Work Text:
After visiting the most recent Chesapeake Ripper crime scene, Will barely remembers returning home. He knows he must have made it home somehow, because despite not being able to remember how he got here, he is currently lying on the floor in his living room. Upon that realization, he tries to think backwards, struggling to recall the memories he knows must be in his mind somewhere. However just the act of attempting to remember anything right now is a strain - like trying to grasp smoke with your bare fingers. Tantalizingly close yet hopelessly elusive.
As he chases the wisps of memories in his mind, every time he thinks he is about to catch one, instead all he finds is a growing sense of unease and panic. Each time he thinks he is about to unlock a memory, a door slams shut in his face, locked. And it seems like the more he searches for answers, the more locked doors he finds - it's like diminishing returns, almost as if he's getting more lost the more he looks.
As he stares at all the doors before him, suddenly shiny dark red blood starts spilling out from underneath every single one, all of them threatening to burst forth at any moment. Gradually the area around him starts to fill with blood, the level rising with every second that passes. Instinctually he tries to back up as the scarlet liquid encroaches on him, closer and closer. No, no, no... It's too much, he feels trapped. For how can you run from the demons in your mind?
Out of reflex he reaches around for something he can use as an escape, an anchor, a weapon, anything. For he knows he can't weather this storm brewing in his mind alone, he needs fortification. The first thing his hand encounters is a whiskey bottle and he grasps it desperately, raising it to his trembling lips. It's already open and almost empty - did he do that? - but he takes a swig anyway, spilling some on himself in the process, desperate to do anything to stave off the panic attack he can feel building inside of him. The one blessing of having had so many in his life is that he can feel the early warning signs - the disconnection from reality, feeling trapped, isolated, and alone, somehow knowing that there's no way to escape...an impending sense of doom, like he’s on the event horizon of chaos.
The whiskey burns as it goes down his throat, giving him a temporary respite from the feeling of helplessness, but it doesn't last long and soon enough he's back to feeling adrift without a paddle, lost in a sea of frightening thoughts. Frightening not only because he can't remember, but because he doesn't feel like himself at the moment. He can't remember enough about himself right now to feel like himself and it scares him. If anything the alcohol makes it worse, making everything even more fuzzy and elusive, yet equally terrifying. He drops the whiskey bottle in frustration, distantly hearing the thump of the bottle landing on the rug.
Grasping for any source of stability, his mind automatically prompts him to try the grounding exercise Hannibal taught him to keep him in the present moment. The thought of Hannibal makes him feel slightly better, less alone. Much to his surprise, the older man has actually become his friend. And if he's honest with himself he's probably his only real friend at the moment. Although he supposes even that presumption is based on questionable foundations. For Hannibal may say he isn't officially his psychiatrist, and that he's not officially his patient, yet isn't that what they are to each other? Sometimes Will thinks they could be more...wants more. Wants more than a doctor patient relationship, more than friendship even...but he's smart enough to know that no one as intelligent as Hannibal would want a damaged delusional man like him. That thought has him feeling more alone than ever, his breath catching as he can feel himself start to hyperventilate. Breathe Will, he tries to tell himself. Grounding exercise.
"My name-" he starts but his voice breaks, sounding creaky and faint like he hasn't spoken in a week. He's almost trembling with panic but he forces himself to try again, with better results, "My name is Will Graham...it's..." Here he pauses, realizing he has absolutely no fucking idea what time it is. He opens his eyes - when did he close them? - and reflexively looks first at his wrist, then at his surroundings, but both yield no results. "I...I don't know what time it is...and I'm in Wolf Trap, Virginia," he concludes somewhat lamely, not feeling like it helped much at all. Is the time really that important? he wonders. Or is he just beyond help?
With every moment that goes by, he can feel the panic inevitably getting closer. Desperate, he tries to think of anything else that might help since whiskey and Hannibal's grounding exercise are proving ineffective. He is pleasantly surprised that for once his brain gives him something to work with - many therapists ago he learned sensory grounding exercises. He recalls he never stuck with them because often when he feels like this, every piece of sensory input already feels overwhelming, so trying to focus on them one by one somehow feels like trying to count the monsters as they’re chasing you. But right now he’s desperate. Desperate to cling to anything he can that is real because the alternative...he shivers, seeing the blood pooling behind his eyes. No, the alternative is too scary to imagine in any detail. Before he loses his train of thought in his fragmented mind, he tries to focus on his senses one by one, just how he was taught years ago - what he can see, feel, hear, smell, and taste…
He takes an intentional breath, preparing himself to focus on what he can see. He cracks open his eyes and instantly realizes that he can’t see much in the darkness. From the lack of light he assumes night has fallen, but as he realized earlier, he can’t see a clock so he’s really not sure. It could be nine PM or three AM for all he knows. With that thought he realizes he has no idea how long he's been laying here by which magnifies the unreality and detachment of his situation.
Having reached the limit of what he can see, he moves on to what he can feel. The first feeling he identifies is heat - his face is hot. Why is his face hot? Oh yeah - space heater, he realizes belatedly. As he takes inventory of his body he realizes that in stark contrast to his face, his legs and feet are frigidly cold. However, on the heels of that realization comes another, that he is surprised that the cold doesn’t bother him at all. It’s almost as if it’s someone else's problem, like he’s numb to it, beyond having any reaction apart from a distant awareness.
Mentally shrugging, he tries to keep focus and move onto what he can hear. He makes an effort to listen and perceives the soft sounds of his dogs shuffling around him, their clipped nails scratching against the wooden floor and the soft padding of their footsteps on the rug. Other than that all he can detect are the normal sounds of his home - the whir of the refrigerator, the electric hum of the space heater, and behind it all the eerie silence of living so remotely. No distant sound of cars, airplanes, or people… just the vast and terrifying quiet of nature.
Recognizing that it’s a bad idea for him to dwell on the feeling of isolation, he moves on to what he can smell. He tries, but all he encounters is the very faint smell of burning of dust on the space heater and the complex but ubiquitous smell of his dogs - some combination of their shampoo and the distinctly musky animal odor they have. It’s normally a comforting scent, synonymous with home, but right now it brings him no solace. He feels detached, like everything he is experiencing is happening to someone else. Happening to a body that isn't his, yet still houses his broken mind. Can still cause him pain.
Lastly he moves on to what he can taste. Well that’s not hard, he thinks wryly. The residual dry flavor of whiskey is strong and aromatic in his mouth, masking any other tastes he might have been able to detect otherwise.
Having reached the end of the grounding exercise, he cautiously reflects on how he feels and finds that it distracted him enough that he no longer feels at risk of having a panic attack, which is good. However he still feels hopelessly lost, alone, and afraid. The panic may be held at bay, but what can he do about all the rest of these feelings? All he wants to do is forget for awhile, and yet at the same time one of his fears is losing himself. After all he's already forgetting things like how he got home and how long he's been here...he worries it's only a matter of time until he forgets a crucial piece of who he is.
His worry is compounded by a fear he has had every since he started profiling murderers for Jack Crawford. From the very first time, he has been afraid of forgetting who he is after he has taken in the thoughts and desires of serial killers. After every case he can't help but wonder how long it will be before he can't find his way back to himself. Based on his current state, he worries it's only a matter of time. Because of his conflicting desires - to forget and yet not to forget - he is frozen in this awful limbo, trapped in the purgatory of inaction. How does one temporarily forget, but still remember who they are? Of course there is no answer to be found. And right now he concedes it’s easier to do nothing than something, so he stays where he is on the floor, spacing out as he tries not to feel but also not to forget, suffering all the while.
He’s not sure how much time he passes in that state of fugue, but the next thing Will becomes aware of is the shrill sound of his cell phone ringing, the harsh vibration rousing him from his stupor. As he opens his eyes he is shocked to see that there is now daylight streaming through his windows. He briefly worries that he is losing time but doesn’t dwell on it, instead scrabbling to find his phone. His fingers don't want to cooperate but eventually after some struggling he is able to answer it.
“Will!” Jack Crawford’s booming voice bellows through the speaker and Will winces at the sharp pain it elicits in his head. “Where are you?!?” Will holds the phone away from him, shutting his eyes even though it makes no difference to the assault on his senses. Everything is just too much right now.
As he tries to formulate a response he suddenly remembers what started the chain of events that led him to where he is right now - it was his worry that he couldn’t separate himself from the thoughts and feelings of the Chesapeake Ripper. He can't remember everything, but something in the crime resonated so deeply with him, that he not only understood the man who did it but respected him, envied him and his freedom to manifest his desires so freely. That he found beauty and elegance in the murder tableau, that he is already thinking about what he would do next, how he could continue his work-
He feels the beginnings of a panic attack coming on again, all of this is just too much to deal with. His mind spirals - how can he hide this from Jack? Is this really him? Or has his mind finally broken? Has he gone insane? He knows he’s always had a darkness within him, but it feels like now the cats out of the metaphorical bag and there’s no way to put it back in. He feels irrevocably changed. Yet also deathly scared of the change. Is he a killer? Is that what he wants? He knows murder is wrong…yet he craves it with an intensity he never has before. This is too much, too much-
"Will?" Jack's voice interjects and Will rallies to respond. He feels guilty despite the fact that he's pretty sure he hasn't done anything to warrant feeling that way.
“I’m sick Jack,” Will manages to say before hitting the “End” button on his phone, taking two attempts to succeed. Once done, his phone slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor. Immediately he curls in on himself, tears in his eyes. He can already feel the tentative control he has dissolving, leaving him feeling more lost than he has ever felt. He wonders if maybe it’s easier to give up, to give in to the inevitable…and with that thought his breathing comes rapidly and yet paradoxically he feels like he can’t get enough air. His hands automatically come to his throat but before he can do anything darkness encroaches on his vision and he blacks out.
An indeterminate amount of time later Will is roused by the sound of his cell phone ringing again but this time he chooses to ignore it. He can't focus, he's too overwhelmed to let any new thoughts in. He needs…damn he knows he needs something but he just doesn't know what…he feels incomplete, bordering on broken. Or maybe he's already broken…?
Occurrences like this have been happening with increasing frequency in recent months and he wonders if eventually he won't be able to put himself back together again…wonders if time and alcohol and dogs and grounding exercises will truly sustain him through the shitstorm that is his mind. He's always been able to come out of these stupors before, but now he wonders if he'll make it out of this one.
He meant what he told Jack before, that it’s getting harder and harder to look. That with each killer that he allows to temporarily possess his brain it’s like he loses just a little bit more of himself. It’s the worst kind of attrition, like the pieces he uses to define himself keep getting moved. In a way it’s like when someone comes to stay with you and then leaves - it takes awhile to get everything back to how it was, and sometimes it never makes it way back, that's how he feels. He’s changed every time. And he wonders how long before he will be unrecognizable not only to others, but to himself. When he will lose the last shreds of the Will Graham he thought he was. Or maybe he never was him in the first place?
He feels like as time goes on, it’s harder for him to deny the secret he has kept hidden. He may say that murder is the ugliest thing in the world, but the truth is that deep down he is fascinated by it, loves it, and lives vicariously through the killers he profiles. And up until now it has been enough. He has enough sanity and morality to know that murder is wrong, and yet he can’t deny he wants it - the same way an addict wants another fix even though they know it’s slowly killing them.
It's harder and harder for him to lock that feeling away after every new crime scene and he worries that eventually he won't be able to. He worries that eventually instead of him profiling serial killers, soon the FBI will be profiling him. He imagines he has an angel and a devil inside of him, and the devil is looking forward to the freedom of embracing this part of himself he has kept hidden, whereas the angel is scared as fuck. And Will is somewhere in between, wanting yet fearing. It seems irreconcilable.
And so Will drinks more to drown them both out, grasping at the whiskey bottle nearby. He can't feel the burn of the whiskey anymore but he supposes he doesn't need to for it to work. Tears in his eyes, he slumps back down and welcomes the blissful numbing it provides. A few of his dogs whine and nudge at him but he bats them away, unable to take care of himself in the moment let alone them. Soon after he feels couple of his dogs curl up next to him and he sighs, wishing it provided the comfort it normally does. But all it does is serve to remind him how not okay things are.
Sometime later a sound from the kitchen makes its way through his daze and Will subsequently notices a few of the dogs get up but finds he doesn’t have the will to investigate, as lost as he is in his mind. Instead he just remains where he’s at, drifting in and out, almost like a boat on the water, directionless and at the mercy of the current. He’s not sure of how much time has gone by, but he also can’t say he cares. After all, when there is no way out, why worry?
*
Hannibal is worried. Will didn't show up for his appointment. After a few minutes of waiting Hannibal called him, then texted him, and then even emailed him - but all with no response. It’s not like Will, who Hannibal has found to normally be considerate, if a little brusque, and it worries him more than he cares to admit.
After half an hour has gone by, he decides to go to Quantico to see if maybe Will just forgot. After all, it did happen once before when Hannibal found him there, spaced out while working on a case - one of his own murders if he recalls. He’s privately proud that his murders monopolize Will’s attention more than others. It feels good to be seen, even if indirectly. However when he arrives at Will’s classroom, he finds it disappointingly empty. From there it’s just a short walk to Jack Crawford’s office, where he is informed by said man that Will called in sick today.
“What kind of sick?” Hannibal asks, curious. If Will has a cold maybe he could bring him some soup…
“I don't know, the kind that can’t work,” Jack says offhandedly, sounding more annoyed than anything. Hannibal is irritated at the lack of concern in his voice but tries not to let it show.
“I think I may call on him to make sure he's alright,” Hannibal says.
“Oh yeah, good idea, take him these will you?” Jack says as he shoves a stack of crime scene folders at him and lets go, forcing Hannibal to take them. What an ass! Hannibal glares at Jack for a moment, imagining his body sliced wafer thin like paper and stacked in folders. He imagines using one of those meat slicers at the deli counter and files that away to ponder further at another time. For now, he sniffs rather loudly to make his displeasure known and walks out, seeing Jack has already returned to his work. Rude!
On the drive to Wolf Trap, Hannibal tries calling Will again but continues to get no response, and subsequently his worries strengthen with every minute that passes. He knows he's being reckless - caring too much, not thinking of the consequences of his actions - but he can't help it. He has always prided himself on being able to maintain distance, it’s what's helped him continue to do what he does - after all, being a serial killer doesn’t allow for many close relationships.
However he can’t deny that his fascination with Will Graham’s ability to understand him has been building for some time, and he is reluctant to admit - even if only to himself - that he has fallen in love with the profiler. Never would he have thought such a thing was possible...and yet here he is. Will’s mind is fascinating. His empathy unwillingly gave Hannibal hope that someone could understand him. He didn't realize how desperately he wanted to be seen and understood - and how much he had dismissed the notion that it was even possible - until Will came into his life.
Not to mention the cherry on top, so to speak. During their “conversations,” Hannibal has glimpsed hints that Will has some dark baggage of his own. Not as...developed as Hannibal’s, but it's there to see, plain as day, no matter how Will tries to hide it. It makes Hannibal want to cultivate it, explore it, to see if Will really could become...become more.
At the moment Hannibal can’t think of anything he would like more than to witness Will embrace his true nature, uncover what has been buried in him for who knows how long. Hannibal just knows Will would be better than these dumb serial killers he is always chasing after - after all there is a reason Will ultimately catches them. Because he is better. It sings to Hannibal’s heart like a siren and he can't resist the call despite the risk. He feels a magnetic pull to Will and sometimes thinks Will feels one to him too, but he can't be sure. Either way, he knows he will feel better when he is in said man's presence once more.
When he pulls into Will’s driveway and sees the Volvo parked where it normally is he feels a little calmer - at least he finally found the man!
He shuts off the Bentley and reluctantly grabs the case files - he doesn’t really want to give them to Will, he's not Jack's messenger - but neither does he want either of them to incur Jack’s wrath later.
Hannibal knocks on Will’s door and waits. He can hear Will’s dogs inside rustling around, coming closer to the door; none bark, but a few of them whine and scratch at the door. He knocks once more and calls out, “Will?” He waits a beat but continues to get no response other than more fevered scratching and whining.
Hannibal shifts the folders he's holding to one hand and tries the door, somewhat surprised to find it unlocked. Now fearful, he opens the door and steps across the threshold. Instantly the dogs mill around him, whining but thankfully they don't jump on him even without their master alongside them - he absently reflects that he’s always been impressed with Will’s ability to train them.
But he doesn’t dwell on that thought long because the sight that greets him stops him dead in his tracks. Will’s house is a mess - empty whiskey and beer bottles scattered around, dog hair thicker on the floor than Hannibal has ever seen it, trash can knocked over in the kitchen with a few dogs eating from it, case files and photos scattered everywhere, stacks of school papers to be graded, and dirty dishes visible on the counter in the kitchen.
Hannibal is honestly surprised that it doesn't smell as bad as it looks, but he supposes Will has always been very clean despite his rustic and sometimes scruffy appearance. And speaking of the man, Hannibal almost missed him in the mess. He’s curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace, surrounded by some of his dogs and bottles in various states of fill. He’s clad only in a sweat soaked t-shirt and light blue boxers, and his damp curls are obscuring his face.
For a split second Hannibal is worried that Will is dead and the panic that courses through him is electric, but then a moment later he is relieved to see Will’s chest rise and fall. Thank god. He’s clearly breathing, so the panic ebbs, leaving Hannibal incredibly curious as to the events that preceded this scene.
Hannibal sets the files aside and pulls the chain on the lamp, bathing the room in soft yellow light. He carefully makes his way over and kneels down next to Will. As he does a few of the dogs move out of his way, looking at him imploringly to help their master.
Hannibal brushes Will’s hair out of the way, resting his hand against his forehead as he exposes the younger man’s closed eyes and pallid skin. His forehead is unusually warm and for a moment he worries the younger man has a fever, but the heat seems excessive, unnatural. A moment later he realizes Will’s face is the closest part of his body to the space heater. That explains it. Now that he’s closer, Hannibal smells the air and detects whiskey, sweat, and the distinct smell of fear, making him again wonder what happened that led to Will being in this state.
“Will…” he says gently. Will hmms but remains otherwise unresponsive so Hannibal tries again a little louder, as he turns Will’s face up to get a better look. He has dark circles under his eyes, likely dehydrated, Hannibal thinks, and has a haunted look about him. “Will!”
Will’s eyes flutter a moment before slowly opening, looking disoriented at first, and then finally focusing on him, surprise and confusion gracing his expressive face.
“Hannibal?”
Hannibal retracts his hand as Will props himself up on his elbow, wiping his eyes with his hands before looking back at him.
“Are you okay Will?” Hannibal asks gently, watching as Will tries to orient himself, looking more confused and scared by the second - Hannibal doesn’t like it at all. When Will doesn’t immediately answer, just continuing to look off into space, Hannibal sits down in front of him on the floor, seeing some dog hair fluff up into the air as he does.
“How long have you been laying here?” Hannibal asks, placing his hand on Will’s arm to keep his attention. His skin is cold and clammy, almost slimy with the layer of sweat, however Hannibal makes no outward reaction - he has touched far worse in his life.
Will seems to regard him a moment, almost fearfully before he lets out a breath as if just the act of answering takes a lot out of him and says, “I’m not sure...what time is it?”
“Eight o’clock,” Hannibal says, glancing at his watch.
After a pause Will looks away and asks hesitantly, “...what day is it?”
“Thursday,” Hannibal replies, worry returning.
“Fuck…” Will says softly, looking down and laughing the saddest laugh Hannibal has ever heard, barely discernible from a sob.
“What is the last thing you remember?” he asks calmly, trying to redirect Will.
“Umm..talking to Jack?” Will says, not sounding 100% sure, but Hannibal can work with that.
“So that means you've been down here for at least twelve hours,” Hannibal says, doing some mental math.
“I guess…” Will replies, posture slouching as if the weight of his head is more than his body can bear at the moment. He looks broken and lost. And covered in dog hair and sweat. Hannibal’s lets his doctor instincts guide him as he mentally triages what the best course of action is. First things first.
“Let's get you cleaned up, hmm? We’ll tackle one thing at a time,” Hannibal says gently. Will looks at him a moment before looking down at himself and gives the barest of nods, a slight rise of his chin.
Hannibal stands and helps Will up, his skin freezing cold everywhere he touches. He supposes the sweat made Will colder through evaporative cooling. Once standing, he guides Will towards the bathroom, and sits him on the closed lid of the toilet as he turns on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up. Once satisfied, he turns back to Will who is staring off into space again, hunched over and arms crossed in front of him, holding onto his elbows.
Hannibal kneels down in front of him. “Will…” he waits until Will’s cobalt blue eyes meet his own before he continues. “Think you can shower?”
“Mm...yeah,” Will nods, seeming to take a moment to process the idea. Hannibal stands first and then helps the younger man up. Seconds later Will doesn’t hesitate to start taking off his shirt and Hannibal helps him pull it all the way off. He's surprised at the blind compliance and isn't sure whether to be happy or concerned. He then holds onto Will’s arm to stabilize him as he steps out of his boxers. Once done, Hannibal stays at his side for support until the younger man has stepped into the shower and seems to have no immediate risk of falling. In any other circumstance of seeing Will naked Hannibal would be appreciating the sight before him, but right now Will's well-being supersedes any carnal desires or romantic designs he has.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Hannibal says, seeing Will nod in response before he pulls the curtain mostly closed. Satisfied, Hannibal leaves the bathroom, shrugs off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. Time to get to work. First he locates some aspirin the medicine cabinet and then gets a glass of water from the kitchen, setting both on the nightstand next to the pullout bed. He then finds where Will stores his towels and hangs two of them over the radiator to warm, realizing how chilly the house really is now that they are away from the space heater. No wonder Will’s skin was so cold!
Speaking of the cold, Hannibal decides to move the space heater closer to the bed in anticipation of Will resting there. After he has successfully found an outlet, no thanks to Buster constantly being underfoot, he plugs it in and turns it on. Then after a quick check on Will he gets a real fire going in the fireplace. And last but not least, he digs through Will’s drawers until he locates a clean t-shirt, underwear, and pajama pants, and deposits them on the bed.
*
Will obediently goes through the familiar motions of showering. Right now he’s content to just do what he’s told and relinquish all decisions to Hannibal. He trusts him more than anyone else he can think of. Right now Hannibal truly does feel like his anchor, his paddle. And lord does he need it because right now he has no fucking clue what to do with himself - he feels drained, depleted, tired, and pretty much done. And yet he knows he can’t be done. Despite his difficulty forming coherent thoughts at the moment, one thought rings clear like a bell - how thankful he is that Hannibal is here. He doesn't even question why or how he is here, he's just grateful beyond belief. He needs him. He's not sure when it happened that Hannibal has become the most important person in his life but he can't deny it's true. Nor does he want to. He can't say he understands why Hannibal is here and helping him. Part of him wonders if someone like him even deserves to be helped, or if Hannibal would even want to help him if he knew the fucked up thoughts he has. But right now he's in no position to question it.
When he's finished washing himself, he turns off the water and as if by magic Hannibal is instantly beside him, holding out a warm towel. It’s nice, not jut the warmth but also the caring behind the gesture. However, a thought presents itself at the edge of his mind, that there is something unusual about the occurrence. He can tell his thinking is impaired and he can't quite place the reason for the feeling, but something about this feels unusual - not bad, but...not normal either. But then again, since when is he normal? All he knows is that it’s comforting to have the older man nearby so he dismisses the feeling.
As he wraps the towel around his waist, Hannibal places another warm towel over his shoulders, and Will finally realizes maybe the unusual feeling is that most people would find being naked in front of your friend embarrassing. But to him nothing feels wrong about it - in fact he feels quite the opposite, it's comforting. So he lets himself be guided to his bed where a t-shirt, underwear, and pajama pants are laid out.
Hannibal also helps him get dressed, handing him items and holding onto him for stability. The doctor's hand is warm and firm on his upper arm and he finds he likes it. It feels safe, like as long as Hannibal is touching him everything will be okay, as if hope itself is imbued in his fingers. Once he's dressed Hannibal steps back and with the warmth gone Will instantly shivers, his wet hair making him even colder. Before he can figure out how to give voice to the feeling, Hannibal seems to intuit the issue and gently rubs the towel over his hair. And again Will feels better, having the older man close to him. He feels cared for, a feeling he hasn't experienced in quite a long time. And one he doesn't totally feel he deserves but he tries not to dwell on that. Once his hair is as dry as it can get with a towel, Hannibal pulls back the covers and helps him get situated in bed.
He is immediately handed a glass of water and two aspirin which he takes without question. He drinks the whole glass before he hands it back, suddenly recognizing the awful headache he has. As horrible as it is, he supposes the silver lining is maybe it means he is more able to focus on the present. Regardless, he lays back, closes his eyes and feels Hannibal pull the blanket securely over him. It’s an addictive feeling, being cared for. It reminds him of his mother a little…but different. He almost can't recall the last time he felt this way. As he basks in the warm feeling, all of a sudden he wonders - is this love? He opens his eyes and sees Hannibal looking down at him. In response he offers a weak smile around the throbbing in his head. He's about to try to figure out what to say when he's interrupted by his stomach growling.
Hannibal smiles fondly down at him, saying, “I’d like to make you something to eat. Will you be okay here?”
“Yeah, yeah…” Will says, not sure who he’s trying to convince. He wants to be okay, but the idea of Hannibal leaving his side makes him uncomfortable.
Maybe Hannibal hears the hesitation in his tone because he replies, “Just call me if you need anything Will, I’m here for you okay? I'm just a room away.”
Will nods, seeing Hannibal start to walk towards to kitchen when he calls out, “Hannibal?”
Said man pauses and turns toward him.
“Thank you,” Will says quietly, feeling vulnerable and emotionally fragile, but needing to express his appreciation. He knows he should tell Hannibal not to bother, that he's already done enough and can go, that he’s not worth the trouble…but he can't, he needs him. So in his fractured mind the least he can do is thank him and hope he won't leave. He's not sure he could take it if he did.
Hannibal smiles at him softly, lovingly, and Will basks in it like a flower in the sun. “You’re welcome Will.”
The warm feeling is short lived however, for when Hannibal leaves the room Will instantly feels colder as well as lonely. However as he looks around he sees signs that prove Hannibal is here, for example he notices the room is much cleaner - the doctor must have cleaned while he was in the shower. Will's been working so much lately that he's barely had time to sleep, let alone clean and is incredibly touched. He also sees that Hannibal must have got the fire going and moved the space heater closer to the bed. Tears spring to his eyes a the thought that Hannibal did this for him. The hope that the older man cares about him this much is almost as scary as the fear of losing himself, for he's not sure if he dared to hope if he could stand the inevitable rejection.
Trying to distract himself from his lonely melancholy, he looks around and sees half of his dogs sitting in a line staring into the kitchen, presumably at Hannibal. However a few of his dogs have wandered over to see him, led by Winston. Will pats the bed in invitation and Winston and a moment later Winston's collar jangles as he jumps up and curls up next to him.
Winston's comforting presence takes the edge off of Will’s unease, making him feel marginally less alone. He closes his eyes, and soon after, between the domestic sounds of Hannibal moving around his kitchen combined with the furry warmth from Winston causes him to fall into a light doze - not quite asleep, but not awake either… in twilight, but thankfully with a blank mind...no content, no time, just nothing. Blissfully blank.
*
When he hears the shower stop, Hannibal enters the bathroom with the warm towels. He's thankful that when Will emerges he looks marginally better now that the sickly sheen of sweat gone. However his expression still looks troubled. And dehydrated, Hannibal mentally adds.
Will doesn’t look surprised to see him, and in fact the furrow between his brows softens when their eyes meet, which Hannibal takes as a good sign. He steps forward and wraps one towel around Will’s waist, the younger man automatically tucking it in. He then drapes the second towel over Will’s shoulders, resisting the urge to hold him close - after all, Will is vulnerable right now and he wouldn't want to take advantage.
Hannibal then guides him to the bed and helps him dress. If Will is bothered by his nudity, he doesn’t show it but even so Hannibal keeps his touches to the minimum necessary to complete the task, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable. As he helps him dress, Hannibal’s worries resurface when he realizes that the Will in front of him is so open, almost as if he has no walls up. On the one hand it's refreshing considering how typically inscrutable Will is, but it also worries Hannibal that something is really wrong. After all he still doesn’t know what happened.
Once dressed, Will’s shivers, goosebumps breaking out over his pale skin. Hannibal automatically reacts, drying his hair with one of the towels and encouraging him into bed. It reminds him a little of tucking Mischa into bed all those years ago - he’s only ever had this caretaker instinct with her. And now with Will. Huh. He's honestly surprised, he kind of assumed that part of his nature died when he first took a life - after all, how can one both nurture and destroy? However he supposes it’s not out of the question, this duality - recalling the Hindu god Shiva is both creator and destroyer. And it's not all that different from him being a surgeon and murdered - he can save lives just as easily as he can end them.
He hands Will a glass of water and two aspirin. From what he can gather all Will has had is alcohol in at least the past twelve hours, if not longer. He is pleased that the younger man takes them without question and drinks the whole glass. Hannibal suspects it’s not enough to correct his dehydration, but it's a start. He watches as Will then lays down and closes his eyes, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. In response Hannibal pulls the blanket over him, part of him wishing to crawl under the covers with Will to warm and comfort him, but he knows there is more to be done. In response Will opens his eyes, offering him a small smile, and then amusingly his stomach growls. As if on cue, Hannibal mentally muses, that was the next item on his agenda anyway.
“I’d like to make you something to eat. Will you be okay here?”
“Yeah, yeah…” he says, not sounding very sure and Hannibal’s heart aches, wanting to offer comfort yet not knowing what Will needs. So instead he says,
“Just call me if you need anything Will, I’m here for you, okay? I'm just a room away.” He sees Will nod in acknowledgement so he turns to go, finding it harder than he thought it would be to leave him. But the sooner he makes some food, the sooner he can return to the man who has unwittingly captured his heart.
“Hannibal?” Will’s voice calls out to him, as unguarded as he’s ever heard it. He pauses and turns. Will looks so small and frail, bundled under the blankets as he meekly but genuinely says, “Thank you.”
The words tug at Hannibal's heart, Will sounds so vulnerable. Hannibal is instantly reminded of a conversation he had with Bedelia years ago about vulnerability - how her first reaction is hatred, to destroy it. And right now Hannibal is surprised to find he feels the exact opposite - he wants to protect and comfort Will in his vulnerable state.
“You're welcome Will,” he says as reluctantly he makes his way to the kitchen, knowing the sooner he gets some nutrition and hydration into Will the better. As he walks, he notices the bulk of Will’s dogs follow him, all stopping at the edge of the tile watching him like a bizarre canine audience.
Once in the kitchen Hannibal rights the trash can, perfunctorily sweeping up what spilled out. He then washes his hands and does a quick inventory. In the freezer he finds peas, carrots, and what looks like trout; in the refrigerator he finds butter, a half full carton of milk, and two almost expired slices of deli ham; and in the pantry some instant mashed potatoes as well as salt and pepper. Hmm...he can work with this. It’s not ideal - and he makes a face at the instant mashed potatoes - but he decides to use the trout to make his basic chowder recipe, with some...necessary alterations.
As he starts preparing the ingredients the five pairs of eyes staring at him remind him that Will makes his own dog food. It doesn't take him long to strike upon a solution and decides to use the scraps from the trout, along with some more of the peas and carrots for the dogs. He cooks quickly, smiling to himself when it starts to smell not half bad, and when it's done he scoops the dog mixture into the dog's bowls and then brings Will a bowl of the chowder and another glass of water.
His heart clenches a little at the sight when he re-enters the living room. Will’s eyes are closed, however he can't tell if he’s asleep. What is quite precious though is that Winston is curled around him and Will is holding onto him, almost like a child with a stuffed animal. Hannibal is thankful to see that the younger man has lost the deep grooves between his eyebrows. He sets the chowder down on the nightstand and then sits on the edge of the bed, seeing Winston's shiny black eyes look up at him.
“Will?”
Will turns his head a little but his eyes remain shut, almost as if he's dreaming. Hannibal touches his shoulder, glad to feel it's warmer than before.
“Will?”
Will’s eyes fly open, looking up at him, disoriented and scared before relaxing somewhat as he recognizes him, and not for the first time tonight Hannibal wonders what is going on in Will’s mind. But first things first.
“I made food - trout chowder - can you sit up?”
“Mm,” Will says as he sits up on the bed, dislodging Winston in the process. Winston looks like he's about to lay back down when he sniffs the air, smelling the food. Instantly Winston makes a beeline towards the bowl of chowder, forcing Hannibal to lift it up away from him, gesturing to the kitchen, unsure how Will communicates with his dogs. However Hannibal is pleasantly surprised to see Winston hop off the bed and look once at him before going to the kitchen, a tentative trust established. When he looks back at Will, the younger man is watching him curiously.
“I made your dogs food too. Here,” he says as he offers Will the bowl and a spoon. Will offers a weak smile as he accepts them.
“Thank you, again.”
“You're welcome Will, I'm going to clean up okay?”
Will nods, already taking a bite.
Hannibal quickly cleans up the kitchen, loads the dishwasher and starts it, leaving the churning sounds of swishing water behind him as he makes his way back to Will, carrying his own bowl of chowder. When he enters the living room he sees Will is still eating, about halfway done. Said man looks almost in a trance but looks up when Hannibal approaches.
Hannibal is about to sit on the chair next to the bed but something about Will’s expression him. He’s not sure if he’s misunderstanding but it looks like Will doesn't like that idea, his body freezing and eyes widening. Instead, Hannibal trusts his instinct and sits on the edge of the pullout bed like before. Instantly Will visibly relaxes and Hannibal is glad he trusted his gut. He is a bit surprised though because he honestly can't recall the last time his physical proximity calmed anyone - at least without him manipulating it for that purpose.
“This is really good,” Will says, sounding slightly more like himself.
“Thank you.”
After that they eat in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing occasionally as they sit next to one another. The rhythmic sound of the dishwasher and the intermittent sound of the dogs eating are so domestic - it makes Hannibal feel like Will really has allowed him into his world. These are the intimate sounds of everyday life, and somehow he suspects Will doesn’t allow many people to witness them.
Once they have both finished eating Hannibal takes the dishes to the kitchen. He rinses them and then returns to the living room, surprised to see Will looks more distressed than before. He’s tensed in on himself, eyes darting around nervously before he bravely, almost defiantly meets Hannibal's gaze and says three small words, filled with vulnerability and fear.
“Stay with me?”
Hannibal’s heart melts and he instantly sits on the edge of the bed again, responding softly as he looks directly into the younger man’s eyes, saying “Where else would I go?”
He instinctively puts his hand on Will’s arm, wanting to provide more comfort, and feels he’s ice cold again. Hannibal is perplexed - why can’t he retain heat? In fact as he continues to look at the younger man he realizes that Will is trembling, though whether out of cold or nerves Hannibal can’t say.
Regardless of the reason he decides on his next course of action. He toes off his shoes and sits fully on the bed next to Will, on top of the blanket. Without hesitation he scoots closer until he’s beside the younger man and puts his arms around him, rubbing him gently to warm him up, making sure the blanket is pulled up over him.
In response Will whimpers, resting his head in the juncture of Hannibal's neck and shoulder. The whimper tugs at Hannibal's heart, causing him to tighten his hold. Despite him being a world class psychiatrist, he's at a loss right now on how to help this man other than to stay with him as he asked and hold him. So he does just that, hoping it’s enough. Hannibal is close enough to smell that the scent of fear still clings to Will, so he suspects they aren’t out of the woods yet.
After a few minutes go by Will warms and the shaking stops but he remains pressed close. From his breathing he sounds awake, and still mildly distressed. Hannibal gently rubs his hands over him in what he hopes are soothing motions and eventually Will lifts his head up slightly, though not enough to see his face.
“I’m not worth this, you know,” Will says dejectedly into the shared space between them. In response Hannibal holds him tighter which elicits another distressed sound from Will yet he doesn't move away. In fact one of his own arms is wrapped around Hannibal’s back while the other is pressed to his chest, clutching his shirt tightly in his fist. Hannibal is sure that it will be wrinkled later but he could care less right now as he shakes his head in disagreement, trying to figure out what to say. Before he has formulated a reply Will continues.
“You don't know…”
“What don't I know?” Hannibal asks softly.
“What I see in my mind…the real me…” Will says, continuing to squeeze his shirt in a death grip, so hard his knuckles are white.
“I would like to…” Hannibal ventures, letting the truth of the words color them, hoping Will’s empathy, even in this state, will pick up on his genuine desire.
“No you really wouldn't,” Will says self-depreciatingly, a slight hysterical edge to his voice.
“How can you know?” Hannibal asks gently, resting his head lightly against Will’s. He hears Will’s intake of breath in response as he continues to hold onto Hannibal like a lifeline. “You have great empathy Will, but you're not psychic.”
“You don't know what I know,” Will says, words laced with assuredness, fully convinced.
“I would like to,” Hannibal tries again.
“I-” Will starts and then stops and Hannibal waits with bated breath. “I-I cant…” Will says, sounding like he’s starting to hyperventilate.
“Will…” Hannibal starts but he doesn’t get very far before Will is speaking again, sounding desperate and scared.
“I can't…I just feel like I’m losing myself…” Will says, sucking in gasping breaths which has Hannibal rushing to deescalate the situation.
“And what did I tell you Will? I’ll be your paddle, I won't let you get lost,” Hannibal says as he holds onto him tightly, rubbing his back, then resting his hand at Will’s nape in his damp curls.
“Then help me,” he says faintly, voice breaking a little on “help.” He sounds so desperate that Hannibal hurts along with him but tries to stay focused as he holds the younger man to his body, occasionally feeling him tremble.
“I will if you let me, but you need to be honest with me Will, otherwise I can't help you…” Hannibal says as gently as he can. Because it’s true - right now he would do almost anything to get that pained expression off of Will’s face but he can’t take action until he knows the problem. Will has dissociated and lost himself briefly before, but Hannibal can tell this is something more beyond that, causing Will to be so rattled.
“I-I don't want to lose you,” Will confesses softly, fear in his voice, and now Hannibal is confused. Why would Will think he's going to lose him? Absurd.
“I promise you, you won't lose me,” Hannibal says, trying to imbue the genuine truth of the statement into his voice. He seriously can't think of anything that would make him leave right now short of Will asking him to, and seeing as how Will doesn't want to lose him that doesn’t seem likely.
“How can you say that?” Will says disbelievingly.
“There is nothing you could tell me right now that would make me leave, short of you asking me to,” Hannibal says calmly, meaning every word.
Will stays quiet, frozen in his arms, and Hannibal can tell his is not convinced. Part of him realizes this could be an opportunity. He’s always felt like Will could understand him... the real him. Maybe knowing Hannibal himself has a larger, worse secret will put Will at ease? It's a stupid risk to take, but his heart wants to comfort Will, wants for there to be no secrets between them…it’s too tempting to resist, so against his better judgement he finds himself saying softly into Will’s curls,
“Well then make me a promise as well, dear Will…can you promise me that I wont lose you?”
“What?” Will asks, obviously confused.
“What if I have a secret?” Hannibal asks, feeling surreal. Is he really doing this?
“Everyone has secrets,” Will mumbles, obviously not buying in yet. Hannibal continues, undeterred.
“A secret that I fear would change your opinion of me... a secret that might cause me to lose you from my life,” Hannibal replies quietly against Will’s hair.
Will pulls back slightly, confusion in his tone. “What? Is this some kind of psychiatrist trick?”
Hannibal can’t help but smile for a moment before he continues, tone serious, “I am not your psychiatrist, and no it is not a trick.”
*
Will picks up on Hannibal’s change of tone, detecting danger and yet he finds he is not afraid. If anything he's intrigued. And with the curiosity he feels some clarity return to his mind, trying to parse out what Hannibal is saying. In fact he feels alive, feels something within him awaken, responding to Hannibal's tone of voice. A moment later he realizes it feels suspiciously like when he goes into the mind of serial killers, like the Chesapeake Ripper, which makes it both devastatingly familiar and guiltily enjoyable. He almost feels like an addict getting a fix, especially since he's spent the past day or so vehemently denying those thoughts - it makes the relief he feels now that much stronger.
*
“How about you tell me yours and I'll tell you mine? Hm?” Hannibal asks softly, turning his nose more fully into Will’s damp hair. Now his scent smells more like himself, markedly less distressed. Interesting. Hannibal knows he's playing with fire but he's never been one to shy away from risk, especially when the reward could be so sweet.
*
Will’s first reaction in his mind to the question is a resounding No. There’s no way can he tell Hannibal his darkest most shameful secret! Though after a moment he’s surprised to find he’s not sure, second guessing himself. His gut tells him that if there was anyone he could tell what is rattling around in his mind to, then it would be this man. And yet Hannibal is probably the one person he doesn't want to lose from his life. And he worries by telling him there would be a very real possibility of losing Hannibal as a friend...or Hannibal having him committed. Isn't there some sort of legal requirement psychiatrists have? He shakes his head, trying to keep an open mind, to believe what Hannibal is telling him.
“And then you'll tell me yours?” Will reiterates tentatively, needing reassurance.
“Is that what you want?” Hannibal counters.
“I want to know if you want to tell me…” Will says, already feeling more even keel, like they are back to their verbal sparring matches, answering questions with questions, stimulating his mind. He’s never had a psychiatrist or a friend able to help him like Hannibal has.
Hannibal pauses for a long moment before replying, “Everyone wants to be known Will, seen for who we really are…” Hannibal pulls back from their embrace enough to look down at his face before he continues, “But I would rather be your friend and only be partially seen than to be fully seen and lose you.”
“You won't lose me,” Will affirms, staring into familiar amber eyes, feeling calmer now that he's not the only one at risk of exposure.
“You promise?” Hannibal asks, and Will's empathy detects the barest hint of vulnerability in his voice. He doesn't think he's ever heard Hannibal sound like that before.
Will takes a moment to really look at him, at this man he has come to rely upon, depend upon, love…love? He is surprised to realize he can admit to himself now that he does love Hannibal. He’s always felt a connection to him, always found him different than everyone else, but in the best way possible. Usually Will’s empathy makes him want to keep people at a distance. Yet with Hannibal he finds the opposite is true, he is always curious to know more. He’s the exception to everything Will knows. Now that he thinks about it, even with his empathy he has never truly felt like he was able to see much of Hannibal beyond what he presents to the world. But he wants to.
Now he reflects on Hannibal’s question and tries to really think: what would be a deal breaker? What would push him away? Not much comes to mind. To be honest he can look at so much gruesome horror and see the beauty and elegance in it…what could be worse than that? So he says solemnly, “I promise.”
*
“Very well,” Hannibal replies, feeling butterflies in his stomach. He can't help that he looks around the room briefly, assessing the ways he could kill Will to make it look like an accident if things go south, because apparently he's going to take this risk. The things we do for love…he thinks as Will starts speaking.
“Okay, well…I feel like I’m… changing… or rather I’m shifting…I’ve always been good at profiling murderers…and what I’ve been afraid of is why. Why am I so good at it? Jack thinks it's getting harder to make myself look…”
“But…?” Hannibal prompts when Will seems to get stuck, thinking he might see where this is going and is glad he took the gamble.
“But lately it’s hard to get myself to stop looking. Even when I stop I see it in everyday life, see how I could kill people, how I could elevate them, make them more than they are. It's like every time I go into the mind of a killer that part inside me gets stronger, less afraid. Earlier at the Chesapeake Ripper crime scene I...rather than feel repulsed I...I envied him...I know it's wrong but I can't help it. How fucked up is that? I work for the goddamn FBI and I worry that if this continues I’m going to be the killer they’re hunting for…” Will pauses before continuing, “How’s that? I'm surprised you're still in this bed with me,” Will says, smiling wryly for the first time since Hannibal arrived. Hannibal is surprised but in the best way possible. Will envies him? It's too good to be true. His smile makes Hannibal's heart flutter, this is the Will he knows and loves. Hopefully he isn’t about to lose him…
“I may surprise you more…but I told you, you won't lose me Will... It sounds like you’ve given a lot of thought to murder. I’m curious, have you thought about how would kill me?” Will sucks in a breath as he averts his eyes which is as good as a yes so Hannibal continues, “Tell me, how would you do it?” Will’s head is now nestled back on his shoulder so regrettably he can't see his face.
A long beat of silence goes by and Hannibal starts to wonder if maybe he went too far when Will’s voice says quietly, just above a whisper “With my hands…” Will's fingers twitch as he says it, betraying his thoughts and now it’s Hannibal’s turn to gasp, barely believing they are having this conversation. “It would be...intimate,” Will finishes and Hannibal smiles. Oh it’s no wonder why he fell in love with this man.
“How do you think would it make you feel?” Hannibal asks softly.
“Powerful…” Will says into the space between them, “...quietly powerful.”
Hannibal pauses a moment before speaking. “When we are overwhelmed we often feel powerless…how can you be sure these feelings aren't a reflection of that?” he asks, playing devil's advocate despite the fact that he's pretty sure it isn’t the case.
“Because of how I felt when I killed Garret Jacob Hobbs…”
“How did you feel?” Hannibal asks, curious since historically this has always been a topic Will has been reluctant to talk about.
“The happiest I've ever felt in my life. The most complete. The most whole. The most lucid. How fucked up is that? And the worst part is that I crave that feeling again...it’s so much worse now than before…”
“Now that you know,” Hannibal deduces and he feels Will nod against his body before he hears him speak.
“Yes, now that I know.”
“You could pretend before,” Hannibal continues.
“But now I can't,” Will affirms.
*
“So what do you think?” Will asks, feeling better after unburdening himself yet also scared - Hannibal may say he won’t leave, but who knows? Who would want to stay friends with someone as fucked up as he is. The older man pauses a moment before replying and Will waits with bated breath.
“I think...that blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel your radiance, Will. I think if you followed the urges you kept down for so long, cultivated them as the inspirations they are, you would become...more than you are. There is no limit to what you could be.”
As Hannibal speaks Will is trembling, overwhelmed now for a completely different reason. He has never had his feelings so accurately reflected and validated before, and it’s a powerfully intense experience.
“You really think that?” Will can feel that part of him he’s been trying to repress inside blossom under the kind words, feeling powerful, feeling good, feeling clarity return, less lost by the second.
“I do.”
Will lifts his head from where it had been tucked in the crook of Hannibal's neck, turning his empathy on the man beside him, the man full of surprises who has all but said he has more. Is it possible Hannibal feels this way too? All of a sudden without his permission the pendulum swings behind his eyelids and everything clicks into place - Hannibal's patients who have died...then Franklyn…Tobias Budge…the Chesapeake Ripper…the Copycat…Hannibal would have been in a position to know about all of them...and yet he has no traceable motive. Is he seeing what he thinks he's seeing?
“You?!?” Will asks in disbelief.
*
Hannibal smiles, thinking smart boy as he brings his hand up to cup his cheek gently. He could easily break the younger man’s neck but he hopes he doesn't have to. They are on the precipice of greatness together.
“All of it? The Copycat murders...? The Chesapeake Ripper? It was all you?”
“Are you surprised?” Hannibal asks, watching the intriguing young man in front of him. For better or worse he hasn’t recoiled from his touch, just continues to stare at him in shock.
“Yes.”
When Will doesn’t immediately continue Hannibal asks, “Now what?” incredibly curious what Will will do with this information. The thing he least expects yet hoped for the most is what happens - slowly Will covers Hannibal's hand on his face with his own. Will then leans into it, pressing his scruffy cheek into Hannibal’s palm before turning his head and dropping a light kiss on the skin there. As he does he watches Hannibal, eyes daring. Hannibal smiles. Oh yes he made the right choice.
*
Will isn’t sure what has come over him. The rational part of his mind screams that he should run, should call Jack, should flee…he’s literally in bed with the Chesapeake Ripper for god’s sakes! However all those actions feel incredibly wrong, because he knows without a shadow of a doubt he wants to be close to this man. And despite his issues, it appears Hannibal wants to be close to him too. Despite all logic he feels a deep kinship with him, feels like he understands him intimately and is seen and understood in return. He already had feelings for Hannibal the man...and finding out he has a darkness with in him like Will does...it's a powerful connection and he could no more walk away than stop the sun from rising tomorrow. It's natural, it's inevitable, it's right. So he quiets the riotous thoughts in his mind easier than he has ever been able to before, and just does what feels right, no thought of what he should do, only what he wants to do. He can't recall he's ever felt so free. It's the freedom he envied in the Chesapeake Ripper, and for the first time he thinks maybe he can have it too.
Cautiously Will brings his own hand to Hannibal's cheek, feeling the rough five o’clock shadow over his strong jaw. Will meets his gaze, seeing Hannibal’s eyes sparkling with a myriad of emotions - more exposed than Will has ever seen. No wonder Hannibal was always so guarded, he realizes. He was hiding this whole time. And now he has trusted his secret with Will. A secret Will could destroy him with. He's been given a precious gift, just as Hannibal has given him the gift of being known and understood. They really are made for each other. Within his warm brown eyes Will sees not only love but admiration, respect, pride, and yearning. No one has ever looked at him this way, and wants Hannibal to never stop looking at him that way. The very thing he thought would drive Hannibal away ended up being the final straw to bring them together. The emotion that courses through him is powerful, so he follows his desire to be closer in every way possible and leans in, feeling their breath mingle briefly before he cautiously brings their lips together.
The second their mouths meet tingles shoot down Will's spine, instantly feeling alive and an overwhelming feeling of rightness and balance as Hannibal kisses him back, holding their bodies tightly together. It’s perfect. Will briefly wonders how something can seem so wrong yet feel so right. After all these lips he is kissing have consumed human flesh, which spurs a thought, prompting him to break the kiss to ask, “You were feeding them to me weren’t you?”
In response Hannibal looks pleased, and says, “Yes, some.”
“Smug bastard,” Will retorts with a smile before kissing him again. He knows he should feel repulsed and yet he finds he only feels light and free, like maybe he has finally found his perfect match. Will has been with both men and women in the past, but nothing compares to how he feels right now. This is beyond love, this is fate. As their kiss deepens they shift to lay back on Will’s bed, mouths and bodies making each other's acquaintance in this new way, yet in many ways it feels familiar, like coming home. He quickly discovers that being with Hannibal this way is better than every experience he has ever had. It's transcendent, almost like it's the first time. And he supposes in a way it is. It's the first time he has stopped hiding who he is. And the first time he has allowed himself to be truly known by another. And when they have found pleasure in one another, Will has no trouble falling asleep, no anxieties or bad dreams to be found. As if all his worries have evaporated. He feels simultaneously like a new man, and yet still himself, just no longer afraid.
When Will wakes the next day, snuggled closely with Hannibal - confirmed serial killer and cannibal - he is shocked to realize he feels happy, safe, stable…found. Like he found his other half, his north to his south, someone to share his real self with, someone who is just like him, dual in nature - both man and beast. He isn’t ready to think beyond the moment - the implications of everything are overwhelming. For now though he just basks in the feeling of finding what he didn't know he'd lost, feeling found, and loved.