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It had been so easy, really - Will reminded himself - adjusting his position under the comforter, stretching his limbs. He tried to push the events of the day at the back of his mind, shutting down coherent thought, focusing on his body, feeling toasty, content and bone tired in the rumpled bed of the FBI designated hotel room. But not thinking about how the day had been was difficult to avoid, as a grin stretched his bruised lips.
Doctor Hannibal Lecter had been so obviously smitten since their first encounter in Crawford’s office that Will had felt embarrassed on his behalf. Almost.
The eminent psychiatrist, patron of the arts, chef extraordinaire, FBI consultant and more (though Will hadn’t guessed it all right away, he wasn’t a psychic after all) was maybe an opaque personality to others, what with the show of smoke and mirrors that Hannibal enjoyed hiding behind, but Will had learned quickly to read him like a children’s book. A pretty weird children’s book with grotesque narratives and very explicit, NSFW illustrations. But you know how Europeans are, with their folk stories of nocturnal monsters and huts on chicken feet - maybe it’s the fancy accent, but you place them in the no-frills New World environment and they appear so posh, queer and slightly unhinged.
Lecter’s blatant fascination had flattered Will. Despite Will’s calculated and repeated displays of rudeness, Hannibal had been only gracious and kind. Always complimenting him, looking at him with adoration, offering his time, and his friendship, and his support. Not without pesky ulterior motives, but Will never expected a saint and could manage.
The courtship ritual that Hannibal engaged in had been complex, putting to shame the proudest peacock (what would he think of being compared to fowl? Will thought with a chuckle). It had been endearing that someone like Hannibal was in the end, so… restrained. For all his innuendos and fleeting touches - and all that staring at Will’s bottom like a man parched, for God’s sake - Will was sure that he could have grown old and gray if he hadn’t taken things into his own hands, so to speak.
He used the most trivial excuse: a couple of whiskeys at the hotel’s bar after a day of gloomy work together, pretending they were enough to make him tipsy and in need of a firm hand to reach his room safely. Once there, Will had gently placed his lips over Hannibal’s, cupping his face with trembling hands… and there had been no need to say goodnight. In the blink of an eye, Will had found himself half-naked in his bed, his ankles on Hannibal’s wide shoulders, with the man energetically folding him into a splendidly fucked-out origami.
Now, there were going to be issues to deal with. What with Hannibal Lecter being a colleague, his therapist and the Chesapeake Ripper, a serial killer with a penchant for mating gifts covered in blood and entrails… but that was a problem for another day.
Will wiggled his ass closer to Hannibal’s warm, soft belly, and finally managed to fall sound asleep, safe in the arms of his occasionally gullible monster.