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Summary
Fuck. Holy fuck I’m in trouble.
Hannibal Lecter, Will’s self-appointed anchor to reality, was dressed as if he’d plucked his outfit straight from Will’s darkest, most desperate daydreams. The clothing that graced his frame could have been taken from any number of fantasies he’d entertained both before and after their first moment of intimate therapy together. He always hoped he’d be brave enough to ask for something like this one day, but after their initial conversation as to what those moments meant in the context of who they were to one another, he didn’t dare. He didn’t want to give Hannibal any excuse to bring an end to the precious slivers of time he’d come to rely on to shut his mind down, but gods, sometimes the other man made it difficult. Here he fucking stands, as if he’s known the entire time that I can’t just look at him without my heart skipping a god damned beat.
Hannibal and Will have found a sensual alternative to traditional therapy to keep Will's head on straight during his most trying cases. Neither wants to admit the truth - that therapy is an excuse to get as close as they possibly can.