, Will murmured, “Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. Oh, Jesus Christ, that’s good.”

A prayer.

Hannibal pulled back and wrapped his lips around Will’s perky nipple instead. Against sweat-slick skin, he whispered his own prayer. To his own god.

“Mylimasis. My Sweet. My beloved.” The pleasure in Hannibal’s lower abdomen stirred. Hannibal’s cock throbbed. He released Will’s hip to wrap his fist around that sweet red cock and started stroking. “You are everything to me. Absolute perfection. My darling. My boyfriend. My Will.”

Will’s thighs trembled with impending release. His insides spasmed, hugging Hannibal close. Begging for his cum. The coil of pleasure in Hannibal’s gut flexed, sending a shiver of ecstasy down his spine. His cock hardened, growing longer and thicker as it prepared to shoot what Will wanted (what he needed, what he craved) in the deepest parts of his body.

Hannibal changed to quick, shallow thrusts, keeping himself buried in that sweet, tight heat for as long as possible. He bit Will’s nipple, barely short of drawing blood. Will curled his fingers in Hannibal’s hair, painfully tight, and yanked Hannibal back up for a kiss. Their teeth clashed. Hannibal sucked Will’s bottom lip into his mouth. Will bit him.

Hannibal moaned, hips jerking. Will kissed him again.

“Hannibal.” Will’s arms around Hannibal’s neck. “I want you.” Will’s endless legs wrapping tight around Hannibal’s waist. “To cum inside me.” Will squeezing hard around Hannibal’s cock. “Right the fuck now.”

Will pulled Hannibal’s hair, and whatever composure Hannibal had left vanished. The pleasure in Hannibal’s stomach unfurled, spreading out into Hannibal’s cock and spilling deep into Will.

Perfect.

Will moaned long and low, that tight heat doubling down as he followed Hannibal over the edge. Warm cum spurted into Hannibal’s hand and dribbled down onto Will's perfect stomach. Hannibal pulled out and thrust back in, fucking Will hard and fast through his orgasm. Will pulled him down for another kiss. Forceful. Demanding. Animalistic.

The words ‘I love you’ sat on the tip of Hannibal’s tongue, but he couldn’t say it first. He would not risk scaring Will away.

He pressed their lips even tighter together and poured his love into his actions. (How close he held Will. How passionately he kissed Will. How well he brought Will to orgasm.) Tears stung the backs of his eyes, reminding him just how lucky he was to have found such a perfect partner.

He kissed Will.

I love you.

He kissed Will.

I love you.

He kissed Will.

He cried.

Will’s hands moved to cup Hannibal’s face, thumbs brushing gently over cheekbones as he smoothed away the tears. The lovely tenor of his voice softened with concern as he said, “Hannibal? Hannibal, are you okay? I didn’t actually hurt you, did I?”

The love blossomed anew, filling Hannibal’s chest with light, sprawling petals of adoration. He brushed a beautiful chocolate curl out of wonderfully intelligent, aurora borealis eyes. More tears fell, wetting Will’s cheeks. “No, Darling. You didn’t hurt me. I’m happy is all.” Hannibal smiled and kissed him again. (I love you.) “So happy. For you. For myself. For us.”

Will’s smile was gentle. Understanding. Hannibal looked into Will’s eyes, and all the pretty, flowery words he’d gathered to express his love fell away because Will already knew. Empath. Boyfriend. Soulmate.

Hannibal rolled his hips, cock soft but still locked inside Will’s perfect body. Will brought him down for a kiss, relaying everything Hannibal couldn’t say in a single press of the lips. When Hannibal pulled back again, Will’s eyes were shimmering.

Will said, “You’re my boyfriend.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“And I have a bed.”

Hannibal laughed. “Yes. You have a bed.”

“So I was thinking maybe you’d like to stay with me. Tonight. In my bed, at my place.” He sniffled, smile unwavering. “I know it’s not as fancy as yours, and I know you hate this blanket—”

“It is hideous.”

“—but I want to stay like this. With you.” Will brushed a lock of hair out of Hannibal’s eyes, so gentle that it hurt. “Forever, if we can, but just tonight is okay, too. And I’ll stoke the fire for you and make you breakfast in the morning. Maybe—maybe there’s a French press in one of these boxes, and I can make coffee. Coffee you’re willing to drink, I mean.”

“Ridiculous boy.” Hannibal kissed him (I love you), then pressed his lips to the tears he’d dripped onto Will’s cheeks, too. “As a very wise man once said: I wouldn’t care if you lived in a cardboard box and we had to share a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I want to spend the night with you, Will. Wherever that night may be.”

Will grinned. He kissed Hannibal, chaste but firm, then shifted so Hannibal’s cock slipped out of him. Hannibal mourned the loss, but only momentarily as Will threw his weight and flipped them over.

Will’s ass pressed against Hannibal’s groin, still wet with lube and cum. Calloused hands used Hannibal’s chest for balance while Will leaned down to nuzzle the juncture of Hannibal’s throat and shoulder. He kissed his way up Hannibal’s neck, stopping to suck and nibble just below Hannibal’s ear.

(Too high up to be hidden. A claim.)

Pride effloresced in Hannibal. He smoothed his hands along the perfect globes of Will’s ass, encouraging his boy further. Will bit down the slightest bit harder, purposefully bruising. Hannibal tilted his head to give Will more room. And there, beneath Will’s body and between Will’s teeth, their fate was sealed.

Will had always belonged to Hannibal, but now (finally, finally, finally), Hannibal belonged to Will, too.

(***Paragon***)

Despite Will’s promises, it was Hannibal who woke up and made breakfast while Will slept in. Will could hear Hannibal in the kitchen, being too awake for whatever o’clock it was. He blinked, bleary eyed, then buried his head in the pillow.

In Will’s defense, Hannibal was an insatiable beast who seemed to think he needed to make up for every orgasm Will had missed over the past two weeks in a single night. In Hannibal’s defense… It was too early for Will to give Hannibal a defense. Hannibal was guilty. The end.

Will turned his head to the side to yawn, then kicked the blanket off his legs. His ass and thighs felt equal parts dry and sticky. He stood, a pleasant pain radiating from his ass and lower back in a constant reminder of his non-virgin status. He yanked on yesterday’s jeans, choosing to forgo boxers altogether rather than finding a clean pair, and padded into the kitchen. He smiled.

“You made pancakes?”

“From a box, sadly. Your pantry is sorely lacking.”

Will picked a pancake off the stack and ate it like a cookie. Between bites he said, “That’s your fault. By the time I got money to actually stock my fridge, I was spending most nights at your place. Would’ve been a waste to buy groceries.”

“Yes. Because flour, sugar, and honey all go bad so quickly.”

Will leaned against the counter beside Hannibal and shrugged. “You know the extent of my cooking is frying fish and mac-n-cheese from a box. Count yourself lucky the pancake mix was there at all.”

Hannibal flipped a pancake without a spatula (magic), then leaned over to kiss Will. “Small blessings, I suppose.”

Will hummed and took another pancake. “How long have you been up?”

“A few hours. Why?”

“You look super put together is all.” Will ran a finger down the arm of Hannibal’s dress shirt. “Did you iron this?” He frowned. “Do I own an iron?”

“A poor man’s iron, yes. I put it in the dryer with a damp washcloth. The heat releases steam, which rids the cloth of wrinkles.”

“Oh. Neat. I didn’t know that was a thing.” Will twisted his upper body to pop his spine, which exacerbated the ache in his ass and lower back. “I guess you were poor at one point, weren’t you?”

“Markedly so.”

Hannibal turned off the stove and added the final pancake to the stack. Will wiped his pancake-greased fingers on his jeans, then slipped his arms around Hannibal’s waist.

“Did you always dress this well? I mean, not this well, since you wouldn’t have had the money for it, but did you dress as well as you could? Like the intern, Aaron.”

“He’s no longer an intern, Darling. Both he and Miss Fairfield graduated and are now agents in training.”

Will lowered his voice and mimicked Hannibal’s accent. “You’re dodging the question, Darling.”

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder at Will, who blinked innocently back. Hannibal unhooked Will’s hands around his waist so he could turn and face Will, then pressed their lips together.

“Have I ever told you how attractive you look in my accent?”

Will grinned against Hannibal’s lips, accepting the non-answer for what it was. Hannibal didn’t want to talk about it. Will wouldn’t push.

Gentle fingers caressed the skin right above Will’s jeans. “How are you feeling? Any soreness?”

Will snorted. “Don’t worry. I’m plenty sore.” He kissed Hannibal’s jaw. “You left your mark, inside and out.”

Hannibal squeezed Will’s waist, approving. “Good. If you’d said ‘no,’ I would have cleared our schedules and tried again.”

Will’s cock was too spent to think about getting hard. Arousal pooled in his belly anyway. He leaned in. “Is it too late to change my answer?”

“Never too late, Darling.”

Hannibal’s lips brushed Will’s lips. Will’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Shit.” Will pecked Hannibal on the lips, then pulled away to dig out his phone. The caller ID said ‘Jack,’ which meant Will had to go. He pressed the green button. “What do you want, Jack?”

“Graham. Our arsonist struck again. I’m texting you an address. Get here fast.”

Jack hung up. Hannibal’s phone started to vibrate. Hannibal barely glanced at the screen before slipping it back into his pocket, unconcerned.

Will snagged another pancake from the stack before hurrying up the stairs. He grabbed what was probably a clean shirt out of his closet, only minorly distracted by the fact that his upstairs bedrooms had beds, too, then set the pancake on a shelf so he could throw on his clothes. He took the stairs two at a time as he returned to the main floor, shoving the rest of the pancake in his mouth so he could tug on his shoes.

Hannibal joined him at the base of the stairs and held out one of his jackets. Will stepped into it, mumbled “Thank you” around a mouth full of pancake, and grabbed his keys. He was halfway out the door before remembering both that he had a new car and that Hannibal didn’t live with him. He backtracked to grab the Jeep key and tossed Hannibal the ring with his house key on it.

“I’ve got to run, but I have two stalkers and Lounds who—You know what? No. I’ve got three stalkers. Mind locking up when you’re done?”

“Not at all.” Hannibal closed the distance between them to kiss Will goodbye. One kiss turned into two, then ten, until Will was flushed and breathless, and it was Hannibal who tasted like pancakes. Happiness filled Will’s chest while Hannibal pressed a final kiss to Will’s temple, adoring. “Have a good day, Darling.”

Will nodded (a little dazed and not entirely convinced that looking at burned bodies was more important than kissing Hannibal silly). He said, “You too.”

The cold winter air helped bring Will out of his Hannibal-induced stupor. Luckily, his new car had heat, so the drive to the crime scene wasn’t a nightmare. Unluckily, the scene itself was a nightmare. Two bodies, chained to a pole in the middle of an abandoned building. Both burned to a crisp.

Guilt. An apology.

The arsonist didn’t mean for the little girl to see the other victim die. And she was willing to risk kidnapping and transporting future victims to avoid a similar fate. Because she didn’t want to leave witnesses? No. She’d known the little girl was there, just too late. It wasn’t about not being seen, but not forcing others to watch. These weren’t crimes of opportunity, but of vengeance. A blatant injustice? No. A perceived slight. Something the law wouldn’t take care of. Something which needed to be done.

Will relayed the information to Jack, who insisted Will continue to look long after it was useful. “She’s escalating too quickly,” he said. “We need more.”

Only Will didn’t have more. He stared at the bodies. Smelled the rotting flesh. Waited. The longer he looked, the more the disgusted part of him withered. By the time Jack gave up and released Will’s leash, all he felt was numb.

Jack told him to go write his report and stare at the photos, instead. Rather than arguing (not that arguing ever did Will any good), he climbed back into his Jeep and drove to Quantico. He waited to text Hannibal until after he pulled into his parking spot, but even that was just to let his boyfriend know that he wouldn’t be getting out of the office until stupidly late, if at all.

He trudged into the building, through security, and to the shared office space. Everyone else had already arrived – had already had time to order lunch and start eating – by the time he dropped into his chair. He booted up his computer and started typing.

“Will?”

Will grunted without looking up.

Ava continued, “Are you… I mean, are you okay? That scene was harsh, and Jack making you look at it for so long was…” She sighed softly. “Harsh.”

Will tapped the spacebar with more force than strictly necessary. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t move. Another person stepped up beside her.

Aaron, in a low, serious tone, asked, “Is he allowed to do that? Make you stare at a corpse for that long?”

“He can do whatever he wants, so long as it gets him results.” Will typed out a sentence about the arsonist being protective. Remembered that kind of language was what got him sent to prison. Erased it. “Welcome to law enforcement.”

Aaron (angry, righteous) said, “But that’s—that’s not okay.”

“No? Why don’t you go write me a paper on it? What your ideal is versus what the reality is. What you wish you could do to fix it versus what you can actually do.”

Aaron’s hand landed on Will’s desk, and Will followed the line of his arm up to a bright orange tie. “Why do you keep doing that? We weren’t your students before, and we’re definitely not your students now. You can’t just assign us papers and hope we’ll turn a blind eye to—”

“I’m not trying to make you turn a blind eye. I’m trying to make you look. What Jack did today is a very minor abuse of power. If this bothers you, then you need to start asking yourself how much it bothers you. If it’s too much to get over, you need to get out. You can’t fix the system, Aaron. You can poke and prod. You can clean up a corner of it. But there’s no fixing. And you either get to save yourself some time and write a paper, or you get to push back until you break. Either way, you’ll end up at the same conclusion. What do you want? How much do you want it? What do you see?” Will turned back to his monitor without waiting for an answer. “If you want to learn from me, write your paper. Have it on my desk by Friday morning. If you don’t, back off and bother someone else.”

Aaron’s hand on Will’s desk clenched into a fist. Ava said, “Friday morning. Can do.” Her hand joined Aaron’s on the desk, an attempt at comfort rather than a threat. In a much quieter tone, she said, “If you ever need anyone to talk to…”

Will stopped typing to pinch the bridge of his nose. He reminded himself they were only trying to help, then reeled his frustrations back in. “Thank you. Both of you. I promise I’m fine.”

Their body language said they weren’t convinced. They let it go anyway.

Will reread the last line he’d typed, trying to pick back up on his train of thought. Beverly kept him derailed with an excited, “So? Spill!”

Will blinked at the screen. Tried to process her sudden burst of energy. Failed. He raised his brows without looking away from the monitor. “Spill what?”

“The dirt. The beans. The juice. The sweet smell of sex that is rolling. Off. Of. You. C’mon! It’s obvious you got laid.”

Will glanced up, brows furrowed. “What? How?”

“Messy hair. Wrinkled clothes. The way you’re sitting. I was right, wasn’t I? He’s big.”

Will rolled his eyes and typed out half a sentence. His ass ached: a perpetual reminder that she was right. “I’m still not going to discuss my boyfriend’s dick with you, but yeah. I got laid. What of it?”

Jimmy cursed and Brian groaned. They both handed Beverly money. Alana glared, disapproving.

Beverly didn’t even look at her deskmate. She said, “Give us the deets. Just how good is the good doctor really?”

Will pursed his lips. Thought about Hannibal’s talented hands and mouth and dick. Remembered cumming so many times that he’d genuinely needed to stop and rehydrate.

Beverly whistled. “That good, huh?”

Will fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. It didn’t help. He touched his chin to his chest and focused on his jeans. “Being with Hannibal is… it’s not just…” He huffed out a breath. “It’s not just sex. It feels like I’m… I don’t know. Like I’m being worshipped.”

Will glanced up to see if that was too cheesy. Beverly was grinning, but not at him. At something behind him. Lips pressed to his neck before he could turn, and Hannibal murmured, “As it should, Mylimasis. For I am worshipping.”

Butterflies exploded in Will’s stomach while heat surged to his cheeks. Beverly squealed and shook Brian’s arm, too excited for words.

Jimmy lowered his cup ramen and pointed his plastic fork at Hannibal. “Now that was smooth.”

Alana met Will’s eyes, brief but enough. He knew without asking that her time with Hannibal had been nothing like his. He also knew that, while she no longer wanted Hannibal, she did want what Will had (someone to love her, someone to come home to, someone to worship). He tilted his head back and pretended not to have seen.

“You don’t have your tote with you. No lunch today?”

“Not from home. I thought I might spirit you away for once. You could use the fresh air, and I would love to show you off.” He picked up Will’s hand and delicately kissed the knuckles. “May I?”

Will’s heart melted. He glanced at his desk – at the report he’d barely started – and hated himself even as he said, “I would love to, but I can’t. This case—”

“Can wait.” Beverly cut in from across the room. “Take your lunch, Will.”

Brian nodded. “She’s right. You’ve been at the scene all day.” He took a bite of cold pizza and continued, mouth full of food, “Besides, he said he worships you. You can’t just turn that down.”

Jimmy raised a finger. “And we want to be invited to dinner again.”

Brian pointed his pizza at Jimmy. “That, too.”

Will sighed. “I can’t just—”

Beverly held up a hand in an emphatic ‘stop’ motion. “You really, really can. You’re the first to come in and the last to leave every day. One lunch isn’t going to kill you. Besides, if anyone deserves to get swept off their feet by a handsome prince, it’s you. We can handle things here.” Her hand turned down at the wrist to make a shooing motion. “Now go.”

Warmth permeated Will’s chest as he realized they were serious. That they would cover for him. He smiled. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you.”

He stood. Hannibal plucked his coat from the back of the chair and held it out for him to step into. Will complied. Hannibal smoothed the material over Will’s shoulders, then stepped around for a chaste kiss. It was too good to leave be. Will smiled against his lips and kissed him again. He traced the lapels of Hannibal’s coat and said, “You really do have to invite them over for dinner now. You know that, right?”

“I’m aware.”

Someone high-fived in the background. Probably Jimmy and Brian. Will grabbed his beanie off the desk, pulled it down over his ears, then threaded his hand with Hannibal’s and headed for the door.

Beverly stopped them with a quick, “Wait! Before you go…” She paused. They turned to look at her. A salacious smile touched her lips. Attention on Hannibal rather than Will, she asked, “How’s the Graham Cracker taste?”

Will groaned.

Hannibal released Will’s hand to instead slip a possessive arm around his waist. The mischief in his eyes matched Beverly’s to a T as he purred, “Extraordinarily sweet.”

Beverly cackled (Will refused to call it a laugh) and clapped her hands. “Yas, Queen! Get that sugar sweet.” 

Will rolled his eyes. “I’m leaving now.”

“Love you, too, Will!”

Will re-twined his fingers with Hannibal’s and tugged the other man out the door. Hannibal kissed the top of Will’s head, hand squeezing tight. They walked out to Hannibal’s Bentley despite Will now having a perfectly serviceable car, and Will waited for Hannibal to open the door for him before sliding into the passenger’s seat.

Hannibal rejoined their hands when he entered the car. He drove them to a fancy part of town and parked in an indoor lot. Will reached for the handle only to stop as he saw Hannibal walking around the car. (Hannibal, who liked doing things for Will. Hannibal, who looked so proud when Will depended on him.) Will let go of the handle to rub his palm back and forth over his knee.

When Hannibal opened the door for him, Will got out. Hannibal placed his hands on Will’s hips and kissed his neck and cheeks and lips. He nuzzled Will’s temple, adoring.

“Darling thing. Thank you.”

Fuzzy happiness sprouted in Will’s chest. He breathed in the scent of Hannibal (control, safety, cologne) and nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Hannibal kissed him again (a small dose of an addictive drug), then took Will’s hand to lead him out of the lot. Will glanced around once they were outside again, taking in the stores. He blinked.

“These aren’t restaurants.”

“No, they aren’t.” Hannibal started walking to the right. Will followed. “I’d like to buy you a new coat. Something fitted.”

Discomfort flexed in Will’s stomach. He stopped, and because they were connected by the hand, Hannibal stopped, too. “Hannibal…” Will shook his head, eyes on the sidewalk. “I appreciate your kindness. I really do. But I can’t just keep letting you buy things for me.”

Hannibal blinked, unbothered. “Why not?”

“Maybe because you do it all the time? These aren’t just gifts anymore. You’re practically paying for my livelihood. And I know you make a lot of money, but you live pretty extravagantly, too. What if adding me into that is the thing that pushes you over the edge, and you can’t afford all your nice things or your imported foods anymore?” Will dug what was left of his nails into his palm, anxious over the thought of costing Hannibal something he enjoyed, even if there was no base for it. He murmured, “What if I bankrupt you?”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering. Rather than answering verbally, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it to face Will. It took Will a few seconds to realize he was looking at a bank account, and another few seconds after that to comprehend the balance.

He balked.

“Okay. Yeah. Not gonna bankrupt you.”

Hannibal put his phone back in his pocket and resumed walking, gently pulling Will along with him. “I have other accounts with similar balances in other countries. And even if you did manage to truly bankrupt me, I am a man of many skills. I would find a way to support you again.”

“Please don’t.” Will practically gagged at the thought of blowing that much money and Hannibal still wanting to support him. “I—Is it even possible to spend all that?”

“Yes.”

“Christ. Okay. Um, yeah. Buy… Buy whatever you want. It’s not like I can actually stop you or anything. Just…” Will shrugged, helpless. “Don’t go overboard?”

Hannibal released Will’s hand to open the door to a fancy boutique. Maroon eyes sparkled. “Of course not.”

Will frowned. “Overboard for me, Hannibal. Not overboard for you.”

“Darling boy. If you wanted to negotiate terms, you should have done so prior to agreeing.”

Will rolled his eyes but entered the boutique. “You’re insufferable. You know that, right?”

“So I’ve been told.”

Hannibal headed to the right, his confidence lending Will the knowledge that he shopped there often. Will pulled on the hem of his sleeve, using the dim pain of his shirt rubbing against his nipples to ground himself. They stopped by a coat rack. He pulled harder.

“I shouldn’t have to say this, but you know I’m not with you for your money, right?”

“Nor am I with you for your ability to spend my money.”

“Right. Obviously. I just…” Will didn’t have a good response. He gave up and motioned to the rack to their right. “Which one do you want to get?”

“This is not about me, Mylimasis. It’s your coat. Your everyday wear. It should be to your tastes.”

Will tugged his beanie down over his ears despite the warmth permeating the shop. He frowned at Hannibal, who looked perfectly suited to the opulence around him, then nudged one of the uglier jackets.

“I…” Will dropped his hand to his side with a defeated shrug. “Honestly? I’d prefer just to borrow another one of yours. They’re comfy, and I like the way you smell.” He paused. Frowned. Channeled his inner-Hannibal to (semi-shamelessly) continue, “And I like smelling like you.”

Hannibal groaned softly. Pleasantly. He wrapped his hands around Will’s waist and pulled him close. “Perfect boy. Of course. Anything.” He ran a gentle hand from Will’s jaw up into his hair, making Will feel all kinds of adored. “In return, pick a coat for me. One you’ll wear until I give you mine. Then we’ll trade and smell like each other.”

The idea, innocent as it was, made Will’s cock swell. He pressed his nose to Hannibal’s pulse point, where the cologne was at its strongest, and breathed in. Lips against the column of Hannibal’s throat, just below the hickey he’d left, Will murmured, “Yes, please.”

Hannibal’s hand left Will’s hair to grip his hips, right over the bruises he’d left. He pulled Will close (close enough for Will to feel the half-hard outline of his cock through five layers of clothing) and said, “Choose quickly, Darling.”

The want in Hannibal’s voice shot straight to Will’s dick. He gently teethed Hannibal’s jugular, kissed the vein, and turned to the coat rack. He tapped the shoulders of the coats as he flipped through them, barely spending a second on each one.

“Boring. Boring. Ugly. Boring. Ugly and boring.” He stopped on a green coat, held it up to Hannibal, then put it back. “Too long. Stupid buttons. Is that real fur?” Will checked the tag. It was real fur. “Assholes.” He dropped the coat on the ground and left it there. “Too many zippers. Belts with coats are stupid. Are those pockets fake? No one wants fake pockets. Ugly. Ugly.”

Will paused as he saw a black coat with shiny gold thread sewn into it in seemingly random patterns. He plucked it off the rack and held it up to Hannibal. It sparkled.

Kintsugi.

“Try this one.”

Hannibal nodded. He shed his coat, folding it primly over the top of the rack before accepting the gold and black one from Will. It clung to his broad shoulders and trim waist, flattering his strong figure. Every time he moved, he glittered.

On anyone else, it would look gaudy. Garish, even. On Hannibal, it was spectacular. He looked confident. Powerful. Perfect to the point that Will wanted to drop to his knees and worship. To wrap his hands around the back of Hannibal’s knees in thanks, then to lean forward with Hannibal’s hand in his hair and choke on Hannibal’s cock—

“Sweet thing. Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have no choice but to ravage you here and now.”

Will swallowed. Felt the scrape of it down his sore throat. Eyes on Hannibal’s lips, he asked, “Are you trying to encourage or discourage?”

Hannibal stepped into Will’s personal space, attracting Will like a moth to the flame. (Hot. Bright. Necessary for life. Destined to bring the moth to ruin.) He pressed his lips to the flat of Will’s ear, endlessly seductive, and said, “Encourage. Always.”

Arousal sparked in Will’s cock, making him way too hard to be standing in a department store. He kissed Hannibal’s neck, stole Hannibal’s watch, and backed off. He snapped the Rolex around his own wrist as he checked the time, then tapped the face of the watch for Hannibal to see.

“Seventeen minutes left on my lunch break. Would you rather rut against each other in here, or do you want to fuck me in the backseat of your Bentley?”

For a split second, Will saw the beast underneath Hannibal’s person suit flex. Then Hannibal was back, all charm and passion. He kissed the hand that had stolen his watch and said, “The Bentley, please.”

Will nodded, adrenaline mixing with arousal as Hannibal picked up the coat he’d worn in and made his way to the register. He sparkled as he walked, a god among men. Will stayed put.

He had glimpsed Hannibal’s monster before, of course. Had caught the shift of darkness in Hannibal’s eyes and the lack of empathy in his smile. Hannibal had no shame. No guilt, either. Sadist. Narcissist. But this was the first time Will saw any sort of outline. And though it was just a flicker – a trick of the light, even – Will thought he saw something familiar in it.

He thought he saw antlers.

Hannibal moved from the register to the door, apparently finished paying. He paused and turned back to Will, who had yet to move from the coat rack. His stance was inviting (patient, doting, understanding in every way Will had ever wanted but never dared hope for). He met Will’s eyes. He smiled.

“Coming, Darling?”

Will’s heart beat in his ears, telling him to look closer. Telling him to turn away. He swallowed to feel the scrape of Hannibal’s cock down his throat. Shifted for a spark of the pain that came with the incredibly thorough fucking he’d received less than twelve hours earlier.

He chose not to look.

“I’m coming.”

Will closed the distance between them. Twined their hands together. Breathed Hannibal in. One more small dose of a dangerously addictive drug followed by a worryingly quiet, internal assurance that he’d be able to stop when he needed to. If he needed to.

(But then, Will was weaker to vices than most.)

They left the store together.

Chapter Text

Will stepped out of the Bentley, one hundred percent sure that everyone would know what they’d done.

His hair was even more a mess than usual, he had fresh hickeys up his neck, and his lips were so kiss bruised that he may as well have been wearing lipstick. His saving grace was that the coat Hannibal had just bought (which looked significantly less good on Will than it did on Hannibal) was long enough to cover the wet spots on the front and back of his jeans.

He got out of the Bentley with a fresh ache in his lower back. A soft dribble of cum slipped out of his ass. He clenched to try and keep it inside, which did fuck-all considering his asshole, cleft, and jeans were already wet. He sidestepped Hannibal with full intent to say goodbye and head straight to the showers.

Except when Hannibal closed the passenger side door, he pressed Will against the Bentley and kissed him. Like even after spending the night (and the last fifteen minutes) buried inside Will, Hannibal still hadn’t gotten enough. Will kissed him back once, then again and again after that, feeling exactly the same way. They didn’t stop until Will’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and even then, it was reluctant.

Will pulled away. Hannibal chased his lips for another kiss. Will laughed. “Hannibal. I’m already late. We need to go inside.”

Hannibal kissed up the line of Will’s jaw to sigh into his ear. “I know, Darling. Duty calls. But is it so wrong of me to wish you wouldn’t answer?”

Will gently pushed Hannibal away, though his fingers never uncurled from the lapels of Hannibal’s coat. The sight of that particular coat (the one Will had worn for the last few weeks) on Hannibal made possessive pride pool in Will.  Rather than pulling Hannibal in for another kiss, like he wanted, Will forced himself to say, “Duty calls us both. You have patients.”

“They can wait.”

“Keep playing hooky and you’re going to lose your practice.”

“A small price to pay.”

“Small for you, not your patients.” Will hesitated. Knew he should let Hannibal go. Asked anyway. “Do you want to walk me in?”

“That was always my intent.” Hannibal reached into his pocket. The trunk popped open. Will watched, curious, as Hannibal left his side to retrieve the warming tote.

Will’s brows furrowed. “You packed lunch?”

“Of course.”

“What about taking me out to eat?”

“If I had told you I wanted to buy you a coat, you wouldn’t have come.”

Will glanced at the backdoor of the Bentley, only semi-surprised. “And the sex?”

“I had my hopes.”

Will opened his mouth. Closed it again. Tilted his head and blinked. He gave up and started crossing the parking lot, barely sparing a second to point at Hannibal and say, “Insufferable.”

Hannibal caught up to Will with long, easy strides, not even the slightest bit hurried.

(He’d be impossible to outrun.)

Hannibal held out his hand, and Will twined their fingers together. They separated only long enough to get through security, then rejoined hands for the walk to Will’s office.

Or, they would have walked to Will’s office, if not for Alana and Jack heading them off in the hall.

Alana gave Will a once-over, then shot a disapproving look at Hannibal. “Seriously?”

Jack headed off the imminent berating by jabbing a meaty finger to the right and growling, “All of you. My office. Now.”

Will squeezed Hannibal’s hand, irritated even before being told anything negative. Hannibal squeezed back. They all piled into Jack’s office, where Will’s attention was drawn to the glaringly empty square of wall in the middle of a dozen awards and newspaper clippings. He didn’t have to ask to know that something to do with his arrest had once hung there.

Alana stood beside Jack’s desk, arms crossed. Jack sat down. It was obvious he didn’t want to be there, which meant Alana had forced his hand.

Jack started. “Do you two have any idea how bad you’re making the Bureau look right now? It’s one thing for you to flirt at the office, but a viral video of you two flaunting your relationship? Have you seen what Lounds is saying?”

Will frowned. “No. And I don’t care, either. Lounds is a bitch, and I can date who I want.”

“Not if he’s your therapist.” Jack made an angry motion to the room in general. “And not if he’s the guy who cleared you to work at the FBI.”

“That was months ago. We haven’t had a therapy session since.”

“Not on the record, but if you’d bothered to read the TattleCrime article, you’d know that you go to his office every Thursday night at seven. Which, to an outsider, looks a lot like therapy.” Jack scowled, condescending verging on demeaning. “This has to stop.”

Fury curdled in Will’s gut, turning placating words into weapons. He sneered. “Why? Because the woman who slanders me for a living slandered me again? Who exactly is surprised by this? And what do you think breaking us up will do? The article’s already out. The damage is already done. She’s not going to stop just because we say sorry.”

Alana shook her head. “It’s not just about the article, Will. Dating your therapist leads to an unhealthy power imbalance—”

“I already told you—”

“Hannibal assured me that he would refer you to another therapist a month ago. Did he ever mention that to you?”

Will hesitated. Glanced at Hannibal. Maroon eyes met Will’s unflinchingly. Unashamed.  

Alana softened her voice and continued, “I didn’t think so. And if that’s not evidence of the power imbalance, I don’t know what is. It’s now clear to me that he was never going to refer you, Will. Which means he’s playing with both your mental health and your physical health.”

Her eyes trailed down to Will’s neck, openly concerned. Will scowled, anger doubling back at Alana’s blatant disregard for his autonomy.

“I can fuck whoever I want.”

“On your lunch break? You didn’t used to do that.”

“I didn’t used to have anyone to do it with. And Beverly uses her lunch break as a sex break three days a week, so don’t you dare give me a lecture about ‘physical health’ without dragging her in here, too.”

“You aren’t Beverly.”

“And you aren’t my goddamn mom—”

Jack banged his fist on the desk. “Shut up. The both of you. You’re acting like children.” He glanced around the room, making sure he had everyone’s full attention. “This isn’t a daycare or a democracy. Graham, I can’t make you stop seeing Dr. Lecter, but I can sure as hell make it so you don’t work together. Dr. Lecter, you’re fired.”

Will bristled. “You can’t—”

“I’m not done yet. We’re assigning you a new therapist. FBI appointed. Board certified. Professional.”

Alana glared at Hannibal, spitefully tagging on, “And hopefully they won’t take advantage of you.”

The thin thread of Will’s patience snapped.

“No.” He dropped Hannibal’s hand and stepped in front of the older man, placing himself firmly between his boyfriend and the people who’d sent Will to prison. “He’s not fired. I’m not seeing a new therapist. We’re not going to stop dating, publicly or otherwise. And if you’ve got a problem with any of that, I quit.”

Alana straightened. Jack stilled. Hannibal placed a warm hand on Will’s shoulder, thumb swiping encouragingly over the back of his neck.

Jack squared his shoulders, determined to call a bluff that didn’t exist. “You can’t afford—”

“Hannibal, can I move in with you?”

“Yes.”

Will put his arms up in a ‘well there you have it’ motion. “Looks like I don’t need to afford it.” He stepped forward, placing both hands on Jack’s desk and leaning over the many stacks of unsolved casefiles. “I came back to help you catch the Ripper. That’s it. I help on other cases because I have a bleeding fucking heart. That’s it. And as much as it hurts your ego to admit it, you need me more than I need you.” Will pushed off the desk, eyes purposefully flicking over to the blank space on Jack’s wall. He stepped back into Hannibal’s arms (relaxed into Hannibal’s warmth; soaked in Hannibal’s strength). He met Jack’s eyes. “What’ll it be, Jack?”

Jack stared at Will, teeth grinding. Fury and logic warred in his eyes. The clock ticked on. At the sixteen second mark, the tenseness in his shoulders dropped: decision made. He offered Alana a terse shrug.

“It’s not illegal.”

Her hands dropped to her sides. “It doesn’t have to be illegal. It’s immoral. He’s Will’s therapist!”

“Not officially. And to be blunt, so long as Graham's facing forward in the saddle, I don’t give a damn who he’s sleeping with. He does good work. Now more than ever.” Jack waved a hand, surrendering the battle to win the war. “Consider the matter settled.”

“But—”

“Settled.”

Will nodded, not appeased but no longer out for blood. He grabbed Hannibal’s hand and pulled the other man out into the hall. Before he could drag Hannibal all the way to his Jeep so they could fuck again out of spite, Alana joined them.

She turned on Hannibal, so far up on her high horse that she couldn’t see the ground. “I cannot believe you, Hannibal! I confided in you. Trusted you.”

Hannibal blinked, disinterested.

Will sneered. “And what? He gave away your dogs?”

Alana tucked her hair behind her ear, angry rather than apologetic. “Look, Will, I’m sorry I did that to you. I am. But this isn’t about us. It’s about Hannibal abusing his power over you—”

“He’s not abusing me—”

“You wouldn’t know! He’s made you think it’s healthy—”

“I don’t think it’s healthy. It’s just also not abuse.”

“There is a thin line between the two—”

“I’m not an invalid, Alana!”

Alana opened her mouth, but Will didn’t hear her response. He blinked. The pendulum swung.

“I’m not an invalid. I’m a caretaker. It’s my job to provide for and protect those that can’t take care of themselves. And I am so sorry for scarring that little girl, but I can’t let her pain stop me. I will remove all threats. Punish all abusers. This is my design.”

He breathed in the smoke. The burned flesh. He returned to the hallway.

“A caretaker. She’s a caretaker. I have to tell Jack.” Will turned (argument, boyfriend, and ex-best friend all forgotten) and rushed back into Jack’s office.

He closed the door behind him.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal followed Will into the woods.

While Hannibal would prefer to simply buy a Christmas tree (or not to have a Christmas tree at all), after Will’s exquisite show of protectiveness, it was impossible to deny him a thing. That included leaving Hannibal’s Bentley in Baltimore, driving Will’s Jeep to Wolf Trap, and wandering the woods indefinitely looking for the perfect tree.

On the upside, Hannibal did learn a myriad of new things about Will. That he looked lovely with an axe over his shoulder, for one. That he knew the woods around his home like the back of his hand, for another. Should Hannibal ever need to fight Will, he would make sure not to do it in Wolf Trap. The homefield advantage was too great to dismiss.

Will made a ninety-degree turn for no apparent reason, then walked straight in that direction instead. Hannibal glanced around, aware that it would take some doing to get back to Will’s house on his own. He followed.

“Are these the woods your SWAT team chased you through in your nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“Pardon my bias, but I feel you would have a rather easy time turning them on their heads and slipping off into the night.”

“In reality, maybe. The SWAT team in my dreams knew the woods pretty well, too.” Will paused and looked at the sky. He turned left, walked around a thicket of trees, and stopped. “What do you think?”

Hannibal stepped around the thicket to see a small field of Christmas trees. Some were very clearly better than others, but celebrating Christmas was a treat for Will. To that end, Hannibal could make concessions. “Pick whichever one you like, Darling.”

“Oh, c’mon. What happened to aesthetics?” Will twirled his axe in a casual circle. “This is going in your house, you know. In your study, where you’ll have to look at it all the time. If you don’t help me pick, I’ll choose a scraggly one with dead spots.”

Hannibal frowned. He would like to say Will wouldn’t, but the truth was that Will would. Hannibal scanned the trees, settling on a tall one with evenly spaced branches and a proper triangular distribution. He pointed to it.

“That one.”

Will tilted his head back, lips twisting into a lovely grin. He didn’t question Hannibal’s choice. He walked over, readied his axe, and swung. The axe head stuck in the tree, which seemed to be the purpose as Will rid himself of his (Hannibal’s) kintsugi coat. Hannibal accepted the cloth, folding it over his arm as Will rolled up his sleeves. The short, dark hairs on Will’s forearms stood on end.

He gripped the axe and tugged it from the tree, then swung again. His aim rang true, landing in the exact same spot as before. Will’s biceps flexed as he pulled the blade free, and his shoulders tensed as he readied to swing. Practiced. Precise. Violent. Though Hannibal didn’t care for Christmas as a concept, he could certainly get behind this particular tradition.

Will himself was stunning. Will with an axe? (Muscles bulging with exerted strength. Sweat dripping from flushed skin. Dark curls falling into focused, aurora borealis eyes.) It was a spectacular reminder that while Will hid his strength and capacity for violence under ill-fitted clothing and a grouchy exterior, he was a wild thing. A lithe body made entirely of coiled muscle, ready to pounce.

(To rip and tear and spill blood across the snow.)

Hannibal could have watched Will work indefinitely, but gravity was nary so kind a mistress. The tree fell into the snow. Will lodged the blade into the bark with a satisfying thunk and rejoined Hannibal.

Despite the energy he’d exerted, Will was quick to steady his breathing and say, “That was my first pick, too.”

“Then we shall both be content with it.” Hannibal twisted one of Will’s sweat drenched curls around his finger, admiring the way it molded to his will. “Come, don your coat, and I’ll help you carry it back.”

Hannibal held out Will’s coat, and Will stepped into it. Will took the end of the tree with the needles, allowing Hannibal to grab the trunk, next to the axe. They lifted and turned so that Will would be in the lead.

As they walked, Will asked, “Do you usually celebrate Christmas?”

“This will be my first. Do you always chop down a tree?”

“I have every year since I got the place. Or at least every year I’ve been here. And what do you mean this will be your first? Do you just not care for the holiday? I can’t imagine you’ve survived in America this long without someone somewhere handing you a Christmas present.”

“You’re correct. I don’t observe the holiday of my own accord. Patients, colleagues, students, and lovers have all seen fit to bestow me with gifts which, when appropriate, I accepted and reciprocated.”

Will adjusted his end of the tree. “Sounds more like a business transaction than Christmas.”

“And what does Christmas sound like to you?”

“Decorating a tree together. Hot chocolate by a fire. Not going to bed alone on Christmas Eve. Waking up to presents in the morning. The usual stuff.” He paused, then added, “Also no murder.”

Hannibal hummed. “Have you ever had a Christmas like that?”

A beat of silence. The answer was no.

“No. But I do decorate a tree when I can, and I make hot chocolate.”

“Do you get yourself a present?”

A shrug, nearly hidden in the needles. “Sometimes. When I remember.”

Hannibal imagined Young Will going to sleep under a tree – not a Christmas tree, just a tree – with the slim hopes that he would wake up with a present meant for him in the morning. Hannibal also imagined the heartbreak when all Will woke up to was cold and empty and alone. And how telling it was, that even Will forgot to get Will a present on Christmas.

“We’ll do all those things this year, Darling.”

“You can’t control the murder bit.”

“Perhaps your murderers are devout followers of Christ and will take the day off.”

Will snorted. “Yeah. Or they’ll make a shrine with my name on it so I have no choice but to go in.” He turned left next to a solid Oak. Likely a landmark. “I’ll count myself lucky just to go to sleep with you Christmas Eve and wake up next to you Christmas morning. Everything else is icing.”

“Do you keep your expectations low so that you won’t be disappointed later?”

Will glanced over his shoulder at Hannibal, the frown on his lips saying yes. “No. I just know things don’t always work out. Don’t usually work out, where I’m involved. So I make sure to keep in mind what’s really important.” The trees started to thin. The bright blue of Will’s Jeep appeared in the background. “I want to spend Christmas with you. If I get to do that, I’ll be happy.”

Hannibal accepted it because it was the truth. Yes, Will kept his expectations low, but he didn’t narrow his hopes down to what he thought was most likely to work out. He narrowed them to what he wanted most.

Will wanted to spend Christmas with Hannibal.

Hannibal shifted his hold on the tree, careful not to bump the axe, and asked, “When was the last Christmas you spent with someone else?”

“I always go to the Christmas parties at work.”

Also known as never. Or, more realistically, the last Christmas with his father before his father disappeared, leaving him on the streets. Alone.

They laid the tree down by the Jeep, and Will shook out his hands. He tugged the axe free of the trunk, then moved to put it away in the shed. When he returned, Hannibal helped him secure the tree to the top of the Jeep. Will then went inside to fetch a medium-sized wooden box, which he placed on the backseat. Hannibal tossed Will a curious glance, but all he got in return was a smile.

Will drove them to Hannibal’s house, seeming happier with every turn, and Hannibal contented himself with watching. It was so rare, after all, that Will made the effort to treat himself rather than simply catering to others.

At Hannibal’s house, Will went about setting up the base for the tree while Hannibal started a fire. Hannibal helped put the tree into the base, then knelt to adjust the needle catcher because Will had put it down crooked.

Will wandered over to the boxes of decorations on the couch. His mystery box sat next to them. “I thought you said this would be your first Christmas?”

“I bought those when you said you wanted to get a tree.”

Will’s eyes flickered over to him, a calculation. What did he see? “This is a lot for one tree. Are we mixing and matching?”

“No. I thought we would choose between themes. Would you prefer a blue and silver tree or a maroon and gold tree?”

“Maroon and silver and blue and gold.”

Hannibal joined Will by the couch, brows raised. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Will.”

Will shrugged as though the conclusion were unavoidable. “If you didn’t want all the colors, you shouldn’t have bought all the colors.” He kissed Hannibal’s cheek with an impish smile, then picked up the box of maroon ornaments to hang.

Hannibal plucked the box out of his hands and set it back on the couch. “One: the tinsel goes first. Otherwise placing the garland will cover or shift the ornaments. Two: I bought so many colors because I wanted you to have options. Choose two.”

“Maroon and gold.” Hannibal nodded and picked up the box with the gold garland. Will continued, “And blue and silver.”

Hannibal set the box back down. “Darling, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Am I?”

Will tilted his head, and oh. He was testing boundaries again. Will didn’t care about the colors on the tree, but he knew Hannibal did. He wanted to be sure that Hannibal could still read him. Would still only bow to the whims that Will actually cared about rather than becoming an actual slave to Will’s every word. Will didn’t want to be left in charge.

Hannibal withheld a smile. He picked up the silver garland and held it out to Will. “We’re decorating in two colors. Two. I’ve chosen silver. You can choose the other one.”

“But I don’t want to choose.”

Hannibal took the single step needed to close the distance between them. He brushed a lock of hair behind Will’s ear, then slid his hand down to the nape of Will’s neck. He applied the barest amount of extra pressure: enough to relay authority but not threat.

“Are you arguing, Darling?” He pressed a soft kiss to Will’s curls. Lowered his voice. “Do you have something to say?”

He felt Will swallow beneath his fingers. Will relaxed into his hold. Relieved. “I brought some ornaments from home, too. Can we use those?”

An actual request. Hannibal released Will and nodded. “Two colors, your ornaments, and the tinsel goes on first.”

Will smiled, the lovely thing. “Deal.” He reached up to caress the skin next to Hannibal’s eye and said, “I pick maroon.”

Hannibal leaned down, unable to resist tasting his perfect boy once more. Will opened his mouth, accepting, but only for a minute. When Hannibal’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Will’s pants, Will licked Hannibal’s lips and pulled away.

“Tree first. Otherwise we’ll never get to decorating.”

Hannibal sighed but allowed Will to walk away. Decorating a tree together was, after all, a large part of Will’s perfect Christmas.

Hannibal’s arousal grew as he admired the curve of Will’s ass, then died as Will began to haphazardly wrap the tree in tinsel, uncaring of even spacing or color distribution. Hannibal resisted the urge to trail behind him, correcting everything he did. Will was having fun. That was what mattered.

(And Hannibal could always take the decorations off and redo the tree after Will left.)

Hannibal put up the maroon tinsel when Will finished with the silver, doing his best to follow the negative of Will’s path so the chaos looked at least slightly more coordinated. Will crouched beside him, setting the box of silver ornaments on the floor. He placed them randomly on the tree, the only guiding line seeming to be that Hannibal had to have finished stringing his garland there first.

When Hannibal finished, he picked up the box of maroon ornaments and tried to balance the damage Will insisted on inflicting. The silver ornaments were too clustered on the right. Hannibal refused to cluster them on the left. He traded out two of his maroon ornaments for silver ones that Will had already placed.

Will plucked one of Hannibal’s maroon ornaments out of the box and hung it directly next to a silver ornament. The ornaments were touching.

“You are a terror.”

Will leaned over and kissed him, purposefully placing an extra soft ‘th’ in his “Thank you.”

Hannibal’s heart melted. His cock stiffened. He wondered if those words ever sounded so pretty coming from his own lips. (He hoped they did.) He pressed his lips to Will’s again, harder. Will tugged on his hair and bit his lip, then went back to arranging ornaments.

Lovely little minx. Except Will wasn’t usually one to tease for the sake of teasing, which meant… Hannibal looked down at his box to see another of his maroon ornaments had gone missing. He looked up again and, yes, it was now a row of three touching ornaments.

Hannibal reached up and took the middle ornament down. He hung it on the other side of the tree. Will laughed, deep and joyful. Hannibal smiled.

Their tree would be uglier than Hannibal had hoped, but it would also act as a reflection of Will. Messy. Disorganized. Full of warmth and cheer. Hannibal switched two ornaments and shifted the silver tinsel so that it didn’t sag into the lower row.

(No need for the tree to be all Will.)

Will tapped Hannibal between the shoulder blades with his empty box as he passed, moving to the couch to open the wooden box he’d brought from Wolf Trap. Hannibal placed his final ornament on the (only moderately ugly) tree, then joined will by the couch.

“Lures?”

“I thought it would be a nice touch. Like a personalization.” He tugged on the hem of his sleeve, nervous beneath his casual bravado. “Bad idea?”

“It’s perfect, Darling.” Hannibal picked up a lure made of bark and beads (creative, crafty, a utilization available resources) and placed it on the tree. Will followed his lead. They arranged the lures in much the same way as the ornaments: Will with abandon, Hannibal with grace. Hannibal only corrected a handful of Will’s errors, and Will only un-corrected two or three in return.

Hannibal left the final decorations to Will (a sacrifice) while he twined the lures he and Will had made together to create the topper for their tree. While the silver star Hannibal had bought was technically prettier, it wouldn’t tie the aesthetic together like their lures. It also wouldn’t cause Will’s face to light up with sentimental adoration or further tie Will to Hannibal’s side.

Hannibal placed their lures on top of the tree carefully, his efforts vindicated as Will paused what he was doing to watch. Hannibal glanced down at Will, who stared up from where he decorated the tree at Hannibal’s feet, and met the most adoring aurora borealis blues.

“Hey, Hannibal?”

“Yes, Darling?”

“You’re perfect, too. I know you always say it to me, but I think it all the time. You’re the perfect man. The perfect boyfriend. The perfect best friend. And I’m thankful to have you in my life.”

Hannibal paused, the need to kiss and praise and possess wrapping tight around his heart. He knelt to place himself on Will’s level, leaned close enough to see the swaths of green in Will’s spectacular eyes, and said, “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Will. And I promise: I am going to give you the most perfect Christmas you can imagine.”

“I know.”

Will smiled, soft and hopeful. He kissed Hannibal chastely, pouring his wishes for a worthwhile Christmas into the motion, and Hannibal accepted. He kissed Will in the light of the fire, under the Christmas tree: a small taste of what their holiday together would be.

Will expected something good, but Hannibal would settle for nothing less than actual perfection. He tangled his hand into Will’s hair to draw his boy closer, internally compiling a list of everything he would need to make this Will’s ideal Christmas. The perfect mood. The perfect gifts. The perfect music.

The perfect cut of meat.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal unlocked the door to his new home with a sense of accomplishment. He’d offered thirty thousand dollars over the asking price to ensure a quick change of hands, and it had been entirely worth it. The house was ideal.

(Which was to say that the house could use a lot of work, but that it had the ideal bones for Hannibal’s purposes.)

It naturally came with five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a large kitchen with an attached dining area, a formal dining room, a formal living room, and two offices. It had a fireplace in the living room, which would be the new study, and a large yard. The house sat on twenty acres of wooded land, which included a creek for fishing. It had a garage large enough for two vehicles and was located only fifteen minutes outside Baltimore.

Hannibal intended to have two sheds built out back: one for potential stray dogs to live in and one for Will’s tools and woodworking equipment. Both would be heated. The dogs’ shed would be furnished and designed with Will’s current everything room in mind, so that Will could happily take time with his pets without feeling the need to bring them into the main house.

A larger bathtub and a rain shower would need to be installed in their en suite bathroom. The railing on the spiral staircase was gaudy, but Hannibal knew a talented carver who could make a new one. The kitchen required gutting, as Hannibal needed more counter space, better cabinets, and updated appliances.

The hardwood floors were original, so they could stay. The basement could easily be soundproofed. There was room for children.

He would need to have the entire house repainted and hire a team of trusted furniture makers to assure the proper aesthetic, but in a way, that was preferred. Will had been flown out of state on a case two days prior, and Hannibal was in need of a time-consuming distraction.

He checked his phone. No new messages. He checked the mirror function on Will’s phone. Will hadn’t touched it since he’d said ‘good morning’ more than seven hours ago. Hannibal turned off his phone.

He missed Will.

He could always go home, but that led to staring at the Christmas tree he and Will had decorated together and making desserts that were far too sweet for his tastes. He hadn’t scheduled any appointments in the week leading up to Christmas (usually his busiest time of year) with the thought in mind that he wanted to spend that time with Will.

Still a wonderful idea, technically, except Will wasn’t there, and it didn’t look like he’d be getting back any time soon.

Hannibal traced the windowsill in what was to be Will’s hobby room, imagining the day where they would live in this house together. Will coming home to Hannibal every single night. Hannibal waking up to Will every single morning. And Hannibal would never be alone again.

Hannibal sighed. Checked his phone again. Locked up the house and went to the car. He couldn’t do anything to make Will come back faster, but he could channel the extra time on his hands into something productive.

A trip to Louisiana, for example.

He could rent a car (four cars, switching out periodically so even his aliases couldn’t be traced back to Baltimore) and drive down. It would take around a day to get there and a day to get back. Add in another day for sleep, visiting Will’s childhood haunts, and killing Mrs. Hailey Sumpter née Bennett, and the trip would still only take three days. He had six left to Christmas.

And were that the only factor, Hannibal would already be on his way. Unfortunately, Will’s schedule was unpredictable. While the chances of him finishing his case and returning before Hannibal were slim, Hannibal had to be prepared. Especially so, considering it was Will he was talking about.

The boy’s entire life seemed to be nothing but an absurd domino of implausible and unfortunate events. Returning home just before Christmas to find that his boyfriend was a serial murderer and that he was eating the only woman who’d ever touched him sexually wouldn’t make Will say, ‘How could this happen to me?’ It would make him say, ‘Of course.’

Hannibal pursed his lips, aware that the risks (at least technically) outweighed the benefits. He could always go to a conference in Louisiana and kill Mrs. Sumpter then. He could have ample time and a clean alibi. He could even wait until Will saw him fully, and they could do it together.

But then… It was Christmas. Surely if Will deserved something special, Hannibal deserved something special, too. Time to see the town where Will spent his adolescence. Stories gathered straight from the mouth of someone who knew him as a youth. The death of the only other person who had tasted Will’s precious little cock. (And, yes, the chance that Will would come home too soon.)

Hannibal glanced at the house where he would one day live with Will, then at his painfully empty inbox. Will was still at work. Hannibal was still alone.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He scheduled a rental car.

(***Paragon***)

Will spent his week away from Hannibal whittling.

Whittling, grinding, mixing, and testing, really. He also solved a kidnapping case involving two missing teens and four dead ones, but that took a lot less of his time and attention than the arts and crafts.

He’d bought the little jars and a mortar and pestle at Hobby Lobby. He found the sticks in the woods near their hotel and got permission to take some horsehair from a ranch near the second abduction site. He gathered the color ingredients wherever he could find them, including buying a few flowers at a shop downtown. He marked the jars with masking tape and a Sharpie, then wrapped each item individually in the old newspaper he’d found at the front desk.

It wasn’t much (was almost guaranteed to be less than whatever Hannibal got him) but it was better than nothing. And next year, when Will had more time and resources, he could make something better. Something suited to Hannibal’s tastes.

He packed all the little gifts in his backpack, cushioned them with his spare clothes, and held the bag in front of him to make sure nothing would get broken. It was past ten at night on Christmas Eve by the time they got back to Quantico, and despite everyone else telling Will he was crazy, he went in to write his report instead of heading home.

It wasn’t that he wanted to write his report. He didn’t. He just also didn’t want to get called in Christmas morning because Jack suddenly decided the report was a ‘top priority.’

No. When Will got to Hannibal’s house, he wanted to stay there. To put the presents under the tree and fall asleep next to his boyfriend knowing they’d both be there in the morning. To finally spend Christmas with a loved one. And to that end, he could handle another few hours at the office.

Will shifted as he typed out another paragraph. His shirt brushed over his nipples: a subtle reminder of just how long it had been since he’d seen Hannibal. (They didn’t hurt. Didn’t ache. His cock didn’t twitch.) It had only taken a day apart for the soreness in his throat to fade. Two days for the ache in his lower back to vanish. By the four-day mark, his nipples were practically normal.

Which was fine, technically. Good, even. Except Will hadn’t realized just how much he’d been using that pain to keep himself centered.

Much like his constant fidgeting, the minor pain gave him something to focus on and kept him from getting overwhelmed. And better than using repetitive motions, like rubbing his palm on his jeans, the pain reminded him of Hannibal. Of safety and control. Of the fact that if his life went to hell in a handbasket (again), Hannibal would be there to help pick up the pieces.

Without that pain, Will felt… off.

Nothing horrible. Nothing panic inducing. He just didn’t like it was all. Which was yet another reason to write his stupid report. The faster he got to Hannibal’s, the faster he could wake up next to Hannibal, and the faster Hannibal could give him the pain back.

“Will?”

Will blinked, confused, and raised his head to peek over his monitor. His brows furrowed. “Tobias?” Will glanced at his taskbar to be sure it was really eleven-thirty at night on Christmas Eve, then went back to staring at Tobias. The man had one hand hidden behind his back, concealing something. “The hell are you doing here?”

Tobias smiled, the sincerity of it not matching the emptiness in his eyes. He moved his hand from behind his back to reveal a bouquet of roses. “For you. Still the most beautiful rose in the garden.”

Will narrowed his eyes and stood. “What happened to your hand?”

Tobias tilted his head, voice monotoned. “I got too close to an ugly, graceless dog, not realizing it was rabid. It won’t happen again.”

“Those aren’t bite marks.” Will stepped closer to get a better look, then remembered he was talking to a serial killer and stayed by his desk. “Is this why you haven’t been ‘playing’ lately?”

Tobias’ grip on the roses tightened, his first show of displeasure. “I’m not here to talk about that. I want to take you out to dinner.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Tobias held out the roses to Will, as though he thought Will might not have noticed them yet. “I own a successful shop in downtown Baltimore. I can provide for you just as well as Lecter.”

Will’s sleep deprived brain stuttered over Tobias’ reasoning, backtracked, then stuttered over it again. All Will came up with was a dumb, “What?”

“Hannibal Lecter. I know you’re seeing him. Know that he arranged to have your house furnished for you.” Tobias stepped forward, joggling the flowers as if to entice Will in. (Like luring a stray animal with treats.) “I want you to know that I’m an able-bodied suitor, and that if it’s material items you crave, I can give them to you.”

“I’m sorry. You think… he’s my sugar daddy?”

Tobias blinked, unabashed. “Is he not?”

“No. God, no. He happens to have money, and we happen to be dating. The two aren’t connected.”

Tobias tilted his head, a dulled version of confused. “Then why are you with him?”

Will shook his head. “Not having this conversation with you. Stop sending me flowers. Leave Baltimore. Don’t come back.”

Tobias stared at Will, unmoving. Will met his eyes, and in that, recognized a genuine lack of understanding. Tobias hadn’t sent flowers because he liked flowers or thought that Will would like the flowers, but because it was what research on the internet had assured would get him a date. The poem was equally quote-unquote ‘romantic.’ Tobias was trying to woo Will like they were in a damn Lifetime movie because he honestly didn’t know any better.

He could watch other people interact – could note that ‘x’ led to ‘y’ and mark down social protocol all he wanted – but without the base ability to connect, the comprehension of why ‘x’ led to ‘y’ would never exist. When he watched Will cry into Hannibal’s arms on the internet, he didn’t see an offer of comfort to a loved one. He saw a ploy where Hannibal bought Will things, and Will fell helplessly into his arms.

Hence the flowers.

Pity dropped on Will’s heart like globs of sludge. He lowered his voice and said, “Please leave.”

Tobias shook his head, eyes moving to the bouquet like it had somehow betrayed him. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I’m really not.”

“I’m not losing this game, Will.” A few of the rose stems bent under Tobias’ harsh hold. “If you won’t choose me on your own, I’ll simply have to eliminate the other options.”

Cold fear crept in on the edges of Will’s consciousness. Anger scorched the center. “You leave Hannibal out of this.”

“No.” Tobias crossed the room and laid the bouquet on Will’s desk. Robotic. His mangled fingers twitched, likely involuntary. He took a single step back. “If you want to protect him, give me a chance. One date, and I promise you I won’t harm a single hair on his head.”

“You want me to date you to protect my boyfriend? Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?”

“Your other option is to attend your boyfriend’s funeral and end up with me regardless.”

A dangerous instinct to protect reared in Will. He stepped forward. “You know, I actually think there’s a third option. Go fuck yourself.” Will picked up the landline on his desk, held in the number eight, and put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“I need security in room three-eighteen. I have an unwelcome visitor.”

Tobias tensed. He hadn’t expected Will to go that far.

“Sending security now. Are you in any danger?”

“Not currently, but I’d like him put on the no-entry list in the future. Name’s Tobias Budge. B-u-d-g-e.”

“We’ll add him to the list. Security will be there shortly.”

“Thanks.” Will put the phone back in its cradle, ending the call. He kept his eyes on Tobias as he said, “Consider this a warning. You go near Hannibal, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Whatever amusement Tobias felt for the situation fell away, leaving Will staring into the cold, emotionless eyes of the killer he’d first met at the opera.

“You’ll regret this.”

“Wanna bet?”

Two burly men in security uniforms opened the door. Will pointed at Tobias, who raised his hands in surrender. He nodded at Will, still eerily calm.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

“Fuck you.”

Will flipped Tobias off. They left.

The door closed with a clack that emphasized how empty the room was. (How alone Will was.) He slumped into his seat and glanced at the taskbar to see that it was officially Christmas.

Will put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes, almost too tired. Crawling into bed with Hannibal seemed farther away than ever, and his report was only half-done. A little bit of Overwhelm simmered in Will’s stomach. He swallowed, but his throat didn’t hurt. He shifted, but his back didn’t ache. He tugged on his shirt, but his nipples weren’t sore.

He missed Hannibal.

Will pushed the hair out of his eyes, blandly noted that he needed a haircut, and got back to work. It took another two hours to finish his report and twenty minutes to drive over to Hannibal’s. Hannibal (the saint) had left the door unlocked for Will, and the gratitude Will felt for that little bit of thoughtfulness was out of proportion to the effort exerted.

He tiptoed into the study despite knowing there was no way Hannibal would hear him. He knelt by the tree. It looked more orderly than the last time Will had seen it, which meant Hannibal hadn’t been able to resist fixing just a few more things. Will smiled and maneuvered the ornaments so that three silver ones were touching.

Beneath the tree sat a plethora of perfectly wrapped gifts, and Will didn’t have to check the tags to know they were all meant for him. Happy tears pricked the backs of his eyes. He carefully removed his newspaper-wrapped presents from his backpack and set them next to the gifts from Hannibal. The tree sparkled, thanking him for his contribution. Assuring him that he had done well and deserved to rest. To enjoy a real Christmas with his real boyfriend. He smiled, tearing up at the thought of it.

His phone vibrated.

Dread dropped into Will like a lead weight. “No, no, no.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket with shaking hands. He cursed.

“Jack, I can’t—”

“Graham. Proto-Ripper just dropped a body. We need you.”

The tears came back, Overwhelmed instead of happy this time. His voice was small and desperate as he asked, “Can’t it wait? Just until morning?” Will sniffed, aware that Jack could hear how weak he was. How vulnerable. He hated himself. He pleaded. “It’s Christmas.”

After a moment of silence, Jack said, “Sorry Graham. But this one’s literally got your name on it. I’m texting you the address now. Get here.”

Jack hung up. Frustration and Overwhelm melded, and Will curled up on the floor and screamed into his jacket. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to cry.

He couldn’t.

Unlike Hannibal, who took Will’s neediness in stride, Will had no compassion for himself. He shoved his emotions down into the broken, bloody pit where he kept his self-esteem and bucked the fuck up. He grabbed a notepad out of his backpack, scrawled an apology note for Hannibal, and left it by the presents.

It was as he snuck back to the door that he faltered, eyes caught on the stairs. He considered going to Hannibal anyway, just for a minute, and crawling into bed. Cuddling into his boyfriend’s arms for warmth and strength. Burying himself in Hannibal’s scent and allowing himself to be soothed by Hannibal’s soft, lilting accent.

But if he went up those stairs – if he allowed himself to be loved and coddled – he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave again. So, like ripping off a Band-Aid (like ripping his own skin off of living, bleeding muscle), Will put on his shoes and left.

He locked the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Hannibal went to bed without Will on Christmas Eve and woke up without Will on Christmas morning. Six hours into the day, and Will’s perfect Christmas was already ruined.

Irritation scraped its claws down Hannibal’s back then punctured straight to his stomach. He knew without checking that the reason for Will’s absence was Jack. The murderer(s) were at fault too, technically, but it was Jack who decided not to call Hannibal in along with Will. Jack, whose bruised ego meant that Will and Hannibal had to be separated on the only day where Will expressly asked not to be alone.

Hannibal checked his phone. One new message from Will.

Merry Christmas.

Hannibal frowned. He typed out, Merry Christmas, Darling. He sent the text, then immediately followed it with, I miss you terribly. I wish you were here. He stared at his phone for a few seconds, hoping for a quick response. None came.

He checked the mirror function on Will’s phone, just in case Will was typing out a response and Hannibal could see it a single second sooner. No such luck. Not only had Will not seen his text, he hadn’t opened his phone in general since messaging Hannibal hours beforehand.

Hannibal set his phone on the bedside table, face up. He moved to the bathroom to trim, shave, and shower. He styled his hair. Though Will wasn’t currently present, he could finish with his case and join Hannibal at any moment. When that time came, Hannibal wanted to look handsome.

He dressed in a white button-up with ruby cufflinks, a black tie, and a burgundy vest. He tucked his shirt into black slacks.

Hannibal checked himself in the mirror a final time before grabbing his phone (no new messages) and heading downstairs. The elaborate breakfast he’d prepped the night before sat useless in the fridge, as Hannibal had no urge to make it without Will there to eat it.

He bypassed the kitchen to enter the study. His intent was to stare at the semi-ugly tree while missing Will, but the sight of messily wrapped, newspaper covered presents gave him pause.

His heartbeat quickened. His memory flickered. For just a moment, Hannibal stood not in his finely furnished home but in a muggy swamp in Lithuania. He held his own newspaper-wrapped present: a cheap plastic bracelet stolen from an inattentive street vendor. Mischa would love it.

(Or she would have loved it, had she ever gotten the chance to open it.)

He blinked, once again in his study. The smell of muck and swamp and sick remained in his nose. He stared at the newspaper-wrapped presents, and the newspaper-wrapped presents stared back.

Hannibal clenched and unclenched his fist slowly, then walked carefully toward the tree. He lowered himself into a cross-legged sit at its base, and the messily placed tinsel sparkled in welcome. Will had gotten him seventeen small presents: twelve cylindrical and five long and thin. Beside the presents sat Will’s notepad.

Hannibal,

Got called in. Won’t be home until late. Sorry.

--W.

The spikes in Will’s writing were more pronounced than usual. The curves were sharper. The indents against the page indicated a hard press which didn’t suit Will’s quick, sprawling penmanship. Will had been upset when he wrote the note. Panic attack level upset.

Hannibal frowned. It spoke badly of them both that Will hadn’t simply walked up the stairs and woken him. They would have to discuss Will’s insistence on independence, emphasizing the fact that Will could not continue to chase it at the cost of his own health. Especially considering his health wasn’t only his health anymore. It was Hannibal’s, too.

Hannibal set the notepad to the side and picked up one of the cylinders. A jar. He put it back and slid a finger along one of the thin gifts. A paintbrush. Will had bought him a set of paints and paintbrushes. Thoughtful yet inexpensive.

Hannibal considered waiting for Will to return before opening them, but some small, childish part of him turned its nose up at the notion. Hannibal had waited until Christmas morning. The gifts were for him. He was allowed.

He picked up one of the cylinders again. Brushed his thumb over the crumpled paper and masking tape. There was no way to carefully open the gift, so he took a page from Will’s book and ripped the paper.

Rather than a container of industrially produced paint, as Hannibal had expected, it was a plain glass jar. On the lid was a strip of masking tape, and in Will’s scrawling handwriting were the words Red Clay.

Hannibal blinked. He opened the top to see smooth, thick, red clay colored paint. Not professionally made, but practiced. Will had put real effort into his gift. Had gathered materials and made paint specifically for Hannibal. Adoration and excitement sparked in his chest before twisting into avarice.

He opened the next one. Cranberries. The one after that. Cornflowers. The more he opened, the more he wanted to open. Daisies. Mustard Seeds. Leaves. Blue Jay Feathers. Dirt. Charcoal. Oranges. Cherry Blossoms. And the very last jar: Bones.

Tears pricked the backs of Hannibal’s eyes as he ran his fingers over the tops of twelve personally made paints. Will had collected the ingredients himself. Chosen the colors. Tested the recipes. Hannibal wanted to gather every jar in his arms and hold them close. To special order a stand and keep them on display on his desk. He wanted to paint with them, too, but only on special occasions. Special things meant just for him.

His eyes flitted over to the paintbrushes, still in their wrapping, and he couldn’t help himself. He opened one of those as well. Oh, marvelous day, Will had made those, too. Hand-whittled paintbrushes with horsehair bristles, stained and coated to prevent wear-and-tear.

The first one was an angular shader, with the handle carved into a scalpel. The second was a filbert, with the handle covered in detailed, textured feathers. The third was a bright, and though the handle was largely smooth, it had the words Count Dr. Hannibal Lecter VIII (The Vampire) carved across it.

Hannibal laughed, delighted to see their joke immortalized. He tore the paper off his fourth brush: a rigger with the handle carved to imitate a chef’s knife. The final brush was a round, and much like the bright, it was smooth aside from the picture of a three-piece suit carved into the side.

Oh, lovely thing. They were so small. So detailed and finely crafted. It must have taken Will days. He must have made mistakes – broken brushes or slipped – and been forced to start anew. And they were all perfect. Personalized and beautiful and—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Hannibal looked over to the pile of gifts he’d gotten for Will, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt a twinge of anxiety.

Will, who had no time and no resources, had made Hannibal something so wonderful that the entirety of Hannibal’s estate paled in comparison. And Hannibal, who had all the time and resources in the world, had thoughtlessly gifted Will with shallow, store-bought garbage.

They were things Will would like, of course. Snow boots. A foldable kennel. A new fly rod. But it was only because Hannibal had never celebrated Christmas before that he’d thought those things enough. He hadn’t known that the gifts were supposed to be so specific to each other and so perfect that they made one another cry. No one had told him. Hannibal gently traced the suit carved into his new, hand-whittled paintbrush, absolutely furious with himself for having missed the mark by such monumental margins.

Jack may have ruined the first part of the day, but Hannibal ruined the second.

Hannibal pulled out his phone, for once thankful not to have any new messages. So long as Will was busy on the case, Hannibal had time to fix his error.

The obvious choice was to get Will a dog, but his darling boy only collected strays. Finding a stray dog within the next few hours was improbable bordering impossible. Hannibal would gladly steal and starve a dog to the point where Will would believe it a stray, but he ran into the same problem of time.

He could make something, but Will was just as likely to return in thirty minutes as he was in thirty hours. Performing a rush job on Will’s gift was no better than the diamond encrusted trash he’d already bought and wrapped.

Which left him back where he started. Will wasn’t a materialistic person. There was nothing Hannibal could buy that would relay the depth of his emotions because Will didn’t care about physical things. Hannibal could get him a stick or an actual magic wand, and Will would treasure them the same. Horrible, lovely boy.

Hannibal very carefully cradled his brushes, not yet willing to be apart from his gifts. Not even by inches. He stared at the pretty pile of things he’d gotten Will. Imagined the happy-but-not-ecstatic face Will would make when he opened them and found regular old things. The tiny flicker of anxiety returned.

Hannibal frowned at the still-wrapped presents. It was true that Will didn’t care for material items, but that didn’t mean he cared for nothing. Only that Hannibal had to dig deeper.

Will adored being cared for. Open shows of affection. Words of affirmation. Time spent together. Whatever Hannibal got for Will, it couldn’t be solely physical. It needed to double as a prominent display of Hannibal’s feelings for Will. To present an unquestionable show of devotion.

Which meant it had to be personal. Special. Something that Hannibal had never done before and would never do again. Something meant solely for Will. But it had to be real, too.

Hannibal couldn’t put on a show because Will would see through the act. He couldn’t hide in the shadows because Will was light. If Hannibal wanted any chance at giving Will the perfect Christmas present, he was going to have to do it as himself. His actual self, with no masks or mirrors allowed.

Hannibal was going to have to be vulnerable.

(***Paragon***)

The Ripper was watching Will.

Will’s gut had told him that the lure in the Ripper’s last kill had been for Matthew. His analytical mind had told him otherwise. Judging by the obscene amount of reverence and excitement in Matthew’s Christmas present, both Will’s gut and his mind were correct. The Ripper had been luring Matthew, but not because he wanted to hurt the other killer. No, the Ripper had made a lure because he was pretending to be Will.

Which meant both that the Ripper knew Matthew was the ‘Proto-Ripper,’ and that he knew Matthew still thought the real Ripper was Will.

Will had hoped for exactly half a second that it was Matthew the Ripper was watching, but the disdain in the Ripper’s last tableau made it seriously unlikely. That, in turn, led Will to three horrible conclusions.

One: The Ripper was using an unstable, murderous man with an obsession for Will as a puppet.

Two: Matthew was a fucking idiot who was going to come after Will even harder.

Three: Will was flattered.

He shouldn’t be flattered. Didn’t want to be flattered, either. But no matter what Will technically wanted, the thought of having caught the Ripper’s attention still made clumsy butterflies bloom in his belly. (Which was stupid. The Ripper was a certified psycho and any attention from him would end with Will getting a knife to the face.)

The intimacy of being watched made Will want to turn away. It also made him think back to the Ripper’s last kill (the elegance of it; the simplicity of the lure) and gave him the knowledge that the Ripper didn’t only watch. He saw. Because if Will were being honest with himself (which he wasn’t), then he could admit that the lure in the Ripper’s tableau really did look like something Will would do.

If he ever went that far.

And three years ago, Will would have admitted all of that to Jack and brought them one step closer to catching both the Ripper and Matthew. At current, he gave a bland statement about the fact that this was a response to the Ripper’s earlier response. The killers were communicating. Will also explained away the presence of his name by saying that the killer must believe Will was the Ripper after all.

When Jack heard that, he insisted Will have a police detail. Will refused.

By the time Will finally climbed into his Jeep with permission to go home, the blue numbers on his dash read one-zero-eight. As in one-oh-eight in the morning. As in Will had missed Christmas.

Will laid his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He thought he’d be too exhausted to feel upset, but no. There it was. Upset. Hiding away in his belly, growing fat on his misfortune. He made an undignified noise that edged perilously close to a whimper, then pulled out his phone.

Two new messages from Hannibal. ‘Merry Christmas, Darling.’ and ‘I miss you terribly. I wish you were here.’

Nothing else. Hannibal had probably known Will was working and thus wasn’t looking at his phone. Hannibal had also probably recognized that Will getting bombarded with a bunch of wonderful texts from his wonderful boyfriend who he couldn’t be with would only make the day that much more unbearable.

Will sighed and typed out, Just finished up. On my way. He stared at the screen for an extra few seconds. Decided the message felt hollow. He erased it and wrote, Miss you, too. Can’t wait to see you.

His finger hovered over the send button. Was ‘can’t wait to see you’ too needy? He erased it again and typed, Sorry for not texting all day. I know it’s Christmas and I made a big deal out of us spending it together, but it’s really okay. And—

Will stopped. Reread what he’d written. Realized he was typing up a book instead of a text. He backspaced until there was nothing left and re-typed his original message. He pressed send before he could think about it too much, then slipped the phone back in his pocket and started the drive.

It was a little past one-thirty by the time Will got to Hannibal’s. He climbed out of his car, bone-tired, and took a minute just to stare at Hannibal’s house. Large. Fancy. In a nice neighborhood. It suited Hannibal perfectly and Will not at all.

There was no room for dogs to run. Not a pack of seven, at least (and Will did eventually intend to get back up to seven). Nowhere to fish. No sound of crickets or wild birds. No woods to explore or places where neighbors just couldn’t see.

But Hannibal probably wouldn’t want to move, either. He was a very particular man, and he’d chosen this place for a reason. He liked the attention. The glamour. Life in the woods would be hell for him.

Will pursed his lips as a little voice in the back of his head whispered that there was no future for them. That Will would end up driving Hannibal away with his endless neuroticisms and need for privacy. That this time, the door was probably locked. He scratched the back of his head, wondering if maybe he should just go home and curl up in bed for the rest of eternity. He glanced out at the street, contemplating escape. He froze.

That motherfucker.

Protective fury swept through Will like a tidal wave, taking over his body and sending him striding across the street. He banged on the window of the beaten-up old Honda hard enough for the glass to rattle beneath his fist.

Matthew rolled down the crank window with a grin. “Will.”

“Get out of the car.”

Matthew’s wide, feral eyes blinked. Will stepped away as Matthew obeyed, casually opening the car door to join Will on the street.

“You’re stalking Hannibal now?”

“What?” Matthew’s gaze flicked over Will’s shoulder, toward Hannibal’s house. “No. I just figured you’d come here after you got my present, and I wanted to see how you liked it.”

Matthew smiled, genuine. He thought he had done well. Thought Will would praise him and… and what? Invite him to Will’s house again? Will tilted his head, only needing the barest glance into hazel eyes to realize that Matthew hadn’t put the bodies out on Christmas solely to please Will.

Matthew was lonely.

He had no one to spend Christmas with. No one who cared about him. No one to give gifts to or receive gifts from. He just wanted some positive attention. The memory of Matthew at Will’s house, so incredibly happy just to have his hair ruffled, flitted through Will’s mind.

He scowled. “Murdering is not the way to impress me, Matthew. Because of your dumbass stunt, I ended up working through Christmas on no sleep. Is that what you wanted?”

Matthew’s brows drew together as he frowned. Guilty. Apologetic. “No. No, I just thought—I mean, you liked my other one so much, and you let me sleep at your house—”

“Because you drove there drunk in a blizzard! Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do? Let you freeze to death?”

“Most people would have.” Matthew stepped forward, close enough that Will could smell the aerosol I-bench-two-twenty-and-do-triathlons-for-fun body spray he’d practically bathed in. “You know what I’ve done. That I’ve killed people. Beaten them to death with my bare hands and liked it.” He held out his hands, palms up. “You see me, and still, you let me inside. Saved me when you could have let me freeze. You care about me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. You’re a selfish asshole who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“I—”

“You wrote my name at a fucking crime scene! Are you trying to get me sent back to prison?” Will grabbed the front of Matthew’s jacket and tugged, dragging the younger man closer. “I will not go back to prison, Matthew.”

Matthew shook his head, almost desperate. “No! It’s not like that! I just wanted to say thank you.”

 “You want to thank me? Try fucking off.” Will shoved Matthew against the Honda, uncaring for the flash of pain across Matthew’s face. “We’re done here.”

Will turned to make his way to Hannibal’s house. Matthew re-grabbed his attention with a faux-confident, “I don’t need your permission, you know. I can follow whoever I want to follow. And I’d prefer it be you, but if you’d rather I go after your boyfriend…”

Will spun again, lungs so full of fury that he could barely breathe. Hannibal had been nothing but good – so good – to Will, and all Will ever brought him were psychos and serial killers. The overwhelming urge to protect seared through Will’s veins: dark and merciless.

It felt a lot like violence.

He closed the distance between them in two strides and cracked his fist against Matthew’s jaw. Matthew fell against his car, but Will didn’t give him time to recover. He pulled Matthew up by the collar of his jacket and slammed him into the car again. Matthew’s arm went through the open window. Matthew himself stared, wide-eyed (terrified, in awe).

Will said, “Hannibal belongs to me. He is under my protection. You follow him, you threaten him, you even look at him the wrong way and I will ruin you.” Will yanked Matthew closer then slammed him against the car again, just because he could. “I know what you’re afraid of, Matthew. I know how scared you are to be alone and that you’re desperate for this to work so you don’t have to go home to your shitty apartment where no one and nothing is waiting for you. I know. But you’re going about it the wrong way, and if you keep this up, not only will I not speak to you, I’ll pretend you don’t exist.”

Matthew sucked in a breath through his teeth, genuine fear flashing through his eyes. “You wouldn’t—”

“I would. Right now, you’re a nuisance. If you hurt Hannibal though, you’ll be less than that. You’ll be nothing. I’ll never work on another Proto-Ripper case. Never stop when I see your car or respond when you speak. I’ll close my eyes, Matthew, and you’ll never be seen again.”

Matthew paled. Arguments flitted through his eyes, but none were brazen enough to reach his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he settled on, “Do you think he’ll accept you? When he finds out what you are? Because I will.”

“Fuck you. Go home. Don’t come back.” Will released Matthew a final time and stepped out into the street. “I catch you outside his place again, death will be a blessing.”

Matthew looked at the ground. Opened his car door. Hesitated. “I’m not giving up on you.”

“I know.”

Matthew kept his eyes cast down. Sad. Alone. In pain. He nodded and got in his car. He put it in drive without rolling up the window and said, “Merry Christmas, Will.”

Will didn’t respond.

He watched Matthew go from the middle of the street, still drenched in volatile frustration. And there, surrounded by the cold and the dark and the night, something important inside Will ceased to tick. The little voice in the back of his head that supplied the words ‘other people’s feelings matter’ and ‘do the right thing’ went quiet.

Will crossed the street to Hannibal’s house and tried the front door. It was unlocked. Gratitude edged in on Will’s frustration like a lighthouse in a storm. He stepped inside, where everything was nice and the very air smelled like Hannibal. (Warmth. Power. Safety. Control.) It wrapped Will in a loving grip, relaxing him further. He forwent food to kick off his shoes, hang up his coat, and climb the stairs.

Hannibal’s door was cracked. Will pushed it open just enough to slip inside, shedding his flannel and jeans as he tiptoed to the bed. He crawled in beside Hannibal and shuffled under the covers. A strong arm wrapped around him, pulling him close.

Into Will’s hair, Hannibal breathed, “Mylimasis.”

Will snuggled against Hannibal’s chest, melting into the embrace. His body recognized the scent (the feel) of strength and comfort. His mind started drifting. He pulled himself back from the brink only long enough to mumble, “Missed you.”

Hannibal, somehow fully awake despite the late hour, pressed a gentle kiss to Will’s curls. “Sleep, my love. I’ll take care of you.”

Warmth flooded Will. He came up with a number of good responses, but they were all in his dreams.

(***Paragon***)

Hannibal didn’t go back to sleep after Will came home.

He watched his darling sleep and soaked in Will’s natural scent. He basked in the music that was Will’s breathing. Had it really been over a week since he’d last seen the rise and fall of Will’s chest? Eight entire days since he’d touched Will’s skin and tasted Will’s lips? It felt like longer.

The urge to kiss Will arose, but Hannibal ignored it. His boy had been up for over twenty-four hours. Had been forced to survive without Hannibal for eight days. He needed his rest.

Hours passed without Hannibal moving an inch. Will occasionally twitched or cuddled closer but otherwise remained still. Hannibal admired the curvature of Will’s throat and the freckle on his ear. He counted Will’s heartbeats (a healthy rate of fifty-two beats per minute) and memorized the indents that Will’s teeth left in chapped lips.

Will’s eyelashes were long and black. His hair was a myriad of dark browns. He was thin but muscular, with strength and speed hidden beneath his unassuming exterior. His beard was short and un-styled, just begging for a proper trim. Hannibal hoped that he would die before Will, so that he would never have to go a moment without his boy in the world. He also hoped Will would die first, so that Hannibal could honor him properly in a meal.

(A dozen meals. A hundred meals. A thousand. Hannibal would dole Will out sparingly so that he could taste his boy each and every day. Then, when Will was really and truly gone, Hannibal would kill himself.)

Hannibal waited until the clock struck nine, then he kissed Will. A soft press of the lips.

Will didn’t stir. Hannibal slipped his hand under Will’s shirt, sliding his palm up that perfect chest until he could brush a thumb over Will’s nipple. It took a moment of teasing, but the nub hardened for him. It remembered. Hannibal pressed another kiss to Will’s lips, ecstatic to have his boy back home.

“Mylimasis. Darling. My love.” Will’s eyelashes fluttered, revealing a sleepy aurora borealis blended softly into the night sky. “Wake up, perfect thing. It’s Christmas.”

Will blinked. He blinked again. He turned and buried his face in Hannibal’s chest hair, then mumbled, “Christmas was yesterday.”

The hand that had been on Will’s nipple moved around to massage Will’s back. “Untrue. You said Christmas was waking up next to me, having presents waiting for you under a tree which we decorated together, and drinking hot chocolate by the fire. I’ve prepared all of that for today.”

Will pulled back only enough to look at Hannibal through his lashes. “And yesterday?”

“Was yesterday. Today is Christmas.”

Will smiled, gently adoring. “Presents?”

“Presents.”

Hannibal kissed Will, meaning to be chaste only to get dragged in by Will’s parting lips and searching tongue. He tasted exquisite, like water in the desert and warmth in a tundra. Hannibal tilted his head for a better angle, and Will mimicked him in the opposite direction. Will’s hard cock rutted against Hannibal’s thigh, beseeching, and Hannibal gave in.

He pulled himself from Will’s lips and tossed the covers to the end of the bed. A kiss on Will’s neck. A kiss against Will’s perked nipple, through the thin cloth of his shirt. A kiss on Will’s cock, straining so eagerly against his boxers.

Hannibal made eye contact with Will as he tugged the boy’s boxers down, then deepthroated him in one go. Will moaned and bucked into him, small enough that only the head of his cock felt the tight squeeze of Hannibal’s throat.

Hannibal went hard and fast, knowing that his boy hadn’t taken the time to relieve himself while away. Will’s thighs took less than a minute to start trembling. Hannibal hummed and used the flat of his tongue to lick up the shaft. Will’s head fell back against the bed, overwhelmed with pleasure.

Hannibal sucked him in deep and swallowed, so in tune with the signs of Will’s impending orgasm that he hadn’t needed Will to verbally say he was close for weeks.

“H-Hannibal, I’m—”

Hannibal sucked harder. Will came. He spurted down Hannibal’s throat, thick and bitter. Hannibal continued to bob and suck, taking everything Will had, then asking for more. Will shuddered, oversensitive. Though it pained Hannibal to do so, he released Will’s cock into the cold, cruel world of not-Hannibal’s-mouth.

Hannibal licked his lips, already missing the taste. He rubbed a hand over Will’s flat stomach, felt the post-orgasmic trembling, and said, “Thank you.”

Will groaned. “How are you this hot first thing in the morning?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Meant for luring sailors to their deaths?”

Hannibal kissed Will’s softening cock. “Would you crash your ship for a taste of me?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal took Will’s little cock into his mouth again, scraping it gently with his teeth, then kissed the head. “Lovely thing.” He stood and offered a hand to Will, who shimmied back into his boxers before accepting the aid. “Come. Let us go downstairs before I give into the urge to ravage you again, and we end up spending the entirety of Christmas in bed.”

Will squeezed Hannibal’s hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I mean, not sure why you think being downstairs is going to make a difference, but alright.” He tossed Hannibal a mischievous smile (one that promised rough sex, slow love making, and long hours of both conversation and cock warming in between) and led the way downstairs. Hannibal followed, helpless to resist.

Will paused when he saw the tree, gaze drifting to where the newspaper-wrapped presents used to be. He rubbed small circles on Hannibal’s hand with his thumb, a nervous gesture. “I’ll do better with your gifts next year. I just didn’t realize Christmas was so close, and then the case came up…” He shrugged.

The love in Hannibal’s heart spilled out into his chest, filling him up. He considered telling Will that wasn’t necessary, but in truth, Hannibal’s greed knew no bounds. He wanted everything Will had to give. More paints. More brushes. More handmade gifts that only Hannibal owned and no one else.

He refrained from pointing out that his birthday would come before next Christmas to instead say, “Your gifts were the most wonderful things anyone has ever given me, Love. I’ve ordered a display stand, but until it arrives, they’ll take a place of honor on my desk.”

Will blinked, eyes locking on the jars and brushes on Hannibal’s desk. “Already?”

“They’re very special. They deserve to be treated as such.” Hannibal’s gaze moved to the pile of presents under the tree with a flicker of resentment. “You also have one more present from me, aside from what’s under the tree. Please refrain from judgment until you’ve received everything.”

Will gave Hannibal an odd little smile, like he thought Hannibal was being silly. Of course, he hadn’t seen Hannibal’s gifts yet.

They sat on the floor together, next to the tree. Hannibal in his sweatpants and undershirt, not nearly as well-dressed and handsome as Will’s Christmas deserved. Will, a veritable angel in his undershirt and boxers.

Will picked up the largest gift first. A foldable dog kennel. Garbage. It would be good for Will to keep in the back of his Jeep in preparation for picking up strays, but it wasn’t special. Hannibal hadn’t gotten it fitted to Will’s Jeep.

(He should have gotten it fitted to Will’s Jeep.)

Will, the impoverished thing, seemed to love it anyway. The next present was a leather notebook for annotating his online articles. Garbage. A book on edible plants native to Maryland. Garbage. A fly rod. Garbage. A laptop. Garbage. A book on gardening. Garbage. Snow boots. Garbage. A diamond-studded Rolex. Garbage. A reMarkable 2. Garbage. Pens made out of driftwood and epoxy. Garbage.

When Will finished, he looked overwhelmed. He leaned over his pile of gifts to pull Hannibal into a hug and said, “This is… This is way too much, Hannibal. Thank you.”

Hannibal returned the hug, adoring Will in his arms even if he couldn’t agree with the driving force. “I, too, will do better next year, my love.”

“Oh, god. Please don’t.” Will pulled back, hands remaining on Hannibal’s shoulders. His eyes skimmed over the moat of presents surrounding him. “I can make you cooler, better-crafted things, but not this much better. I don’t even want to know how much all this cost.”

“A drop in the basin.” Hannibal joined Will in looking at the presents (garbage), then removed Will’s hands from his shoulders and stood. He began gathering the wrapping paper while Will stacked his gifts neatly under the tree. Once the study could once again be considered cleanly, Hannibal said, “Join me on the couch, please.”

Will sat on the far-left cushion while Hannibal retrieved a thin sketchbook from the highest shelf in the back-right corner of the room. Curious eyes burned a hole in Hannibal’s back. Hannibal caressed the unmarked cover with his thumb, nostalgic. He returned to Will and settled on the middle cushion. Their thighs touched.

Hannibal didn’t hand it over right away. Instead he said, “It’s an unorthodox present, as I’m not actually giving it to you. Merely giving you permission to look.”

Will stared at the book but didn’t reach for it. His posture mimicked Hannibal’s, which was how Hannibal realized he was tense. Hannibal forced himself to relax. Will relaxed with him.

Eventually, Will said, “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

Will nodded. He didn’t push. After another minute of silence, Hannibal carefully handed the book to Will. And Will, the epitome of perfection, accepted it as though it were made of glass.

He didn’t open it right away, instead choosing to run his fingers along the cover and spine. He asked, “How old is this?”

“Nearly thirty years.”

Hannibal threaded his fingers together in his lap. Will smiled.

“This book’s older than me.”

“Yes.”

Will’s handling of the book became even more gentle, if possible. Without ever cracking the front cover, he asked, “Is this how she died?”

Hannibal moved his gaze to the unlit fireplace. To the coal and the char. (To Lithuania.)

“Yes.”

Will shifted. Their biceps touched. “You said almost thirty years. How old were you when you drew it?”

“Seventeen. It’s a graphic novel of sorts. My youth shows.”

“Did you use any colors?”

“Yes.”

“Are there any words?”

“No.”

“How old are you in the comic?”

Hannibal smiled, but it was hollow. “Very tactful, Dr. Graham. I daresay it would be simpler for you to open it and judge for yourself.”

Will tapped his forefinger against the top of the book twice, thoughtful. Then he stood. He carried the book to the far-right corner of the room and returned it to its rightful place, unopened. When he re-crossed the room, he didn’t sit next to Hannibal on the couch. He slid to the floor between Hannibal’s knees.

Will gazed up at Hannibal using the same gentleness with which he’d handled the book. Like Hannibal was made of glass.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Confusion sat heavy and unfamiliar in Hannibal’s stomach. He blinked, trying to parse out where he’d gone wrong. “You didn’t read it.”

“You didn’t want me to read it.”

“I did. That’s why I gave it to you.”

Will shook his head, almost achingly understanding. He threaded their hands together and pressed Hannibal’s knuckles to his lips. “You wanted to do something special for me. To take a risk and reach out in my language because, for whatever reason, you didn’t feel like your gifts were worthwhile. So you brought out the scared, lonely part of yourself that you’ve never shown to anyone and prayed it would be enough.” He propped their elbows on Hannibal’s thigh and kissed Hannibal’s wrist, never breaking eye contact. “I need you to know that you are enough. With or without sharing that story. Your gifts were perfect. You’re perfect. And you don’t have to twist yourself into knots to keep me around. I like you, Hannibal. All of you.”

Hannibal stared, for once entirely at a loss. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do. Gratitude and elation and love filled him to bursting, and all of it so startlingly complimentary that Hannibal could hardly tell one emotion from the other.

He gazed into Will’s eyes. In the time it took to blink, Will somehow became even more handsome.

Will’s gentle smile never wavered. Tears glittered in the aurora borealis, but whether they stemmed from Will’s emotions or were merely a reflection of Hannibal’s own was impossible to say. Will sat up on his knees, hands moving to cup either side of Hannibal’s face. Lips pressed against lips, soft and sweet.

“You’re perfect.”

“You’re perfect.”

Hannibal laughed and tugged Will up onto the couch. Will’s calves settled on either side of Hannibal’s thighs while Will’s palms used the back of the couch for balance.

“My lovely boy. My boyfriend. My Will.” Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will’s waist and leaned forward to kiss one of the nipples peaking against Will’s shirt. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too. A stupid amount.” Will threaded one hand into Hannibal’s hair, playing with the short locks. Hannibal nestled against Will’s palm.

“I thought about you constantly.”

“I…” The joy in Will’s body language faded off. Hannibal looked up to see Will gazing down, apologetic. “The Ripper is watching me, Hannibal.”

The warm, fuzzy feelings filling Hannibal’s chest tumbled into the bottomless pit of Hannibal’s obsession for Will. Hungry. He kept his voice and expression neutral.

“Oh?”

“I saw it in Matthew’s kill yesterday.”

Hannibal raised both brows, and though he hated to divert attention away from himself, he asked, “Matthew? As in Matthew Brown?”

Blue eyes widened. “Shit. I didn’t—I spoke without thinking.”

“Which means this is another unofficial identification. Does Jack know?”

Will grimaced. Closed his eyes. Slumped against Hannibal’s chest. “No. If I draw attention to Matthew, they’ll start looking at me. Anyone who still thinks I’m the Ripper will connect the dots between him being obsessed with me, him being the ‘Proto-Ripper,’ and him being the main orderly for my cell.”

“Thereby bringing the weight of their suspicion back to your shoulders.”

“Exactly. And it doesn’t help that he didn’t start killing until after I was released.”

“Meaning the newest Ripper kills, aside from the ones specifically meant to set you free, could easily be yours.”

Will frowned against Hannibal’s skin. Sighed against Hannibal’s neck. “Yeah.”

Hannibal nodded, satisfied that he now had proper explanation for his pre-existing knowledge base, and changed the subject back to himself. “What does the Ripper watching you have to do with Matthew’s kill?”

Will relaxed against Hannibal, grateful for the change in topic (for the lack of judgment). He said, “Matthew beat a man to death, emptied out his chest, and set up a dollhouse dinner table in the open cavity. There were little plates, utensils, and chairs. Even little food. And written on the chair at the head of the table was my name.”

“A proclamation that you are the Ripper.”

“Exactly. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Lounds was there. I’ll be surprised if she hasn’t capitalized on this already.”

Hannibal smoothed a hand up Will’s back. “She has. The article went up yesterday.”

Will groaned, “Damn it.”

Hannibal refocused them with a simple, “Do you think the Ripper knows that Matthew is the so-called Proto-Ripper?”

“Yeah. He also knows that Matthew thinks I’m the real Ripper.”

“Could he not be watching Matthew then?”

Will shook his head, nose brushing the crook of Hannibal’s neck and shoulder. “No. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept tabs on Matthew, but he’s not watching. Not like he’s watching me.”

“And how is he watching you?”

A slow breath in. Steadying. “Do you remember when I said the Ripper’s last kill looked like a lure?”

“Yes.”

“That was supposed to be me.”

Hannibal tapped along Will’s spine, playing dumb to draw attention away from his excitement. “The body?”

“The murderer. He was showing me what it would look like if I were to kill.”

The obsession in Hannibal heightened. He cradled Will closer. “And?”

“And he was right. And it was…” A slow exhale of warm air against Hannibal’s neck. “Gorgeous.”

Pride and adoration sparked fireworks in Hannibal’s chest. “So he knows you have it in you to kill.”

“No. No, it’s not that simple. The Ripper and I have never met, but we see each other. He…” Will shifted on Hannibal’s lap. “Do you know why I went quiet at the BSHCI? Or why I was in a glass cage? Why I never took credit for the Ripper’s work?”

Hannibal slid his hand down to Will’s ass and tugged his boy closer still, so they were chest-to-chest and pelvis-to-pelvis. “I don’t.”

“Because the Ripper would have killed me if I hadn’t.”

Hannibal stared at Will’s hair, wishing he could see what went on in that remarkable mind. It was with honesty that he said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Will pulled back so he once again sat on his knees. Their cocks and stomachs still aligned, but rather than Will’s head lying on Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal was eye-level with Will’s lovely chest. A temptation. Hannibal cupped Will’s ass with both hands, vanity winning out as he awaited explanation.

“When the public decided I was the Ripper, they blamed me. If I had called myself the Ripper, I would have been taking credit. Semantics, considering I was in a cage either way, but to the Ripper, that meant something. It was the difference between amusement and irritation. And if I had ever decided to take credit, he would have killed me.”

“Inside a maximum-security prison cell, without getting caught?”

“He likes a challenge.”

Brilliant boy. “And what does this have to do with your vow of silence and the cage?”

“People refused to believe that I wasn’t the Ripper, but they could also see that I wasn’t a threat. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Wasn’t willing to fight back. And they took advantage. The orderlies abused me in any way they could. They beat me bloody. Put me in freezing showers. Sent me on trips to the infirmary when the night nurse just ‘wasn’t in.’ Hid my jumpsuit and just—fucking laughed.”

Tears shimmered in Will’s eyes, bringing dark, possessive anger to Hannibal’s heart. He vowed to track down every orderly who had ever laid a hand on Will and turn their flesh into nutrients for his boy. But first: “Did that lead to the silence or the cage?”

“It led to the Ripper.” Will leaned back further, putting more weigh on his hips and, in turn, Hannibal’s cock. “There were four of them, the orderlies, and they were taking it too far. Hitting too hard, too many times in a row. And I knew, curled up naked on the floor, that I was going to die.” He ran gentle fingers through Hannibal’s hair, then drew a gentle line down to Hannibal’s chest. “That’s when I felt him. A devil in a bespoke suit offering his hand. Promising that the pain would stop. Assuring me that if I died at the hands of those swine, then I wasn’t worth the effort regardless.” Will paused, glorious tears dripping from his lashes while aurora borealis eyes stared at something Hannibal couldn’t see. “He offered his hand, antlers in plain sight. And I accepted.”

Will rolled is hips as he looked down, finally meeting Hannibal’s gaze. His tears had stilled. His gaze was unflinching. Not quite the Ripper’s eyes, but not quite Will’s, either.

“I accepted, and all that fear just… fell away. I didn’t see how they outnumbered me or how much bigger they were. I didn’t care that I was naked. All I saw were their flaws, and there were so many.” He rolled his hips again, cock stiffening. Pleasure and devotion twined in Hannibal. He squeezed Will’s precious ass in encouragement. Will closed his eyes and tilted his head back: a god being worshipped. “They didn’t expect me to be so fast. Didn’t see it coming at all. Which was fair. I didn’t expect them to go down so easy.”

Will rolled his hips a third time, and Hannibal met him in the middle with a thrust. Hannibal moved his hands from Will’s ass to his hips, grip bruising.

“And how did it feel? Having the Ripper inside you.”

Will’s eyes fluttered open, for once not the color of an aurora borealis, but an actual aurora borealis. The entire universe contained in a single man. Endless. Cosmic.

“Powerful.”

Will rubbed himself against Hannibal, using Hannibal’s own hold to turn a simple motion into a hard grind. Hannibal slipped both hands under Will’s shirt and pushed upward, needing to taste the skin of his god.

Will took the bunched-up material and pulled it over his head. He tossed it to the floor without care for where it landed. Hannibal immediately latched onto Will’s nipple, licking over the bud before gently rolling it between his teeth.

Hannibal retreated the barest amount, almost drunk on Will’s fantasy. (Will, naked on his knees. Hannibal, offering him power. Will, selling his soul to Hannibal. Hannibal, owning Will’s soul.) Hannibal groaned, flushed with arousal from the imagery alone.

Against Will’s nipple, he murmured, “Who do you want inside you now? Me or the Ripper?”

Will tangled a hand in Hannibal’s hair. Grip painfully tight, he tilted Hannibal’s head back. Will didn’t flinch at the harsh scrape of Hannibal’s teeth over his nipple. He forced eye contact.  With a voice smooth like sin, he said, “Why not both?”

Devotion warred with arousal as Hannibal slipped his fingers into Will’s boxers, sliding the flimsy cloth off his slim hips. Will’s pretty cock popped up, once again ready to be lavished with attention. Hannibal yearned to service him once more, but Will’s hand in his hair was a clear order to stay.

Hannibal gripped the muscle beneath Will’s tempting ass in a promise not to move. Will smiled, amused and doting. He shook his head.

“Hands on the back of the couch.” He leaned down to kiss Hannibal’s ear, all seduction and grace. “Stay still, and I’ll give you a reward.”

A shiver of want raced down Hannibal’s spine. He put his hands above his head, curling his fingers around the outside frame of the couch, and bucked up against Will’s scantly clothed bottom. “Sweet deity. Anything.”

Will’s lips met Hannibal’s ear again, followed by the sweet pain of teeth. He released Hannibal’s hair and stepped away from the couch to rid himself of his boxers. Nimble fingers hooked under the waistband of Hannibal’s sweatpants next, and Hannibal lifted his hips to speed the process. Will stripped Hannibal of his sweatpants and boxers in a single tug. Hannibal’s dick sprung up, eager to be used.

Will straddled Hannibal again, pressing their dicks together and wrapping his calloused fist around them both. The head of Will’s little cock vanished in Will’s fist while Hannibal’s continued to tower. Pleasure pulsed in Hannibal’s dick at the comparison. He bucked into Will’s hand, and Will squeezed them tight. Hannibal moaned.

Will released their cocks to shove his hand into the crack between couch cushions, coming back up with a travel-sized bottle of lube.

Hannibal blinked, momentarily thrown. “Darling thing, did you hide that in the couch?”

Will used his left hand to grip their cocks again, drizzling cool lube over them both. Hannibal shuddered involuntarily, white-hot pleasure tingling at the base of his spine, while Will began to stroke.

Will tossed the bottle to the side, uncaring where it landed. Without looking away from their dicks, he said, “Yes.”

“And are there others?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal tightened his grip on the back of the couch while Will once again let go of their dicks, this time so he could press lube-slick fingers into himself. Hannibal’s cock twitched at the sight of it, desperate to join those fingers. His mouth asked, “Where?”

Will moaned, knuckle-deep inside himself. He nuzzled Hannibal’s hair, breaths coming out heavy. “Do you want to clean your house, or do you want to fuck me?”

Hannibal opened his mouth because both, but Will was already guiding Hannibal’s cock to his barely prepared hole. Hannibal’s thighs gave a tiny tremble at the feel of Will’s heat kissing the wide head of his cock. He swallowed and (regretfully) shelved the hidden lube conversation for later.

Unable to keep the awe from his voice, he murmured, “Darling, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No.” Will pushed down, engulfing the head of Hannibal’s cock in his almost painfully tight body. Abs spasming with the effort, Will said, “You’re going to hurt me.”

Ecstasy spiked, sending Hannibal’s hips jerking. Burying him just that little bit deeper into Will’s underprepared heat. Will moaned, high-pitched and surprised.

Hannibal watched him through half-lidded eyes. Voice low and accent thick, he asked, “Why am I going to hurt you?”

“Because you want to.” Another inch down, consuming. “And because I want you to. Because your marks faded while I was gone, and I felt alone. I want them back.” Will tensed, squeezing Hannibal’s cock hard, then plunged the rest of the way down. His ass smacked against Hannibal’s thighs, obscenely loud in the silence of the study. Hannibal rolled his hips up into that heat, head lolling back with pleasure.

“Oh, Will.”

“I need you, Hannibal. Need to feel you with me, always.” Will curled his fist into Hannibal’s hair, soft rather than demanding, and guided Hannibal’s mouth to his chest. Tone yearning, voice low, he ordered, “Hurt me, Hannibal.”

The need to take – to possess – surged from Hannibal’s cock up into his gut, then skewered his heart. Hannibal tapped his fingers along the back of the couch, a gluttonous beast with no restraints. Will should have tied him up. He thrust upward, bouncing Will on his lap.

Will sucked him back inside. Glorious thing.

“May I use my hands?”

“No.”

Will clenched around Hannibal’s cock, still adjusting. Hannibal scraped his teeth gently along Will’s nipple, causing Will’s insides to spasm. He pressed a kiss to the needy nub. “And if I disobey?”

“You can’t.” Will rose on shaking knees, baring Hannibal’s cock to the cold, then slowly welcomed him back inside. His voice pitched as he said, “I’m your god, aren’t I? It’s blasphemy to defy me.”

He rose again, faster this time. Angle still too far off to even think of touching his prostate. Hannibal licked his lips, pleasure pooling low. He thrust up into Will for his pleasure alone and murmured, “Then I beseech you, Darling. Forgive me.”

Will hummed, pleasure making him slow. “Forgive?”

“Yes. For I am about to sin.”

Hannibal’s hands shot to Will’s hips, lifting him all the way off Hannibal’s cock then forcing him back down again. Will moaned, eyes and mouth open wide in a show of ecstasy. Precum dribbled from his little cock as Hannibal filled him to the brim again and again. Bitten down nails dug into Hannibal’s shoulders while Hannibal recaptured that sweet pink nub and introduced skin to teeth.

Blood seeped into Hannibal’s mouth, and both Hannibal and Will shuddered at the pleasure of Will’s pain. Hannibal sucked, drinking Will down, and ground his teeth into the wound. Will’s blood sat like sweet nectar on his lips while Will’s tight, greedy insides tried to drain the cum from Hannibal’s cock.

Will keened. “Oh, Hannibal. Hannibal.” He curled both fists into Hannibal’s hair and impaled himself with even more force, abusing both Hannibal’s dick and his own swollen prostate. Molten pleasure pooled low in Hannibal’s gut. He groaned against Will’s nipple and, unable to bear the thought of tasting air rather than Will, licked his way to the other bud.

Will’s skin was honeysuckle sweet, begging to be separated from muscle and baked into a dessert. Hannibal smoothed a hand up Will’s sweaty chest to twist the pert, bite reddened nipple his mouth couldn’t cover. He dug his teeth into the fresh nub, insatiable. Will’s nipple perked against his tongue. Eager. Hannibal moaned in glorious praise, aware that he could feast on Will all day every day and still never get his fill.

Will sped the pace, uncaring of Hannibal’s needs. Taking his pleasure. Demanding it. The coil of Hannibal’s orgasm tightened. He sucked Will’s nipple harder, desperate to pour his devotion into every motion. To give Will what he wanted.

To worship.

He scraped his nails and his teeth along Will’s nipples, leaving them an angry red. Will’s thighs trembled uncontrollably. His pace stuttered. Hannibal shifted his hold to Will’s hips, grip bruising, and took over. He used Will like a cock sleeve, seeking his own release even as Will’s pretty little cock jerked, dribbling cum down Will’s shaft to pool warm in Hannibal’s pubic hair.

Will’s insides squeezed (so tight, too tight) around Hannibal, pushing him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt, pouring everything he had into Will’s perfect, ravenous body.

Rather than fucking Will through his orgasm, as Hannibal tended to prefer, he pulled Will off his cock and pushed him to his knees on the hardwood floor. Will looked up at him, dazed, and Hannibal drank in that expression of trust as he pressed his cock to Will’s open mouth and thrust all the way inside.

Will gagged. Hannibal grabbed his hair and kept him still, using Will as roughly and quickly as he could. Leaving his mark down the back of Will’s throat while he was still hard enough to do so. Tears spilled down Will’s cheeks while Will moaned, spent cock twitching weakly between his legs.

Hannibal closed his eyes. He savored the feeling of Will’s throat after a good fucking in a bottle of Merlot, which he placed on a wine rack in Will’s wing of the Mind Palace. Will sucked the remaining cum out of Hannibal’s urethra, endlessly thirsty, and Hannibal petted a hand through his hair.

“Sweet thing. Perfect thing. Your mouth was meant for me.”

Hannibal thrust until he was too soft to fuck into Will’s throat, then pulled back. Will released his cock with a soft pop, blue eyes hazy.

Hannibal swallowed thickly, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to return to the couch. (To warm himself in Will’s mouth while his own cum dripped down Will’s thighs, pooling on the floor.) Unfortunately, there were only so many hours in a day, and Will’s Christmas was far from over.

Hannibal helped his debauched boy to stand on shaking legs. He gathered Will’s boxers and kneeled, holding them out for Will to step into. Once Will’s feet were through the holes, Hannibal slid them up endlessly long legs. The soft cloth hugged Will’s hips and caught Hannibal’s cum, further smearing his sperm across Will’s delightfully round ass.

Hannibal stepped into his own sweatpants, pocketing Will’s hidden lube as he went. He retrieved Will’s shirt from the floor, paused to suck the drying blood from a pert nipple, then helped his boy into it. Will gazed up at him, nothing short of adoring.

Hannibal kissed him hard, bruising those lips just as well as he’d bruised Will’s nipples. Will returned the kiss with fervor, desperate for Hannibal’s touch (his love, his need, his obsession). Hannibal pulled back only long enough to twist the words ‘I love you’ into, “Merry Christmas.”

Will grinned against Hannibal’s lips, all teeth and affection.

“Merry Christmas.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal watched from the table as Will rummaged through his fridge. For anyone else, it would be a simple, domestic moment, overlooked and forgotten within the hour.

Other people’s fridges, however, didn’t contain Will’s ex-girlfriend (among others). The human products were innocuously labeled, of course. Leg of lamb, pork roast, bacon, sausage. Hannibal wasn’t terribly worried about Will identifying those. It was the—

“Cream?” Will shook the jar containing Hannibal’s cum, brows furrowed. “You sure this is still good?”

Hannibal watched Will, body language neutral. “Yes, Darling. It’s a different type of cream is all.”

“What type?”

“Fresh.”

Hannibal sipped his coffee. Will tilted his head. He glanced at Hannibal, shrugged, and closed the fridge, jar of cum still in hand. He carried Hannibal’s cum to the table, then turned again to grab something else. Hannibal cupped his jaw and laid two fingers over his mouth, utterly captivated.

The smart thing to do would be to direct Will to the goat’s milk, half-and-half, or heavy whipping cream. Hannibal put his cum in Will’s food often enough, true, but that was purposefully hidden. Should Will try the cum from the jar without anything to mask it, there would be no mistaking the taste. Not with how frequently Will had been sucking the cum straight from Hannibal’s cock. 

Will returned with a spoon. Hannibal kept his eyes on Will’s hands as his boyfriend picked up the jar again, entirely unaware.

Fascination sparkled in Hannibal’s chest. He said, “You don’t usually take cream in your coffee.”

Will hummed as he unscrewed the jar. “Thought I’d switch it up today.” He glanced at Hannibal. “You want some?”

“No thank you.”

Will lifted the jar to his nose, but the smell of cum was muted when cold. He tilted the jar and scooped out a heaping spoonful, which he then carelessly dropped into his coffee. It splashed and sank, dispersing into the drink. Will stirred it offhandedly.

The coffee didn’t change color. Hannibal stared, both hoping Will would stop there to disguise the taste and wishing he would add more.

Will pursed his lips. “For cream, it sure isn’t very creamy.”

“Different creams, different consistencies.”

Will accepted the explanation without argument. He screwed the cap back on the jar and replaced it in the fridge. Hannibal shifted in his seat, cock perking at the thought of Will not only eating Hannibal’s cum, but feeding it to himself.

Will rejoined him at the table, and though he wrapped his hand around his thermos, he didn’t drink. “Thanks for being willing to go all the way to Wolf Trap with me. It means a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever owned so much stuff, and the thought of figuring out where to put it all is kind of overwhelming.”

“I can’t very well leave you alone with it, can I? All your nice things would end up pushed to the side, still in their boxes, while you continue to live in squalor.”

“I don’t live in squalor.”

“You mean you won’t, once we unpack.”

“Or, and hear me out here…” Will put one hand out, palm up, then pointed at Hannibal. “You could unpack while I paint the upstairs. Then you just let me know where everything is when you’re done. Everyone’s happy.”

“That was always the plan, Darling. You didn’t think I’d actually trust you to decorate your home, did you?”

Will laughed. Hannibal smiled. Hannibal took a sip of his coffee, prompting an unconscious mimicry in Will.

Will brought the thermos to his lips. Tipped it back. Swallowed. Hannibal raised both brows as he watched Will’s Adam’s apple bob, awaiting a verdict. A moment of truth. Blue eyes blinked, surprised, then shifted to stare at the coffee. Will glanced back at the fridge, puzzle pieces almost visibly sliding together in his mind. When his attention resettled on Hannibal, he seemed to have reached a conclusion.

“Do you put that cream in my food?”

Hannibal’s heart sped. Tone casual, he admitted, “I do.”

“Huh.” Will swirled the thermos, then brought it to his nose for a deep inhale. The wheels behind his eyes continued to turn, but they reached no conclusion. After a moment, Will let it go. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, ankle over ankle. “I always figured it was some foreign spice or something.”

Amusement fizzled in Hannibal. Arousal overtook that amusement as Will tipped the thermos back and drank. Hannibal breathed low and slow, physically forcing himself to remain soft. (And though now wasn’t the time to react, he would certainly be thinking of this when he refilled the jar later.) Will licked his lips as he lowered the thermos.

“S’not bad. I prefer it black overall, but I wouldn’t mind this every now and again.”

Oh, Will. The boy spoiled Hannibal, and he didn’t even know it.

“Of course, Darling. I’ll surprise you.”

Will smiled, the innocent thing. “Thanks. You ready to go?”

Hannibal nodded and stood, screwing the lid on his own thermos as he went. They’d already packed Will’s presents into the back of his Jeep. Though a button-up would have been sufficient for a day of unpacking, Hannibal had opted for a red cashmere pullover. This was partially for comfort but mostly because Will seemed minorly enamored with the idea of Hannibal dressing down.

They got into Will’s Jeep, where Will drank more coffee, then began the drive to Wolf Trap. Hannibal watched Will as he drove, admiring the curve of his nose and swell of his lips. They exited city limits. Houses thinned to make way for trees. Will put his hand on the center console for Hannibal to hold. Hannibal accepted.

Will hit the brakes.

Hannibal instinctively put his arm out to stop Will from flying forward. Heartrate steady, thoughts calm, Hannibal scanned the road for abnormalities. A crash site, a murdered child: anything which may have caused Will to consider ending their lives in a Jeep.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?”

Will unbuckled his seatbelt, fingers already tugging on the door handle as he said, “I think I saw a dog.”

Hannibal blinked as Will climbed out of the Jeep and started whistling. While it was true that Hannibal had never seen Will around a stray dog before, he certainly hadn’t expected this level of (recklessness? obsession? expediency?) excitement.

Hannibal unbuckled his own seatbelt and exited the vehicle. On the other side of the road, Will lowered his center of gravity (trying to appear smaller, less threatening) and searched the edges of the woods. He cycled between short whistles, soft assurances of good will, and clicking noises. His hopes mounted impractically high. Hannibal examined the surrounding area but saw no signs of a dog, stray or otherwise.

Still, he wanted to be supportive.

He started moving the smaller gifts from the trunk to the back seat. Once there was room, he unfolded the kennel and opened the wire door. Will had yet to so much as glance away from the forest, indicating they would be on the road for a while yet. Hannibal retrieved both his and Will’s thermoses and sat in the open back of the Jeep.

Dog or no dog, Hannibal would wait.

For Will, he would always wait.

(***Paragon***)

It was getting dark.

It was getting dark, and they still hadn’t seen any sign of the dog. Will felt horrible about blowing off their plans and keeping them in the cold for so long, but Hannibal didn’t complain. He sat in the back of the Jeep, freezing and probably starving, and he waited.

Will had thought numerous times that he should tell Hannibal to go, but he already knew Hannibal wouldn’t. Will also thought about getting in the car and going himself, but if they were cold and hungry in their coats after a nice breakfast, he could only imagine how the dog must feel.

He kept looking.

Will was crouched in the snowy underbrush near a small pine tree when a short, sharp whistle pierced the air. He glanced back at Hannibal, who pointed to the other side of the road. Right at a beautiful brown dog.

Tears stung Will’s eyes. He moved from a crouch onto his knees so he wouldn’t look as tall or imposing. The snow seeped into his jeans. He held out both hands, and in the gentlest voice he could manage, said, “Here, boy. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The dog tilted its head, cold and wet and muddy. It didn’t run away. 

Will’s heart did a little flip. He patted the ground in front of him. “Do you want to come home with me? We’ll get you all cleaned up and put warm food in your belly. I have a huge yard you can run in, and you won’t have to sleep outside anymore.”

The dog took a slow step forward, head down as it sniffed Will from afar. Will swallowed thickly, heartbeat wild in his chest. Please, please, please. His hand trembled as he held it out again.

“I’ll take such good care of you. I promise.”

The dog stilled. The dog’s front paw moved away from Will a single step, and Will’s heart struggled not to break. He didn’t just want to help the dog. He needed it.

His voice cracked as he whispered, “Please?”

The dog blinked. It stared at Will for a long minute before it opened its mouth, tongue lolling out. It tilted its head and, as if understanding Will’s words, padded over. Excitement and hope bubbled in Will. The dog brushed its head against Will’s outstretched hand. Will’s happiness reached a crescendo, sending hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He laughed and scratched behind its ear.

“Oh, good boy. That’s such a good boy. Good job.” Will slowly added another hand to his petting, scratching down the dog’s neck to check for a collar. Nothing. A little tornado of elation twirled in Will’s chest. He pressed his forehead to the dog’s and said, “You’re going to come home with me, okay? Does that sound good?”

The dog panted more. It licked Will’s face. His heart melted.

He hugged its soft, furry body, noted that it was underweight, and picked it up. Mud and fur smeared across his coat, but considering Hannibal was the one wearing the kintsugi coat, Will hardly cared. (Technically, he would hardly have cared in the kintsugi coat, either. At least this way he didn’t have to pretend to feel bad about it.) The dog made a soft whimpering noise, but it didn’t wriggle, bite, or snarl.

 He held it close to his chest, petting softly over its tense, shaking flank. It was cold. It was frightened. Will cooed softly, telling it over and over again what a good boy it was. He carried the dog over to the Jeep, noting how well behaved it was for a stray. Probably belonged to someone at one point. Hannibal smiled at him, all pride and stately beauty. Will’s heart skipped a beat, leaving him entirely incapable of not grinning back. He placed the dog carefully in the kennel, noted that ‘it’ was a ‘he,’ and closed the door.

He had a dog.

Will bounced on his toes, almost high on his good mood. He turned and kissed Hannibal, who caught Will’s muddy, dog-fur covered gloves before they could touch his hair. Will laughed, bright and loud.

“Thank you.” A kiss. “For staying with me.” A kiss. “And supporting me.” A kiss. “And being my boyfriend.” A kiss. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“And you shall never have to find out.”

Hannibal pressed Will against the side of the Jeep and kissed him hard. The tip of Hannibal’s tongue touched Will’s lips, barely needing to probe before Will welcomed him inside. Hannibal’s tongue in Will’s mouth – Hannibal’s taste on Will’s tongue – was marvelous. He moaned, wanton even in the middle of the street. Hannibal pinned Will’s wrists to the Jeep in a single hand, keeping their bodies purposefully separated as he ravaged Will’s mouth. Though Hannibal seemed determined not to share in Will’s messiness, he did brush teasing fingers over one of Will’s extremely sore nipples.

Will whined. Pulled back. Kissed Hannibal again. Against Hannibal’s lips, he murmured, “We need to get him home, out of the cold. Once he’s settled, we can…” Will froze.

He pulled away from Hannibal, no longer concerned with kisses or human affection.

“Shit. I don’t have any dog food.” Will slipped out of Hannibal’s loosened grip, mentally cataloguing all the things he’d thrown out when cleaning. “I don’t have a dog bed, either. No extra collars or toys. No leashes. Hannibal, I don’t have any treats.” Will shut the trunk and hurried over to the driver’s side door. He climbed in and buckled his seatbelt on autopilot, barely aware of Hannibal taking the passenger’s seat. “We have to go to the store. As long as we hurry, we can leave the car on to keep Winston warm while we’re inside. Oh, we also need food bowls and shampoo. A brush. And something soft to snuggle with. He’s got to be scared.”

Hannibal hummed. “Winston?”

“The dog.” Will looked over his shoulder despite the fact that he had a back-up camera and reversed onto the shoulder. He pulled out onto the road and drove toward the nearest PetSmart. “He looks like a Winston, doesn’t he? Probably a shepherd or a retriever. Maybe both. Did you see how fluffy his tail is? He’s going to be so handsome once he’s clean.”

“He’s lovely, Darling.” Hannibal put his hand on the middle console for Will to hold. Will used his knee to steer while he tugged his glove off, then twined their fingers together.

He had a bed. He had a working car. He had a doting boyfriend. And now he had a dog, too.

He squeezed Hannibal’s hand, happier than he could remember being in years. Arriving at PetSmart only heightened the feeling, elevating his giddiness to straight-up elation. He barely waited for Hannibal to shut the door before locking the car and hurrying away.

He was halfway across the parking lot when he realized he’d left his other glove in the car, but fuck it, the store would be warm. He walked even faster. Hannibal strode beside him, long legs having no trouble keeping up with Will’s quick pace.

The store welcomed them with a rush of heat. Will grabbed a cart and made a beeline for the dog section. He grabbed a twenty-pound bag of his favorite organic dog food first (none of that artificial, processed-to-hell bullshit). He got three large silver food bowls so he could leave water outside, too. In the bedding section, Will hugged every dog bed to see which one was softest. Then he grabbed the second softest one, too, just in case he found Winston a friend.

Winston was going to need a lot of training, which meant Will would need a lot of treats. Will tossed pretty much everything with the word ‘bacon’ or ‘peanut butter’ into the cart, then added pig ears and bully sticks, too. The toy section fared no better, as every time Will imagined Winston enjoying a toy, he put it in the cart. Ropes, squeaky toys, tennis balls, stuffed animals: he got them all.

The only aisle Hannibal was even remotely interested in was the one with leashes and collars. He snapped a black, braided paracord leash, testing its strength, then added it to the cart. Will got two more leashes on top of that and two collars. He’d order the tags when he went to the vet.

The last stop was the grooming section, where Will got special dog shampoos, nail cutters, brushes, combs, and (as an afterthought), a lint roller for Hannibal.

Will pushed his full-to-bursting cart to the register with only the smallest amount of care for the hit his bank account would take. He felt a little guilty to be buying all this in front of Hannibal, who Will had yet to repay for the tow truck, but then he remembered Hannibal was richer than god and decided it was probably fine. When the woman at the register finished ringing him up, Will reached for his wallet.

He didn’t have his wallet.

Panic and shame flared. Will patted every pocket he had, twice, then opened his mouth to apologize and ask if he could check his car. Before he could say a word, Hannibal was already inserting the chip of his unmarked black credit card into the machine.

Gratitude and apology warred in Will’s chest. Gratitude won out. As they took their loaded cart out to the Jeep, Will bumped shoulders with Hannibal and said, “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, Darling.” Hannibal reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Will’s wallet, which he offered to Will without a single ounce of shame. “I wanted to.”

Will’s mouth fell open. His brows furrowed. He stared at the worn leather rectangle without taking it. “You stole my wallet?”

“Consider it payback for rearranging everything in my wallet.”

“I’ll rearrange everything in your kitchen next.”

“Yes, and in return, I shall buy you a fishing boat.”

“I don’t need a fishing boat.”

“Nor do I need my kitchen rearranged.”

“You—” Will shook his head and snatched his wallet. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yes, and you’re perfect.” Hannibal put his arm around Will’s waist and squeezed the bruise on his hip. “Now, come. Your Winston is waiting.”

Will’s ire wavered at the thought of getting back to Winston. He leaned in and kissed Hannibal’s shoulder. “You’re not forgiven.”

“And what will it take to be forgiven?”

The Jeep beeped without Will doing anything, letting Will know that Hannibal had stolen his keys, too. Will held out a hand without looking, and Hannibal dropped the keys into his palm. Will opened the back door and started piling things inside.

“You’ll have to stay with me tonight.”

“Oh?”

“And hang a suit or two in my closet, so you don’t have to plan for sleeping at my place.”

Hannibal’s thumb caressed the small of Will’s back. “Surely there’s more.”

Will hesitated. He pulled another three bags out of the cart, used his gloveless hand to tug his beanie down over his ear, and said, “Should there be?”

“Certainly. I stole your wallet, Will.”

“I steal your wallet all the time.”

“Never when I need it.” Hannibal’s hand slid up Will’s back to caress the nape of his neck, encouraging. “Penances should be paid, Will.”

Will nodded, in a bit of a daze from the sound of Hannibal’s voice alone. He said, “And…”

“And?”

Will swallowed to ground himself, but the sweet scrape of pain down his throat only opened him up to more of Hannibal. Will took a deep breath of expensive cologne, and the comfortable haze that often-accompanied Hannibal’s attentions swept into his lungs with it. He swayed more heavily into Hannibal’s hold. The grip on his nape tightened approvingly.

With confidence he didn’t feel, Will said, “And you have to accept a key to my house.”

He didn’t look at Hannibal as he went back to putting the bags in the Jeep. Didn’t let himself explain that it was ‘just a key’ and that they weren’t moving in together, so it wasn’t weird. He reached for more bags. Hannibal caught his hand and spun him around.

Hannibal’s coat sparkled even in the dim light of the parking lot, making him look even more ethereally handsome than usual. His thumb stroked a soft line up the side of Will’s throat before retreating into the gold-threaded pocket. He got down on one knee.

Will’s heart jumped into his throat. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh holy fucking hell.

“Hannibal, I don’t think you should…” Will cut himself off as Hannibal pulled out a little velvet box. Nausea churned his stomach, unrelenting. He glanced around the parking lot, desperate for this not to be happening. Hannibal opened the box to reveal a shiny silver—

Key?

“What?” Will’s voice came out in a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. The result was no better. “What the fuck?”

“It’s called the door-in-the-face technique, Darling. You start with a very large request, which the other party will most likely turn down, then move on to a smaller request which, in comparison, seems reasonable.”

Will turned and put his hand against the top of the Jeep for balance. Eyes on the half-full shopping cart and not Hannibal-on-one-knee, Will said, “Holy fucking Christ. Jesus H. Shit. You almost gave me a heart attack, Hannibal!”

Hannibal rose to his full height, seemingly unbothered by how much Will didn’t want to marry him. “Yes, but I feel confident in the fact that you’ll now accept a key to my home as well.”

Hannibal held out the little velvet box for Will to take. Will ignored it, moving his free hand to cover his thundering heart instead. “Jesus fucking fuck, that was terrifying.”

Hannibal waited patiently for Will to get his heart back under control, then very casually said, “Really, Darling. I would never propose in a parking lot. You should know better.”

Will glanced at Hannibal, incredulous. The key and the coat both shone in the light. Will swiped the box out of Hannibal’s hand, snapped it closed without looking, and shoved it into his pocket.

“You’re a horrible person.”

“I’m aware.”

“Like legit terrible.” Will pushed off the car, stared blankly at the shopping cart, then blandly went back to loading the Jeep because what else was he supposed to do? “We’re not friends anymore.”

“No, we’re boyfriends.”

Will shoved the second dog bed over the back seat to land beside the kennel. Winston’s nose poked through the bars to sniff the plastic bag.

Will glared at Hannibal. “How would you feel if I got down on one knee in the parking lot of a PetSmart?”

“You should try it and find out.”

Will shot a glance at Hannibal, looking for some sign of a joke. When he didn’t find one, he rolled his eyes and turned it into a joke himself. “Har-har. Very funny.” He squished the last the bags into the Jeep and closed the door before they could fall back out.

Hannibal watched him, eyes curious, but gracefully allowed the conversation to drop. He took the cart back to the store (not just to one of the cart spots in the parking lot) while Will climbed into the Jeep. Will looked over his shoulder at Winston, who panted happily back.

While Hannibal wasn’t there to watch him, Will reached into his pocket. Though his heart was beating a mile a minute and his nerves were pretty much shot, he still smiled when he felt the box.

Eccentric, attention hungry, narcissistic idiot.

He smiled wider. Hannibal’s perfect outline appeared in the dim light of the parking lot, hatching sweet little butterflies in Will’s belly. And though Will had already forgiven him (mostly), he decided that Hannibal was right, too. Sometimes, penances needed to be paid.

And Hannibal’s kitchen could use a little color.

(***Paragon***)

With the addition of Winston, the backdrop of Hannibal’s daily life shifted toward Wolf Trap.

 The drive was longer but worthwhile. Will was much more open in his home than he was in Hannibal’s, showing a willingness to be both loud and messy. He took morning runs through the woods with Winston, displaying unanticipated levels of both speed and stamina. And though Hannibal wasn’t always ecstatic to share Will’s attentions with a dog, Winston did wonders for nourishing Will’s paternal instincts.

Will had a knack for both praise and discipline. He kept track of Winston’s preferred treats, got down on the dog’s level when it came time to play, and stayed firm when training. He used mostly nonverbal commands, though whistles of varying length and pitch were common. His punishments were harsh but fair. All signs that Will would make a wonderful father.

And, as though specifically aiming to steal Hannibal’s heart out from behind his ribs, Will was training Winston to be an attack dog. Though they never spoke of it, the reasoning behind Will’s decision was clear. If someone attempted to take his freedom away again, he would not go down without a fight.

The lovely, violent thing.

More endearing still, Will made a point to introduce Hannibal to Winston time and time again, drilling it into the dog’s head that no matter what Hannibal did to Will, Winston was not to attack. It made sense, considering their sexual encounters often ended in Will sustaining minor injuries.

(It also took a major point of protection away from Will, which had the side-effect of bathing Hannibal in Will’s addictively sweet, if mildly misplaced, trust.)

When Will finished throwing tennis balls across the yard for Winston to fetch, he left his snow boots on the porch and walked inside. Hannibal watched from the kitchen as Will knelt, using the towel by the door to clean Winston’s paws. The dog obeyed without complaint, well aware that it would get a treat once Will was through.

Will put the towel to the side, but he didn’t give the signal for Winston to move. A simple tactic meant to separate the act of finishing a task with Will’s actual orders. He remained crouched for an extra minute, then nodded his head toward the interior of the house. Winston ran straight to Hannibal.

Hannibal adjusted the apron he’d brought from his home and walked to the fridge. He took out a single slice of sausage (Will’s ex) and held it up. Winston sat, eyes on the meat, and waited. Hannibal tossed it over. Winston caught it in the air.

(And what a good guard dog he would be, with his taste for human flesh already so well-developed.)

Will walked into the kitchen free of his winterwear, cheeks still pink from the cold. He stole a piece of his ex from the Tupperware and popped it into his mouth, then kissed Hannibal. Seductive thing.

Will hummed in pleasant appreciation. “Keep this up and Winton isn’t going to want his dog treats anymore.”

Hannibal glanced at the dog, whose eyes had yet to leave the sausage. Doubtful. Still, he said, “I like to take care of you. This dog, as well as any future dogs you collect, are a part of your family. Thus, taking care of them and taking care of you are two horns on the same goat.”

Will snorted. “You know that metaphor is about love and hate, right? You’re basically saying you hate my dog.”

Hannibal shrugged, indelicate. “Take it as you will.”

Will flicked his wrist, physically waving the conversation away. He grabbed his phone off the table, where he’d left it, and sat on the floor with Winston.

Hannibal replaced the Tupperware in the fridge and returned to the stove. Though he’d known Will loved dogs, Hannibal had to admit he’d underestimated just how much Will loved them. His boy didn’t simply think them cute or enjoy their unconditional love. He treated them like four-legged angels from heaven. Like innocent, perfect things meant to be protected and adored. (Like children.)

With that admission came the knowledge that Hannibal had dodged a bullet. If he’d gone through with his instinct to steal and starve a dog, he would have to spend the rest of his life diligently hiding it. For while Hannibal was fairly certain that Will would eventually be able to accept and adore Hannibal as the Chesapeake Ripper, Will accepting Hannibal as both the Chesapeake Ripper and an animal abuser was a bit of a stretch.

(And by ‘a bit of a stretch,’ Hannibal did mean, ‘Will would try to kill him.’)

A tug on Hannibal’s pantleg drew his attention downward. Will was leaning back on one hand: head tilted, neck exposed. His phone sat screen-facing-down in his lap. The hand not propping him up was offering Hannibal an envelope. Three by six and eleven sixteenths. Money, most likely.

Hannibal accepted the envelope, opening it as though he were curious. Will confirmed what Hannibal already knew by saying, “For the tow truck.”

Though Hannibal had less than zero need for the money, he folded the envelope and slipped it into his pocket. Hannibal’s money was Will’s money, and Will’s money was Hannibal’s money. Which bank account their dollars sat in was semantic.

“Thank you, Darling.”

Will scooted across the floor, pressing his back to the oven door and his thigh to Hannibal’s shoe. “Do you think I should send a picture of Winston to Alana?”

“Do you want to?”

Will leaned his head against Hannibal’s thigh. “I don’t know. It’s not like I want to be friends with her or anything. But with her over at the BSHCI, not bothering me, it’s kind of like…” Will huffed. “I don’t know. I’m moving on. Getting better. Feels cruel to insist on torturing her in the meantime.”

Hannibal reached down to ruffle Will’s hair. Will leaned into it.

“Sweet thing. I think she would love a picture of Winston.”

Hannibal kept a casual eye on Will as the boy picked up his phone. Will swiped the lock screen away, revealing a familiar crime scene photo. Il Mostro. Hannibal’s third public kill. Will swiped that away, too, moving to his messaging app and inputting Alana’s number from memory. He held it up to take a picture of Winston.

Hannibal returned his attention to the stove. The click of Will’s phone being set on the floor (where Will would most likely forget about it entirely) preceded Will’s hand curling around Hannibal’s inner calf and stroking upward.

“Any chance you want to have sex before dinner?”

“You know I do, Darling.” Hannibal shifted to allow Will better access to his inner thigh. “You also know I refuse to let our food grow cold.”

Will hummed, a sultry affirmation. “Yeah. So I was thinking maybe… maybe I could just hold you inside me while we eat?”

Pleasure jolted straight to Hannibal’s cock. He swelled, half-hard just from the thought, and turned his hips so Will could see the outline. Will pressed his lips to the side of Hannibal’s cock through the cloth, softly nuzzling.

“Absolutely.” Hannibal pressed his cock more firmly against Will’s face, urging his boy to breathe him in. “Prepare yourself, my love. I’ll set the table.”

Will opened his mouth, wetting the head of Hannibal’s cock through the cloth. Hannibal groaned, wishing he were bare so he could slip all the way down that perfect throat. Rather than undoing his slacks, as his baser instincts demanded, Hannibal returned his attention to their meal. Will’s soft lips kissed the tip of his cock, then Will stood.

Will reached past Hannibal, plucking a small bottle of lube out from behind the flour jar. Hannibal tilted his head, wondering where else Will had hidden them. (While his boy had said that he’d revealed every bottle hidden in Hannibal’s house, Hannibal didn’t believe him. This was no different.) Luckily, Hannibal didn’t care nearly as much about the disorder in Will’s home as he did his own. He memorized the placement for the next time they needed it and turned his head to watch Will go.

Will shed both his shirt and pants, stepping over Winston to slip into the chair at the head of the table. He slid down so his lower back rested on the seat instead of his ass, then spread his legs obscenely wide. His little cock stood proud. His tiny hole puckered.

Hannibal turned off the stove, eyes never leaving Will.

Will laid his head against the back of the chair, baring his neck for Hannibal. Showing off the marks Hannibal had left. (The bruises along the column of his throat, his perked red nipples, the bruises on his hips, the short curls around his dick.) Will poured a small amount of lube onto his fingers, then tossed the bottle to the floor to rest with his clothes.

Beautiful heathen.

Hannibal’s cock strained painfully against his boxers and slacks, pleasure pooling low. He kept his eyes locked on Will’s hand as the boy trailed two fingers down the cleft of his ass, stopping just over his gluttonous hole. Hannibal imagined the heat. The suction. Imagined his tongue where Will’s fingers were, licking his boy inside and out. Loosening him until Will came just from fingers and tongue, then sucking on Will’s soft, spent cock and starting all over again.

Hannibal’s dick ached with the desire to make fantasy into reality. Will thrust his fingers inside himself, straight to the knuckle. Hannibal knew from the way Will tensed that he’d missed his prostate, but that was fine. The point of Will touching himself wasn’t pleasure, but the stretch.

Hannibal rolled his shoulders, and whatever decency he pretended to have fell away. He met Will’s eyes, the blues so dark that the night sky nearly overtook the aurora borealis. He turned to plate their food. The wet squelch of Will’s fingers in his hole filled the kitchen: every sound a tease. Hannibal’s cock twitched between his legs, demanding to be the thing making those noises.

By the time Hannibal placed their plates side-by-side in front of Will, he was heavy with need. He unbuttoned his slacks without ceremony, pulling his boxers down only far enough to free his cock and balls. Will tilted his body without having to be asked, mouth opening wide to accept Hannibal’s cock.

Hannibal traced Will’s soft pink lips with the head of his cock, wishing he had cum to gloss them with. He pushed in exactly far enough for Will’s warm tongue to lick his slit, then retreated.

“Stand up, please.”

Will dislodged his fingers and stood. He curled his lube-slicked hand into Hannibal’s hair and yanked him down. Their lips barely brushed, a hair short of a kiss. He mimicked Hannibal’s accent and said, “Sit down, please.”

Hannibal sat. Was physically incapable of not sitting. Will reached back to hold Hannibal’s cock steady, then he sat, too.

Will’s tight heat engulfed him: swallowed him down and doused him in ecstasy. Hannibal pressed his forehead to Will’s shoulder, barely able to breathe for the sudden onset of pleasure. He wrapped his arms around Will’s quivering middle and hugged his boy close. Will clenched around him, actively working to take in his girth. Hannibal pressed his teeth to Will’s shoulder and enjoyed the pain of remaining still.