Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It begins with a door left a couple hairs ajar.

Aside from all that they share, Will and Hannibal are still beings that value their privacy and space. Complementary colors do not overlap to mix and mesh into new shades, they simply exist alongside each other in harmony.

Hannibal has to pass by Will’s door on the way down the hall to his own. It rarely stays open while the room’s occupant is inside, and he doesn’t venture to ask what exactly it is that Will does when he’s out of sight. He may wonder on occasion, but he keeps that to himself.

Today, however, there is no need to wonder.

He can smell it.

Physical injury has its effects on the mind as it does on the body: pain and healing take up space in the psyche that's usually open to other things. Sexuality and arousal are but a pair of such things. A wounded person may be too distracted by their pain, too concerned for the state of their flesh to care for pleasure. The resurgence of libido and desire is an obvious marker of improvement for most, both mental and bodily.

That aroma leaking through the space between the door and its frame is primal: the unmistakable odor of relatively fresh release.

The medically trained portion of Hannibal’s consciousness notes that Will’s recovery is right on track if he’s feeling well enough to... “If he’s feeling well enough to pleasure himself” is supplied by the much more prominent non-medical portion that dreams of being allowed to caress and stroke planes of flesh he’s never touched - not in that context, at least.

He remembers cleaning up an inert Will after rescuing him from certain death at Muskrat Farm: stitching the cut on his face, partially undressing him to slip his arms into a soft flannel pajama shirt, and tucking him in under the sheets of his own bed. That was a golden opportunity to familiarize himself with the texture of Will’s skin, glaring like a dawn sunbeam through a gap in the curtains, but, given the situation, doing so was out of the question.

When he draws back from reliving that sequence in his memory palace, it strikes him that he’s been lingering there, bathing in wafts of scent. He doesn’t know how long. Nor does he know if his presence has been detected.

The question of that is answered when the door quietly clicks shut beside him.

“Embarrassment” isn’t quite within Hannibal’s emotional range, wide as it is. The logical realization of committing a faux pas occurs, but he’s never experienced the actual feeling that accompanies it. A muted wish for the talent of teleportation is as close as he gets. It vaguely pokes at the underside of his thoughts while he enters his room to go about his nightly routine.

Will realized he was there, and likely understood why he’d stopped, but hadn’t felt it invasive enough to bristle at the toeing of a line. He didn’t say a single word, despite the ferocity with which he guards his remaining boundaries.

Maybe he kept silent from awkwardness, uncertain of what to do. Or maybe...maybe he’d failed to close the door properly on purpose. Could it have been a testing of the waters, the choreographed movement of a precisely baited hook?

Dismissing the second option as wishful thinking, Hannibal readies himself for bed and settles in with his current reading selection.

He very deliberately does not let his mind wander.

Chapter Text

Hannibal doesn’t catch that scent again the next day.

He waits for it to drift out into the hall, day by day. He was already made to wait before, suspended in three lonesome years of bleach white stasis, and the well of his patience has failed to run dry where Will is concerned.

After over a week's worth of nothing, it hits him.

Molecules of sweat and sex find their way to his nose, enveloping his brain like lazy coils of an invisible python. When he closes his eyes, he can easily picture each individual source, viscous drips and liquid splashes refracted in the prisms of memory.

It wouldn’t be much of a leap to envision Will clothed in fluids alone, but he refrains.

Mostly because he’s carrying a folded stack of clean laundry.

This is a genuine act of service. It also functions as an excuse if he’s honest with himself.

Before Hannibal washed the sheets pointedly placed atop the small pile, there was...evidence. Though they had no stains to speak of, the odor of unadulterated Will embedded in the fine cotton birthed a childish temptation to cocoon them around his own body.

He knocks at the door.

If it were entirely shut, he wouldn’t be able to hear rustling movement, a near soundless thump of footsteps.

Will seems no different from how he often is in the morning: somewhat rumpled, but awake and alert. The air of ease in his posture indicates that he's at a ceasefire with his mind for the moment. He isn’t dressed for the day yet, clad in his standard sleepwear of a thin t-shirt and underwear.

His eyes land on the fabric in Hannibal’s hands, then slide up to make contact. Leaning his less damaged shoulder against the door jamb, he crosses his arms over his chest as he comments, "I didn't ask you to do that."

"For me" remains a silent implication.

The flash of metal on Will's ring finger throws a wrench into the works of Hannibal's thoughts, grinding the gears to a halt.

His wedding ring makes fewer appearances lately, as though he's slowly weaning off it, but it remains an unpleasant sight.

Rationally, Hannibal understands Will may be keeping it due to vestiges of guilt. Irrationally, it drops a red-hot lead weight into his chest, making him weigh the pros and cons of slicing Will open a second time. It’s difficult not to think about slipping both hands inside of him to dig around for the affection hidden somewhere within, extracting it with a delicate touch to see the shape it’s taken...hypothetically.

Deeper down, the ugliest segment of Hannibal's being howls to know if Will thinks about the wife he left behind while he’s alone.

"Didn't you?" falls from his mouth with a higher level of acidity than he intended.

One of Will’s brows rises. “Did I?” He straightens and accepts the pile, then looks down at it, smoothing a hand over the bed linens. The ring catches the light once more. “Thank you for laundering the sheets, too.”

Swiping at the bait that may or may not be floating in the water is a risk if there really is nothing there. Hannibal nudges a pawn forward across the board, an easy sacrifice to whatever pieces Will may have already positioned in front of him. “May I examine your shoulder after dinner this evening? I assume the pain has started to fade, but assumptions can often be incorrect.”

Will blinks, his head tilting just slightly. “Wilde coined the phrase ‘Assumptions make an ass out of you and me.’” His expression stays neutral - impossible to interpret.

"I would let you tear every inch of meat from my bones while my heart is still beating" is what Hannibal thinks but does not say.

“He did. Have I made an ass of myself?”

It breaks the tension to get him a hint of a smile.

"Not yet."

With that, Will's door closes in his face.

He isn't sure whether his offer was accepted or refused, but he does feel like he's being toyed with - which must be exactly how Will wants him to feel.

The man Hannibal used to be would abhor this, unwilling to play anything but puppet master, but the man he is now has long been caught, snagged by so many hooks that he's lost count. He'd allow their strings to pull him apart from all directions if Will wished it.

Will could have anything from him, anything in the world he could possibly give.

As he departs from the hallway to begin prepping ingredients for their dinner, he thinks, with a whisper of hope, of shattered teacups mended with gold.

Chapter Text

When evening rolls around, Will takes his seat at the dinner table as he usually does.

They’ve kept the tradition of dressing nicely for each other, with a couple of adjustments. Hannibal removes his suit jacket if he’s wearing one, rolling up his sleeves, and Will only ever chooses from the selection of tailored shirts and other pieces that were constructed for him long ago.

Tonight, Will has picked something he knows Hannibal loves to see him in: a solid dark Prussian blue, edging toward black. The collar and first button are undone, putting the sculpture of his collarbones on display.

His beauty isn’t casual - it’s calculated.

The meals they share in this new life are uneventful in comparison to those of the past. Hannibal is at the tail end of his carefully curated, gut wound friendly diet, but he has, of course, lavished his culinary skills on Will in the meantime. Nothing he serves is ever below his standards, despite the lack of consistent access to specialty ingredients.

Their post-dinner custom is settling into paired chairs in the study - sometimes for conversation, sometimes not, and with a fire burning if the weather permits. It's a blessing to be able to drink wine again; Hannibal inhales the notes wafting off the surface, taking his time to appreciate oak and blackberry, peppery tannins.

Will watches him through the first sip, then imbibes from his own glass.

“I feel better. Creakier than a rusty hinge most mornings, but better.”

Hannibal notices the lack of wedding ring when Will sets his drink aside and re-positions to grant access to his shoulder. Will doesn’t flinch as he begins gently yet firmly probing into the joint. The Dragon may not have stabbed Will there, but their impact with the ocean did exacerbate old injuries. His jaw clenches while Hannibal prods along the actual wound, locating the scar through his shirt, but he doesn’t ask him to stop.

He can’t help wondering if Will would ever directly ask him to stop doing anything.

Will sits with whatever level of ache he’s feeling, letting Hannibal test his range of motion, allowing it all like he cautiously trusts him not to make it worse.

That hesitant acceptance tempts Hannibal to return to the healed surface of the incision and press down hard, then harder still, purely to see a gasp of hurt contort Will’s features.
His pain has always looked so much like pleasure.

As Hannibal's touch lingers, Will evenly remarks, “A companion is more beneficial than a patient.”

Hannibal sits back and looks away to reach for his wine, fingers wrapping around the stem of the glass while he concedes, "I do prefer you fully functional."

“But you like the intimacy of wounds, sickness. And you enjoyed having me dependent, distressed. Pliable.”

"You were a block of raw marble when we first met. I fancied myself a sculptor, hammer and chisel in hand. Your illness made the given material easier to work with. I can’t say I did not take advantage.”

“Playing at Pygmalion. You saw an ideal in me and you wanted to carve it out.”

“In a sense.”

Will gazes into the fireplace, glass resting in his hands.

"I am what I am. No one created me. Not even you."

Hannibal has no urge to argue his position in the process of Becoming. Will had the choice to continue participating or to stop, and he never decided to stop - not completely. He demanded conscious knowledge of everything upon his release from prison, and Hannibal’s only doings thereafter were to offer opportunities and decisions, insights and suggestions. The places those things took them to were incidental, as is the way they’ve both been shaped by them.

What isn’t so incidental is how each of them peeled back skin to dismantle the other, reassembling their insides in brand new formations.

His thoughts are interrupted when Will turns the spotlight of his eyes on him and asks, "Were you ever afraid of chipping off one piece too many?”

The tone is level, but there’s emotion tinting its underbelly: “Were you ever afraid of going too far? Of losing me?”

Hannibal takes a longer sip from his glass, but it's not an attempt at fortification. There’s nowhere to hide, and he isn’t trying.

“I have always trusted that you would rise from the ashes of any fire I sent you through. And here you sit.”

“I was never truly afraid of losing you. Ever. Because I knew I never would. I knew you would survive.”

His words fade, crowded out by silence. Will is still looking Hannibal in the eye, and he can practically see the conflict revving up inside Will's head: what he wants clashing with what he thinks he should want. The conversational thread lapses for long enough that Hannibal begins, “Will-”

Will’s out of his chair and leaning down to kiss him before he can continue, both hands gripping his hair so tightly that his scalp starts to burn. It takes Hannibal's mind a moment too long to catch on to what’s happening, and he can hardly think to do anything beyond giving up his mouth, his breath.

And then Will is gone.

His bedroom door closes with an audible thunk.

Hannibal is bereft, left to reclaim his balance. The world dips and rolls in his chest and stomach, thoughts as blank as if he'd been given a slap instead of a kiss. Everything calms after a few slow, deep breaths, and then he can think again.

Sitting in the study by himself isn’t how he’d like to spend the rest of the evening. It also wasn’t how he hoped things would play out, though he should’ve known better.

He retires to his room, wine glass in hand. On the way, he halfheartedly imagines pushing, insisting that Will stop fighting himself once and for all.

He does not pause in front of Will’s door.

Chapter Text

They don’t address it, because Will doesn’t address it.

Days become weeks.

Hannibal keeps an eye on Will as covertly as he can while Will busies himself with household maintenance and yard work, taking on more strenuous manual labor as his strength returns. He occupies his hands to distract from his thoughts, whatever they are.

The work does appear to offer him satisfaction and stability, but it also recalls the memory of Hannibal’s initial assessment. The Will Graham he met then held very little space for his own desires and feelings, compacting them into a carefully repressed lump, and Hannibal would be hard pressed to say he doesn’t see that in Will now.

Watching the clock being forced to tick backwards begins to erode his patience like waves endlessly bashing at the side of a cliff.

This Will, the Will that chose him, can never again be the man he once was, but he's still stubbornly attempting to reverse the course of evolution.

Hannibal can’t solve this problem by melting Will down into clay. They’re in this together, and that requires the ability for each to act on their own terms.

So, once more, he waits. And he watches.

**

Enough time passes that Will seems to relax in his urgency to find projects to work on. They’ve revived the casual intimacy that sprouted so quickly in the past, but they haven’t really touched since that evening.

Will’s constitution normalizes further, his wounds continuing to improve. The scar on his cheek, gnarled but still far less than grotesquely jagged thanks to Hannibal's exceedingly conscientious wound-care, hides beneath facial hair that's grown dense enough to blur the twisted tissue of it. Hiding it keeps him safe when he ventures into town to run errands, it keeps both of them safe, but Hannibal does sometimes imagine it boldly uncovered and worn with all the pride it deserves. He would never ask that with the world as it is, but he might if it were emptied of the rest of humanity.

It goes without saying that he also sometimes imagines their bodies intertwined amongst the ruins of the Parthenon, wearing nothing but the blood of the gods - mostly in his dreams.

Hannibal is no stranger to pining, but he can only wait so long without poking at Will’s boundaries now that he’s been granted slippage through a crack in those stone walls.

Will is literally within reach...within reach and continuing to deny them both.

**

Hannibal waits until the day Will finishes his most current work of clearing a sizeable plot of land to create space for a garden.

After dinner, he approaches in the kitchen while Will's rinsing their plates in the sink. He senses an immediate subtle coil of energy in Will as his reflection appears in the darkened window above the sink - the keen wariness of predatory instinct.

Will's shoulders square up when Hannibal stops behind him, but he doesn’t move or turn around.

Dipping his head to the level of Will’s nape, he openly takes in the scent of him. Will did shower before he came to the table, washing away dirt and sweat, and he smells like clean skin and the aroma that precedes a rainstorm. Hints of pine and warm spices.

Raising a brow at the spectral face hovering over his shoulder, Will asks, “What would be your theory about the nature of all the work I’ve done?”

The easiest and most obvious answer would be “A little home improvement." It’s much too simple.

“Sublimation of a desire into productivity. Focusing on work to escape your own thoughts and wants, a habit rolled over from your former life.” Hannibal chances a step forward. “You’ve been running from yourself. Moving backwards in time.”

“Have I?”

This is a leading question designed to be answered by another: a tripwire.

Hannibal can’t resist plucking it from a safe distance, curious to know the nature of the trap it’s attached to. Uninterested in debate, he prompts Will to keep talking with a wordless incline of his head.

"You know I gave Mason Verger the idea of putting a snare around your neck. I also let him convince himself it was his own original thought."

“And I encouraged Mason to feed his flesh to your dogs. In his altered state, he likely felt that was his idea as well."

An upward twitch of the corners of Will's mouth is there and gone, and then Will blinks down at the sink, the stance of his shoulders softening before he says, “I wanted to see what would happen.”

“You manipulated me by influencing me to suspect that you were in distress. Manipulations are often constructed around a kernel of truth, Will.”

“I wasn’t ‘in distress.’ I just needed time to think.”

“What did you think about?”

Will's brows furrow. One hand goes up to rest on the countertop, a couple fingers lightly tapping. That hand then curls into a loose fist, and he rights his head to look directly at Hannibal’s reflected eyes with a striking focus. “I thought about you. I thought about kissing you, and I thought about killing you. After a while, I realized it doesn’t matter what I choose. Either way, you get to win.”

An impulse to touch rises, but doing so is yet another risk. The last risk Hannibal took resulted in a surprising surge of honesty from Will. With that in mind, Hannibal moves in close enough that he can wrap his corresponding hand around the bicep of that extended arm to squeeze softly. Muscle twitches beneath his palm, the conviction in Will's gaze flickering for a split second, but there’s no reaction beyond that.

“The count of wins and losses in a game ceases to matter once those participating in it come to an ending, whether that ending is prescribed or naturally occurring. Their game and its significance no longer exists from that moment on. All that remains for them are the infinite trials inherent in the act of living: the game played by everyone on Earth.”

Will searches their shared reflection as if he's scouring it for an answer to a question he refuses to ask. He doesn’t speak for a long stretch of moments, then, after an unsteady exhalation, says, “It was never even about the game itself. Not entirely. You just hoped all of it would end like this."

When Will doesn’t move to leave or shake him off, Hannibal dares to trace down the line of his arm, ending with his hand placed next to Will’s on the counter. They still aren’t actually looking at each other, but he has no want to change that; Will seems to be having an easier time of confronting things this way.

“More or less. I sometimes dreamed of it in my prison cell, entertaining the thought that my tether to you could hold more than our established exchanges of speech and violence. But I did not bring us to this situation, Will. You have.”

Huffing out a quiet laugh that’s more sardonic than genuinely amused, Will shakes his head. “You really do know me better than I know myself.”

Hannibal has to reposition his feet so he can lean forward the tiniest bit to lay eyes on Will’s profile, mentally sketching the lines of it. He keeps his free hand in his pocket, trying not to touch more than he already has. His mouth isn’t brushing the shell of Will’s ear when he replies, “You know my self as intimately as I know yours, and you see me as I see you. We are laid bare to each other - figuratively speaking,” but the minute shudder down Will’s spine says that it might as well be.

A ghost of the old Will Graham peeks out: the one who sat in a therapy chair and plucked up the courage to voice the truth of his affinity for violence for the very first time, so fearful of the reaction he might receive.

“’Figuratively’ can only get you so far.”

“For most. I find it satisfactory.”

“How would you feel about ‘literally.’“

The scent of fragrance is becoming a veil for the natural odor that accompanies nervous anticipation. It’s like a much sweeter version of fear, colored not with terror but hesitantly interested anxiety. Hannibal lets his eyes fall shut and inhales, deeply. If it were possible to bottle this smell, he would.

“My enjoyment is contingent upon your own. The choice is entirely yours, be it yes or no.”

“I feel like I have one foot barely on solid ground while the other is wobbling on the shifting tectonics of the unknown.”

“It can progress as slowly or as quickly as you like. I will not let you fall again, I promise you. And I always keep my promises, Will.”

When Hannibal opens his eyes, Will's staring at their faces like he can't see anything else. He appears to be incredibly uncertain of what to say or do next, and Hannibal allows the quiet between them to stretch and settle as he memorizes every detail of the sight before him. It's the most transparency he's seen from Will for quite some time, he'd prefer not to forget what that looks like.

Eventually, Will responds, "Yes."

His expression is shuttered again as he says it, a silent signal that nothing further will be occurring, and Hannibal watches him for a moment more before he steps away to leave the room.

Chapter Text

They continue to reside in separate bedrooms, but that doesn’t dampen the new layer of tension in the air. It fills the space between them like an intangible third in the house, thick with potential. Waiting to see who will run out of tolerance for toying with his opponent first.

The weight of its existence is acutely apparent when they sit down for meals, dinner in particular.

Hannibal watches Will’s lips and hands while they eat and talk, the bob of his throat as he swallows.
He watches and pictures the things a man lacking his restraint might do in his position.
He watches and is watched in return.

Will observes with no less intensity than before. The difference is that he knows the true effect of his presence now. It’s given him a specific variety of power, and he knows that, too.

The first time he walks out to breakfast wearing casual linen pants and an open shirt with nothing underneath, smelling of light perspiration and a whiff of soap, is only a few days past their discussion in the kitchen.

Hannibal’s initial thought is the wish to immortalize him in charcoal or pencil. Then his mind begins to wander elsewhere. Fantasizing while Will is right in front of him no longer feels...uncouth.

Will pours one cup of coffee, and another. He places the second next to Hannibal's plate but doesn't proceed to take his seat on the other side of the table, standing by the chair. After the first sip, he gazes out the dining room window, musing, “Cuba really is the last place anyone would think to look for you. You’re not exactly the type for ‘fun in the sun.’”

The ceramic-on-wood clink of the mug pulled Hannibal’s focus back immediately, though he does note the novelty of having strayed off-center – something he could never allow before their fall from the cliff.

"The last place anyone would look for us, you mean? Neither are you."

Will peers down at his coffee, hesitating, then says, "I'm with you, aren't I?” His thumb traces the curve of the mug’s handle. “Jack isn’t naive enough to believe that we’re dead, not without a couple of bodies in his morgue. He won’t stop looking until he is...and wherever you are, he knows that’s where he’ll find me.”

That certainty is a foregone conclusion kindling a quiet glow in Hannibal's chest: Will doesn’t need to say “us.” One of them will never be caught without the other; they might as well be the same person.

Hannibal would kiss the speech from Will's tongue if it were permitted, stealing his words until none remained. In the current stage of their unofficial partnership, he compromises to let Will see every instance of fondness, expressions unfettered. And Will does see. Whether he's in the mood to respond, however, is a matter of chance.

Candid and warm here in the morning light, there’s a softness to him that tends to step out from behind the curtain in moments such as these. Will absorbs Hannibal’s affections and reflects them back, uniquely seasoned with his personal brand of sentiment.

Every time, Hannibal drinks it in like golden ichor served fresh from the vein.

“Clever old Jack, gone out hunting until the cows come home... If fate is on our side, perhaps he’ll lose his head in searching.”

He doesn’t have to see it to know Will has both brows raised when he asks, “What if luck favors the prepared?”

Looking up to eye him directly, Hannibal answers, “If he does happen to find us, he will come as the solitary avenger determined to do away with me and rescue you. We’ll show him that you have never needed to be rescued.”

He's fascinated by the darkness that encroaches on Will’s relative calm, paired with his tongue swiping across his lower lip before he speaks.

“If everything went how we planned that night, Jack would’ve seen the truth of both of us.”

Again, Hannibal wants to kiss him.
Kiss or devour: both desires crawl from the twisted threads of love wrapped around his heart.

The uprising of desperate emotion must shine through, because that darkness clears fast as a cloud blown away by the wind. Will's demeanor shifts like ice melting in the sun.

“He came to talk about what happened after the doctors sent me home. I told him I called you because I wanted you to to run. And I wanted to run away with you.”

The conversation ends there when Will departs to finish his coffee on the porch.

Hannibal doesn't move from his seat at first. He can't, struck by how deeply such simple statements have touched him. The sensitive, isolated boy that feared never finding an equal - still alive somewhere inside - battles the urge to cry, tightly swaddled in the knowledge that he is no longer alone in the world. After composing himself, he follows Will without considering whether or not he’s meant to, settling into the unoccupied chair with his own mug in tow. Will doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes pointed at the horizon, but his posture visibly relaxes as if he’d hoped he would have company.

If “I love you” wasn’t a rather prosaic phrase, Hannibal might have said it then.

Chapter Text

Someone’s restraint does break.
But not for a reason either of them could’ve ever anticipated.

The hour is late when Hannibal opens his eyes, disturbed by a metallic clattering sound. Intuition tells him the source of the sound is not Will, which has him on high alert within seconds.

Cracking the door to his room, carefully listening to the natural ambience of the house, he perceives nothing to give away the presence of law enforcement. He doesn’t allow it to nudge his guard down by even a millimeter. The reason for the noise, he supposes, is likely to be a petty thief searching for valuables.

Valuables aren’t his concern, they’re nothing but baubles and trappings he enjoys surrounding himself with.

It’s the rudeness of trespassing that he can’t abide.

As he pads out into the hall, he sees that Will’s door is fully closed.

He sets eyes on the intruder when he peeks around the corner of the living room’s threshold, hypothesis proven correct by the person’s positioning: hunched down, rifling through a cabinet. The stature and bearing of the figure suggests the thief is male, and he’s wearing a black ski mask and gloves. At the very least, there will be no cleaning everything this would-be thief may have touched to do away with any possible fingerprints.

It’s a pleasure to be greeted with an opportunity to end a life deserving of death, the first of his new life - especially so given how said opportunity has literally placed itself in his path.
Perhaps he’ll get to cook something fresh again.

Potential recipes swirling in the back of his mind, he steps into the open without turning on the lights. “¿Qué vola?”

The thief startles, then slowly stands and swivels in place to face him. Facial expression is limited due to the mask, but he can easily see the emotion in what little is visible. Shock at being caught morphs into a combination of fear and recognition, and he knows what he’s about to hear.

“You... I know your face, I have seen it in the newspapers and on the TV. You are Hannibal Lecter, the cannibal serial killer.”

Neither he nor Will has paid much attention to the media, prioritizing healing their various injuries, but of course news made its way to this country. Their faces must have been plastered all over the world in the ongoing efforts to locate them, particularly his. And now this unfortunate has inadvertently accomplished what every government agency has yet to.

The unwanted guest slips one hand behind his back, going for the concealed weapon in his waistband.

Before Hannibal can do a single thing, Will rises up out of the shadows.

Moving too fast for the man to react in time, Will charges at him, stabbing a chef's knife into the side of his face and using it as a handle to shove him down. He puts his whole body into it, and there’s a meaty crack when the back of the intruder's skull smacks into the wooden floor. Will drops with him, going from standing to sitting astride the man's body in one fluid motion.

Will yanks the knife from his cheek, pausing to watch blood, so dark in the scant moonlight, flow from the wound while his victim splutters around a mouthful of it. The coughing and choking, the suffering, doesn’t stay Will’s hand. He shifts his hold, angling the blade to punch it around bone, deep into the left side of the chest, and then twists, rupturing the heart. After the man breathes his last with a wheezing, agonized gasp, life trickling from the corners of his lips, the knife is wrenched back out.

When the air is quiet and still once more, Hannibal remains where he is, unable to find movement or speech.

His sights are glued to Will as he rises, staring at his own bloody hands. When he looks up, there’s a wildness in his expression that Hannibal hasn’t seen since they killed the Dragon.

The want to hold Will so tightly that no part of him can escape surges up like a tidal wave.

Will moves away when Hannibal takes a step forward, heading for the kitchen. The knife falls into the sink. Without a word, he retreats to his bedroom, leaving Hannibal with the dead weight.

It doesn’t take long to lug the corpse around and wrap it up in the carpet to prevent further soiling of the floor. The carpet itself is no real loss - its pattern is more than a little passé.

Will's door is wide open, and the shower is running full-force in the en suite. Hannibal does not pull up short at the threshold to consider "should"s and "shouldn't"s as he might have if presented with this opportunity earlier in the night.

There’s steam already, though he can see Will standing below the spray with all his clothes still on. When he sets a palm on Will's shoulder, Will turns and drags him under the water, hands clutching and pulling at his shirt the same as they did that night on the cliff.

Will's trembling lightly, his system burning off its remaining adrenaline, and it distantly registers that he's hard under the wet fabric of his pants.

“I didn’t want to stop” is lucid, the volume intimately low.

Cupping one hand around his nape, the other arm embracing his waist, Hannibal gives gentleness while Will consents to receiving it, resting his cheek on the side of his head. “I would not have kept you from that. What, then, did stop you?”

“I stopped because I didn’t want to stop.”

“Yet you did not stop before you killed him.”

Will tenses, withdrawing slightly. Hannibal prepares to be pushed away, shut out. Asked to leave.

Instead, Will ducks his head and presses against his chest as though he would rather crawl inside him than meet his eyes. “No. I didn’t.”

“What lies will you tell yourself for this, I wonder.”

The answer is muttered into the curve of flesh where Hannibal's neck meets his shoulder: “He was going to try to kill you, so I killed him first. There’s nothing to bury.”

It’s worded so plainly that Hannibal spends a few extra seconds digesting it.

In the wake of all the time communicating in obfuscations and sinful omissions, naked truth is unfamiliar. Total honesty only ever came when he was holding sharpened metal, cutting through Will’s skin in an attempt to take control of the uncontrollable.

Now, Will is in his arms, breathing raggedly in his ear, reaching for something solid and real to cling to as he grapples with forthrightly acknowledging his ability to kill with impunity.

Instinct warns Hannibal to wait for the catch that has to be coming - their shared need to reconcile seesawing from sweetness to hurt and back again by creating a messy mixture of the two - but the script runs off the page when Will grabs one of his hands and shoves it down between them. Free set of fingers digging into Hannibal’s back, he mumbles, “I can't- Please.”

Years of desire and attraction wars with practicality. Hannibal would like to do what’s being asked of him, yes, but how smart would it really be? It’s a dangerous path to walk, the overlapping of sex and deadly violence - one he’s never set foot upon.

The thought of giving Will everything, forever, be it pain or pleasure, swoops in to blot out the rest.

Hannibal lost all claim to being an entirely sensible man from the instant he first laid eyes on Will Graham, he knows that now. The very event sparked a fire not even the ocean itself could extinguish.

He can’t refuse. Will is compromised, but then so is he - and he’s currently standing in a shower with the sole cause of his ruination.

Even so: “You won’t regret this in the morning when you open your eyes to the stark glare of daylight, unable to hide from your decision?”

Waterlogged hair brushes Hannibal's cheek as Will shakes his head. He straightens up to look at Hannibal directly, his eyes blown dark.

“I won’t regret it.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal commits the expression on Will's face to memory, transfixed by the sight. He lifts a hand to caress Will’s cheek, thumb gently rubbing the bone.

"All this requires is the basest of instincts, given to us by our evolutionary ancestors. We needn’t be ourselves - we can be nothing but two breathing, pulsating forces in the universe.”

Understanding clicks into place: “...Time can reverse.”

“It can.”

Will unfolds to offer an open book, searching Hannibal’s face to find an identical absence of artifice. He holds the eye contact, switching their positions and backing Hannibal into the nearest wall. It’s almost cautious when Will leans in, chaste, nothing like the knee-jerk impulsive fire of their first kiss. He breaks away for a slow breath with his eyes still closed, only to dive forward with a fervent urgency.

Hannibal’s shoulder blades thunk against the unforgiving tile, their mouths matching crookedly. He adjusts, Will easily follows.

And then he knows the blunt edges of Will’s teeth, the plush velvet of his tongue. His taste.

The past and present collide in their combined space, merging memories of every shared moment.
Everything around them could go up in flames and Hannibal would just let it.

They drown in each other until the annoyance of damp clothing can’t be ignored.

Will steps out first, allowing Hannibal to guide them toward the half-fogged mirror, and braces himself on the edge of the counter. He stares at their clouded reflection as Hannibal settles behind him. Watching and being watched.

Placing a hand next to one of Will’s, Hannibal carefully says, “The way I left you on the eve of Abigail’s death was...regrettable. I intend to atone for that.”

There’s no reaction for a span of moments, Will standing so still that Hannibal can’t guess what he might say or do, until Will slides his shirt up to reveal the faded line slashed across his stomach. He keeps it there, and, in an interesting turn, lifts his free hand to take Hannibal’s and press his palm to it - lightly at first, then with a little force.

Will's face is like stone as he steadily corrects, “Don’t talk about any goddamn regrets, not to me. That wasn’t her death, it was her murder. Call it what it was.”

This isn’t an apology, because that’s not the point - more a concession. “On the eve of her murder, then.”

Will nods in silent thanks, his sternness evaporating. Removing both hands from their places, he sets them back on the counter. Somberness bleeds out of the room, mollified.

“She hitched a ride to Italy in my head. Visited the chapel with me until I could finally let her go.” His mouth twitches into a brief smile that isn’t quite right, though not exactly a sad one. “I looked up at that ceiling and saw it through your eyes... It was a house of devout believers whose faith and worship won’t save them from the whims of their creator. One of God’s greatest ironies.”

Both hands up underneath Will's shirt, fingers tracing the scarred path he once carved into existence, Hannibal lowers his head to breathe warmly over the shell of WIll's ear. “And what did you think of the gift I left for you there?” His hands wander further north before there’s any response.

Will's hips flex, breath snagging as Hannibal strokes along his skin, and he takes the cue to eliminate what little space there is between them.

“I tried to think of it as a topiary. Uninteresting. Impersonal. But then...then I kept on looking. I, um. I liked it.”

Hannibal can sense there’s more, but he lets the lack of expansion go. He continues to observe them both in the mirror while he learns the structures of twin clavicles, slight swells of pectoral muscle. Serratus anterior. Iliac crests. Sternal line.

“It was constructed from the corpse of a young man I met. He thought of himself as a struggling poet. There was more poetry in his death than in his mind.”

“That’s probably the case for most ‘struggling poets.’“

Touch drifting downward, Hannibal teases his fingertips around the waistband of Will’s pants. “Life and death each have their own species of poetic inspiration. All great writers discover them for themselves through experience, with the exception of those who don’t survive to tell.”

At long last, Will gives him a genuine smile, letting out a short, scratchy laugh.

“Speaking of experience, how much of an experience are you interested in having tonight?”

Even with flushed cheeks, Will manages to quip, “Asking never occurred to you before.”

Hannibal doesn’t try to conceal his amusement. Fair play, but... “It never occurred to you to request that I ask. What would you ask of me now, Will?”

"You want me to say that I need you. You always have. I think you can guess for yourself."

“We should get ourselves into something dry, if you would find that more comfortable.”

Stepping away to slip out of his sodden sleep shirt and pants, he grabs a towel to scrub water from his hair and skin. The towel is then secured about his waist, more out of habit than anything else.

Will pauses with his fingers folded around the hem of his own shirt, then starts peeling it off.

One thing they can’t share is clothing: nothing Will has could fit Hannibal very well at all. He barely looks at the selections he takes from the dresser drawers back in his own room.

Will is standing by the bed upon his return, sufficiently dry and redressed in a fresh set of his usual sleepwear. Hannibal moves toward him like a northern magnetic pole to its southern opposite, and the flood of pure emotion that hits as Will embraces him first is better than the satisfaction of any dish he’s ever concocted. It’s beyond surreal, though Will is so solid and alive that it can’t be anything but real.

Right as he’s about to suggest that they relocate, Will's fingers weave through his hair and twist to pull his head back. It is not gentle, or kind. He lets it happen, curious to know why.

Will regards him once they can see each other’s faces, head tilting with an air of detached hunger. Under heated lust, he's focused and razor-sharp.

The warmth burning through Hannibal’s veins nudges him to take Will down to the mattress, but he ignores it - difficult as that is. This, he realizes, is what wanting feels like.

“Do you remember Peter Bernardone, and that shadow he had? I still regret allowing you to stop me in the stables. It wasn't all about you or Peter, that dead-eyed bastard didn't deserve-” Will cuts himself off, as if the weight of the world sits in what he wants to say. Then: “He didn’t deserve to live.” Detachment withers away, shedding like dead skin to leave authentic but marginally weary affection in its place. “Peter hated his shadow. I envied him for that.”

Memorable evening of previously unimagined grotesque, that one... A man sewing another into the belly of a dead horse, wanting to give him a suffocating dose of his own medicine. Will advancing from behind with a gun drawn, ready to shoot, channeling hatred and anger in sympathy for the plight of the person it came from: a faint analogue of himself.

Hannibal keeps his eyes locked on Will’s. “I do remember. Objectively, you had every right to despise me.” He can admit that much, despite how he wouldn’t change a single stone on the path that led them here.

Will lets go of Hannibal’s hair, spends a few seconds just looking at him. His gaze drops to his mouth. “You'd be dead right now if I wanted you to be..." Brows knitting together in amused confusion, he adds, "But...I think I'd miss you."

Hannibal’s fingers rise to Will’s jaw, thumb resting on the center of his lower lip. He rubs into it, presses down lightly to get him to open, and sweeps his thumb across the bottom edge of Will’s front teeth - the same teeth that ripped a hunk of flesh out of a live human being. Probing forward, he watches the unsteady rise and fall of breath, thumb submerged up to the first joint.

He waits for Will to act.

Will finally surrenders himself to what he wants with a flash of movement that has Hannibal’s back thumping onto the bed heavily enough to make the frame creak in protest. He's weighed down, caged, and his focus is consumed by the body between his thighs, the tongue licking into his mouth. He lets Will dictate the pace, following where he leads as he wraps him up in his arms.

They’re too close for Hannibal to see anything beyond Will’s eyes when they break for breath. Everything he’s ever wanted is floating there, and it leaves him fighting back tears. Will props himself up on a forearm and ruts down harder when one tear escapes to dampen the pillow, staring like he’s seeing the sun for the first time. He pushes his face into the side of Hannibal’s neck with a helpless groan, shuddering against him, and arches up to claim his mouth again, nipping at his lip when Hannibal breathes out that Will could take everything and all he would do is find a way to offer him more.

As much as he aches to feel Will’s skin on his, he makes do with tugging at him to coordinate a rhythm, fingers crawling up under his shirt. It’s the simplest thing in the world to move together as one, the easy slide of an immaculately kept knife through the tenderest flesh. He digs his nails into Will’s back and gets a bite on the shoulder for it, the sting dulled only slightly by the fabric of his own shirt, and he doesn't even try to hold back the moan that forms when he imagines Will rising above him with bloodied teeth.

The intense intimacy of it all is painful, as if Will stuck a knife into Hannibal’s heart instead of the dead man abandoned in their living room - painful in the way that new, wonderful things can sometimes be. He opens his mind to it, letting it take him over, and the dazed awe on Will’s flushed face tells him they’re feeling exactly the same.

Will surprises him yet again, wrestling out of his t-shirt and pulling at the hem of Hannibal’s to urge him into removing his. It’s gone without so much as a second thought, and then they’re pressed together, heart to heart.

Hannibal isn’t alone in his tears.

Will tastes like salt when he cums, and the pleased sound of his chest deep moan, the rough, mindless shoves of his hips, sends Hannibal tumbling over the edge after him. They aren’t kissing by then so much as they are clutching for breaths of shared air, trying to sustain each other.

Afterwards, Will all but collapses on him, hair tickling the underside of his jaw. When he manages to roll off, Hannibal lets him go, though he reaches out as a request for him to stay on the bed. He turns over to face Will, watching while he gazes up at the ceiling in the dark, and places his hand across his heart.

They’ll need to clean up and get changed before either of them falls asleep, but Hannibal wants nothing more than to lie there with Will’s life beating under his touch for as long as he can. The air is saturated with the odors of human musk and sweat, the pleasant tang of climax, and it would be a falsehood to say he doesn't feel an immense desire to bathe in it.

Eventually, Will sighs and looks over at him. He sounds halfway to dozing off when he says, “I’m not sorry I tried to kill us.”

Hannibal tucks errant hair behind his ear, leaving his hand resting on the side of his face. “You did what you thought was right. I was happy to let you, as long as we went together.”

“What if we hadn’t?”

The answer is effortless: “If you were the one to die, I would have followed you into the vast unknown for refusal to continue living without you. Suicide is against my principles but death, I believe, is also the next great adventure... If you survived without me, the choice could only have been your own.”

Will’s eyes are brimming with truth as he asserts, “I would’ve followed you.”

“Together, then - if the time ever comes.”

“Together.”